PART V

I

1878-1879

When in 1877 Tchaikovsky declined to act as delegate for the Paris

Exhibition, the office was accepted by Nicholas Rubinstein, who, in

September, 1878, gave four important concerts at the Trocadéro, the

programmes of which were drawn exclusively from the works of Russian

composers.

Tchaikovsky was represented by the following works: the Pianoforte

Concerto (B♭ minor), _The Tempest_, _Chant sans Paroles_ (played by

Nicholas Rubinstein), and “Serenade and Valse” for violin (played by

Bartzevich). The success of these compositions, especially of the

Concerto, thanks to Rubinstein’s artistic interpretation, was so great

that, judging by the opinions of Tchaikovsky’s friends and opponents,

the chief interest of all four concerts centred in them. Eye-witnesses

declare they never saw such enthusiasm in any concert-room as was

displayed on the first evening after the performance of the B♭ minor

Concerto. The work was repeated with equal success at the fourth

concert.

The Paris Press accorded the warmest greeting to Tchaikovsky, whose name

was as yet almost unknown to them, the most appreciative criticisms

being expended upon the Concerto. _The Tempest_ came in for its share

of applause, while the violin pieces were not so well received.

The importance of Tchaikovsky’s success was, however, greatly overrated,

both by himself and all his friends, including N. Rubinstein. They none

of them realised that Paris forgets as lightly as it warms to

enthusiasm. Scarcely six months elapsed before _The Tempest_, which had

delighted the Parisian public at the Trocadéro, was received with

suspicion and curiosity, as the unknown work of an unknown composer of

queer Russian music.

About the same time, Bilse brought forward _Francesca da Rimini_ in

Berlin. Here, where Russian music had such propagandists as Hans von

Bülow and Klindworth, Tchaikovsky was not altogether unknown; but

although some of his works, like the Andante from the first quartet,

were almost popular, yet the composer had been regarded with a certain

disdain, and almost ignored by the majority of the German critics. This

time it was different. On the same evening as _Francesca_, Bilse also

conducted Brahms’s Second Symphony, which, being a novelty, drew all the

musical lights of Berlin to the concert. It was only thanks to these

circumstances that _Francesca_ was not entirely passed over by the

critics. The Press split into two camps: one stood up for Brahms and

attacked Tchaikovsky, the other took the opposite view. The hostile

party was the stronger. Richard Würst called the work “a musical

monstrosity.”[64] “We know,” he continued, “a few songs, pianoforte

pieces, and a Cossack fantasia (?) by this composer; these compositions

bear the stamp of an original talent, but are not pleasing on the whole.

In the Symphonic Fantasia (_Francesca_) this unpleasantness is so

obvious as to make us forget the originality of the composer. The first

and last allegros, which depict the whirlwinds of hell, have neither

subjects nor ideas, but only a mass of sounds, and these earsplitting

effects seem to us, from an artistic point of view, too much even for

hell itself. The middle section, which describes the unhappy fate of

Francesca, Paolo, and myself, shows--in spite of its endless length--at

least some trace of catching melody.” Another critic, O. Lumprecht

(_National Zeitung_, September 17th, 1878), applies to _Francesca_ such

terms as “madness,” “musical contortions,” etc.

Among the friendly party _Francesca_ was favourably compared to the

Brahms Symphony, especially by Moszkowski. Among private opinions should

be mentioned that of Hans von Bülow, who wrote to Tchaikovsky shortly

after the performance that he was far more charmed with _Francesca_ than

with _Romeo and Juliet_. Kotek says that Joachim was pleased with the

work in spite of his prepossession in favour of his friend Brahms, while

Max Bruch when asked his opinion of _Francesca_ replied: “I am far too

stupid to criticise such music.” In spite of the over-ruling of

unfavourable criticism, and its mediocre success with the public, Bilse

had the courage to repeat _Francesca da Rimini_ in the course of the

same season.

* * * * *

Early in September Tchaikovsky returned to Moscow to take up his duties

at the Conservatoire. His quarters were already prepared for him.

Nevertheless, before returning to the town he had once loved and

believed to be a necessary part of his happiness, he had already

resolved “to leave it again at the earliest opportunity.”

This curious discrepancy between his actions and his intentions, this

external submission to, and inward protest against, the compelling

circumstances of life, so characteristic of Tchaikovsky, has already

become familiar to us. He was incapable of clearing a direct way for

himself to some definite goal; he could only desire intensely and await

with patience the course of events, until the obstacles gave way of

themselves and the path was open to him at last.

After the mental collapse he had suffered, and during the pause in his

creative activity in November and December, 1877, he thought of the

return to his old life in Moscow with fear and trembling, while still

regarding it as an inevitable necessity. The great distance which lay

between himself and Moscow softened all its sharpness of outline, and

veiled all the unpleasant side of life in that city. From far-away Italy

and Switzerland he no longer looked back upon everyday Moscow, but saw

rather the white City of the Tsars, with its flashing golden cupolas,

which was so dear to his patriotic soul. He no longer saw the

Conservatoire, with its tiresome classes and petty commonplace

interests, but a little group of true friends for whom he yearned. All

this drowned the resolve which already existed in his inmost heart,

never to return to his old way of life. He attributed this dislike of

his former existence to his ill-health, and cherished the hope that the

ideal conditions of his life abroad would restore his nerves and soothe

his irritability; he was convinced that he would completely recover, and

take up his professorship once more with a stout heart.

But it proved otherwise. From the month of January, when he was able to

arrange his life as he pleased, when, with improved health, the desire

to compose awoke once more--from the moment, in fact, in which his real

recovery began--life in Moscow seemed to him to be more dreadful and

impossible; his connection with the Conservatoire, and with the social

life of the capital, more and more unbearable; while the free,

untrammelled existence in which nothing hindered his creative activity

grew more attractive in his eyes. Never had Tchaikovsky been so

lastingly happy as during the period dating from 1878. Never had “the

calm, peaceful existence in solitude” appeared so alluring, nor his

imagination so quick and so varied. Consequently everything which

disturbed his existence at that happy time seemed hostile and

unfavourable to its continuance.

Only the weak bond of his promise to return to the Conservatoire

remained to be broken.

At the moment in which Tchaikovsky left the train in which he arrived

and set foot on Moscow soil, he was possessed with “the idea” of leaving

again as soon as possible. This thought gradually grew into a fixed

idea, under the influence of which everything that had once been dear to

him--his faithful friends included--stirred in him an exaggerated

feeling of resentment and, by way of reaction, caused everything which

reminded him of his freedom to appear in a rosy light. In his first

letters from Moscow he scarcely speaks on any other topic but the

irksomeness of life there, and the delight with which he looks back to

every detail of his visits to Italy, Switzerland and Brailov.

There was nothing to be done, however, until Rubinstein’s return from

the Paris Exhibition, which would not be before the end of September.

“I had been anxiously awaiting his coming,” wrote Tchaikovsky to

Nadejda von Meck, “because I wanted to tell him, as soon as

possible, of my intention to retire from the Conservatoire. He was

received with great rejoicings, and a dinner in his honour was

given at ‘The Hermitage,’[65] at which I was present. In his reply

to the first toast to his health, Rubinstein said he had been

greatly gratified by the success of my works at his concerts, that

the Conservatoire had reason to be proud of its connection with so

famous a man, etc. The speech ended in an ovation to me. I need

hardly tell you how painful this speech and ovation were.

“The next day I informed him of my future plans. I expected

Nicholas Rubinstein to burst forth with indignation, and try to

convince me that it was better for me to stay where I was. On the

contrary, he listened to me laughingly, as one might to a tiresome

child, and expressed his regret. He merely remarked that the

Conservatoire would lose a great deal of its prestige with the

withdrawal of my name, which was as good as saying that the pupils

would not really suffer much by my resignation. Probably he is

right, for I am a poor and inexperienced teacher--yet I anticipated

greater opposition to my resignation.”

It was decided that Tchaikovsky should stay on for a month or two at the

Conservatoire, in order to give his successor Taneiev time to prepare

for his classes; but when it was announced that Hubert, not Taneiev, was

to succeed him, he “hastened the course of events” and informed

Rubinstein that he should leave Moscow early in October.

From Moscow Tchaikovsky went to St. Petersburg, which was equally

unsuited to his condition of mind. The invitations to dinners, suppers,

and evening parties, fatigued him and wore him out. The bad impression

which Petersburg left upon him on this occasion was increased by the

disappointment he experienced as regards his favourite opera, _Vakoula

the Smith_, which was just being given at the Maryinsky Theatre.

_To N. F. von Meck._

“PETERSBURG, _October_ 30_th_ (_November_ 11_th_), 1878.

“_Vakoula the Smith_ went quite smoothly and well, just as it did

at the first performance; but it was very stereotyped and

colourless. All the while I felt angry with one man: that was

_myself_. Good Lord! what heaps of unpardonable mistakes there are

in this opera which I alone could have made! I have done my best to

neutralise the effect of all those situations which were calculated

to please. If only I had held the purely musical inspiration in

check, and kept the scenic and decorative effects more in view! The

entire opera suffers from a plethora of details and the tiresome

use of chromatic harmonies. _C’est un menu surchargé de mets

épicés_. It contains too many delicacies and not enough simple,

wholesome fare. The recent production of the opera has been a

lesson to me for the future. I think _Eugene Oniegin_ is a step in

advance.”

II

At the beginning of November Tchaikovsky went to Kamenka, and here for

the first time he began to breathe freely after two anxious and

depressing months.

