I
Tchaikovsky’s first impressions of Moscow practically resolve themselves
into his association with a few Muscovites, with whom he was destined to
be linked to the end of his days. His subsequent life is so inseparably
connected with the narrow circle of his friends in the old capital, that
the reader needs to be introduced to some of them individually, before I
pass on to my brother’s career as a teacher and composer.
At the head of these musical friends stands Nicholas Rubinstein, of whom
it is no exaggeration to say that he was the greatest influence
throughout Tchaikovsky’s after career. No one, artist or friend, did so
much for the advancement of his fame, gave him greater support and
appreciation, or helped him more to conquer his first nervousness and
timidity, than the Director of the Moscow Conservatoire. Nicholas
Rubinstein is intimately associated with every event in Tchaikovsky’s
private and public life. Everywhere we shall come upon traces of his
helpful influence. It is not too much to assert that, during the first
years of Tchaikovsky’s life there, all Moscow was personified in
Nicholas Rubinstein.
* * * * *
Laroche, in his _Reminiscences_, gives the following sketch of the
director:--
“Nicholas Rubinstein was born June 2nd (14th), 1835. Like his
celebrated brother, he showed a remarkable and precocious talent
for music. It is said he learnt quicker, and was considered to have
more genius than Anton. But while the latter devoted himself
entirely to music and studied in Berlin, Nicholas elected for a
university education.... As a student at the Moscow University, and
even later--until the establishment of the Russian Musical
Society--he earned his living by teaching the pianoforte. He had a
number of pupils, and, as he himself told me, earned at one time as
much as 7,000 roubles (over £700) a year. On his marriage he was
compelled to give up playing in public, on account of the
objections raised by his wife’s relations. His domestic life was
not happy, and the differences of opinion between himself and his
wife’s family led to a rupture two years later. His unusual powers
were first recognised when he succeeded in founding the Moscow
Conservatoire. Besides being a most gifted pianist, he had great
talent as a conductor, and organiser of many schemes. He could
represent all branches of musical society in his own person.
Although he spent all his nights at the ‘English Club,’ playing
cards for high stakes, he managed to take part in every social
event, and was acquainted with all circles of Moscow society,
commercial, official, artistic, scientific, and aristocratic.”
“As regards art,” says Kashkin, “Nicholas Rubinstein was purely an
idealist; he admitted no compromise, and was entirely above personal
likes or dislikes. He was always ready to help a fellow-artist,
especially a Russian, and, without stopping to consider his means,
simply gave whatever he had by him at the moment.
“Externally he differed greatly from his brother Anton. Nicholas
Rubinstein was short and stoutly built; fair-complexioned, with curly
hair. He had a dreamy expression, a languor of speech, and an air of
aristocratic weariness, which was contradicted by the indefatigable
energy of his temperament. Probably this languor proceeded from the fact
that he scarcely ever slept.
“He was Tchaikovsky’s senior by five years only; but in these early days
of their intercourse the difference between their ages seemed much
greater. This was partly accounted for by the fact that Tchaikovsky came
to Moscow in a somewhat subordinate position, whereas the name of
Rubinstein was one of the most popular in the town; but the difference
in character was also very great. Rubinstein belonged to the class of
dominating and ruling personalities; his was a forceful character which
impressed all who came in contact with him. Tchaikovsky, on the
contrary, was yielding and submissive in matters of daily existence,
although inwardly he protested against all attempts to influence and
coerce him, and generally preserved his freedom of opinion, at least as
regards music. This self-assertion did not, however, come naturally to
him, and for that reason he loved solitude. He avoided his fellow-men,
because he did not know how to hold his own among them; while at the
same time he disliked submitting to the will of others, but this was not
his attitude in 1866. At this time he was grateful for Nicholas
Rubinstein’s almost paternal care, and bowed to his decision, even in
the matter of dress.
“Their friendly relations were sometimes strained, but never broken,
although Peter Ilich was occasionally irritated by Rubinstein’s
masterful guidance, and was scolded in return for not being sufficiently
docile.”
* * * * *
“Rubinstein’s right hand,” says Laroche, “was Constantine Albrecht, the
Inspector of the Conservatoire. He was about five years older than
Tchaikovsky, and had held the post of ‘cellist at the Opera House since
the age of fifteen. Albrecht was a very capable and, in many respects, a
very interesting man, although he was not popular with the public.
Tchaikovsky was strongly attracted to him, and soon after his arrival in
Moscow arranged to take his meals daily at his house. Albrecht’s views,
or rather convictions, were extraordinarily paradoxical.
“In politics he took the Conservative side, but as regards music he was
probably the most advanced radical in Moscow. Wagner, Liszt, Beethoven
in his last period, and certain things of Schumann, were all he would
acknowledge. I must add, by way of an eccentricity, his admiration for
Dargomijsky’s _Roussalka_. He was an admirable choral conductor, and did
good work in this branch of his art, for many of the pupils trained by
him turned out excellent teachers. Besides music, Albrecht took great
interest in natural science and mathematics. In summer he was an
enthusiastic hunter of beetles and butterflies. But for the subjects in
which a musician should be interested--history, poetry, _belles-lettres_
he showed the most complete indifference. I doubt if he had ever read a
novel....”
* * * * *
Tchaikovsky had a very high opinion of Albrecht as a composer, and often
regretted that so much talent should be wasted. But it was his
kindliness of heart, and above all his innate sense of humour, which
appealed most to Peter Ilich.
Very different, and far more important, were Tchaikovsky’s relations
with P. I. Jurgenson, the first--and always the chief--publisher of his
works.
Peter Ivanovich Jurgenson was born at Reval in 1836, and his childhood
was spent in very poor and depressing circumstances. At nineteen he
entered a music warehouse in Petersburg, where he soon won his
employer’s confidence, and rose to be manager to the firm of Schildbach,
in Moscow. Two years later, in 1861, he made a daring venture and set up
business on his own account. In Nicholas Rubinstein he found a powerful
friend and ally, who supported his enterprise for twenty years with
unfailing energy. By 1866 Jurgenson had passed through his worst
experiences, and began to play a prominent part in the musical life of
Moscow. Courageous and enterprising, he was one of the most active
adherents of Nicholas Rubinstein, that “Peter the Great” of musical
Moscow, to whom he rendered valuable assistance in founding the
Conservatoire. Jurgenson was the first Russian publisher to bring out
the works of the classical school in cheap editions, and also the
compositions of young native composers, including those of Tchaikovsky.
Although he came from the Baltic provinces, Jurgenson was an ardent
Russian patriot, and soon won the affection of Peter Ilich, who was
always a welcome guest in his house.
At the present moment the firm of Jurgenson is almost the sole possessor
of Tchaikovsky’s compositions. Among the 200,000 engraving-plates which
are preserved in their fireproof safes more than 70,000 belong to the
works of this composer.
The fourth of Tchaikovsky’s intimate friends, Nicholas Kashkin, received
him on his arrival with the cordiality of an old comrade, for he already
knew him from Laroche’s enthusiastic description.
“ ... Nicholas Dmitrievich Kashkin was the son of a well-known and
respected bookseller in the town of Voronejh,” says Laroche in his
reminiscences. From childhood he displayed great aptitude for the piano,
and by dint of self-teaching, made such progress that he could execute
difficult music, and was highly thought of in his native place. Yet he
was conscious that he lacked proper training, and at twenty-two went to
study with Dubuque, in Moscow.
Although Kashkin had no influence on Tchaikovsky’s development, their
relations were very friendly. When the latter came to Moscow, Kashkin
was already married and a professor at the Conservatoire. He and his
young wife took a great liking to the lonely composer, and the intimacy
ripened very quickly. All the teachers at the Conservatoire, including
Nicholas Rubinstein, valued Kashkin’s advice. All his friends regarded
him as a critic _par excellence_. Many years later he gave up teaching
at the Conservatoire, and became a professional critic. But even in this
difficult calling, which so often leads to misunderstanding and bitter
enmities, he managed to keep all his old friends, and even to make new
ones.
If I add to the names of N. Rubinstein, Albrecht, Jurgenson, and
Kashkin, two fellow-students already mentioned--Laroche and Hubert--the
list of Tchaikovsky’s intimate friends is complete. This little circle
was destined to give unfailing support to the growing reputation of the
composer, and to remain in the closest personal relations with him to
the end of his life. Amid these friends he found encouragement and
sympathy at the time when he stood most in need of them.
II
Tchaikovsky left St. Petersburg early in January, 1866.
At this time his letters show his depth of tenderness for his own
people, his first feelings of loneliness in the strange city, his
indifference to his surroundings, and finally his gradual attachment to
Moscow, which ended in being “the dearest town in the world.”
_To Anatol and Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“3.30 _p.m._, _January_ 6_th_ (18_th_).
“MY DEAR BROTHERS,--My journey, although sad, is safely over. I
thought about you the whole way, and it grieved me to think that
lately I had overshadowed you with my own depression, although I
fought hard against it. Do not, however, doubt my affection, even
if I do not always show it outwardly. I am staying at the Hotel
Kokorev. I have already seen Rubinstein and been introduced to two
directors of the Musical Society. Rubinstein was so pressing in his
invitation to me to live with him that I could not refuse, and
shall go there to-morrow.... I hug you both. Do not cease to love
me. Give my remembrances to everyone. Write! I will write again
soon. I have just written to Dad. You must also do so.”
