I
At this time there were two music masters at the School of
Jurisprudence. Karel, who taught the piano, until he was succeeded by
Bekker, and Lomakin, the professor of singing.
It is not known whether Tchaikovsky ever took lessons with Karel. With
Bekker he did learn for a time, but the lessons made no impression upon
his memory.
The singing lessons he received from Lomakin amounted to little more
than choral practices. Lomakin was a very competent man, who brought the
school choir to a pitch of perfection; but he had not time to train
individual voices, consequently he exercised no direct influence on
Tchaikovsky, although he observed his beautiful soprano voice and his
great talent for music.
Besides these masters, Tchaikovsky took piano lessons at home from
Rudolf Kündinger.
Kündinger had come to Russia at eighteen, and delighted the public of
St. Petersburg by his brilliant virtuosity. Having attracted many
pupils, he settled in Petersburg. In 1855 the elder Tchaikovsky engaged
him to teach his son. Kündinger afterwards regretted that he kept no
record of these lessons. The boy struck him as talented, but nothing
made him suspect the germ of a great composer. One thing which impressed
Kündinger was his remarkable power of improvisation. Another was his
fine feeling for harmony. Kündinger would often show his pupil his own
compositions, and accept his suggestions as regards harmony, finding
them invariably to the point, although at that time Tchaikovsky knew
nothing of the theory of music.
His father consulted Kündinger as to the wisdom of allowing his son to
devote himself entirely to music. The teacher’s advice was directly to
the contrary. “I had to take into consideration the wretched status of a
professional musician in Russia at that time,” said Kündinger
afterwards; “besides I had no real faith in Peter Ilich’s gift for
music.”
If such specialists as Lomakin and Kündinger saw nothing phenomenal in
Tchaikovsky, it is hardly surprising that others should have failed to
do so. His school friends valued his musical talents, but were far from
suspecting him to be a future celebrity. His relations, especially his
sisters and cousins, thought his improvisation of dance music a pleasant
accomplishment, but otherwise regarded his music as “useless trifling.”
His father, alone, took the matter at all seriously. He engaged a good
teacher, and encouraged his son to study steadily. In a word, he did all
that a man could do, who knew absolutely nothing of music and musicians.
Tchaikovsky had only one morning and two evenings in the week in which
he was free to devote himself to music. Consequently he had no
opportunity of grounding himself in the art. When and how could he
become acquainted with the symphonic masterpieces of the great German
composers? Symphony concerts were then rare in St. Petersburg. The
future composer had no alternative but to study these works in
pianoforte arrangements. But such music was expensive and beyond his
slender means. This explains why his musical knowledge was so limited at
that time. We cannot say how many of the works of Beethoven, Mozart, and
Schubert he knew prior to 1861; it is certain that his knowledge was not
half so extensive as that of any good amateur of the present day. For
instance, he knew nothing of Schumann, nor the number and keys of
Beethoven’s symphonies. He frequented the Italian Opera, which was his
sole opportunity of hearing a good orchestra, chorus, and first-rate
soloists. Russian opera was then at a low ebb, and he only went to hear
his favourite work, _A Life for the Tsar_. All the other operas he heard
were sung by Italians. To these artists he owed not only his passion for
_Don Juan_ and _Freischütz_, but also his acquaintance with Meyerbeer,
Rossini, Donizetti, and Verdi, for whom he had a genuine enthusiasm.
During the fifties the celebrated singing master Piccioli was living in
Petersburg. He was a Neapolitan by birth, who had come to the Russian
capital some ten years earlier and settled there. His wife was a friend
of Alexandra Schobert, and in this way he became acquainted with the
Tchaikovskys. Although nearly fifty, he was very intimate with Peter,
who was but seventeen. But as to Piccioli’s real age, no one knew the
truth, for he kept it dark. He certainly dyed his hair and painted his
face, and cruel tongues did not hesitate to assert that he would never
see seventy again, and that he kept at the back of his head a small
apparatus for smoothing out his wrinkles. I remember how, as children,
my brother Anatol and I took great pains to discover this apparatus, and
how we finally decided it must be concealed somewhere under his collar.
As regards music, Piccioli gave utterance to such violently fanatical
views and convictions, and knew so well how to defend them with
persuasive eloquence, that he could have won over even a less pliant
nature than that of Tchaikovsky. He acknowledged only Rossini, Bellini,
Donizetti, and Verdi. He scorned and hated with equal thoroughness the
symphonies of Beethoven, the works of Bach, _A Life for the Tsar_, and
all the rest. Outside the creations of the great Italian melodists he
admitted no music whatever. In spite of his eloquence, the Italian
could not win over Tchaikovsky heart and soul to his way of thinking,
because the latter was not given to partiality, and also because his own
musical tastes were already firmly implanted, and could not be so easily
modified. He carried within him an Olympia of his own, to the deities of
which he did homage with all his soul. Nevertheless, the friendship
between himself and Piccioli remained unbroken, and to this he owed, in
a great measure, his thorough acquaintance with the music of the Italian
operatic school.
Since 1850 Tchaikovsky’s talent as a composer had only found expression
in improvisations for the piano. Although he had composed a good many
valses, polkas, and “Rêveries de Salon,” which were probably no worse
than similar pieces invented by his “composer” friends, he could not
bring himself to put his thoughts on paper--perhaps from excessive
modesty, perhaps from pride. Once only did he write out a song, composed
to words by the poet Fet: “My genius, my angel, my friend,” a mere empty
amateur effusion. Yet, as time passed, his musical consciousness, his
realisation of his true vocation, undoubtedly increased. Later in life
he said, that even at school, the thought of becoming a composer haunted
him incessantly, but, feeling that no one in his circle had any faith in
his talents, he seldom mentioned the subject. Occasionally he made a
prophetic utterance. Once, about the close of 1862, soon after he had
joined the classes at the Conservatoire, he was talking to his brother
Nicholas. Nicholas, who was one of those who did not approve of his
brother’s wish to study music, held forth on the subject, assuring him
he had not the genius of a Glinka, and that the wretched lot of a
mediocre musician was not an enviable one. At first Peter Ilich made no
reply, but as they were parting he said: “Perhaps I shall not turn out a
Glinka, but one thing I can assure you--you will be proud some day to
own me as a brother.” The look in his eyes, and the tone in which he
spoke these words, were never forgotten by Nicholas Tchaikovsky.
The slowness and unproductiveness of Tchaikovsky’s musical development
in the fifties was closely connected with his frivolous mode of life.
His nature--in reality lovable and accessible to all--and his fertile
genius seemed both hushed in a profound slumber; but at the moment of
his awakening, his musical gifts as well as all his other good qualities
simultaneously reappeared. With the superficial amateur vanished also
the mere society man; with the strenuous, zealous inquirer returned also
the tender, grateful son, the kind and thoughtful brother.