“I feel very well here,” he wrote in November. To “feel well” was the

equivalent with him of “being equal to hard work.” As a matter of fact

he composed more at Kamenka in a fortnight than during the two months he

had spent in Moscow and Petersburg. On November 13th (25th) he wrote to

his brother Modeste:--

“Inspiration has come to me, so the sketch of the Suite is almost

finished. But I am anxious because I left the manuscript of the

first three movements in Petersburg, and it may get lost. I wrote

the last two movements here. This short and--if I am not

mistaken--excellent Suite is in five movements: (1) Introduction

and Fugue, (2) Scherzo, (3) Andante, (4) March Miniature, (5)

Giant’s Dance.”

_To A. Tchaikovsky._

“FLORENCE, _November_ 21_st_ (_December_ 3_rd_), 1878.

“ ... I came here yesterday, direct from Vienna, without visiting

Venice. I was met by Pakhulsky (Kotek’s successor with N. F. von

Meck), who took me to my quarters, which were warm and bright, and

all ready for their admiring tenant.

“The apartment Nadejda Filaretovna has taken for me consists of a

suite of five rooms: drawing-room, dining-room, bedroom,

dressing-room, and a room for Alexis.

“In the drawing-room there is a splendid grand piano, on the

writing-table every kind of stationery, and two big bouquets. The

furniture is luxurious. I am delighted that the house stands

outside the town, and that I have such a beautiful view from my

windows!

“On the journey here I was troubled with the thought that Nadejda

Filaretovna would be living so close to me; that we might meet. I

even had a momentary suspicion that she might invite me. But a

letter from her, which I found upon my writing-table yesterday,

completely set my mind at rest. She will be leaving in three weeks,

and during that time probably we shall not see each other once.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“FLORENCE, _November_ 20_th_ (_December_ 2_nd_), 1878.

“ ... If you knew what a blessing this quiet, regular, and solitary

life is, especially in such sympathetic surroundings! I shall begin

the instrumentation of the Suite with ardour, because I am strongly

attracted to a new subject for an opera: Schiller’s _Maid of

Orleans_.... This idea came to me at Kamenka, while turning over

the pages of Joukovsky. The subject offers much musical material.

Verdi’s opera, _Giovanna d’Arco_, is not taken from Schiller in the

first place, and secondly it is extremely poor. But I am glad I

bought it. It will be very useful to compare the libretto with the

French.”

“_November_ 22_nd_ (_December_ 4_th_), 1878.

“I have never thanked you, my good fairy, for the fine instrument.

I often reproach myself for not being sufficiently grateful. On the

other hand I am afraid of wearying you with my reiterated assurance

of gratitude.”

_To P. I. Jurgenson._

“FLORENCE, _November_ 24_th_ (_December_ 6_th_), 1878.

“In the evening I often pace my verandah and enjoy the utter

stillness. That strikes you as peculiar: how can anyone enjoy the

absence of all sound, you will ask? If you were a musician, perhaps

you, too, would have the gift of hearing, when all is still in the

dead silence of night, the deep bass note which seems to come from

the earth in its flight through space. But this is nonsense!”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“FLORENCE, _November_ 26_th_ (_December_ 8_th_), 1878.

“Please send me the Lalo Concerto again. I only looked through the

first movement attentively, and found it rather insipid. After what

you have written I should like to run through the work again.

“I read Italian pretty well, but speak it badly. Once upon a time I

studied it and could speak fluently. That was in the days of my

admiration for Ristori.

“I place Massenet lower than Bizet, Délibes, or even Saint-Saëns,

but he, too, has--like all our French contemporaries--that element

of freshness which is lacking in the Germans.

8 _p.m._

“Modeste’s telegram was a pleasant surprise. I had no idea the

Symphony (No. 4) was going to be played yet. His news of its

success is entirely trustworthy. First, because Modeste knows that

I am not pleased when people send me exaggerated reports of such

events; and secondly because the Scherzo was encored--an undoubted

proof of success. After this news I am entirely lost in our

Symphony. All day long I keep humming it, and trying to recall how,

where, and under what impression this or that part of it was

composed. I go back to two years ago, and return to the present

with joy! What a change! What has not happened during these years!

When I began to work at the Symphony I hardly knew you at all. I

remember very well, however, that I dedicated my work to you. Some

instinct told me that no one had such a fine insight into my music

as yourself, that our natures had much in common, and that you

would understand the contents of this Symphony better than any

other human being. I love this child of my fancy very dearly. It is

one of the things which will never disappoint me.”

The success of the Fourth Symphony, at a concert of the Russian

Musical Society in St. Petersburg, on November 25th (December 7th),

was most brilliant, and the Press was almost unanimous in its

acknowledgment of the fact.

_To N. F. von Meck._

“FLORENCE, _November_ 27_th_ (_December_ 9_th_), 1878.

“Permit me, dear friend, to give you my opinion of Lalo’s Concerto,

which I have played through several times, and begin to know pretty

thoroughly. Lalo is very talented, there is no doubt about it, but

he is either a very young man--because all his deficiencies may be

referred to a certain immaturity of style--or he will not go far,

since, in a man of ripe age, these deficiencies point to an

organic, incurable fault. I do not consider the Concerto as good as

the ‘Spanish Symphony.’ All that was wild, lawless, and rhapsodical

in the latter--which I attributed to the oriental and Moorish

character of the Spanish melodies--is to be found also in the

Concerto, which, however, is not at all Spanish. Let us analyse the

first movement. It does not consist of two themes, as is usually

the case, but of several--of five, in fact.

[Illustration: musical notation]

“This is too much. A musical work must be digestible, and should

not consist of too many ingredients. Then, of these themes, only

the fifth can be considered successful. The rest are colourless,

or, like the second, made up of scraps, which have no organic unity

and lack definite outline. Thirdly, every one of these themes,

except the fifth, shows a monotonous method, which occurs only too

often in the ‘Spanish Symphony’: the alternation of rhythms of 3

and 2. If a man cannot keep his inspiration within the limits of

balanced form, then he should strive, at least, to vary the rhythms

of his themes; in this Concerto the rhythmical treatment is

monotonous. I will say nothing about the laboured way in which the

various episodes follow one another; it would take us too far

afield. Then as to harmony. The Concerto is full of queer, wild

harmonies. In a modest violin Concerto such spicy condiments are

out of place; but apart from that, I must say they have a kind of

crude character, because they are not the outcome of the essential

musical idea, but are forced upon it, like a schoolboy’s bravado

put on for his teacher’s benefit. Other passages--also in the

schoolboy style--are really rather slovenly, so to speak. For

instance, this ‘smudge’ _à la_ Moussorgsky, which occurs twice

over:

[Illustration: musical notation]

“If we play this horrible combination in quavers we get the

following:--

[Illustration: musical notation]

“This is repulsive, and quite unnecessary, because it is based upon

nothing, and at first I took it for a misprint. Do not imagine, my

friend, that it is the pedantic harmony master who speaks thus. I

myself am very partial to dissonant combinations, when they have a

motive, and are rightly used. But there are limits which must not

be overstepped. Now, to enter into technical details, let me say

that no breach of the laws of harmony, no matter whether it is

harsh or not, really sounds well unless it has been made under the

influence of the melodic origin. In other words, a dissonance

should only be resolved harmonically, or melodically. If neither of

these courses is adopted, we merely get abominations _à la_

Moussorgsky. In the example cited above I might possibly be

reconciled to the painful dissonance if, in the next bar, each part

followed the melodic plan. But this is not the case with Lalo. With

him abomination follows abomination. Now that I have done scolding,

I will say something good. The various movements, although

disconnected, show warmth and many beautiful details of harmony. On

the whole the music has a piquant character peculiarly French,

although not nearly so elegant as Bizet’s work.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“FLORENCE, _November_ 28_th_ (_December_ 10_th_), 1878.

“Yesterday’s performance at Pergola left a sad impression upon me.

What a deterioration Italian music has suffered! What commonplace,

yet pretentious stuff! What an incredibly poor performance as

regards orchestra and chorus! The staging, too, was wretched. Such

scenery in the town where Raphael and Michael Angelo once lived!”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“FLORENCE, _December_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1878.

“A great number of my works I regard as weak. Several of these (the

minority) have been published. Of those unpublished, many no longer

exist, such as the operas _Undine_ and _The Voyevode_ (which were

never performed), the symphonic fantasia _Fatum_, a Festival

overture on the Danish National Hymn, and a cantata; but you are

welcome to those I have kept, in order to complete your

collection. They are very poor, although they contain some episodes

and details I should be sorry to see disappear for ever.

“Laroche does not call me the enemy of programme music, but thinks

I have no gift for this kind of work; therefore he describes me as

an anti-programme composer. He takes every opportunity of

expressing his regret that I so frequently compose programme music.

What is programme music? Since for you and me a mere pattern of

sounds has long since ceased to be music at all, all music is

programme music from our point of view. In the limited sense of the

word, however, it means symphonic, or, more generally, instrumental

music which illustrates a definite subject, and bears the title of

this subject. Beethoven partly invented programme music in the

‘Eroica’ symphony, but the idea is still more evident in the

‘Pastoral’. The true founder of programme music, however, was

Berlioz, every one of whose works not only bears a definite title,

but appears with a detailed explanation. Laroche is entirely

opposed to a programme. He thinks the composer should leave the

hearer to interpret the meaning of the work as he pleases; that the

programme limits his freedom; that music is incapable of expressing

the concrete phenomena of the physical and mental world.

