Part V (continued 3)

To N. F. von Meck.

“Rome, January 16th (28th), 1882.

“I have just read the pamphlet you sent me (La Vérité aux nihilistes) with great satisfaction, because it is written with warmth, and is full of sympathy for Russia and the Russians. I must observe that it is of no avail as an argument against Nihilism. The author speaks a language which the Nihilists cannot understand, since no moral persuasion could change a tiger into a lamb, or induce a New Zealand cannibal to love his neighbour in a true Christian spirit. A Nihilist, after reading the pamphlet, would probably say: ‘Dear sir, we know already from innumerable newspapers, pamphlets, and books, all you tell us as to the uselessness of our murders and dynamite explosions. We are also aware that Louis XVI. was a good king, and Alexander II. a good Tsar, who emancipated the serfs. Nevertheless we shall remain assassins and dynamiters, because it is our vocation to murder and blow up, with the object of destroying the present order of things.’

“Have you read the last volume of Taine’s work upon the Revolution? No one has so admirably characterised the unreasoning crowd of anarchists and extreme revolutionists as he has done. Much of what he says respecting the French in 1793, of the degraded band of anarchists who perpetrated the most unheard-of crimes before the eyes of the nation, which was paralysed with astonishment, applies equally to the Nihilists.... The attempt to convince the Nihilists is useless. They must be exterminated; there is no other remedy against this evil.”

At the end of January Tchaikovsky sent the Trio to Moscow with a request that it might be tried by Taneiev, Grjimali, and Fitzenhagen. His letter to Jurgenson concludes as follows:—

“The Trio is dedicated to Nicholas G. Rubinstein. It has a somewhat plaintive and funereal colouring. As it is dedicated to Rubinstein’s memory it must appear in an édition de luxe. I beg Taneiev to keep fairly accurately to my metronome indications. I also wish him to be the first to bring out the Trio next season....”

To P. Jurgenson.

“Rome, February 5th (17th), 1882.

“My dear Friend,—Your letters always bring me joy, comfort, and support. God knows I am not lying! You are the one regular correspondent through whom I hear all that interests me in Moscow—and I still love Moscow with a strange, keen affection. I say ‘strange,’ because in spite of my love for it I cannot live there. To analyse this psychological problem would lead me too far afield.”

To A. Tchaikovsky.

“Rome, February 7th (19th), 1882.

“Toly, my dearest, I have just received your letter with the details of your engagement. I am heartily glad you are happy, and I think I understand all you are feeling, although I never experienced it myself. There is a certain kind of yearning for tenderness and consolation that only a wife can satisfy. Sometimes I am overcome by an insane craving for the caress of a woman’s touch. Sometimes I see a sympathetic woman in whose lap I could lay my head, whose hands I would gladly kiss. When you are quite calm again—after your marriage—read Anna Karenina, which I have read lately for the first time with an enthusiasm bordering on fanaticism (sic). What you are now feeling is there wonderfully expressed with reference to Levin’s marriage.”

To P. Jurgenson.

“Naples, February 11th (23rd), 1882.

“Are you not ashamed of trying to ‘justify’ yourself of the accusation brought against you by my protégé Klimenko? I know well enough that you cannot be unjust. I know, on the other hand, that Klimenko is a crazy fellow who loses his head over Nekrassov’s poetry and vague echoes of Nihilism. Nevertheless he is not stupid, and it would be a pity to discharge him. I feel unless he can make himself an assured livelihood in Moscow he will do no good elsewhere. I beg you to be patient a little longer, in the hope he will come to himself, and see where his own interests lie.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Naples, February 13th (25th), 1882.

“What a blessing to feel oneself safe from visitors—to be far from the noise of large hotels and the bustle of the town! What an inexhaustible source of enjoyment to admire this incomparable view, which stretches in all its beauty before our windows! All Naples, Vesuvius, Castellammare, Sorrento, lie before us. At sunset yesterday it was so divinely beautiful that I shed tears of gratitude to God.... I feel I shall not do much work in Naples. It is clearly evident that this town has contributed nothing to art or learning. To create a book, a picture, or an opera, it is necessary to become self-concentrated and oblivious of the outer world. Would that be possible in Naples?...

“Even the sun has spots, therefore it is not surprising that our abode, about which I have been raving, should gradually reveal certain defects. I suffer from a shameful weakness: I am mortally afraid of mice. Imagine, dear friend, that even as I write to you, a whole army of mice are probably conducting their manœuvres across the floor overhead. If a solitary one of their hosts strays into my room, I am condemned to a night of sleeplessness and torture. May Heaven protect me!”

Shortly afterwards, the landlord of this mouse-infested residence—the Villa Postiglione—turned out “an impudent thief,” and Tchaikovsky, with his brother Modeste, returned to an hotel in the town.

To N. F. von Meck.

“Naples, March 7th (19th), 1882.

“To-day I finished my Vespers.... It is very difficult to work in Naples. Not only do its beauties distract one, but there is also the nuisance of the organ grinders. These instruments are never silent for an instant, and sometimes drive me to desperation. Two or three are often being played at the same time; someone will also be singing, and the trumpets of the Bersaglieri in the neighbourhood go on unceasingly from 8 a.m. until midday.

“In my leisure hours I have been reading a very interesting book, published recently, upon Bellini. It is written by his friend, the octogenarian Florimo. I have always been fond of Bellini. As a child I often cried under the strong impression made upon me by his beautiful melodies, which are impregnated with a kind of melancholy. I have remained faithful to his music, in spite of its many faults: the weak endings of his concerted numbers, the tasteless accompaniments, the roughness and vulgarity of his recitatives. Florimo’s book contains not only Bellini’s life, but also his somewhat extensive correspondence. I began to read with great pleasure the biography of this composer, who for long years past had been surrounded in my imagination with an aureole of poetical feeling. I had always thought of Bellini as a childlike, naïve being, like Mozart. Alas! I was doomed to disillusion. Bellini, in spite of his talent, was a very commonplace man. He lived in an atmosphere of self-worship, and was enchanted with every bar of his own music. He could not tolerate the least contradiction, and suspected enemies, intrigues, and envy in all directions; although from beginning to end of his career success never left him for a single day. Judging from his letters, he loved no one, and, apart his own interests, nothing existed for him. It is strange that the author of the book does not seem to have observed that these letters show Bellini in a most unfavourable light, otherwise he would surely not have published them. Another book which I am enjoying just now is Melnikov’s On the Hills. What an astonishing insight into Russian life, and what a calm objective attitude the author assumes to the numerous characters he has drawn in this novel! Dissenters of various kinds (Rasskolniki), merchants, moujiks, aristocrats, monks and nuns—all seem actually living as one reads. Each character acts and speaks, not in accordance with the author’s views and convictions, but just as they would do in real life. In our day it is rare to meet with a book so free from ‘purpose.’

10 p.m.

“ ... One thing spoils all my walks here—the beggars, who not only beg, but display their wounds and deformities, which have a most unpleasant and painful effect upon me. But to sit at the window at home, to gaze upon the sea and Mount Vesuvius in the early morning, or at sunset, is such heavenly enjoyment that one can forgive and forget all the drawbacks of Naples.”

Tchaikovsky spent a few days at Sorrento before going to Florence, whence he returned to Moscow about the middle of April.

XIV

To M. Tchaikovsky.

“Kamenka, May 10th (22nd), 1882.

“Modi, I am writing at night with tears in my eyes. Do not be alarmed—nothing dreadful has happened. I have just finished Bleak House, and shed a few tears, first, because I pity Lady Dedlock, and find it hard to tear myself away from all these characters with whom I have been living for two months (I began the book when I left Florence), and secondly, from gratitude that so great a writer as Dickens ever lived.... I want to suggest to you a capital subject for a story. But I am tired, so I will leave it until to-morrow.

“Subject for a Story.

“The tale should be told in the form of a diary, or letters to a friend in England. Miss L. comes to Russia. Everything appears to her strange and ridiculous. The family into which she has fallen please her—especially the children—but she cannot understand why the whole foundation of family life lacks the discipline, the sense of Christian duty, and the good bringing-up which prevail in English homes. She respects this family, but regards them as belonging to a different race, and the gulf between herself and them seems to grow wider. She draws into herself and remains there. Weariness and oppression possess her. The sense of duty, and the need of working for her family, keep her from despair. She is religious, in the English way, and finds the Russian Church, with its ritual, absurd and repugnant. Some of the family and their relations with her must be described in detail.

“A new footman appears upon the scene. At first she does not notice him at all. One day, however, she becomes aware that he has looked at her in particular—and love steals into her heart. At first she does not understand what has come over her. Why does she sympathise with him when he is working—others have to work too? Why does she feel so ill at ease when he waits on her? Then the footman begins to make love to the laundrymaid. In her feeling of hatred for this girl she realises she is jealous, and discovers her love. She gives the man all the money she has saved to go on a journey for his health, etc. She begins to love everything Russian.... She changes her creed. The footman is dismissed for some fault. She struggles with herself—but finally goes with him. One fine day he says to her: ‘Go to the devil and take your ugly face with you! What do you want from me?’ I really do not know how it all ends....”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Kamenka, May 29th (June 10th), 1882.

