I
1888
With December, 1887, began a new and last period in the life of
Tchaikovsky, during which he realised his wildest dreams of fame,
and attained to such prosperity and universal honour as rarely fall
to the lot of an artist during his lifetime. Distrustful and modest
(from an excess of pride), he was now in a perpetual state of
wonder and delight to find himself far more appreciated in Russia
and abroad than he had ever hoped in the past. Physically neither
better nor worse than in former years, possessing the unlimited
affections of those whom he loved in return,--he was, to all
appearance, an example of mortal happiness, yet in reality he was
less happy than before.
Those menacing blows of fate--like the opening of Beethoven’s Fifth
Symphony--had sounded, although muffled and distant, even on the
day of Tchaikovsky’s first concert (March 5th); while that
intangible and groundless sense of bitterness--that “touch of
gall,” as he himself calls it--was present even in that triumphant
moment when he found himself master of the orchestra and all its
tempestuous elements, as though prophetic of those sufferings which
overshadowed the last years of his life. At the time he did not
understand this vague warning; afterwards, when it came back to
him, he realised it had been a friendly caution, not to continue
the chase for fame; not to take up occupations that went against
his nature, nor to spend his strength upon the attainment of things
which would come of themselves; finally, to cling to his true
vocation, lest disappointment should await him in the new path he
had elected to follow. In February he wrote to Nadejda von Meck:
“New and powerful impressions continually await me. Probably my
fame will increase, but would it not be better to stay at home and
work? God knows! I can say this: I regret the time when I was left
in peace in the solitude of the country.” And this regret grew
keener, as his weariness grew more intolerable. The more he
accustomed his temperament to unsuitable occupations, the further
he advanced his reputation, the more complete was his
disenchantment with the prize. Radiant and glittering as it had
appeared from afar, seen closer, it proved insignificant and
tarnished. Hence the profound disillusionment, “the insane
depression,” the something “hopeless and final” which make so dark
a background to the picture of his brilliant success at home and
abroad.
Tchaikovsky left Russia on December 15th (27th) and arrived in
Berlin two days later. Here he was to meet Herr N---- who was
acting as his concert agent during this tour. He had no sooner
settled in his hotel than, picking up a newspaper, his eye fell
upon a paragraph to the effect that: “To-day, December 29th, the
Russian composer Tchaikovsky arrives in Berlin. To-morrow his
numerous friends (?) and admirers (?) will meet to celebrate his
arrival by a luncheon at the ---- restaurant, at one o’clock.
Punctual attendance is requested.” “No words could describe my
horror and indignation,” wrote Tchaikovsky. “At that moment I could
cheerfully have murdered Herr N----. I went out to breakfast at a
café in the Passage, and afterwards to the Museum, walking in fear
and trembling lest I should meet Herr N---- or some of my numerous
_friends and admirers_.”
[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1888
(_From a photograph by Reitlinger, Paris_)]
The following morning the dreaded interview with his agent took place.
Tchaikovsky found him not altogether unsympathetic, but during the
entire tour he realised that he was dealing with a very peculiar and
eccentric man, whom he never really understood.
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“LEIPZIG, _December_ 21_st_, 1887 (_January_ 2_nd_, 1888).
“I have made acquaintance with Scharwenka and a number of other
people. I also met Artôt.[121] Everyone was astonished to see me
with N----, who follows me like my own shadow. At three o’clock I
left for Leipzig, luckily without N---- for once, and was met by
Brodsky, Siloti, and two of my admirers. I had supper with Brodsky.
There was a Christmas-tree. His wife and sister-in-law are
charming--really good Russian women. All the time the tears were in
my eyes. Next day I took a walk (it was New Year’s Day), and went
back to dine with Siloti at Brodsky’s. He was just trying a new
trio by Brahms. The composer himself was at the piano. Brahms is a
handsome man, rather short and stout.[122] He was very friendly to
me. Then we sat down to table. Brahms enjoys a good drink. Grieg,
fascinating and sympathetic, was there too.[123] In the evening I
went to the Gewandhaus, when Joachim and Hausmann played the new
Double Concerto of Brahms for violin and ‘cello, and the composer
himself conducted. I sat in the Directors’ box, and made
acquaintance with such numbers of people that I could not keep pace
with them all. The Directors informed me that my rehearsal was
fixed for the next day. What I suffered during the evening--in fact
the whole time--cannot be described. If Brodsky and Siloti had not
been there, I think I should have died. I spent a terrible night.
The rehearsal took place early this morning. I was formally
introduced to the orchestra by Carl Reinecke. I made a little
speech in German. The rehearsal went well in the end. Brahms was
there, and yesterday and to-day we have been a good deal together.
We are ill at ease, because we do not really like each other, but
he takes great pains to be kind to me. Grieg is charming. Dined
with Siloti. Quartet concert at night. The new trio of Brahms.
Home-sick. Very tired.
“You cannot imagine a finer room than at the Gewandhaus. It is the
best concert-room I ever saw in my life.”
_To P. I. Jurgenson._
“LEIPZIG, _December_ 24_th_, 1887 (_January_ 5_th_, 1888).
“Yesterday the public rehearsal took place. I was very nervous, but
my success was unusually flattering.... To-night, however, all may
be reversed, for it is by no means certain that I shall not make a
fool of myself. I have seen a good deal of Brahms. He is by no
means a total abstainer, but he is very pleasant, and not so vain
as I expected. But it is Grieg who has altogether won my heart. He
is most taking and sympathetic, and his wife equally so. Reinecke
is very amiable. At the first rehearsal he introduced me to the
band, and I made the following speech: ‘Gentlemen, I cannot speak
German, but I am proud to have to do with such a ... such a ...
that is to say ... I am proud ... I cannot.’ The band is splendid;
I could not have believed that our musicians--good as they
are--were still so far behind a first-rate German orchestra.”
“_December_ 25_th_ (_January_ 6_th_).
“The concert has gone off well. The reception of the Suite was
good, but not to be compared with that at the public rehearsal,
when the audience consisted almost entirely of students and
musicians. After the concert I went to a banquet arranged in my
honour by Reinecke. He related much that was interesting about
Schumann and, generally speaking, I felt very much at ease with
him. Afterwards I had to go on to a fête given by the Russian
students, and I did not get home until very late. Now I am just off
to a Tchaikovsky Festival held by the Liszt-Verein. It begins at 11
a.m.”
The Press notices upon Tchaikovsky’s début in Leipzig as conductor and
composer were numerous and lengthy. Keeping in view the importance of
this occasion, and the influence it exercised on his future career, it
has been thought well to give some extracts from the most interesting of
these criticisms, which will be found in the Appendix.[124]
At the Tchaikovsky Festival given by the Liszt-Verein, his Quartet, op.
11, Trio, and some of his smaller compositions were included in the
programme. The following day the composer returned to Berlin, where he
arranged with the Directors of the Philharmonic Society to give a
concert of his works on February 8th. He then left for Hamburg in the
company of Adolf Brodsky, where the latter was to take part in a concert
conducted by Hans von Bülow. As Tchaikovsky had the prospect of a few
days’ leisure, he decided to spend them in Lübeck, whence he wrote to
his brother Modeste on December 30th, 1887 (January 11th 1888):--
“What joy! I do so enjoy finding myself in a strange town, in a
capital hotel, with the prospect of five peaceful days before me! I
arrived in Hamburg with Brodsky at 6 a.m. The rehearsal for Bülow’s
concert began at ten o’clock. Bülow was delighted to see me. He has
altered and aged. He seems, too, calmer, more subdued, and softer
in manner.... I went to the concert in the evening. Bülow conducted
with inspiration, especially the ‘Eroica.’ I came on here to-day.
It is very pleasant. What a blessing to be silent! To feel that no
one will be coming, that I shall not be dragged out anywhere!”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“_January_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1888.
“ ... At last January (old style) has come. Now at any rate I can
reckon four months to my return to Russia. I went to the theatre
yesterday. Barnay was the star in _Othello_. He is sometimes
astounding, quite a genius, but what an agonising play! Iago is too
revolting--such beings do not exist.”
On January 1st, 1888, a piece of good fortune fell to Tchaikovsky’s lot.
Thanks to the efforts of Vsievolojsky, Director of the Imperial Opera,
the Emperor bestowed upon him a life pension of 3,000 roubles (£300) per
annum.
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“HAMBURG, _January_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1888.
“On my appearance I was enthusiastically received by the orchestra,
and their applause was supported by the public, which was not the
case in Leipzig. I conducted without agitation, but towards the end
I grew so tired I was afraid I could not hold out. Sapellnikov[125]
played splendidly. After the concert there was a large party at
the house of Bernuth, the Director of the Philharmonic. About a
hundred guests were present, all in full-dress. After a long speech
from Bernuth, I replied in German, which created a _furore_. Then
we began to eat and drink. Yesterday was terrible; I cannot
describe how I was torn to pieces, nor how exhausted I felt
afterwards. In the evening there was a gala in my honour, at which
my compositions were exclusively performed. The Press was very
favourable.
“After the _soirée_ followed a fearful night of it, in company with
many musicians, critics, and amateurs, admirers of my music. I feel
befogged. To-day I start for Berlin. Bülow is very amiable.”
The programme of the concert at which Tchaikovsky made his first
appearance in Hamburg was as follows: Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for
strings, Pianoforte Concerto in B♭ minor (Sapellnikov), the Theme and
Variations from his Third Suite, and Haydn’s “Oxford” Symphony.[126]
Between the Hamburg and Berlin concerts Tchaikovsky was anxious for a
little repose, and decided to spend a few days at Magdeburg. On the one
day spent in Berlin _en passant_ he heard, for the first time, a work by
Richard Strauss. “Bülow has taken him up just now,” he wrote to his
brother, “as formerly he took up Brahms and others. To my mind such an
astounding lack of talent, united to such pretentiousness, never before
existed.”
Tchaikovsky now began to receive invitations from many musical centres
to conduct his own works. Colonne had engaged him for two concerts in
Paris on March 11th and 18th. Several other offers, including Weimar and
the Dresden Philharmonic, had to be refused because the dates did not
fit in with his plans.
On the advice of Bülow, Wolf, and other friends he decided to alter the
programme of the forthcoming concert at Berlin, for which he had put
down his _Francesca da Rimini_. “Perhaps they are right,” he says in a
letter to his brother. “The taste of the German public is quite
different to ours. Now I understand why Brahms is idolised here,
although my opinion of him has not changed. Had I known this sooner,
perhaps I, too, might have learnt to compose in a different way. Remind
me later to tell you about my acquaintance with the venerable
Ave-Lallemant,[127] which touched me profoundly.
“Sapellnikov made quite a sensation in Hamburg. He really has a great
talent. He is also a charming and good-hearted young man.”
_To V. Napravnik._
“MAGDEBURG, _January_, 12_th_ (24_th_), 1888.
“The newspapers have published long articles about me. They ‘slate’
me a good deal, but pay me far more attention than our own Press.
Their views are sometimes funny. A critic, speaking of the
variations in the Third Suite, says that one describes a sitting of
the Holy Synod and another a dynamite explosion.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“LEIPZIG, _January_ 20_th_ (_February_ 1_st_), 1888.
“ ... How shall I describe all I am experiencing just now?
