“The first theme in D flat major is very pretty, although rather

colourless. The second, in the same key, is simply fascinating. I

often play it, and would like to hug you for it. It has the

sweetness of love, its tenderness, its longing, in a word, so much

that must appeal to the heart of that immoral German, Albrecht. I

have only one thing to say against this theme: it does not

sufficiently express a mystic, inward, spiritual love, but rather a

fantastic passionate glow which has hardly any nuance of Italian

sentiment. Romeo and Juliet were not Persian lovers, but Europeans.

I do not know if you will understand what I am driving at--I always

feel the lack of appropriate words when I speak of music, and I am

obliged to have recourse to comparison in order to explain myself.

One subject in which spiritual love is well expressed--according to

my ideas--is the second theme in Schumann’s overture, _The Bride of

Messina_. The subject has its weak side too; it is morbid and

somewhat sentimental at the end, but the fundamental emotion is

sincere.

“I am impatient to receive the entire score, so that I may get a

just impression of your clever overture, which is--so far--your

best work; the fact that you have dedicated it to me affords me the

greatest pleasure. It is the first of your compositions which

contains so many beautiful things that one does not hesitate to

pronounce it good as a whole. It cannot be compared with that old

Melchisedek, who was so drunk with sorrow that he must needs dance

his disgusting _trepak_ in the Arbatsky Square. Send me the score

soon; I am longing to see it.”

But even in a somewhat modified form, Balakirev was not quite satisfied

with the overture. On January 22nd (February 3rd), 1871, he wrote as

follows:--

“I am very pleased with the introduction, but the end is not at all

to my taste. It is impossible to write of it in detail. It would be

better if you came here, so that I could tell you what I think of

it. In the middle section you have done something new and good; the

alternating chords above the pedal-point, rather _à la Russlan_.

The close becomes very commonplace, and the whole of the section

after the end of the second subject (D major) seems to have been

dragged from your brain by main force. The actual ending is not

bad, but why those accentuated chords in the very last bars? This

seems to contradict the meaning of the play, and is inartistic.

Nadejda Nicholaevna[19] has scratched out these chords with her own

fair hands, and wants to make the pianoforte arrangement end

pianissimo. I do not know whether you will consent to this

alteration.”

When this arbitrary treatment of the composer’s intention had been

carried through, the indefatigable critic wrote once more:--

“It is a pity that you, or rather Rubinstein, should have hurried

the publication of the overture. Although the new introduction is a

decided improvement, yet I had still a great desire to see some

other alterations made in the work, and hoped it might remain

longer in your hands for the sake of your future compositions.

However, I hope Jurgenson will not refuse to print a revised and

improved version of the overture at some future time.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_October_ 7_th_ (19_th_).

“The Conservatoire begins already to be repugnant to me, and the

lessons I am obliged to give fatigue me as they did last year.

Just now I am not working at all. _Romeo and Juliet_ is finished.

Yesterday I received a commission from Bessel. He asked me to

arrange Rubinstein’s overture to _Ivan the Terrible_. I have had a

letter from Balakirev scolding me because I am doing nothing. I

hear nothing definite about my opera: they say it will be

performed, but the date is uncertain. I often go to the opera. The

sisters Marchisio are good, especially in _Semiramide_. Yet when I

hear them I am more and more convinced that Artôt is the greatest

artist in the world.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_November_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

“Yesterday I received very sad news from Petersburg. My opera is to

wait until next season, because there is not sufficient time to

study the two operas which stand before mine in the repertory:

Moniuszko’s _Halka_ and Dütsch’s _Croat_. I am not likely therefore

to come to Petersburg. From the pecuniary point of view the

postponement of my opera is undesirable. Morally, too, it is bad

for me; that is to say, I shall be incapable of any work for two or

three weeks to come.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_January_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1870.

“Balakirev and Rimsky-Korsakov have been here. We saw each other

every day. Balakirev begins to respect me more and more. Korsakov

has dedicated a charming song to me. My overture pleased them both,

and I like it myself. Besides the overture, I have recently

composed a chorus from the opera _Mandragora_, the text of which,

by Rachinsky, is already known to you. I intended to write music to

this libretto, but my friends dissuaded me, because they considered

the opera gave too little scope for stage effects. Now Rachinsky is

writing another book for me, called _Raymond Lully_.”

Kashkin was one of the friends who dissuaded Tchaikovsky from composing

_Mandragora_. The latter played him a ‘Chorus of Insects’ from the

unfinished work, which pleased him very much. But he thought the subject

more suitable for a ballet than an opera. A fierce argument took place

which lasted a long time. Finally, with tears in his eyes, Tchaikovsky

came round to Kashkin’s view, and relinquished his intention of writing

this opera. It made him very unhappy and more chary in future of

confiding his plans to his friends.

Laroche gives the following account of this unpublished chorus:--

“‘The Elves’ Chorus’ is intended for boys’ voices in unison, with

accompaniment for mixed chorus and orchestra. The atmosphere of a

calm moonlight night (described in the text) and the fantastic

character of the scene are admirably reproduced. In this chorus we

find not only that silky texture, that softness, distinction, and

delicacy which Tchaikovsky shows in all his best work, but far more

marked indications of maturity than in any of his earlier

compositions. The orchestration is very rich, and on the whole

original, although the influence of Berlioz is sometimes

noticeable.”

_To his sister, A. Davidov._

“_February_ 5_th_ (17_th_).

“One thing troubles me: there is no one in Moscow with whom I can

enter into really intimate, familiar, and homely relations. I often

think how happy I should be if you, or someone like you, lived

here. I have a great longing for the sound of children’s voices,

and for a share in all the trifling interests of a home--in a word,

for family life.

“I intend to begin a third opera; this time on a subject borrowed

from Lajetnikov’s tragedy, _The Oprichnik_. My _Undine_ is to be

produced at the beginning of next season, if they do not fail me.

Although the spring is still far off and the frosts are hardly over

yet, I have already begun to think of the summer, and to long for

the early spring sunshine, which always has such a good effect upon

me.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_March_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1870.

“ ... The day after to-morrow my overture _Romeo and Juliet_ will

be performed. There has been a rehearsal already: the work does not

seem detestable. But the Lord only knows!...

“In the third week of Lent excerpts from my opera _Undine_ will be

played at Merten’s[20] concert. I am very curious to hear them.

Sietov writes that there is every reason to believe the opera will

be given early next season.”

Merten’s concert took place on March 16th (28th). Kashkin says it gave

further proof how hardly Tchaikovsky conquered the public sympathy.

“In the orchestration of the aria from _Undine_,” he says, “the

pianoforte plays an important and really beautiful part. Nicholas

Rubinstein undertook to play it; yet, in spite of the wonderful

rendering of the piece, it had very little success. After the

adagio from the _First Symphony_--also included in the

programme--even a slight hissing was heard. The Italian craze was

still predominant at the Opera House, so that it was very difficult

for a Russian work to find recognition.”

_Romeo and Juliet_, given at the Musical Society’s Concert on March 4th

(16th), had no success.

On the previous day the decision in the case of “Schebalsky _v._

Rubinstein” had been made public, and the Director of the Conservatoire

had been ordered to pay 25 roubles, damages for the summary and wrongful

dismissal of this female student. Rubinstein refused to pay, and gave

notice of appeal, but the master’s admirers immediately collected the

small sum, in order to spare him the few hours’ detention which his

refusal involved. This event gave rise to a noisy demonstration when he

appeared in public. Kashkin says:--

“From the moment Nicholas Rubinstein came on the platform, until

the end of the concert, he was made the subject of an extraordinary

ovation. No one thought of the concert or the music, and I felt

indignant that the first performance of _Romeo and Juliet_ should

have taken place under such conditions.”

So it came about that the long-desired evening, which he hoped would

bring him a great success, brought only another disillusionment for

Tchaikovsky. The composer’s melancholy became a shade darker. “I just

idle away the time cruelly,” he writes, “and my opera, _The Oprichnik_,

has come to a standstill at the first chorus.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_March_ 25_th_ (_April_ 6_th_).

“I congratulate you on leaving school. Looking back over the years

that have passed since I left the School of Jurisprudence, I

observe with some satisfaction that the time has not been lost. I

wish the same for you....”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_April_ 23_rd_ (May 5_th_).

“Rioumin[21] wants to convert me at any price. He has given me a

number of religious books, and I have promised to read them all. In

any case, I now walk in ways of godliness. In Passion week I fasted

with Rubinstein.

“About the middle of May I shall probably go abroad. I am partly

pleased at the prospect and partly sorry, because I shall not see

you.”

_To I. A. Klimenko._

“_May_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1870.

“ ... First I must tell you that I am sitting at the open window

(at four a.m.) and breathing the lovely air of a spring morning. It

is remarkable that in my present amiable mood I am suddenly seized

with a desire to talk to you--to you of all people, you ungrateful

creature! I want to tell you that life is still good, and that it

is worth living on a May morning; and so, at four o’clock in the

morning, I am pouring out my heart to you, while you, O empoisoned

and lifeless being, will only laugh at me. Well, laugh away; all

the same, I assert that life is beautiful in spite of everything!