“ ... You ask me why I chose the subject of Mazeppa. About a year ago K. Davidov (Director of the Petersburg Conservatoire) passed on this libretto to me. It is arranged by Bourenin from Poushkin’s poem Poltava. At that time it did not please me much, and although I tried to set a few scenes to music, I could not get up much enthusiasm, so put it aside. For a whole year I sought in vain for some other book, because the desire to compose another opera increased steadily. Then one day I took up the libretto of Mazeppa once more, read Poushkin’s poem again, was carried away by some of the scenes and verses—and set to work upon the scene between Maria and Mazeppa, which is taken without alteration from the original text. Although I have not experienced as yet any of the profound enjoyment I felt in composing Eugene Oniegin; although the work progresses slowly and I am not much drawn to the characters—I continue to work at it because I have started, and I believe I may be successful. As regards Charles XII. I must disappoint you, dear friend. He does not come into my opera, because he only played an unimportant part in the drama between Mazeppa, Maria, and Kochoubey.”

The first symphony concert in the hall of the Art and Industrial Exhibition took place on May 18th (30th), 1882, under the direction of Anton Rubinstein. On this occasion Taneiev played Tchaikovsky’s Second Pianoforte Concerto for the first time in public. It was received with much applause, but it was difficult to determine whether this was intended for the composer, or the interpreter.

To N. F. von Meck.

“Grankino, June 9th (21st), 1882.

“The quiet and freedom of this place delight me. This is true country life! The walks are very monotonous; there is nothing but the endless, level Steppe. The garden is large, and will be beautiful, but at present it is new. In the evening the Steppe is wonderful, and the air so exquisitely pure; I cannot complain. The post only comes once a week, and there are no newspapers. One lives here in complete isolation from the world, and that has a great fascination for me. Sometimes I feel—to a certain extent—the sense of perfect contentment I used always to experience in Brailov and Simaki. O God, how sad it is to think that those moments of inexpressible happiness will never return!”[89]

To N. F. von Meck.

“Grankino, July 5th (17th), 1882.

“The news about Skobeliev only reached us a week after the sad catastrophe. It is long since any death has given me a greater shock than this. In view of the lamentable lack of men of mark in Russia, what a loss is this personality, on whom so many hopes depended!”

To P. Jurgenson.

“Kamenka, July 26th (August 7th), 1882.

“My sister has just returned from Carlsbad, having stopped at Prague on the way to hear my Maid of Orleans, or Panna Orleanska, as she is called there. It appears the opera was given in the barrack-like summer theatre, and both the performance and staging were very poor.”

This first appearance of one of Tchaikovsky’s operas upon the stage of a West-European theatre passed almost unnoticed. The work had a succès d’estime and soon disappeared from the repertory of the Prague opera house. The Press were polite to the well-known symphonist Tchaikovsky, and considered that as regarded opera he deserved respect, sympathy, and interest, although he was not entitled to be called a dramatic composer “by the grace of God.”

The programme of the sixth symphony concert (August 8th (20th) 1882) of the Art and Industrial Exhibition was made up entirely from the works of Tchaikovsky, and included: (1) The Tempest; (2) Songs from Sniegourochka; (3) the Violin Concerto (with Brodsky as soloist); (4) the Italian Capriccio; (5) Songs; (6) the Overture “1812.” The last-mentioned work was now heard for the first time, and the Violin Concerto—although it had already been played in Vienna, London, and New York—for the first time in Russia. The success of these works, although considerable, did not equal that which has since been accorded them. Among many laudatory criticisms, one was couched in an entirely opposite spirit. Krouglikov said that the three movements of the Violin Concerto were so “somnolent and wearisome that one felt no desire to analyse it in detail.” The “1812” Overture seemed to him “much ado about nothing.” Finally, he felt himself obliged to state the “lamentable fact” that Tchaikovsky was “played out.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Moscow, August 15th (27th), 1882.

“Dear Modi,—I found your letter when I came home an hour ago; but I have only just read it, because my mental condition was such that I had to collect myself first. What produces this terrible state?—I do not understand it myself.... Everything has tended to make to-day go pleasantly, and yet I am so depressed, and have suffered so intensely, that I might envy any beggar in the street. It all lies in the fact that life is impossible for me, except in the country or abroad. Why this is so, God knows—but I am simply on the verge of insanity.

“This undefinable, horrible, torturing malady, which declares itself in the fact that I cannot live a day, or an hour, in either of the Russian capitals without suffering, will perhaps be explained to me in some better world.... I often think that all my discontent springs from my own egoism, because I cannot sacrifice myself for others, even those who are near and dear to me. Then comes the comforting thought that I should not be suffering martyrdom except that I regard it as a kind of duty to come here now and then, for the sake of the pleasure it gives others. The devil knows! I only know this: that unattractive as Kamenka may be, I long for my corner there, as one longs for some inexpressible happiness. I hope to go there to-morrow.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Kamenka, August 23rd (September 4th), 1882.

“Dear, incomparable Friend,—How lovely it is here! How freely I breathe once more! How delighted I am to see my dear room again! How good to live once more as one pleases, not as others order! How pleasant to work undisturbed, to read, to play, to walk, to be oneself, without having to play a different part a thousand times a day! How insincere, how senseless, is social life!”

XV 1882-1883

To N. F. von Meck.

“Kamenka, September 14th (26th), 1882.

“Never has any important work given me such trouble as this opera (Mazeppa). Perhaps it is the decadence of my powers, or have I become more severe in self-judgment? When I remember how I used to work, without the least strain, and knowing no such moments of doubt and uncertainty, I seem to be a totally different man. Formerly I wrote as easily, and as much in obedience to the law of nature, as a fish swims in water or a bird flies. Now I am like a man who carries a precious, but heavy, burden, and who must bear it to the last at any cost. I, too, shall bear mine to the end, but sometimes I fear my strength is broken and I shall be forced to cry halt!”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Kamenka, September 20th (October 2nd), 1882.

“I am writing on a true autumnal day. Since yesterday a fine rain has been falling like dust, the wind howls, the green things have been frost-bitten since last week—yet I am not depressed. On the contrary, I enjoy it. It is only in this weather that I like Kamenka; when it is fine, I always long to be elsewhere.

“I have begun the instrumentation of the opera. The introduction, which depicts Mazeppa and the galloping horse, will sound very well!...”

To E. Napravnik.

“Kamenka, September 21st (October 3rd), 1882.

“Kamenskaya tells me that in case of the revival of The Maid of Orleans she would be glad to undertake the part again, if I would make the cuts, changes, and transpositions which you require. Apart from the fact that it is very desirable this opera should be repeated, and that I am prepared to make any sacrifice for this end, your advice alone is sufficient to make me undertake all that is necessary without hesitation.... Yet I must tell you frankly, nothing is more unpleasant than the changing of modulations, and the transposition of pieces which one is accustomed to think of in a particular tonality, and I should be very glad if the matter could be arranged without my personal concurrence. At the same time, I repeat that I am willing to do whatever you advise.”

To P. Jurgenson.

“Kamenka, October 20th (November 1st), 1882.

“The copy of the Trio which you sent me gave me the greatest pleasure. I think no other work of mine has appeared in such an irreproachable edition. The title-page delighted me by its exemplary simplicity.”

The Trio was given for the first time at one of the quartet evenings of the Musical Society in Moscow, October 18th (30th). Judging from the applause, the public was very much pleased with the work, but the critics were sparing in their praise.

In a letter to the composer Taneiev says:—

“I have studied your Trio for more than three weeks, and worked at it six hours a day. I ought long since to have written to you about this glorious work. I have never had greater pleasure in studying a new composition. The majority of the musicians here are enchanted with the Trio. It also pleased the public. Hubert has received a number of letters asking that it may be repeated.”

To S. I. Taneiev.

“Kamenka, October 29th (November 10th) 1882.

“My best thanks for your letter, dear Serge Ivanovich. Your approval of my Trio gives me very great pleasure. In my eyes you are a great authority, and my artistic vanity is as much flattered by your praise, as it is insensible to the opinions of the Press, for experience has taught me to regard them with philosophical indifference....

“Mazeppa creeps along tortoise-fashion, although I work at it daily for several hours. I cannot understand why I am so changed in this respect. At first I feared it was the loss of power that comes with advancing years, but now I comfort myself with the thought that I have grown stricter in self-criticism and less self-confident. This is perhaps the reason why it now takes me three days to orchestrate a thing that I could formerly have finished in one.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Kamenka, November 3rd (15th), 1882.

“ ... I think—if God grants me a long life—I shall never again compose an opera. I do not say, with you and many others, that opera is an inferior form of musical art. On the contrary, uniting as it does so many elements which all serve the same end, it is perhaps the richest of musical forms. I think, however, that personally I am more inclined to symphonic music, at least I feel more free and independent when I have not to submit to the requirements and conditions of the stage.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Kamenka, November 10th (22nd), 1882.

“Napravnik sends me word that The Maid of Orleans will be remounted in Prague, and Jurgenson writes that he would like to go there with me. I, too, would like to see my opera performed abroad. Very probably we shall go direct to Prague next week, and afterwards I shall return with him to Moscow, where I must see my brother....”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Moscow, November 23rd (December 5th), 1882.

“I have made the acquaintance of Erdmannsdörfer, who has succeeded Nicholas Rubinstein as conductor of the Symphony Concerts. He is a very gifted man, and has taken the hearts of the musicians and the public by storm. The latter is so fickle: it received Erdmannsdörfer with such enthusiasm, one would think it valued him far more highly than Rubinstein, who never met with such warmth. Altogether Moscow is not only reconciled to the loss of Rubinstein, but seems determined to forget him.