Continual home-sickness, some well-nigh intolerable hours, and a
few very pleasant moments. I intended to spend a few quiet days
here, instead of which I am whirled along in a stream of gaiety:
dinners, visits, concerts, suppers, the theatre, etc. My sole
comfort is the society of Siloti, Brodsky (I am quite in love with
his wife and sister-in-law), and Grieg and his wife. But besides
these, every day I make new and sympathetic acquaintances. I take
Sapellnikov with me wherever I go, and have introduced him to many
people in the musical world. Wherever he plays he creates a
sensation. I am more and more convinced of his superb talent.... I
went to a Quartet Concert, at which I heard a quartet by an
exceedingly gifted Italian, Busoni. I quickly made friends with
him. At an evening given by Brodsky I was charmed with a new sonata
by Grieg. Grieg and his wife are so quaint, sympathetic,
interesting, and original that I could not describe them in a
letter. I regard Grieg as very highly gifted. To-day I dine with
him at Brodsky’s. To-night is the extra concert in aid of the funds
for the Mendelssohn Memorial, and to-morrow the public rehearsal of
the Gewandhaus Concert, at which Rubinstein’s symphony will be
given. Afterwards I am giving a dinner to my friends at a
restaurant, and start for Berlin at five o’clock. How tired I am!”
“_January_ 23_rd_ (_February_ 4_th_).
“ ... to-day I got rid of N----. We parted in peace, but my purse
was lighter by five hundred marks in consequence. I do not regret
it in the least; I would have given a good deal more to see the
last of this gentleman.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“BERLIN, _January_ 23_rd_ (_February_ 4_th_).
“ ... I have made great progress in my conducting.... Wolf gave a
large dinner-party at my desire, in order that all the great
lights here might hear Sapellnikov. All the critics were there.
Sapellnikov created a _furore_. For the last three weeks we have
been inseparable. I have grown so fond of him, and he so attached
and good to me--just as though he were a near relation. Since
Kotek’s days I have never cared for anyone so much. It is
impossible to imagine anyone more sympathetic, gentle, kindly; more
delicate-minded and distinguished. On his return I beg you not only
to be friendly to him, but to introduce him to all our relatives. I
consider him--and I am not alone in my opinion--a future genius as
regards the piano. Yesterday Bock had a party. Artôt was there. I
was inexpressibly glad to see her again; we made friends at once,
without a word as to the past. Her husband, Padilla, embraced me
heartily. To-morrow she gives a dinner. As an elderly woman she is
just as fascinating as twenty years ago.”
_To N. F. von Meck_.
“LEIPZIG, _January_ 30_th_ (_February_ 11_th_), 1888.
“MY DEAR FRIEND,--My concert in Berlin was a great success.[128] I
had a splendid orchestra to deal with and musicians who were in
sympathy with me from the very first rehearsal. The programme was
as follows:--
“(1) Overture, _Romeo and Juliet_; (2) Pianoforte Concerto, played
by Siloti; (3) Introduction and Fugue from the First Suite; (4)
Andante from the First Quartet; (5) Songs, sung by Fräulein Friede;
(6) Overture, “_1812_.”
“The public gave me a most enthusiastic reception. Of course, all
this is very pleasant, but at the same time I feel so worn out I
hardly know how I am to get through all that lies before me.... Can
you recognise in this Russian musician, touring all over Europe,
the man who, a few years ago, fled from life and society, and lived
in solitude abroad, or in the country?
“A real triumphal festival awaits me in Prague. The programme of my
week’s visit there is already arranged, and has been sent to me. It
includes any number of ovations and receptions. The idea is to give
my concert there a certain patriotic and anti-German character.
This puts me in an awkward position, because I have been received
in a very friendly way in Germany.”
In spite of the applause of the public and the flattering notices in the
Press, Tchaikovsky’s visit made less impression in Berlin than in
Leipzig and Hamburg. Whereas in the latter towns his concerts were the
great events of the day, in the capital the début of a Russian composer
passed comparatively unnoticed amid a thousand other interests. A brief
entry in his diary on January 28th about “a bucket of cold water” seems
to point to a certain disillusionment as to the character of his
reception in Berlin. Possibly he had heard rumours that the concert-room
had been liberally “papered,” and in this way a certain amount of
artificial enthusiasm spread through the audience.
In any case, it was Leipzig, rather than Berlin, that showed the greater
interest in Tchaikovsky during this tour, and he was glad to return
there for a few days before leaving Germany. “I have come back to
Leipzig,” he wrote to a relative on January 30th (February 11th), 1888,
“as I had promised to be present at the concert given in my honour by
the Liszt-Verein. The concert could not come off, so yesterday, at my
request, Wagner’s _Meistersinger_ was performed at the theatre instead.
I had never heard this opera. Early this morning I was awakened by the
strains of the Russian hymn. An orchestra was serenading me. They played
for nearly an hour under my windows, and the whole hotel ran out to see
and hear.”
The marvellous performance of _Meistersinger_ under Nikisch, and the
touching ovation in the form of a serenade, were the closing events of
Tchaikovsky’s first concert tour in Germany. In Bohemia and France far
more brilliant receptions awaited him, but these were of quite a
different nature.
II
On January 31st (February 12th) Tchaikovsky, accompanied by Siloti,
arrived at the frontiers of Bohemia. The triumphal character of the
reception which awaited him was soon made apparent by the extraordinary
attentions of the railway officials. At one of the last stations before
Prague, a deputation of members of various societies had assembled to
welcome him. At Prague a representative of the “Russian Club” awaited
him on the platform, having come expressly from Vienna to pay him this
compliment. He presented Tchaikovsky with an address in Russian. This
was followed by a speech in Czech, delivered by Dr. Strakaty, the
representative of the “Umclecká Beseda,”[129] after which children
presented him with flowers, and he was hailed with prolonged cries of
“Slava!” (Hurrah!). The carriage which awaited him, and the suite of
rooms at the Hotel de Saxe, were provided for him at the expense of the
Artists’ Club.
In the evening he was invited to hear Verdi’s _Otello_, and a box was
reserved for him at the Opera House. Rieger, “the leader of the Czech
people,” was the first to greet the guest, after which followed many of
the most prominent men in Bohemia.
The following day Tchaikovsky received a visit from Dvořák, and the
two composers quickly made friends with each other.
[Illustration: ALEXANDER SILOTI]
[Illustration: PETER ILICH TCHAIKOVSKY]
It is impossible to give in detail the programme drawn up for each day
of the composer’s visit to Prague. He made an almost royal progress to
all the chief places of interest. On one occasion, entering the
“Rathaus” while a session was being held, the entire body of members
rose to greet him. One evening he was serenaded by the famous Choral
Union “Hlahol.” He listened to the songs from his balcony, and
afterwards came down to thank the singers in person. An offer, made in
the course of his speech, to compose something expressly for the Society
was received with loud cheering. On February 6th (18th) he was invited
to the Students’ Union and presented to the students. In his diary he
speaks of this as “a very solemn and touching ceremony.” Accompanied by
cries of “Slava!” and “Na Sdrava!” he was next led off to the public
rehearsal of the concert. The evening wound up with a brilliant _soirée_
at the Town Club (Meschtschanska Beseda).
The first concert itself took place on February 7th (19th), in the
“Rudolfinum.” The programme consisted entirely of Tchaikovsky’s music,
and included: (1) Overture, _Romeo and Juliet_; (2) Concerto for
Pianoforte (B♭ minor), played by Siloti; (3) Elégie from the Third
Suite; (4) Violin Concerto, played by Halir; (5), Overture, “_1812_.” Of
all these works the last-named excited the greatest applause.
Tchaikovsky sums up his impressions as follows: “Undoubtedly it was the
most eventful day of my life. I have become so attached to these good
Bohemians ... and with good reason! Heavens, what enthusiasm! Such as I
have never known, but in my own dear Russia!”
Two days later, on February 9th (21st), the second concert was given in
the _foyer_ of the Opera House. This time the programme comprised: (1)
Serenade for strings; (2) Variations from the Third Suite; (3)
Pianoforte Solos (Siloti); (4) Overture, “_1812_.” The ovations were
even more hearty, and the gifts more costly, than at the first concert.
“An overwhelming success,” says Tchaikovsky in his diary. “A moment of
absolute bliss. But only one moment.”
On the evening of February 10th (22nd), sped by farewell addresses, and
smothered in flowers, the composer took leave of the festive city of
Prague.
Although the chief object of Tchaikovsky’s tour was to make his works
more widely known in Europe, and to carry them beyond the confines of
his native land, he combined with this aim--although in a lesser
degree--the desire to see for himself the extent of his reputation and
to reap some profit by it. Distrustful and modest as he was, he made no
great demands in this respect, and even the appreciation he received in
Germany quite surpassed his expectations. The honour done him in Prague
far outstripped his wildest dreams. These ten days were the culminating
point of Tchaikovsky’s fame during his lifetime. Allowing that
nine-tenths of the ovations lavished on him were really intended for
Russia, even then, he could not fail to be flattered that he was the
chosen recipient of the sympathy of the Czechs for the Russians, since
it proved that he was already famous as a composer. It was flattering,
too, to feel that he was honoured by a nation which could be regarded as
one of the most musical in the world. It pleased him that Prague--the
first place to recognise the genius of Mozart--should pay him honour,
thus uniting his fate with that of the illustrious German. It touched
Tchaikovsky deeply to feel that those who gave him one “moment of
absolute happiness” were descendants of the same race which, long ago,
had given a portion of joy to him who was his teacher and model, both as
man and as musician. This strange coincidence was the most flattering
event of his life--the highest honour to which he had ever ventured to
aspire.
Simultaneously with this climax of his renown, came one of the bitterest
experiences of his life. The Russian Press did not give a line to this
triumph of a native composer in Prague. He felt this to be a profound
injury, which surprised and mortified him the more, because all these
triumphs in his life were regarded as important events even by the
Czechs themselves. It was most painful to realise that Russia, for whom
the greater part of these honours were intended, knew nothing whatever
about them; that on account of the attitude of the Press towards him,
personally, this warm sympathy, meant for his countrymen as a whole,
would never be known to them, nor evoke any response.
Quite another kind of ovation awaited Tchaikovsky in Paris. Here, too,
his success surpassed his expectations; but the sympathy of the French
capital differed as widely in character from that which was shown him in
Prague as the Czechs differ from the French in their musical tastes and
their relations towards the Russians. There is no country in which music
is better loved, or more widely understood, than in Bohemia. Nor is
there any other nation which feels such appreciation for all that is
Russian; not merely as a matter of passing fashion, but on account of
actual kinship between the Eastern and Western Slav. In Bohemia,
therefore, both as a musician and a native of Russia, Tchaikovsky had
been received with a warmth and sincerity hardly to be expected from
France. It is true a little political feeling influenced his reception
in Paris; it was just the beginning of the Franco-Russian
_rapprochement_, so that everything Russian was the fashion of the hour.
