XI

1874-1875

It was not until his return to Moscow that Tchaikovsky found out his

mistake as to the date of the competition. This discovery annoyed him

exceedingly. Like all composers, he burned with impatience to hear his

work performed as soon as possible. In his case such impatience was all

the greater, because he was not accustomed to delay; hitherto Nicholas

Rubinstein had brought out his works almost before the ink was dry on

the paper. Besides which Tchaikovsky had never before been so pleased

with any offspring of his genius as with this new opera. The desire to

see _Vakoula_ mounted, and thus to wipe out the bad impression left by

_The Oprichnik_, became almost a fixed idea, and led him to a course of

action which in calmer moments would have seemed to him reprehensible.

Tchaikovsky never had the art of keeping a secret, especially when it

was a question of the rehabilitation of his artistic reputation, such as

it seemed to him at present, for he believed it to have been damaged by

“the detestable _Oprichnik_.” Consequently he never took the least

trouble to conceal the fact that he was taking part in this competition.

For a man of his age he showed an inconceivable degree of _naïveté_, and

went so far as to try to induce the directors of the Opera in Petersburg

to have _Vakoula_ performed before the result of the competition was

decided. From the letter which I give below, it is easy to see how

little he thought at the moment of the injustice he was inflicting upon

the other competitors, and how imperfectly he realised the importance of

silence in such an affair as a competition, in which anonymity is the

first condition of impartial judgment.

_To E. Napravnik._

“_October_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1874.

“I have learnt to-day that you and the Grand Duke are much

displeased at my efforts to get my opera performed independently of

the decision of the jury. I very much regret that my strictly

private communication to you and Kondratiev should have been

brought before the notice of the Grand Duke, who may now think I am

unwilling to submit to the terms of the competition. The matter can

be very simply explained. I had erroneously supposed that August

1st (13th), 1874, was the last day upon which the compositions

could be sent in to the jury, and I hurried over the completion of

my work. Only on my return to Moscow did I discover my mistake, and

that I must wait more than a year for the decision of the judges.

In my impatience to have my work performed (which is far more to me

than any money) I inquired, in reply to a letter of

Kondratiev’s--whether it might not be possible to get my work

brought out independently of the prize competition. I asked him to

talk it over with you and give me a reply. Now I see that I have

made a stupid mistake, because I have no rights over the libretto

of the opera. You need only have told Kondratiev to write and say I

was a fool, instead of imputing to me some ulterior motive which I

have never had. I beg you to put aside all such suspicions, and to

reassure the Grand Duke, who is very much annoyed, so Rubinstein

tells me.

“Let me express my thanks for having included _The Tempest_ in your

repertory. I must take this opportunity of setting right a little

mistake in the instrumentation. I noticed in the introduction,

where all the strings are divided into three, and each part has its

own rhythm, that the first violins sounded too loud--first, because

they are more powerful than the others, and secondly, because they

are playing higher notes. As it is desirable that no distinct

rhythm should be heard in these particular passages, please be so

kind as to make the first violins play _ppp_ and the others simply

_p_.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_October_ 29_th_ (_November_ 10_th_).

“Just imagine, Modi, that up to the present moment I am still

slaving at the pianoforte arrangement of my opera.... I have no

time for answering all my letters. Many thanks for both yours; I am

delighted to find that you write with the elegance of a Sévigné.

Joking apart, you have a literary vein, and I should be very glad

if it proved strong enough to make an author of you. Then, at last,

I might obtain a good libretto, for it seems a hopeless business;

one seeks and seeks, and finds nothing suitable. Berg, the poet,

(editor of the _Grajdanin_, the _Niva_, and other Russian

publications), suggested to me a subject from the period of the

Hussites and Taborites. I inquired if he had any decided plan. Not

in the least; he liked the idea of their singing hymns!!! I would

give anything just now to get a good historical libretto--not

Russian.

“ ... I sit at home a good deal, but unfortunately I do not get

much time for reading. I work or play. I have studied _Boris

Godounov_ and _The Demon_ thoroughly. As to Moussorgsky’s music, it

may go to the devil for all I care: it is the commonest, lowest

parody of music. In _The Demon_ I have found some beautiful things,

but a good deal of padding, too. On Sunday the Russian Quartet,

that has brought out my quartet in D, is playing here.

“I am glad my second quartet finds favour with you and Mademoiselle

Maloziomov.[39] It is my best work; not one of them has come to me

so easily and fluently as this. I completed it as it were at one

sitting. I am surprised the public do not care for it, for I have

always thought, among this class of works, it had the best chance

of success.”

I cannot understand how my brother can have inferred from my letter that

the quartet had no success. It must have pleased, since it was repeated

at least once during the season. Cui spoke of it as a “beautiful,

talented, fluent work, which showed originality and invention.” Laroche

considered it “more serious and important than the first quartet”; and

Famitzin thought it showed “marked progress. The first movement

displayed as much style as Beethoven’s A minor quartet.”

On November 1st (13th) Napravnik conducted the first performance of _The

Tempest_ in St. Petersburg.

_From V. V. Stassov to Tchaikovsky._

“_November_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 10 _a.m._

“I have just come from the rehearsal for Saturday’s concert. Your

_Tempest_ was played for the first time. Rimsky-Korsakov and I sat

alone in the empty hall and overflowed with delight.

“Your _Tempest_ is fascinating! Unlike any other work! The tempest

itself is not remarkable, or new; Prospero, too, is nothing out of

the way, and at the close you have made a very commonplace cadenza,

such as one might find in the finale of an Italian opera--these are

three blemishes. But all the rest is a marvel of marvels! Caliban,

Ariel, the love-scene--all belong to the highest creations of art.

In both love-scenes, what passion, what languor, what beauty! I

know nothing to compare with it. The wild, uncouth Caliban, the

wonderful flights of Ariel--these are creations of the first order.

“In this scene the orchestration is enchanting.

“Rimsky and I send you our homage and heartiest congratulations

upon the completion of such a fine piece of workmanship. The day

after to-morrow (Friday) we shall attend the rehearsal again. We

could not keep away....”

_The Tempest_ not only pleased Stassov and “The Band,” but won

recognition even in the hostile camp. Laroche alone was dissatisfied. He

considered that in his programme music Tchaikovsky approached Litolff as

regards form and instrumentation, and Schumann and Glinka as regards

harmony. _The Tempest_ would not bear criticism as an organic whole.

“Beautiful, very beautiful, are the details,” he continues, “but even

these are not all on a level; for instance, the tempest itself is not

nearly so impressive as in Berlioz’s fantasia on the same subject.

Tchaikovsky’s storm is chiefly remarkable for noisy orchestration, which

is, indeed, of so deafening a character that the specialist becomes

curious to discover by what technical means the composer has succeeded

in concocting such a pandemonium.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_November_ 21_st_ (_December_ 3_rd_).

“Toly, your general silence makes me uneasy. I begin to think

something serious has happened, or one of you is ill. I am

particularly puzzled about Modeste. I am aware that my _Tempest_

was performed a few days ago. Why does no one write a word about

it? After my quartet, Modeste wrote at considerable length, and

also Mademoiselle Maloziomov. Now--not a soul, except Stassov. Most

strange!

“I am now completely absorbed in the composition of a pianoforte

concerto. I am very anxious Rubinstein should play it at his

concert. The work progresses very slowly, and does not turn out

well. However, I stick to my intentions, and hammer pianoforte

passages out of my brain: the result is nervous irritability. For

this reason I should like to take a trip to Kiev for the sake of

the rest, although this city has lost nine-tenths of its charms for

me now Toly does not live there. For this reason, too, I hate _The

Oprichnik_ with all my heart....[40]

“To-morrow the overture to my ‘unfinished opera’ will be given

here.”

The “unfinished opera” is none other than _Vakoula the Smith_. The

overture had no success, but Tchaikovsky received the customary fee of

300 roubles from the Musical Society.

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_November_ 26_th_ (_December_ 8_th_).

“ ... You do not write a word (about _The Tempest_), and

Maloziomova is silent too. Laroche’s criticism has enraged me. With

what _schadenfreude_ he points out that I imitate Litolff,

Schumann, Berlioz, Glinka, and God knows whom besides. As though I

could do nothing but compile! I am not hurt that he does not like

_The Tempest_. I expected as much, and I am quite contented that he

should merely praise the details of the work. It is the general

tone of his remarks that annoys me; the insinuation that I have

borrowed everything from other composers and have nothing of my

own....”

The hyper-sensitiveness which Tchaikovsky shows in this letter is a

symptom of that morbid condition of mind, of which more will be said as

the book advances.

On December 9th Tchaikovsky attended the first performance of _The

Oprichnik_ at Kiev, and wrote an account of the event for the _Russky

Viedomosti_. The opera had a great success, and remained in the

repertory of the Kiev Opera House throughout the entire season.

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_January_ 6_th_ (18_th_) 1875.

