“My attachment to these little folk grows from day to day. I am very proud of this feeling, perhaps the best which my heart has known. When I am unhappy I have only to think of them, and my life seems better worth living. I try as far as possible to give them a mother’s love and care....”

“As you probably have heard already, I am to go abroad. You can imagine my delight.... This journey seems to me at times an alluring, unrealisable dream. I shall not believe in it until I am actually on the steamer. I—in Paris! In Switzerland! It seems ridiculous to think of it!”

“October 23rd (November 4th), 1861.

“What shall I tell you about my journey? It is better to say nothing. If ever I started upon a colossal piece of folly, it was this same trip abroad. You remember my companion? Well, under the mask of bonhomie, which made me believe him to be a worthy man, was concealed the most commonplace nature. You can imagine if it was pleasant to spend three months with such a fellow-traveller. Added to which I ran through more money than I could afford and got nothing for it. Do you see what a fool I have been? But do not scold me. I have behaved like a child—nothing more.... You know I have a weakness: as soon as I have any money I squander it in pleasure. It is vulgar, wanting in good sense—I know it—but it seems in my nature. Where will it all lead? What can I hope from the future? It is terrible to think of. I know there will come a time when I shall no longer be able to fight against the difficulties of life. Until then I will do all I can to enjoy it. For the last fortnight all has gone badly with me; my official work has been very bad. Money vanishes like smoke. In love—no luck. But a better time will come soon.

“P.S.—I have begun to study thorough-bass, and am making good progress. Who knows, perhaps in three years’ time you will be hearing my opera and singing my arias.”

“I am getting on well. I hope soon to get a rise, and be appointed ‘clerk for special duty.’ I shall get an additional twenty roubles to my salary and less work. God grant it may come to pass!... I think I have already told you that I have begun to study the theory of music with success. You will agree that, with my rather exceptional talents (I hope you will not mistake this for bragging), it seems foolish not to try my chances in this direction. I only dread my own easy-going nature. In the end my indolence will conquer: but if not, I promise you that I shall do something. Luckily it is not yet too late.”

“I have entered the newly-opened Conservatoire,” he says, “and the course begins in a few days. As you know, I have worked hard at the theory of music during the past year, and have come to the conclusion that sooner or later I shall give up my present occupation for music. Do not imagine I dream of being a great artist.... I only feel I must do the work for which I have a vocation. Whether I become a celebrated composer, or only a struggling teacher—’tis all the same. In any case my conscience will be clear, and I shall no longer have any right to grumble at my lot. Of course, I shall not resign my present position until I am sure that I am no longer a clerk, but a musician.”

“April 15th (27th), 1863.

“Dear Sasha,—From your letter which reached father to-day, I perceive that you take a lively interest in my situation and regard with some mistrust the step I have decided to take. I will now explain to you more fully what my hopes and intentions really are. My musical talent—you cannot deny it—is my only one. This being so, it stands to reason that I ought not to leave this God-sent gift uncultivated and undeveloped. For this reason I began to study music seriously. So far my official duties did not clash with this work, and I could remain in the Ministry of Justice. Now, however, my studies grow more severe and take up more time, so I find myself compelled to give up one or the other.... In a word, after long consideration, I have resolved to sacrifice the salary and resign my post. But it does not follow that I intend to get into debt, or ask for money from father, whose circumstances are not very flourishing just now. Certainly I am not gaining any material advantage. But first I hope to obtain a small post in the Conservatoire next season (as assistant professor); secondly, I have a few private lessons in view; and thirdly—what is most important of all—I have entirely renounced all amusements and luxuries, so that my expenditure has very much decreased. Now you will want to know what will become of me when I have finished my course. One thing I know for certain. I shall be a good musician and shall be able to earn my daily bread. The professors are satisfied with me, and say that with the necessary zeal I shall do well. I do not tell you all this in a boastful spirit (it is not my nature), only in order to speak openly to you without any false modesty. I cherish a dream; to come to you for a whole year after my studies are finished to compose a great work in your quiet surroundings. After that—out into the world.”

“At the Conservatoire, founded by Anton Rubinstein in 1861, under the patronage of the Grand-Duchess Helen, the curriculum consisted of the following subjects: Choral Singing (Lomakin and DÜtsch), Solo Singing (Frau Nissen-Soloman), Pianoforte (Leschetitzky and Beggrov), Violin (Wieniawsky), Violoncello (Schuberth), and Composition (Zaremba). Of all these subjects Tchaikovsky studied the last only.

