symphony will not have any success, but it will interest many
people, and this is very important for the propaganda of my works.”
Although Colonne sent a telegram of congratulation immediately after the
concert, the letter which followed announced, in the politest manner,
the partial failure of the symphony. _La Gazette Musicale_ says the
first and last movements were received with “icy coldness,” and the
public only showed enthusiasm for the Scherzo, and portions of the
Andante.
Almost simultaneously with the performance of the Fourth Symphony in
Paris, Tchaikovsky’s Quartet No. 3, Op. 30, and the Serenade for violin
and pianoforte were given by the Société de S. Cécile. All the
newspapers were unanimously agreed as to the success of these works.
From this time Tchaikovsky’s works began to make their way abroad. From
New York, Leopold Damrosch sent him tidings of the great success of his
First Suite; while Jurgenson wrote to tell him of the triumph of his
Pianoforte Concerto in B♭ minor, which had been played twice by Bülow
and once by Friedenthal in Berlin, by Breitner in Buda-Pesth, and by
Rummel in New York.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“ROME, _January_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1880.
“What a superb work is Michel Angelo’s ‘Moses’! It is indeed
conceived and executed by a genius of the highest order. It is said
the work has some defects. This reminds me of old Fétis, who was
always on the look-out for errors in Beethoven’s works, and once
boasted in triumph of having discovered in the _Eroica_ symphony an
inversion which was not in good taste.
“Do you not think Beethoven and Michel Angelo are allied by
nature?”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“_February_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1880.
“Just now we are at the very height of the Carnival. At first, as I
have told you, this wild folly did not suit me at all, but now I am
growing used to it. Of course the character of the festival here is
conditioned by climate and custom. Probably if a Roman was set down
among us in our Carnival week, the crowd of tipsy people swinging
and toboganning would seem to him even more barbarous!
“I am working at the sketch of an Italian Fantasia based upon
folksongs. Thanks to the charming themes, some of which I have
taken from collections and some of which I have heard in the
streets, this work will be effective.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“_February_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1880.
“Yesterday we made the most of glorious weather and went to Tivoli.
It is the loveliest spot I ever beheld. As soon as we arrived we
went to lunch at the Albergo della Sybilla. Our table was near the
edge of a ravine, where a waterfall splashed in the depths below;
on all sides the steep banks and rocks were covered with pines and
olive trees. The sun was hot as in June. After breakfast we took a
long walk and visited the celebrated Villa d’Este, where Liszt
spends three months every year. It is magnificent, and from the
park there is a fine view over the Campagna.
“To-day we went to the gallery of the Palazzo Borghese, in which
there are some masterpieces. I was most impressed by Correggio’s
superb picture ‘Danae.’[74]
“Dear friend, leading such a life, amid all these beautiful
impressions of nature and art, ought not a man to be happy? And yet
a worm continually gnaws in secret at my heart. I sleep badly, and
do not feel that courage and freshness which I might expect under
the present conditions. Only for a moment can I conquer my mental
depression. My God! What an incomprehensible and complicated
machine the human organism is! We shall never solve the various
phenomena of our spiritual and material existence. And how can we
draw the line between the intellectual and physiological phenomena
of our life? At times it seems to me as though I suffered from a
mysterious, but purely physical, malady which influences my mental
phases. Lately I have thought my heart was out of order; but then I
remembered that last summer the doctor who examined it declared my
heart to be absolutely sound. So I must lay the blame on my
nerves--but what are nerves? Why, on one and the same day, without
any apparent reason, do they act quite normally for a time, and
then lose their elasticity and energy, and leave one incapable of
work and insensible to artistic impressions? These are riddles.
“There is a lovely bunch of violets in front of me. There are
quantities here. Spring is coming in to her own.”
_To P. I. Jurgenson._
“ROME, _February_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1880.
“Good Lord, what a stupid idea to go and print that score!!![75] It
is not profitable, is no use to anyone, nor satisfactory in any
respect--simply absurd. The moral is: when you want to prepare a
little surprise for me, ask my advice first. I assure you, in spite
of my well-known _naïveté_, I have more sound common sense than
many clever, worthy, but too enthusiastic people--such as the
person for example who suggested you should engrave this score. All
the same, my unfavourable view does not prevent my being
grateful--even in this case--for your friendship, which I value
tremendously.
“Is it not time to lay the score of _The Maid of Orleans_ before
the Opera Direction? I think it is just the right moment....”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“ROME, _February_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1880.
“The more I look at Michel Angelo’s works the more wonderful they
seem to me. Just now I was contemplating his ‘Moses.’ The church
was empty, and there was nothing to disturb my meditations. I
assure you I was filled with terror. You will remember that Moses
is standing with his head slightly turned towards the sacrifice
which is to be offered to Baal. His expression is angry and
menacing; his figure majestic and commanding. One feels he has only
to speak a word, for erring mortals to fall on their knees before
him. It is impossible to conceive anything more perfect than this
great statue. With this genius the form expresses his entire
thought, there is nothing forced, no pose, such as we see, for
instance, in Bernini’s statues, of which Rome unfortunately
possesses so many examples.
“I am so pleased with a book that has come into my hands, I cannot
put it down. It is nothing less than an excellent rendering of
Tacitus into French. He is a great artist.”
About this time the performance of Tchaikovsky’s opera _The Oprichnik_
was forbidden, because the subject was considered too revolutionary in
that moment of political agitation. “Je n’ai qu’à m’en féliciter,” wrote
the composer on receiving the news, “for I am glad of any hindrance to
the performance of this ill-starred opera.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“ROME, _February_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1880.
“I chose the title of Divertimento for the second movement of my
Suite, because it was the first which occurred to me. I wrote the
movement without attaching any great importance to it, and only
interpolated it in the Suite to avoid rhythmical monotony. I wrote
it actually at one sitting, and spent much less time upon it than
upon any other movement. As it turns out, this has not hindered it
from giving more pleasure than all the rest. You are not the only
one who thinks so. It proves for the thousandth time that an author
never judges his own works with justice.
“I am most grateful to you for calling Colonne’s attention to my
new works, but I must tell you frankly: it would be very
disagreeable to me if you were again to repay him in a material
form for his attention.... The first time it was very painful that
you should have spent a considerable sum of money, although I was
glad to feel that, thanks to your devoted friendship, _our_
symphony should be made known to the Paris public. I was grateful
for this new proof of your sympathy. But now it would be painful
and disgraceful to me to know that Colonne could only see the worth
of my compositions by the flashlight of gold. All the same, I am
grateful for your recommendation.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“ROME, _February_ 18_th_ (_March_ 1_st_), 1880.
“The Concerto[76] of Brahms does not please me better than any
other of his works. He is certainly a great musician, even a
Master, but, in his case, his mastery overwhelms his inspiration.
So many preparations and circumlocutions for something which ought
to come and charm us at once--and nothing does come, but boredom.
His music is not warmed by any genuine emotion. It lacks poetry,
but makes great pretensions to profundity. These depths contain
nothing: they are void. Take the opening of the Concerto, for
instance. It is an introduction, a preparation for something fine;
an admirable pedestal for a statue; but the statue is lacking, we
only get a second pedestal piled upon the first. I do not know
whether I have properly expressed the thoughts, or rather feelings,
which Brahms’s music awakens in me. I mean to say that he never
expresses anything, or, when he does, he fails to express it fully.
His music is made up of fragments of some indefinable _something_,
skilfully welded together. The design lacks definite contour,
colour, life.
“But I must simply confess that, independent of any definite
accusation, Brahms, as a musical personality, is antipathetic to
me. I cannot abide him. Whatever he does--I remain unmoved and
cold. It is a purely instinctive feeling.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“ROME, _February_ 26_th_ (_March_ 9_th_), 1880.
“To-day I went on foot to the Vatican and sat a long while in the
Sistine Chapel. Here a miracle was worked. I felt--almost for the
first time in my life--an artistic ecstasy for painting. What it
means to become gradually accustomed to the painter’s art! I
remember the time when all this seemed to me absurd and
meaningless....”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“BERLIN, _March_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1880.
“In Paris I went to the ‘Comédie Francaise,’ and fell in love with
Racine or Corneille (which of them wrote _Polyeucte_?). The beauty
and strength of these verses and, still more, the lofty artistic
truth! At the first glance this tragedy seems so unreal and
impossible. The last act, however, in which Felix,
conscience-stricken and illumined by Christ, suddenly becomes a
Christian, touched me profoundly....
“After reading Toly’s letter I went to Bilse’s concert. The large,
luxuriously decorated hall, with its smell of indifferent cigars
and food, its stocking-knitting ladies and beer-drinking men, made
a curious impression upon me. After Italy, where we were constantly
out in the beautiful, pure air, it was quite repugnant. But the
orchestra was excellent, the acoustic splendid, and the programme
good. I heard Schumann’s ‘Genoveva,’ the ‘Mignon’ overture, and a
very sparkling _pot-pourri_, and I was very pleased with it all.
How glad I shall be to hear the _Flying Dutchman_ to-day!”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“BERLIN, _March_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1880.
“To-day I went to the Aquarium, where I went into ecstasies over
the chimpanzee. He lives in intimate friendship with a dog. It is
delightful to see the two play together, and the chimpanzee laughs
in the drollest way when he takes refuge in some place where the
dog cannot get at him!
“I notice that I am making great progress in my appreciation of
painting. I take the greatest delight in many things, especially in
the Flemish school. Teniers, Wouvermans, and Ruysdael please me far
more than the renowned Rubens, who represents even Christ as
healthily robust, with unnaturally pink cheeks. One fact makes me
begin to see myself as _a great_ connoisseur. I recognise
Correggio’s brush before I see his name in the catalogue! But then
Correggio has his own manner, and all his male figures and heads
resemble the Christ in the Vatican, and his women the Danae in the
Borghese Palace.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“ST. PETERSBURG, _March_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1880.
