Part VII (continued 2)

This feeling (I might say “infatuation” had it not been based upon a full appreciation of Rubinstein’s value as a man and artist) practically lasted to the end of Tchaikovsky’s life. Externally he was always “in love” with Rubinstein, although—as is always the case in love affairs—there were periods of coolness, jealousy, and irritation, which invariably gave place in turn to a fresh access of that sentiment which set me wondering in Prince Bieloselsky’s reception-room. In Rubinstein’s presence Tchaikovsky became quite diffident, lost his head, and seemed to regard him as a superior being. When at a supper, given during the pianist’s jubilee, someone, in an indelicate and unseemly way, requested Rubinstein and Tchaikovsky to drink to each other “as brothers,” the latter was not only confused and indignant, but, in his reply to the toast, protested warmly, saying that his tongue would never consent to address the great artist in the second person singular—it would be entirely against the spirit of their relations. He would be happy if Rubinstein addressed him by the familiar “thou,” but for his own part, the more ceremonious form better expressed a sense of reverence from the pupil to his teacher, from the man to the embodiment of his ideal. These were no empty words. Rubinstein had been the first to give the novice in his art an example of the untiring devotion and disinterested spirit which animates the life of the true artist. In this sense Tchaikovsky was far more the pupil of Rubinstein than in questions of orchestration and composition. With his innate gifts and thirst for knowledge, any other teacher could have given him the same instruction. It was in his character as an energetic, irreproachably clean-minded and inspired artist, as a man who never compromised with his conscience, who had all his life detested every kind of humbug and the successes of vulgarity, as an indefatigable worker, that Rubinstein left really deep traces upon Tchaikovsky’s artistic career. The latter, writing to the well-known German journalist, Eugen Zabel, said: “Rubinstein’s personality shines before me like a clear, guiding star.”

But there were times when clouds obscured this “guiding star.” While recognising Rubinstein’s great gifts as a composer, and valuing some of his works very highly—such as the “Ocean Symphony,” The Tower of Babel, the Pianoforte Concerto, Ivan the Terrible, the violoncello sonatas, and many of the pieces for pianoforte—Tchaikovsky grew angry and impatient over the vast majority of the virtuoso’s mediocre and empty creations. He frequently expressed himself so sarcastically on this subject that I have cut out certain passages in his letters, lest they might give the reader a false impression of his attitude towards Rubinstein. But he soon forgot and forgave these momentary eclipses of “his star,” and always returned to his old spirit of veneration.

The deepest, keenest, and most painful aspect of their relations—and here artistic self-esteem doubtless played a part—was the knowledge of Rubinstein’s antipathy to him as a composer, which he never conquered to the end of his life. The virtuoso never cared for Tchaikovsky’s music. Many of Rubinstein’s intimate friends, and also his wife, maintained the reverse. But in that case it was the love of Wotan for the Wälsungs. Secretly rejoicing in the success of Tchaikovsky-Siegmund, and sympathising in his heart with Tchaikovsky-Siegfried, Wotan-Rubinstein never did anything to forward the performance of his works, nor held out a helping hand.... From the earliest exercises at the Conservatoire, to the “Pathetic Symphony,” he never praised—and seldom condemned—a single work of Tchaikovsky’s. All of them, without exception, were silently ignored—together with all the music which came after Schumann—as unworthy of serious attention.

The legend of Rubinstein’s envy, which had absolutely no foundation in fact, always annoyed Tchaikovsky and aroused his wrath. Even if it might be to a certain extent true as regards the eighties, when my brother was recognised and famous, it could not apply to the attitude of a teacher towards a pupil who—although undoubtedly gifted—had a doubtful future before him. To the composer of the “Ocean Symphony” Tchaikovsky’s earliest essays in composition were as antipathetic as Eugene Oniegin and the Fifth Symphony. Envy can only exist between two equally matched rivals, and could not have influenced a giant—as Rubinstein was in the sixties—in his relations with anyone so insignificant as the Tchaikovsky of those days.

The feeling was simply the same which Tchaikovsky himself cherished for the works of Chopin and Brahms; a sentiment of instinctive and unconquerable antipathy. Rubinstein felt like this, not only towards Tchaikovsky’s music, but to all musical works which came after Chopin and Schumann.