This ‘everything’ includes the following items: 1. Illness; I am

getting much too stout, and my nerves are all to pieces. 2. The

Conservatoire oppresses me to extinction; I am more and more

convinced that I am absolutely unfitted to teach the theory of

music. 3. My pecuniary situation is very bad. 4. I am very doubtful

if _Undine_ will be performed. I have heard that they are likely to

throw me over. In a word, there are many thorns, but the roses are

there too....

“As regards ambition, I must tell you that I have certainly not

been flattered of late. My songs were praised by Laroche, although

Cui has ‘slated’ them, and Balakirev thinks them so bad that he

persuaded Khvostova--who wanted to sing the one I had dedicated to

her--not to ruin with its presence a programme graced by the names

of Moussorgsky & Co.

“My overture, _Romeo and Juliet_, had hardly any success here, and

has remained quite unnoticed. I thought a great deal about you that

night. After the concert we supped, a large party, at Gourin’s (a

famous restaurant). No one said a single word about the overture

during the evening. And yet I yearned so for appreciation and

kindness! Yes, I thought a great deal about you, and of your

encouraging sympathy. I do not know whether the slow progress of my

opera, _The Oprichnik_ is due to the fact that no one takes any

interest in what I write; I am very doubtful if I shall get it

finished for at least two years.”

Tchaikovsky spent only a few days in St. Petersburg before going abroad.

There he heard the final verdict upon his opera _Undine_. The conference

of the Capellmeisters of the Imperial Opera, with Constantine Liadov at

their head, did not consider the work worthy of production. How the

composer took this decision, what he felt and thought of it, we can only

guess from our knowledge of his susceptible artistic _amour propre_. At

the time, he never referred to the matter, either in letters or in

conversation. Eight years afterwards he wrote as follows:--

“The Direction put aside my _Undine_ in 1870. At the time I felt

much embittered, and it seemed to me an injustice; but in the end I

was not pleased with the work myself, and I burnt the score about

three years ago.”

Tchaikovsky travelled from St. Petersburg to Paris without a break,

being anxious to reach his friend Shilovsky with all possible speed. He

half feared to find him already on his death-bed. The young man was

extremely weak, but able to travel to Soden at the end of three days.

The atmosphere of ill-health in which Tchaikovsky found himself--Soden

is a resort for consumptive patients--was very depressing, but he

determined to endure it for his friend’s sake.

“The care of Volodya,”[22] he wrote, “is a matter of conscience

with me, for his life hangs by a thread ... his affection for me,

and his delight on my arrival, touched me so deeply that I am glad

to take upon myself the rôle of an Argus, and be the saviour of his

life.”

But by coming abroad he sacrificed all opportunity of seeing the twins

and his sister Alexandra during the summer vacation.

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“SODEN, _June_ 24_th_ (_July_ 6_th_).

“We lead a monotonous existence, and are dreadfully bored, but for

this very reason my health is first-rate. The saline baths do me a

great deal of good, and, apart from them, the way of living is

excellent. I am very lazy, and have not the least desire to work. A

few days ago a great festival took place at Mannheim, on the

occasion of the hundredth anniversary of Beethoven’s birth. This

festival, to which we went, lasted three days. The programme was

very interesting, and the performance superb. The orchestra

consisted of various bands from the different Rhenish towns. The

chorus numbered 400. I have never heard such a fine and powerful

choir in my life. The well-known composer, Lachner, conducted.

Among other things I heard for the first time the difficult _Missa

Solennis_. It is one of the most inspired musical creations.

“I have been to Wiesbaden to see Nicholas Rubinstein. I found him

in the act of losing his last rouble at roulette, which did not

prevent our spending a very pleasant day together. He is quite

convinced he will break the bank before he leaves Wiesbaden. I long

to be with you all.”

The outbreak of the Franco-Prussian war drove all the visitors at Soden

into the neutral territory of Switzerland. It was little less than a

stampede, and Tchaikovsky describes their experiences in a letter to his

brother Modeste, dated July 12th (24th), 1870:--

“INTERLAKEN.

“We have been here three days, and shall probably remain a whole

month.... The crush in the railway carriages was indescribable, and

it was very difficult to get anything to eat and drink. Thank God,

however, here we are in Switzerland, where everything goes on in

its normal course. Dear Modi, I cannot tell you what I feel in the

presence of these sublime beauties of Nature, which no one can

imagine without beholding them. My astonishment, my admiration,

pass all bounds. I rush about like one possessed, and never feel

tired. Volodi, who takes no delight in Nature, and is only

interested in the Swiss cheeses, laughs heartily at me. What will

it be like a few days hence, when I shall scramble through the

passes and over glaciers by myself! I return to Russia at the end

of August.”

Tchaikovsky spent six weeks in Switzerland, and then went on to Munich,

where he stayed two days with his old friend Prince Galitsin. From

thence he returned to St. Petersburg by Vienna, which delighted him more

than any other town in the world. From Petersburg he went direct to

Moscow in order to take up his work at the Conservatoire.

During the whole of his trip abroad Tchaikovsky, according to his own

account, did no serious work beyond revising his overture _Romeo and

Juliet_. Thanks to the exertions of N. Rubinstein and Professor

Klindworth, the overture, in its new form, was published in Berlin the

following season, and soon found its way into the programmes of many

musical societies in Germany.

“Karl Klindworth came from London to Moscow in 1868,” says Laroche.

“He was then thirty-eight, and at the zenith of his physical and

artistic powers. He was tall and strongly built, with fair hair and

bright blue eyes. His appearance accorded with our ideas of the

Vikings of old; he was, in fact, of Norwegian descent. He cordially

detested London, where he had lived many years, although he spoke

English fluently. London was at that time quite unprepared for the

Wagnerian propaganda, and, apart from this, life had neither

meaning nor charm for Klindworth. As a pupil of Bülow and Liszt, he

had been devoted to the Wagnerian cult from his youth. He was

invited by Nicholas Rubinstein to come to Moscow as teacher of the

pianoforte; but he was not popular, either as a pianist, or in

society.... It would seem as though there could be no common

meeting-ground between this Wagnerian fanatic and Tchaikovsky. If

one desired to be logical, it would further appear that, as a

composer, Tchaikovsky would not only fail to interest Klindworth,

but must seem to him quite in the wrong, since Wagner has written

that concert and chamber music have long since had their day. But

luckily men are devoid of the sense of logical sequence, and

Klindworth proved a man of far more heart than one would have

thought at first sight. Tchaikovsky charmed him from the first, not

merely as a man, but as a composer. Klindworth was one of the first

to spread Tchaikovsky’s works abroad. It was owing to him that they

became known in London and New York; and it was through him also

that Liszt made acquaintance with some of them. In Klindworth,

Tchaikovsky found a faithful but despotic friend. Speaking

picturesquely, Peter Ilich trembled before him like an aspen-leaf,

did not dare openly to give his real opinions upon the composer of

the _Nibelungen Ring_, and I believe he embellished as far as

possible the views expressed in his articles from Bayreuth in order

not to irritate Klindworth.”

While I am mentioning the important event of Tchaikovsky’s earliest

introduction to Western Europe, I must recall the prophetic words of a

young critic, then at the outset of his career. Five years before the

appearance of the overture _Romeo and Juliet_, in 1866, Laroche had

written to his friend:--

“Your creative work will not really begin for another five years;

but these mature and classic works will surpass all that we have

produced since Glinka’s time.”

Being no musical critic, it is not for me to say whether, in truth, in

all Russian musical literature nothing so remarkable as _Romeo and

Juliet_ had appeared since Glinka. I can only repeat what has been said

by many musical authorities--that my brother’s higher significance in

the world of art dates from this work. His individuality is here

displayed for the first time in its fulness, and all that he had

hitherto produced seems--as in Laroche’s prophecy--to have been really

preparatory work.

VII

1870-1871

During this period Tchaikovsky’s spirits were, generally speaking,

fairly bright. Only occasionally they were damped by anxiety about the

twins, of whom the younger had left the School of Jurisprudence and

obtained a post in Simbirsk.[23] His lack of experience led him into

many blunders and mistakes, which gave trouble to his elder brother

Peter. His affection and over-anxiety caused the latter to exaggerate

the importance of these small errors of judgment, and he concerned

himself greatly about the future of his precious charge.

_To I. A. Klimenko._

“_October_ 26_th_ (_November_ 7_th_), 1870.

“ ... Anton Rubinstein is staying here. He opened the season,

playing the Schumann Concerto at the first concert (not very well),

and also Mendelssohn’s Variations and some Schumann Studies

(splendidly). At the Quartet evening he played in his own Trio,

which I do not much like. At an orchestral rehearsal, held

specially for him, he conducted his new _Don Quixote_ Fantasia.

Very interesting; first-rate in places. Besides this he has

composed a violin concerto and a number of smaller pieces.

Extraordinary fertility! Nicholas Rubinstein lost all his money at

roulette during the summer. At the present moment he is working, as

usual, with unflagging energy.

“I have written three new pieces,[24] and a song,[25] as well as

going on with my opera and revising Romeo and Juliet.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

(_About the beginning of November._)

“ ... My time is very much occupied. I have foolishly undertaken to

write music for a ballet _Cinderella_, at a very small fee. The

ballet has to be performed in December, and I have only just begun

it; but I cannot get out of the work, for the contract is already

signed. _Romeo and Juliet_ will be published in Berlin and

performed in several German towns....”