“Your benevolence to poor, dying Henry Wieniawsky touches me
deeply.[77] ... I pity him greatly. In him we shall lose an
incomparable violinist and a gifted composer. In this respect I
think Wieniawsky very talented ... the beautiful _Légende_ and
parts of the A minor Concerto show a true creative gift.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“ST. PETERSBURG, _March_ 20_th_ (_April_ 1_st_), 1880.
“Yesterday I suffered a good deal. The Grand Duke Constantine
Nicholaevich has a son Constantine. This young man of
two-and-twenty is passionately fond of music, and is very partial
to mine. He expressed a wish to become more closely acquainted with
me, and asked a relative of mine, the wife of Admiral Butakov, to
arrange an evening party at which we might meet.
“As he knows my misanthropical habits, this evening was to be of an
informal nature, without dress coats and white ties. It was
impossible to escape. The young man is very pleasant and has
musical ability. We talked music from 9 p.m. until 2 a.m. He
composes very nicely, but unfortunately has no time to devote
himself to it seriously.”
On March 25th several of Tchaikovsky’s works were performed at a concert
given by two singers, well known in Petersburg, V. Issakov and Madame
Panaev. The First Suite and the _Romeo and Juliet_ overture were played
by the orchestra of the Russian Opera under Napravnik. The Suite had the
greatest success, especially the “Marche Miniature.” The great novelist
Tourgeniev was present on this occasion.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MOSCOW, _April_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1880.
“I have come here with the intention of spending three days
incognito and finishing my work. Besides, I need the rest. Imagine,
my dear friend, for the last few days I have hardly ever been out
of a tail coat and white tie and associating with the most august
personages. It is all very flattering, sometimes touching; but
fatiguing to the last degree. I feel so happy and comfortable in my
room in the hotel, not being obliged to go anywhere, or do
anything!”
X
_To N. F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _April_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1880.
“To-day a cold north wind is blowing. Spring has not yet entered
into possession of her own, and the nightingale is not singing yet.
Still, it is beautiful in the forest.
“During the last few days I have read through two new operas: Anton
Rubinstein’s _Kalashnikov_ and _Jean de Nivelles_ by Délibes. The
former is weak all through. Rubinstein is like a singer who has
lost her voice, but still believes she sings charmingly. His talent
has long since lost its charm. He really ought to give up composing
and to be contented with his earlier works. I pray that I may
never fall into the same error. Délibes makes just the opposite
impression. His work is fresh, graceful, and very clever.”
About the end of April the director of the Kiev branch of the Russian
Musical Society offered to make Tchaikovsky the principal of this
section, and of the musical school connected with it. Although on
account of its proximity to the home of the Davidovs at Kamenka, the
neighbourhood of Kiev offered many attractions to him, he declined the
offer without hesitation. He had tasted the fruits of liberty and was
more than ever convinced that teaching was not his vocation.
During his stay at Kamenka, Tchaikovsky finished the orchestration of
his “Italian Fantasia,” which he considered, apart from its musical
worth, one of his most effective and brilliant orchestral works.
_To P. I. Jurgenson._
“KAMENKA, _June_ 23_rd_ (_July_ 5_th_), 1880.
“DEAR SOUL,--I believe you imagine I have no greater happiness than
to compose occasional pieces to be played at forthcoming
exhibitions, and that I ought to put my inspirations down
post-haste upon paper, without knowing how, when, or where. I shall
not stir a finger until I get a positive commission. If something
vocal is required of me, I must be supplied with a suitable text
(when it is a question of an order I am ready to set an
advertisement of corn-plasters to music); if it is to be an
instrumental work, I must have some idea of the form it should
take, and what it is intended to illustrate. At the same time a
definite fee must be offered, with a definite agreement as to who
is responsible for it, and when I shall receive it. I do not make
all these demands from caprice, but because I am not in a position
to write these festival works without having some positive
instructions as to what is required of me. There are two kinds of
inspiration: one comes direct from the soul, by freedom of choice,
or other creative impulse; the other _comes to order_.... Matters
of business must be put very clearly and distinctly. Fancy if I had
already been inspired to write a Festival Overture for the opening
of the Exhibition! What would have come of it? It might have
happened that the great _Anton_ had also (_An_-)_toned_ something
of his own. Where should I have been with my scribblings?
“I shall finish the corrections of the fourth act to-day. The opera
(_The Maid of Orleans_) has become a long affair. My poor
publisher! Well, we must live in hope!”
Early in July Tchaikovsky visited Nadejda von Meck’s estate at Brailov,
for the sake of repose. At this time a feeling of dissatisfaction with
his work seems to have taken possession of him. “I have written much
that is beautiful,” he wrote to his brother Modeste, “but how weak, how
lacking in mastery!... I have made up my mind to write nothing new for a
time, but to devote myself to the correcting and re-editing of my
earlier works.”
A letter to Nadejda von Meck, dated Brailov, July 5th (17th), 1880,
contains some interesting comments upon Glinka and his work.
“ ... Glinka is quite an unusual phenomenon! Reading his _Memoirs_,
which reveal a nice, amiable, but rather commonplace man, we can
hardly realise that the same mind created that wonderful
‘Slavsia,’[78] which is worthy to rank with the work of the
greatest geniuses. And how many more fine things there are in his
other opera (_Russlan_) and the overtures! How astonishingly
original is his _Komarinskaya_, from which all the Russian
composers who followed him (including myself) continue to this day
to borrow contrapuntal and harmonic combinations directly they have
to develop a Russian dance-tune! This is done unconsciously; but
the fact is, Glinka managed to concentrate in one short work what a
dozen second-rate talents would only have invented with the whole
expenditure of their powers.
“And it was this same Glinka who, at the height of his maturity,
composed such a weak, trivial thing as the Polonaise for the
Coronation (written a year before his death), or the children’s
polka, of which he speaks in his _Memoirs_ at such length, and with
such self-satisfaction, as though it had been a masterpiece.
“Mozart, too, expresses himself with great _naïveté_ in his letters
to his father and, in fact, all through his life. But this was a
different kind of simplicity. Mozart is a genius whose childlike
innocence, gentleness of spirit and virginal modesty are scarcely
of this earth. He was devoid of self-satisfaction and boastfulness;
he seems hardly to have been conscious of the greatness of his
genius. Glinka, on the contrary, is imbued with a spirit of
self-glorification; he is ready to become garrulous over the most
trivial events in his life, or the appearance of his least
important works, and is convinced it is all of historical
importance. Glinka is a gifted Russian aristocrat of his time, and
has the faults of his type: petty vanity, limited culture,
intolerance, ostentatiousness and a morbid sensibility to, and
impatience of, all criticism. These are generally the
characteristics of mediocrity; how they come to exist in a man who
ought--so it seems--to dwell in calm and modest pride, conscious of
his power, is beyond my comprehension! In one page of his _Memoirs_
Glinka says he had a bulldog whose conduct was not irreproachable,
and his servant had to be continually cleaning the room. Kukolnik,
to whom Glinka entrusted his _Memoirs_ for revision, remarked in
the margin, ‘Why put in this?’ Glinka pencilled underneath, ‘Why
not?’ Is not this highly characteristic? Yet, all the same, he
composed the ‘Slavsia’!”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“BRAILOV, _July_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1880.
“To-day I went to the Orthodox, the new Catholic, and the monastery
churches. There is something about the monastic singing here, as in
all Russian churches, which enrages me to the last degree. It is
the chord of the dominant seventh in its original position, which
we misuse so terribly. There is nothing so unmusical, or so
unsuitable to the Orthodox Church as this commonplace chord, which
was introduced during the eighteenth century by Messrs. Galuppi,
Sarti, Bortniansky and Co., and has since become so much a part of
our church music that the _Gospodi pomilui_[79] cannot be sung
without it. This chord reminds me of the accordion, which only
gives out two harmonies: the tonic and dominant. It disfigures the
natural progression of the parts and weakens and vulgarises our
church music. To make you clearly understand what it is that annoys
me I will give you an example:--
[Illustration: musical notation]
instead of this they ought to sing
[Illustration: musical notation]
“The new Catholic church makes a pleasant impression. I much prefer
our Orthodox liturgy to the Mass, especially to the so-called ‘Low
Mass,’ which seems to me devoid of all solemnity.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“BRAILOV, _July_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1880.
“Yesterday I went an expedition in the forest, where formerly there
used to be wild goats, of which now only one specimen is left. They
say the others were all devoured by the wolves in winter. It is a
great pity! But I was consoled by the beauty of the evening and a
wonderful walk. At sunset I had tea, and then wandered alone by the
steep bank of the stream behind the deer-park, and drank in all the
deep delight of the forest at sundown, and freshness of the evening
air. Such moments, I thought, helped us to bear with patience the
many minor grievances of existence. They make us in love with life.
We are promised eternal happiness, immortal existence, but we do
not realise this, nor shall we perhaps attain to it. But if we are
worthy of it, and if it is really eternal, we shall soon learn to
enjoy it. Meanwhile, one wishes to live, in order to experience
again such moments as those of yesterday.
“To-day I intended to leave for Simaki, but while I am writing to
you a terrific storm is raging, and it is evidently going to be a
wet day; so perhaps I shall remain here. I am drawn to Simaki, and
yet I regret leaving Brailov. Dear friend, to-day I have committed
a kind of burglary in your house, and I will confess my crime.
There was no key to the bookcase in the drawing-room next to your
bedroom, but I saw it contained some new books which interested me
greatly. Even Marcel could not find the key, so it occurred to me
to try the one belonging to the cupboard near my room, and it
opened the bookcase at once. I took out Byron and Martinov’s
_Moscow_. Make your mind easy, all your books and music remain
untouched. To quiet Marcel’s conscience I gave him, when about to
leave for Simaki, a memorandum of what I had taken, and before I
actually depart I will return him the books and music to replace in
their proper order. Pray forgive my self-justification.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“SIMAKI, _July_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1880.