_To the same._
“MOSCOW, _January_ 10_th_ (22_nd_).
“DEAR BROTHERS,--I am now living with Nicholas Rubinstein. He is a
very kind and sympathetic man. He has none of his brother’s
unapproachable manner, but in other respects he is not to be
compared with Anton--as an artist. I have a little room next to his
bedroom, and, truth to tell, I am afraid the scratching of my pen
must disturb him after he goes to bed, for our rooms are only
divided by a thin partition. I am very busy (upon the orchestration
of the C minor overture composed during the summer). I sit at home
nearly all day, and Rubinstein, who leads rather an excitable life,
cannot sufficiently marvel at my industry. I have been to both
theatres. The opera was very bad, so for once I did not get as much
artistic enjoyment from it as from the play.... I have hardly made
any new acquaintances except Kashkin, a friend of Laroche’s and a
first-rate musician, whom I have got to know very well indeed.
“Sometimes I feel rather melancholy, but as a rule I am possessed
by an insatiable craving for work, which is my greatest
consolation.... I have promised Rubinstein my overture shall be
performed here before I send it to Petersburg. Yesterday at bedtime
I thought a great deal about you both. I pictured to myself all the
horrors of the first night after the holidays, and fancied how Modi
would hide his nose under the bed-clothes and cry bitterly. How I
wish I could have comforted him! It is not a meaningless phrase,
Modi, when I tell you to grind and grind and grind, and to make
friends with your respectable companions, but not with that crazy
fellow X.... I am afraid you will be left behind in your class and
be one of those who get into the master’s black books. I have no
fears for Toly, so I send him no advice. Toly, my dear, conquer
your indolence as a correspondent and write to me. Hearty kisses!”
The overture in C minor, referred to in this letter, was submitted to
Nicholas Rubinstein a few days later. His opinion, however, was
unfavourable, and he declared the work unsuitable for performance by the
Musical Society. Tchaikovsky then sent the work to Petersburg, in order
that Laroche might ask Anton Rubinstein to perform it there. “I have
left your overture with Rubinstein,” Laroche wrote in reply, “and
repeated your request _verbatim_. He replied by a low, ironical bow. But
this is just his way.” The overture was not approved by Anton
Rubinstein, nor did it meet with a happier fate when Laroche tried to
persuade Liadov to give it a place at one of the opera concerts. Long
afterwards Tchaikovsky himself shared this adverse opinion of the work,
and wrote upon the cover of the manuscript, “Awful rubbish.”
_To his sister, Alexandra Davidov._
“_January_ 15_th_ (27_th_).
“ ... I have nothing particular to tell you about my life and work.
I am to teach the theory of music, and yesterday I held the
preliminary examination. Many pretty girls presented themselves....
I like Moscow very well, but I doubt if I shall ever get accustomed
to it; I have been too long rooted in Petersburg.”
_To A. and M. Tchaikovsky._
“_January_ 15_th_ (27_th_).
“MY DEAR BROTHERS,--Do not waste your money on stamps. It would be
better to write only once a week, a long letter in the form of a
diary....
“I get on very well with everyone, especially with Rubinstein,
Kashkin, Albrecht, and Osberg.[12] I have also made friends with a
family of the name Tchaikovsky.[13] I have eaten a great deal at
their house, but I did not take part in the dancing, although I was
attired in Rubinstein’s dress-coat. The latter looks after me like
a nurse, and insists upon doing so. To-day he forced me to accept
half a dozen new shirts (you need not mention this to the Davidovs
or anyone else), and to-morrow he will carry me off to his tailor
to order me a frock-coat. He is a wonderfully kind man, but I
cannot understand how he has won his great reputation as a
musician. He is rather ordinary in this respect, not to be compared
to his brother.[14]
“In mentioning my friends here, I must not omit Rubinstein’s
servant Alexander. He is a worthy old man, and possesses a splendid
white cat which is now sitting on my lap, while I stroke it gently.
My pleasantest pastime is to think of the summer. Lately I have
felt drawn to Sasha, Leo, and their children, and have now decided
to spend the summer with you at their house.”
_To A. and M. Tchaikovsky._
“_Sunday, January_ 30_th_ (_February_ 11_th_).
“ ... I laugh heartily over Dickens’s _Pickwick Papers_, with no
one to share my mirth; but sometimes this thought incites me to
even wilder hilarity. I recommend you to read this book; when one
wants to read fiction it is best to begin with such an author as
Dickens. He has much in common with Gogol; the same inimitable and
innate humour and the same masterly power of depicting an entire
character in a few strokes. But he has not Gogol’s depth....
“The idea of an opera begins to occupy my attention. All the
libretti Rubinstein has given me are utterly bad. I have found a
subject, and intend to write words myself. It will simply be the
adaptation of a tragedy. The poet Plestcheiev is living here, and
has promised to help me.”
_To his sister, Alexandra Davidov._
“_February_ 7_th_ (19_th_).
“I am gradually becoming accustomed to Moscow, although sometimes I
feel very lonely. My classes are very successful, to my great
astonishment; my nervousness is vanishing completely, and I am
gradually assuming the airs of a professor. My home-sickness is
also wearing off, but still Moscow is a strange place, and it will
be long before I can contemplate without horror the thought of
remaining here for years--perhaps for ever....”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
(_The middle of February._)
“MY DEAR FRIEND MODI,--I have been very busy lately, and therefore
have not written for a long while. Rubinstein has entrusted me with
some important work which has to be finished by the third week in
Lent....
“Life glides on quietly and monotonously, so that I have hardly
anything to tell you. I often visit the Tarnovskys, whose niece is
the loveliest girl I ever saw in my life. I am very much taken with
her, which causes Rubinstein to be a perfect nuisance. The moment
we arrive at the house the others begin to tease us and leave us
together. At home she is called ‘Mufka,’ and just now I am
wondering whether I dare use this name for her too. I only need to
know her a little better. Rubinstein has also been in love with
her, but his sentiments have now grown cooler.
“My nerves are in good condition; I am very calm and even cheerful.
I often console myself with thoughts of Easter, spring, and the
summer holidays.”
The work to which Tchaikovsky refers at the beginning of this letter was
the instrumentation of his overture in F major, which had been
originally scored for the small orchestra of the Petersburg
Conservatoire. In later years the composer must have destroyed the
fuller arrangement of the work, although at this time he seems to have
been satisfied with the result.
_To A. and M. Tchaikovsky._
“_March_ 6_th_ (18_th_).
“ ... My overture was performed on Friday, and had a good success.
I was unanimously recalled, and--to be grandiloquent--received with
applause that made the welkin ring. More flattering still was the
ovation I met with at the supper which Rubinstein gave after the
concert.... After supper he proposed my health amid renewed
applause. I go into these details because it is my first public
success, and consequently very gratifying.”
At the end of March Tchaikovsky, eager as a schoolboy at the beginning
of his holidays, left Moscow for Petersburg, where he stayed until April
4th (16th).
_To A. and M. Tchaikovsky._
“MOSCOW, _April_ 7_th_ (19_th_).
“Brothers! Forgive me for not having written before. The journey
was safely accomplished. The news of the attempt upon the Emperor’s
life reached us at the station where we stopped for tea, but only
in a very vague form.[15] We pictured to ourselves that he was
actually dead, and one lady wept bitterly, while another began to
extol all the virtues of the new sovereign. Only at Moscow I learnt
the true account. The rejoicings here were beyond belief; yesterday
at the Opera, where I went to hear _A Life for the Tsar_, when the
Poles appeared on the stage the entire public began to shout, ‘Down
with the Poles!’ In the last scene of the fourth act, in which the
Poles put Sousanin to death, the singer who was taking this part
resisted with such realistic violence that he knocked down several
of the ‘Polish’ chorus-singers. When the rest of the ‘Poles’ saw
that this outrage to art and to the truth delighted the public,
they promptly fell down of their own accord, and the triumphant
Sousanin walked away, shaking his fists at them, amid the
vociferous applause of the Muscovites. At the end of the opera the
Emperor’s portrait was brought on the stage, and an indescribable
tumult followed.”
_To Alexandra Davidov._
“_April_ 18_th_ (20_th_).
“I am going to act as advocate for two mortals who are just crazy
about Kamenka. You write that Toly and Modi might be left in
Petersburg, but I am determined not to tell them your point of
view. They would utterly lose heart--especially Toly. One of my
chief reasons for caring to spend the summer at Kamenka is to be
with them, and your house is the only place where we can be
together for a time. If you only knew how these little fellows
cling to me (and I return their love a hundredfold), you would not
find it in your heart to separate us. Arrange, my dear, for this
visit to come off. Very likely I shall be able to take part of the
expense off your hands.”
Before the summer holidays came, Tchaikovsky’s health was in an
unsatisfactory condition. He complains in his letters of insomnia,
nervousness, and the throbbing sensations in his head, to which he often
refers as “my apoplectic symptoms.” At the end of April his depression
became very apparent, and he wrote to his brother Anatol:--
“My nerves are altogether shaken. The causes are: (1) the symphony,
which does not sound satisfactory; (2) Rubinstein and Tarnovsky
have discovered that I am easily startled, and amuse themselves by
giving me all manner of shocks all day long; (3) I cannot shake off
the conviction that I shall not live long, and shall leave my
symphony unfinished. I long for the summer and for Kamenka as for
the Promised Land, and hope to find rest and peace, and to forget
all my troubles there. Yesterday I determined to touch no more
wine, spirits, or strong tea.
