“I have just read the pamphlet you sent me (_La Vérité aux
nihilistes_) with great satisfaction, because it is written with
warmth, and is full of sympathy for Russia and the Russians. I must
observe that it is of no avail as an argument against Nihilism. The
author speaks a language which the Nihilists cannot understand,
since no moral persuasion could change a tiger into a lamb, or
induce a New Zealand cannibal to love his neighbour in a true
Christian spirit. A Nihilist, after reading the pamphlet, would
probably say: ‘Dear sir, we know already from innumerable
newspapers, pamphlets, and books, all you tell us as to the
uselessness of our murders and dynamite explosions. We are also
aware that Louis XVI. was a good king, and Alexander II. a good
Tsar, who emancipated the serfs. Nevertheless we shall remain
assassins and dynamiters, because it is our vocation to murder and
blow up, with the object of destroying the present order of
things.’
“Have you read the last volume of Taine’s work upon the Revolution?
No one has so admirably characterised the unreasoning crowd of
anarchists and extreme revolutionists as he has done. Much of what
he says respecting the French in 1793, of the degraded band of
anarchists who perpetrated the most unheard-of crimes before the
eyes of the nation, which was paralysed with astonishment, applies
equally to the Nihilists.... The attempt to convince the Nihilists
is useless. They must be exterminated; there is no other remedy
against this evil.”
At the end of January Tchaikovsky sent the Trio to Moscow with a request
that it might be tried by Taneiev, Grjimali, and Fitzenhagen. His
letter to Jurgenson concludes as follows:--
“The Trio is dedicated to Nicholas G. Rubinstein. It has a somewhat
plaintive and funereal colouring. As it is dedicated to
Rubinstein’s memory it must appear in an _édition de luxe_. I beg
Taneiev to keep fairly accurately to my metronome indications. I
also wish him to be the first to bring out the Trio next
season....”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“ROME, _February_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1882.
“MY DEAR FRIEND,--Your letters always bring me joy, comfort, and
support. God knows I am not lying! You are the one regular
correspondent through whom I hear all that interests me in
Moscow--and I still love Moscow with a strange, keen affection. I
say ‘strange,’ because in spite of my love for it I cannot live
there. To analyse this psychological problem would lead me too far
afield.”
_To A. Tchaikovsky._
“ROME, _February_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1882.
“Toly, my dearest, I have just received your letter with the
details of your engagement. I am heartily glad you are happy, and I
think I understand all you are feeling, although I never
experienced it myself. There is a certain kind of yearning for
tenderness and consolation that only a wife can satisfy. Sometimes
I am overcome by an insane craving for the caress of a woman’s
touch. Sometimes I see a sympathetic woman in whose lap I could lay
my head, whose hands I would gladly kiss. When you are quite calm
again--after your marriage--read _Anna Karenina_, which I have read
lately for the first time with an enthusiasm bordering on
fanaticism (_sic_). What you are now feeling is there wonderfully
expressed with reference to Levin’s marriage.”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“NAPLES, _February_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1882.
“Are you not ashamed of trying to ‘justify’ yourself of the
accusation brought against you by my protégé Klimenko? I know well
enough that you cannot be unjust. I know, on the other hand, that
Klimenko is a crazy fellow who loses his head over Nekrassov’s
poetry and vague echoes of Nihilism. Nevertheless he is not stupid,
and it would be a pity to discharge him. I feel unless he can make
himself an assured livelihood in Moscow he will do no good
elsewhere. I beg you to be patient a little longer, in the hope he
will come to himself, and see where his own interests lie.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“NAPLES, _February_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1882.
“What a blessing to feel oneself safe from visitors--to be far from
the noise of large hotels and the bustle of the town! What an
inexhaustible source of enjoyment to admire this incomparable view,
which stretches in all its beauty before our windows! All Naples,
Vesuvius, Castellammare, Sorrento, lie before us. At sunset
yesterday it was so divinely beautiful that I shed tears of
gratitude to God.... I feel I shall not do much work in Naples. It
is clearly evident that this town has contributed nothing to art or
learning. To create a book, a picture, or an opera, it is necessary
to become self-concentrated and oblivious of the outer world. Would
that be possible in Naples?...
“Even the sun has spots, therefore it is not surprising that our
abode, about which I have been raving, should gradually reveal
certain defects. I suffer from a shameful weakness: I am mortally
afraid of mice. Imagine, dear friend, that even as I write to you,
a whole army of mice are probably conducting their manœuvres
across the floor overhead. If a solitary one of their hosts strays
into my room, I am condemned to a night of sleeplessness and
torture. May Heaven protect me!”
Shortly afterwards, the landlord of this mouse-infested residence--the
Villa Postiglione--turned out “an impudent thief,” and Tchaikovsky, with
his brother Modeste, returned to an hotel in the town.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“NAPLES, _March_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1882.
“To-day I finished my Vespers.... It is very difficult to work in
Naples. Not only do its beauties distract one, but there is also
the nuisance of the organ grinders. These instruments are never
silent for an instant, and sometimes drive me to desperation. Two
or three are often being played at the same time; someone will also
be singing, and the trumpets of the Bersaglieri in the
neighbourhood go on unceasingly from 8 a.m. until midday.
“In my leisure hours I have been reading a very interesting book,
published recently, upon Bellini. It is written by his friend, the
octogenarian Florimo. I have always been fond of Bellini. As a
child I often cried under the strong impression made upon me by his
beautiful melodies, which are impregnated with a kind of
melancholy. I have remained faithful to his music, in spite of its
many faults: the weak endings of his concerted numbers, the
tasteless accompaniments, the roughness and vulgarity of his
recitatives. Florimo’s book contains not only Bellini’s life, but
also his somewhat extensive correspondence. I began to read with
great pleasure the biography of this composer, who for long years
past had been surrounded in my imagination with an aureole of
poetical feeling. I had always thought of Bellini as a childlike,
naïve being, like Mozart. Alas! I was doomed to disillusion.
Bellini, in spite of his talent, was a very commonplace man. He
lived in an atmosphere of self-worship, and was enchanted with
every bar of his own music. He could not tolerate the least
contradiction, and suspected enemies, intrigues, and envy in all
directions; although from beginning to end of his career success
never left him for a single day. Judging from his letters, he loved
no one, and, apart his own interests, nothing existed for him. It
is strange that the author of the book does not seem to have
observed that these letters show Bellini in a most unfavourable
light, otherwise he would surely not have published them. Another
book which I am enjoying just now is Melnikov’s _On the Hills_.
What an astonishing insight into Russian life, and what a calm
objective attitude the author assumes to the numerous characters he
has drawn in this novel! Dissenters of various kinds
(_Rasskolniki_), merchants, moujiks, aristocrats, monks and
nuns--all seem actually living as one reads. Each character acts
and speaks, not in accordance with the author’s views and
convictions, but just as they would do in real life. In our day it
is rare to meet with a book so free from ‘purpose.’
10 _p.m._
“ ... One thing spoils all my walks here--the beggars, who not only
beg, but display their wounds and deformities, which have a most
unpleasant and painful effect upon me. But to sit at the window at
home, to gaze upon the sea and Mount Vesuvius in the early morning,
or at sunset, is such heavenly enjoyment that one can forgive and
forget all the drawbacks of Naples.”
Tchaikovsky spent a few days at Sorrento before going to Florence,
whence he returned to Moscow about the middle of April.
XIV
_To M. Tchaikovsky._
“KAMENKA, _May_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1882.
“Modi, I am writing at night with tears in my eyes. Do not be
alarmed--nothing dreadful has happened. I have just finished _Bleak
House_, and shed a few tears, first, because I pity Lady Dedlock,
and find it hard to tear myself away from all these characters with
whom I have been living for two months (I began the book when I
left Florence), and secondly, from gratitude that so great a writer
as Dickens ever lived.... I want to suggest to you a capital
subject for a story. But I am tired, so I will leave it until
to-morrow.
_“Subject for a Story._
“The tale should be told in the form of a diary, or letters to a
friend in England. Miss L. comes to Russia. Everything appears to
her strange and ridiculous. The family into which she has fallen
please her--especially the children--but she cannot understand why
the whole foundation of family life lacks the discipline, the sense
of Christian duty, and the good bringing-up which prevail in
English homes. She respects this family, but regards them as
belonging to a different race, and the gulf between herself and
them seems to grow wider. She draws into herself and remains there.
Weariness and oppression possess her. The sense of duty, and the
need of working for her family, keep her from despair. She is
religious, in the English way, and finds the Russian Church, with
its ritual, absurd and repugnant. Some of the family and their
relations with her must be described in detail.
“A new footman appears upon the scene. At first she does not notice
him at all. One day, however, she becomes aware that he has looked
at her in particular--and love steals into her heart. At first she
does not understand what has come over her. Why does she sympathise
with him when he is working--others have to work too? Why does she
feel so ill at ease when he waits on her? Then the footman begins
to make love to the laundrymaid. In her feeling of hatred for this
girl she realises she is jealous, and discovers her love. She gives
the man all the money she has saved to go on a journey for his
health, etc. She begins to love everything Russian.... She changes
her creed. The footman is dismissed for some fault. She struggles
with herself--but finally goes with him. One fine day he says to
her: ‘Go to the devil and take your ugly face with you! What do you
want from me?’ I really do not know how it all ends....”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _May_ 29_th_ (_June_ 10_th_), 1882.