Nevertheless, he ranks Berlioz very highly, declares him to be an

altogether rare genius and his music exemplary; but, all the same,

he considers his programmes superfluous. If you care to hear my

opinion on the subject, I will give it in a few words. I think the

inspiration of a symphonic work can be of two kinds: subjective or

objective. In the first instance it expresses the personal emotion

of joy or sorrow, as when the lyric poet lets his soul flow out in

verse. Here a programme is not only unnecessary, but impossible. It

is very different when the composer’s inspiration is stirred by the

perusal of some poem, or by the sight of a fine landscape, and he

endeavours to express his impressions in musical forms. In this

case a programme is indispensable, and it is a pity Beethoven did

not affix one to the sonata you mention. To my mind, both kinds of

music have their _raison d’être_, and I cannot understand those who

will only admit one of these styles. Of course, every subject is

not equally suitable for a symphony, any more than for an opera;

but, all the same, programme music can and must exist. Who would

insist in literature upon ignoring the epic and admitting only the

lyric element?”

III

Shortly after writing the above letter Tchaikovsky left Florence for

Paris. He did not remain there any length of time, but went to Clarens

on December 28th in order to work at _The Maid of Orleans_ in the quiet

atmosphere of the Villa Richelieu.

_To N. F. von Meck._

“CLARENS, _December_ 31_st_ (_January_ 12_th_), 1878.

“To-day I began to work, and wrote out the first chorus of the

first act. The composition of this work is rendered more difficult

because I have no ready-made libretto, and have not yet come to any

definite plan as to the general outline. Meanwhile, only the text

for the first act is complete. This I have written myself, keeping

as far as possible to Joukovsky’s version, although I have drawn

upon other sources: Barbier, for instance, whose tragedy has many

good points. I find the versification very difficult.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“CLARENS, _January_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1879.

“I am very well pleased with my musical work. As regards the

literary side of it, I believe it will cost me some days of my

life. I cannot describe how it exhausts me. How many penholders I

gnaw to pieces before a few lines grow perfect! How often I jump up

in sheer despair because I cannot find a rhyme, or the metre goes

wrong, or because I have absolutely no notion what this or that

character would say at a particular moment! As regards rhyme, I

think it would be a blessing if someone would publish a rhyming

dictionary. If I am not mistaken, there is one in German, and

perhaps in Russian too, but I am not sure of it.”

_To P. I. Jurgenson._

“CLARENS, _January_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1879.

“There exist, as you are aware, three remarkable personages, whom

you know intimately: the feeble poetaster N. N.,[66] who has

written a few verses for your editions of Russian songs; B. L.,[67]

formerly musical critic of the _Russky Viedomosti_, and the

composer and ex-professor, Mr. Tchaikovsky.

“An hour or two ago Mr. Tchaikovsky invited the two other

gentlemen--who live with him--to follow him to the piano, and

played them the second act of his new opera _The Maid of Orleans_.

Mr. Tchaikovsky, who is on very intimate terms with Messrs. N. N.

and B. L., conquered his timidity without much difficulty, and

played his new work with great skill and inspiration. You should

have seen the enthusiasm of these two gentlemen! Anyone might have

supposed they had some share in the composition of the opera, to

see how they strutted about the room and admired the music.

Finally, the composer, who had long tried to preserve his modesty

intact, was infected by their enthusiasm, and all three rushed on

to the balcony, as though possessed, to cool their disordered

nerves and control their wild desire to hear the rest of the opera

as soon as possible. In vain Messrs. N. N. and B. L. endeavoured to

persuade Mr. Tchaikovsky that operas could not be tossed out like

pancakes, the latter began to despair over the weakness of human

nature and the impossibility of transferring to paper in a single

night all that had long been seething in his brain. Finally, the

good folks induced the insane composer to calm himself, and he sat

down to write to a certain publisher in Moscow....”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“_January_ 20_th_ (_February_ 1_st_), 1879.

“Of the music you sent me, I have only played, as yet, through the

pieces by Grieg and two acts of Goldmark’s opera, _The Queen of

Sheba_. I do not know if I ever told you that I bought _Le Roi de

Lahore_ in Paris. Thus I possess two operas of the most modern

French school. Let me tell you, dear friend, that I have no

hesitation in giving the preference to _Le Roi de Lahore_. I know

you do not care very much for Massenet, and hitherto I, too, have

not felt drawn to him. His opera, however, has captivated me by its

rare beauty of form, its simplicity and freshness of ideas and

style, as well by its wealth of melody and distinction of harmony.

Goldmark’s opera does not greatly please me--just enough to

interest me in playing it through. Yet it is the work of a good

German master. But all the German composers of the present day

write laboriously, with pretensions to depth of thought, and strive

to atone for their extraordinary poverty of invention by

exaggerated colouring. For instance, the duet in the second act.

How unvocal! How little freedom it gives to the singer! What

insipid melodies! Massenet’s love duet, on the contrary, is far

simpler, but a thousand times fresher, more beautiful, more

melodious....

“Learn to know this opera, dear friend, and give me your opinion

upon it.

“My work progresses. I am composing the first scene of Act III.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“CLARENS, _January_ 24_th_ (_February_ 5_th_), 1879.

“Do not be surprised if my letter is somewhat incoherent. I am very

tired after my day’s work. To-day I wrote the love duet in the

second act, and it is very complicated, so that at the present

moment my brain works with difficulty. I jumped from the first

scene of the third act to the fourth, because it is not so easy,

and I wanted to get the most difficult scene--between Lionel and

Joan--off my mind. On the whole I am pleased with myself, but feel

rather exhausted. In Paris, I will rest by returning to my Suite

and leaving the two remaining scenes of the opera until my return

to Russia.

“I have added a new joy to life. In Geneva I bought the pianoforte

arrangements of several Mozart and Beethoven quartets, and I play

one every evening. You have no idea how I enjoy this, and how it

refreshes me! I would give anything for my _Maid of Orleans_ to

turn out as good as _Le Roi de Lahore_.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“_January_ 25_th_ (_February_ 6_th_), 1879.

“I will gladly follow your advice and write to Jurgenson to send a

copy of _Eugene Oniegin_ to Bülow. Generally speaking, I never send

my works on my own initiative to musical celebrities, but Bülow is

an exception, because he is really interested in Russian music and

in me personally. He is the sole German musician who admits the

possibility of the Russians rivalling the Germans as composers.

Speaking of the German view of our compatriots, I do not think I

ever told you about the fiasco of my _Francesca_ in Berlin this

winter. Bilse gave it twice. The second performance was a daring

act on his part, since after the first hearing the entire Press was

unanimous in damning my unfortunate fantasia....”

IV

_To P. I. Jurgenson._

“PARIS, _February_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1879.

“Do you imagine I am going to dish you up my impressions of Paris?

‘You are mistaken, friend,’ as Kashkin is always saying. I only

arrived early this morning. My departure from Clarens was highly

dramatic. The landlady wept; the landlord shook me warmly by the

hand; the maid (a very nice creature) also wept, so that I, too,

was reduced to tears. I assure you I have never been so comfortable

anywhere abroad as there. If circumstances permit, and no untoward

changes occur in my life, I intend henceforth to spend a

considerable part of each winter in Clarens....”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“_February_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1879.

“At the present moment I am engaged upon the great _ensemble_ in

the third act (septet and chorus), which presents many technical

difficulties. The first part of the septet is finished, and very

successful, if I am not mistaken. The brilliance and bustle of

Paris have their advantages. The variety of circumstances and

impressions distract my thoughts from the musical work. Perhaps

this is the reason why the number which I expected to find most

fatiguing has proved comparatively easy. For the books and music I

am very grateful to you....”

_To P. I. Jurgenson._

“PARIS, _February_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1879.

“Here I live the life of an anchorite, and only emerge twice a day

to satisfy the cravings of my stomach and take a little exercise.

“Last Sunday, however, I had a real musical treat. Colonne

conducted one of my favourite works--Berlioz’s _Faust_. The

performance was excellent. It was so long since I had heard any

good music that I was steeped in bliss, all the more because I was

alone, with no acquaintances sitting by my side. What a work!! Poor

Berlioz! As long as he was alive no one wanted to hear about him.

Now the newspapers call him ‘the mighty Hector....’ O God, how

happy I am now! Did I ever dream that I should enjoy life so

much?...”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“PARIS, _February_ 19_th_ (_March_ 3_rd_), 1879.

“My whole life long I have been a martyr to my enforced relations

with society. By nature I am a savage. Every new acquaintance,

every fresh contact with strangers, has been the source of acute

moral suffering. It is difficult to say what is the nature of this

suffering. Perhaps it springs from a shyness which has become a

mania, perhaps from absolute indifference to the society of my

fellows, or perhaps the difficulty of saying, without effort,

things about oneself that one does not really think (for social

intercourse involves this)--in short, I do not really know what it

is. So long as I was not in a position to avoid such intercourse, I

went into society, pretended to enjoy myself, played a certain part

(since it is absolutely indispensable to social existence), and

suffered horribly all the time. I could wax eloquent on the

subject.... To cut a long story short, however, I will merely tell

you that two years ago Count Leo Tolstoi, the writer, expressed a

wish to make my acquaintance. He takes a great interest in music.

Of course, I made a feeble attempt to escape from him, but without

success. He came to the Conservatoire and told Rubinstein he had

not left the town because he wanted to meet me. Tolstoi is very

sympathetic towards my musical gifts. It was impossible to avoid

his acquaintance, which was obviously flattering and agreeable. We

met, and I, assuming the part of a man who is immensely gratified,

said I was very happy--most grateful--a whole series of

indispensable but insincere phrases. ‘I want to know you better,’

he said; ‘I should like to talk to you about music.’ Then and

there, after we had shaken hands, he began to give me his musical

views. He considers Beethoven lacks inspiration. We started with

this. Thus this writer of genius, this searcher of human hearts,

began by asserting, in a tone of complete assurance, what was most

offensive to the stupidity of the musician. What is to be done

under such circumstances? Discuss? Yes, I discussed. But could such

a discussion be regarded as serious? Properly speaking, I ought to

have felt honoured by his notice. Probably another would have been.