“I hate mankind in the mass, and I should be delighted to retire
into some wilderness with very few inhabitants. I have already
secured my ticket in the _diligence_ for May 10th (22nd).”
The visit to Kamenka, to which he had looked forward through the winter
and spring, did not actually come to pass. In consequence of the state
of the high-roads, the diligence was unable to run beyond Dovsk; the
remainder of the journey had to be undertaken, at the traveller’s own
risk and expense, in a private post-chaise. Tchaikovsky’s funds did not
permit of this extra strain, and the visit to his sister was abandoned.
With the assistance of his father, Anatol was sent to Kamenka, while
Peter Ilich, with Modeste, went for a time to his sister’s mother-in-law
at Miatlev, near Petersburg.
In spite of the beauty of scenery and his pleasure in being with his
excellent friends, Elizabeth and Vera Davidov, in spite of being near
his father and the poetical impression derived from a trip to Lake
Ladoga, Tchaikovsky did not altogether enjoy his holiday at Miatlev. The
cause of this was his G minor symphony, afterwards known as _Winter Day
Dreams_. Not one of his compositions gave him so much trouble as this
symphony.
He began this work in Moscow during the spring, and it was the cause of
his nervous disorders and numerous sleepless nights. These difficulties
were partly caused by his want of experience in composition, and partly
by his habit of working by night as well as by day. At the end of June
he had a terrible nervous breakdown, and the doctor who was called in to
see him declared he had narrowly escaped madness, and that his condition
was very serious. The most alarming symptoms of the illness were his
hallucinations and a constant feeling of dread. That he suffered
intensely is evident from the fact that he never again attempted to work
through the night.
In consequence of his illness, Tchaikovsky was unable to finish the
symphony during the summer. Nevertheless, before his return to Moscow he
resolved to submit it to his former masters, Anton Rubinstein and
Zaremba, hoping they might offer to let it be heard at the Musical
Society.
Once more he was doomed to disappointment. His symphony was severely
criticised, rejected, and pronounced unworthy of performance. It was the
first completely independent work which he had composed after leaving
the Petersburg Conservatoire. The only other work upon which he was
engaged at this time was the orchestration of his F major and C minor
overtures, which still remain unpublished.
III
1866-1867
At the end of August Tchaikovsky returned to Moscow without any trace of
the hostile feeling with which he had gone there in the previous
January. In this change of attitude his artistic sensibility
unquestionably played a part. After the severe judgment of the
authorities in Petersburg upon his symphony, he could not fail to
contrast this reception unfavourably with the acknowledgments of the
Moscow musical world. He had learnt, too, the value of his colleagues,
N. Rubinstein, Albrecht and Kashkin, and looked forward to meeting them
again. Finally, he had the pleasant prospect of an increased salary,
commencing from September. He must have rejoiced to feel his extreme
poverty had touched its limits, and an income of over £120 a year seemed
almost wealth to him. “I have money enough and to spare,” he wrote to
his brothers in November.
The ties which bound him to Petersburg were slackening. His attachment
to his father remained unchanged, but he was growing accustomed to his
separation; moreover, the twins stood less in need of his tender
solicitude, since they were once more living at home with their father.
And yet he still hankered after the recognition of St. Petersburg;
Moscow was still “a strange city”; a provincial town, the appreciation
of which was hardly worth the conquest.
In 1866 the Conservatoire outgrew its quarters in Rubinstein’s house,
and it became necessary to locate it in a larger building. Rubinstein
now moved into quarters nearer the new Conservatoire, and Tchaikovsky
continued to live with him.
The opening of the buildings took place on September 1st (13th), and was
attended by most of the leaders of Moscow society. The consecration
service was followed by a banquet at which many toasts were given, and
even Tchaikovsky himself drank to the health of Rubinstein, after making
a cordial and eloquent speech in his honour. Kashkin, the only witness
of the event now living, writes:--
“The banquet was followed by music, and Tchaikovsky, who was
determined that the first music to be heard in the hall of the
Conservatoire should be Glinka’s, opened the impromptu concert by
playing the overture to _Russlan and Lieudmilla_ from memory.”
The influx of new colleagues which followed the enlargement of the
Conservatoire made very little difference to Tchaikovsky’s intimate
circle. He admired Laub’s incomparable playing without entering into
closer relations with him. He had more in common with Kossmann, an
excellent musician and a man of culture. His acquaintance with the
violinist Wieniawsky was of short duration, since at the end of six
months the latter resigned his post as teacher, and they never met
again. He often spent the evening with Dubuque, a most hospitable man,
and a famous pianist, who was considered the finest interpreter of
Field’s Nocturnes and other works which were accounted modern in those
days. To these acquaintances we may add Anton Door, the well-known
pianist, now residing in Vienna.
Among such of Tchaikovsky’s friends as did not belong to the musical
profession, the generous art patron Prince Vladimir Odoevsky takes the
first place. Peter Ilich was grateful for the interest which this
enlightened man took in him and his work. In 1878 he says in one of his
letters:--
[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY (IN WINTER DRESS), 1867]
“He was the personification of kindness, and combined the most
all-embracing knowledge, including the art of music.... Four days
before his death he came to the concert to hear my orchestral
fantasia, _Fatum_. How jovial he was when during the interval he
came to give me his opinion! The cymbals which he unearthed and
presented to me are still kept at the Conservatoire. He did not
like the instruments himself, but thought I had a talent for
introducing them at the right moment. So the charming old fellow
searched all Moscow until he discovered a pair of good ‘piatti,’
and sent them to me with a precious letter.”
In the literary and dramatic world Tchaikovsky had two good friends--the
dramatist Ostrovsky and Sadovsky. He won the sympathy of these
distinguished men entirely by his own personality, since neither of them
cared greatly for music.
During the season 1866-7 the composer made another friendship which was
of great importance to his future career. Vladimir Petrovich Begichev,
Intendant of the Imperial Opera, Moscow, enjoyed a considerable
reputation--first as an elderly Adonis, secondly as the hero of many
romantic episodes in the past, and thirdly as the husband of his wife, a
lady once renowned for her singing and for her somewhat sensational
past. By her first husband Madame Begichev had two sons--Constantine and
Vladimir Shilovsky. These young men were strongly attracted to art and
literature, and played a considerable part in Tchaikovsky’s subsequent
career.
Soon after his arrival in Moscow Tchaikovsky began to compose an
overture on the Danish National Hymn, which N. Rubinstein had requested
him to have ready for the approaching marriage of the Tsarevitch with
the Princess Dagmar, to be played in the presence of the royal pair
during their visit to Moscow.
As with all his commissioned works, Tchaikovsky had completed this
overture before the appointed day, although he had to compose under the
most unfavourable conditions. Rubinstein’s house was beset all day long
by professors from the Conservatoire and other visitors, who did not
hesitate to intrude into Tchaikovsky’s room, so that he found no peace
at home, and had to take refuge in a neighbouring inn, “The Great
Britain,” which was very little frequented during the daytime. When
finished, he dedicated the overture to the Tsarevitch, and received in
return a pair of jewelled sleeve-links, which he immediately sold to
Dubuque. Tchaikovsky, who generally judged his early works very
severely, kept a favourable recollection of this overture, and wrote to
Jurgenson, in 1892:--
“My Danish Overture may become a popular concert work, for, as far
as I can remember, it is effective and, from a musical standpoint,
far superior to ‘1812.’”
After making some alterations in his symphony--undertaken at the desire
of Anton Rubinstein and Zaremba--Tchaikovsky, setting aside N.
Rubinstein, desired to hear the judgments of his old teachers, so
greatly was he still under the influence of Petersburg opinion. He only
permitted the least important movement to be heard at a Moscow Symphony
Concert in December--the scherzo, which had very little success. In
Petersburg the work was once more refused, but afterwards the two middle
movements (adagio and scherzo) were performed in February, 1867. The
reception was not encouraging, only one anonymous critic speaking warmly
in praise of the music.
In Tchaikovsky’s nature, side by side with his gentle and benevolent
attitude towards his fellow-men, there existed an extraordinary memory
for any injury; not in the ordinary sense of a desire for revenge, but
in the more literal meaning of unforgetfulness. He hardly ever forgot a
slight to his artistic pride. If it was offered by one whom he had
hitherto loved, he grew suddenly cold to him--and for ever. Not only for
months or years, but for decades, he would bear such a wound unhealed
in his heart, and it took a great deal to make him forget an
inconsiderate word, or an unfriendly action. It was no doubt the result
of having been spoilt as a child. From his earliest infancy he had been
kept from all unpleasantness, or even indifference, so that what would
have appeared a pin-prick to many seemed to him a mortal blow.