“I am torn to pieces as usual, so that I already feel like a martyr, as I always do in Moscow or Petersburg. It has gone to such lengths that to-day I feel quite ill with this insane existence, and I am thinking of taking flight.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Moscow, December 5th (17th) 1882.

“To the many fatigues of the present time, one more has been added; every day I have to sit for some hours to the painter Makovsky. The famous art collector, P. Tretiakov, commissioned him to paint my portrait, so that I could not very well refuse. You can fancy how wearisome it is to me to have to sit for hours, when I find even the minutes necessary for being photographed simply horrible. Nevertheless the portrait seems very successful.[90] I forget if I have already told you that at the last concert but one my Suite was given with great success. Erdmannsdörfer proved a good conductor, although I think the Moscow Press and public greatly overrate his capabilities.... My work is not yet finished, so I shall hardly be able to leave before next week.”

Tchaikovsky left Moscow on December 28th (January 9th, 1883), travelling by Berlin to Paris, where he met his brother Modeste, who was to accompany him to Italy.

To N. F. von Meck.

“Berlin, December 31st, 1882 (January 12th, 1883).

“I broke my journey to rest here. Yesterday Tristan and Isolde (which I had never seen) was being given at the Opera, so I decided to remain another day. The work does not give me any pleasure, although I am glad to have heard it, for it has done much to strengthen my previous views of Wagner, which—until I had seen all his works performed—I felt might not be well grounded. Briefly summed up, this is my opinion: in spite of his great creative gifts, in spite of his talents as a poet, and his extensive culture, Wagner’s services to art—and to opera in particular—have only been of a negative kind. He has proved that the older forms of opera are lacking in all logical and æsthetic raison d’être. But if we may no longer write opera on the old lines, are we obliged to write as Wagner does? I reply, Certainly not. To compel people to listen for four hours at a stretch to an endless symphony which, however rich in orchestral colour, is wanting in clearness and directness of thought; to keep singers all these hours singing melodies which have no independent existence, but are merely notes that belong to this symphonic music (in spite of lying very high these notes are often lost in the thunder of the orchestra), this is certainly not the ideal at which contemporary musicians should aim. Wagner has transferred the centre of gravity from the stage to the orchestra, but this is an obvious absurdity, therefore his famous operatic reform—viewed apart from its negative results—amounts to nothing. As regards the dramatic interest of his operas, I find them very poor, often childishly naïve. But I have never been quite so bored as with Tristan and Isolde. It is an endless void, without movement, without life, which cannot hold the spectator, or awaken in him any true sympathy for the characters on the stage. It was evident that the audience—even though Germans—were bored, but they applauded loudly after each act. How can this be explained? Perhaps by a patriotic sympathy for the composer, who actually devoted his whole life to singing the praise of Germanism.”

To A. Merkling.

“Paris, January 10th (22nd), 1882.

“I have seen a few interesting theatrical performances, among others Sardou’s Fedora, in which Sarah Bernhardt played with arch-genius, and would have made the most poignant impression upon me if the play—in which a clever but cold Frenchman censures our Russian customs—were not so full of lies. I have finally come to the conclusion that Sarah is really a woman of genius.[91] I also enjoyed Musset’s play, On ne badine pas avec l’amour. After the theatre I go to a restaurant and drink punch (it is bitterly cold in Paris)....”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Paris, January 11th (23rd), 1883.

“I have just come from the Opera Comique, where I heard Le Nozze di Figaro. I should go every time it was given. I know my worship of Mozart astonishes you, dear friend. I, too, am often surprised that a broken man, sound neither in mind nor spirit, like myself, should still be able to enjoy Mozart, while I do not succumb to the depth and force of Beethoven, to the glow and passion of Schumann, nor the brilliance of Meyerbeer, Berlioz, and Wagner. Mozart is not oppressive or agitating. He captivates, delights and comforts me. To hear his music is to feel one has accomplished some good action. It is difficult to say precisely wherein this good influence lies, but undoubtedly it is beneficial; the longer I live and the better I know him, the more I love his music.

“You ask why I never write anything for the harp. This instrument has a beautiful timbre, and adds greatly to the poetry of the orchestra. But it is not an independent instrument, because it has no melodic quality, and is only suitable for harmony. True, artists like Parish-Alvars have composed operatic fantasias for the harp, in which there are melodies; but this is rather forced. Chords, arpeggios—these form the restricted sphere of the harp, consequently it is only useful for accompaniments.”

Before Tchaikovsky left Moscow he had been approached by Alexeiev, the president of the local branch of the Russian Musical Society, with regard to the music to be given at the Coronation festivities, to take place in the spring of 1883. A chorus of 7,500 voices, selected from all the educational institutions in Moscow, was to greet the Emperor and Empress with the popular ‘Slavsia,’ from Glinka’s opera, A Life for the Tsar. The arrangement of this chorus, with accompaniment for string orchestra, was confided to Tchaikovsky. In January he accomplished this somewhat uncongenial task, and sent it to Jurgenson with the following remarks:—

“There are only a few bars of ‘original composition’ in the work, besides the third verse of the text, so if—as you say—I am to receive a fee from the city of Moscow, my account stands as below:—

“For the simplification of sixteen bars of choral and instrumental music, to be repeated three times 3r.

“For the composition of eight connecting bars 4r.

“For four additional lines to the third verse, at forty kopecks per line 1r. 60 k.

Total 8 r. 60 k.(16/11½)

“This sum I present to the city of Moscow. Joking apart, it is absurd to speak of payment for such a work, and, to me, most unpleasant. These things should be done gratuitously, or not at all.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Paris, February 5th (17th), 1883.

“I have not read Daudet’s L’Evangéliste, although I have the book. I cannot conquer a certain prejudice; it is not the author’s fault, but all these sects, the Salvation Army—and all the rest of them—are antipathetic to me, and since in this volume Daudet (whom I like as much as you do) deals with a similar subject, I have no wish to read it.

“As regards French music, I will make the following remarks in justification of my views. I do not rave about the music of the new French school as a whole, nor about each individual composer, so much as I admire the influence of the novelty and freshness which are so clearly discernible in their music. What pleases me is their effort to be eclectic, their sense of proportion, their readiness to break with hard-and-fast routine, while keeping within the limits of musical grace. Here you do not find that ugliness in which some of our composers indulge, in the mistaken idea that originality consists in treading under foot all previous traditions of beauty. If we compare modern French music with what is being composed in Germany, we shall see that German music is in a state of decadence, and that apart from the eternal fluctuation between Mendelssohn and Schumann, or Liszt and Wagner, nothing is being done. In France, on the contrary, we hear much that is new and interesting, much that is fresh and forceful. Of course, Bizet stands head and shoulders above the rest, but there are also Massenet, Délibes, Guirand, Lalo, Godard, Saint-Saëns. All these are men of talent, who cannot be compared with the dry routinier style of contemporary Germans.”

To P. Jurgenson.

“Paris, February 6th (18th), 1883.

“Dear Friend,—To-day I received a telegram from Bartsal,[92] asking if my Coronation Cantata is ready, and for what voices it is written. I am replying that I have never composed such a Cantata. Apparently it is some absurdity which does not demand serious attention, and yet I am really somewhat agitated. The matter stands as follows. Early in December I met an acquaintance whom I have regarded for many years as a commonplace fool. But this fool was suddenly put upon the Coronation Commission. One day, after lunch, he took me aside and inquired: ‘I trust you are not a Nihilist?’ I put on an air of surprise, and inquired why he had to ask such a question. ‘Because I think it would be an excellent thing if you were to compose something suitable for the Coronation—something in a festival way—something patriotic—in short, write something....” I replied that I should be very pleased to compose something, but I could not supply my own text, that would have to be commissioned from Maikov, or Polonsky, then I should be willing to write the music. Our conversation ended here. Afterwards I heard that this man was saying all over Petersburg that he had commissioned me to write a Cantata. I had forgotten the whole story until the telegram came this morning. I am afraid the story may now be grossly exaggerated, and the report be circulated that I refused to compose such a work. I give you leave to use all possible means to have the matter put in the true light, and so to exonerate me.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Paris, February 24th (March 8th), 1883.

“Henry VIII., by Saint-Saëns, was recently given at the Grand Opera. I did not go, but, according to the papers, the work had no signal success. I am not surprised, for I know his other operas, Samson et Dalila, Etienne Marcel, and La Princesse Jaune, and all three have strengthened my conviction, that Saint-Saëns will never write a great dramatic work. Next week I will hear the opera, and tell you what I think of it.

“In consequence of his death, Wagner is the hero of the hour with the Parisian public. At all three Sunday concerts (Pasdeloup, Colonne and Lamoureux) the programmes have been devoted to his works, with the greatest success. Curious people! It is necessary to die in order to attract their attention. In consequence of the death of Flotow, there was a vacancy in the Académie des Beaux Arts. Gounod put me forward as one of the five candidates, but I did not attain to this honour. The majority of votes went to the Belgian composer Limnander.”