I merely felt uncomfortable, and continued to enact the

comedy--pretending to be grateful and in earnest. Afterwards he

called upon me several times, and although after this meeting I

came to the conclusion that Tolstoi, if somewhat paradoxical, was

straightforward, good, and in his way had even a fine taste for

music, yet, at the same time, I had no more to gain from his

acquaintance than from that of any other man.

“The society of another fellow-creature is only pleasant when a

long-standing intimacy, or common interests, make it possible to

dispense with all effort. Unless this is the case, society is a

burden which I was never intended by nature to endure.

“This is the reason, dear friend, why I have not called upon

Tourgeniev. There are numbers of people I might visit here.

Saint-Saëns, for instance, on whom I promised to call whenever I

was in Paris. Anyone else in my place would make the acquaintance

of the local musicians. It is a pity I cannot, for I lose a good

deal by my misanthropy. Oh, if you only knew how I have struggled

against this weakness, how hard I have contended with my strange

temperament in this respect!

“Now I am at rest. I am finally convinced that at my age it is

useless to continue my education. I assure you I have been very

happy since I drew into my shell, and since music and books became

my faithful and inseparable companions. As to intercourse with

famous people, I know from experience that their works, musical or

literary, are far more interesting than their personalities.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“PARIS, _February_ 22_nd_ (_March_ 6_th_), 1879.

“DEAR MODI,--Yesterday was a very important day for me. Quite

unexpectedly I finished the opera. When you have written the last

word of a novel you will understand what a joy it is to feel such a

weight off your mind. To squeeze music out of one’s brain every day

for ten weeks is indeed an exhausting process. Now I can breathe

freely!

“Yesterday evening I walked about Paris feeling quite another man.

I even _sauntered_, and perhaps that is why my old love for the

place is reawakened. Perhaps, too, the fact that Colonne intends to

give my _Tempest_ at the next Sunday concert has something to do

with it. Now I see my name on all the hoardings and posters I feel

quite at home. I will confess that although I am pleased, yet I am

also rather anxious. I know beforehand that it will not be well

played, and will be hissed by the public--the invariable fate of

all my compositions abroad. Therefore it would be better if the

performance took place after I have left Paris. It cannot be

helped, however. I shall have to endure some misery on Sunday, but

not much, because I am only here as a bird of passage, and I know

that the time is coming when I need not endure any more.

“In any case, yesterday and to-day I have strutted through the

streets of Paris like a cock, and comforted myself with the feeling

that I need not work. You would never have recognised your brother

in a new overcoat, silk hat, and elegant gloves....”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“PARIS, _February_ 24_th_ (_March_ 8_th_), 1879.

“Yesterday I saw _L’Assomoir_. It is interesting to sit through

this piece, for it is highly entertaining to see washer-women

getting up linen in the second scene, all the characters dead drunk

in the sixth, and in the eighth, the death of a confirmed toper in

an attack of _delirium tremens_. The play deals a double blow at

that feeling for beauty which exists in us all. First, it is

adapted from a novel written by a talented, but cynical, man who

chooses to wallow in human filth, moral and physical. Secondly, to

make it more effective and pander to the taste of the Boulevard

public, a melodramatic element has been brought into the play which

is not in keeping with the rest of it. In this way _L’Assomoir_

loses on the stage its chief merit--the wonderfully realistic

presentment of everyday life.

“But what do you think of Monsieur Zola, the high priest of the

realistic cult, the austere critic who recognises no literary art

but his own, when he allows perfectly unreal and improbable

episodes and characters to be tacked on to his play--all for the

sake of a royalty?”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“PARIS, _February_ 26_th_ (_March_ 10_th_), 1879.

“Yesterday was a very exciting day. In the morning at the Châtelet

Concert the performance of my _Tempest_ took place. The agonies I

endured are the best proof that a country life is the most

tolerable for me. What used to be a pleasure--the hearing of one

of my own works--has now become a source of misery. The evening

before I began to suffer from colic and nausea. My agitation

continued to grow _crescendo_ until the opening chords, and while

the work was proceeding I felt I should die of the pain in my

heart. It was not the fear of failure with the public, but because

lately the first hearing of all my works has brought me the

sharpest disappointment. Mendelssohn’s _Reformation_ symphony

preceded _The Tempest_, and all the time I was admiring this fine

masterpiece. I have not attained to the rank of a master. I still

write like a gifted young man from whom much is to be expected.

What surprised me chiefly was the fact that my orchestration

sounded so poor. Of course, my reason told me I was exaggerating my

own defects, but this was no great consolation. _The Tempest_ was

not badly played. The orchestra took pains, but showed no warmth of

enthusiasm. One member of the band (a ‘cellist) kept staring,

smiling, and nodding his head, as much as to say: ‘Excuse our

playing such an extraordinary work; it is not our fault; we are

ordered to play it, and we obey.’ After the last bars had died

away, there followed some feeble applause, mingled with two or

three audible hisses, at which the whole room broke out into

exclamations of ‘O! O!’ which were intended as a kindly protest

against the hisses. Then came silence. The whole business passed

over me without leaving any special bitterness. I was only vexed to

feel that _The Tempest_, which I have hitherto regarded as one of

my most brilliant works, is in reality so unimportant. I left the

room and, as the weather was very fine, took a two hours’ stroll.

On returning home I wrote a card to Colonne, telling him that I

could only remain another day in Paris, and could not therefore

call to thank him personally.

“I must soon leave Paris. I am reconciled to the failure of _The

Tempest_. I speak of it as a failure _to myself_, but I console

myself with the thought that after the opera and the Suite I shall

at last compose a fine symphonic work. And so, in all probability,

I shall strive for mastery until my last breath, without ever

attaining it. Something is lacking in me--I can feel it--but there

is nothing to be done.”

The _Gazette Musicale_ published Tchaikovsky’s letter to Colonne, which

ran as follows:--

“SIR,--As luck would have it, I came to Paris for one day only, the

very one upon which you presented my _Tempest_ to the public. I was

at the Châtelet. I heard it, and hasten to thank you for the kind

and flattering attention bestowed on my music, and for your fine

interpretation of my difficult and ungrateful work. I also send my

hearty thanks to the members of your splendid orchestra for the

trouble they took to interpret every detail of the score in the

most artistic way.

“As to the feeble applause and somewhat energetic hisses with which

the public greeted my unlucky _Tempest_, they affected me deeply,

but did not surprise me--I expected them. If a certain degree of

prejudice against our Muscovite barbarity had something to do with

this, the intrinsic defects of the work itself are also to blame.

The form is diffuse and lacking in proportion. In any case the

performance which, as I have said, was excellent, has nothing to do

with the failure of the work.

“I should certainly have gone round to shake hands with you and

express my gratitude in person, had not the state of my health

prevented my doing so. I am only passing through Paris. I am

obliged therefore, dear sir, to have recourse to my pen, in order

to convey to you my thanks. Rest assured that my gratitude will not

be effaced from my heart.

“Your devoted

“P. T.”

In publishing this letter, the _Gazette Musicale_ preceded it by a few

lines in praise of “this rare witness to the noble and sincere modesty

of a composer.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“PARIS, _February_ 27_th_ (_March_ 11_th_), 1879.

“For the first time in my life I have read Rousseau’s

_Confessions_. I do not know if I ought to recommend the book to

you, supposing you have never read it, for side by side with

passages of genius, it contains much cynical information which

makes it almost unfit for a woman to read. Nevertheless I cannot

help admiring the astonishing strength and beauty of style, as well

as the true and profound analysis of the human soul. Apart from

this, I find an indescribable delight in recognising features in my

own character which I have never met with before in any literary

work, and which are here described with extraordinary subtlety. For

instance, he explains why, being a clever man, he never succeeds in

giving any impression of his cleverness when in society. He speaks

of his misanthropical tendencies, and of the unbearable necessity

of keeping up forced conversations, when, in order to keep the ball

rolling, one is obliged to pour forth empty words which in no way

express the result of intellectual work, or spiritual impulse. How

subtle and true are his remarks upon the scourge of social life.”

At the beginning of March Tchaikovsky returned to St. Petersburg. As

invariably happened when his solitude was interrupted and a break in his

work occurred, he now passed through a period of depression and

discontent with his surroundings, which were actually in no way to blame

for his frame of mind.

_To N. F. von Meck._

“_March_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1879.

“ ... On Friday I go to Moscow with my brothers to attend the first

performance of _Eugene Oniegin_, after which I shall return to

Petersburg, where I remain until Easter.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“PETERSBURG, _March_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1879.

“I have just returned from Moscow. Instead of leaving on Friday, I

went on Wednesday, because Jurgenson telegraphed that my presence

was required at the last rehearsal. I arrived just before the

costume rehearsal took place. The stage was fully lighted, but the

hall itself was quite dark, which gave me the opportunity of

concealing myself in a corner and listening to the opera

undisturbed. On the whole the performance was very satisfactory.

The orchestra and chorus got through their business splendidly. The

soloists, on the other hand, left much to be desired....

“These hours, spent in a dark corner of the theatre, were the only

pleasant ones during my visit to Moscow. Between the acts I saw all

my former colleagues once more. I observed with delight that the

music of _Oniegin_ seemed to win their favour. Nicholas Rubinstein,

who is so parsimonious in praise, told me that he had ‘fallen in

love’ with it. After the first act Taneiev wanted to express his

sympathy, instead of which he burst into tears. I cannot really

tell you how this touched me.... On Saturday (the day of the

performance) my brothers and a few other Petersburgers, among them

Anton Rubinstein, arrived early.