“ ... I expected a great deal from Simaki, but the reality far
surpasses my expectations. What a wonderful spot this is, and how
poor Brailov seems now I am here! The small house is just the same
as when I saw it last year, only it has been done up a little; the
furniture and upholstery are partly new; the arrangements are the
ideal of comfort. But the surroundings are enchanting! The garden
is a mass of flowers. I simply swim in an ocean of delightful
impressions. An hour ago I was in the millet-field which lies
beyond the garden, and so great was my ecstasy that I fell upon my
knees and thanked God for the profound joy I experienced. I stood
on rising ground; nothing was visible in the distance but the dense
green which surrounds my little house; on every side the forest
spreads to the hills; across the stream lay the hamlet, whence came
various pleasant rural sounds; the voices of children, the bleating
of sheep and the lowing of cattle, driven home from pasture. In the
west the sun was setting in splendour; while in the east the
crescent moon was already up. Everywhere beauty and space! What
moments life holds! Thanks to these intervals, it is possible to
forget everything!”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“SIMAKI, _July_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1880.
“ ... The night has been glorious! At 2 a.m. I reluctantly left my
place by the window. The moon shone brightly. The stillness, the
perfume of the flowers, and those wondrous indefinable sounds that
belong to the night--ah God, how beautiful it all is! Dear friend,
I am glad you are at Interlaken, of which I am very fond; but all
the same I do not envy you. It would be hard to find a place in
which the conditions of life would conform better to my ideal than
Simaki. All day long I feel as though I were lost in some
wonderful, fantastic dream.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“SIMAKI, _July_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1880.
“I have just been playing the first act of _The Maid of Orleans_,
which is now ready for the printer. Either I am mistaken, or it is
not in vain, dear friend, that you have had the clock you gave me
decorated with the figure of my latest operatic heroine. I do not
think _The Maid of Orleans_ my finest, or the most emotional, of my
works, but it seems to me to be the one most likely to make my name
popular. I believe _Oniegin_ and one or two of my instrumental
works are far more closely allied to my individual temperament. I
was less absorbed in _The Maid of Orleans_ than in our Symphony,
for instance, or the second Quartet; but I gave more consideration
to the scenic and musical effects--and these are the most important
things in opera.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“SIMAKI, _July_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1880.
“Yesterday evening--to take a rest from my own work--I played
through Bizet’s Carmen from cover to cover. I consider it a _chef
d’œuvre_ in the fullest sense of the word: one of those rare
compositions which seems to reflect most strongly in itself the
musical tendencies of a whole generation. It seems to me that our
own period differs from earlier ones in this one characteristic:
that contemporary composers _are engaged in the pursuit of charming
and piquant effects_, unlike Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, and
Schumann. What is the so-called New Russian School but the cult of
varied and pungent harmonies, of original orchestral combinations
and every kind of purely external effect? Musical ideas give place
to this or that union of sounds. Formerly there was _composition_,
_creation_; now (with few exceptions) there is only research and
invention. This development of musical thought is naturally purely
intellectual, consequently contemporary music is clever, piquant,
and eccentric; but cold and lacking the glow of true emotion. And
behold, a Frenchman comes on the scene, in whom these qualities of
piquancy and pungency are not the outcome of effort and reflection,
but flow from his pen as in a free stream, flattering the ear, but
touching us also. It is as though he said to us: ‘You ask nothing
great, superb, or grandiose--you want something _pretty_, here is a
_pretty opera_;’ and truly I know of nothing in music which is more
representative of that element which I call _the pretty_ (_le
joli_).... I cannot play the last scene without tears in my eyes;
the gross rejoicings of the crowd who look on at the bull-fight,
and, side by side with this, the poignant tragedy and death of the
two principal characters, pursued by an evil fate, who come to
their inevitable end through a long series of sufferings.
“I am convinced that ten years hence _Carmen_ will be the most
popular opera in the world. But no one is a prophet in his own
land. In Paris _Carmen_ has had no real success.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“SIMAKI, _July_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1880.
“MY DEAR MODI,--How worried I am by my _Maid of Orleans_, and how
glad I am to have done with her! Now she has flown to Moscow and,
until the time of performance comes, I need not bother about her
any more....
“Thanks (in an ironical sense) for your suggestion that I should
read _L’homme qui rit_. Do you not know the story of my relations
to Victor Hugo? Anyhow, I will tell you what came of them. I took
up _Les travailleurs de la Mer_; I read, and read, and grew more
and more irritated by his grimaces and buffoonery. Finally, after a
whole series of short, unmeaning phrases, consisting of
exclamations, antitheses, and asterisks, I lost my temper, spat
upon the book, tore it to pieces, stamped upon it, and wound up by
throwing it out of the window. From that moment I cannot bear the
mention of Victor Hugo! Believe me, your Zola is just such another
mountebank, but more modern in spirit. I do not dislike him quite
so much as Hugo, but very nearly. He disgusts me, as a girl would
disgust me who pretended to be simple and natural, while all the
time she was essentially a flirt and coquette.
“In proportion as I like modern French music, their literature and
journalism seem to me revolting.
“Yesterday I wrote to you about Bizet, to-day I am enthusiastic
about Massenet. I found his oratorio, _Mary Magdalene_, at N. F.’s.
After I had read the text, which treats not only of the relations
between Christ, the Magdalene, and Judas, but also of Golgotha and
the Resurrection, I felt a certain prejudice against the work,
because it seemed too audacious. When I began to play it, however,
I was soon convinced that it was no commonplace composition. The
duet between Christ and the Magdalene is a masterpiece. I was so
touched by the emotionalism of the music, in which Massenet has
reflected the eternal compassion of Christ, that I shed many tears.
Wonderful tears! All praise to the Frenchman who had the art of
calling them forth.... The French are really first in contemporary
music. All day long this duet has been running in my head, and
under its influence I have written a song, the melody of which is
very reminiscent of Massenet.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“SIMAKI, _July_ 24_th_ (_August_ 5_th_), 1880.
“Have I told you, dear friend, that I am studying English? Here I
work very regularly, and with good results. I hope in six months I
shall be able to read English easily. That is my sole aim; I know
that at my age it is impossible to speak it well. But to read
Shakespeare, Dickens, and Thackeray in the original would be the
consolation of my old age.”[80]
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“KAMENKA, _July_ 31_st_ (_August_ 12_th_), 1880.
“It is two days since I came to Kamenka. I was glad, very glad, to
see all our people again, but I am not in high spirits. A kind of
apathy has come over me; a dislike to work, to reading, and
particularly to exercise, although I dutifully do my two hours a
day. Apart from the people, everything here seems to me stuffy and
frowsy, beginning with the air. When I think of the intoxicating
charm of the gardens, the air perfumed by field and forest, at
Simaki; when I look at the poor, dusty trees, and the arid, barren
soil of this place; when instead of the clear, cold stream I have
to content myself with my sitz-bath--I am overcome with a sickening
sense of regret.”
_To P. I. Jurgenson._
“KAMENKA, _August_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1880.
“If I should ever become famous, and anyone should collect
materials for my biography, your letter to-day would give a very
false impression of me. Anyone would suppose I had been in the
habit of flattering influential people and making advances to them
with the object of getting my works performed. This would be
entirely untrue. I have never in my life raised a finger to win the
favour of Bilse, or another. This is a sort of ‘passive’ pride. It
is another matter if the advances are made from the other side....
“As regards your advice to imitate Anton Rubinstein, I must tell
you that our positions are so different that no comparison can be
made between us. Take away Rubinstein’s virtuosity, and he
immediately falls from his greatness to the level of my
nothingness. Well, I should like to see which of us has the most
composer’s pride! In any case I am not such a grandee that at the
advances of so profitable and influential a personage as Bilse I
can reply: ‘this is no business of mine; apply to Jurgenson.’
“The corrected manuscripts are ready, and shall be sent to-morrow.
The _Italian Capriccio_ can be printed, but I should like to look
through the concerto once more, and beg you to send me another
revise. When I sent it to Nicholas Rubinstein in the spring, I
asked him to make his criticisms to Taneiev, and to request the
latter to make the necessary alterations in the piano part without
changing the musical intention, of which I will not alter a single
line. Taneiev replied that there were no alterations required.
Consequently this must have been Rubinstein’s opinion. But we can
hardly assume that he will study the work.”
From a letter to Jurgenson, dated some days later than the above, we see
that Tchaikovsky had resolved to devote part of the current year to
revising all his works published by this firm “from Opus I. to the Third
Symphony.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _August_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1880.
“You ask me if I share your feelings when thinking of the
possibility of monumental fame? _Fame!_ What contradictory
sentiments the word awakes in me! On the one hand I desire and
strive for it; on the other I detest it. If the chief thought of my
life is concentrated upon my creative work, I cannot do otherwise
than wish for fame. If I feel a continual impulse to express
myself in the language of music, it follows that I need to be
heard; and the larger my circle of sympathetic hearers, the better.
I desire with all my soul that my music should become more widely
known, and that the number of those people who derive comfort and
support from their love of it should increase. In this sense not
only do I love fame, but it becomes the aim of all that is most
earnest in my work. But, alas! when I begin to reflect that with an
increasing audience will come also an increase of interest in my
personality, in the more intimate sense; that there will be
inquisitive people among the public who will tear aside the curtain
behind which I have striven to conceal my private life; then I am
filled with pain and disgust, so that I half wish to keep silence
for ever, in order to be left in peace. I am not afraid of the
world, for I can say that my conscience is clear, and I have
nothing to be ashamed of; but the thought that someone may try to
force the inner world of my thoughts and feelings, which all my
life I have guarded so carefully from outsiders--this is sad and
terrible. There is a tragic element, dear friend, in this conflict
between the desire for fame and the fear of its consequences. I am
attracted to it like the moth to the candle, and I, too, burn my
wings. Sometimes I am possessed by a mad desire to disappear for
ever, to be buried alive, to ignore all that is going on, and be
forgotten by everybody. Then, alas! the creative inspiration
returns.... I fly to the flame and burn my wings once more!