In any case, however much Tchaikovsky may have been wounded by Rubinstein’s indifference, he remained loyal to his enthusiasm for his former teacher. When the Duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz requested him to take part in organising the celebration of Rubinstein’s jubilee, he expressed himself willing to put himself at the disposal of the committee. It was decided that he should conduct the jubilee concerts and compose a chorus a capella to words by Polonsky. The chorus was to be sung at the festival given in the hall of the Nobles’ Club, November 18th (30th), 1889. In addition he undertook to contribute something to the album which Rubinstein’s former pupils at the Petersburg Conservatoire were going to present him on the same occasion.

The second half of his task was easily fulfilled. In a few days both compositions—the chorus and an Impromptu for pianoforte—were ready. The conducting of the concerts was another matter. The labour it involved, and the difficulties in connection with it, made real demands upon Tchaikovsky’s devotion for his old teacher.

The programme of the first concert consisted entirely of symphonic works, including the Konzertstück (op. 113), with Rubinstein himself at the piano, and the Symphony No. 5 (op. 107). At the second concert, besides the dances from Feramors and the Roussalka songs, the chief item was the Biblical opera, The Tower of Babel.

This programme would have made very heavy demands upon the most experienced conductor; it was a still heavier task for one who—only a month previously—had conducted for the first time any works other than his own.

“There were moments,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck, “when I experienced such a complete loss of strength that I feared for my life. The working up of The Tower of Babel, with its chorus of seven hundred voices, gave me the most trouble. On the evening of November 10th (22nd), just before the oratorio began, I had an attack of nerves, which they feared might prevent my returning to the conductor’s desk. But—perhaps thanks to this crisis—I pulled myself together in time, and all went well to the end. You will learn all details about the festival from the newspapers. I will only add that from the 1st to the 19th of November I endured martyrdom, and I am still marvelling how I lived through it all.”

To the period between the end of October, 1889, to the middle of January, 1890, belong but twelve letters, only two of which have any biographical interest. The rest are merely short notes of no importance. Such a decrease in Tchaikovsky’s correspondence is a symptom of the highly nervous and distracted phase which he was now passing through. For a long time past letter-writing had ceased to be a pleasant duty; still, it remained a duty, which he could only neglect under special circumstances, such as overwhelmed him at the commencement of this season.

He had scarcely got over the jubilee concerts, when he had to return to Moscow to conduct Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony at an extra Symphony Concert, given in aid of the fund for the widows and orphans of musicians.

Only two published notices of this concert are in existence at Klin. Both emanate from staunch admirers of Tchaikovsky: Kashkin and Konius, who, in spite of all their justice, probably show some partisanship in their praise.

On the same occasion Brandoukov played Tchaikovsky’s Pezzo Capriccioso for violoncello with great success.

It was unfortunate that after all this strain and anxiety the composer was not able to return to his country retreat, where the peaceful solitude invariably restored him to health and strength. In spite of all precautions, he was overrun with visitors; and his Moscow quarters were so small that he sighed perpetually for his roomy home at Frolovskoe. Added to which, Alexis Safronov’s wife was dying of consumption. We know Tchaikovsky’s attitude to those who served him. He never regarded them as subordinates, mere machines for carrying out his wishes, but rather as friends, in whose joys and sorrows he felt the keenest sympathy. The illness of his servant’s young wife caused him great sorrow; the more so that he saw no way of saving her life. The knowledge that he was of no use, but rather a hindrance to the care of the invalid—for Alexis was the poor soul’s only nurse—made Tchaikovsky anxious to save his man all the personal services with which he could possibly dispense. For this reason he cut short his stay in Moscow and returned to Petersburg at the end of November, where his ballet, The Sleeping Beauty, was already in rehearsal.

To N. F. von Meck.

“Petersburg, December 17th (29th), 1889.

