Part III (continued 3)

“‘Well?’ I asked, and rose from the piano. Then a torrent broke from Rubinstein’s lips. Gentle at first, gathering volume as it proceeded, and finally bursting into the fury of a Jupiter-Tonans. My concerto was worthless, absolutely unplayable; the passages so broken, so disconnected, so unskilfully written, that they could not even be improved; the work itself was bad, trivial, common; here and there I had stolen from other people; only one or two pages were worth anything; all the rest had better be destroyed, or entirely rewritten. ‘For instance, that?’ ‘And what meaning is there in this?’ Here the passages were caricatured on the piano. ‘And look there! Is it possible that anyone could?’ etc., etc., etc. But the chief thing I cannot reproduce: the tone in which all this was said. An independent witness of this scene must have concluded I was a talentless maniac, a scribbler with no notion of composing, who had ventured to lay his rubbish before a famous man. Hubert was quite overcome by my silence, and was surprised, no doubt, that a man who had already written so many works, and was professor of composition at the Conservatoire, could listen calmly and without contradiction to such a jobation, such as one would hardly venture to address to a student before having gone through his work very carefully. Then he began to comment upon Rubinstein’s criticism, and to agree with it, although he made some attempt to soften the harshness of his judgment. I was not only astounded, but deeply mortified, by the whole scene. I require friendly counsel and criticism; I shall always be glad of it, but there was no trace of friendliness in the whole proceedings. It was a censure delivered in such a form that it cut me to the quick. I left the room without a word and went upstairs. I could not have spoken for anger and agitation. Presently Rubinstein came to me and, seeing how upset I was, called me into another room. There he repeated that my concerto was impossible, pointed out many places where it needed to be completely revised, and said if I would suit the concerto to his requirements, he would bring it out at his concert. ‘I shall not alter a single note,’ I replied, ‘I shall publish the work precisely as it stands.’ This intention I actually carried out.”

Not only did Tchaikovsky publish the concerto in its original form, but he scratched out Rubinstein’s name from the dedication and replaced it by that of Hans von Bülow. Personally, Bülow was unknown to him, but he had heard from Klindworth that the famous pianist took a lively interest in his compositions, and had helped to make them known in Germany.

Bülow was flattered by the dedication, and, in a long and grateful letter, praised the concerto very highly—in direct opposition to Rubinstein—saying, that of all Tchaikovsky’s works with which he was acquainted this was “the most perfect.”

“The ideas,” he wrote, “are so lofty, strong, and original. The details, which although profuse, in no way obscure the work as a whole, are so interesting. The form is so perfect, mature, and full of style—in the sense that the intention and craftsmanship are everywhere concealed. I should grow weary if I attempted to enumerate all the qualities of your work—qualities which compel me to congratulate, not only the composer, but all those who will enjoy the work in future, either actively or passively (réceptivement).”

I have already mentioned that Tchaikovsky, in spite of a nature fundamentally noble and generous, was not altogether free from rancour. The episode of the pianoforte concerto proves this. It was long before he could forgive Rubinstein’s cruel criticism, and this influenced their friendly relations. It is evident from the style of his letter to Nadejda von Meck, from the lively narration of every episode and detail of the affair, that the wound still smarted as severely as when it had been inflicted three years earlier.

In 1878 Nicholas Rubinstein entirely healed the breach, and removed all grounds of ill_feeling when, with true nobility and simplicity, recognising the injustice he had done to the concerto in the first instance, he studied and played it, abroad and in Russia, with all the genius and artistic insight of which he was capable.

To Anatol Tchaikovsky.

“March 9th (21st).

“The jester Fate has willed that for the last ten years I should live apart from all who are dear to me.... If you have any powers of observation, you will have noticed that my friendship with Rubinstein and the other gentlemen of the Conservatoire is simply based on the circumstance of our being colleagues, and that none of them give me the tenderness and affection of which I constantly stand in need. Perhaps I am to blame for this; I am very slow in forming new ties. However this may be, I suffer much for lack of someone I care for during these periods of hypochondria. All this winter I have been depressed to the verge of despair, and often wished myself dead. Now the spring is here the melancholy has vanished, but I know it will return in greater intensity with each winter to come, and so I have made up mind to live away from Moscow all next year. Where I shall go I cannot say, but I must have entire change of scene and surroundings.... Probably you will have read of Laub’s death in the papers.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“March 12th (24th).

“I see that Kondratiev has been giving you an over-coloured account of my hypochondriacal state. I have suffered all the winter, but my physical health is not in the least impaired.... Probably I wrote to Kondratiev in a fit of depression, and should find my account very much exaggerated if I were to read the letter now. You seem inclined to reproach me for being more frank with Kondratiev than with you. That is because I love you and Anatol ten times more than I love him; not that he does not like me, but only in so far as I do not interfere with his comfort, which is the most precious thing in the world to him. If I had confided my state to you, or Anatol, you would have taken my troubles too much to heart; whereas Kondratiev would certainly not let them cause him any anxiety. As to what you say about my antipathy towards you, I pass it by as a joke. Upon what do you found your supposition? It makes me angry to see that you are not free from any of my own faults—that much is certainly true. I wish I could find any of my idiosyncrasies missing in you—but I cannot. You are too like me: when I am vexed with you, I am vexed with myself, for you are my mirror, in which I see reflected the true image of all my own weaknesses. From this you can conclude that if you are antipathetic to me, this antipathy proceeds fundamentally from myself. Ergo—you are a fool, which no one ever doubted. Anatol wrote me a letter very like yours. Both letters were like a healing ointment to my suffering spirit.... The death of Laub has been a terrible grief to me....”

Following upon these letters, it becomes necessary to give some account of the mental and moral disorder which attacked Tchaikovsky during the course of this season, and gradually took firmer hold upon him, until in 1877 it reached a terrible crisis which nearly proved fatal to his existence.

The desire for liberty, the longing to cast off all the fetters which were a hindrance to his creative work, now began to assume the character of an undeclared, but chronic, disease, which only showed itself now and again in complaints against destiny, in poetical dreams of “a calm, quiet home,” of “a peaceful and happy existence.” Such aspirations came and went, according to the impressions and interests which filled his mind and imagination. If we read the letters of this period carefully, we cannot fail to observe how every fluctuation in his circumstances influenced his spiritual condition. We see it when he separated from Rubinstein and started a home of his own. His independence, his new friendships, once more reconciled him to existence, and his affection for Moscow—or at least for the life it afforded—then reached its climax. For a little while his longings for something better were stifled. But as early as 1872 his dissatisfaction and desire to escape from his surroundings make themselves felt; although only infrequently and lightly expressed.

In November 1873, we find him speaking frankly of his disenchantment with his Moscow friends, and complaining of his isolation and the lack of anyone who understood him. So far, these were only recurrent symptoms of a chronic malady.

We see that in the spring of 1874, when he was away from Moscow and from the friends of whom he had complained, he wished for their society again, wrote to them in affectionate terms, and, during the whole of his visit to Petersburg, as later on to Italy, he was always looking forward to his return to “dear Moscow, where alone I can be happy.”