Not only the episode of the symphony--which afterwards won a fair
measure of success in St. Petersburg--but many other events contributed
to estrange Tchaikovsky from the city of his first affections. Gradually
the circle of his friends there decreased, and the most intimate of them
all, Laroche, was appointed Professor at the Moscow Conservatoire in
December, 1867. Besides which that little school of gifted “young
Russians,” under the leadership of Balakirev, and the protection of
Dargomijsky, which included Moussorgsky, Cui, Borodin and
Rimsky-Korsakov, were gaining more and more acknowledgment and weight in
Petersburg. This circle, supported by the pens of Cui and Stassov, who
held extremely modern views and were opposed to the Conservatoire and
Anton Rubinstein, made a very unsympathetic impression upon Tchaikovsky.
The hostility with which he regarded this group of composers had its
origin in his distrustful attitude towards society generally. He met all
strangers with dislike, but at the first friendly advance, or kind word,
he forgave them, and even thought them sympathetic.
So it was with his intercourse with the members of the New School in St.
Petersburg. Until 1868 none of them were known to him personally, but
all the same he was hostile to them. This was sufficient to awaken in
him the notion that they were all disposed to be his enemies, and when
in 1867 Anton Rubinstein resigned the conductorship of the Symphony
Concerts, and it passed into the hands of this school, he decided that
Petersburg was now a hostile camp, whereas in reality they were simply
neutral, or indifferent, to him.
Meanwhile, by closer acquaintance with Nicholas Rubinstein, Tchaikovsky
had begun to recognise his worth as an executant, a conductor, and an
indefatigable worker; while the presence of such musicians as Laub and
Kossmann, and such intimate friends as Kashkin, Albrecht and Laroche,
reconciled him to Moscow as a musical centre where it was worth while to
be appreciated.
The earliest of Tchaikovsky’s letters in 1867 is dated May 2nd (14th);
therefore it is difficult to fix the precise date at which he began to
compose his opera, _The Voyevode_. In any case he received the first
part of the libretto from Ostrovsky in March or April. I remember that
in the summer the first act was not even finished. At the very outset he
was delayed in his work because he lost the manuscript, and Ostrovsky
had to rewrite it from memory.
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
“_May_ 2_nd_(14_th_), 1867.
“All last week I was out of humour; first, because of the bad
weather; secondly, from shortness of money; and thirdly, from
despair of ever again finding the libretto.... Recently I made the
acquaintance of Professor Bougaiev at his house. He is an
extraordinarily learned man. He talked until late into the night
about astronomy and its latest discoveries. Good God! How ignorant
we are when we leave school! I shudder when I chance to come across
a really well-read and enlightened man!...”
In the summer of 1867 Tchaikovsky decided to visit Finland with one of
the twins, his funds not being sufficient to allow of his taking both of
them. With his usual _naïveté_ as regards money matters, he set off with
Anatol, taking about £10 in his pocket, which he believed would suffice
for the trip. At the end of a few days in Viborg, finding themselves
nearly penniless, they took the first boat back to Petersburg. There a
great disappointment awaited them. Their father, from whom they hoped to
obtain some assistance, had already left for a summer holiday in the
Ural Mountains. The brothers then spent their last remaining shillings
in reaching Hapsal by steamer, where they were certain of finding their
faithful friends the Davidovs. They travelled as “between deck”
passengers and suffered terribly from the cold. But notwithstanding
these misadventures, out of which they derived more amusement than
discomfort, Peter Ilich enjoyed the summer holidays. His spirits were
excellent, and he worked hard at _The Voyevode_, while his leisure was
spent in the society of his dear friends. The evenings were devoted to
reading, and they were particularly interested in the dramatic works of
Alfred de Musset. This kind of life entirely satisfied Tchaikovsky’s
simple and steadfast nature, and his happy frame of mind is reflected in
the _Chant sans paroles_, which he composed at this time and
dedicated--with two additional pieces for piano--to Vera Vassilievna
Davidov, under the title of _Souvenir de Hapsal_.
On August 15th (27th), Tchaikovsky left Hapsal for Moscow, spending a
week in Petersburg on his way.
IV
1867-1868
“Perhaps you may have observed”--writes Tchaikovsky to his
sister--“that I long intensely for a quiet, peaceful life, such as
one lives in the country. Vera Davidov may have told you how we
often spoke in fun of our future farm, where we intended to end our
days. As regards myself it is no joke. I am really attracted to
this idea because, although I am far from being old, I am already
very tired of life. Do not laugh; if you always lived with me you
would see it for yourself. The people around me often wonder at my
taciturnity and my apparent ill-temper, while actually I do not
lead an unhappy existence. What more can a man want whose prospects
are good, who is liked, and whose artistic work meets with
appreciation? And yet, in spite of these favourable circumstances,
I shrink from every social engagement, do not care to make
acquaintances, love solitude and silence. All this is explained by
my weariness of life. In those moments when I am not merely too
lazy to talk, but too indolent even to think, I dream of a calm,
heavenly, serene existence, and only realise this life in your
immediate neighbourhood. Be sure of this: you will have to devote
some of your maternal devotion to your tired old brother. Perhaps
you may think such a frame of mind naturally leads a man to the
consideration of matrimony. No, my dear future companion! My
weariness has made me _too indolent_ to form new ties, _too
indolent_ to found a family, _too indolent_ to take upon myself the
responsibility of wife and children. In short, marriage is to me
inconceivable. How I shall come to be united with your family I
know not as yet; whether I shall become the owner of a plot of
ground in your neighbourhood, or simply your boarder, only the
future can decide. One thing is clear: my future happiness is
impossible apart from you.”
Tchaikovsky never gives the true reason for his yearning after solitude
and a life of “heavenly quiet and serenity,” but it certainly did not
proceed from “misanthropy,” “indolence,” or weariness of life.
He was no misanthropist, for, as everyone who knew him must agree, it
would be difficult to find any man who gave out more sympathy than he
did. Laroche says:--
“The number of people who made a good impression on him, who
pleased him, and of whom he spoke in their absence as ‘good’ and
‘sympathetic,’ sometimes astounded me. The power of seeing the best
side of people and of things was a gift inherited from his father,
and it was precisely this love of his fellow-creatures which made
him so beloved in return. He was no misanthropist, rather a
philanthropist in the true sense of the word. Neither is there
greater justice in his self-accusation of ‘indolence.’ Those who
have followed him through his school-life, his official career, and
his student days at the Conservatoire, will be of my opinion. But a
glance at the number of his works, which reaches seventy-six,
including ten operas and three ballets; at his letters (I possess,
in all, four thousand); at his literary work (sixty-one articles);
at his translations and arrangements, and his ten years’ teaching,
will suffice to convince the most sceptical that his nature knew no
moods of _dolce far niente_.”
As regards his “weariness of life,” he himself disposes of it in the
same letter, when he speaks of yearning for a calm and happy existence.
Those who are really world-weary have no longing for any kind of
existence. Neither misanthropy, indolence, nor weariness were his
permanent moods. His indefinite craving for an easier life was caused by
his creative impulse, which, waxing ever stronger and stronger, awoke
the desire for more leisure to devote to it. This longing for freedom
reached a climax in 1877, and brought about a complete change in his
life.
For the time being it was useless to think of solitude or freedom. All
he could hope for was the comparative liberty of his summer vacation.
Town life was a necessity to him from the material and moral point of
view, and although he complained of its being oppressive, I believe that
had he been compelled by fate to reside in the country--as he did some
years later--he would, at this earlier period of his career, have had
much more cause for complaint.
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
“_August_ 31_st_, 1867 (_September_ 12_th_).
“ ... At present I have nothing to do, and loaf about the town all
day.... Ostrovsky still keeps me on the trot. I read in the
Petersburg papers that he had completed my libretto, but it is not
so. I had some difficulty in dragging the first half of the lost
act out of him. I am wandering about with the intention of buying a
large writing-table to make my room more comfortable, so that I can
work at my opera at home. I am determined to finish it during the
winter. Last night we celebrated Dubuque’s birthday, and I came
back rather the worse for liquor.
“I have spent two evenings running at the ‘English Club.’ What a
delightful club! It would be jolly to belong to it, but it costs
too much....”
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
(_About the end of October._)
“I am getting along all right. On Saturday our first concert takes
place, to which I look forward, for, generally speaking, the people
here prefer carnal to spiritual entertainments, and eat and drink
an incredible amount. The concert will supply me with a little
musical food, of which I am badly in need, for I live like a bear
in his cave, upon my own substance, that is to say, upon my
compositions, which are always running in my head. Try as I may, it
is impossible to lead a quiet life in Moscow, where one must
over-eat and drink. This is the fifth day in succession that I have
come home late with an overloaded stomach. But you must not imagine
I am idle: from breakfast till the midday meal I work without a
break.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“_November_ 25_th_ (_December_ 7_th_).
“Our mutual friend Klimenko is in Moscow, and visits us almost
daily.
“The Opera is progressing fairly well. The whole of the third act
is finished, and the dances from it--which I orchestrated at
Hapsal--will be given at the next concert.”
Ivan Alexandrovich Klimenko, whose name will often occur in the course
of this book, had previously made Laroche’s acquaintance at one of
Serov’s “Tuesday evenings.” An architect by profession, Kashkin
describes him as a very gifted amateur. He was devotedly attached to
Tchaikovsky, and one of the first to prophesy his significance for
Russian music.
At the second symphony concert, which took place early in December, “The
Dances of the Serving Maids,” from _The Voyevode_, were given. They had
an undeniable success, and were twice repeated in Moscow during the
season.