The change took place quite unobserved. It is difficult to give the
exact moment of its commencement, for it was not preceded by any
important events. Undoubtedly, it may be observed as early as 1861, when
Peter Ilich began once more to think of an artistic career and entered
into closer relationship with his family, striving to find at home that
satisfaction for his higher spiritual needs, which he had failed to
discover in his previous way of living. He had grown weary of an
easy-going life, and the desire to start afresh made itself increasingly
felt. He began to be afraid lest he might be overwhelmed in this slough
of a petty, useless, and vicious existence. In the midst of this
feverish pursuit of pleasure there came over him--so he said--moments of
agonising despair. Whether satiety came to him from some unknown event
in his life, or whether it gradually crept into his soul, no one can
tell, for he passed through these heavy hours alone. Those around him
only observed the change when it had already taken place, and the dawn
of a new life had gladdened his spiritual vision.
[Illustration: THE COMPOSER’S FATHER WITH HIS TWIN SONS MODESTE AND
ANATOL, 1855]
In a letter to his newly-married sister Alexandra, written in March,
1861, he speaks of an incident which may be regarded as the first step
towards his musical career. His father, on his own initiative, had
actually proposed that he should devote himself entirely to music.
“At supper they were talking of my musical talent,” writes Peter
Ilich, “and father declared it was not yet too late for me to
become an artist. If it were only true! But the matter stands thus:
that my talent, supposing I really have any, would hardly develop
now. They have made me an official, although a poor one; I try as
hard as I can to improve and to fulfil my duties more
conscientiously, and at the same time I am to be studying
thorough-bass!”
Another incident, as ordinary as the one just related, marks the change
in Tchaikovsky’s relations with his family, and throws a clearer light
upon this revolution in his spiritual life.
After the marriage of our sister Alexandra, the twins, Anatol and
myself, then about ten years old, were often very lonely. From three
o’clock in the afternoon--when we returned from school--until bedtime,
we were left to our own resources. One long and wearisome evening, as we
sat on the drawing-room window-sill kicking our heels, Peter came in and
found us. From our earliest infancy he inspired us, not so much with
love as with respect and adoration. A word from him was like a sacred
treasure. He, on the contrary, took no notice of us; we had no existence
for him.
The mere fact that he was in the house, and that we could see him,
sufficed to distract our dullness and cheer us up; but great indeed was
our astonishment when, instead of passing us by unobserved as usual, he
stopped to say: “Are you dull, boys? Would you like to spend the evening
with me?” To this day I cannot forget that memorable evening; memorable
indeed for us, since it was the beginning of a new existence.
The wisest and most experienced of teachers, the dearest and tenderest
of mothers, could not have replaced Peter Ilich in our life from that
hour; for he was all this, and our friend and comrade besides. All we
thought and felt we could tell him without any fear lest it would fail
to interest him. His influence upon us was unbounded. We, on our side,
became the first care and aim of his life. We three formed, as it were,
a family within the family. A year later Peter wrote to his sister:--
“My attachment to these little folk grows from day to day. I am
very proud of this feeling, perhaps the best which my heart has
known. When I am unhappy I have only to think of them, and my life
seems better worth living. I try as far as possible to give them a
mother’s love and care....”
II
In spite of the important conversation at the supper-table, in spite of
the spiritual regeneration of Peter Ilich and the change in his
relations towards his family, his life remained externally the same. He
kept his official berth, and continued to go into society, frequenting
dances and theatres. Of all the pleasures he pursued, of all the desires
he cherished, only one remained unfulfilled--a tour abroad.
But now even this wish was to be satisfied.
An old friend of his father’s had to go abroad on business. As he was no
linguist, it was necessary to take a companion who would act as
interpreter, and he proposed that Peter Ilich should accompany him in
this capacity. Accordingly in June, 1861, the former writes to his
sister:--
“As you probably have heard already, I am to go abroad. You can
imagine my delight.... This journey seems to me at times an
alluring, unrealisable dream. I shall not believe in it until I am
actually on the steamer. I--in Paris! In Switzerland! It seems
ridiculous to think of it!”
In July Tchaikovsky started with his friend, but not by steamer.
Their first halting-place was Berlin. In those days every Russian
considered it his duty to run down this city. To this duty--or rather
custom--Peter Ilich contributed his due. After he had visited Kroll’s,
and a dancing saloon, and seen Offenbach’s _Orphée aux Enfers_, he
writes with youthful _naïveté_: “Now we know our Berlin thoroughly, and
have had enough of it!”
After Berlin came Hamburg, which Tchaikovsky found “a considerable
improvement.” Brussels and Antwerp did not please him at all. At Ostend
they stayed three days. “It is beautiful here,” he wrote. “I love the
sea, especially when it foams and roars, and these last days it has been
furious.”
Next they went on to London. “Our visit would be very pleasant were it
not for the anxiety about your health,” he wrote to his father. “Your
letters are awaiting me in Paris, and my heart yearns for them, but we
must remain here a few days longer. London is very interesting, but
makes a gloomy impression. The sun is seldom visible, and it rains all
the time.” Here Tchaikovsky heard Patti for the first time, and although
later in life she fascinated him, now he could see “nothing particular”
in her.
As might be expected, Paris pleased him best of all the towns he
visited. Life in the French capital he found delightful. The six weeks
which he spent in Paris were the culmination of his pleasure trip. But
in the midst of his enjoyment he experienced a complete disenchantment
with his travelling companion. After a series of painful
misunderstandings they separated, and Peter Ilich returned to Russia
alone about the end of September.
Intellectually and artistically, Tchaikovsky profited little by this
journey. Indeed, it is astonishing how little sensitive he seems to have
been at that time to all such impressions. In the three months he was
abroad he only acquired one positive piece of information--where one
could derive the greatest pleasure. And yet his journey was not
altogether wasted. In the first place, it brought home to him the
strength of his attachment to his own people. He missed the twins most
of all. “Take care, father, that Toly and Modi[6] are not idle.” “Are
Toly and Modi working well?” “Don’t forget to tell the examiner that
Toly and Modi are prepared for the upper division,” so runs the gist of
his letters.
Secondly, on this journey he learnt to realise the inevitable end of an
idle and pleasure-seeking life, and to recognise that it led to nothing,
and that existence held other and nobler aims than the pursuit of
enjoyment. The various distractions of Parisian life brought about a
wholesome reaction, and on the threshold of a new career he could look
quietly on the termination of his former life, conscious only of an
ardent desire to step from the shadow into God’s daylight.
Soon after his return he wrote the following letter to his sister:--
“_October_ 23_rd_ (_November_ 4_th_), 1861.
“What shall I tell you about my journey? It is better to say
nothing. If ever I started upon a colossal piece of folly, it was
this same trip abroad. You remember my companion? Well, under the
mask of _bonhomie_, which made me believe him to be a worthy man,
was concealed the most commonplace nature. You can imagine if it
was pleasant to spend three months with such a fellow-traveller.
Added to which I ran through more money than I could afford and got
nothing for it. Do you see what a fool I have been? But do not
scold me. I have behaved like a child--nothing more.... You know I
have a weakness: as soon as I have any money I squander it in
pleasure. It is vulgar, wanting in good sense--I know it--but it
seems in my nature. Where will it all lead? What can I hope from
the future? It is terrible to think of. I know there will come a
time when I shall no longer be able to fight against the
difficulties of life. Until then I will do all I can to enjoy it.