Many French people, who were not in the least musical, regarded it as
their duty to express some appreciation of Tchaikovsky--simply because
he was a Russian. All this, like the French sympathy itself, had no
solid foundation of national affinity, but merely sprang from an
ephemeral political combination. The enthusiastic, explosive, but
fleeting, craze of the French for all that was Russian showed itself in
hats _à la_ Kronstadt, in shouting the Russian national anthem
simultaneously with the “Marseillaise,” in ovations to the clown Durov,
and in a “patronising” interest for our art and literature--as species
of curiosities--rather than in the hearty relations of two countries
drawn together by true affinity of aims and sympathies. Naturally the
festivities of Kronstadt, Toulon, and Paris led to no real appreciation
of Poushkin, Gogol, Ostrovsky, Glinka, Dargomijsky, or Serov, only, at
the utmost, to a phase of fashion, thanks to which Tolstoi and
Dostoievsky found a certain superficial vogue, without being understood
in their fullest value. Tchaikovsky was also a modern, and this lent a
kind of brilliance to his reception in Paris; but it was purely
external.... It may truly be said that all Prague welcomed the composer;
whereas in Paris only the musicians and amateurs, a few newspapers in
favour of the Franco-Russian alliance, and that crowd which is always in
pursuit of novelty, were interested in Tchaikovsky’s visit.
Time has proved the respective value of these ovations. Although it is
now fifteen years since Tchaikovsky visited Prague, his operas still
hold their own in the repertory of the theatre, and his symphonic music
is still as well known there and as much loved as in Russia. In Paris,
on the contrary, not only are his works rarely given, either on the
stage or in the concert-room, but his name--although it has gained in
renown all over Europe--is not considered worthy of inclusion among
those which adorn the programmes of the Conservatoire concerts. And yet
those who are at the head of this institution are the same men who
honoured him in 1888. Is not this a proof of that hidden but smouldering
antipathy which the French really feel for the Russian spirit--that
spirit which Tchaikovsky shares in common with his great predecessors in
music, and with the representatives of all that Russia has produced of
lofty and imperishable worth?
Tchaikovsky arrived in Paris on February 12th (24th), and went almost
straight from the station to the rehearsal of his Serenade for strings,
which--conducted by the composer--was to be played by Colonne’s
orchestra at a _soirée_ given by M. N. Benardaky.
N. Benardaky had married one of the three sisters Leibrock, operatic
artists well known to the Russian public. He had a fine house in Paris,
frequented by the _élite_ of the artistic world. As a wealthy patron of
art--and as a fellow-countryman--he inaugurated the festivities in
Tchaikovsky’s honour by this musical evening.
Over three hundred guests were present, and, besides his Serenade for
strings, Tchaikovsky conducted the Andante from his Quartet and presided
at the piano. The composer was grateful to his kindly host for the
unexpected and--according to Parisian custom--absolutely indispensable
_réclame_ which this entertainment conferred upon him. To ensure the
success of the evening, and in return for the service done him,
Tchaikovsky felt himself obliged to run from rehearsal to rehearsal,
from musician to musician. To appear as a conductor before this
assemblage of amateurs--more distinguished for vanity than for love of
art--and to earn their languid approval, seemed to him flattering and
important. But when we reflect what far greater trouble and fatigue this
entailed upon him than his appearance before the Gewandhaus
audience--whose opinion was really of weight and value--we cannot but
regret the waste of energy and the lowering of the artist’s dignity.
When we think of him, exhausted and out of humour, amid this crowd of
fashionably attired strangers, who to-morrow would be “consecrating” the
success of the latest chansonette singer, or the newest dance of a Loie
Fuller--we cannot but rebel against fate, who took him from his rural
quiet, from the surroundings to which he was attached, in which--sound
in body and mind--it was his pleasure to plan some new composition in
undisturbed solitude. Thank God, my brother comforted himself with the
belief that it was necessary to suffer this martyrdom cheerfully, and
that he did not live to realise that it was indeed useless, for nowhere
did he make a greater sacrifice for popularity’s sake with smaller
results than in Paris.
Those musicians who had been absent during Tchaikovsky’s visit to Paris
in 1886 now made his acquaintance for the first time. All of them,
including Gounod, Massenet, Thomé and others, received him with great
cordiality and consideration. The sole exception was Reyer, the composer
of _Salammbô_, whose indifference was the less hurtful to Tchaikovsky
because he did not esteem him greatly as a musician. Of the _virtuosi_
with whom he now became acquainted, Paderewski made the most impression
upon him.
Among the brilliant Parisian gatherings held in Tchaikovsky’s honour
must be mentioned the memorable evening at Colonne’s; the _soirée_ given
by the aristocratic amateur, Baroness Tresderne, at whose house in the
Place Vendôme Wagner’s Trilogy had been heard for the first time in
Paris (“Marchionesses, duchesses--bored,” is Tchaikovsky’s laconic entry
in his diary the day after this entertainment); the fête at the Russian
Embassy; a reception at Madame Pauline Viardot’s; and an entertainment
arranged by the _Figaro_.
Tchaikovsky made two public appearances in the double capacity of
composer and conductor; both these were at the Châtelet concerts. At the
first, half the programme was devoted to his works, including the
Serenade for strings, Fantasia for pianoforte (Louis Diemer), Songs
(Madame Conneau), pieces for violoncello (Brandoukov), and Theme and
Variations from the Third Suite.
On ascending to the conductor’s desk he was received with a storm of
applause, intended as much for his nationality as for his personality.
Of his orchestral works, the Valse from the Serenade won most success,
and had to be repeated in order to satisfy the audience.
The second concert, which took place a week later, consisted almost
exclusively of Tchaikovsky’s works. The Variations from the Third
Suite, the Elégie, and Valse from the Serenade, and the pieces for
violoncello were repeated; to which were added the Violin Concerto
(Marsick) and _Francesca da Rimini_. The applause was as vociferous as
on the first occasion, although comparatively little of it fell to the
lot of _Francesca_.
As long as they dealt with the private performances in the houses of
Benardaky, Colonne, Madame Tresderne, or at the _Figaro_, the
representatives of the Paris Press spoke with enthusiasm of the
composer, of his works, and his nationality. After the public concerts,
however, there was a sudden change of tone, and their fervour waned. It
seemed they had most of them studied Cui’s book, _La Musique en Russie_,
to good purpose, for, without quoting their source of information, they
discovered that Tchaikovsky “was not so Russian as people imagined,”
that he did not display “much audacity or a strong originality,” wherein
lay the chief charm of the great Slavs: Borodin, Cui, Rimsky-Korsakov,
Liadov, etc.
The Western cosmopolitanism of Tchaikovsky’s works was made a subject of
reproach. “The German dominates and absorbs the Slav,” says one critic,
who had looked for “impressions exotiques” at the Châtelet--perhaps for
something in the style of the music of Dahomey, which had created such a
sensation at the Jardin d’Acclimatation.
The remaining critics, who had not read Cui’s book, disapproved of the
length of Tchaikovsky’s works, and held up to him as models, Saint-Saëns
and other modern French composers. His own sense of disappointment
appears in a letter addressed to P. Jurgenson towards the end of his
visit:--
“I have expended a great deal of money, and even more health and
strength,” he writes.[130] “In return I have gained some
celebrity, but every hour I ask myself--Why? Is it worth while? And
I come to the conclusion it is far better to live quietly without
fame.”
From Paris Tchaikovsky crossed to England.
“The journey to London was terrible,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck.
“Our train was brought to a standstill in the open country in
consequence of a snowstorm. On the steamer it was alarming, for the
storm was so severe that every moment we dreaded some catastrophe.”
Tchaikovsky only spent four days in London. No one welcomed him, no one
paid him special attention, or worried him with invitations. Except for
a complimentary dinner given to him by Berger, the Secretary of the
Philharmonic Society, he spent his time alone, or in the society of the
violinist Ondricek and his wife. Yet, in spite of appearances, his visit
to London had brilliant results for his future reputation. Next to
Russia and America his music at present is nowhere more popular than in
England.
He conducted the Serenade for strings and the Variations from the Third
Suite. “The success was great,” he wrote, in the letter quoted above.
“The Serenade pleased most, and I was recalled three times, which means
a good deal from the reserved London public. The Variations were not so
much liked, but all the same they elicited hearty applause.”
The leading London papers mostly gave Tchaikovsky the credit of a signal
success. The _Musical Times_ only regretted that he had not chosen some
more serious work for his début before the London public. “The Russian
composer was received with signs of unanimous approbation,” said the
_Times_, while the _Daily Chronicle_ felt convinced that Tchaikovsky
must have been fully satisfied with the extraordinarily warm welcome
accorded him by the Londoners.
“Thus ended the torments, fears, agitations, and--to speak the
truth--the joys of my first concert tour abroad.” In these words
Tchaikovsky concludes his letter to N. F. von Meck, from which the above
extracts have been quoted.
III
After a long journey--six nights in the train--Tchaikovsky reached
Tiflis on March 26th (April 7th), 1888. Here he stayed with his brother
Hyppolite, whom he had not seen for two years. About the end of April he
travelled north to take possession of the country house at Frolovskoe,
which had been prepared for him during his absence by his servant
Alexis. He describes it as a highly picturesque spot, lying on a wooded
hill on the way from Moscow to Klin. It was simpler and not so well
furnished as Maidanovo. There was no park planted with lime trees, there
were no marble vases; but its unpretentiousness was an added
recommendation in Tchaikovsky’s eyes. Here he could be alone, free from
summer excursionists, to enjoy the little garden (with its charming pool
and tiny islet) fringed by the forest, behind which the view opened out
upon a distant stretch of country--upon that homely, unassuming
landscape of Central Russia which Tchaikovsky preferred to all the
sublimities of Switzerland, the Caucasus, and Italy. Had not the forest
been gradually exterminated, he would never have quitted Frolovskoe, for
although he only lived there for three years, he became greatly
attached to the place. A month before his death, travelling from Klin to
Moscow, he said, looking out at the churchyard of Frolovskoe: “I should
like to be buried there.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“KLIN, _May_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1888.
“I am in love with Frolovskoe. The neighbourhood is a paradise
after Maidanovo. It is, indeed, so beautiful that when I go out for
half an hour’s walk in the morning, I feel compelled to extend it
to two hours.... I have not yet begun to work, excepting at some
corrections. To speak frankly, I feel as yet no impulse for
creative work. What does this mean? Have I written myself out? No
ideas, no inclination? Still I am hoping gradually to collect
material for a symphony.
“To-day we were to have sown seeds and planted flowers in the beds
in front of the house. I was looking forward to it with such
pleasure, but the rain has hindered us. By the time you arrive all
our seeds will be in.”
[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY’S HOUSE AT FROLOVSKOE]
_To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._
“FROLOVSKOE, _May_ 30_th_ (_June_ 11_th_), 1888.
“YOUR HIGHNESS,--I am very glad you were not offended by my
remarks, and thank you most heartily for your explanations in
reference to them.[131] In matters of versification I am only an
amateur, but have long wished to become thoroughly acquainted with
the subject. So far, I have only reached the stage of inquiry. Many
questions interest me to which no one seems able to give a clear
and decided reply. For instance, when I read Joukovsky’s
translation of the _Odyssey_, or his _Undine_, or Gniedich’s
version of the _Iliad_, I suffer under the intolerable monotony of
the Russian hexameter as compared with the Latin (I do not know the
Greek), which has strength, beauty, and variety. I know that the
fault lies in the fact that we do not use the spondee, but I
cannot understand why this should be. To my mind we ought to
employ it. Another question that greatly occupies me is why, as
compared with Russian poetry, German verse should be less severe in
the matter of regular rhythm and metre. When I read Goethe I am
astonished at his audacity as regards metrical feet, the cæsura,
etc., which he carries so far that, to an unpractised ear, many of
his verses scarcely seem like verse. At the same time, the ear is
only taken by surprise--not offended. Were a Russian poet to do the
same, one would be conscious of a certain lameness. Is it in
consequence of the peculiar qualities of our language, or because
tradition allows greater freedom to the Germans than to us? I do
not know if I express myself correctly; I only state that, as
regards regularity, refinement, and euphony, much more is expected
from the Russian than from the German poet. I should be glad to
find some explanation of this....”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“FROLOVSKOE, _June_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1888.