By 1875 the chronic malady had made considerable progress. It did not return at intervals as heretofore, but had become a constant trouble. According to his own account, he was depressed all the winter, sometimes to the verge of despair. He felt he had reached a turning-point in his existence, similar to that in the sixties. But then the desired goal had been his musical career, whereas now, it was “to live as he pleased.”

Tchaikovsky now resembled those invalids who do not recognise the true cause of their sufferings, and therefore have recourse to the wrong treatment. He believed the reason for his state lay in the absence of intimate friends, and that his one chance of a cure was to be found among “those who were dear to him” and “who alone could save him from the torments of solitude” from which he suffered. I lay stress upon this error of Tchaikovsky’s, because, becoming more and more of a fixed idea, it finally led the composer to take an insane step which almost proved his undoing.

One symptom of Tchaikovsky’s condition was the morbid sensibility of his artistic temperament. Even before the episode of the B♭ minor concerto, he chanced one day to play part of Vakoula the Smith before some of his friends.

“He was too nervous to do justice to the work,” says Kashkin, “and rendered the music in a pointless and spiritless fashion, which produced an unfavourable impression upon his little audience. Tchaikovsky, observing the cool attitude of his hearers, played the opera hurriedly through to the end and left the piano, annoyed by our lack of appreciation.”

At any other time such criticism would have been a momentary annoyance, soon forgotten. But just then, following upon his keen disappointment in The Oprichnik and the exaggerated hopes he had set upon Vakoula, he was much mortified at this reception of his “favourite child.” Not only was he annoyed, but he considered himself affronted by what seemed to him an unjust criticism. Hence the bitterness with which, at that period, he spoke of his Moscow friends. They, however, kept the same warmth of feeling for him, as was amply proved during the crisis of 1877.

With the coming of spring Tchaikovsky’s depression passed away, and he spent the Easter holidays very happily in the society of the twins, who came to visit him in Moscow.

On May 4th (16th) The Oprichnik was performed for the first time in Moscow. But all the composer’s thoughts were now concentrated on his “favourite child, Vakoula the Smith.” “You cannot imagine,” he wrote to his brother Anatol, “how much I reckon upon this work. I think I might go mad if it failed to bring me luck. I do not want the prize—I despise it, although money is no bad thing—but I want my opera to be performed.”

Shortly before leaving Moscow for the summer, he was commissioned by the Imperial Opera to write a musical ballet entitled The Swan Lake. He did not immediately set to work upon this music, but went to Ussovo at the end of May, where he began his Third Symphony in D major. Late in June he visited his friend Kondratiev at Nizy, where he was exclusively occupied with the orchestration of this symphony until July 14th (26th), when he went to stay with his sister Madame Davidov at Verbovka. By August 1st the symphony was finished, and Tchaikovsky took up the ballet music, for which he was to receive a fee of 800 roubles (about £80). The first two acts were ready in a fortnight.

Verbovka, the Davidovs’ estate, was in the neighbourhood of Kamenka, and Tchaikovsky was so fond of this spot that it became his favourite holiday resort, and cast the charms of Ussovo entirely in the shade. The summer of 1875 was spent not only in the society of his sister and her family, but also in that of his father and his brother Anatol.

XII 1875-1876

To N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov.

“Moscow, September 10th (22nd), 1875.

“Most Honoured Nicholai Andreievich,—Thanks for your kind letter. You must know how I admire and bow down before your artistic modesty and your great strength of character! These innumerable counterpoints, these sixty fugues, and all the other musical intricacies which you have accomplished—all these things, from a man who had already produced a Sadko eight years previously—are the exploits of a hero. I want to proclaim them to all the world. I am astounded, and do not know how to express all my respect for your artistic temperament. How small, poor, self-satisfied and naïve I feel in comparison with you! I am a mere artisan in composition, but you will be an artist, in the fullest sense of the word. I hope you will not take these remarks as flattery. I am really convinced that with your immense gifts—and the ideal conscientiousness with which you approach your work—you will produce music that must far surpass all which so far has been composed in Russia.

“I await your ten fugues with keen impatience. As it will be almost impossible for me to go to Petersburg for some time to come, I beg you to rejoice my heart by sending them as soon as possible. I will study them thoroughly and give you my opinion in detail.... The Opera Direction has commissioned me to write music for the ballet The Swan Lake. I accepted the work, partly because I want the money, but also because I have long had a wish to try my hand at this kind of music.

“I should very much like to know how the decision upon the merits of the (opera) scores will go. I hope you may be a member of the committee. The fear of being rejected—that is to say, not only losing the prize, but with it all possibility of seeing my Vakoula performed—worries me very much.

“Opinions here as regards Angelo[41] are most contradictory. Two years ago I heard Cui play the first act, which produced an unsympathetic impression upon me, especially in comparison with Ratcliff, of which I am extremely fond.”

Contrary to custom, Petersburg, not Moscow, enjoyed the first hearing of Tchaikovsky’s latest work. At the first Symphony Concert of the Musical Society, on December 1st, Professor Kross played the Pianoforte Concerto. Both composer and player were recalled, but at the same time the work was only a partial success with the public. The Press, with one exception, was unfavourably disposed towards it. Famitzin spoke of the Concerto as “brilliant and grateful, but difficult for virtuosi.” All the other critics, including Laroche, were dissatisfied. The latter praised the Introduction for its “clearness, triumphal solemnity, and splendour,” and thought the other movements did not display the melodic charm to be expected from the composer of The Oprichnik and Romeo and Juliet. “The Concerto,” he continued, “was ungrateful for pianists, and would have no future.”

At the first Symphony Concert in Moscow, November 7th (19th), Tchaikovsky’s Third Symphony was produced for the first time with marked success.

To N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov.

“Moscow, November 12th (24th), 1875.

“Most Honoured Nicholai Andreievich,—To-day for the first time I have a free moment in which to talk to you. Business first.

“1. It goes without saying that Rubinstein will be much obliged if you will send him Antar.[42] We shall await the score impatiently, and also the quartet, which interests me very much....

“2. Jurgenson will be glad if you will let him have the quartet. Have I explained your conditions correctly? I told him you expected a fee of fifty roubles, and the pianoforte arrangement was to be made at his expense. I know a young lady here who arranged my second quartet very well. So if your wife will not undertake to do it herself, we might apply to her....

“I went direct from the station to the rehearsal of my symphony. It seems to me the work does not contain any very happy ideas, but, as regards form, it is a step in advance. I am best pleased with the first movement, and also with the two Scherzi, the second of which is very difficult, consequently not nearly so well played as it might have been if we could have had more rehearsals. Our rehearsals never last more than two hours; we have three, it is true, but what can be done in two hours? On the whole, however, I was satisfied with the performance....

“ ... A few days ago I had a letter from Bülow, enclosing a number of American press notices of my Pianoforte Concerto. The Americans think the first movement suffers from ‘the lack of a central idea around which to assemble such a host of musical fantasies, which make up the breezy and ethereal whole.’ The same critic discovered in the finale ‘syncopation on the trills, spasmodic interruptions of the subject, and thundering octave passages’! Think what appetites these Americans have: after every performance Bülow was obliged to repeat the entire finale! Such a thing could never happen here.”