For the last fortnight all has gone badly with me; my official work
has been very bad. Money vanishes like smoke. In love--no luck. But
a better time will come soon.
“P.S.--I have begun to study thorough-bass, and am making good
progress. Who knows, perhaps in three years’ time you will be
hearing my opera and singing my arias.”
III
The most remarkable feature in the process of Tchaikovsky’s
transformation from a smart Government official and society dandy into a
musical student lies in the fact that, with all its apparent suddenness
and irrevocableness, there was nothing hasty or emotional about the
proceeding. Not once, by word or deed, can we discern that he cherished
any idea of future renown. He scaled no rugged heights, he put forth no
great powers; but every move in his new career was carefully considered,
steadily resolved upon, and, in spite of a certain degree of caution,
firmly established. His peace of mind and confidence were so great that
they seemed part of his environment, and all hindrances and difficulties
vanished of their own accord and left the way open to him.
The psychological aspect of this transformation, the pathetic side of
the conflict which he sustained for over two years, must always remain
unrevealed; not because his correspondence at this time was scanty, but
because Peter Ilich maintained a jealous guard over the secrets of his
inner and spiritual life in which no stranger was permitted to
intermeddle. He chose to go through the dark hours alone, and remained
outwardly the same serene and cheerful young man as before. But if this
reincarnation was quite ordinary in its process, it was the more radical
and decisive.
Tchaikovsky’s situation is very clearly shown in four letters written to
his sister about this period, each letter corresponding with one of the
four phases of his evolution. These letters throw a clear light upon the
chief psychological moments of these two eventful years of his life.
The first, dated October 23rd (November 4th), 1861, has been already
quoted. Tchaikovsky just mentions in the postscript that he has begun
his musical studies as a matter of no importance whatever--and that in
itself is very enlightening. At that moment his harmony lessons with
Zaremba were only a detail in the life of a man of the world, as were
the Italian conversation lessons he was taking at the same time. His
chief interest was still his official career, and most of his leisure
was still given up to social enjoyment. The second letter shows matters
from a somewhat different point of view. Although only written a few
weeks later, it puts his musical studies in a new light. On December 4th
(16th), 1861, Tchaikovsky writes:--
“I am getting on well. I hope soon to get a rise, and be appointed
‘clerk for special duty.’ I shall get an additional twenty roubles
to my salary and less work. God grant it may come to pass!... I
think I have already told you that I have begun to study the theory
of music with success. You will agree that, with my rather
exceptional talents (I hope you will not mistake this for
bragging), it seems foolish not to try my chances in this
direction. I only dread my own easy-going nature. In the end my
indolence will conquer: but if not, I promise you that I shall do
something. Luckily it is not yet too late.”
Between the second and third letters eight months elapsed. During this
period Peter Ilich had to refute his self-condemnation as regards
indolence, and to prove that it actually “was not yet too late” to
accomplish something.
I recollect having made two discoveries at this time which filled me
with astonishment. The first was that the two ideas “brother Peter” and
“work” were not necessarily opposed; the second, that besides pleasant
and interesting music, there existed another kind, exceedingly
unpleasant and wearisome, which appeared nevertheless to be the more
important of the two. I still remember with what persistency Peter Ilich
would sit at the piano for hours together playing the most “abominable”
and “incomprehensible” preludes and fugues.... My astonishment knew no
bounds when he informed me he was writing exercises. It passed my
understanding that so charming a pastime as music should have anything
in common with the mathematical problems we loathed. Outwardly Peter
Ilich’s life underwent one remarkable change. Of all his friends and
acquaintances he now only kept up with Apukhtin and Adamov.
Besides his work for Zaremba’s classes, Tchaikovsky devoted many hours
to the study of the classical composers. Yet, in spite of all this, his
official work still remained the chief aim of his existence. During the
summer of 1862 he was more attentive to his official duties than before,
because in the autumn a desirable vacancy was expected to occur, to
which he had every claim, so that it was important to prove to his
chief, by extra zeal and diligence, that he was worthy of the post. His
labour was wasted; the place was not bestowed upon him. His indignation
at being “passed over” knew no bounds, and there is little doubt that
this incident had a great deal to do with his resolution to devote
himself entirely to music. The last ties which bound him to the
bureaucratic world snapped under the strain of this act of “injustice.”
Meanwhile several changes had taken place in the family life of the
Tchaikovskys. Their aunt Madame Schobert had left them. Nicholas had
received an appointment in the provinces. Hyppolite was in the navy and
had been sent on a long voyage. The family was now reduced to four
members--the father, Peter Ilich, and the twins. The latter, deprived
of their aunt’s care, found in their brother more than ever both a tutor
and a guardian.
Tchaikovsky’s third letter to his sister, dated September 10th (22nd),
1862, brings us to a still more advanced phase of his transformation.
His official work has now taken quite a subordinate position, while
music is regarded as his speciality and life-work, not only by himself,
but by all his relatives.
“I have entered the newly-opened Conservatoire,” he says, “and the
course begins in a few days. As you know, I have worked hard at the
theory of music during the past year, and have come to the
conclusion that sooner or later I shall give up my present
occupation for music. Do not imagine I dream of being a great
artist.... I only feel I must do the work for which I have a
vocation. Whether I become a celebrated composer, or only a
struggling teacher--’tis all the same. In any case my conscience
will be clear, and I shall no longer have any right to grumble at
my lot. Of course, I shall not resign my present position until I
am sure that I am no longer a clerk, but a musician.”
He had relinquished social gaiety. “I always have my midday meal at
home,” he wrote at this time, “and in the evening I often go to the
theatre with father, or play cards with him.” Soon he had not even
leisure for such distractions. His musical studies were not restricted
to two classes in the week, but began to absorb almost all his time.
Besides which he began to make new friends at the Conservatoire--mostly
professional musicians--with whom he spent the rest of his leisure.
Among these, Laroche plays so important a part in Tchaikovsky’s artistic
and intimate life that it is necessary to say something of his
personality before proceeding further.
[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1859]
Hermann Laroche, the well-known musical writer and critic, was born in
St. Petersburg, May 13th (25th), 1845. His father, a Hanoverian by
birth, was established in that city as a French teacher. His mother
was a highly educated woman, and was careful to make her son an
accomplished linguist. His musical talent was displayed at an early age.
At ten he had already composed a march and an overture. He began his
systematic musical education in 1860, at Moscow, under the guidance of
Dubuque. At first he wished to be a virtuoso, but his teachers persuaded
him to relinquish the idea, because his hands were not suited to the
piano, and they laid more stress on his talent for composing.
When he entered the Conservatoire in the autumn of 1862, Laroche
surpassed all his fellow-students in musical knowledge, and was also a
highly educated and well-read young man.