_To his sister, A. I. Davidov._

“_December_ 20_th_, 1870 (_January_ 1_st_, 1871).

“DEAREST,--Your letter touched me deeply, and at the same time made

me feel ashamed. I wonder that you could doubt, even for an

instant, the constancy of my affection for you! My silence proceeds

partly from idleness, and partly from the fact that I need great

peace of mind to write satisfactorily, and I hardly ever attain it.

Either I am at the Conservatoire, or I am seizing a free hour for

composition in feverish haste, or someone wants me to go out, or I

have visitors at home, or I am so tired out I can only fall

asleep.... I have already told you what an important part you play

in my life--although you do not live near me. In dark hours my

thoughts fly to you. ‘If things go very badly with me, I shall go

to Sasha,’ I say to myself; or, ‘I think I will do this, I am sure

Sasha would advise it’; or, ‘Shall I write to her? What would she

think of this ...?’ What a joy to think that if I could get away

from these surroundings into another atmosphere I should sun myself

in your kindly heart! Next summer I will not fail to come to you. I

shall not go abroad.”

_To his father._

“_February_ 14_th_ (26_th_).

“MY VERY DEAR FATHER,--You say it would not be a bad thing if I

wrote to you at least once a month.

“No, not once a month, but at least once a week I ought to send

you news of all I am doing, and I wonder you have not given me a

good scolding before this! But I will never again leave you so long

without a letter. The news of the death of uncle Peter

Petrovich[26] came to me several days ago. God give him everlasting

peace, for his honest and pure soul deserved it! I hope, dear, you

are bearing this trouble bravely. Remember that poor uncle, with

his indifferent health and his many old wounds, had enjoyed a

fairly long life.”

This letter closes Tchaikovsky’s correspondence for the year 1870-1. It

is very probable that some of his letters may have been lost, but

undoubtedly after February, 1871, he corresponded less frequently than

before.

Being very short of funds, he decided to act upon Rubinstein’s advice to

give a concert. To add to the interest of the programme he thought it

well to include some new and important work of his own. He could not

expect to fill the room, and an expensive orchestral concert was

therefore out of the question. This led to the composition of the first

String Quartet (D major). Tchaikovsky was engaged upon this work during

the whole of February.

The concert took place on March 16th (28th) in the small hall of the

Nobles’ Assembly Rooms. Thanks to the services of the Musical Society’s

quartet, with F. Laub as leader, Nicholas Rubinstein at the piano, and

Madame Lavrovsky--then at the height of her popularity--as vocalist,

Tchaikovsky had a good, although not a crowded, house.

In his reminiscences Kashkin says that among those who attended this

concert was the celebrated novelist, I. S. Tourgeniev, who was staying

in Moscow at the time, and was interested in the young composer, about

whom he had heard abroad. This attention on the part of the great writer

did not pass unnoticed, and was decidedly advantageous for the

musician. Tourgeniev expressed great appreciation of Tchaikovsky’s

works, although he arrived too late to hear the chief item on the

programme, the Quartet in D major.

At the end of May Tchaikovsky went to Konotop, where his eldest brother

Nicholas Ilich was residing, and from thence to visit Anatol in Kiev.

Afterwards the two brothers travelled to Kamenka, where they spent most

of the summer. Tchaikovsky, however, devoted part of his holidays to his

intimate friends Kondratiev and Shilovsky.

Kondratiev’s property (the village of Nizy, in the Government of

Kharkov) was beautifully situated on the prettiest river of Little

Russia, the Psiol, and united all the natural charms of South Russia

with the light green colouring of the northern landscape so dear to

Tchaikovsky. Here in the hottest weather, instead of the oppressive and

parched surroundings of Kamenka, he looked upon luxuriant pastures,

enclosed and shaded by ancient oaks. But what delighted him most was the

river Psiol with its refreshing crystal waters.

The place pleased Tchaikovsky, but his friend’s style of living was not

to his taste. It was too much like town life, with its guests and

festivities, and he preferred Shilovsky’s home at Ussovo, which was not

so beautifully situated, but possessed the greater charms of simplicity,

solitude, and quiet. Here he spent the last days of his vacation very

happily, and for many years to come Ussovo was his ideal of a summer

residence, for which he longed as soon as the trees and fields began to

show the first signs of green.

VIII

1871-1872

As I have already remarked, it was not Tchaikovsky’s nature to force the

circumstances of life to his own will. He could wait long and

patiently--and hope still longer. As in his early youth he had kept his

yearning for music hidden in his heart, until the strength of his desire

was such that nothing could shake his firm hold upon his chosen

vocation, so now, from the beginning of his musical career, he was

possessed by an intense longing to break away from all ties which

withheld him from the chief aim of his existence--to compose.

Just as a few years earlier he continued his work in the Ministry of

Justice in spite of its monotony, and kept up his social ties as though

he were waiting until a complete disgust for his empty and aimless life

should bring about a revulsion, so it was with him now. Although his

duties at the Conservatoire were repugnant to him, and he often

complained of the drawbacks of town life, which interfered with his

creative work, he went on in his usual course, as though afraid that his

need of excitement and pleasure was not quite satisfied, and might break

out anew.

The time for the realisation of his dream of complete freedom was not

yet come. Moscow was still necessary to his everyday life, and was not

altogether unpleasant to him. He was still dependent on his

surroundings. To break with them involved many considerations. Above

all, he must have emancipated himself, although in a friendly way, from

the influence of Nicholas Rubinstein. This was the first step to take in

the direction of liberty. With all his affection and gratitude, with all

his respect for Rubinstein as a man and an artist, he suffered a good

deal under the despotism of this truest and kindest of friends. From

morning till night he had to conform to his will in all the trifling

details of daily existence, and this was the more unbearable because

their ideas with regard to hours and occupations differed in most

respects.

Tchaikovsky had already made two attempts to leave Rubinstein and take

rooms of his own. But only now was he able to carry out his wish.

Nicholas Rubinstein absolutely stood in need of companionship, and

Tchaikovsky was fortunate in finding someone, in the person of N. A.

Hubert, ready and willing to take his place.

So it chanced that Tchaikovsky reached his thirty-second year before he

began to lead an entirely independent existence. His delight at finding

himself the sole master of his little flat of three rooms was

indescribable. He took the greatest pains to make his new home as

comfortable as possible with the small means at his disposal. His

decorations were not sumptuous: a portrait of Anton Rubinstein, given to

him by the painter Madame Bonné in 1865; a picture of Louis XVII. in the

house of the shoemaker Simon, given to him by Begichev in Paris; a large

sofa and a few cheap chairs, comprised the composer’s entire worldly

goods.

He now engaged a servant, named Michael Sofronov. Tchaikovsky never lost

sight of this man, although he was afterwards replaced by his brother

Alexis, who played rather an important part in his master’s life.

At this time the composer’s income was slightly increased. His salary at

the Conservatoire rose to 1,500 roubles a year (£150), while from the

sale of his works, and from the Russian Musical Society,[27] he received

about 500 roubles more.

Besides these 2,000 roubles, Tchaikovsky had another small source of

income, namely, his earnings as a musical critic. His employment in this

capacity came about thus. In 1871, Laroche, who wrote for the _Moscow

Viedomosti_, was offered a post at the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, and

passed on his journalistic work to N. A. Hubert, who, partly from

ill-health and partly from indolence, neglected the duties he had

undertaken. Fearing that Katkov, who edited the paper, might appoint

some amateur as critic, and so undo the progress in musical matters

which had been made during the past years, Tchaikovsky and Kashkin came

to Hubert’s aid and “devilled” for him as long as he remained on the

staff. Tchaikovsky continued to write for the _Viedomosti_ until the

winter of 1876.

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_December_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).

“I must tell you that at Shilovsky’s urgent desire I am going

abroad for a month. I shall start in about ten days’ time, but no

one--except Rubinstein--is to know anything about it; everyone is

to think I have gone to see our sister.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“NICE, _January_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1872.

“I have been a week at Nice. It is most curious to come straight

from the depths of a Russian winter to a climate where one can walk

out without an overcoat, where orange trees, roses, and syringas

are in full bloom, and the trees are in leaf. Nice is lovely. But

the gay life is killing.... However, I have many pleasant hours;

those, for instance, in the early morning, when I sit alone by the

sea in the glowing--but not scorching--sunshine. But even these

moments are not without a shade of melancholy. What comes of it

all? I am old, and can enjoy nothing more. I live on my memories

and my hopes. But what is there to hope for?

“Yet without hope in the future life is impossible. So I dream of

coming to Kiev at Easter, and of spending part of the summer with

you at Kamenka.”

By the end of January Tchaikovsky was back in Moscow.

In 1871 a great Polytechnic Exhibition was organised in this town in

celebration of the two hundredth anniversary of the birth of Peter the

Great. The direction of the musical section was confided to Nicholas

Rubinstein, but when he resigned, because his scheme was too costly to

be sanctioned by the committee, the celebrated ‘cellist, K. Davidov, was

invited to take his place. He accepted, and named Laroche and Balakirev

as his coadjutors. Balakirev was not immediately disposed to undertake

these duties, saying that he would first like to hear the opinion of

Nicholas Rubinstein as to the part which the Petersburg musicians were

to take in the matter. After two months of uncertainty, the committee

decided to dispense with his reply, and invited Rimsky-Korsakov to take

his place. At the same time Asantchevsky (then Director of the

Petersburg Conservatoire), Wurm, and Leschetitzky were added to the

musical committee.