“ ... You ask me why I chose the subject of _Mazeppa_. About a year
ago K. Davidov (Director of the Petersburg Conservatoire) passed
on this libretto to me. It is arranged by Bourenin from Poushkin’s
poem _Poltava_. At that time it did not please me much, and
although I tried to set a few scenes to music, I could not get up
much enthusiasm, so put it aside. For a whole year I sought in vain
for some other book, because the desire to compose another opera
increased steadily. Then one day I took up the libretto of
_Mazeppa_ once more, read Poushkin’s poem again, was carried away
by some of the scenes and verses--and set to work upon the scene
between Maria and Mazeppa, which is taken without alteration from
the original text. Although I have not experienced as yet any of
the profound enjoyment I felt in composing _Eugene Oniegin_;
although the work progresses slowly and I am not much drawn to the
characters--I continue to work at it because I have started, and I
believe I may be successful. As regards Charles XII. I must
disappoint you, dear friend. He does not come into my opera,
because he only played an unimportant part in the drama between
Mazeppa, Maria, and Kochoubey.”
The first symphony concert in the hall of the Art and Industrial
Exhibition took place on May 18th (30th), 1882, under the direction of
Anton Rubinstein. On this occasion Taneiev played Tchaikovsky’s Second
Pianoforte Concerto for the first time in public. It was received with
much applause, but it was difficult to determine whether this was
intended for the composer, or the interpreter.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“GRANKINO, _June_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1882.
“The quiet and freedom of this place delight me. This is true
country life! The walks are very monotonous; there is nothing but
the endless, level Steppe. The garden is large, and will be
beautiful, but at present it is new. In the evening the Steppe is
wonderful, and the air so exquisitely pure; I cannot complain. The
post only comes once a week, and there are no newspapers. One lives
here in complete isolation from the world, and that has a great
fascination for me. Sometimes I feel--to a certain extent--the
sense of perfect contentment I used always to experience in Brailov
and Simaki. O God, how sad it is to think that those moments of
inexpressible happiness will never return!”[89]
_To N. F. von Meck._
“GRANKINO, _July_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1882.
“The news about Skobeliev only reached us a week after the sad
catastrophe. It is long since any death has given me a greater
shock than this. In view of the lamentable lack of men of mark in
Russia, what a loss is this personality, on whom so many hopes
depended!”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“KAMENKA, _July_ 26_th_ (_August_ 7_th_), 1882.
“My sister has just returned from Carlsbad, having stopped at
Prague on the way to hear my _Maid of Orleans_, or _Panna
Orleanska_, as she is called there. It appears the opera was given
in the barrack-like summer theatre, and both the performance and
staging were very poor.”
This first appearance of one of Tchaikovsky’s operas upon the stage of a
West-European theatre passed almost unnoticed. The work had a _succès
d’estime_ and soon disappeared from the repertory of the Prague opera
house. The Press were polite to the well-known symphonist Tchaikovsky,
and considered that as regarded opera he deserved respect, sympathy, and
interest, although he was not entitled to be called a dramatic composer
“by the grace of God.”
The programme of the sixth symphony concert (August 8th (20th) 1882) of
the Art and Industrial Exhibition was made up entirely from the works of
Tchaikovsky, and included: (1) _The Tempest_; (2) Songs from
_Sniegourochka_; (3) the Violin Concerto (with Brodsky as soloist); (4)
the _Italian Capriccio_; (5) Songs; (6) the Overture “1812.” The
last-mentioned work was now heard for the first time, and the Violin
Concerto--although it had already been played in Vienna, London, and New
York--for the first time in Russia. The success of these works, although
considerable, did not equal that which has since been accorded them.
Among many laudatory criticisms, one was couched in an entirely opposite
spirit. Krouglikov said that the three movements of the Violin Concerto
were so “somnolent and wearisome that one felt no desire to analyse it
in detail.” The “1812” Overture seemed to him “much ado about nothing.”
Finally, he felt himself obliged to state the “lamentable fact” that
Tchaikovsky was “played out.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“MOSCOW, _August_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1882.
“DEAR MODI,--I found your letter when I came home an hour ago; but
I have only just read it, because my mental condition was such that
I had to collect myself first. What produces this terrible
state?--I do not understand it myself.... Everything has tended to
make to-day go pleasantly, and yet I am so depressed, and have
suffered so intensely, that I might envy any beggar in the street.
It all lies in the fact that life is impossible for me, except in
the country or abroad. Why this is so, God knows--but I am simply
on the verge of insanity.
“This undefinable, horrible, torturing malady, which declares
itself in the fact that I cannot live a day, or an hour, in either
of the Russian capitals without suffering, will perhaps be
explained to me in some better world.... I often think that all my
discontent springs from my own egoism, because I cannot sacrifice
myself for others, even those who are near and dear to me. Then
comes the comforting thought that I should not be suffering
martyrdom except that I regard it as a kind of duty to come here
now and then, for the sake of the pleasure it gives others. The
devil knows! I only know this: that unattractive as Kamenka may
be, I long for my corner there, as one longs for some inexpressible
happiness. I hope to go there to-morrow.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _August_ 23_rd_ (_September_ 4_th_), 1882.
“DEAR, INCOMPARABLE FRIEND,--How lovely it is here! How freely I
breathe once more! How delighted I am to see my dear room again!
How good to live once more as one pleases, not as others order! How
pleasant to work undisturbed, to read, to play, to walk, to be
oneself, without having to play a different part a thousand times a
day! How insincere, how senseless, is social life!”
XV
1882-1883
_To N. F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _September_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1882.
“Never has any important work given me such trouble as this opera
(_Mazeppa_). Perhaps it is the decadence of my powers, or have I
become more severe in self-judgment? When I remember how I used to
work, without the least strain, and knowing no such moments of
doubt and uncertainty, I seem to be a totally different man.
Formerly I wrote as easily, and as much in obedience to the law of
nature, as a fish swims in water or a bird flies. Now I am like a
man who carries a precious, but heavy, burden, and who must bear it
to the last at any cost. I, too, shall bear mine to the end, but
sometimes I fear my strength is broken and I shall be forced to cry
halt!”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“KAMENKA, _September_ 20_th_ (_October_ 2_nd_), 1882.
“I am writing on a true autumnal day. Since yesterday a fine rain
has been falling like dust, the wind howls, the green things have
been frost-bitten since last week--yet I am not depressed. On the
contrary, I enjoy it. It is only in this weather that I like
Kamenka; when it is fine, I always long to be elsewhere.
“I have begun the instrumentation of the opera. The introduction,
which depicts Mazeppa and the galloping horse, will sound very
well!...”
_To E. Napravnik._
“KAMENKA, _September_ 21_st_ (_October_ 3_rd_), 1882.
“Kamenskaya tells me that in case of the revival of _The Maid of
Orleans_ she would be glad to undertake the part again, if I would
make the cuts, changes, and transpositions which you require. Apart
from the fact that it is very desirable this opera should be
repeated, and that I am prepared to make any sacrifice for this
end, your _advice_ alone is sufficient to make me undertake all
that is necessary without hesitation.... Yet I must tell you
frankly, nothing is more unpleasant than the changing of
modulations, and the transposition of pieces which one is
accustomed to think of in a particular tonality, and I should be
_very glad_ if the matter could be arranged without my personal
concurrence. At the same time, I repeat that I am willing to do
whatever you advise.”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“KAMENKA, _October_ 20_th_ (_November_ 1_st_), 1882.
“The copy of the Trio which you sent me gave me the greatest
pleasure. I think no other work of mine has appeared in such an
irreproachable edition. The title-page delighted me by its
exemplary simplicity.”
The Trio was given for the first time at one of the quartet evenings of
the Musical Society in Moscow, October 18th (30th). Judging from the
applause, the public was very much pleased with the work, but the
critics were sparing in their praise.
In a letter to the composer Taneiev says:--
“I have studied your Trio for more than three weeks, and worked at
it six hours a day. I ought long since to have written to you about
this glorious work. I have never had greater pleasure in studying a
new composition. The majority of the musicians here are enchanted
with the Trio. It also pleased the public. Hubert has received a
number of letters asking that it may be repeated.”
_To S. I. Taneiev._
“KAMENKA, _October_ 29_th_ (_November_ 10_th_) 1882.
“My best thanks for your letter, dear Serge Ivanovich. Your
approval of my Trio gives me very great pleasure. In my eyes you
are a great authority, and my artistic vanity is as much flattered
by your praise, as it is insensible to the opinions of the Press,
for experience has taught me to regard them with philosophical
indifference....
“_Mazeppa_ creeps along tortoise-fashion, although I work at it
daily for several hours. I cannot understand why I am so changed in
this respect. At first I feared it was the loss of power that comes
with advancing years, but now I comfort myself with the thought
that I have grown stricter in self-criticism and less
self-confident. This is perhaps the reason why it now takes me
three days to orchestrate a thing that I could formerly have
finished in one.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _November_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1882.
“ ... I think--if God grants me a long life--I shall never again
compose an opera. I do not say, with you and many others, that
opera is an inferior form of musical art. On the contrary, uniting
as it does so many elements which all serve the same end, it is
perhaps the richest of musical forms. I think, however, that
personally I am more inclined to symphonic music, at least I feel
more free and independent when I have not to submit to the
requirements and conditions of the stage.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _November_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1882.
“Napravnik sends me word that _The Maid of Orleans_ will be
remounted in Prague, and Jurgenson writes that he would like to go
there with me. I, too, would like to see my opera performed abroad.
Very probably we shall go direct to Prague next week, and
afterwards I shall return with him to Moscow, where I must see my
brother....”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MOSCOW, _November_ 23_rd_ (_December_ 5_th_), 1882.
“I have made the acquaintance of Erdmannsdörfer, who has succeeded
Nicholas Rubinstein as conductor of the Symphony Concerts. He is a
very gifted man, and has taken the hearts of the musicians and the
public by storm. The latter is so fickle: it received
Erdmannsdörfer with such enthusiasm, one would think it valued him
far more highly than Rubinstein, who never met with such warmth.
Altogether Moscow is not only reconciled to the loss of Rubinstein,
but seems determined to forget him.
“I am torn to pieces as usual, so that I already feel like a
martyr, as I always do in Moscow or Petersburg. It has gone to such
lengths that to-day I feel quite ill with this insane existence,
and I am thinking of taking flight.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MOSCOW, _December_ 5_th_ (17_th_) 1882.