“.... Just now I am busy with flowers and flower-growing. I should
like to have as many flowers as possible in my garden, but I have
very little knowledge or experience. I am not lacking in zeal, and
have indeed taken cold from pottering about in the damp. Now, thank
goodness, it is warmer weather; I am glad of it, for you, for
myself, and for my dear flowers, for I have sown a quantity, and
the cold nights made me anxious for them....”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“FROLOVSKOE, _June_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1888.
“.... Now I shall work my hardest. I am dreadfully anxious to prove
not only to others, but also to myself, that I am not yet _played
out_ as a composer.... Have I already told you that I intend to
write a symphony? The beginning was difficult; now, however,
inspiration seems to have come. We shall see!”
_To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._
“FROLOVSKOE, _June_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1888.
“YOUR IMPERIAL HIGHNESS,--I am the more glad to hear your
favourable verdict upon my songs, because I was afraid you would
think them weak.... I composed them at a time when my state of mind
was anything but promising for good work. At the same time, I did
not wish to postpone the setting of your words, as I had informed
you long ago of my intention with regard to them....
“I am not at all astonished that you should write beautiful verses
without being an adept in the science of versification. Several of
our poets--Plestcheiev for one--have told me the same. All the
same, I think it would be better if some of our gifted Russian
poets were more interested in the technique of their art. ‘I am
sick of four iambic feet,’ said Poushkin, and I would add that
sometimes his readers get weary of it too. To discover new metres
and rare rhythmic combinations must be very interesting. Were I a
poet, I should certainly try to write in varied rhythms like the
Germans....”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“FROLOVSKOE, _June_ 22_nd_ (_July_ 4_th_), 1888.
“ ... Lately I have been in frequent correspondence with the Grand
Duke Constantine Constantinovich, who sent me his poem, ‘St.
Sebastian,’ with the request that I would say what I thought of it.
On the whole I liked it, but I criticised a few details very
freely. He was pleased with this, but defended himself, and thus a
brisk exchange of letters has taken place. He is not only gifted,
but surprisingly modest, devoted to art, and ambitious to excel in
it rather than in _the service_. He is also an excellent
musician--in fact, a rare and sympathetic nature.
“It is well that the political horizon is clearer, and if it be
true that the German Emperor is to visit Russia, we may say with
some certainty that the horrors of war will not break out for many
years to come....”
_Diary._
“_June_ 27_th_ (_July_ 9_th_), 1888.
“It seems to me letters are not perfectly sincere--I am judging by
myself. No matter to whom I am writing, I am always conscious of
the effect of my letter, not only upon the person to whom it is
addressed, but upon any chance reader. Consequently I embroider. I
often take pains to make the tone of a letter simple and
sincere--at least to make it _appear_ so. But apart from letters
written at the moment when I am worked upon, I am never quite
myself in my correspondence. These letters are to me a source of
repentance, and often of agonising regret. When I read the
correspondence of great men, published after their death, I am
always disturbed by a vague sense of insincerity and falsehood.
“I will go on with the record of my musical predilections which I
began some time ago. What are my feelings towards the Russian
composers?
GLINKA.
“An unheard-of and astonishing apparition in the world of art. A
dilettante who played the violin and the piano a little; who
concocted a few insipid quadrilles and fantasias upon Italian airs;
who tried his hand at more serious musical forms (songs, quartets,
sextets, etc.), but accomplished nothing which rose superior to the
jejune taste of the thirties; suddenly, in his thirty-fourth year,
creates an opera, which for inspiration, originality, and
irreproachable technique, is worthy to stand beside all that is
loftiest and most profound in musical art! We are still more
astonished when we reflect that the composer of this work is the
author of the _Memoirs_ published some twenty years later. The
latter give one the impression of a nice, kind, commonplace man,
with not much to say for himself. Like a nightmare, the questions
continually haunt me: How could such colossal artistic force be
united to such emptiness? and how came this average amateur to
catch up in a single stride such men as Mozart and Beethoven? Yes,
for he _has_ overtaken them. One may say this without exaggeration
of the composer of the ‘Slavsia.’ This question may be answered by
those who are better fitted than myself to penetrate the mysteries
of the artistic spirit which makes its habitation in such fragile
and apparently unpromising shrines. I can only say no one loves and
appreciates Glinka more than I do. I am no indiscriminate
worshipper of _Russlan_; on the contrary, I am disposed to prefer
_A Life for the Tsar_, although _Russlan_ may perhaps be of greater
musical worth. But the elemental force is more perceptible in his
earlier opera; the ‘Slavsia’ is overwhelming and gigantic. For this
he employed no model. Neither Glück nor Mozart composed anything
similar. Astounding, inconceivable! _Kamarinskaya_ is also a work
of remarkable inspiration. Without intending to compose anything
beyond a simple, humorous trifle, he has left us a little
masterpiece, every bar of which is the outcome of enormous creative
power. Half a century has passed since then, and many Russian
symphonic works have been composed; we may even speak of a
symphonic school. Well? The germ of all this lies in
_Kamarinskaya_, as the oak tree lies in the acorn. For long years
to come Russian composers will drink at this source, for it will
need much time and much strength to exhaust its wealth of
inspiration. Yes! Glinka was a true creative genius!”
_To N. F. Von Meck._
“FROLOVSKOE, _July_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1888.
“.... My name-day was a great interruption to my work, for my
visitors arrived the day before and only left yesterday evening. My
guests were Laroche and his wife, Jurgenson, Albrecht, Siloti, and
Zet,[132] who arrived quite unexpectedly from Petersburg. The last
named (who has been highly recommended to me) has been my concert
agent since May.... He is a great admirer of my work, and cares
less to make money out of his position than to forward my interests
in Europe and America....”
At this time Tchaikovsky received an offer from an American impresario
offering him a three months’ concert tour at a fee of 25,000 dollars.
The sum appeared to the Russian composer fabulous in its amount. “Should
this really come off,” he says, “I could realise my long-cherished wish
to become a landowner.”
_Diary._
“_July_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1888.
“Dargomijsky? Certainly he was a gifted man. But never was the type
of amateur musician more strikingly realised than in him. Glinka,
too, was a dilettante, but his immense inspiration served him as a
defence from amateurishness. Except for his fatal _Memoirs_, we
should not have realised his dilettantism. It is another matter
with Dargomijsky: his amateurishness lies in his creative work, in
his very forms themselves. To possess an average talent, to be weak
in technique and yet to pose as an _innovator_--is pure
amateurishness. When, at the close of his life, Dargomijsky
composed _The Stone Guest_, he seriously believed he had overturned
the old foundations and erected something new and colossal in their
place. A piteous error; I saw him in this last period of his life,
and in view of his suffering condition (he had a heart disease)
there could be no question of a discussion. But I have never come
in contact with anything more antipathetic and false than this
unsuccessful attempt to drag _truth_ into this sphere of art, in
which everything is based upon falsehood, and “truth,” in the
everyday sense of the word, is not required at all. Dargomijsky was
no _master_ (he had not a tenth part of Glinka’s mastership). He
possessed a certain originality and piquancy. He was most
successful in _curiosities_. But artistic beauty does not lie in
this direction, as so many of us think.
“I might speak personally of Dargomijsky (I frequently saw him in
Moscow at the time of his success there), but I prefer not to
recall my acquaintance. He was very cutting and unjust in his
judgments (when he raged against the brothers Rubinstein, for
instance), but was pleased to talk of himself in a tone of
self-laudation. During his fatal illness he became far more kindly
disposed, and showed much cordial feeling to his younger
colleagues. I will only keep this memory of him. Unexpectedly he
showed me great sympathy (in respect of my opera _The
Voyevode_).[133] Apparently he did not believe the report that I
had hissed at the first performance of his _Esmeralda_ in Moscow.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“FROLOVSKOE, _July_ 25_th_ (_August_ 6_th_), 1888.
“ ... The real summer weather has not lasted long, but how I
enjoyed it! My flowers, which I feared would die, have nearly all
recovered, and some have blossomed luxuriantly. I cannot tell you
what a pleasure it has been to watch them grow and to see
daily--even hourly--new blossoms coming out. Now I have as many as
I want. When I am quite old, and past composing, I shall devote
myself to growing flowers. I have been working with good results,
and half the symphony is orchestrated. My age--although not very
advanced--begins to tell. I get very tired now, and can no longer
play or read at night as I used. Lately I miss the chance of a game
of _vint_[134] in the evenings; it is the one thing that rests and
distracts me.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“FROLOVSKOE, _August_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1888.
“Again I am not feeling well ... but I am so glad to have finished
the Symphony (No. 5) that I can forget all physical ailments. I
have made no settled plans for the winter. There is a prospect of a
tour in Scandinavia and also in America. But nothing is decided as
to the first, and the second seems so fantastic that I can hardly
give it a serious thought. I have promised to conduct at Dresden,
Berlin, and Prague.... In November I am to conduct a whole series
of my works in Petersburg (at the Philharmonic), including the new
Symphony. They also want me in Tiflis, but I do not know if it will
come off.”
IV
1888-1889
The winter season 1888-1889 opened with much arduous work and
personal anxiety. Tchaikovsky’s niece, Vera, the second daughter of
his sister Alexandra Davidov, was in a dying condition, and his old
friend Hubert was suffering from a terrible form of intermittent
fever. One gleam of joy shone through the darkness. His Moscow
friends, Taneiev in particular, were delighted with the Fifth
Symphony, a work which had filled Tchaikovsky himself with gloomy
misgivings. At this time he was engaged in an active correspondence
upon music and poetry with the Grand Duke Constantine.
_To the Grand Duke Constantinovich._
“FROLOVSKOE, _September_ 21_st_(_October_ 3_rd_), 1888.
“ ... Fet[135] is quite right in asserting, as you say he does,
that ‘all which has no connection with the leading idea should be
cast aside, even though it is beautiful and melodious.’ But we must
not deduce from this that only what is terse can be highly
artistic; therefore, to my mind, Fet’s rule that an exemplary lyric
must not exceed a certain limit is entirely wrong. All depends upon
the nature of the leading idea and the poet who expresses it. Of
two equally inspired poets, or composers, one, by reason of his
artistic temperament, will show greater breadth of treatment, more
complexity in the development of the leading idea, and a greater
inclination for luxuriant and varied elaboration; while the other
will express himself concisely. All that is good, but superfluous,
we call ‘padding.’ Can we say we find this padding in Beethoven’s
works? I think most decidedly we do not. On the contrary, it is
astonishing how equal, how significant and forceful, this giant
among musicians always remains, and how well he understands the
art of curbing his vast inspiration, and never loses sight of
balanced and traditional form. In his last quartets, which were
long regarded as the productions of an insane and deaf man, there
seems to be some padding, until we have studied them thoroughly.
