Testament! Read the psalms of David, and at first it is impossible
to understand why they have taken such a high place from an
artistic point of view; and, secondly, why they should stand beside
the Gospels. David is altogether _of this_ world. He divides the
whole of humanity into two unequal portions: sinners (to which
belong the greatest number) and the righteous, at whose head he
places himself. In every psalm he calls down God’s wrath upon the
sinner and His praise upon the righteous; yet the reward and the
punishment are both worldly. The sinners shall be undone, and the
righteous shall enjoy all the good things of this earthly life. How
little that agrees with Christ’s teaching, who prayed for His
enemies, and promised the good no earthly wealth, but rather the
kingdom of heaven! What touching love and compassion for mankind
lies in these words: ‘Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are
heavy laden’! In comparison with these simple words all the psalms
of David are as nothing.”
_Diary._
“_February_ 28_th_ (_March_ 12_th_), 1886.
“ ... At tea I read through Alexis Tolstoi’s _St. John Chrysostom_
and _The Sinner_, which reduced me to tears. While in this
agitation of spirit, into which any strong artistic enjoyment
throws me, I received a telegram from the Conservatoire: ‘The Grand
Duke is coming.’ So all plans go to the devil! Despair,
irresolution, and even terror at the prospect of the journey. Went
in and fed my landlady’s hungry dog. In the twilight I was overcome
with insane depression. Played through my Second Suite, and was
glad to find it not so bad as I had imagined.”
_Diary._
“_March_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1886.
“.... Played through _Nero_, and cannot sufficiently marvel at the
audacious coolness of the composer. The very sight of the score
makes me fume. However, I only play this abomination because the
sense of my superiority--at least, as regards
conscientiousness--strengthens my energy. I believe I compose
badly, but when I come across such an atrocity, written in all
earnestness, I feel a certain relief. I am ashamed to show so much
anger over such a publication--but there is no need to disguise
one’s feelings in a diary.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MAIDANOVO, _March_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1886.
“DEAR FRIEND,--I have not written to you for a long time owing to a
ten days’ visit to Moscow.... I devoted two days to the rehearsal
of _Manfred_, and attended the concert at which it was played. I am
quite satisfied; I am sure it is my best symphonic work. The
performance was excellent, but it seemed to me the public were
unintelligent and cold, although they gave me quite an ovation at
the end....”
The very short and sparse Press notices of _Manfred_ add nothing
essential to Tchaikovsky’s words. They merely confirm the fact that the
Symphony received an excellent rendering, but the author’s high opinion
of his work only held good as regards the first two movements; later on
he came to reckon the other movements, the Pastorale, Ariman’s Kingdom,
and Manfred’s Death, as being on a level with _The Oprichnik_, one of
the least favoured of his works.
Although out of chronological order, I may mention here that on the
occasion of a performance of this work in Petersburg (December, 1886)
Cui gave it the most enthusiastic and unreserved praise. Everything
pleased him, especially the Scherzo, and his criticism closed with these
words: “We must be grateful to Tchaikovsky for having enriched the
treasury of our national symphonic music.”
VIII
_To M. Tchaikovsky._
“TIFLIS, _April_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1886.
“ ... I left Moscow on March 23rd (April 4th), and travelled direct
to Taganrog to Hyppolite, whose guest I was for two days, so as to
arrive in Vladikavkas on the 28th.
“Early on Sunday (30th) I started in a four-horse post-carriage,
accompanied by a guard, whose sole duty is to look after the
requirements and comforts of the travellers. I had not slept the
preceding night on account of the horrible bed and the insects
(when I think of the _best_ hotel in Vladikavkas I feel quite
sick), and thought therefore that the beauties of the Georgian Road
would make but little impression on me. The road is, however, so
grand, so astonishingly beautiful, that I never thought of sleeping
the whole day long. The variety of impressions did not allow my
interest to flag for a moment. At first the approach to the
mountains was slow, although they appeared to be quite close to us,
and yet we still drove on and on. Then the valley of the Terek
became narrower, and we reached the wild and gloomy Darjal Gorge.
Afterwards we ascended into the region of snow. Shortly before I
started on my journey there had been an avalanche, and hundreds of
miserable-looking natives were busy shovelling away the snow. At
last we were driving higher and higher between great snow walls,
and it was necessary to put on our furs. By six o’clock we were
descending into the Aragva Valley, and spent the night in Mlety. I
occupied the _imperial rooms_. After the dirt of the Vladikavkas
hotel I found the clean rooms, good beds, and daintily-set table
very delightful. I dined, took a little walk by moonlight in the
gallery, and went to bed at nine o’clock. Next morning I started
off again. Already we could feel the breath of the south in the
air; the sides of the mountains were cultivated, and constantly
there came in sight picturesque _aouli_[111] and all kinds of
dwellings. The descent was made at a terrific pace, considering the
curves of the road. Not far from Dushet such a wonderful view came
in sight that I almost wept with delight. The further we descended,
the more the influence of the south wind was felt. At last we
reached Mtskhet (noted for the ruins of its castle and the
celebrated cathedral), and at half-past five we reached Tiflis.
Toly and his wife were not there; they had not expected me till
later, and had gone to meet me at Mtskhet. They did not arrive till
eight o’clock. Meanwhile I had had time to wash, dress, and see
something of the town. It is delightful. The trees are not yet all
green; the fruit trees are in full blossom; a mass of flowers in
the gardens. It is as warm as in June--in a word, really
spring--just as it was four years ago when we left Naples. The
chief streets are very lively; splendid shops, and quite a European
air. But when I came to the native quarters I found myself in
entirely new surroundings. The streets mean and narrow, as in
Venice; on both sides an endless row of small booths and all kinds
of workshops, where the natives squat and work before the eyes of
the passers-by....”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“TIFLIS, _April_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1886.
“I begin to know Tiflis quite well already, and have seen the
sights. I have been in the baths, built in Oriental style. Visited
the celebrated churches, amongst others the Armenian church, where
I was not only very much interested in the peculiarities of the
service, but also in the singing; I also visited David’s monastery
on the hill, where Griboiedov[112] lies buried. One evening I went
to a concert given by the Musical Society, where a very poor, thin
orchestra played Beethoven’s Third Symphony, Borodin’s _Steppes_,
and my Serenade for strings, to a public which was conspicuous by
its absence. Many excellent musicians live in Tiflis; the most
prominent are the talented composer Ippolitov-Ivanov and the
pianist Eugene Korganov, an Armenian, and a former student of the
Moscow Conservatoire. They show me every attention, and although I
should much prefer to remain incognito, I am much touched by this
proof of the love and sympathy of my fellow-workers. I had
certainly not expected to find my music so widely known in Tiflis.
My operas are played oftener here than anywhere else, and I am
pleased that _Mazeppa_ is such a great favourite.”
_Diary._
“TIFLIS, _April_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1886.