This originally Muscovite committee, which ended in being made up of

Petersburgers, decided among other projects to commission from

Tchaikovsky a Festival Cantata, the text of which was to be specially

written for the occasion by the poet Polonsky.

By the end of December, or the beginning of January, the libretto was

finished. When Tchaikovsky undertook to do any work within a fixed limit

of time, he always tried to complete it before the date of contract

expired. On this occasion he was well beforehand with the work, and sent

in the cantata to the committee by the 1st of April. As he had only

received the words towards the end of January, after his return from

Nice, he could not have had more than two months in which to complete

this lengthy and complicated score.

In April he was at work again upon _The Oprichnik_, and must have

finished it early in May.

This, however, is a matter of conjecture, as between January 31st

(February 12th) and May 4th (16th), there does not exist a single one of

his letters.

On May 4th (16th), 1872, the score of _The Oprichnik_ was sent to

Napravnik in Petersburg.

The Festival Cantata was performed on May 31st (June 12th) at the

opening of the Polytechnic Exhibition, and shortly afterwards

Tchaikovsky left Moscow for Kamenka, where he spent the whole of June.

Here he began his Second Symphony in C minor. Early in July he went to

Kiev, and from thence to Kondratiev at Nizy, accompanied by his brother

Modeste. A part of this journey had to be accomplished by diligence. On

the return journey the two brothers were to travel together as far as

Voroshba, where Peter Ilich branched off for Shilovsky’s house at

Ussovo, and Modeste went on to Kiev. Between Sumy and Voroshba was a

post-house, at which the horses were generally changed.

We were in the best of spirits--it is Modeste who recounts the

adventure--and partook of a luxurious lunch, with wine and liqueurs.

These stimulants had a considerable effect upon our empty stomachs, so

that when we were informed of the fact that there were no fresh

post-horses at our disposal, we lost our tempers and gave the overseer a

good talking to. Peter Ilich quite lost his head, and could not avoid

using the customary phrase: “Are you aware to whom you are talking?” The

post-master was not in the least impressed by this worn-out phraseology,

and Peter Ilich, beside himself with wrath, demanded the report-book. It

was brought, and thinking that the unknown name of Tchaikovsky would

carry no weight, Peter Ilich signed his complaint: “Prince Volkonsky,

Page-in-Waiting.” The result was brilliant. In less than a quarter of an

hour the horses were harnessed, and the head-ostler had been severely

reprimanded for not having told the post-master that a pair had

unexpectedly returned from a journey.

Arrived at Voroshba, Peter Ilich hurried to the ticket-office and

discovered with horror that he had left his pocket-book, containing all

his money and papers, at the post-station. What was to be done? He could

not catch the train, and must therefore wait till the next day. This was

tiresome; but far worse was the thought that the post-master had only to

look inside the pocket-book to see Peter Ilich’s real name on his

passport and visiting-cards. While we sat there, feeling crushed, and

debating what was to be done, my train came in. I was forced to steam

off to Kiev, after bestowing the greater part of my available cash--some

five or six roubles--upon the unhappy pseudo-Prince.

Poor Peter Ilich spent a terrible night at the inn. Mice and rats--of

which he had a mortal terror--left him no peace. He waged war all night

with these pests, which ran over his bed and made a hideous noise. The

next morning came the news that the post-master would not entrust the

pocket-book to the driver of the post-waggon; Peter Ilich must go back

for it himself. This was a worse ordeal than even the rats and the

sleepless night.... As soon as he arrived he saw at once that the

post-master had never opened the pocket-book, for his manner was as

respectful and apologetic as before. Peter Ilich was so pleased with

this man’s strict sense of honour that before leaving he inquired his

name. Great was his astonishment when the post-master replied,

“_Tchaikovsky_”! At first he thought he was the victim of a joke, but

afterwards he heard from his friend Kondratiev that the man’s name was

actually the same as his own.

Tchaikovsky spent the rest of the summer at Ussovo, where he completed

the symphony commenced at Kamenka.

IX

1872-1873

Immediately after his return to Moscow, Tchaikovsky moved into new

quarters, which were far more comfortable than his first habitation.

We have already seen the motives which first induced him to take up

journalism. Now he felt it not only a matter of honour and duty towards

the interests of the Conservatoire to continue this work, but found it

also a welcome means of adding to his income, seeing that he lived

entirely upon his own resources. His literary efforts had been very

successful during the past year, and had attracted the attention of all

who were interested in music. Nevertheless his journalistic work, like

his lessons at the Conservatoire, was burdensome. He told himself “it

must be done,” and did it with the capability that was characteristic of

him, but without a gleam of enthusiasm or liking for the work. His

writing was interesting and showed considerable literary style; the

general character of his articles bespoke the cultivated and serious

musician, who is disinterested and just, and has a complete insight into

his art--but nothing more. We cannot describe him as a preacher of

profound convictions, who has power to carry home his ideas; or as a

critic capable of describing a work, or a composer, in a few delicate or

striking words. Reading his articles, we seem to be conversing with a

clever and gifted man, who knows how to express himself clearly; we

sympathise with him, earnestly wish him success in his campaign against

ignorance and charlatanism, and share his desire for the victory of

wholesome art over the public taste for “the Italians,” “American

valses,” and the rest. In these respects we may say that Tchaikovsky’s

labours were not lost.

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“MOSCOW, _November_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).

“Modi, my conscience pricks me. This is the punishment for not

having written to you for so long. What can I do when the symphony,

which is nearing completion, occupies me so entirely that I can

think of nothing else? This _work of genius_ (as Kondratiev calls

it) will be performed as soon as I can get the parts copied. It

seems to me to be my best work, at least as regards correctness of

form, a quality for which I have not so far distinguished

myself.... My quartet has created a sensation in Petersburg.”

_To I. A. Klimenko._

“MOSCOW, _November_ 15_th_ (27_th_).

“ ... Since last year nothing particular has happened in our lives

here. We go to the Conservatoire as formerly, and occasionally meet

for a general ‘boose,’ and are just as much bored as last year.

Boredom consumes us all, and the reason is that we are growing old.

Yes, it is useless to conceal that every moment brings us nearer to

the grave....

“As regards myself, I must honestly confess that I have but one

interest in life: my success as a composer. But it is impossible to

say that I am much spoilt in this respect. For instance, two

composers, Famitzin and myself, send in our works at the same time.

Famitzin is universally regarded as devoid of talent, while I, on

the contrary, am said to be highly gifted. Nevertheless,

_Sardanapalus_ is to be given almost immediately, whereas so far

nothing has been settled as to the fate of _The Oprichnik_. This

looks as though it were going to fall ‘into the water’[28] like

_Undine_. For an Undine to fall into the water is not so

disastrous; it is her element. But imagine a drowning Oprichnik,

how he would battle with the waves! He would certainly perish. But

if I went to his rescue I should be drowned too; therefore I have

taken my oath never to dip pen in ink again if my _Oprichnik_ is

refused.”

[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1873]

_To Ilia Petrovich Tchaikovsky._

“_November_ 22_nd_ (_December_ 4_th_).

“MY DEAR, GOOD FATHER,-- ... As regards marriage, I must confess

that I have often thought of finding myself a suitable wife, but I

am afraid I might afterwards regret doing so. I earn almost enough

(3,000 roubles a year), but I know so little about the management

of money that I am always in debt and dilemma. So long as a man is

alone, this does not much signify. But how would it be if I had to

keep a wife and family?

“My health is good: only one thing troubles me a little--my

eyesight, which is tried by my work. It is so much weaker than

formerly that I have been obliged to get a pair of eyeglasses,

which I am told are very becoming to me. My nerves are poor, but

this cannot be helped, and is not of much consequence. Whose nerves

are not disordered in our generation--especially among artists?”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_December_ 10_th_ (22_nd_).

“You say that Anatol has told you about my depression. It is not a

question of depression, only now and then a kind of misanthropical

feeling comes over me which has often happened before. It comes

partly from my nerves, which sometimes get out of gear for no

particular reason, and partly from the rather uncertain fate of my

compositions. The symphony, on which I build great hopes, will not

be performed apparently before the middle of January, at the

earliest.

“Christine Nilsson is having a great triumph here. I have seen her

twice, and I must own she has made great progress as an actress

since I heard her for the first time in Paris. As regards singing,

Nilsson stands alone. When she opens her mouth one does not hear

anything remarkable at first; then suddenly she takes a high C, or

holds a sustained note pianissimo, and the whole house thunders its

applause. But with all her good qualities she does not please me

nearly so well as Artôt. If the latter would only return to Moscow

I should jump for joy.”

During the Christmas holidays Tchaikovsky was called unexpectedly to St.