Tchaikovsky and Laroche met for the first time in October, 1862, at the
class of the professor of pianoforte, Gerke. Hermann Laroche was then
seventeen years of age. The important results of this friendship in
Tchaikovsky’s after-life will be seen as this book proceeds; at the
outset its importance was threefold. In the first place, he found in
this fellow-student, who was far better versed in musical literature
than himself, an unofficial guide and mentor; secondly, Laroche was the
first critic of Tchaikovsky’s school compositions--the first and also
the most influential, for, from the beginning, Peter Ilich placed the
greatest confidence in his judgment; and thirdly, Laroche supplanted all
former intimacies in Tchaikovsky’s life, and became his dearest
companion and friend. The variety of his interests, the keenness of his
critical judgments, his unfailing liveliness and wit, made the hours of
leisure which Tchaikovsky now spent with him both pleasant and
profitable; while Laroche’s inexperience of the practical side of life,
and his helplessness in his relations with others, amused Tchaikovsky
and gave him an opportunity of helping and advising his friend in
return.
Early in 1863 Tchaikovsky resigned his place in the Ministry of
Justice, and resolved to give himself up entirely to music. His material
prospects were not bright. His father could give him board and lodging;
the rest he must earn for himself. But his will was firm, for by this
time his self-confidence and love of his art had taken firm root.
The fourth and last letter to his sister, which sets forth the reasons
which induced him to give up his official appointment, reveals
altogether a new man.
“_April_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1863.
“DEAR SASHA,--From your letter which reached father to-day, I
perceive that you take a lively interest in my situation and regard
with some mistrust the step I have decided to take. I will now
explain to you more fully what my hopes and intentions really are.
My musical talent--you cannot deny it--is my only one. This being
so, it stands to reason that I ought not to leave this God-sent
gift uncultivated and undeveloped. For this reason I began to study
music seriously. So far my official duties did not clash with this
work, and I could remain in the Ministry of Justice. Now, however,
my studies grow more severe and take up more time, so I find myself
compelled to give up one or the other.... In a word, after long
consideration, I have resolved to sacrifice the salary and resign
my post. But it does not follow that I intend to get into debt, or
ask for money from father, whose circumstances are not very
flourishing just now. Certainly I am not gaining any material
advantage. But first I hope to obtain a small post in the
Conservatoire next season (as assistant professor); secondly, I
have a few private lessons in view; and thirdly--what is most
important of all--I have entirely renounced all amusements and
luxuries, so that my expenditure has very much decreased. Now you
will want to know what will become of me when I have finished my
course. One thing I know for certain. I shall be a good musician
and shall be able to earn my daily bread. The professors are
satisfied with me, and say that with the necessary zeal I shall do
well. I do not tell you all this in a boastful spirit (it is not
my nature), only in order to speak openly to you without any false
modesty. I cherish a dream; to come to you for a whole year after
my studies are finished to compose a great work in your quiet
surroundings. After that--out into the world.”
In the autumn of 1863, after a visit to Apukhtin, Tchaikovsky returned
to Petersburg, externally and inwardly a changed man. His hair had grown
long, and he wore a somewhat shabby, but once fashionable coat, a relic
of his “foppish days”; so that in the new Tchaikovsky the former Peter
Ilich was hardly recognisable. His circumstances at this time were not
brilliant. His father had taken a very modest lodging in Petersburg, and
could give his son nothing but bare board and lodging. To supply his
further needs, Peter Ilich took some private teaching which Anton
Rubinstein found for him. These lessons brought in about fifty roubles a
month (£5).
The sacrifice of all the pleasures of life did not in the least embitter
or disturb him. On the contrary, he made light of his poverty, and at no
time of his life was he so cheerful and serene as now. In a small room,
which only held a bed and a writing-table, he started bravely on his
new, laborious existence, and there he spent many a night in arduous
work.
IV
Laroche gives the following account of the years Tchaikovsky spent at
the Conservatoire of St. Petersburg:--
“At the Conservatoire, founded by Anton Rubinstein in 1861, under
the patronage of the Grand-Duchess Helen, the curriculum consisted
of the following subjects: Choral Singing (Lomakin and Dütsch),
Solo Singing (Frau Nissen-Soloman), Pianoforte (Leschetitzky and
Beggrov), Violin (Wieniawsky), Violoncello (Schuberth), and
Composition (Zaremba). Of all these subjects Tchaikovsky studied
the last only.
“Nicholas Ivanovich Zaremba was then forty years of age. A Pole by
birth, he had studied law at the University of St. Petersburg, and
had been a clerk in one of the Government offices....
Music--especially composition--he had studied in Berlin under the
celebrated theorist Marx, whom he almost worshipped. As a composer,
Zaremba is not known to me. Never once, either in class or during
his private lessons, did he say so much as a word about his own
compositions. Only on one occasion he invited Peter Ilich to his
house and, when they were alone together, showed him the manuscript
of a string quartet of his own. The following day Peter Ilich told
me the work was ‘very nice, in the style of Haydn.’
“Zaremba had many of the qualities of an ideal teacher. Although,
if I am not mistaken, teaching was somewhat new to him, he appeared
fully equipped, with a course mapped out to the smallest details,
firm in his æsthetic views, and inventive in illustrating his
subject.... As became an out-and-out follower of Marx, Zaremba was
a progressive liberal as regards music, believed in Beethoven
(particularly in his latest period), detested the bondage of the
schools, and was more disposed to leave his pupils to themselves
than to restrict and hamper them with excessive severity. He taught
on Marx’s method, with one deviation: he followed up his harmony
course by one on strict counterpoint, using a text book of Heinrich
Bellermann’s. I do not think, however, that he taught this on his
own initiative, but possibly at Rubinstein’s expressed wish.
“I have spoken of Zaremba as progressive. He was actually an
enthusiastic admirer of Beethoven’s later period; but he stopped
short at Beethoven, or rather at Mendelssohn. The later development
of German music, which started from Schumann, was unknown to him.
He knew nothing of Berlioz and ignored Glinka. With regard to the
latter he showed very plainly his alienation from Russian soil.
Tchaikovsky, who was more disposed towards empiricism, and by
nature antagonistic to all abstractions, did not admire Zaremba’s
showy eloquence, nor yet that structure of superficial logic, from
the shelter of which he thundered forth his violent and arbitrary
views. The misunderstanding between pupil and teacher was
aggravated by the fact that Zaremba most frequently cited the
authority of Beethoven, while, following the example of his master,
Marx, he secretly--and sometimes openly--despised Mozart.
Tchaikovsky, on the contrary, had more respect than enthusiasm for
Beethoven, and never aimed at following in his footsteps. His
judgment was always somewhat sceptical; his need of independence
remarkable. During all the years I knew him, he never once
submitted blindly to any influence, nor swore by anyone in _verba
magistri_. His personal feelings sometimes coloured his views.
Zaremba, however, exercised no such fascination for him. Neither in
Tchaikovsky the composer, nor in Tchaikovsky the professor, do we
find any subsequent traces of Zaremba’s teaching. This is the more
remarkable, because the composer went to him as a beginner to be
grounded in the rudiments of musical theory, so that he had every
opportunity of making a deep and lasting impression. I must,
however, relate one occurrence which partially contradicts my
statement that Zaremba had no influence whatever upon his pupil.