The first performance of the Concerto in Moscow took place on November 21st (December 3rd), 1875, when it was played by the young pianist Serge Taneiev, the favourite pupil of N. Rubinstein and Tchaikovsky. Taneiev had made his first appearance in public in January of the same year. On this occasion he played the ungrateful Concerto of Brahms, and won not only the sympathy of the public, but the admiration of connoisseurs. Tchaikovsky’s account of Taneiev’s début is not quite free from affectionate partiality, but it is so characteristic that it deserves quotation:—

“The interest of the Seventh Symphony concert was enhanced by the first appearance of the young pianist Serge Taneiev, who brilliantly fulfilled all the hopes of his teachers on this occasion. Besides purity and strength of touch, grace, and ease of execution, Taneiev astonished everyone by his maturity of intellect, his self-control, and the calm objective style of his interpretation. While possessing all the qualities of his master, Taneiev cannot be regarded as a mere copyist. He has his own artistic individuality, which has won him a place among virtuosi from the very outset of his career....”

Tchaikovsky was delighted with Taneiev’s rendering of his own Concerto, and wrote:—

“The chief feature of his playing lies in his power to grasp the composer’s intention in all its most delicate and minute details, and to realise them precisely as the author heard them himself.”

In November, 1875, Camille Saint-Saëns came to conduct and play some of his works in Moscow. The short, lively man, with his Jewish type of features, attracted Tchaikovsky and fascinated him not only by his wit and original ideas, but also by his masterly knowledge of his art. Tchaikovsky used to say that Saint-Saëns knew how to combine the grace and charm of the French school with the depth and earnestness of the great German masters. Tchaikovsky became very friendly with him, and hoped this friendship would prove very useful in the future. It had no results, however. Long afterwards they met again as comparative strangers, and always remained so.

During Saint-Saëns’ short visit to Moscow a very amusing episode took place. One day the friends discovered they had a great many likes and dislikes in common, not merely in the world of music, but in other respects. In their youth both had been enthusiastic admirers of the ballet, and had often tried to imitate the art of the dancers. This suggested the idea of dancing together, and they brought out a little ballet, Pygmalion and Galatea, on the stage of the Conservatoire. Saint-Saëns, aged forty, played the part of Galatea most conscientiously, while Tchaikovsky, aged thirty-five, appeared as Pygmalion. N. Rubinstein formed the orchestra. Unfortunately, besides the three performers, no spectators witnessed this singular entertainment.

The fate of Vakoula the Smith was Tchaikovsky’s chief preoccupation at this time. The jury consisted of A. Kireiev, Asantchevsky, N. Rubinstein, Th. Tolstoi, Rimsky-Korsakov, Napravnik, Laroche, and K. Davidov.

Tchaikovsky’s score, so Laroche relates, was of course copied out in a strange autograph, “but the motto, which was identical with the writing in the parcel, was in Tchaikovsky’s own hand. ‘Ars longa, vita brevis’ ran the motto, and the characteristic features of the writing were well known to us all, so that from the beginning there was not the least room for doubt that Tchaikovsky was the composer of the score. But even if he had not had the naïveté to write this inscription with his own hand, the style of the work would have proclaimed his authorship. As the Grand Duke remarked laughingly, during the sitting of the jury: ‘Secret de la comédie.’”

The result of the prize competition was very much talked of in Petersburg. Long before the decision of the jury was publicly announced, everyone knew that their approval of Vakoula was unanimous.

In October Rimsky-Korsakov wrote to Tchaikovsky as follows:—

“I do not doubt for a moment that your opera will carry off the prize. To my mind, the operas sent in bear witness to a very poor state of things as regards music here.... Except your work, I do not consider there is one fit to receive the prize, or to be performed in public.”

Towards the end of October the individual views of the jury were collected in a general decision, and Tchaikovsky received a letter from the Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich, in his own handwriting, congratulating him as the prize-winner of the competition.

During October Modeste Tchaikovsky retired from the Government service in order to become private tutor to a deaf and dumb boy, Nicholas Konradi. The child’s parents decided to send young Tchaikovsky to Lyons for a year, to study a special system of education for deaf mutes.

The composer and his brother left Russia together towards the end of December. “Even the various difficulties and unpleasant occurrences of this trip could not damp our cheerful spirits,” says Modeste Tchaikovsky. My delight in the journey, and the interest I felt in everything I saw “abroad,” infected my brother. He enjoyed my pleasure, laughed at the innocence of his inexperienced travelling companion, and threw himself energetically into the part of guide to an impressionable tourist.

From Berlin we travelled to Geneva, where we spent ten days with my sister and her family (the Davidovs). Afterwards we went on to Paris. Here my brother experienced one of the strongest musical impressions of his life.

On March 3rd (15th), 1873, Bizet’s opera Carmen was given for the first time. Vladimir Shilovsky, who was in Paris at the time, attended this performance. Captivated by the work, he sent the pianoforte score to his teacher in Moscow. My brother was never so completely carried away by any modern composition as by Carmen. Bizet’s death, three months after the production of the work, only served to strengthen his almost unwholesome passion for this opera.

During our visit to Paris Carmen was being played at the Opera Comique. We went to hear it, and I never saw Peter Ilich so excited over any performance. This was not merely due to the music and the piquant orchestration of the score, which he now heard for the first time, but also to the admirable acting of Galli-Marié, who sang the title-rôle. She reproduced the type of Carmen with wonderful realism, and at the same time managed to combine with the display of unbridled passion an element of mystical fatalism which held us spell-bound.

Two days later we parted. My brother returned to Russia, while I remained in France.

On January 25th (February 6th) the Third Symphony was performed in Petersburg under Napravnik’s bâton. Cui criticised it in the following words:—

“The public remained cool during the performance of the work, and applauded very moderately after each movement. At the end, however, the composer was enthusiastically recalled. This symphony must be taken seriously. The first three movements are the best; the only charm of the fourth being its sonority, for the musical contents are poor. The fifth movement, a polonaise, is the weakest. On the whole the new symphony shows talent, but we have a right to expect more from Tchaikovsky.”

Laroche said:—

“The importance and power of the music, the beauty and variety of form, the nobility of style, originality and rare perfection of technique, all contribute to make this symphony one of the most remarkable musical works produced during the last ten years. Were it to be played in any musical centre in Germany, it would raise the name of the Russian musician to a level with those of the most famous symphonic composers of the day.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Moscow, February 10th (22nd).

“I am working might and main to finish a quartet[43] which—you may remember—I started upon in Paris. Press opinions upon my symphony—Laroche not excepted—are rather cold. They all consider I have nothing new to say, and am beginning to repeat myself. Can this really be the case? After finishing the quartet I will rest for a time, and only complete my ballet. I shall not embark upon anything new until I have decided upon an opera. I waver between two subjects, Ephraim and Francesca. I think the latter will carry the day.”

Ephraim was a libretto written by Constantine Shilovsky upon a love-tale of the court of Pharaoh, at the period of the Hebrew captivity.

Francesca da Rimini was a ready-made libretto by Zvantsiev, which had been suggested to Tchaikovsky by Laroche. It was based upon the fifth canto of Dante’s Inferno.

Neither of these books satisfied the composer. After seeing Carmen he only cared for a similar subject: a libretto dealing with real men and women who stood in closer touch with modern life; a drama which was at once simple and realistic.