“I am very pleased with your newspaper article. You complain that

writing comes to you with difficulty, and that you have to search

for every phrase. But do you really suppose anything can be

accomplished without trouble and discipline? I often sit for hours

pen in hand, and have no idea how to begin my articles. I think I

shall never hammer anything out; and afterwards people praise the

fluency and ease of the writing! Remember what pains Zaremba’s

exercises cost me. Do you forget how in the summer of ‘66 I worked

my nerves to pieces over my First Symphony? And even now I often

gnaw my nails to the quick, smoke any number of cigarettes, and

pace up and down my room for long, before I can evolve a particular

motive or theme. At other times writing comes easily, thoughts seem

to flow and chase each other as they go. All depends upon one’s

mood and condition of mind. But even when we are not disposed for

it we must force ourselves to work. Otherwise nothing can be

accomplished.

“You write of being out of spirits. Believe me, I am the same.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_January_ 9_th_ (21_st_).

“I cannot endure holidays. On ordinary days I work at fixed hours,

and everything goes on like a machine. On holidays the pen falls

from my hand of its own accord--I want to be with those who are

dear to me, to pour out my heart to them; and then I am overcome by

a sense of loneliness, of desolation.... It is not merely that

there is no one here I can really call my friend (like Laroche or

Kondratiev), but also during these holidays I cannot shake off the

effects of a cruel blow to my self-esteem--which comes from none

others than Nicholas Rubinstein and Hubert. When you consider that

these two are my best friends, and in all Moscow no one should feel

more interest in my compositions than they, you will understand how

I have suffered. A remarkable fact! Messrs. Cui, Stassov, and Co.

have shown, on many occasions, that they take far more interest in

me than my so-called friends! Cui wrote me a very nice letter a few

days ago. From Korsakov, too, I have received a letter which

touched me deeply.... Yes, I feel very desolate here, and if it

were not for my work, I should become altogether depressed. In my

character lurk such timidity of other people, so much shyness and

distrust--in short, so many characteristics which make me more and

more misanthropical. Imagine, nowadays, I am often drawn towards

the monastic life, or something similar. Do not fancy I am

physically out of health. I am quite well, sleep well, eat even

better; I am only in rather a sentimental frame of mind--nothing

more.”

Tchaikovsky has told so well the tale of Rubinstein’s injury to his

self-esteem in one of his subsequent letters to Frau von Meck, that I

think it advisable to publish the entire letter in this particular

chapter of the book.

_To N. F. von Meck._

“SAN REMO, _January_ 21_st_ (_February_ 2_nd_), 1878.

“ ... In December, 1874, I had written a pianoforte concerto. As I

am not a pianist, it was necessary to consult some virtuoso as to

what might be ineffective, impracticable, and ungrateful in my

technique. I needed a severe, but at the same time friendly, critic

to point out in my work these external blemishes only. Without

going into details, I must mention the fact that some inward voice

warned me against the choice of Nicholas Rubinstein as a judge of

the technical side of my composition. However, as he was not only

the best pianist in Moscow, but also a first-rate all-round

musician, and, knowing that he would be deeply offended if he heard

I had taken my concerto to anyone else, I decided to ask him to

hear the work and give me his opinion upon the solo parts. It was

on Christmas Eve, 1874. We were invited to Albrecht’s house, and,

before we went, Nicholas Rubinstein proposed I should meet him in

one of the class-rooms at the Conservatoire to go through the

concerto. I arrived with my manuscript, and Rubinstein and Hubert

soon appeared. The latter is a very worthy, clever man, but without

the least self-assertion. Moreover, he is exceedingly garrulous,

and needs a string of words to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ He is incapable

of giving his opinion in any decisive form, and generally lets

himself be pulled over to the strongest side. I must add, however,

that this is not from cowardice, but merely from lack of character.

“I played the first movement. Never a word, never a single remark.

Do you know the awkward and ridiculous sensation of putting before

a friend a meal which you have cooked yourself, which he eats--and

holds his tongue? Oh, for a single word, for friendly abuse, for

_anything_ to break the silence! For God’s sake say _something_!

But Rubinstein never opened his lips. He was preparing his

thunderbolt, and Hubert was waiting to see which way the wind would

blow. I did not require a judgment of my work from the artistic

side; simply from the technical point of view. Rubinstein’s silence

was eloquent. ‘My dear friend,’ he seemed to be saying to himself,

‘how can I speak of the details, when the work itself goes entirely

against the grain?” I gathered patience, and played the concerto

straight through to the end. Still silence.

“‘Well?’ I asked, and rose from the piano. Then a torrent broke

from Rubinstein’s lips. Gentle at first, gathering volume as it

proceeded, and finally bursting into the fury of a Jupiter-Tonans.

My concerto was worthless, absolutely unplayable; the passages so

broken, so disconnected, so unskilfully written, that they could

not even be improved; the work itself was bad, trivial, common;

here and there I had stolen from other people; only one or two

pages were worth anything; all the rest had better be destroyed, or

entirely rewritten. ‘For instance, _that_?’ ‘And what meaning is

there in _this_?’ Here the passages were caricatured on the piano.

‘And look there! Is it possible that anyone could?’ etc., etc.,

etc. But the chief thing I cannot reproduce: the _tone_ in which

all this was said. An independent witness of this scene must have

concluded I was a talentless maniac, a scribbler with no notion of

composing, who had ventured to lay his rubbish before a famous man.

Hubert was quite overcome by my silence, and was surprised, no

doubt, that a man who had already written so many works, and was

professor of composition at the Conservatoire, could listen calmly

and without contradiction to such a jobation, such as one would

hardly venture to address to a student before having gone through

his work very carefully. Then he began to comment upon Rubinstein’s

criticism, and to agree with it, although he made some attempt to

soften the harshness of his judgment. I was not only astounded, but

deeply mortified, by the whole scene. I require friendly counsel

and criticism; I shall always be glad of it, but there was no trace

of friendliness in the whole proceedings. It was a censure

delivered in such a form that it cut me to the quick. I left the

room without a word and went upstairs. I could not have spoken for

anger and agitation. Presently Rubinstein came to me and, seeing

how upset I was, called me into another room. There he repeated

that my concerto was impossible, pointed out many places where it

needed to be completely revised, and said if I would suit the

concerto to his requirements, he would bring it out at his concert.

‘I shall not alter a single note,’ I replied, ‘I shall publish the

work precisely as it stands.’ This intention I actually carried

out.”

Not only did Tchaikovsky publish the concerto in its original form, but

he scratched out Rubinstein’s name from the dedication and replaced it

by that of Hans von Bülow. Personally, Bülow was unknown to him, but he

had heard from Klindworth that the famous pianist took a lively interest

in his compositions, and had helped to make them known in Germany.

Bülow was flattered by the dedication, and, in a long and grateful

letter, praised the concerto very highly--in direct opposition to

Rubinstein--saying, that of all Tchaikovsky’s works with which he was

acquainted this was “the most perfect.”

“The ideas,” he wrote, “are so lofty, strong, and original. The

details, which although profuse, in no way obscure the work as a

whole, are so interesting. The form is so perfect, mature, and full

of style--in the sense that the intention and craftsmanship are

everywhere concealed. I should grow weary if I attempted to

enumerate all the qualities of your work--qualities which compel me

to congratulate, not only the composer, but all those who will

enjoy the work in future, either actively or passively

(_réceptivement_).”

I have already mentioned that Tchaikovsky, in spite of a nature

fundamentally noble and generous, was not altogether free from rancour.

The episode of the pianoforte concerto proves this. It was long before

he could forgive Rubinstein’s cruel criticism, and this influenced their

friendly relations. It is evident from the style of his letter to

Nadejda von Meck, from the lively narration of every episode and detail

of the affair, that the wound still smarted as severely as when it had

been inflicted three years earlier.

In 1878 Nicholas Rubinstein entirely healed the breach, and removed all

grounds of ill-feeling when, with true nobility and simplicity,

recognising the injustice he had done to the concerto in the first

instance, he studied and played it, abroad and in Russia, with all the

genius and artistic insight of which he was capable.

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_March_ 9_th_ (21_st_).

“The jester Fate has willed that for the last ten years I should

live apart from all who are dear to me.... If you have any powers

of observation, you will have noticed that my friendship with

Rubinstein and the other gentlemen of the Conservatoire is simply

based on the circumstance of our being colleagues, and that none of

them give me the tenderness and affection of which I constantly

stand in need. Perhaps I am to blame for this; I am very slow in

forming new ties. However this may be, I suffer much for lack of

someone I care for during these periods of hypochondria. All this

winter I have been depressed to the verge of despair, and often

wished myself dead. Now the spring is here the melancholy has

vanished, but I know it will return in greater intensity with each

winter to come, and so I have made up mind to live away from Moscow

all next year. Where I shall go I cannot say, but I must have

entire change of scene and surroundings.... Probably you will have

read of Laub’s death in the papers.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_March_ 12_th_ (24_th_).

“I see that Kondratiev has been giving you an over-coloured account

of my hypochondriacal state. I have suffered all the winter, but my

physical health is not in the least impaired.... Probably I wrote

to Kondratiev in a fit of depression, and should find my account

very much exaggerated if I were to read the letter now. You seem

inclined to reproach me for being more frank with Kondratiev than

with you. That is because I love you and Anatol ten times more than

I love him; not that he does not like me, but only in so far as I

do not interfere with his comfort, which is the most precious thing

in the world to him. If I had confided my state to you, or Anatol,

you would have taken my troubles too much to heart; whereas

Kondratiev would certainly not let them cause him any anxiety. As

to what you say about my antipathy towards you, I pass it by as a

joke. Upon what do you found your supposition? It makes me angry to

see that you are not free from any of my own faults--that much is

certainly true. I wish I could find any of my idiosyncrasies

missing in you--but I cannot. You are too like me: when I am vexed

with you, I am vexed with myself, for you are my mirror, in which I

see reflected the true image of all my own weaknesses. From this

you can conclude that if you are antipathetic to me, this antipathy

proceeds fundamentally from myself. Ergo--you are a fool, which no

one ever doubted. Anatol wrote me a letter very like yours. Both

letters were like a healing ointment to my suffering spirit.... The

death of Laub has been a terrible grief to me....”