“My dear, kind, incomparable Friend,—Where are you now? I do not know. But I have such a yearning to talk to you a little that I am beginning this letter with the intention of posting it to you in Moscow, as soon as I can find your address. For three weeks I have been doing nothing in Petersburg. I say ‘doing nothing’ because my real business is to compose; and all this conducting, attending rehearsals for my ballet, etc., I regard as something purposeless and fortuitous, which only shortens my days, for it needs all my strength of will to endure the kind of life I have to lead in Petersburg.... On January 6th I must be back in Moscow to conduct a concert of the Musical Society, at which Anton Rubinstein will play his new compositions, and on the 14th I have a popular concert here; after that I shall be at the end of my forces. I have made up my mind to refuse all engagements at home and abroad, and perhaps to go to Italy for four months to rest and work at my future opera, Pique Dame. I have chosen this subject from Poushkin. It happened in this way: three years ago my brother Modeste undertook to make a libretto for a certain Klenovsky, and gradually put together a very successful book upon this subject.

“Moscow, December 26th (January 7th), 1889.

“I continue my letter. The libretto of Pique Dame was written by Modeste for Klenovsky, but for some reason he declined to set it to music. Then Vsievolojsky, the Director of the Opera, took it into his head that I should write a work on this subject and have it ready by next season. He communicated his wish to me, and as the business fitted in admirably with my determination to escape from Russia for a time and devote myself to composition, I said ‘yes.’ A committee meeting was improvised, at which my brother read his libretto, its merits and demerits were discussed, the scenery planned, and even the parts distributed.... I feel very much inclined to work. If only I can settle myself comfortably in some corner abroad, I should be equal to my task, and could let the Direction have the pianoforte score in May. In the course of the summer the orchestration would be finished.”

On January 1st (13th) Tchaikovsky was back in St. Petersburg, and on the following day attended a gala rehearsal of The Sleeping Beauty, at which the Imperial Court was present.

Practically it was the first night, for while the parterre was reserved for the Imperial party, the boxes on the first tier were crowded with aristocratic spectators. The Imperial family were pleased, but not enthusiastic in their appreciation of the music, although afterwards they grew very fond of this Ballet. “Very nice” was the only expression of opinion Tchaikovsky received from the Emperor’s lips. This scanty praise—judging from the entry in his diary—greatly mortified the composer.

It is interesting to observe that at the first public performance, on the following day, the public seems to have shared the Emperor’s opinion, for the applause, which was lacking in warmth, seemed to pronounce the same lukewarm verdict, “Very nice.” The composer was still further depressed and embittered. “Embittered,” because, during the rehearsals, Tchaikovsky had learnt to appreciate the splendour and novelty of the scenery and costumes, and the inexhaustible taste and invention of M. Petipa, and expected that all this talent and taste, combined with his music—which came only second to Oniegin in his affections—would arouse a storm of enthusiasm in the public.

This was not the case, because the novelty of the programme and the dazzling wealth of detail blinded the public to the musical beauties of the work. They could not appreciate the Ballet at the first performance, as they afterwards learnt to do. Its success was immense, and was proved in the same way as that of Eugene Oniegin—not by frantic applause during the performance, but by a long series of crowded houses.

On January 4th (16th) Tchaikovsky went to Moscow, where he conducted on the 6th. Convinced that no repose was possible in that town, he decided to start abroad immediately, and to take his brother Modeste’s servant, Nazar, in place of Alexis, who remained by his wife’s death-bed. Tchaikovsky left Petersburg on January 14th (26th) without any plans as to his destination.

VII

Not until he reached Berlin did Tchaikovsky decide in favour of Florence, where he arrived early on January 18th (30th), 1890. Italy did not interest him at the moment. He was actuated only by one motive—to get away. Soon he was at work upon Pique Dame. His surroundings were favourable, and he made rapid progress. His condition of mind was not cheerful, however, as may be gathered from the following letter to Glazounov, dated January 30th (February 11th), 1890.