The new Quartet No. 3 was played for the first time at a concert given by the violinist Grijimal, March 18th. Later on it was repeated at a chamber music evening of the Musical Society. On both occasions its success was decisive.

In May Tchaikovsky was out of health and was ordered by the doctors to take a course of waters at Vichy. He reached Lyons on June 27th (July 9th), where he met Modeste, and made the acquaintance of his brother’s pupil, to whom he became much attached.

His first impressions of Vichy were far from favourable, but the local physician persuaded him to remain at least long enough for a “demi-cure,” from which he derived great benefit. He then rejoined Modeste and young Konradi for a short time, and went to Bayreuth at the end of July, where a lodging had been secured for him by Karl Klindworth.

To M. Tchaikovsky.

“Bayreuth, August 2nd (14th).

“ ... I arrived here on July 31st (August 12th), the day before the performance. Klindworth met me. I found a number of well-known people here, and plunged straight-way into the vortex of the festival, in which I whirl all day long like one possessed. I have also made the acquaintance of Liszt, who received me most amiably. I called on Wagner, who no longer sees anyone. Yesterday the performance of the Rheingold took place. From the scenic point of view it interested me greatly, and I was also much impressed by the truly marvellous staging of the work. Musically, it is inconceivable nonsense, in which here and there occur beautiful, and even captivating, moments. Among the people here who are known to you are Rubinstein—with whom I am living—Laroche and Cui.

“Bayreuth is a tiny little town in which, at the present moment, several thousand people are congregated.... I am not at all bored, although I cannot say I enjoy my visit here, so that all my thoughts and efforts are directed to getting away to Russia, viâ Vienna, as soon as possible. I hope to accomplish this by Thursday.”

In the articles Tchaikovsky sent to the Russky Viedomosti, he describes his visit to Bayreuth in detail:—

“I reached Bayreuth on August 12th (new style), the day before the first performance of the first part of the Trilogy. The town was in a state of great excitement. Crowds of people, natives and strangers, gathered together literally from the ends of the earth, were rushing to the railway-station to see the arrival of the Emperor. I witnessed the spectacle from the window of a neighbouring house. First some brilliant uniforms passed by, then the musicians of the Wagner Theatre, in procession, with Hans Richter, the conductor, at their head; next followed the interesting figure of the ‘Abbé’ Liszt, with the fine, characteristic head I have so often admired in pictures; and, lastly, in a sumptuous carriage, the serene old man, Richard Wagner, with his aquiline nose and the delicately ironical smile which gives such a characteristic expression to the face of the creator of this cosmopolitan and artistic festival. A rousing ‘Hurrah’ resounded from thousands of throats as the Emperor’s train entered the station. The old Emperor stepped into the carriage awaiting him, and drove to the palace. Wagner, who followed immediately in his wake, was greeted by the crowds with as much enthusiasm as the Emperor. What pride, what overflowing emotions must have filled at this moment the heart of that little man who, by his energetic will and great talent, has defied all obstacles to the final realisation of his artistic ideals and audacious views!

“I made a little excursion through the streets of the town. They swarmed with people of all nationalities, who looked very much preoccupied, and as if in search of something. The reason of this anxious search I discovered only too soon, as I myself had to share it. All these restless people, wandering through the town, were seeking to satisfy the pangs of hunger, which even the fulness of artistic enjoyment could not entirely assuage. The little town offers, it is true, sufficient shelter to strangers, but it is not able to feed all its guests. So it happened that, even on the very day of my arrival, I learnt what ‘the struggle for existence’ can mean. There are very few hotels in Bayreuth, and the greater part of the visitors find accommodation in private houses. The tables d’hôte prepared in the inns are not sufficient to satisfy all the hungry people; one can only obtain a piece of bread, or a glass of beer, with immense difficulty, by dire struggle, or cunning stratagem, or iron endurance. Even when a modest place at a table has been stormed, it is necessary to wait an eternity before the long-desired meal is served. Anarchy reigns at these meals; everyone is calling and shrieking, and the exhausted waiters pay no heed to the rightful claims of an individual. Only by the merest chance does one get a taste of any of the dishes. In the neighbourhood of the theatre is a restaurant which advertises a good dinner at two o’clock. But to get inside it and lay hold of anything in that throng of hungry creatures is a feat worthy of a hero.

“I have dwelt upon this matter at some length with the design of calling the attention of my readers to this prominent feature of the Bayreuth Melomania. As a matter of fact, throughout the whole duration of the festival, food forms the chief interest of the public; the artistic representations take a secondary place. Cutlets, baked potatoes, omelettes, are discussed much more eagerly than Wagner’s music.

“I have already mentioned that the representatives of all civilised nations were assembled in Bayreuth. In fact, even on the day of my arrival, I perceived in the crowd many leaders of the musical world in Europe and America. But the greatest of them, the most famous, were conspicuous by their absence. Verdi, Gounod, Thomas, Brahms, Anton Rubinstein, Raff, Joachim, Bülow had not come to Bayreuth. Among the noted Russian musicians present were: Nicholas Rubinstein, Cui, Laroche, Famitsin, Klindworth (who, as is well known, has made the pianoforte arrangement of the Wagner Trilogy), Frau Walzeck, the most famous professor of singing in Moscow, and others.

“The performance of the Rheingold took place on August 1st (13th), at 7 p.m. It lasted without a break two hours and a half. The other three parts, Walküre, Siegfried, and Götterdämmerung, will be given with an hour’s interval, and will last from 4 p.m. to 10 p.m. In consequence of the indisposition of the singer Betz, Siegfried was postponed from Tuesday to Wednesday, so that the first cycle lasted fully five days. At three o’clock we take our way to the theatre, which stands on a little hill rather distant from the town. That is the most trying part of the day, even for those who have managed to fortify themselves with a good meal. The road lies uphill, with absolutely no shade, so that one is exposed to the scorching rays of the sun. While waiting for the performance to begin, the motley troop encamps on the grass near the theatre. Some sit over a glass of beer in the restaurant. Here acquaintances are made and renewed. From all sides one hears complaints of hunger and thirst, mingled with comments on present or past performances. At four o’clock, to the minute, the fanfare sounds, and the crowd streams into the theatre. Five minutes later all the seats are occupied. The fanfare sounds again, the buzz of conversation is stilled, the lights turned down, and darkness reigns in the auditorium. From depths—invisible to the audience—in which the orchestra is sunk float the strains of the beautiful overture; the curtain parts to either side, and the performance begins. Each act lasts an hour and a half; then comes an interval, but a very disagreeable one, for the sun is still far from setting, and it is difficult to find any place in the shade. The second interval, on the contrary, is the most beautiful part of the day. The sun is already near the horizon; in the air one feels the coolness of evening, the wooded hills around and the charming little town in the distance are lovely. Towards ten o’clock the performance comes to an end....”

To M. Tchaikovsky.

“Vienna, August 8th (20th), 1876.

“Bayreuth has left me with disagreeable recollections, although my artistic ambition was flattered more than once. It appears I am by no means as unknown in Western Europe as I believed. The disagreeable recollections are raised by the uninterrupted bustle in which I was obliged to take part. It finally came to an end on Thursday. After the last notes of the Götterdämmerung, I felt as though I had been let out of prison. The Nibelungen may be actually a magnificent work, but it is certain that there never was anything so endlessly and wearisomely spun out.

