After breakfast we drove into the town. I should have liked to be
alone. Miss Ross came to see me. My letter on Wagner has been
published, and created quite a sensation. Anton Seidl, the
celebrated conductor and Wagnerian, had published a lengthy reply,
in which he attacked me, but in quite a friendly tone. Miss Ross
came to ask me to write an answer to Seidl’s reply. I set to work
upon it, but was interrupted by X., who stayed an endless time, and
told me all kinds of uninteresting musical gossip, which I had
heard a hundred times before. The next to come was the
correspondent of a Philadelphia newspaper, who is one of my most
fervent admirers. I had to speak English with him: I have made
progress, and can say a few phrases very well. Wrote letters.
Breakfasted alone in my hotel. Wandered through the Central Park.
According to my promise, I went over to Z.’s to write a testimonial
for the * * * pianofortes. Was this the object of all Z.’s
attentions? All these presents, all this time and money spent on
me, all these unaccountable kindnesses, were these intended as a
premium for a future puff? I proposed that Z. himself should write
the testimonial. He sat for a long time, but could not think of
anything; so we put it off until our next meeting. Then I paid a
call on Tretbar, Steinway’s representative, for whom I had a letter
of introduction from Jurgenson. He had waited till now without
calling upon me because he did not wish to make the first advances.
I had purposely delayed my visit from similar motives. Home to
pack. Shortly afterwards a messenger from Z. brought me the
testimonial to sign. It read as follows: ‘_I consider the_ * * *
_pianofortes without doubt the best in America_.’ Now as I do _not_
think so at all, but value some other makers’ far more highly, I
declined to have my opinion expressed in this form. I told Z., that
notwithstanding my deep gratitude to him, I could not tell a lie.
The reporter from the _Herald_ came to see me--a very interesting
man. Drove to Hyde’s. I wish I could find words to describe all the
charm and originality of this interesting couple. Hyde greeted me
with these words: ‘Kak vasche sdorovie? sidite poschaljust.’[169]
Then he laughed like a lunatic, and his wife and I joined in. He
had bought a guide to Russian conversation, and learnt a few
phrases as a surprise to me. Mrs. Hyde immediately invited me to
smoke a cigarette in her drawing-room--the climax of hospitality in
America. After the cigarette we went to dinner. The table was most
exquisitely decorated with flowers; everyone received a bouquet.
Then, quite unexpectedly, Hyde became very solemn, closed his eyes
and said the Lord’s Prayer. I did the same as the others: lowered
my eyes and gazed on the ground. Then began an endlessly long
dinner.... At ten o’clock I withdrew. At home a messenger from
Knabe was waiting for me. We drank a glass of beer together, took
my trunk, and went down town. We went over the Hudson in the
steam-ferry, and finally reached the station. Knabe’s messenger
(without whose help I should certainly have been lost) engaged a
comfortable _coupé_ for me; the friendly negro made the bed, I
threw myself on it just as I was, for I really had not the
strength to undress, and sank at once into a deep sleep. I slept
soundly, but not for long. The negro woke me an hour before my
arrival at Baltimore.
“BALTIMORE, _May_ 3_rd_ (15_th_).
“As usual, I was received at the hotel with cool contempt. Sitting
alone in my room, I suddenly felt so unhappy, chiefly because
everyone around me speaks only English. I slept a little. Then I
went into a restaurant for breakfast, and was quite annoyed because
the waiter (a negro) would not understand that I wished for tea and
bread-and-butter only. I had to go to the desk, where they did not
understand me any better. At last a gentleman knowing a little
German kindly came to my help. I had hardly sat down when Knabe, a
stout man, came in. Very shortly after, Adèle Aus-der-Ohe and her
sister joined us, too. I was very glad to see them, for they seem
like connections, at least as regards music. We went to the
rehearsal together. This was held on the stage of the Lyceum
Theatre. The orchestra was small, only four first violins, but not
bad. But the Third Suite was not to be thought of. It was decided
to put the Serenade for strings in its place. The orchestra did not
know this work. The conductor had not even played it through,
although Reno had promised that this should be done. The Concerto
with Adèle Aus-der-Ohe went very smoothly, but the Serenade needs
many rehearsals. The orchestra was impatient. The young leader
behaved in rather a tactless way, and made it too clearly evident
that he thought it time to stop. It is true--this unhappy touring
orchestra must be wearied by their constant travelling. After the
rehearsal I went home with Adèle Aus-der-Ohe, dressed, and went
immediately to the concert. I conducted in my frock-coat. Happily
everything went very well, but there was little enthusiasm in
comparison with New York. After the concert we both drove home to
change. Half an hour later Knabe called for us. His hospitality is
on the same colossal scale as his figure. This beardless giant had
arranged a festivity in my honour at his own house. I found a
number of people there. The dinner was endlessly long, but very
tasteful and good, as were also the wines with which Knabe kept
filling up our glasses. During the second half of the dinner I felt
quite worn out. A terrible hatred of everything seemed to come over
me, especially of my two neighbours. After dinner I conversed a
little with everyone, and smoked and drank ceaselessly. At
half-past twelve Knabe brought me home, and also the sisters
Aus-der-Ohe.
“WASHINGTON, 4_th_ (16_th_).
“I woke early, breakfasted downstairs, wrote my diary, and waited,
rather in fear and trembling, for Knabe, who wanted to show me the
sights of the town. At last he came and, together with the sisters
Aus-der-Ohe, we drove round Baltimore. Weather bad and inclined to
rain. Baltimore is a pretty, clean town. Then the good-natured
giant helped me to pack my box, invited Aus-der-Ohe and myself to a
champagne lunch, and finally put me in the carriage that was to
take me to my destination. He himself was travelling to
Philadelphia, while I was going to Washington. The journey lasted
about three-quarters of an hour. I was met by Botkin, who
accompanied me to the hotel, where a room was engaged for me. This
was delightfully comfortable, and at the same time tastefully and
simply furnished. I declined to receive Rennen, begged Botkin to
call for me before the dinner, took a bath, and hurried into my
dress clothes. The dinner was given in the Metropolitan Club, of
which Botkin and his colleagues are members. The dinner was very
gay, and I was so delighted to talk Russian once more, although
this happiness was a little dimmed by the sad fact that my ‘s,’
‘sch,’ ‘tsch,’ are beginning to sound rather indistinct from age.
During the dinner we heard, first by telegram and then through the
telephone, that the Ambassador Struve had returned from a journey
to New York solely on my account. At ten o’clock we all repaired to
the Embassy, where Botkin had arranged a musical evening. About a
hundred persons were invited. The Ambassador also arrived, an old
man, very cordial and also interesting. The company at the Embassy
belonged principally to the diplomatic circle. There were
ambassadors with their wives and daughters, and personages
belonging to the highest class of the diplomatic service. Most of
the ladies spoke French, so things were not so difficult for me.
The programme consisted of my Trio and a Quartet by Brahms. Hausen,
the Secretary to our Embassy, was at the piano, and he proved quite
a respectable pianist. My Trio he played decidedly well. The
violinist was only middling. I was introduced to everyone. After
the music there was an excellent cold supper. When most of the
guests had left, ten of us (the Belgian Ambassador and the
Secretaries to the Swedish and Austrian Embassies, besides the
Russians) sat for some time longer at a large round table, before
an excellent flagon. Struve enjoys a glass of wine. He gave me the
impression of a broken and unhappy man who finds it a consolation.
It was three o’clock before I went home, accompanied by Botkin and
Hausen.
“_May_ 5_th_ (17_th_).
“Awoke with pleasant memories of yesterday. I always feel well in
Russian society when I am not obliged to speak a foreign tongue. At
twelve o’clock Botkin called for me to lunch with the Ambassador,
Struve. Afterwards I went with Botkin and Hausen to see the sights
of Washington.
“PHILADELPHIA, _May_ 6_th_ (18_th_).
“I reached Philadelphia at three o’clock. Breakfasted downstairs. A
very importunate Jew from Odessa called and got some money out of
me. Went for a walk. The concert at eight p.m. The enormous theatre
was filled to overflowing. After the concert, according to
long-standing promise, I went to the club. The return journey to
New York was very wearisome.
“_May_ 7_th_ (19_th_).
“Feel quite stupid from exhaustion and constant travelling. I could
stand no more, if it were not for the thought of my departure
to-morrow, which buoys me up. I am inundated with requests for my
autograph. At 12.30 I went over to Z.’s and wrote the testimonial,
omitting the phrase which ranks these pianos as the first. Went
home and waited for the composer Brummklein. He came and played me
some very pretty things.
“_May_ 8_th_ (20_th_).
“The old librettist came. I was very sorry to have to tell him I
could not compose an opera to his libretto. He seemed very sad.
Scarcely had he gone before Dannreuther came in to take me to the
rehearsal of the Quartets and Trios to be played this evening at
the Composers’ Club. It was rather a long distance. The Quartet was
indifferently played and the Trio really badly, for the pianist, a
shy, nervous man, was no good: he could not even count. I had no
time to make any preparations for the journey. Drove to Renos’.
They received me with more kindness and cordiality than ever,
especially Madame Reno and her three daughters. The eldest (Anna,
who is married) gave me a beautiful cigar-case, M. Reno a quantity
of scent, and Alice and her sister cakes for the journey. Then I
hurried to Hyde’s. Mrs. Hyde was already expecting me. Here too I
was received with great kindness and sincere enthusiasm. At last I
got home to pack my box. Hateful business, which gave me a dreadful
pain in my back. Tired out, I went over to Mayer’s, and invited him
to dinner at Martelli’s. At eight o’clock I was taken to the
Composers’ Club. This is not a club of composers, as I first
thought, but a special musical union which arranges, from time to
time, evenings devoted to the works of one composer. Yesterday was
devoted to me, and the concert was held in the magnificent
Metropolitan House. I sat in the first row. They played the Quartet
(E flat minor) and the Trio; some songs were very well sung, but
the programme was too long. In the middle of the evening I received
an address; I answered shortly, in French; of course an ovation.
One lady threw an exquisite bouquet of roses straight in my face. I
was introduced to a crowd of people, among others our
Consul-General. At the conclusion I had to speak to about a hundred
people and distribute a hundred autographs. I reached home half
dead with fatigue. As the steamer left at five o’clock in the
morning, I had to go on board that night, so I dressed with all
speed, and packed my things while Reno and Mayer waited for me.
Downstairs we drank two bottles of champagne. I said good-bye to
the servants of the hotel and drove off to the steamer. The drive
was very long. The steamer is quite as fine as the _Bretagne_; I
have an officer’s cabin. On this ship the officers are allowed to
let their cabins, but they ask an exorbitant price. I had to pay
300 dollars (1,500 francs) for mine.... But it is really nice and
very roomy. I said good-bye to my dear American friends and went
straight to bed. I slept badly and heard all the noise when the
steamer started at five o’clock. I came out of my cabin as we
passed the statue of Freedom.”
Altogether Tchaikovsky gave six concerts in America: four in New York,
one in Baltimore, and one in Philadelphia. The following works were
performed: (1) The Coronation March, (2) Third Suite, (3) two Sacred
Choruses: the Lord’s Prayer and the Legend, (4) Pianoforte Concerto No.
1, and (5) Serenade for string instruments.
I have before me sixteen American Press notices of Tchaikovsky, and all
are written in a tone of unqualified praise; the only difference lies in
the degree of enthusiasm expressed. According to some he is “the first
of modern composers after Wagner”; according to others, “one of the
first.” His talent as a conductor is equally praised. Everywhere he had
an unprecedented success, and many spoke of his interesting appearance.
The interviews (especially those in _The New York Herald_) are
reproduced with astonishing fidelity. As we read them we can almost
fancy we can hear the voice of Tchaikovsky himself.