Following upon these letters, it becomes necessary to give some account

of the mental and moral disorder which attacked Tchaikovsky during the

course of this season, and gradually took firmer hold upon him, until in

1877 it reached a terrible crisis which nearly proved fatal to his

existence.

The desire for liberty, the longing to cast off all the fetters which

were a hindrance to his creative work, now began to assume the character

of an undeclared, but chronic, disease, which only showed itself now and

again in complaints against destiny, in poetical dreams of “a calm,

quiet home,” of “a peaceful and happy existence.” Such aspirations came

and went, according to the impressions and interests which filled his

mind and imagination. If we read the letters of this period carefully,

we cannot fail to observe how every fluctuation in his circumstances

influenced his spiritual condition. We see it when he separated from

Rubinstein and started a home of his own. His independence, his new

friendships, once more reconciled him to existence, and his affection

for Moscow--or at least for the life it afforded--then reached its

climax. For a little while his longings for something better were

stifled. But as early as 1872 his dissatisfaction and desire to escape

from his surroundings make themselves felt; although only infrequently

and lightly expressed.

In November 1873, we find him speaking frankly of his disenchantment

with his Moscow friends, and complaining of his isolation and the lack

of anyone who understood him. So far, these were only recurrent symptoms

of a chronic malady.

We see that in the spring of 1874, when he was away from Moscow and from

the friends of whom he had complained, he wished for their society

again, wrote to them in affectionate terms, and, during the whole of his

visit to Petersburg, as later on to Italy, he was always looking forward

to his return to “dear Moscow, where alone I can be happy.”

By 1875 the chronic malady had made considerable progress. It did not

return at intervals as heretofore, but had become a constant trouble.

According to his own account, he was depressed all the winter, sometimes

to the verge of despair. He felt he had reached a turning-point in his

existence, similar to that in the sixties. But then the desired goal had

been his musical career, whereas now, it was “to live as he pleased.”

Tchaikovsky now resembled those invalids who do not recognise the true

cause of their sufferings, and therefore have recourse to the wrong

treatment. He believed the reason for his state lay in the absence of

intimate friends, and that his one chance of a cure was to be found

among “those who were dear to him” and “who alone could save him from

the torments of solitude” from which he suffered. I lay stress upon this

error of Tchaikovsky’s, because, becoming more and more of a fixed idea,

it finally led the composer to take an insane step which almost proved

his undoing.

One symptom of Tchaikovsky’s condition was the morbid sensibility of his

artistic temperament. Even before the episode of the B♭ minor

concerto, he chanced one day to play part of _Vakoula the Smith_ before

some of his friends.

“He was too nervous to do justice to the work,” says Kashkin, “and

rendered the music in a pointless and spiritless fashion, which

produced an unfavourable impression upon his little audience.

Tchaikovsky, observing the cool attitude of his hearers, played the

opera hurriedly through to the end and left the piano, annoyed by

our lack of appreciation.”

At any other time such criticism would have been a momentary annoyance,

soon forgotten. But just then, following upon his keen disappointment in

_The Oprichnik_ and the exaggerated hopes he had set upon _Vakoula_, he

was much mortified at this reception of his “favourite child.” Not only

was he annoyed, but he considered himself affronted by what seemed to

him an unjust criticism. Hence the bitterness with which, at that

period, he spoke of his Moscow friends. They, however, kept the same

warmth of feeling for him, as was amply proved during the crisis of

1877.

With the coming of spring Tchaikovsky’s depression passed away, and he

spent the Easter holidays very happily in the society of the twins, who

came to visit him in Moscow.

On May 4th (16th) _The Oprichnik_ was performed for the first time in

Moscow. But all the composer’s thoughts were now concentrated on his

“favourite child, _Vakoula the Smith_.” “You cannot imagine,” he wrote

to his brother Anatol, “how much I reckon upon this work. I think I

might go mad if it failed to bring me luck. I do not want the prize--I

despise it, although money is no bad thing--but I want my opera to be

performed.”

Shortly before leaving Moscow for the summer, he was commissioned by the

Imperial Opera to write a musical ballet entitled _The Swan Lake_. He

did not immediately set to work upon this music, but went to Ussovo at

the end of May, where he began his Third Symphony in D major. Late in

June he visited his friend Kondratiev at Nizy, where he was exclusively

occupied with the orchestration of this symphony until July 14th (26th),

when he went to stay with his sister Madame Davidov at Verbovka. By

August 1st the symphony was finished, and Tchaikovsky took up the ballet

music, for which he was to receive a fee of 800 roubles (about £80). The

first two acts were ready in a fortnight.

Verbovka, the Davidovs’ estate, was in the neighbourhood of Kamenka, and

Tchaikovsky was so fond of this spot that it became his favourite

holiday resort, and cast the charms of Ussovo entirely in the shade. The

summer of 1875 was spent not only in the society of his sister and her

family, but also in that of his father and his brother Anatol.

XII

1875-1876

_To N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov._

“MOSCOW, _September_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1875.

“MOST HONOURED NICHOLAI ANDREIEVICH,--Thanks for your kind letter.

You must know how I admire and bow down before your artistic

modesty and your great strength of character! These innumerable

counterpoints, these sixty fugues, and all the other musical

intricacies which you have accomplished--all these things, from a

man who had already produced a _Sadko_ eight years previously--are

the exploits of a hero. I want to proclaim them to all the world. I

am astounded, and do not know how to express all my respect for

your artistic temperament. How small, poor, self-satisfied and

naïve I feel in comparison with you! I am a mere _artisan_ in

composition, but you will be an _artist_, in the fullest sense of

the word. I hope you will not take these remarks as flattery. I am

really convinced that with your immense gifts--and the ideal

conscientiousness with which you approach your work--you will

produce music that must far surpass all which so far has been

composed in Russia.

“I await your ten fugues with keen impatience. As it will be almost

impossible for me to go to Petersburg for some time to come, I beg

you to rejoice my heart by sending them as soon as possible. I will

study them thoroughly and give you my opinion in detail.... The

Opera Direction has commissioned me to write music for the ballet

_The Swan Lake_. I accepted the work, partly because I want the

money, but also because I have long had a wish to try my hand at

this kind of music.

“I should very much like to know how the decision upon the merits

of the (opera) scores will go. I hope you may be a member of the

committee. The fear of being rejected--that is to say, not only

losing the prize, but with it all possibility of seeing my

_Vakoula_ performed--worries me very much.

“Opinions here as regards _Angelo_[41] are most contradictory. Two

years ago I heard Cui play the first act, which produced an

unsympathetic impression upon me, especially in comparison with

_Ratcliff_, of which I am extremely fond.”

Contrary to custom, Petersburg, not Moscow, enjoyed the first hearing of

Tchaikovsky’s latest work. At the first Symphony Concert of the Musical

Society, on December 1st, Professor Kross played the Pianoforte

Concerto. Both composer and player were recalled, but at the same time

the work was only a partial success with the public. The Press, with one

exception, was unfavourably disposed towards it. Famitzin spoke of the

Concerto as “brilliant and grateful, but difficult for virtuosi.” All

the other critics, including Laroche, were dissatisfied. The latter

praised the Introduction for its “clearness, triumphal solemnity, and

splendour,” and thought the other movements did not display the melodic

charm to be expected from the composer of _The Oprichnik_ and _Romeo and

Juliet_. “The Concerto,” he continued, “was ungrateful for pianists, and

would have no future.”

At the first Symphony Concert in Moscow, November 7th (19th),

Tchaikovsky’s Third Symphony was produced for the first time with marked

success.

_To N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov._

“MOSCOW, _November_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1875.

“MOST HONOURED NICHOLAI ANDREIEVICH,--To-day for the first time I

have a free moment in which to talk to you. Business first.

“1. It goes without saying that Rubinstein will be much obliged if

you will send him _Antar_.[42] We shall await the score

impatiently, and also the quartet, which interests me very much....

“2. Jurgenson will be glad if you will let him have the quartet.

Have I explained your conditions correctly? I told him you expected

a fee of fifty roubles, and the pianoforte arrangement was to be

made at his expense. I know a young lady here who arranged my

second quartet very well. So if your wife will not undertake to do

it herself, we might apply to her....

“I went direct from the station to the rehearsal of my symphony. It

seems to me the work does not contain any very happy ideas, but, as

regards form, it is a step in advance. I am best pleased with the

first movement, and also with the two Scherzi, the second of which

is very difficult, consequently not nearly so well played as it

might have been if we could have had more rehearsals. Our

rehearsals never last more than two hours; we have three, it is

true, but what can be done in two hours? On the whole, however, I

was satisfied with the performance....

