WHEN in 1877 Tchaikovsky declined to act as delegate for the Paris Exhibition, the office was accepted by Nicholas Rubinstein, who, in September, 1878, gave four important concerts at the TrocadÉro, the programmes of which were drawn exclusively from the works of Russian composers. Tchaikovsky was represented by the following works: the Pianoforte Concerto (B? minor), The Tempest, Chant sans Paroles (played by Nicholas Rubinstein), and “Serenade and Valse” for violin (played by Bartzevich). The success of these compositions, especially of the Concerto, thanks to Rubinstein’s artistic interpretation, was so great that, judging by the opinions of Tchaikovsky’s friends and opponents, the chief interest of all four concerts centred in them. Eye-witnesses declare they never saw such enthusiasm in any concert-room as was displayed on the first evening after the performance of the B? minor Concerto. The work was repeated with equal success at the fourth concert. The Paris Press accorded the warmest greeting to Tchaikovsky, whose name was as yet almost unknown to them, the most appreciative criticisms being expended upon the Concerto. The Tempest came in for its share of applause, while the violin pieces were not so well received. The importance of Tchaikovsky’s success was, however, greatly overrated, both by himself and all his friends, including N. Rubinstein. They none of them realised that Paris forgets as lightly as it warms to enthusiasm. Scarcely six months elapsed before The Tempest, which had delighted the Parisian public at the TrocadÉro, was received with suspicion and curiosity, as the unknown work of an unknown composer of queer Russian music. About the same time, Bilse brought forward Francesca da Rimini in Berlin. Here, where Russian music had such propagandists as Hans von BÜlow and Klindworth, Tchaikovsky was not altogether unknown; but although some of his works, like the Andante from the first quartet, were almost popular, yet the composer had been regarded with a certain disdain, and almost ignored by the majority of the German critics. This time it was different. On the same evening as Francesca, Bilse also conducted Brahms’s Second Symphony, which, being a novelty, drew all the musical lights of Berlin to the concert. It was only thanks to these circumstances that Francesca was not entirely passed over by the critics. The Press split into two camps: one stood up for Brahms and attacked Tchaikovsky, the other took the opposite view. The hostile party was the stronger. Richard WÜrst called the work “a musical monstrosity.”[64] “We know,” he continued, “a few songs, pianoforte pieces, and a Cossack fantasia (?) by this composer; these compositions bear the stamp of an original talent, but are not pleasing on the whole. In the Symphonic Fantasia (Francesca) this unpleasantness is so obvious as to make us forget the originality of the composer. The first and last allegros, which depict the whirlwinds of hell, have neither subjects nor ideas, but only a mass of sounds, and these earsplitting effects seem to us, from an artistic point of view, too much even for hell itself. The middle section, which describes the unhappy fate of Francesca, Paolo, and myself, shows—in spite of its endless length—at least some trace of catching melody.” Another critic, O. Lumprecht (National Zeitung, September 17th, 1878), applies to Francesca such terms as “madness,” “musical contortions,” etc. Among the friendly party Francesca was favourably compared to the Brahms Symphony, especially by Moszkowski. Among private opinions should be mentioned that of Hans von BÜlow, who wrote to Tchaikovsky shortly after the performance that he was far more charmed with Francesca than with Romeo and Juliet. Kotek says that Joachim was pleased with the work in spite of his prepossession in favour of his friend Brahms, while Max Bruch when asked his opinion of Francesca replied: “I am far too stupid to criticise such music.” In spite of the over-ruling of unfavourable criticism, and its mediocre success with the public, Bilse had the courage to repeat Francesca da Rimini in the course of the same season. Early in September Tchaikovsky returned to Moscow to take up his duties at the Conservatoire. His quarters were already prepared for him. Nevertheless, before returning to the town he had once loved and believed to be a necessary part of his happiness, he had already resolved “to leave it again at the earliest opportunity.” This curious discrepancy between his actions and his intentions, this external submission to, and inward protest against, the compelling circumstances of life, so characteristic of Tchaikovsky, has already become familiar to us. He was incapable of clearing a direct way for himself to some definite goal; he could only desire intensely and await with patience the course of events, until the obstacles gave way of themselves and the path was open to him at last. After the mental collapse he had suffered, and during the pause in his creative activity in November and December, 1877, he thought of the return to his old life in Moscow with fear and trembling, while still regarding it as an inevitable necessity. The great distance which lay between himself and Moscow softened all its sharpness of outline, and veiled all the unpleasant side of life in that city. From far-away Italy and Switzerland he no longer looked back upon everyday Moscow, but saw rather the white City of the Tsars, with its flashing golden cupolas, which was so dear to his patriotic soul. He no longer saw the Conservatoire, with its tiresome classes and petty commonplace interests, but a little group of true friends for whom he yearned. All this drowned the resolve which already existed in his inmost heart, never to return to his old way of life. He attributed this dislike of his former existence to his ill_health, and cherished the hope that the ideal conditions of his life abroad would restore his nerves and soothe his irritability; he was convinced that he would completely recover, and take up his professorship once more with a stout heart. But it proved otherwise. From the month of January, when he was able to arrange his life as he pleased, when, with improved health, the desire to compose awoke once more—from the moment, in fact, in which his real recovery began—life in Moscow seemed to him to be more dreadful and impossible; his connection with the Conservatoire, and with the social life of the capital, more and more unbearable; while the free, untrammelled existence in which nothing hindered his creative activity grew more attractive in his eyes. Never had Tchaikovsky been so lastingly happy as during the period dating from 1878. Never had “the calm, peaceful existence in solitude” appeared so alluring, nor his imagination so quick and so varied. Consequently everything which disturbed his existence at that happy time seemed hostile and unfavourable to its continuance. Only the weak bond of his promise to return to the Conservatoire remained to be broken. At the moment in which Tchaikovsky left the train in which he arrived and set foot on Moscow soil, he was possessed with “the idea” of leaving again as soon as possible. This thought gradually grew into a fixed idea, under the influence of which everything that had once been dear to him—his faithful friends included—stirred in him an exaggerated feeling of resentment and, by way of reaction, caused everything which reminded him of his freedom to appear in a rosy light. In his first letters from Moscow he scarcely speaks on any other topic but the irksomeness of life there, and the delight with which he looks back to every detail of his visits to Italy, Switzerland and Brailov. There was nothing to be done, however, until Rubinstein’s return from the Paris Exhibition, which would not be before the end of September. “I had been anxiously awaiting his coming,” wrote Tchaikovsky to Nadejda von Meck, “because I wanted to tell him, as soon as possible, of my intention to retire from the Conservatoire. He was received with great rejoicings, and a dinner in his honour was given at ‘The Hermitage,’[65] at which I was present. In his reply to the first toast to his health, Rubinstein said he had been greatly gratified by the success of my works at his concerts, that the Conservatoire had reason to be proud of its connection with so famous a man, etc. The speech ended in an ovation to me. I need hardly tell you how painful this speech and ovation were. “The next day I informed him of my future plans. I expected Nicholas Rubinstein to burst forth with indignation, and try to convince me that it was better for me to stay where I was. On the contrary, he listened to me laughingly, as one might to a tiresome child, and expressed his regret. He merely remarked that the Conservatoire would lose a great deal of its prestige with the withdrawal of my name, which was as good as saying that the pupils would not really suffer much by my resignation. Probably he is right, for I am a poor and inexperienced teacher—yet I anticipated greater opposition to my resignation.” It was decided that Tchaikovsky should stay on for a month or two at the Conservatoire, in order to give his successor Taneiev time to prepare for his classes; but when it was announced that Hubert, not Taneiev, was to succeed him, he “hastened the course of events” and informed Rubinstein that he should leave Moscow early in October. From Moscow Tchaikovsky went to St. Petersburg, which was equally unsuited to his condition of mind. The invitations to dinners, suppers, and evening parties, fatigued him and wore him out. The bad impression which Petersburg left upon him on this occasion was increased by the disappointment he experienced as regards his favourite opera, Vakoula the Smith, which was just being given at the Maryinsky Theatre. To N. F. von Meck. “Petersburg, October 30th (November 11th), 1878. “Vakoula the Smith went quite smoothly and well, just as it did at the first performance; but it was very stereotyped and colourless. All the while I felt angry with one man: that was myself. Good Lord! what heaps of unpardonable mistakes there are in this opera which I alone could have made! I have done my best to neutralise the effect of all those situations which were calculated to please. If only I had held the purely musical inspiration in check, and kept the scenic and decorative effects more in view! The entire opera suffers from a plethora of details and the tiresome use of chromatic harmonies. C’est un menu surchargÉ de mets ÉpicÉs. It contains too many delicacies and not enough simple, wholesome fare. The recent production of the opera has been a lesson to me for the future. I think Eugene Oniegin is a step in advance.” II At the beginning of November Tchaikovsky went to Kamenka, and here for the first time he began to breathe freely after two anxious and depressing months. “I feel very well here,” he wrote in November. To “feel well” was the equivalent with him of “being equal to hard work.” As a matter of fact he composed more at Kamenka in a fortnight than during the two months he had spent in Moscow and Petersburg. On November 13th (25th) he wrote to his brother Modeste:— “Inspiration has come to me, so the sketch of the Suite is almost finished. But I am anxious because I left the manuscript of the first three movements in Petersburg, and it may get lost. I wrote the last two movements here. This short and—if I am not mistaken—excellent Suite is in five movements: (1) Introduction and Fugue, (2) Scherzo, (3) Andante, (4) March Miniature, (5) Giant’s Dance.” To A. Tchaikovsky. “Florence, November 21st (December 3rd), 1878. “ ... I came here yesterday, direct from Vienna, without visiting Venice. I was met by Pakhulsky (Kotek’s successor with N. F. von Meck), who took me to my quarters, which were warm and bright, and all ready for their admiring tenant. “The apartment Nadejda Filaretovna has taken for me consists of a suite of five rooms: drawing-room, dining-room, bedroom, dressing-room, and a room for Alexis. “In the drawing-room there is a splendid grand piano, on the writing-table every kind of stationery, and two big bouquets. The furniture is luxurious. I am delighted that the house stands outside the town, and that I have such a beautiful view from my windows! “On the journey here I was troubled with the thought that Nadejda Filaretovna would be living so close to me; that we might meet. I even had a momentary suspicion that she might invite me. But a letter from her, which I found upon my writing-table yesterday, completely set my mind at rest. She will be leaving in three weeks, and during that time probably we shall not see each other once.” To N. F. von Meck. “Florence, November 20th (December 2nd), 1878. “ ... If you knew what a blessing this quiet, regular, and solitary life is, especially in such sympathetic surroundings! I shall begin the instrumentation of the Suite with ardour, because I am strongly attracted to a new subject for an opera: Schiller’s Maid of Orleans.... This idea came to me at Kamenka, while turning over the pages of Joukovsky. The subject offers much musical material. Verdi’s opera, Giovanna d’Arco, is not taken from Schiller in the first place, and secondly it is extremely poor. But I am glad I bought it. It will be very useful to compare the libretto with the French.” “November 22nd (December 4th), 1878. “I have never thanked you, my good fairy, for the fine instrument. I often reproach myself for not being sufficiently grateful. On the other hand I am afraid of wearying you with my reiterated assurance of gratitude.” To P. I. Jurgenson. “Florence, November 24th (December 6th), 1878. “In the evening I often pace my verandah and enjoy the utter stillness. That strikes you as peculiar: how can anyone enjoy the absence of all sound, you will ask? If you were a musician, perhaps you, too, would have the gift of hearing, when all is still in the dead silence of night, the deep bass note which seems to come from the earth in its flight through space. But this is nonsense!” To N. F. von Meck. “Florence, November 26th (December 8th), 1878. “Please send me the Lalo Concerto again. I only looked through the first movement attentively, and found it rather insipid. After what you have written I should like to run through the work again. “I read Italian pretty well, but speak it badly. Once upon a time I studied it and could speak fluently. That was in the days of my admiration for Ristori. “I place Massenet lower than Bizet, DÉlibes, or even Saint-SaËns, but he, too, has—like all our French contemporaries—that element of freshness which is lacking in the Germans. 8 p.m. “Modeste’s telegram was a pleasant surprise. I had no idea the Symphony (No. 4) was going to be played yet. His news of its success is entirely trustworthy. First, because Modeste knows that I am not pleased when people send me exaggerated reports of such events; and secondly because the Scherzo was encored—an undoubted proof of success. After this news I am entirely lost in our Symphony. All day long I keep humming it, and trying to recall how, where, and under what impression this or that part of it was composed. I go back to two years ago, and return to the present with joy! What a change! What has not happened during these years! When I began to work at the Symphony I hardly knew you at all. I remember very well, however, that I dedicated my work to you. Some instinct told me that no one had such a fine insight into my music as yourself, that our natures had much in common, and that you would understand the contents of this Symphony better than any other human being. I love this child of my fancy very dearly. It is one of the things which will never disappoint me.” The success of the Fourth Symphony, at a concert of the Russian Musical Society in St. Petersburg, on November 25th (December 7th), was most brilliant, and the Press was almost unanimous in its acknowledgment of the fact. To N. F. von Meck. “Florence, November 27th (December 9th), 1878. “Permit me, dear friend, to give you my opinion of Lalo’s Concerto, which I have played through several times, and begin to know pretty thoroughly. Lalo is very talented, there is no doubt about it, but he is either a very young man—because all his deficiencies may be referred to a certain immaturity of style—or he will not go far, since, in a man of ripe age, these deficiencies point to an organic, incurable fault. I do not consider the Concerto as good as the ‘Spanish Symphony.’ All that was wild, lawless, and rhapsodical in the latter—which I attributed to the oriental and Moorish character of the Spanish melodies—is to be found also in the Concerto, which, however, is not at all Spanish. Let us analyse the first movement. It does not consist of two themes, as is usually the case, but of several—of five, in fact.
musical notation
“This is too much. A musical work must be digestible, and should not consist of too many ingredients. Then, of these themes, only the fifth can be considered successful. The rest are colourless, or, like the second, made up of scraps, which have no organic unity and lack definite outline. Thirdly, every one of these themes, except the fifth, shows a monotonous method, which occurs only too often in the ‘Spanish Symphony’: the alternation of rhythms of 3 and 2. If a man cannot keep his inspiration within the limits of balanced form, then he should strive, at least, to vary the rhythms of his themes; in this Concerto the rhythmical treatment is monotonous. I will say nothing about the laboured way in which the various episodes follow one another; it would take us too far afield. Then as to harmony. The Concerto is full of queer, wild harmonies. In a modest violin Concerto such spicy condiments are out of place; but apart from that, I must say they have a kind of crude character, because they are not the outcome of the essential musical idea, but are forced upon it, like a schoolboy’s bravado put on for his teacher’s benefit. Other passages—also in the schoolboy style—are really rather slovenly, so to speak. For instance, this ‘smudge’ À la Moussorgsky, which occurs twice over:
musical notation
“If we play this horrible combination in quavers we get the following:—
musical notation
“This is repulsive, and quite unnecessary, because it is based upon nothing, and at first I took it for a misprint. Do not imagine, my friend, that it is the pedantic harmony master who speaks thus. I myself am very partial to dissonant combinations, when they have a motive, and are rightly used. But there are limits which must not be overstepped. Now, to enter into technical details, let me say that no breach of the laws of harmony, no matter whether it is harsh or not, really sounds well unless it has been made under the influence of the melodic origin. In other words, a dissonance should only be resolved harmonically, or melodically. If neither of these courses is adopted, we merely get abominations À la Moussorgsky. In the example cited above I might possibly be reconciled to the painful dissonance if, in the next bar, each part followed the melodic plan. But this is not the case with Lalo. With him abomination follows abomination. Now that I have done scolding, I will say something good. The various movements, although disconnected, show warmth and many beautiful details of harmony. On the whole the music has a piquant character peculiarly French, although not nearly so elegant as Bizet’s work.” To N. F. von Meck. “Florence, November 28th (December 10th), 1878. “Yesterday’s performance at Pergola left a sad impression upon me. What a deterioration Italian music has suffered! What commonplace, yet pretentious stuff! What an incredibly poor performance as regards orchestra and chorus! The staging, too, was wretched. Such scenery in the town where Raphael and Michael Angelo once lived!” To N. F. von Meck. “Florence, December 5th (17th), 1878. “A great number of my works I regard as weak. Several of these (the minority) have been published. Of those unpublished, many no longer exist, such as the operas Undine and The Voyevode (which were never performed), the symphonic fantasia Fatum, a Festival overture on the Danish National Hymn, and a cantata; but you are welcome to those I have kept, in order to complete your collection. They are very poor, although they contain some episodes and details I should be sorry to see disappear for ever. “Laroche does not call me the enemy of programme music, but thinks I have no gift for this kind of work; therefore he describes me as an anti-programme composer. He takes every opportunity of expressing his regret that I so frequently compose programme music. What is programme music? Since for you and me a mere pattern of sounds has long since ceased to be music at all, all music is programme music from our point of view. In the limited sense of the word, however, it means symphonic, or, more generally, instrumental music which illustrates a definite subject, and bears the title of this subject. Beethoven partly invented programme music in the ‘Eroica’ symphony, but the idea is still more evident in the ‘Pastoral’. The true founder of programme music, however, was Berlioz, every one of whose works not only bears a definite title, but appears with a detailed explanation. Laroche is entirely opposed to a programme. He thinks the composer should leave the hearer to interpret the meaning of the work as he pleases; that the programme limits his freedom; that music is incapable of expressing the concrete phenomena of the physical and mental world. Nevertheless, he ranks Berlioz very highly, declares him to be an altogether rare genius and his music exemplary; but, all the same, he considers his programmes superfluous. If you care to hear my opinion on the subject, I will give it in a few words. I think the inspiration of a symphonic work can be of two kinds: subjective or objective. In the first instance it expresses the personal emotion of joy or sorrow, as when the lyric poet lets his soul flow out in verse. Here a programme is not only unnecessary, but impossible. It is very different when the composer’s inspiration is stirred by the perusal of some poem, or by the sight of a fine landscape, and he endeavours to express his impressions in musical forms. In this case a programme is indispensable, and it is a pity Beethoven did not affix one to the sonata you mention. To my mind, both kinds of music have their raison d’Être, and I cannot understand those who will only admit one of these styles. Of course, every subject is not equally suitable for a symphony, any more than for an opera; but, all the same, programme music can and must exist. Who would insist in literature upon ignoring the epic and admitting only the lyric element?” III Shortly after writing the above letter Tchaikovsky left Florence for Paris. He did not remain there any length of time, but went to Clarens on December 28th in order to work at The Maid of Orleans in the quiet atmosphere of the Villa Richelieu. To N. F. von Meck. “Clarens, December 31st (January 12th), 1878. “To-day I began to work, and wrote out the first chorus of the first act. The composition of this work is rendered more difficult because I have no ready-made libretto, and have not yet come to any definite plan as to the general outline. Meanwhile, only the text for the first act is complete. This I have written myself, keeping as far as possible to Joukovsky’s version, although I have drawn upon other sources: Barbier, for instance, whose tragedy has many good points. I find the versification very difficult.” To N. F. von Meck. “Clarens, January 8th (20th), 1879. “I am very well pleased with my musical work. As regards the literary side of it, I believe it will cost me some days of my life. I cannot describe how it exhausts me. How many penholders I gnaw to pieces before a few lines grow perfect! How often I jump up in sheer despair because I cannot find a rhyme, or the metre goes wrong, or because I have absolutely no notion what this or that character would say at a particular moment! As regards rhyme, I think it would be a blessing if someone would publish a rhyming dictionary. If I am not mistaken, there is one in German, and perhaps in Russian too, but I am not sure of it.” To P. I. Jurgenson. “Clarens, January 14th (26th), 1879. “There exist, as you are aware, three remarkable personages, whom you know intimately: the feeble poetaster N. N.,[66] who has written a few verses for your editions of Russian songs; B. L.,[67] formerly musical critic of the Russky Viedomosti, and the composer and ex-professor, Mr. Tchaikovsky. “An hour or two ago Mr. Tchaikovsky invited the two other gentlemen—who live with him—to follow him to the piano, and played them the second act of his new opera The Maid of Orleans. Mr. Tchaikovsky, who is on very intimate terms with Messrs. N. N. and B. L., conquered his timidity without much difficulty, and played his new work with great skill and inspiration. You should have seen the enthusiasm of these two gentlemen! Anyone might have supposed they had some share in the composition of the opera, to see how they strutted about the room and admired the music. Finally, the composer, who had long tried to preserve his modesty intact, was infected by their enthusiasm, and all three rushed on to the balcony, as though possessed, to cool their disordered nerves and control their wild desire to hear the rest of the opera as soon as possible. In vain Messrs. N. N. and B. L. endeavoured to persuade Mr. Tchaikovsky that operas could not be tossed out like pancakes, the latter began to despair over the weakness of human nature and the impossibility of transferring to paper in a single night all that had long been seething in his brain. Finally, the good folks induced the insane composer to calm himself, and he sat down to write to a certain publisher in Moscow....” To N. F. von Meck. “January 20th (February 1st), 1879. “Of the music you sent me, I have only played, as yet, through the pieces by Grieg and two acts of Goldmark’s opera, The Queen of Sheba. I do not know if I ever told you that I bought Le Roi de Lahore in Paris. Thus I possess two operas of the most modern French school. Let me tell you, dear friend, that I have no hesitation in giving the preference to Le Roi de Lahore. I know you do not care very much for Massenet, and hitherto I, too, have not felt drawn to him. His opera, however, has captivated me by its rare beauty of form, its simplicity and freshness of ideas and style, as well by its wealth of melody and distinction of harmony. Goldmark’s opera does not greatly please me—just enough to interest me in playing it through. Yet it is the work of a good German master. But all the German composers of the present day write laboriously, with pretensions to depth of thought, and strive to atone for their extraordinary poverty of invention by exaggerated colouring. For instance, the duet in the second act. How unvocal! How little freedom it gives to the singer! What insipid melodies! Massenet’s love duet, on the contrary, is far simpler, but a thousand times fresher, more beautiful, more melodious.... “Learn to know this opera, dear friend, and give me your opinion upon it. “My work progresses. I am composing the first scene of Act III.” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Clarens, January 24th (February 5th), 1879. “Do not be surprised if my letter is somewhat incoherent. I am very tired after my day’s work. To-day I wrote the love duet in the second act, and it is very complicated, so that at the present moment my brain works with difficulty. I jumped from the first scene of the third act to the fourth, because it is not so easy, and I wanted to get the most difficult scene—between Lionel and Joan—off my mind. On the whole I am pleased with myself, but feel rather exhausted. In Paris, I will rest by returning to my Suite and leaving the two remaining scenes of the opera until my return to Russia. “I have added a new joy to life. In Geneva I bought the pianoforte arrangements of several Mozart and Beethoven quartets, and I play one every evening. You have no idea how I enjoy this, and how it refreshes me! I would give anything for my Maid of Orleans to turn out as good as Le Roi de Lahore.” To N. F. von Meck. “January 25th (February 6th), 1879. “I will gladly follow your advice and write to Jurgenson to send a copy of Eugene Oniegin to BÜlow. Generally speaking, I never send my works on my own initiative to musical celebrities, but BÜlow is an exception, because he is really interested in Russian music and in me personally. He is the sole German musician who admits the possibility of the Russians rivalling the Germans as composers. Speaking of the German view of our compatriots, I do not think I ever told you about the fiasco of my Francesca in Berlin this winter. Bilse gave it twice. The second performance was a daring act on his part, since after the first hearing the entire Press was unanimous in damning my unfortunate fantasia....” IV To P. I. Jurgenson. “Paris, February 6th (18th), 1879. “Do you imagine I am going to dish you up my impressions of Paris? ‘You are mistaken, friend,’ as Kashkin is always saying. I only arrived early this morning. My departure from Clarens was highly dramatic. The landlady wept; the landlord shook me warmly by the hand; the maid (a very nice creature) also wept, so that I, too, was reduced to tears. I assure you I have never been so comfortable anywhere abroad as there. If circumstances permit, and no untoward changes occur in my life, I intend henceforth to spend a considerable part of each winter in Clarens....” To N. F. von Meck. “February 10th (22nd), 1879. “At the present moment I am engaged upon the great ensemble in the third act (septet and chorus), which presents many technical difficulties. The first part of the septet is finished, and very successful, if I am not mistaken. The brilliance and bustle of Paris have their advantages. The variety of circumstances and impressions distract my thoughts from the musical work. Perhaps this is the reason why the number which I expected to find most fatiguing has proved comparatively easy. For the books and music I am very grateful to you....” To P. I. Jurgenson. “Paris, February 13th (25th), 1879. “Here I live the life of an anchorite, and only emerge twice a day to satisfy the cravings of my stomach and take a little exercise. “Last Sunday, however, I had a real musical treat. Colonne conducted one of my favourite works—Berlioz’s Faust. The performance was excellent. It was so long since I had heard any good music that I was steeped in bliss, all the more because I was alone, with no acquaintances sitting by my side. What a work!! Poor Berlioz! As long as he was alive no one wanted to hear about him. Now the newspapers call him ‘the mighty Hector....’ O God, how happy I am now! Did I ever dream that I should enjoy life so much?...” To N. F. von Meck. “Paris, February 19th (March 3rd), 1879. “My whole life long I have been a martyr to my enforced relations with society. By nature I am a savage. Every new acquaintance, every fresh contact with strangers, has been the source of acute moral suffering. It is difficult to say what is the nature of this suffering. Perhaps it springs from a shyness which has become a mania, perhaps from absolute indifference to the society of my fellows, or perhaps the difficulty of saying, without effort, things about oneself that one does not really think (for social intercourse involves this)—in short, I do not really know what it is. So long as I was not in a position to avoid such intercourse, I went into society, pretended to enjoy myself, played a certain part (since it is absolutely indispensable to social existence), and suffered horribly all the time. I could wax eloquent on the subject.... To cut a long story short, however, I will merely tell you that two years ago Count Leo Tolstoi, the writer, expressed a wish to make my acquaintance. He takes a great interest in music. Of course, I made a feeble attempt to escape from him, but without success. He came to the Conservatoire and told Rubinstein he had not left the town because he wanted to meet me. Tolstoi is very sympathetic towards my musical gifts. It was impossible to avoid his acquaintance, which was obviously flattering and agreeable. We met, and I, assuming the part of a man who is immensely gratified, said I was very happy—most grateful—a whole series of indispensable but insincere phrases. ‘I want to know you better,’ he said; ‘I should like to talk to you about music.’ Then and there, after we had shaken hands, he began to give me his musical views. He considers Beethoven lacks inspiration. We started with this. Thus this writer of genius, this searcher of human hearts, began by asserting, in a tone of complete assurance, what was most offensive to the stupidity of the musician. What is to be done under such circumstances? Discuss? Yes, I discussed. But could such a discussion be regarded as serious? Properly speaking, I ought to have felt honoured by his notice. Probably another would have been. I merely felt uncomfortable, and continued to enact the comedy—pretending to be grateful and in earnest. Afterwards he called upon me several times, and although after this meeting I came to the conclusion that Tolstoi, if somewhat paradoxical, was straightforward, good, and in his way had even a fine taste for music, yet, at the same time, I had no more to gain from his acquaintance than from that of any other man. “The society of another fellow-creature is only pleasant when a long-standing intimacy, or common interests, make it possible to dispense with all effort. Unless this is the case, society is a burden which I was never intended by nature to endure. “This is the reason, dear friend, why I have not called upon Tourgeniev. There are numbers of people I might visit here. Saint-SaËns, for instance, on whom I promised to call whenever I was in Paris. Anyone else in my place would make the acquaintance of the local musicians. It is a pity I cannot, for I lose a good deal by my misanthropy. Oh, if you only knew how I have struggled against this weakness, how hard I have contended with my strange temperament in this respect! “Now I am at rest. I am finally convinced that at my age it is useless to continue my education. I assure you I have been very happy since I drew into my shell, and since music and books became my faithful and inseparable companions. As to intercourse with famous people, I know from experience that their works, musical or literary, are far more interesting than their personalities.” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Paris, February 22nd (March 6th), 1879. “Dear Modi,—Yesterday was a very important day for me. Quite unexpectedly I finished the opera. When you have written the last word of a novel you will understand what a joy it is to feel such a weight off your mind. To squeeze music out of one’s brain every day for ten weeks is indeed an exhausting process. Now I can breathe freely! “Yesterday evening I walked about Paris feeling quite another man. I even sauntered, and perhaps that is why my old love for the place is reawakened. Perhaps, too, the fact that Colonne intends to give my Tempest at the next Sunday concert has something to do with it. Now I see my name on all the hoardings and posters I feel quite at home. I will confess that although I am pleased, yet I am also rather anxious. I know beforehand that it will not be well played, and will be hissed by the public—the invariable fate of all my compositions abroad. Therefore it would be better if the performance took place after I have left Paris. It cannot be helped, however. I shall have to endure some misery on Sunday, but not much, because I am only here as a bird of passage, and I know that the time is coming when I need not endure any more. “In any case, yesterday and to-day I have strutted through the streets of Paris like a cock, and comforted myself with the feeling that I need not work. You would never have recognised your brother in a new overcoat, silk hat, and elegant gloves....” To N. F. von Meck. “Paris, February 24th (March 8th), 1879. “Yesterday I saw L’Assomoir. It is interesting to sit through this piece, for it is highly entertaining to see washer-women getting up linen in the second scene, all the characters dead drunk in the sixth, and in the eighth, the death of a confirmed toper in an attack of delirium tremens. The play deals a double blow at that feeling for beauty which exists in us all. First, it is adapted from a novel written by a talented, but cynical, man who chooses to wallow in human filth, moral and physical. Secondly, to make it more effective and pander to the taste of the Boulevard public, a melodramatic element has been brought into the play which is not in keeping with the rest of it. In this way L’Assomoir loses on the stage its chief merit—the wonderfully realistic presentment of everyday life. “But what do you think of Monsieur Zola, the high priest of the realistic cult, the austere critic who recognises no literary art but his own, when he allows perfectly unreal and improbable episodes and characters to be tacked on to his play—all for the sake of a royalty?” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Paris, February 26th (March 10th), 1879. “Yesterday was a very exciting day. In the morning at the ChÂtelet Concert the performance of my Tempest took place. The agonies I endured are the best proof that a country life is the most tolerable for me. What used to be a pleasure—the hearing of one of my own works—has now become a source of misery. The evening before I began to suffer from colic and nausea. My agitation continued to grow crescendo until the opening chords, and while the work was proceeding I felt I should die of the pain in my heart. It was not the fear of failure with the public, but because lately the first hearing of all my works has brought me the sharpest disappointment. Mendelssohn’s Reformation symphony preceded The Tempest, and all the time I was admiring this fine masterpiece. I have not attained to the rank of a master. I still write like a gifted young man from whom much is to be expected. What surprised me chiefly was the fact that my orchestration sounded so poor. Of course, my reason told me I was exaggerating my own defects, but this was no great consolation. The Tempest was not badly played. The orchestra took pains, but showed no warmth of enthusiasm. One member of the band (a ‘cellist) kept staring, smiling, and nodding his head, as much as to say: ‘Excuse our playing such an extraordinary work; it is not our fault; we are ordered to play it, and we obey.’ After the last bars had died away, there followed some feeble applause, mingled with two or three audible hisses, at which the whole room broke out into exclamations of ‘O! O!’ which were intended as a kindly protest against the hisses. Then came silence. The whole business passed over me without leaving any special bitterness. I was only vexed to feel that The Tempest, which I have hitherto regarded as one of my most brilliant works, is in reality so unimportant. I left the room and, as the weather was very fine, took a two hours’ stroll. On returning home I wrote a card to Colonne, telling him that I could only remain another day in Paris, and could not therefore call to thank him personally. “I must soon leave Paris. I am reconciled to the failure of The Tempest. I speak of it as a failure to myself, but I console myself with the thought that after the opera and the Suite I shall at last compose a fine symphonic work. And so, in all probability, I shall strive for mastery until my last breath, without ever attaining it. Something is lacking in me—I can feel it—but there is nothing to be done.” The Gazette Musicale published Tchaikovsky’s letter to Colonne, which ran as follows:— “Sir,—As luck would have it, I came to Paris for one day only, the very one upon which you presented my Tempest to the public. I was at the ChÂtelet. I heard it, and hasten to thank you for the kind and flattering attention bestowed on my music, and for your fine interpretation of my difficult and ungrateful work. I also send my hearty thanks to the members of your splendid orchestra for the trouble they took to interpret every detail of the score in the most artistic way. “As to the feeble applause and somewhat energetic hisses with which the public greeted my unlucky Tempest, they affected me deeply, but did not surprise me—I expected them. If a certain degree of prejudice against our Muscovite barbarity had something to do with this, the intrinsic defects of the work itself are also to blame. The form is diffuse and lacking in proportion. In any case the performance which, as I have said, was excellent, has nothing to do with the failure of the work. “I should certainly have gone round to shake hands with you and express my gratitude in person, had not the state of my health prevented my doing so. I am only passing through Paris. I am obliged therefore, dear sir, to have recourse to my pen, in order to convey to you my thanks. Rest assured that my gratitude will not be effaced from my heart. “Your devoted
“P. T.” In publishing this letter, the Gazette Musicale preceded it by a few lines in praise of “this rare witness to the noble and sincere modesty of a composer.” To N. F. von Meck. “Paris, February 27th (March 11th), 1879. “For the first time in my life I have read Rousseau’s Confessions. I do not know if I ought to recommend the book to you, supposing you have never read it, for side by side with passages of genius, it contains much cynical information which makes it almost unfit for a woman to read. Nevertheless I cannot help admiring the astonishing strength and beauty of style, as well as the true and profound analysis of the human soul. Apart from this, I find an indescribable delight in recognising features in my own character which I have never met with before in any literary work, and which are here described with extraordinary subtlety. For instance, he explains why, being a clever man, he never succeeds in giving any impression of his cleverness when in society. He speaks of his misanthropical tendencies, and of the unbearable necessity of keeping up forced conversations, when, in order to keep the ball rolling, one is obliged to pour forth empty words which in no way express the result of intellectual work, or spiritual impulse. How subtle and true are his remarks upon the scourge of social life.” At the beginning of March Tchaikovsky returned to St. Petersburg. As invariably happened when his solitude was interrupted and a break in his work occurred, he now passed through a period of depression and discontent with his surroundings, which were actually in no way to blame for his frame of mind. To N. F. von Meck. “March 13th (25th), 1879. “ ... On Friday I go to Moscow with my brothers to attend the first performance of Eugene Oniegin, after which I shall return to Petersburg, where I remain until Easter.” To N. F. von Meck. “Petersburg, March 19th (31st), 1879. “I have just returned from Moscow. Instead of leaving on Friday, I went on Wednesday, because Jurgenson telegraphed that my presence was required at the last rehearsal. I arrived just before the costume rehearsal took place. The stage was fully lighted, but the hall itself was quite dark, which gave me the opportunity of concealing myself in a corner and listening to the opera undisturbed. On the whole the performance was very satisfactory. The orchestra and chorus got through their business splendidly. The soloists, on the other hand, left much to be desired.... “These hours, spent in a dark corner of the theatre, were the only pleasant ones during my visit to Moscow. Between the acts I saw all my former colleagues once more. I observed with delight that the music of Oniegin seemed to win their favour. Nicholas Rubinstein, who is so parsimonious in praise, told me that he had ‘fallen in love’ with it. After the first act Taneiev wanted to express his sympathy, instead of which he burst into tears. I cannot really tell you how this touched me.... On Saturday (the day of the performance) my brothers and a few other Petersburgers, among them Anton Rubinstein, arrived early. “Throughout the day I was greatly excited, especially as I had yielded to Nicholas Rubinstein’s entreaty and declared my willingness to come before the curtain in case I should be called for. “During the performance my excitement reached its zenith. Before it began, Nicholas Rubinstein invited me behind the scenes, where, to my horror, I found myself confronted by the whole Conservatoire. At the head of the professors stood. Nicholas Grigorievich himself, who handed me a wreath, amid the hearty applause of the bystanders. Of course I had to say a few words in answer to Rubinstein’s speech. God knows what it cost me! Between the acts I was recalled several times. I have never seen such an enthusiastic audience. I draw this conclusion from the fact that it was invariably myself—not the performers—who received a recall. “After the performance there was a supper at ‘The Hermitage,’ at which even Anton Rubinstein was present. I have absolutely no idea whether my Oniegin pleased him or not. He never said a word to me on the subject. It was 4 a.m. before I returned home with a splitting headache, and spent a wretched night. I recovered during the return journey to Petersburg, and to-day I feel quite refreshed. I shall try not to go out during the next fortnight, but to give myself up in earnest to the instrumentation of my Suite.” To Tchaikovsky’s account of the first performance, I can only add my personal impression that the actual success of the opera was poor, and the ovation given to my brother was rather in consideration of former services than in honour of the music itself, which had only a moderate success. This cool reception of a work, afterwards to become one of Tchaikovsky’s most popular operas, can be accounted for in the first place by its indifferent interpretation. It had been carefully prepared, but was entrusted to inexperienced students of the Conservatoire, instead of mature artists; consequently the work was not represented in its best light. The comparatively recent period of the tale, and the audacity of the librettist in representing upon the stage the almost canonised personality of Tatiana, and, what was still worse, the additions made to Poushkin’s incomparable poem—all contributed to set public taste against the opera. Besides which, both libretto and music lacked those dramatic incidents which generally evoke the public enthusiasm. Respecting Anton Rubinstein’s judgment of Eugene Oniegin, the widow of the great pianist said that her husband was not at all pleased with the opera at the first hearing. On his return to Petersburg he criticised the work from beginning to end, and declared it to be utterly wanting in the “grand opera style.” Some years later he altered his opinion, and when his wife reminded him of the first failure of the work, replied: “What do you know about it? No one who has been brought up upon gipsy songs and Italian opera has any right to criticise such a composition.” With the exception of Laroche, most of the critics praised Eugene Oniegin, although without much enthusiasm. V Early in April Tchaikovsky left Petersburg for Kamenka. To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, April 14th (26th), 1879. “My opera reposes for the time being in my portfolio. I am working at the Suite. To-day I finished the score, and to-morrow I shall start upon the arrangement for four hands.... “I have another fortnight’s work to bestow upon the Suite. At Brailov I shall be able to give myself up entirely to my increasing love of nature. There is no other spot in the world which can offer me so much in this respect. To live in your house, to feel myself free and alone, to be able to visit the forests every day and wander all day among the flowers, to listen to the nightingale at night, to read your books, play upon your instruments and think of you—these are joys I cannot find elsewhere.” To P. Jurgenson. “Kamenka, April 22nd (May 4th), 1879. “I am beginning to be proud of my works, now that I see what an extraordinary effect some of them make. Everyone here is crazy over the Andante, and when I played it with my brother as a pianoforte duet, one girl fainted away (this is a fact!!). To make the fair sex faint is the highest triumph to which any composer can attain.” To N. F. von Meck. “Brailov, May 5th (17th), 1879. “Yesterday I began to study the score of Lohengrin. I know you are no great admirer of Wagner, and I, too, am far from being a desperate Wagnerite. I am not very sympathetic to Wagnerism as a principle. Wagner’s personality arouses my antipathy, yet I must do justice to his great musical gift. This reaches its climax in Lohengrin, which will always remain the crown of all his works. After Lohengrin, began the deterioration of his talent, which was ruined by his diabolical vanity. He lost all sense of proportion, and began to overstep all limits, so that everything he composed after Lohengrin became incomprehensible, impossible music which has no future. What chiefly interests me in Lohengrin at present is the orchestration. In view of the work which lies before me, I want to study this score very closely, and decide whether to adopt some of his methods of instrumentation. His mastery is extraordinary, but, for reasons which would necessitate technical explanations, I have not borrowed anything from him. Wagner’s orchestration is too symphonic, too overloaded and heavy for vocal music. The older I grow, the more convinced I am that symphony and opera are in every respect at the opposite poles of music. Therefore the study of Lohengrin will not lead me to change my style, although it has been interesting and of negative value.” To N. F. von Meck. “Brailov, May 7th (19th), 1879. “Yesterday I was talking to Marcel about the completion of the Catholic chapel, started long ago, but interrupted by order of the Government. Now the necessary permission has been obtained, and the priest has funds for the work; but another difficulty exists which you alone can overcome. One of your offices just touches the wall of the church, and could easily be transported to another spot. Last year I went into the chapel in which the service is held, and I must honestly say that I was sorry to see this obvious proof of Catholic persecution ... it is not large enough to hold a tenth part of the congregation. I am an energetic champion of religious freedom. Marcel tells me the priest did not like to trouble you with his requests, therefore I am animated with a desire to come to his assistance. I take the liberty of telling you that the Catholics of Brailov are hoping for your kind permission to have your building removed. If this should prove to be impossible, at least forgive me, dear friend, for my untimely interference on their behalf.” To N. F. von Meck. “Brailov, May 9th (21st), 1879. “I have just been in the church attached to the monastery. There were many people, both in the church and in the courtyard of the building. I heard the blind ‘lyre singer.’ He calls himself ‘lyre singer’ on account of the instrument with which he accompanies himself, which, however, has nothing in common with the lyre of antiquity. It is curious that in Little Russia every blind beggar sings exactly the same tune with the same refrain. I have used part of this refrain in my Pianoforte Concerto.
musical notation
“At the present moment I am writing on the balcony. Before me is the bunch of lilies of the valley from Simakov. I am never tired of looking at these enchanting creations of nature.” To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, May 29th (June 10th), 1879. “To-day I finished the first act of my opera (The Maid of Orleans). It has grown into a somewhat bulky score. What a delight to look through a newly finished score! To a musician a score means something more than a collection of all kinds of notes and pauses. It is a complete picture, in which the central figures stand out clearly from the accessories and the background. “To me every orchestral score is not merely a foretaste of oral delight, but also a joy to look upon. For this reason I am painfully particular about my scores, and cannot bear corrections, erasures, or blots.”[68] To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, June 13th (25th), 1879. “Early this morning I had a telegram from Jurgenson, to say he had won his case against Bachmetiev, the Director of the Imperial Chapel. I think I told you that early last year my Liturgy (of St. John Chrysostom) was confiscated from Jurgenson’s by order of Bachmetiev.... Only those works which have been recognised by the Chapel can be publicly sold or performed. This is the reason why, until now, no Russian musicians have written Church music. After the confiscation of my composition, Jurgenson brought an action for damages against Bachmetiev, and has won his case.... This does not matter so much for my Liturgy, as for the principle involved. “Twenty-five years ago to-day my mother died. It was the first profound sorrow of my life. Her death had a great influence on the fate of myself and our entire family. She was carried off by cholera, quite unexpectedly, in the prime of life. Every moment of that terrible day is still as clear in my remembrances as though it had happened yesterday.” On June 20th Tchaikovsky wrote to N. F. von Meck that he had received three very agreeable letters from abroad. In one Colonne expressed his respect in the kindliest manner, and assured Tchaikovsky that, in spite of the cold reception of The Tempest, his name should figure again in the programmes of the ChÂtelet. A second communication came from the ‘cellist Fitzenhagen (professor at the Moscow Conservatoire), telling him of the impression he had created with the “Variations on a Rococo theme” at the Wiesbaden Festival. Liszt remarked on this occasion, “At last here is music again.” The third letter—from Hans von BÜlow—announced the great success of Tchaikovsky’s first Pianoforte Concerto at the same festival. Von BÜlow had already played it with even greater success in London. Almost on the same day Tchaikovsky also heard the good news that his Liturgy had been performed in the University Church at Kiev. VI On August 7th Tchaikovsky finished the third act of The Maid of Orleans and, suffering from physical and nervous exhaustion, left Kamenka for Simaki,[69] as Nadejda von Meck was occupying her house at Brailov. To N. F. von Meck. “I am enchanted. I could not imagine more beautiful surroundings. The garden in which I have just been walking with Pakhulsky has surpassed all my expectations. The house is a splendid retreat! If you only realised how much I am in need just now of all the comforts which I get as your guest in this delightful spot! “I intend to finish the orchestration of the last act of my opera while I am here, and shall begin work to-morrow. I shall get this heavy burden off my shoulders, and then I can draw breath and enjoy the incomparable sensation of having completed a long work.” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Simaki, August 9th (21st), 1879. “I hasten to send you my first impressions of this place. A very, very old house, a shady garden with ancient oaks and lime trees; it is very secluded, but therein lies its charm. At the end of the garden flows a stream. From the verandah there is a fine view over the village and the forests. The absolute quiet and comfort of the place exactly suit my taste and requirements. I have at my disposal an old manservant called Leon, a cook whom I never see, and a coachman with a phaeton and four horses. I could gladly dispense with the last, since it necessitates my driving occasionally, while in reality I prefer to walk. The proximity of Nadejda Filaretovna troubles me somewhat, although it is really folly. I know my seclusion will not be disturbed. I am so accustomed to regard her as a kind of remote and invisible genius that the consciousness of her mortal presence in my neighbourhood is rather disconcerting. Yesterday I met Pakhulsky, who spent part of the evening with me. But I told him plainly that I wanted to be left quite alone for a few days.” To N. F. von Meck. “August 11th (23rd), 1879. “Pakhulsky told me that next time he came he was to bring Milochka[70] with him. I am very fond of Milochka; it is a pleasure to look at the photograph of her charming face. I am sure she is a dear, sweet, sympathetic child. I love children, and could only say ‘yes’ to such a proposal. But what I could not say to Pakhulsky I can say to you. “Forgive me, dear friend, and make fun of my mania if you like—but I am not going to invite Milochka here, for this reason: my relations towards you—as they exist at present—are my chief happiness, and of the greatest importance to my well-being. I do not want them altered by a hair’s breadth. The whole charm and poetry of our friendship lies in your being so near and so dear to me, while at the same time I do not know you at all in the ordinary sense of the word. This condition of things must extend to your nearest belongings. I will love Milochka as I have hitherto loved you. If she appeared before me—le charme serait rompu! “Every member of your family is dear to me—particularly Milochka—yet for God’s sake let everything remain as it has been. What could I say if she asked me why I never went to see her mother? I should have to open our acquaintance with a lie. This would be a grief to me, even though it were a trifling falsehood. Pardon my frankness, dear and noble friend.... “If you have Beethoven’s Sonatas, be so kind as to send them to me.” To Anatol Tchaikovsky. “Simaki, August 18th (30th), 1879. “Time slips away unobserved. Yesterday something very painful happened. About four o’clock in the afternoon I was walking in the woods, feeling sure I should not meet Nadejda Filaretovna, because it was her dinner-hour. It chanced, however, that I went out a little earlier, and she was dining somewhat later, so we ran against each other quite by chance. It was an awkward predicament. Although we were only face to face for a moment, I felt horribly confused. However, I raised my hat politely. She seemed to lose her head entirely and did not know what to do. She was in one carriage with Milochka, and the whole family followed in two others. I wandered into the forest in search of mushrooms, and when I returned to the little table where tea was prepared for me, I found my letters and newspapers awaiting me. It appears she sent a man on horseback to look for me, so that I might get my post at tea-time.” To N. F. von Meck. “Simaki, August 27th (September 8th), 1879. “Now I can almost say finished! I have worked at The Maid of Orleans from the end of November (Florence) to the end of August (Simaki), just nine months. It is remarkable that I began and finished this opera as the guest of my dear friend.” To N. F. von Meck. “August 31st (September 12th), 1879. “Do you not like such grey days as to-day? I love them. The beginning of autumn can only be compared to spring as regards beauty. It seems to me September, with its tender, melancholy colouring, has a special power to fill me with calm and happy feelings. Around Simaki there are many delightful spots which I like best to frequent at sunset, or on sunless days like to-day. For instance, if you turn to the right, past the kitchen garden, and take the lower path (parallel to the village) by the fen where the reeds grow. I am very fond of that spot. But by day the sun spoils the picturesque view of the village. “At evening, too, or on a cloudy day, it is delightful to sit on some high-lying spot, and look over the old willows, or poplars, across to the village, with its modest church (what a charm is given to every rural landscape by these churches), and far away to the distant forests. I often spend an hour in this way....” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “August 31st (September 12th), 1879. “I have just received a telegram from Anatol: ‘Have just been dismissed in consequence of an unpleasantness in my department. Most anxious to speak to you.’ I am starting for Petersburg at once. A great fear of the future possesses me. In spite of the many delightful moments spent here, I have had a continual foreboding of something unlucky, and always about Toly.” VII