When in 1862, or the following year, I expressed my admiration for
the energy and industry with which Tchaikovsky was working, he
replied that when he first attended Zaremba’s classes he had not
been so zealous, but had worked in ‘a very superficial way, like a
true amateur,’ until on one occasion Zaremba had drawn him aside
and impressed upon him the necessity of being more earnest and
industrious, because he possessed a fine talent. Deeply touched,
Peter Ilich resolved to conquer his indolence, and from that moment
worked with untiring zeal and energy.
“From 1861-2 Tchaikovsky learnt harmony, and from 1862-3 studied
strict counterpoint and the church modes under Zaremba, with whom,
in September, 1863, he began also to study form; while about the
same time he passed into Rubinstein’s class for instrumentation.
“The great personality of the Director of the Conservatoire
inspired us students with unbounded affection, mingled with not a
little awe. In reality no teacher was more considerate and kindly,
but his forbidding appearance, his hot temper and roughness, added
to the glamour of his European fame, impressed us profoundly.
“Besides the direction of the Conservatoire, he taught the piano,
and his class was the desired goal of every young pianist in the
school, for although the other professors (Gerke, Dreyschock, and
Leschetitzky) had excellent reputations, they were overshadowed by
Rubinstein’s fame and by his wonderful playing. In his class, which
then consisted of three male students and a host of women,
Rubinstein would often set the most comical tasks. On one occasion,
for instance, he made his pupils play Czerny’s “Daily Studies” in
every key, keeping precisely the same fingering throughout. His
pupils were very proud of the ordeals they were made to undergo,
and their narrations aroused the envy of all the other classes. As
a teacher of theory Anton Rubinstein was just the opposite of
Zaremba. While the latter was remarkably eloquent, the former was
taciturn to the last degree. Rubinstein spoke a number of
languages, but none quite correctly. In Russian he often expressed
himself fluently and appropriately, but his grammar was sometimes
faulty, which was very noticeable in his exposition of a
theoretical problem, demanding logical sequence. Yet it was
remarkable that this deficiency in no way spoilt his lectures. With
Zaremba, all was systematic, each word had its own place. With
Rubinstein, reigned a fascinating disorder. I believe that ten
minutes before the lesson he did not know what he was going to talk
about, and left all to the inspiration of the moment. Although the
literary form of his lectures suffered in consequence, and defied
all criticism, they impressed us deeply, and we attended them with
great interest. Rubinstein’s extraordinary practical knowledge, his
breadth of view, his experience as a composer--almost incredible
for a man of thirty--invested his words with an authority of which
we could not fail to be sensible. Even the paradoxes he indulged
in, which sometimes irritated and sometimes amused us, bore the
stamp of genius and thought. As I have said, Rubinstein had no
system whatever. If he observed in the course of a lesson that he
was not in touch with his pupils, he was not discouraged, and
always discovered some new way--as also in his pianoforte class--by
which to impart some of his original ideas. On one occasion he set
Tchaikovsky the task of orchestrating Beethoven’s D minor sonata
in four different ways. Peter Ilich elaborated one of these
arrangements, introducing the English horn and all manner of
unusual accessories, for which the master reprimanded him severely.
I must add that Rubinstein was sincerely attached to Tchaikovsky,
although he never valued his genius at its true worth. It is not
difficult to understand this, because Tchaikovsky’s artistic growth
was perfectly normal and equal, and quite devoid of any startling
developments. His work, which was generally of level excellence,
lacked that brilliancy which rejoices the astonished teacher.
“Rubinstein, on the contrary, cast a magic spell over Tchaikovsky.
The pupil, who kept his complete independence of judgment, and even
made fun of his master’s lack of logic and grammar in his lectures,
contemplated, not without bitterness, his mass of colourless and
insipid compositions. But neither the peculiarities of the teacher,
nor the ever-increasing weakness of his works, could undermine
Tchaikovsky’s regard for him as a man. This sentiment remained with
him to the last, although his relations with Anton were never so
intimate as with his brother, Nicholas Rubinstein. At this period
of our lives Tchaikovsky’s personal respect for his master was of
the greatest service to him. It made his work easier and gave
impulse to his powers. Rubinstein observed his pupil’s zeal, and
made increasing demands upon his capacity for work. But the harder
the tasks set him, the more energetic Tchaikovsky became. Sometimes
he spent the whole night upon some score he wished to lay before
his insatiable teacher on the following day. This extraordinary
industry does not appear to have injured his health.
“The silent protest Tchaikovsky raised against Zaremba’s methods
affected in a lesser degree his relations with Rubinstein. The
latter had grown up in the period of Schubert, Mendelssohn and
Schumann, and recognised only their orchestra, that is, the
orchestra of Beethoven, with the addition of three
trombones--natural horns and trumpets being replaced by chromatic
ones. We young folk, however, were enthusiasts for the most modern
of orchestras. Tchaikovsky was familiar with this style of
orchestration from the operas of Meyerbeer and Glinka. He also
heard it at the rehearsals of the Musical Society (to which, as
students, we had free access), where Rubinstein conducted works by
Meyerbeer, Berlioz, Liszt and Wagner. Finally, in 1862, Wagner
himself visited Petersburg, and made us acquainted in a series of
concerts, not only with the most famous excerpts from his earlier
operas, but also with portions of the _Nibelungen Ring_. It was not
so much Wagner’s music as his instrumentation which impressed
Tchaikovsky. It is remarkable that, with all his love for Mozart,
he never once attempted, even as a _tour de force_, to write for
the classical orchestra. His medium of expression was the full
modern orchestra, which came after Meyerbeer. He did not easily
acquire the mastery of this orchestra, but his preference for it
was already established. Rubinstein understood it admirably, and
explained its resources scientifically to his pupils, in the hope
that having once learnt its secrets, they would lay it aside for
ever. In this respect he experienced a bitter disappointment in
Tchaikovsky.
“In spring the students were generally set an important task to be
completed during the summer holidays. In the summer of 1864
Tchaikovsky was expected to write a long overture on the subject of
Ostrovsky’s[7] drama, _The Storm_. This work he scored for the most
‘heretical’ orchestra: tuba, English horn, harp, tremolo for
violins _divisi_, etc. When the work was finished he sent it to me
by post, with the request that I would take it to Rubinstein (I
cannot remember why he could not attend in person). I carried out
his wish, and Rubinstein told me to return in a few days to hear
his opinion. Never in the course of my life have I had to listen to
such a homily on my own sins as I then endured vicariously (it was
Sunday morning too!). With unconscious humour, Rubinstein asked:
‘How dared you bring me such a specimen of your own composition,’
and proceeded to pour such vials of wrath upon my head that
apparently he had nothing left for the real culprit, for when Peter
Ilich himself appeared a few days later, the Director received him
amiably, and only made a few remarks upon the overture....