“To the many fatigues of the present time, one more has been added;
every day I have to sit for some hours to the painter Makovsky. The
famous art collector, P. Tretiakov, commissioned him to paint my
portrait, so that I could not very well refuse. You can fancy how
wearisome it is to me to have to sit for hours, when I find even
the minutes necessary for being photographed simply horrible.
Nevertheless the portrait seems very successful.[90] I forget if I
have already told you that at the last concert but one my Suite was
given with great success. Erdmannsdörfer proved a good conductor,
although I think the Moscow Press and public greatly overrate his
capabilities.... My work is not yet finished, so I shall hardly be
able to leave before next week.”
Tchaikovsky left Moscow on December 28th (January 9th, 1883), travelling
by Berlin to Paris, where he met his brother Modeste, who was to
accompany him to Italy.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“BERLIN, _December_ 31_st_, 1882 (_January_ 12_th_, 1883).
“I broke my journey to rest here. Yesterday _Tristan and Isolde_
(which I had never seen) was being given at the Opera, so I decided
to remain another day. The work does not give me any pleasure,
although I am glad to have heard it, for it has done much to
strengthen my previous views of Wagner, which--until I had seen all
his works performed--I felt might not be well grounded. Briefly
summed up, this is my opinion: in spite of his great creative
gifts, in spite of his talents as a poet, and his extensive
culture, Wagner’s services to art--and to opera in particular--have
only been of a negative kind. He has proved that the older forms of
opera are lacking in all logical and æsthetic _raison d’être_. But
if we may no longer write opera on the old lines, are we obliged to
write as Wagner does? I reply, _Certainly not_. To compel people to
listen for four hours at a stretch to an endless symphony which,
however rich in orchestral colour, is wanting in clearness and
directness of thought; to keep singers all these hours singing
melodies which have no independent existence, but are merely notes
that belong to this symphonic music (in spite of lying very high
these notes are often lost in the thunder of the orchestra), this
is certainly not the ideal at which contemporary musicians should
aim. Wagner has transferred the centre of gravity from the stage to
the orchestra, but this is an obvious absurdity, therefore his
famous operatic reform--viewed apart from its negative
results--amounts to nothing. As regards the dramatic interest of
his operas, I find them very poor, often childishly naïve. But I
have never been quite so bored as with _Tristan and Isolde_. It is
an endless void, without movement, without life, which cannot hold
the spectator, or awaken in him any true sympathy for the
characters on the stage. It was evident that the audience--even
though Germans--were bored, but they applauded loudly after each
act. How can this be explained? Perhaps by a patriotic sympathy for
the composer, who actually devoted his whole life to singing the
praise of Germanism.”
_To A. Merkling._
“PARIS, _January_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1882.
“I have seen a few interesting theatrical performances, among
others Sardou’s _Fedora_, in which Sarah Bernhardt played with
_arch-genius_, and would have made the most poignant impression
upon me if the play--in which a clever but cold Frenchman censures
our Russian customs--were not so full of lies. I have finally come
to the conclusion that Sarah is really a woman of genius.[91] I
also enjoyed Musset’s play, _On ne badine pas avec l’amour_. After
the theatre I go to a restaurant and drink punch (it is bitterly
cold in Paris)....”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“PARIS, _January_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1883.
“I have just come from the Opera Comique, where I heard _Le Nozze
di Figaro_. I should go every time it was given. I know my worship
of Mozart astonishes you, dear friend. I, too, am often surprised
that a broken man, sound neither in mind nor spirit, like myself,
should still be able to enjoy Mozart, while I do not succumb to the
depth and force of Beethoven, to the glow and passion of Schumann,
nor the brilliance of Meyerbeer, Berlioz, and Wagner. Mozart is not
oppressive or agitating. He captivates, delights and comforts me.
To hear his music is to feel one has accomplished some good
action. It is difficult to say precisely wherein this good
influence lies, but undoubtedly it is beneficial; the longer I live
and the better I know him, the more I love his music.
“You ask why I never write anything for the harp. This instrument
has a beautiful timbre, and adds greatly to the poetry of the
orchestra. But it is not an independent instrument, because it has
no _melodic_ quality, and is only suitable for harmony. True,
artists like Parish-Alvars have composed operatic fantasias for the
harp, in which there are melodies; but this is rather forced.
Chords, arpeggios--these form the restricted sphere of the harp,
consequently it is only useful for accompaniments.”
Before Tchaikovsky left Moscow he had been approached by Alexeiev, the
president of the local branch of the Russian Musical Society, with
regard to the music to be given at the Coronation festivities, to take
place in the spring of 1883. A chorus of 7,500 voices, selected from all
the educational institutions in Moscow, was to greet the Emperor and
Empress with the popular ‘Slavsia,’ from Glinka’s opera, _A Life for the
Tsar_. The arrangement of this chorus, with accompaniment for string
orchestra, was confided to Tchaikovsky. In January he accomplished this
somewhat uncongenial task, and sent it to Jurgenson with the following
remarks:--
“There are only a few bars of ‘original composition’ in the work,
besides the third verse of the text, so if--as you say--I am to
receive a fee from the city of Moscow, my account stands as
below:--
“For the simplification of sixteen
bars of choral and
instrumental music, to be
repeated three times 3 r.
“For the composition of eight
connecting bars 4 r.
“For four additional lines to
the third verse, at forty
kopecks per line 1 r. 60 k.
__________
Total 8 r. 60 k. (16/11½)
“This sum I present to the city of Moscow. Joking apart, it is
absurd to speak of payment for such a work, and, to me, most
unpleasant. These things should be done gratuitously, or not at
all.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“PARIS, _February_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1883.
“I have not read Daudet’s _L’Evangéliste_, although I have the
book. I cannot conquer a certain prejudice; it is not the author’s
fault, but all these sects, the Salvation Army--and all the rest of
them--are antipathetic to me, and since in this volume Daudet (whom
I like as much as you do) deals with a similar subject, I have no
wish to read it.
“As regards French music, I will make the following remarks in
justification of my views. I do not rave about the music of the new
French school as a whole, nor about each individual composer, so
much as I admire the influence of the novelty and freshness which
are so clearly discernible in their music. What pleases me is their
effort to be eclectic, their sense of proportion, their readiness
to break with hard-and-fast routine, while keeping within the
limits of musical grace. Here you do not find that ugliness in
which some of our composers indulge, in the mistaken idea that
_originality_ consists in treading under foot all previous
traditions of beauty. If we compare modern French music with what
is being composed in Germany, we shall see that German music is in
a state of decadence, and that apart from the eternal fluctuation
between Mendelssohn and Schumann, or Liszt and Wagner, nothing is
being done. In France, on the contrary, we hear much that is new
and interesting, much that is fresh and forceful. Of course, Bizet
stands head and shoulders above the rest, but there are also
Massenet, Délibes, Guirand, Lalo, Godard, Saint-Saëns. All these
are men of talent, who cannot be compared with the dry _routinier_
style of contemporary Germans.”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“PARIS, _February_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1883.
“DEAR FRIEND,--To-day I received a telegram from Bartsal,[92]
asking if my Coronation Cantata is ready, and for what voices it is
written. I am replying that I have never composed such a Cantata.
Apparently it is some absurdity which does not demand serious
attention, and yet I am really somewhat agitated. The matter stands
as follows. Early in December I met an acquaintance whom I have
regarded for many years as a commonplace fool. But this fool was
suddenly put upon the Coronation Commission. One day, after lunch,
he took me aside and inquired: ‘I trust you are not a Nihilist?’ I
put on an air of surprise, and inquired why he had to ask such a
question. ‘Because I think it would be an excellent thing if you
were to compose something suitable for the Coronation--something in
a festival way--something patriotic--in short, write something....”
I replied that I should be very pleased to compose something, but I
could not supply my own text, that would have to be commissioned
from Maikov, or Polonsky, then I should be willing to write the
music. Our conversation ended here. Afterwards I heard that this
man was saying all over Petersburg that he had commissioned me to
write a Cantata. I had forgotten the whole story until the telegram
came this morning. I am afraid the story may now be grossly
exaggerated, and the report be circulated that I refused to compose
such a work. I give you leave to use all possible means to have the
matter put in the true light, and so to exonerate me.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“PARIS, _February_ 24_th_ (_March_ 8_th_), 1883.
“_Henry VIII._, by Saint-Saëns, was recently given at the Grand
Opera. I did not go, but, according to the papers, the work had no
signal success. I am not surprised, for I know his other operas,
_Samson et Dalila_, _Etienne Marcel_, and _La Princesse Jaune_,
and all three have strengthened my conviction, that Saint-Saëns
will never write a great dramatic work. Next week I will hear the
opera, and tell you what I think of it.
“In consequence of his death, Wagner is the hero of the hour with
the Parisian public. At all three Sunday concerts (Pasdeloup,
Colonne and Lamoureux) the programmes have been devoted to his
works, with the greatest success. Curious people! It is necessary
to die in order to attract their attention. In consequence of the
death of Flotow, there was a vacancy in the _Académie des Beaux
Arts_. Gounod put me forward as one of the five candidates, but I
did not attain to this honour. The majority of votes went to the
Belgian composer Limnander.”
XVI
At this time two unexpected and arduous tasks fell to Tchaikovsky’s lot.
The city of Moscow commissioned him to write a march for a fête, to be
given in honour of the Emperor in the Sokolniky Park, and the Coronation
Committee sent him the libretto of a lengthy cantata, with a request
that the music might be ready by the middle of April. These works he
felt it his duty to undertake. For the march he declined any payment,
for reasons which he revealed to Jurgenson, under strict pledges of
secrecy. When, two years earlier, his financial situation had been so
dark that he had undertaken the uncongenial task of editing the works of
Bortniansky, he had, unknown to all his friends, applied for assistance
to the Tsar. After the letter was written, he would gladly have
destroyed it, but his servant had already taken it to the post. Some
days later he received a donation of 3,000 roubles (£300). He resolved
to take the first opportunity of giving some return for this gift, and
the Coronation March was the outcome of this mingled feeling of shame
and gratitude.