XVI

At this time two unexpected and arduous tasks fell to Tchaikovsky’s lot. The city of Moscow commissioned him to write a march for a fête, to be given in honour of the Emperor in the Sokolniky Park, and the Coronation Committee sent him the libretto of a lengthy cantata, with a request that the music might be ready by the middle of April. These works he felt it his duty to undertake. For the march he declined any payment, for reasons which he revealed to Jurgenson, under strict pledges of secrecy. When, two years earlier, his financial situation had been so dark that he had undertaken the uncongenial task of editing the works of Bortniansky, he had, unknown to all his friends, applied for assistance to the Tsar. After the letter was written, he would gladly have destroyed it, but his servant had already taken it to the post. Some days later he received a donation of 3,000 roubles (£300). He resolved to take the first opportunity of giving some return for this gift, and the Coronation March was the outcome of this mingled feeling of shame and gratitude.

His projected journey to Italy was abandoned, and he decided to remain some weeks longer in Paris.

To P. Jurgenson.

“Paris, March 9th (21st), 1883.

“About the middle of August I received, in Moscow, the manuscript of the Vespers, with the Censor’s corrections. You then requested me to carry out these corrections. I altered what was actually essential. As regards the rest, I sent you an explanation to be forwarded to the Censor.... What has become of it? Either you have lost it, or the Censor is so obstinate and dense that one can do nothing with him. The absurdity is that I have not composed music to the words of the Vesper Service, but taken it from a book published by the Synodal Press. I have only harmonised the melodies as they stood in this book.... In short, I have improved everything that was capable of improvement. I will not endure the caprices of a drivelling pedant. He can teach me nothing, and the Synodal book is more important than he is. I shall have to complain about him. There ... he has put me out for a whole day!”

To P. Jurgenson.

“Paris, April 14th (26th), 1883.

“You reproach me because the pieces Rubinstein played belong to Bessel.[93] I am very sorry, but I must say in self-justification that had I had any suspicion twelve years ago that it would be the least deprivation to you not to possess anything of mine, I would on no account have been faithless to you.... In those days I had no idea that I could wound your feelings by going to Bessel. Now I would give anything to get the pieces back again. A curious man Anton Rubinstein! Why could he not pay some attention to these pieces ten years ago? Why did he never play a note of my music then? That would indeed have been a service! I am grateful to him, even now, but it is a very different matter.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Paris, April 14th (26th), 1883 “(Thursday in Passion Week).

“Dear Modi,—I am writing in a café in the Avenue Wagram. This afternoon I felt a sudden desire to be—if not actually in our church—at least somewhere in its vicinity. I am so fond of the service for to-day. To hold the wax-taper and make little pellets of wax after each gospel; at first, to feel a little impatient for the service to come to an end, and afterwards to feel sorry it is over! But I arrived too late, only in time to meet the people coming out and hear them speak Russian.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Paris, May 3rd (15th), 1883.

“Loewenson’s article, with its flattering judgment of me, does not give me much pleasure. I do not like the repetition of that long-established opinion that I am not a dramatic musician, and that I pander to the public. What does it mean—to have dramatic capabilities? Apparently Herr Loewenson is a Wagnerian, and believes Wagner to be a great master in this sphere. I consider him just the reverse. Wagner has genius, but he certainly does not understand the art of writing for the stage with breadth and simplicity, keeping the orchestra within bounds, so that it does not reduce the singers to mere speaking puppets. As to his assertion that I aim at effects to catch the taste of the great public, I can plead not guilty with a clear conscience. I have always written, and always shall write, with feeling and sincerity, never troubling myself as to what the public would think of my work. At the moment of composing, when I am aglow with emotion, it flashes across my mind that all who will hear the music will experience some reflection of what I am feeling myself. Then I think of someone whose interest I value—like yourself, for instance—but I have never deliberately tried to lower myself to the vulgar requirements of the crowd. If opera attracts me from time to time, it signifies that I have as much capacity for this as for any other form. If I have had many failures in this branch of music, it only proves that I am a long way from perfection, and make the same mistakes in my operas as in my symphonic and chamber music, among which there are many unsuccessful compositions. If I live a few years longer, perhaps I may see my Maid of Orleans suitably interpreted, or my Mazeppa studied and staged as it should be; and then possibly people may cease to say that I am incapable of writing a good opera. At the same time, I know how difficult it will be to conquer this prejudice against me as an operatic composer. This is carried to such lengths that Herr Loewenson, who knows nothing whatever of my new work, declares it will be a useless sacrifice to the Moloch of opera....”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Berlin, May 12th (24th), 1883.

“ ... A report has been circulated in many of the Paris papers that Rubinstein had refused to compose a Coronation Cantata because he was not in sympathy with the central figure of the festivities. As Rubinstein’s children are being educated in Russia, and this might be prejudicial to his interests—for even the most baseless falsehood always leaves some trace behind it—I sent a brief dementi to the Gaulois the day I left Paris. I cannot say if it will be published.[94]

“To-day Lohengrin is being given. I consider it Wagner’s best work, and shall probably go to the performance. To-morrow I leave for Petersburg.”

In April, 1883, Eugene Oniegin was heard for the first time in St. Petersburg, when it was performed by the Amateur Dramatic and Musical Society in the hall of the Nobles’ Club. It was coolly received, and the performance made so little impression that it was almost ignored by the Press. Soloviev, alone, wrote an article of some length in the St. Petersburg Viedomosti, in which he said:—

“Tchaikovsky’s opera—apart from the libretto and stage effects—contains much that is musically attractive. Had the composer paid more attention to Poushkin’s words and shown greater appreciation of their beauty; had he grasped the simplicity and naturalness of Poushkin’s forms—the opera would have been successful. Having failed in these requirements, it is not surprising that the public received the work coldly....”

Nevertheless the opera survived several performances. The lack of success—apart from the quality of the music, which never at any time aroused noisy demonstrations of applause—must be attributed to the performance, which was excellent for amateurs, but still left much to be desired from the artistic point of view.

To N. F. von Meck.

“Petersburg, May 24th (June 5th), 1883.

“I hear the Cantata was admirably sung and won the Emperor’s approval.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Podoushkino, June 15th (27th), 1883.

“In my youth I often felt indignant at the apparent injustice with which Providence dealt out happiness and misfortune to mankind. Gradually I have come to the conviction that from our limited, earthly point of view we cannot possibly comprehend the aims and ends towards which God guides us on our way through life. Our sufferings and deprivations are not sent blindly and fortuitously; they are needful for our good, and although the good may seem very far away, some day we shall realise this. Experience has taught me that suffering and bitterness are frequently for our good, even in this life. But after this life perhaps there is another, and—although my intellect cannot conceive what form it may take—my heart and my instinct, which revolt from death in the sense of complete annihilation, compel me to believe in it. Perhaps we may then understand the things which now appear to us harsh and unjust. Meanwhile, we can only pray, and thank God when He sends us happiness, and submit when misfortune overtakes us, or those who are near and dear to us. I thank God who has given me this conviction. Without it life would be a grievous burden. Did I not know that you, the best of human beings, and above all deserving of happiness, were suffering so much, not through an insensate blow aimed by a blind destiny, but for some divine end which my limited reason cannot discern—then, indeed, there would remain for me in life nothing but despair and loathing. I have learnt not to murmur against God, but to pray to Him for all who are dear to me.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Podoushkino,[95] July 3rd (15th), 1883.

“My incapacity for measuring time correctly is really astonishing! I believed I should find leisure this summer for everything—for reading, correspondence, walks; and suddenly I realise that from morning to night I am tormented with the thought that I have not got through all there was to do.... Added to which, instead of resting from composition, I have taken it into my head to write a Suite. Inspiration will not come; every day I begin something and lose heart. Then, instead of waiting for inspiration, I begin to be afraid lest I am played out, with the result that I am thoroughly dissatisfied with myself. And yet the conditions of life are satisfactory: wonderful scenery and the society of those I love....”

During this visit to Podoushkino, Tchaikovsky wrote to Jurgenson concerning their business relations. Actually, this connection remained unbroken to the end of the composer’s life, but at this moment it suffered a temporary strain. Tchaikovsky acknowledged that his publisher had often been most generous in his payments, but as regards his new opera Mazeppa he felt aggrieved at the small remuneration proposed by Jurgenson. This work, he said, ought, logically speaking, to be worth ten times as much as ten songs, or ten indifferent pianoforte pieces. He valued it at 2,400 roubles (£240). On the other hand, he asked no fee for his Coronation Cantata.

To N. F. von Meck.

“Podoushkino, August 10th (22nd), 1883.

“Yesterday a council was held by the Opera Direction to consider the staging of Mazeppa. Everyone connected with the Opera House was present. I was astonished at the zeal—I may say enthusiasm—which they showed for my opera. Formerly what trouble I had to get an opera accepted and performed! Now, without any advances on my part, Petersburg and Moscow contend for my work. I was told yesterday that the direction at St. Petersburg had sent the scenic artist Bocharov to Little Russia, in order to study on the spot the moonlight effect in the last act of Mazeppa. I cannot understand the reason of such attentions on the part of the theatrical world—there must be some secret cause for it, and I can only surmise that the Emperor himself must have expressed a wish that my opera should be given as well as possible in both capitals.[96]

“The corrections are now complete, and I am sending you the first printed copy. Dear friend, now I must take a little rest from composition, and lie fallow for a time. But the cacoethes scribendi possesses me, and all my leisure hours are devoted to a Suite. I hope to finish it in a day or two, and set to work upon the instrumentation at Kamenka.

“My health is better. I have gone through such a terrible attack of nervous headache, I thought I must have died. I fell asleep so worn out, I had not even strength to undress. When I awoke I was well.”