But ask someone who is well acquainted with these works, a member
of a quartet who plays them frequently, if there is anything
superfluous in the C♯ minor Quartet. Unless he is an
old-fashioned musician, brought up upon Haydn, he would be
horrified at the idea of abbreviating or cutting any portion of it.
In speaking of Beethoven I was not merely thinking of his latest
period. Could anyone show me a bar in the _Eroica_, which is very
lengthy, that could be called superfluous, or any portion that
could really be omitted as padding? So everything that is long is
not _too long_; many words do not necessarily mean empty verbiage,
and terseness is not, as Fet asserts, the essential condition of
beautiful form. Beethoven, who in the first movement of the
_Eroica_ has built up a superb edifice out of an endless series of
varied and ever new architectural beauties upon so simple and
seemingly poor a subject, knows on occasion how to surprise us by
the terseness and exiguity of his forms. Do you remember the
Andante of the Pianoforte Concerto in B flat? I know nothing more
inspired than this short movement; I go cold and pale every time I
hear it.
“Of course, the classical beauty of Beethoven’s predecessors, and
their art of keeping within bounds, is of the greatest value. It
must be owned, however, that Haydn had no occasion to limit
himself, for he had not an inexhaustible wealth of material at
command. As to Mozart, had he lived another twenty years, and seen
the beginning of our century, he would certainly have sought to
express his prodigal inspiration in forms less strictly classical
than those with which he had to content himself.
“While defending Beethoven from the charge of long-windedness, I
confess that the post-Beethoven music offers many examples of
prolixity which is often carried so far as to become mere padding.
That inspired musician who expresses himself with such breadth,
majesty, force, and even brusqueness, has much in common with
Michael Angelo. Just as the Abbé Bernini has flooded Rome with his
statues, in which he strives to imitate the style of Michael
Angelo, without possessing his genius, and makes a caricature of
what is really powerful in his model, so Beethoven’s musical style
has been copied over and over again. Is not Brahms in reality a
caricature of Beethoven? Is not this pretension to profundity and
power detestable, because the content which is poured into the
Beethoven mould is not really of any value? Even in the case of
Wagner (who certainly has genius), wherever he oversteps the limits
it is the spirit of Beethoven which prompts him.
“As regards your humble servant, I have suffered all my life from
my incapacity to grasp form in general. I have fought against this
innate weakness, not--I am proud to say--without good results; yet
I shall go to my grave without having produced anything really
perfect in form. There is frequently _padding_ in my works; to an
experienced eye the stitches show in my seams, but I cannot help
it. As to _Manfred_, I may tell you--without any desire to pose as
being modest--that this is a repulsive work, and I hate it, with
the exception of the first movement. I intend shortly, with the
consent of my publisher, to destroy the remaining three movements
and make a symphonic poem out of this long-winded symphony. I am
sure my _Manfred_ would then please the public. I enjoyed writing
the first movement, whereas the others were the outcome of
strenuous effort, in consequence of which--as far as I remember--I
felt quite ill for a time. I should not think of being offended at
what your Highness says about _Manfred_. You are quite right and
even too indulgent.”
_To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._
“FROLOVSKOE, _October_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1888.
“YOUR IMPERIAL HIGHNESS,--Just returned from Moscow, where I have
seen my poor friend Hubert laid in his grave, and still depressed
by my painful experiences, I hasten to answer your letter.... Your
Highness must bear in mind that although one art stands in close
relationship to the other, at the same time each has its
peculiarities. As such we must regard the “verbal repetitions”
which are only possible to a limited extent in literature, but are
a necessity in music. Beethoven never repeats an entire movement
without a special reason, and, in doing so, rarely fails to
introduce something new; but he has recourse to this characteristic
method in his instrumental music, knowing that his idea will only
be understood after many statements. I cannot understand why your
Highness should object to the constant repetition of the subject in
the Scherzo of the Ninth Symphony. I always want to hear it over
and over again. It is so divinely beautiful, strong, original, and
significant! It is quite another matter with the prolixity and
repetitions of Schubert, who, with all his genius, constantly harps
upon his central idea--as in the Andante of the C major Symphony.
Beethoven develops his first idea fully, in its entirety, before
repeating it; Schubert seems too indolent to elaborate his first
idea, and--perhaps from his unusual wealth of thematic
material--hurries on the beginning to arrive at something else. It
seems as though the stress of his inexhaustible inspiration
hindered him from the careful elaboration of the theme, in all its
depth and delicacy of workmanship.
“God grant I may be in Petersburg to hear the performance of
Mozart’s _Requiem_ in the Marble Palace. I hope your Highness will
permit me to be present at this concert. The _Requiem_ is one of
the most divine creations, and we can but pity those who are unable
to appreciate it.
“As regards Brahms, I cannot at all agree with your Highness. In
the music of this master (it is impossible to deny his mastery)
there is something dry and cold which repulses me. He has very
little melodic invention. He never speaks out his musical ideas to
the end. Scarcely do we hear an enjoyable melody, than it is
engulfed in a whirlpool of unimportant harmonic progressions and
modulations, as though the special aim of the composer was to be
unintelligible. He excites and irritates our musical senses without
wishing to satisfy them, and seems ashamed to speak the language
which goes straight to the heart. His depth is not real: _c’est
voulu_. He has set before himself, once and for all, the aim of
trying to be profound, but he has only attained to an appearance of
profundity. The gulf is void. It is impossible to say that the
music of Brahms is weak and insignificant. His style is invariably
lofty. He does not strive after mere external effects. He is never
trivial. All he does is serious and noble, but he lacks the chief
thing--beauty. Brahms commands our respect. We must bow before the
original purity of his aspirations. We must admire his firm and
proud attitude in the face of triumphant Wagnerism; but to love him
is impossible. I, at least, in spite of much effort, have not
arrived at it. I will own that certain early works (the Sextet in
B♭) please me far more than those of a later period, especially
the symphonies, which seem to me indescribably long and
colourless.... Many Brahms lovers (Bülow, among others) predicted
that some day I should see clearer, and learn to appreciate
beauties which do not as yet appeal to me. This is not unlikely,
for there have been such cases. I do not know the _German Requiem_
well. I will get it and study it. Who knows?--perhaps my views on
Brahms may undergo a complete revolution.”
_To Ippolitov-Ivanov._
“_October_ 27_th_ (_November_ 8_th_), 1888.
“I cannot possibly give you any definite news as to my journey to
Tiflis. It will be two or three weeks, at the earliest, before I
know when I shall have to go abroad.... I only know that _I will
come to Tiflis, even if I am dying_. As to my fee, we will not
speak of it. Before I take anything from you, something must be
there. Let us see how the concert succeeds, and then we can settle
how much you shall give me as ‘a tip.’ If it is not a success, I
shall accept nothing.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“FROLOVSKOE, _October_ 27_th_ (_November_ 8_th_), 1888.
“Now we are having sharp frosts, without snow, and fine, sunny
days. It depresses me to think that I must soon leave my quiet
home, my regular life, and daily constitutionals. Three days hence
I go to Petersburg, where my concert takes place on November 5th
(17th). On the 12th (24th) I take part in the Musical Society’s
concert, and leave for Prague the next day to attend the rehearsals
for _Eugene Oniegin_. I have been working very hard lately. The
orchestration of the _Hamlet_ overture is now finished. I have made
innumerable corrections in the Symphony, and have been preparing
everything I have to conduct at the forthcoming concerts.
“I hope to spend December here, for I have to return direct from
Prague in order to conduct the new Symphony in Moscow, and then I
shall hasten to my harbour of refuge.”
The Philharmonic concert in St. Petersburg was apparently a great
success, but the Press notices of the new Symphony (No. 5) were far from
satisfactory. On November 12th (24th) Tchaikovsky conducted it once more
at the Musical Society, and on this occasion the fantasia-overture
_Hamlet_ was heard for the first time. Both works were well received by
the public.
V
On this occasion Prague received Tchaikovsky less hospitably than on his
first visit. “The rehearsal,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck, “took place
the very day I arrived. Last year, if you remember, I conducted two
grand patriotic concerts, without a fee. To show their gratitude for my
having come to the performance of the opera here, the management of the
Prague Theatre organised a concert, of which I was to receive half the
profits. But they chose such a bad day, and arranged everything so
stupidly, that the concert only realised three hundred florins. After
being received like a prince last year, when the enthusiasm which
greeted me almost amounted to a frenzy, I felt somewhat hurt at this
meagre offering on the part of the Prague public. I therefore declined
the money, and made it over to the Musicians’ Pension Fund. This was
soon made public, and the Theatre Direction was overwhelmed with
reproaches. The whole Press took up the matter, and thanks to this, the
performance of _Oniegin_, which I conducted the evening before last,
gave rise to a series of enthusiastic ovations. Yesterday I left Prague,
crowned with laurels; but, alas! my laurel wreaths were all I carried
away. I do not know how to look after my pecuniary interests.”
The success of _Oniegin_ in Prague was extraordinary, and the opera has
kept its place in the repertory up to the present time.
Amid the chorus of praise, in which both the public and the Press
united, one voice was especially valued by Tchaikovsky--that of his
famous colleague, Anton Dvořák.
_A. Dvořák to P. Tchaikovsky._
“PRAGUE, _January_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1889.
“DEAR FRIEND,--When you were lately with us in Prague I promised to
write to you on the subject of your opera _Oniegin_. I am now moved
to do so, not only in answer to your request, but also by my own
impulse to express all I felt on hearing your work. I confess with
joy that your opera made a profound impression on me--the kind of
impression I expect to receive from a genuine work of art, and I do
not hesitate to tell you that not one of your compositions has
given me such pleasure as _Oniegin_.
“It is a wonderful creation, full of glowing emotion and poetry,
and finely elaborated in all its details; in short, this music is
captivating, and penetrates our hearts so deeply that we cannot
forget it. Whenever I go to hear it I feel myself transported into
another world.
“I congratulate both you and ourselves upon this work. God grant
you may give us many another like it.
“I embrace you, and remain your sincerely devoted
“ANTON DVOŘÁK.”
On his way home from Prague to Vienna, Tchaikovsky heard of the death of
his niece, Vera Rimsky-Korsakov, _née_ Davidov. Although he had long
since given up all hope of her recovery, this news affected him deeply.
From Prague he returned to Frolovskoe for a short time. On December 10th
(22nd) he conducted his new works at a Symphony Concert in Moscow. These
included the new Symphony (No. 5, E minor) and the second Pianoforte
Concerto, with Sapellnikov as soloist; both works achieved great
success.
December 17th (29th) found him again in Petersburg, where, at the fourth
of Belaiev’s “Russian Symphony Concerts,” he conducted his _Tempest_
overture, and on the following day was present at a performance of the
_Oprichnik_ given by the pupils of the Petersburg Conservatoire.
Tchaikovsky was interested to renew his impressions of this work, and to
prove whether his prejudice against it was well founded. In spite of a
very good performance, his opinion of the opera remained unaltered.
The next work which Tchaikovsky took in hand after his return from
Prague was the music of the ballet, _The Sleeping Beauty_, the programme
of which had been prepared by Vsievolojsky, Director of the Imperial
Opera. Tchaikovsky was charmed with the subject and the proposed
mounting of the work, and retired to Frolovskoe late in December, in
order to devote himself to the task.