His projected journey to Italy was abandoned, and he decided to remain
some weeks longer in Paris.
_To P. Jurgenson._
“PARIS, _March_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1883.
“About the middle of August I received, in Moscow, the manuscript
of the _Vespers_, with the Censor’s corrections. You then requested
me to carry out these corrections. I altered what was actually
essential. As regards the rest, I sent you an explanation to be
forwarded to the Censor.... What has become of it? Either you have
lost it, or the Censor is so obstinate and dense that one can do
nothing with him. The absurdity is that I have not _composed_ music
to the words of the Vesper Service, but taken it from a book
published by the Synodal Press. I have only harmonised the melodies
as they stood in this book.... In short, I have improved everything
that was capable of improvement. I will not endure the caprices of
a drivelling pedant. He can teach me nothing, and the Synodal book
is more important than he is. I shall have to complain about him.
There ... he has put me out for a whole day!”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“PARIS, _April_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1883.
“You reproach me because the pieces Rubinstein played belong to
Bessel.[93] I am very sorry, but I must say in self-justification
that had I had any suspicion twelve years ago that it would be the
least deprivation to you _not_ to possess anything of mine, I would
on no account have been faithless to you.... In those days I had no
idea that I could wound your feelings by going to Bessel. Now I
would give anything to get the pieces back again. A curious man
Anton Rubinstein! Why could he not pay some attention to these
pieces ten years ago? Why did he never play a note of my music
then? That would indeed have been a service! I am grateful to him,
even now, but it is a very different matter.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“PARIS, _April_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1883
“(_Thursday in Passion Week_).
“DEAR MODI,--I am writing in a café in the Avenue Wagram. This
afternoon I felt a sudden desire to be--if not actually in our
church--at least somewhere in its vicinity. I am so fond of the
service for to-day. To hold the wax-taper and make little pellets
of wax after each gospel; at first, to feel a little impatient for
the service to come to an end, and afterwards to feel sorry it is
over! But I arrived too late, only in time to meet the people
coming out and hear them speak Russian.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“PARIS, _May_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1883.
“Loewenson’s article, with its flattering judgment of me, does not
give me much pleasure. I do not like the repetition of that
long-established opinion that I am not a _dramatic musician_, and
that I _pander_ to the public. What does it mean--to have dramatic
capabilities? Apparently Herr Loewenson is a Wagnerian, and
believes Wagner to be a great master in this sphere. I consider him
just the reverse. Wagner has genius, but he certainly does not
understand the art of writing for the stage with breadth and
simplicity, keeping the orchestra within bounds, so that it does
not reduce the singers to mere speaking _puppets_. As to his
assertion that I aim at effects to catch the taste of the great
public, I can plead not guilty with a clear conscience. I have
always written, and always shall write, with feeling and sincerity,
never troubling myself as to what the public would think of my
work. At the moment of composing, when I am aglow with emotion, it
flashes across my mind that all who will hear the music will
experience some reflection of what I am feeling myself. Then I
think of someone whose interest I value--like yourself, for
instance--but I have never deliberately tried to lower myself to
the vulgar requirements of the crowd. If opera attracts me from
time to time, it signifies that I have as much capacity for this
as for any other form. If I have had many failures in this branch
of music, it only proves that I am a long way from perfection, and
make the same mistakes in my operas as in my symphonic and chamber
music, among which there are many unsuccessful compositions. If I
live a few years longer, perhaps I may see my _Maid of Orleans_
suitably interpreted, or my _Mazeppa_ studied and staged as it
should be; and then possibly people may cease to say that I am
incapable of writing a good opera. At the same time, I know how
difficult it will be to conquer this prejudice against me as an
operatic composer. This is carried to such lengths that Herr
Loewenson, who knows nothing whatever of my new work, declares it
will be a _useless sacrifice_ to the Moloch of opera....”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“BERLIN, _May_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1883.
“ ... A report has been circulated in many of the Paris papers that
Rubinstein had refused to compose a Coronation Cantata because he
was not in sympathy with the _central figure of the festivities_.
As Rubinstein’s children are being educated in Russia, and this
might be prejudicial to his interests--for even the most baseless
falsehood always leaves some trace behind it--I sent a brief
_dementi_ to the _Gaulois_ the day I left Paris. I cannot say if it
will be published.[94]
“To-day _Lohengrin_ is being given. I consider it Wagner’s best
work, and shall probably go to the performance. To-morrow I leave
for Petersburg.”
In April, 1883, _Eugene Oniegin_ was heard for the first time in St.
Petersburg, when it was performed by the Amateur Dramatic and Musical
Society in the hall of the Nobles’ Club. It was coolly received, and the
performance made so little impression that it was almost ignored by the
Press. Soloviev, alone, wrote an article of some length in the St.
Petersburg _Viedomosti_, in which he said:--
“Tchaikovsky’s opera--apart from the libretto and stage
effects--contains much that is musically attractive. Had the
composer paid more attention to Poushkin’s words and shown greater
appreciation of their beauty; had he grasped the simplicity and
naturalness of Poushkin’s forms--the opera would have been
successful. Having failed in these requirements, it is not
surprising that the public received the work coldly....”
Nevertheless the opera survived several performances. The lack of
success--apart from the quality of the music, which never at any time
aroused noisy demonstrations of applause--must be attributed to the
performance, which was excellent for amateurs, but still left much to be
desired from the artistic point of view.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“PETERSBURG, _May_ 24_th_ (_June_ 5_th_), 1883.
“I hear the Cantata was admirably sung and won the Emperor’s
approval.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“PODOUSHKINO, _June_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1883.
“In my youth I often felt indignant at the apparent injustice with
which Providence dealt out happiness and misfortune to mankind.
Gradually I have come to the conviction that from our limited,
earthly point of view we cannot possibly comprehend the aims and
ends towards which God guides us on our way through life. Our
sufferings and deprivations are not sent blindly and fortuitously;
they are needful for our good, and although the good may seem very
far away, some day we shall realise this. Experience has taught me
that suffering and bitterness are frequently for our good, even in
this life. But after this life _perhaps_ there is another,
and--although my intellect cannot conceive what form it may
take--my heart and my instinct, which revolt from death in the
sense of complete annihilation, compel me to believe in it.
Perhaps we may then understand the things which now appear to us
harsh and unjust. Meanwhile, we can only pray, and thank God when
He sends us happiness, and submit when misfortune overtakes us, or
those who are near and dear to us. I thank God who has given me
this conviction. Without it life would be a grievous burden. Did I
not know that you, the best of human beings, and above all
deserving of happiness, were suffering so much, not through an
insensate blow aimed by a blind destiny, but for some divine end
which my limited reason cannot discern--then, indeed, there would
remain for me in life nothing but despair and loathing. I have
learnt not to murmur against God, but to pray to Him for all who
are dear to me.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“PODOUSHKINO,[95] _July_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1883.
“My incapacity for measuring time correctly is really astonishing!
I believed I should find leisure this summer for everything--for
reading, correspondence, walks; and suddenly I realise that from
morning to night I am tormented with the thought that I have not
got through all there was to do.... Added to which, instead of
resting from composition, I have taken it into my head to write a
Suite. Inspiration will not come; every day I begin something and
lose heart. Then, instead of waiting for inspiration, I begin to be
afraid lest I am played out, with the result that I am thoroughly
dissatisfied with myself. And yet the conditions of life are
satisfactory: wonderful scenery and the society of those I
love....”
During this visit to Podoushkino, Tchaikovsky wrote to Jurgenson
concerning their business relations. Actually, this connection remained
unbroken to the end of the composer’s life, but at this moment it
suffered a temporary strain. Tchaikovsky acknowledged that his publisher
had often been most generous in his payments, but as regards his new
opera _Mazeppa_ he felt aggrieved at the small remuneration proposed by
Jurgenson. This work, he said, ought, logically speaking, to be worth
ten times as much as ten songs, or ten indifferent pianoforte pieces. He
valued it at 2,400 roubles (£240). On the other hand, he asked no fee
for his Coronation Cantata.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“PODOUSHKINO, _August_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1883.
“Yesterday a council was held by the Opera Direction to consider
the staging of _Mazeppa_. Everyone connected with the Opera House
was present. I was astonished at the zeal--I may say
enthusiasm--which they showed for my opera. Formerly what trouble I
had to get an opera accepted and performed! Now, without any
advances on my part, Petersburg and Moscow contend for my work. I
was told yesterday that the direction at St. Petersburg had sent
the scenic artist Bocharov to Little Russia, in order to study on
the spot the moonlight effect in the last act of _Mazeppa_. I
cannot understand the reason of such attentions on the part of the
theatrical world--there must be some secret cause for it, and I can
only surmise that the Emperor himself must have expressed a wish
that my opera should be given as well as possible in both
capitals.[96]
“The corrections are now complete, and I am sending you the first
printed copy. Dear friend, now I must take a little rest from
composition, and lie fallow for a time. But the _cacoethes
scribendi_ possesses me, and all my leisure hours are devoted to a
Suite. I hope to finish it in a day or two, and set to work upon
the instrumentation at Kamenka.
“My health is better. I have gone through such a terrible attack of
nervous headache, I thought I must have died. I fell asleep so worn
out, I had not even strength to undress. When I awoke I was well.”
XVII
1883-1884
_To N. F. von Meck._
“VERBOVKA, _September_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1883.