XVII

1883-1884

To N. F. von Meck.

“Verbovka, September 10th (22nd), 1883.

“With regard to my opera, you have picked out at first sight the numbers I consider the best. The scene between Mazeppa and Maria will, thanks to Poushkin’s magnificent verses, produce an effect even off the stage. It is a pity you will not be able to see a performance of Mazeppa. Allow me, dear friend, to point out other parts of the opera which can easily be studied from the pianoforte score: In Act I. (1), the duet between Maria and Andrew; (2), Mazeppa’s arioso. Act II. (1), the prison scene; (2), Maria’s scene with her mother. Act III., the last duet.”

To M. Tchaikovsky.

“Verbovka, September 12th (24th), 1883.

“ ... I bought Glazounov’s Quartet in Kiev, and was pleasantly surprised. In spite of the imitations of Korsakov, in spite of the tiresome way he has of contenting himself with the endless repetition of an idea, instead of its development, in spite of the neglect of melody and the pursuit of all kinds of harmonic eccentricities—the composer has undeniable talent. The form is so perfect, it astonishes me, and I suppose his teacher helped him in this. I recommend you to buy the Quartet and play it for four hands. I have also Cui’s opera, The Prisoner of the Caucasus. This is utterly insignificant, weak, and childishly naïve. It is most remarkable that a critic who has contended throughout his days against routine, should now, in the evening of his life, write a work so shamefully conventional.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Verbovka, September 19th (October 1st), 1883.

“ ... On my arrival here I found a parcel from Tkatchenko at Poltava. It contained all my letters to him. As on a former occasion, when he thought of committing suicide, he sent me back two of my letters, I understood at once that he wished by this means to intimate his immediate intention of putting an end to his existence. At first I was somewhat agitated; then I calmed myself with the reflection that my Tkatchenko was certainly still in this world. In fact, to-day I received a letter from him asking for money, but without a word about my letters. His, as usual, is couched in a scornful tone. He is a man to be pitied, but not at all sympathetic.”[97]

To M. Tchaikovsky.

“Verbovka, September 26th (October 8th), 1883.

“My Suite progresses slowly; but it seems likely to be successful. I am almost sure the Scherzo (with the Harmonica) and the Andante (‘Children’s Dreams’) will please. My enthusiasm for Judith has made way for a passion for Carmen, I have also been playing Rimsky-Korsakov’s Night in May, not without some enjoyment.”

To Frau von Meck.

“Verbovka, September 28th (October 10th), 1883.

“I will tell you frankly, dear friend, that, although I gladly hear some operas—and even compose them myself—your somewhat paradoxical view of the untenability of operatic music pleases me all the same. Leo Tolstoi says the same with regard to opera, and strongly advised me to give up the pursuit of theatrical success. In Peace and War he makes his heroine express great astonishment and dissatisfaction with the falseness and limitations of operatic action. Anyone who, like yourself, does not live in society and is not therefore trammelled by its conventions, or who, like Tolstoi, has lived for years in a village, and only been occupied with domestic events, literature, and educational questions, must naturally feel more intensely than others the complete falseness of Opera. I, too, when I am writing an opera feel so constrained and fettered that I often think I will never compose another. Nevertheless, we must acknowledge that many beautiful things of the first order belong to the sphere of dramatic music, and that the men who wrote them were directly inspired by the dramatic ideas. Were there no such thing as opera, there would be no Don Juan, no Figaro, no Russlan and Lioudmilla. Of course, from the point of view of the sane mind, it is senseless for people on the stage—which should reflect reality—to sing instead of speaking. People have got used to this absurdity, however, and when I hear the sextet in Don Giovanni I never think that what is taking place before me is subversive of the requirements of artistic truth. I simply enjoy the music, and admire the astonishing art of Mozart, who knew how to give each of the six voices its own special character, and has outlined each personality so sharply that, forgetful of the lack of absolute truth, I marvel at the depth of conditional truth, and my intellect is silenced.

“You tell me, dear friend, that in my Eugene Oniegin the musical pattern is more beautiful than the canvas on which it is worked. I must say, however, that if my music to Eugene Oniegin has the qualities of warmth and poetic feeling, it is because my own emotions were quickened by the beauty of the subject. I think it is altogether unjust to see nothing beautiful in Poushkin’s poem but the versification. Tatiana is not merely a provincial ‘Miss,’ who falls in love with a dandy from the capital. She is a young and virginal being, untouched as yet by the realities of life, a creature of pure feminine beauty, a dreamy nature, ever seeking some vague ideal, and striving passionately to grasp it. So long as she finds nothing that resembles an ideal, she remains unsatisfied but tranquil. It needs only the appearance of a man who—at least externally—stands out from the commonplace surroundings in which she lives, and at once she imagines her ideal has come, and in her passion becomes oblivious of self. Poushkin has portrayed the power of this virginal love with such genius that—even in my childhood—it touched me to the quick. If the fire of inspiration really burned within me when I composed the ‘Letter Scene,’ it was Poushkin who kindled it; and I frankly confess, without false modesty, that I should be proud and happy if my music reflected only a tenth part of the beauty contained in the poem. In the ‘Duel Scene’ I see something far more significant than you do. Is it not highly dramatic and touching that a youth so brilliant and gifted (as Lensky) should lose his life because he has come into fatal collision with a false code of mundane ‘honour’? Could there be a more dramatic situation than that in which that ‘lion’ of town-life (Oniegin), partly from sheer boredom, partly from petty annoyance, but without purpose—led by a fatal chain of circumstances—shoots a young man to whom he is really attached? All this is very simple, very ordinary, if you like, but poetry and the drama do not exclude matters of simple, everyday life.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Kamenka, October 11th (23rd), 1883.

“My work is nearly finished. Consequently, so long as I have no fresh composition in view, I can quietly enjoy this glorious autumn weather.

“My Suite has five movements: (1) Jeux de sons, (2) Valse, (3) Scherzo burlesque, (4) Rêves d’enfants, (5) Danse baroque.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“October 25th (November 6th), 1883.

“Every time I finish a work I think rapturously of a season of complete idleness. But nothing ever comes of it; scarcely has the holiday begun, before I weary of idleness and plan a new work. This, in turn, takes such a hold on me that I immediately begin again to rush through it with unnecessary haste. It seems my lot to be always hurrying to finish something. I know this is equally bad for my nerves and my work, but I cannot control myself. I only rest when I am on a journey; that is why travelling has such a beneficial effect on my health. Probably I shall never settle anywhere, but lead a nomadic existence to the end of my days. Just now I am composing an album of ‘Children’s Songs,’ an idea I have long purposed carrying out. It is very pleasant work, and I think the little songs will have a great success.”

To Frau von Meck.

“Kamenka, November 1st (13th), 1883.

“I should feel quite happy and contented here, were it not for the morbid, restless need of hurrying on my work, which tires me dreadfully, without being in the least necessary....

“I had a fancy to renew my study of English. This would be harmless, were I content to devote my leisure hours quietly to the work. But no: here again, I am devoured by impatience to master enough English to read Dickens easily, and I devote so many hours a day to this occupation that, with the exception of breakfast, dinner, and the necessary walk, I literally spend every minute in hurrying madly to the end of something. This is certainly a disease. Happily, this feverish activity will soon come to an end, as my summons to the rehearsals in Moscow will shortly be due.”

XVIII

Towards the end of November Tchaikovsky left Kamenka for Moscow, where, after a lapse of sixteen years, his First Symphony was given at a concert of the Musical Society. He was greatly annoyed to find that the preparations for Mazeppa were proceeding with exasperating slowness. “It is always the way with a State theatre,” he wrote at this time to Nadejda von Meck. “Much promised, little performed.” While at Moscow, he played his new Suite to some of the leading musicians, who highly approved of the work.

A few days later he went to meet Modeste in Petersburg. He left the dry cold of a beautiful Russian winter in Moscow, and found the more northern capital snowless, but windy, chilly, and “so dark in the morning that even near the window I can hardly see to write.”

The journeys to and fro involved by the business connected with Mazeppa, and all the other difficulties he had to encounter in connection with it, were very irksome to Tchaikovsky. At this time he vowed never to write another opera, since it involved the sacrifice of so much time and freedom.

To N. F. von Meck.

“Moscow, December 11th (23rd), 1883.

“How can you think me capable of taking offence at anything you may say, especially with regard to my music? I cannot always agree with you, but to be offended because your views are not mine would be impossible. On the contrary, I am invariably touched by the warmth with which you speak of my compositions, and the originality and independence of your judgment pleased me from the first. For instance, I am glad that, in spite of my having composed six operas, when you compare Opera with Symphony or Chamber music, you do not hesitate to speak of it as a lower form of art. In my heart I have felt the same, and intend henceforth to renounce operatic music; although you must acknowledge opera possesses the advantage of touching the musical feeling of the masses; whereas symphony appeals only to a smaller, if more select, public....”

Christmas and the New Year found Tchaikovsky still in Moscow, awaiting the rehearsals for Mazeppa. As usual, when circumstances detained him for any length of time in town, he suffered under the social gaieties which he had not the strength of will to decline. Laroche was staying in the same hotel as Tchaikovsky, and was in a hypochondriacal condition. “He needs a nurse,” says Tchaikovsky in one of his letters, “and I have undertaken the part, having no work on hand just now. When I depart, he will relapse into the same apathetic state.”