“ ... A few days ago I had a letter from Bülow, enclosing a number

of American press notices of my Pianoforte Concerto. The Americans

think the first movement suffers from ‘the lack of a central idea

around which to assemble such a host of musical fantasies, which

make up the breezy and ethereal whole.’ The same critic discovered

in the finale ‘syncopation on the trills, spasmodic interruptions

of the subject, and thundering octave passages’! Think what

appetites these Americans have: after every performance Bülow was

obliged to repeat _the entire finale_! Such a thing could never

happen here.”

The first performance of the Concerto in Moscow took place on November

21st (December 3rd), 1875, when it was played by the young pianist Serge

Taneiev, the favourite pupil of N. Rubinstein and Tchaikovsky. Taneiev

had made his first appearance in public in January of the same year. On

this occasion he played the ungrateful Concerto of Brahms, and won not

only the sympathy of the public, but the admiration of connoisseurs.

Tchaikovsky’s account of Taneiev’s _début_ is not quite free from

affectionate partiality, but it is so characteristic that it deserves

quotation:--

“The interest of the Seventh Symphony concert was enhanced by the

first appearance of the young pianist Serge Taneiev, who

brilliantly fulfilled all the hopes of his teachers on this

occasion. Besides purity and strength of touch, grace, and ease of

execution, Taneiev astonished everyone by his maturity of

intellect, his self-control, and the calm objective style of his

interpretation. While possessing all the qualities of his master,

Taneiev cannot be regarded as a mere copyist. He has his own

artistic individuality, which has won him a place among virtuosi

from the very outset of his career....”

Tchaikovsky was delighted with Taneiev’s rendering of his own Concerto,

and wrote:--

“The chief feature of his playing lies in his power to grasp the

composer’s intention in all its most delicate and minute details,

and to realise them precisely as the author heard them himself.”

In November, 1875, Camille Saint-Saëns came to conduct and play some of

his works in Moscow. The short, lively man, with his Jewish type of

features, attracted Tchaikovsky and fascinated him not only by his wit

and original ideas, but also by his masterly knowledge of his art.

Tchaikovsky used to say that Saint-Saëns knew how to combine the grace

and charm of the French school with the depth and earnestness of the

great German masters. Tchaikovsky became very friendly with him, and

hoped this friendship would prove very useful in the future. It had no

results, however. Long afterwards they met again as comparative

strangers, and always remained so.

During Saint-Saëns’ short visit to Moscow a very amusing episode took

place. One day the friends discovered they had a great many likes and

dislikes in common, not merely in the world of music, but in other

respects. In their youth both had been enthusiastic admirers of the

ballet, and had often tried to imitate the art of the dancers. This

suggested the idea of dancing together, and they brought out a little

ballet, _Pygmalion and Galatea_, on the stage of the Conservatoire.

Saint-Saëns, aged forty, played the part of Galatea most

conscientiously, while Tchaikovsky, aged thirty-five, appeared as

Pygmalion. N. Rubinstein formed the orchestra. Unfortunately, besides

the three performers, no spectators witnessed this singular

entertainment.

The fate of _Vakoula the Smith_ was Tchaikovsky’s chief preoccupation at

this time. The jury consisted of A. Kireiev, Asantchevsky, N.

Rubinstein, Th. Tolstoi, Rimsky-Korsakov, Napravnik, Laroche, and K.

Davidov.

Tchaikovsky’s score, so Laroche relates, was of course copied out in a

strange autograph, “but the motto, which was identical with the writing

in the parcel, was in Tchaikovsky’s own hand. ‘Ars longa, vita brevis’

ran the motto, and the characteristic features of the writing were well

known to us all, so that from the beginning there was not the least room

for doubt that Tchaikovsky was the composer of the score. But even if he

had not had the _naïveté_ to write this inscription with his own hand,

the style of the work would have proclaimed his authorship. As the Grand

Duke remarked laughingly, during the sitting of the jury: ‘_Secret de la

comédie_.’”

The result of the prize competition was very much talked of in

Petersburg. Long before the decision of the jury was publicly announced,

everyone knew that their approval of _Vakoula_ was unanimous.

In October Rimsky-Korsakov wrote to Tchaikovsky as follows:--

“I do not doubt for a moment that your opera will carry off the

prize. To my mind, the operas sent in bear witness to a very poor

state of things as regards music here.... Except your work, I do

not consider there is one fit to receive the prize, or to be

performed in public.”

Towards the end of October the individual views of the jury were

collected in a general decision, and Tchaikovsky received a letter from

the Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich, in his own handwriting,

congratulating him as the prize-winner of the competition.

During October Modeste Tchaikovsky retired from the Government service

in order to become private tutor to a deaf and dumb boy, Nicholas

Konradi. The child’s parents decided to send young Tchaikovsky to Lyons

for a year, to study a special system of education for deaf mutes.

The composer and his brother left Russia together towards the end of

December. “Even the various difficulties and unpleasant occurrences of

this trip could not damp our cheerful spirits,” says Modeste

Tchaikovsky. My delight in the journey, and the interest I felt in

everything I saw “abroad,” infected my brother. He enjoyed my pleasure,

laughed at the innocence of his inexperienced travelling companion, and

threw himself energetically into the part of guide to an impressionable

tourist.

From Berlin we travelled to Geneva, where we spent ten days with my

sister and her family (the Davidovs). Afterwards we went on to Paris.

Here my brother experienced one of the strongest musical impressions of

his life.

On March 3rd (15th), 1873, Bizet’s opera _Carmen_ was given for the

first time. Vladimir Shilovsky, who was in Paris at the time, attended

this performance. Captivated by the work, he sent the pianoforte score

to his teacher in Moscow. My brother was never so completely carried

away by any modern composition as by _Carmen_. Bizet’s death, three

months after the production of the work, only served to strengthen his

almost unwholesome passion for this opera.

During our visit to Paris _Carmen_ was being played at the Opera

Comique. We went to hear it, and I never saw Peter Ilich so excited over

any performance. This was not merely due to the music and the piquant

orchestration of the score, which he now heard for the first time, but

also to the admirable acting of Galli-Marié, who sang the title-rôle.

She reproduced the type of Carmen with wonderful realism, and at the

same time managed to combine with the display of unbridled passion an

element of mystical fatalism which held us spell-bound.

Two days later we parted. My brother returned to Russia, while I

remained in France.

On January 25th (February 6th) the Third Symphony was performed in

Petersburg under Napravnik’s bâton. Cui criticised it in the following

words:--

“The public remained cool during the performance of the work, and

applauded very moderately after each movement. At the end, however,

the composer was enthusiastically recalled. This symphony must be

taken seriously. The first three movements are the best; the only

charm of the fourth being its sonority, for the musical contents

are poor. The fifth movement, a polonaise, is the weakest. On the

whole the new symphony shows talent, but we have a right to expect

more from Tchaikovsky.”

Laroche said:--

“The importance and power of the music, the beauty and variety of

form, the nobility of style, originality and rare perfection of

technique, all contribute to make this symphony one of the most

remarkable musical works produced during the last ten years. Were

it to be played in any musical centre in Germany, it would raise

the name of the Russian musician to a level with those of the most

famous symphonic composers of the day.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“MOSCOW, _February_ 10_th_ (22_nd_).

“I am working might and main to finish a quartet[43] which--you may

remember--I started upon in Paris. Press opinions upon my

symphony--Laroche not excepted--are rather cold. They all consider

I have nothing new to say, and am beginning to repeat myself. Can

this really be the case? After finishing the quartet I will rest

for a time, and only complete my ballet. I shall not embark upon

anything new until I have decided upon an opera. I waver between

two subjects, _Ephraim_ and _Francesca_. I think the latter will

carry the day.”

_Ephraim_ was a libretto written by Constantine Shilovsky upon a

love-tale of the court of Pharaoh, at the period of the Hebrew

captivity.

_Francesca da Rimini_ was a ready-made libretto by Zvantsiev, which had

been suggested to Tchaikovsky by Laroche. It was based upon the fifth

canto of Dante’s _Inferno_.

Neither of these books satisfied the composer. After seeing _Carmen_ he

only cared for a similar subject: a libretto dealing with real men and

women who stood in closer touch with modern life; a drama which was at

once simple and realistic.

The new Quartet No. 3 was played for the first time at a concert given

by the violinist Grijimal, March 18th. Later on it was repeated at a

chamber music evening of the Musical Society. On both occasions its

success was decisive.

In May Tchaikovsky was out of health and was ordered by the doctors to

take a course of waters at Vichy. He reached Lyons on June 27th (July

9th), where he met Modeste, and made the acquaintance of his brother’s

pupil, to whom he became much attached.

His first impressions of Vichy were far from favourable, but the local

physician persuaded him to remain at least long enough for a

“demi-cure,” from which he derived great benefit. He then rejoined

Modeste and young Konradi for a short time, and went to Bayreuth at the

end of July, where a lodging had been secured for him by Karl

Klindworth.

_To M. Tchaikovsky._

“BAYREUTH, _August_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).

“ ... I arrived here on July 31st (August 12th), the day before the

performance. Klindworth met me. I found a number of well-known

people here, and plunged straight-way into the vortex of the

festival, in which I whirl all day long like one possessed. I have

also made the acquaintance of Liszt, who received me most amiably.