On December 12th (24th) Tchaikovsky wrote to his brother Anatol as
follows:--
“You ask if I am coming to Petersburg. Wisdom compels me to say no.
In the first place I have not money for the journey, and secondly,
Berlioz is coming here at Christmas, and will give two
concerts--one popular, and another in the place of our fourth
symphony evening. I shall put off my visit until the Carnival or
Lent....”
Berlioz went to Moscow about the end of December, 1867, direct from St.
Petersburg, where he had been invited by the directors of the Musical
Society--chiefly at the instigation of Dargomijsky and Balakirev--to
conduct a series of six concerts.
This was not his first visit to Russia. As early as 1847 he had been
welcomed in Petersburg, Moscow and Riga, by the instrumentality of
Glinka, who regarded him as “the greatest of contemporary musicians.” He
then met with an enthusiastic reception from the leaders of the Russian
musical world, Prince Odoevsky and Count Vielgorsky, and not only made a
large sum, but was equally fêted by the public. It is interesting to
note that not only Berlioz himself, but his Russian admirers seem to
have deluded themselves into the belief that he was “understood” and
“appreciated” in Russia. Prince Odoevsky, who published an article
extolling Berlioz’s genius the very day before his first concert in
Petersburg, exclaims in one of his letters to Glinka:--
“Where are you, friend? Why are you not with us? Why are you not
sharing our joy and pleasure? Berlioz has been ‘understood’ in St.
Petersburg!! Here, in spite of the scourge of Italian cavatina,
which has well-nigh ruined Slavonic taste, we showed that we could
still appreciate the most complicated contrapuntal music in the
world. There must be a secret sympathy between his music and our
intimate Russian sentiment. How else can this public enthusiasm be
explained?”
I am of opinion that it is more easily explicable by the fact that
Berlioz was a gifted conductor, and that the public had been
prepossessed in his favour by the laudatory articles of Prince Odoevsky
himself. Judging from the neglect of this famous composer in the present
day (_Faust_ is the only one of his works which is still popular), this
is surely the right point of view.
Twenty years later, in 1867, the enthusiastic welcome he received here
was chiefly due to his attraction as a conductor, and to the enthusiasm
of that small group of Russian musicians to whom he owed his invitation
to our country.
Tchaikovsky, whose views were entirely opposed to those of this circle,
held “his own opinions” in this, as in other matters. Although he fully
appreciated the important place which Berlioz filled in modern music,
and recognised him as a great reformer of the orchestra, he felt no
enthusiasm for his music. On the other hand, he had the warmest
admiration for the man, in whom he saw “the personification of
disinterested industry, of ardent love for art, of a noble and energetic
combatant against ignorance, stupidity, vulgarity, and routine....” He
also regarded him as “an old and broken man, persecuted alike by fate
and his fellow-creatures,” whom he cordially desired to console and
cheer--if only for the moment--by the expression of an ungrudging
sympathy.
On February 3rd (15th) Tchaikovsky’s G minor symphony was given at the
Musical Society, when its success surpassed all expectations. “The
adagio pleased best,” Tchaikovsky wrote to his brothers. The composer
was vociferously recalled, and, according to Countess Kapnist, appeared
upon the platform in rather untidy clothes, hat in hand, and bowed
awkwardly.
On February 19th (March 2nd) a charity concert was given in the Opera
House in aid of the Famine Fund. This was an event in Tchaikovsky’s
life, for he made his first public appearance as a conductor, the
“Dances” from _The Voyevode_, being played under his bâton. On this
occasion, too, he first became acquainted with the work of
Rimsky-Korsakov, whose “Serbian Fantasia” was included in the programme.
Tchaikovsky’s opinion of himself as a conductor we have learnt already
from Laroche. Kashkin gives the following account of this concert:--
“When I went behind the scenes to see how the _débutant_ was
feeling, he told me that to his great surprise he was not in the
least nervous. Before it came to his turn I returned to my place.
When Tchaikovsky actually appeared on the platform, I noticed that
he was quite distracted; he came on timidly, as though he would
have been glad to hide, or run away, and, on mounting to the
conductor’s desk, looked like a man who finds himself in some
desperate situation. Apparently his composition was blotted out
from his mind; he did not see the score before him, and gave all
the leads at the wrong moment, or to the wrong instruments.
Fortunately the band knew the music so well that they paid no
attention whatever to Tchaikovsky’s beat, but laughing in their
sleeves, got through the dances very creditably in spite of him.
Afterwards Peter Ilich told me that in his terror he had a feeling
that his head would fall off his shoulders unless he held it
tightly in position.”
That he had no faith in his powers of conducting is evident from the
fact that ten years elapsed before he ventured to take up the bâton
again.
In a notice of the concert, which appeared in _The Entr’acte_,
Tchaikovsky was spoken of as a “mature” musician, whose work was
remarkable for “loftiness of aim and masterly thematic treatment”; while
Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Serbian Fantasia” was dismissed as “colourless and
inanimate.”
Had such a judgment been pronounced a few months earlier, at a time when
Tchaikovsky knew nothing of the composer, and regarded the entire
Petersburg School as his enemies, who knows whether he would not have
felt a certain satisfaction--a kind of “Schadenfreude”--at its
appearance? Now, however, circumstances were altered. Not only had he
become well acquainted with the “Serbian Fantasia” at rehearsal, and
learnt to regard both the work and its composer with respect, but during
the last two or three months he had been more closely associated with
the leader of the New School, Mily Balakirev, and had become convinced
that, far from being his enemies, the Petersburg set were all interested
in his career.
The result of this pleasing discovery was a burning desire to show his
sympathy for a gifted colleague, and he wrote an article in direct
contradiction to the criticism of the _Entr’acte_. This was the
beginning of his literary activity. The article aroused considerable
attention in Moscow, and was warmly approved. Nor did it escape
observation in St. Petersburg. Consequently, when Tchaikovsky visited
his father at Easter, he was received in a very friendly spirit by “The
Invincible Band.”[16]
The rallying-point of “The Band” was Dargomijsky’s house. The composer,
although confined to his bed by a mortal illness, was working with fire
and inspiration at his opera, _The Stone Guest_. His young friends
regarded this work as the foundation-stone of the great temple of “The
Music of the Future,” and frequently assembled at the “Master’s” to note
the progress of the new creation and show him their own works. Even
Tchaikovsky, who had already met Dargomijsky at Begichev’s in Moscow,
found himself more than once among the guests, and made many new
acquaintances on these occasions.
At Balakirev’s, too, he met many musicians who held the views of the New
Russian School. Although Tchaikovsky entered into friendly relations
with the members of “The Invincibles,” he could not accept their tenets,
and with great tact and skill remained entirely independent of them.
While he made friends individually with Balakirev, Rimsky-Korsakov, Cui
and Vladimir Stassov, he still regarded their union with some hostility.
He laughed at their ultra-progressive tendencies and regarded with
contempt the naïve and crude efforts of some members of “The Band”
(especially Moussorgsky). But while making fun of these “unheard-of
works of genius,” which “throw all others into the shade,” and indignant
at their daring attacks upon his idol Mozart, Tchaikovsky was also
impressed by the force and vitality displayed in some of their
compositions, as well as by their freshness of inspiration and
honourable intentions, so that far from being repulsed, he learnt to
feel a certain degree of sympathy and a very great respect for this
school.
This dual relationship reacted in two different ways. Tchaikovsky never
hesitated to express quite openly his antipathy to the tendencies of
these innovators, while he refused to recognise the dilettante
extravagances of Moussorgsky as masterpieces, and always made it evident
that it would be distasteful to him to win the praise of Stassov and
Cui, and with it the title of “genius,” by seeking originality at the
expense of artistic beauty. At the same time he acted as the
propagandist of “The Band” in Moscow, was their intermediary with the
Moscow section of the Musical Society, and busied himself with the
performance or publication of their works. When in 1869 the Grand
Duchess Helena Paulovna desired to carry out a change in the management
of the symphony concerts, and Balakirev retired from the conductorship,
Tchaikovsky appeared for the second time as the champion of “The Band,”
and protested against the proceedings of the Grand Duchess in an
energetic article, in which he displayed also his sympathy with the
leader of the New Russian School. During the period when he was engaged
in musical criticism, he lost no opportunity of giving public expression
to his respect and enthusiasm for the works of Balakirev and
Rimsky-Korsakov.
But the most obvious sign of his sympathy with “The Band” is the fact
that he dedicated three of his best works to individual members--_Fatum_
and _Romeo and Juliet_ to Balakirev and _The Tempest_ to Vladimir
Stassov. Here undoubtedly we may see the indirect influence which the
New School exercised upon Tchaikovsky. He would not amalgamate with
them; nor would he adopt their principles. But to win their sympathy,
without actually having recourse to a compromise; to accept their advice
(_Romeo and Juliet_ was suggested by Balakirev and _The Tempest_ by
Stassov); to triumph over the tasks they set him and to show his
solidarity with “The Band,” only in so far as they both aimed at being
earnest in matters of art--all this seemed to him not only interesting,
but worthy of his vocation.
“The Invincible Band” repaid Tchaikovsky in his own coin. They
criticised some of his works as pedantic, “behind the times,” and
_routinier_, but at the outset of his career they took the greatest
interest in him, respected him as a worthy rival, strove to win him over
to their views, and continued to consider him “among the elect,” even
after the failure of their efforts at conversion.