At last, on January 15th (27th), the rehearsals for the opera began, and with them a period of feverish excitement. The preparations for Mazeppa had been so long postponed that they now coincided with the staging of the work in Petersburg. Tchaikovsky declined the invitation to be present at the rehearsals there, feeling he could safely entrust his opera to the experienced supervision of Napravnik.

The first performance at Mazeppa in Moscow took place on February 3rd (15th), under the direction of H. Altani. The house was crowded and brilliant. The audience was favourably disposed towards the composer, and showed it by unanimous recalls for him and for the performers. Nevertheless, Tchaikovsky felt instinctively that the ovations were accorded to him personally, and to such of the singers who were favourites with the public, rather than to the opera itself. The ultimate fate of Mazeppa, which attracted a full house on several occasions, but only kept its place in the repertory for a couple of seasons, confirmed this impression. The failure may be attributed in some degree to the quality of the performance. Some of the singers had no voices, and those who were gifted in this respect lacked the necessary musical and histrionic training, so that not one number of the opera was rightly interpreted. Only the chorus was irreproachable. As regards the scenery and dresses, no opera had ever been so brilliantly staged. The Moscow critics were fairly indulgent to the opera and to its composer. To Nadejda von Meck, Tchaikovsky wrote: “The opera was successful in the sense that the singers and myself received ovations.... I cannot attempt to tell you what I went through that day. I was nearly crazed with excitement.”

To E. Pavlovskaya.[98]

“Moscow, February 4th (16th), 1884.

“Dear and superb Emilie Karlovna,—I thank you heartily, incomparable Maria, for your indescribably beautiful performance of this part. God give you happiness and success. I shall never forget the deep impression made upon me by your splendid talent.”

After informing a few friends of his intended journey—amongst them Erdmannsdörfer—Tchaikovsky left Moscow just at the moment when the public had gathered in the Concert Hall to hear his new Suite.

The Suite (No. 2 in C) had such a genuine and undisputed success under Erdmannsdörfer’s excellent direction on February 4th (16th), that it had to be repeated by general request at the next symphony concert, a week later. The Press was unanimous in its enthusiasm, and even the severe Krouglikov was moved to lavish and unconditional praise.

The Petersburg performance of Mazeppa, under Napravnik, took place on February 7th (19th). The absence of the composer naturally lessened its immediate success, but the impression was essentially the same as in Moscow: the opera obtained a mere succès d’estime. As regards acting, the performance of the chief parts (Mazeppa and Maria) was far less effective than at its original production. On the other hand, the staging and costumes excelled in historical fidelity and brillancy even those of the Moscow performance. Comparing the reception of Mazeppa in the two capitals, we must award the palm to the Petersburg critics for the unanimity with which they “damned” the work.

To N. F. von Meck.

“Berlin, February 7th (19th), 1884.

“Early this morning I received a telegram from Modeste, who informs me that the performance of Mazeppa in Petersburg yesterday was a complete success, and that the Emperor remained to the end and was much pleased.[99] To-morrow I continue my journey to Paris and from thence to Italy, where I might possibly join Kolya and Anna,[100] unless I should disturb their tête-à-tête. I dread being alone....”

To M. Tchaikovsky.

“Paris, February 18th (March 1st), 1884.

“Modi, I can well imagine how difficult it must have been for you to lie to me as to the ‘grand succès’ of Mazeppa in Petersburg. But you did well to tell a lie, for the truth would have been too great a blow, had I not been prepared for it by various indications. Only yesterday did I learn the worst in a letter from Jurgenson, who not only had the cruelty to blurt out the plain truth, but also to reproach me for not having gone to Petersburg. It came as a thunderbolt upon me, and all day I suffered, as though some dreadful catastrophe had taken place. Of course, this is exaggeration, but at my age, when one has nothing more to hope in the future, a slight failure assumes the dimensions of a shameful fiasco. Were I different, could I have forced myself to go to Petersburg, no doubt I should have returned crowned with laurel wreaths....”

To P. Jurgenson.

“Paris, February 18th (March 1st), 1884.

“It is an old truth that no one can hurt so cruelly as a dear friend. Your reproach is very bitter. Do you not understand that I know better than anyone else how much I lose, and how greatly I injure my own success, by my unhappy temperament? As a card-sharper, who has cheated all his life, lifts his hand against the man who has made him realise what he is, so nothing makes me so angry as the phrase: ‘You have only yourself to blame.’ It is true in this case; but can I help being what I am? The comparative failure of Mazeppa in Petersburg, of which your letter informed me, has wounded me deeply—very deeply. I am in a mood of darkest despair.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Paris, February 27th (March 10th), 1884.

“You have justly observed that the Parisians have become Wagnerites. But in their enthusiasm for Wagner, which is carried so far that they neglect even Berlioz—who, a few years ago, was the idol of the Paris public—there is something insincere, artificial, and without any real foundation. I cannot believe that Tristan and Isolde, which is so intolerably wearisome on the stage, could ever charm the Parisians.... It would not surprise me that such excellent operas as Lohengrin, Tannhäuser, and the Flying Dutchman should remain in the repertory. These, originating from a composer of the first rank, must sooner or later become of general interest. The operas of the later period, on the contrary, are false in principle; they renounce artistic simplicity and veracity, and can only live in Germany, where Wagner’s name has become the watch-word of German patriotism....”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Paris, February 29th (March 12th), 1884.

“ ... Napravnik writes that the Emperor was much astonished at my absence from the first performance of Mazeppa, and that he showed great interest in my music; he has also commanded a performance of Eugene Oniegin, his favourite opera. Napravnik thinks I must not fail to go to Petersburg to be presented to the Emperor. I feel if I neglect to do this I shall be worried by the thought that the Emperor might consider me ungrateful, and so I have decided to start at once. It is very hard, and I have to make a great effort to give up the chance of a holiday in the country and begin again with fresh excitements. But it has to be done.”

XIX

The official command to appear before their Imperial Majesties was due to the fact that on February 23rd (March 6th), 1884, the order of St. Vladimir of the Fourth Class had been conferred upon Tchaikovsky. The presentation took place on March 7th (19th), at Gatchina. Tchaikovsky was so agitated beforehand that he had to take several strong doses of bromide in order to regain his self-possession. The last dose was actually swallowed on the threshold of the room where the Empress was awaiting him, in agony lest he should lose consciousness from sheer nervous breakdown.

To Anatol Tchaikovsky.

“Petersburg, March 10th (22nd), 1884.

“I will give you a brief account of what took place. Last Saturday I was taken with a severe chill. By morning I felt better, but I was terribly nervous at the idea of being presented to the Emperor and Empress. On Monday at ten o’clock I went to Gatchina. I had only permission to appear before His Majesty, but Prince Vladimir Obolensky had also arranged an audience with the Empress, who had frequently expressed a wish to see me. I was first presented to the Emperor and then to the Empress. Both were most friendly and kind. I think it is only necessary to look once into the Emperor’s eyes, in order to remain for ever his most loyal adherent, for it is difficult to express in words all the charm and sympathy of his manner. She is also bewitching. Afterwards I had to visit the Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich, and yesterday I sat with him in the Imperial box during the whole of the rehearsal at the Conservatoire.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Petersburg, March 13th (25th), 1884.

“What a madman I am! How easily I am affected by the least shadow of ill_luck! Now I am ashamed of the depression which came over me in Paris, simply because I gathered from the newspapers that the performance of Mazeppa in Petersburg had not really had the success I anticipated! Now I see that in spite of the ill_feeling of many local musicians, in spite of the wretched performance, the opera really pleased, and there is no question of reproach, as I feared while I was so far away. There is no doubt that the critics, who unanimously strove to drag my poor opera through the mire, were not expressing the universal opinion, and that many people here are well disposed towards me. What pleases me most is the fact that the Emperor himself stands at the head of this friendly section. It turns out that I have no right to complain; on the contrary, I ought rather to thank God, who has shown me such favour.

“Have you seen Count Leo Tolstoi’s Confessions, which were to have come out recently in the Russkaya Myssl (‘Russian Thought’), but were withdrawn by order of the Censor? They have been privately circulated in manuscript, and I have just succeeded in reading them. They made a profound impression upon me, because I, too, know the torments of doubt and the tragic perplexity which Tolstoi has experienced and described so wonderfully in the Confessions. But enlightenment came to me earlier than Tolstoi; perhaps because my brain is more simply organised than his; and perhaps it has been due to the continual necessity of work that I have suffered less than Tolstoi. Every day, every hour, I thank God for having given me this faith in Him. What would have become of me, with my cowardice, my capacity for depression, and—at the least failure of courage—my desire for non-existence, unless I had been able to believe in God and submit to His will?”

About the end of the seventies Tchaikovsky kept an accurate diary. Ten years later he relaxed the habit, and only made entries in his day-book while abroad, or on important occasions. Two years before his death the composer burnt most of these volumes, including all those which covered the years between his journeys abroad in 1873 and April, 1884.

The following are a few entries from the later diaries:—

“April 13th (25th), 1884.

“ ... After tea I went to Leo’s,[101] who soon went out, while I remained to strum and think of something new. I hit upon an idea for a pianoforte Concerto [afterwards the Fantasia for pianoforte, op. 56], but it is poor and not new.... Played Massenet’s Hérodiade ... read some of Otto Jahn’s Life of Mozart.”