“From Bayreuth I went first to Nuremberg, where I spent a whole day and wrote the notice for the Russky Viedomosti. Nuremberg is charming! I arrived in Vienna to-day and leave to-morrow for Verbovka.”

Laroche contributes the following account of Tchaikovsky’s visit to the Bayreuth festival:—

“The effort of listening and gazing during the immensely long acts of the Wagner Trilogy (especially of Rheingold and the first part of Götterdämmerung, which both last without interval for two hours), the sitting in a close, dark amphitheatre in tropical heat, the sincere endeavour to understand the language and style of the book of the words—which is so clumsy and difficult in its composition that even to Germans themselves it is almost inaccessible—all produced in Tchaikovsky a feeling of great depression, from which he only recovered when it came to an end and he found himself at a comfortable supper with a glass of beer....”

Such was the impression produced upon Tchaikovsky by the Nibelungen. He himself recorded the following observations upon Wagner’s colossal work:—

“I brought away the impression that the Trilogy contains many passages of extraordinary beauty, especially symphonic beauty, which is remarkable, as Wagner has certainly no intention of writing an opera in the style of a symphony. I feel a respectful admiration for the immense talents of the composer and his wealth of technique, such as has never been heard before. And yet I have grave doubts as to the truth of Wagner’s principles of opera. I will, however, continue the study of this music—the most complicated which has hitherto been composed.

“Yet if the ‘Ring’ bores one in places, if much in it is at first incomprehensible and vague, if Wagner’s harmonies are at times open to objection, as being too complicated and artificial, and his theories are false, even if the results of his immense work should eventually fall into oblivion, and the Bayreuth Theatre drop into an eternal slumber, yet the Nibelungen Ring is an event of the greatest importance to the world, an epoch-making work of art.”

Morally and physically exhausted, pondering uninterruptedly on his own future, and imbued with the firm conviction that “things could not go on as they were,” Tchaikovsky returned from foreign countries, travelling through Vienna to Verbovka.

There a hearty welcome from his relations awaited him, and all the idyllic enjoyments of the country. The happy family life of the Davidovs was the best thing to calm and comfort Tchaikovsky, but, at the same time, it strengthened a certain intention in which his morbid imagination discerned the one means of “salvation,” but which actually became the starting-point of still greater troubles and worries. On August 19th (31st) he wrote to me from Verbovka:—

“I have now to pass through a critical moment in my life. By-and-by I will write to you about it more fully; meanwhile I must just tell you that I have decided to get married. This is irrevocable....”

XIII 1876-1877

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Moscow, September 10th (22nd), 1876.

“ ... Nearly two months have passed since we parted from each other, but they seem to me centuries. During this time I have thought much about you, and also about myself and my future. My reflections have resulted in the firm determination to marry some one or other.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Moscow, September 17th (29th).

“Time passes uneventfully. In this colourless existence, however, lies a certain charm. I can hardly express in words how sweet is this feeling of quiet. What comfort—I might almost say happiness—it is to return to my pleasant rooms and sit down with a book in my hand! At this moment I hate, probably not less than you do, that beautiful, unknown being who will force me to change my way of living. Do not be afraid, I shall not hurry in this matter; you may be sure I will approach it with great caution, and only after much deliberation.”

To A. Tchaikovsky.

“September 20th (October 2nd).

“Toly, I long for you again. I am worried with the thought that while you were staying in Moscow I did not treat you kindly enough. If such a thought should come to you too, know (you know it already) that my lack of tenderness by no means implies a lack of love and attachment. I was only vexed with myself, and vexed assuredly, because I deceived you when I said I had arrived at an important turning-point in my existence. That is not true; I have not arrived at it, but I think of it and wait for something to spur me on to action. In the meantime, however, the quiet evening hours in my dear little home, the rest and solitude—I must confess to this—have great charms for me. I shudder when I think I must give it all up. And yet it will come to pass....”

To Rimsky-Korsakov.

“Moscow, September 29th (October 11th), 1876.

“Dear Friend,—As soon as I had read your letter I went to Jurgenson and asked him about the quartet. I must tell you something which clearly explains Jurgenson’s delay. When you sent the parts of your quartet to Rubinstein last year, it was played through by our Quartet Society, Jurgenson being present. Now your quartet by no means pleased these gentlemen, and they expressed some surprise that Jurgenson should dream of publishing a work which appeared destined to fall into oblivion. This may have cooled the ardour of our publisher. In the approaching series of Chamber Concerts the quartet will probably be performed, and I fancy the members of the Society will retract their opinion when they get to know your work better. I am convinced of this, because I know how your quartet improves on acquaintance. The first movement is simply delicious, and ideal as to form. It might serve as a pattern of purity of style. The andante is a little dry, but just on that account very characteristic—as reminiscent of the days of powder and patches. The scherzo is very lively, piquant, and must sound well. As to the finale, I freely confess that it in no wise pleases me, although I acknowledge that it may do so when I hear it, and then I may find the obtrusive rhythm of the chief theme less frightfully unbearable. I consider you are at present in a transition period; in a state of fermentation; and no one knows what you are capable of doing. With your talents and your character you may achieve immense results. As I have said, the first movement is a pattern of virginal purity of style. It has something of Mozart’s beauty and unaffectedness.

“You ask whether I have really written a third quartet. Yes, it is so. I produced it last winter, after my return from abroad. It contains an “Andante funèbre,” which has had so great a success that the quartet was played three times in public in the course of a fortnight.”

To A. Davidov.

“October 6th (18th).

“ ... Do not worry yourself about my marriage, my angel. The event is not yet imminent, and will certainly not come off before next year. In the course of next month I shall begin to look around and prepare myself a little for matrimony, which for various reasons I consider necessary.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“October 14th (26th).

“I have only just finished the composition of a new work, the symphonic fantasia, Francesca da Rimini. I have worked at it con amore, and believe my love has been successful. With regard to the Whirlwind, perhaps it might correspond better to Doré’s picture; it has not turned out quite what I wanted. However, an accurate estimate of the work is impossible, so long as it is neither orchestrated nor played.”

To E. Napravnik.

“October 18th (30th).

“I have just read in a Petersburg paper that you intend to give the dances from my opera Vakoula at one of the forthcoming symphony concerts. Would it be possible to perform my new symphonic poem, Francesca da Rimini, instead? I am actually working at the orchestration of this work, and could have the score ready in two or three weeks. It would never have occurred to me to trouble you with my new work, had I not seen that my name was already included in your programmes. As you have been so kind as to grant me a little room at your concerts, I hope you will agree to my present proposal. I must frankly confess that I am somewhat troubled about the fate of my opera. So far, I have not even heard whether the choral rehearsals have begun. Perhaps you will be so kind as to send me word about the performance of Vakoula.”

To A. Davidov.

“November 8th (20th).