I called on Wagner, who no longer sees anyone. Yesterday the

performance of the _Rheingold_ took place. From the scenic point of

view it interested me greatly, and I was also much impressed by the

truly marvellous staging of the work. Musically, it is

inconceivable nonsense, in which here and there occur beautiful,

and even captivating, moments. Among the people here who are known

to you are Rubinstein--with whom I am living--Laroche and Cui.

“Bayreuth is a tiny little town in which, at the present moment,

several thousand people are congregated.... I am not at all bored,

although I cannot say I enjoy my visit here, so that all my

thoughts and efforts are directed to getting away to Russia, _viâ_

Vienna, as soon as possible. I hope to accomplish this by

Thursday.”

In the articles Tchaikovsky sent to the _Russky Viedomosti_, he

describes his visit to Bayreuth in detail:--

“I reached Bayreuth on August 12th (new style), the day before the

first performance of the first part of the Trilogy. The town was in

a state of great excitement. Crowds of people, natives and

strangers, gathered together literally from the ends of the earth,

were rushing to the railway-station to see the arrival of the

Emperor. I witnessed the spectacle from the window of a

neighbouring house. First some brilliant uniforms passed by, then

the musicians of the Wagner Theatre, in procession, with Hans

Richter, the conductor, at their head; next followed the

interesting figure of the ‘Abbé’ Liszt, with the fine,

characteristic head I have so often admired in pictures; and,

lastly, in a sumptuous carriage, the serene old man, Richard

Wagner, with his aquiline nose and the delicately ironical smile

which gives such a characteristic expression to the face of the

creator of this cosmopolitan and artistic festival. A rousing

‘Hurrah’ resounded from thousands of throats as the Emperor’s train

entered the station. The old Emperor stepped into the carriage

awaiting him, and drove to the palace. Wagner, who followed

immediately in his wake, was greeted by the crowds with as much

enthusiasm as the Emperor. What pride, what overflowing emotions

must have filled at this moment the heart of that little man who,

by his energetic will and great talent, has defied all obstacles to

the final realisation of his artistic ideals and audacious views!

“I made a little excursion through the streets of the town. They

swarmed with people of all nationalities, who looked very much

preoccupied, and as if in search of something. The reason of this

anxious search I discovered only too soon, as I myself had to share

it. All these restless people, wandering through the town, were

seeking to satisfy the pangs of hunger, which even the fulness of

artistic enjoyment could not entirely assuage. The little town

offers, it is true, sufficient shelter to strangers, but it is not

able to feed all its guests. So it happened that, even on the very

day of my arrival, I learnt what ‘the struggle for existence’ can

mean. There are very few hotels in Bayreuth, and the greater part

of the visitors find accommodation in private houses. The tables

d’hôte prepared in the inns are not sufficient to satisfy all the

hungry people; one can only obtain a piece of bread, or a glass of

beer, with immense difficulty, by dire struggle, or cunning

stratagem, or iron endurance. Even when a modest place at a table

has been stormed, it is necessary to wait an eternity before the

long-desired meal is served. Anarchy reigns at these meals;

everyone is calling and shrieking, and the exhausted waiters pay no

heed to the rightful claims of an individual. Only by the merest

chance does one get a taste of any of the dishes. In the

neighbourhood of the theatre is a restaurant which advertises a

good dinner at two o’clock. But to get inside it and lay hold of

anything in that throng of hungry creatures is a feat worthy of a

hero.

“I have dwelt upon this matter at some length with the design of

calling the attention of my readers to this prominent feature of

the Bayreuth Melomania. As a matter of fact, throughout the whole

duration of the festival, food forms the chief interest of the

public; the artistic representations take a secondary place.

Cutlets, baked potatoes, omelettes, are discussed much more eagerly

than Wagner’s music.

“I have already mentioned that the representatives of all

civilised nations were assembled in Bayreuth. In fact, even on the

day of my arrival, I perceived in the crowd many leaders of the

musical world in Europe and America. But the greatest of them, the

most famous, were conspicuous by their absence. Verdi, Gounod,

Thomas, Brahms, Anton Rubinstein, Raff, Joachim, Bülow had not come

to Bayreuth. Among the noted Russian musicians present were:

Nicholas Rubinstein, Cui, Laroche, Famitsin, Klindworth (who, as is

well known, has made the pianoforte arrangement of the Wagner

Trilogy), Frau Walzeck, the most famous professor of singing in

Moscow, and others.

“The performance of the _Rheingold_ took place on August 1st

(13th), at 7 p.m. It lasted without a break two hours and a half.

The other three parts, _Walküre_, _Siegfried_, and

_Götterdämmerung_, will be given with an hour’s interval, and will

last from 4 p.m. to 10 p.m. In consequence of the indisposition of

the singer Betz, _Siegfried_ was postponed from Tuesday to

Wednesday, so that the first cycle lasted fully five days. At three

o’clock we take our way to the theatre, which stands on a little

hill rather distant from the town. That is the most trying part of

the day, even for those who have managed to fortify themselves with

a good meal. The road lies uphill, with absolutely no shade, so

that one is exposed to the scorching rays of the sun. While waiting

for the performance to begin, the motley troop encamps on the grass

near the theatre. Some sit over a glass of beer in the restaurant.

Here acquaintances are made and renewed. From all sides one hears

complaints of hunger and thirst, mingled with comments on present

or past performances. At four o’clock, to the minute, the fanfare

sounds, and the crowd streams into the theatre. Five minutes later

all the seats are occupied. The fanfare sounds again, the buzz of

conversation is stilled, the lights turned down, and darkness

reigns in the auditorium. From depths--invisible to the

audience--in which the orchestra is sunk float the strains of the

beautiful overture; the curtain parts to either side, and the

performance begins. Each act lasts an hour and a half; then comes

an interval, but a very disagreeable one, for the sun is still far

from setting, and it is difficult to find any place in the shade.

The second interval, on the contrary, is the most beautiful part of

the day. The sun is already near the horizon; in the air one feels

the coolness of evening, the wooded hills around and the charming

little town in the distance are lovely. Towards ten o’clock the

performance comes to an end....”

_To M. Tchaikovsky._

“VIENNA, _August_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1876.

“Bayreuth has left me with disagreeable recollections, although my

artistic ambition was flattered more than once. It appears I am by

no means as unknown in Western Europe as I believed. The

disagreeable recollections are raised by the uninterrupted bustle

in which I was obliged to take part. It finally came to an end on

Thursday. After the last notes of the _Götterdämmerung_, I felt as

though I had been let out of prison. The _Nibelungen_ may be

actually a magnificent work, but it is certain that there never was

anything so endlessly and wearisomely spun out.

“From Bayreuth I went first to Nuremberg, where I spent a whole day

and wrote the notice for the _Russky Viedomosti_. Nuremberg is

charming! I arrived in Vienna to-day and leave to-morrow for

Verbovka.”

Laroche contributes the following account of Tchaikovsky’s visit to the

Bayreuth festival:--

“The effort of listening and gazing during the immensely long acts

of the Wagner Trilogy (especially of _Rheingold_ and the first part

of _Götterdämmerung_, which both last without interval for two

hours), the sitting in a close, dark amphitheatre in tropical heat,

the sincere endeavour to understand the language and style of the

book of the words--which is so clumsy and difficult in its

composition that even to Germans themselves it is almost

inaccessible--all produced in Tchaikovsky a feeling of great

depression, from which he only recovered when it came to an end and

he found himself at a comfortable supper with a glass of beer....”

Such was the impression produced upon Tchaikovsky by the _Nibelungen_.

He himself recorded the following observations upon Wagner’s colossal

work:--

“I brought away the impression that the Trilogy contains many

passages of extraordinary beauty, especially symphonic beauty,

which is remarkable, as Wagner has certainly no intention of

writing an opera in the style of a symphony. I feel a respectful

admiration for the immense talents of the composer and his wealth

of technique, such as has never been heard before. And yet I have

grave doubts as to the truth of Wagner’s principles of opera. I

will, however, continue the study of this music--the most

complicated which has hitherto been composed.

“Yet if the ‘Ring’ bores one in places, if much in it is at first

incomprehensible and vague, if Wagner’s harmonies are at times open

to objection, as being too complicated and artificial, and his

theories are false, even if the results of his immense work should

eventually fall into oblivion, and the Bayreuth Theatre drop into

an eternal slumber, yet the _Nibelungen Ring_ is an event of the

greatest importance to the world, an epoch-making work of art.”

Morally and physically exhausted, pondering uninterruptedly on his own

future, and imbued with the firm conviction that “things could not go on

as they were,” Tchaikovsky returned from foreign countries, travelling

through Vienna to Verbovka.

There a hearty welcome from his relations awaited him, and all the

idyllic enjoyments of the country. The happy family life of the Davidovs

was the best thing to calm and comfort Tchaikovsky, but, at the same

time, it strengthened a certain intention in which his morbid

imagination discerned the one means of “salvation,” but which actually

became the starting-point of still greater troubles and worries. On

August 19th (31st) he wrote to me from Verbovka:--

“I have now to pass through a critical moment in my life. By-and-by

I will write to you about it more fully; meanwhile I must just

tell you that I _have decided to get married_. This is

irrevocable....”