“While waiting for Korganov I busied myself with looking through
his works. He came first, then Ippolitov-Ivanov. The poor Armenian
(a very nice man and a good musician) was very grieved at my
criticism. Then Ivanov played his things: very good.”
_To M. Tchaikovsky._
“TIFLIS, _April_ 23_rd_ (_May_ 5_th_), 1886.
“MODI,--I only remain a few days longer in Tiflis. I could count
this month the happiest in my life, if it were not for the
visitors, and for my social existence. I do not think I have yet
written to you of the honour paid me on the 19th. It was simply
splendid. At eight o’clock, accompanied by Pani,[113] I entered the
Director’s box, which was decorated with flowers and foliage. The
whole theatre rose, and amid great applause I was presented with a
silver wreath and many others. A deputation from the Musical
Society read an address. Then the concert began, which consisted
entirely of my works. There were endless cheers! I have never
experienced anything like it before. After the concert, a
subscription supper, with many toasts. A most exhausting evening,
but a glorious remembrance.”
This was the first great honour in Tchaikovsky’s life, and made a most
agreeable impression on him, as proving the recognition of his merit by
the Russian nation. Tchaikovsky, in the depths of his heart, was well
aware that fame would eventually come, and that he would be worthy of
it. He did not realise, however, that what he had already created was as
worthy of fame as what he should create in the future. He knew, indeed,
that the popularity of his name had greatly increased in the last few
years, but he was still far from suspecting the truth. The honour paid
him in Tiflis revealed to him his real relation to the Russian public.
This revelation was so pleasing to his artistic vanity that it overcame
for a moment his characteristic timidity and his dislike of posing
before the public.
IX
Just at this time Tchaikovsky had to travel to Paris on important family
business. He wished also to take this opportunity of making acquaintance
with his Paris publisher, Mackar. To avoid the fatigue of the wearisome
railway journey, he thought of taking the steamer from Batoum to Italy,
thence by train to France. But owing to cholera at Naples, the French
steamer belonging to the Batoum-Marseilles line did not call at the
Italian port. Tchaikovsky therefore gave up his idea of visiting Italy,
and took a through ticket for Marseilles by one of the steamers of the
“Packet Company.”
_To A. Tchaikovsky._
“STEAMSHIP ‘ARMENIA,’ _May_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1886.
“ ... I am feeling less home-sick to-day, and better able to enjoy
the sea, the mountains, and the sun ... but how stupid it is, that
one can only be alone in one’s cabin! On deck, scarcely a quarter
of an hour passes without someone beginning a conversation. I know
all the passengers already, but have not taken to anyone. The
captain talks to me about music, and enrages me by his stupid
opinions. A Frenchman, a doctor from Trebizond, also sets up to be
a lover of music, and thinks it his duty--now he has discovered I
am a musician--to talk to me about this detestable art, which seems
to possess the quality of interesting everybody....”
_To A. Tchaikovsky._
“ARCHIPELAGO, _May_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1886.
“The day before yesterday, about midday, we reached the Bosphorus
in the most glorious weather. It is wonderfully beautiful, and the
further one goes the more beautiful it becomes. About three o’clock
we arrived at Constantinople. The motion was very great during the
passage into the harbour. About five o’clock we got into a boat,
and were rowed over to the town. The captain had made up his mind
to stay twenty-four hours in Constantinople, so I thought I would
spend the night at an hotel. The next day I visited the places of
interest. The cathedral of St. Sophia delighted and astonished me.
But, on the whole, I do not much care for Constantinople, and the
famous Constantinople dogs simply make me feel sick. By 5 p.m. we
were once more on board, and started immediately. New passengers
had joined the ship. I preferred to remain in my own snug little
cabin; the whole evening I watched the water and the moonlight, and
absorbed all the poetry of a sea journey. To-day is a little
rougher. Many are ill--even men. I am quite well, and find a
certain pleasure in the motion, and in watching the foaming blue
waves. No trace of fear. I am quite accustomed to my surroundings,
and have made friends with everyone, especially a Turkish officer,
who is travelling to Paris.”
_To M. Tchaikovsky_.
“‘ARMENIA,’ _May_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1886.
“ ... To-day the sea is just like a mirror. So far we have been
very lucky, and it is impossible to imagine anything more
beautiful than such a journey. Of course there are some wearisome
moments, especially when they begin to talk of music. The chief
offender is an Englishman, who continually bothers me with
questions as to whether I like this or that song by Tosti, Denza,
etc. Also a French doctor, who has invented a new piano in which
every sign for transposition (♯, ♭, x, ♭♭) has its own
keynote. He talks incessantly of his awful invention, and gives me
long pamphlets on the subject. We have already passed Sicily and
the heel of the Italian boot. Etna is smoking a little, and to the
left there is a horrible pillar of smoke and fire which excites us
all very much. The captain cannot say for certain what it means,
and seems somewhat disturbed by it. Consequently I, too, feel a
little afraid.”
_To A. Tchaikovsky_.
“‘ARMENIA,’ _May_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1886.
“The pillar of smoke and fire about which I wrote yesterday proves
to be a terrible eruption of Mount Etna, not at the top, but at the
side. This eruption was distinctly visible at a distance of three
hundred versts, and the nearer we came the more interesting was the
sight. Alexis woke me at two in the morning, that I might see this
unique spectacle. We were in the Straits of Messina; the sea, which
had been quite calm all day, was now very rough; I cannot describe
the beauties of the moonlight, the fire from Mount Etna, and the
swelling waves. At 3 a.m. I went back to bed and at five the
captain sent a sailor to wake me, so that I might see the town of
Messina, the sunrise, and the eruption on the other side. Later we
passed between the volcano Stromboli and a new little island giving
forth smoke; at least, the captain, who knows these parts well, has
never suspected a volcano here and thinks it may portend a serious
eruption. To-day the weather is splendid and the sea much
quieter.”
_Diary_.
“PARIS, _May_ 21_st_ (_June_ 2_nd_), 1886.
“I decided to go and see Mackar. What I suffered, and how excited I
was, passes description. Ten times I tried to go in, and always
turned away again--even a large glass of absinthe did not help me.
At last I went. He was expecting me. I had pictured him a little
man like Wuchs. He is astonishingly like Bessel. We talked a little
(someone near me was buying my works), and then I left. Naturally I
felt a weight off my heart.”
_To P. V. Tchaikovsky_.[114]
“PARIS, _June_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1886.
“ ... Yesterday I had breakfast with old Madam Viardot. She is such
a stately and interesting woman; I was quite enchanted. Although
seventy, she only looks about forty. She is very lively, amiable,
gay, and sociable, and knew how to make me feel at home from the
very first moment.”
Later Tchaikovsky wrote the following details to Nadejda von Meck
concerning his acquaintance with Madame Viardot:--
“ ... Madame Viardot often speaks about Tourgeniev, and described
to me how he and she wrote ‘The Song of Love Triumphant’ together.