In view of the great popularity to which his Fifth Symphony has since
attained, it is interesting to read the composer’s own judgment of the
work, recorded within a few weeks of its first performance. Writing to
Nadejda von Meck, in December, 1888, he says:--
“ ... After two performances of my new Symphony in Petersburg, and
one in Prague, I have come to the conclusion that it is a failure.
There is something repellent, something superfluous, patchy, and
insincere, which the public instinctively recognises. It was
obvious to me that the ovations I received were prompted more by my
earlier work, and that the Symphony itself did not really please
the audience. The consciousness of this brings me a sharp twinge of
self-dissatisfaction. Am I really played out, as they say? Can I
merely repeat and ring the changes on my earlier idiom? Last night
I looked through _our_ Symphony (No. 4). What a difference! How
immeasurably superior it is! It is very, very sad!”
Such attacks of pessimism as to his creative powers were often, as we
have already seen, the forerunner of a new tide of inspiration. This was
now the case. Since _Eugene Oniegin_ Tchaikovsky had never worked at
anything with the ease and enthusiasm which inspired him in the first
four tableaux of this ballet, _The Sleeping Beauty_, the sketch of which
was completely finished by January 18th (30th).
The monotony of these six weeks’ work was relieved by news of the
success of the Fifth Symphony in Moscow, and also by the kindness of his
friend, Peter Jurgenson, who surprised him at Christmas with a beautiful
and valuable gift--the complete edition of Mozart’s works. These he
commissioned Alexis to present to his master, together with a tiny
Christmas-tree.
On January 24th (February 5th), 1889, Tchaikovsky started on his second
concert tour abroad. He experienced “the usual feelings of
home-sickness,” and began to anticipate the joy of his return. He
remained three days in Berlin, and arrived in Cologne on January 29th
(February 10th), where he was to make his first appearance as composer
and conductor, with his Third Suite (in G), at a so-called “Gürzenich”
concert.
_To M. Tchaikovsky._
“COLOGNE, _January_ 30_th_ (_February_ 11_th_), 1889.
“ ... To-day was my first rehearsal. It went very well, and the
orchestra is excellent, so that the three hours passed very
pleasantly, excepting for the agitation at the start. Hardly had I
got back to my hotel before I was seized with home-sickness and a
wild longing for April 8th....”
Tchaikovsky made his début at Cologne on January 31st (February 12th).
He thus describes his impressions to Glazounov:--
“I arrived shortly before the first of the three rehearsals. One
hardly expects to find a first-class orchestra in a town of
secondary importance, and I was convinced it would only be a very
poor one. The local conductor, Wüllner, has, however, worked with
such care and energy that he has succeeded in organising a
magnificent orchestra, which filled me with astonishment and
admiration from the very opening of my Third Suite. Twenty first
violins! And such violins! The wind, too, is admirable. They read
the Scherzo, which is particularly difficult, as if they were
playing it for the tenth time. With such an orchestra and three
rehearsals, it was easy to achieve an admirable performance. The
concert-hall is also excellent; the audience equally so, and not so
stupidly conservative as in many German towns. The success was
great, and when I was recalled the musicians greeted me with a
fanfare.
“Early on February 1st (13th),” the letter continues, “I started
for Frankfort. Here the orchestra is equally large and excellent.
The violins did not seem to me quite as good as those in Cologne,
although they consist mostly of leaders from the neighbouring
towns--so I was told--who come here to play at the great concerts.
There are twelve ‘cellos. One of them, Kossmann, the celebrated
virtuoso, was once professor at Moscow. My Overture “_1812_” was in
the programme. At the first rehearsal, however, the managers of the
concert took fright at the noisy Finale, and timidly requested me
to choose another piece. Since, however, I had no other piece at
hand, they decided to confine themselves to the Suite. The success
here was as great as it was unexpected, for the Frankfort public is
very classical, and I am regarded in Germany as a notorious
revolutionary.”
Of those in Frankfort whose society Tchaikovsky most enjoyed, he
mentions in his diary the family of the celebrated music publisher,
pianist, and composer, Otto Neitzel, and Ivan Knorr, Professor at the
Frankfort Conservatoire, besides the ‘cellist Kossmann.
Tchaikovsky reached Dresden on February 4th (16th). Here disappointment
awaited him. The orchestra proved to be only “third-rate,” to use his
own words, and the work he had to rehearse made even greater technical
demands than the Third Suite; it was his favourite composition--the
Fourth Symphony. The _Dresdner Zeitung_ spoke of “a very poor rendering
of several passages, the result of insufficient rehearsal.” The concert
took place on February 8th (20th). The first Pianoforte Concerto (Emil
Sauer) was included in the programme. According to Tchaikovsky’s
account, “the first movement pleased the audience a little, the Andante
pleased better, the Scherzo still more, while the Finale had a real
success. The musicians honoured me with a fanfare. Sauer played
incomparably.”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“DRESDEN, _February_ 5_th_ (17_th_) 1889.
“DEAR FRIEND,--I had forgotten to answer you about Paris. Please
remember that it is impossible to give a concert there unless
support is guaranteed by the French. I hear that Slaviansky,
Bessel, and others want to have a finger in the pie. I have not the
least wish to associate myself with them. You can simply say that,
without a guarantee, we are not in a position to undertake
anything.[136] Heavens, how tired I am, and how bored by all this!
“ ... I expect soon to hear decisively from Klindworth and
Dvořák. A letter to hand from Massenet. He accepts with
enthusiasm, but begs to keep the date open for the present, as it
depends on the fate of his new opera.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“BERLIN, _February_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1889.
“After an exhausting tour I arrived here yesterday. In one week I
had three concerts and nine rehearsals. I cannot conceive whence I
draw strength for all this. Either these fresh exertions will prove
injurious, or this feverish activity will be an antidote to my
troubles, which are chiefly the result of the constant sitting my
work entails. There is no medium; I must return to Russia ‘_either
with my shield or upon it_.’ I am inclined to think that, in spite
of hard moments and the continual self-conflict, all this is good
for me.”
_To A. Glazounov._
“BERLIN, _February_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1889.
“ ... If my whole tour consisted only of concerts and rehearsals,
it would be very pleasant. Unhappily, however, I am overwhelmed
with invitations to dinners and suppers.... I much regret that the
Russian papers have said nothing as to my victorious campaign. What
can I do? I have no friends on the Russian Press. Even if I had, I
should never manage to advertise myself. My Press notices abroad
are curious: some find fault, others flatter; but all testify to
the fact that Germans know very little about Russian music. There
are exceptions, of course. In Cologne and in other towns I came
across people who took great interest in Russian music and were
well acquainted with it. In most instances Borodin’s E flat
Symphony is well known. Borodin seems to be a special favourite in
Germany (although they only care for this symphony). Many people
ask for information about you. They know you are still very young,
but are amazed when I tell them you were only fifteen when you
wrote your Symphony in E flat, which has become very well known
since its performance at the festival. Klindworth intends to
produce a Russian work at his concert in Berlin. I recommended him
Rimsky-Korsakov’s _Caprice Espagnol_ and your _Stenka Razin_.”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“LEIPZIG, _February_ 17_th_ (_March_ 1_st_), 1889.
“Klindworth says that I am an ‘excellent conductor.’ First-rate,
isn’t it?
“Klindworth is prepared to appear next season at our concerts for
anything we like to offer. He will give a Wagner programme.
Dvořák promises to conduct a whole concert; but he cannot travel
alone, and brings his wife, so he asks a higher fee. Never mind. In
the spring it would be well to get out an advertisement with such
names as Massenet, Dvořák, Klindworth. I shall make an attempt
to invite Brahms. That would be grand!
“When in Berlin, Artôt and dear Hugo Bock were my great comfort.”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“GENEVA, _February_ 21_st_ (_March_ 5_th_), 1889.
“I am engaged to give a concert of my own compositions here. It
takes place on Saturday, March 9th. The orchestra is very small,
only third-rate. Had I known, I never would have come, but the
theatrical Director (he is no musician) probably believes that the
quality and number of an orchestra are of no importance to a
wandering musician. How I shall get through with this small
provincial band, I really do not know. However, I must confess that
they showed great zeal at yesterday’s rehearsal....”
After all, this concert was a success. The room was crowded, and the
Russian colony presented Tchaikovsky with a gilt laurel-wreath.
On February 27th (March 11th) Tchaikovsky arrived in Hamburg. Brahms
was at his hotel, occupying the room next his own. Peter Ilich felt
greatly flattered on learning that the famous German composer was
staying a day longer on purpose to hear the rehearsal of his Fifth
Symphony. Tchaikovsky was very well received by the orchestra. Brahms
remained in the room until the end of the rehearsal. Afterwards, at
luncheon, he gave his opinion of the work “very frankly and simply.” It
had pleased him on the whole, with the exception of the Finale. Not
unnaturally, the composer of this movement felt “deeply hurt” for the
moment; but happily the injury was not incurable, as we shall see.
Tchaikovsky took this opportunity to invite Brahms to conduct one of the
Symphony Concerts in Moscow, but the latter declined. Nevertheless
Tchaikovsky’s personal liking for the composer of the _German Requiem_
was increased, although his opinion of his compositions was not changed.
Tchaikovsky played no part in the conflict between Brahms and Wagner,
which divided all musical Germany into two hostile camps. Brahms’s
personality as man and artist, his purity and loftiness of aim, and his
earnestness of purpose won his sympathy. Wagner’s personality and
tendencies were antipathetic to him; but while the inspired music of the
latter found an echo in his heart, the works of Brahms left him cold.
At the second rehearsal all went “excellently,” and at the third
Tchaikovsky observed that the Symphony pleased the musicians. At the
public rehearsal “there was real enthusiasm,” and although the
demonstration at the concert on March 3rd (15th) was less noisy, the
success of the Symphony was no less assured.
The pleasant impressions of the evening were slightly marred by the
absence--on account of illness--of Ave-Lallemant, to whom the Symphony
is dedicated.
_To V. Davidov._
“HANOVER _March_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1889.
“ ... The concert at Hamburg has taken place, and I may
congratulate myself on a great success. The Fifth Symphony was
magnificently played, and I like it far better now, after having
held a bad opinion of it for some time. Unfortunately the Russian
Press continues to ignore me. With the exception of my nearest and
dearest, no one will ever hear of my successes. In the daily papers
here one reads long telegrams about the Wagner performances in
Russia. Certainly I am not a second Wagner, but it would be
desirable for Russia to learn how I have been received in Germany.”
_To M. Tchaikovsky._
“ ... Success is very pleasant at the time, but when there is
neither rehearsal nor concert, I immediately relapse into my usual
state of depression and boredom. Only one concert remains, the one
in London, but not for another month. How on earth shall I kill
time till then? Possibly I may go straight to Paris. Rushing about
there ought to drive away _ennui_. How one wastes time!”
The three days’ visit to Hanover only differed from Tchaikovsky’s
sojourn in other towns in that he missed the only thing that could help
him to conquer his chronic home-sickness--concerts and rehearsals.
“Curious fact,” he remarks in his diary, “I seek solitude, and suffer
when I have found it.” In this state of fluctuation between _bad_ and
_worse_ Tchaikovsky had spent his time since he left Russia; but the
_worst_ was reserved for Hanover, where he experienced “extreme
loneliness.”