1879-1880 To P. I. Jurgenson. (Early in September.) “You will be very much astonished to hear of my being in Petersburg. I was summoned by a telegram from my brother Anatol, announcing that in consequence of some unpleasantness he had to resign his position in the Government service.... I think the matter can be so arranged that he can keep his place.... “I do not know how long I shall stay here. It depends upon the progress of my brother’s affairs. O detested Petersburg!” To N. F. von Meck. “Petersburg, September 13th (25th), 1879. “I received your letter yesterday, dear friend. How I envied you when I read your account of the lovely autumn weather you were enjoying! The weather is not bad here, but what is the use of it to me? “I often go to the opera, but I do not enjoy it much. The impossibility of escaping from innumerable acquaintances bores me dreadfully. No matter where I hide myself, there are always idle people who poison my pleasure in the music by their kind attentions. They will worry me with the usual commonplace questions: ‘How are you?’ ‘What are you composing now?’ etc. But the invitations are the most intolerable. It requires so much courage to refuse them. “In one of your letters you asked me to tell you the whole method of procedure in order to get an opera accepted for performance. One has to send the score and pianoforte arrangement, with a written request for its performance, to the Direction of the Imperial Opera House. Then, in order to be successful, one must set in motion the whole machinery of solicitation and entreaty. This is just what I do not understand. My first two operas were performed, thanks to the assistance of the Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich who likes my music. How things will go this time I cannot say. I shall impress upon Jurgenson to do all that is necessary. Two days ago I was talking to Napravnik (one of the worthiest members of the musical world), who takes a lively interest in the fate of my opera. He told me it could not be performed this season, but advised me to send in the score as soon as possible.” To Anatol Tchaikovsky. “Moscow, September 20th (October 2nd), 1879. “Forgive me for not having written before to-day. Yesterday it was impossible.... Rubinstein and Jurgenson soon put in an appearance, and compelled me to leave the tea, upon which I had just started, and go out to breakfast with them. O Moscow! Scarcely has one set foot in it before one must needs begin to drink! At five o’clock I was invited to dinner at the Jurgensons’, where we began again. I cannot tell you how strange and repugnant to me is this Moscow atmosphere of swilling.” To N. F. von Meck. “Grankino, September 25th (October 7th), 1879. “I left Moscow on the 22nd. No sooner did the train begin to move, and I saw the outskirts of the town, than the black curtain, which had hung before my eyes during the whole of my time in the two capitals, suddenly vanished. I was once more free and happy. “Here I found both your letters. I cannot tell you how glad I was to read your dear words. It was a surprise to hear our symphony was at last published, for the distracted Jurgenson forgot to mention this.... “I owe you everything: my life, the possibility of going forward to distant goals, freedom, and that complete happiness which formerly I believed to be unattainable. “I read your letters with such a sense of eternal gratitude and affection that I cannot put it into words....” To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, October 5th (17th), 1879. “At the present moment—I do not know why—I am going through an intense Italian craze. I feel so delighted, so happy, at the mere thought that before long I, too, shall be in Italy. Naples, Pompeii, Vesuvius ... enchanting, lovely! “I found the proofs of the Suite here. In three days I corrected and sent them back, so that I can now take a holiday—read, walk, play, dream—to my heart’s desire. For how long? I do not know. At any rate, I will not undertake any work during my first days in Naples. Do you not think that in the land of lazzarone one must be lazy too?” To Anatol Tchaikovsky. “Kamenka, October 7th (19th) 1879. “No news. I feel very well, only a little misanthropical now and then. To-day there are visitors. When there are none I feel quite at ease. We all sit and sew. I have hemmed and marked a pocket-handkerchief.”[71] To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, October 9th (21st), 1879. “How can I thank you for the trouble you have taken about our symphony? I am delighted Colonne will play it. At the same time there is no doubt it will have no success whatever with the public. Perhaps it might rouse a spark of sympathy in the hearts of ten or twelve people—and that would be a great step in advance.... Only one thing troubles me. Does Colonne really want to be paid for doing the work? It would gratify me to know that his readiness to perform the symphony was not based upon pecuniary considerations.” To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, October 12th (24th), 1879. “The last few days I have felt a secret dissatisfaction with myself, which has degenerated into boredom. I realised that I wanted work and began to occupy myself. The boredom immediately vanished and I felt relieved. I have begun a pianoforte concerto and intend to work at it without haste and over-fatigue. “Have you read V. Soloviev’s philosophical articles? They are admirably written; very popular in form, so that they do not overstep the intelligence of the ordinary reader, yet very clever. I do not know to what conclusions the writer will eventually come. In the last number he proves very effectively the untenableness of positivism, which denies metaphysics, yet cannot get along without philosophy. Soloviev speaks in a very striking way of the delusion of the materialists who, because they deny metaphysics, believe they are only dealing with what actually exists, that is, with the material; whereas the material has no objective existence, and is only a phenomenon, the result of the activity of our sense and intellect. I express his ideas very indifferently, but I advise you to read this book for yourself. “Yesterday I heard from Anatol about the performance of Vakoula the Smith, which took place the previous week. The theatre was full, but the public cool, just as on former occasions. Anatol attributes this to the indifferent performance. But I can see with startling clearness that this attitude of reserve is the outcome of my own stupid mistakes. I am glad to know that The Maid of Orleans is free from the faults of my earlier pseudo-opera style, in which I wearied my listeners with a superfluity of details, and made my harmony too complicated, so that there was no moderation in my orchestral effects. Besides which, I gave the audience no repose. I set too many heavy dishes before them. Opera style should be broad, simple, and decorative. Vakoula is not in true opera style, but is far more like symphonic or chamber music. It is only surprising that it has not proved a complete failure. It is possible that it may find favour with the public in course of time. I place it in the front rank of my works, although I see all its defects. It was a labour of love, an enjoyment, like Oniegin, the Fourth Symphony, and the Second Quartet.” To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, October 15th (27th), 1879. “Only a month—and I shall be at Naples! I look forward to this as a child to his birthday, and the presents it will bring. Meanwhile things are going well with me. My latest musical creation begins to grow and display more characteristic features. I work with greater pleasure and try to curb my habitual haste, which has often been injurious to my work.” On October 21st Nicholas Rubinstein played Tchaikovsky’s Pianoforte Sonata at a concert of the Musical Society in Moscow. The success was so great that the famous pianist repeated it at his own concert in the course of the same season. On November 11th the composer’s First Suite had a decided success, judging by the newspapers. The short number which Tchaikovsky once thought of cutting out of the work was encored. To Anatol Tchaikovsky. “Berlin, November 11th (23rd), 1879. “My dear Anatol,—I have had an ideal journey. I arrived in Berlin early this morning. After breakfast I went to see Kotek. The good man seemed wild with delight at seeing me again, and even I was glad. But at the end of two hours of musical tittle-tattle I was tired, and thankful he had to attend a rehearsal. Strange! The longer I live, the less I care for the society of my fellow-creatures. There is no doubt that I am fond of Kotek, but his chatter wearies me more than the severest physical exertion.” To N. F. von Meck. “Paris, November 18th (30th), 1879. “I know the Variations by Rimsky-Korsakov & Co.[72] very well. The work is original in its way and shows some remarkable talent for harmony in its authors. At the same time I do not care for it. It is too heavy and spun-out for a joke, and the everlasting repetition of the theme is—clumsy. As a work of art it is a mere nonentity. It is not surprising that a few clever men should have amused themselves by inventing all kinds of variations upon a commonplace theme; the surprising thing is their having published them. Only amateurs can suppose that every piquant harmony is worthy to be given to the public. Liszt, the old Jesuit, speaks in terms of exaggerated praise of every work which is submitted to his inspection. He is at heart a good man, one of the very few great artists who have never known envy (Wagner and in some measure Anton Rubinstein owe their success to him; he also did much for Berlioz); but he is too much of a Jesuit to be frank and sincere.” To P. Jurgenson. “Paris, November 19th (December 1st), 1879. “Dear Friend,—What happiness to get right away from one’s own country! Not until I had passed the frontiers, did I breathe freely and feel at ease. On the journey I came across Joseph Wieniawsky, who was in the same corridor train. I immediately told him I was not alone, but travelling with a lady, upon which he winked at me slyly, as much as to say, ‘Of course, we know, shocking dog!’ “At present I want to work slowly at my Concerto; later I mean to look through my old works, especially the Second Symphony, which I intend to revise thoroughly.” To N. F. von Meck. “Paris, November 21st (December 3rd), 1879. “To-day, being a Saint’s Day, Alexis went to church, and told me the Grand Duke Nicholas Nicholaevich, with all his suite in full uniform, had attended the service. I could not account for this until I took up the Gaulois at breakfast, and read of an attempt made in Moscow on the Tsar’s life.... The Emperor escaped unharmed. “I do not believe, dear friend, that we are in immediate danger of a war with Prussia. Such a war, although inevitable, is improbable during the lives of the present emperors. How can it be possible to think of war, when such horrors are taking place in our midst?... I think the Tsar would do well to assemble representatives throughout all Russia, and take counsel with them how to prevent the recurrence of such terrible actions on the part of mad revolutionaries. So long as all of us—the Russian citizens—are not called to take part in the government of the country, there is no hope of a better future.” To N. F. von Meck. “Paris, November 26th (December 8th), 1879. “I am not altogether at one with you as regards Cui. I do not recognise in him any great creative power, although his music has a certain elegance, agreeable harmonies, and shows good taste, in which he is distinguished from the other members of ‘the band,’ especially Moussorgsky. By nature Cui is more drawn towards light and piquantly rhythmic French music; but the demands of ‘the band’ which he has joined compel him to do violence to his natural gifts and to follow those paths of would-be original harmony which do not suit him. Cui is now forty-four years of age and has only composed two operas and two or three dozen songs. He was engaged for ten years upon his opera Ratcliff. It is evident that the work was composed piecemeal, hence the lack of any unity of style.” To N. F. von Meck. “Paris, November 27th (December 9th), 1879. “Now I will answer your question. My Voyevode is undoubtedly a very poor opera. I do not speak of the music only, but of all that goes to the making of a good opera. The subject is lacking in dramatic interest and movement, and the work was written hastily and carelessly. I wrote music to the words without troubling to consider the difference between operatic and symphonic style. In composing an opera the stage should be the musician’s first thought, he must not abuse the confidence of the theatre-goer who comes to see as well as to hear. Finally, the style of music written for the stage should be the same as the decorative style in painting, clear, simple, and highly coloured. A picture by Meissonier would lose half its charm if exhibited on the stage; and subtle, delicately harmonised music would be equally inappropriate, since the public demands sharply defined melodies on a background of subdued harmony. In my Voyevode I have been chiefly concerned with filigree work, and have forgotten the requirements of the stage. “The stage often paralyses a composer’s inspiration, that is why symphonic and chamber music are so far superior to opera. A symphony or sonata imposes no limitations, but in opera, the first necessity is to speak the musical language of the great public.... The final defect of The Voyevode lies in the heaviness of its orchestration, which overpowers the soloists. These are all the faults of inexperience; we must leave a whole series of failures behind us before we can attain to perfection. This is the reason why I am not ashamed of my first opera. It has taught me useful lessons. And you see, dear friend, how strenuously I have endeavoured to correct my errors. Even Undine (the opera I burnt), The Oprichnik, and Vakoula are not what they should be. I find this branch of art very difficult! I think The Maid of Orleans at last fulfils every requirement, but perhaps I deceive myself. If it is so, if it turns out that I have failed to grasp the true opera style, even in this work, then I shall be convinced of the justice of the opinion that I am by nature only a symphonic composer and should not attempt dramatic music. In that case, I shall abandon all attempts at opera.” To N. F. von Meck. “Paris, December 1879. “I have read the proclamation you mention. It is impossible to conceive anything more astounding and cynical. How will such revolutionary proceedings forward the reforms with which, sooner or later, the Tsar will crown his reign? That which the Socialists are doing in the name of Russia is foolish and insolent. But equally false is their pretence of readiness to shake hands with all parties and to leave the Emperor in peace as soon as he summons a Parliament. This is not what they really aim at, for they mean to go further—to a socialist-republic, or to anarchy. But no one will swallow this bait. Even were a constitution granted to Russia in the remote future, the first act of the Zemstvo should be extermination of this band of murderers who hope to become the leaders of the country.” To N. F. von Meck. “Paris, December 3rd (15th), 1879. “The sketch of my Concerto is finished and I am very pleased with it, especially with the Andante. Now I shall take in hand the revision of my Second Symphony, of which only the last movement can be left intact. I published this work through Bessel in 1872, as a return for the trouble he took over the performance of The Oprichnik.... For seven years he has led me a dance over the engraving of the score—always putting me off with the assurance that it would soon be ready. I was sometimes furious with him, but his lack of conscience has proved itself a blessing in disguise!... If I succeed in working steadily in Rome, I shall make a good work out of my immature, mediocre symphony.” VIII After spending a few days in Turin, Tchaikovsky reached Rome on December 8th (20th), 1879. From thence he wrote, on the 12th (24th), to Frau von Meck:— “Yesterday we made a pilgrimage to S. Pietro in Montorio. Probably you know the place, therefore I need not describe the beauty of the view from the terrace below the church. To-day I visited San Giovanni in Laterano and carried away some profound artistic impressions. I also went to Scala Santa. High Mass was being celebrated in the church. The choir sang a Mass a capella and also with the organ. Quite modern music, utterly unsuitable in church, but beautifully sung. What voices there are in Italy! The tenor gave a solo, in the style of a wretched operatic aria, in such a magnificent voice that I was quite carried away. But the Mass itself lacks that solemn, poetical atmosphere with which our liturgy is surrounded.” To N. F. von Meck. “Rome, December 13th (25th), 1879. “It is Christmas here to-day. We went to Mass at St. Peter’s. What a colossal edifice—this cathedral!” To N. F. von Meck. “Rome, December 15th (27th), 1879. “Yesterday we went up Monte Testaccio, with its lovely view of Rome and the Campagna. From there we visited S. Paolo Fuori le Mura, a basilica of huge proportions and vast wealth. To-day I am going for the first time to ‘do’ the Forum thoroughly. This has a three-fold interest for me because I am just reading AmpÈre’s Histoire romaine À Rome, in which all that has taken place in this building is minutely described. “I have a very good piano now. I got a few volumes of Bach’s works from Ricordi, and play a number of them, alone, or four-handed, with my brother Modeste. But work will not come back to me. Rome and Roman life are too characteristic, too exciting and full of variety, to permit of my sticking to my writing-table. However, I hope the power of work will gradually return. Yesterday I heard a charming popular song, of which I shall certainly make use some future day.” To P. I. Jurgenson. “Rome, December 19th (31st), 1879. “Dear Friend,— ... Nicholas Rubinstein’s opinion that my Suite is so difficult that it is impossible, has surprised and annoyed me very much. Either Rubinstein is mistaken, or I must give up composing; one or the other. Why, it is my chief anxiety to write more easily and simply as time goes on, and the more I try—the worse I succeed! It is dreadful! “I asked Taneiev to write and tell me what actually constituted these terrible difficulties. I feel a little hurt that none of my friends telegraphed to me after the performance. I am forgotten. The one interest which binds me to life is centred in my compositions. Every first performance marks an epoch for me. Can no one realise that it would have been a joy to receive a few words of appreciation, by which I should have known that my new work had been performed and had given pleasure to my friends? “I do not understand what you say about the ‘Marche Miniature.’ We never cut it out. The March was to be kept, but as it was not suitable as No. 5 it was to be published at the end of the Suite.... For God’s sake answer my letters quicker. Your communication has upset my nerves and I feel as ill as a dog.” To N. F. von Meck. Rome, December 22nd (January 3rd, 1880), 1879. “To-day I went to the Capitol with Modeste. We spent an hour and a half in the Hall of the Emperors. The busts are highly characteristic! What a revolting, sensual, animal face Nero has! How sympathetic is Marcus Aurelius! How fine the old Agrippina! How repulsive Caracalla! Some of these countenances in no way bear out one’s idea of the originals. For instance, Julius CÆsar altogether lacks power and greatness; he looks like a Russian Councillor of State. And Trajan? Who could guess from his narrow forehead, prominent chin, and commonplace expression, that the original of the portrait was a great man?...” A few days later, Tchaikovsky recounted to Nadejda von Meck his impressions of the treasures of the Vatican:— “The frescoes of Michel Angelo now appear less incomprehensible to me, although I do not share Modeste’s enthusiasm for them. His athletic, muscular figures, and the gloomy vastness of his pictures, are gradually becoming more intelligible. His art now interests and overcomes me, but it does not delight me, or touch my heart. Raphael is still my favourite—the Mozart of painters. Guercino’s pictures please me very much, some of his Madonnas are so angelically beautiful, they fill me with silent ecstasy. However, I must confess that I am not gifted by nature with a fine appreciation of the plastic arts, for very few pictures make an impression upon me.... To study all the art treasures of Rome conscientiously would need a whole lifetime. To-day I discovered once more how important it is to look long and carefully at a picture. I sat before Raphael’s ‘Annunciation,’ and at first I did not see much in the picture, but the longer I looked the more profoundly was I penetrated with its beauty as a whole, and the wonder of its details. Alas! I had only just begun to really enjoy the work, when Modeste came to tell me it was three o’clock and time to go on to the Sistine Chapel.... I do not think I could live long in Rome. There are too many interests; it leaves no time for reflection, no time to deepen one’s own nature. I should prefer Florence as a permanent place of residence; it is quieter, more peaceful. Rome is richer and grander; Florence more sympathetic. “I agree with Goethe’s characteristic opinion of Rome.... ‘It would be a fine thing to spend a few centuries there in Pythagorean silence.’” S.I. Taneiev to Tchaikovsky. “Moscow. “N. Rubinstein has pointed out to me all those parts in the score of your Suite which he considers awkward. “The difficulties are chiefly centred in the wind instruments, especially in the wood-wind. They are as follows:— “(1) Too few pauses; the wood-wind have to play for too long at a time without opportunities for breathing. In those places where you have doubled the strings (as in the Fugue) it does not matter so much, they can make a slight break without its being observable. But it is very different when they are playing alone. For instance, in the newly added movement there is a part for three flutes which have to play triplets for twenty-two bars, without a break. “(2) Difficult passages: these occur very often in the wood-wind and demand virtuosi to execute them properly. In the Andante the passages leading to the second theme are extremely difficult (where oboe and clarinet, and the second time flute and clarinet, have triplets of semi-quavers). This part went very badly at the rehearsals, and even at the concert, although the musicians had practised their parts at home. It offers such difficulties that it is impossible to render it with the expression marks indicated, for the musicians have enough to do to get their right note (the double flat for clarinet is particularly awkward). “(3) The compass of all the wood-wind instruments is too extended. The first bassoon usually plays in the tenor register, while the second takes the lower notes. Not only the musicians, but also their instruments, have got accustomed to this; the lower notes of the first bassoon are not quite in tune; the same thing applies to the upper notes of the second bassoon. But your Suite opens with a unison passage for both fagotti, which employs almost the entire range of these instruments: from
musical notation
In the march the oboes have the following notes:—
musical notation
which Z. played at the first rehearsal as:—
musical notation
When Rubinstein asked him why he did not play the notes as they were written, he replied that he could do so, but it would be very bad for his lips, because they lay too high. The French oboe players, he continued, could bring out these high notes better, because they had different and finer mouthpieces; but with these mouthpieces the middle and lower notes suffered. “(4) Difficult rhythms which make the execution irregular. The absence, too, of what the Germans call “Anhaltspunkt” (punctuation)—the absence of notes on the strong beats of the bar. Take this rhythm in the Scherzo for instance:—
musical notation
the last notes come on the second crotchet, and the pause on the third beat. In consequence, it is very difficult to play these notes equally, they always sound a little one on the top of the other. The same with the following passage:—
musical notation
Altogether the Scherzo requires enormous virtuosity, which most members of the orchestra do not possess. “Apparently some passages do not sound as you thought they would. At the beginning of the Scherzo (where the wood-wind enters) there is a modulation to B? major through the dominant chord on F.
musical notation
The superfluity of chromatic harmonies, as well as the difficulty of executing clearly all that is written for the wind, causes these passages to sound unintelligible and to have the effect of a series of wrong notes....” To S. I. Taneiev. “Rome, January 4th (16th), 1880. “Nicholas Rubinstein’s explanation is not at all satisfactory. From all he says, I can plainly see that he was out of temper and visited it upon the Suite. No one will induce me to believe this passage
musical notation
is difficult to play on the oboe or clarinet, or that the flutes cannot play twenty-two bars of triplets in a rapid tempo. They could easily manage to play such a passage for 220 bars. It would be very innocent to imagine that this must be done in one breath. They can breathe every time. I play the flute a little myself and am certain of it. Difficulty is a relative matter: for a beginner it would not only be difficult, but impossible, but for an averagely good orchestral player it is not hard. I do not lay myself out to write easy things; I know my instrumentation is almost always rather difficult. But you must admit that compared with Francesca, or the Fourth Symphony, the Suite is child’s play. Altogether Rubinstein’s criticisms are such that—were they accurate—I should have to lay down my pen for ever. What? For ten years I have taught instrumentation at the Conservatoire (not remarkably well perhaps, but without compromising myself), and two years later remarks are made to me which could only be addressed to a very backward pupil! One of two things: either I never understood anything about the orchestra, or this criticism of my Suite is on a par with N. R.’s remarks upon my Pianoforte Concerto in 1875: that it was impracticable. What was impossible in 1875 was proved quite possible in 1878. “I explain the whole affair thus: the oboist Herr Z. was in a bad temper—which not infrequently happens with him—and this infected Rubinstein. I like the idea that the high notes are ruination to Herr Z.’s lips!!! It is a thousand pities these precious lips, from which Frau Z. has stolen so many kisses, should be spoilt for ever by the E in alt. But this will not hinder me from injuring these sacred lips by writing high notes—notes moreover that every oboist can easily play, even without a French mouthpiece!” IX To N. F. von Meck. “Rome, January 2nd (14th), 1880. “When I look back upon the year that has flown, I feel I must sing a hymn of thanksgiving to fate which has brought me so many beautiful days in Russia and abroad. I can say that throughout the whole year I have led a calm and cheerful life, and have been happy, so far as happiness is possible.” To P. I. Jurgenson. “Rome, January 11th (23rd), 1880. “My health is bad, and my mental condition not very good. I have had sad news from Petersburg: my sister is ill and also her daughter. Yesterday I heard of my father’s death. He was eighty-five, so this news did not altogether take me by surprise. But he was such a wonderful, angelic old soul. I loved him so much, it is a bitter grief to feel I shall never see him again.” On hearing this news, Tchaikovsky burst into tears. Afterwards he became quiet and resigned. But the peaceful end of this venerable old man could not make a great gap in the busy life of his son, to whom, notwithstanding, he had been very dear. To N. F. von Meck. “Rome, January 12th (24th), 1880. “This morning I received an amiable letter from Colonne, telling me my symphony[73] would be given to-morrow at the ChÂtelet. This has vexed me. If he had written a day earlier, I might have reached Paris in time. But Colonne is not to blame because, in order to preserve my incognito, I told him I could not be present at the performance of my symphony, on account of my health. “How am I to thank you for this kindness, dear friend? I know the symphony will not have any success, but it will interest many people, and this is very important for the propaganda of my works.” Although Colonne sent a telegram of congratulation immediately after the concert, the letter which followed announced, in the politest manner, the partial failure of the symphony. La Gazette Musicale says the first and last movements were received with “icy coldness,” and the public only showed enthusiasm for the Scherzo, and portions of the Andante. Almost simultaneously with the performance of the Fourth Symphony in Paris, Tchaikovsky’s Quartet No. 3, Op. 30, and the Serenade for violin and pianoforte were given by the SociÉtÉ de S. CÉcile. All the newspapers were unanimously agreed as to the success of these works. From this time Tchaikovsky’s works began to make their way abroad. From New York, Leopold Damrosch sent him tidings of the great success of his First Suite; while Jurgenson wrote to tell him of the triumph of his Pianoforte Concerto in B? minor, which had been played twice by BÜlow and once by Friedenthal in Berlin, by Breitner in Buda-Pesth, and by Rummel in New York. To N. F. von Meck. “Rome, January 16th (28th), 1880. “What a superb work is Michel Angelo’s ‘Moses’! It is indeed conceived and executed by a genius of the highest order. It is said the work has some defects. This reminds me of old FÉtis, who was always on the look-out for errors in Beethoven’s works, and once boasted in triumph of having discovered in the Eroica symphony an inversion which was not in good taste. “Do you not think Beethoven and Michel Angelo are allied by nature?” To N. F. von Meck. “February 5th (17th), 1880. “Just now we are at the very height of the Carnival. At first, as I have told you, this wild folly did not suit me at all, but now I am growing used to it. Of course the character of the festival here is conditioned by climate and custom. Probably if a Roman was set down among us in our Carnival week, the crowd of tipsy people swinging and toboganning would seem to him even more barbarous! “I am working at the sketch of an Italian Fantasia based upon folksongs. Thanks to the charming themes, some of which I have taken from collections and some of which I have heard in the streets, this work will be effective.” To N. F. von Meck. “February 4th (16th), 1880. “Yesterday we made the most of glorious weather and went to Tivoli. It is the loveliest spot I ever beheld. As soon as we arrived we went to lunch at the Albergo della Sybilla. Our table was near the edge of a ravine, where a waterfall splashed in the depths below; on all sides the steep banks and rocks were covered with pines and olive trees. The sun was hot as in June. After breakfast we took a long walk and visited the celebrated Villa d’Este, where Liszt spends three months every year. It is magnificent, and from the park there is a fine view over the Campagna. “To-day we went to the gallery of the Palazzo Borghese, in which there are some masterpieces. I was most impressed by Correggio’s superb picture ‘Danae.’[74] “Dear friend, leading such a life, amid all these beautiful impressions of nature and art, ought not a man to be happy? And yet a worm continually gnaws in secret at my heart. I sleep badly, and do not feel that courage and freshness which I might expect under the present conditions. Only for a moment can I conquer my mental depression. My God! What an incomprehensible and complicated machine the human organism is! We shall never solve the various phenomena of our spiritual and material existence. And how can we draw the line between the intellectual and physiological phenomena of our life? At times it seems to me as though I suffered from a mysterious, but purely physical, malady which influences my mental phases. Lately I have thought my heart was out of order; but then I remembered that last summer the doctor who examined it declared my heart to be absolutely sound. So I must lay the blame on my nerves—but what are nerves? Why, on one and the same day, without any apparent reason, do they act quite normally for a time, and then lose their elasticity and energy, and leave one incapable of work and insensible to artistic impressions? These are riddles. “There is a lovely bunch of violets in front of me. There are quantities here. Spring is coming in to her own.” To P. I. Jurgenson. “Rome, February 5th (17th), 1880. “Good Lord, what a stupid idea to go and print that score!!![75] It is not profitable, is no use to anyone, nor satisfactory in any respect—simply absurd. The moral is: when you want to prepare a little surprise for me, ask my advice first. I assure you, in spite of my well-known naÏvetÉ, I have more sound common sense than many clever, worthy, but too enthusiastic people—such as the person for example who suggested you should engrave this score. All the same, my unfavourable view does not prevent my being grateful—even in this case—for your friendship, which I value tremendously. “Is it not time to lay the score of The Maid of Orleans before the Opera Direction? I think it is just the right moment....” To N. F. von Meck. “Rome, February 6th (18th), 1880. “The more I look at Michel Angelo’s works the more wonderful they seem to me. Just now I was contemplating his ‘Moses.’ The church was empty, and there was nothing to disturb my meditations. I assure you I was filled with terror. You will remember that Moses is standing with his head slightly turned towards the sacrifice which is to be offered to Baal. His expression is angry and menacing; his figure majestic and commanding. One feels he has only to speak a word, for erring mortals to fall on their knees before him. It is impossible to conceive anything more perfect than this great statue. With this genius the form expresses his entire thought, there is nothing forced, no pose, such as we see, for instance, in Bernini’s statues, of which Rome unfortunately possesses so many examples. “I am so pleased with a book that has come into my hands, I cannot put it down. It is nothing less than an excellent rendering of Tacitus into French. He is a great artist.” About this time the performance of Tchaikovsky’s opera The Oprichnik was forbidden, because the subject was considered too revolutionary in that moment of political agitation. “Je n’ai qu’À m’en fÉliciter,” wrote the composer on receiving the news, “for I am glad of any hindrance to the performance of this ill_starred opera.” To N. F. von Meck. “Rome, February 16th (28th), 1880. “I chose the title of Divertimento for the second movement of my Suite, because it was the first which occurred to me. I wrote the movement without attaching any great importance to it, and only interpolated it in the Suite to avoid rhythmical monotony. I wrote it actually at one sitting, and spent much less time upon it than upon any other movement. As it turns out, this has not hindered it from giving more pleasure than all the rest. You are not the only one who thinks so. It proves for the thousandth time that an author never judges his own works with justice. “I am most grateful to you for calling Colonne’s attention to my new works, but I must tell you frankly: it would be very disagreeable to me if you were again to repay him in a material form for his attention.... The first time it was very painful that you should have spent a considerable sum of money, although I was glad to feel that, thanks to your devoted friendship, our symphony should be made known to the Paris public. I was grateful for this new proof of your sympathy. But now it would be painful and disgraceful to me to know that Colonne could only see the worth of my compositions by the flashlight of gold. All the same, I am grateful for your recommendation.” To N. F. von Meck. “Rome, February 18th (March 1st), 1880. “The Concerto[76] of Brahms does not please me better than any other of his works. He is certainly a great musician, even a Master, but, in his case, his mastery overwhelms his inspiration. So many preparations and circumlocutions for something which ought to come and charm us at once—and nothing does come, but boredom. His music is not warmed by any genuine emotion. It lacks poetry, but makes great pretensions to profundity. These depths contain nothing: they are void. Take the opening of the Concerto, for instance. It is an introduction, a preparation for something fine; an admirable pedestal for a statue; but the statue is lacking, we only get a second pedestal piled upon the first. I do not know whether I have properly expressed the thoughts, or rather feelings, which Brahms’s music awakens in me. I mean to say that he never expresses anything, or, when he does, he fails to express it fully. His music is made up of fragments of some indefinable something, skilfully welded together. The design lacks definite contour, colour, life. “But I must simply confess that, independent of any definite accusation, Brahms, as a musical personality, is antipathetic to me. I cannot abide him. Whatever he does—I remain unmoved and cold. It is a purely instinctive feeling.” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Rome, February 26th (March 9th), 1880. “To-day I went on foot to the Vatican and sat a long while in the Sistine Chapel. Here a miracle was worked. I felt—almost for the first time in my life—an artistic ecstasy for painting. What it means to become gradually accustomed to the painter’s art! I remember the time when all this seemed to me absurd and meaningless....” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Berlin, March 4th (16th), 1880. “In Paris I went to the ‘ComÉdie Francaise,’ and fell in love with Racine or Corneille (which of them wrote Polyeucte?). The beauty and strength of these verses and, still more, the lofty artistic truth! At the first glance this tragedy seems so unreal and impossible. The last act, however, in which Felix, conscience-stricken and illumined by Christ, suddenly becomes a Christian, touched me profoundly.... “After reading Toly’s letter I went to Bilse’s concert. The large, luxuriously decorated hall, with its smell of indifferent cigars and food, its stocking-knitting ladies and beer-drinking men, made a curious impression upon me. After Italy, where we were constantly out in the beautiful, pure air, it was quite repugnant. But the orchestra was excellent, the acoustic splendid, and the programme good. I heard Schumann’s ‘Genoveva,’ the ‘Mignon’ overture, and a very sparkling pot-pourri, and I was very pleased with it all. How glad I shall be to hear the Flying Dutchman to-day!” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Berlin, March 5th (17th), 1880. “To-day I went to the Aquarium, where I went into ecstasies over the chimpanzee. He lives in intimate friendship with a dog. It is delightful to see the two play together, and the chimpanzee laughs in the drollest way when he takes refuge in some place where the dog cannot get at him! “I notice that I am making great progress in my appreciation of painting. I take the greatest delight in many things, especially in the Flemish school. Teniers, Wouvermans, and Ruysdael please me far more than the renowned Rubens, who represents even Christ as healthily robust, with unnaturally pink cheeks. One fact makes me begin to see myself as a great connoisseur. I recognise Correggio’s brush before I see his name in the catalogue! But then Correggio has his own manner, and all his male figures and heads resemble the Christ in the Vatican, and his women the Danae in the Borghese Palace.” To N. F. von Meck. “St. Petersburg, March 10th (22nd), 1880. “Your benevolence to poor, dying Henry Wieniawsky touches me deeply.[77] ... I pity him greatly. In him we shall lose an incomparable violinist and a gifted composer. In this respect I think Wieniawsky very talented ... the beautiful LÉgende and parts of the A minor Concerto show a true creative gift.” To N. F. von Meck. “St. Petersburg, March 20th (April 1st), 1880. “Yesterday I suffered a good deal. The Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich has a son Constantine. This young man of two-and-twenty is passionately fond of music, and is very partial to mine. He expressed a wish to become more closely acquainted with me, and asked a relative of mine, the wife of Admiral Butakov, to arrange an evening party at which we might meet. “As he knows my misanthropical habits, this evening was to be of an informal nature, without dress coats and white ties. It was impossible to escape. The young man is very pleasant and has musical ability. We talked music from 9 p.m. until 2 a.m. He composes very nicely, but unfortunately has no time to devote himself to it seriously.” On March 25th several of Tchaikovsky’s works were performed at a concert given by two singers, well known in Petersburg, V. Issakov and Madame Panaev. The First Suite and the Romeo and Juliet overture were played by the orchestra of the Russian Opera under Napravnik. The Suite had the greatest success, especially the “Marche Miniature.” The great novelist Tourgeniev was present on this occasion. To N. F. von Meck. “Moscow, April 2nd (14th), 1880. “I have come here with the intention of spending three days incognito and finishing my work. Besides, I need the rest. Imagine, my dear friend, for the last few days I have hardly ever been out of a tail coat and white tie and associating with the most august personages. It is all very flattering, sometimes touching; but fatiguing to the last degree. I feel so happy and comfortable in my room in the hotel, not being obliged to go anywhere, or do anything!” X To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, April 18th (30th), 1880. “To-day a cold north wind is blowing. Spring has not yet entered into possession of her own, and the nightingale is not singing yet. Still, it is beautiful in the forest. “During the last few days I have read through two new operas: Anton Rubinstein’s Kalashnikov and Jean de Nivelles by DÉlibes. The former is weak all through. Rubinstein is like a singer who has lost her voice, but still believes she sings charmingly. His talent has long since lost its charm. He really ought to give up composing and to be contented with his earlier works. I pray that I may never fall into the same error. DÉlibes makes just the opposite impression. His work is fresh, graceful, and very clever.” About the end of April the director of the Kiev branch of the Russian Musical Society offered to make Tchaikovsky the principal of this section, and of the musical school connected with it. Although on account of its proximity to the home of the Davidovs at Kamenka, the neighbourhood of Kiev offered many attractions to him, he declined the offer without hesitation. He had tasted the fruits of liberty and was more than ever convinced that teaching was not his vocation. During his stay at Kamenka, Tchaikovsky finished the orchestration of his “Italian Fantasia,” which he considered, apart from its musical worth, one of his most effective and brilliant orchestral works. To P. I. Jurgenson. “Kamenka, June 23rd (July 5th), 1880. “Dear Soul,—I believe you imagine I have no greater happiness than to compose occasional pieces to be played at forthcoming exhibitions, and that I ought to put my inspirations down post-haste upon paper, without knowing how, when, or where. I shall not stir a finger until I get a positive commission. If something vocal is required of me, I must be supplied with a suitable text (when it is a question of an order I am ready to set an advertisement of corn-plasters to music); if it is to be an instrumental work, I must have some idea of the form it should take, and what it is intended to illustrate. At the same time a definite fee must be offered, with a definite agreement as to who is responsible for it, and when I shall receive it. I do not make all these demands from caprice, but because I am not in a position to write these festival works without having some positive instructions as to what is required of me. There are two kinds of inspiration: one comes direct from the soul, by freedom of choice, or other creative impulse; the other comes to order.... Matters of business must be put very clearly and distinctly. Fancy if I had already been inspired to write a Festival Overture for the opening of the Exhibition! What would have come of it? It might have happened that the great Anton had also (An-)toned something of his own. Where should I have been with my scribblings? “I shall finish the corrections of the fourth act to-day. The opera (The Maid of Orleans) has become a long affair. My poor publisher! Well, we must live in hope!” Early in July Tchaikovsky visited Nadejda von Meck’s estate at Brailov, for the sake of repose. At this time a feeling of dissatisfaction with his work seems to have taken possession of him. “I have written much that is beautiful,” he wrote to his brother Modeste, “but how weak, how lacking in mastery!... I have made up my mind to write nothing new for a time, but to devote myself to the correcting and re-editing of my earlier works.” A letter to Nadejda von Meck, dated Brailov, July 5th (17th), 1880, contains some interesting comments upon Glinka and his work. “ ... Glinka is quite an unusual phenomenon! Reading his Memoirs, which reveal a nice, amiable, but rather commonplace man, we can hardly realise that the same mind created that wonderful ‘Slavsia,’[78] which is worthy to rank with the work of the greatest geniuses. And how many more fine things there are in his other opera (Russlan) and the overtures! How astonishingly original is his Komarinskaya, from which all the Russian composers who followed him (including myself) continue to this day to borrow contrapuntal and harmonic combinations directly they have to develop a Russian dance-tune! This is done unconsciously; but the fact is, Glinka managed to concentrate in one short work what a dozen second-rate talents would only have invented with the whole expenditure of their powers. “And it was this same Glinka who, at the height of his maturity, composed such a weak, trivial thing as the Polonaise for the Coronation (written a year before his death), or the children’s polka, of which he speaks in his Memoirs at such length, and with such self-satisfaction, as though it had been a masterpiece. “Mozart, too, expresses himself with great naÏvetÉ in his letters to his father and, in fact, all through his life. But this was a different kind of simplicity. Mozart is a genius whose childlike innocence, gentleness of spirit and virginal modesty are scarcely of this earth. He was devoid of self-satisfaction and boastfulness; he seems hardly to have been conscious of the greatness of his genius. Glinka, on the contrary, is imbued with a spirit of self-glorification; he is ready to become garrulous over the most trivial events in his life, or the appearance of his least important works, and is convinced it is all of historical importance. Glinka is a gifted Russian aristocrat of his time, and has the faults of his type: petty vanity, limited culture, intolerance, ostentatiousness and a morbid sensibility to, and impatience of, all criticism. These are generally the characteristics of mediocrity; how they come to exist in a man who ought—so it seems—to dwell in calm and modest pride, conscious of his power, is beyond my comprehension! In one page of his Memoirs Glinka says he had a bulldog whose conduct was not irreproachable, and his servant had to be continually cleaning the room. Kukolnik, to whom Glinka entrusted his Memoirs for revision, remarked in the margin, ‘Why put in this?’ Glinka pencilled underneath, ‘Why not?’ Is not this highly characteristic? Yet, all the same, he composed the ‘Slavsia’!” To N. F. von Meck. “Brailov, July 6th (18th), 1880. “To-day I went to the Orthodox, the new Catholic, and the monastery churches. There is something about the monastic singing here, as in all Russian churches, which enrages me to the last degree. It is the chord of the dominant seventh in its original position, which we misuse so terribly. There is nothing so unmusical, or so unsuitable to the Orthodox Church as this commonplace chord, which was introduced during the eighteenth century by Messrs. Galuppi, Sarti, Bortniansky and Co., and has since become so much a part of our church music that the Gospodi pomilui[79] cannot be sung without it. This chord reminds me of the accordion, which only gives out two harmonies: the tonic and dominant. It disfigures the natural progression of the parts and weakens and vulgarises our church music. To make you clearly understand what it is that annoys me I will give you an example:—
musical notation
instead of this they ought to sing
musical notation
“The new Catholic church makes a pleasant impression. I much prefer our Orthodox liturgy to the Mass, especially to the so-called ‘Low Mass,’ which seems to me devoid of all solemnity.” To N. F. von Meck. “Brailov, July 8th (20th), 1880. “Yesterday I went an expedition in the forest, where formerly there used to be wild goats, of which now only one specimen is left. They say the others were all devoured by the wolves in winter. It is a great pity! But I was consoled by the beauty of the evening and a wonderful walk. At sunset I had tea, and then wandered alone by the steep bank of the stream behind the deer-park, and drank in all the deep delight of the forest at sundown, and freshness of the evening air. Such moments, I thought, helped us to bear with patience the many minor grievances of existence. They make us in love with life. We are promised eternal happiness, immortal existence, but we do not realise this, nor shall we perhaps attain to it. But if we are worthy of it, and if it is really eternal, we shall soon learn to enjoy it. Meanwhile, one wishes to live, in order to experience again such moments as those of yesterday. “To-day I intended to leave for Simaki, but while I am writing to you a terrific storm is raging, and it is evidently going to be a wet day; so perhaps I shall remain here. I am drawn to Simaki, and yet I regret leaving Brailov. Dear friend, to-day I have committed a kind of burglary in your house, and I will confess my crime. There was no key to the bookcase in the drawing-room next to your bedroom, but I saw it contained some new books which interested me greatly. Even Marcel could not find the key, so it occurred to me to try the one belonging to the cupboard near my room, and it opened the bookcase at once. I took out Byron and Martinov’s Moscow. Make your mind easy, all your books and music remain untouched. To quiet Marcel’s conscience I gave him, when about to leave for Simaki, a memorandum of what I had taken, and before I actually depart I will return him the books and music to replace in their proper order. Pray forgive my self-justification.” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Simaki, July 8th (20th), 1880. “ ... I expected a great deal from Simaki, but the reality far surpasses my expectations. What a wonderful spot this is, and how poor Brailov seems now I am here! The small house is just the same as when I saw it last year, only it has been done up a little; the furniture and upholstery are partly new; the arrangements are the ideal of comfort. But the surroundings are enchanting! The garden is a mass of flowers. I simply swim in an ocean of delightful impressions. An hour ago I was in the millet-field which lies beyond the garden, and so great was my ecstasy that I fell upon my knees and thanked God for the profound joy I experienced. I stood on rising ground; nothing was visible in the distance but the dense green which surrounds my little house; on every side the forest spreads to the hills; across the stream lay the hamlet, whence came various pleasant rural sounds; the voices of children, the bleating of sheep and the lowing of cattle, driven home from pasture. In the west the sun was setting in splendour; while in the east the crescent moon was already up. Everywhere beauty and space! What moments life holds! Thanks to these intervals, it is possible to forget everything!” To N. F. von Meck. “Simaki, July 9th (21st), 1880. “ ... The night has been glorious! At 2 a.m. I reluctantly left my place by the window. The moon shone brightly. The stillness, the perfume of the flowers, and those wondrous indefinable sounds that belong to the night—ah God, how beautiful it all is! Dear friend, I am glad you are at Interlaken, of which I am very fond; but all the same I do not envy you. It would be hard to find a place in which the conditions of life would conform better to my ideal than Simaki. All day long I feel as though I were lost in some wonderful, fantastic dream.” To N. F. von Meck. “Simaki, July 14th (26th), 1880. “I have just been playing the first act of The Maid of Orleans, which is now ready for the printer. Either I am mistaken, or it is not in vain, dear friend, that you have had the clock you gave me decorated with the figure of my latest operatic heroine. I do not think The Maid of Orleans my finest, or the most emotional, of my works, but it seems to me to be the one most likely to make my name popular. I believe Oniegin and one or two of my instrumental works are far more closely allied to my individual temperament. I was less absorbed in The Maid of Orleans than in our Symphony, for instance, or the second Quartet; but I gave more consideration to the scenic and musical effects—and these are the most important things in opera.” To N. F. von Meck. “Simaki, July 18th (30th), 1880. “Yesterday evening—to take a rest from my own work—I played through Bizet’s Carmen from cover to cover. I consider it a chef d’oeuvre in the fullest sense of the word: one of those rare compositions which seems to reflect most strongly in itself the musical tendencies of a whole generation. It seems to me that our own period differs from earlier ones in this one characteristic: that contemporary composers are engaged in the pursuit of charming and piquant effects, unlike Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, and Schumann. What is the so-called New Russian School but the cult of varied and pungent harmonies, of original orchestral combinations and every kind of purely external effect? Musical ideas give place to this or that union of sounds. Formerly there was composition, creation; now (with few exceptions) there is only research and invention. This development of musical thought is naturally purely intellectual, consequently contemporary music is clever, piquant, and eccentric; but cold and lacking the glow of true emotion. And behold, a Frenchman comes on the scene, in whom these qualities of piquancy and pungency are not the outcome of effort and reflection, but flow from his pen as in a free stream, flattering the ear, but touching us also. It is as though he said to us: ‘You ask nothing great, superb, or grandiose—you want something pretty, here is a pretty opera;’ and truly I know of nothing in music which is more representative of that element which I call the pretty (le joli).... I cannot play the last scene without tears in my eyes; the gross rejoicings of the crowd who look on at the bull-fight, and, side by side with this, the poignant tragedy and death of the two principal characters, pursued by an evil fate, who come to their inevitable end through a long series of sufferings. “I am convinced that ten years hence Carmen will be the most popular opera in the world. But no one is a prophet in his own land. In Paris Carmen has had no real success.” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Simaki, July 18th (30th), 1880. “My dear Modi,—How worried I am by my Maid of Orleans, and how glad I am to have done with her! Now she has flown to Moscow and, until the time of performance comes, I need not bother about her any more.... “Thanks (in an ironical sense) for your suggestion that I should read L’homme qui rit. Do you not know the story of my relations to Victor Hugo? Anyhow, I will tell you what came of them. I took up Les travailleurs de la Mer; I read, and read, and grew more and more irritated by his grimaces and buffoonery. Finally, after a whole series of short, unmeaning phrases, consisting of exclamations, antitheses, and asterisks, I lost my temper, spat upon the book, tore it to pieces, stamped upon it, and wound up by throwing it out of the window. From that moment I cannot bear the mention of Victor Hugo! Believe me, your Zola is just such another mountebank, but more modern in spirit. I do not dislike him quite so much as Hugo, but very nearly. He disgusts me, as a girl would disgust me who pretended to be simple and natural, while all the time she was essentially a flirt and coquette. “In proportion as I like modern French music, their literature and journalism seem to me revolting. “Yesterday I wrote to you about Bizet, to-day I am enthusiastic about Massenet. I found his oratorio, Mary Magdalene, at N. F.’s. After I had read the text, which treats not only of the relations between Christ, the Magdalene, and Judas, but also of Golgotha and the Resurrection, I felt a certain prejudice against the work, because it seemed too audacious. When I began to play it, however, I was soon convinced that it was no commonplace composition. The duet between Christ and the Magdalene is a masterpiece. I was so touched by the emotionalism of the music, in which Massenet has reflected the eternal compassion of Christ, that I shed many tears. Wonderful tears! All praise to the Frenchman who had the art of calling them forth.... The French are really first in contemporary music. All day long this duet has been running in my head, and under its influence I have written a song, the melody of which is very reminiscent of Massenet.” To N. F. von Meck. “Simaki, July 24th (August 5th), 1880. “Have I told you, dear friend, that I am studying English? Here I work very regularly, and with good results. I hope in six months I shall be able to read English easily. That is my sole aim; I know that at my age it is impossible to speak it well. But to read Shakespeare, Dickens, and Thackeray in the original would be the consolation of my old age.”[80] To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Kamenka, July 31st (August 12th), 1880. “It is two days since I came to Kamenka. I was glad, very glad, to see all our people again, but I am not in high spirits. A kind of apathy has come over me; a dislike to work, to reading, and particularly to exercise, although I dutifully do my two hours a day. Apart from the people, everything here seems to me stuffy and frowsy, beginning with the air. When I think of the intoxicating charm of the gardens, the air perfumed by field and forest, at Simaki; when I look at the poor, dusty trees, and the arid, barren soil of this place; when instead of the clear, cold stream I have to content myself with my sitz-bath—I am overcome with a sickening sense of regret.” To P. I. Jurgenson. “Kamenka, August 12th (24th), 1880. “If I should ever become famous, and anyone should collect materials for my biography, your letter to-day would give a very false impression of me. Anyone would suppose I had been in the habit of flattering influential people and making advances to them with the object of getting my works performed. This would be entirely untrue. I have never in my life raised a finger to win the favour of Bilse, or another. This is a sort of ‘passive’ pride. It is another matter if the advances are made from the other side.... “As regards your advice to imitate Anton Rubinstein, I must tell you that our positions are so different that no comparison can be made between us. Take away Rubinstein’s virtuosity, and he immediately falls from his greatness to the level of my nothingness. Well, I should like to see which of us has the most composer’s pride! In any case I am not such a grandee that at the advances of so profitable and influential a personage as Bilse I can reply: ‘this is no business of mine; apply to Jurgenson.’ “The corrected manuscripts are ready, and shall be sent to-morrow. The Italian Capriccio can be printed, but I should like to look through the concerto once more, and beg you to send me another revise. When I sent it to Nicholas Rubinstein in the spring, I asked him to make his criticisms to Taneiev, and to request the latter to make the necessary alterations in the piano part without changing the musical intention, of which I will not alter a single line. Taneiev replied that there were no alterations required. Consequently this must have been Rubinstein’s opinion. But we can hardly assume that he will study the work.” From a letter to Jurgenson, dated some days later than the above, we see that Tchaikovsky had resolved to devote part of the current year to revising all his works published by this firm “from Opus I. to the Third Symphony.” To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, August 13th (25th), 1880. “You ask me if I share your feelings when thinking of the possibility of monumental fame? Fame! What contradictory sentiments the word awakes in me! On the one hand I desire and strive for it; on the other I detest it. If the chief thought of my life is concentrated upon my creative work, I cannot do otherwise than wish for fame. If I feel a continual impulse to express myself in the language of music, it follows that I need to be heard; and the larger my circle of sympathetic hearers, the better. I desire with all my soul that my music should become more widely known, and that the number of those people who derive comfort and support from their love of it should increase. In this sense not only do I love fame, but it becomes the aim of all that is most earnest in my work. But, alas! when I begin to reflect that with an increasing audience will come also an increase of interest in my personality, in the more intimate sense; that there will be inquisitive people among the public who will tear aside the curtain behind which I have striven to conceal my private life; then I am filled with pain and disgust, so that I half wish to keep silence for ever, in order to be left in peace. I am not afraid of the world, for I can say that my conscience is clear, and I have nothing to be ashamed of; but the thought that someone may try to force the inner world of my thoughts and feelings, which all my life I have guarded so carefully from outsiders—this is sad and terrible. There is a tragic element, dear friend, in this conflict between the desire for fame and the fear of its consequences. I am attracted to it like the moth to the candle, and I, too, burn my wings. Sometimes I am possessed by a mad desire to disappear for ever, to be buried alive, to ignore all that is going on, and be forgotten by everybody. Then, alas! the creative inspiration returns.... I fly to the flame and burn my wings once more! “Do you know my wings will soon have to bear the weight of my opera? I shall be up to my neck in theatrical and official mire, and be suffocated in an atmosphere of petty intrigue, of microscopical, but poisonous, ambitions, and every kind of dense stupidity. What is to be done? Either do not write operas, or be prepared for all this! I believe I never shall compose another opera. When I look back upon all I went through last spring, when I was occupied with the performance of my last one, I lose all desire to write for the stage.” XI