XIII

1876-1877

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“MOSCOW, _September_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1876.

“ ... Nearly two months have passed since we parted from each

other, but they seem to me centuries. During this time I have

thought much about you, and also about myself and my future. My

reflections have resulted in the firm determination to marry some

one or other.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“MOSCOW, _September_ 17_th_ (29_th_).

“Time passes uneventfully. In this colourless existence, however,

lies a certain charm. I can hardly express in words how sweet is

this feeling of quiet. What comfort--I might almost say

happiness--it is to return to my pleasant rooms and sit down with a

book in my hand! At this moment I hate, probably not less than you

do, that beautiful, unknown being who will force me to change my

way of living. Do not be afraid, I shall not hurry in this matter;

you may be sure I will approach it with great caution, and only

after much deliberation.”

_To A. Tchaikovsky._

“_September_ 20_th_ (_October_ 2_nd_).

“Toly, I long for you again. I am worried with the thought that

while you were staying in Moscow I did not treat you kindly enough.

If such a thought should come to you too, know (you know it

already) that my lack of tenderness by no means implies a lack of

love and attachment. I was only vexed with myself, and vexed

assuredly, because I deceived you when I said I had arrived at an

important turning-point in my existence. That is not true; I have

not arrived at it, but I think of it and wait for _something_ to

spur me on to action. In the meantime, however, the quiet evening

hours in my dear little home, the rest and solitude--I must confess

to this--have great charms for me. I shudder when I think I must

give it all up. And yet it will come to pass....”

_To Rimsky-Korsakov._

“MOSCOW, _September_ 29_th_ (_October_ 11_th_), 1876.

“DEAR FRIEND,--As soon as I had read your letter I went to

Jurgenson and asked him about the quartet. I must tell you

something which clearly explains Jurgenson’s delay. When you sent

the parts of your quartet to Rubinstein last year, it was played

through by our Quartet Society, Jurgenson being present. Now your

quartet by no means pleased these gentlemen, and they expressed

some surprise that Jurgenson should dream of publishing a work

which appeared destined to fall into oblivion. This may have cooled

the ardour of our publisher. In the approaching series of Chamber

Concerts the quartet will probably be performed, and I fancy the

members of the Society will retract their opinion when they get to

know your work better. I am convinced of this, because I know how

your quartet improves on acquaintance. The first movement is simply

delicious, and ideal as to form. It might serve as a pattern of

purity of style. The andante is a little dry, but just on that

account very characteristic--as reminiscent of the days of powder

and patches. The scherzo is very lively, piquant, and must sound

well. As to the finale, I freely confess that it in no wise pleases

me, although I acknowledge that it may do so when I hear it, and

then I may find the obtrusive rhythm of the chief theme less

frightfully unbearable. I consider you are at present in a

transition period; in a state of fermentation; and no one knows

what you are capable of doing. With your talents and your

_character_ you may achieve immense results. As I have said, the

first movement is a pattern of virginal purity of style. It has

something of Mozart’s beauty and unaffectedness.

“You ask whether I have really written a third quartet. Yes, it is

so. I produced it last winter, after my return from abroad. It

contains an “Andante funèbre,” which has had so great a success

that the quartet was played three times in public in the course of

a fortnight.”

_To A. Davidov._

“_October_ 6_th_ (18_th_).

“ ... Do not worry yourself about my marriage, my angel. The event

is not yet imminent, and will certainly not come off before next

year. In the course of next month I shall begin to look around and

prepare myself a little for matrimony, which for various reasons I

consider necessary.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_October_ 14_th_ (26_th_).

“I have only just finished the composition of a new work, the

symphonic fantasia, _Francesca da Rimini_. I have worked at it _con

amore_, and believe my love has been successful. With regard to the

_Whirlwind_, perhaps it might correspond better to Doré’s picture;

it has not turned out quite what I wanted. However, an accurate

estimate of the work is impossible, so long as it is neither

orchestrated nor played.”

_To E. Napravnik._

“_October_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

“I have just read in a Petersburg paper that you intend to give the

dances from my opera _Vakoula_ at one of the forthcoming symphony

concerts. Would it be possible to perform my new symphonic poem,

_Francesca da Rimini_, instead? I am actually working at the

orchestration of this work, and could have the score ready in two

or three weeks. It would never have occurred to me to trouble you

with my new work, had I not seen that my name was already included

in your programmes. As you have been so kind as to grant me a

little room at your concerts, I hope you will agree to my present

proposal. I must frankly confess that I am somewhat troubled about

the fate of my opera. So far, I have not even heard whether the

choral rehearsals have begun. Perhaps you will be so kind as to

send me word about the performance of _Vakoula_.”

_To A. Davidov._

“_November_ 8_th_ (20_th_).

“Probably you were not quite well, my little dove,[44] when you

wrote to me, for a note of real melancholy pervaded your letter. I

recognised in it a nature closely akin to my own. I know the

feeling only too well. In my life, too, there are days, hours,

weeks, aye, and months, in which everything looks black, when I am

tormented by the thought that I am forsaken, that no one cares for

me. Indeed, my life is of little worth to anyone. Were I to vanish

from the face of the earth to-day, it would be no great loss to

Russian music, and would certainly cause no one great unhappiness.

In short, I live a selfish bachelor’s life. I work for myself

alone, and care only for myself. This is certainly very

comfortable, although dull, narrow, and lifeless. But that _you_,

who are indispensable to so many whose happiness you make, that

_you_ can give way to depression, is more than I can believe. How

can you doubt for a moment the love and esteem of those who

surround you? How could it be possible not to love you? No, there

is no one in the world more dearly loved than you are. As for me,

it would be absurd to speak of my love for you. If I care for

anyone, it is for you, for your family, for my brothers and our old

Dad. I love you all, not because you are my relations, but because

you are the best people in the world....”

At the end of October Tchaikovsky came to Petersburg to be present at

the first performance of his _Vakoula the Smith_. This time the composer

had not been disenchanted by his work; on the contrary, every rehearsal

gave him more and more pleasure, and the hope of success increased. The

appreciation shown him by the singers engaged in the work; the

enthusiastic verdict of the connoisseurs who had become acquainted with

the pianoforte arrangement, and of those who were able to attend the

rehearsals; finally, the lavish expenditure with which the Direction was

mounting the piece--everything encouraged Tchaikovsky to feel assured of

great success.

Since the first production of _The Oprichnik_ the popularity of

Tchaikovsky’s name had considerably increased. Not only musicians, and

those who attended the symphony concerts, but also the public--in the

widest sense of the word--expected something quite out of the common.

Long before November 24th (December 6th), the day fixed for the first

performance of _Vakoula_, the tickets were already sold out.

The production had been very carefully prepared; the principals

endeavoured to do their best. The overture was well received, as also

the first scene. Then the enthusiasm of the audience cooled, and the

succeeding numbers--with the exception of the “Gopak”[45]--obtained but

scant applause. The opera failed to please; people had come to be

amused, expecting something brilliant, humorous, and lively, in the

style of _The Barber of Seville_, or _Domino Noir_, consequently they

were disappointed. Nevertheless, the composer was recalled several

times, although not without some opposition on the part of a small, but

energetic, party.

Tchaikovsky himself, in a letter to Taneiev, writes as follows:--

“_Vakoula_ was a brilliant failure. The first two acts left the

audience cold. During the scene between the Golova and the Dyak

there was some laughter, but no applause. After the third and

fourth acts I had several calls, but also a few hisses from a

section of the public. The second performance was somewhat better,

but one cannot say that the opera pleased, or is likely to live

through six performances.

“It is worth notice that at the dress rehearsal even Cui prophesied

a brilliant success for the work. This made the blow all the harder

and more bitter to bear. I must freely confess that I am much

discouraged. I have nothing to complain of with regard to the

mounting of the work. Everything, to the smallest details, had been

well studied and prepared ... in short, I alone am in fault. The

opera is too full of unnecessary incidents and details, too heavily

orchestrated, and not sufficiently vocal. Now I understand your

cool attitude when I played it over to you at Rubinstein’s. The

style of _Vakoula_ is not good opera style--it lacks movement and

breadth.”

The opinions of the Press on the new work were very similar. No one

“praised it to the skies,” but no one damned it. All expressed more or

less esteem for the composer, but none were quite contented with his

work.

_To S. I. Taneiev._

“MOSCOW, _December_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1876.

“ ... I have just heard that my _Romeo_ was hissed in Vienna. Do

not say anything about it, or Pasdeloup may take fright; I hear he

thinks of doing it.

“Yes, indeed, dear friend, there are trying times in life!

“_Francesca_ has long been finished, and will now be copied out.”

Hans Richter, who conducted the Vienna performance of _Romeo_, declared

that the comparative failure of the work did not amount to a fiasco.

Certainly at the concert itself a few hisses were heard, and Hanslick

wrote an abusive criticism of it in the _Neue Freie Presse_, but at the

same time much interest, even enthusiasm, was shown for the new Russian

work.

Hardly had Tchaikovsky swallowed the bitter Viennese pill, than he

received equally disagreeable news from Taneiev in Paris.

_Taneiev to Tchaikovsky._

“PARIS, _November_ 28_th_ (_December_ 10_th_), 1876.