On April 16th (28th) Tchaikovsky began his third orchestral Suite, and we can follow the evolution of this work, as noted from day to day in his diary.

“April 16th (28th), 1884.

“In the forest and indoors I have been trying to lay the foundation of a new symphony ... but I am not at all satisfied.... Walked in the garden and found the germ, not of a symphony, but of a future Suite.”

“April 17th (29th).

“ ... Jotted down a few ideas.”

“April 19th (May 1st).

“Annoyed with my failures. Very dissatisfied because everything that comes into my head is so commonplace. Am I played out?”

April 24th (May 6th).

“I shall soon be forty-four. How much I have been through, and—without false modesty—how little I have accomplished! In my actual vocation I must say—hand on heart—I have achieved nothing perfect, nothing which can serve as a model. I am still seeking, vacillating. And in other matters? I read nothing, I know nothing.... The period of quiet, undisturbed existence is over for me. There remain agitation, conflict, much that I, such as I am, find hard to endure. No, the time has come to live by oneself and in one’s own way!”

“April 26th (May 8th).

“This morning I worked with all my powers at the Scherzo of the Suite. Shall work again after tea.”

“April 30th (May 12th), 1884.

“Worked all day at the Valse (Suite), but without any conviction of success.”

Extracts from a Letter to Anna Merkling.

“Kamenka, April 27th (May 9th), 1884.

“Many thanks, dear Anna, for your thought of me on the 25th (May 7th).... Without bitterness, I receive congratulations upon the fact that I am a year older. I have no wish to die, and I desire to attain a ripe old age; but I would not willingly have my youth back and go through life again. Once is enough! The past, of which you speak with regret, I too regret it, for no one likes better to be lost in memories of old days, no one feels more keenly the emptiness and brevity of life—but I do not wish to be young again.... I cannot but feel that the sum total of good which I enjoy at present is far greater than that which stood to my credit in youth: therefore I do not in the least regret my forty-and-four years. Nor sixty, nor seventy, provided I am still sound mentally and physically! At the same time one ought not to fear death. In this respect I cannot boast. I am not sufficiently penetrated by religion to regard death as the beginning of a new life, nor am I sufficiently philosophical to be satisfied with the prospect of annihilation. I envy no one so much as the religious man....”

Diary.

“May 2nd (14th).

“The Valse gives me infinite trouble. I am growing old....”

“May 6th (18th Sunday).

“Went to church. I was very susceptible to religious impressions, and felt the tears in my eyes. The simple, healthy, religious spirit of the poorer classes always touches me profoundly. The worn-out old man, the little lad of four, who goes to the holy water of his own accord.”

“May 8th (20th), 1884.

“Worked all morning. Not without fatigue, but my Andante progresses, and seems likely to turn out quite nice ... finished the Andante. I am very pleased with it.”

At this time Tchaikovsky resolved to take a small country house on his own account. “I want no land,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck, “only a little house, with a pretty garden, not too new. A stream is most desirable. The neighbourhood of a forest (which belonged to someone else) would be an attraction. The house must stand alone, not in a row of country villas, and, most important of all, be within easy reach of a station, so that I can get to Moscow at any time. I cannot afford more than two to three thousand roubles.”

Diary.

“May 11th (23rd), 1884.

“The first movement of the Suite, which is labelled ‘Contrasts,’ and the theme:

has grown so hateful since I tormented myself about it all day long that I resolved to set it aside and invent something else. After dinner I squeezed the unsuccessful movement out of my head. What does it mean? I now work with such difficulty! Am I really growing old?”

“May 12th (24th).

“After tea I took up the hateful ‘Contrasts’ once more. Suddenly a new idea flashed across me, and the whole thing began to flow.”

“May 17th (29th).

“Played Mozart, and enjoyed it immensely. An idea for a Suite from Mozart.”

“May 18th (30th).

“I am working too strenuously, as though I were being driven. This haste is unhealthy, and will, perhaps, reflect upon the poor Suite. My work (upon the variations before the finale) has been very successful....”

“May 21st (June 2nd).

“Worked well. Four variations completed.”

“May 23rd (June 4th).

“.... The Suite is finished.”

To P. Jurgenson.

“Grankino, June 20th (July 2nd), 1884.

“I live here in a very pleasant way, a quiet, countrified existence, but I work hard. A work of greater genius than the new Suite never was!!! My opinion of the new-born composition is so optimistic; God knows what I shall think of it a year hence. At least it has cost me some pains.”

To S. I. Taneiev.

“Grankino, June 30th (July 12th), 1884.

“ ... Although it was interesting to hear your opinion of my songs, I was rather angry with you for saying nothing whatever about your own work, plans, etc.

“Your criticisms of the songs—the end of the ‘Legend,” and the abuse of the minor in the ‘Lied vom Winter’—are very just.... I should like to say your praise was equally well deserved, but modesty forbids. So I will not say you are right, but that I am pleased with your commendations....

“At the present moment I am composing a third Suite. I wanted to write a Symphony, but it was not a success. However, the title is of no consequence. I have composed a big symphonic work in four movements: (1) Andante; (2) another Valse; (3) Scherzo; (4) Theme and Variations. It will be finished by the end of the summer, for I am working regularly and with zeal. Besides this, I am planning a concert-piece for pianoforte in two movements. It would be a fine thing if the work could be played during the coming season!”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Grankino, July 14th (26th), 1884.

“I shall not set to work upon the pianoforte Concerto, of which I wrote to you, before autumn or early winter. Of course, it will be difficult ever again to find such an ideal interpreter as Nicholas Rubinstein, but there is a pianist whom I had in my mind when I thought of a second Concerto. This is a certain young man, called d’Albert, who was in Moscow last winter, and whom I heard several times in public and at private houses. To my mind he is a pianist of genius, the legitimate successor of Rubinstein. Taneiev—whom I value very highly as musician, teacher, and theorist—would also be a suitable interpreter, if he had just that vein of virtuosity wherein lies the secret of the magic spell which great interpreters exercise over the public.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Skabeievka, July 28th (August 9th), 1884.

“The coachman will have told you our adventures. All went well as far as Kochenovka. There I had supper, and read Sapho by the mingled light of the moon and a lantern, keeping an anxious eye upon the lightning that was flashing all around. At 11.30 p.m. we resumed our journey. The storm came nearer and nearer, until it broke over our heads. Although the constant flashes were mild, and the rain wetted us through, my nerves were overstrained. I was convinced we should miss the train.... Fortunately it was late. Here we had an appalling storm. The sight of it at the hour of sunset, which still glowed here and there through the clouds, was so grand that, forgetful of my fears, I stood by the door to watch it. The rest of the journey was comfortable. I read Sapho, which I do not like.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Skabeievka, July 25th (August 6th), 1884.

“ ... You ask my opinion upon Daudet’s Sapho ... in spite of his great talent, this author has long since dropped out of favour with me. If Daudet had not dedicated the book to his sons in order to display the fact that it contained a lesson and a warning, I should say that he had described the sensuality and depravity of the hero and heroine very simply and picturesquely, with considerable sympathy. But in view of this dedication I feel indignant at the Pharisaism and false virtuousness of the author. In reality he wants to tickle the depraved taste of his public, and describes with cynical frankness the immorality of Parisian life, while pretending to deliver a sermon to his sons. He would have us believe him to be pursuing a moral aim, actuated by the noble aspiration of saving the young from evil ways. In reality his only aim was to produce a book which would please the immoral Parisian public, and to make money by it. One must own that he has attained his object. The book will have a great success, like Zola’s Pot-Bouille, the novels of Guy de Maupassant, and similar works of the new French school. When we reflect upon the group of people, and their way of life, as depicted by the author, we come to the conclusion that under the cloak of verisimilitude and realism the novel is fundamentally false. Sapho is an impossible being; at least I never came across a similar combination of honourable feeling and baseness, of nobility and infamy. Yet the author always sympathises with his heroine, and although, judging from the dedication, she is intended to inspire his sons with horror and repulsion, she must really seem very attractive to them. On the other hand, the virtuous characters in the book could not appeal sympathetically either to Daudet’s sons, or to anyone else; the tiresome Divonne, the hero’s impossible sister, and the rest of them—all these people are quite artificial. Sapho is an overdrawn type of a Parisian cocotte, but there is something true to nature in her. The others are not alive. Most insipid of all is Irène. Any young man reading the book must realise why Sapho succeeded in supplanting her in the heart of her husband Jean. It is here that Daudet’s hypocrisy is so evident, for while we ought to sympathise with Irène as greatly as we despise Sapho, in reality we involuntarily take the part of the depraved heroine. At the same time we cannot deny the great talent and mastery displayed in the book. Two or three dozen pages are wonderfully written.”

XX

Early in September, 1884, Tchaikovsky went to stay at Plestcheievo, a country property which Nadejda von Meck had purchased after circumstances compelled her to sell Brailov. Here he led the kind of life which suited him best—reading, composing, and studying the works of other musicians, in undisturbed quiet and freedom from social duties.

To N. F. von Meck.

“Plestcheievo, September 8th (20th), 1884.