“With regard to my opera, you have picked out at first sight the
numbers I consider the best. The scene between Mazeppa and Maria
will, thanks to Poushkin’s magnificent verses, produce an effect
even off the stage. It is a pity you will not be able to see a
performance of _Mazeppa_. Allow me, dear friend, to point out other
parts of the opera which can easily be studied from the pianoforte
score: In Act I. (1), the duet between Maria and Andrew; (2),
Mazeppa’s _arioso_. Act II. (1), the prison scene; (2), Maria’s
scene with her mother. Act III., the last duet.”
_To M. Tchaikovsky._
“VERBOVKA, _September_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1883.
“ ... I bought Glazounov’s Quartet in Kiev, and was pleasantly
surprised. In spite of the imitations of Korsakov, in spite of the
tiresome way he has of contenting himself with the endless
repetition of an idea, instead of its development, in spite of the
neglect of melody and the pursuit of all kinds of harmonic
eccentricities--the composer has undeniable talent. The form is so
perfect, it astonishes me, and I suppose his teacher helped him in
this. I recommend you to buy the Quartet and play it for four
hands. I have also Cui’s opera, _The Prisoner of the Caucasus_.
This is utterly insignificant, weak, and childishly naïve. It is
most remarkable that a critic who has contended throughout his days
against routine, should now, in the evening of his life, write a
work so shamefully conventional.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“VERBOVKA, _September_ 19_th_ (_October_ 1_st_), 1883.
“ ... On my arrival here I found a parcel from Tkatchenko at
Poltava. It contained all my letters to him. As on a former
occasion, when he thought of committing suicide, he sent me back
two of my letters, I understood at once that he wished by this
means to intimate his immediate intention of putting an end to his
existence. At first I was somewhat agitated; then I calmed myself
with the reflection that my Tkatchenko was certainly still in this
world. In fact, to-day I received a letter from him asking for
money, but without a word about my letters. His, as usual, is
couched in a scornful tone. He is a man to be pitied, but not at
all sympathetic.”[97]
_To M. Tchaikovsky._
“VERBOVKA, _September_ 26_th_ (_October_ 8_th_), 1883.
“My Suite progresses slowly; but it seems likely to be successful.
I am almost sure the Scherzo (with the Harmonica) and the Andante
(‘Children’s Dreams’) will please. My enthusiasm for _Judith_ has
made way for a passion for _Carmen_, I have also been playing
Rimsky-Korsakov’s _Night in May_, not without some enjoyment.”
_To Frau von Meck._
“VERBOVKA, _September_ 28_th_ (_October_ 10_th_), 1883.
“I will tell you frankly, dear friend, that, although I gladly hear
some operas--and even compose them myself--your somewhat
paradoxical view of the untenability of operatic music pleases me
all the same. Leo Tolstoi says the same with regard to opera, and
strongly advised me to give up the pursuit of theatrical success.
In _Peace and War_ he makes his heroine express great astonishment
and dissatisfaction with the falseness and limitations of operatic
action. Anyone who, like yourself, does not live in society and is
not therefore trammelled by its conventions, or who, like Tolstoi,
has lived for years in a village, and only been occupied with
domestic events, literature, and educational questions, must
naturally feel more intensely than others the complete falseness of
Opera. I, too, when I am writing an opera feel so constrained and
fettered that I often think I will never compose another.
Nevertheless, we must acknowledge that many beautiful things of the
first order belong to the sphere of dramatic music, and that the
men who wrote them were directly inspired by the dramatic ideas.
Were there no such thing as opera, there would be no _Don Juan_, no
_Figaro_, no _Russlan and Lioudmilla_. Of course, from the point of
view of the sane mind, it is senseless for people on the
stage--which should reflect reality--to sing instead of speaking.
People have got used to this absurdity, however, and when I hear
the sextet in _Don Giovanni_ I never think that what is taking
place before me is subversive of the requirements of artistic
truth. I simply enjoy the music, and admire the astonishing art of
Mozart, who knew how to give each of the six voices its own special
character, and has outlined each personality so sharply that,
forgetful of the lack of _absolute truth_, I marvel at the depth of
_conditional truth_, and my intellect is silenced.
“You tell me, dear friend, that in my _Eugene Oniegin_ the musical
pattern is more beautiful than the canvas on which it is worked. I
must say, however, that if my music to _Eugene Oniegin_ has the
qualities of warmth and poetic feeling, it is because my own
emotions were quickened by the beauty of the subject. I think it is
altogether unjust to see nothing beautiful in Poushkin’s poem but
the versification. Tatiana is not merely a provincial ‘Miss,’ who
falls in love with a dandy from the capital. She is a young and
virginal being, untouched as yet by the realities of life, a
creature of pure feminine beauty, a dreamy nature, ever seeking
some vague ideal, and striving passionately to grasp it. So long as
she finds nothing that resembles an ideal, she remains unsatisfied
but tranquil. It needs only the appearance of a man who--at least
externally--stands out from the commonplace surroundings in which
she lives, and at once she imagines her ideal has come, and in her
passion becomes oblivious of self. Poushkin has portrayed the
power of this virginal love with such genius that--even in my
childhood--it touched me to the quick. If the fire of inspiration
really burned within me when I composed the ‘Letter Scene,’ it was
Poushkin who kindled it; and I frankly confess, without false
modesty, that I should be proud and happy if my music reflected
only a tenth part of the beauty contained in the poem. In the ‘Duel
Scene’ I see something far more significant than you do. Is it not
highly dramatic and touching that a youth so brilliant and gifted
(as Lensky) should lose his life because he has come into fatal
collision with a false code of mundane ‘honour’? Could there be a
more dramatic situation than that in which that ‘lion’ of town-life
(Oniegin), partly from _sheer boredom_, partly from petty
annoyance, but without purpose--led by a fatal chain of
circumstances--shoots a young man to whom he is really attached?
All this is very simple, very ordinary, if you like, but poetry and
the drama do not exclude matters of simple, everyday life.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _October_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1883.
“My work is nearly finished. Consequently, so long as I have no
fresh composition in view, I can quietly enjoy this glorious autumn
weather.
“My Suite has five movements: (1) Jeux de sons, (2) Valse, (3)
Scherzo burlesque, (4) Rêves d’enfants, (5) Danse baroque.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“_October_ 25_th_ (_November_ 6_th_), 1883.
“Every time I finish a work I think rapturously of a season of
complete idleness. But nothing ever comes of it; scarcely has the
holiday begun, before I weary of idleness and plan a new work.
This, in turn, takes such a hold on me that I immediately begin
again to rush through it with unnecessary haste. It seems my lot to
be always hurrying to finish something. I know this is equally bad
for my nerves and my work, but I cannot control myself. I only rest
when I am on a journey; that is why travelling has such a
beneficial effect on my health. Probably I shall never settle
anywhere, but lead a nomadic existence to the end of my days. Just
now I am composing an album of ‘Children’s Songs,’ an idea I have
long purposed carrying out. It is very pleasant work, and I think
the little songs will have a great success.”
_To Frau von Meck._
“KAMENKA, _November_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1883.
“I should feel quite happy and contented here, were it not for the
morbid, restless need of hurrying on my work, which tires me
dreadfully, without being in the least necessary....
“I had a fancy to renew my study of English. This would be
harmless, were I content to devote my leisure hours quietly to the
work. But no: here again, I am devoured by impatience to master
enough English to read Dickens easily, and I devote so many hours a
day to this occupation that, with the exception of breakfast,
dinner, and the necessary walk, I literally spend every minute in
hurrying madly to the end of something. This is certainly a
disease. Happily, this feverish activity will soon come to an end,
as my summons to the rehearsals in Moscow will shortly be due.”
XVIII
Towards the end of November Tchaikovsky left Kamenka for Moscow, where,
after a lapse of sixteen years, his First Symphony was given at a
concert of the Musical Society. He was greatly annoyed to find that the
preparations for _Mazeppa_ were proceeding with exasperating slowness.
“It is always the way with a State theatre,” he wrote at this time to
Nadejda von Meck. “Much promised, little performed.” While at Moscow, he
played his new Suite to some of the leading musicians, who highly
approved of the work.
A few days later he went to meet Modeste in Petersburg. He left the dry
cold of a beautiful Russian winter in Moscow, and found the more
northern capital snowless, but windy, chilly, and “so dark in the
morning that even near the window I can hardly see to write.”
The journeys to and fro involved by the business connected with
_Mazeppa_, and all the other difficulties he had to encounter in
connection with it, were very irksome to Tchaikovsky. At this time he
vowed never to write another opera, since it involved the sacrifice of
so much time and freedom.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MOSCOW, _December_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1883.
“How can you think me capable of taking offence at anything you may
say, especially with regard to my music? I cannot always agree with
you, but to be offended because your views are not mine would be
impossible. On the contrary, I am invariably touched by the warmth
with which you speak of my compositions, and the originality and
independence of your judgment pleased me from the first. For
instance, I am glad that, in spite of my having composed six
operas, when you compare Opera with Symphony or Chamber music, you
do not hesitate to speak of it as a lower form of art. In my heart
I have felt the same, and intend henceforth to renounce operatic
music; although you must acknowledge opera possesses the advantage
of touching the musical feeling of the _masses_; whereas symphony
appeals only to a smaller, if more select, public....”
Christmas and the New Year found Tchaikovsky still in Moscow, awaiting
the rehearsals for _Mazeppa_. As usual, when circumstances detained him
for any length of time in town, he suffered under the social gaieties
which he had not the strength of will to decline. Laroche was staying in
the same hotel as Tchaikovsky, and was in a hypochondriacal condition.
“He needs a _nurse_,” says Tchaikovsky in one of his letters, “and I
have undertaken the part, having no work on hand just now. When I
depart, he will relapse into the same apathetic state.”
At last, on January 15th (27th), the rehearsals for the opera began, and
with them a period of feverish excitement. The preparations for
_Mazeppa_ had been so long postponed that they now coincided with the
staging of the work in Petersburg. Tchaikovsky declined the invitation
to be present at the rehearsals there, feeling he could safely entrust
his opera to the experienced supervision of Napravnik.