“Throughout the day I was greatly excited, especially as I had

yielded to Nicholas Rubinstein’s entreaty and declared my

willingness to come before the curtain in case I should be called

for.

“During the performance my excitement reached its zenith. Before it

began, Nicholas Rubinstein invited me behind the scenes, where, to

my horror, I found myself confronted by the whole Conservatoire. At

the head of the professors stood. Nicholas Grigorievich himself,

who handed me a wreath, amid the hearty applause of the bystanders.

Of course I had to say a few words in answer to Rubinstein’s

speech. God knows what it cost me! Between the acts I was recalled

several times. I have never seen such an enthusiastic audience. I

draw this conclusion from the fact that it was invariably

myself--not the performers--who received a recall.

“After the performance there was a supper at ‘The Hermitage,’ at

which even Anton Rubinstein was present. I have absolutely no idea

whether my _Oniegin_ pleased him or not. He never said a word to me

on the subject. It was 4 a.m. before I returned home with a

splitting headache, and spent a wretched night. I recovered during

the return journey to Petersburg, and to-day I feel quite

refreshed. I shall try not to go out during the next fortnight, but

to give myself up in earnest to the instrumentation of my Suite.”

To Tchaikovsky’s account of the first performance, I can only add my

personal impression that the actual success of the opera was poor, and

the ovation given to my brother was rather in consideration of former

services than in honour of the music itself, which had only a moderate

success.

This cool reception of a work, afterwards to become one of Tchaikovsky’s

most popular operas, can be accounted for in the first place by its

indifferent interpretation. It had been carefully prepared, but was

entrusted to inexperienced students of the Conservatoire, instead of

mature artists; consequently the work was not represented in its best

light. The comparatively recent period of the tale, and the audacity of

the librettist in representing upon the stage the almost canonised

personality of Tatiana, and, what was still worse, the additions made to

Poushkin’s incomparable poem--all contributed to set public taste

against the opera. Besides which, both libretto and music lacked those

dramatic incidents which generally evoke the public enthusiasm.

Respecting Anton Rubinstein’s judgment of _Eugene Oniegin_, the widow of

the great pianist said that her husband was not at all pleased with the

opera at the first hearing. On his return to Petersburg he criticised

the work from beginning to end, and declared it to be utterly wanting in

the “grand opera style.” Some years later he altered his opinion, and

when his wife reminded him of the first failure of the work, replied:

“What do you know about it? No one who has been brought up upon gipsy

songs and Italian opera has any right to criticise such a composition.”

With the exception of Laroche, most of the critics praised _Eugene

Oniegin_, although without much enthusiasm.

V

Early in April Tchaikovsky left Petersburg for Kamenka.

_To N. F. von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _April_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1879.

“My opera reposes for the time being in my portfolio. I am working

at the Suite. To-day I finished the score, and to-morrow I shall

start upon the arrangement for four hands....

“I have another fortnight’s work to bestow upon the Suite. At

Brailov I shall be able to give myself up entirely to my increasing

love of nature. There is no other spot in the world which can offer

me so much in this respect. To live in your house, to feel myself

free and alone, to be able to visit the forests every day and

wander all day among the flowers, to listen to the nightingale at

night, to read your books, play upon your instruments and think of

you--these are joys I cannot find elsewhere.”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“KAMENKA, _April_ 22_nd_ (_May_ 4_th_), 1879.

“I am beginning to be proud of my works, now that I see what an

extraordinary effect some of them make. Everyone here is crazy over

the Andante, and when I played it with my brother as a pianoforte

duet, one girl fainted away (this is a fact!!). To make the fair

sex faint is the highest triumph to which any composer can attain.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“BRAILOV, _May_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1879.

“Yesterday I began to study the score of _Lohengrin_. I know you

are no great admirer of Wagner, and I, too, am far from being a

desperate Wagnerite. I am not very sympathetic to Wagnerism as a

principle. Wagner’s personality arouses my antipathy, yet I must do

justice to his great musical gift. This reaches its climax in

_Lohengrin_, which will always remain the crown of all his works.

After _Lohengrin_, began the deterioration of his talent, which was

ruined by his diabolical vanity. He lost all sense of proportion,

and began to overstep all limits, so that everything he composed

after _Lohengrin_ became incomprehensible, impossible music which

has no future. What chiefly interests me in _Lohengrin_ at present

is the orchestration. In view of the work which lies before me, I

want to study this score very closely, and decide whether to adopt

some of his methods of instrumentation. His mastery is

extraordinary, but, for reasons which would necessitate technical

explanations, I have not borrowed anything from him. Wagner’s

orchestration is too symphonic, too overloaded and heavy for vocal

music. The older I grow, the more convinced I am that symphony and

opera are in every respect at the opposite poles of music.

Therefore the study of _Lohengrin_ will not lead me to change my

style, although it has been interesting and of negative value.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“BRAILOV, _May_ 7_th_ (19_th_), _1879_.

“Yesterday I was talking to Marcel about the completion of the

Catholic chapel, started long ago, but interrupted by order of the

Government. Now the necessary permission has been obtained, and the

priest has funds for the work; but another difficulty exists which

you alone can overcome. One of your offices just touches the wall

of the church, and could easily be transported to another spot.

Last year I went into the chapel in which the service is held, and

I must honestly say that I was sorry to see this obvious proof of

Catholic persecution ... it is not large enough to hold a tenth

part of the congregation. I am an energetic champion of religious

freedom. Marcel tells me the priest did not like to trouble you

with his requests, therefore I am animated with a desire to come to

his assistance. I take the liberty of telling you that the

Catholics of Brailov are hoping for your kind permission to have

your building removed. If this should prove to be impossible, at

least forgive me, dear friend, for my untimely interference on

their behalf.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“BRAILOV, _May_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1879.

“I have just been in the church attached to the monastery. There

were many people, both in the church and in the courtyard of the

building. I heard the blind ‘lyre singer.’ He calls himself ‘lyre

singer’ on account of the instrument with which he accompanies

himself, which, however, has nothing in common with the lyre of

antiquity. It is curious that in Little Russia every blind beggar

sings exactly the same tune with the same refrain. I have used part

of this refrain in my Pianoforte Concerto.

[Illustration: musical notation]

“At the present moment I am writing on the balcony. Before me is

the bunch of lilies of the valley from Simakov. I am never tired of

looking at these enchanting creations of nature.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _May_ 29_th_ (_June_ 10_th_), 1879.

“To-day I finished the first act of my opera (_The Maid of

Orleans_). It has grown into a somewhat bulky score. What a delight

to look through a newly finished score! To a musician a score means

something more than a collection of all kinds of notes and pauses.

It is a complete picture, in which the central figures stand out

clearly from the accessories and the background.

“To me every orchestral score is not merely a foretaste of oral

delight, but also a joy to look upon. For this reason I am

painfully particular about my scores, and cannot bear corrections,

erasures, or blots.”[68]

_To N. F. von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _June_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1879.

“Early this morning I had a telegram from Jurgenson, to say he had

won his case against Bachmetiev, the Director of the Imperial

Chapel. I think I told you that early last year my Liturgy (of St.

John Chrysostom) was confiscated from Jurgenson’s by order of

Bachmetiev.... Only those works which have been recognised by the

Chapel can be publicly sold or performed. This is the reason why,

until now, no Russian musicians have written Church music. After

the confiscation of my composition, Jurgenson brought an action for

damages against Bachmetiev, and has won his case.... This does not

matter so much for my Liturgy, as for the principle involved.

“Twenty-five years ago to-day my mother died. It was the first

profound sorrow of my life. Her death had a great influence on the

fate of myself and our entire family. She was carried off by

cholera, quite unexpectedly, in the prime of life. Every moment of

that terrible day is still as clear in my remembrances as though it

had happened yesterday.”

On June 20th Tchaikovsky wrote to N. F. von Meck that he had received

three very agreeable letters from abroad. In one Colonne expressed his

respect in the kindliest manner, and assured Tchaikovsky that, in spite

of the cold reception of _The Tempest_, his name should figure again in

the programmes of the Châtelet. A second communication came from the

‘cellist Fitzenhagen (professor at the Moscow Conservatoire), telling

him of the impression he had created with the “Variations on a Rococo

theme” at the Wiesbaden Festival. Liszt remarked on this occasion, “At

last here is music again.” The third letter--from Hans von

Bülow--announced the great success of Tchaikovsky’s first Pianoforte

Concerto at the same festival. Von Bülow had already played it with even

greater success in London.

Almost on the same day Tchaikovsky also heard the good news that his

Liturgy had been performed in the University Church at Kiev.

VI

On August 7th Tchaikovsky finished the third act of _The Maid of

Orleans_ and, suffering from physical and nervous exhaustion, left

Kamenka for Simaki,[69] as Nadejda von Meck was occupying her house at

Brailov.

_To N. F. von Meck._

“I am enchanted. I could not imagine more beautiful surroundings.

The garden in which I have just been walking with Pakhulsky has

surpassed all my expectations. The house is a splendid retreat! If

you only realised how much I am in need just now of all the

comforts which I get as your guest in this delightful spot!

“I intend to finish the orchestration of the last act of my opera

while I am here, and shall begin work to-morrow. I shall get this

heavy burden off my shoulders, and then I can draw breath and enjoy

the incomparable sensation of having completed a long work.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“SIMAKI, _August_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1879.