“I have realised two intentions since I came here—the study of two works hitherto unknown to me—Moussorgsky’s Khovanstchina and Wagner’s Parsifal. In the first I discovered what I expected: pretensions to realism, original conceptions and methods, wretched technique, poverty of invention, occasionally clever episodes, amid an ocean of harmonic absurdities and affectations.... Parsifal leaves an entirely opposite impression. Here we are dealing with a great master, a genius, even if he has gone somewhat astray. His wealth of harmony is so luxuriant, so vast, that at length it becomes fatiguing, even to a specialist. What then must be the feelings of an ordinary mortal who has wrestled for three hours with this flow of complicated harmonic combinations? To my mind Wagner has killed his colossal creative genius with theories. Every preconceived theory chills his incontestable creative impulse. How could Wagner abandon himself to inspiration, while he believed he was grasping some particular theory of music-drama, or musical truth, and, for the sake of this, turned from all that, according to his predecessors, constituted the strength and beauty of music? If the singer may not sing, but—amid the deafening clamour of the orchestra—is expected to declaim a series of set and colourless phrases, to the accompaniment of a gorgeous, but disconnected and formless symphony, is that opera?

“What really astounds me, however, is the seriousness with which this philosophising German sets the most inane subjects to music. Who can be touched, for instance, by Parsifal, in which, instead of having to deal with men and women similar in temperament and feeling to ourselves, we find legendary beings, suitable perhaps for a ballet, but not for a music drama? I cannot understand how anyone can listen without laughter, or without being bored, to those endless monologues in which Parsifal, or Kundry, and the rest bewail their misfortunes. Can we sympathise with them? Can we love or hate them? Certainly not; we remain aloof from their passions, sentiments, triumphs, and misfortunes. But that which is unfamiliar to the human heart should never be the source of musical inspiration....”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Plestcheievo, October 3rd (15th), 1884.

“This is my last evening here, and I feel both sadness and dread. After a month of complete solitude it is not easy to return to the vortex of Petersburg life. To-day I put all the bookshelves and music-cases in order. My conscience is clear as to all your belongings. But I must confess to one mishap: one night I wound the big clock in my bedroom with such energy that the weights fell off, and it now wants repairing. Dear and incomparable friend, accept my warmest thanks for your hospitality. I shall keep the most agreeable memories of Plestcheievo. How often, when I am in Petersburg, will my thoughts stray back to this dear, quiet house! Thank you again and again.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Petersburg, October 12th (24th), 1884.

“Dear Friend,—When a whole week passes without my finding time to write to you, you may conclude what a busy life I am leading.... The first night[102] of Eugene Oniegin is fixed for Friday, October 19th (31st).”

Thanks to Napravnik, this was by far the finest performance of Eugene Oniegin that had hitherto been seen. Never had this complicated score received so perfect an interpretation, both as a whole and as regards detail, because never before had a man so gifted, so capable and sympathetic, stood at the head of affairs. Yet even this first performance was by no means irreproachable. Since then, the St. Petersburg public has heard finer interpretations of the parts of Tatiana, Eugene, and others, and has seen more careful staging of the work. The soloists gave a thoughtful rendering of their parts, but nothing more. Not one of them can be said to have “created” his or her part, or left a traditional reading of it.

The success of the opera was great, but not phenomenal. There was no hissing, but between the acts, mingled with expressions of praise and appreciation, many criticisms and ironical remarks were audible.

These unfavourable views came to light in the Press. Cui thought the mere choice of the libretto of Eugene Oniegin proved that Tchaikovsky was lacking in “discriminating taste,” and was not capable of self-criticism. The chief characteristic of the opera was its “wearisome monotony.” Tchaikovsky, he considered, was too fond of airing his troubles in his music. Finally, he pronounced the work to be “still_born, absolutely valueless and weak.”

Most of the other critics agreed with this view.

Tchaikovsky himself was “satisfied.” He had not realised, any more than the critics, that the crowded theatre signified the first great success of a Russian opera since Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar. In spite of the Press notices, it was not merely a success, but a triumph; a fact which became more and more evident. Dating from the second performance, Eugene Oniegin drew a long series of packed audiences, and has remained the favourite opera of the Russian public to this day.

This success did not merely mark an important event in the history of Russian opera, it proved the beginning of a new era in the life of Tchaikovsky himself. Henceforward his name, hitherto known and respected among musicians and a fairly wide circle of musical amateurs, was now recognised by the great public, and he acquired a popularity to which no Russian composer had ever yet attained in his own land. Together with his increase of fame, his material prospects improved. Eugene Oniegin transformed him from a needy into a prosperous man, and brought him that complete independence which was so necessary to his creative work.

It is instructive to observe that all this was the outcome of an opera which was never intended to appeal to the masses; but written only to satisfy the composer’s enthusiasm for Poushkin’s poem, without any hope—almost without any desire—of seeing it performed on a large stage.

In spite of its success, this performance of Eugene Oniegin was a great strain upon the composer’s nerves. He felt bound to stay for the second performance, after which he left St. Petersburg for Davos, having in view a twofold object: to take a short rest, and to visit his friend Kotek, of whose condition he had just received disquieting intelligence. Tchaikovsky broke his journey in Berlin, where he saw Weber’s Oberon at the Opera. Instead of being bored by this work, as he expected, he enjoyed it very much. “The music is often enchanting,” he wrote to his brother, “but the subject is absurd, in the style of Zauberflöte. However, it is amusing, and I roared with laughter in one place, where at the sound of the magic horn the entire corps de ballet fall flat on the stage and writhe in convulsions.... I also went to Bilse’s and heard the Andante from my own quartet. This everlasting Andante; they want to hear no other work of mine!”

On November 12th (24th) he arrived at Davos. He expected to find a wilderness, in which neither cigarettes nor cigars were to be had, and the civilised aspect of the place, the luxurious hotels, the shops, and the theatre made upon him the fantastic impression of a dream. He had dreaded the meeting with Kotek, lest his friend should be changed beyond recognition by the ravages of consumption. He was agreeably surprised to find him looking comparatively well. But this was only a first impression; he soon realised that Kotek’s condition was serious. He remained a few days at Davos, rejoiced his friend’s heart by his presence, had a confidential interview with the doctor, and left for Paris on November 17th (29th), after having provided liberally for the welfare of the invalid.

To P. Jurgenson.

“Zurich, November 18th (30th), 1884.

“ ... I have received a letter from Stassov urging me to present the following manuscripts to the Imperial Public Library:

(1) ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ (2) ‘The Tempest,’ (3) ‘Francesca,’ (4) ‘The String Quartet, No. 3,’

and any others I like to send. Of the above works you do not possess the first two (‘The Tempest’ was lost long ago!), but please send him the others.... Be so good as to reply personally, or simply to send such scores as you can spare.”

To M. Tchaikovsky.

“Paris, December 3rd (15th), 1884.

“I can scarcely tell you, dear Modi, how wearisome the last few days have been—although I cannot say why. It proceeds chiefly from home-sickness, the desire for a place of my own; and even the knowledge that I start for Russia to-morrow brings no satisfaction, because I have no home anywhere. Life abroad no longer pleases me.... I must have a home, be it in Kamenka, or in Moscow. I cannot go on living the life of a wandering star.... Where will my home be?”

With the year 1884 closes the second period in Tchaikovsky’s artistic career. To distinguish it from the “Moscow period,” which was inseparably connected with his teaching at the Conservatoire, it might be described as the “Kamenka period.” Not only because from 1878-84 Kamenka was his chief place of residence, but still more because the life there answered to the whole sum of his requirements, to all which characterised his spiritual condition during these years. After the terrible illness in 1877 he found in Kamenka, far more than in San Remo, Clarens, or France, all he needed for his recovery; during these seven years, it was at Kamenka that he gathered force and recuperated for the life which was becoming infinitely more strenuous and many-sided.

Those who have been at death’s door often speak of their return to health as the happiest time in their lives. Tchaikovsky could say the same of the first years of the Kamenka period. Happy in the friendship of Nadejda von Meck and surrounded by his sister’s family, who loved him, and whom he loved, his whole life shows no gladder days than these.

But with a gradual return to a normal state of mind Tchaikovsky’s relations to his environment underwent a change. As the years went on, Kamenka became too narrow a circle for him; he felt the want of “social intercourse”; the sympathy of his relations ceased to be the one thing indispensable; the conditions of the family life palled, and sometimes he grumbled at them. By the middle of the eighties, he was so much stronger that he was possessed by a desire for complete independence and liberty of action. He no longer dreaded either absolute solitude, or the society of those whose interests were identical with his own. By absolute solitude we do not mean that solitary leisure which he enjoyed during his visits to Brailov and Simaki, during which he was cared for, as in a fairy tale, by the invisible hand of the truest of friends, but rather that independence and freedom in every detail of existence which constitutes the solitude of the typical bachelor’s life.

In 1878 Tchaikovsky’s dread of this kind of solitary existence, like his fear of social intercourse, was a symptom of his terrible mental suffering. Now his desire for both independence and society must be regarded as a sign of complete recovery. Hence his increasing disposition in his letters to grumble at Kamenka, and his final decision to leave it. This resolve—like so many important decisions in Tchaikovsky’s life—was not the result of mature reflection. As usual, he allowed himself to be guided by negative conclusions.... He knew well enough that he must and would change his manner of life; he knew the kind of life that would suit him for the time being—that it must be in the country; he observed with surprise his increasing need of social intercourse—but he had no definite idea how he should reconcile these contradictory requirements and, on the very eve of his new departure in life, he asks the question: “Where will my home be made?”

The answer to this question is contained in the following period of his life and work.