XIII
“‘PRINCE BISMARCK,’ _May_ 9_th_ (21_st_).
“On account of the maddening pain in my back, I dressed with great
difficulty, went below for my morning tea, and then walked about
the ship to make myself better acquainted with the various
quarters. A host of passengers, but of totally different appearance
to those who travelled with me on the _Bretagne_. The most
perceptible difference lies in the fact that there are no
emigrants. At eight a.m. I was called to breakfast. My place had
already been allotted to me. I had a middle-aged man for my
neighbour, who immediately began to converse. Slept the whole
morning. The sight of the sea leaves me indifferent. I think with
horror of the rest of the journey, but also with longing: may it
soon be over. This is a very fast ship; it is the magnificent new
_Prince Bismarck_, and is making its first passage. Last week it
only took six days and fourteen hours from Hamburg to New York. I
trust we shall get over the horrible distance as quickly. The
motion is not so smooth as that of the _Bretagne_. The weather is
splendid just now. At breakfast I became better acquainted with my
vis-à-vis. It is difficult to say to what nationality he belongs,
as he speaks all languages wonderfully well; perhaps he is a Jew,
so I told him on purpose the story of the importunate Jew. He lives
in Dresden, and is a wholesale tobacco dealer. He has already
discovered who I am. If he speaks the truth, he heard me conduct in
New York; anyway, he improves on acquaintance. I have got so
accustomed to talking in New York that, in spite of my preference
for silence, I can stand his society without being bored. I am
astonished to find I sleep so much. In the evening, soon after
dinner, I was so overcome that I went to bed at ten o’clock and
slept straight on until seven the next morning. Nothing particular
happened during the day. A Mr. Aronson and his young wife
introduced themselves to me. He is the proprietor of the Casino
Theatre (favoured by Von Bülow), as I discovered by means of an
autograph album which was sent to me that I might write my name and
a few lines in it. Schröder, the man who attends to my cabin, is a
good-natured young German; at table also there are two nice German
stewards--this is very important for me. I am pleased with the
ship, the cabin, and the food. As there are no emigrants I can walk
on the lower deck; this is very pleasant, as I meet no first-class
passengers there and can be quiet.
“_May_ 11_th_ (23_rd_).
“I keep very much to myself and, thanks to my splendid cabin, in
which there is plenty of room to move about, I feel much freer than
on the _Bretagne_. I only use the drawing-room in the morning when
no one is there. There is a nice Steinway grand, and not at all a
bad musical library, including a few of my own productions. The day
is divided as follows: Dress, ring my bell, and Schröder brings me
a cup of tea; first breakfast, eight o’clock; walk on the lower
deck, work, read. By work I mean the sketches for my next Symphony.
At twelve o’clock the gong sounds for second breakfast.... I am
reading a book by Tatistchev, _Alexandre et Napoléon_.
“_May_ 11_th_ (23_rd_).
“In New York they so often assured me that the sea was calm at this
time of year that I believed them. But what a disenchantment! Since
early morning the weather has been getting worse: rain, wind, and
towards evening quite a gale. A dreadful night, could not sleep, so
sat on the sofa. Towards morning dozed a little.
“_May_ 12_th_ (24_th_).
“A detestable day. The weather is frightful. Seasickness, could eat
nothing but an orange.
“_May_ (13_th_) 25_th_.
“I feel quite unnerved from exhaustion and sickness. Yesterday
evening I fell asleep in my clothes on my sofa and slept there the
whole night. To-day the motion is less, but the weather is still
dreadful. My nerves are inexpressibly strained and irritated by
this ceaseless noise and horrible cracking. Shall I ever make up my
mind to endure such torment again?
“During the course of the day the motion grew still less and the
weather improved. I have taken such a dislike to the society of my
fellow-passengers that the very sight of them annoys and irritates
me. I constantly sit in my own cabin.
“_May_ 14_th_ (26_th_).
“The moon was magnificent to-night. I read in my cabin till I was
tired, and then went out for a stroll on deck. Everyone, without
exception, was asleep, and I was the only one of the 300
first-class passengers who had come out to enjoy the lovely night.
It was beautiful beyond all words. It was strange to think of the
terrible night on Sunday, when everything in my cabin, even my
trunk, was hurled from one side to the other, and the vessel seemed
to be fighting for life against the storm; when one was racked with
terror, and, added to all, the electric lamp and bell fell with a
crash on the floor and was smashed to pieces. That night I vowed
never to make another sea-voyage. But Schröder, my steward, says he
resolves to give up his place every time the weather is bad, but no
sooner is he in harbour than he longs for the sea again. Perhaps it
may be the same with me. The passengers are getting up a concert,
and want me to play. Quite the worst part of a sea-voyage is having
to know all the passengers.
“_May_ 15_th_ (27_th_).
“As we neared the Channel it became more lively. Hundreds of little
ships came in sight. About two o’clock the English coast was
visible; sometimes rocky and picturesque, sometimes flat and green
with spring grass.... Soon afterwards we entered Southampton.
“_May_ 16_th_ (28_th_).
“After passing Southampton and the Isle of Wight, I went to sleep
and awoke feeling rather chilly.... Enjoyed the views of the
English coast and the sight of the many steamers and sailing
vessels which enliven the Channel. We saw Folkestone and Dover. The
North Sea is very lively. We passed Heligoland in the night
“_May_ 17_th_ (29_th_).
“Arrived early this morning at Cuxhaven.... At 8 a.m. we went on
board a small steamer that took us to the Custom House. Long wait
and examination. Arrived at Hamburg by midday.”
Tchaikovsky spent one day in Hamburg and one in Berlin; then travelled
direct to Petersburg.
During his short stay there he was in a cheerful frame of mind. This was
partly the result of his reunion with his friends and relatives, and
partly the delightful impression of the early spring in Petersburg,
which he always enjoyed. This time he was so charmed with the city that
he had a great wish to settle in the neighbourhood, and commissioned us
to look out for a suitable house, or a small country property.
* * * * *
Since Frolovskoe was becoming more and more denuded of its forests, and
the demands of the landlord steadily increased, Tchaikovsky decided to
leave. After many vain attempts to find a suitable country house, or to
acquire a small property, he resolved to return to Maidanovo. While he
was abroad, Alexis Safronov had moved all his belongings into the house
he formerly occupied, and arranged it just as in 1886. Although
Tchaikovsky was fond of this house and its surroundings, and looked
forward to working there under the old conditions, his return somewhat
depressed him. There was an air of decay about house and park; the walks
did not please him; and then there was the prospect of an inroad of
summer visitors.
Soon after settling in Maidanovo he was visited by his brother, Modeste
Tchaikovsky, and his nephews, Vladimir Davidov and Count A. Litke. All
four travelled to Moscow together, where he was greatly interested by
the Franco-Russian Exhibition, and enjoyed acting as cicerone to his
favourite nephews.
The chief musical works upon which he was engaged at this time were: the
second act of the Ballet, _The Nut-cracker_; the completion of the
opera, _King René’s Daughter_; the remodelling of the Sextet and the
instrumentation of a symphonic poem, _The Voyevode_, composed the
previous autumn while he was staying at Tiflis.
_To P. Jurgenson._
“MAIDANOVO, _June_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1891.
“I have discovered a new instrument in Paris, something between a
piano and a _glockenspiel_, with a divinely beautiful tone. I want
to introduce this into the ballet and the symphonic poem. The
instrument is called the ‘Celesta Mustel,’ and costs 1,200 francs.
You can only buy it from the inventor, Mustel, in Paris. I want to
ask you to order one of these instruments. You will not lose by it,
because you can hire it out to the concerts at which _The Voyevode_
will be played, and afterwards sell it to the Opera when my ballet
is put on.... Have it sent direct to Petersburg; but no one there
must know about it. I am afraid Rimsky-Korsakov and Glazounov might
hear of it and make use of the new effect before I could. I expect
the instrument will make a tremendous sensation.”
_To J. Konius._
“_June_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1891.
“ ... The news that you are engaged (for America) with Brodsky
rejoices me. Brodsky is one of the most sympathetic men I ever met.
He is also a fine artist and the best quartet player I ever heard,
not excepting Laub, who was so great in this line.”
_To V. Davidov._
“_June_ 25_th_ (_July_ 7_th_), 1891.
“According to my promise, I write to let you know that I finished
the sketch of the ballet yesterday. You will remember my boasting
when you were here that I should get it done in about five days.
But I have taken at least a fortnight. Yes, the old fellow is
getting worn out. Not only is his hair turning white as snow and
beginning to fall, not only is he losing his teeth, not only do his
eyes grow weaker and get tired sooner, not only do his feet begin
to drag--but he is growing less capable of accomplishing anything.
This ballet is far weaker than _The Sleeping Beauty_--no doubt
about it. We shall see how the opera turns out. Once I feel
convinced that I can only contribute ‘warmed-up’ dishes to the
musical bill of fare, I shall give up composing.”
The following is quoted from a letter to Arensky, who had been
consulting Tchaikovsky as to the advisability of taking the post of
Director of the Tiflis branch of the Musical Society:--
“I hardly know how to advise you, dear Anton Stepanovich. I would
prefer not to do so. If you had some private means, I could only
rejoice in the prospect of your going to the Caucasus for a time.
But it saddens me to think of you in the provinces, remote from
musical centres, overburdened with tiresome work, solitary and
unable to hear good music. You cannot imagine how it depresses me
to think of men like Rimsky-Korsakov, Liadov, and yourself being
obliged to worry with teaching. But how can it be helped? I think
if you bear it for another two years, and work hard, little by
little, you may manage to live by composition only. I know in my
own case this is not impossible. I earn enough now to keep a large
family, if need were. I may tell you in conclusion, that Tiflis is
a fascinating town, and life there is pleasant.”
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
“MAIDANOVO, _July_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1891.
“ ... Do not be vexed that I stayed so long in Petersburg without
coming to see you in Reval.[170] ... From your letter I gather that
you are pretty comfortable there, although you mention many
difficulties you have to contend with. I think one must be very
politic and tactful in these things, then we can get over most
difficulties. In the diplomatic service we must often _faire bonne
mine au mauvais jeu_. There is nothing for it! I think you would
find Valoniev’s diary interesting. He was governor of one of the
Baltic provinces, and relates a great deal that is interesting. At
that time Souvarov, the extreme Liberal, ruled in these provinces.
In the long run the spirit of Pobiedonostsiev is better than the
spirit of Souvorov.”
Towards the end of July a misfortune befell Tchaikovsky which was the
cause of much subsequent anxiety. While he was taking his afternoon
constitutional, and Alexis was resting in his room, a thief, who
probably entered through the window, carried off the clock which had
been given to him by Nadejda von Meck in 1888. This clock, which was
beautifully decorated with a figure of Joan of Arc on one side, and on
the other with the Apollo of the Grand Opéra, upon a background of black
enamel, had been specially made in Paris, and cost 10,000 francs. For
years Tchaikovsky had hardly consented to be parted from this gift, even
for the necessary cleaning and repairs. It was his chief souvenir of his
relations with his friend and benefactress. The police of Moscow and
Klin were communicated with at once, but to no purpose: the clock was
never recovered.
_To V. Davidov._
“_August_ 1_st_(13_th_), 1891.
“ ... I am now reading your “Chevrillon on Ceylon,”[171] and
thinking of you. I do not altogether share your enthusiasm. These
modern French writers are terribly affected; they have a kind of
affectation of simplicity which disgusts me almost as much as
Victor Hugo’s high-sounding phrases, epithets, and antitheses.