On March 8th (20th) he arrived in Paris, and remained there until the
30th (April 11th).
As his present visit to the French capital was not undertaken in a
public capacity, it was neither so brilliant, nor so fatiguing, as that
of the previous year. At the same time he came in contact with many
people and received a number of invitations. On March 19th (31st) he was
present at one of Colonne’s concerts, when three numbers from his Third
Suite were played.
During this holiday in Paris Tchaikovsky had only two aims in view: to
secure Massenet for one of the Moscow Symphony Concerts and to use his
influence in favour of Sapellnikov, whose gifts as a pianist he valued
very highly.
_To P. Jurgenson._
“_March_ 21_st_ (_April_ 2_nd_), 1889.
“I have seen Massenet several times; he is very much flattered and
prepared to come. The spring will suit him best. I have engaged
Paderewski, who has had a colossal success in Paris. He is not
inferior to D’Albert, and one of the very first pianists of the
day.
“The Third Suite had a splendid success at Colonne’s concert.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“PARIS, _April_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1889.
“MODI,--Vassia[137] played to Colonne yesterday evening. After the
Chopin Polonaise Colonne was astonished, and said he would engage
him next year and do ‘_les choses en grand_.’ ... Vassia has made a
_furore_.”
_To V. Davidov._
“LONDON, 1889.
“ ... The evening before I left Paris I went to Madame Viardot’s. I
heard an opera which she composed twenty years ago to a libretto by
Tourgeniev.[138] The singers were her two daughters and her pupils,
among whom was a Russian, who danced a national dance to the
delight of all the spectators. I have seen the celebrated Eiffel
Tower quite near. It is very fine.... I very much enjoyed hearing
the finest of Berlioz’s works, _La Damnation de Faust_. I am very
fond of this masterpiece, and wish you knew it. Lalo’s opera, _Le
Roi d’Ys_, also pleased me very much. It has been decided that I
shall compose an opera to a French book, _La Courtisane_.[139] I
have made acquaintance with a number of the younger French
composers;[140] they are all the most rabid Wagnerites. But
Wagnerism sits so badly on the French! With them it takes the form
of a childishness which they pursue in order to appear earnest.”
_To the same._
“LONDON, _March_ 30_th_ (_April_ 11_th_), 1889.
“ ... Before all else, let me inform you that I have made
acquaintance with London fog. Last year I enjoyed the fog daily,
but I never dreamt of anything like the one we had to-day. When I
went to rehearsal this morning it was rather foggy, as it often is
in Petersburg. But when at midday I left St. James’s Hall with
Sapellnikov and went into the street, it was actually night--as
dark as a moonless, autumn night at home. It made a great
impression upon us both. I felt as though I were sitting in a
subterranean dungeon. Now at 4 p.m. it is rather lighter, but still
gloomy. It is extraordinary that this should happen half-way
through April. Even the Londoners are astonished and annoyed.
“Ah, Bob, how glad I shall be to get back to Frolovskoe! I think I
shall never leave it again.
“The rehearsal went off very well to-day; the orchestra here is
very fine. Sapellnikov has not played yet. To-morrow he will
certainly make a sensation among the musicians....”
At the London Philharmonic Tchaikovsky conducted his first Pianoforte
Concerto (with Sapellnikov as soloist) and the Suite No. 1. Both works
had a brilliant success. This was evident from the opinions of the
Press, although the lion’s share of praise fell to the lot of
Sapellnikov. _The Musical Times_ regretted that one of Tchaikovsky’s
symphonies had not been given instead of the Suite, and considered this
work was not sufficiently characteristic to give a just idea of the
composer’s talent.
* * * * *
Tchaikovsky left London very early on the morning of March 31st (April
12th), and arrived at Marseilles on the following day, where he embarked
for Batoum by the Messageries Maritimes.
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“CONSTANTINOPLE, _April_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1889.
“ ... We left Marseilles a week ago. The ship is a good one, the
food excellent. It was sometimes very rough. Between Syra and
Smyrna there was quite a storm, to which I cannot look back without
horror. Both these places pleased me very much. I got to know two
Russians on board: a lad of fourteen, Volodya Sklifassovsky (son of
the celebrated surgeon), and Hermanovich, a student at the Moscow
University, who was travelling with him. Both were charming beings,
with whom I made fast friends. They were going to Odessa--I to
Batoum. We spent the whole of the evening together in the town, but
slept on board. I shall miss them very much....”
* * * * *
When Tchaikovsky parted from his new friends he returned to his
cabin and “cried bitterly,” as though he had some premonition that
he should never again see this lovable and highly gifted boy on
earth. Volodya Sklifassovsky died in January, 1890.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“TIFLIS, _April_ 20_th_ (_May_ 2_nd_), 1889.
“ ... A glorious land, the Caucasus! How indescribably beautiful is
the valley of the Rion, for instance, with its rich vegetation,
through which runs the railway from Batoum to this place! Imagine,
my dear, a wide valley, shut in on either side by rocks and
mountains of fantastic form, in which flourish rhododendrons and
other spring flowers, besides an abundance of trees, putting forth
their fresh green foliage; and, added to this, the noisy, winding,
brimming waters of the Rion.... In Tiflis, too, it is wonderful
just now; all the fruit trees are in blossom. The weather is so
clear that all the distant snow-peaks are visible, and the air is
full of the feeling of spring, fragrant and life-giving. After the
London fog it seems so beautiful, I can find no words to express
it....”
By May 7th (19th) Tchaikovsky was back in Moscow. The following letter
throws some light on the musical life of that town.
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
“MOSCOW, _May_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1889.
“ ... All were glad to see me again. Since my return I have
attended the committee meetings of the Musical Society every day.
There is a great accumulation of business. A _coup d’état_ has
taken place in the Conservatoire. Taneiev has resigned the
direction, and Safonov is prepared to take his place, on condition
that Karl Albrecht gives up the post of inspector. I backed Karl
persistently and energetically, and finally declared that I would
retire from the Board of Direction if he were allowed to leave
without any decoration for long service....”
* * * * *
From Moscow Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg for a few days,
returning to Frolovskoe, where he remained for the next four
months.
* * * * *
The summer of 1889 passed in peaceful monotony. Tchaikovsky was
engaged in composing and orchestrating his ballet, _The Sleeping
Beauty_.... The little parties he occasionally gave--when
Jurgenson, Mme. A. Hubert, and Siloti were his usual guests--were
the sole “events” of this period of his life. But no account of
this summer--uneventful as it was--would be complete without some
mention of Legoshin’s[141] daughter, a child of three. Tchaikovsky
was altogether fascinated by her prettiness, her clear, bell-like
voice, her charming ways, and clever little head. He would spend
hours romping with the child, listening to her chatter, and even
acting as nursemaid.
At this time Tchaikovsky’s correspondence had not decreased, but
many of his business letters are not forthcoming, and those of a
more private nature which date from this summer are for the most
part short and uninteresting.
_To Edward Napravnik._
“KLIN, _July_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1889.
“ ... You have not forgotten your promise to conduct one of the
concerts of the Moscow Musical Society, dear friend?...
“Now for the programme. It rests entirely with you both as regards
the choice of music and of the soloists.... We beg you to lay aside
your modesty, and to include at least two important works of your
own. I implore you _most emphatically_ not to do any of my
compositions. As I am arranging this concert, it would be most
unseemly were the conductor I engaged to perform any work of mine.
I would not on any account have it suspected that I was looking
after my own interests. But people would be sure to put this
interpretation upon the matter, if the conductor invited for the
occasion were to include any of my music in the programme. I think
Dvořák will only bring forward his own works, so I will
ask you as a Russo-Bohemian to give us something of Smetana’s,
_Vishergrad_, or _Moldava_....”
_To N. F. von Meck._
“FROLOVSKOE, _July_ 25_th_ (_August_ 6_th_), 1889.
“ ... My ballet will be published in November or December. Siloti
is making the pianoforte arrangement. I think, dear friend, that it
will be one of my best works. The subject is so poetical, so
grateful for musical setting, that I have worked at it with all
that enthusiasm and goodwill upon which the value of a composition
so much depends. The instrumentation gives me far more trouble than
it used to do; consequently the work goes slowly, but perhaps all
the better. Many of my earlier compositions show traces of hurry
and lack of due reflection.”
VI
1889-1890
At the close of September, 1889, Tchaikovsky went to Moscow, where very
complicated business in connection with the Russian Musical Society
awaited his attention. For each symphony concert during the forthcoming
season a different conductor was to be engaged.[142] Besides this, he
had to superintend the rehearsals for _Eugene Oniegin_. This opera was
to be newly and sumptuously remounted on September 18th (30th), when the
composer had undertaken to conduct his own work.
From Moscow Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg for a few days, to attend a
meeting of the committee appointed to arrange the Jubilee Festival for
Anton Rubinstein. Tchaikovsky had undertaken to compose two works for
this occasion.
While he was in Petersburg, Alexis prepared the new quarters in Moscow,
which he had taken for the whole winter.
The lack of society in the evening, and the heavy duties which awaited
him in connection with the Musical Society, were Tchaikovsky’s sole
reasons for wintering in Moscow rather than in the neighbourhood of
Klin.
During the summer the idea of trying town life once more seemed to
attract him, and he spoke with enthusiasm of his new apartment, and took
the greatest interest in getting it ready; but, as the day of departure
drew near, he felt less and less inclined to leave his country home.
Two circumstances contributed to make the first days after his arrival
in Moscow depressing: first, he greatly missed the society of Laroche,
who had gone to live in Petersburg; and, secondly, his friend, the
‘cellist Fitzenhagen, was on his death-bed.
His winter quarters were small, but comfortable. The work to which he
looked forward with most apprehension was the direction of the two
festival concerts for Rubinstein’s jubilee. For two and a half years he
had been conducting his own compositions, but had comparatively little
experience of other music. Therefore these long and heavy programmes,
including as they did several of Rubinstein’s own works, filled him with
anxious foreboding.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“MOSCOW, _October_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1889.
“I am very glad you are at home, and I envy you. By nature I
incline _very_, _very_ much to the kind of life you lead. I long to
live completely away from society, as you do, but during recent
years circumstances have made it impossible for me to live as I
please. I consider it my duty, while I have strength for it, to
fight against my destiny and not to desert my fellow-creatures so
long as they have need of me....
“But, good God, what I have to get through this winter! It
frightens me to think of all that lies before me, here and in
Petersburg. Directly the season is over I shall go to Italy for a
rest. I have not been there since 1882.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“_October_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1889.
“Just think: I have heard from Tchekov.[143] He wants to dedicate
his new stories to me. I have been to thank him. I am very proud
and pleased.”
Tchaikovsky first became acquainted with Tchekov’s works in 1887. His
enthusiasm was such that he felt impelled to write to the author,
expressing his delight at having come across a talent so fresh and
original. His first personal acquaintance with his literary favourite
probably dated from the autumn of the same year. At any rate, they had
known each other previous to 1889.
_To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._[144]
“MOSCOW, _October_ 29_th_ (_November_ 10_th_), 1889.
“YOUR IMPERIAL HIGHNESS,--I feel a certain pride in knowing that
your admirable poem is partly the outcome of my letter to you last
year. I cannot think why you should fancy that the idea of your
poem does not please me. On the contrary, I like it very much. I
cannot say that I have sufficient love and forbearance in my own
nature always to love ‘the hand that chastises.’ Very often I want
to parry the blows, and play the rebellious child in my turn.