Have I already told you that I was with her for two hours while we
went through the _original score_ of Mozart’s _Don Juan_, which
thirty years ago her husband had picked up very cheaply and quite
by accident? I cannot tell you what I felt at the sight of this
musical relic. I felt as if I had shaken Mozart by the hand and
spoken to him!...”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky_.
“_June_ 23_rd_ (11_th_), 1886.
“Yesterday, at the invitation of Ambrose Thomas, I visited the
Conservatoire during the examination of the pianoforte class. He
is a very nice, friendly old man. A certain Madame Bohomoletz, a
rich lady (half Russian), gave a dinner in my honour, followed by a
musical evening, at which my quartet was played (Marsick and
Brandoukov) and my songs were sung.... Leo Délibes has visited me;
this touched me very deeply. Certainly it seems I am not as unknown
in Paris as I thought....”
I will add to this short and disjointed account that Tchaikovsky was
received in a most friendly manner by Professor Marmontel, a warm
admirer of his works, also by the composers Lalo, Lefèbre, Fauré, and
others. The meeting with Colonne and Lamoureux is described by
Tchaikovsky himself in a later letter:--
“ ... I saw Colonne several times. He was very friendly, and
expressed a wish to give a concert of my compositions. He asked me
to send him some of my new scores to Aix-les-Bains, so that he
could arrange a programme during the course of the summer. He
continually lamented his _poverty_ and the ‘_terrible_ Concurrence
Lamoureux.’ As to Lamoureux, he was amiability itself, and made me
a thousand promises.”
Tchaikovsky was thrown into close contact with many other artists,
several of whom, like the well-known pianist Diemer, for instance,
remained his devoted friends to the end.
X
_To N. F. von Meck_.
“MAIDANOVO, _June_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1886.
“How glad I am to be at home once more! How dear and cosy is my
little house which, when I left, lay deep in snow, and is now
surrounded by foliage and flowers! The three months I spent abroad
were lost time as regards work, but I feel I have gained in
strength, and can now devote my whole time to it without exhausting
myself.”
_Diary._
“_July_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1886.
“ ... Worked atrociously again. And yet people say I am a genius!
Nonsense!”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“MAIDANOVO, _July_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1886.
“DEAR FRIEND,--I completely understand the difficulties of your
situation. One of my letters to you is wanted for publication. You
possess hundreds of my letters, but not one suitable to the case.
Very natural; our correspondence was either too business-like, or
too intimate. How can I help you? I cannot commit forgery, even for
the pleasure of appearing in Mme. La Mara’s book;[115] I cannot
write a letter especially for her collection and take this lucky
opportunity of displaying myself in the most favourable light as
musician, thinker, and man. Such a sacrifice on the altar of
European fame is repugnant to me, although, on the other hand, it
would be false to say that Mme. La Mara’s wish to place me among
the prominent musicians of our time did not flatter me in the
least. On the contrary, I am very deeply touched and pleased by the
attention of the well-known authoress, and openly confess I should
be very glad to be included in the company of Glinka, Dargomijsky,
and Serov. If she were not in such a hurry, it would be better to
send to one of my musical friends, such as Laroche, who could not
fail to find among all my letters some with detailed effusions
about my musical likes and dislikes; in short, a letter in which I
speak quite candidly as a musician. But there is no time, and
Laroche is away. Is it not curious that it should be difficult to
find a suitable letter from a man who has carried on--and still
carries on--the widest correspondence, dealing not only with
business matters, but with artistic work? I am continually
exchanging letters with four brothers, a sister, several cousins,
and many friends, besides a quantity of casual correspondence with
people often unknown to me. The necessity of sacrificing so much of
my time to letter-writing is such a burden to me that, from the
bottom of my heart, I curse all the postal arrangements in the
world. The post often causes me sad moments, but it also brings me
the greatest joy. One person plays the chief part in the story of
the last ten years of my life: she is my good genius; to her I owe
all my prosperity and the power to devote myself to my beloved
work. Yet I have never seen her, never heard her voice; all my
intercourse with her is through the post. I can certainly say I
flood the world with my correspondence, and yet I am not in a
position to help you out of your difficulty.
“There is nothing to be done, but to send this letter itself to
Mme. La Mara. If it does not represent me in the least as a
musician, it will at any rate give the authoress a chance of
satisfying her flattering wish to place me among the prominent
musicians of the day.”
_Diary._
“_August_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1886.
“ ... Played _Manon_ at home. It pleased me better than I expected.
I spent moments of longing and loneliness.”
“_August_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).
“ ... Played _Manon_. To-day Massenet seems to cloy with
sweetness.”
“_August_ 4_th_ (16_th_).
“ ... Played Massenet at home. How stale he has grown! The worst of
it is, that in this staleness I trace a certain affinity to
myself.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MAIDANOVO, _August_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1886.
“ ... I feel at my best when I am alone; when trees, flowers, and
books take the place of human society. O God, how short life is!
How much I have yet to accomplish before it is time to leave off!
How many projects! When I am quite well--as I am at present--I am
seized with a feverish thirst for work, but the thought of the
shortness of human life paralyses all my energy. It was not always
so. I used to believe I could, and must, carry out all my ideas to
completion; therefore my impulses towards creative work were then
more lasting and more fruitful. In any case I hope to have the
outline of the opera (_The Enchantress_) ready in a month’s time,
and then to begin the orchestration.”
_Diary._
“_August_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1886.
“Played the conclusion of the sickly _Manon_ and Lefèbre’s
inanities to the end.”
“_August_ 15_th_ (27_th_).
“ ... Worked a little before and after supper. Kouma’s Arioso is
finished. Read Loti’s _Pêcheurs d’Islande_. Not very pleased with
it. The tone of the descriptions remind me of that ... Zola
and....”
“_August_ 18_th_ (30_th_).
“Walked in the garden. Worked and completely finished the rough
sketches for the opera. Thank God!”
_To M. Tchaikovsky._
“MAIDANOVA, _September_, 9_th_ (21_st_), 1886.
“ ... I have been all through Vietinghov-Scheel’s opera. Good
heavens! what a weak piece of work! He is a child, and no mature
artist. It is a shame such a work should be given at the Imperial
Opera. However, in this way the Direction have done Rubinstein a
great service. His _Demon_ appears a masterpiece in comparison with
that little Scheel affair. To tell the truth, at present the best
operas in the world are composed by P. I. Tchaikovsky, and _The
Enchantress_ is the most beautiful of them all. A gem all round. At
least so it appears to me at this moment. Probably it appears to
Vietinghov that his _Tamara_ is far more beautiful; and God alone
knows which of us is right.”
_Diary._
“_September_ 20_th_ (October 2_nd_), 1886.