The first performance at _Mazeppa_ in Moscow took place on February 3rd
(15th), under the direction of H. Altani. The house was crowded and
brilliant. The audience was favourably disposed towards the composer,
and showed it by unanimous recalls for him and for the performers.
Nevertheless, Tchaikovsky felt instinctively that the ovations were
accorded to him personally, and to such of the singers who were
favourites with the public, rather than to the opera itself. The
ultimate fate of _Mazeppa_, which attracted a full house on several
occasions, but only kept its place in the repertory for a couple of
seasons, confirmed this impression. The failure may be attributed in
some degree to the quality of the performance. Some of the singers had
no voices, and those who were gifted in this respect lacked the
necessary musical and histrionic training, so that not one number of the
opera was rightly interpreted. Only the chorus was irreproachable. As
regards the scenery and dresses, no opera had ever been so brilliantly
staged. The Moscow critics were fairly indulgent to the opera and to its
composer. To Nadejda von Meck, Tchaikovsky wrote: “The opera was
successful in the sense that the singers and myself received
ovations.... I cannot attempt to tell you what I went through that day.
I was nearly crazed with excitement.”
_To E. Pavlovskaya._[98]
“MOSCOW, _February_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1884.
“DEAR AND SUPERB EMILIE KARLOVNA,--I thank you heartily,
incomparable Maria, for your indescribably beautiful performance of
this part. God give you happiness and success. I shall never forget
the deep impression made upon me by your splendid talent.”
After informing a few friends of his intended journey--amongst them
Erdmannsdörfer--Tchaikovsky left Moscow just at the moment when the
public had gathered in the Concert Hall to hear his new Suite.
The Suite (No. 2 in C) had such a genuine and undisputed success under
Erdmannsdörfer’s excellent direction on February 4th (16th), that it had
to be repeated by general request at the next symphony concert, a week
later. The Press was unanimous in its enthusiasm, and even the severe
Krouglikov was moved to lavish and unconditional praise.
The Petersburg performance of _Mazeppa_, under Napravnik, took place on
February 7th (19th). The absence of the composer naturally lessened its
immediate success, but the impression was essentially the same as in
Moscow: the opera obtained a mere _succès d’estime_. As regards acting,
the performance of the chief parts (Mazeppa and Maria) was far less
effective than at its original production. On the other hand, the
staging and costumes excelled in historical fidelity and brillancy even
those of the Moscow performance. Comparing the reception of _Mazeppa_ in
the two capitals, we must award the palm to the Petersburg critics for
the unanimity with which they “damned” the work.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“BERLIN, _February_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1884.
“Early this morning I received a telegram from Modeste, who informs
me that the performance of _Mazeppa_ in Petersburg yesterday was a
complete success, and that the Emperor remained to the end and was
much pleased.[99] To-morrow I continue my journey to Paris and from
thence to Italy, where I might possibly join Kolya and Anna,[100]
unless I should disturb their _tête-à-tête_. I dread being
alone....”
_To M. Tchaikovsky._
“PARIS, _February_ 18_th_ (_March_ 1_st_), 1884.
“Modi, I can well imagine how difficult it must have been for you
to lie to me as to the ‘_grand succès_’ of _Mazeppa_ in Petersburg.
But you did well to tell a lie, for the _truth_ would have been too
great a blow, had I not been prepared for it by various
indications. Only yesterday did I learn the worst in a letter from
Jurgenson, who not only had the cruelty to blurt out the plain
truth, but also to reproach me for not having gone to Petersburg.
It came as a thunderbolt upon me, and all day I suffered, as though
some dreadful catastrophe had taken place. Of course, this is
exaggeration, but at my age, when one has nothing more to hope in
the future, a slight failure assumes the dimensions of a shameful
fiasco. Were I different, could I have forced myself to go to
Petersburg, no doubt I should have returned crowned with laurel
wreaths....”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“PARIS, _February_ 18_th_ (_March_ 1_st_), 1884.
“It is an old truth that no one can hurt so cruelly as a dear
friend. Your reproach is very bitter. Do you not understand that I
know better than anyone else how much I lose, and how greatly I
injure my own success, by my unhappy temperament? As a
card-sharper, who has cheated all his life, lifts his hand against
the man who has made him realise what he is, so nothing makes me so
angry as the phrase: ‘You have only yourself to blame.’ It is true
in this case; but can I help being what I am? The comparative
failure of _Mazeppa_ in Petersburg, of which your letter informed
me, has wounded me deeply--very deeply. I am in a mood of darkest
despair.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“PARIS, _February_ 27_th_ (_March_ 10_th_), 1884.
“You have justly observed that the Parisians have become
Wagnerites. But in their enthusiasm for Wagner, which is carried so
far that they neglect even Berlioz--who, a few years ago, was the
idol of the Paris public--there is something insincere, artificial,
and without any real foundation. I cannot believe that _Tristan and
Isolde_, which is so intolerably wearisome on the stage, could ever
charm the Parisians.... It would not surprise me that such
excellent operas as _Lohengrin_, _Tannhäuser_, and the _Flying
Dutchman_ should remain in the repertory. These, originating from a
composer of the first rank, must sooner or later become of general
interest. The operas of the later period, on the contrary, are
false in principle; they renounce artistic simplicity and veracity,
and can only live in Germany, where Wagner’s name has become the
watch-word of German patriotism....”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“PARIS, _February_ 29_th_ (_March_ 12_th_), 1884.
“ ... Napravnik writes that the Emperor was much astonished at my
absence from the first performance of _Mazeppa_, and that he showed
great interest in my music; he has also commanded a performance of
_Eugene Oniegin_, his favourite opera. Napravnik thinks I must not
fail to go to Petersburg to be presented to the Emperor. I feel if
I neglect to do this I shall be worried by the thought that the
Emperor might consider me ungrateful, and so I have decided to
start at once. It is very hard, and I have to make a great effort
to give up the chance of a holiday in the country and begin again
with fresh excitements. But it has to be done.”
XIX
The official command to appear before their Imperial Majesties was due
to the fact that on February 23rd (March 6th), 1884, the order of St.
Vladimir of the Fourth Class had been conferred upon Tchaikovsky. The
presentation took place on March 7th (19th), at Gatchina. Tchaikovsky
was so agitated beforehand that he had to take several strong doses of
bromide in order to regain his self-possession. The last dose was
actually swallowed on the threshold of the room where the Empress was
awaiting him, in agony lest he should lose consciousness from sheer
nervous breakdown.
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
“PETERSBURG, _March_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1884.
“I will give you a brief account of what took place. Last Saturday
I was taken with a severe chill. By morning I felt better, but I
was terribly nervous at the idea of being presented to the Emperor
and Empress. On Monday at ten o’clock I went to Gatchina. I had
only permission to appear before His Majesty, but Prince Vladimir
Obolensky had also arranged an audience with the Empress, who had
frequently expressed a wish to see me. I was first presented to the
Emperor and then to the Empress. Both were most friendly and kind.
I think it is only necessary to look once into the Emperor’s eyes,
in order to remain for ever his most loyal adherent, for it is
difficult to express in words all the charm and sympathy of his
manner. She is also bewitching. Afterwards I had to visit the Grand
Duke Constantine Nicholaevich, and yesterday I sat with him in the
Imperial box during the whole of the rehearsal at the
Conservatoire.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“PETERSBURG, _March_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1884.
“What a madman I am! How easily I am affected by the least shadow
of ill-luck! Now I am ashamed of the depression which came over me
in Paris, simply because I gathered from the newspapers that the
performance of _Mazeppa_ in Petersburg had not really had the
success I anticipated! Now I see that in spite of the ill-feeling
of many local musicians, in spite of the wretched performance, the
opera really pleased, and there is no question of reproach, as I
feared while I was so far away. There is no doubt that the critics,
who unanimously strove to drag my poor opera through the mire, were
not expressing the universal opinion, and that many people here are
well disposed towards me. What pleases me most is the fact that the
Emperor himself stands at the head of this friendly section. It
turns out that I have no right to complain; on the contrary, I
ought rather to thank God, who has shown me such favour.
“Have you seen Count Leo Tolstoi’s _Confessions_, which were to
have come out recently in the _Russkaya Myssl_ (‘Russian Thought’),
but were withdrawn by order of the Censor? They have been privately
circulated in manuscript, and I have just succeeded in reading
them. They made a profound impression upon me, because I, too, know
the torments of doubt and the tragic perplexity which Tolstoi has
experienced and described so wonderfully in the _Confessions_. But
_enlightenment_ came to me earlier than Tolstoi; perhaps because my
brain is more simply organised than his; and perhaps it has been
due to the continual necessity of work that I have suffered less
than Tolstoi. Every day, every hour, I thank God for having given
me this faith in Him. What would have become of me, with my
cowardice, my capacity for depression, and--at the least failure of
courage--my desire for _non-existence_, unless I had been able to
believe in God and submit to His will?”
About the end of the seventies Tchaikovsky kept an accurate diary. Ten
years later he relaxed the habit, and only made entries in his day-book
while abroad, or on important occasions. Two years before his death the
composer burnt most of these volumes, including all those which covered
the years between his journeys abroad in 1873 and April, 1884.
The following are a few entries from the later diaries:--
“_April_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1884.
“ ... After tea I went to Leo’s,[101] who soon went out, while I
remained to strum and think of something new. I hit upon an idea
for a pianoforte Concerto [afterwards the Fantasia for pianoforte,
op. 56], but it is poor and not new.... Played Massenet’s
_Hérodiade_ ... read some of Otto Jahn’s _Life of Mozart_.”
On April 16th (28th) Tchaikovsky began his third orchestral Suite, and
we can follow the evolution of this work, as noted from day to day in
his diary.
“_April_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1884.
“In the forest and indoors I have been trying to lay the foundation
of a new symphony ... but I am not at all satisfied.... Walked in
the garden and found the germ, not of a symphony, but of a future
Suite.”