Nevertheless, I cannot but incline before the strength of mind and
lofty views of such rare natures as Spinoza, or Tolstoi, who make
no distinction between good and bad men, and take the same attitude
towards every manifestation of human wickedness that you have
expressed in your poem. I have never read Spinoza, so I speak of
him from hearsay; but as regards Tolstoi, I have read and re-read
him, and consider him the greatest writer in the world, past or
present. His writings awake in me--apart from any powerful artistic
impression--a peculiar emotion. I do not feel so deeply touched
when he describes anything really emotional, such as death,
suffering, separation, etc., so much as by the most ordinary,
prosaic events. For instance, I remember that when reading the
chapter in which Dolokhov plays cards with Rastov and wins, I burst
into tears. Why should a scene in which two characters are acting
in an unworthy manner affect me in this degree? The reason is
simple enough. Tolstoi surveys the people he describes from such a
height that they seem to him poor, insignificant pigmies who, in
their blindness, injure each other in an aimless, purposeless
way--and he pities them. Tolstoi has no malice; he loves and pities
all his characters equally, and all their actions are the result of
their own limitations and naïve egotism, their helplessness and
insignificance. Therefore he never punishes his heroes for their
ill-doings, as Dickens does (who is a great favourite of mine),
because he never depicts anyone as absolutely bad, only blind
people, as it were. His humanity is far above the sentimental
humanity of Dickens; it almost attains to that view of human
wickedness which is expressed in the words of Christ: ‘they know
not what they do.’
“Is not your Highness’s poem an echo of this lofty feeling of
humanity which so dominates me, and how can I therefore fail to
admire the fundamental idea of your verses?
“The news that the Emperor has deigned to inquire after me gives me
great pleasure. How am I to understand the Emperor’s question about
little pieces? If it is an indirect incitement to compose something
in this style, I will take the first opportunity of doing so. I
should immensely like to compose a great symphony, which should be,
as it were, the crown of my creative work, and dedicate it to the
Tsar. I have long since had a vague plan of such a work in my mind,
but many favourable circumstances must combine before I can realise
my idea. I hope I shall not die before I have carried out this
project. At present I am entirely absorbed in the concerts here and
the preparations for Rubinstein’s jubilee.”
In the same year in which my brother began to study with Zaremba, in
1861 (or perhaps the previous year--I cannot remember for certain), he
took Anatol and myself to an amateur performance in aid of some charity,
given in the house of Prince Bieloselsky. Anton Rubinstein, already at
the height of his fame, was among the audience. Peter Ilich pointed him
out to me for the first time, and I still remember the excitement,
rapture and reverence with which the future pupil gazed on his future
teacher. He entirely forgot the play, while his eyes followed his
“divinity,” with the rapt gaze of a lover for the unattainable beauty of
his fancy. During the intervals he stood as near to him as possible,
strove to catch the sound of his voice, and envied the fortunate mortals
who ventured to shake hands with him.
This feeling (I might say “infatuation” had it not been based upon a
full appreciation of Rubinstein’s value as a man and artist) practically
lasted to the end of Tchaikovsky’s life. Externally he was always “in
love” with Rubinstein, although--as is always the case in love
affairs--there were periods of coolness, jealousy, and irritation, which
invariably gave place in turn to a fresh access of that sentiment which
set me wondering in Prince Bieloselsky’s reception-room. In Rubinstein’s
presence Tchaikovsky became quite diffident, lost his head, and seemed
to regard him as a superior being. When at a supper, given during the
pianist’s jubilee, someone, in an indelicate and unseemly way, requested
Rubinstein and Tchaikovsky to drink to each other “as brothers,” the
latter was not only confused and indignant, but, in his reply to the
toast, protested warmly, saying that his tongue would never consent to
address the great artist in the second person singular--it would be
entirely against the spirit of their relations. He would be happy if
Rubinstein addressed him by the familiar “thou,” but for his own part,
the more ceremonious form better expressed a sense of reverence from the
pupil to his teacher, from the man to the embodiment of his ideal.
These were no empty words. Rubinstein had been the first to give the
novice in his art an example of the untiring devotion and disinterested
spirit which animates the life of the true artist. In this sense
Tchaikovsky was far more the pupil of Rubinstein than in questions of
orchestration and composition. With his innate gifts and thirst for
knowledge, any other teacher could have given him the same instruction.
It was in his character as an energetic, irreproachably clean-minded and
inspired artist, as a man who never compromised with his conscience, who
had all his life detested every kind of humbug and the successes of
vulgarity, as an indefatigable worker, that Rubinstein left really deep
traces upon Tchaikovsky’s artistic career. The latter, writing to the
well-known German journalist, Eugen Zabel, said: “Rubinstein’s
personality shines before me like a clear, guiding star.”
But there were times when clouds obscured this “guiding star.” While
recognising Rubinstein’s great gifts as a composer, and valuing some of
his works very highly--such as the “Ocean Symphony,” _The Tower of
Babel_, the Pianoforte Concerto, _Ivan the Terrible_, the violoncello
sonatas, and many of the pieces for pianoforte--Tchaikovsky grew angry
and impatient over the vast majority of the virtuoso’s mediocre and
empty creations. He frequently expressed himself so sarcastically on
this subject that I have cut out certain passages in his letters, lest
they might give the reader a false impression of his attitude towards
Rubinstein. But he soon forgot and forgave these momentary eclipses of
“his star,” and always returned to his old spirit of veneration.
The deepest, keenest, and most painful aspect of their relations--and
here artistic self-esteem doubtless played a part--was the knowledge of
Rubinstein’s antipathy to him as a composer, which he never conquered to
the end of his life. The virtuoso never cared for Tchaikovsky’s music.
Many of Rubinstein’s intimate friends, and also his wife, maintained the
reverse. But in that case it was the love of Wotan for the Wälsungs.
Secretly rejoicing in the success of Tchaikovsky-Siegmund, and
sympathising in his heart with Tchaikovsky-Siegfried, Wotan-Rubinstein
never did anything to forward the performance of his works, nor held out
a helping hand.... From the earliest exercises at the Conservatoire, to
the “Pathetic Symphony,” he never praised--and seldom condemned--a
single work of Tchaikovsky’s. All of them, without exception, were
silently ignored--together with all the music which came after
Schumann--as unworthy of serious attention.
The legend of Rubinstein’s envy, which had absolutely no foundation in
fact, always annoyed Tchaikovsky and aroused his wrath. Even if it might
be to a certain extent true as regards the eighties, when my brother was
recognised and famous, it could not apply to the attitude of a teacher
towards a pupil who--although undoubtedly gifted--had a doubtful future
before him. To the composer of the “Ocean Symphony” Tchaikovsky’s
earliest essays in composition were as antipathetic as _Eugene Oniegin_
and the Fifth Symphony. Envy can only exist between two equally matched
rivals, and could not have influenced a giant--as Rubinstein was in the
sixties--in his relations with anyone so insignificant as the
Tchaikovsky of those days.
The feeling was simply the same which Tchaikovsky himself cherished for
the works of Chopin and Brahms; a sentiment of instinctive and
unconquerable antipathy. Rubinstein felt like this, not only towards
Tchaikovsky’s music, but to all musical works which came after Chopin
and Schumann.
In any case, however much Tchaikovsky may have been wounded by
Rubinstein’s indifference, he remained loyal to his enthusiasm for his
former teacher. When the Duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz requested him to
take part in organising the celebration of Rubinstein’s jubilee, he
expressed himself willing to put himself at the disposal of the
committee. It was decided that he should conduct the jubilee concerts
and compose a chorus _a capella_ to words by Polonsky. The chorus was to
be sung at the festival given in the hall of the Nobles’ Club, November
18th (30th), 1889. In addition he undertook to contribute something to
the album which Rubinstein’s former pupils at the Petersburg
Conservatoire were going to present him on the same occasion.
The second half of his task was easily fulfilled. In a few days both
compositions--the chorus and an Impromptu for pianoforte--were ready.
The conducting of the concerts was another matter. The labour it
involved, and the difficulties in connection with it, made real demands
upon Tchaikovsky’s devotion for his old teacher.
The programme of the first concert consisted entirely of symphonic
works, including the Konzertstück (op. 113), with Rubinstein himself at
the piano, and the Symphony No. 5 (op. 107). At the second concert,
besides the dances from _Feramors_ and the _Roussalka_ songs, the chief
item was the Biblical opera, _The Tower of Babel_.
This programme would have made very heavy demands upon the most
experienced conductor; it was a still heavier task for one who--only a
month previously--had conducted for the first time any works other than
his own.
“There were moments,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck, “when I experienced
such a complete loss of strength that I feared for my life. The working
up of _The Tower of Babel_, with its chorus of seven hundred voices,
gave me the most trouble. On the evening of November 10th (22nd), just
before the oratorio began, I had an attack of nerves, which they feared
might prevent my returning to the conductor’s desk. But--perhaps thanks
to this crisis--I pulled myself together in time, and all went well to
the end. You will learn all details about the festival from the
newspapers. I will only add that from the 1st to the 19th of November I
endured martyrdom, and I am still marvelling how I lived through it
all.”
* * * * *
To the period between the end of October, 1889, to the middle of
January, 1890, belong but twelve letters, only two of which have any
biographical interest. The rest are merely short notes of no importance.
Such a decrease in Tchaikovsky’s correspondence is a symptom of the
highly nervous and distracted phase which he was now passing through.
For a long time past letter-writing had ceased to be a pleasant duty;
still, it remained a _duty_, which he could only neglect under special
circumstances, such as overwhelmed him at the commencement of this
season.
He had scarcely got over the jubilee concerts, when he had to return to
Moscow to conduct Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony at an extra Symphony
Concert, given in aid of the fund for the widows and orphans of
musicians.
Only two published notices of this concert are in existence at Klin.
Both emanate from staunch admirers of Tchaikovsky: Kashkin and Konius,
who, in spite of all their justice, probably show some partisanship in
their praise.
On the same occasion Brandoukov played Tchaikovsky’s Pezzo Capriccioso
for violoncello with great success.
It was unfortunate that after all this strain and anxiety the composer
was not able to return to his country retreat, where the peaceful
solitude invariably restored him to health and strength. In spite of all
precautions, he was overrun with visitors; and his Moscow quarters were
so small that he sighed perpetually for his roomy home at Frolovskoe.
Added to which, Alexis Safronov’s wife was dying of consumption. We know
Tchaikovsky’s attitude to those who served him. He never regarded them
as subordinates, mere machines for carrying out his wishes, but rather
as friends, in whose joys and sorrows he felt the keenest sympathy. The
illness of his servant’s young wife caused him great sorrow; the more so
that he saw no way of saving her life. The knowledge that he was of no
use, but rather a hindrance to the care of the invalid--for Alexis was
the poor soul’s only nurse--made Tchaikovsky anxious to save his man all
the personal services with which he could possibly dispense. For this
reason he cut short his stay in Moscow and returned to Petersburg at the
end of November, where his ballet, _The Sleeping Beauty_, was already in
rehearsal.
_To N. F. von Meck._
“PETERSBURG, _December_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1889.