“Nicholas Ivanovich Zaremba was then forty years of age. A Pole by birth, he had studied law at the University of St. Petersburg, and had been a clerk in one of the Government offices.... Music—especially composition—he had studied in Berlin under the celebrated theorist Marx, whom he almost worshipped. As a composer, Zaremba is not known to me. Never once, either in class or during his private lessons, did he say so much as a word about his own compositions. Only on one occasion he invited Peter Ilich to his house and, when they were alone together, showed him the manuscript of a string quartet of his own. The following day Peter Ilich told me the work was ‘very nice, in the style of Haydn.’

“Zaremba had many of the qualities of an ideal teacher. Although, if I am not mistaken, teaching was somewhat new to him, he appeared fully equipped, with a course mapped out to the smallest details, firm in his Æsthetic views, and inventive in illustrating his subject.... As became an out-and-out follower of Marx, Zaremba was a progressive liberal as regards music, believed in Beethoven (particularly in his latest period), detested the bondage of the schools, and was more disposed to leave his pupils to themselves than to restrict and hamper them with excessive severity. He taught on Marx’s method, with one deviation: he followed up his harmony course by one on strict counterpoint, using a text book of Heinrich Bellermann’s. I do not think, however, that he taught this on his own initiative, but possibly at Rubinstein’s expressed wish.

“I have spoken of Zaremba as progressive. He was actually an enthusiastic admirer of Beethoven’s later period; but he stopped short at Beethoven, or rather at Mendelssohn. The later development of German music, which started from Schumann, was unknown to him. He knew nothing of Berlioz and ignored Glinka. With regard to the latter he showed very plainly his alienation from Russian soil. Tchaikovsky, who was more disposed towards empiricism, and by nature antagonistic to all abstractions, did not admire Zaremba’s showy eloquence, nor yet that structure of superficial logic, from the shelter of which he thundered forth his violent and arbitrary views. The misunderstanding between pupil and teacher was aggravated by the fact that Zaremba most frequently cited the authority of Beethoven, while, following the example of his master, Marx, he secretly—and sometimes openly—despised Mozart. Tchaikovsky, on the contrary, had more respect than enthusiasm for Beethoven, and never aimed at following in his footsteps. His judgment was always somewhat sceptical; his need of independence remarkable. During all the years I knew him, he never once submitted blindly to any influence, nor swore by anyone in verba magistri. His personal feelings sometimes coloured his views. Zaremba, however, exercised no such fascination for him. Neither in Tchaikovsky the composer, nor in Tchaikovsky the professor, do we find any subsequent traces of Zaremba’s teaching. This is the more remarkable, because the composer went to him as a beginner to be grounded in the rudiments of musical theory, so that he had every opportunity of making a deep and lasting impression. I must, however, relate one occurrence which partially contradicts my statement that Zaremba had no influence whatever upon his pupil. When in 1862, or the following year, I expressed my admiration for the energy and industry with which Tchaikovsky was working, he replied that when he first attended Zaremba’s classes he had not been so zealous, but had worked in ‘a very superficial way, like a true amateur,’ until on one occasion Zaremba had drawn him aside and impressed upon him the necessity of being more earnest and industrious, because he possessed a fine talent. Deeply touched, Peter Ilich resolved to conquer his indolence, and from that moment worked with untiring zeal and energy.

“From 1861-2 Tchaikovsky learnt harmony, and from 1862-3 studied strict counterpoint and the church modes under Zaremba, with whom, in September, 1863, he began also to study form; while about the same time he passed into Rubinstein’s class for instrumentation.

“The great personality of the Director of the Conservatoire inspired us students with unbounded affection, mingled with not a little awe. In reality no teacher was more considerate and kindly, but his forbidding appearance, his hot temper and roughness, added to the glamour of his European fame, impressed us profoundly.