“_April_ 17_th_ (29_th_).
“ ... Jotted down a few ideas.”
“_April_ 19_th_ (_May_ 1_st_).
“Annoyed with my failures. Very dissatisfied because everything
that comes into my head is so commonplace. Am I played out?”
_April_ 24_th_ (_May_ 6_th_).
“I shall soon be forty-four. How much I have been through,
and--without false modesty--how little I have accomplished! In my
actual vocation I must say--hand on heart--I have achieved nothing
perfect, nothing which can serve as a model. I am still seeking,
vacillating. And in other matters? I read nothing, I know
nothing.... The period of quiet, undisturbed existence is over for
me. There remain agitation, conflict, much that I, such as I am,
find hard to endure. No, the time has come to live by _oneself_ and
in _one’s own way_!”
“_April_ 26_th_ (_May_ 8_th_).
“This morning I worked with all my powers at the Scherzo of the
Suite. Shall work again after tea.”
“_April_ 30_th_ (_May_ 12_th_), 1884.
“Worked all day at the Valse (Suite), but without any conviction of
success.”
_Extracts from a Letter to Anna Merkling._
“KAMENKA, _April_ 27_th_ (_May_ 9_th_), 1884.
“Many thanks, dear Anna, for your thought of me on the 25th (May
7th).... Without bitterness, I receive congratulations upon the
fact that I am a year older. I have no wish to die, and I desire to
attain a ripe old age; but I would not willingly have my youth back
and go through life again. Once is enough! The past, of which you
speak with regret, I too regret it, for no one likes better to be
lost in memories of old days, no one feels more keenly the
emptiness and brevity of life--but I do not wish to be young
again.... I cannot but feel that the sum total of good which I
enjoy at present is far greater than that which stood to my credit
in youth: therefore I do not in the least regret my forty-and-four
years. Nor sixty, nor seventy, provided I am still sound mentally
and physically! At the same time one ought not to fear death. In
this respect I cannot boast. I am not sufficiently penetrated by
religion to regard death as the beginning of a new life, nor am I
sufficiently philosophical to be satisfied with the prospect of
_annihilation_. I envy no one so much as the religious man....”
_Diary._
“_May_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).
“The Valse gives me infinite trouble. I am growing old....”
“_May_ 6_th_ (18_th Sunday_).
“Went to church. I was very susceptible to religious impressions,
and felt the tears in my eyes. The simple, healthy, religious
spirit of the poorer classes always touches me profoundly. The
worn-out old man, the little lad of four, who goes to the holy
water of his own accord.”
“_May_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1884.
“Worked all morning. Not without fatigue, but my Andante
progresses, and seems likely to turn out quite nice ... finished
the Andante. I am very pleased with it.”
At this time Tchaikovsky resolved to take a small country house on his
own account. “I want no land,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck, “only a
little house, with a pretty garden, _not too new_. A _stream_ is most
desirable. The neighbourhood of a forest (which belonged to someone
else) would be an attraction. The house must stand alone, not in a row
of country villas, and, most important of all, be within easy reach of a
station, so that I can get to Moscow at any time. I cannot afford more
than two to three thousand roubles.”
_Diary._
“_May_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1884.
“The first movement of the Suite, which is labelled ‘Contrasts,’
and the theme:
[Illustration: musical notation]
has grown so hateful since I tormented myself about it all day long
that I resolved to set it aside and invent something else. After
dinner I squeezed the unsuccessful movement out of my head. What
does it mean? I now work with such difficulty! Am I really growing
old?”
“_May_ 12_th_ (24_th_).
“After tea I took up the hateful ‘Contrasts’ once more. Suddenly a
new idea flashed across me, and the whole thing began to flow.”
“_May_ 17_th_ (29_th_).
“Played Mozart, and enjoyed it immensely. An idea for a Suite from
Mozart.”
“_May_ 18_th_ (30_th_).
“I am working too strenuously, as though I were being driven. This
haste is unhealthy, and will, perhaps, reflect upon the poor Suite.
My work (upon the variations before the finale) has been very
successful....”
“_May_ 21_st_ (_June_ 2_nd_).
“Worked well. Four variations completed.”
“_May_ 23_rd_ (_June_ 4_th_).
“.... The Suite is finished.”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“GRANKINO, _June_ 20_th_ (_July_ 2_nd_), 1884.
“I live here in a very pleasant way, a quiet, countrified
existence, but I work hard. A work of greater genius than the new
Suite never was!!! My opinion of the new-born composition is so
optimistic; God knows what I shall think of it a year hence. At
least it has cost me some pains.”
_To S. I. Taneiev._
“GRANKINO, _June_ 30_th_ (_July_ 12_th_), 1884.
“ ... Although it was interesting to hear your opinion of my songs,
I was rather angry with you for saying nothing whatever about your
own work, plans, etc.
“Your criticisms of the songs--the end of the ‘Legend,” and the
abuse of the minor in the ‘Lied vom Winter’--are very just.... I
should like to say your praise was equally well deserved, but
modesty forbids. So I will not say you are right, but that I am
pleased with your commendations....
“At the present moment I am composing a third Suite. I wanted to
write a Symphony, but it was not a success. However, the title is
of no consequence. I have composed a big symphonic work in four
movements: (1) Andante; (2) another Valse; (3) Scherzo; (4) Theme
and Variations. It will be finished by the end of the summer, for I
am working regularly and with zeal. Besides this, I am planning a
concert-piece for pianoforte in two movements. It would be a fine
thing if the work could be played during the coming season!”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“GRANKINO, _July_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1884.
“I shall not set to work upon the pianoforte Concerto, of which I
wrote to you, before autumn or early winter. Of course, it will be
difficult ever again to find such an ideal interpreter as Nicholas
Rubinstein, but there is a pianist whom I had in my mind when I
thought of a second Concerto. This is a certain young man, called
d’Albert, who was in Moscow last winter, and whom I heard several
times in public and at private houses. To my mind he is a pianist
of _genius_, the legitimate successor of Rubinstein. Taneiev--whom
I value very highly as musician, teacher, and theorist--would also
be a suitable interpreter, if he had just that _vein of virtuosity_
wherein lies the secret of the magic spell which great interpreters
exercise over the public.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“SKABEIEVKA, _July_ 28_th_ (_August_ 9_th_), 1884.
“The coachman will have told you our adventures. All went well as
far as Kochenovka. There I had supper, and read _Sapho_ by the
mingled light of the moon and a lantern, keeping an anxious eye
upon the lightning that was flashing all around. At 11.30 p.m. we
resumed our journey. The storm came nearer and nearer, until it
broke over our heads. Although the constant flashes were mild, and
the rain wetted us through, my nerves were overstrained. I was
convinced we should miss the train.... Fortunately it was late.
Here we had an appalling storm. The sight of it at the hour of
sunset, which still glowed here and there through the clouds, was
so grand that, forgetful of my fears, I stood by the door to watch
it. The rest of the journey was comfortable. I read _Sapho_, which
I do not like.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“SKABEIEVKA, _July_ 25_th_ (_August_ 6_th_), 1884.
“ ... You ask my opinion upon Daudet’s _Sapho_ ... in spite of his
great talent, this author has long since dropped out of favour with
me. If Daudet had not dedicated the book to his sons in order to
display the fact that it contained a lesson and a warning, I should
say that he had described the sensuality and depravity of the hero
and heroine very simply and picturesquely, with considerable
sympathy. But in view of this dedication I feel indignant at the
Pharisaism and false virtuousness of the author. In reality he
wants to tickle the depraved taste of his public, and describes
with cynical frankness the immorality of Parisian life, while
pretending to deliver a sermon to his sons. He would have us
believe him to be pursuing a moral aim, actuated by the noble
aspiration of saving the young from evil ways. In reality his only
aim was to produce a book which would please the immoral Parisian
public, and to make money by it. One must own that he has attained
his object. The book will have a great success, like Zola’s
_Pot-Bouille_, the novels of Guy de Maupassant, and similar works
of the new French school. When we reflect upon the group of people,
and their way of life, as depicted by the author, we come to the
conclusion that under the cloak of verisimilitude and realism the
novel is fundamentally false. Sapho is an impossible being; at
least I never came across a similar combination of honourable
feeling and baseness, of nobility and infamy. Yet the author always
sympathises with his heroine, and although, judging from the
dedication, she is intended to inspire his sons with horror and
repulsion, she must really seem very attractive to them. On the
other hand, the virtuous characters in the book could not appeal
sympathetically either to Daudet’s sons, or to anyone else; the
tiresome Divonne, the hero’s impossible sister, and the rest of
them--all these people are quite artificial. Sapho is an overdrawn
type of a Parisian cocotte, but there is something true to nature
in her. The others are not alive. Most insipid of all is Irène. Any
young man reading the book must realise why Sapho succeeded in
supplanting her in the heart of her husband Jean. It is here that
Daudet’s hypocrisy is so evident, for while we ought to sympathise
with Irène as greatly as we despise Sapho, in reality we
involuntarily take the part of the depraved heroine. At the same
time we cannot deny the great talent and mastery displayed in the
book. Two or three dozen pages are wonderfully written.”
XX
Early in September, 1884, Tchaikovsky went to stay at Plestcheievo, a
country property which Nadejda von Meck had purchased after
circumstances compelled her to sell Brailov. Here he led the kind of
life which suited him best--reading, composing, and studying the works
of other musicians, in undisturbed quiet and freedom from social duties.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“PLESTCHEIEVO, _September_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1884.