Everything that your favourite recounts in such a clever and lively
style might be told in very simple and ordinary language, neither
in such brief and broken sentences, nor yet in long periods with
the subject and predicate in such forced and unnatural positions.
It is very easy to parody this gentleman:--
“Une serviette de table négligemment attachée à son cou, il
dégustait. Tout autour des mouches, avides, grouillantes, d’un
noir inquiétant volaient. Nul bruit sinon un claquement de machoirs
énervant. Une odeur moite, fétide, écœurante, lourde, répandait
un je ne sais quoi d’animal, de carnacier dans l’air. Point de
lumière. Un rayon de soleil couchant, pénétrant comme par hasard
dans la chambre nue et basse, éclairait par-ci, par-là tantôt la
figure blême du maître engurgitant sa soupe, tantôt celle du valet,
moustachue, à traits kalmouks, stupide et rampante. On devinait un
idiot servi par un idiot. 9 heures. Un morne silence régnait. Les
mouches fatiguées, somnolentes, devenues moins agitées, se
dispersaient. Et lá-bas, dans le lointain, par la fenêtre, on
voyait une lune, grimaçante, enorme, rouge, surgir sur l’horizon
embrasé. Il mangeait, il mangeait toujours. Puis l’estomac bourré,
la face écarlate, l’œil hagard, il se leva et sortit, etc.,
etc., etc. I have described my supper this evening. I think Zola
was the discoverer of this mode of expression.”
_To A. Alferaki._
“_August_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1891.
“ ... I have received your letter and the songs, and played through
the latter. I have nothing new to add to what I have already said
as to your remarkable creative gifts. It is useless to lament that
circumstances have not enabled you to go through a course of strict
counterpoint, which you specially needed. This goes without saying.
Your resolve to confine yourself entirely to song-writing does not
please me. A true artist, even if he possesses only a limited
creative capacity, which hinders him from producing great works in
certain spheres of art, should still keep the highest aim in view.
Neither age, nor any other obstacle, should check his ambition. Why
should you suppose one needs less than a complete all-round
technique in order to compose a perfect song? With an imperfect
technique you may limit your sphere of work as much as you
please--you will never get beyond an elegant amateurism.... I
dislike the system of putting the date of composition on each song.
What is the use of it? What does it matter to the public when and
where a work was composed?”
About August 20th Tchaikovsky left home for Kamenka, from whence he went
on to stay with his brother Nicholas. Here he met his favourite poet, A.
Fet, and became very friendly with him. Fet wrote a poem, “To Peter
Ilich Tchaikovsky,” an attention which touched the musician very deeply.
At the end of August he returned to Moscow in a very contented frame of
mind.
XIV
1891-1892
Through September, and the greater part of October, Tchaikovsky remained
at Maidanovo, working uninterruptedly upon the opera _Iolanthe_ and the
orchestration of _The Voyevode_. The work went easily, and his health
was good. The evenings, which during the last years of his life brought
home to him a sense of his loneliness, were enlivened by the presence of
Laroche, who was staying in the house. The friends played arrangements
for four hands, or Laroche read aloud. Everything seemed so ordered as
to leave no room for dissatisfaction with his lot; and yet his former
contentment with his surroundings had vanished.
The theft of his clock was still a matter of anxiety. He might have
partially forgotten it, had not the police announced the capture of the
criminal. “I am living in the atmosphere of one of Gaboriau’s novels,”
he wrote to his brother. “The police have caught the criminal, and he
has confessed. But nothing will induce him to reveal where he has hidden
the clock. To-day he was brought to me in the hopes that I might
persuade him to tell the truth.... He said he would confess all, if he
was left alone with me. We went into the next room. There he flung
himself at my feet and implored forgiveness. Of course I forgave him,
and only begged him to say where the clock was. Then he became very
quiet and afterwards declared he had never stolen it at all!... You can
imagine how all this has upset me, and how it has set me against
Maidanovo.”
Another cause of his passing discontent was wounded pride. So far he
believed himself to have scored a great success in America; he was
convinced that his return was anxiously waited, and that his popularity
had greatly increased. One day, however, he received a letter from
Morris Reno, who had originally engaged him, offering him a three
months’ tour with twenty concerts at a fee of 4,000 dollars. Seeing that
on the first occasion he had received 2,400 dollars for four concerts,
Tchaikovsky immediately concluded that he had greatly overrated the
importance of his previous visit, and was deeply mortified in
consequence. He telegraphed in reply to Reno two words only: “Non.
Tchaikovsky.” Afterwards he came to recognise that there was nothing
offensive in the proposal made to him, and that it in no way denoted any
falling off in the appreciation of the Americans. But the desire to
return was no longer so keen; only a very substantial pecuniary
advantage would have induced him to undertake the voyage.
Finally, he had another reason for feeling somewhat depressed at this
moment. The will which he made in the month of September involuntarily
caused him to think of that “flat-nosed horror,” which was sometimes his
equivalent for death. He had hitherto been under the impression that the
law which existed before the accession of Alexander III. was still in
force, and that at his death all his rights in his operas would pass
into the hands of the Theatrical Direction. The discovery that he had
more than a life interest in them was the reason for making a will. It
proves how much attention Tchaikovsky must have given to his contracts
for _Eugene Oniegin_, _Mazeppa_, and the later operas before signing
them, since the clause relating to his hereditary rights was prominent
in them all. When his brother Modeste called his attention to the fact,
he would not believe him until he had inquired from the Direction, when
he found himself agreeably mistaken. He was always anxious as to the
fate of certain people whom he supported during his lifetime, and was
thankful to feel that this assistance would be continued after his
death.
The number of those he assisted continually increased. “I was the most
expensive pensioner,” says Modeste Tchaikovsky, “for he allowed me about
two thousand roubles a year.” But he always met every request for money
half-way. Here are a few specimens of his generosity, quoted from
letters to Jurgenson and others:--
“DEAR FRIEND,--I want to help X. in some way. You are selling the
tickets for his concert. Should they go badly, take fifteen or
twenty places on my behalf and give them to whomsoever you please.
Of course, X. must know nothing about it.”
“If you are in pecuniary difficulties,” he wrote to Y., “come to
your sincere friend (myself), who now earns so much from his operas
and will be delighted to help you. I promise not a soul shall hear
of it; but it will be a great pleasure to me.”
“Please write at once to K., that he is to send Y. twenty-five
roubles a month. He may pay him three months in advance.”
There would be no difficulty in multiplying such instances. Not only his
neighbour’s need, but the mere whim of another person, awoke in
Tchaikovsky the desire of fulfilment. He always wished to give all and
receive nothing. It is not surprising, therefore, that there were
occasionally periods--as in September and October, 1891--when he found
himself penniless and felt the shortness of funds, chiefly because he
was unable to help others.
His correspondence with concert agents, publishers and all kinds of
applicants had become a great burden to him in those days.
All these things conduced to that mood of melancholy which is reflected
in the letters written at this time.
At the end of October he went to Moscow, to be present at the first
performance of _Pique Dame_, and to conduct Siloti’s concert, at which
his Symphonic Fantasia, _The Voyevode_, was brought out.
_To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._
“MOSCOW, _October_ 31_st_ (_November_ 12_th_), 1891.
“It is difficult to say how deeply your precious lines touched and
delighted me. Naturally I felt in my heart of hearts that you had
not forgotten me--but it is pleasant to have some clear evidence
that amid all your varied and complicated occupations, and while
under the impression of a profound family sorrow, you still found
time to think of me.
“I was very pleased to make Fet’s acquaintance. From his
‘Reminiscences,’ which were published in the _Russky Viestnik_, I
fancied it would not be very interesting to converse with him. On
the contrary, he is most agreeable company, full of humour and
originality. If your Highness only knew how enchanting his summer
residence is! The house and park--what a cosy retreat for a poet in
his old age! Unluckily, as his wife complained to me, the poet does
not enjoy life in these poetical surroundings at all. He sits at
home all day, dictating verses, or his translation of Martial, to
his lady secretary. He read me many new poems, and I was surprised
at the freshness and youthfulness of his inspiration. We both
regretted your Highness could not devote yourself entirely to
poetry. If only you could repose in summer in just such a solitary
spot! But, alas! it is not possible....
“When I have finished my opera and ballet I shall give up that
kind of work for a time and devote myself to Symphony.... I often
think it is time to shut up shop. A composer who has won success
and recognition stands in the way of younger men who want to be
heard. Time was when no one wanted to listen to my music, and if
the Grand Duke, your father, had not been my patron, not one of my
operas would ever have been performed. Now I am spoilt and
encouraged in every way. It is very pleasant, but I am often
tormented by the thought that I ought to make room for others.”
The first performance of _Pique Dame_ in Moscow took place on November
4th (16th), 1891, under Altani’s bâton. It was merely a fair copy of the
Petersburg performance, and presented no “special” qualities as regards
musical rendering or scenery.
The opera met with a warmer and more genuine welcome than in the
northern capital. Nevertheless the Press was not very pleased with the
music. The _Moscow Viedomosti_ thought “Tchaikovsky possessed a
remarkable talent for imitation, sometimes going so far as to borrow
wholesale from the older masters, as in his Suite _Mozartiana_.” Another
newspaper considered the opera “more pleasing than inspired.” The only
serious and intelligent criticism of the work appeared in the _Russky
Viedomosti_, from Kashkin’s pen.
Siloti’s concert, two days later, was marked by one of the most painful
episodes in the composer’s career. Kashkin, in his ‘Reminiscences,’ says
that, even at the rehearsals, Tchaikovsky had shown a kind of careless
indifference in conducting his latest orchestral work, the Symphonic
Ballade, _The Voyevode_. After the rehearsal he asked several people for
their opinion upon the work, among others Taneiev, who seems to have
replied that the chief movement of the Ballade--the love episode--was
not equal to similar episodes in _The Tempest_, _Romeo and Juliet_, or
_Francesca_. Moreover, he considered that Tchaikovsky had treated it
wrongly, and that Poushkin’s words could be _sung_ to this melody, so
that it was more in the style of a vocal than an orchestral work.
At the concert _The Voyevode_ made little impression, notwithstanding
the enthusiastic reception given to the composer. This was due to some
extent to Tchaikovsky’s careless rendering of the work.
Siloti relates that during the interval the composer came into the
artists’ room and tore his score to pieces, exclaiming: “Such rubbish
should never have been written.” To tear a thick score in pieces is not
an easy feat, and possibly Siloti’s memory may have been at fault. It is
more probable that Tchaikovsky _wished_ to destroy the score on the spot
than that he actually did so. Besides, he himself wrote to V. Napravnik:
“_The Voyevode_ turned out such wretched stuff that I tore it up the day
_after_ the concert.”
Siloti carefully concealed the parts of _The Voyevode_, so that after
Tchaikovsky’s death the score was restored from these and published by
M. Belaiev, of Leipzig. When it was given for the first time in
Petersburg, under Nikisch, it made a very different impression upon
Taneiev, and he bitterly regretted his hasty verdict delivered in 1891.
Tchaikovsky remained two days longer in Moscow, in order to be present
at a dinner given in his honour by the artists who had taken part in
_Pique Dame_, and returned to Maidanovo worn out with the excitement he
had experienced.
On December 17th (29th) he started upon his concert tour, which included
not only foreign, but Russian towns. He was pledged to conduct in Kiev
and Warsaw, as well as at the Hague and in Amsterdam,[172] and to attend
the first performance of _Oniegin_ in Hamburg and of _Pique Dame_ in
Prague.