“Do you know my wings will soon have to bear the weight of my
opera? I shall be up to my neck in theatrical and official mire,
and be suffocated in an atmosphere of petty intrigue, of
microscopical, but poisonous, ambitions, and every kind of dense
stupidity. What is to be done? Either do not write operas, or be
prepared for all this! I believe I never shall compose another
opera. When I look back upon all I went through last spring, when I
was occupied with the performance of my last one, I lose all desire
to write for the stage.”
XI
1880-1881
_To N. F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _September_ 4_th_ (16_th_) 1880.
“I am doing nothing whatever, only wandering through the forests
and fields all day long. I want to take a change from my own work,
with its eternal proof-correcting, and to play as much as possible
of other people’s music; so I have begun to study Mozart’s
_Zauberflöte_. Never was so senselessly stupid a subject set to
such captivating music. How thankful I am that the circumstances of
my musical career have not changed by a hair’s breadth the charm
Mozart exercises for me! You would not believe, dear friend, what
wonderful feelings come over me when I give myself up to his music.
It is something quite different from the stressful delight awakened
in me by Beethoven, Schumann, or Chopin.... My contemporaries were
imbued with the spirit of modern music from their childhood, and
came to know Mozart in later years, after they had made
acquaintance with Chopin, who reflects so clearly the Byronic
despair and disillusionment. Fortunately, fate decreed that I
should grow up in an unmusical family, so that in childhood I was
not nourished on the poisonous food of the post-Beethoven music.
The same kind fate brought me early in life in contact with Mozart,
and thus opened up to me unsuspected horizons. These early
impressions can never be effaced. Do you know that when I play
Mozart, I feel brighter and younger, almost a youth again? But
enough. I know that we do not agree in our appreciation of Mozart,
and that my dithyramb does not interest you in the least.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _September_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1880.
“How fleeting were my hopes of a prolonged rest! Scarcely had I
begun to enjoy a few days’ leisure than an indefinable mood of
boredom, even a sense of not being in health, came over me. To-day
I began to occupy my mind with projects for a new symphony, and
immediately I felt well and cheerful. It appears as though I could
not spend a couple of days in idleness, unless I am travelling. I
dread lest I should become a composer of Anton Rubinstein’s type,
who considers it his bounden duty to present a new work to the
public every day in the week. In this way he has dissipated his
great creative talent, and has only small change to offer instead
of the sterling gold which he could have given us had he written in
moderation. Lately I have been seeking some kind of occupation that
would take me completely away from music for a time, and would
seriously interest me. Alas, I have not discovered it! There is no
guide to the history of music in Russian, and it would be a good
thing if I could occupy myself with a book of this kind; I often
think of it. But then I should have to give up composing for at
least two years, and that would be too much. To start upon a
translation--that is not very interesting work. Write a monograph
upon some artist? So much has already been written about the great
musicians of Western Europe. For Glinka, Dargomijsky, and Serov I
cannot feel any enthusiasm, for, highly as I value their works, I
cannot admire them as men. I have told you what I think of Glinka.
Dargomijsky was even less cultured. As to Serov, he was a clever
man of encyclopedic learning, but I knew him personally, and could
not admire his moral character. As far as I understood him, he was
not good-hearted, and that is sufficient reason why I do not care
to devote my leisure to him. It would have been a delight to write
the biography of Mozart, but it is impossible to do so after Otto
Jahn, who devoted his life to the task.
“So there is no other occupation open to me but composition. I am
planning a symphony or a string quartet. I do not know which I
shall decide upon.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _September_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1880.
“I venture to approach you, dear friend, with the following
request. An employé in a counting-house, here in Kamenka, has a son
who is remarkably gifted for painting. It seemed to me cruel not to
give him the means of studying, so I sent him to Moscow and asked
Anatol to take him to the School of Painting and Sculpture. All
this was arranged, and then it turned out that the boy’s
maintenance would cost far more than I expected. And so I thought I
would ask you whether in your house there was any corner in which
this lad might live? Not, of course, without some kind of
supervision. He would only need a tiny room with a bed, a cupboard,
and a table where he could sleep and work. Perhaps your servants
would look after him, and give him a little advice? The boy is of
irreproachable character: industrious, good, obedient, clean in his
person--in short, exemplary. I would undertake his meals....[81]
“I have also unearthed a musical talent here, in the daughter of
the local priest, and have been successful in placing her at the
Conservatoire.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _September_ 19_th_ (_October_ 1_st_), 1880.
“Yesterday I received an official intimation from the Imperial
Opera to the effect that my opera has been accepted and will be
produced in January. The libretto has been passed by the censor
with one or two exceptions: the _Archbishop_ must be called the
_Wanderer_(?); ‘every allusion to the Cross must be omitted, and no
cross may be seen upon the stage.’ There is nothing for it but to
submit.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _September_ 28_th_ (_October_ 10_th_), 1880.
“Nicholas Rubinstein has requested me to write an important work
for chorus and orchestra, to be produced at the Moscow Exhibition.
Nothing is more unpleasant to me than the manufacturing of music
for such occasions.... But I have not courage to refuse....”
_To N, F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _October_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1880.
“You can imagine, dear friend, that recently my Muse has been very
benevolent, when I tell you that I have written two long works very
rapidly: a Festival Overture for the Exhibition and a Serenade in
four movements for string orchestra. The overture[82] will be very
noisy. I wrote it without much warmth of enthusiasm; therefore it
has no great artistic value. The Serenade, on the contrary, I wrote
from an inward impulse; I felt it, and venture to hope that this
work is not without artistic qualities.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _October_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1880.
“ ... How glad I am that my opera pleases you! I am delighted you
find no ‘Russianisms’ in it, for I dreaded this and had striven in
this work to be as objective as possible.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _October_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1880.
“Of course I am no judge of my own works, but I can truthfully say
that--with very few exceptions--they have all been _felt_ and
_lived_ by me, and have come straight from my heart. It is the
greatest happiness to know that there is another kindred soul in
the world who has such a true and delicate appreciation of my
music. The thought that she will discern all that I have felt,
while writing this or that work, invariably warms and inspires me.
There are few such souls; among those who surround me I can only
point to my brothers. Modeste is very near to me in mind and
sentiment. Among professional musicians I have met with the least
congenial sympathy....
“You ask why I have never written a trio. Forgive me, dear friend,
I would do anything to give you pleasure--but this is beyond me! My
acoustic apparatus is so ordered that I simply cannot endure the
combination of pianoforte with violin or violoncello. To my mind
the _timbre_ of these instruments will not blend, and I assure you
it is a torture to me to have to listen to a trio or sonata of any
kind for piano and strings. I cannot explain this physiological
peculiarity; I simply state it as a fact. Piano and orchestra--that
is quite another matter. Here again there is no blending of tone;
the piano by its elastic tone differs from all other instruments in
_timbre_; but we are now dealing with two equal opponents: the
orchestra, with its power and inexhaustible variety of colour,
opposed by the small, unimposing, but high-mettled pianoforte,
which often comes off victorious in the hands of a gifted
executant. Much poetry is contained in this conflict, and endless
seductive combinations for the composer. On the other hand, how
unnatural is the union of three such individualities as the
pianoforte, the violin and the violoncello! Each loses something of
its value. The warm and singing tone of the violin and the ‘cello
sounds limited beside that _king_ of instruments, the pianoforte;
while the latter strives in vain to prove that it can sing like its
rivals. I consider the piano should only be employed under these
conditions: (1) As a solo instrument; (2) opposed to the orchestra;
(3) for accompaniment, as the background to a picture. But a trio
implies equality and relationship, and do these exist between
stringed solo instruments and the piano? They do _not_; and this is
the reason why there is always something artificial about a
pianoforte trio, each of the three instruments being continually
called upon to express what the composer imposes upon it, rather
than what lies within its characteristic utterance; while the
musician meets with perpetual difficulties in the distribution of
the voices and grouping of the parts. I do full justice to the
inspired art with which Beethoven, Schumann, and Mendelssohn have
conquered these difficulties. I know there exist many trios
containing music of admirable quality; but personally I do not care
for the trio as a form, therefore I shall never produce anything
sincerely inspired through the medium of this combination of
sounds. I know, dear friend, that we disagree on this point, and
that you, on the contrary, are fond of a trio; but in spite of all
the similarity between our artistic temperaments, we remain two
separate individualities; therefore it is not surprising that we
should not agree in every particular.”
During the autumn of 1880 Tchaikovsky suffered greatly from neuralgic
headaches. He remained at Kamenka until early in November, when he
returned to Moscow for a short time, in order to correct proofs and
settle other business matters. Towards the end of the month he wrote to
Nadejda von Meck from St. Petersburg:--
“_November_ 27_th_ (_December_ 9_th_), 1880.
“The directors of the Moscow Musical Society are greatly interested
in my Liturgy (St. John Chrysostom). One of their number, named
Alexeiev, gave a good fee to have it studied by one of the best
choirs. This resulted in a performance of the work in the
concert-room of the Moscow Conservatoire. The choir sang
wonderfully well, and it was altogether one of the happiest moments
in my musical career. It was decided to give the Liturgy at an
extra concert of the Musical Society. On the same evening my
Serenade for strings was played, in order to give me an agreeable
surprise. For the moment I regard it as my best work....
“Have I told you already that _Eugene Oniegin_ is to be splendidly
mounted at the Opera in Moscow? I am very pleased, because it will
decide the important question whether the work will become part of
the repertory or not, that is to say, whether it will keep its
place on the stage. As I never intended it for this purpose, I did
nothing on my own initiative to get it produced.”