“Tolstoi never speaks with love and enthusiasm of any prophet of
Truth (with the exception of Christ), but rather with contempt and
hatred. We do not know how he regards Socrates, Shakespeare, or
Gogol. We do not know if he cares for Michael Angelo and Raphael,
Tourgeniev, George Sand, Dickens and Flaubert. Perhaps his
sympathies and antipathies in the sphere of philosophy and art are
known to his intimates, but this inspired talker has never openly
let fall a word which could enlighten us as to his attitude towards
those great spirits who are on an equality with him. For instance,
he has told me that Beethoven had no talent (as compared with
Mozart), but he has never expressed himself in writing either on
music or any kindred subject. Truly I think this man inclines only
before God or the people, before humanity as a whole. There is no
individual before whom he would bow down. Suitaiev was not an
individual in Tolstoi’s eyes, but the people itself, the
personified wisdom of the people. It would be interesting to know
what this giant liked or disliked in literature.
“Probably after my death it will be of some interest to the world
to hear of my musical predilections and prejudices, the more so
that I have never expressed them by word of mouth.
“I will begin by degrees, and when touching upon contemporary
musicians I shall also speak of their personalities.
“To begin with Beethoven, whom I praise unconditionally, and to
whom I bend as to a god. But what is Beethoven to me? I bow down
before the grandeur of some of his creations, but I do not love
Beethoven. My relationship to him reminds me of that which I felt
in my childhood to the God Jehovah. I feel for him--for my
sentiments are still unchanged--great veneration, but also fear. He
has created the heaven and the earth, and although I fall down
before him, I do not love him. Christ, on the contrary, calls forth
exclusively the feeling of _love_. He is God, but also Man. He has
suffered like ourselves. We pity Him and love in Him the ideal side
of man’s nature. If Beethoven holds an analogous place in my heart
to the God Jehovah, I love Mozart as the musical Christ. I do not
think this comparison is blasphemous. Mozart was as pure as an
angel, and his music is full of divine beauty.
“While speaking of Beethoven I touch on Mozart. To my mind, Mozart
is the culminating point of all beauty in the sphere of music. He
alone can make me weep and tremble with delight at the
consciousness of the approach of that which we call the ideal.
Beethoven makes me tremble too, but rather from a sense of fear and
yearning anguish. I do not understand how to analyse music, and
cannot go into detail.... Still I must mention two facts. I love
Beethoven’s middle period, and sometimes his first; but I really
hate his _last_, especially the latest quartets. They have only
brilliancy, nothing more. The rest is chaos, over which floats,
veiled in mist, the spirit of this musical Jehovah.
“I love everything in Mozart, for we love everything in the man to
whom we are truly devoted. Above all, _Don Juan_, for through that
work I have learnt to know what music is. Till then (my seventeenth
year) I knew nothing except the enjoyable _semi-music_ of the
Italians. Although I love everything in Mozart, I will not assert
that every one of his works, even the most insignificant, should be
considered a masterpiece. I know quite well that no single example
of his Sonatas is a great creation, and yet I like each one,
because it is his, because he has breathed into it his sacred
breath.
“As to the forerunner of both these artists, I like to play Bach,
because it is interesting to play a good fugue; but I do not regard
him, in common with many others, as a great genius. Handel is only
fourth-rate, he is not even interesting. I sympathise with Glück in
spite of his poor creative gift. I also like some things of Haydn.
These four great masters have been surpassed by Mozart. They are
rays which are extinguished by Mozart’s sun.”
_To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._
“_September_, 1886.
“YOUR IMPERIAL HIGHNESS,--Permit me to thank you cordially for your
valued present and your sympathetic letter. Very highly do I esteem
the attention of which you have thought me worthy.
“I only regret, your Highness, that while looking for poems for my
songs which are to be dedicated to her Majesty, I had not as yet
the pleasure of possessing that charming little book which, thanks
to your flattering attention, is now in my hands. How many of your
poems glow with that warm and sincere feeling which makes them
suitable for musical setting! When I read your collection of verses
I determined at once to select some for my next song-cycle, and to
dedicate them, with your gracious permission, to your Highness. I
should be much pleased if you would accept this dedication as the
expression of my sincere devotion.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MAIDANOVO, _October_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1886.
“ ... What you say about _my conducting_ is as balm to my wounded
heart. The consciousness of my inability to conduct has been a
torment and a martyrdom to me all my life. I think it is
contemptible and shameful to have so little self-control that the
mere thought of stepping into the conductor’s desk makes me tremble
with fright This time too--although I have already promised to
conduct myself--I feel when the time comes my courage will vanish
and I shall refuse.”
_Diary._
“MAIDANOVO, _October_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1886.
“Played Brahms. It irritates me that this self-conscious mediocrity
should be recognised as a genius. In comparison with him, Raff was
a giant, not to speak of Rubinstein, who was a much greater man.
And Brahms is so chaotic, so dry and meaningless!”
XI
At the end of October Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg, to be present at
the first performance of Napravnik’s opera, _Harold_. But as the
performance was constantly postponed, he finally returned to Maidanovo
without waiting for it. Nevertheless, the journey was not without
results, for Vsievolojsky, Director of the Imperial Opera, commissioned
Tchaikovsky for the first time to compose a ballet. Joukovsky’s _Undine_
was chosen as a subject.
Judging from all accounts, this visit to Petersburg must have convinced
Tchaikovsky of his great popularity there. Not only did he meet with a
very friendly reception from the composers, with Rimsky-Korsakov at
their head, but he received from an anonymous well-wisher, through the
medium of Stassov, a premium of 500 roubles, usually bestowed on the
best musical novelty of the season, judged in this instance to be
_Manfred_. He was also honoured by a brilliant gathering on the occasion
of his election as honorary member of the St. Petersburg Chamber Music
Society.
_To Rimsky-Korsakov._
“_October_ 30_th_ (_November_ 11_th_), 1886.
“DEAR NICHOLAS ANDREIEVICH,--I have a favour to ask. Arensky is now
quite recovered, although I find him somewhat depressed and
agitated. I like him so much and wish you would sometimes take an
interest in him, for, as regards music, he venerates you more than
anyone else. The best way of doing this would be to give one of his
works at one of your next concerts. There, where all Russian
composers find a place, should be a little room for Arensky, who,
at any rate, is as good as the rest. But as you would not like to
offend anyone, I propose that you should put one of Arensky’s works
in the programme of your fourth concert instead of my _Romeo_
overture. He needs stirring up; and such an impulse given by you
would count for so much with him, because he loves and respects
you. Please think it over and grant my wish. Thereby you will make
your deeply devoted pupil (Arensky) very happy.
“In conclusion, I must add that your ‘Spanish Capriccio’ is a
_colossal masterpiece of instrumentation_, and you may regard
yourself as the greatest master of the present day.”
_To M. Tchaikovsky._
“MOSCOW, _November_ 19_th_ (_December_ 1_st_), 1886.