At the time of the first performance of _Pique Dame_ in Kiev,
Tchaikovsky had become intimately acquainted with Prianichnikov, whose
services to art he valued very highly. Not only the attitude of this
artist towards him, but that of the entire opera company, had touched
him very deeply. He was aware that the affairs of this company--one of
the best in Russia--were not very flourishing, and he wanted to show his
sympathy in some substantial form. He proposed, therefore, that the
first performance of his _Iolanthe_ should be transferred from
Petersburg to Kiev, provided the Imperial Direction made no objections
to the plan. Naturally they objected very strongly, and Tchaikovsky, by
way of compensation, offered to conduct a concert for the benefit of
Prianichnikov’s company. The local branch of the Musical Society, which
had made overtures to the composer on several occasions, was offended at
his preference for the artists of the opera, and immediately engaged him
for a concert of their own. In view of his former connection with the
Society, Tchaikovsky could not refuse this offer. Both concerts were a
great success, and evoked immense enthusiasm from the public and the
Press.
From Kiev he went to Kamenka for a few days, but a feeling of sadness
came over him at the sight of his old dwelling-place, so inseparably
connected with the memory of the sister he had lost.
... At Warsaw, where he arrived on December 29th (January 10th), he was
overcome with that terrible, despairing nostalgia, which, towards the
close of his life, accompanied him like some sinister travelling
companion whenever he left Russia. “I am counting--just as last
year--the days, hours, and minutes till my journey is over,” he wrote to
Vladimir Davidov. “You are constantly in my thoughts, for at every
access of agitation and home-sickness, whenever my spiritual horizon
grows dark, the thought that you are there, that I shall see you sooner
or later, flashes like a ray of sunlight across my mind. I am not
exaggerating, upon my honour! Every moment this sun-ray keeps breaking
forth in these or similar words: “Yes, it is bad, but never mind, Bob
lives in the world”; “Far away in ‘Peter’[173] sits Bob, drudging at his
work”; “In a month’s time I shall see Bob again.”
_To N. Konradi._
“WARSAW, _December_ 31_st_ (_January_ 12_th_).
“I have been three days in Warsaw. I do not find this town as
agreeable as many others. It is better in summer. The rehearsals
are in progress, but the orchestra here is worse than second-rate.
I spend my time with my former pupil, the celebrated violinist
Barcewicz, and with the Friede[174] family. I shall stay here over
the New Year. In the evening I generally go to the theatre. The
opera is not bad here. Yesterday I saw the famous _Cavalleria
Rusticana_. This opera is really very remarkable, chiefly for its
successful subject. Perhaps Modi could find a similar libretto. Oh,
when will the glad day of return be here!”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“WARSAW, _January_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1892.
“ ... I have only time for a few lines. Yesterday my concert took
place in the Opera House, and went off brilliantly in every
respect. The orchestra, which took a great liking to me, played
admirably. Barcewicz played my Concerto with unusual spirit, and
Friede[175] sang beautifully. The day before yesterday
Grossmann[176] arranged a grand soirée in my honour. The Polish
countesses were fascinatingly amiable to me. I have been fêted
everywhere. Gurko[177] is the only person who has not shown me the
least attention.... Three weeks hence I go to Hamburg. I shall
conduct _Oniegin_ there myself; Pollini has made a point of it.”
_To A. Merkling._
“BERLIN, _January_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1892.
“ ... At Grossman’s grand evening I observed that the Polish ladies
(many very aristocratic women were there) are amiable, cultivated,
interesting, and sympathetic. The farewell at the station yesterday
was very magnificent. There is some talk of giving one of my operas
in Polish next season. I am spending a day in Berlin to recover
from the exciting existence in Warsaw. To-morrow I leave for
Hamburg, where I conduct _Oniegin_ on January 7th (19th). On the
29th (February 10th) my concert takes place in Amsterdam, and on
the 30th (February 11th), at the Hague. After that--full steam
homewards. I can only look forward with fearful excitement and
impatience to the blessed day when I shall return to my adored
Mother Russia.”
Tchaikovsky arrived in Hamburg to find _Oniegin_ had been well studied,
and the preparations for its staging satisfactory on the whole. “The
conductor here,” he wrote to his favourite nephew, “is not merely
passable, but actually has genius, and he ardently desires to conduct
the first performance. Yesterday I heard a wonderful rendering of
_Tannhäuser_ under his direction. The singers, the orchestra, Pollini,
the managers, and the conductor--his name is Mahler[178]--are all in
love with _Oniegin_; but I am very doubtful whether the Hamburg public
will share their enthusiasm.” Tchaikovsky’s doubts as to the success of
_Eugene Oniegin_ were well founded. The opera was not much applauded.
_To Vladimir Davidov._
“PARIS, _January_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1892.
“ ... I am in a very awkward position. I have a fortnight in
prospect during which I do not know how to kill time. I thought
this would be easier in Paris than anywhere else--but it was only
on the first day that I did not feel bored. Since yesterday I have
been wondering how I could save myself from idleness and ennui. If
Sapellnikov and Menter would not be offended at my not going to
Holland, how gladly I should start homewards! If the Silotis had
not been here, I do not think I could have stayed. Yesterday I was
at the ‘Folies-Bergères,’ and it bored me terribly. The Russian
clown Durov brings on 250 dressed-up rats. It is most curious in
what forms the Parisians display their Russophile propensities.
Neither at the Opera, nor at any of the more serious theatres, is
anything Russian performed, and while _we_ are giving
_Esclarmonde_, _they_ show their goodwill towards Russian art by
the medium of Durov and his rats! Truly, it enrages me--I say it
frankly--partly on account of my own interests. Why cannot Colonne,
who is now the head of the Opera, give my _Pique Dame_, or my new
Ballet? In autumn he spoke of doing so, and engaged Petipa with a
view to this. But it was all empty talk.... You will say: ‘Are you
not ashamed to be so envious and small-minded?’ I am ashamed.
Having nothing to do, I am reading Zola’s _La bête humaine_. I
cannot understand how people can seriously accept Zola as a great
writer. Could there be anything more false and improbable than the
leading idea of this novel? Of course, there are parts in which the
truth is set forth with realism and vitality. But, in the main, it
is so artificial that one never for a moment feels any sympathy
with the actions or sufferings of the characters. It is simply a
story of crime _à la_ Gaboriau, larded with obscenities.”
His increasing nostalgia and depression of spirits finally caused
Tchaikovsky to abandon the concerts in Holland and return to Petersburg
about the end of January. There he spent a week with his relatives, and
went back to Maidanovo on the 28th (February 9th).
* * * * *
While in Paris, Tchaikovsky completed the revision of his Sextet, and on
his return to Russia devoted himself to the orchestration of the
_Nut-cracker_ Ballet. He was in haste to finish those numbers from this
work, which, in the form of a Suite, were to be played in St. Petersburg
on March 7th (19th), instead of the ill-fated ballade, _The Voyevode_.
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
“MAIDANOVO, _February_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1892.
“I am living very pleasantly here and enjoying the most beautiful
of all the winter months. I love these clear, rather frosty days,
when the sun sometimes begins to feel quite warm. They bring a
feeling of spring.... Volodya Napravnik is staying with me just
now, and has turned out to be excellent company. He is very
musical, and that is a great pleasure. I often play pianoforte
duets with him in the evening, or simply listen while he plays my
favourite pieces. I have taken a house at Klin which will be my
future home.... Later on I may buy it. Thank God, my financial
position is excellent. _Pique Dame_ was given nineteen times in
Moscow, and the house was always sold out. Besides, there are the
other operas. There is a good deal due to me from Petersburg.”
Late in February Tchaikovsky went to St. Petersburg for a short visit.
Here he received news which made a startling impression upon him. He had
long believed his old governess Fanny to be dead. Suddenly he was
informed that not only was she still alive, but had sent him her
greetings. The first effect of these glad tidings came upon him as a
kind of shock. In his own words, “he felt as though he had been told
that his mother had risen from the dead, that the last forty-three years
of existence were nothing but a dream, and that he had awakened to find
himself in the upstairs rooms of the house at Votinsk.” He dreaded, too,
lest his dear teacher should now be only the shadow of her old self, a
feeble and senile creature to whom death would be a boon. Nevertheless,
he wrote to her at once, a kindly letter in which he asked if he could
serve her in any way, and enclosed his photograph. Her reply, written in
a firm handwriting, in which he recognised her old clearness of style,
and the absence of all complaint, greatly assured him. Thus, between
teacher and pupil the old affectionate relations were again renewed.
At the Symphony Concert of the Musical Society, on March 7th (19th),
Tchaikovsky conducted his _Romeo and Juliet_ Overture and the
_Nut-cracker_ Suite. The new work must have had an unprecedented
success, since five out of the six movements had to be repeated.
At a concert given by the School of Jurisprudence, on March 3rd (15th),
the composer had the honour of being introduced to the Tsarevich, now
the reigning Emperor of Russia.
He returned to Maidanovo on March 9th.
_To J. Konius._
“_March_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1892.
“In Petersburg I heard a very interesting violinist named (César)
Thomson. Do you know him? He has a most remarkable technique; for
instance, he plays passages of octaves with a rapidity to which no
one has previously attained. I am telling you this on the
assumption that you, too, will attempt this artistic feat. It makes
a tremendous effect.”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“_March_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1892.
“ ... I have no recollection of having promised you that I would
never give away any of my manuscripts. I should have been very
unwilling to make any such promise, because there are cases in
which I could only be very pleased to present one of my scores to
the Opera Direction--or in a similar instance.[179] ... Your
reproach that I give them away ‘right and left’ is without
foundation. The Opera Direction, to which I owe my prosperity, is
surely worthy to possess one of my scores in its superb library;
and the same applies to the Russian Musical Society, from which
originated the Conservatoire where I studied, and where I was
invariably treated with kindness and indulgence. If you are really
going to make it a _sine quâ non_ that all my manuscripts must be
your property, we must discuss the question ... and should you
convince me that your interests really suffer through the
presentation of my scores, I will promise not to do it again. I
have so rarely deprived you of the priceless joy of possessing my
autograph scrawls! You have so many to the good! I cannot
understand why you should be so annoyed!”
At the end of March Tchaikovsky spent a week with his relatives in
Petersburg--now a very reduced circle--and afterwards went to Moscow.
During the month Tchaikovsky spent in this city Alexis moved all his
master’s belongings from Maidanovo to the new house at Klin.
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
“MOSCOW, _April_ 23_rd_ (_May_ 5_th_), 1892.
“Moscow is unbearable, for there is scarcely a human being who does
not bother me with visits or invitations; or ask me to look at an
opera or songs, or--most unpleasant of all--try to get money out of
me in one form or another. I shall look back upon this month spent
in Moscow as upon a horrid nightmare. So far, I have conducted
_Faust_ and Rubinstein’s _Demon_; _Oniegin_ has yet to come.[180]
But what are all these small inconveniences compared to what you
have to do?[181] I have read your last letter with the greatest
interest, and felt glad for your sake that you have such a fine
opportunity of helping your fellow-creatures. I am sure that you
will always cherish the memory of your mission to the
famine-stricken Siberians.”
XV
After the month’s uncongenial work in Moscow, Tchaikovsky rested a
few days in Petersburg, until Alexis had everything ready for him
in the new home--which was destined to be his last. The house at
Klin stood at the furthest end of the little town, and was
completely surrounded by fields and woods; two-storied and very
roomy. It particularly pleased Tchaikovsky, because--quite an
unusual thing in a small country house in Russia--the upper rooms
were large, and could be turned into an excellent bedroom and study
for a guest. This was perhaps the only improvement upon Maidanovo
and Frolovskoe. A small garden, the usual outlook across the
country, the neighbourhood of endless kitchen-gardens on the one
hand, and of the high-road to Moscow on the other, deprived the
spot of all poetic beauty, and only Tchaikovsky, with his very
modest demands for comfort or luxury, could have been quite
satisfied--even enthusiastic--about the place.