“I hasten to send you my first impressions of this place. A very,

very old house, a shady garden with ancient oaks and lime trees; it

is very secluded, but therein lies its charm. At the end of the

garden flows a stream. From the verandah there is a fine view over

the village and the forests. The absolute quiet and comfort of the

place exactly suit my taste and requirements. I have at my disposal

an old manservant called Leon, a cook whom I never see, and a

coachman with a phaeton and four horses. I could gladly dispense

with the last, since it necessitates my driving occasionally, while

in reality I prefer to walk. The proximity of Nadejda Filaretovna

troubles me somewhat, although it is really folly. I know my

seclusion will not be disturbed. I am so accustomed to regard her

as a kind of remote and invisible genius that the consciousness of

her mortal presence in my neighbourhood is rather disconcerting.

Yesterday I met Pakhulsky, who spent part of the evening with me.

But I told him plainly that I wanted to be left quite alone for a

few days.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“_August_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1879.

“Pakhulsky told me that next time he came he was to bring

Milochka[70] with him. I am very fond of Milochka; it is a pleasure

to look at the photograph of her charming face. I am sure she is a

dear, sweet, sympathetic child. I love children, and could only say

‘yes’ to such a proposal. But what I could not say to Pakhulsky I

can say to you.

“Forgive me, dear friend, and make fun of my mania if you like--but

I am not going to invite Milochka here, for this reason: my

relations towards you--as they exist at present--are my chief

happiness, and of the greatest importance to my well-being. I do

not want them altered by a hair’s breadth. The whole charm and

poetry of our friendship lies in your being so near and so dear to

me, while at the same time I do not know you at all in the ordinary

sense of the word. This condition of things must extend to your

nearest belongings. I will love Milochka as I have hitherto loved

you. If she appeared before me--_le charme serait rompu!_

“Every member of your family is dear to me--particularly

Milochka--yet for God’s sake let everything remain as it has been.

What could I say if she asked me why I never went to see her

mother? I should have to open our acquaintance with a _lie_. This

would be a grief to me, even though it were a trifling falsehood.

Pardon my frankness, dear and noble friend....

“If you have Beethoven’s Sonatas, be so kind as to send them to

me.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“SIMAKI, _August_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1879.

“Time slips away unobserved. Yesterday something very painful

happened. About four o’clock in the afternoon I was walking in the

woods, feeling sure I should not meet Nadejda Filaretovna, because

it was her dinner-hour. It chanced, however, that I went out a

little earlier, and she was dining somewhat later, so we ran

against each other quite by chance. It was an awkward predicament.

Although we were only face to face for a moment, I felt horribly

confused. However, I raised my hat politely. She seemed to lose her

head entirely and did not know what to do. She was in one carriage

with Milochka, and the whole family followed in two others. I

wandered into the forest in search of mushrooms, and when I

returned to the little table where tea was prepared for me, I found

my letters and newspapers awaiting me. It appears she sent a man on

horseback to look for me, so that I might get my post at tea-time.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“SIMAKI, _August_ 27_th_ (_September_ 8_th_), 1879.

“Now I can almost say _finished_! I have worked at _The Maid of

Orleans_ from the end of November (Florence) to the end of August

(Simaki), just nine months. It is remarkable that I began and

finished this opera as the guest of my dear friend.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“_August_ 31_st_ (_September_ 12_th_), 1879.

“Do you not like such grey days as to-day? I love them. The

beginning of autumn can only be compared to spring as regards

beauty. It seems to me September, with its tender, melancholy

colouring, has a special power to fill me with calm and happy

feelings. Around Simaki there are many delightful spots which I

like best to frequent at sunset, or on sunless days like to-day.

For instance, if you turn to the right, past the kitchen garden,

and take the lower path (parallel to the village) by the fen where

the reeds grow. I am very fond of that spot. But by day the sun

spoils the picturesque view of the village.

“At evening, too, or on a cloudy day, it is delightful to sit on

some high-lying spot, and look over the old willows, or poplars,

across to the village, with its modest church (what a charm is

given to every rural landscape by these churches), and far away to

the distant forests. I often spend an hour in this way....”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_August_ 31_st_ (_September_ 12_th_), 1879.

“I have just received a telegram from Anatol: ‘Have just been

dismissed in consequence of an unpleasantness in my department.

Most anxious to speak to you.’ I am starting for Petersburg at

once. A great fear of the future possesses me. In spite of the many

delightful moments spent here, I have had a continual foreboding of

something unlucky, and always about Toly.”

VII

1879-1880

_To P. I. Jurgenson._

(_Early in September._)

“You will be very much astonished to hear of my being in

Petersburg. I was summoned by a telegram from my brother Anatol,

announcing that in consequence of some unpleasantness he had to

resign his position in the Government service.... I think the

matter can be so arranged that he can keep his place....

“I do not know how long I shall stay here. It depends upon the

progress of my brother’s affairs. O detested Petersburg!”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“PETERSBURG, _September_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1879.

“I received your letter yesterday, dear friend. How I envied you

when I read your account of the lovely autumn weather you were

enjoying! The weather is not bad here, but what is the use of it to

me?

“I often go to the opera, but I do not enjoy it much. The

impossibility of escaping from innumerable acquaintances bores me

dreadfully. No matter where I hide myself, there are always idle

people who poison my pleasure in the music by their kind

attentions. They will worry me with the usual commonplace

questions: ‘How are you?’ ‘What are you composing now?’ etc. But

the invitations are the most intolerable. It requires so much

courage to refuse them.

“In one of your letters you asked me to tell you the whole method

of procedure in order to get an opera accepted for performance. One

has to send the score and pianoforte arrangement, with a written

request for its performance, to the Direction of the Imperial Opera

House. Then, in order to be successful, one must set in motion the

whole machinery of solicitation and entreaty. This is just what I

do not understand. My first two operas were performed, thanks to

the assistance of the Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich who likes

my music. How things will go this time I cannot say. I shall

impress upon Jurgenson to do all that is necessary. Two days ago I

was talking to Napravnik (one of the worthiest members of the

musical world), who takes a lively interest in the fate of my

opera. He told me it could not be performed this season, but

advised me to send in the score as soon as possible.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“MOSCOW, _September_ 20_th_ (_October_ 2_nd_), 1879.

“Forgive me for not having written before to-day. Yesterday it was

impossible.... Rubinstein and Jurgenson soon put in an appearance,

and compelled me to leave the tea, upon which I had just started,

and go out to breakfast with them. O Moscow! Scarcely has one set

foot in it before one must needs begin to drink! At five o’clock I

was invited to dinner at the Jurgensons’, where we began again. I

cannot tell you how strange and repugnant to me is this Moscow

atmosphere of swilling.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“GRANKINO, _September_ 25_th_ (_October_ 7_th_), 1879.

“I left Moscow on the 22nd. No sooner did the train begin to move,

and I saw the outskirts of the town, than the black curtain, which

had hung before my eyes during the whole of my time in the two

capitals, suddenly vanished. I was once more free and happy.

“Here I found both your letters. I cannot tell you how glad I was

to read your dear words. It was a surprise to hear our symphony was

at last published, for the distracted Jurgenson forgot to mention

this....

“I owe you everything: my life, the possibility of going forward to

distant goals, freedom, and that complete happiness which formerly

I believed to be unattainable.

“I read your letters with such a sense of eternal gratitude and

affection that I cannot put it into words....”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _October_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1879.

“At the present moment--I do not know why--I am going through an

intense Italian craze. I feel so delighted, so happy, at the mere

thought that before long I, too, shall be in Italy. Naples,

Pompeii, Vesuvius ... enchanting, lovely!

“I found the proofs of the Suite here. In three days I corrected

and sent them back, so that I can now take a holiday--read, walk,

play, dream--to my heart’s desire. For how long? I do not know. At

any rate, I will not undertake any work during my first days in

Naples. Do you not think that in the land of _lazzarone_ one must

be lazy too?”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“KAMENKA, _October_ 7_th_ (19_th_) 1879.

“No news. I feel very well, only a little misanthropical now and

then. To-day there are visitors. When there are none I feel quite

at ease. We all sit and sew. I have hemmed and marked a

pocket-handkerchief.”[71]

_To N. F. von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _October_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1879.

“How can I thank you for the trouble you have taken about our

symphony? I am delighted Colonne will play it. At the same time

there is no doubt it will have no success whatever with the public.

Perhaps it might rouse a spark of sympathy in the hearts of ten or

twelve people--and that would be a great step in advance.... Only

one thing troubles me. Does Colonne really want to be paid for

doing the work? It would gratify me to know that his readiness to

perform the symphony was not based upon pecuniary considerations.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _October_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1879.

“The last few days I have felt a secret dissatisfaction with

myself, which has degenerated into boredom. I realised that I

wanted work and began to occupy myself. The boredom immediately

vanished and I felt relieved. I have begun a pianoforte concerto

and intend to work at it without haste and over-fatigue.

“Have you read V. Soloviev’s philosophical articles? They are

admirably written; very popular in form, so that they do not

overstep the intelligence of the ordinary reader, yet very clever.

I do not know to what conclusions the writer will eventually come.

In the last number he proves very effectively the untenableness of

positivism, which denies metaphysics, yet cannot get along without

philosophy. Soloviev speaks in a very striking way of the delusion

of the materialists who, because they deny metaphysics, believe

they are only dealing with what actually exists, that is, with the

material; whereas the material has no objective existence, and is

only a phenomenon, the result of the activity of our sense and

intellect. I express his ideas very indifferently, but I advise you

to read this book for yourself.