“I have realised two intentions since I came here--the study of two
works hitherto unknown to me--Moussorgsky’s _Khovanstchina_ and
Wagner’s _Parsifal_. In the first I discovered what I expected:
pretensions to realism, original conceptions and methods, wretched
technique, poverty of invention, occasionally clever episodes, amid
an ocean of harmonic absurdities and affectations.... _Parsifal_
leaves an entirely opposite impression. Here we are dealing with a
great master, a genius, even if he has gone somewhat astray. His
wealth of harmony is so luxuriant, so vast, that at length it
becomes fatiguing, even to a specialist. What then must be the
feelings of an ordinary mortal who has wrestled for three hours
with this flow of complicated harmonic combinations? To my mind
Wagner has killed his colossal creative genius with _theories_.
Every preconceived theory chills his incontestable creative
impulse. How could Wagner abandon himself to inspiration, while he
believed he was grasping some particular theory of music-drama, or
musical truth, and, for the sake of this, turned from all that,
according to his predecessors, constituted the strength and beauty
of music? If the singer may not _sing_, but--amid the deafening
clamour of the orchestra--is expected to declaim a series of set
and colourless phrases, to the accompaniment of a gorgeous, but
disconnected and formless symphony, is that opera?
“What really astounds me, however, is the seriousness with which
this philosophising German sets the most inane subjects to music.
Who can be touched, for instance, by _Parsifal_, in which, instead
of having to deal with men and women similar in temperament and
feeling to ourselves, we find legendary beings, suitable perhaps
for a ballet, but not for a music drama? I cannot understand how
anyone can listen without laughter, or without being bored, to
those endless monologues in which Parsifal, or Kundry, and the rest
bewail their misfortunes. Can we sympathise with them? Can we love
or hate them? Certainly not; we remain aloof from their passions,
sentiments, triumphs, and misfortunes. But that which is unfamiliar
to the human heart should never be the source of musical
inspiration....”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“PLESTCHEIEVO, _October_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1884.
“This is my last evening here, and I feel both sadness and dread.
After a month of complete solitude it is not easy to return to the
vortex of Petersburg life. To-day I put all the bookshelves and
music-cases in order. My conscience is clear as to all your
belongings. But I must confess to one mishap: one night I wound the
big clock in my bedroom with such energy that the weights fell off,
and it now wants repairing. Dear and incomparable friend, accept my
warmest thanks for your hospitality. I shall keep the most
agreeable memories of Plestcheievo. How often, when I am in
Petersburg, will my thoughts stray back to this dear, quiet house!
Thank you again and again.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“PETERSBURG, _October_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1884.
“DEAR FRIEND,--When a whole week passes without my finding time to
write to you, you may conclude what a busy life I am leading....
The first night[102] of _Eugene Oniegin_ is fixed for Friday,
October 19th (31st).”
Thanks to Napravnik, this was by far the finest performance of _Eugene
Oniegin_ that had hitherto been seen. Never had this complicated score
received so perfect an interpretation, both as a whole and as regards
detail, because never before had a man so gifted, so capable and
sympathetic, stood at the head of affairs. Yet even this first
performance was by no means irreproachable. Since then, the St.
Petersburg public has heard finer interpretations of the parts of
Tatiana, Eugene, and others, and has seen more careful staging of the
work. The soloists gave a thoughtful rendering of their parts, but
nothing more. Not one of them can be said to have “created” his or her
part, or left a traditional reading of it.
The success of the opera was great, but not phenomenal. There was no
hissing, but between the acts, mingled with expressions of praise and
appreciation, many criticisms and ironical remarks were audible.
These unfavourable views came to light in the Press. Cui thought the
mere choice of the libretto of _Eugene Oniegin_ proved that Tchaikovsky
was lacking in “discriminating taste,” and was not capable of
self-criticism. The chief characteristic of the opera was its “wearisome
monotony.” Tchaikovsky, he considered, was too fond of airing his
troubles in his music. Finally, he pronounced the work to be
“still-born, absolutely valueless and weak.”
Most of the other critics agreed with this view.
Tchaikovsky himself was “satisfied.” He had not realised, any more than
the critics, that the crowded theatre signified the first great success
of a Russian opera since Glinka’s _A Life for the Tsar_. In spite of the
Press notices, it was not merely a success, but a triumph; a fact which
became more and more evident. Dating from the second performance,
_Eugene Oniegin_ drew a long series of packed audiences, and has
remained the favourite opera of the Russian public to this day.
This success did not merely mark an important event in the history of
Russian opera, it proved the beginning of a new era in the life of
Tchaikovsky himself. Henceforward his name, hitherto known and respected
among musicians and a fairly wide circle of musical amateurs, was now
recognised by the great public, and he acquired a popularity to which no
Russian composer had ever yet attained in his own land. Together with
his increase of fame, his material prospects improved. _Eugene Oniegin_
transformed him from a needy into a prosperous man, and brought him that
complete independence which was so necessary to his creative work.
It is instructive to observe that all this was the outcome of an opera
which was never intended to appeal to the masses; but written only to
satisfy the composer’s enthusiasm for Poushkin’s poem, without any
hope--almost without any desire--of seeing it performed on a large
stage.
In spite of its success, this performance of _Eugene Oniegin_ was a
great strain upon the composer’s nerves. He felt bound to stay for the
second performance, after which he left St. Petersburg for Davos, having
in view a twofold object: to take a short rest, and to visit his friend
Kotek, of whose condition he had just received disquieting intelligence.
Tchaikovsky broke his journey in Berlin, where he saw Weber’s _Oberon_
at the Opera. Instead of being bored by this work, as he expected, he
enjoyed it very much. “The music is often enchanting,” he wrote to his
brother, “but the subject is absurd, in the style of _Zauberflöte_.
However, it is amusing, and I roared with laughter in one place, where
at the sound of the magic horn the entire _corps de ballet_ fall flat on
the stage and writhe in convulsions.... I also went to Bilse’s and heard
the Andante from my own quartet. This everlasting Andante; they want to
hear no other work of mine!”
On November 12th (24th) he arrived at Davos. He expected to find a
wilderness, in which neither cigarettes nor cigars were to be had, and
the civilised aspect of the place, the luxurious hotels, the shops, and
the theatre made upon him the fantastic impression of a dream. He had
dreaded the meeting with Kotek, lest his friend should be changed beyond
recognition by the ravages of consumption. He was agreeably surprised to
find him looking comparatively well. But this was only a first
impression; he soon realised that Kotek’s condition was serious. He
remained a few days at Davos, rejoiced his friend’s heart by his
presence, had a confidential interview with the doctor, and left for
Paris on November 17th (29th), after having provided liberally for the
welfare of the invalid.
_To P. Jurgenson._
“ZURICH, _November_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1884.
“ ... I have received a letter from Stassov urging me to present
the following manuscripts to the Imperial Public Library:
(1) ‘Romeo and Juliet,’
(2) ‘The Tempest,’
(3) ‘Francesca,’
(4) ‘The String Quartet, No. 3,’
and any others I like to send. Of the above works you do not
possess the first two (‘The Tempest’ was lost long ago!), but
please send him the others.... Be so good as to reply personally,
or simply to send such scores as you can spare.”
_To M. Tchaikovsky._
“PARIS, _December_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1884.
“I can scarcely tell you, dear Modi, how wearisome the last few
days have been--although I cannot say why. It proceeds chiefly from
home-sickness, the desire for a place of my own; and even the
knowledge that I start for Russia to-morrow brings no satisfaction,
_because I have no home anywhere_. Life abroad no longer pleases
me.... I must have a _home_, be it in Kamenka, or in Moscow. I
cannot go on living the life of a wandering star.... Where will my
_home_ be?”
With the year 1884 closes the second period in Tchaikovsky’s artistic
career. To distinguish it from the “Moscow period,” which was
inseparably connected with his teaching at the Conservatoire, it might
be described as the “Kamenka period.” Not only because from 1878-84
Kamenka was his chief place of residence, but still more because the
life there answered to the whole sum of his requirements, to all which
characterised his spiritual condition during these years. After the
terrible illness in 1877 he found in Kamenka, far more than in San Remo,
Clarens, or France, all he needed for his recovery; during these seven
years, it was at Kamenka that he gathered force and recuperated for the
life which was becoming infinitely more strenuous and many-sided.
Those who have been at death’s door often speak of their return to
health as the happiest time in their lives. Tchaikovsky could say the
same of the first years of the Kamenka period. Happy in the friendship
of Nadejda von Meck and surrounded by his sister’s family, who loved
him, and whom he loved, his whole life shows no gladder days than these.
But with a gradual return to a normal state of mind Tchaikovsky’s
relations to his environment underwent a change. As the years went on,
Kamenka became too narrow a circle for him; he felt the want of “social
intercourse”; the sympathy of his relations ceased to be the one thing
indispensable; the conditions of the family life palled, and sometimes
he grumbled at them. By the middle of the eighties, he was so much
stronger that he was possessed by a desire for complete independence and
liberty of action. He no longer dreaded either _absolute solitude, or
the society of those whose interests were identical with his own_. By
_absolute solitude_ we do not mean that solitary leisure which he
enjoyed during his visits to Brailov and Simaki, during which he was
cared for, as in a fairy tale, by the invisible hand of the truest of
friends, but rather that independence and freedom in every detail of
existence which constitutes the solitude of the typical bachelor’s life.
In 1878 Tchaikovsky’s dread of this kind of solitary existence, like his
fear of social intercourse, was a symptom of his terrible mental
suffering. Now his desire for both independence and society must be
regarded as a sign of complete recovery. Hence his increasing
disposition in his letters to grumble at Kamenka, and his final decision
to leave it. This resolve--like so many important decisions in
Tchaikovsky’s life--was not the result of mature reflection. As usual,
he allowed himself to be guided by negative conclusions.... He knew well
enough that he must and would change his manner of life; he knew the
kind of life that would suit him for the time being--that it must be in
the country; he observed with surprise his increasing need of social
intercourse--but he had no definite idea how he should reconcile these
contradictory requirements and, on the very eve of his new departure in
life, he asks the question: “Where will my home be made?”
The answer to this question is contained in the following period of his
life and work.