“Dear Alexander Constantinovich,—Your kind letter touched me very much. Just now I am sadly in need of friendly sympathy and intercourse with people who are intimate and dear. I am passing through a very enigmatical stage on my road to the grave. Something strange, which I cannot understand, is going on within me. A kind of life-weariness has come over me. Sometimes I feel an insane anguish, but not that kind of anguish which is the herald of a new tide of love for life; rather something hopeless, final, and—like every finale—a little commonplace. Simultaneously a passionate desire to create. The devil knows what it is! In fact, sometimes I feel my song is sung, and then again an unconquerable impulse, either to give it fresh life, or to start a new song.... As I have said, I do not know what has come to me. For instance, there was a time when I loved Italy and Florence. Now I have to make a great effort to emerge from my shell. When I do go out, I feel no pleasure whatever, either in the blue sky of Italy, in the sun that shines from it, in the architectural beauties I see around me, or in the teeming life of the streets. Formerly all this enchanted me, and quickened my imagination. Perhaps my trouble actually lies in those fifty years to which I shall attain two months hence, and my imagination will no longer take colour from its surroundings?

“But enough of this! I am working hard. Whether what I am doing is really good, is a question to which only posterity can give the answer.

“I feel the greatest sympathy for your misgivings as to the failure of your ‘Oriental Fantasia.’ There is nothing more painful than such doubts. But all evil has its good side. You say your friends did not approve of the work, but did not express their disapproval at the right time—at a moment when you could agree with them. It was wrong of them to oppose the enthusiasm of the author for his work, before it had had time to cool. But it is better that they had the courage to speak frankly, instead of giving you that meaningless, perfunctory praise some friends consider it their duty to bestow, to which we listen, and which we accept, because we are only too glad to believe. You are strong enough to guard your feelings as composer in those moments when people tell you the truth.... I, too, dear Alexander Constantinovich, have sometimes wished to be quite frank with you about your work. I am a great admirer of your gifts. I value the earnestness of your aims, and your artistic sense of honour. And yet I often think about you. I feel that, as an older friend who loves you, I ought to warn you against certain exclusive tendencies, and a kind of one-sidedness. Yet how to tell you this I do not quite know. In many respects you are a riddle to me. You have genius, but something prevents you from broadening out and penetrating the depths.... In short, during the winter you may expect a letter from me, in which I will talk to you after due reflection. If I fail to say anything apposite, it will be a proof of my incapacity, not the result of any lack of affection and sympathy for you.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Florence, February 2nd (14th), 1890.

“You have arranged the death scene of The Queen of Spades very well, and suitably for musical setting. I am very pleased with you as a librettist, only keep conciseness in view and avoid prolixity. As to the scene on the bridge, I have thought it over. You and Laroche are quite opposed, and in spite of my wish to have as few scenes as possible, and to be concise, I fear the whole of Act III. will be without any women actors, and that would be dull. Lisa’s part cannot be finished in the fourth scene; the audience must know what becomes of her.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Florence, February 6th (18th), 1890.

“ ... To-day, for the first time, I enjoyed my visit to Italy. So far I have felt indifferent—even hostile to it. But to-day the weather was so divine, and it was such a joy to gather a few violets in the Cascine! At Kamenka they only appear in April.

“Now to return to Pique Dame. How can we manage to make the part lighter for poor Figner? Seven scenes, in which he has to sing without intermission! Do think it over.

“I am anxiously awaiting the ball scene. For Heaven’s sake lose no time, Modi, or I shall find myself without any text to set.”

To A. P. Merkling.

“Florence, February 7th (19th), 1890.

“To-day I wrote the scene in which Hermann goes to the old Queen of Spades. It was so gruesome that I am still under the horrible spell of it.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Florence, February 12th (24th), 1890.

“If, God willing, I finish the opera, it will be something chic. The fourth scene will have an overwhelming effect.”

Meanwhile, on February 4th (16th), The Enchantress had been produced in Moscow for the first time. Kashkin wrote of it as follows:—

“That the opera had been very superficially studied was evident from the entire performance, which was most unsatisfactory. I will not blame the artists, who did what they could, while some of them were very good; but the ensemble was bad, in consequence of insufficient rehearsal. All went in a more or less disconnected way. The orchestra accompanied very roughly, without light or shade, the brass playing ff throughout and drowning everything else with their monotonous noise. Madame Korovina, who took the chief part, was ill, and should not have been allowed to sing. We see from the repertory published in the newspapers that The Enchantress will not be put on again before Lent. Thank goodness! The repetition of such a performance is most undesirable. An opera should be studied before it is put on the stage.”