“Yesterday I heard from Anatol about the performance of _Vakoula

the Smith_, which took place the previous week. The theatre was

full, but the public cool, just as on former occasions. Anatol

attributes this to the indifferent performance. But I can see with

startling clearness that this attitude of reserve is the outcome of

my own stupid mistakes. I am glad to know that _The Maid of

Orleans_ is free from the faults of my earlier pseudo-opera style,

in which I wearied my listeners with a superfluity of details, and

made my harmony too complicated, so that there was no moderation in

my orchestral effects. Besides which, I gave the audience no

repose. I set too many heavy dishes before them. Opera style should

be broad, simple, and decorative. _Vakoula_ is not in true opera

style, but is far more like symphonic or chamber music. It is only

surprising that it has not proved a complete failure. It is

possible that it may find favour with the public in course of time.

I place it in the front rank of my works, although I see all its

defects. It was a labour of love, an enjoyment, like _Oniegin_, the

Fourth Symphony, and the Second Quartet.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _October_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1879.

“Only a month--and I shall be at Naples! I look forward to this as

a child to his birthday, and the presents it will bring. Meanwhile

things are going well with me. My latest musical creation begins to

grow and display more characteristic features. I work with greater

pleasure and try to curb my habitual haste, which has often been

injurious to my work.”

On October 21st Nicholas Rubinstein played Tchaikovsky’s Pianoforte

Sonata at a concert of the Musical Society in Moscow. The success was

so great that the famous pianist repeated it at his own concert in the

course of the same season.

On November 11th the composer’s First Suite had a decided success,

judging by the newspapers. The short number which Tchaikovsky once

thought of cutting out of the work was encored.

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“BERLIN, _November_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1879.

“MY DEAR ANATOL,--I have had an ideal journey. I arrived in Berlin

early this morning. After breakfast I went to see Kotek. The good

man seemed wild with delight at seeing me again, and even I was

glad. But at the end of two hours of musical tittle-tattle I was

tired, and thankful he had to attend a rehearsal. Strange! The

longer I live, the less I care for the society of my

fellow-creatures. There is no doubt that I am fond of Kotek, but

his chatter wearies me more than the severest physical exertion.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“PARIS, _November_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1879.

“I know the Variations by Rimsky-Korsakov & Co.[72] very well. The

work is original in its way and shows some remarkable talent for

harmony in its authors. At the same time I do not care for it. It

is too heavy and spun-out for a joke, and the everlasting

repetition of the theme is--clumsy. As a work of art it is a mere

nonentity. It is not surprising that a few clever men should have

amused themselves by inventing all kinds of variations upon a

commonplace theme; the surprising thing is their having published

them. Only amateurs can suppose that every piquant harmony is

worthy to be given to the public. Liszt, the old Jesuit, speaks in

terms of exaggerated praise of every work which is submitted to his

inspection. He is at heart a good man, one of the very few great

artists who have never known envy (Wagner and in some measure Anton

Rubinstein owe their success to him; he also did much for Berlioz);

but he is too much of a Jesuit to be frank and sincere.”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“PARIS, _November_ 19_th_ (_December_ 1_st_), 1879.

“DEAR FRIEND,--What happiness to get right away from one’s own

country! Not until I had passed the frontiers, did I breathe freely

and feel at ease. On the journey I came across Joseph Wieniawsky,

who was in the same corridor train. I immediately told him I was

not alone, but travelling with a lady, upon which he winked at me

slyly, as much as to say, ‘Of course, we know, shocking dog!’

“At present I want to work slowly at my Concerto; later I mean to

look through my old works, especially the Second Symphony, which I

intend to revise thoroughly.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“PARIS, _November_ 21_st_ (_December_ 3_rd_), 1879.

“To-day, being a Saint’s Day, Alexis went to church, and told me

the Grand Duke Nicholas Nicholaevich, with all his suite in full

uniform, had attended the service. I could not account for this

until I took up the _Gaulois_ at breakfast, and read of an attempt

made in Moscow on the Tsar’s life.... The Emperor escaped unharmed.

“I do not believe, dear friend, that we are in immediate danger of

a war with Prussia. Such a war, although inevitable, is improbable

during the lives of the present emperors. How can it be possible to

think of war, when such horrors are taking place in our midst?... I

think the Tsar would do well to assemble representatives throughout

all Russia, and take counsel with them how to prevent the

recurrence of such terrible actions on the part of mad

revolutionaries. So long as all of us--the Russian citizens--are

not called to take part in the government of the country, there is

no hope of a better future.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“PARIS, _November_ 26_th_ (_December_ 8_th_), 1879.

“I am not altogether at one with you as regards Cui. I do not

recognise in him any great creative power, although his music has a

certain elegance, agreeable harmonies, and shows good taste, in

which he is distinguished from the other members of ‘the band,’

especially Moussorgsky. By nature Cui is more drawn towards light

and piquantly rhythmic French music; but the demands of ‘the band’

which he has joined compel him to do violence to his natural gifts

and to follow those paths of would-be original harmony which do not

suit him. Cui is now forty-four years of age and has only composed

two operas and two or three dozen songs. He was engaged for ten

years upon his opera _Ratcliff_. It is evident that the work was

composed piecemeal, hence the lack of any unity of style.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“PARIS, _November_ 27_th_ (_December_ 9_th_), 1879.

“Now I will answer your question. My _Voyevode_ is undoubtedly a

very poor opera. I do not speak of the music only, but of all that

goes to the making of a good opera. The subject is lacking in

dramatic interest and movement, and the work was written hastily

and carelessly. I wrote music to the words without troubling to

consider the difference between operatic and symphonic style. In

composing an opera the stage should be the musician’s first

thought, he must not abuse the confidence of the theatre-goer who

comes _to see_ as well as _to hear_. Finally, the style of music

written for the stage should be the same as the decorative style in

painting, clear, simple, and highly coloured. A picture by

Meissonier would lose half its charm if exhibited on the stage; and

subtle, delicately harmonised music would be equally inappropriate,

since the public demands sharply defined melodies on a background

of subdued harmony. In my _Voyevode_ I have been chiefly concerned

with filigree work, and have forgotten the requirements of the

stage.

“The stage often paralyses a composer’s inspiration, that is why

symphonic and chamber music are so far superior to opera. A

symphony or sonata imposes no limitations, but in opera, the first

necessity is to speak the musical language of the great public....

The final defect of _The Voyevode_ lies in the heaviness of its

orchestration, which overpowers the soloists. These are all the

faults of inexperience; we must leave a whole series of failures

behind us before we can attain to perfection. This is the reason

why I am not ashamed of my first opera. It has taught me useful

lessons. And you see, dear friend, how strenuously I have

endeavoured to correct my errors. Even _Undine_ (the opera I

burnt), _The Oprichnik_, and _Vakoula_ are not what they should be.

I find this branch of art very difficult! I think _The Maid of

Orleans_ at last fulfils every requirement, but perhaps I deceive

myself. If it is so, if it turns out that I have failed to grasp

the true opera style, even in this work, then I shall be convinced

of the justice of the opinion that I am by nature only a symphonic

composer and should not attempt dramatic music. In that case, I

shall abandon all attempts at opera.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“PARIS, _December_ 1879.

“I have read the proclamation you mention. It is impossible to

conceive anything more astounding and cynical. How will such

revolutionary proceedings forward the reforms with which, sooner or

later, the Tsar will crown his reign? That which the Socialists are

doing in the name of Russia is foolish and insolent. But equally

false is their pretence of readiness to shake hands with all

parties and to leave the Emperor in peace as soon as he summons a

Parliament. This is not what they really aim at, for they mean to

go further--to a socialist-republic, or to anarchy. But no one will

swallow this bait. Even were a constitution granted to Russia in

the remote future, the first act of the _Zemstvo_ should be

extermination of this band of murderers who hope to become the

leaders of the country.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“PARIS, _December_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1879.

“The sketch of my Concerto is finished and I am very pleased with

it, especially with the Andante. Now I shall take in hand the

revision of my Second Symphony, of which only the last movement can

be left intact. I published this work through Bessel in 1872, as a

return for the trouble he took over the performance of _The

Oprichnik_.... For seven years he has led me a dance over the

engraving of the score--always putting me off with the assurance

that it would soon be ready. I was sometimes furious with him, but

his lack of conscience has proved itself a blessing in disguise!...

If I succeed in working steadily in Rome, I shall make a good work

out of my immature, mediocre symphony.”

VIII

After spending a few days in Turin, Tchaikovsky reached Rome on December

8th (20th), 1879. From thence he wrote, on the 12th (24th), to Frau von

Meck:--

“Yesterday we made a pilgrimage to S. Pietro in Montorio. Probably

you know the place, therefore I need not describe the beauty of the

view from the terrace below the church. To-day I visited San

Giovanni in Laterano and carried away some profound artistic

impressions. I also went to Scala Santa. High Mass was being

celebrated in the church. The choir sang a Mass _a capella_ and

also with the organ. Quite modern music, utterly unsuitable in

church, but beautifully sung. What voices there are in Italy! The

tenor gave a solo, in the style of a wretched operatic aria, in

such a magnificent voice that I was quite carried away. But the

Mass itself lacks that solemn, poetical atmosphere with which our

liturgy is surrounded.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“ROME, _December_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1879.

“It is Christmas here to-day. We went to Mass at St. Peter’s. What

a colossal edifice--this cathedral!”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“ROME, _December_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1879.

“Yesterday we went up Monte Testaccio, with its lovely view of Rome

and the Campagna. From there we visited S. Paolo Fuori le Mura, a

basilica of huge proportions and vast wealth. To-day I am going for

the first time to ‘do’ the Forum thoroughly. This has a three-fold

interest for me because I am just reading Ampère’s _Histoire

romaine à Rome_, in which all that has taken place in this building

is minutely described.