“Besides the direction of the Conservatoire, he taught the piano, and his class was the desired goal of every young pianist in the school, for although the other professors (Gerke, Dreyschock, and Leschetitzky) had excellent reputations, they were overshadowed by Rubinstein’s fame and by his wonderful playing. In his class, which then consisted of three male students and a host of women, Rubinstein would often set the most comical tasks. On one occasion, for instance, he made his pupils play Czerny’s “Daily Studies” in every key, keeping precisely the same fingering throughout. His pupils were very proud of the ordeals they were made to undergo, and their narrations aroused the envy of all the other classes. As a teacher of theory Anton Rubinstein was just the opposite of Zaremba. While the latter was remarkably eloquent, the former was taciturn to the last degree. Rubinstein spoke a number of languages, but none quite correctly. In Russian he often expressed himself fluently and appropriately, but his grammar was sometimes faulty, which was very noticeable in his exposition of a theoretical problem, demanding logical sequence. Yet it was remarkable that this deficiency in no way spoilt his lectures. With Zaremba, all was systematic, each word had its own place. With Rubinstein, reigned a fascinating disorder. I believe that ten minutes before the lesson he did not know what he was going to talk about, and left all to the inspiration of the moment. Although the literary form of his lectures suffered in consequence, and defied all criticism, they impressed us deeply, and we attended them with great interest. Rubinstein’s extraordinary practical knowledge, his breadth of view, his experience as a composer—almost incredible for a man of thirty—invested his words with an authority of which we could not fail to be sensible. Even the paradoxes he indulged in, which sometimes irritated and sometimes amused us, bore the stamp of genius and thought. As I have said, Rubinstein had no system whatever. If he observed in the course of a lesson that he was not in touch with his pupils, he was not discouraged, and always discovered some new way—as also in his pianoforte class—by which to impart some of his original ideas. On one occasion he set Tchaikovsky the task of orchestrating Beethoven’s D minor sonata in four different ways. Peter Ilich elaborated one of these arrangements, introducing the English horn and all manner of unusual accessories, for which the master reprimanded him severely. I must add that Rubinstein was sincerely attached to Tchaikovsky, although he never valued his genius at its true worth. It is not difficult to understand this, because Tchaikovsky’s artistic growth was perfectly normal and equal, and quite devoid of any startling developments. His work, which was generally of level excellence, lacked that brilliancy which rejoices the astonished teacher.

“Rubinstein, on the contrary, cast a magic spell over Tchaikovsky. The pupil, who kept his complete independence of judgment, and even made fun of his master’s lack of logic and grammar in his lectures, contemplated, not without bitterness, his mass of colourless and insipid compositions. But neither the peculiarities of the teacher, nor the ever-increasing weakness of his works, could undermine Tchaikovsky’s regard for him as a man. This sentiment remained with him to the last, although his relations with Anton were never so intimate as with his brother, Nicholas Rubinstein. At this period of our lives Tchaikovsky’s personal respect for his master was of the greatest service to him. It made his work easier and gave impulse to his powers. Rubinstein observed his pupil’s zeal, and made increasing demands upon his capacity for work. But the harder the tasks set him, the more energetic Tchaikovsky became. Sometimes he spent the whole night upon some score he wished to lay before his insatiable teacher on the following day. This extraordinary industry does not appear to have injured his health.

“The silent protest Tchaikovsky raised against Zaremba’s methods affected in a lesser degree his relations with Rubinstein. The latter had grown up in the period of Schubert, Mendelssohn and Schumann, and recognised only their orchestra, that is, the orchestra of Beethoven, with the addition of three trombones—natural horns and trumpets being replaced by chromatic ones. We young folk, however, were enthusiasts for the most modern of orchestras. Tchaikovsky was familiar with this style of orchestration from the operas of Meyerbeer and Glinka. He also heard it at the rehearsals of the Musical Society (to which, as students, we had free access), where Rubinstein conducted works by Meyerbeer, Berlioz, Liszt and Wagner. Finally, in 1862, Wagner himself visited Petersburg, and made us acquainted in a series of concerts, not only with the most famous excerpts from his earlier operas, but also with portions of the Nibelungen Ring. It was not so much Wagner’s music as his instrumentation which impressed Tchaikovsky. It is remarkable that, with all his love for Mozart, he never once attempted, even as a tour de force, to write for the classical orchestra. His medium of expression was the full modern orchestra, which came after Meyerbeer. He did not easily acquire the mastery of this orchestra, but his preference for it was already established. Rubinstein understood it admirably, and explained its resources scientifically to his pupils, in the hope that having once learnt its secrets, they would lay it aside for ever. In this respect he experienced a bitter disappointment in Tchaikovsky.