While in St. Petersburg, Tchaikovsky undertook to make some changes in
his new opera, _The Maid of Orleans_. This was in order that the part of
Joan of Arc herself might be taken by Madame Kamensky, a mezzo-soprano
of unusual range and quality.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MOSCOW, _December_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1880.
“One newspaper blames me for having dedicated my opera, _The Maid
of Orleans_, to Napravnik, and considers it an unworthy action on
my part to win his good graces in this way. Napravnik--one of the
few thoroughly honest musicians in Petersburg--will be very much
upset. They also find fault with me because my opera is not on
sale.
“All this is very galling and vexatious, but I do not let it
trouble me much.
“I have sworn to myself to avoid Moscow and Petersburg in future.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MOSCOW, _December_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1880.
“I have been very much upset the last few days. Last year I
received a letter from a young man, unknown to me, of the name of
Tkachenko, containing the curious proposal that I should take him
as my servant and give him music lessons in return. The letter was
so clever and original, and showed such a real love of music, that
it affected me very sympathetically. A correspondence between us
followed, from which I learnt that he was already twenty-three, and
had no musical knowledge. I wrote frankly to him that at his age it
was too late to begin to study music. After this, I heard no more
of him for nine months. The day before yesterday I received another
letter from him, returning all my previous correspondence, in order
that it might not fall into strange hands after his death. He took
leave of me and said he had resolved to commit suicide. The letter
was evidently written in a moment of great despair, and touched me
profoundly. I saw from the postmark that it was written from
Voronezh, and decided to telegraph to someone there, asking them to
seek Tkachenko with the help of the police and tell him--if it were
not already too late--he might expect a letter from me.
Fortunately, Anatol had a friend at Voronezh, to whom we
telegraphed at once. Last night I heard from him that Tkachenko had
been discovered _in time_. He was in a terrible condition.
“I immediately sent him some money and invited him to come to
Moscow. How it will end I do not know, but I am glad to have saved
him from self-destruction.”
At this time Tchaikovsky’s valet, Alexis, was compelled to fulfil his
military service, and master and servant were equally affected at the
moment of separation.
On December 6th (18th) the _Italian Capriccio_ was performed for the
first time under the conductorship of Nicholas Rubinstein. Its success
was incontestable, although criticism varied greatly as to its merits,
and the least favourable described it as being marred by “coarse and
cheap” effects. In St. Petersburg, where it was given a few weeks later
by Napravnik, it met with scant appreciation; Cui pronounced it to be
“no work of art, but a valuable gift to the programmes of open-air
concerts.”
The performance of the Liturgy took place in Moscow on December 18th
(30th). Thanks to the stir which had been made by the confiscation of
Tchaikovsky’s first sacred work, the concert was unusually crowded. At
the close the composer was frequently recalled. Nevertheless, there was
considerable difference of opinion as to the success of the work.
Tchaikovsky was not much affected by the views of the professional
critics; but he was deeply hurt by a letter emanating from the venerable
Ambrose, vicar of Moscow, which appeared in the _Rouss_. This letter
complained that the Liturgy was the most sacred possession of the
people, and should only be heard in church; that to use the service as a
libretto was a profanation of the holy words. It concluded by
congratulating the orthodox that the text had at least been treated by a
worthy musician, but what would happen if some day a “Rosenthal” or a
“Rosenbluhm” should lay hands upon it? Inevitably then “our most sacred
words would be mocked at and hissed.”
Fatigued by the excitement of these weeks, Tchaikovsky returned to
Kamenka to spend Christmas in the restful quiet of the country.
* * * * *
The first performance of _Eugene Oniegin_ at the Opera House in Moscow
took place on January 11th (23rd), 1881. The scenery was not new and
left much to be desired. The singers, with the exception of Madame
Kroutikov, who took the part of Madame Larina, and Bartsal, who appeared
as the Frenchman Triquet, were lacking in experience. The costumes,
however, were perfectly true to history. The performance evoked much
applause, but more for the composer than for the opera itself. The great
public allowed the best situations in the work to pass unnoticed, but
the opera found an echo in the hearts of the minority, so that gradually
the work gained the appreciation of the crowd and won a lasting success.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MOSCOW, _January_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1881.
“Yesterday was the first night of _Eugene Oniegin_. I was oppressed
by varied emotions, both at the rehearsals and on the night itself.
At first the public was very reserved; by degrees, however, the
applause grew and at the last all went well. The performance and
mounting of the opera were satisfactory....
“Tkachenko (the young man who wanted to commit suicide) has
arrived. I have seen him. On the whole he made a sympathetic
impression upon me. His sufferings are the outcome of the internal
conflict which exists between his aspirations and stern reality. He
is intelligent and cultivated, yet in order to earn his bread he
has had to be a railway guard. He is very anxious to become a
musician. He is nervous, and morbidly modest, and seems to be
broken in spirit. Poverty and solitude have made him
misanthropical. His views are rather strange, but he is by no means
stupid. I am sorry for him and have agreed to look after him. I
have decided that he shall go to the Conservatoire, and then it
will be seen whether he can take up music, or some other career. It
will not be difficult to make a useful and contented man of him.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MOSCOW, _January_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1881.
“Dear, kind friend, it has come to this: I take up my pen to write
to you unwillingly, because I feel the immediate need to pour out
all the suffering and bitterness which is heaped up in me. You will
wonder how a man who is successful in his work can still complain
and rail at fate? But my successes are not so important as they
seem; besides they do not compensate me for the intolerable
sufferings I undergo when I mix in the society of my
fellow-creatures; when I have to be constantly posing before them;
when I cannot live as I wish, and as I am accustomed to do, but am
tossed to and fro like a ball in the round of city life....
“_Eugene Oniegin_ does not progress. The prima donna is seriously
ill, so that the opera cannot be performed again for some time....
The criticisms upon it are peculiar. Some critics find the
‘couplets’ for Triquet the best thing in the work and think
Tatiana’s part dry and colourless. Others think I have no
inspiration, but great cleverness. The Petersburg papers write in
chorus to rend my _Italian Capriccio_, declaring it to be vulgar;
and Cui prophesies that _The Maid of Orleans_ will turn out a
commonplace affair.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“PETERSBURG, _January_ 27_th_ (_February_ 8_th_), 1881.
“I will tell you something about Tkachenko. He is an extraordinary
being! I had looked after him in every respect, and he began his
studies with great zeal. The day before I left Moscow he came to
‘talk to me on serious business,’ and the longer he talked, the
more convinced I became that he is mentally and morally deranged.
He has taken it into his head that _I am not keeping him for his
own sake_, but in order _to acquire the reputation of a
benefactor_. He added that he was not disposed to be the _victim_
of my desire for popularity, and absolutely refused to recognise me
as his benefactor, so I was not to reckon upon his gratitude.
“I replied coldly, and advised him to devote himself to his work,
without troubling himself as to my motives for assisting him. I
assured him I was quite indifferent as to his gratitude, that I was
just leaving the town, and begged him not to waste his thoughts on
me, but to fix them exclusively upon his work.
“I have entrusted him to the supervision of Albrecht, the Inspector
of the Conservatoire.
“Have you heard of Nicholas Rubinstein’s illness? His condition is
serious, but in spite of it he goes about and does his work. The
doctors insist upon his going away and taking rest; but he declares
he could not live without the work he is used to....”
On January 21st (February 2nd) Tchaikovsky’s Second Symphony was given
in its revised form at the Musical Society in St. Petersburg, and,
according to the newspapers, met with a great success. Not a single
critic, however, observed the changes in the work, nor that the first
movement was entirely new.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“PETERSBURG, _February_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1881.
“ ... The mounting of _The Maid of Orleans_ will be very beggarly.
The Direction, which has spent 10,000 (roubles) upon a new ballet,
refuses to sacrifice a kopeck for the opera.”
_To the same._
“PETERSBURG, _February_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1881.
“The opera has been postponed until February 13th. I shall set off
the very next day. The plan of my journey is: Vienna, Venice, Rome.
The rehearsals are in progress. Most of the artists show great
sympathy for my music, of which I am very proud. But the officials
are doing all in their power to spoil the success of the opera. A
certain Loukashevich is trying by every kind of intrigue to prevent
Madame Kamensky from taking the part of Joan of Arc. When at
yesterday’s rehearsal--for scenic and vocal reasons--I transferred
a melody from Joan’s part to that of Agnes Sorel, he declared _I
had no right to do such a thing without permission_. Sometimes I
feel inclined to withdraw the score and leave the theatre.”
The production of _The Maid of Orleans_ at the Maryinsky Theatre left a
very unpleasant memory in Tchaikovsky’s mind. The intrigues between the
prima donnas, the hostile attitude of the Direction, his dissatisfaction
with some of the singers--all embittered the composer in the highest
degree. His artistic vanity was exceedingly sensitive, even when his
best friends told him “the plain truth.” He submitted to the criticisms
of Napravnik, and followed his advice regarding many details, because he
was convinced of this musician’s goodwill and great experience. If he
got through this trying time fairly well, it was thanks to the fact that
he himself, as well as the artists who were taking part in the work, did
not doubt that the opera would eventually have a great success.
On the day following the performance, Tchaikovsky wrote:--
“The success of the opera was certain, even after the first act ...
the second scene of the third act was least applauded, but the
fourth act was very well received. Altogether I was recalled
twenty-four times. Kamenskaya was admirable; she even acted well,
which she seldom does. Prianichnikov was the best among the other
singers.”
Tchaikovsky started for Italy under this favourable impression, and
first became aware through a telegram from Petersburg in the _Neue Freie
Presse_ that, in spite of an ovation from the public, _The Maid of
Orleans_ was “poor in inspiration, wearisome, and monotonous.” This was
his first intimation of the attacks upon the opera which were made by
the Press, and which caused the opera to be hastily withdrawn from the
repertory of the Maryinsky Theatre.
Cui, as usual, led the chorus of unfavourable opinion, but all the other
critics were more or less in agreement with his views.