“ ... I arrived in Moscow early to-day. There has already been a
rehearsal. I was ill again after my last letter to you. This time I
was so bad that I decided to send for the doctor. It seemed to me
that I was about to have a strange illness. Suddenly I received a
telegram saying that I must be at the rehearsal.[116] I answered
that the rehearsal was not to be thought of, for I could not
travel. But at the end of half an hour I suddenly felt so well
that--in spite of terrible disinclination--I went to Moscow. Every
trace of headache, which for ten days had so affected me, vanished.
Is not this a curious pathological case?”
_To A. S. Arensky._
“_November_ 24_th_ (_December_ 6_th_), 1886.
“DEAR FRIEND ANTON STEPANOVICH,--I only received your welcome
letter yesterday; I knew already from Taneiev that you had composed
_Marguerite Gautier_ and dedicated it to me. Thank you cordially
for this dedication. The attention and honour you have shown me
touch me deeply. _Marguerite_ lies beside me on the table, and--in
my free moments, which are not many--I cast a glance at it here and
there, with much interest and pleasure. Please do not feel hurt
that I did not write you my impressions at once. At the first
glance I found the work very interesting, because you have entirely
departed from your accustomed style. _Marguerite_ has so little
resemblance to the Suite and the Symphony that one could easily
suppose it came from the pen of a different man. The elegance of
form, harmony, and orchestration are the same, but the character of
the theme and its working out are quite different. Naturally the
question arises: Is it better than the Symphony and the Suite? At
present I cannot answer.”
Although somewhat anticipating my narrative, I will insert here an
extract from a later letter of Tchaikovsky’s, in which he gives Arensky
his opinion of _Marguerite Gautier_.
_To A. Arensky._
“MAIDANOVO, _April_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1887.
“DEAR ANTON STEPANOVICH,--I wrote to you in August that I would
pronounce judgment on _Marguerite Gautier_ as soon as I had heard
the work and had leisure to study the score. I held it all the more
my duty to wait because, although I value your talent very highly,
I do not like your Fantasia. It is very easy to praise a man who is
highly esteemed. But to say to him: ‘Not beautiful; I do not like
it,’ without basing one’s judgment on a full explanation, is very
difficult....
“I must state my opinion briefly. First the choice of subject. It
was very painful and mortifying to me, and to all your friends,
that you had chosen _La Dame aux Camelias_ as the subject of your
Fantasia. How can an educated musician--when there are Homer,
Shakespeare, Gogol, Poushkin, Dante, Tolstoi, Lermontov, and
others--feel any interest in the production of Dumas _fils_, which
has for its theme the history of a demi-mondaine adventuress which,
even if written with French cleverness, is in truth false,
sentimental, and vulgar? Such a choice might be intelligible in
Verdi, who employed subjects which could excite people’s nerves at
a period of artistic decadence; but it is quite incomprehensible in
a young and gifted Russian musician, who has enjoyed a good
education, and is, moreover, a pupil of Rimsky-Korsakov and a
friend of S. Taneiev.
“Now for the music: (1) _The Orgies._--If we are to realise in
these orgies a supper after a ball at the house of a light woman,
in which a crowd of people participate, eat mayonnaise with
truffles, and afterwards dance the _cancan_, the music is not
wanting _in realism_, fire, and brilliancy. It is, moreover,
saturated with Liszt, as is the whole Fantasia. Its beauty--if one
looks at it closely--is purely on the surface; there are no
enthralling passages. Such beauty is not _true_ beauty, but only a
forced imitation, which is rather a fault than a merit. We find
this superficial beauty in Rossini, Donizetti, Bellini,
Mendelssohn, Massenet, Liszt, and others. But they were also
masters in their own way, though their chief characteristic was not
the Ideal, after which we ought to strive. For neither Beethoven,
nor Bach (who is wearisome, but still a genius), nor Glinka, nor
Mozart, ever strove after this surface beauty, but rather the
ideal, often veiled under a form which at first sight is
unattractive.
“(2) _Pastorale in Bougival._--Oh God! If you could only understand
how unpoetical and unpastoral this Bougival is, with its boats, its
inns, and its _cancans_! This movement is as good as most
conventional pastoral ballets that are composed by musicians of
some talent.
“(3) _The Love Melody_
[Illustration: musical notation]
is altogether beautiful. It reminds me of Liszt. Not of any
particular melody, but it is in his style, after the manner of his
semi-Italian melodies, which are wanting in the plasticity and
simplicity of the true Italian folk airs. Moreover, the
continuation of your theme:
[Illustration: musical notation]
is not only beautiful, but wonderful; it captivates both the ear
and the heart.
“No one can ever reproach you with regard to the technical part of
your work, which deserves unqualified praise.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“MOSCOW, _December_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1886.
“MY DEAR MODI,--Something very important happened to-day. I
conducted the first orchestral rehearsal in such style that all
were astonished (unless it were mere flattery), for they had
expected I should make a fool of myself. The nearer came the
terrible day, the more unbearable was my nervousness. I was often
on the point of giving up the idea of conducting. In the end I
mastered myself, was enthusiastically received by the orchestra,
found courage to make a little speech, and raised the bâton. Now I
know I _can_ conduct, I shall not be nervous at the performance.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MOSCOW, _January_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1887.
“MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--I have been enjoying your hospitality for a
week.[117] I live in your house as if under the wing of Christ.
Your servants are so careful of my welfare that I cannot praise
them enough. I only regret that I can be so little at home. Daily
rehearsals. I take a walk every morning, and by eleven o’clock I am
waiting in the conductor’s desk. The rehearsal is not over till
four o’clock, and then I am so tired that when I return home I have
to lie down for a while. Towards evening I feel better and take
some food.
“The conducting gives me great anxiety and exhausts my whole
nervous system. But I must say it also affords me great
satisfaction. First of all, I am very glad to have conquered my
innate, morbid shyness; secondly, it is a good thing for a composer
to conduct his own work, instead of having constantly to interrupt
the conductor to draw his attention to this, or that, mistake;
thirdly, all my colleagues have shown me such genuine sympathy that
I am quite touched by it, and very pleased. Do you know I feel much
less agitation than when I sit at the rehearsal doing nothing. If
all goes well, I believe that not only will my nerves be none the
worse, but it will have a beneficial effect on them.”
The first performance of _Les Caprices d’Oxane_ took place at Moscow on
January 19th (31st), 1887, and had a far-reaching influence on
Tchaikovsky’s future, because he then made his first successful attempt
at conducting. The great interest which the production of a new opera
always awakens was thereby doubled, and all the places were taken before
the opening night. The singers did their work conscientiously; there was
no fault to be found, but no one made a memorable “creation” of any
part. The mounting and costumes were irreproachable.
The public greeted the composer-conductor with great enthusiasm. Gifts
of all kinds showed plainly that it was Tchaikovsky himself who was
honoured, not the new conductor and composer of _Les Caprices d’Oxane_.
The opera was a success; four numbers had to be repeated _da capo_.