1880-1881 To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, September 4th (16th) 1880. “I am doing nothing whatever, only wandering through the forests and fields all day long. I want to take a change from my own work, with its eternal proof-correcting, and to play as much as possible of other people’s music; so I have begun to study Mozart’s ZauberflÖte. Never was so senselessly stupid a subject set to such captivating music. How thankful I am that the circumstances of my musical career have not changed by a hair’s breadth the charm Mozart exercises for me! You would not believe, dear friend, what wonderful feelings come over me when I give myself up to his music. It is something quite different from the stressful delight awakened in me by Beethoven, Schumann, or Chopin.... My contemporaries were imbued with the spirit of modern music from their childhood, and came to know Mozart in later years, after they had made acquaintance with Chopin, who reflects so clearly the Byronic despair and disillusionment. Fortunately, fate decreed that I should grow up in an unmusical family, so that in childhood I was not nourished on the poisonous food of the post-Beethoven music. The same kind fate brought me early in life in contact with Mozart, and thus opened up to me unsuspected horizons. These early impressions can never be effaced. Do you know that when I play Mozart, I feel brighter and younger, almost a youth again? But enough. I know that we do not agree in our appreciation of Mozart, and that my dithyramb does not interest you in the least.” To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, September 9th (21st), 1880. “How fleeting were my hopes of a prolonged rest! Scarcely had I begun to enjoy a few days’ leisure than an indefinable mood of boredom, even a sense of not being in health, came over me. To-day I began to occupy my mind with projects for a new symphony, and immediately I felt well and cheerful. It appears as though I could not spend a couple of days in idleness, unless I am travelling. I dread lest I should become a composer of Anton Rubinstein’s type, who considers it his bounden duty to present a new work to the public every day in the week. In this way he has dissipated his great creative talent, and has only small change to offer instead of the sterling gold which he could have given us had he written in moderation. Lately I have been seeking some kind of occupation that would take me completely away from music for a time, and would seriously interest me. Alas, I have not discovered it! There is no guide to the history of music in Russian, and it would be a good thing if I could occupy myself with a book of this kind; I often think of it. But then I should have to give up composing for at least two years, and that would be too much. To start upon a translation—that is not very interesting work. Write a monograph upon some artist? So much has already been written about the great musicians of Western Europe. For Glinka, Dargomijsky, and Serov I cannot feel any enthusiasm, for, highly as I value their works, I cannot admire them as men. I have told you what I think of Glinka. Dargomijsky was even less cultured. As to Serov, he was a clever man of encyclopedic learning, but I knew him personally, and could not admire his moral character. As far as I understood him, he was not good-hearted, and that is sufficient reason why I do not care to devote my leisure to him. It would have been a delight to write the biography of Mozart, but it is impossible to do so after Otto Jahn, who devoted his life to the task. “So there is no other occupation open to me but composition. I am planning a symphony or a string quartet. I do not know which I shall decide upon.” To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, September 12th (24th), 1880. “I venture to approach you, dear friend, with the following request. An employÉ in a counting-house, here in Kamenka, has a son who is remarkably gifted for painting. It seemed to me cruel not to give him the means of studying, so I sent him to Moscow and asked Anatol to take him to the School of Painting and Sculpture. All this was arranged, and then it turned out that the boy’s maintenance would cost far more than I expected. And so I thought I would ask you whether in your house there was any corner in which this lad might live? Not, of course, without some kind of supervision. He would only need a tiny room with a bed, a cupboard, and a table where he could sleep and work. Perhaps your servants would look after him, and give him a little advice? The boy is of irreproachable character: industrious, good, obedient, clean in his person—in short, exemplary. I would undertake his meals....[81] “I have also unearthed a musical talent here, in the daughter of the local priest, and have been successful in placing her at the Conservatoire.” To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, September 19th (October 1st), 1880. “Yesterday I received an official intimation from the Imperial Opera to the effect that my opera has been accepted and will be produced in January. The libretto has been passed by the censor with one or two exceptions: the Archbishop must be called the Wanderer(?); ‘every allusion to the Cross must be omitted, and no cross may be seen upon the stage.’ There is nothing for it but to submit.” To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, September 28th (October 10th), 1880. “Nicholas Rubinstein has requested me to write an important work for chorus and orchestra, to be produced at the Moscow Exhibition. Nothing is more unpleasant to me than the manufacturing of music for such occasions.... But I have not courage to refuse....” To N, F. von Meck. “Kamenka, October 10th (22nd), 1880. “You can imagine, dear friend, that recently my Muse has been very benevolent, when I tell you that I have written two long works very rapidly: a Festival Overture for the Exhibition and a Serenade in four movements for string orchestra. The overture[82] will be very noisy. I wrote it without much warmth of enthusiasm; therefore it has no great artistic value. The Serenade, on the contrary, I wrote from an inward impulse; I felt it, and venture to hope that this work is not without artistic qualities.” To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, October 14th (26th), 1880. “ ... How glad I am that my opera pleases you! I am delighted you find no ‘Russianisms’ in it, for I dreaded this and had striven in this work to be as objective as possible.” To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, October 14th (26th), 1880. “Of course I am no judge of my own works, but I can truthfully say that—with very few exceptions—they have all been felt and lived by me, and have come straight from my heart. It is the greatest happiness to know that there is another kindred soul in the world who has such a true and delicate appreciation of my music. The thought that she will discern all that I have felt, while writing this or that work, invariably warms and inspires me. There are few such souls; among those who surround me I can only point to my brothers. Modeste is very near to me in mind and sentiment. Among professional musicians I have met with the least congenial sympathy.... “You ask why I have never written a trio. Forgive me, dear friend, I would do anything to give you pleasure—but this is beyond me! My acoustic apparatus is so ordered that I simply cannot endure the combination of pianoforte with violin or violoncello. To my mind the timbre of these instruments will not blend, and I assure you it is a torture to me to have to listen to a trio or sonata of any kind for piano and strings. I cannot explain this physiological peculiarity; I simply state it as a fact. Piano and orchestra—that is quite another matter. Here again there is no blending of tone; the piano by its elastic tone differs from all other instruments in timbre; but we are now dealing with two equal opponents: the orchestra, with its power and inexhaustible variety of colour, opposed by the small, unimposing, but high-mettled pianoforte, which often comes off victorious in the hands of a gifted executant. Much poetry is contained in this conflict, and endless seductive combinations for the composer. On the other hand, how unnatural is the union of three such individualities as the pianoforte, the violin and the violoncello! Each loses something of its value. The warm and singing tone of the violin and the ‘cello sounds limited beside that king of instruments, the pianoforte; while the latter strives in vain to prove that it can sing like its rivals. I consider the piano should only be employed under these conditions: (1) As a solo instrument; (2) opposed to the orchestra; (3) for accompaniment, as the background to a picture. But a trio implies equality and relationship, and do these exist between stringed solo instruments and the piano? They do not; and this is the reason why there is always something artificial about a pianoforte trio, each of the three instruments being continually called upon to express what the composer imposes upon it, rather than what lies within its characteristic utterance; while the musician meets with perpetual difficulties in the distribution of the voices and grouping of the parts. I do full justice to the inspired art with which Beethoven, Schumann, and Mendelssohn have conquered these difficulties. I know there exist many trios containing music of admirable quality; but personally I do not care for the trio as a form, therefore I shall never produce anything sincerely inspired through the medium of this combination of sounds. I know, dear friend, that we disagree on this point, and that you, on the contrary, are fond of a trio; but in spite of all the similarity between our artistic temperaments, we remain two separate individualities; therefore it is not surprising that we should not agree in every particular.” During the autumn of 1880 Tchaikovsky suffered greatly from neuralgic headaches. He remained at Kamenka until early in November, when he returned to Moscow for a short time, in order to correct proofs and settle other business matters. Towards the end of the month he wrote to Nadejda von Meck from St. Petersburg:— “November 27th (December 9th), 1880. “The directors of the Moscow Musical Society are greatly interested in my Liturgy (St. John Chrysostom). One of their number, named Alexeiev, gave a good fee to have it studied by one of the best choirs. This resulted in a performance of the work in the concert-room of the Moscow Conservatoire. The choir sang wonderfully well, and it was altogether one of the happiest moments in my musical career. It was decided to give the Liturgy at an extra concert of the Musical Society. On the same evening my Serenade for strings was played, in order to give me an agreeable surprise. For the moment I regard it as my best work.... “Have I told you already that Eugene Oniegin is to be splendidly mounted at the Opera in Moscow? I am very pleased, because it will decide the important question whether the work will become part of the repertory or not, that is to say, whether it will keep its place on the stage. As I never intended it for this purpose, I did nothing on my own initiative to get it produced.” While in St. Petersburg, Tchaikovsky undertook to make some changes in his new opera, The Maid of Orleans. This was in order that the part of Joan of Arc herself might be taken by Madame Kamensky, a mezzo-soprano of unusual range and quality. To N. F. von Meck. “Moscow, December 14th (26th), 1880. “One newspaper blames me for having dedicated my opera, The Maid of Orleans, to Napravnik, and considers it an unworthy action on my part to win his good graces in this way. Napravnik—one of the few thoroughly honest musicians in Petersburg—will be very much upset. They also find fault with me because my opera is not on sale. “All this is very galling and vexatious, but I do not let it trouble me much. “I have sworn to myself to avoid Moscow and Petersburg in future.” To N. F. von Meck. “Moscow, December 17th (29th), 1880. “I have been very much upset the last few days. Last year I received a letter from a young man, unknown to me, of the name of Tkachenko, containing the curious proposal that I should take him as my servant and give him music lessons in return. The letter was so clever and original, and showed such a real love of music, that it affected me very sympathetically. A correspondence between us followed, from which I learnt that he was already twenty-three, and had no musical knowledge. I wrote frankly to him that at his age it was too late to begin to study music. After this, I heard no more of him for nine months. The day before yesterday I received another letter from him, returning all my previous correspondence, in order that it might not fall into strange hands after his death. He took leave of me and said he had resolved to commit suicide. The letter was evidently written in a moment of great despair, and touched me profoundly. I saw from the postmark that it was written from Voronezh, and decided to telegraph to someone there, asking them to seek Tkachenko with the help of the police and tell him—if it were not already too late—he might expect a letter from me. Fortunately, Anatol had a friend at Voronezh, to whom we telegraphed at once. Last night I heard from him that Tkachenko had been discovered in time. He was in a terrible condition. “I immediately sent him some money and invited him to come to Moscow. How it will end I do not know, but I am glad to have saved him from self-destruction.” At this time Tchaikovsky’s valet, Alexis, was compelled to fulfil his military service, and master and servant were equally affected at the moment of separation. On December 6th (18th) the Italian Capriccio was performed for the first time under the conductorship of Nicholas Rubinstein. Its success was incontestable, although criticism varied greatly as to its merits, and the least favourable described it as being marred by “coarse and cheap” effects. In St. Petersburg, where it was given a few weeks later by Napravnik, it met with scant appreciation; Cui pronounced it to be “no work of art, but a valuable gift to the programmes of open-air concerts.” The performance of the Liturgy took place in Moscow on December 18th (30th). Thanks to the stir which had been made by the confiscation of Tchaikovsky’s first sacred work, the concert was unusually crowded. At the close the composer was frequently recalled. Nevertheless, there was considerable difference of opinion as to the success of the work. Tchaikovsky was not much affected by the views of the professional critics; but he was deeply hurt by a letter emanating from the venerable Ambrose, vicar of Moscow, which appeared in the Rouss. This letter complained that the Liturgy was the most sacred possession of the people, and should only be heard in church; that to use the service as a libretto was a profanation of the holy words. It concluded by congratulating the orthodox that the text had at least been treated by a worthy musician, but what would happen if some day a “Rosenthal” or a “Rosenbluhm” should lay hands upon it? Inevitably then “our most sacred words would be mocked at and hissed.” Fatigued by the excitement of these weeks, Tchaikovsky returned to Kamenka to spend Christmas in the restful quiet of the country. The first performance of Eugene Oniegin at the Opera House in Moscow took place on January 11th (23rd), 1881. The scenery was not new and left much to be desired. The singers, with the exception of Madame Kroutikov, who took the part of Madame Larina, and Bartsal, who appeared as the Frenchman Triquet, were lacking in experience. The costumes, however, were perfectly true to history. The performance evoked much applause, but more for the composer than for the opera itself. The great public allowed the best situations in the work to pass unnoticed, but the opera found an echo in the hearts of the minority, so that gradually the work gained the appreciation of the crowd and won a lasting success. To N. F. von Meck. “Moscow, January 12th (24th), 1881. “Yesterday was the first night of Eugene Oniegin. I was oppressed by varied emotions, both at the rehearsals and on the night itself. At first the public was very reserved; by degrees, however, the applause grew and at the last all went well. The performance and mounting of the opera were satisfactory.... “Tkachenko (the young man who wanted to commit suicide) has arrived. I have seen him. On the whole he made a sympathetic impression upon me. His sufferings are the outcome of the internal conflict which exists between his aspirations and stern reality. He is intelligent and cultivated, yet in order to earn his bread he has had to be a railway guard. He is very anxious to become a musician. He is nervous, and morbidly modest, and seems to be broken in spirit. Poverty and solitude have made him misanthropical. His views are rather strange, but he is by no means stupid. I am sorry for him and have agreed to look after him. I have decided that he shall go to the Conservatoire, and then it will be seen whether he can take up music, or some other career. It will not be difficult to make a useful and contented man of him.” To N. F. von Meck. “Moscow, January 19th (31st), 1881. “Dear, kind friend, it has come to this: I take up my pen to write to you unwillingly, because I feel the immediate need to pour out all the suffering and bitterness which is heaped up in me. You will wonder how a man who is successful in his work can still complain and rail at fate? But my successes are not so important as they seem; besides they do not compensate me for the intolerable sufferings I undergo when I mix in the society of my fellow-creatures; when I have to be constantly posing before them; when I cannot live as I wish, and as I am accustomed to do, but am tossed to and fro like a ball in the round of city life.... “Eugene Oniegin does not progress. The prima donna is seriously ill, so that the opera cannot be performed again for some time.... The criticisms upon it are peculiar. Some critics find the ‘couplets’ for Triquet the best thing in the work and think Tatiana’s part dry and colourless. Others think I have no inspiration, but great cleverness. The Petersburg papers write in chorus to rend my Italian Capriccio, declaring it to be vulgar; and Cui prophesies that The Maid of Orleans will turn out a commonplace affair.” To N. F. von Meck. “Petersburg, January 27th (February 8th), 1881. “I will tell you something about Tkachenko. He is an extraordinary being! I had looked after him in every respect, and he began his studies with great zeal. The day before I left Moscow he came to ‘talk to me on serious business,’ and the longer he talked, the more convinced I became that he is mentally and morally deranged. He has taken it into his head that I am not keeping him for his own sake, but in order to acquire the reputation of a benefactor. He added that he was not disposed to be the victim of my desire for popularity, and absolutely refused to recognise me as his benefactor, so I was not to reckon upon his gratitude. “I replied coldly, and advised him to devote himself to his work, without troubling himself as to my motives for assisting him. I assured him I was quite indifferent as to his gratitude, that I was just leaving the town, and begged him not to waste his thoughts on me, but to fix them exclusively upon his work. “I have entrusted him to the supervision of Albrecht, the Inspector of the Conservatoire. “Have you heard of Nicholas Rubinstein’s illness? His condition is serious, but in spite of it he goes about and does his work. The doctors insist upon his going away and taking rest; but he declares he could not live without the work he is used to....” On January 21st (February 2nd) Tchaikovsky’s Second Symphony was given in its revised form at the Musical Society in St. Petersburg, and, according to the newspapers, met with a great success. Not a single critic, however, observed the changes in the work, nor that the first movement was entirely new. To N. F. von Meck. “Petersburg, February 1st (13th), 1881. “ ... The mounting of The Maid of Orleans will be very beggarly. The Direction, which has spent 10,000 (roubles) upon a new ballet, refuses to sacrifice a kopeck for the opera.” To the same. “Petersburg, February 7th (19th), 1881. “The opera has been postponed until February 13th. I shall set off the very next day. The plan of my journey is: Vienna, Venice, Rome. The rehearsals are in progress. Most of the artists show great sympathy for my music, of which I am very proud. But the officials are doing all in their power to spoil the success of the opera. A certain Loukashevich is trying by every kind of intrigue to prevent Madame Kamensky from taking the part of Joan of Arc. When at yesterday’s rehearsal—for scenic and vocal reasons—I transferred a melody from Joan’s part to that of Agnes Sorel, he declared I had no right to do such a thing without permission. Sometimes I feel inclined to withdraw the score and leave the theatre.” The production of The Maid of Orleans at the Maryinsky Theatre left a very unpleasant memory in Tchaikovsky’s mind. The intrigues between the prima donnas, the hostile attitude of the Direction, his dissatisfaction with some of the singers—all embittered the composer in the highest degree. His artistic vanity was exceedingly sensitive, even when his best friends told him “the plain truth.” He submitted to the criticisms of Napravnik, and followed his advice regarding many details, because he was convinced of this musician’s goodwill and great experience. If he got through this trying time fairly well, it was thanks to the fact that he himself, as well as the artists who were taking part in the work, did not doubt that the opera would eventually have a great success. On the day following the performance, Tchaikovsky wrote:— “The success of the opera was certain, even after the first act ... the second scene of the third act was least applauded, but the fourth act was very well received. Altogether I was recalled twenty-four times. Kamenskaya was admirable; she even acted well, which she seldom does. Prianichnikov was the best among the other singers.” Tchaikovsky started for Italy under this favourable impression, and first became aware through a telegram from Petersburg in the Neue Freie Presse that, in spite of an ovation from the public, The Maid of Orleans was “poor in inspiration, wearisome, and monotonous.” This was his first intimation of the attacks upon the opera which were made by the Press, and which caused the opera to be hastily withdrawn from the repertory of the Maryinsky Theatre. Cui, as usual, led the chorus of unfavourable opinion, but all the other critics were more or less in agreement with his views. XII Impatient for the sunshine, Tchaikovsky broke his journey at Florence, whence he wrote to Nadejda von Meck on February 19th (March 3rd), 1881:— “What light! What sunshine! What a delight to sit at the open window with a bunch of violets before me, and to drink in the fresh air! I am full of sensations. I feel so well, and yet so sad—I could weep. Yet I know not why. Only music can express these feelings.” To N. F. von Meck. “Rome, February 22nd (March 6th), 1881. “I have just been lunching with the Grand Dukes Serge and Paul Alexandrovich. The invitation came early this morning, and I had to go out in search of a dress-coat. It was no easy matter to procure one, for, being Sunday, nearly all the shops were closed. It was with difficulty that I arrived at the Villa Sciarra in proper time. The Grand Duke Constantine introduced me to his cousins, who showed me much kindness and attention. All three are very sympathetic; but you can imagine, with my misanthropical shyness, how trying I find such meetings with strangers, especially with men of that aristocratic world. On Tuesday there is a dinner at Countess Brobinsky’s, and I have also been invited to a soirÉe by Countess Sollogoub. I did not expect to have to lead this kind of life in Rome. I shall have to leave, for no doubt other invitations await me which I cannot refuse. Lest I should offend somebody, I am weak enough invariably to accept. I have not strength of mind to decline all such engagements.” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Rome, February 26th (March 10th), 1881. “I can just imagine how you are making fun of my worldliness! I cannot understand where I get strength to endure this senseless existence! Naturally, I am annoyed, and my visit to Rome is spoilt—but I have not altogether lost heart, and find occasional opportunities of enjoying the place. O society! What can be more appalling, duller, more intolerable? Yesterday I was dreadfully bored at Countess X.’s, but so heroically did I conceal my feelings that my hostess in bidding me good-bye said: ‘I cannot understand why you have not come to me before. I am sure that after to-night you will repent not having made my acquaintance sooner.’ This is word for word! She really pities me! May the devil take them all!” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Naples, March 3rd (15th), 1881. “Yesterday I was about to write to you when Prince Stcherbatiov came to tell me of the Emperor’s death,[83] which was a great shock to me. At such moments it is very miserable to be abroad. I long to be in Russia, nearer to the source of information, and to take part in the demonstrations accorded to the new Tsar ... in short, to be living in touch with one’s own people. It seems so strange after receiving such news to hear them chattering at table d’hÔte about the beauties of Sorrento, etc. “The Grand Dukes wanted to take me with them to Athens and Jerusalem, which they intended to visit a few days hence. But this has fallen through, for all three are on their way to Petersburg by now.” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “March 13th (25th), 1881. “Dear Modi,—In Nice I heard by telegram from Jurgenson that Nicholai Grigorievich (Rubinstein) was very ill. Then two telegrams followed from the Grand Hotel (1) that his state was hopeless, (2) that he had already passed away. I left Nice at once. Mentally, I endured the torments of the damned during my journey. I must confess, to my shame, I suffered less from the sense of my irreparable loss, than from the horror of seeing in Paris—in the Grand Hotel too—the body of poor Rubinstein. I was afraid I should not be able to bear the shock, although I exerted all my will_power to conquer this shameful cowardice. My fears were in vain. The body had been taken to the Russian church at six o’clock this morning. At the Hotel I found only Madame Tretiakov,[84] who never left Nicholas Rubinstein during the last six days of his life. She gave me all details.”[85] To N. F. von Meck. “Paris, March 16th (28th), 1881. “You regret having written me the letter in which you gave expression to your anger against those who have embittered your life. But I never for an instant believed that you could really hate and never forgive, whatever might happen. It is possible to be a Christian in life and deed without clinging closely to dogma, and I am sure that un-Christian feelings could only dwell in you for a brief moment, as an involuntary protest against human wickedness. Such really good people as you do not know what hate means in the true sense of the word. What can be more aimless and unprofitable than hate? According to Christ’s words, our enemies only injure us from ignorance. O, if only men could only be Christians in truth as well as in form! If only everyone was penetrated by the simple truths of Christian morality! That can never be, for then eternal and perfect happiness would reign on earth; and we are imperfect creations, who only understand goodness and happiness as the opposites of evil. We are, as it were, specially created to be eternally reverting to evil, to perpetually seek the ideal, to aspire to everlasting truth—and never to reach the goal. At least we should be indulgent to those who, in their blindness, are attracted to evil by some inborn instinct. Are they to be blamed because they exist only to bring the chosen people into stronger relief? No, we can only say with Christ, ‘Lord, forgive them, they know not what they do.’ I feel I am expressing vague thoughts vaguely—thoughts which are wandering through my mind, because a man who was good and dear to me has just vanished from this earth. But if I think and speak vaguely, I feel it all clearly enough. My brain is obscured to-day. How could it be otherwise in face of those enigmas—Death, the aim and meaning of life, its finality or immortality? Therefore the light of faith penetrates my soul more and more. Yes, dear friend, I feel myself increasingly drawn towards this, the one and only shield against every calamity. I am learning to love God, as formerly I did not know how to do. Now and then doubts come back to me; I still strive at times to conceive the inconceivable with my feeble intellect; but the voice of divine truth speaks louder within me. I sometimes find an indescribable joy in bowing before the Inscrutable, Omniscient God. I often pray to Him with tears in my eyes (where He is, what He is, I know not; but I know He exists), and implore Him to grant me love and peace, to pardon and enlighten me; and it is sweet to say to Him, ‘Lord, Thy will be done,’ because I know His will is holy. Let me also tell you that I see clearly the finger of God in my own life, showing me the way and upholding me in all danger. Why it has been God’s will to shield me I cannot say. I wish to be humble, and not to regard myself as one of the elect, for God loves all His creatures equally. I only know He really cares for me, and I shed tears of gratitude for His eternal goodness. That is not enough. I want to accustom myself to the thought that all trials are good in the end. I want to love God always, not only when He sends me good, but when He proves me; for somewhere there must exist that kingdom of eternal happiness, which we seek so vainly upon earth. The time will come when all the questionings of our intellects will be answered, and we shall know why God sends us these trials. I want to believe that there is another life. When this desire becomes a fact, I shall be happy, in so far as happiness is possible in this world. “To-day I attended the funeral service in the church, and afterwards I accompanied the remains to the Gare du Nord, and saw that the leaden coffin was packed in a wooden case and placed in a luggage van. It was painful and horrible to think that our poor Nicholai Grigorievich should return thus to Moscow. Yes, it was intensely painful. But faith has now taken root in me, and I took comfort from the thought that it was God’s inscrutable and holy will.” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Paris, March 17th (29th), 1881. “Modi, we shall soon meet again, so I will say nothing now about the last sad days. My present trip has been altogether unfortunate and calculated to weaken my love of going abroad. Once more I am face to face with changes which will affect my whole future life. First, the death of Nicholas Rubinstein, which is of great importance to me, and, secondly, the fact that Nadejda von Meck is on the verge of bankruptcy. I heard this talked about in Moscow, and begged her to tell me the truth. From her reply I see it is actually so. She writes that the sum I receive from her is nothing as compared to the millions that have been lost, and that she wishes to continue to pay it as before, but begs me not to mention it to anyone. But you see that this allowance is no longer a certainty, and therefore sooner or later I must return to my teaching. All this is far from cheerful.” To Nadejda von Meck. “Kamenka, April 29th (May 11th), 1881. “I only stayed a few days in Moscow, where I was forced to collect all my strength in order to decline most emphatically the directorship of the Conservatoire. I arrived here to-day.” To P. Jurgenson. “Kamenka, May 7th (19th), 1881. “As my sister is ill and has gone away with her husband, I am playing the part of the head of the family and spend most of my time with the children. This would be a nuisance if I did not care for them as though they were my own.... I have no inclination to compose. I wish you would commission something. Is there really nothing you want? Some external impulse might perhaps reawaken my suspended activity. Perhaps I am getting old and all my songs are sung.” To Nadejda von Meck. “Kamenka, May 8th (20th), 1881. “I think I have now found a temporary occupation. In my present religious frame of mind it will do me good to dip into Russian church music. At present I am studying the ‘rites,’ that is to say, the root of our church tunes, and I want to try to harmonise them. “Every day I pray that God may preserve and uphold you for the sake of so many people.” To P. Jurgenson. “Kamenka, May 9th (21st), 1881. “I beg you to send me the following:— “(1) I want to write a Vesper service and require the words in full. If there is a book on sale, a kind of ‘short guide to the Liturgy for laymen,’ please send it to me. “(2) I have begun to study the rites and ceremonials of the Church, but to acquire sufficient information on the subject I need Razoumovsky’s History of Church Music. I send thanks in anticipation.” Tchaikovsky describes his condition at this time as “grey, without inspiration or joy,” but “physically sound.” He often felt that the spring of inspiration had run dry, but consoled himself with the remembrance that he had passed through other periods “equally devoid of creative impulse.” To E. Napravnik. “Kamenka, June 17th (29th), 1881. “Last winter, at N. Rubinstein’s request, I wrote a Festival Overture for the concerts of the Exhibition, entitled The Year 1812. Could you possibly manage to have this played? If you like I will send the score for you to see. It is not of any great value, and I shall not be at all surprised or hurt if you consider the style of the music unsuitable to a symphony concert.” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Kamenka, June 21st (July 3rd), 1881. “My Vesper music compels me to look into many service books, with and without music. If you only knew how difficult it is to understand it all! Every service contains some chants that may be modified and others that may not. The latter—such as Khvalitey and Velikoe slavoslovie—do not present any great difficulties; but those that change—such as the canonical verses to Gospodi vozzvakh—are a science in themselves, for which a lifetime of study would hardly suffice. I should like at least to succeed in one Canon, the one relating to the Virgin. Imagine that, in spite of all assistance, I can arrive neither at the words nor the music. I went to ask our priest to explain it to me, but he assured me that he himself did not know anything about it and went through the routine of his office without referring to the Typikon. I am swallowed up in this sea of Graduals, Hymns, Canticles, Tropaires, Exapostelaires, etc., etc. I asked our priest how his assistant managed, and how he knew how, when, and where, to sing or read (for the Church prescribes to the smallest detail on what days, with what voice, and how many times things have to be read). He replied: ‘I do not know; before every service he has to look out something for himself.’ If the initiated do not know, what can a poor sinner like myself expect?” To P. Jurgenson. “Kamenka, June 21st (July 3rd), 1881. “I have received Bortniansky’s works and looked them through. To edit them would be a somewhat finicking and wearisome task, because the greater number of his compositions are dull and worthless. Why do you want to issue a ‘Complete Edition’? Let me advise you to give up this plan and only bring out a ‘Selection from the works of Bortniansky.’ ... ‘Complete Edition’? An imposing word, but out of place in connection with a man of no great talent, who has written a mass of rubbish, and only about a dozen good things. I am doubtful whether I should lend my name to such a publication ... on the other hand I am a musician, and live by my work; consequently there is nothing derogatory in my editing this rubbish for the sake of what I can earn. My pride, however, suffers from it. Think it over and send me a reply.”