The Enchantress, however, was not repeated, even after Lent. With this solitary performance its career came to an end as regards the Imperial Opera House.

Diary.

“February 21st (March 5th), 1890.

“This morning I had a letter from Alexis. He says Theklousha (his wife) prays God to take her soon. Poor, poor sufferer!

“Began the fifth scene, and in imagination I finished it yesterday, but in reality only got through it early to-day.”

“February 24th (March 8th), 1890.

“Heard from Alexis. Theklousha is dead. I wept. Altogether a sad morning.... In the evening an act from Puritani. With all his glaring defects, Bellini is fascinating!”

“March 3rd (15th), 1890.

“Finished everything this morning. God be praised, Who has let me bring my work to an end.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Florence, March 3rd (15th), 1890.

“Yesterday I set your own closing scene to music. When I came to Hermann’s death and the final chorus, I was suddenly overcome by such intense pity for Hermann that I burst out crying. Afterwards I discovered the reason for my tears (for I was never before so deeply moved by the sorrows of my hero, and I tried to explain to myself why it should be so now). I came to the conclusion that Hermann was to me not merely a pretext for writing this or that kind of music, but had been all the while an actual, living, sympathetic human being. Because I am very fond of Figner, and I always see Hermann in the form of Figner, therefore I have felt an intimate realisation of his fate.[145] Now I hope my warm and lively feeling for the hero of my opera may be happily reflected in my music. In any case, I think Pique Dame by no means a bad opera. We shall see....

“Laroche writes that he and Napravnik do not approve of my having composed an opera in so short a time. They will not realise that to rush through my work is an essential feature of my character. I only work quickly. I took my time over The Enchantress and the Fifth Symphony, and they were failures, whereas I finished the Ballet in three weeks, and Oniegin was written in an incredibly short time. The chief thing is to love the work. I have certainly written with love. How I cried yesterday when they sang over my poor Hermann!”

Tchaikovsky had decided to leave Florence early in March for Rome. But failing to find rooms in any of the hotels, he stayed on in Florence for two or three weeks longer.

To Anna Merkling.

“Florence, March 5th (17th), 1890.

“ ... Heavens, what charming creatures children are! But little dogs are even more beautiful. They are simply the pearls of creation!... There is a breed here, almost unknown with us, called ‘Lupetto.’ You can often buy puppies of this kind on the Lungarno. If my Alexis did not hate dogs (they have a wretched life when the servants dislike them), I could not resist buying one of them.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Florence, March 19th (31st), 1890.

“Just two months ago I began the composition of the opera. To-day I finished the pianoforte score of the second act. This is to me the most dreadful and nerve-exasperating occupation. I composed the opera with pleasure and self-oblivion; I shall orchestrate with delight; but to make an arrangement! All the time one has to keep undoing what is intended for orchestra. I believe my ill_health is simply the result of this confounded work. Nazar says I have very much altered the last week or two, and have been in a dreadful state of mind. Whether it is that the worst and most wearisome part of my work is nearing an end, or that the weather is finer, I cannot say, but since yesterday I feel much better.... Modi, either I am greatly mistaken or Pique Dame is a masterpiece. At one place in the fourth scene, which I was arranging to-day, I felt such horror, such gruesome thrills, that surely the listeners cannot escape the same impressions.

“Understand, that I shall certainly spend my fiftieth birthday in Petersburg. Besides yourself, Anatol, and Jurgenson, I shall write to no one.”

On March 27th (April 8th), Tchaikovsky completed the pianoforte arrangement of Pique Dame, and resolved to move on to Rome. “I am going there chiefly for Nazar’s sake,” he writes, “I want him to see the place.” For the first time, after nine weeks of continuous work, the composer enjoyed a little leisure, and spent one of his last days in the Uffizi and Pitti galleries. “In spite of my efforts,” he says, “I cannot acquire any appreciation of painting, especially of the older masters—they leave me cold.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Rome, March 27th (April 8th).