The Press criticisms on this occasion were all favourable, even the
_Sovremenny Izvesty_, in which Krouglikov, as we know, generally
criticised Tchaikovsky’s works so severely. In short, the opera really
had a brilliant success; far greater than that achieved by _Eugene
Oniegin_ in Petersburg. Nevertheless this opera only remained in the
repertory for two seasons.
But little can be said about that which interests us most--the
impression made by Tchaikovsky’s conducting. The severest judge and
critic, Tchaikovsky himself, was satisfied. We know in what an objective
spirit he criticised the success of his works, so we can safely believe
him when he says he fulfilled his task satisfactorily. He describes this
memorable evening as follows:--
_To E. K. Pavlovskaya._
“MOSCOW, _January_ 20_th_ (_February_ 1_st_), 1887.
“I did not expect to be very excited on the day of the performance,
but when I awoke, quite early, I felt really ill, and could only
think of the approaching ordeal as of a horrible nightmare. I
cannot describe what mental agonies I suffered during the course
of the day. Consequently, at the appointed hour, I appeared half
dead at the theatre. Altani accompanied me to the orchestra.
Immediately the curtain went up and, amid great applause, I was
presented with many wreaths from the chorus, orchestra, etc. While
this took place, I somewhat recovered my composure, began the
Overture well, and by the end felt quite master of myself. There
was great applause after the Overture. The first Act went
successfully, and afterwards I was presented with more wreaths,
among them yours, for which many thanks. I was now quite calm, and
conducted the rest of the opera with undivided attention. It is
difficult to say if the work really pleased. The theatre was at
least half-full of my friends. Time and future performances will
show if the applause was for me personally (for the sake of past
services), or for my work. Now the question is, how did I conduct?
I feel some constraint in speaking about it. Everyone praised me;
they said they had no idea I possessed such a gift for conducting.
But is it true? Or is it only flattery? I shall conduct twice more,
and after the third time I ought to know for certain how much truth
there is in all this.”
I have seldom seen Tchaikovsky in such a cheerful frame of mind as on
that evening. We did not reach home till after five o’clock in the
morning, and he immediately sank into a deep sleep. After so many days
of anxiety and excitement he really needed rest! No one was more
unprepared than he for the sad news which reached us next morning.
About seven o’clock I was aroused by a telegram which announced the
death of our niece Tatiana, the eldest daughter of Alexandra Davidov.
She had died quite suddenly at a masked ball in Petersburg. Not only was
she a near relative, but also a highly gifted girl of great beauty. It
required considerable resolution on my part to break the sad news to my
brother when he awoke at eleven o’clock, happy and contented, and still
under the pleasant impressions of the previous evening.
In spite of this heavy blow, Tchaikovsky did not alter his decision to
conduct _Les Caprices d’Oxane_ for two nights longer. The constant
activity, and anxiety of a different nature, helped to assuage the
violence of his grief.
XII
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MAIDANOVO, _February_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1887.
“I have now been at home five days, yet there is no question of
rest; on the contrary, I am working with such feverish haste at
_The Enchantress_ that I feel quite exhausted. I cannot live
without work, but why do circumstances always compel me to be in a
hurry, to have to overtax my strength? I see such an endless pile
of work before me to which I am pledged that I dare not look into
the future. How short life is! Now that I have probably reached
that last step which means the full maturity of my talent, I look
back involuntarily and, seeing so many years behind me, glance
timidly at the path ahead and ask: Shall I succeed? Is it worth
while? And yet it is only now that I begin to be able to compose
without self-doubt, and to believe in my own powers and knowledge.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MAIDANOVO, _February_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1887.
“I am already dreaming of a time when I shall give concerts abroad.
But of what does one not dream? If only I were twenty years
younger!!! One thing is certain: my nerves are much stronger, and
things which formerly were not to be thought of are now quite
possible. Undoubtedly I owe this to my free life, relieved from all
anxiety of earning my daily bread. And who but you, dear friend, is
the author of all the good things fate has brought me?
“The concert will take place in Petersburg on March 5th.”
On February 23rd (March 7th) Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg to attend
the rehearsals for the Philharmonic Concert, at which the St. Petersburg
public was to make his acquaintance as a conductor, from which dated the
commencement of a whole series of similar concerts which made his name
known in Russia, Europe and America.
On February 28th (March 12th) the first rehearsal took place, and
Tchaikovsky writes in his diary in his customary laconic style:
“Excitement and dread.” Henceforth, to the very end of his life, it was
not the concert itself so much as the first rehearsal which alarmed him.
By the second rehearsal he had usually recovered himself. Abroad, he
found it particularly painful to stand up for the first time before an
unknown orchestra.
All the important musical circles in Petersburg showed a lively interest
in Tchaikovsky’s début as a concert conductor. The three rehearsals
attracted a number of the first musicians, who encouraged him by their
warm words of sympathy. No début could have been made under more
favourable conditions.
The concert itself, which took place on March 5th (17th), in the hall of
the Nobles’ Club, went off admirably. The programme consisted of: (1)
Suite No. 2 (first performance in St. Petersburg), (2) Aria from the
opera _The Enchantress_, (3) the “Mummers’ Dance” from the same opera,
(4) Andante and Valse from the Serenade for strings, (5) _Francesca da
Rimini_, (6) Pianoforte solos, (7) Overture “_1812_.”
The hall was full to overflowing, and the ovations endless. The Press
criticisms of the music, as well as of Tchaikovsky’s conducting, proved
colourless and commonplace, but on the whole laudatory. Even Cui
expressed some approbation for Tchaikovsky as a conductor, although he
again found fault with him as a composer.
Tchaikovsky’s diary contains the following brief account of the concert:
“My concert. Complete success. Great enjoyment--but still, why this
drop of gall in my honeypot?”
In this question lie the germs of that weariness and suffering which had
their growth in Tchaikovsky’s soul simultaneously with his pursuit of
fame, and reached their greatest intensity in the moment of the
composer’s greatest triumphs.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MAIDANOVO, _March_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1887.
“The Empress has sent me her autograph picture in a beautiful
frame.[118] This attention has touched me deeply, especially at a
time when she and the Emperor have so many other things to think
about.”
_Diary._
“Ippolitov-Ivanov and his wife came very late, about ten o’clock. I
met them out walking. At first I felt annoyed to see them, and
vexed at my work being interrupted; but afterwards these good
people (she is extremely sympathetic) made me forget everything,
except that it is the greatest pleasure to be in the society of
congenial friends. Ivanov played, and she sang beautiful fragments
from his opera _Ruth_ (the duet especially charmed me). They left
at six. Worked before and after supper.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“MAIDANOVO, _March_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1887.
“_Ruth_ pleases me more and more. I believe Ippolitov-Ivanov will
come to the front, if only because he has something original about
him, and this ‘something’ is also very attractive.”
_Diary._
“_March_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1887.