“One of Rubinstein’s most urgent desires was the organisation of a
school orchestra. In the early days of the Conservatoire, however,
there was no immediate hope of realising this wish. Apart from the
numerous violinists, attracted by the name of Wieniawsky, there
were few, during the first year, who could play any other
orchestral instrument even tolerably well. Rubinstein, who at that
time had no great income, spent at least 1,500 roubles in the
gratuitous tuition of those instruments he needed for his
orchestra. There was an immediate response among those who were
enterprising. Tchaikovsky expressed a wish to learn the flute. He
studied for two years, and became a satisfactory second flute in
this orchestra. On one occasion he took part in a flute quartet of
Kuhlau’s at a musical evening in honour of Madame Clara Schumann’s
visit to Petersburg. Afterwards, finding no special use for this
accomplishment, he gave it up entirely.
“Of even less importance were the organ lessons he took for a time
from the famous Heinrich Stiehl. The majestic tone of this
instrument, heard in the mystic twilight of the empty Lutheran
church in Petersburg, made a profound impression upon Tchaikovsky’s
poetic temperament. But the impression was fleeting; his
imagination was attracted in other directions, and he grew more and
more remote from the works of Bach. He never composed a single
piece for this instrument.”
V
“In the biography of an artist,” continues Laroche, “side by side
with his individual evolution, the close observation of all
external influences with which he comes in contact plays an
important part. In Tchaikovsky’s case, I place among these
influences, the musical repertory which was familiar to him, and
such compositions as he specially studied or cared for. During the
whole of his time at the Conservatoire, especially during the
first two years, I was constantly with him, and am therefore a fair
judge of the works which more or less left their impress upon his
mind. I can enumerate almost all the compositions we played
together during his first year: Beethoven’s _Ninth Symphony_,
Schumann’s _Third Symphony_, his _Paradise and the Peri_, and
_Lohengrin_. Tchaikovsky grumbled when I made him play long vocal
works with endless recitatives, which became very wearisome on the
piano, but the beauty of the more connected parts soon re-awakened
his enthusiasm. Wagner gave him the least pleasure. He simply made
light of _Lohengrin_, and only became reconciled to the whole opera
much later in life.
“One day he remarked fearlessly: ‘I am sure of this--Serov has more
talent for composition than Wagner.’ Schumann’s _Third Symphony_
and Rubinstein’s _‘Ocean’ Symphony_ made the greatest impression
upon him. Later on, under the bâton of the composer, our enthusiasm
for the latter continually increased. Many readers will be
surprised to hear that one of Tchaikovsky’s earliest crazes was for
Henri Litolff--but only for the two overtures, _Robespierre_ and
_Les Girondistes_. I can say without exaggeration that, after
hearing these two overtures and Meyerbeer’s _Struensee_,
Tchaikovsky was always an impassioned lover of programme music. In
his early overtures, including _Romeo and Juliet_, the influence of
Litolff is easily perceptible, while he approached Liszt--who did
far more to inspire the young generation--with hesitation and
mistrust. During his student years, _Orpheus_ was the only one of
Liszt’s symphonic poems which attracted him. The _Faust Symphony_
he only valued long afterwards. It is but fair to state that
Liszt’s symphonic poems, which enslaved a whole generation of
Russian composers, only exercised an insignificant and ephemeral
influence upon Tchaikovsky.
“It is important to observe that, at this early period, he showed
many curious and morbid musical antipathies which he entirely
outgrew. These dislikes were not for particular composers, but for
certain styles of composition, or, more strictly speaking, for
their quality of sound. For instance, he did not like the
combination of piano and orchestra, nor the timbre of a string
quartet or quintet, and least of all the effect of the piano with
one or more stringed instruments. Although, for the sake of
experience, he had studied the general repertory of chamber music
and pianoforte concertos, and now and then was charmed by a work of
this nature, he afterwards took the first opportunity of condemning
its ‘detestable’ quality of tone. Not once, but hundreds of times,
he has vowed in my presence never to compose a pianoforte concerto,
nor a violin and piano sonata, nor any work of this class. As
regards the violin and pianoforte sonata, he has kept his word. Not
less strange was his determination, at this time, never to write
any small pieces for piano, or songs. He spoke of the latter with
the greatest dislike. But this hatred must have been quite
Platonic, for the next minute he was growing enthusiastic with me
over the songs of Glinka, Schumann, or Schubert.
“At this period in his life it was a kind of mania to declare
himself quite incapable in certain branches of his art. For
instance, he often declared he was absolutely unable to conduct.
The art of conducting goes frequently with that of accompanying,
and he was an excellent accompanist. This fact alone should have
sufficed to prove the groundlessness of his assertions. At the
Conservatoire the advanced students in the composition class were
expected to conduct the school orchestra in turn. Tchaikovsky stood
first on the list. I cannot remember whether he distinguished
himself on this occasion, but I know that nothing particularly
dreadful happened, and that he made no evident fiasco. Nevertheless
he made this first experience the confirmation of his opinion. He
declared that having to stand at the raised desk in front of the
orchestra produced such nervous sensations that all the time he
felt his head must fall off his shoulders; in order to prevent this
catastrophe, he kept his left hand under his chin and only
conducted with his right. This fixed idea lasted for years.
“In 1868 Tchaikovsky was invited to conduct the dances from his
opera _The Voyevode_ at a charity concert given in Moscow. I still
see him before me, the bâton in his right hand, while his left
firmly supported his fair beard!
“Tchaikovsky’s ardent admiration for Glinka, especially for the
opera _A Life for the Tsar_, included also this composer’s
incidental music to the tragedy _Prince Kholmsky_. As regards
_Russlan and Lioudmilla_, his views varied at first. Early in the
sixties he knew only a few numbers from Glinka’s second opera,
which pleased him unreservedly. He was equally delighted with the
music and libretto of Serov’s opera _Judith_, which he heard in
1863. It is remarkable that while a few masterpieces, such as _Don
Juan_, _A Life for the Tsar_, and Schubert’s _Symphony in C_, took
their places once and for ever in his appreciation, his judgment of
other musical works was subject to considerable fluctuation. One
year he was carried away by Beethoven’s _Eighth Symphony_, the next
he pronounced it ‘very nice, but nothing more.’ For years he
declared the music to _Faust_ by Pugni (a well-known composer of
ballets) was infinitely superior to Gounod’s opera, and afterwards
he described the French composer’s work as ‘a masterpiece.’
Therefore it is all the more remarkable that he remained faithful
to Serov’s opera _Judith_ to the end of his days.
“His attitude to Serov’s literary work was exceedingly sceptical.
We both attended the popular lectures given by this critic in 1864,
and were amused at his desperate efforts to overthrow the authority
of the Conservatoire, to abase Glinka and to exalt Verstovsky.[8]
Serov’s attack upon Rubinstein would in itself have lowered him in
the eyes of so devoted an adherent as Tchaikovsky, but he disliked
him still more for such expressions as ‘the spiritual contents of
music,’ ‘the organic unity of the music drama,’ and similar
phrases, under which Serov concealed his vacillation and
extraordinary lack of principle.