“I have just come from Pasdeloup’s concert, where your _Romeo_

overture was shamefully bungled. The tempi were all too fast, so

that one could scarcely distinguish the three notes [Illustration:

musical notation] one from the other. The second subject was played

by the wind as if they had only to support the harmony, and did not

realise they had the subject.

“The following was especially bad:--

[Illustration: musical notation]

not a single crescendo, not a single diminuendo. At the repetition

of the accessory theme in D major

[Illustration: musical notation]

the bassoons played their fifth in the bass so energetically that

they drowned the other parts. There were no absolutely false notes,

but the piece produced a poor effect. Pasdeloup obviously

understood nothing about it, and does not know how such a piece

should be played. No wonder the Overture did not please the public

and was but coolly received. It was as painful to me as if I had

been taking part in the concert myself. Pasdeloup alone, however,

was to blame, not the public. The Overture is by no means

incomprehensible; it only needs to be well interpreted.

“I played your concerto to Saint-Saëns; everyone was much pleased

with it. All musicians here are greatly interested in your

compositions.”

_To S. Taneiev._

“MOSCOW, _December_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1876.

“DEAR SERGIUS,--I have just received your letter. Good luck and bad

always come together; it is proverbial, and I am not surprised to

hear of the non-success of my _Francesca_, as just now all my

compositions are failures. But your letter suggested an idea to me.

Last year Saint-Saëns advised me to give a concert of my own

compositions in Paris. He said such a concert would be best given

with Colonne’s orchestra at the Châtelet, and would not cost very

much.”

_S. Taneiev to Tchaikovsky._

“PARIS, _December_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1876.

“Saint-Saëns advises you more strongly than ever to give a concert,

in order to produce your _Romeo and Juliet_.... ‘_Cela l’a posé,

cette overture_,’ was his remark. You must give your concert in the

Salle Herz, with Colonne’s orchestra. All expenses, including two

rehearsals, will come to 1,500 francs. Two rehearsals will not be

sufficient; we should need at least three. Even then, 2,000 francs

would be the maximum expenditure. The orchestra are paid five

francs for each rehearsal, and ten for the concert. The most

favourable time would be February or March.”

_To S. Taneiev._

“MOSCOW, _January_ 29_th_ (_February_ 10_th_), 1877.

“DEAR SERGIUS,--My concert will not come off. In spite of gigantic

efforts on my part, I cannot raise the necessary funds.

“I am in despair.

“I can write no more to-day. Forgive me for the trouble I have

given you over my unlucky plans. Thank you for your letter.”

In spite of the bitterness left by the comparative failure of _Vakoula_,

and the many other blows which his artistic ambitions had to suffer,

Tchaikovsky, after his return to Moscow, did not lose his

self-confidence, nor let his energy flag for a moment. On the contrary,

although grieved at the fate of his “favourite offspring, _Vakoula_,”

and at his unlucky _début_ as a composer in Vienna and Paris, although

suffering from a form of dyspepsia, he was not only interested in the

propaganda of his works abroad, but composed his _Variations on a Rococo

Theme_ for violoncello, and corresponded with Stassov about an operatic

libretto. The choice of the subject--_Othello_--emanated from

Tchaikovsky himself. When Stassov tried to persuade him that this

subject was not suitable to his temperament, he refused to listen to

arguments, and would only consider this particular play. About the

middle of September Stassov sent him the rough sketch which he began to

study zealously. But it went no further. On January 30th Stassov wrote

to him: “Do as you will, but I have not finished _Othello_ yet. Hang me

if you please--but it is not my fault.” Tchaikovsky himself had also

begun to feel less eager, for he remarks in a letter to Stassov that he

is not to trouble about a new subject.

At this time the composer was in such good health, and so active-minded,

that he gave up his original intention of spending Christmas at Kamenka,

and stayed on in Moscow.

In December Tchaikovsky wrote to his sister, A. Davidov:--

“A short time ago Count Leo Tolstoi was here. He called upon me,

and I am proud to have awakened his interest. On my part, I am full

of enthusiasm for his ideal personality.”

For a long time past--since the first appearance of Tolstoi’s

works--Tchaikovsky had been one of his most ardent admirers, and this

admiration had gradually become a veritable cult for the name of

Tolstoi. It was characteristic of the composer that everything he cared

for, but did not actually know face to face, assumed abnormal

proportions in his imagination. The author of _Peace and War_ seemed to

him, in his own words, “not so much an ordinary mortal as a demi-god.”

At that time the personality and private life--even the portrait--of

Tolstoi were almost unknown to the great public, and this was a further

reason why Tchaikovsky pictured him as a sage and a magician. And lo,

this Olympian being, this unfathomable man, descended from his

cloud-capped heights and held out his hand to Tchaikovsky.

Ten years later we find in Tchaikovsky’s “diary” the following record of

this meeting:--

“When first I met Tolstoi I was possessed by terror and felt uneasy

in his presence. It seemed that this great searcher of human hearts

must be able to read at a glance the inmost secrets of my own. I

was convinced that not the smallest evil or weakness could escape

his eye; therefore it would avail nothing to show him only my best

side. If he be generous (and that is a matter of course), I

reflected, he will probe the diseased area as kindly and delicately

as a surgeon who knows the tender spots and avoids irritating them.

If he is not so compassionate, he will lay his finger on the wound

without more ado. In either case the prospect alarmed me. In

reality nothing of the sort took place. The great analyst of human

nature proved in his intercourse with his fellow-men to be a

simple, sincere, whole-hearted being, who made no display of that

omniscience I so dreaded. Evidently he did not regard me as a

subject for dissection, but simply wanted to chat about music, in

which at that time he was greatly interested. Among other things,

he seemed to enjoy depreciating Beethoven, and even directly

denying his genius. This is an unworthy trait in a great man. The

desire to lower a genius to the level of one’s own

_misunderstanding_ of him is generally a characteristic of

narrow-minded people.”

Tolstoi not only wished to talk about music in general, but also to

express his interest in Tchaikovsky’s own compositions. The latter was

so much flattered that he asked Nicholas Rubinstein to arrange a

musical evening at the Conservatoire in honour of the great writer. On

this occasion the programme included the Andante from Tchaikovsky’s

string quartet in D major, during the performance of which Tolstoi burst

into tears.

“Never in the whole course of my life,” wrote the composer in his

diary, “did I feel so flattered, never so proud of my creative

power, as when Leo Tolstoi, sitting by my side, listened to my

Andante while the tears streamed down his face.”

Shortly after this memorable evening Tolstoi left Moscow, and wrote the

following letter to Tchaikovsky from his country estate Yasnaya

Polyana:--

“DEAR PETER ILICH,--I am sending you the songs, having looked them

through once more. In your hands they will become wonderful gems;

but, for God’s sake, treat them in the Mozarto-Haydn style, and not

after the Beethoven-Schumann-Berlioz school, which strives only for

the sensational. How much more I had to tell you! But there was no

time, because I was simply enjoying myself. My visit to Moscow will

always remain a most pleasant memory. I have never received a more

precious reward for all my literary labours than on that last

evening. How charming is (Nicholas) Rubinstein! Thank him for me

once more. Aye, and all the other priests of the highest of all

arts, who made so pure and profound an impression upon me! I can

never forget all that was done for my benefit in that round hall.

To which of them shall I send my works? That is to say, who does

not possess them?

“I have not looked at your things yet. As soon as I have done so, I

shall write you my opinion--whether you want it or not--because I

admire your talent. Good-bye, with a friendly hand-shake.

“Yours,

“L. TOLSTOI.”

To this Tchaikovsky replied:--

“MOSCOW, _December_ 24_th_, 1876 (_January_ 5_th_, 1877).

“HONOURED COUNT,--Accept my sincere thanks for the songs. I must

tell you frankly that they have been taken down by an unskilful

hand and, in consequence, nearly all their original beauty is lost.

The chief mistake is that they have been forced artificially into a

regular rhythm. Only the Russian choral-dances have a regularly

accentuated measure; the legends (Bylini) have nothing in common

with the dances. Besides, most of these songs have been written

down in the lively key of D major, and this is quite out of keeping

with the tonality of the genuine Russian folksongs, which are

always in some indefinite key, such as can only be compared with

the old Church modes. Therefore the songs you have sent are

unsuitable for systematic treatment. I could not use them for an

album of folksongs, because for this purpose the tunes must be

taken down exactly as the people sing them. This is a difficult

task, demanding the most delicate musical perception, as well as a

great knowledge of musical history. With the exception of

Balakirev--and to a certain extent Prokounin--I do not know anyone

who really understands this work. But your songs can be used as

symphonic material--and excellent material too--of which I shall

certainly avail myself at some future time. I am glad you keep a

pleasant recollection of your evening at the Conservatoire. Our

quartet played as they have never done before. From which you must

infer that one pair of ears, if they belong to such a great artist

as yourself, has more incentive power with musicians than a hundred

ordinary pairs. You are one of those authors of whom it may be said

that their personality is as much beloved as their works. It was

evident that, well as they generally play, our artists exerted

themselves to the utmost for one they honoured so greatly. What I

feel I must express: I cannot tell you how proud and happy it made

me that my music could so touch you and carry you away.