XII
Impatient for the sunshine, Tchaikovsky broke his journey at Florence,
whence he wrote to Nadejda von Meck on February 19th (March 3rd),
1881:--
“What light! What sunshine! What a delight to sit at the open
window with a bunch of violets before me, and to drink in the fresh
air! I am full of sensations. I feel so well, and yet so sad--I
could weep. Yet I know not why. Only music can express these
feelings.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“ROME, _February_ 22_nd_ (_March_ 6_th_), 1881.
“I have just been lunching with the Grand Dukes Serge and Paul
Alexandrovich. The invitation came early this morning, and I had to
go out in search of a dress-coat. It was no easy matter to procure
one, for, being Sunday, nearly all the shops were closed. It was
with difficulty that I arrived at the Villa Sciarra in proper time.
The Grand Duke Constantine introduced me to his cousins, who showed
me much kindness and attention. All three are very sympathetic; but
you can imagine, with my misanthropical shyness, how trying I find
such meetings with strangers, especially with men of that
aristocratic world. On Tuesday there is a dinner at Countess
Brobinsky’s, and I have also been invited to a soirée by Countess
Sollogoub. I did not expect to have to lead this kind of life in
Rome. I shall have to leave, for no doubt other invitations await
me which I cannot refuse. Lest I should offend somebody, I am weak
enough invariably to accept. I have not strength of mind to decline
all such engagements.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“ROME, _February_ 26_th_ (_March_ 10_th_), 1881.
“I can just imagine how you are making fun of my worldliness! I
cannot understand where I get strength to endure this senseless
existence! Naturally, I am annoyed, and my visit to Rome is
spoilt--but I have not altogether lost heart, and find occasional
opportunities of enjoying the place. O society! What can be more
appalling, duller, more intolerable? Yesterday I was dreadfully
bored at Countess X.’s, but so heroically did I conceal my feelings
that my hostess in bidding me good-bye said: ‘I cannot understand
why you have not come to me before. I am sure that after to-night
you will repent not having made my acquaintance sooner.’ This is
word for word! She really pities me! May the devil take them all!”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“NAPLES, _March_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1881.
“Yesterday I was about to write to you when Prince Stcherbatiov
came to tell me of the Emperor’s death,[83] which was a great shock
to me. At such moments it is very miserable to be abroad. I long
to be in Russia, nearer to the source of information, and to take
part in the demonstrations accorded to the new Tsar ... in short,
to be living in touch with one’s own people. It seems so strange
after receiving such news to hear them chattering at table d’hôte
about the beauties of Sorrento, etc.
“The Grand Dukes wanted to take me with them to Athens and
Jerusalem, which they intended to visit a few days hence. But this
has fallen through, for all three are on their way to Petersburg by
now.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“_March_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1881.
“DEAR MODI,--In Nice I heard by telegram from Jurgenson that
Nicholai Grigorievich (Rubinstein) was very ill. Then two telegrams
followed from the Grand Hotel (1) that his state was hopeless, (2)
that he had already passed away. I left Nice at once. Mentally, I
endured the torments of the damned during my journey. I must
confess, to my shame, I suffered less from the sense of my
irreparable loss, than from the horror of seeing in Paris--in the
Grand Hotel too--the body of poor Rubinstein. I was afraid I should
not be able to bear the shock, although I exerted all my will-power
to conquer this shameful cowardice. My fears were in vain. The body
had been taken to the Russian church at six o’clock this morning.
At the Hotel I found only Madame Tretiakov,[84] who never left
Nicholas Rubinstein during the last six days of his life. She gave
me all details.”[85]
_To N. F. von Meck._
“PARIS, _March_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1881.
“You regret having written me the letter in which you gave
expression to your anger against those who have embittered your
life. But I never for an instant believed that you could really
_hate_ and _never forgive_, whatever might happen. It is possible
to be a Christian in life and deed without clinging closely to
dogma, and I am sure that un-Christian feelings could only dwell in
you for a brief moment, as an involuntary protest against human
wickedness. Such really good people as you do not know what _hate_
means in the true sense of the word. What can be more aimless and
unprofitable than hate? According to Christ’s words, our enemies
only injure us from _ignorance_. O, if only men could only be
Christians in truth as well as in form! If only everyone was
penetrated by the simple truths of Christian morality! That can
never be, for then eternal and _perfect_ happiness would reign on
earth; and we are imperfect creations, who only understand goodness
and happiness as the opposites of evil. We are, as it were,
specially created to be eternally reverting to evil, to perpetually
seek the ideal, to aspire to everlasting truth--and never to reach
the goal. At least we should be indulgent to those who, in their
blindness, are attracted to evil by some inborn instinct. Are they
to be blamed because they exist only to bring the chosen people
into stronger relief? No, we can only say with Christ, ‘Lord,
forgive them, they know not what they do.’ I feel I am expressing
_vague_ thoughts _vaguely_--thoughts which are wandering through my
mind, because a man who was good and dear to me has just vanished
from this earth. But if I think and speak vaguely, I _feel_ it all
clearly enough. My brain is obscured to-day. How could it be
otherwise in face of those enigmas--_Death_, _the aim and meaning
of life_, _its finality or immortality_? Therefore the light of
_faith_ penetrates my soul more and more. Yes, dear friend, I feel
myself increasingly drawn towards this, the one and only shield
against every calamity. I am learning to love God, as formerly I
did not know how to do. Now and then doubts come back to me; I
still strive at times to conceive the inconceivable with my feeble
intellect; but the voice of divine truth speaks louder within me. I
sometimes find an indescribable joy in bowing before the
Inscrutable, Omniscient God. I often pray to Him with tears in my
eyes (where He is, what He is, I know not; but I know He exists),
and implore Him to grant me love and peace, to pardon and
enlighten me; and it is sweet to say to Him, ‘Lord, Thy will be
done,’ because I know His will is _holy_. Let me also tell you that
I see clearly the finger of God in my own life, showing me the way
and upholding me in all danger. Why it has been God’s will to
shield me I cannot say. I wish to be _humble_, and not to regard
myself as one of the elect, for God loves all His creatures
equally. I only know He really cares for me, and I shed tears of
gratitude for His eternal goodness. That is not enough. I want to
accustom myself to the thought that all trials are good in the end.
I want to love God always, not only when He sends me good, but when
He proves me; for somewhere there must exist that kingdom of
eternal happiness, which we seek so vainly upon earth. The time
will come when all the questionings of our intellects will be
answered, and we shall know why God sends us these trials. I want
to believe that there is another life. When this desire becomes a
fact, I shall be happy, in so far as happiness is possible in this
world.
“To-day I attended the funeral service in the church, and
afterwards I accompanied the remains to the Gare du Nord, and saw
that the leaden coffin was packed in a wooden case and placed in a
luggage van. It was painful and horrible to think that our poor
Nicholai Grigorievich should return thus to Moscow. Yes, it was
intensely painful. But faith has now taken root in me, and I took
comfort from the thought that it was God’s _inscrutable_ and _holy_
will.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“PARIS, _March_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1881.
“Modi, we shall soon meet again, so I will say nothing now about
the last sad days. My present trip has been altogether unfortunate
and calculated to weaken my love of going abroad. Once more I am
face to face with changes which will affect my whole future life.
First, the death of Nicholas Rubinstein, which is of great
importance to me, and, secondly, the fact that Nadejda von Meck is
on the verge of bankruptcy. I heard this talked about in Moscow,
and begged her to tell me the truth. From her reply I see it is
actually so. She writes that the sum I receive from her is nothing
as compared to the millions that have been lost, and that she
wishes to continue to pay it as before, but begs me not to mention
it to anyone. But you see that this allowance is no longer a
certainty, and therefore sooner or later I must return to my
teaching. All this is far from cheerful.”
_To Nadejda von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _April_ 29_th_ (_May_ 11_th_), 1881.
“I only stayed a few days in Moscow, where I was forced to collect
all my strength in order to decline most emphatically the
directorship of the Conservatoire. I arrived here to-day.”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“KAMENKA, _May_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1881.
“As my sister is ill and has gone away with her husband, I am
playing the part of the head of the family and spend most of my
time with the children. This would be a nuisance if I did not care
for them as though they were my own.... I have no inclination to
compose. I wish you would commission something. Is there really
nothing you want? Some external impulse might perhaps reawaken my
suspended activity. Perhaps I am getting old and all my songs are
sung.”
_To Nadejda von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _May_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1881.
“I think I have now found a temporary occupation. In my present
religious frame of mind it will do me good to dip into Russian
church music. At present I am studying the ‘rites,’ that is to say,
the root of our church tunes, and I want to try to harmonise them.
“Every day I pray that God may preserve and uphold you for the sake
of so many people.”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“KAMENKA, _May_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1881.
“I beg you to send me the following:--
“(1) I want to write a Vesper service and require the words in
full. If there is a book on sale, a kind of ‘short guide to the
Liturgy for laymen,’ please send it to me.
“(2) I have begun to study the rites and ceremonials of the Church,
but to acquire sufficient information on the subject I need
Razoumovsky’s _History of Church Music_.
I send thanks in anticipation.”
Tchaikovsky describes his condition at this time as “grey, without
inspiration or joy,” but “physically sound.” He often felt that the
spring of inspiration had run dry, but consoled himself with the
remembrance that he had passed through other periods “equally devoid of
creative impulse.”
_To E. Napravnik._
“KAMENKA, _June_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1881.
“Last winter, at N. Rubinstein’s request, I wrote a Festival
Overture for the concerts of the Exhibition, entitled _The Year
1812_. Could you possibly manage to have this played? If you like I
will send the score for you to see. It is not of any great value,
and I shall not be at all surprised or hurt if you consider the
style of the music unsuitable to a symphony concert.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“KAMENKA, _June_ 21_st_ (_July_ 3_rd_), 1881.