“Probably you were not quite well, my little dove,[44] when you wrote to me, for a note of real melancholy pervaded your letter. I recognised in it a nature closely akin to my own. I know the feeling only too well. In my life, too, there are days, hours, weeks, aye, and months, in which everything looks black, when I am tormented by the thought that I am forsaken, that no one cares for me. Indeed, my life is of little worth to anyone. Were I to vanish from the face of the earth to-day, it would be no great loss to Russian music, and would certainly cause no one great unhappiness. In short, I live a selfish bachelor’s life. I work for myself alone, and care only for myself. This is certainly very comfortable, although dull, narrow, and lifeless. But that you, who are indispensable to so many whose happiness you make, that you can give way to depression, is more than I can believe. How can you doubt for a moment the love and esteem of those who surround you? How could it be possible not to love you? No, there is no one in the world more dearly loved than you are. As for me, it would be absurd to speak of my love for you. If I care for anyone, it is for you, for your family, for my brothers and our old Dad. I love you all, not because you are my relations, but because you are the best people in the world....”

At the end of October Tchaikovsky came to Petersburg to be present at the first performance of his Vakoula the Smith. This time the composer had not been disenchanted by his work; on the contrary, every rehearsal gave him more and more pleasure, and the hope of success increased. The appreciation shown him by the singers engaged in the work; the enthusiastic verdict of the connoisseurs who had become acquainted with the pianoforte arrangement, and of those who were able to attend the rehearsals; finally, the lavish expenditure with which the Direction was mounting the piece—everything encouraged Tchaikovsky to feel assured of great success.

Since the first production of The Oprichnik the popularity of Tchaikovsky’s name had considerably increased. Not only musicians, and those who attended the symphony concerts, but also the public—in the widest sense of the word—expected something quite out of the common. Long before November 24th (December 6th), the day fixed for the first performance of Vakoula, the tickets were already sold out.

The production had been very carefully prepared; the principals endeavoured to do their best. The overture was well received, as also the first scene. Then the enthusiasm of the audience cooled, and the succeeding numbers—with the exception of the “Gopak”[45]—obtained but scant applause. The opera failed to please; people had come to be amused, expecting something brilliant, humorous, and lively, in the style of The Barber of Seville, or Domino Noir, consequently they were disappointed. Nevertheless, the composer was recalled several times, although not without some opposition on the part of a small, but energetic, party.

Tchaikovsky himself, in a letter to Taneiev, writes as follows:—

“Vakoula was a brilliant failure. The first two acts left the audience cold. During the scene between the Golova and the Dyak there was some laughter, but no applause. After the third and fourth acts I had several calls, but also a few hisses from a section of the public. The second performance was somewhat better, but one cannot say that the opera pleased, or is likely to live through six performances.

“It is worth notice that at the dress rehearsal even Cui prophesied a brilliant success for the work. This made the blow all the harder and more bitter to bear. I must freely confess that I am much discouraged. I have nothing to complain of with regard to the mounting of the work. Everything, to the smallest details, had been well studied and prepared ... in short, I alone am in fault. The opera is too full of unnecessary incidents and details, too heavily orchestrated, and not sufficiently vocal. Now I understand your cool attitude when I played it over to you at Rubinstein’s. The style of Vakoula is not good opera style—it lacks movement and breadth.”

The opinions of the Press on the new work were very similar. No one “praised it to the skies,” but no one damned it. All expressed more or less esteem for the composer, but none were quite contented with his work.

To S. I. Taneiev.

“Moscow, December 2nd (14th), 1876.

“ ... I have just heard that my Romeo was hissed in Vienna. Do not say anything about it, or Pasdeloup may take fright; I hear he thinks of doing it.

“Yes, indeed, dear friend, there are trying times in life!

“Francesca has long been finished, and will now be copied out.”

Hans Richter, who conducted the Vienna performance of Romeo, declared that the comparative failure of the work did not amount to a fiasco. Certainly at the concert itself a few hisses were heard, and Hanslick wrote an abusive criticism of it in the Neue Freie Presse, but at the same time much interest, even enthusiasm, was shown for the new Russian work.

Hardly had Tchaikovsky swallowed the bitter Viennese pill, than he received equally disagreeable news from Taneiev in Paris.

Taneiev to Tchaikovsky.

“Paris, November 28th (December 10th), 1876.

“I have just come from Pasdeloup’s concert, where your Romeo overture was shamefully bungled. The tempi were all too fast, so that one could scarcely distinguish the three notes one from the other. The second subject was played by the wind as if they had only to support the harmony, and did not realise they had the subject.

“The following was especially bad:—

not a single crescendo, not a single diminuendo. At the repetition of the accessory theme in D major

the bassoons played their fifth in the bass so energetically that they drowned the other parts. There were no absolutely false notes, but the piece produced a poor effect. Pasdeloup obviously understood nothing about it, and does not know how such a piece should be played. No wonder the Overture did not please the public and was but coolly received. It was as painful to me as if I had been taking part in the concert myself. Pasdeloup alone, however, was to blame, not the public. The Overture is by no means incomprehensible; it only needs to be well interpreted.

“I played your concerto to Saint-Saëns; everyone was much pleased with it. All musicians here are greatly interested in your compositions.”

To S. Taneiev.

“Moscow, December 5th (17th), 1876.

“Dear Sergius,—I have just received your letter. Good luck and bad always come together; it is proverbial, and I am not surprised to hear of the non-success of my Francesca, as just now all my compositions are failures. But your letter suggested an idea to me. Last year Saint-Saëns advised me to give a concert of my own compositions in Paris. He said such a concert would be best given with Colonne’s orchestra at the Châtelet, and would not cost very much.”

S. Taneiev to Tchaikovsky.

“Paris, December 16th (28th), 1876.

“Saint-Saëns advises you more strongly than ever to give a concert, in order to produce your Romeo and Juliet.... ‘Cela l’a posé, cette overture,’ was his remark. You must give your concert in the Salle Herz, with Colonne’s orchestra. All expenses, including two rehearsals, will come to 1,500 francs. Two rehearsals will not be sufficient; we should need at least three. Even then, 2,000 francs would be the maximum expenditure. The orchestra are paid five francs for each rehearsal, and ten for the concert. The most favourable time would be February or March.”

To S. Taneiev.

“Moscow, January 29th (February 10th), 1877.

“Dear Sergius,—My concert will not come off. In spite of gigantic efforts on my part, I cannot raise the necessary funds.

“I am in despair.

“I can write no more to-day. Forgive me for the trouble I have given you over my unlucky plans. Thank you for your letter.”

In spite of the bitterness left by the comparative failure of Vakoula, and the many other blows which his artistic ambitions had to suffer, Tchaikovsky, after his return to Moscow, did not lose his self-confidence, nor let his energy flag for a moment. On the contrary, although grieved at the fate of his “favourite offspring, Vakoula,” and at his unlucky début as a composer in Vienna and Paris, although suffering from a form of dyspepsia, he was not only interested in the propaganda of his works abroad, but composed his Variations on a Rococo Theme for violoncello, and corresponded with Stassov about an operatic libretto. The choice of the subject—Othello—emanated from Tchaikovsky himself. When Stassov tried to persuade him that this subject was not suitable to his temperament, he refused to listen to arguments, and would only consider this particular play. About the middle of September Stassov sent him the rough sketch which he began to study zealously. But it went no further. On January 30th Stassov wrote to him: “Do as you will, but I have not finished Othello yet. Hang me if you please—but it is not my fault.” Tchaikovsky himself had also begun to feel less eager, for he remarks in a letter to Stassov that he is not to trouble about a new subject.