“I have a very good piano now. I got a few volumes of Bach’s works

from Ricordi, and play a number of them, alone, or four-handed,

with my brother Modeste. But work will not come back to me. Rome

and Roman life are too characteristic, too exciting and full of

variety, to permit of my sticking to my writing-table. However, I

hope the power of work will gradually return. Yesterday I heard a

charming popular song, of which I shall certainly make use some

future day.”

_To P. I. Jurgenson._

“ROME, _December_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1879.

“DEAR FRIEND,-- ... Nicholas Rubinstein’s opinion that my Suite is

so difficult that it is impossible, has surprised and annoyed me

very much. Either Rubinstein is mistaken, or I must give up

composing; one or the other. Why, it is my chief anxiety to write

more easily and simply as time goes on, and the more I try--the

worse I succeed! It is dreadful!

“I asked Taneiev to write and tell me what actually constituted

these terrible difficulties. I feel a little hurt that none of my

friends telegraphed to me after the performance. I am forgotten.

The one interest which binds me to life is centred in my

compositions. Every first performance marks an epoch for me. Can no

one realise that it would have been a joy to receive a few words of

appreciation, by which I should have known that my new work had

been performed and had given pleasure to my friends?

“I do not understand what you say about the ‘Marche Miniature.’ We

never cut it out. The March was to be kept, but as it was not

suitable as No. 5 it was to be published at the end of the

Suite.... For God’s sake answer my letters quicker. Your

communication has upset my nerves and I feel as ill as a dog.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

ROME, _December_ 22_nd_ (_January_ 3_rd_, 1880), 1879.

“To-day I went to the Capitol with Modeste. We spent an hour and a

half in the Hall of the Emperors. The busts are highly

characteristic! What a revolting, sensual, animal face Nero has!

How sympathetic is Marcus Aurelius! How fine the old Agrippina! How

repulsive Caracalla! Some of these countenances in no way bear out

one’s idea of the originals. For instance, Julius Cæsar altogether

lacks power and greatness; he looks like a Russian Councillor of

State. And Trajan? Who could guess from his narrow forehead,

prominent chin, and commonplace expression, that the original of

the portrait was a great man?...”

A few days later, Tchaikovsky recounted to Nadejda von Meck his

impressions of the treasures of the Vatican:--

“The frescoes of Michel Angelo now appear less incomprehensible to

me, although I do not share Modeste’s enthusiasm for them. His

athletic, muscular figures, and the gloomy vastness of his

pictures, are gradually becoming more intelligible. His art now

interests and overcomes me, but it does not delight me, or touch my

heart. Raphael is still my favourite--the Mozart of painters.

Guercino’s pictures please me very much, some of his Madonnas are

so angelically beautiful, they fill me with silent ecstasy.

However, I must confess that I am not gifted by nature with a fine

appreciation of the plastic arts, for very few pictures make an

impression upon me.... To study all the art treasures of Rome

conscientiously would need a whole lifetime. To-day I discovered

once more how important it is to look long and carefully at a

picture. I sat before Raphael’s ‘Annunciation,’ and at first I did

not see much in the picture, but the longer I looked the more

profoundly was I penetrated with its beauty as a whole, and the

wonder of its details. Alas! I had only just begun to really enjoy

the work, when Modeste came to tell me it was three o’clock and

time to go on to the Sistine Chapel.... I do not think I could live

long in Rome. There are too many interests; it leaves no time for

reflection, no time to deepen one’s own nature. I should prefer

Florence as a permanent place of residence; it is quieter, more

peaceful. Rome is richer and grander; Florence more sympathetic.

“I agree with Goethe’s characteristic opinion of Rome.... ‘It would

be a fine thing to spend a few centuries there in Pythagorean

silence.’”

_S.I. Taneiev to Tchaikovsky._

“MOSCOW.

“N. Rubinstein has pointed out to me all those parts in the score

of your Suite which he considers awkward.

“The difficulties are chiefly centred in the wind instruments,

especially in the wood-wind. They are as follows:--

“(1) Too few pauses; the wood-wind have to play for too long at a

time without opportunities for breathing. In those places where you

have doubled the strings (as in the Fugue) it does not matter so

much, they can make a slight break without its being observable.

But it is very different when they are playing alone. For instance,

in the newly added movement there is a part for three flutes which

have to play triplets for twenty-two bars, without a break.

“(2) Difficult passages: these occur very often in the wood-wind

and demand _virtuosi_ to execute them properly. In the Andante the

passages leading to the second theme are extremely difficult (where

oboe and clarinet, and the second time flute and clarinet, have

triplets of semi-quavers). This part went very badly at the

rehearsals, and even at the concert, although the musicians had

practised their parts at home. It offers such difficulties that it

is impossible to render it with the expression marks indicated, for

the musicians have enough to do to get their right note (the double

flat for clarinet is particularly awkward).

“(3) The compass of all the wood-wind instruments is too extended.

The first bassoon usually plays in the tenor register, while the

second takes the lower notes. Not only the musicians, but also

their instruments, have got accustomed to this; the lower notes of

the first bassoon are not quite in tune; the same thing applies to

the upper notes of the second bassoon. But your Suite opens with a

unison passage for both fagotti, which employs almost the entire

range of these instruments: from

[Illustration: musical notation] to [Illustration: musical

notation]

In the march the oboes have the following notes:--

[Illustration: musical notation]

which Z. played at the first rehearsal as:--

[Illustration: musical notation]

When Rubinstein asked him why he did not play the notes as they

were written, he replied that he could do so, but it would be very

bad for his lips, because they lay too high. The French oboe

players, he continued, could bring out these high notes better,

because they had different and finer mouthpieces; but with these

mouthpieces the middle and lower notes suffered.

“(4) Difficult rhythms which make the execution irregular. The

absence, too, of what the Germans call “Anhaltspunkt”

(punctuation)--the absence of notes on the strong beats of the bar.

Take this rhythm in the Scherzo for instance:--

[Illustration: musical notation]

the last notes come on the second crotchet, and the pause on the

third beat. In consequence, it is very difficult to play these

notes equally, they always sound a little one on the top of the

other. The same with the following passage:--

[Illustration: musical notation]

Altogether the Scherzo requires enormous virtuosity, which most

members of the orchestra do not possess.

“Apparently some passages do not sound as you thought they would.

At the beginning of the Scherzo (where the wood-wind enters) there

is a modulation to B♭ major through the dominant chord on F.

[Illustration: musical notation]

The superfluity of chromatic harmonies, as well as the difficulty

of executing clearly all that is written for the wind, causes these

passages to sound unintelligible and to have the effect of a series

of wrong notes....”

_To S. I. Taneiev._

“ROME, _January_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1880.

“Nicholas Rubinstein’s explanation is not at all satisfactory. From

all he says, I can plainly see that he was out of temper and

visited it upon the Suite. No one will induce me to believe this

passage

[Illustration: musical notation]

is difficult to play on the oboe or clarinet, or that the flutes

cannot play twenty-two bars of triplets in a rapid tempo. They

could easily manage to play such a passage for 220 bars. It would

be very innocent to imagine that this must be done in one breath.

They can breathe every time. I play the flute a little myself and

am certain of it. Difficulty is a relative matter: for a beginner

it would not only be difficult, but impossible, but for an

averagely good orchestral player it is not hard. I do not lay

myself out to write easy things; I know my instrumentation is

almost always rather difficult. But you must admit that compared

with _Francesca_, or the Fourth Symphony, the Suite is child’s

play. Altogether Rubinstein’s criticisms are such that--were they

accurate--I should have to lay down my pen for ever. What? For ten

years I have taught instrumentation at the Conservatoire (not

remarkably well perhaps, but without compromising myself), and two

years later remarks are made to me which could only be addressed to

a very backward pupil! One of two things: either I never understood

anything about the orchestra, or this criticism of my Suite is on a

par with N. R.’s remarks upon my Pianoforte Concerto in 1875: that

it was impracticable. What was impossible in 1875 was proved quite

possible in 1878.

“I explain the whole affair thus: the oboist Herr Z. was in a bad

temper--which not infrequently happens with him--and this infected

Rubinstein. I like the idea that the high notes are ruination to

Herr Z.’s lips!!! It is a thousand pities these precious lips, from

which Frau Z. has stolen so many kisses, should be spoilt for ever

by the E in alt. But this will not hinder me from injuring these

sacred lips by writing high notes--notes moreover that every oboist

can easily play, even without a French mouthpiece!”

IX

_To N. F. von Meck._

“ROME, _January_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1880.

“When I look back upon the year that has flown, I feel I must sing

a hymn of thanksgiving to fate which has brought me so many

beautiful days in Russia and abroad. I can say that throughout the

whole year I have led a calm and cheerful life, and have been

happy, so far as happiness is possible.”

_To P. I. Jurgenson._

“ROME, _January_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1880.

“My health is bad, and my mental condition not very good. I have

had sad news from Petersburg: my sister is ill and also her

daughter. Yesterday I heard of my father’s death. He was

eighty-five, so this news did not altogether take me by surprise.

But he was such a wonderful, angelic old soul. I loved him so much,

it is a bitter grief to feel I shall never see him again.”

On hearing this news, Tchaikovsky burst into tears. Afterwards he became

quiet and resigned. But the peaceful end of this venerable old man could

not make a great gap in the busy life of his son, to whom,

notwithstanding, he had been very dear.

_To N. F. von Meck._

“ROME, _January_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1880.

“This morning I received an amiable letter from Colonne, telling me

my symphony[73] would be given to-morrow at the Châtelet. This has

vexed me. If he had written a day earlier, I might have reached

Paris in time. But Colonne is not to blame because, in order to

preserve my incognito, I told him I could not be present at the

performance of my symphony, on account of my health.