“My Vesper music compels me to look into many service books, with
and without music. If you only knew how difficult it is to
understand it all! Every service contains some chants that may be
modified and others that may not. The latter--such as _Khvalitey_
and _Velikoe slavoslovie_--do not present any great difficulties;
but those that change--such as the canonical verses to _Gospodi
vozzvakh_--are a science in themselves, for which a lifetime of
study would hardly suffice. I should like at least to succeed in
one Canon, the one relating to the Virgin. Imagine that, in spite
of all assistance, I can arrive neither at the words nor the music.
I went to ask our priest to explain it to me, but he assured me
that he himself did not know anything about it and went through the
routine of his office without referring to the Typikon. I am
swallowed up in this sea of Graduals, Hymns, Canticles, Tropaires,
Exapostelaires, etc., etc. I asked our priest how his assistant
managed, and how he knew how, when, and where, to sing or read (for
the Church prescribes to the smallest detail on what days, with
what voice, and how many times things have to be read). He replied:
‘I do not know; before every service he has to look out something
for himself.’ If the initiated do not know, what can a poor sinner
like myself expect?”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“KAMENKA, _June_ 21_st_ (_July_ 3_rd_), 1881.
“I have received Bortniansky’s works and looked them through. To
edit them would be a somewhat finicking and wearisome task, because
the greater number of his compositions are dull and worthless. Why
do you want to issue a ‘Complete Edition’? Let me advise you to
give up this plan and only bring out a ‘Selection from the works of
Bortniansky.’ ... ‘Complete Edition’? An imposing word, but out of
place in connection with a man of no great talent, who has written
a mass of rubbish, and only about a dozen good things. I am
doubtful whether I should lend my name to such a publication ... on
the other hand I am a musician, and live by my work; consequently
there is nothing derogatory in my editing this rubbish for the sake
of what I can earn. My pride, however, suffers from it. Think it
over and send me a reply.”
[Illustration: OPENING BARS FROM THE OVERTURE “1812”
_From the MS. in the possession of P. Jurgenson, Moscow_]
_To N. F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _July_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1881.
“I am very glad, my dear, you like my songs and duets. I will take
this opportunity of telling you which of these vocal compositions I
care for most. Among the duets I prefer ‘Thränen’ (‘Tears’), and
among the songs: (1) the one to Tolstoi’s words, (2) the verses of
Mickievicz, and (3) ‘War ich nicht der Halm.’ The ‘Schottische
Ballade’ is also one of my favourites, but I am convinced it will
never be so popular as I fancied it would. It should not be so much
sung, as declaimed, but with the most impassioned feeling.
_To P. Jurgenson._
“KAMENKA, _July_ 31_st_ (_August_ 12_th_), 1881.
“I am working intensely hard at Bortniansky to get this dreadful
work done as soon as possible. His works as a rule are quite
antipathetic to me. I shall finish the job, for I always complete
anything I have begun. But some day I shall actually burst with
rage....”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _August_ 24_th_ (_September_ 5_th_), 1881.
“I wish with all my heart you could hear my Serenade properly
performed. It loses so much on the piano, and I think the middle
movements--played by the violins--would win your sympathy. As
regards the first and last movements you are right. They are merely
a play of sounds, and do not touch the heart. The first movement is
my homage to Mozart; it is intended to be an imitation of his
style, and I should be delighted if I thought I had in any way
approached my model. Do not laugh, dear, at my zeal in standing up
for my latest creation. Perhaps my paternal feelings are so warm
because it is the youngest child of my fancy....
“As regards Balakirev’s songs, I am quite of your opinion. They are
actually little masterpieces, and I am passionately fond of some of
them. There was a time when I could not listen to ‘Selim’s Song’
without tears in my eyes, and now I rank ‘The Song of the Golden
Fish’ very highly.”
_To S. I. Taneiev._
“_August_ 25_th_ (_September_ 6_th_), 1881.
“I am almost certain my Vespers will not please you. I see nothing
in them which would win your approval. Do you know, Sergei
Ivanovich, I believe I shall never write anything good again, I am
no longer in a condition to compose. What form should I
choose?--none of them appeal to me. Always the same indispensable
_remplissage_, the same routine, the same revolting methods, the
same conventions and shams. If I were young, this aversion from
composition might be explained by the fact that I was gathering my
forces, and would suddenly strike out some new path of my own
making. But, alas! the years are beginning to tell. To write in a
naïve way, as the bird sings, is no longer possible, and I lack
energy to invent something new. I do not tell you this because I
hope for your encouraging denial, but simply as a fact. I do not
regret it. I have worked much in my time, in a desultory way, and
now I am tired. It is time to rest....
“Do not speak to me of coming back to the Conservatoire; at present
this is impossible. I cannot answer for the future. You, on the
contrary, seem made to carry on Rubinstein’s work.”
XIII
1881-1882
In one of his letters to Nadejda von Meck, written in 1876, Tchaikovsky
says: “I no longer compose anything--a sure indication of an agitated
mind.”
From November, 1880, until September, 1881, Tchaikovsky wrote
nothing--from which we may conclude that during this time he again
underwent a period of spiritual and mental disturbance.
It is not surprising that during the time he spent in Moscow and
Petersburg (November to February) he should not have written a note. We
know that town life--to which was added at this time the anxieties
attendant upon the production of two operas--stifled all his inclination
for composing. His visit to Rome, with its many social obligations, was
also unfavourable to creative work.
That Tchaikovsky continued to be silent even after his return to Kamenka
cannot, however, be attributed to unsuitable surroundings or external
hindrances. It points rather to a restless and unhappy frame of mind.
There were numerous reasons to account for this condition.
In the first place he was touched to the quick by the loss of Nicholas
Rubinstein. In spite of their many differences he had loved him with all
his heart, and valued him as “one of the greatest virtuosi of his day.”
He had also grown to regard him as one of the chief props of his
artistic life. Nicholas Rubinstein was always the first, and best,
interpreter of his works for pianoforte and orchestra. Whenever
Tchaikovsky wrote a symphonic work, he already heard it in imagination
as it would sound in the concert-room in Moscow, and knew beforehand
that under Rubinstein’s direction he would experience no disappointment.
The great artist had the gift of discovering in Tchaikovsky’s works
beauties of which the composer himself was hardly conscious. There was
the sonata, for instance, which Tchaikovsky “did not recognise” when he
heard it played by N. Rubinstein. And now this sure and subtle
interpreter of all his new works was gone for ever.
Apart from personal relations, Rubinstein’s intimate connection with the
Conservatoire had its influence upon Tchaikovsky. Although the latter
had resigned his position there, he had not ceased to take an interest
in the musical life of Moscow. After his friend’s death Tchaikovsky was
aware that everyone was waiting for him to decide whether he would take
over Rubinstein’s work. To accept this duty meant to abandon his career
as a composer. There was no mental conflict, because he never hesitated
for a moment in deciding that nothing in the world would make him give
up his creative work. At the same time he felt so keenly the helpless
position of the Conservatoire that he could not avoid some
self-reproach; and thus the calm so needful for composition was
constantly disturbed.
Another reason for his sadness was of a more intimate character. After
many years of unclouded happiness, a time of severe trial had come to
the numerous Davidov family, which was not without its influence upon
Tchaikovsky. Kamenka, formerly his refuge from all the tempests of life,
was no longer so peaceful a harbour, because his ever-increasing
attachment to his sister’s family made him more sensible of their joys
and sorrows. At this time the shadows prevailed, for Alexandra Ilinichna
was confined to bed by a long and painful illness, which eventually
ended in her death.
Finally, Tchaikovsky suffered much at this time from the loss of his
faithful servant Alexis Safronov, who had been in his service from 1873
to 1880, when he was called upon to serve his time in the army.
Tchaikovsky spent most of September, 1881, in Moscow, in the society of
his brother Anatol. This visit was comparatively agreeable to him,
because the greater part of Moscow society had not yet returned from
their summer holidays, and he felt free.
He left Moscow on October 1st (13th).
_To P. Jurgenson._
“KAMENKA, _October_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1881.
“I inhabit the large house where my sister’s family used to live,
but at present there are no other human beings but myself and the
woman who looks after me. I have laid myself out to complete the
arrangements of Bortniansky’s works for double chorus in a month.
Good Lord, how I loathe Bortniansky! Not himself, poor wretch, but
his wishy-washy music! Yet if I had not undertaken this work I
should find myself in a bad way financially. Were I to tell you how
much money I got through in Moscow, without knowing why or
wherefore, you would be horrified and give me a good scolding....”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“KAMENKA, _October_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1881.
“DEAR FRIEND,--I know you will laugh at me when you read this
letter.... There is a young man here of eighteen or nineteen who is
very clever and capable, but dislikes his present occupation
because his domestic circumstances are miserable, and he longs for
a wider sphere and experience of life. He has the reputation of
being honest and industrious, and knows something of the
book-trade.... Could you make him useful in your publishing house,
or in the country? Dear friend, do look after him! What can I do
for him? This is ‘my fate’ over again. In any case I shall not
abandon him, for I am sure he would come to grief here.
“Laugh if you like, but have compassion and answer me.”[86]
_To Nadejda von Meck._
“KIEV, _November_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1881.
“Because I am deeply interested in Church music just now, I go to
the churches here very frequently, especially to the ‘Lavra.’[87]
On Sunday the bishop celebrated services in the monasteries of
Michael and the Brotherhood. The singing in these churches is
celebrated, but I thought it very poor, and pretentious, with a
repertory of commonplace concert pieces. It is quite different in
the ‘Lavra,’ where they sing in their own old style, following the
traditions of a thousand years, without notes and without any
attempts at concert-music. Nevertheless it is an original and
grand style of sacred singing. The public think the music of the
‘Lavra’ is bad, and are delighted with the sickly-sweet singing of
other churches. This vexes and enrages me. It is difficult to be
indifferent to the matter. My efforts to help our church music have
been misunderstood. My Liturgy is forbidden. Two months ago the
ecclesiastical authorities in Moscow refused to let it be sung at
the memorial service for Nicholas Rubinstein. The Archbishop
Ambrose pronounced it to be a _Catholic_ service.... The
authorities are pig-headed enough to keep every ray of light out of
this sphere of darkness and ignorance.