After the composer’s death, this house was purchased by his
servant, Alexis Safronov, who sold it in 1897 to Modeste
Tchaikovsky and his nephew, Vladimir Davidov. At the present
moment--in so far as possible--every relic, and all documents
connected with the composer, are preserved in the house.
[Illustration: THE HOUSE IN WHICH TCHAIKOVSKY LIVED AT KLIN
(HIS LAST HOME)]
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“KLIN, _May_ 20_th_ (_June_ 1_st_), 1892.
“I have spent so much money lately (of course not upon myself
alone) that all my hopes of laying aside something for George[182]
have vanished.”
_To Eugen Zabel._
“KLIN, NEAR MOSCOW, _May_ 24_th_ (_June_ 5_th_), 1892.
“I have just received your esteemed letter, and feel it a pleasant
duty to send you an immediate answer, but as I write German very
badly I must have recourse to French. I doubt if you will find
anything new, interesting, or of any value for your biography in
the following lines; but I promise to say quite frankly all that I
know and feel about Rubinstein.
“It was in 1858 that I heard the name of Anton Rubinstein for the
first time. I was then eighteen, and I had just entered the higher
class of the School of Jurisprudence, and only took up music as an
amateur. For several years I had taken lessons on Sundays from a
very distinguished pianist, M. Rodolphe Kündinger. In those days,
never having heard any other virtuoso than my teacher, I believed
him, in all sincerity, to be the greatest in the world. One day
Kündinger came to the lesson in a very absent-minded mood, and paid
little attention to the scales and exercises I was playing. When I
asked this admirable man and artist what was the matter, he replied
that, the day before, he had heard the pianist Rubinstein, just
come from abroad; this man had impressed him so profoundly that he
had not yet recovered from the experience, and everything in the
way of virtuosity now seemed to him so poor that it was as
unbearable to listen to my scales as to hear himself play the
piano.
“I knew what a noble and sincere nature Kündinger possessed. I had
a very high opinion of his taste and knowledge--and this caused his
words to excite my imagination and my curiosity in the highest
degree. In the course of my scholastic year I had the opportunity
of hearing Rubinstein--and not only of _hearing_ him, but of
_seeing_ him play and conduct. I lay stress upon this first _visual
impression_, because it is my profound conviction that Rubinstein’s
prestige is based not only upon his rare talent, but also upon an
irresistible charm which emanates from his whole personality; so
that it is not sufficient to hear him in order to gain a full
impression--one must see him too. I heard and saw him. Like
everyone else, I fell under the spell of his charm. All the same, I
finished my studies, entered the Government service, and continued
to amuse myself with a little music in my leisure hours. But
gradually my true vocation made itself felt. I will spare you
details which have nothing to do with my subject, but I must tell
you that about the time of the foundation of the St. Petersburg
Conservatoire, in September, 1862, I was no longer a clerk in the
Ministry of Justice, but a young man resolved to devote himself to
music, and ready to face all the difficulties which were predicted
by my relatives, who were displeased that I should voluntarily
abandon a career in which I had made a good start. I entered the
Conservatoire. My professors were: Zaremba for counterpoint and
fugue, etc., Anton Rubinstein (Director) for form and
instrumentation. I remained three and a half years at the
Conservatoire, and during this time I saw Rubinstein daily, and
sometimes several times a day, except during the vacations. When I
joined the Conservatoire I was--as I have already told you--an
enthusiastic worshipper of Rubinstein. But when I knew him better,
when I became his pupil and we entered into daily relations with
each other, my enthusiasm for his personality became even greater.
In him I adored not only a great pianist and composer, but a man of
rare nobility, frank, loyal, generous, incapable of petty and
vulgar sentiments, clear and right-minded, of infinite goodness--in
fact, a man who towered far above the common herd. As a teacher, he
was of incomparable value. He went to work simply, without grand
phrases or long dissertations; but always taking his duty
seriously. He was only once angry with me. After the holidays I
took him an overture entitled ‘The Storm,’ in which I had been
guilty of all kinds of whims of form and orchestration. He was
hurt, and said that it was not for the development of imbeciles
that he took the trouble to teach the art of composition. I left
the Conservatoire full of gratitude and admiration for my
professor.
“For over three years I saw him daily. But what were our relations?
He was a great and illustrious musician--I a humble pupil, who only
saw him fulfilling his duties, and had no idea of his intimate
life. A great gulf lay between us. When I left the Conservatoire I
hoped that by working courageously, and gradually making my way, I
might look forward to the happiness of seeing this gulf bridged
over. I dared to aspire to the honour of becoming the friend of
Rubinstein.
“It was not to be. Nearly thirty years have passed since then, but
the gulf is deeper and wider than before. Through my professorship
in Moscow I came to be the intimate friend of Nicholas Rubinstein;
I had the pleasure of seeing Anton from time to time; I have always
continued to care for him intensely, and to regard him as the
greatest of artists and the noblest of men, but I never became, and
never shall become, his friend. This great luminary revolves always
in my heaven, but while I see its light I feel its remoteness more
and more.
“It would be difficult to explain the reason for this. I think,
however, that my _amour propre_ as a composer has a great deal to
do with it. In my youth I was very impatient to make my way, to win
a name and reputation as a gifted composer, and I hoped that
Rubinstein--who already enjoyed a high position in the musical
world--would help me in my chase for fame. But painful as it is, I
must confess that he did nothing, _absolutely nothing_, to forward
my plans or assist my projects. Certainly he never injured me--he
is too noble and generous to put a spoke in the wheel of a
comrade--but he never departed from his attitude of reserve and
kindly indifference towards me. This has always been a profound
regret. The most probable explanation of this mortifying
luke-warmness is that Rubinstein _does not care for my music, that
my musical temperament is antipathetic to him_. Now I still see
him from time to time, and always with pleasure, for this
extraordinary man has only to hold out his hand and smile for us to
fall at his feet. At the time of his jubilee I had the happiness of
going through much trouble and fatigue for him; his attitude to me
is always exceedingly correct, exceedingly polite and kind--but we
live very much apart, and I can tell you nothing about his way of
life, his views and aims--nothing, in fact, that could be of
interest to the future readers of your book.
“I have never received letters from Rubinstein, and never wrote to
him but twice in my life, to thank him for having, in recent years,
included, among other Russian works in his programmes, one or two
of my own.
“I have made a point of fulfilling your wish and telling you all I
could about Rubinstein. If I have told too little, it is not my
fault, nor that of Anton, but of fatality.
“Forgive my blots and smudges. To-morrow I have to leave home, and
have no time to copy this.
“Your devoted
“P. T.”
The sole object of the journey mentioned in this letter was to take a
cure at Vichy. The catarrh of the stomach from which he suffered had
been a trouble to Tchaikovsky for the last twenty years. Once, while
staying with Kondratiev at Nizy, the local doctor had recommended him
_natron_ water. From that time he could not exist without it, and took
it in such quantities that he ended by acquiring a kind of taste for it.
But it did not cure his complaint, which grew worse and worse, so that
in 1876 he had to undergo a course of mineral waters. The catarrhal
trouble was not entirely cured, however, but returned at intervals with
more or less intensity. About the end of the eighties his condition grew
worse. Once during the rehearsals for _Pique Dame_, while staying at the
Hôtel Rossiya in St. Petersburg, he sent for his brother Modeste, and
declared he “could not live through the night.” This turned his thoughts
more and more to the “hateful but health-giving Vichy.” But the periods
of rest after his various tours, and of work in his “hermit’s cave” at
Klin, were so dear to him that until 1892 he could not make up his mind
to revisit this watering-place. This year he only decided to go because
the health of Vladimir Davidov equally demanded a cure at Vichy. He
hoped in this congenial company to escape his usual home-sickness, and
that it might even prove a pleasure to take his nephew abroad.
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“VICHY, _June_ 19_th_ (_July_ 1_st_), 1892.
“We have been here a week. It seems more like seven months, and I
look forward with horror to the fortnight which remains. I dislike
Vichy as much as I did sixteen years ago, but I think the waters
will do me good. In any case I feel sure Bob will benefit by them.”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“VICHY, _July_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1892.
“I only possess one short note from Liszt, which is of so little
importance that it is not worth your while to send it to La Mara.
Liszt was a good fellow, and ready to respond to everyone who paid
court to him. But as I never toadied to him, or any other
celebrity, we never got into correspondence. I think he really
preferred Messrs. Cui and Co., who went on pilgrimages to Weimar,
and he was more in sympathy with their music than with mine. As far
as I know, Liszt was not particularly interested in my works.”
By July 9th (21st) Tchaikovsky and his nephew were back in Petersburg,
from whence he travelled almost immediately to Klin, where he busied
himself with the new Symphony (No. 6) which he wished to have ready in
August.
At the outset of his career Tchaikovsky was somewhat indifferent as to
the manner in which his works were published. He troubled very little
about the quality of the pianoforte arrangements of his operas and
symphonic works, and still less about printers’ errors. About the end of
the seventies, however, he entirely changed his attitude, and henceforth
became more and more particular and insistent in his demands respecting
the pianoforte arrangements and correction of his compositions. Quite
half his correspondence with Jurgenson is taken up with these matters
... His requirements constantly increased. No one could entirely satisfy
him. The cleverest arrangers, such as Klindworth, Taneiev, and Siloti
did not please him, because they made their arrangements too difficult
for amateurs. He was also impatient at the slowness with which they
worked.
Now that for a year and a half Tchaikovsky has been in his grave, it is
easy to attribute to certain events in his life (which passed unnoticed
at the time) a kind of prophetic significance. His special and exclusive
care as to the editing and publishing of his works in 1892 may, however,
be compared to the preparations which a man makes for a long journey,
when he is as much occupied with what lies before him as with what he is
leaving behind. He strives to finish what is unfinished, and to leave
all in such a condition that he can face the unknown with a quiet
conscience.
The words Tchaikovsky addressed to Jurgenson with reference to the Third
Suite--“If all my best works were published in this style I might depart
in peace”--offer some justification for my simile.
In the autumn of 1892 he undertook the entire correction of the
orchestral parts of _Iolanthe_ and the _Nut-cracker_ Ballet; the
improvements and corrections of the pianoforte arrangement (two hands)
of _Iolanthe_; the corrections of the pianoforte score of the Opera and
Ballet, and a simplified pianoforte arrangement of the latter.
Tchaikovsky so often speaks in his letters of his dislike to this kind
of work that he must have needed extraordinary self-abnegation to take
this heavy burden upon his shoulders.
As with the spirits in Dante’s _Inferno_, the dread of their torments by
the will of divine justice “_si volge in disio_,”[183] so the energy
with which Tchaikovsky attacked his task turned to a morbid, passionate
excitement. “Corrections, corrections! More, more! For Heaven’s sake,
corrections!” he cries in his letters to Jurgenson, so that the casual
reader might take for an intense desire that which was, in reality, only
a worry to him, as the following letter shows.
_To S. Taneiev._
“KLIN, _July_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1892.
“Just now I am busy looking through the pianoforte score of
_Iolanthe_. It bothers and annoys me indescribably. Before I went
abroad in May I had sketched the first movement and finale of a
Symphony. Abroad it did not progress in the least, and now I have
no time for it.”
_To Anna Merkling._
“KLIN, _July_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1892.
