I. Allegro non troppo e molto maestoso; allegro con spirito
II. Andantino semplice; allegro vivace assai
III. Allegro con fuoco
There was an old Grecian gentleman who apologized for the sumptuous
funeral provided for his little child. There are men who have built a
lordly portico for a dwelling place, and then, for some reason or other,
lack of funds or through caprice, contented themselves with a tasteless,
shabbily furnished mansion. The opening section of Tchaikovsky’s piano
concerto has a compelling melodic sentence, treated gorgeously, and with
magnificent breadth and sweep. What follows is a curious mixture of
engrossing measures and wild vulgarity.
Perhaps Nicholas Rubinstein was right; after all, in his bitter, almost
venomous tirade when Tchaikovsky played it to him in private. When the
concerto was brought out in Boston by Bülow, in October, 1875—it was the
very first performance—a critic of this city shrewdly discovered that
the first movement was “not in the classical concerto spirit.”
Tchaikovsky himself was amused by American reviews sent to him by Bülow.
Peter wrote: “The Americans think that the first movement of my concerto
‘suffers in consequence of the absence of a central idea’—and in the
_finale_ this reviewer has found ‘syncopation in trills, spasmodic
pauses in the theme, and disturbing octave passages!’ Think what healthy
appetites these Americans must have: each time Bülow was obliged to
repeat the whole _finale_ of my concerto! Nothing like this happens in
our country!”
* * *
In 1874 Tchaikovsky was a teacher of theory at the Moscow Conservatory.
(He began his duties at that institution in 1866 at a salary of thirty
dollars a month.) On December 13, 1874, he wrote to his brother Anatol:
“I am wholly absorbed in the composition of a pianoforte concerto, and I
am very anxious that Rubinstein [Nicholas] should play it in his
concert. I make slow progress with the work, and without real success;
but I stick fast to my principles, and cudgel my brain to subtilize
pianoforte passages: as a result I am somewhat nervous, so that I should
much like to make a trip to Kiev for the purpose of diversion.”
The orchestration of the concerto was finished on February 21, 1875, but
before that date he played the work to Nicholas Rubinstein. The episode
is one of the most singular in the history of this strangely sensitive
composer. He described it in a letter written to Nadeshda Filaretovna
von Meck. This letter is dated San Remo, February 2, 1878. It has been
published in Modeste Tchaikovsky’s Life of his famous brother.
“In December, 1874, I had written a pianoforte concerto. As I am not a
pianist, I thought it necessary to ask a virtuoso what was technically
unplayable in the work, thankless, or ineffective. I needed the advice
of a severe critic who at the same time was friendly disposed toward me.
Without going too much into detail, I must frankly say that an interior
voice protested against the choice of Nicholas Rubinstein as a judge
over the mechanical side of my work. But he was the best pianist in
Moscow, and also a most excellent musician. I was told that he would
take it ill from me if he should learn that I had passed him by and
shown the concerto to another; so I determined to ask him to hear it and
criticize the pianoforte part.
“On Christmas Eve, 1874, we were all invited to Albrecht’s, and Nicholas
asked me, before we should go there, to play the concerto in a classroom
of the Conservatory. We agreed to it. I took my manuscript, and Nicholas
and Hubert came. Hubert is a mighty good and shrewd fellow, but he is
not a bit independent; he is garrulous and verbose; he must always make
a long preface to ‘yes’ or ‘no’; he is not capable of expressing an
opinion in decisive, unmistakable form; and he is always on the side of
the stronger, whoever he may chance to be. I must add that this does not
come from cowardice, but only from natural instability.
“I played through the first movement. Not a criticism, not a word. You
know how foolish you feel, if you invite one to partake of a meal
provided by your own hands, and the friend eats and—is silent! ‘At least
say something, scold me good-naturedly, but for God’s sake speak, only
speak, whatever you may say.’ Rubinstein said nothing. He was preparing
his thunderstorm; and Hubert was waiting to see how things would go
before he should jump to one side or the other. The matter was right
here: I did not need any judgment on the artistic form of my work: there
was question only about mechanical details. This silence of Rubinstein
said much. It said to me at once: ‘Dear friend, how can I talk about
details when I dislike your composition as a whole?’ But I kept my
temper and played the concerto through. Again silence.
“‘Well?’ I said, and stood up. Then burst forth from Rubinstein’s mouth
a mighty torrent of words. He spoke quietly at first; then he waxed hot,
and at last he resembled Zeus hurling thunderbolts. It appeared that my
concerto was utterly worthless, absolutely unplayable; passages were so
commonplace and awkward that they could not be improved; the piece as a
whole was bad, trivial, vulgar. I had stolen this from that one and that
from this one; so only two or three pages were good for anything, while
the others should be wiped out or radically rewritten. ‘For instance,
that! What is it, anyhow?’ (And then he caricatured the passage on the
pianoforte.) ‘And this? Is it possible?’ and so on, and so on. I cannot
reproduce for you the main thing, the tones in which he said all this.
An impartial bystander would necessarily have believed that I was a
stupid, ignorant, conceited note-scratcher, who was so impudent as to
show his scribble to a celebrated man.
“Hubert was staggered by my silence, and he probably wondered how a man
who had already written so many works and was a teacher of composition
at the Moscow Conservatory could keep still during such a moral lecture
or refrain from contradiction—a moral lecture that no one should have
delivered to a student without first examining carefully his work. And
then Hubert began to annotate Rubinstein; that is, he incorporated
Rubinstein’s opinions, but sought to clothe in milder words what
Nicholas had harshly said.”
Tchaikovsky erased the name of Nicholas Rubinstein from the score and
inserted in the dedication the name of Hans von Bülow, whom he had not
yet seen; but Klindworth had told him of Bülow’s interest in his works
and his efforts to make them known in Germany. Bülow acknowledged the
compliment, and in a warm letter of thanks praised the concerto, which
he called the “fullest” work by Tchaikovsky yet known to him: “The ideas
are so original, so noble, so powerful; the details are so interesting,
and though there are many of them they do not impair the clearness and
the unity of the work. The form is so mature, ripe, distinguished for
style, for intention and labor are everywhere concealed. I should weary
you if I were to enumerate all the characteristics of your
work—characteristics which compel me to congratulate equally the
composer as well as all those who shall enjoy actively or passively
(respectively) the work.”
For a long time Tchaikovsky was sore in heart, wounded by his friend. In
1878 Nicholas had the manliness to confess his error; as a proof of his
good-will he studied the concerto and played it often and brilliantly in
Russia and beyond the boundaries, as at the Paris Exhibition of 1878.