OPENING BARS FROM THE OVERTURE “1812” From the MS. in the possession of P. Jurgenson, Moscow
OPENING BARS FROM THE OVERTURE “1812”
From the MS. in the possession of P. Jurgenson, Moscow
To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, July 3rd (15th), 1881. “I am very glad, my dear, you like my songs and duets. I will take this opportunity of telling you which of these vocal compositions I care for most. Among the duets I prefer ‘ThrÄnen’ (‘Tears’), and among the songs: (1) the one to Tolstoi’s words, (2) the verses of Mickievicz, and (3) ‘War ich nicht der Halm.’ The ‘Schottische Ballade’ is also one of my favourites, but I am convinced it will never be so popular as I fancied it would. It should not be so much sung, as declaimed, but with the most impassioned feeling. To P. Jurgenson. “Kamenka, July 31st (August 12th), 1881. “I am working intensely hard at Bortniansky to get this dreadful work done as soon as possible. His works as a rule are quite antipathetic to me. I shall finish the job, for I always complete anything I have begun. But some day I shall actually burst with rage....” To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, August 24th (September 5th), 1881. “I wish with all my heart you could hear my Serenade properly performed. It loses so much on the piano, and I think the middle movements—played by the violins—would win your sympathy. As regards the first and last movements you are right. They are merely a play of sounds, and do not touch the heart. The first movement is my homage to Mozart; it is intended to be an imitation of his style, and I should be delighted if I thought I had in any way approached my model. Do not laugh, dear, at my zeal in standing up for my latest creation. Perhaps my paternal feelings are so warm because it is the youngest child of my fancy.... “As regards Balakirev’s songs, I am quite of your opinion. They are actually little masterpieces, and I am passionately fond of some of them. There was a time when I could not listen to ‘Selim’s Song’ without tears in my eyes, and now I rank ‘The Song of the Golden Fish’ very highly.” To S. I. Taneiev. “August 25th (September 6th), 1881. “I am almost certain my Vespers will not please you. I see nothing in them which would win your approval. Do you know, Sergei Ivanovich, I believe I shall never write anything good again, I am no longer in a condition to compose. What form should I choose?—none of them appeal to me. Always the same indispensable remplissage, the same routine, the same revolting methods, the same conventions and shams. If I were young, this aversion from composition might be explained by the fact that I was gathering my forces, and would suddenly strike out some new path of my own making. But, alas! the years are beginning to tell. To write in a naÏve way, as the bird sings, is no longer possible, and I lack energy to invent something new. I do not tell you this because I hope for your encouraging denial, but simply as a fact. I do not regret it. I have worked much in my time, in a desultory way, and now I am tired. It is time to rest.... “Do not speak to me of coming back to the Conservatoire; at present this is impossible. I cannot answer for the future. You, on the contrary, seem made to carry on Rubinstein’s work.” XIII
1881-1882 In one of his letters to Nadejda von Meck, written in 1876, Tchaikovsky says: “I no longer compose anything—a sure indication of an agitated mind.” From November, 1880, until September, 1881, Tchaikovsky wrote nothing—from which we may conclude that during this time he again underwent a period of spiritual and mental disturbance. It is not surprising that during the time he spent in Moscow and Petersburg (November to February) he should not have written a note. We know that town life—to which was added at this time the anxieties attendant upon the production of two operas—stifled all his inclination for composing. His visit to Rome, with its many social obligations, was also unfavourable to creative work. That Tchaikovsky continued to be silent even after his return to Kamenka cannot, however, be attributed to unsuitable surroundings or external hindrances. It points rather to a restless and unhappy frame of mind. There were numerous reasons to account for this condition. In the first place he was touched to the quick by the loss of Nicholas Rubinstein. In spite of their many differences he had loved him with all his heart, and valued him as “one of the greatest virtuosi of his day.” He had also grown to regard him as one of the chief props of his artistic life. Nicholas Rubinstein was always the first, and best, interpreter of his works for pianoforte and orchestra. Whenever Tchaikovsky wrote a symphonic work, he already heard it in imagination as it would sound in the concert-room in Moscow, and knew beforehand that under Rubinstein’s direction he would experience no disappointment. The great artist had the gift of discovering in Tchaikovsky’s works beauties of which the composer himself was hardly conscious. There was the sonata, for instance, which Tchaikovsky “did not recognise” when he heard it played by N. Rubinstein. And now this sure and subtle interpreter of all his new works was gone for ever. Apart from personal relations, Rubinstein’s intimate connection with the Conservatoire had its influence upon Tchaikovsky. Although the latter had resigned his position there, he had not ceased to take an interest in the musical life of Moscow. After his friend’s death Tchaikovsky was aware that everyone was waiting for him to decide whether he would take over Rubinstein’s work. To accept this duty meant to abandon his career as a composer. There was no mental conflict, because he never hesitated for a moment in deciding that nothing in the world would make him give up his creative work. At the same time he felt so keenly the helpless position of the Conservatoire that he could not avoid some self-reproach; and thus the calm so needful for composition was constantly disturbed. Another reason for his sadness was of a more intimate character. After many years of unclouded happiness, a time of severe trial had come to the numerous Davidov family, which was not without its influence upon Tchaikovsky. Kamenka, formerly his refuge from all the tempests of life, was no longer so peaceful a harbour, because his ever-increasing attachment to his sister’s family made him more sensible of their joys and sorrows. At this time the shadows prevailed, for Alexandra Ilinichna was confined to bed by a long and painful illness, which eventually ended in her death. Finally, Tchaikovsky suffered much at this time from the loss of his faithful servant Alexis Safronov, who had been in his service from 1873 to 1880, when he was called upon to serve his time in the army. Tchaikovsky spent most of September, 1881, in Moscow, in the society of his brother Anatol. This visit was comparatively agreeable to him, because the greater part of Moscow society had not yet returned from their summer holidays, and he felt free. He left Moscow on October 1st (13th). To P. Jurgenson. “Kamenka, October 8th (20th), 1881. “I inhabit the large house where my sister’s family used to live, but at present there are no other human beings but myself and the woman who looks after me. I have laid myself out to complete the arrangements of Bortniansky’s works for double chorus in a month. Good Lord, how I loathe Bortniansky! Not himself, poor wretch, but his wishy-washy music! Yet if I had not undertaken this work I should find myself in a bad way financially. Were I to tell you how much money I got through in Moscow, without knowing why or wherefore, you would be horrified and give me a good scolding....” To P. Jurgenson. “Kamenka, October 11th (23rd), 1881. “Dear Friend,—I know you will laugh at me when you read this letter.... There is a young man here of eighteen or nineteen who is very clever and capable, but dislikes his present occupation because his domestic circumstances are miserable, and he longs for a wider sphere and experience of life. He has the reputation of being honest and industrious, and knows something of the book-trade.... Could you make him useful in your publishing house, or in the country? Dear friend, do look after him! What can I do for him? This is ‘my fate’ over again. In any case I shall not abandon him, for I am sure he would come to grief here. “Laugh if you like, but have compassion and answer me.”[86] To Nadejda von Meck. “Kiev, November 9th (21st), 1881. “Because I am deeply interested in Church music just now, I go to the churches here very frequently, especially to the ‘Lavra.’[87] On Sunday the bishop celebrated services in the monasteries of Michael and the Brotherhood. The singing in these churches is celebrated, but I thought it very poor, and pretentious, with a repertory of commonplace concert pieces. It is quite different in the ‘Lavra,’ where they sing in their own old style, following the traditions of a thousand years, without notes and without any attempts at concert-music. Nevertheless it is an original and grand style of sacred singing. The public think the music of the ‘Lavra’ is bad, and are delighted with the sickly-sweet singing of other churches. This vexes and enrages me. It is difficult to be indifferent to the matter. My efforts to help our church music have been misunderstood. My Liturgy is forbidden. Two months ago the ecclesiastical authorities in Moscow refused to let it be sung at the memorial service for Nicholas Rubinstein. The Archbishop Ambrose pronounced it to be a Catholic service.... The authorities are pig-headed enough to keep every ray of light out of this sphere of darkness and ignorance. “To-morrow I hope to leave for Rome, where I expect to meet my brother Modeste.” To N. F. von Meck. “Rome, November 26th (December 8th), 1881. “The day before yesterday I was at the concert in honour of Liszt’s seventieth birthday. The programme consisted exclusively of his works. The performance was worse than mediocre. Liszt himself was present. It was touching to witness the ovation which the enthusiastic Italians accorded to the venerable genius, but Liszt’s works leave me cold. They have more poetical intention than actual creative power, more colour than form—in short, in spite of being externally effective, they are lacking in the deeper qualities. Liszt is just the opposite of Schumann, whose vast creative force is not in harmony with his colourless style of expression. At this concert an Italian celebrity played; Sgambati is a very good pianist, but exceedingly cold.” To N. F. von Meck. “Rome, November 27th (December 9th), 1881. “I cannot take your advice to publish my opera with a French title-page. Such advances to foreign nations are repugnant to me. Do not let us go to them, let them rather come to us. If they want our operas then—not the title-page only, but the full text can be translated, as in the case of the proposed performance at Prague. So long as an opera has not crossed the Russian frontier, it is not necessary—to my mind—that it should be translated into the language of those who take no interest in it.” To N. F. von Meck. “Rome, December 4th (16th), 1881. “Yesterday I received sad news from Kamenka. In the neighbourhood lies a little wood, the goal of my daily walk. In the heart of the wood lives a forester with a large and lovable family. I never saw more beautiful children. I was particularly devoted to a little girl of four, who was very shy at first, but afterwards grew so friendly that she would caress me prettily, and chatter delightful nonsense, which was a great pleasure to me. Now my brother-in-law writes that this child and one of the others have died of diphtheria. The remaining children were removed to the village by his orders, but, he adds, ‘I fear it is too late.’ Poor Russia! Everything there is so depressing, and then this terrible scourge which carries off children by the thousand.” The violin concerto was the only one of Tchaikovsky’s works which received its first performance outside Russia. This exceptional occurrence took place in Vienna. The originality and difficulty of this composition prevented Leopold Auer, to whom it was originally dedicated, from appreciating its true worth, and he declined to produce it in St. Petersburg.[88] Two years passed after its publication, and still no one ventured to play it in public. The first to recognise its importance, and to conquer its difficulties, was Adolf Brodsky. A pupil of Hellmesberger’s, he held a post at the Moscow Conservatoire for a time, but relinquished it in the seventies in order to tour in Europe. For two years he considered the concerto without, as he himself says, being able to summon courage to learn it. Finally, he threw himself into the work with fiery energy, and resolved to try his luck with it in Vienna. Hans Richter expressed a wish to make acquaintance with the new concerto, and finally it was included in the programme of one of the Philharmonic Concerts, December 4th, 1881. According to the critics, and Brodsky’s own account, there was a noisy demonstration at the close of the performance, in which energetic applause mingled with equally forcible protest. The former sentiment prevailed, and Brodsky was recalled three times. From this it is evident that the ill_feeling was not directed against the executant, but against the work. The Press notices were very hostile. Out of ten criticisms, two only spoke quite sympathetically of the concerto. The rest, which emanated from the pens of the best-known musical critics, were extremely slashing. Hanslick, the author of the well-known book, On the Beautiful in Music, passed the following judgment upon this work:— “Mozart’s youthful work (the Divertimento) would have had a more favourable position had it been played after, instead of before, Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto; a drink of cold water is welcome to those who have just swallowed brandy. The violinist, A. Brodsky, was ill_advised to make his first appearance before the Viennese public with this work. The Russian composer, Tchaikovsky, certainly possesses no commonplace talent, but rather one which is forced, and which, labouring after genius, produces results which are tasteless and lacking in discrimination. Such examples as we have heard of his music (with the exception of the flowing and piquant Quartet in D) offer a curious combination of originality and crudeness, of happy ideas and wretched affectations. This is also the case as regards his latest long and pretentious Violin Concerto. For a time it proceeds in a regular fashion, it is musical and not without inspiration, then crudeness gains the upper hand and reigns to the end of the first movement. The violin is no longer played, but rent asunder, beaten black and blue. Whether it is actually possible to give clear effect to these hair-raising difficulties I do not know, but I am sure Herr Brodsky in trying to do so made us suffer martyrdom as well as himself. The Adagio, with its tender Slavonic sadness, calmed and charmed us once more, but it breaks off suddenly, only to be followed by a finale which plunges us into the brutal, deplorable merriment of a Russian holiday carousal. We see savages, vulgar faces, hear coarse oaths and smell fusel-oil. Friedrich Fischer, describing lascivious paintings, once said there were pictures ‘one could see stink.’ Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto brings us face to face for the first time with the revolting idea: May there not also be musical compositions which we can hear stink?” Hanslick’s criticism hurt Tchaikovsky’s feelings very deeply. To his life’s end he never forgot it, and knew it by heart, just as he remembered word for word one of Cui’s criticisms dating from 1866. All the deeper and more intense therefore was his gratitude to Brodsky. This sentiment he expressed in a letter to the artist, and in the dedication of the Concerto he replaced Auer’s name by that of Brodsky. While Tchaikovsky was touched by Brodsky’s courage in bringing forward the Concerto, he was unable to suppress his sense of injury at the attitude of his intimate friend Kotek, who weakly relinquished his original intention of introducing the work in St. Petersburg. Still more did he resent the conduct of Auer, who, he had reason to believe, not only declined to produce the Concerto himself, but advised Sauret not to play it in the Russian capital. To N. F. von Meck. Rome, 1881. “Do you know what I am writing just now? You will be very much astonished. Do you remember how you once advised me to compose a trio for pianoforte, violin, and violoncello, and my reply, in which I frankly told you that I disliked this combination? Suddenly, in spite of this antipathy, I made up my mind to experiment in this form, which so far I have never attempted. The beginning of the trio is finished. Whether I shall carry it through, whether it will sound well, I do not know, but I should like to bring it to a happy termination. I hope you will believe me, when I say that I have only reconciled myself to the combination of piano and strings in the hope of giving you pleasure by this work. I will not conceal from you that I have had to do some violence to my feelings before I could bring myself to express my musical ideas in a new and unaccustomed form. I wish to conquer all difficulties, however; and the thought of pleasing you impels me and encourages my efforts.” To N. F. von Meck. “Rome, December 22nd, 1881 (January 3rd, 1882). “Things are well with me in the fullest sense of the word.... If everything were well in Russia, and I received good news from home, it would be impossible to conceive a better mode of life. But unhappily it is not so. Our dear, but pitiable, country is passing through a dark hour. A vague sense of unrest and dissatisfaction prevails throughout the land; all seem to be walking at the edge of a volcanic crater, which may break forth at any moment.... “According to my ideas, now or never is the time to turn to the people for counsel and support; to summon us all together and to let us consider in common such ways and means as may strengthen our hands. The Zemsky Sobor—this is what Russia needs. From us the Tsar could learn the truth of things; we could help him to suppress rebellion and make Russia a happy and united country. Perhaps I am a poor politician, and my remarks are very naÏve and inconsequential, but whenever I think the matter over, I see no other issue, and cannot understand why the same thought does not occur to him, in whose hands our salvation lies. Katkov, who describes all parliamentary discussions as talkee-talkee, and hates the words popular representation and constitution, confuses the idea of the Zemsky Sobor, which was frequently summoned in old days when the Tsar stood in need of counsel, with the Parliaments and Chambers of Western Europe. A Zemsky Sobor is probably quite opposed to a constitution in the European sense; it is not so much a question of giving us at once a responsible Ministry, and the whole routine of English parliamentary procedure, as of revealing the true state of things, giving the Government the confidence of the people, and showing us some indication of where and how we are being led. “I had no intention of turning a letter to you into a political dissertation. Forgive me, dear friend, if I have bored you with it. I only meant to tell you the Italian sun is beautiful, and I am enjoying the glory of the South; but I live the life of my country, and cannot be completely at rest here so long as things are not right with us. Nor is the news I receive from my family in Russia very cheerful just now.” To P Jurgenson. “Rome, January 4th (16th), 1882. “This season I have no luck. The Maid of Orleans will not be given again; Oniegin ditto; Auer intrigues against the Violin Concerto; no one plays the Pianoforte Concerto (the second); in short, things are bad. But what makes me furious, and hurts and mortifies me most, is the fact that the Direction, which would not spend a penny upon The Maid of Orleans, has granted 30,000 roubles for the mounting of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Sniegourochka. Is it not equally unpleasant to you to feel that ‘our subject’ has been taken from us, and that Lel will now sing new music to the old words? It is as though someone had forcibly torn away a piece of myself and offered it to the public in a new and brilliant setting. I could cry with mortification.” To N. F. von Meck. “Rome, January 13th (25th), 1882. “The trio is finished.... Now I can say with some conviction that the work is not bad. But I am afraid, having written all my life for the orchestra, and only taken late in life to chamber music, I may have failed to adapt the instrumental combinations to my musical thoughts. In short, I fear I may have arranged music of a symphonic character as a trio, instead of writing directly for my instruments. I have tried to avoid this, but I am not sure whether I have been successful.” To N. F. von Meck. “Rome, January 16th (28th), 1882. “I have just read the pamphlet you sent me (La VÉritÉ aux nihilistes) with great satisfaction, because it is written with warmth, and is full of sympathy for Russia and the Russians. I must observe that it is of no avail as an argument against Nihilism. The author speaks a language which the Nihilists cannot understand, since no moral persuasion could change a tiger into a lamb, or induce a New Zealand cannibal to love his neighbour in a true Christian spirit. A Nihilist, after reading the pamphlet, would probably say: ‘Dear sir, we know already from innumerable newspapers, pamphlets, and books, all you tell us as to the uselessness of our murders and dynamite explosions. We are also aware that Louis XVI. was a good king, and Alexander II. a good Tsar, who emancipated the serfs. Nevertheless we shall remain assassins and dynamiters, because it is our vocation to murder and blow up, with the object of destroying the present order of things.’ “Have you read the last volume of Taine’s work upon the Revolution? No one has so admirably characterised the unreasoning crowd of anarchists and extreme revolutionists as he has done. Much of what he says respecting the French in 1793, of the degraded band of anarchists who perpetrated the most unheard-of crimes before the eyes of the nation, which was paralysed with astonishment, applies equally to the Nihilists.... The attempt to convince the Nihilists is useless. They must be exterminated; there is no other remedy against this evil.” At the end of January Tchaikovsky sent the Trio to Moscow with a request that it might be tried by Taneiev, Grjimali, and Fitzenhagen. His letter to Jurgenson concludes as follows:— “The Trio is dedicated to Nicholas G. Rubinstein. It has a somewhat plaintive and funereal colouring. As it is dedicated to Rubinstein’s memory it must appear in an Édition de luxe. I beg Taneiev to keep fairly accurately to my metronome indications. I also wish him to be the first to bring out the Trio next season....” To P. Jurgenson. “Rome, February 5th (17th), 1882. “My dear Friend,—Your letters always bring me joy, comfort, and support. God knows I am not lying! You are the one regular correspondent through whom I hear all that interests me in Moscow—and I still love Moscow with a strange, keen affection. I say ‘strange,’ because in spite of my love for it I cannot live there. To analyse this psychological problem would lead me too far afield.” To A. Tchaikovsky. “Rome, February 7th (19th), 1882. “Toly, my dearest, I have just received your letter with the details of your engagement. I am heartily glad you are happy, and I think I understand all you are feeling, although I never experienced it myself. There is a certain kind of yearning for tenderness and consolation that only a wife can satisfy. Sometimes I am overcome by an insane craving for the caress of a woman’s touch. Sometimes I see a sympathetic woman in whose lap I could lay my head, whose hands I would gladly kiss. When you are quite calm again—after your marriage—read Anna Karenina, which I have read lately for the first time with an enthusiasm bordering on fanaticism (sic). What you are now feeling is there wonderfully expressed with reference to Levin’s marriage.” To P. Jurgenson. “Naples, February 11th (23rd), 1882. “Are you not ashamed of trying to ‘justify’ yourself of the accusation brought against you by my protÉgÉ Klimenko? I know well enough that you cannot be unjust. I know, on the other hand, that Klimenko is a crazy fellow who loses his head over Nekrassov’s poetry and vague echoes of Nihilism. Nevertheless he is not stupid, and it would be a pity to discharge him. I feel unless he can make himself an assured livelihood in Moscow he will do no good elsewhere. I beg you to be patient a little longer, in the hope he will come to himself, and see where his own interests lie.” To N. F. von Meck. “Naples, February 13th (25th), 1882. “What a blessing to feel oneself safe from visitors—to be far from the noise of large hotels and the bustle of the town! What an inexhaustible source of enjoyment to admire this incomparable view, which stretches in all its beauty before our windows! All Naples, Vesuvius, Castellammare, Sorrento, lie before us. At sunset yesterday it was so divinely beautiful that I shed tears of gratitude to God.... I feel I shall not do much work in Naples. It is clearly evident that this town has contributed nothing to art or learning. To create a book, a picture, or an opera, it is necessary to become self-concentrated and oblivious of the outer world. Would that be possible in Naples?... “Even the sun has spots, therefore it is not surprising that our abode, about which I have been raving, should gradually reveal certain defects. I suffer from a shameful weakness: I am mortally afraid of mice. Imagine, dear friend, that even as I write to you, a whole army of mice are probably conducting their manoeuvres across the floor overhead. If a solitary one of their hosts strays into my room, I am condemned to a night of sleeplessness and torture. May Heaven protect me!” Shortly afterwards, the landlord of this mouse-infested residence—the Villa Postiglione—turned out “an impudent thief,” and Tchaikovsky, with his brother Modeste, returned to an hotel in the town. To N. F. von Meck. “Naples, March 7th (19th), 1882. “To-day I finished my Vespers.... It is very difficult to work in Naples. Not only do its beauties distract one, but there is also the nuisance of the organ grinders. These instruments are never silent for an instant, and sometimes drive me to desperation. Two or three are often being played at the same time; someone will also be singing, and the trumpets of the Bersaglieri in the neighbourhood go on unceasingly from 8 a.m. until midday. “In my leisure hours I have been reading a very interesting book, published recently, upon Bellini. It is written by his friend, the octogenarian Florimo. I have always been fond of Bellini. As a child I often cried under the strong impression made upon me by his beautiful melodies, which are impregnated with a kind of melancholy. I have remained faithful to his music, in spite of its many faults: the weak endings of his concerted numbers, the tasteless accompaniments, the roughness and vulgarity of his recitatives. Florimo’s book contains not only Bellini’s life, but also his somewhat extensive correspondence. I began to read with great pleasure the biography of this composer, who for long years past had been surrounded in my imagination with an aureole of poetical feeling. I had always thought of Bellini as a childlike, naÏve being, like Mozart. Alas! I was doomed to disillusion. Bellini, in spite of his talent, was a very commonplace man. He lived in an atmosphere of self-worship, and was enchanted with every bar of his own music. He could not tolerate the least contradiction, and suspected enemies, intrigues, and envy in all directions; although from beginning to end of his career success never left him for a single day. Judging from his letters, he loved no one, and, apart his own interests, nothing existed for him. It is strange that the author of the book does not seem to have observed that these letters show Bellini in a most unfavourable light, otherwise he would surely not have published them. Another book which I am enjoying just now is Melnikov’s On the Hills. What an astonishing insight into Russian life, and what a calm objective attitude the author assumes to the numerous characters he has drawn in this novel! Dissenters of various kinds (Rasskolniki), merchants, moujiks, aristocrats, monks and nuns—all seem actually living as one reads. Each character acts and speaks, not in accordance with the author’s views and convictions, but just as they would do in real life. In our day it is rare to meet with a book so free from ‘purpose.’ 10 p.m. “ ... One thing spoils all my walks here—the beggars, who not only beg, but display their wounds and deformities, which have a most unpleasant and painful effect upon me. But to sit at the window at home, to gaze upon the sea and Mount Vesuvius in the early morning, or at sunset, is such heavenly enjoyment that one can forgive and forget all the drawbacks of Naples.” Tchaikovsky spent a few days at Sorrento before going to Florence, whence he returned to Moscow about the middle of April. XIV To M. Tchaikovsky. “Kamenka, May 10th (22nd), 1882. “Modi, I am writing at night with tears in my eyes. Do not be alarmed—nothing dreadful has happened. I have just finished Bleak House, and shed a few tears, first, because I pity Lady Dedlock, and find it hard to tear myself away from all these characters with whom I have been living for two months (I began the book when I left Florence), and secondly, from gratitude that so great a writer as Dickens ever lived.... I want to suggest to you a capital subject for a story. But I am tired, so I will leave it until to-morrow. “Subject for a Story. “The tale should be told in the form of a diary, or letters to a friend in England. Miss L. comes to Russia. Everything appears to her strange and ridiculous. The family into which she has fallen please her—especially the children—but she cannot understand why the whole foundation of family life lacks the discipline, the sense of Christian duty, and the good bringing-up which prevail in English homes. She respects this family, but regards them as belonging to a different race, and the gulf between herself and them seems to grow wider. She draws into herself and remains there. Weariness and oppression possess her. The sense of duty, and the need of working for her family, keep her from despair. She is religious, in the English way, and finds the Russian Church, with its ritual, absurd and repugnant. Some of the family and their relations with her must be described in detail. “A new footman appears upon the scene. At first she does not notice him at all. One day, however, she becomes aware that he has looked at her in particular—and love steals into her heart. At first she does not understand what has come over her. Why does she sympathise with him when he is working—others have to work too? Why does she feel so ill at ease when he waits on her? Then the footman begins to make love to the laundrymaid. In her feeling of hatred for this girl she realises she is jealous, and discovers her love. She gives the man all the money she has saved to go on a journey for his health, etc. She begins to love everything Russian.... She changes her creed. The footman is dismissed for some fault. She struggles with herself—but finally goes with him. One fine day he says to her: ‘Go to the devil and take your ugly face with you! What do you want from me?’ I really do not know how it all ends....” To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, May 29th (June 10th), 1882. “ ... You ask me why I chose the subject of Mazeppa. About a year ago K. Davidov (Director of the Petersburg Conservatoire) passed on this libretto to me. It is arranged by Bourenin from Poushkin’s poem Poltava. At that time it did not please me much, and although I tried to set a few scenes to music, I could not get up much enthusiasm, so put it aside. For a whole year I sought in vain for some other book, because the desire to compose another opera increased steadily. Then one day I took up the libretto of Mazeppa once more, read Poushkin’s poem again, was carried away by some of the scenes and verses—and set to work upon the scene between Maria and Mazeppa, which is taken without alteration from the original text. Although I have not experienced as yet any of the profound enjoyment I felt in composing Eugene Oniegin; although the work progresses slowly and I am not much drawn to the characters—I continue to work at it because I have started, and I believe I may be successful. As regards Charles XII. I must disappoint you, dear friend. He does not come into my opera, because he only played an unimportant part in the drama between Mazeppa, Maria, and Kochoubey.” The first symphony concert in the hall of the Art and Industrial Exhibition took place on May 18th (30th), 1882, under the direction of Anton Rubinstein. On this occasion Taneiev played Tchaikovsky’s Second Pianoforte Concerto for the first time in public. It was received with much applause, but it was difficult to determine whether this was intended for the composer, or the interpreter. To N. F. von Meck. “Grankino, June 9th (21st), 1882. “The quiet and freedom of this place delight me. This is true country life! The walks are very monotonous; there is nothing but the endless, level Steppe. The garden is large, and will be beautiful, but at present it is new. In the evening the Steppe is wonderful, and the air so exquisitely pure; I cannot complain. The post only comes once a week, and there are no newspapers. One lives here in complete isolation from the world, and that has a great fascination for me. Sometimes I feel—to a certain extent—the sense of perfect contentment I used always to experience in Brailov and Simaki. O God, how sad it is to think that those moments of inexpressible happiness will never return!”[89] To N. F. von Meck. “Grankino, July 5th (17th), 1882. “The news about Skobeliev only reached us a week after the sad catastrophe. It is long since any death has given me a greater shock than this. In view of the lamentable lack of men of mark in Russia, what a loss is this personality, on whom so many hopes depended!” To P. Jurgenson. “Kamenka, July 26th (August 7th), 1882. “My sister has just returned from Carlsbad, having stopped at Prague on the way to hear my Maid of Orleans, or Panna Orleanska, as she is called there. It appears the opera was given in the barrack-like summer theatre, and both the performance and staging were very poor.” This first appearance of one of Tchaikovsky’s operas upon the stage of a West-European theatre passed almost unnoticed. The work had a succÈs d’estime and soon disappeared from the repertory of the Prague opera house. The Press were polite to the well-known symphonist Tchaikovsky, and considered that as regarded opera he deserved respect, sympathy, and interest, although he was not entitled to be called a dramatic composer “by the grace of God.” The programme of the sixth symphony concert (August 8th (20th) 1882) of the Art and Industrial Exhibition was made up entirely from the works of Tchaikovsky, and included: (1) The Tempest; (2) Songs from Sniegourochka; (3) the Violin Concerto (with Brodsky as soloist); (4) the Italian Capriccio; (5) Songs; (6) the Overture “1812.” The last-mentioned work was now heard for the first time, and the Violin Concerto—although it had already been played in Vienna, London, and New York—for the first time in Russia. The success of these works, although considerable, did not equal that which has since been accorded them. Among many laudatory criticisms, one was couched in an entirely opposite spirit. Krouglikov said that the three movements of the Violin Concerto were so “somnolent and wearisome that one felt no desire to analyse it in detail.” The “1812” Overture seemed to him “much ado about nothing.” Finally, he felt himself obliged to state the “lamentable fact” that Tchaikovsky was “played out.” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Moscow, August 15th (27th), 1882. “Dear Modi,—I found your letter when I came home an hour ago; but I have only just read it, because my mental condition was such that I had to collect myself first. What produces this terrible state?—I do not understand it myself.... Everything has tended to make to-day go pleasantly, and yet I am so depressed, and have suffered so intensely, that I might envy any beggar in the street. It all lies in the fact that life is impossible for me, except in the country or abroad. Why this is so, God knows—but I am simply on the verge of insanity. “This undefinable, horrible, torturing malady, which declares itself in the fact that I cannot live a day, or an hour, in either of the Russian capitals without suffering, will perhaps be explained to me in some better world.... I often think that all my discontent springs from my own egoism, because I cannot sacrifice myself for others, even those who are near and dear to me. Then comes the comforting thought that I should not be suffering martyrdom except that I regard it as a kind of duty to come here now and then, for the sake of the pleasure it gives others. The devil knows! I only know this: that unattractive as Kamenka may be, I long for my corner there, as one longs for some inexpressible happiness. I hope to go there to-morrow.” To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, August 23rd (September 4th), 1882. “Dear, incomparable Friend,—How lovely it is here! How freely I breathe once more! How delighted I am to see my dear room again! How good to live once more as one pleases, not as others order! How pleasant to work undisturbed, to read, to play, to walk, to be oneself, without having to play a different part a thousand times a day! How insincere, how senseless, is social life!” XV