“DEAREST ANNA,--I have received your letter with the little
additional note from dear Katy.[184] What extraordinary people you
are! How can you imagine it would be a great pleasure for you if I
were to come on a visit? If I were cheerful and pleasant company
that would be a different matter. But I am no use for
conversational purposes, and am often out of spirits, nor have I
any resources in myself. I cannot help thinking that if I came you
might afterwards say to yourselves: ‘This old fool, we awaited him
with such impatience, and he is not a bit nice after all!’ Anna, I
really do want to come to the Oboukhovs’, but I cannot positively
say ‘yes’ at present.... It will be sad to part from Bob, who is
dearer to me than ever, since we have been inseparable companions
for the last six weeks.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“KLIN, _July_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1892.
“ ... I am sorry your comedy is ineffective and not suitable for
the stage. Why do you think so? Authors are never good judges of
their own work. Flaubert’s letters--which I enjoy very much at
present--are very curious in this respect. I think there is no more
sympathetic personality in all the world of literature. A hero and
martyr to his art. And so wise! I have found some astonishing
answers to my questionings as to God and religion in his book.”
At the end of July Russian art suffered a great loss in the death of the
connoisseur and wealthy patron, S. M. Tretiakov, who had been Nicholas
Rubinstein’s right hand in the founding of the Moscow Conservatoire. To
Tchaikovsky, Tretiakov’s somewhat sudden end came as a severe blow, and
he immediately travelled to Moscow to be present at the funeral of his
friend.
A pleasanter incident during this summer of hard work came in the form
of an invitation to conduct a concert at the Vienna Exhibition. “It is
an advantage,” he wrote to his brother Modeste, “because so far--on
account of Hanslick--Vienna has been hostile to me. I should like to
overcome this unfriendly opinion.”
At last, at the very end of August, the vast accumulation of
proof-correcting was finished, which, as he himself said, would have
almost driven him out of his mind, but for his regular and healthy way
of life. “Even in dreams,” he wrote to Vladimir Davidov, “I see
corrections, and flats and sharps that refuse to do what they are
ordered.... I should like to see you at Verbovka after Vienna, but
Sophie Menter, who is coming to my concert there, has given me a
pressing invitation to her castle. Three times already I have broken my
promise to go to Itter. I am really interested to see this ‘marvel,’ as
everyone calls the castle.”
In the course of this year, at the suggestion of the Grand Duke
Constantine Constantinovich, President of the Academy of Sciences,
Tchaikovsky was invited by the academician Y. K. Grote to contribute to
the new _Dictionary of the Russian Language_, then appearing in a second
edition. Tchaikovsky’s duties were limited to the superintendence of
musical words, but he was flattered by his connection with such an
important scientific work.
XVI
1892-1893
Tchaikovsky never travelled so much as during the foregoing season. It
is true he was always fond of moving about. He could not remain long in
one spot; but this was chiefly because it always seemed to him that
“every place is better than the one in which we are.” Paris, Kamenka,
Clarens, Rome, Brailov, Simaki, Tiflis--all in turn were his favourite
resorts, which he was delighted to visit and equally pleased to quit.
But apart from the ultimate goal, travelling in itself was an enjoyment
rather than a dread to Tchaikovsky.
From 1885, when he resolved “no longer to avoid mankind, but to keep
myself before the world so long as it needs me,” his journeys became
more frequent. When he began to conduct his own compositions in 1887,
his journeys were undertaken with a fresh object: the propagation of his
works abroad. As his fame increased, so also did the number of those who
wished to hear him interpret his own music, and thus it was natural
that by 1892 the number of his journeys was far greater than it had been
ten years earlier.
When Tchaikovsky started upon his first concert tour he undoubtedly did
violence to his “actual self,” and did not look forward with pleasure,
but rather with dread, to what lay before him. At the same time he was
full of the expectation of happy impressions and brilliant results, and
was firmly convinced of the importance of his undertaking, both for his
own fame and for the cause of Russian art in general.
The events of his first tour would not have disappointed even a man less
modest than Tchaikovsky. He had many consoling experiences, beginning
with the discovery that he was better known abroad than he had hitherto
suspected. His reception in Prague, with its “moment of absolute
happiness,” the sensation in Paris, the attention and respect with which
he was received in Germany, all far surpassed his expectations.
Nevertheless, he returned disillusioned, not by what had taken place,
but by the price he had paid for his happiness.
But no sooner home again, than he forgot all he had gone through, and
was planning his second tour with evident enjoyment.
This inexplicable discontent and disenchantment may, he thought, have
been the result of a passing mood. The worst of his fears--the
appearance before a crowd of foreigners--was over. He believed his
second appearance would be far less painful, and expected even happier
impressions than on his first tour. He was mistaken. He merely awoke to
the “uselessness” of the sacrifice he was making for popularity’s sake,
and he asked himself whether it would not be better to stay at home and
work. His belief in the importance of the undertaking vanished, and with
it the whole reason for doing violence to his nature. In the early part
of 1890 he declined all engagements to travel, and devoted himself to
composition. But by the end of the year Tchaikovsky seems to have
forgotten all the lessons of his two concert tours, for he began once
more to conduct in Russia and abroad. Every journey cost him keener
pangs of home-sickness, and each time he vowed it should be the last.
Yet no sooner had he reached home again, than he began planning yet
another tour. It seemed as though he had become the victim of some blind
force which drove him hither and thither at will. This power was not
merely complaisance to the demands of others, nor his old passion for
travelling, nor the fulfilment of a duty, nor yet the pursuit of
applause; still less was it the outcome of a desire for material gain.
This mysterious force had its source in an inexplicable, restless,
despondent condition of mind, which sought appeasement in any kind of
distraction. I cannot explain it as a premonition of his approaching
death; there are no grounds whatever for such a supposition. Nor will I,
in any case, take upon myself to solve the problem of my brother’s last
psychological development. I will only call attention to the fact that
he passed through a similar phase before every decisive change in his
life. As at the beginning of the sixties, when he chose a musical
career, and in 1885, when he resolved to “show himself in the eyes of
the world,” so also at this juncture, we are conscious of a feeling
_that things could not have gone on much longer_; we feel on the brink
of a change, as though something had come to an end, and was giving
place to a new and unknown presence.
His death, which came to solve the problem, seemed fortuitous. Yet it is
clear to me that it came at a moment _when things could not have gone on
much longer_; nor can I shake off the impression that the years 1892 and
1893 were the dark harbingers of a new and serene epoch.
An unpleasant surprise awaited Tchaikovsky in Vienna. The concert, in
connection with the Exhibition, which he had been engaged to conduct
was to be given, so he discovered, in what was practically a large
restaurant, reeking of cookery and the fumes of beer and tobacco. The
composer immediately declined to fulfil his contract, unless the tables
were removed and the room converted into something approaching a
concert-hall. Moreover, the orchestra, though not very bad, was
ridiculously small. Tchaikovsky’s friends--Door, Sophie Menter, and
Sapellnikov--were indignant at the whole proceeding, and realising the
unpleasantness of his position, he decided to disregard his contract,
and started with Mme. Menter for her castle at Itter.
Professor Door has related his reminiscences of Tchaikovsky’s unlucky
visit to Vienna,[185] when he met his old friend again after a long
separation. “I was shocked at his appearance,” he writes, “for he had
aged so much that I only recognised him by his wonderful blue eyes. A
man old at fifty! His delicate constitution had suffered terribly from
his incessant creative work. We spoke of old days, and I asked him how
he now got on in Petersburg. He replied that he was so overwhelmed with
all kinds of attentions that he was perpetually embarrassed by them, and
had but one trouble, which was that he never saw anything of Rubinstein,
whom he had loved and respected from his student days. ‘Do what I will,’
he said, ‘I can get no hold on him; he escapes me like an eel.’ I
laughed and said: ‘Do not take the great man’s ways too much to heart;
he has his weaknesses like other mortals. Rubinstein, a distinctly
lyrical temperament, has never had any great success in dramatic music,
and avoids everyone who has made a name in this sphere of art. Comfort
yourself, dear friend; he cut Richard Wagner and many others besides.’
‘But,’ he broke in with indignation, ‘how can you compare me with Wagner
and many others who have created immortal works?’ ‘Oh, as to
immortality,’ I replied, ‘I will tell you a good story about Brahms. Once
when this question was being discussed, Brahms said to me: ‘Yes,
immortality is a fine thing, if only one knew how long it would last.’
Tchaikovsky laughed heartily over this ‘bull,’ and his cheerfulness
seemed quite restored.... After three hours’ rehearsal he was greatly
exhausted. He descended with great difficulty from the conductor’s desk,
the perspiration stood in beads on his forehead, and he hurried into his
fur-lined coat, although it was as warm as a summer’s day. He rested for
a quarter of an hour, and then left with Sophie Menter and Sapellnikov.”
During this short visit to Vienna, Tchaikovsky stayed in the same hotel
as Pietro Mascagni, and their rooms actually adjoined. The Italian
composer was then the most fêted and popular man in Vienna. As we have
already mentioned, Tchaikovsky admired _Cavalleria Rusticana_. The
libretto appealed to him in the first place, but he recognised much
promising talent in the music. The rapidity with which the young
musician had become the idol of the Western musical world did not in the
least provoke Tchaikovsky’s envy; on the contrary, he was interested in
the Italian composer, and drawn to him. Accident having brought him into
such near neighbourhood, it occurred to him to make the acquaintance of
his young colleague. But when he found himself confronted in the passage
with a whole row of admirers, all awaiting an audience with the
_maestro_, he resolved to spare him at least one superfluous visitor.
The Castle of Itter, which belongs to Madame Sophie Menter, is situated
in Tyrol, a few hours from Munich. Besides its wonderfully picturesque
situation, it has acquired a kind of reflected glory, not only from the
reputation of its owner, but because Liszt often stayed there.
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“ITTER, _September_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1892.
“ ... Itter deserves its reputation. It is a devilish pretty nest.
My rooms--I occupy a whole floor--are very fine, but a curious
mixture of grandeur and bad taste: luxurious furniture, a wonderful
inlaid bedstead and--some vile oleographs. But this does not affect
me much. The great thing is the exquisite, picturesque
neighbourhood. Peace and stillness, and not a trace of any other
visitors. I am fond of Sapellnikov and Menter, and, altogether, I
have not felt more comfortable for a long while. I shall stay five
days longer and return to ‘Peter’ by Salzburg (where I want to see
the Mozart Museum) and Prague (where I stay for the performance of
_Pique Dame_). On the 25th (October 7th) I hope to put in an
appearance upon the Quay Fontanka. The chief drawback here is that
I get neither letters nor papers and hear nothing about Russia or
any of you.”
The performance of _Pique Dame_ in Prague did not take place until
October 8th. The opera, judging from the accounts of those present, had
a brilliant success, and the composer was repeatedly recalled. Between
1892-1902 _Pique Dame_ was given on forty-one occasions. When we bear in
mind that opera is only given three times a week at the National Theatre
in Prague, and that the chief object of this enterprise is to forward
the interests of Czechish art, this number of performances points to the
fact that the success of _Pique Dame_ has proved as lasting as it was
enthusiastic.
* * * * *
[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY’S BEDROOM AT KLIN]
Tchaikovsky returned to Klin about the first week in October (Russian
style), and was soon busy with preparations for the performance of
_Iolanthe_ in St. Petersburg. On the 28th (November 9th) he left home
for the capital, in order to superintend the rehearsals of the new
opera. Soon after his arrival he received two interesting
communications. The first informed him that he had been elected a
Corresponding Member of the French Academy; the second, from the
University of Cambridge, invited him to accept the title of Doctor of
Music, _honoris causa_, on condition that he attended in person to
receive the degree at the hands of the Vice-Chancellor.
Tchaikovsky acknowledged the first honour, and expressed his readiness
to conform to the conditions of the second.