At this time the composer was in such good health, and so active-minded, that he gave up his original intention of spending Christmas at Kamenka, and stayed on in Moscow.

In December Tchaikovsky wrote to his sister, A. Davidov:—

“A short time ago Count Leo Tolstoi was here. He called upon me, and I am proud to have awakened his interest. On my part, I am full of enthusiasm for his ideal personality.”

For a long time past—since the first appearance of Tolstoi’s works—Tchaikovsky had been one of his most ardent admirers, and this admiration had gradually become a veritable cult for the name of Tolstoi. It was characteristic of the composer that everything he cared for, but did not actually know face to face, assumed abnormal proportions in his imagination. The author of Peace and War seemed to him, in his own words, “not so much an ordinary mortal as a demi-god.” At that time the personality and private life—even the portrait—of Tolstoi were almost unknown to the great public, and this was a further reason why Tchaikovsky pictured him as a sage and a magician. And lo, this Olympian being, this unfathomable man, descended from his cloud-capped heights and held out his hand to Tchaikovsky.

Ten years later we find in Tchaikovsky’s “diary” the following record of this meeting:—

“When first I met Tolstoi I was possessed by terror and felt uneasy in his presence. It seemed that this great searcher of human hearts must be able to read at a glance the inmost secrets of my own. I was convinced that not the smallest evil or weakness could escape his eye; therefore it would avail nothing to show him only my best side. If he be generous (and that is a matter of course), I reflected, he will probe the diseased area as kindly and delicately as a surgeon who knows the tender spots and avoids irritating them. If he is not so compassionate, he will lay his finger on the wound without more ado. In either case the prospect alarmed me. In reality nothing of the sort took place. The great analyst of human nature proved in his intercourse with his fellow-men to be a simple, sincere, whole-hearted being, who made no display of that omniscience I so dreaded. Evidently he did not regard me as a subject for dissection, but simply wanted to chat about music, in which at that time he was greatly interested. Among other things, he seemed to enjoy depreciating Beethoven, and even directly denying his genius. This is an unworthy trait in a great man. The desire to lower a genius to the level of one’s own misunderstanding of him is generally a characteristic of narrow-minded people.”

Tolstoi not only wished to talk about music in general, but also to express his interest in Tchaikovsky’s own compositions. The latter was so much flattered that he asked Nicholas Rubinstein to arrange a musical evening at the Conservatoire in honour of the great writer. On this occasion the programme included the Andante from Tchaikovsky’s string quartet in D major, during the performance of which Tolstoi burst into tears.

“Never in the whole course of my life,” wrote the composer in his diary, “did I feel so flattered, never so proud of my creative power, as when Leo Tolstoi, sitting by my side, listened to my Andante while the tears streamed down his face.”

Shortly after this memorable evening Tolstoi left Moscow, and wrote the following letter to Tchaikovsky from his country estate Yasnaya Polyana:—

“Dear Peter Ilich,—I am sending you the songs, having looked them through once more. In your hands they will become wonderful gems; but, for God’s sake, treat them in the Mozarto-Haydn style, and not after the Beethoven-Schumann-Berlioz school, which strives only for the sensational. How much more I had to tell you! But there was no time, because I was simply enjoying myself. My visit to Moscow will always remain a most pleasant memory. I have never received a more precious reward for all my literary labours than on that last evening. How charming is (Nicholas) Rubinstein! Thank him for me once more. Aye, and all the other priests of the highest of all arts, who made so pure and profound an impression upon me! I can never forget all that was done for my benefit in that round hall. To which of them shall I send my works? That is to say, who does not possess them?

“I have not looked at your things yet. As soon as I have done so, I shall write you my opinion—whether you want it or not—because I admire your talent. Good-bye, with a friendly hand-shake.

“Yours, “L. Tolstoi.”

To this Tchaikovsky replied:—

“Moscow, December 24th, 1876 (January 5th, 1877).

“Honoured Count,—Accept my sincere thanks for the songs. I must tell you frankly that they have been taken down by an unskilful hand and, in consequence, nearly all their original beauty is lost. The chief mistake is that they have been forced artificially into a regular rhythm. Only the Russian choral-dances have a regularly accentuated measure; the legends (Bylini) have nothing in common with the dances. Besides, most of these songs have been written down in the lively key of D major, and this is quite out of keeping with the tonality of the genuine Russian folksongs, which are always in some indefinite key, such as can only be compared with the old Church modes. Therefore the songs you have sent are unsuitable for systematic treatment. I could not use them for an album of folksongs, because for this purpose the tunes must be taken down exactly as the people sing them. This is a difficult task, demanding the most delicate musical perception, as well as a great knowledge of musical history. With the exception of Balakirev—and to a certain extent Prokounin—I do not know anyone who really understands this work. But your songs can be used as symphonic material—and excellent material too—of which I shall certainly avail myself at some future time. I am glad you keep a pleasant recollection of your evening at the Conservatoire. Our quartet played as they have never done before. From which you must infer that one pair of ears, if they belong to such a great artist as yourself, has more incentive power with musicians than a hundred ordinary pairs. You are one of those authors of whom it may be said that their personality is as much beloved as their works. It was evident that, well as they generally play, our artists exerted themselves to the utmost for one they honoured so greatly. What I feel I must express: I cannot tell you how proud and happy it made me that my music could so touch you and carry you away.

“Except Fitzenhagen, who cannot read Russian, your books are known to all the other members of the quartet. But I am sure they would be grateful if you gave them each one volume of your works. For myself, I am going to ask you to give me The Cossacks; if not immediately, then later on, when next you come to Moscow—an event to which I look forward with impatience. If you send your portrait to Rubinstein, do not forget me.”

With this letter personal intercourse between Tchaikovsky and Count Tolstoi came to an end. It is remarkable that this was not against the composer’s wishes, even if he did nothing actually to cause the rupture. The attentive reader will not fail to have gathered from the last words quoted from his diary that his acquaintance with Tolstoi had been something of a disappointment. It vexed him that “the lord of his intellect” should care to talk of “commonplace subjects unworthy of a great man.” It hurt him to see all the little faults and failings of this divinity brought out by closer proximity. He feared to lose faith in him, and consequently to spoil his enjoyment of his works. This delight was at one time somewhat disturbed by his hyper-sensitiveness. In a letter to his brother, Tchaikovsky criticises Anna Karenina, which had then just begun to make its appearance in the Russky Vestnik.

“After your departure,” he writes, “I read Anna Karenina once more. Are you not ashamed to extol this revolting and commonplace stuff, which aspires to be psychologically profound? The devil take your psychological truth when it leaves nothing but an endless waste behind it.”

Afterwards, having read the whole novel, Tchaikovsky repented his judgment, and acknowledged it to be one of Tolstoi’s finest creations.