Petersburg to hear the verdict of the committee upon his opera, _The

Oprichnik_. The committee consisted of the various Capellmeisters of the

Imperial Theatre and Opera: Napravnik (Russian opera), Bevignani

(Italian opera), Rybassov (Russian plays), Silvain Mangen (French

plays), Ed. Betz (German plays), and Babkov (ballet). With the exception

of Napravnik, Tchaikovsky had no great opinion of these men, and

considered them much inferior to himself as judges of music. It seemed

to him particularly derogatory to have to appear before this Areopagus

in person. He did his best to avoid this formality, but in vain.

The meeting which he dreaded so much passed off quite satisfactorily.

_The Oprichnik_ was unanimously accepted.

During this visit to St. Petersburg Tchaikovsky was frequently in the

society of his friends of the “Invincible Band”; and it was evidently

under their influence that he took a Little Russian folksong as the

subject of the Finale of the Second Symphony. “At an evening at the

Rimsky-Korsakovs the whole party nearly tore me to pieces,” he wrote,

“and Madame Korsakov implored me to arrange the Finale for four hands.”

On this same occasion Tchaikovsky begged Vladimir Stassov to suggest a

subject for a symphonic fantasia. A week had hardly passed before

Stassov wrote the following letter:--

“ST. PETERSBURG,

“_December_ 30_th_, 1872 (_January_ 11_th_, 1873).

“DEAR PETER ILICH,--An hour after we had parted at the

Rimsky-Korsakovs’--that is to say, the moment I was alone and could

collect my thoughts--I hit upon the right subject for you. I have

not written the last three days because I had not absolutely made

up my mind. Now listen, please, to my suggestion. I have not only

thought of one suitable subject--I have three. I began by looking

at Shakespeare, because you said you would prefer a Shakesperean

theme. Here I came at once upon the poetical _Tempest_, so well

adapted for musical illustration, upon which Berlioz has already

drawn for his fine choruses in _Lelio_. To my mind you might write

a splendid overture on this subject. Every element of it is so full

of poetry, so grateful. First the Ocean, the Desert Island, the

striking and rugged figure of the enchanter Prospero, and, in

contrast, the incarnation of womanly grace--Miranda, like an Eve

who has not as yet looked upon any man (save Prospero), and who is

charmed and fascinated by the first glimpse of the handsome youth

Ferdinand, thrown ashore during the tempest. They fall in love with

each other; and here I think you have the material for a

wonderfully poetical picture. In the first half of the overture

Miranda awakens gradually from her childish innocence to a maidenly

love; in the second half, both she and Ferdinand have passed

through ‘the fires of passion’--it is a fine subject. Around these

leading characters others might be grouped (in the middle section

of the work): the monstrous Caliban, the sprite Ariel, with his

elfin chorus. The close of the overture should describe how

Prospero renounces his spells, blesses the lovers, and returns to

his country.”

Besides _The Tempest_ Stassov suggested two alternative

subjects--Scott’s _Ivanhoe_ and Gogol’s _Tarass Boulba_. Tchaikovsky,

however, decided upon the Shakespearean subject, and after informing

Stassov of his decision, received the following letter:--

“ST. PETERSBURG,

“_January_ 21_st_ (_February_ 2_nd_), 1873.

“I now hasten to go into further details, and rejoice in the

prospect of your work, which should prove a worthy _pendant_ to

your _Romeo and Juliet_. You ask whether it is necessary to

introduce the tempest itself. Most certainly. Undoubtedly, most

undoubtedly. Without it the overture would cease to be an overture;

without it the entire programme would fall through.

“I have carefully weighed every incident, with all their pros and

cons, and it would be a pity to upset the whole business. I think

the sea should be depicted twice--at the opening and close of the

work. In the introduction I picture it to myself as calm, until

Prospero works his spell and the storm begins. But I think this

storm should be different from all others, in that it breaks out

_at once_ in all its fury, and does not, as generally happens, work

itself up to a climax by degrees. I suggest this original treatment

because this particular tempest is brought about by enchantment and

not, as in most operas, oratorios, and symphonies, by natural

agencies. When the storm has abated, when its roaring, screeching,

booming and raging have subsided, the Enchanted Island appears in

all its beauty and, still more lovely, the maiden Miranda, who

flits like a sunbeam over the island. Her conversation with

Prospero, and immediately afterwards with Ferdinand, who fascinates

her, and with whom she falls in love. The love theme (crescendo)

must resemble the expanding and blooming of a flower; Shakespeare

has thus depicted her at the close of the first act, and I think

this would be something well suited to your muse. Then I would

suggest the appearance of Caliban, the half-animal slave; and then

Ariel, whose motto you may find in Shakespeare’s lyric (at the end

of the first act), ‘Come unto these yellow sands.’ After Ariel,

Ferdinand and Miranda should reappear; this time in a phase of

glowing passion. Then the imposing figure of Prospero, who

relinquishes his magic arts and takes farewell of his past; and

finally the sea, calm and peaceful, which washes the shores of the

desert island, while the happy inhabitants are borne away in a ship

to distant Italy.

“As I have planned all this in the order described, it seems to me

impossible to leave out the sea in the opening and close of the

work, and to call the overture “Miranda.” In your first overture

you have unfortunately omitted all reference to Juliet’s nurse,

that inspired Shakespearean creation, and also the picture of dawn,

on which the love-scene is built up. Your overture is beautiful,

but it might have been still more so. And now, please note that I

want your new work to be wider, deeper, more mature. That it will

have beauty and passion, I think I am safe in predicting. So I wish

you all luck and--_vogue la galère!_”

_To V. Stassov._

“_January_ 27_th_ (_February_ 8_th_), 1873.

“HONOURED VLADIMIR VASSILIEVICH,--I scarcely know how to thank you

for your excellent, and at the same time most attractive,

programme. Whether I shall be successful I cannot say, but in any

case I intend to carry out every detail of your plan. I must warn

you, however, that my overture will not see the light for some time

to come: at least, I have no intention of hurrying over it. A

number of tiresome, prosaic occupations, among them the pianoforte

arrangement of my opera, will, in the immediate future, take up the

quiet time I should need for so delicate a work. The subject of

_The Tempest_ is so poetical, its programme demands such perfection

and beauty of workmanship, that I am resolved to suppress my

impatience and await a more favourable moment for its commencement.

“My symphony was performed yesterday, and met with great success;

so great in fact that N. Rubinstein is repeating it at the tenth

concert ‘by general request.’ To confess the truth, I am not

altogether satisfied with the first two movements, but the finale

on _The Crane_[29] theme has turned out admirably. I will speak to

Rubinstein about sending the score; I must find out the date of the

tenth concert. I should like to make a few improvements in the

orchestration, and I must consider how long this will take, and

whether it will be better to send the score to Nadejda

Nicholaevna,[30] or to wait until after the concert.

“Laroche paid me the compliment of coming to Moscow on purpose to

hear my symphony. He left to-day.”

The Second Symphony appeared in the programme of the Musical Society’s

concert of January 6th (18th), 1873, and was very well received. Laroche

spoke very appreciatively of the new work.

The symphony was repeated at the tenth concert, when the composer was

recalled after each movement and presented with a laurel-wreath and a

silver goblet.

_To his father, I. P. Tchaikovsky._

“_February_ 5_th_ (17_th_).

“Time flies, for I am very busy. I am working at the pianoforte

arrangement of my opera (_The Oprichnik_), writing musical

articles, and contributing a biography of Beethoven to _The

Grajdanin_.[31] I spend all my evenings at home, and lead the life

of a peaceable and well-disposed citizen of Moscow. At last a very

cold winter has set in. To-day the frost is so intense that the

noses of the Muscovites risk becoming swollen and frost-bitten. But

as I keep indoors, I am very snug and warm in my rooms.”

_To the same._

“_April_ 7_th_ (19_th_).

“For nearly a whole month have I been sitting diligently at work. I

am writing music to Ostrovsky’s fairy tale, _Sniegourotchka_

(‘Little Snow White’), and consequently my correspondence has been

somewhat neglected. In addition to this, I cut my hand so severely

the day before yesterday that it was two hours before the doctor

could stop the bleeding and apply a bandage. Consequently I can

only write with difficulty, so do not be surprised, my angel, at my

writing so seldom.”

_To the same._

“_May_ 24_th_ (_June_ 5_th_).

“I have been feverishly busy lately with the preparations for the

first performance of _Sniegourotchka_, the pianoforte arrangement

of my symphony, the examinations at the Conservatoire, the

reception of the Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich, etc. The

latter was enthusiastic over my symphony, and paid me many

compliments.”

I have already said that life was precious to Tchaikovsky. This was

noticeable in many ways, among others his passion for keeping a diary.

Every day had its great value for him, and the thought that he must bid

eternal farewell to it, and lose all trace of its experiences, depressed

him exceedingly. It was a consolation to save something from the limbo

of forgetfulness, so that in time to come he might recall to mind the

events through which he had lived. In old age he believed it would be a

great pleasure to reconstruct the joys of the past from these short

sketches and fragmentary jottings which no one else would be able to

understand. He preferred the system of brief and imperfect notes,

because in reading through the diaries of his childhood and youth, in

which he had gone more fully into his thoughts and emotions, he had felt

somewhat ashamed. The sentiments and ideas which he found so

interesting, and which once seemed to him so great and important, now

appeared empty, unmeaning and ridiculous, and he resolved in future only

to commit facts to paper, without any commentary.[32] Disillusioned by

their contents, he destroyed all his early diaries. About the close of

the seventies Tchaikovsky started a new diary, which he kept for about

ten years. He never showed it to anyone, and I had to give him my word

of honour to burn it after his death. After all, he did so himself, and

only spared what might be seen by strangers.