At the same time he had a further cause for congratulation in the
success of his Sextet, _Souvenir de Florence_, which was played for the
first time in public at the St. Petersburg Chamber Music Union, on
November 25th (December 7th). The players were: E. Albrecht, Hille,
Hildebrandt, Heine, Wierzbilowiez, and A. Kouznietsov. This time all
were delighted: the performers, the audience, and the composer himself.
The medal of the Union was presented to Tchaikovsky amid unanimous
applause. During this visit the composer sat to the well-known sculptor,
E. Günsburg, for a statuette which, in spite of its artistic value, is
not successful as a likeness.
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
“PETERSBURG, _November_ 24_th_ (_December_ 6_th_), 1892.
“ ... Modeste’s play was given yesterday.[186] It was a complete
failure, which does not surprise me in the least, for it is much
too subtle for the public at the Alexander Theatre. It does not
matter: may it be a lesson to Modeste. The pursuit of the
unattainable hinders him from his real business--to write plays in
the accepted form. The rehearsals for _Iolanthe_ and the Ballet are
endlessly dragged out. The Emperor will be present on the 5th, and
the first public performance will take place the following day.”
During this visit to the capital Tchaikovsky did his utmost to forward
the interests of his friends, Taneiev and Arensky, as will be seen from
the following extract from a letter to the former, respecting the
performance of his _Orestes_:--
“Vsievolojsky (Director of the Opera) took Napravnik aside and
consulted him as to the advisability of proposing _Orestes_ to the
Emperor for next season.... I suggested that you should be sent
for, in order to play over the work in their presence. Vsievolojsky
was afraid if you were put to this trouble you might feel hurt
should the matter fall through. I ventured to say that, as a true
philosopher, you would not lose heart if nothing came of it.... I
spoke not less eloquently of Arensky, but so far without success.”
On December 5th (17th) _Iolanthe_ and the _Nut-cracker_ Ballet were
given in the presence of the Imperial Court. The opera was conducted by
Napravnik. The Figners distinguished themselves by their admirable
interpretations of the parts of Vaudemont and Iolanthe. The scenery and
costumes were beautiful. Nevertheless the work was only accorded a
_succès d’estime_. The chief reason for this--according to Modeste
Tchaikovsky--was the prolixity of the libretto and its lack of scenic
interest.
The Ballet--admirably conducted by Drigo--was brilliantly staged, and
received with considerable applause; yet the impression left by the
first night was not wholly favourable. The subject, which differed
greatly from the conventional ballet programme, was not entirely to
blame. The illness of the talented ballet-master, Petipa, and the
substitution of a man of far less skill and imagination, probably
accounted for the comparative failure of the work. The delicate beauty
of the music did not appeal to the public on a first hearing, and some
time elapsed before the _Nut-cracker_ became a favourite item in the
repertory.
The attitude of the Press appears from the following letter from the
composer to Anatol, dated Petersburg, December 10th (22nd), 1892:--
“This is the fourth day on which all the papers have been cutting
up both my latest creations.... It is not the first time. The abuse
does not annoy me in the least, and yet--as always under these
circumstances--I am in a hateful frame of mind. When one has lived
in expectation of an important event, as soon as it is over there
comes a kind of apathy and disinclination for work, while the
emptiness and futility of all our efforts becomes so evident....
The day after to-morrow I leave for Berlin. There I shall decide
where to go for a rest (most probably to Nice). On December 29th I
shall be in Brussels. From thence I shall go to Paris, and
afterwards to see Mlle. Fanny at Montbeillard. About the 10th
January I have to conduct the concerts at Odessa. At the end of the
month I shall be in Petersburg. Later I shall spend some time in
Klin, and go to you in Lent.”
_To Vladimir Davidov._
“BERLIN, _December_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1892.
“Here I am, still in Berlin. To-day I have given myself up to
serious reflections, which will have important results. I have been
carefully, and as it were objectively, analysing my Symphony, which
luckily I have not yet orchestrated and given to the world. The
impression was not flattering: the work is written for the sake of
writing, and is not interesting or moving. I ought to put it aside
and forget it.... Am I done for and dried up? Perhaps there is yet
some subject which could inspire me; but I ought to compose no more
absolute music, symphony or chamber works. To live without work
would weary me. What am I to do? Fold my hands as far as
composition is concerned and try to forget it? It is difficult to
decide. I think, and think, and do not know how to settle the
question. In any case, the outlook has not been cheerful the last
three days.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“BÂLE, _December_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1902.
“ ... I have nothing to write about but fits of weeping. Really it
is surprising that this phenomenal, deadly home-sickness does not
drive me mad. Since this psychological phase grows stronger with
every journey abroad, in future I shall never travel alone, even
for a short time. To-morrow this feeling will give place to another
(scarcely?) less painful emotion. I am going to Montbeillard, and I
must confess to a morbid fear and horror, as though I were entering
the kingdom of the dead and the world of those who had long since
vanished.”
_To his brother, Nicholas Ilich Tchaikovsky._
“PARIS, _December_ 22_nd_ (_January_ 3_rd_), 1892.
“ ... I wrote to Mlle. Fanny from Bâle to let her know the time of
my arrival, so that she should not be upset by my unexpected
appearance. I reached Montbeillard at 3 p.m. on January 1st (new
style), and went straight to her house. She lives in a quiet street
in this little town, which is so quiet that it might be compared to
one of our own Russian ‘district’ towns. The house contains but six
rooms--two on each floor--and belongs to Fanny and her sister. Here
they were born, and have spent their whole lives. Mlle. Fanny came
to the door, and I knew her at once. She does not look her seventy
years, and, curiously enough, has altered very little on the whole.
The same high-coloured complexion and brown eyes, and her hair is
not very grey. She has grown much stouter. I had dreaded tears and
an affecting scene, but there was nothing of the sort. She greeted
me as though we had not met for a year--joyfully and tenderly, but
quite simply. It soon became clear to me why our parents, and we
ourselves, were so fond of her. She is a remarkably clever,
sympathetic creature, who seems to breathe an atmosphere of
kindliness and integrity. Naturally we started upon reminiscences,
and she recalled a number of interesting details from our
childhood. Then she showed me our copybooks, my exercises, your
letters and mine, and--what was of the greatest interest to me--a
few dear, kind letters from our mother. I cannot tell you what a
strange and wonderful feeling came over me while listening to her
recollections and looking over these letters and books. The past
rose up so clearly before me that I seemed to inhale the air of
Votinsk and hear my mother’s voice distinctly.... When she asked me
which of my brothers I loved best, I replied evasively that I was
equally fond of them all. At which she was a little indignant, and
said that, as my playmate in childhood, I ought to care most for
you. And truly at that moment I felt I loved you intensely, because
you had shared all my youthful joys. I stayed with her from three
until eight o’clock, without noticing how time went. I spent the
whole of the next day in her society....
“She gave me a beautiful letter from my mother, in which she writes
of you with special tenderness. I will show it to you. The two
sisters do not live luxuriously--but comfortably. Fanny’s sister
also lived a long time in Russia, and does not speak the language
badly. Both of them still teach. They are known to the whole town,
for they have taught all the educated people there, and are
universally loved and respected. In the evening I embraced Fanny
when I took leave of her, and promised to return some day....”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“PARIS, _January_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1892.
“ ... After my brilliant concert in Brussels I returned here
yesterday. The orchestra was very good, but not highly disciplined.
I was very cordially received, but this did not make things any
easier for me. I suffered equally from agitation and the anguish of
home-sickness. During the interval Gevaert, as President of the
Artists’ Benevolent Association, made a speech before the assembled
orchestra, in which he thanked me on behalf of this society. As the
concert was given in aid of a charity, I declined to accept any
fee, which touched the artists very deeply.”
The programme of the Brussels concert included, among other compositions
by Tchaikovsky, the Pianoforte Concerto, op. 23 (Rummel as soloist), the
_Nut-cracker_ Suite, and the Overture “_1812_.”
On January 12th (24th), 1893, Tchaikovsky arrived in Odessa, where for
nearly a fortnight he was fêted with such enthusiasm that even the
Prague festivities of 1888 dwindled into insignificance compared with
these experiences.
The ovations began the day after his arrival, when, on his appearance at
the rehearsal of _Pique Dame_, he was welcomed by the theatrical
direction and the entire opera company. Not contented with vociferous
cheering, he was “chaired” and borne around in triumph, much to his
discomfort. On the 16th he conducted the following works at the concert
of the Musical Society: _The Tempest_, the Andante cantabile from the
Quartet, op. 11, and the _Nut-cracker_ Suite. The local section of the
Musical Society presented him with a bâton, and the musicians gave him a
laurel wreath. Some numbers on the programme had to be repeated three
times in response to the vociferous applause.
This triumph was followed by a series of others: the first performance
of _Pique Dame_, a soirée in his honour at the English Club, a charity
concert, given by the Slavonic Association, and a second concert of the
Musical Society, at which the Overture “_1812_” had to be repeated _da
capo_.
Tchaikovsky left Odessa on January 25th (February 6th), and returned to
Klin to recover from the strain and fatigue of his visit.
[Illustration: SITTING-ROOM AT KLIN]
Among the many occupations which overwhelmed him there, he found time to
sit to Kouznietsov for his portrait. “Although the artist knew nothing
of Tchaikovsky’s inner life,” says Modeste, “he has succeeded, thanks to
the promptings of inspiration, in divining all the tragedy of that
mental and spiritual phase through which the composer was passing at
that time, and has rendered it with profound actuality. Knowing my
brother as I do, I can affirm that no truer, more living likeness of him
exists. There are a few slight deviations from strict truth in the
delineation of the features; but they do not detract from the
portrait as a whole, and I would not on any account have them corrected.
Perhaps the vitality which breathes from the picture has been purchased
at the price of these small defects.”
Kouznietsov presented the portrait to Tchaikovsky, who, however,
declined to accept it, partly because he could not endure a picture of
himself upon his own walls, but chiefly because he did not consider
himself justified in preventing the artist from making something out of
his work. The portrait is now in the Tretiakov Gallery, Moscow.
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“KLIN, _February_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1893.
“ ... My journey from Kamenka here was not very propitious. I was
taken so ill in the carriage that I frightened my fellow-passengers
by becoming delirious, and had to stop at Kharkov. After taking my
usual remedies, and a long sleep, I awoke quite well in the
morning....
“Next week I must pay a visit to Vladimir Shilovsky. The prospect
fills me with fear and agitation. Tell me, has he greatly changed?
How is the dropsy? I am afraid of a scene, and altogether dread our
meeting. Is there really no hope for him? Answer these questions.”
Vladimir Shilovsky, who had played an important part in my brother’s
life some twenty years earlier, had very rarely come in contact with his
old teacher since his marriage with the only remaining child of Count
Vassiliev. There had been no breach between them, but their lives had
run in opposite directions. In January, 1893, I heard that Vladimir
Shilovsky was seriously ill. I informed Peter Ilich, who visited his old
pupil in Moscow, and was touched by the joy he showed at their reunion,
and by the calm self-control with which he spoke of his hopeless
condition. The old intimacy was renewed, and only ended with the Count’s
death in June, 1893.
XVII
Tchaikovsky’s life moved in spiral convolutions. At every turn his way
seemed to lie through the same spiritual phases. The alternations of
light and shade succeeded each other with a corresponding regularity.
When speaking of the depression which darkened his last years, I
emphasised the fact that he had gone through a similar condition of mind
before every decisive change in his existence. The acute moral tension
which preceded his retirement from the Ministry of Justice was followed
by the calm and happy summer of 1862. To his glad and hopeful mood at
the beginning of 1877 succeeded the crisis which compelled him to go
abroad for rest and change. So, too, this year, 1893, opened with a
period of serene content, for which the creation of his Sixth, or
so-called “Pathetic,” Symphony was mainly accountable. The composition
of this work seems to have been an act of exorcism, whereby he cast out
all the dark spirits which had possessed him in the preceding years.