1882-1883 To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, September 14th (26th), 1882. “Never has any important work given me such trouble as this opera (Mazeppa). Perhaps it is the decadence of my powers, or have I become more severe in self-judgment? When I remember how I used to work, without the least strain, and knowing no such moments of doubt and uncertainty, I seem to be a totally different man. Formerly I wrote as easily, and as much in obedience to the law of nature, as a fish swims in water or a bird flies. Now I am like a man who carries a precious, but heavy, burden, and who must bear it to the last at any cost. I, too, shall bear mine to the end, but sometimes I fear my strength is broken and I shall be forced to cry halt!” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Kamenka, September 20th (October 2nd), 1882. “I am writing on a true autumnal day. Since yesterday a fine rain has been falling like dust, the wind howls, the green things have been frost-bitten since last week—yet I am not depressed. On the contrary, I enjoy it. It is only in this weather that I like Kamenka; when it is fine, I always long to be elsewhere. “I have begun the instrumentation of the opera. The introduction, which depicts Mazeppa and the galloping horse, will sound very well!...” To E. Napravnik. “Kamenka, September 21st (October 3rd), 1882. “Kamenskaya tells me that in case of the revival of The Maid of Orleans she would be glad to undertake the part again, if I would make the cuts, changes, and transpositions which you require. Apart from the fact that it is very desirable this opera should be repeated, and that I am prepared to make any sacrifice for this end, your advice alone is sufficient to make me undertake all that is necessary without hesitation.... Yet I must tell you frankly, nothing is more unpleasant than the changing of modulations, and the transposition of pieces which one is accustomed to think of in a particular tonality, and I should be very glad if the matter could be arranged without my personal concurrence. At the same time, I repeat that I am willing to do whatever you advise.” To P. Jurgenson. “Kamenka, October 20th (November 1st), 1882. “The copy of the Trio which you sent me gave me the greatest pleasure. I think no other work of mine has appeared in such an irreproachable edition. The title-page delighted me by its exemplary simplicity.” The Trio was given for the first time at one of the quartet evenings of the Musical Society in Moscow, October 18th (30th). Judging from the applause, the public was very much pleased with the work, but the critics were sparing in their praise. In a letter to the composer Taneiev says:— “I have studied your Trio for more than three weeks, and worked at it six hours a day. I ought long since to have written to you about this glorious work. I have never had greater pleasure in studying a new composition. The majority of the musicians here are enchanted with the Trio. It also pleased the public. Hubert has received a number of letters asking that it may be repeated.” To S. I. Taneiev. “Kamenka, October 29th (November 10th) 1882. “My best thanks for your letter, dear Serge Ivanovich. Your approval of my Trio gives me very great pleasure. In my eyes you are a great authority, and my artistic vanity is as much flattered by your praise, as it is insensible to the opinions of the Press, for experience has taught me to regard them with philosophical indifference.... “Mazeppa creeps along tortoise-fashion, although I work at it daily for several hours. I cannot understand why I am so changed in this respect. At first I feared it was the loss of power that comes with advancing years, but now I comfort myself with the thought that I have grown stricter in self-criticism and less self-confident. This is perhaps the reason why it now takes me three days to orchestrate a thing that I could formerly have finished in one.” To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, November 3rd (15th), 1882. “ ... I think—if God grants me a long life—I shall never again compose an opera. I do not say, with you and many others, that opera is an inferior form of musical art. On the contrary, uniting as it does so many elements which all serve the same end, it is perhaps the richest of musical forms. I think, however, that personally I am more inclined to symphonic music, at least I feel more free and independent when I have not to submit to the requirements and conditions of the stage.” To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, November 10th (22nd), 1882. “Napravnik sends me word that The Maid of Orleans will be remounted in Prague, and Jurgenson writes that he would like to go there with me. I, too, would like to see my opera performed abroad. Very probably we shall go direct to Prague next week, and afterwards I shall return with him to Moscow, where I must see my brother....” To N. F. von Meck. “Moscow, November 23rd (December 5th), 1882. “I have made the acquaintance of ErdmannsdÖrfer, who has succeeded Nicholas Rubinstein as conductor of the Symphony Concerts. He is a very gifted man, and has taken the hearts of the musicians and the public by storm. The latter is so fickle: it received ErdmannsdÖrfer with such enthusiasm, one would think it valued him far more highly than Rubinstein, who never met with such warmth. Altogether Moscow is not only reconciled to the loss of Rubinstein, but seems determined to forget him. “I am torn to pieces as usual, so that I already feel like a martyr, as I always do in Moscow or Petersburg. It has gone to such lengths that to-day I feel quite ill with this insane existence, and I am thinking of taking flight.” To N. F. von Meck. “Moscow, December 5th (17th) 1882. “To the many fatigues of the present time, one more has been added; every day I have to sit for some hours to the painter Makovsky. The famous art collector, P. Tretiakov, commissioned him to paint my portrait, so that I could not very well refuse. You can fancy how wearisome it is to me to have to sit for hours, when I find even the minutes necessary for being photographed simply horrible. Nevertheless the portrait seems very successful.[90] I forget if I have already told you that at the last concert but one my Suite was given with great success. ErdmannsdÖrfer proved a good conductor, although I think the Moscow Press and public greatly overrate his capabilities.... My work is not yet finished, so I shall hardly be able to leave before next week.” Tchaikovsky left Moscow on December 28th (January 9th, 1883), travelling by Berlin to Paris, where he met his brother Modeste, who was to accompany him to Italy. To N. F. von Meck. “Berlin, December 31st, 1882 (January 12th, 1883). “I broke my journey to rest here. Yesterday Tristan and Isolde (which I had never seen) was being given at the Opera, so I decided to remain another day. The work does not give me any pleasure, although I am glad to have heard it, for it has done much to strengthen my previous views of Wagner, which—until I had seen all his works performed—I felt might not be well grounded. Briefly summed up, this is my opinion: in spite of his great creative gifts, in spite of his talents as a poet, and his extensive culture, Wagner’s services to art—and to opera in particular—have only been of a negative kind. He has proved that the older forms of opera are lacking in all logical and Æsthetic raison d’Être. But if we may no longer write opera on the old lines, are we obliged to write as Wagner does? I reply, Certainly not. To compel people to listen for four hours at a stretch to an endless symphony which, however rich in orchestral colour, is wanting in clearness and directness of thought; to keep singers all these hours singing melodies which have no independent existence, but are merely notes that belong to this symphonic music (in spite of lying very high these notes are often lost in the thunder of the orchestra), this is certainly not the ideal at which contemporary musicians should aim. Wagner has transferred the centre of gravity from the stage to the orchestra, but this is an obvious absurdity, therefore his famous operatic reform—viewed apart from its negative results—amounts to nothing. As regards the dramatic interest of his operas, I find them very poor, often childishly naÏve. But I have never been quite so bored as with Tristan and Isolde. It is an endless void, without movement, without life, which cannot hold the spectator, or awaken in him any true sympathy for the characters on the stage. It was evident that the audience—even though Germans—were bored, but they applauded loudly after each act. How can this be explained? Perhaps by a patriotic sympathy for the composer, who actually devoted his whole life to singing the praise of Germanism.” To A. Merkling. “Paris, January 10th (22nd), 1882. “I have seen a few interesting theatrical performances, among others Sardou’s Fedora, in which Sarah Bernhardt played with arch-genius, and would have made the most poignant impression upon me if the play—in which a clever but cold Frenchman censures our Russian customs—were not so full of lies. I have finally come to the conclusion that Sarah is really a woman of genius.[91] I also enjoyed Musset’s play, On ne badine pas avec l’amour. After the theatre I go to a restaurant and drink punch (it is bitterly cold in Paris)....” To N. F. von Meck. “Paris, January 11th (23rd), 1883. “I have just come from the Opera Comique, where I heard Le Nozze di Figaro. I should go every time it was given. I know my worship of Mozart astonishes you, dear friend. I, too, am often surprised that a broken man, sound neither in mind nor spirit, like myself, should still be able to enjoy Mozart, while I do not succumb to the depth and force of Beethoven, to the glow and passion of Schumann, nor the brilliance of Meyerbeer, Berlioz, and Wagner. Mozart is not oppressive or agitating. He captivates, delights and comforts me. To hear his music is to feel one has accomplished some good action. It is difficult to say precisely wherein this good influence lies, but undoubtedly it is beneficial; the longer I live and the better I know him, the more I love his music. “You ask why I never write anything for the harp. This instrument has a beautiful timbre, and adds greatly to the poetry of the orchestra. But it is not an independent instrument, because it has no melodic quality, and is only suitable for harmony. True, artists like Parish-Alvars have composed operatic fantasias for the harp, in which there are melodies; but this is rather forced. Chords, arpeggios—these form the restricted sphere of the harp, consequently it is only useful for accompaniments.” Before Tchaikovsky left Moscow he had been approached by Alexeiev, the president of the local branch of the Russian Musical Society, with regard to the music to be given at the Coronation festivities, to take place in the spring of 1883. A chorus of 7,500 voices, selected from all the educational institutions in Moscow, was to greet the Emperor and Empress with the popular ‘Slavsia,’ from Glinka’s opera, A Life for the Tsar. The arrangement of this chorus, with accompaniment for string orchestra, was confided to Tchaikovsky. In January he accomplished this somewhat uncongenial task, and sent it to Jurgenson with the following remarks:— “There are only a few bars of ‘original composition’ in the work, besides the third verse of the text, so if—as you say—I am to receive a fee from the city of Moscow, my account stands as below:— “For the simplification of sixteen
bars of choral and
instrumental music, to be
repeated three times | 3 | r. | “For the composition of eight
connecting bars | 4 | r. | “For four additional lines to
the third verse, at forty
kopecks per line | 1 | r. | 60 k. | | Total | 8 | r. | 60 k. | (16/11½) |
“This sum I present to the city of Moscow. Joking apart, it is absurd to speak of payment for such a work, and, to me, most unpleasant. These things should be done gratuitously, or not at all.” To N. F. von Meck. “Paris, February 5th (17th), 1883. “I have not read Daudet’s L’EvangÉliste, although I have the book. I cannot conquer a certain prejudice; it is not the author’s fault, but all these sects, the Salvation Army—and all the rest of them—are antipathetic to me, and since in this volume Daudet (whom I like as much as you do) deals with a similar subject, I have no wish to read it. “As regards French music, I will make the following remarks in justification of my views. I do not rave about the music of the new French school as a whole, nor about each individual composer, so much as I admire the influence of the novelty and freshness which are so clearly discernible in their music. What pleases me is their effort to be eclectic, their sense of proportion, their readiness to break with hard-and-fast routine, while keeping within the limits of musical grace. Here you do not find that ugliness in which some of our composers indulge, in the mistaken idea that originality consists in treading under foot all previous traditions of beauty. If we compare modern French music with what is being composed in Germany, we shall see that German music is in a state of decadence, and that apart from the eternal fluctuation between Mendelssohn and Schumann, or Liszt and Wagner, nothing is being done. In France, on the contrary, we hear much that is new and interesting, much that is fresh and forceful. Of course, Bizet stands head and shoulders above the rest, but there are also Massenet, DÉlibes, Guirand, Lalo, Godard, Saint-SaËns. All these are men of talent, who cannot be compared with the dry routinier style of contemporary Germans.” To P. Jurgenson. “Paris, February 6th (18th), 1883. “Dear Friend,—To-day I received a telegram from Bartsal,[92] asking if my Coronation Cantata is ready, and for what voices it is written. I am replying that I have never composed such a Cantata. Apparently it is some absurdity which does not demand serious attention, and yet I am really somewhat agitated. The matter stands as follows. Early in December I met an acquaintance whom I have regarded for many years as a commonplace fool. But this fool was suddenly put upon the Coronation Commission. One day, after lunch, he took me aside and inquired: ‘I trust you are not a Nihilist?’ I put on an air of surprise, and inquired why he had to ask such a question. ‘Because I think it would be an excellent thing if you were to compose something suitable for the Coronation—something in a festival way—something patriotic—in short, write something....” I replied that I should be very pleased to compose something, but I could not supply my own text, that would have to be commissioned from Maikov, or Polonsky, then I should be willing to write the music. Our conversation ended here. Afterwards I heard that this man was saying all over Petersburg that he had commissioned me to write a Cantata. I had forgotten the whole story until the telegram came this morning. I am afraid the story may now be grossly exaggerated, and the report be circulated that I refused to compose such a work. I give you leave to use all possible means to have the matter put in the true light, and so to exonerate me.” To N. F. von Meck. “Paris, February 24th (March 8th), 1883. “Henry VIII., by Saint-SaËns, was recently given at the Grand Opera. I did not go, but, according to the papers, the work had no signal success. I am not surprised, for I know his other operas, Samson et Dalila, Etienne Marcel, and La Princesse Jaune, and all three have strengthened my conviction, that Saint-SaËns will never write a great dramatic work. Next week I will hear the opera, and tell you what I think of it. “In consequence of his death, Wagner is the hero of the hour with the Parisian public. At all three Sunday concerts (Pasdeloup, Colonne and Lamoureux) the programmes have been devoted to his works, with the greatest success. Curious people! It is necessary to die in order to attract their attention. In consequence of the death of Flotow, there was a vacancy in the AcadÉmie des Beaux Arts. Gounod put me forward as one of the five candidates, but I did not attain to this honour. The majority of votes went to the Belgian composer Limnander.” XVI At this time two unexpected and arduous tasks fell to Tchaikovsky’s lot. The city of Moscow commissioned him to write a march for a fÊte, to be given in honour of the Emperor in the Sokolniky Park, and the Coronation Committee sent him the libretto of a lengthy cantata, with a request that the music might be ready by the middle of April. These works he felt it his duty to undertake. For the march he declined any payment, for reasons which he revealed to Jurgenson, under strict pledges of secrecy. When, two years earlier, his financial situation had been so dark that he had undertaken the uncongenial task of editing the works of Bortniansky, he had, unknown to all his friends, applied for assistance to the Tsar. After the letter was written, he would gladly have destroyed it, but his servant had already taken it to the post. Some days later he received a donation of 3,000 roubles (£300). He resolved to take the first opportunity of giving some return for this gift, and the Coronation March was the outcome of this mingled feeling of shame and gratitude. His projected journey to Italy was abandoned, and he decided to remain some weeks longer in Paris. To P. Jurgenson. “Paris, March 9th (21st), 1883. “About the middle of August I received, in Moscow, the manuscript of the Vespers, with the Censor’s corrections. You then requested me to carry out these corrections. I altered what was actually essential. As regards the rest, I sent you an explanation to be forwarded to the Censor.... What has become of it? Either you have lost it, or the Censor is so obstinate and dense that one can do nothing with him. The absurdity is that I have not composed music to the words of the Vesper Service, but taken it from a book published by the Synodal Press. I have only harmonised the melodies as they stood in this book.... In short, I have improved everything that was capable of improvement. I will not endure the caprices of a drivelling pedant. He can teach me nothing, and the Synodal book is more important than he is. I shall have to complain about him. There ... he has put me out for a whole day!” To P. Jurgenson. “Paris, April 14th (26th), 1883. “You reproach me because the pieces Rubinstein played belong to Bessel.[93] I am very sorry, but I must say in self-justification that had I had any suspicion twelve years ago that it would be the least deprivation to you not to possess anything of mine, I would on no account have been faithless to you.... In those days I had no idea that I could wound your feelings by going to Bessel. Now I would give anything to get the pieces back again. A curious man Anton Rubinstein! Why could he not pay some attention to these pieces ten years ago? Why did he never play a note of my music then? That would indeed have been a service! I am grateful to him, even now, but it is a very different matter.” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Paris, April 14th (26th), 1883
“(Thursday in Passion Week). “Dear Modi,—I am writing in a cafÉ in the Avenue Wagram. This afternoon I felt a sudden desire to be—if not actually in our church—at least somewhere in its vicinity. I am so fond of the service for to-day. To hold the wax-taper and make little pellets of wax after each gospel; at first, to feel a little impatient for the service to come to an end, and afterwards to feel sorry it is over! But I arrived too late, only in time to meet the people coming out and hear them speak Russian.” To N. F. von Meck. “Paris, May 3rd (15th), 1883. “Loewenson’s article, with its flattering judgment of me, does not give me much pleasure. I do not like the repetition of that long-established opinion that I am not a dramatic musician, and that I pander to the public. What does it mean—to have dramatic capabilities? Apparently Herr Loewenson is a Wagnerian, and believes Wagner to be a great master in this sphere. I consider him just the reverse. Wagner has genius, but he certainly does not understand the art of writing for the stage with breadth and simplicity, keeping the orchestra within bounds, so that it does not reduce the singers to mere speaking puppets. As to his assertion that I aim at effects to catch the taste of the great public, I can plead not guilty with a clear conscience. I have always written, and always shall write, with feeling and sincerity, never troubling myself as to what the public would think of my work. At the moment of composing, when I am aglow with emotion, it flashes across my mind that all who will hear the music will experience some reflection of what I am feeling myself. Then I think of someone whose interest I value—like yourself, for instance—but I have never deliberately tried to lower myself to the vulgar requirements of the crowd. If opera attracts me from time to time, it signifies that I have as much capacity for this as for any other form. If I have had many failures in this branch of music, it only proves that I am a long way from perfection, and make the same mistakes in my operas as in my symphonic and chamber music, among which there are many unsuccessful compositions. If I live a few years longer, perhaps I may see my Maid of Orleans suitably interpreted, or my Mazeppa studied and staged as it should be; and then possibly people may cease to say that I am incapable of writing a good opera. At the same time, I know how difficult it will be to conquer this prejudice against me as an operatic composer. This is carried to such lengths that Herr Loewenson, who knows nothing whatever of my new work, declares it will be a useless sacrifice to the Moloch of opera....” To N. F. von Meck. “Berlin, May 12th (24th), 1883. “ ... A report has been circulated in many of the Paris papers that Rubinstein had refused to compose a Coronation Cantata because he was not in sympathy with the central figure of the festivities. As Rubinstein’s children are being educated in Russia, and this might be prejudicial to his interests—for even the most baseless falsehood always leaves some trace behind it—I sent a brief dementi to the Gaulois the day I left Paris. I cannot say if it will be published.[94] “To-day Lohengrin is being given. I consider it Wagner’s best work, and shall probably go to the performance. To-morrow I leave for Petersburg.” In April, 1883, Eugene Oniegin was heard for the first time in St. Petersburg, when it was performed by the Amateur Dramatic and Musical Society in the hall of the Nobles’ Club. It was coolly received, and the performance made so little impression that it was almost ignored by the Press. Soloviev, alone, wrote an article of some length in the St. Petersburg Viedomosti, in which he said:— “Tchaikovsky’s opera—apart from the libretto and stage effects—contains much that is musically attractive. Had the composer paid more attention to Poushkin’s words and shown greater appreciation of their beauty; had he grasped the simplicity and naturalness of Poushkin’s forms—the opera would have been successful. Having failed in these requirements, it is not surprising that the public received the work coldly....” Nevertheless the opera survived several performances. The lack of success—apart from the quality of the music, which never at any time aroused noisy demonstrations of applause—must be attributed to the performance, which was excellent for amateurs, but still left much to be desired from the artistic point of view. To N. F. von Meck. “Petersburg, May 24th (June 5th), 1883. “I hear the Cantata was admirably sung and won the Emperor’s approval.” To N. F. von Meck. “Podoushkino, June 15th (27th), 1883. “In my youth I often felt indignant at the apparent injustice with which Providence dealt out happiness and misfortune to mankind. Gradually I have come to the conviction that from our limited, earthly point of view we cannot possibly comprehend the aims and ends towards which God guides us on our way through life. Our sufferings and deprivations are not sent blindly and fortuitously; they are needful for our good, and although the good may seem very far away, some day we shall realise this. Experience has taught me that suffering and bitterness are frequently for our good, even in this life. But after this life perhaps there is another, and—although my intellect cannot conceive what form it may take—my heart and my instinct, which revolt from death in the sense of complete annihilation, compel me to believe in it. Perhaps we may then understand the things which now appear to us harsh and unjust. Meanwhile, we can only pray, and thank God when He sends us happiness, and submit when misfortune overtakes us, or those who are near and dear to us. I thank God who has given me this conviction. Without it life would be a grievous burden. Did I not know that you, the best of human beings, and above all deserving of happiness, were suffering so much, not through an insensate blow aimed by a blind destiny, but for some divine end which my limited reason cannot discern—then, indeed, there would remain for me in life nothing but despair and loathing. I have learnt not to murmur against God, but to pray to Him for all who are dear to me.” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Podoushkino,[95] July 3rd (15th), 1883. “My incapacity for measuring time correctly is really astonishing! I believed I should find leisure this summer for everything—for reading, correspondence, walks; and suddenly I realise that from morning to night I am tormented with the thought that I have not got through all there was to do.... Added to which, instead of resting from composition, I have taken it into my head to write a Suite. Inspiration will not come; every day I begin something and lose heart. Then, instead of waiting for inspiration, I begin to be afraid lest I am played out, with the result that I am thoroughly dissatisfied with myself. And yet the conditions of life are satisfactory: wonderful scenery and the society of those I love....” During this visit to Podoushkino, Tchaikovsky wrote to Jurgenson concerning their business relations. Actually, this connection remained unbroken to the end of the composer’s life, but at this moment it suffered a temporary strain. Tchaikovsky acknowledged that his publisher had often been most generous in his payments, but as regards his new opera Mazeppa he felt aggrieved at the small remuneration proposed by Jurgenson. This work, he said, ought, logically speaking, to be worth ten times as much as ten songs, or ten indifferent pianoforte pieces. He valued it at 2,400 roubles (£240). On the other hand, he asked no fee for his Coronation Cantata. To N. F. von Meck. “Podoushkino, August 10th (22nd), 1883. “Yesterday a council was held by the Opera Direction to consider the staging of Mazeppa. Everyone connected with the Opera House was present. I was astonished at the zeal—I may say enthusiasm—which they showed for my opera. Formerly what trouble I had to get an opera accepted and performed! Now, without any advances on my part, Petersburg and Moscow contend for my work. I was told yesterday that the direction at St. Petersburg had sent the scenic artist Bocharov to Little Russia, in order to study on the spot the moonlight effect in the last act of Mazeppa. I cannot understand the reason of such attentions on the part of the theatrical world—there must be some secret cause for it, and I can only surmise that the Emperor himself must have expressed a wish that my opera should be given as well as possible in both capitals.[96] “The corrections are now complete, and I am sending you the first printed copy. Dear friend, now I must take a little rest from composition, and lie fallow for a time. But the cacoethes scribendi possesses me, and all my leisure hours are devoted to a Suite. I hope to finish it in a day or two, and set to work upon the instrumentation at Kamenka. “My health is better. I have gone through such a terrible attack of nervous headache, I thought I must have died. I fell asleep so worn out, I had not even strength to undress. When I awoke I was well.” XVII 1883-1884 To N. F. von Meck. “Verbovka, September 10th (22nd), 1883. “With regard to my opera, you have picked out at first sight the numbers I consider the best. The scene between Mazeppa and Maria will, thanks to Poushkin’s magnificent verses, produce an effect even off the stage. It is a pity you will not be able to see a performance of Mazeppa. Allow me, dear friend, to point out other parts of the opera which can easily be studied from the pianoforte score: In Act I. (1), the duet between Maria and Andrew; (2), Mazeppa’s arioso. Act II. (1), the prison scene; (2), Maria’s scene with her mother. Act III., the last duet.” To M. Tchaikovsky. “Verbovka, September 12th (24th), 1883. “ ... I bought Glazounov’s Quartet in Kiev, and was pleasantly surprised. In spite of the imitations of Korsakov, in spite of the tiresome way he has of contenting himself with the endless repetition of an idea, instead of its development, in spite of the neglect of melody and the pursuit of all kinds of harmonic eccentricities—the composer has undeniable talent. The form is so perfect, it astonishes me, and I suppose his teacher helped him in this. I recommend you to buy the Quartet and play it for four hands. I have also Cui’s opera, The Prisoner of the Caucasus. This is utterly insignificant, weak, and childishly naÏve. It is most remarkable that a critic who has contended throughout his days against routine, should now, in the evening of his life, write a work so shamefully conventional.” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Verbovka, September 19th (October 1st), 1883. “ ... On my arrival here I found a parcel from Tkatchenko at Poltava. It contained all my letters to him. As on a former occasion, when he thought of committing suicide, he sent me back two of my letters, I understood at once that he wished by this means to intimate his immediate intention of putting an end to his existence. At first I was somewhat agitated; then I calmed myself with the reflection that my Tkatchenko was certainly still in this world. In fact, to-day I received a letter from him asking for money, but without a word about my letters. His, as usual, is couched in a scornful tone. He is a man to be pitied, but not at all sympathetic.”[97] To M. Tchaikovsky. “Verbovka, September 26th (October 8th), 1883. “My Suite progresses slowly; but it seems likely to be successful. I am almost sure the Scherzo (with the Harmonica) and the Andante (‘Children’s Dreams’) will please. My enthusiasm for Judith has made way for a passion for Carmen, I have also been playing Rimsky-Korsakov’s Night in May, not without some enjoyment.” To Frau von Meck. “Verbovka, September 28th (October 10th), 1883. “I will tell you frankly, dear friend, that, although I gladly hear some operas—and even compose them myself—your somewhat paradoxical view of the untenability of operatic music pleases me all the same. Leo Tolstoi says the same with regard to opera, and strongly advised me to give up the pursuit of theatrical success. In Peace and War he makes his heroine express great astonishment and dissatisfaction with the falseness and limitations of operatic action. Anyone who, like yourself, does not live in society and is not therefore trammelled by its conventions, or who, like Tolstoi, has lived for years in a village, and only been occupied with domestic events, literature, and educational questions, must naturally feel more intensely than others the complete falseness of Opera. I, too, when I am writing an opera feel so constrained and fettered that I often think I will never compose another. Nevertheless, we must acknowledge that many beautiful things of the first order belong to the sphere of dramatic music, and that the men who wrote them were directly inspired by the dramatic ideas. Were there no such thing as opera, there would be no Don Juan, no Figaro, no Russlan and Lioudmilla. Of course, from the point of view of the sane mind, it is senseless for people on the stage—which should reflect reality—to sing instead of speaking. People have got used to this absurdity, however, and when I hear the sextet in Don Giovanni I never think that what is taking place before me is subversive of the requirements of artistic truth. I simply enjoy the music, and admire the astonishing art of Mozart, who knew how to give each of the six voices its own special character, and has outlined each personality so sharply that, forgetful of the lack of absolute truth, I marvel at the depth of conditional truth, and my intellect is silenced. “You tell me, dear friend, that in my Eugene Oniegin the musical pattern is more beautiful than the canvas on which it is worked. I must say, however, that if my music to Eugene Oniegin has the qualities of warmth and poetic feeling, it is because my own emotions were quickened by the beauty of the subject. I think it is altogether unjust to see nothing beautiful in Poushkin’s poem but the versification. Tatiana is not merely a provincial ‘Miss,’ who falls in love with a dandy from the capital. She is a young and virginal being, untouched as yet by the realities of life, a creature of pure feminine beauty, a dreamy nature, ever seeking some vague ideal, and striving passionately to grasp it. So long as she finds nothing that resembles an ideal, she remains unsatisfied but tranquil. It needs only the appearance of a man who—at least externally—stands out from the commonplace surroundings in which she lives, and at once she imagines her ideal has come, and in her passion becomes oblivious of self. Poushkin has portrayed the power of this virginal love with such genius that—even in my childhood—it touched me to the quick. If the fire of inspiration really burned within me when I composed the ‘Letter Scene,’ it was Poushkin who kindled it; and I frankly confess, without false modesty, that I should be proud and happy if my music reflected only a tenth part of the beauty contained in the poem. In the ‘Duel Scene’ I see something far more significant than you do. Is it not highly dramatic and touching that a youth so brilliant and gifted (as Lensky) should lose his life because he has come into fatal collision with a false code of mundane ‘honour’? Could there be a more dramatic situation than that in which that ‘lion’ of town-life (Oniegin), partly from sheer boredom, partly from petty annoyance, but without purpose—led by a fatal chain of circumstances—shoots a young man to whom he is really attached? All this is very simple, very ordinary, if you like, but poetry and the drama do not exclude matters of simple, everyday life.” To N. F. von Meck. “Kamenka, October 11th (23rd), 1883. “My work is nearly finished. Consequently, so long as I have no fresh composition in view, I can quietly enjoy this glorious autumn weather. “My Suite has five movements: (1) Jeux de sons, (2) Valse, (3) Scherzo burlesque, (4) RÊves d’enfants, (5) Danse baroque.” To N. F. von Meck. “October 25th (November 6th), 1883. “Every time I finish a work I think rapturously of a season of complete idleness. But nothing ever comes of it; scarcely has the holiday begun, before I weary of idleness and plan a new work. This, in turn, takes such a hold on me that I immediately begin again to rush through it with unnecessary haste. It seems my lot to be always hurrying to finish something. I know this is equally bad for my nerves and my work, but I cannot control myself. I only rest when I am on a journey; that is why travelling has such a beneficial effect on my health. Probably I shall never settle anywhere, but lead a nomadic existence to the end of my days. Just now I am composing an album of ‘Children’s Songs,’ an idea I have long purposed carrying out. It is very pleasant work, and I think the little songs will have a great success.” To Frau von Meck. “Kamenka, November 1st (13th), 1883. “I should feel quite happy and contented here, were it not for the morbid, restless need of hurrying on my work, which tires me dreadfully, without being in the least necessary.... “I had a fancy to renew my study of English. This would be harmless, were I content to devote my leisure hours quietly to the work. But no: here again, I am devoured by impatience to master enough English to read Dickens easily, and I devote so many hours a day to this occupation that, with the exception of breakfast, dinner, and the necessary walk, I literally spend every minute in hurrying madly to the end of something. This is certainly a disease. Happily, this feverish activity will soon come to an end, as my summons to the rehearsals in Moscow will shortly be due.” XVIII Towards the end of November Tchaikovsky left Kamenka for Moscow, where, after a lapse of sixteen years, his First Symphony was given at a concert of the Musical Society. He was greatly annoyed to find that the preparations for Mazeppa were proceeding with exasperating slowness. “It is always the way with a State theatre,” he wrote at this time to Nadejda von Meck. “Much promised, little performed.” While at Moscow, he played his new Suite to some of the leading musicians, who highly approved of the work. A few days later he went to meet Modeste in Petersburg. He left the dry cold of a beautiful Russian winter in Moscow, and found the more northern capital snowless, but windy, chilly, and “so dark in the morning that even near the window I can hardly see to write.” The journeys to and fro involved by the business connected with Mazeppa, and all the other difficulties he had to encounter in connection with it, were very irksome to Tchaikovsky. At this time he vowed never to write another opera, since it involved the sacrifice of so much time and freedom. To N. F. von Meck. “Moscow, December 11th (23rd), 1883. “How can you think me capable of taking offence at anything you may say, especially with regard to my music? I cannot always agree with you, but to be offended because your views are not mine would be impossible. On the contrary, I am invariably touched by the warmth with which you speak of my compositions, and the originality and independence of your judgment pleased me from the first. For instance, I am glad that, in spite of my having composed six operas, when you compare Opera with Symphony or Chamber music, you do not hesitate to speak of it as a lower form of art. In my heart I have felt the same, and intend henceforth to renounce operatic music; although you must acknowledge opera possesses the advantage of touching the musical feeling of the masses; whereas symphony appeals only to a smaller, if more select, public....” Christmas and the New Year found Tchaikovsky still in Moscow, awaiting the rehearsals for Mazeppa. As usual, when circumstances detained him for any length of time in town, he suffered under the social gaieties which he had not the strength of will to decline. Laroche was staying in the same hotel as Tchaikovsky, and was in a hypochondriacal condition. “He needs a nurse,” says Tchaikovsky in one of his letters, “and I have undertaken the part, having no work on hand just now. When I depart, he will relapse into the same apathetic state.” At last, on January 15th (27th), the rehearsals for the opera began, and with them a period of feverish excitement. The preparations for Mazeppa had been so long postponed that they now coincided with the staging of the work in Petersburg. Tchaikovsky declined the invitation to be present at the rehearsals there, feeling he could safely entrust his opera to the experienced supervision of Napravnik. The first performance at Mazeppa in Moscow took place on February 3rd (15th), under the direction of H. Altani. The house was crowded and brilliant. The audience was favourably disposed towards the composer, and showed it by unanimous recalls for him and for the performers. Nevertheless, Tchaikovsky felt instinctively that the ovations were accorded to him personally, and to such of the singers who were favourites with the public, rather than to the opera itself. The ultimate fate of Mazeppa, which attracted a full house on several occasions, but only kept its place in the repertory for a couple of seasons, confirmed this impression. The failure may be attributed in some degree to the quality of the performance. Some of the singers had no voices, and those who were gifted in this respect lacked the necessary musical and histrionic training, so that not one number of the opera was rightly interpreted. Only the chorus was irreproachable. As regards the scenery and dresses, no opera had ever been so brilliantly staged. The Moscow critics were fairly indulgent to the opera and to its composer. To Nadejda von Meck, Tchaikovsky wrote: “The opera was successful in the sense that the singers and myself received ovations.... I cannot attempt to tell you what I went through that day. I was nearly crazed with excitement.” To E. Pavlovskaya.