“Tchaikovsky’s personal relations with the composer of _Judith_ are
only known to me in part. They met, if I am not mistaken, in the
autumn of 1864, and I was the means of their becoming acquainted.
One of our fellow-students named Slavinsky, who visited Serov,
invited me to go with him to one of his ‘composer’s Tuesdays.’
About a year later I introduced Tchaikovsky to Serov. I recollect
how on that particular evening Dostoievsky talked a great deal--and
very foolishly--about music, as literary men do, who know nothing
whatever about it. Serov’s personality did not please Tchaikovsky,
and I do not think he ever went again, although he received a
pressing invitation to do so.
“Besides N. A. Hubert and myself, I cannot recall a single student
at the Conservatoire with whom Tchaikovsky kept up a lasting
intimacy. He was pleasant to all, and addressed a few in the
familiar second person singular. Among these passing friends I may
mention Gustav Kross, afterwards the first to play Tchaikovsky’s
pianoforte concerto in public; Richard Metzdorf, who settled in
Germany as a composer and Capellmeister; Karl van Ark, who became a
professor at the Petersburg Conservatoire; Slavinsky and Joseph
Lödscher. Of these fellow-students, the name of Nicholas Hubert
occurs most frequently in subsequent pages. In spite of his foreign
name, Hubert was really of Russian descent. From his childhood he
lived only in and for music, and very early in life had to earn his
living by teaching. The number of lessons he gave, combined with
his weak and uncertain health, prevented him from working very hard
at the Conservatoire, but he impressed us as talented and clever.
He was fond of assembling his friends round the tea-table in his
large, but scantily-furnished room, when the evening would be spent
in music and discussion. Tchaikovsky, Lödscher and myself were the
most regular guests at these evenings. The real intimacy, however,
between Tchaikovsky and Hubert did not actually begin until many
years later--about the middle of the eighties.”
With this chapter Laroche’s reminiscences of Tchaikovsky come to an
end.
VI.
In the autumn of 1863 the mother of Leo Davidov, who had married
Tchaikovsky’s sister, came to settle in St. Petersburg.
Alexandra Ivanovna, widow of the famous Decembrist, Vassily Davidov, was
a vigorous, kindly clever old lady, who had seen and suffered much in
her day. Of her very numerous family, four daughters and her youngest
son had accompanied her to Petersburg. Two of these daughters, Elizabeth
and Vera, became very friendly with Tchaikovsky, thanks to their common
love of music.
Peter Ilich never felt more at home than at the Davidovs. Apart from the
pleasure of acting as a guide to Vera in musical matters--introducing
her to the works of Schumann, Berlioz, and Glinka, whose charm he had
only just discovered for himself--he thoroughly enjoyed talking to her
mother and sister.
Tchaikovsky was always deeply interested in his country’s past,
especially in the period of Catherine II. and Alexander I. Alexandra
Davidov was, so to speak, a living chapter of history from the last
years of Alexander’s reign, and had known personally many famous men of
the time, among them the poet Poushkin, who often visited the Davidovs
at Kamenka. Consequently Tchaikovsky delighted in hearing her recall the
joys and sorrows of those far-off days.
Her daughter Elizabeth, an elderly spinster, also excited his interest.
She had been entrusted by her mother, when the latter had voluntarily
followed her husband into exile, to the care of Countess
Tchernischov-Kruglikov, and grew up in a house frequented by all the
notabilities of the early years of Nicholas I.’s reign.
[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1863]
She knew Gogol and Poushkin, and had made many journeys to Europe and
Siberia. Besides which she was deeply interested in art and literature,
and had a decided talent for drawing.
Among the few acquaintances who continued to show a friendly attitude to
Tchaikovsky, in spite of his becoming a musician, was Prince Alexis
Galitsin. He helped the struggling student and teacher by recommending
him to private pupils, and invited him to spend the summer on his
estate, Trostinetz, in the Government of Kharkov.
Life at the Prince’s country-seat seemed to Tchaikovsky like a fairy
tale. One event will suffice to show the attention with which he was
treated by his host. On his name-day, June 29th (July 11th), the Prince
gave an entertainment in his honour. After early service there was a
breakfast, and in the evening, after dark, a walk through the forest,
the paths being illuminated by torches, which made a grand effect. In
the heart of the woods a tent had been raised, in which a banquet was
prepared; while, on the open green around it, all kinds of national
amusements were organised in honour of the musician.
During this visit, Tchaikovsky composed and orchestrated his first
independent musical work, the overture to his favourite Russian play,
_The Storm_, by Ostrovsky. He had already hankered to write an opera on
this play, consequently when Rubinstein set him to compose an overture
by way of a holiday task, he naturally selected the subject which had
interested him for so long. On page 30 of his instrumentation
sketch-book for 1863-4 he made a pencil note of the programme of this
overture:--
“Introduction; adagio (Catharine’s childhood and life before
marriage); allegro (the threatening of the storm); her longing for
a truer love and happiness; allegro appassionato (her spiritual
conflict). Sudden change to evening on the banks of the Volga: the
same conflict, but with traces of feverish joy. The coming of the
storm (repetition of the theme which follows the adagio and the
further development of it). The Storm: the climax of her desperate
conflict--Death.”
The next important composition, which was not lost, like so many of
Tchaikovsky’s early works, was the “Dances of the Serving Girls,”
afterwards employed as a ballet in his opera, _The Voyevode_. It is
impossible to fix the precise date at which these dances were composed,
but early in 1865 they were already finished and orchestrated.
VII.
In 1865 Tchaikovsky’s father married--for the third time--a widow,
Elizabeth Alexandrov. This event made no difference to the life of Peter
Ilich, for he was attached to his stepmother, whom he had known for
several years, and to whom he often went for advice in moments of doubt
and difficulty. The summer of this year was spent with his sister at
Kamenka.
Kamenka, of which we hear so much in the life of Peter Ilich, is a rural
spot on the banks of the Tiasmin, in the Government of Kiev, and forms
part of the great estate which Tchaikovsky’s brother-in-law had
inherited from the exiled Decembrist Vassily Davidov. The place has
historical associations, having been the centre of the revolutionary
movement which disturbed the last years of Alexander I. Here, too, the
poet Poushkin came as a visitor, and his famous poem, “The Prisoner in
the Caucasus,” is said to have been written at Kamenka. The property
actually belonged to an elder brother, Nicholas Davidov, who practically
resigned it to the management of Tchaikovsky’s brother-in-law,
preferring the pleasures of his library and garden to the
responsibilities of a great landowner.
Kamenka did not boast great natural charms, nevertheless Tchaikovsky
enjoyed his visit there, and soon forgot the luxuries of Trostinetz.
Nicholas Davidov, although a kindly and sympathetic nature, held decided
opinions of his own, which were not altogether in keeping with the
liberalism then in vogue. This strong-minded man, who thought things out
for himself, impressed Tchaikovsky, and changed his political outlook.