“In spring the students were generally set an important task to be completed during the summer holidays. In the summer of 1864 Tchaikovsky was expected to write a long overture on the subject of Ostrovsky’s[7] drama, The Storm. This work he scored for the most ‘heretical’ orchestra: tuba, English horn, harp, tremolo for violins divisi, etc. When the work was finished he sent it to me by post, with the request that I would take it to Rubinstein (I cannot remember why he could not attend in person). I carried out his wish, and Rubinstein told me to return in a few days to hear his opinion. Never in the course of my life have I had to listen to such a homily on my own sins as I then endured vicariously (it was Sunday morning too!). With unconscious humour, Rubinstein asked: ‘How dared you bring me such a specimen of your own composition,’ and proceeded to pour such vials of wrath upon my head that apparently he had nothing left for the real culprit, for when Peter Ilich himself appeared a few days later, the Director received him amiably, and only made a few remarks upon the overture....

“One of Rubinstein’s most urgent desires was the organisation of a school orchestra. In the early days of the Conservatoire, however, there was no immediate hope of realising this wish. Apart from the numerous violinists, attracted by the name of Wieniawsky, there were few, during the first year, who could play any other orchestral instrument even tolerably well. Rubinstein, who at that time had no great income, spent at least 1,500 roubles in the gratuitous tuition of those instruments he needed for his orchestra. There was an immediate response among those who were enterprising. Tchaikovsky expressed a wish to learn the flute. He studied for two years, and became a satisfactory second flute in this orchestra. On one occasion he took part in a flute quartet of Kuhlau’s at a musical evening in honour of Madame Clara Schumann’s visit to Petersburg. Afterwards, finding no special use for this accomplishment, he gave it up entirely.

“Of even less importance were the organ lessons he took for a time from the famous Heinrich Stiehl. The majestic tone of this instrument, heard in the mystic twilight of the empty Lutheran church in Petersburg, made a profound impression upon Tchaikovsky’s poetic temperament. But the impression was fleeting; his imagination was attracted in other directions, and he grew more and more remote from the works of Bach. He never composed a single piece for this instrument.”

“In the biography of an artist,” continues Laroche, “side by side with his individual evolution, the close observation of all external influences with which he comes in contact plays an important part. In Tchaikovsky’s case, I place among these influences, the musical repertory which was familiar to him, and such compositions as he specially studied or cared for. During the whole of his time at the Conservatoire, especially during the first two years, I was constantly with him, and am therefore a fair judge of the works which more or less left their impress upon his mind. I can enumerate almost all the compositions we played together during his first year: Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, Schumann’s Third Symphony, his Paradise and the Peri, and Lohengrin. Tchaikovsky grumbled when I made him play long vocal works with endless recitatives, which became very wearisome on the piano, but the beauty of the more connected parts soon re-awakened his enthusiasm. Wagner gave him the least pleasure. He simply made light of Lohengrin, and only became reconciled to the whole opera much later in life.

“One day he remarked fearlessly: ‘I am sure of this—Serov has more talent for composition than Wagner.’ Schumann’s Third Symphony and Rubinstein’s ‘Ocean’ Symphony made the greatest impression upon him. Later on, under the bÂton of the composer, our enthusiasm for the latter continually increased. Many readers will be surprised to hear that one of Tchaikovsky’s earliest crazes was for Henri Litolff—but only for the two overtures, Robespierre and Les Girondistes. I can say without exaggeration that, after hearing these two overtures and Meyerbeer’s Struensee, Tchaikovsky was always an impassioned lover of programme music. In his early overtures, including Romeo and Juliet, the influence of Litolff is easily perceptible, while he approached Liszt—who did far more to inspire the young generation—with hesitation and mistrust. During his student years, Orpheus was the only one of Liszt’s symphonic poems which attracted him. The Faust Symphony he only valued long afterwards. It is but fair to state that Liszt’s symphonic poems, which enslaved a whole generation of Russian composers, only exercised an insignificant and ephemeral influence upon Tchaikovsky.

“It is important to observe that, at this early period, he showed many curious and morbid musical antipathies which he entirely outgrew. These dislikes were not for particular composers, but for certain styles of composition, or, more strictly speaking, for their quality of sound. For instance, he did not like the combination of piano and orchestra, nor the timbre of a string quartet or quintet, and least of all the effect of the piano with one or more stringed instruments. Although, for the sake of experience, he had studied the general repertory of chamber music and pianoforte concertos, and now and then was charmed by a work of this nature, he afterwards took the first opportunity of condemning its ‘detestable’ quality of tone. Not once, but hundreds of times, he has vowed in my presence never to compose a pianoforte concerto, nor a violin and piano sonata, nor any work of this class. As regards the violin and pianoforte sonata, he has kept his word. Not less strange was his determination, at this time, never to write any small pieces for piano, or songs. He spoke of the latter with the greatest dislike. But this hatred must have been quite Platonic, for the next minute he was growing enthusiastic with me over the songs of Glinka, Schumann, or Schubert.