His first attempt at a diary dates from 1873. He began it in expectation

of many impressions during his tour abroad, the very day he left Nizy.

_Extracts from the diary kept during the summer

of 1873._

“KIEV, _June_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1873.

“Yesterday, on the road from Voroshba to Kiev, music came singing

and echoing through my head after a long interval of silence. A

theme in embryo, in B major, took possession of my mind and almost

led me on to attempt a symphony. Suddenly the thought came over me

to cast aside Stassov’s not too successful _Tempest_ and devote the

summer to composing a symphony which should throw all my previous

works into the shade. Here is the embryo:--

[Illustration: musical notation]

“_On the road to ..._

“What is more wearisome than a railway journey and tiresome

companions? An Italian, an indescribable fool, has tacked himself

on to me, and I hardly know how to get rid of him. He does not even

know where he is going, nor where to change his money. I changed

mine at a Jew’s in Cracow. What a bore it all is! Sometimes I think

of Sasha and Modi, and my heart is fit to break. At Volochisk great

agitation, and my nerves upset. With the exception of the Italian,

my fellow-travellers are bearable. I scarcely slept all night. The

old man is a retired officer with the old, original whiskers. At

the present moment the Italian is boring a lady. Lord, what an ass!

I must get rid of him by some kind of dodge.”

“_June_ 29_th_ (_July_ 11_th_).

“I had four long hours to wait in Myslovitz; at last I am on the

road to Breslau. The Italian is enchanted to think I shall travel

with him to Liggia. He bores me to extinction. Oh, what an idiot!

At Myslovitz I had an indifferent meal, and afterwards went for a

walk through the pretty town. I can imagine my Italian’s face, and

what he will say, when I suddenly vanish at Breslau! He will be

left sitting there! My money goes like water!”

“JEAN PROSCO, CONSTANTINOPLE,

“BRESLAU.

“After all I had not the heart to deceive my Italian. I told him

beforehand I intended to stop in Breslau. He almost dissolved into

tears, and gave me his name, which I have put down above.”

“3 _a.m._

“How I love solitude sometimes! I must confess I am only staying

here in order to put off my arrival in Dresden and the society of

the Jurgensons. To sit like this--alone, to be silent, and to

think!...”

“_Not far from Dresden._

“Theme for the first allegro, introduction from the same, but in

4/4 time.”

[Illustration]

“DRESDEN, _July_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).

“I arrived here yesterday at six o’clock. As soon as I had secured

a room I hurried to the theatre. _Die Jüdin (The Jewess)_ was being

played--very fine. My nerves are terrible. Without waiting for the

end, I went to find the Jurgensons at the hotel. Supper. Took tea

with the Jurgensons. To-day I took a bath. Sauntered about the town

with Jurgenson. Midday dinner at the table d’hôte. Very shortly we

start for Saxon Switzerland. My frame of mind is not unbearable.”

“DRESDEN.

“The weather has broken up, and we have decided to turn back from

our trip. We made the descent from the Bastei by another road

between colossal rocks. We halted at a restaurant in the midst of

the most sublime scenery. Breakfasted on the banks of the Elbe

(_omelette aux confitures_) and returned to Dresden by boat. Our

rooms were no longer to be had, and they have given me a wretched

one.”

Throughout the whole of his tour through Switzerland we find similar

brief entries, recording very little beyond the state of the weather,

the names of the hotels at which they stayed, and the quality of the

meals provided.

At Cadenabbia (Como) the diary comes to an end with the following

entry:--

“The journey (from Milan) was not long, and it was very pleasant on

the steamer. We are staying at the lovely Hotel Bellevue.”

After Tchaikovsky’s return to Russia, early in August, he went straight

to his favourite summer resort Ussovo. The fortnight which he spent

there in complete solitude seemed to Tchaikovsky, in after days, one of

the happiest periods in his existence. Life abroad, under similar

circumstances, he found painful and unbearable, whereas in his own

country the presence even of a servant sufficed to spoil his solitude,

and the sense of increased energy and strength, which always came to him

in the lonely life of the country, was unknown in the bustle and stress

of the city. In a letter written in 1878 he recalls this visit to Ussovo

in the following words:--

_To N. F. M. (von Meck)._

“_April_ 22_nd_ (_March_ 4_th_), 1878.

“I know no greater happiness than to spend a few days quite alone

in the country. I have only experienced this delight once in my

life. This was in 1873. I came straight from Paris--it was early in

August--to stay with a bachelor friend in the country, in the

Government of Tambov. My friend, however, was obliged to go to

Moscow for a few days, so I was left all alone in that lovely oasis

amid the steppes of South Russia. I was in a highly strung,

emotional mood; wandered for whole days together in the forest,

spent the evenings on the low-lying steppe, and at night, sitting

at my open window, I listened to the solemn stillness, which was

only broken at rare intervals by some vague, indefinable sound.

During this fortnight, without the least effort--just as though I

were under the influence of some supernatural force--I sketched out

the whole of _The Tempest_ overture. What an unpleasant and

tiresome awakening from my dreams I experienced on my friend’s

return! All the delights of direct intercourse with the sublimities

and indescribable beauties of nature vanished in a trice! My corner

of Paradise was transformed into the prosaic house of a well-to-do

country gentleman. After two or three days of boredom I went back

to Moscow.”

Tchaikovsky went to Ussovo about the 5th or 6th of August, and by the

7th (19th) had already set to work upon _The Tempest_. By August 17th

(29th) this symphonic poem was completely sketched out in all its

details, so that the composer could go straight on with the

orchestration on his return to Moscow. The Countess Vassilieva-Shilovsky

made me a present of this manuscript, upon which are inscribed the dates

I have just mentioned. At the present time the manuscript is in the

Imperial Public Library, St. Petersburg.

X

1873-1874

As soon as Tchaikovsky returned to Moscow, on September 1st, he set to

work upon the orchestration of _The Tempest_.

In the second half of the month he moved into new quarters in the

Nikitskaya (House Vishnevsky).

Nothing particularly eventful had happened since last year, either in

his career as professor or musical critic. His daily life ran in the

same grooves as before, with this difference only: the things which once

seemed to him new and interesting now appeared more and more wearisome

and unprofitable, and his moods of depression became more frequent, more

intense, and of longer duration.

_To V. Bessel._

“_September_, 1873.

“Be so kind as to do something for _The Oprichnik_. Yesterday they

told me at the Opera House that the Direction had quite decided to

produce it in Moscow during the spring. Although, with the

exception of Kadmina, I have no strong forces to reckon upon here,

yet I think we had better not raise any objections. Let them do it

if they like. The _repétiteur_ has assured me that no expense shall

be spared in mounting the opera brilliantly. The rehearsals will be

carried on throughout the season. As regards _The Oprichnik_, I

think it would be best to dedicate it to the Grand Duke Constantine

Nicholaevich.”

_To the same._

“_October_ 10_th_ (22_nd_).

“DEAR FRIEND,--I have written to Gedeonov and told him that you are

my representative as regards everything pertaining to the

production of _The Oprichnik_. As to the pianoforte arrangement,

you must wait patiently for a little while. When you meet Stassov,

please tell him I have quite finished _The Tempest_, according to

his programme, but I shall not send him the work until I have heard

it performed in Moscow.”

_To the same._

“_October_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

“DEAR FRIEND,--Although I expected your bad news, I cannot conceal

the fact that I am very much annoyed by it. It seems to be a

foregone conclusion that I shall never hear a good performance of

one of my operas. It is useless for you to hope that _The

Oprichnik_ will be mounted next year. It will never be given at

all, for the simple reason that I am not personally known to any of

the ‘great people’ of the world in general, or to those of the

Petersburg Opera in particular. Is it not ridiculous that

Moussorgsky’s _Boris Godounov_, although refused by the Committee,

should have been chosen by Kondratiev[33] for his benefit? Madame

Platonova, too, interests herself in this work, while no one wants

to hear anything about mine, which has been accepted by the

authorities. It goes without saying that I will not consent to have

the opera performed in Moscow unless it is produced in Petersburg

too. My conscience pricks me that the work will involve you in

some expense, but I hope I may have some opportunity of

compensating you.

“As to the dedication to the Grand Duke, would it not look strange

to dedicate it to him now that the fate of the work is so

uncertain? An unperformed opera seems to me like a book in

manuscript. Would it not be better to wait? I am impatiently

expecting the corrections of the symphony.”

_To the same._

“_October_ 30_th_ (_November_ 11_th_).

“DEAR FRIEND,--Hubert has given me the good news that luck has

turned for the opera. I am so glad! Keep it a complete secret that

I want to be in Petersburg for the first symphony concert, in order

to hear my symphony.... Let me know the date and secure me a ticket

for the gallery. But not a word, for Heaven’s sake, or my little

joke will be turned into something quite unpleasant.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_November_ 28_th_ (_December_ 10_th_).