Throughout life the composer took no very strong political views; his
tendencies leaned now one way, now another; but from the time of his
acquaintance with Nicholas Davidov his views were more disposed towards
conservativism. It was, however, the happy household at Kamenka that
exercised the greatest influence upon Tchaikovsky. Henceforth his
sister’s family became his favourite refuge, whither, in days to come,
he went to rest from the cares and excitements of life, and where,
twelve years later, he made a temporary home.
Perhaps these pleasant impressions were also strengthened by the
consciousness of work well accomplished. Anton Rubinstein had set him a
second task--the translation of Gevaert’s treatise on _Instrumentation_.
This he carried out admirably, besides the composition of the overture.
At Kamenka he had one disappointing experience. He had heard so much of
the beauty of the Little Russian folk-songs, and hoped to amass material
for his future compositions. This was not to be. The songs he heard
seemed to him artificial and retouched, and by no means equal in beauty
or originality to the folk melodies of Great Russia. He only wrote down
one song while at Kamenka--a tune sung daily by the women who worked in
the garden. He first used this melody in a string quartet, which he
began to compose in the autumn, but afterwards changed it into the
_Scherzo à la russe_ for pianoforte, Op. 1. No. 1. Towards the end of
August, Tchaikovsky returned to Petersburg with his brothers.
“Petersburg welcomed us with a deluge of rain,” he wrote to his sister
on his return. But in many other respects also the town made an
unfavourable impression upon Tchaikovsky. In the first place, the
question of a lodging gave him considerable trouble. The room which he
had engaged for eight roubles a month was small and uncomfortable. The
longer he stayed, the more he disliked it. He tried various quarters
without finding the quiet which was the first essential, and, in
November, finally took possession of a room lent him by his friend,
Apukhtin, who was going away for a time.
Another unpleasant experience took the form of an obstinate affection of
the eyes, which hindered him from working regularly. Lastly, he began to
feel some anxiety as to his future livelihood when his course at the
Conservatoire should have come to an end. To continue in his present
course of existence seemed to him terrible. The small income, which
hitherto only had to serve him for his lesser needs, had now to cover
board and lodging--in fact, his entire expenses.
We may guess how hard was his struggle with poverty, when we find him
once more assailed by doubts as to his wisdom in having chosen the
musical profession, and even contemplating the idea of returning to the
service of the State. Some of his friends echoed his momentary cry of
weakness. One seriously proposed that he should accept the fairly good
pay of an inspector of meat. To the great advantage of all consumers,
and to the glory of Russian music, the proposal came to nothing.
Simultaneously with Tchaikovsky’s hardest struggle for existence, came
also the first hopes of artistic success. These triumphs were very
modest as compared to those which lay in store for him; but at that
period of his life the praise of his masters, the applause of his
fellow-students, and the first public performance of his works, sufficed
to fill him with happiness and self-confidence. The performance of his
“Dances of the Serving Maids,” at one of the summer concerts at
Pavlovsk, conducted by the “Valse King,” Johann Strauss, greatly cheered
the young composer.
His satisfaction was still further increased when Nicholas Rubinstein,
following the example of his illustrious brother, resolved to open a
Conservatoire in Moscow, and engaged Tchaikovsky as Professor of
Harmony.
Nicholas Rubinstein had first approached Serov, who was not unwilling to
accept the post. But the extraordinary success of his opera _Rogneda_ in
St. Petersburg, and the failure of _Judith_ in Moscow, caused him to
change his mind and wish to remain in that capital where he was best
appreciated. This took place in 1865. Nicholas Rubinstein, seeing no
other way out of the difficulty, decided to offer the professorship to
one of the students of the Petersburg Conservatoire, and his brother put
forward the claims of Tchaikovsky. Although the honour was great, the
emolument was not attractive, for it amounted only to fifty roubles (£5)
a month; that is to say, to something less than the modest income he had
hitherto managed to earn in Petersburg. Nevertheless, in November, he
decided to accept the post.
The remaining successes of this period relate to his compositions.
In spite of his eyes being affected, and his constant change of
quarters, the time had not been barren. He had composed a string quartet
in B♭ major,[9] and an overture in F major.[10] The quartet was
played at one of the pupils’ concerts at the Conservatoire, October 30th
(November 11th), 1865, and a fortnight later the overture was performed
by the school orchestra, under the bâton of the composer.
In November of this year, Tchaikovsky set to work upon a cantata for
chorus and orchestra, a setting of Schiller’s _Ode to Joy_.[11]
This task had been set him by Anton Rubinstein, and was intended for
performance at the prize distribution, which took place at the end of
the school year. On December 31st, 1865 (January 12th, 1866), the
cantata was performed by the pupils of the Conservatoire in the presence
of the Directors of the Russian Musical Society, the Board of Examiners,
the Director of the Court Chapel, Bachmetiev, and the Capellmeisters of
the Imperial Opera, Kajinsky, Liadov and Ricci.
The composer himself was not present, as he wished to avoid the _vivâ
voce_ examination, which ought to have preceded the performance of the
cantata. Anton Rubinstein was exceedingly displeased, and threatened to
withhold Tchaikovsky’s diploma until he submitted to this public test.
Matters were not carried so far. Apparently the young composer had given
sufficient proof of his knowledge in the cantata itself, and he received
not only his diploma, but a silver medal in addition.
In spite of this official success, the cantata did not win the approval
of the musical authorities.
Evidently Rubinstein was not satisfied with it, since he put off
Tchaikovsky’s request that the cantata might be performed by the Russian
Musical Society, by saying that he could only agree on condition that
“great alterations” were made in the score, for in its original form it
was not good enough to place beside the works of other Russian
composers--Sokalsky, Christianovich, Rimsky-Korsakov, and Balakirev.
Serov’s opinion of this composition was not more favourable.
In the opposite camp to Serov--among that young Russian school which
flocked round Dargomijsky, and included Balakirev, Rimsky-Korsakov, and
Cæsar Cui, the cantata met with even less approval. Three months after
its performance Cui, then critic of the St. Petersburg _Viedomosti_,
wound up his notice of the work as follows:--
“In a word, I will only say that composers of the calibre of
Reinthaler and Volkmann will probably rejoice over Mr.
Tchaikovsky’s cantata, and exclaim, ‘Our number is increased.’”
Such were the judgments passed upon his first work by the musical lights
and the Press.
Laroche, however, was of a different opinion. He sent the following
letter to Tchaikovsky in Moscow:--
“PETERSBURG (MIDNIGHT),
“_January_ 11_th_(23_rd_), 1866.
“ ... I will tell you frankly that I consider yours is the greatest
musical talent to which Russia can look in the future. Stronger and
more original than Balakirev, loftier and more creative than Serov,
far more refined than Rimsky-Korsakov. _In you I see the
greatest--or rather the sole--hope of our musical future. Your own
original creations will probably not make their appearance for
another five years. But these ripe and classic works will surpass
everything we have heard since Glinka._ To sum up: I do not honour
you so much for what you _have_ done, as for what the force and
vitality of your genius _will_ one day accomplish. The proofs you
have given so far are but solemn pledges to outdo all your
contemporaries.”