“Except Fitzenhagen, who cannot read Russian, your books are known

to all the other members of the quartet. But I am sure they would

be grateful if you gave them each one volume of your works. For

myself, I am going to ask you to give me _The Cossacks_; if not

immediately, then later on, when next you come to Moscow--an event

to which I look forward with impatience. If you send your portrait

to Rubinstein, do not forget me.”

With this letter personal intercourse between Tchaikovsky and Count

Tolstoi came to an end. It is remarkable that this was not against the

composer’s wishes, even if he did nothing actually to cause the rupture.

The attentive reader will not fail to have gathered from the last words

quoted from his diary that his acquaintance with Tolstoi had been

something of a disappointment. It vexed him that “the lord of his

intellect” should care to talk of “commonplace subjects unworthy of a

great man.” It hurt him to see all the little faults and failings of

this divinity brought out by closer proximity. He feared to lose faith

in him, and consequently to spoil his enjoyment of his works. This

delight was at one time somewhat disturbed by his hyper-sensitiveness.

In a letter to his brother, Tchaikovsky criticises _Anna Karenina_,

which had then just begun to make its appearance in the _Russky

Vestnik_.

“After your departure,” he writes, “I read _Anna Karenina_ once

more. Are you not ashamed to extol this revolting and commonplace

stuff, which aspires to be psychologically profound? The devil take

your psychological truth when it leaves nothing but an endless

waste behind it.”

Afterwards, having read the whole novel, Tchaikovsky repented his

judgment, and acknowledged it to be one of Tolstoi’s finest creations.

In the presence of Tolstoi, Tchaikovsky felt ill at ease, in spite of

the writer’s kind and simple attitude towards his fellow-men. From a

fear of wounding or displeasing him in any way, and also in consequence

of his efforts not to betray his admiration and delight, the musician

never quite knew how to behave to Tolstoi, and was always conscious of

being somewhat unnatural--of playing a part. This consciousness was

intolerable to Tchaikovsky, consequently he avoided future intercourse

with the great man.

Greatly as Tchaikovsky admired Tolstoi the writer, he was never in

sympathy with Tolstoi the philosopher. In his diary for 1886, writing of

_What I Believe_, he says:--

“When we read the autobiographies or memoirs of great men, we

frequently find that their thoughts and impressions--and more

especially their artistic sentiments--are such as we ourselves have

experienced and can therefore fully understand. There is only one

who is incomprehensible, who stands alone and aloof in his

greatness--Leo Tolstoi. Yet often I feel angry with him: I almost

hate him. Why, I ask myself, should this man, who more than all his

predecessors has power to depict the human soul with such wonderful

harmony, who can fathom our poor intellect and follow the most

secret and tortuous windings of our moral nature--why must he needs

appear as a preacher, and set up to be our teacher and guardian?

Hitherto he has succeeded in making a profound impression by the

recital of simple, everyday events. We might read between the lines

his noble love of mankind, his compassion for our helplessness, our

mortality and pettiness. How often have I wept over his words

without knowing why!... Perhaps because for a moment I was brought

into contact--through his medium--with the Ideal, with absolute

happiness, and with humanity. Now he appears as a commentator of

texts, who claims a monopoly in the solution of all questions of

faith and ethics. But through all his recent writings blows a

chilling wind. We feel a tremor of fear at the consciousness that

he, too, is a mere man; a creature as much puffed up as ourselves

about ‘The End and Aim of Life,’ ‘The Destiny of Man,’ ‘God,’ and

‘Religion’; and as madly presumptuous, as ineffectual as some

ephemera born on a summer’s day to perish at eventide. Once

Tolstoi was a Demigod. Now he is only a Priest.... Tolstoi says

that formerly, knowing nothing, he was mad enough to aspire to

teach men out of his ignorance. He regrets this. Yet here he is

beginning to teach us again. Then we must conclude he is no longer

ignorant. Whence this self-confidence? Is it not foolish

presumption? The true sage knows only that he knows nothing.”

It is said that in nature peace often precedes a violent storm. This is

twice observable in the life of Tchaikovsky. Let us look back to the

period of his Government service, to the strenuous industry and zeal he

displayed in his official duties in 1862--just before he took up the

musical profession. Never was he more contented with his lot, or calmer

in mind, than a few months before he entered the Conservatoire. It was

the same at the present juncture. Shortly before that rash act, which

cut him off for ever from Moscow, which changed all his habits and

social relations, and was destined to be the beginning of a new life;

just at the moment, in fact, when we might look for some dissatisfaction

with fate as a reason for this desperate resolve, Tchaikovsky was by no

means out of spirits. On the contrary, in January and February 1877, he

gave the impression of a man whose mind was at rest, who had no desires,

and displayed more purpose and cheerfulness than before. This mood is

very evident in a playful letter dated January 2nd (14th), 1877:--

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“HONOURED MR. MODESTE ILICH,--I do not know if you still remember

me. I am your brother and a professor at the Moscow Conservatoire.

I have also composed a few things: operas, symphonies, overtures,

etc. Once upon a time you honoured me by your personal

acquaintance. Last year we were abroad together and spent a time

which I shall never forget. You used frequently to write me long

and interesting letters. Now all this seems like a beautiful

dream....

“Just before the holidays, my dear brotherkin, I made the

acquaintance of Count Tolstoi. This pleased me very much. I have

also received a kind and precious letter from his Grace. When he

heard the ‘Andante’ from my first quartet he shed tears of emotion.

I am very proud of this, my dear brotherkin, and you really should

not forget me, my dear brotherkin, because I have now become a

great swell. Farewell, my brotherkin.

“Your brother,

“PETER.”

On February 20th (March 4th) the first performance of Tchaikovsky’s

ballet, _The Swan Lake_, took place. The composer was not to be blamed

for the very moderate success of this work. The scenery and costumes

were poor, while the orchestra was conducted by a semi-amateur, who had

never before been confronted with so complicated a score.

_To his sister, A. Davidov._

“_February_ 22_nd_ (_March_ 6_th_).

“I have lately found courage to appear as a conductor. I was very

unskilful and nervous, but still I managed to conduct, with

considerable success, my ‘Russo-Serbian March’ in the Opera House.

Henceforward I shall take every opportunity of conducting, for if

my plan of a concert tour abroad comes off, I shall have to be my

own conductor.”

On February 25th (March 9th) the symphonic fantasia _Francesca da

Rimini_ was performed for the first time at the tenth symphony concert

in Moscow. It had a splendid reception, and was twice repeated during

the month of March. In his notice of the concert Kashkin praises not

only the music itself, but its inspired interpretation by Nicholas

Rubinstein.

In the course of this season Tchaikovsky began his Fourth Symphony.

Probably the real reason why he lost his interest in the libretto of

_Othello_ is to be found in his entire devotion to this work.

In March and April he began to suffer again from mental depression. This

is evident from many of his letters written at this time.

_To I. A. Klimenko._

“_May_ 8_th_ (20_th_).

“I am very much changed--especially mentally--since we last met.

There is no trace of gaiety and love of fun left in me. Life is

terribly empty, wearisome and trivial. I am seriously considering

matrimony as a lasting tie. The one thing that remains unaltered is

my love of composing. If things were only different, if I were not

condemned to run against obstacles at every step--my work at the

Conservatoire, for instance, which restricts me more each year--I

might accomplish something of value. But alas, I am chained to the

Conservatoire!”

In the early spring of 1877 Modeste Tchaikovsky sent his brother a

libretto based upon Nodier’s novel, _Ines de Las-Sierras_. The musician

was not attracted by it; he had already another plan in view. In May he

wrote to his brother:--

“Recently I was at Madame Lavrovsky’s.[46] The conversation fell

upon opera libretti. X. talked a lot of rubbish, and made the most

appalling suggestions. Madame Lavrovsky said nothing and only

laughed. Suddenly, however, she remarked: ‘What about _Eugene

Oniegin_?’ The idea struck me as curious, and I made no reply.

Afterwards, while dining alone at a restaurant, her words came back

to me, and, on consideration, the idea did not seem at all

ridiculous. I soon made up my mind, and set off at once in search

of Poushkin’s works. I had some trouble in finding them. I was

enchanted when I read the work. I spent a sleepless night; the

result--a sketch of a delicious opera based upon Poushkin’s text.

The next day I went to Shilovsky, who is now working post-haste at

my sketch.

“You have no notion how crazy I am upon this subject. How

delightful to avoid the commonplace Pharaohs, Ethiopian princesses,

poisoned cups, and all the rest of these dolls’ tales! _Eugene

Oniegin_ is full of poetry. I am not blind to its defects. I know

well enough the work gives little scope for treatment, and will be

deficient in stage effects; but the wealth of poetry, the human

quality and simplicity of the subject, joined to Poushkin’s

inspired verses, will compensate for what it lacks in other

respects.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“_May_ 27_th_ (_June_ 8_th_).

“ ... The plan of my symphony is complete. I shall begin upon the

orchestration at the end of the summer.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“GLIEBOVO, _June_ 6_th_ (18_th_).

“At first I was annoyed by your criticism of Oniegin, but it did

not last long. Let it lack scenic effect, let it be wanting in

action! I am in love with the image of Tatiana, I am under the

spell of Poushkin’s verse, and I am drawn to compose the music as

it were by some irresistible attraction. I am lost in the

composition of the opera.”