The relations between Tchaikovsky and “The Band” may be compared to
those existing between two friendly neighbouring states, each leading
its independent existence, meeting on common grounds, but keeping their
individual interests strictly apart.
During the summer of this year Tchaikovsky went abroad with his
favourite pupil Vladimir Shilovsky, accompanied by the lad’s guardian,
V. Begichev, and a friend named De Lazary. In spite of a lingering wish
to spend his holidays with his own people in some quiet spot, the
opportunity seemed too good to be lost. His travelling companions were
congenial, and his duties of the lightest--merely to give music lessons
to young Shilovsky.
From Paris he wrote to his sister on July 20th (August 1st), 1868:--
“Originally we intended to visit the most beautiful places in
Europe, but Shilovsky’s illness, and the need of consulting a
certain great doctor with all possible speed, brought us here, and
has kept us against our will.... The theatres are splendid, not
externally, but as regards the staging of pieces and the skill with
which effects are produced by the simplest means. They know how to
mount and act a play here in such a way that, without any
remarkable display of histrionic talent, it is more effective than
it would be with us, since it would probably lack rehearsal and
_ensemble_.
“As regards music, too, in the operas I have heard I remarked no
singer with an exceptional voice, and yet what a splendid
performance! How carefully everything is studied and thought out!
What earnest attention is given to every detail, no matter how
insignificant, which goes to make up the general effect! We have no
conception of such performances.... The noise and bustle of Paris
is far less suited to a composer than the quiet of such a lake as
the Thuner See, not to mention the stinking, but beloved,
Tiasmin,[17] which is happy in flowing by the house that holds
some of my nearest and dearest. How have they passed this summer?”
Tchaikovsky returned to his duties at Moscow about the end of August.
V
1868-1869
Externally, Tchaikovsky’s life had remained unchanged during this
period. His lessons at the Conservatoire slightly increased, and his
salary consequently rose to over 1,400 roubles (£140). Under these
circumstances he began to think of finding separate quarters, since his
life with Nicholas Rubinstein was unfavourable to his creative work. The
latter, however, would not consent to this, and Tchaikovsky himself had
doubts as to whether his income would suffice for a separate
establishment.
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“_September_ 3_rd_ (15_th_).
“I have been working like a slave to-day. The day before yesterday
I received an unexpected summons to attend at the theatre. To my
great surprise I found two choral rehearsals of my opera (_The
Voyevode_) had already been given, and the first solo rehearsal was
about to take place. I have undertaken the pianoforte accompaniment
myself. I doubt the possibility of getting up such a difficult work
in a month, and already I shiver with apprehension at all the
hurry-skurry and confusion which lie before me. The rehearsals will
take place almost daily. The singers are all pleased with the
opera....”
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
“_September_ 25_th_ (_October_ 7_th_).
“ ... When I saw that it was impossible to study my opera in so
short a time, I informed the directors that so long as the Italian
company remained in Moscow and absorbed the time of both chorus and
orchestra, I would not send in the score of my work. I wrote to
Gedeonov to this effect. In consequence, the performance is
postponed until the Italians leave Moscow. I have a little more
leisure now. Besides, Menshikova already knows the greater part of
her rôle by heart. I lunched with her to-day, and she sang me
several numbers from the opera, by no means badly. Time, on the
whole, goes quickly and pleasantly.
“I have some good news to give you about my future work. A few days
ago I was lunching with Ostrovsky, and he proposed, entirely of his
own accord, to write a libretto for me. The subject has been in his
mind for the last twenty years, but he has never spoken of it to
anyone before; now his choice has fallen upon me.
“The scene is laid in Babylon and Greece, in the time of Alexander
of Macedon, who is introduced as one of the characters. We have
representatives of two great races of antiquity: the Hebrews and
the Greeks. The hero is a young Hebrew, in love with one of his own
race, who, actuated by ambitious motives, betrays him for the sake
of Alexander. In the end the young Hebrew becomes a prophet. You
have no idea what a fine plot it is! Just now I am writing a
symphonic sketch, _Fatum_.[18] The Italian opera is creating a
furore. Artôt is a splendid creature. She and I are good friends.”
“Early in 1868,” says Laroche, “an Italian opera company visited Moscow
for a few weeks, at the head of which was the impresario Merelli. Their
performances at the Opera drew crowded houses. The company consisted of
fifth-rate singers, who had neither voices nor talent; the one exception
was a woman of thirty, not good-looking, but with a passionate and
expressive face, who had just reached the climax of her art, and soon
afterwards began to go off, both in voice and appearance.
“Désirée Artôt, a daughter of the celebrated horn-player Artôt, and a
niece of the still more renowned violinist, had been trained by Pauline
Viardot-Garcia. Her voice was powerful, and adapted to express intense
dramatic pathos, but unfortunately it had no reserve force, and began to
deteriorate comparatively early, so that six or seven years after the
time of which I am speaking it had completely lost its charm. Besides
its dramatic quality, her voice was suitable for florid vocalisation,
and her lower notes were so good that she could take many mezzo-soprano
parts; consequently her repertory was almost unlimited.... It is not too
much to say that in the whole world of music, in the entire range of
lyrical emotion, there was not a single idea, or a single form, of which
this admirable artist could not give a poetical interpretation. The
timbre of her voice was more like the oboe than the flute, and was
penetrated by such indescribable beauty, warmth, and passion, that
everyone who heard it was fascinated and carried away. I have said that
Désirée Artôt was not good-looking. At the same time, without recourse
to artificial aids, her charm was so great that she won all hearts and
turned all heads, as though she had been the loveliest of women. The
delicate texture and pallor of her skin, the plastic grace of her
movements, the beauty of her neck and arms, were not her only weapons;
under the irregularity of her features lay some wonderful charm of
attraction, and of all the many ‘Gretchens’ I have seen in my day, Artôt
was by far the most ideal, the most fascinating.
“This was chiefly due to her talent as an actress. I have never seen
anyone so perfectly at home on the stage as she was. From the first
entrance, to the last cry of triumph or despair, the illusion was
perfect. Not a single movement betrayed intention or pre-consideration.
She was equally herself in a tragic, comic, or comedy part.”
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
“_October_ 21_st_ (_November_ 2_nd_).
“I am very busy writing choruses and recitatives to Auber’s _Domino
Noir_, which is to be given for Artôt’s benefit. Merelli will pay
me for the work. I have become very friendly with Artôt, and am
glad to know something of her remarkable character. I have never
met a kinder, a better, or a cleverer woman.
“Anton Rubinstein has been here. He played divinely, and created an
indescribable sensation. He has not altered, and is as nice as
ever.
“My orchestral fantasia _Fatum_ is finished.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
(_November._)
“Oh, Moding, I long to pour my impressions into your artistic soul.
If only you knew what a singer and actress Artôt is!! I have never
experienced such powerful artistic impressions as just recently.
How delighted you would be with the grace of her movements and
poses!”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
(_December._)
“ ... I have not written to you for a long while, but many things
now make it impossible for me to write letters, for all my leisure
is given to one--of whom you have already heard--whom I love
dearly.
“My musical situation is as follows: Two of my pianoforte pieces
are to be published in a day or two. I have arranged twenty-five
Russian folksongs for four hands, which will be published
immediately, and I have orchestrated my fantasia _Fatum_ for the
fifth concert of the Musical Society.
“Recently a concert was given here for the benefit of poor
students, in which ‘the one being’ sang for the last time before
her departure, and Nicholas Rubinstein played my pianoforte piece
dedicated to Artôt.”
_To his father._
“_December_ 26_th_ (_January_ 7_th_, 1869).
“MY DEAR, KIND DAD!--To my great annoyance, circumstances have
prevented my going to Petersburg. This journey would have cost me
at least a hundred roubles, and just now I do not possess them.
Consequently I must send my New Year’s wishes by letter. I wish
you happiness and all good things. As rumours of my engagement will
doubtless have reached you, and you may feel hurt at my silence
upon the subject, I will tell you the whole story. I made the
acquaintance of Artôt in the spring, but only visited her once,
when I went to a supper given after her benefit performance. After
she returned here in autumn I did not call on her for a whole
month. Then we met by chance at a musical evening. She expressed
surprise that I had not called, and I promised to do so, a promise
I should never have kept (because of my shyness with new friends)
if Anton Rubinstein, in passing through Moscow, had not dragged me
there. Afterwards I received constant invitations, and got into the
way of going to her house daily. Soon we began to experience a
mutual glow of tenderness, and an understanding followed
immediately. Naturally the question of marriage arose at once, and,
if nothing hinders it, our wedding is to take place in the summer.
But the worst is that there are several obstacles. First, there is
her mother, who always lives with her, and has considerable
influence upon her daughter. She is not in favour of the match,
because she considers me too young, and probably fears lest I
should expect her daughter to live permanently in Russia. Secondly,
my friends, especially N. Rubinstein, are trying might and main to
prevent my marriage. They declare that, married to a famous singer,
I should play the pitiable part of ‘husband of my wife’; that I
should live at her expense and accompany her all over Europe;
finally, that I should lose all opportunities of working, and that
when my first love had cooled, I should know nothing but
disenchantment and depression. The risk of such a catastrophe might
perhaps be avoided, if she would consent to leave the stage and
live entirely in Russia. But she declares that in spite of all her
love for me, she cannot make up her mind to give up the profession
which brings her in so much money, and to which she has grown
accustomed. At present she is on her way to Moscow. Meanwhile we
have agreed that I am to visit her in summer at her country house
(near Paris), when our fate will be decided.