The first mention of this Symphony occurs in a letter to his brother
Anatol, dated February 10th (22nd), 1893, in which he speaks of being
completely absorbed in his new project. The following day, writing to
Vladimir Davidov, he enters into fuller particulars:--
“I must tell you how happy I am about my work. As you know, I
destroyed a Symphony which I had partly composed and orchestrated
in the autumn. I did wisely, for it contained little that was
really fine--an empty pattern of sounds without any inspiration.
Just as I was starting on my journey (the visit to Paris in
December, 1892) the idea came to me for a new Symphony. This time
with a programme; but a programme of a kind which remains an enigma
to all--let them guess it who can. The work will be entitled “A
Programme Symphony” (No. 6). This programme is penetrated by
subjective sentiment. During my journey, while composing it in my
mind, I frequently shed tears. Now I am home again I have settled
down to sketch out the work, and it goes with such ardour that in
less than four days I have completed the first movement, while the
rest of the Symphony is clearly outlined in my head. There will be
much that is novel as regards form in this work. For instance, the
Finale will not be a great Allegro, but an Adagio of considerable
dimensions. You cannot imagine what joy I feel at the conviction
that my day is not yet over, and that I may still accomplish much.
Perhaps I may be mistaken, but it does not seem likely. Do not
speak of this to anyone but Modeste.”
After an interval of three years Tchaikovsky once more conducted a
concert of the Moscow Musical Society on February 14th (26th). This was
in response to a letter from Safonov begging him to make up their former
personal differences and to take part again in the work of Nicholas
Rubinstein, of imperishable memory. The Overture-Fantasia _Hamlet_ was
played at this concert for the first time in Moscow.
About the end of February Tchaikovsky again returned to Moscow to hear a
new Suite _From Childhood’s Days_, by George Konius, which pleased him
very much. Through the influence of the Grand Duke Constantine,
Tchaikovsky succeeded in getting an annual pension of 1,200 roubles
(£120) for the struggling young composer.
At this time he suffered from a terrible attack of headache, which never
left him, and threatened to become a chronic ailment. It departed,
however, with extraordinary suddenness on the fourteenth day after the
first paroxysm.
On March 11th (23rd) he visited Kharkov, where he remained till the 16th
(28th), and enjoyed a series of triumphs similar to those he had
experienced in Odessa earlier in the year.
By March 18th (30th) Tchaikovsky was back in Klin. Here he received news
that Ippolitov-Ivanov was leaving Tiflis to join the Moscow
Conservatoire. In his answer, which is hardly a letter of
congratulation, Tchaikovsky refers to his last Symphony, which he does
not _intend to tear up_, to the sketch of a new Pianoforte Concerto, and
to several pieces for piano which he hopes to compose in the near
future.
He spent the Easter holidays in the society of his relatives and
intimate friends in Petersburg, and, but for the hopeless illness of his
oldest friend, the poet Apukhtin, this visit would have been a very
quiet and cheerful interlude in his life.
_To Vladimir Davidov._
“KLIN, _April_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1893.
“I am engaged in making musical pancakes.[187] To-day I have tossed
the tenth. It is remarkable; the more I do, the easier and
pleasanter the occupation grows. At first it was uphill work, and
the first two pieces are the outcome of a great effort of will; but
now I can scarcely fix the ideas in my mind, they succeed each
other with such rapidity. If I could spend a whole year in the
country, and my publisher was prepared to take all I composed, I
might--if I chose to work _à la_ Leikin--make about 36,000 roubles
a year!”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“MOSCOW, _April_ 22_nd_ (_May_ 4_th_), 1893.
“Ah, dear Modi, I do not believe I shall get the thirty pieces
written! I have finished eighteen in fifteen days and brought them
with me to Moscow. But now I must stay here four days (the
performance at the Conservatoire, one morning with the Synodal
singers, and my birthday with old friends), then go on to Nijny and
return here in time for the first performance of Rakhmaninov’s
_Aleko_. I shall not be home before the 30th (May 12th), and I
start on the 10th (22nd) of May, ... but perhaps I may knock off a
few songs very quickly.”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“KLIN, _May_ 2_nd_, 1893.
“I intended to ask my old fee--100 roubles for each number. Now, in
consequence of the number of paying propositions made to me (I
swear it is true), I must put up my prices a little. But I will not
forget that you have also published my greater works, from which
you will not derive any profit for a long time to come. So let it
stand at the old fee.... It is a pity I had not more time for
writing.
“Should anything happen to Karl,[188] and the family be in need, do
not hesitate to help them out of my present, or future, funds....”
_To P. Jurgenson._
“PETERSBURG, _May_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1893.
“ ... As regards my fee, I must tell you that Gutheil has never
made me any proposals, because all Russian publishers know that I
am not to be caught by any bait they may offer. But abroad my
relations with you are not understood, therefore I often receive
advances from other countries. Many of them (André of Offenbach)
have offered me far higher fees than I get from you (of course, I
am only speaking of short compositions).... I cannot lose sight of
the fact that many of my symphonies and operas have cost you more
than they bring in. Of course, they will sell better some day, but
at present I do not like to bleed you. You are not as rich as an
Abraham, a Schott, or a Simrock.... If (on your honour) you do not
consider it too much to give me another fifty, I will agree to it.
Naturally I shall be very glad, for this has been a heavy year.
“I want nothing for the Mozart,[189] because I have not put much of
myself into it.”
_To Vladimir Davidov._
“BERLIN, _May_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1893.
“ ... This time I wept and suffered more than ever, perhaps because
I let my thoughts dwell too much on our last year’s journey. It is
purely a psychophysical phenomenon! And how I loathe trains, the
atmosphere of railway carriages, and fellow-travellers!... I travel
too much, that is why I dislike it more and more. It is quite green
here, and flowers blooming everywhere--but it does not give me any
pleasure, and I am only conscious of an incredible and overwhelming
home-sickness.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“LONDON, _May_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1893.
“I arrived here early this morning. I had some difficulty to find a
room--all the hotels are packed. The concert takes place on May
20th (June 1st), after which I must rush around for about a week,
for the Cambridge ceremony does not come off until the 11th or
12th, and on the 13th--our 1st of June--I begin my homeward
journey. I am continually thinking of you all. I never realise all
my affection for you so much as when away from home, and oppressed
with loneliness and nostalgia.”
_To Vladimir Davidov._
“LONDON, _May_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1893.
“Is it not strange that of my own free will I have elected to
undergo this torture? What fiend can have suggested it to me?
Several times during my journey yesterday I resolved to throw up
the whole thing and turn tail. But what a disgrace to turn back for
no good reason! Yesterday I suffered so much that I could neither
sleep nor eat, which is very unusual for me. I suffer not only from
torments which cannot be put into words (there is one place in my
new Symphony--the Sixth--where they seem to me adequately
expressed), but from a dislike to strangers, and an indefinable
terror--though of what the devil only knows. This state makes
itself felt by internal pains and loss of power in my legs.
However, it is for the last time in my life. Only for a heap of
money will I ever go anywhere again, and never for more than three
days at a time. And to think I must kick my heels here for another
fortnight!! It seems like eternity. I arrived early this morning,
_viâ_ Cologne and Ostend. The crossing took three hours, but it was
not rough.... On the steps of my hotel I met the French pianist
Diemer, and to my great astonishment found myself delighted to see
him. He is an old acquaintance, and very well disposed towards me.
In consequence of our meeting I had to go to his ‘Recital.’
Saint-Saëns also takes part in the concert at which I am
conducting.”
Profiting by the presence in England of the composers who were about to
receive the honorary degree at Cambridge, the Philharmonic Society gave
two concerts in which they took part. At the first of these Tchaikovsky
conducted his Fourth Symphony with brilliant success. According to the
Press notices, none of his works previously performed had pleased so
well, or added so much to his reputation in England.
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“LONDON, _May_ 22_nd_ (_June_ 3_rd_), 1893.
“ ... The concert was brilliant. It was unanimously agreed that I
had a real triumph, so that Saint-Saëns, who followed me, suffered
somewhat from my unusual success. Of course, this is pleasant
enough, but what an infliction London life is during the ‘season’!
Luncheons and dinners which last an interminable time. Yesterday
the directors of the Philharmonic gave a dinner at the Westminster
Club in honour of Saint-Saëns and myself. It was very smart and
luxurious; we sat down to table at seven and rose at 11.30 p.m. (I
am not exaggerating). Besides this I am invited to concerts daily
and cannot refuse to go. To-day, for instance, I went to Sarasate’s
concert. He is most kind and amiable to me. Last time I was here in
the winter and in bad weather, so that I got no idea of what the
town is really like. The devil knows Paris is a mere village
compared to London! Walking in Regent Street and Hyde Park, one
sees so many carriages, so much splendid and luxurious equipment,
that the eye is fairly dazzled. I have been to afternoon tea at the
Embassy. Our secretary at the Embassy here, Sazonov, is a charming
man. What a number of people I see, and how tired I get! In the
morning I suffer a great deal from depression, and later I feel in
a kind of daze. I have but one thought: to get it all over.... At
Cambridge I will keep a full diary. It seems to me it will be a
very droll business. Grieg is ill. All the other recipients will
come....”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“LONDON, _May_ 29_th_ (_June_ 10_th_), 1893.
“This letter will not be in time to reach you in ‘Peter.’ ... I
have not had a chance of writing. This is an infernal life. Not a
moment’s peace: perpetual agitation, dread, home-sickness, fatigue.
However, the hour of escape is at hand. Besides which, I must say I
find many excellent folks here, who show me every kind of
attention. All the doctors designate have now arrived except Grieg,
who is too ill. Next to Saint-Saëns, Boïto appeals most to me.
Bruch is an unsympathetic, inflated sort of personage. I go to
Cambridge the day after to-morrow, and do not stay at an hotel, but
in the house of Dr. Maitland, who has written me a very kind letter
of invitation. I shall only be there one night. On the day of our
arrival there will be a concert and dinner, and on the following
day--the ceremony. By four o’clock it will be all over.”
In 1893, in consequence of the fiftieth anniversary of the Cambridge
University Musical Society, the list of those who received the Doctor’s
degree, _honoris causa_, was distinguished by an unusual number of
musicians: Tchaikovsky, Saint-Saëns, Boïto, Max Bruch and Edvard Grieg.
[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1893
(_From a photograph taken in London_)]
The festivities at Cambridge began on June 12th (new style) with a
concert, the programme of which included a work by each of the five
recipients of the musical degree, and one by Dr. Stanford,[190] the
director of the society.
The programme was as follows: (1) Fragment from _Odysseus_ for soli,
chorus, and orchestra (Max Bruch); (2) Fantasia for pianoforte and
orchestra, _Africa_, the composer at the piano (Saint-Saëns); (3)
Prologue from _Mefistofele_ for solo, chorus, and orchestra (Boïto); (4)
Symphonic poem, _Francesco, da Rimini_ (op. 32), (Tchaikovsky); (5)
_Peer Gynt_ Suite (op. 46) (Grieg); (6) Ode, _The East to the West_, for
chorus and orchestra (op. 52) (Stanford).
The various numbers were conducted by the respective composers, with the
exception of Grieg’s Suite and the Fantasia _Africa_, which were given
under the bâton of Dr. Stanford.
The singers were Mr. and Mrs. Henschel, Mme. Marie Brema, and Plunket
Green.
In his _Portraits et Souvenirs_ Saint-Saëns has given the following
description of this concert, and I cannot refrain from interrupting my
narrative in order to quote what the French composer says of my
brother’s _Francesca_.