“ ... My pecuniary situation will shortly be improved. _The

Tempest_ is to be performed next week, when I shall receive the

customary 300 roubles from the Musical Society. This sum will put

me in good heart again. I am very curious to hear my new work, from

which I hope so much. It is a pity you cannot hear it too, for I

think a great deal of your wise opinion.

“This year, for the first time, I have begun to realise that I am

rather lonely here, in spite of many friends. There is no one to

whom I can open my heart--like Kondratiev, for instance.”

At the third concert of the Moscow Musical Society _The Tempest_ was

given with great success, and repeated during the same season at an

extra concert.

_From E. Napravnik to Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky._

“_December_ 16_th_ (28_th_).

“Although we shall probably not begin the rehearsals of your opera

before the second week in Lent, may I ask you to lighten the work

somewhat for the soloists and chorus by making a few cuts, _i.e._

all those repetitions in words and music which are not essential to

the development of the drama? I assure you the work will only gain

by it. Besides this, I advise you to alter the orchestration, which

is too heavy, and over-brilliant in places; it overwhelms the

singers and puts them completely in the shade. I hope you will take

my remarks in good part, as coming from one who for eleven years

has been exclusively occupied with operatic art.”

_To E. Napravnik._

“_December_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

“HONOURED SIR,--Your remarks have not hurt my feelings: on the

contrary, I am much obliged to you. Above all I am glad that your

letter has given me the opportunity of making your acquaintance,

and talking things over personally with you. I will do everything

you think necessary as regards the distribution of the parts, the

shortening of the scenes, and the changes in the orchestration. In

order to discuss things in detail, I will go to Petersburg next

Sunday and call upon you.... Pray do not mention my coming to

anyone, as my visit will be short, and I do not want to see anyone

but yourself.”

_To A. Tchaikovsky._

“_January_ 26_th_ (_February_ 7_th_), 1874.

“The difficulties with the Censor are happily settled; in fact, I

am at peace as regards the opera, and convinced that Napravnik will

take the greatest pains with it. I have written a new quartet, and

it is to be played at a _soirée_ given by Nicholas Rubinstein.”

The new quartet mentioned in this letter was begun about the end of

December, or beginning of January. In his reminiscences, Kashkin gives

the following account of its first performance at N. Rubinstein’s:--

“Early in 1874 the Second Quartet (F major) was played at a musical

evening at Nicholas Rubinstein’s. I believe the host himself was

not present, but his brother Anton was there. The executants were

Laub, Grijimal, and Gerber. All the time the music was going on

Rubinstein listened with a lowering, discontented expression, and,

at the end, declared with his customary brutal frankness that it

was not at all in the style of chamber music; that he himself could

not understand the work, etc. The rest of the audience, as well as

the players, were charmed with it.”

On March 10th (22nd) the Quartet was played at one of the Musical

Society’s chamber concerts, and according to _The Musical Leaflet_, had

a well-deserved success.

On February 25th (March 9th), the Second Symphony was performed for the

first time in Petersburg, under Napravnik’s direction. It was greatly

applauded, especially the finale; but, in the absence of the composer,

its success was not so remarkable, nor so brilliant, as it had been a

year earlier in Moscow. The symphony won the approval of the “Invincible

Band,” with the exception of Cæsar Cui, who expressed himself in the St.

Petersburg _Viedomosti_ as follows:--

“The Introduction and first Allegro are very weak; the poverty of

Tchaikovsky’s invention displays itself every moment. The March in

the second movement is rough and commonplace. The Scherzo is

neither good nor bad; the trio is so innocent that it would be

almost too infantile for a ‘Sniegourotchka.’ The best movement is

the Finale, and even then the opening is as pompously trivial as

the introduction to a _pas de deux_, and the end is beneath all

criticism.”

Towards the end of March, Tchaikovsky went to St. Petersburg to attend

the rehearsals of _The Oprichnik_, and took up his abode with his

father. During his first interviews with Napravnik his pride suffered

many blows to which he was not accustomed. Somewhat spoilt by Nicholas

Rubinstein’s flattering attitude towards every note of his recent

orchestral works, he was rather hurt by the number of cuts Napravnik

considered it necessary to make in the score of his opera. Afterwards he

approved of them all, but at the moment he felt affronted.

From the very first rehearsal Tchaikovsky was dissatisfied with his

work. On March 25th he wrote to Albrecht:--

“Kindly inform all my friends that the first performance takes

place on Friday in Easter week, and let me know in good time

whether they intend to come and hear it, so that I may secure

tickets for them. Frankly speaking, I would rather none of you

came. _There is nothing really fine in the work._”

To his pupil, Serge Taneiev, he writes in the same strain:--

“Serioja,[34] if you really seriously intend to come here on

purpose to hear my opera, I implore you to abandon the idea, for

there is _nothing good in it_, and it would be a pity if you

travelled to Petersburg on that account.”

The more the opera was studied, the gloomier grew Tchaikovsky’s mood.

One day, unsuspicious of the true reason of his depression, I ventured

to criticise _The Oprichnik_ rather severely, and made fun of the scene

in which Andrew appears in Jemchoujny’s garden, merely to “draw” him for

some money. My brother lost his temper and flew out at me fiercely. I

was almost reduced to tears, for at the time I could not guess the real

reason for his anger. It was not until long after that I realised my

criticism had wounded his artistic feelings in the most sensitive spot.

Against Tchaikovsky’s wish, almost the entire teaching staff of the

Moscow Conservatoire, with N. Rubinstein at their head, appeared in

Petersburg for the first night of _The Oprichnik_, April 12th (24th),

1874.

Although none of the singers were remarkable, yet no individual artist

marred the _ensemble_. The chorus and orchestra were the best part of

it. The performance ran smoothly. The scenery and costumes were rather

old, for the authorities did not care to risk the expense of a very

luxurious setting for a new work by a composer whose name was not as yet

a guarantee for a brilliant success.

On the face of it, the work seemed to have a great success. After the

second act the composer was unanimously called before the curtain. The

public seemed to be in that enthusiastic mood which is the true

criterion of the success of a work.

In a box on the second tier sat the composer’s old father with his

family. He beamed with happiness. But when I asked him which he thought

best for Peter, this artistic success or the Empress Anne’s Order, which

he might have gained as an official, he replied: “The decoration would

certainly have been better.” This answer shows that in his heart of

hearts he still regretted that his son had ceased to be an official. Not

that this feeling sprang from petty ambition, or from any other prosaic

or egotistical reason, but because he believed that the life of the

ordinary man is safer and happier than that of the artist.

After the performance the directors of the Moscow and Petersburg

sections of the Russian Musical Society gave a supper in honour of

Tchaikovsky at the Restaurant Borcille.

[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1874]

In the course of the evening, Asantchevsky, then principal of the St.

Petersburg Conservatoire, delivered an address, in which he informed

the composer in flattering terms that the directors of the Petersburg

section of the Musical Society had decided to award him the sum of 300

roubles, being a portion of the Kondratiev Bequest for the benefit of

Russian composers.

The Press notices of _The Oprichnik_ were as contradictory as they were

numerous. The opinions of Cæsar Cui and Laroche represented as usual the

two opposite poles of criticism. The former declared that while

“the text might have been the work of a schoolboy, the music is

equally immature and undeveloped. Poor in conception, and feeble

throughout, it is such as might have been expected from a beginner,

but not from a composer who has already covered so many sheets of

paper. Tchaikovsky’s creative talents, which are occasionally

apparent in his symphonic works, are completely lacking in _The

Oprichnik_. The choruses are rather better than the rest, but this

is only because of the folksong element which forms their thematic

material.... Not only will _The Oprichnik_ not bear comparison with

other operas of the Russian school, such as _Boris Godounov_,[35]

for instance, but it is even inferior to examples of Italian

opera.”

In these words Cui apparently believed he had given the death-blow to

the composer of _The Oprichnik_.

Laroche’s view (in _The Musical Leaflet_) is quite opposed to that of

Cæsar Cui. He says:--

“While our modern composers of opera contend with each other in

their negation of music, Tchaikovsky’s opera does not bear the

stamp of this doubtful progress, but shows the work of a gifted

temperament. The wealth of musical beauties in _The Oprichnik_ is

so great that this opera takes a significant place not only among

Tchaikovsky’s own works, but among all the examples of Russian

dramatic music. When to this rare melodic gift we add a fine

harmonic style, the wonderful, free, and often daring progression

of the parts, the genuinely Russian art of inventing chromatic

harmonies for diatonic melodies, the frequent employment of

pedal-points (which the composer uses almost too freely), the

skilful manner in which he unites the various scenes into an

organic whole, and finally the sonorous and brilliant

orchestration, we have a score which displays many of the best

features of modern operatic music, while at the same time it is

free from most of the worst faults of contemporary composition.”

The most harsh and pitiless of critics, however, was the composer

himself, who wrote a fortnight after the first performance as follows:--

“_The Oprichnik_ torments me. This opera is so bad that I always

ran away from the rehearsals (especially of Acts iii. and iv.) to

avoid hearing another note.... It has neither action, style, nor

inspiration. I am sure it will not survive half a dozen

performances, which is mortally vexatious.”