“If she will not consent to give up the stage, I, on my part,
hesitate to sacrifice my future; for it is clear that I shall lose
all opportunity of making my own way, if I blindly follow in her
train. You see, Dad, my situation is a very difficult one. On the
one hand, I love her heart and soul, and feel I cannot live any
longer without her; on the other hand, calm reason bids me to
consider more closely all the misfortunes with which my friends
threaten me. I shall wait, my dear, for your views on the subject.
“I am quite well, and my life goes on as usual--only I am unhappy
now she is not here.”
Tchaikovsky received the following letter in reply:--
“_December_ 29_th_, 1868 (_January_ 10_th_, 1869).
“MY DEAR PETER,--You ask my advice upon the most momentous event in
your life.... You are both artists, both make capital out of your
talents; but while she has made both money and fame, you have
hardly begun to make your way, and God knows whether you will ever
attain to what she has acquired. Your friends know your gifts, and
fear they may suffer by your marriage--I think otherwise. You, who
gave up your official appointment for the sake of your talent, are
not likely to forsake your art, even if you are not altogether
happy at first, as is the fate of nearly all musicians. You are
proud, and therefore you find it unpleasant not to be earning
sufficient to keep a wife and be independent of her purse. Yes,
dear fellow, I understand you well enough. It is bitter and
unpleasant. But if you are both working and earning together there
can be no question of reproach; go your way, let her go hers, and
help each other side by side. It would not be wise for either of
you to give up your chosen vocations until you have saved enough to
say: ‘This is _ours_, we have earned it in common.’
“Let us analyse these words: ‘In marrying a famous singer you will
be playing the pitiable part of attendant upon her journeys; you
will live on her money and lose your own chances of work.’ If your
love is not a fleeting, but solid sentiment, as it ought to be in
people of your age; if your vows are sincere and unalterable, then
all these misgivings are nonsense. Married happiness is based upon
mutual respect, and you would no more permit your wife to be a kind
of servant, than she would ask you to be her lackey. The travelling
is not a matter of any importance, so long as it does not prevent
your composing--it will even give you opportunities of getting your
operas or symphonies performed in various places. A devoted friend
will help to inspire you. When all is set down in black and white,
with such a companion as your chosen one, your talent is more
likely to progress than to deteriorate. (2) Even if your first
passion for her does cool somewhat, will ‘nothing remain but
disenchantment and depression’? But why should love grow cold? I
lived twenty-one years with your mother, and during all that time I
loved her just the same, with the ardour of a young man, and
respected and worshipped her as a saint.... There is only one
question I would ask you; have you proved each other? Do you love
each other truly, and for all time? I know your character, my dear
son, and I have confidence in you, but I have not as yet the
happiness of knowing the dear woman of your choice. I only know her
lovely heart and soul through you. It would be no bad thing if you
proved each other, not by jealousy--God forbid--but by time....
“Describe her character to me in full, my dear. Does she translate
that tender word ‘Désirée’? A mother’s wish counts for nothing in
love affairs, but give it your consideration.”
_Tchaikovsky to his brother Anatol._
(_January._)
“Just now I am very much excited. _The Voyevode_ is about to be
performed. Everyone is taking the greatest pains, so I can hope for
a good performance. Menshikova will do very well; she sings the
‘Nightingale’ song in the second act beautifully. The tenor is not
amiss, but the bass is bad. If the work goes well I shall try to
arrange for you both to come here in the Carnival Week, so that you
may hear it.
“I have already begun upon a second opera, but I must not tell you
about the subject, because I want to keep it a secret that I have
anything in hand. How astonished they will be to find in summer
that half the opera is already put together! (I hope in summer I
shall have some chance of working)....
“With regard to the love affair I had early in the winter, I may
tell you that it is very doubtful whether I shall enter Hymen’s
bonds or not. Things are beginning to go rather awry. I will tell
you more about it later on. I have not time now.”
During this month (January) Désirée Artôt, without a word of explanation
to her first lover, was married to the baritone singer Padilla at
Warsaw.
The news reached Tchaikovsky at a moment when his whole mind, time, and
interests were absorbed by the production of his first opera, and,
judging from the tone of his letters, it was owing to these
circumstances that it affected him less painfully than might have been
expected.
In any case, after the first hours of bitterness, Tchaikovsky bore no
grudge against the faithless lady. She remained for him the most perfect
artist he had ever known. As a woman she was always dear to his memory.
A year later he had to meet her again, and wrote of the prospect as
follows:--
“I shall have very shortly to meet Artôt. She is coming here, and I
cannot avoid a meeting, because immediately after her arrival we
begin the rehearsals for _Le Domino Noir_ (for which I have written
recitatives and choruses), which I shall be compelled to attend.
This woman has caused me to experience many bitter hours, and yet I
am drawn to her by such an inexplicable sympathy that I begin to
look forward to her coming with feverish impatience.”
They met as friends. All intimate relations were at an end.
“When, in 1869, Artôt reappeared at the Moscow Opera,” says
Kashkin, “I sat in the stalls next to Tchaikovsky, who was greatly
moved. When the singer came on, he held his opera glasses to his
eyes and never lowered them during the entire performance; but he
must have seen very little, for tear after tear rolled down his
cheeks.”
Twenty years later they met once more. Youthful love and mutual sympathy
had then given place to a steady friendship, which lasted the rest of
their lives.
On January 30th (February 11th), 1869, _The Voyevode_ was given for the
first time for the singer Menshikova’s benefit.
The opera was very well received. The composer was recalled fifteen
times and presented with a laurel wreath. The performance, however, was
not without mishaps. Rapport, who took the lover’s part, had been kept
awake all night by an abscess on his finger, and was nearly fainting.
“If Menshikova had not supported him in her arms, the curtain must have
been rung down,” wrote Tchaikovsky to his brothers.
Kashkin says the chorus on a folksong, which occurred early in the
opera, pleased at once, and the “Nightingale” song became a favourite.
The tenor solo, “Glow, O Dawn-light,” based upon the pentatonic scale,
and the duet between Olona and Maria, “The moon sails calmly,” and the
last quartet all met with great success.
But the stormy ovation at the first performance, the enthusiasm of the
composer’s friends, and the appreciation of one or two specialists,
could not create a lasting success. The opera was only heard five times,
and then disappeared from the repertory for ever.
The first words of disapprobation and harsh criticism came from an
unexpected quarter--from Laroche. It was not only his “faint praise” of
this work, but the contemptuous attitude which Laroche now assumed
towards Tchaikovsky’s talent as a whole, which wounded the composer so
deeply that he broke off all connection with his old friend.
[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1868]
Soon after the production of _The Voyevode_ Tchaikovsky’s symphonic
fantasia _Fatum_ (or _Destiny_) was given for the first time at the
eighth concert of the Musical Society. By way of programme for this
work, which he dedicated to Balakirev, Tchaikovsky chose the following
lines from Batioushkov:--
“Thou knowest what the white-haired Melchisedek
Said when he left this life: Man is born a slave,
A slave he dies. Will even Death reveal to him
Why thus he laboured in this vale of tears,
Why thus he suffered, wept, endured--then vanished?”
To the choice of this motto attaches a history in which a certain
Sergius Rachinsky played a part. This gentleman, Professor of Botany at
the Moscow University, was one of Tchaikovsky’s earliest and most
enthusiastic admirers. Rachinsky was a lover of music and literature,
but held the most unusual views upon these, as upon all other subjects.
For instance, he saw nothing in Ostrovsky, then at the height of his
fame, but discerned in Tchaikovsky, who was hardly known to the world,
the making of a “great” composer.
When, in 1871, the musician dedicated to Rachinsky his first quartet,
the latter exclaimed with enthusiasm: “C’est un brevet d’immortalité que
j’ai reçu.”
Originally _Fatum_ had no definite programme.
“When the books for the concert were about to be printed,” relates
Rachinsky, “Rubinstein, who was always very careful about such
details, considered the bare title _Fatum_ insufficient, and
suggested that an appropriate verse should be added. It chanced
that I, who had not heard a note of the new work, had dropped in
upon Rubinstein, and the verses of Batioushkov flashed across my
mind. Rubinstein asked me to write them down at once, and added
them to the programme-book with the composer’s consent.”
The quotation, therefore, has not the significance of a programme, but
was merely an epigraph added to the score.
The composer declared that _Fatum_ had a “distinct success” with the
public, and added that he “considered it the best work he had written so
far,” and “others are of my opinion.” From this we may gather that, with
the exception of Laroche, Tchaikovsky’s musical friends were pleased
with this composition.
_Fatum_ was given almost simultaneously by the Petersburg section of the
Musical Society, under Balakirev’s direction. But here the fantasia fell
flat, and pleased neither the public nor the musicians.