“To-morrow I hope to leave for Rome, where I expect to meet my
brother Modeste.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“ROME, _November_ 26_th_ (_December_ 8_th_), 1881.
“The day before yesterday I was at the concert in honour of Liszt’s
seventieth birthday. The programme consisted exclusively of his
works. The performance was worse than mediocre. Liszt himself was
present. It was touching to witness the ovation which the
enthusiastic Italians accorded to the venerable genius, but Liszt’s
works leave me cold. They have more poetical intention than actual
creative power, more colour than form--in short, in spite of being
externally effective, they are lacking in the deeper qualities.
Liszt is just the opposite of Schumann, whose vast creative force
is not in harmony with his colourless style of expression. At this
concert an Italian celebrity played; Sgambati is a very good
pianist, but exceedingly cold.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“ROME, _November_ 27_th_ (_December_ 9_th_), 1881.
“I cannot take your advice to publish my opera with a French
title-page. Such advances to foreign nations are repugnant to me.
Do not let us go to them, let them rather come to us. If they want
our operas then--not the title-page only, but the full text can be
translated, as in the case of the proposed performance at Prague.
So long as an opera has not crossed the Russian frontier, it is not
necessary--to my mind--that it should be translated into the
language of those who take no interest in it.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“ROME, _December_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1881.
“Yesterday I received sad news from Kamenka. In the neighbourhood
lies a little wood, the goal of my daily walk. In the heart of the
wood lives a forester with a large and lovable family. I never saw
more beautiful children. I was particularly devoted to a little
girl of four, who was very shy at first, but afterwards grew so
friendly that she would caress me prettily, and chatter delightful
nonsense, which was a great pleasure to me. Now my brother-in-law
writes that this child and one of the others have died of
diphtheria. The remaining children were removed to the village by
his orders, but, he adds, ‘I fear it is too late.’ Poor Russia!
Everything there is so depressing, and then this terrible scourge
which carries off children by the thousand.”
The violin concerto was the only one of Tchaikovsky’s works which
received its first performance outside Russia. This exceptional
occurrence took place in Vienna. The originality and difficulty of this
composition prevented Leopold Auer, to whom it was originally dedicated,
from appreciating its true worth, and he declined to produce it in St.
Petersburg.[88] Two years passed after its publication, and still no one
ventured to play it in public. The first to recognise its importance,
and to conquer its difficulties, was Adolf Brodsky. A pupil of
Hellmesberger’s, he held a post at the Moscow Conservatoire for a time,
but relinquished it in the seventies in order to tour in Europe. For two
years he considered the concerto without, as he himself says, being able
to summon courage to learn it. Finally, he threw himself into the work
with fiery energy, and resolved to try his luck with it in Vienna. Hans
Richter expressed a wish to make acquaintance with the new concerto, and
finally it was included in the programme of one of the Philharmonic
Concerts, December 4th, 1881. According to the critics, and Brodsky’s
own account, there was a noisy demonstration at the close of the
performance, in which energetic applause mingled with equally forcible
protest. The former sentiment prevailed, and Brodsky was recalled three
times. From this it is evident that the ill-feeling was not directed
against the executant, but against the work. The Press notices were very
hostile. Out of ten criticisms, two only spoke quite sympathetically of
the concerto. The rest, which emanated from the pens of the best-known
musical critics, were extremely slashing. Hanslick, the author of the
well-known book, _On the Beautiful in Music_, passed the following
judgment upon this work:--
“Mozart’s youthful work (the _Divertimento_) would have had a more
favourable position had it been played after, instead of before,
Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto; a drink of cold water is welcome to
those who have just swallowed brandy. The violinist, A. Brodsky,
was ill-advised to make his first appearance before the Viennese
public with this work. The Russian composer, Tchaikovsky, certainly
possesses no commonplace talent, but rather one which is forced,
and which, labouring after genius, produces results which are
tasteless and lacking in discrimination. Such examples as we have
heard of his music (with the exception of the flowing and piquant
Quartet in D) offer a curious combination of originality and
crudeness, of happy ideas and wretched affectations. This is also
the case as regards his latest long and pretentious Violin
Concerto. For a time it proceeds in a regular fashion, it is
musical and not without inspiration, then crudeness gains the upper
hand and reigns to the end of the first movement. The violin is no
longer played, but rent asunder, beaten black and blue. Whether it
is actually possible to give clear effect to these hair-raising
difficulties I do not know, but I am sure Herr Brodsky in trying to
do so made us suffer martyrdom as well as himself. The Adagio, with
its tender Slavonic sadness, calmed and charmed us once more, but
it breaks off suddenly, only to be followed by a finale which
plunges us into the brutal, deplorable merriment of a Russian
holiday carousal. We see savages, vulgar faces, hear coarse oaths
and smell fusel-oil. Friedrich Fischer, describing lascivious
paintings, once said there were pictures ‘one could see stink.’
Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto brings us face to face for the first
time with the revolting idea: May there not also be musical
compositions which we can hear stink?”
Hanslick’s criticism hurt Tchaikovsky’s feelings very deeply. To his
life’s end he never forgot it, and knew it by heart, just as he
remembered word for word one of Cui’s criticisms dating from 1866. All
the deeper and more intense therefore was his gratitude to Brodsky. This
sentiment he expressed in a letter to the artist, and in the dedication
of the Concerto he replaced Auer’s name by that of Brodsky.
While Tchaikovsky was touched by Brodsky’s courage in bringing forward
the Concerto, he was unable to suppress his sense of injury at the
attitude of his intimate friend Kotek, who weakly relinquished his
original intention of introducing the work in St. Petersburg. Still more
did he resent the conduct of Auer, who, he had reason to believe, not
only declined to produce the Concerto himself, but advised Sauret not to
play it in the Russian capital.
_To N. F. von Meck._
ROME, 1881.
“Do you know what I am writing just now? You will be very much
astonished. Do you remember how you once advised me to compose a
trio for pianoforte, violin, and violoncello, and my reply, in
which I frankly told you that I disliked this combination?
Suddenly, in spite of this antipathy, I made up my mind to
experiment in this form, which so far I have never attempted. The
beginning of the trio is finished. Whether I shall carry it
through, whether it will sound well, I do not know, but I should
like to bring it to a happy termination. I hope you will believe
me, when I say that I have only reconciled myself to the
combination of piano and strings in the hope of giving you pleasure
by this work. I will not conceal from you that I have had to do
some violence to my feelings before I could bring myself to express
my musical ideas in a new and unaccustomed form. I wish to conquer
all difficulties, however; and the thought of pleasing you impels
me and encourages my efforts.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“ROME, _December_ 22_nd_, 1881 (_January_ 3_rd_, 1882).
“Things are well with me in the fullest sense of the word.... If
everything were well in Russia, and I received good news from home,
it would be impossible to conceive a better mode of life. But
unhappily it is not so. Our dear, but pitiable, country is passing
through a dark hour. A vague sense of unrest and dissatisfaction
prevails throughout the land; all seem to be walking at the edge of
a volcanic crater, which may break forth at any moment....
“According to my ideas, now or never is the time to turn to the
people for counsel and support; to summon us all together and to
let us consider in common such ways and means as may strengthen our
hands. The Zemsky Sobor--this is what Russia needs. From us the
Tsar could learn the truth of things; we could help him to suppress
rebellion and make Russia a happy and united country. Perhaps I am
a poor politician, and my remarks are very naïve and
inconsequential, but whenever I think the matter over, I see no
other issue, and cannot understand why the same thought does not
occur to him, in whose hands our salvation lies. Katkov, who
describes all parliamentary discussions as talkee-talkee, and hates
the words _popular representation_ and _constitution_, confuses the
idea of the Zemsky Sobor, which was frequently summoned in old
days when the Tsar stood in need of counsel, with the Parliaments
and Chambers of Western Europe. A Zemsky Sobor is probably quite
opposed to a constitution in the European sense; it is not so much
a question of giving us at once a responsible Ministry, and the
whole routine of English parliamentary procedure, as of revealing
the true state of things, giving the Government the confidence of
the people, and showing us some indication of where and how we are
being led.
“I had no intention of turning a letter to you into a political
dissertation. Forgive me, dear friend, if I have bored you with it.
I only meant to tell you the Italian sun is beautiful, and I am
enjoying the glory of the South; but I live the life of my country,
and cannot be completely at rest here so long as things are not
right with us. Nor is the news I receive from my family in Russia
very cheerful just now.”
_To P Jurgenson._
“_Rome_, _January_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1882.
“This season I have no luck. _The Maid of Orleans_ will not be
given again; _Oniegin_ ditto; Auer intrigues against the Violin
Concerto; no one plays the Pianoforte Concerto (the second); in
short, things are bad. But what makes me furious, and hurts and
mortifies me most, is the fact that the Direction, which would not
spend a penny upon _The Maid of Orleans_, has granted 30,000
roubles for the mounting of Rimsky-Korsakov’s _Sniegourochka_. Is
it not equally unpleasant to you to feel that ‘our subject’ has
been taken from us, and that Lel will now sing new music to the old
words? It is as though someone had forcibly torn away a piece of
myself and offered it to the public in a new and brilliant setting.
I could cry with mortification.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“ROME, _January_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1882.
“The trio is finished.... Now I can say with some conviction that
the work is not bad. But I am afraid, having written all my life
for the orchestra, and only taken late in life to chamber music, I
may have failed to adapt the instrumental combinations to my
musical thoughts. In short, I fear I may have arranged music of a
symphonic character as a trio, instead of writing directly for my
instruments. I have tried to avoid this, but I am not sure whether
I have been successful.”
_To N. F. von Meck._