“I will not conceal it: all the poetry of country life and solitude
has vanished. I do not know why. _Nowhere do I feel so miserable as
at home._ If I do not work, I torment myself, am afraid of the
future, etc. Is solitude really necessary to me? When I am in town,
country life seems a paradise; when I am here, I feel no delight
whatever. To-day, in particular, I am quite out of tune.”
“_March_ 19_th_ (31_st_).
“Have just read through my diary for the last two years. Good
heavens! how could my imagination have been so deceived by the
melancholy bareness of Maidanovo? How everything used to please
me!”
“_March_ 26_th_ (_April_ 7_th_).
“Read through Korsakov’s ‘Snow-Maiden,’ and was astonished at his
mastery. I envy him and ought to be ashamed of it.”
“_March_ 30_th_ (_April_ 11_th_).
“After supper I read the score of _A Life for the Tsar_. What a
master! How did Glinka manage to do it? It is incomprehensible how
such a colossal work could have been created by an amateur
and--judging by his diary--a rather limited and trivial nature.”
“_April_ 16_th_ (28_th_).
“Played through _The Power of the Evil One_.[119] An almost
repulsive musical monstrosity; yet, at the same time, talent,
intuition, and imagination.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MAIDANOVO, _April_ 24_th_ (_May_ 6_th_), 1887.
“MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--I wished to leave Maidanovo a month ago, and
yet I am still here. My work (the orchestration of the opera)
detains me. This work is not really difficult, but it takes time. I
notice that the older I grow, the more trouble my orchestration
gives me. I judge myself more severely, am more careful, more
critical with regard to light and shade. In such a case the country
is a real boon. Saint-Saëns has invited me to be present at both
his concerts at Moscow, but I have courteously refused. Poor
Saint-Saëns had to play to an empty room. I knew it would be so,
and that the poor Frenchman would take it deeply to heart, so I did
not wish to be a witness of his disappointment. But also I did not
want to interrupt my work.”
Tchaikovsky stayed at Maidanovo to complete the instrumentation of the
whole score of _The Enchantress_, and left on May 9th to visit his sick
friend, Kondratiev, before starting on his journey to the Caucasus.
XIII
_To N. F. von Meck._
“THE CASPIAN SEA, _May_ 28_th_ (_June_ 9_th_), 1887.
“I left Moscow on the 20th. At Nijni-Novogorod I had great trouble
in securing a second-class ticket for the steamer, _Alexander II_.
This steamer is considered the best, and is therefore always full.
My quarters were very small and uncomfortable, but I enjoyed the
journey down the Volga. It was almost high tide, and therefore the
banks were so far away that one could almost imagine oneself at
sea. Mother Volga is sublimely poetical. The right bank is hilly,
and there are many beautiful bits of scenery, but in this respect
the Volga cannot compare with the Rhine, nor even with the Danube
and Rhône. Its beauty does not lie in its banks, but in its
unbounded width and in the extraordinary volume of its waters,
which roll down to the sea without any motion. We stopped at the
towns on the way just long enough to get an idea of them. Samara
and the little town of Volsk pleased me best, the latter having the
most beautiful gardens I have ever seen. We reached Astrakhan on
the fifth day. Here we boarded a little steamer, which brought us
to the spot where the mouth of the Volga debouches into the open
sea, where we embarked on a schooner, on board which we have been
for the last two days. The Caspian Sea has been very treacherous.
It was so stormy during the night that I was quite frightened.
Every moment it seemed as if the trembling ship must break up
beneath the force of the waves; so much so that I could not close
an eye all night. But in spite of this I was not sea-sick. We
reached Baku to-day. The storm has abated. I shall not be able to
start for Tiflis until to-morrow morning, for we cannot catch the
train to-day.”
On the journey between Tsaritsin and Astrakhan, Tchaikovsky had a very
droll experience. He had managed so cleverly that no one on board knew
who he was. One day a little musical entertainment was got up, and
Tchaikovsky offered to undertake the accompanying. It so happened that a
lady amateur placed one of his own songs before him and explained to him
the manner in which he was to accompany it. On his timidly objecting,
the lady answered that she must know best, as Tchaikovsky himself had
gone through the song in question with her music mistress. The same
evening a passenger related how Tchaikovsky had been so delighted with
the tenor Lody in the rôle of Orlik in _Mazeppa_[120] that after the
performance “he fell on Lody’s neck and wept tears of emotion.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“TIFLIS, _May_ 30_th_ (_June_ 11_th_), 1887.
“Baku, in the most unexpected fashion, has turned out to be an
altogether beautiful place, well planned and well built, clean and
very characteristic. The Oriental (especially the Persian)
character is very prevalent, so that one could almost imagine
oneself to be on the other side of the Caspian Sea. It has but one
drawback: the complete lack of verdure....
“On the day after my arrival I visited the neighbourhood of the
naphtha wells, where some hundred boring-towers throw up a hundred
thousand _pouds_ of naphtha every minute. The picture is grand but
gloomy....
“The road between Baku and Tiflis runs through a stony, desolate
country.”
The end of this journey was Borjom, where he intended to pass the
whole summer in the family of his brother Anatol. He reached there
on June 11th. He only learnt to appreciate by degrees the
enchanting beauty of the neighbourhood. The horizon, shut in by
lofty mountains, the sombre flora, their luxuriance, and the depth
of the shadows, made an unpleasant impression upon him at first.
Only after he had learnt to know the inexhaustible number and
variety of the walks did he begin to like this country more and
more. When, ten days later, his brother Modeste arrived at Borjom
he was already full of enthusiasm and ready to initiate him into
all the beauties of the place.
Tchaikovsky worked very little while at Borjom, only spending an
hour a day at the instrumentation of the “Mozartiana” Suite.
At the commencement of July Tchaikovsky left Borjom in response to
a telegram from his friend Kondratiev, who had been removed to
Aix-la-Chapelle, in the hopes that the baths might prolong his life
for a few months. Kondratiev’s condition was so critical that
Tchaikovsky could not do less than interrupt his own cure and join
his friend as soon as possible.
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“AIX-LA-CHAPELLE, _July_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1887.
“I do not dislike Aix--that is all I can say. What is really bad
here is the atmosphere, saturated as it is with smells of cooking,
cinnamon, and other spices. I think sorrowfully of the air in
Borjom, but I try to dwell upon it as little as possible. However,
I feel more cheerful here than I did on the journey. I see that my
arrival has given much pleasure to Kondratiev and Legoshin, and
that I shall be of use to them.”
_Diary._
“AIX, _July_ 22_nd_ (_August_ 3_rd_), 1887.