Nevertheless, Cui did not handle the young composer so severely as on
the occasion of his Diploma Cantata. He found fault with a good deal in
_Fatum_, but described the music as being on the whole “agreeable, but
not inspired,” the instrumentation “somewhat rough,” and the harmonies
“bold and new, if not invariably beautiful.”
Balakirev--to whom the work was dedicated--did not admire it, and his
feelings were shared by the rest of the “Invincible Band.” He wrote to
Tchaikovsky as follows:--
“Your _Fatum_ has been played, and I venture to hope the
performance was not bad--at least everyone seemed satisfied with
it. There was not much applause, which I ascribe to the hideous
crash at the end. The work itself does not please me; it is not
sufficiently thought out, and shows signs of having been written
hastily. In many places the joins and tacking-threads are too
perceptible. Laroche says it is because you do not study the
classics sufficiently. I put it down to another cause: you are too
little acquainted with modern music. You will never learn freedom
of form from the classical composers. You will find nothing new
there. They can only give you what you knew already, when you sat
on the students’ benches and listened respectfully to Zaremba’s
learned discourses upon ‘The Connection between Rondo-form and
Man’s First Fall.’
“At the same concert _Les Préludes_ of Liszt was performed. Observe
the wonderful form of this work; how one thing follows another
quite naturally. This is no mere motley, haphazard affair. Or take
Glinka’s _Night in Madrid_; in what a masterly fashion the various
sections of this overture are fused together! It is just this
organic coherence and connection that are lacking in _Fatum_. I
have chosen Glinka as an example because I believe you have studied
him a great deal, and I could see all through _Fatum_ you were
under the influence of one of his choruses.
“The verse you chose as an epigraph is altogether beneath
criticism. It is a frightful specimen of manufactured rhyme. If you
are really so attracted to Byronism, why not have chosen a suitable
quotation from Lermontov? With the object of making the verse run
smoother I left out the first two lines (Melchisedek seemed really
too absurd!), but apparently I perpetrated a blunder. Our entire
circle dropped upon me and assured me that the whole of the
introduction to _Fatum_ was intended to express the awful utterance
of Melchisedek himself. Perhaps they are right. If so, you must
forgive my excellent intention.... I write to you quite frankly,
and feel sure you will not on this account abandon your intention
of dedicating _Fatum_ to me. This dedication is very precious, as
indicating your regard for me, and on my part I reciprocate your
feeling.”
Tchaikovsky did not resent Balakirev’s opinion, although it may have
wounded him. That he was grateful for the friendly tone of the letter,
in which Balakirev’s confidence in his talent was clearly perceptible,
is evident from the fact that three months later he appeared in the
press as the champion of the leader of the “Invincible Band.” Moreover,
after a short time, he shared Balakirev’s opinion of his work, and
destroyed the score of _Fatum_.
Early in the season Tchaikovsky began to look out for material for a new
opera. The chief requisite he asked was that the scene should not be
laid in Russia. The discussion with Ostrovsky of a plot from the period
of Alexander the Great, mentioned in his letter of September 25th, had
come to nothing. Without applying to another librettist, he began to
search for a ready-made text. Great was his joy to discover a book among
the works of Count Sollogoub, based upon his favourite poem, Joukovsky’s
“Undine.”
Without reflection, or closer inspection of the libretto, he began to
compose with fervour, even in the midst of the rehearsals for _The
Voyevode_; that is in January, 1869. By February he had already written
most of the first act. The two following acts he wrote in April, and
began the orchestration in the course of the same month. He hoped to
complete the first act in May, and the remainder during the summer, and
to send the whole score to the Direction of the Petersburg Opera by
November, when Gedeonov had given him a formal promise to produce it.
This feverish work, the many excitements of the winter season, his
anxiety about the elder of the twins, who had to pass his final
examination at the School of Jurisprudence, and all the trouble and
correspondence involved in trying to find him an opening in Moscow, told
upon Tchaikovsky’s nerves. His health was so far impaired that he
gradually lost strength, until he became quite exhausted, and the doctor
ordered him to the seaside, or to an inland watering-place, enjoining
absolute repose.
The summer was spent with his sister at Kamenka, where the whole family
was gathered together, with the exception of Nicholas. In June they
celebrated the wedding of his brother, Hyppolite, to Sophia Nikonov, and
Tchaikovsky, having recovered his spirits, took a leading part in all
the festivities.
The score of _Undine_ was finished by the end of July, and the composer
returned to Moscow earlier than usual--about the beginning of August.
VI
1869-1870
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
“_August_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1869.
“ ... We have taken new quarters; my room is upstairs, and there is
a place for you too. I made every possible pretext for living
alone, but I could not manage it. However, now I shall pay my own
expenses and keep my own servant.... Begichev has taken my opera to
Petersburg. Whether it is produced or not, I have finished with it
and can turn to something else. Balakirev is staying here. We often
meet, and I always come to the conclusion that--in spite of his
worthiness--his society weighs upon me like a stone. I particularly
dislike the narrowness of his views, and the persistence with which
he upholds them. At the same time his short visit has been of
benefit to me in many respects.”
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
“_August_ 18_th_ (30_th_).
“I have no news to give. Balakirev leaves to-day. Although he has
sometimes bored me, I must in justice say that he is a good,
honourable man, and immeasurably above the average as an artist. We
have just taken a touching farewell of each other....
“I gave an evening party not long since. Balakirev, Borodin,
Kashkin, Klimenko, Arnold and Plestcheiev were among the guests.
“I met Laroche in The Hermitage and said ‘Good-day,’ but I have no
intention of making it up with him.”
Towards the end of September, 1869, Tchaikovsky set to work upon his
overture to _Romeo and Juliet_, to which he had been incited by
Balakirev’s suggestions. Indeed, the latter played so important a part
in the genesis of this work that it is necessary to speak of it in
detail.
Balakirev not only suggested the subject, but took such a lively
interest in the work that he kept up a continuous current of good advice
and solicitations. In October he wrote:--
“It strikes me that your inactivity proceeds from your lack of
concentration, in spite of your ‘snug workshop.’ I do not know your
method of composing, mine is as follows: when I wrote my _King
Lear_, having first read the play, I felt inspired to compose an
overture (which Stassov had already suggested to me). At first I
had no actual material, I only warmed to the project. An
Introduction, ‘maestoso,’ followed by something mystical (Kent’s
Prediction). The Introduction dies away and gives place to a stormy
allegro. This is Lear himself, the discrowned, but still mighty,
lion. By way of episodes the characteristic themes of Regan and
Goneril, and then--a second subject--Cordelia, calm and tender. The
middle section (storm, Lear and the Fool on the heath) and
repetition of the allegro: Regan and Goneril finally crush their
father, and the overture dies away softly (Lear over Cordelia’s
corpse), then the prediction of Kent is heard once more, and
finally the peaceful and solemn note of death. You must understand
that, so far, I had no definite musical ideas. These came later and
took their place within my framework. I believe you will feel the
same, if once you are inspired by the project. Then arm yourself
with goloshes and a walking-stick and go for a constitutional on
the Boulevards, starting with the Nikitsky; let yourself be
saturated with your plan, and I am convinced by the time you reach
the Sretensky Boulevard some theme or episode will have come to
you. Just at this moment, thinking of your overture, an idea has
come to me involuntarily, and I seem to see that it should open
with a fierce ‘allegro with the clash of swords.’ Something like
this:
[Illustration]
“I should begin in this style. If I were going to write the
overture I should become enthusiastic over this germ, and I should
brood over it, or rather turn it over in my mind until something
vital came of it.
“If these lines have a good effect upon you I shall be very
pleased. I have a certain right to hope for this, because your
letters do me good. Your last, for instance, made me so unusually
light-hearted that I rushed out into the Nevsky Prospect; I did not
walk, I danced along, and composed part of my _Tamara_ as I went.”
When Balakirev heard that Tchaikovsky was actually at work, he wrote in
November:--
“I am delighted to hear that the child of your fancy has quickened.
God grant it comes to a happy birth. I am very curious to know what
you have put into the overture. Do send me what you have done so
far, and I promise not to make any remarks--good or bad--until the
thing is finished.”
After Tchaikovsky had acceded to Balakirev’s request, and sent him the
chief subjects of his overture, he received the following answer, which
caused him to make some modifications in the work:--
“ ... As your overture is all but finished, and will soon be
played, I will tell you what I think of it quite frankly (I do not
use this word in Zaremba’s sense). The first subject does not
please me at all. Perhaps it improves in the working out--I cannot
say--but in the crude state in which it lies before me it has
neither strength nor beauty, and does not sufficiently suggest the
character of Father Lawrence. Here something like one of Liszt’s
chorales--in the old Catholic Church style--would be very
appropriate (_The Night Procession_, _Hunnenschlacht_, and _St.
Elizabeth_); your motive is of quite a different order, in the
style of a quartet by Haydn, that genius of “burgher” music which
induces a fierce thirst for beer. There is nothing of old-world
Catholicism about it; it recalls rather the type of Gogol’s
_Comrade Kunz_, who wanted to cut off his nose to save the money he
spent on snuff. But possibly in its development your motive may
turn out quite differently, in which case I will eat my own words.
“As to the B minor theme, it seems to me less a theme than a lovely
introduction to one, and after the agitated movement in C major,
something very forcible and energetic should follow. I take it for
granted that it will really be so, and that you were too lazy to
write out the context.