This prediction was not fulfilled, for by March 1st (13th), 1881, _The

Oprichnik_ was given fourteen times. This does not amount to a great

deal; but when we remember that not a single new opera of the Russian

school--_Boris Godounov_,[36] _The Stone Guest_, _William Ratcliff_,

_Angelo_--had exceeded sixteen performances, and many had only reached

eight, we must admit that _The Oprichnik_ had more than the average

success.

The third day after the performance of his opera Tchaikovsky started for

Italy. Besides wishing to rest after the excitement of the last few

days, he went as correspondent for the _Russky Viedomosti_ to attend the

first performance in Italy of Glinka’s _A Life for the Tsar_. The opera

was translated into Italian by Madame Santagano-Gortshakov and, thanks

to her initiative, was brought out at the Teatro dal Verme in Milan.

_To M. Tchaikovsky._

“VENICE, _April_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1874.

“All day long I have been walking up and down the Piazza San

Marco.... My soul was very downcast. Why? For many reasons, one of

which is that I am ashamed of myself. Instead of going abroad and

spending money, I ought really to have paid your debts and

Anatol’s--and yet I am hurrying off to enjoy the beautiful South.

The thought of my wrong-doing and selfishness has so tormented me

that only now, in putting my feelings on paper, does my conscience

begin to feel somewhat lighter. So forgive me, dear Modi, for

loving myself better than you and the rest of mankind.

“Perhaps you will think I am posing as a benefactor. Not in the

least. I know my egotism is limitless, or I should not have gone

off on my trip while you had to remain at home.... Now I will tell

you about Venice. It is a place in which--had I to remain for

long--I should hang myself on the fifth day from sheer despair. The

entire life of the place centres in the Piazza San Marco. To

venture further in any direction is to find yourself in a labyrinth

of stinking corridors which end in some _cul-de-sac_, so that you

have no idea where you are, or where to go, unless you are in a

gondola. A trip through the Canale Grande is well worth making, for

one passes marble palaces, each one more beautiful and more

dilapidated than the last. In fact, you might suppose yourself to

be gazing upon the ruined scenery in the first act of _Lucrezia_.

But the Doge’s Palace is beauty and elegance itself; and then the

romantic atmosphere of the Council of Ten, the Inquisition, the

torture chambers, and other fascinating things. I have thoroughly

‘done’ this palace within and without, and dutifully visited two

others, and also three churches, in which were many pictures by

Titian and Tintoretto, statues by Canova, and other treasures.

Venice, however--I repeat it--is very gloomy, and like a dead city.

There are no horses here, and I have not even come across a dog.

“I have just received a telegram from Milan. _A Life for the Tsar_

will not be performed before May 12th (new style), so I have

decided to leave to-morrow for Rome, and afterwards go on to

Naples, where I shall expect to find a letter from you.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“ROME, _April_ 20_th_ (_May_ 2_nd_), 1874.

“DEAR TOLY,-- ... Solitude is a very good thing, and I like it--in

moderation. To-day is the eighth day since I left Russia, and

during the whole of this time I have not exchanged a friendly word

with anyone. Except the hotel servants and railway officials, no

human being has heard a word from my lips. I saunter through the

city all the morning and have certainly seen most glorious things:

the Colosseum, the Capitol, the Vatican, the Pantheon, and,

finally--the loftiest triumph of human genius--St. Peter’s. Since

the midday meal I have been to the Corso, but here I was overcome

by such ‘spleen’ that I am striving to shake it off by writing

letters and drinking tea.... Except for certain historical and

artistic sights, Rome itself, with its narrow streets, is not

interesting, and I cannot understand spending one’s whole life

here, as many Russians do. I have sufficient funds to travel all

over Italy. As regards money, from the moment I left Russia I have

not ceased to reproach myself for my unfeeling egotism. If you only

knew how my conscience has pricked me! But I had made up my mind to

travel through Italy. It is too foolish; if I had wanted

distraction I might just as well have gone to Kiev or the

Crimea--it would have been cheap and as good. Dear Toly, I embrace

you heartily. What would I give to see you suddenly appear on the

scene!”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“FLORENCE, _April_ 27_th_ (_May_ 9_th_), 1874.

“You are thinking: ‘Lucky fellow, first he writes from Venice and

then from Florence.’ Yet all the while, Modi, you cannot imagine

anyone who suffers more than I do. At Naples it came to such a pass

that every day I shed tears from sheer home-sickness and longing

for my dear folk.... But the chief ground of all my misery is _The

Oprichnik_. Finally, the same terrible weather has followed me

here. The Italians cannot remember a similar spring. At Naples,

where I spent six days, I saw nothing, because in bad weather the

town is impassable. The last two days it was impossible to go out.

I fled post-haste, and shall go straight to Sasha[37] without

stopping at Milan. I have very good grounds for avoiding Milan, for

I hear from a certain Stchurovsky that the performance of _A Life

for the Tsar_ will be bungled.... In Florence I only had time to go

through the principal streets, which pleased me very much. I hate

Rome, and Naples too; the devil take them both! There is only one

town in the world for me--Moscow, and perhaps I might add Paris.”

Without waiting for the performance of _A Life for the Tsar_ at Milan,

which did not take place until May 8th (20th), Tchaikovsky returned to

Moscow early in this month.

For a short time his dissatisfaction with _The Oprichnik_ filled him

with such doubt of his powers that his spirits flagged. But his energy

quickly recovered itself. No sooner had he returned to Moscow, than he

was possessed by an intense desire to prove to himself and others that

he was equal to better things than _The Oprichnik_. The score of this

work seemed like a sin, for which he must make reparation at all costs.

There was but one way of atonement--to compose a new opera which should

have no resemblance to _The Oprichnik_, and should wipe out the memory

of that unhappy work.

In the course of this season, the Russian Musical Society organised a

prize competition for the best setting of the opera, _Vakoula the

Smith_.

While Serov was still engaged upon his opera, _The Power of the Evil

One_, he was suddenly seized with a desire to compose a Russian comic

opera, and chose a fantastic poem by Gogol. When he informed his

patroness, the Grand Duchess Helena Pavlovna, of his project, she

declared herself willing to have a libretto prepared by the poet

Polonsky at her own cost. Serov died before he had time to begin the

opera, and the Grand Duchess resolved to honour his memory by offering

two prizes for the best setting of the libretto he had been unable to

use. In January, 1873, the Grand Duchess Helena died, and the directors

of the Imperial Musical Society proceeded to carry out her wishes with

regard to the libretto of _Vakoula the Smith_.

The latest date at which the competitors might send in their scores to

the jury was fixed for August 1st (13th) 1875. The successful opera was

afterwards to be performed at the Imperial Opera House in Petersburg.

At first Tchaikovsky hesitated to take part in the competition, lest he

should be unsuccessful. But having read Polonsky’s libretto, he was

fascinated. The originality and captivating local colour, as well as the

really poetical lyrics with which the book is interspersed, commended it

to Tchaikovsky’s imagination, so that he could no longer resist the

impulse to set it to music. At the same time he feared the competition,

not so much because he desired the prize, as because, in the event of

failure, he could not hope to see his version of the libretto produced

at the Imperial Opera. This was his actual motive in trying to discover,

before finally deciding the matter, whether Anton Rubinstein, Balakirev,

or Rimsky-Korsakov were intending to compete. As soon as he had

ascertained that these rivals were not going to meet him in the field,

he threw himself into the task with ardour.

At the beginning of the summer vacation Tchaikovsky went to stay with

Kondratiev at Nizy, and set to work without loss of time. He was under

the misapprehension that the score had to be ready by August 1st of that

year (1874), besides which he felt a burning desire to wipe out the

memory of _The Oprichnik_ as soon as possible. By the middle of July,

when he left Nizy for Ussovo, he had all but finished the sketch of the

opera, and was ready to begin the orchestration. At Ussovo he redoubled

his efforts, and the work was actually completed by the end of August.

The entire opera had occupied him barely three months. He wrote no other

dramatic work under such a long and unbroken spell of inspiration. To

the end of his days Tchaikovsky had a great weakness for this particular

opera. In 1885 he made some not very important changes in the score. It

has been twice renamed; once as _Cherevichek_ (“The Little Shoes”), and

later as _Les Caprices d’Oxane_, under which title it now appears in

foreign editions.

During this season Tchaikovsky’s reputation greatly increased. The

success of his Second Symphony, and the performance of _The Oprichnik_,

made his name as well known in Petersburg as it had now become in

Moscow.

In his account of the first performance of _A Life for the Tsar_, at

Milan, Hans von Bülow, referring to Tchaikovsky, says:--[38]

“At the present moment we know but one other who, like Glinka,

strives and aspires, and whose works--although they have not yet

attained to full maturity--give the complete assurance that such

maturity will not fail to come. I refer to the young professor of

composition at the Moscow Conservatoire--Tchaikovsky. A beautiful

string quartet by him has won its way in many German towns. Many of

his works deserve equal recognition--his pianoforte compositions,

two symphonies, and an uncommonly interesting overture to _Romeo

and Juliet_, which commends itself by its originality and luxuriant

flow of melody. Thanks to his many-sidedness, this composer will

not run the danger of being neglected abroad, as was the case with

Glinka.”