[98] “Moscow, February 4th (16th), 1884. “Dear and superb Emilie Karlovna,—I thank you heartily, incomparable Maria, for your indescribably beautiful performance of this part. God give you happiness and success. I shall never forget the deep impression made upon me by your splendid talent.” After informing a few friends of his intended journey—amongst them ErdmannsdÖrfer—Tchaikovsky left Moscow just at the moment when the public had gathered in the Concert Hall to hear his new Suite. The Suite (No. 2 in C) had such a genuine and undisputed success under ErdmannsdÖrfer’s excellent direction on February 4th (16th), that it had to be repeated by general request at the next symphony concert, a week later. The Press was unanimous in its enthusiasm, and even the severe Krouglikov was moved to lavish and unconditional praise. The Petersburg performance of Mazeppa, under Napravnik, took place on February 7th (19th). The absence of the composer naturally lessened its immediate success, but the impression was essentially the same as in Moscow: the opera obtained a mere succÈs d’estime. As regards acting, the performance of the chief parts (Mazeppa and Maria) was far less effective than at its original production. On the other hand, the staging and costumes excelled in historical fidelity and brillancy even those of the Moscow performance. Comparing the reception of Mazeppa in the two capitals, we must award the palm to the Petersburg critics for the unanimity with which they “damned” the work. To N. F. von Meck. “Berlin, February 7th (19th), 1884. “Early this morning I received a telegram from Modeste, who informs me that the performance of Mazeppa in Petersburg yesterday was a complete success, and that the Emperor remained to the end and was much pleased.[99] To-morrow I continue my journey to Paris and from thence to Italy, where I might possibly join Kolya and Anna,[100] unless I should disturb their tÊte-À-tÊte. I dread being alone....” To M. Tchaikovsky. “Paris, February 18th (March 1st), 1884. “Modi, I can well imagine how difficult it must have been for you to lie to me as to the ‘grand succÈs’ of Mazeppa in Petersburg. But you did well to tell a lie, for the truth would have been too great a blow, had I not been prepared for it by various indications. Only yesterday did I learn the worst in a letter from Jurgenson, who not only had the cruelty to blurt out the plain truth, but also to reproach me for not having gone to Petersburg. It came as a thunderbolt upon me, and all day I suffered, as though some dreadful catastrophe had taken place. Of course, this is exaggeration, but at my age, when one has nothing more to hope in the future, a slight failure assumes the dimensions of a shameful fiasco. Were I different, could I have forced myself to go to Petersburg, no doubt I should have returned crowned with laurel wreaths....” To P. Jurgenson. “Paris, February 18th (March 1st), 1884. “It is an old truth that no one can hurt so cruelly as a dear friend. Your reproach is very bitter. Do you not understand that I know better than anyone else how much I lose, and how greatly I injure my own success, by my unhappy temperament? As a card-sharper, who has cheated all his life, lifts his hand against the man who has made him realise what he is, so nothing makes me so angry as the phrase: ‘You have only yourself to blame.’ It is true in this case; but can I help being what I am? The comparative failure of Mazeppa in Petersburg, of which your letter informed me, has wounded me deeply—very deeply. I am in a mood of darkest despair.” To N. F. von Meck. “Paris, February 27th (March 10th), 1884. “You have justly observed that the Parisians have become Wagnerites. But in their enthusiasm for Wagner, which is carried so far that they neglect even Berlioz—who, a few years ago, was the idol of the Paris public—there is something insincere, artificial, and without any real foundation. I cannot believe that Tristan and Isolde, which is so intolerably wearisome on the stage, could ever charm the Parisians.... It would not surprise me that such excellent operas as Lohengrin, TannhÄuser, and the Flying Dutchman should remain in the repertory. These, originating from a composer of the first rank, must sooner or later become of general interest. The operas of the later period, on the contrary, are false in principle; they renounce artistic simplicity and veracity, and can only live in Germany, where Wagner’s name has become the watch-word of German patriotism....” To N. F. von Meck. “Paris, February 29th (March 12th), 1884. “ ... Napravnik writes that the Emperor was much astonished at my absence from the first performance of Mazeppa, and that he showed great interest in my music; he has also commanded a performance of Eugene Oniegin, his favourite opera. Napravnik thinks I must not fail to go to Petersburg to be presented to the Emperor. I feel if I neglect to do this I shall be worried by the thought that the Emperor might consider me ungrateful, and so I have decided to start at once. It is very hard, and I have to make a great effort to give up the chance of a holiday in the country and begin again with fresh excitements. But it has to be done.” XIX The official command to appear before their Imperial Majesties was due to the fact that on February 23rd (March 6th), 1884, the order of St. Vladimir of the Fourth Class had been conferred upon Tchaikovsky. The presentation took place on March 7th (19th), at Gatchina. Tchaikovsky was so agitated beforehand that he had to take several strong doses of bromide in order to regain his self-possession. The last dose was actually swallowed on the threshold of the room where the Empress was awaiting him, in agony lest he should lose consciousness from sheer nervous breakdown. To Anatol Tchaikovsky. “Petersburg, March 10th (22nd), 1884. “I will give you a brief account of what took place. Last Saturday I was taken with a severe chill. By morning I felt better, but I was terribly nervous at the idea of being presented to the Emperor and Empress. On Monday at ten o’clock I went to Gatchina. I had only permission to appear before His Majesty, but Prince Vladimir Obolensky had also arranged an audience with the Empress, who had frequently expressed a wish to see me. I was first presented to the Emperor and then to the Empress. Both were most friendly and kind. I think it is only necessary to look once into the Emperor’s eyes, in order to remain for ever his most loyal adherent, for it is difficult to express in words all the charm and sympathy of his manner. She is also bewitching. Afterwards I had to visit the Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich, and yesterday I sat with him in the Imperial box during the whole of the rehearsal at the Conservatoire.” To N. F. von Meck. “Petersburg, March 13th (25th), 1884. “What a madman I am! How easily I am affected by the least shadow of ill_luck! Now I am ashamed of the depression which came over me in Paris, simply because I gathered from the newspapers that the performance of Mazeppa in Petersburg had not really had the success I anticipated! Now I see that in spite of the ill_feeling of many local musicians, in spite of the wretched performance, the opera really pleased, and there is no question of reproach, as I feared while I was so far away. There is no doubt that the critics, who unanimously strove to drag my poor opera through the mire, were not expressing the universal opinion, and that many people here are well disposed towards me. What pleases me most is the fact that the Emperor himself stands at the head of this friendly section. It turns out that I have no right to complain; on the contrary, I ought rather to thank God, who has shown me such favour. “Have you seen Count Leo Tolstoi’s Confessions, which were to have come out recently in the Russkaya Myssl (‘Russian Thought’), but were withdrawn by order of the Censor? They have been privately circulated in manuscript, and I have just succeeded in reading them. They made a profound impression upon me, because I, too, know the torments of doubt and the tragic perplexity which Tolstoi has experienced and described so wonderfully in the Confessions. But enlightenment came to me earlier than Tolstoi; perhaps because my brain is more simply organised than his; and perhaps it has been due to the continual necessity of work that I have suffered less than Tolstoi. Every day, every hour, I thank God for having given me this faith in Him. What would have become of me, with my cowardice, my capacity for depression, and—at the least failure of courage—my desire for non-existence, unless I had been able to believe in God and submit to His will?” About the end of the seventies Tchaikovsky kept an accurate diary. Ten years later he relaxed the habit, and only made entries in his day-book while abroad, or on important occasions. Two years before his death the composer burnt most of these volumes, including all those which covered the years between his journeys abroad in 1873 and April, 1884. The following are a few entries from the later diaries:— “April 13th (25th), 1884. “ ... After tea I went to Leo’s,[101] who soon went out, while I remained to strum and think of something new. I hit upon an idea for a pianoforte Concerto [afterwards the Fantasia for pianoforte, op. 56], but it is poor and not new.... Played Massenet’s HÉrodiade ... read some of Otto Jahn’s Life of Mozart.” On April 16th (28th) Tchaikovsky began his third orchestral Suite, and we can follow the evolution of this work, as noted from day to day in his diary. “April 16th (28th), 1884. “In the forest and indoors I have been trying to lay the foundation of a new symphony ... but I am not at all satisfied.... Walked in the garden and found the germ, not of a symphony, but of a future Suite.” “April 17th (29th). “ ... Jotted down a few ideas.” “April 19th (May 1st). “Annoyed with my failures. Very dissatisfied because everything that comes into my head is so commonplace. Am I played out?” April 24th (May 6th). “I shall soon be forty-four. How much I have been through, and—without false modesty—how little I have accomplished! In my actual vocation I must say—hand on heart—I have achieved nothing perfect, nothing which can serve as a model. I am still seeking, vacillating. And in other matters? I read nothing, I know nothing.... The period of quiet, undisturbed existence is over for me. There remain agitation, conflict, much that I, such as I am, find hard to endure. No, the time has come to live by oneself and in one’s own way!” “April 26th (May 8th). “This morning I worked with all my powers at the Scherzo of the Suite. Shall work again after tea.” “April 30th (May 12th), 1884. “Worked all day at the Valse (Suite), but without any conviction of success.” Extracts from a Letter to Anna Merkling. “Kamenka, April 27th (May 9th), 1884. “Many thanks, dear Anna, for your thought of me on the 25th (May 7th).... Without bitterness, I receive congratulations upon the fact that I am a year older. I have no wish to die, and I desire to attain a ripe old age; but I would not willingly have my youth back and go through life again. Once is enough! The past, of which you speak with regret, I too regret it, for no one likes better to be lost in memories of old days, no one feels more keenly the emptiness and brevity of life—but I do not wish to be young again.... I cannot but feel that the sum total of good which I enjoy at present is far greater than that which stood to my credit in youth: therefore I do not in the least regret my forty-and-four years. Nor sixty, nor seventy, provided I am still sound mentally and physically! At the same time one ought not to fear death. In this respect I cannot boast. I am not sufficiently penetrated by religion to regard death as the beginning of a new life, nor am I sufficiently philosophical to be satisfied with the prospect of annihilation. I envy no one so much as the religious man....” Diary. “May 2nd (14th). “The Valse gives me infinite trouble. I am growing old....” “May 6th (18th Sunday). “Went to church. I was very susceptible to religious impressions, and felt the tears in my eyes. The simple, healthy, religious spirit of the poorer classes always touches me profoundly. The worn-out old man, the little lad of four, who goes to the holy water of his own accord.” “May 8th (20th), 1884. “Worked all morning. Not without fatigue, but my Andante progresses, and seems likely to turn out quite nice ... finished the Andante. I am very pleased with it.” At this time Tchaikovsky resolved to take a small country house on his own account. “I want no land,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck, “only a little house, with a pretty garden, not too new. A stream is most desirable. The neighbourhood of a forest (which belonged to someone else) would be an attraction. The house must stand alone, not in a row of country villas, and, most important of all, be within easy reach of a station, so that I can get to Moscow at any time. I cannot afford more than two to three thousand roubles.” Diary. “May 11th (23rd), 1884. “The first movement of the Suite, which is labelled ‘Contrasts,’ and the theme:
musical notation
has grown so hateful since I tormented myself about it all day long that I resolved to set it aside and invent something else. After dinner I squeezed the unsuccessful movement out of my head. What does it mean? I now work with such difficulty! Am I really growing old?” “May 12th (24th). “After tea I took up the hateful ‘Contrasts’ once more. Suddenly a new idea flashed across me, and the whole thing began to flow.” “May 17th (29th). “Played Mozart, and enjoyed it immensely. An idea for a Suite from Mozart.” “May 18th (30th). “I am working too strenuously, as though I were being driven. This haste is unhealthy, and will, perhaps, reflect upon the poor Suite. My work (upon the variations before the finale) has been very successful....” “May 21st (June 2nd). “Worked well. Four variations completed.” “May 23rd (June 4th). “.... The Suite is finished.” To P. Jurgenson. “Grankino, June 20th (July 2nd), 1884. “I live here in a very pleasant way, a quiet, countrified existence, but I work hard. A work of greater genius than the new Suite never was!!! My opinion of the new-born composition is so optimistic; God knows what I shall think of it a year hence. At least it has cost me some pains.” To S. I. Taneiev. “Grankino, June 30th (July 12th), 1884. “ ... Although it was interesting to hear your opinion of my songs, I was rather angry with you for saying nothing whatever about your own work, plans, etc. “Your criticisms of the songs—the end of the ‘Legend,” and the abuse of the minor in the ‘Lied vom Winter’—are very just.... I should like to say your praise was equally well deserved, but modesty forbids. So I will not say you are right, but that I am pleased with your commendations.... “At the present moment I am composing a third Suite. I wanted to write a Symphony, but it was not a success. However, the title is of no consequence. I have composed a big symphonic work in four movements: (1) Andante; (2) another Valse; (3) Scherzo; (4) Theme and Variations. It will be finished by the end of the summer, for I am working regularly and with zeal. Besides this, I am planning a concert-piece for pianoforte in two movements. It would be a fine thing if the work could be played during the coming season!” To N. F. von Meck. “Grankino, July 14th (26th), 1884. “I shall not set to work upon the pianoforte Concerto, of which I wrote to you, before autumn or early winter. Of course, it will be difficult ever again to find such an ideal interpreter as Nicholas Rubinstein, but there is a pianist whom I had in my mind when I thought of a second Concerto. This is a certain young man, called d’Albert, who was in Moscow last winter, and whom I heard several times in public and at private houses. To my mind he is a pianist of genius, the legitimate successor of Rubinstein. Taneiev—whom I value very highly as musician, teacher, and theorist—would also be a suitable interpreter, if he had just that vein of virtuosity wherein lies the secret of the magic spell which great interpreters exercise over the public.” To Modeste Tchaikovsky. “Skabeievka, July 28th (August 9th), 1884. “The coachman will have told you our adventures. All went well as far as Kochenovka. There I had supper, and read Sapho by the mingled light of the moon and a lantern, keeping an anxious eye upon the lightning that was flashing all around. At 11.30 p.m. we resumed our journey. The storm came nearer and nearer, until it broke over our heads. Although the constant flashes were mild, and the rain wetted us through, my nerves were overstrained. I was convinced we should miss the train.... Fortunately it was late. Here we had an appalling storm. The sight of it at the hour of sunset, which still glowed here and there through the clouds, was so grand that, forgetful of my fears, I stood by the door to watch it. The rest of the journey was comfortable. I read Sapho, which I do not like.” To N. F. von Meck. “Skabeievka, July 25th (August 6th), 1884. “ ... You ask my opinion upon Daudet’s Sapho ... in spite of his great talent, this author has long since dropped out of favour with me. If Daudet had not dedicated the book to his sons in order to display the fact that it contained a lesson and a warning, I should say that he had described the sensuality and depravity of the hero and heroine very simply and picturesquely, with considerable sympathy. But in view of this dedication I feel indignant at the Pharisaism and false virtuousness of the author. In reality he wants to tickle the depraved taste of his public, and describes with cynical frankness the immorality of Parisian life, while pretending to deliver a sermon to his sons. He would have us believe him to be pursuing a moral aim, actuated by the noble aspiration of saving the young from evil ways. In reality his only aim was to produce a book which would please the immoral Parisian public, and to make money by it. One must own that he has attained his object. The book will have a great success, like Zola’s Pot-Bouille, the novels of Guy de Maupassant, and similar works of the new French school. When we reflect upon the group of people, and their way of life, as depicted by the author, we come to the conclusion that under the cloak of verisimilitude and realism the novel is fundamentally false. Sapho is an impossible being; at least I never came across a similar combination of honourable feeling and baseness, of nobility and infamy. Yet the author always sympathises with his heroine, and although, judging from the dedication, she is intended to inspire his sons with horror and repulsion, she must really seem very attractive to them. On the other hand, the virtuous characters in the book could not appeal sympathetically either to Daudet’s sons, or to anyone else; the tiresome Divonne, the hero’s impossible sister, and the rest of them—all these people are quite artificial. Sapho is an overdrawn type of a Parisian cocotte, but there is something true to nature in her. The others are not alive. Most insipid of all is IrÈne. Any young man reading the book must realise why Sapho succeeded in supplanting her in the heart of her husband Jean. It is here that Daudet’s hypocrisy is so evident, for while we ought to sympathise with IrÈne as greatly as we despise Sapho, in reality we involuntarily take the part of the depraved heroine. At the same time we cannot deny the great talent and mastery displayed in the book. Two or three dozen pages are wonderfully written.” XX Early in September, 1884, Tchaikovsky went to stay at Plestcheievo, a country property which Nadejda von Meck had purchased after circumstances compelled her to sell Brailov. Here he led the kind of life which suited him best—reading, composing, and studying the works of other musicians, in undisturbed quiet and freedom from social duties. To N. F. von Meck. “Plestcheievo, September 8th (20th), 1884. “I have realised two intentions since I came here—the study of two works hitherto unknown to me—Moussorgsky’s Khovanstchina and Wagner’s Parsifal. In the first I discovered what I expected: pretensions to realism, original conceptions and methods, wretched technique, poverty of invention, occasionally clever episodes, amid an ocean of harmonic absurdities and affectations.... Parsifal leaves an entirely opposite impression. Here we are dealing with a great master, a genius, even if he has gone somewhat astray. His wealth of harmony is so luxuriant, so vast, that at length it becomes fatiguing, even to a specialist. What then must be the feelings of an ordinary mortal who has wrestled for three hours with this flow of complicated harmonic combinations? To my mind Wagner has killed his colossal creative genius with theories. Every preconceived theory chills his incontestable creative impulse. How could Wagner abandon himself to inspiration, while he believed he was grasping some particular theory of music-drama, or musical truth, and, for the sake of this, turned from all that, according to his predecessors, constituted the strength and beauty of music? If the singer may not sing, but—amid the deafening clamour of the orchestra—is expected to declaim a series of set and colourless phrases, to the accompaniment of a gorgeous, but disconnected and formless symphony, is that opera? “What really astounds me, however, is the seriousness with which this philosophising German sets the most inane subjects to music. Who can be touched, for instance, by Parsifal, in which, instead of having to deal with men and women similar in temperament and feeling to ourselves, we find legendary beings, suitable perhaps for a ballet, but not for a music drama? I cannot understand how anyone can listen without laughter, or without being bored, to those endless monologues in which Parsifal, or Kundry, and the rest bewail their misfortunes. Can we sympathise with them? Can we love or hate them? Certainly not; we remain aloof from their passions, sentiments, triumphs, and misfortunes. But that which is unfamiliar to the human heart should never be the source of musical inspiration....” To N. F. von Meck. “Plestcheievo, October 3rd (15th), 1884. “This is my last evening here, and I feel both sadness and dread. After a month of complete solitude it is not easy to return to the vortex of Petersburg life. To-day I put all the bookshelves and music-cases in order. My conscience is clear as to all your belongings. But I must confess to one mishap: one night I wound the big clock in my bedroom with such energy that the weights fell off, and it now wants repairing. Dear and incomparable friend, accept my warmest thanks for your hospitality. I shall keep the most agreeable memories of Plestcheievo. How often, when I am in Petersburg, will my thoughts stray back to this dear, quiet house! Thank you again and again.” To N. F. von Meck. “Petersburg, October 12th (24th), 1884. “Dear Friend,—When a whole week passes without my finding time to write to you, you may conclude what a busy life I am leading.... The first night[102] of Eugene Oniegin is fixed for Friday, October 19th (31st).” Thanks to Napravnik, this was by far the finest performance of Eugene Oniegin that had hitherto been seen. Never had this complicated score received so perfect an interpretation, both as a whole and as regards detail, because never before had a man so gifted, so capable and sympathetic, stood at the head of affairs. Yet even this first performance was by no means irreproachable. Since then, the St. Petersburg public has heard finer interpretations of the parts of Tatiana, Eugene, and others, and has seen more careful staging of the work. The soloists gave a thoughtful rendering of their parts, but nothing more. Not one of them can be said to have “created” his or her part, or left a traditional reading of it. The success of the opera was great, but not phenomenal. There was no hissing, but between the acts, mingled with expressions of praise and appreciation, many criticisms and ironical remarks were audible. These unfavourable views came to light in the Press. Cui thought the mere choice of the libretto of Eugene Oniegin proved that Tchaikovsky was lacking in “discriminating taste,” and was not capable of self-criticism. The chief characteristic of the opera was its “wearisome monotony.” Tchaikovsky, he considered, was too fond of airing his troubles in his music. Finally, he pronounced the work to be “still_born, absolutely valueless and weak.” Most of the other critics agreed with this view. Tchaikovsky himself was “satisfied.” He had not realised, any more than the critics, that the crowded theatre signified the first great success of a Russian opera since Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar. In spite of the Press notices, it was not merely a success, but a triumph; a fact which became more and more evident. Dating from the second performance, Eugene Oniegin drew a long series of packed audiences, and has remained the favourite opera of the Russian public to this day. This success did not merely mark an important event in the history of Russian opera, it proved the beginning of a new era in the life of Tchaikovsky himself. Henceforward his name, hitherto known and respected among musicians and a fairly wide circle of musical amateurs, was now recognised by the great public, and he acquired a popularity to which no Russian composer had ever yet attained in his own land. Together with his increase of fame, his material prospects improved. Eugene Oniegin transformed him from a needy into a prosperous man, and brought him that complete independence which was so necessary to his creative work. It is instructive to observe that all this was the outcome of an opera which was never intended to appeal to the masses; but written only to satisfy the composer’s enthusiasm for Poushkin’s poem, without any hope—almost without any desire—of seeing it performed on a large stage. In spite of its success, this performance of Eugene Oniegin was a great strain upon the composer’s nerves. He felt bound to stay for the second performance, after which he left St. Petersburg for Davos, having in view a twofold object: to take a short rest, and to visit his friend Kotek, of whose condition he had just received disquieting intelligence. Tchaikovsky broke his journey in Berlin, where he saw Weber’s Oberon at the Opera. Instead of being bored by this work, as he expected, he enjoyed it very much. “The music is often enchanting,” he wrote to his brother, “but the subject is absurd, in the style of ZauberflÖte. However, it is amusing, and I roared with laughter in one place, where at the sound of the magic horn the entire corps de ballet fall flat on the stage and writhe in convulsions.... I also went to Bilse’s and heard the Andante from my own quartet. This everlasting Andante; they want to hear no other work of mine!” On November 12th (24th) he arrived at Davos. He expected to find a wilderness, in which neither cigarettes nor cigars were to be had, and the civilised aspect of the place, the luxurious hotels, the shops, and the theatre made upon him the fantastic impression of a dream. He had dreaded the meeting with Kotek, lest his friend should be changed beyond recognition by the ravages of consumption. He was agreeably surprised to find him looking comparatively well. But this was only a first impression; he soon realised that Kotek’s condition was serious. He remained a few days at Davos, rejoiced his friend’s heart by his presence, had a confidential interview with the doctor, and left for Paris on November 17th (29th), after having provided liberally for the welfare of the invalid. To P. Jurgenson. “Zurich, November 18th (30th), 1884. “ ... I have received a letter from Stassov urging me to present the following manuscripts to the Imperial Public Library: (1) ‘Romeo and Juliet,’
(2) ‘The Tempest,’
(3) ‘Francesca,’
(4) ‘The String Quartet, No. 3,’ and any others I like to send. Of the above works you do not possess the first two (‘The Tempest’ was lost long ago!), but please send him the others.... Be so good as to reply personally, or simply to send such scores as you can spare.” To M. Tchaikovsky. “Paris, December 3rd (15th), 1884. “I can scarcely tell you, dear Modi, how wearisome the last few days have been—although I cannot say why. It proceeds chiefly from home-sickness, the desire for a place of my own; and even the knowledge that I start for Russia to-morrow brings no satisfaction, because I have no home anywhere. Life abroad no longer pleases me.... I must have a home, be it in Kamenka, or in Moscow. I cannot go on living the life of a wandering star.... Where will my home be?” With the year 1884 closes the second period in Tchaikovsky’s artistic career. To distinguish it from the “Moscow period,” which was inseparably connected with his teaching at the Conservatoire, it might be described as the “Kamenka period.” Not only because from 1878-84 Kamenka was his chief place of residence, but still more because the life there answered to the whole sum of his requirements, to all which characterised his spiritual condition during these years. After the terrible illness in 1877 he found in Kamenka, far more than in San Remo, Clarens, or France, all he needed for his recovery; during these seven years, it was at Kamenka that he gathered force and recuperated for the life which was becoming infinitely more strenuous and many-sided. Those who have been at death’s door often speak of their return to health as the happiest time in their lives. Tchaikovsky could say the same of the first years of the Kamenka period. Happy in the friendship of Nadejda von Meck and surrounded by his sister’s family, who loved him, and whom he loved, his whole life shows no gladder days than these. But with a gradual return to a normal state of mind Tchaikovsky’s relations to his environment underwent a change. As the years went on, Kamenka became too narrow a circle for him; he felt the want of “social intercourse”; the sympathy of his relations ceased to be the one thing indispensable; the conditions of the family life palled, and sometimes he grumbled at them. By the middle of the eighties, he was so much stronger that he was possessed by a desire for complete independence and liberty of action. He no longer dreaded either absolute solitude, or the society of those whose interests were identical with his own. By absolute solitude we do not mean that solitary leisure which he enjoyed during his visits to Brailov and Simaki, during which he was cared for, as in a fairy tale, by the invisible hand of the truest of friends, but rather that independence and freedom in every detail of existence which constitutes the solitude of the typical bachelor’s life. In 1878 Tchaikovsky’s dread of this kind of solitary existence, like his fear of social intercourse, was a symptom of his terrible mental suffering. Now his desire for both independence and society must be regarded as a sign of complete recovery. Hence his increasing disposition in his letters to grumble at Kamenka, and his final decision to leave it. This resolve—like so many important decisions in Tchaikovsky’s life—was not the result of mature reflection. As usual, he allowed himself to be guided by negative conclusions.... He knew well enough that he must and would change his manner of life; he knew the kind of life that would suit him for the time being—that it must be in the country; he observed with surprise his increasing need of social intercourse—but he had no definite idea how he should reconcile these contradictory requirements and, on the very eve of his new departure in life, he asks the question: “Where will my home be made?” The answer to this question is contained in the following period of his life and work.
|