“I sit at home full of remorse. The cause of my remorse is this:
life is passing away and draws near to its end, and yet I have not
fathomed it. Rather do I drive away those disquieting questions of
our destiny when they intrude themselves upon me, and try to hide
from them. Do I live truly? Do I act rightly? For example, I am now
sitting here, and everyone admires my _sacrifice_. Now there is no
question of sacrifice. I lead a life of ease, gormandise at the
_table d’hôte_, do nothing, and spend my money on luxuries, while
others want it for absolute necessities. Is not that the veriest
egoism? I do not act towards my neighbours as I ought.”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“AIX, _July_ 29_th_ (_August_ 10_th_), 1887.
“DEAR FRIEND,--To-day I am sending you my Mozart Suite, registered.
Three of the borrowed numbers in the Suite are pianoforte pieces
(Nos. 1, 2, 4); one (No. 3) is the chorus ‘Ave Verum.’ Of course, I
should be glad if the Suite could be played next season. That is
all.”
Tchaikovsky’s “heroic act” of friendship consumed more than a month of
his time. While paying full tribute to the generosity of his
undertaking, we must confess that he failed to grasp the relation
between wishing and doing. Tchaikovsky, filled with real and
self-denying compassion for the sufferings of his neighbour, was
wanting--as in all practical questions of life--in the necessary
ability, self-control, and purpose. In the abstract, no one had more
sympathy for his neighbour than he; but in reality no one was less able
to do much for him. Anyone who could ask the trivial question: “Where
wadding, needles, and thread could be bought?” would naturally lose his
head at the bedside of a dying man. The consciousness of his
helplessness and incapacity to lessen his friend’s suffering in the
least, his irresolution in face of the slightest difficulty, rendered
Tchaikovsky’s useless visit to Aix all the more painful. He suffered for
the dying man and for himself. The result was that he did “too much” for
friendship and “too little” for his sick friend; at least, in comparison
to the extraordinary sacrifice of strength which his generous action
demanded. When, at the end of August, the dying man’s nephew came to
relieve him, Tchaikovsky fled from Aix, deeply grieved at parting from
his friend “for ever,” humbled at his own mental condition, and angry at
his inability “to see the sad business through to the end.” Exhausted,
and wrathful with himself, he arrived at Maidanovo on August 30th
(September 11th), where the news of Kondratiev’s death reached him a
fortnight later.
_Diary._
“_September_ 21_st_ (_October_ 3_rd_), 1887.
“How short is life! How much I have still to do, to think, and to
say! We keep putting things off, and meanwhile death lurks round
the corner. It is just a year since I touched this book, and so
much has changed since then. How strange! Just 365 days ago I was
afraid to confess that, in spite of the glow of sympathetic feeling
which Christ awoke in me, I dared to doubt His divinity. Since then
my _religion_ has become more clearly defined, for during this time
I have thought a great deal about God, life, and death. In Aix
especially I meditated on the fatal questions: why, how, for what
end? I should like to define my religion in detail, if only I might
be quite clear, once for all, as to my faith, and as to the
boundary which divides it from speculation. But life and its
vanities are passing, and I do not know whether I shall succeed in
expressing the _symbol_ of that faith which has arisen in me of
late. It has very definite forms, but I do not use them when I
pray. I pray just as before; as I was taught. Moreover, God can
hardly require to know how and why we pray. God has no need of
prayers. _But we have._”
On October 20th (November 1st) _The Enchantress_ was produced under the
bâton of the composer, and the performance was altogether most brilliant
and artistic.
On this first night Tchaikovsky does not appear to have observed that
the opera was a failure. He thought, on the contrary, that it pleased
the public. After the second performance (on October 23rd),
which--notwithstanding that it went better than the first--still failed
to move the audience to applause, he first felt doubts as to its
success. The indifference of the public was clearly apparent after the
third and fourth representations, when his appearance in the conductor’s
desk was received in chilling silence. It was only then that he realised
that _The Enchantress_ was a failure. On the fifth night the house was
empty.
Tchaikovsky, as we shall see, ascribed this failure to the ill-will of
the critics. After I had read through all the notices--says Modeste--it
seemed to me that, in the present instance, my brother had done them too
much honour. In none of the eleven criticisms did I trace that tone of
contempt and malicious enjoyment with which his other operas had been
received. No one called _The Enchantress_ a “still-born nonentity,” as
Cui had said of _Eugene Oniegin_; no one attempted to count up the
deliberate thefts in _The Enchantress_, as Galler had done with
_Mazeppa_. The reason for the failure of _The Enchantress_ must be
sought elsewhere: possibly in the defective interpretation of both the
chief parts; but more probably in the qualities of the music, which
still awaits its just evaluation at the hands of a competent critic.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MOSCOW, _November_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1887.
“MY DEAR FRIEND,--Please forgive me for so seldom writing. I am
passing through a very stirring period of my life, and am always in
such a state of agitation that it is impossible to speak to you
from my heart as I should wish. After conducting my opera four
times, I returned here, about five days ago, in a very melancholy
frame of mind. In spite of the ovation I received on the opening
night, my opera has not taken with the public, and practically met
with no success. From the Press I have encountered such hatred and
hostility that, even now, I cannot account for it. On no other
opera have I expended so much labour and sacrifice; yet never
before have I been so persecuted by the critics. I have given up
the journey to Tiflis, for I shall scarcely have time to get
sufficient rest in Maidanovo before I have to start on my concert
tour abroad. I conduct first in Leipzig, and afterwards in Dresden,
Hamburg, Copenhagen, Berlin, and Prague. In March I give my own
concert in Paris, and from there I go to London, as I have received
an invitation from the Philharmonic Society. In short, a whole
crowd of new and strong impressions are awaiting me.”
The Symphony Concert of the Russian Musical Society, November 14th
(26th), was the first concert ever conducted by Tchaikovsky in Moscow.
The programme consisted exclusively of his own works, including
“Mozartiana” (first time), _Francesca da Rimini_, the Fantasia for
pianoforte, op. 56 (Taneiev as soloist), and the Arioso from _The
Enchantress_. On the following day the same programme was repeated by
the Russian Musical Society at a popular concert. The “Mozartiana” Suite
was a great success (the “Ave Verum” was encored), and the Press--in
contradistinction to that of St. Petersburg--spoke with great warmth and
cordiality of the composer and conductor.
_To P. Jurgenson._
“_November_ 24_th_ (_December_ 6_th_) 1887.
“In to-day’s paper I accidentally saw that the eighth performance
of _The Enchantress_ was given before a half-empty house. It is an
undoubted _fiasco_. This failure has wounded me in my inmost soul,
for I never worked with greater ardour than at _The Enchantress_.
Besides, I feel ashamed when I think of you, for you must have
sustained a terrible loss. I know well enough that some day the
opera will be reinstated, but when? Meanwhile it makes me very
bitter. So far I have always maintained that the Press could not
influence one’s success or failure; but now I am inclined to think
that it is only the united attack of these hounds of critics which
has ruined my opera. The devil take them! Why this spite? Just now,
for example, in to-day’s number of the _Novosti_, see how they rail
at our Musical Society and at me, because of this Popular Concert!
Incomprehensible!”