“At this period in his life it was a kind of mania to declare himself quite incapable in certain branches of his art. For instance, he often declared he was absolutely unable to conduct. The art of conducting goes frequently with that of accompanying, and he was an excellent accompanist. This fact alone should have sufficed to prove the groundlessness of his assertions. At the Conservatoire the advanced students in the composition class were expected to conduct the school orchestra in turn. Tchaikovsky stood first on the list. I cannot remember whether he distinguished himself on this occasion, but I know that nothing particularly dreadful happened, and that he made no evident fiasco. Nevertheless he made this first experience the confirmation of his opinion. He declared that having to stand at the raised desk in front of the orchestra produced such nervous sensations that all the time he felt his head must fall off his shoulders; in order to prevent this catastrophe, he kept his left hand under his chin and only conducted with his right. This fixed idea lasted for years.

“In 1868 Tchaikovsky was invited to conduct the dances from his opera The Voyevode at a charity concert given in Moscow. I still see him before me, the bÂton in his right hand, while his left firmly supported his fair beard!

“Tchaikovsky’s ardent admiration for Glinka, especially for the opera A Life for the Tsar, included also this composer’s incidental music to the tragedy Prince Kholmsky. As regards Russlan and Lioudmilla, his views varied at first. Early in the sixties he knew only a few numbers from Glinka’s second opera, which pleased him unreservedly. He was equally delighted with the music and libretto of Serov’s opera Judith, which he heard in 1863. It is remarkable that while a few masterpieces, such as Don Juan, A Life for the Tsar, and Schubert’s Symphony in C, took their places once and for ever in his appreciation, his judgment of other musical works was subject to considerable fluctuation. One year he was carried away by Beethoven’s Eighth Symphony, the next he pronounced it ‘very nice, but nothing more.’ For years he declared the music to Faust by Pugni (a well-known composer of ballets) was infinitely superior to Gounod’s opera, and afterwards he described the French composer’s work as ‘a masterpiece.’ Therefore it is all the more remarkable that he remained faithful to Serov’s opera Judith to the end of his days.

“His attitude to Serov’s literary work was exceedingly sceptical. We both attended the popular lectures given by this critic in 1864, and were amused at his desperate efforts to overthrow the authority of the Conservatoire, to abase Glinka and to exalt Verstovsky.[8] Serov’s attack upon Rubinstein would in itself have lowered him in the eyes of so devoted an adherent as Tchaikovsky, but he disliked him still more for such expressions as ‘the spiritual contents of music,’ ‘the organic unity of the music drama,’ and similar phrases, under which Serov concealed his vacillation and extraordinary lack of principle.

“Tchaikovsky’s personal relations with the composer of Judith are only known to me in part. They met, if I am not mistaken, in the autumn of 1864, and I was the means of their becoming acquainted. One of our fellow-students named Slavinsky, who visited Serov, invited me to go with him to one of his ‘composer’s Tuesdays.’ About a year later I introduced Tchaikovsky to Serov. I recollect how on that particular evening Dostoievsky talked a great deal—and very foolishly—about music, as literary men do, who know nothing whatever about it. Serov’s personality did not please Tchaikovsky, and I do not think he ever went again, although he received a pressing invitation to do so.

“Besides N. A. Hubert and myself, I cannot recall a single student at the Conservatoire with whom Tchaikovsky kept up a lasting intimacy. He was pleasant to all, and addressed a few in the familiar second person singular. Among these passing friends I may mention Gustav Kross, afterwards the first to play Tchaikovsky’s pianoforte concerto in public; Richard Metzdorf, who settled in Germany as a composer and Capellmeister; Karl van Ark, who became a professor at the Petersburg Conservatoire; Slavinsky and Joseph LÖdscher. Of these fellow-students, the name of Nicholas Hubert occurs most frequently in subsequent pages. In spite of his foreign name, Hubert was really of Russian descent. From his childhood he lived only in and for music, and very early in life had to earn his living by teaching. The number of lessons he gave, combined with his weak and uncertain health, prevented him from working very hard at the Conservatoire, but he impressed us as talented and clever. He was fond of assembling his friends round the tea-table in his large, but scantily-furnished room, when the evening would be spent in music and discussion. Tchaikovsky, LÖdscher and myself were the most regular guests at these evenings. The real intimacy, however, between Tchaikovsky and Hubert did not actually begin until many years later—about the middle of the eighties.”