In the presence of Tolstoi, Tchaikovsky felt ill at ease, in spite of the writer’s kind and simple attitude towards his fellow-men. From a fear of wounding or displeasing him in any way, and also in consequence of his efforts not to betray his admiration and delight, the musician never quite knew how to behave to Tolstoi, and was always conscious of being somewhat unnatural—of playing a part. This consciousness was intolerable to Tchaikovsky, consequently he avoided future intercourse with the great man.

Greatly as Tchaikovsky admired Tolstoi the writer, he was never in sympathy with Tolstoi the philosopher. In his diary for 1886, writing of What I Believe, he says:—

“When we read the autobiographies or memoirs of great men, we frequently find that their thoughts and impressions—and more especially their artistic sentiments—are such as we ourselves have experienced and can therefore fully understand. There is only one who is incomprehensible, who stands alone and aloof in his greatness—Leo Tolstoi. Yet often I feel angry with him: I almost hate him. Why, I ask myself, should this man, who more than all his predecessors has power to depict the human soul with such wonderful harmony, who can fathom our poor intellect and follow the most secret and tortuous windings of our moral nature—why must he needs appear as a preacher, and set up to be our teacher and guardian? Hitherto he has succeeded in making a profound impression by the recital of simple, everyday events. We might read between the lines his noble love of mankind, his compassion for our helplessness, our mortality and pettiness. How often have I wept over his words without knowing why!... Perhaps because for a moment I was brought into contact—through his medium—with the Ideal, with absolute happiness, and with humanity. Now he appears as a commentator of texts, who claims a monopoly in the solution of all questions of faith and ethics. But through all his recent writings blows a chilling wind. We feel a tremor of fear at the consciousness that he, too, is a mere man; a creature as much puffed up as ourselves about ‘The End and Aim of Life,’ ‘The Destiny of Man,’ ‘God,’ and ‘Religion’; and as madly presumptuous, as ineffectual as some ephemera born on a summer’s day to perish at eventide. Once Tolstoi was a Demigod. Now he is only a Priest.... Tolstoi says that formerly, knowing nothing, he was mad enough to aspire to teach men out of his ignorance. He regrets this. Yet here he is beginning to teach us again. Then we must conclude he is no longer ignorant. Whence this self-confidence? Is it not foolish presumption? The true sage knows only that he knows nothing.”

It is said that in nature peace often precedes a violent storm. This is twice observable in the life of Tchaikovsky. Let us look back to the period of his Government service, to the strenuous industry and zeal he displayed in his official duties in 1862—just before he took up the musical profession. Never was he more contented with his lot, or calmer in mind, than a few months before he entered the Conservatoire. It was the same at the present juncture. Shortly before that rash act, which cut him off for ever from Moscow, which changed all his habits and social relations, and was destined to be the beginning of a new life; just at the moment, in fact, when we might look for some dissatisfaction with fate as a reason for this desperate resolve, Tchaikovsky was by no means out of spirits. On the contrary, in January and February 1877, he gave the impression of a man whose mind was at rest, who had no desires, and displayed more purpose and cheerfulness than before. This mood is very evident in a playful letter dated January 2nd (14th), 1877:—

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Honoured Mr. Modeste Ilich,—I do not know if you still remember me. I am your brother and a professor at the Moscow Conservatoire. I have also composed a few things: operas, symphonies, overtures, etc. Once upon a time you honoured me by your personal acquaintance. Last year we were abroad together and spent a time which I shall never forget. You used frequently to write me long and interesting letters. Now all this seems like a beautiful dream....

“Just before the holidays, my dear brotherkin, I made the acquaintance of Count Tolstoi. This pleased me very much. I have also received a kind and precious letter from his Grace. When he heard the ‘Andante’ from my first quartet he shed tears of emotion. I am very proud of this, my dear brotherkin, and you really should not forget me, my dear brotherkin, because I have now become a great swell. Farewell, my brotherkin.

“Your brother, “Peter.”

On February 20th (March 4th) the first performance of Tchaikovsky’s ballet, The Swan Lake, took place. The composer was not to be blamed for the very moderate success of this work. The scenery and costumes were poor, while the orchestra was conducted by a semi-amateur, who had never before been confronted with so complicated a score.

To his sister, A. Davidov.

“February 22nd (March 6th).

“I have lately found courage to appear as a conductor. I was very unskilful and nervous, but still I managed to conduct, with considerable success, my ‘Russo-Serbian March’ in the Opera House. Henceforward I shall take every opportunity of conducting, for if my plan of a concert tour abroad comes off, I shall have to be my own conductor.”

On February 25th (March 9th) the symphonic fantasia Francesca da Rimini was performed for the first time at the tenth symphony concert in Moscow. It had a splendid reception, and was twice repeated during the month of March. In his notice of the concert Kashkin praises not only the music itself, but its inspired interpretation by Nicholas Rubinstein.

In the course of this season Tchaikovsky began his Fourth Symphony. Probably the real reason why he lost his interest in the libretto of Othello is to be found in his entire devotion to this work.

In March and April he began to suffer again from mental depression. This is evident from many of his letters written at this time.

To I. A. Klimenko.

“May 8th (20th).

“I am very much changed—especially mentally—since we last met. There is no trace of gaiety and love of fun left in me. Life is terribly empty, wearisome and trivial. I am seriously considering matrimony as a lasting tie. The one thing that remains unaltered is my love of composing. If things were only different, if I were not condemned to run against obstacles at every step—my work at the Conservatoire, for instance, which restricts me more each year—I might accomplish something of value. But alas, I am chained to the Conservatoire!”

In the early spring of 1877 Modeste Tchaikovsky sent his brother a libretto based upon Nodier’s novel, Ines de Las-Sierras. The musician was not attracted by it; he had already another plan in view. In May he wrote to his brother:—

“Recently I was at Madame Lavrovsky’s.[46] The conversation fell upon opera libretti. X. talked a lot of rubbish, and made the most appalling suggestions. Madame Lavrovsky said nothing and only laughed. Suddenly, however, she remarked: ‘What about Eugene Oniegin?’ The idea struck me as curious, and I made no reply. Afterwards, while dining alone at a restaurant, her words came back to me, and, on consideration, the idea did not seem at all ridiculous. I soon made up my mind, and set off at once in search of Poushkin’s works. I had some trouble in finding them. I was enchanted when I read the work. I spent a sleepless night; the result—a sketch of a delicious opera based upon Poushkin’s text. The next day I went to Shilovsky, who is now working post-haste at my sketch.

“You have no notion how crazy I am upon this subject. How delightful to avoid the commonplace Pharaohs, Ethiopian princesses, poisoned cups, and all the rest of these dolls’ tales! Eugene Oniegin is full of poetry. I am not blind to its defects. I know well enough the work gives little scope for treatment, and will be deficient in stage effects; but the wealth of poetry, the human quality and simplicity of the subject, joined to Poushkin’s inspired verses, will compensate for what it lacks in other respects.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“May 27th (June 8th).

“ ... The plan of my symphony is complete. I shall begin upon the orchestration at the end of the summer.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Gliebovo, June 6th (18th).

“At first I was annoyed by your criticism of Oniegin, but it did not last long. Let it lack scenic effect, let it be wanting in action! I am in love with the image of Tatiana, I am under the spell of Poushkin’s verse, and I am drawn to compose the music as it were by some irresistible attraction. I am lost in the composition of the opera.”