“ ... The cheerful feelings that came over me to-day as soon as I stepped into the streets, breathed the well-known air of Rome, and saw the old familiar places, made me realise how foolish I had been not to come here first of all. However, I must not blame poor Florence, which for no particular reason grew so detestable to me, since I was able to compose my opera there unmolested. Rome is much changed. Parts of it are unrecognisable. Yet, in spite of these alterations, it is a joy to be back in the dear place. I think of the years that have dropped into eternity, of the two Kondratievs, gone to their rest. It is very sad and yet it has a melancholy pleasure.... Nazar is enchanted with Rome. I seem to see you and Kolya at every turn. I shall stay here three weeks.”

To P. Jurgenson.

“Rome, March 28th (April 9th), 1890.

“All I hear about Safonov[146] does not surprise me in the least. But in any case it must be confessed that he may be useful at this critical juncture. A man of such childlike guilelessness and rectitude as Taneiev can hardly uphold the prestige of the Conservatoire. A Safonov is useful when there is no longer a Rubinstein. Such a man as Nicholas Rubinstein, who had furious energy, and at the same time could quite forget himself in the work he loved, is rare indeed.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Rome, April 7th (19th), 1890.

“Dear Friend,—I am forced to flee from Rome. I could not preserve my incognito. A few Russians have already called to ask me to dinners, soirées, etc. I have refused every invitation, but my liberty is done for, and all pleasure in my visit at an end. Sgambati, the leading musician here, having heard from the Russians that I was in Rome, put my First Quartet into the programme of his chamber concert, and came to request my attendance. I could not possibly be ungracious, so I had to sacrifice one of my working hours in order to sit in a stuffy room and listen to a second-rate performance of my work; while all the time I was an object of curiosity to the audience, whom Sgambati had informed of my presence, and who seemed very curious to see what a Russian musician could be like. It was most unpleasant. As these occurrences are certain to be repeated, I have decided to return to Russia in two or three days by way of Venice and Vienna.

“You cannot imagine how I long for Russia, and with what joy I look forward to my rural solitude. Just now something wrong is going on in Russia. But nothing hinders my passionate love of my own land. I cannot imagine how formerly I was contented to stay so long away from it, and even to take some pleasure in being abroad.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Rome, April 7th (19th), 1890.

“.... The Quartet had a tremendous success; the papers praise it to the skies. But the papers here praise everything. Home, quick, quick, home!”

VIII

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Frolovskoe, May 5th (17th), 1890.

“I have been back four days. The house is almost unrecognisable: the parlour (it is also the dining-room) has become a beautiful apartment, thanks to the addition of Siloti’s furniture to mine.[147] ... But outside the house, O horror! The whole—literally every stick—of the forest has been cut down! Only the little thicket behind the church is left. Where is one to walk? Heavens, how entirely the disappearance of a wood changes the character of a place, and what a pity it is! All those dear, shady spots that were there last year are now a bare wilderness. Now we are sowing our flowering seeds. I am doing double work, that is to say, out of working hours I am correcting proofs....”

To Ippolitov-Ivanov.

“Frolovskoe, May 5th (17th), 1890.

“My visit abroad brought forth good fruit. I composed an opera, Pique Dame, which seems to me a success, that is why I speak of ‘good fruit’.... My plans for the future are as follows: to finish the orchestration of the opera, to sketch out a string sextet, to go to my sister at Kamenka for the end of the summer, and to spend the whole autumn with you at Tiflis. Is your opera Asra finished? I saw none of the musical world in Moscow, and know nothing of what is going on. Safonov is a capable director, but—— However, we will talk this over when we meet.”

To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich.

“Frolovskoe, May 18th (30th), 1890.

“Your Imperial Highness,— ... I should be delighted to meet Maikov[148] at your house to discuss the relations between art and craftsmanship. Ever since I began to compose I have endeavoured to be in my work just what the great masters of music—Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert—were in theirs; not necessarily to be as great as they were, but to work as they did—as the cobbler works at his trade; not in a gentlemanly way, like Glinka, whose genius, however, I by no means deny. Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann, composed their immortal works just as a cobbler makes a pair of boots—by daily work; and more often than not because they were ordered. The result was something colossal. Had Glinka been a cobbler, rather than a gentleman, besides his two (very beautiful) operas, he would have given us perhaps fifteen others, and ten fine symphonies into the bargain. I could cry with vexation when I think what Glinka might have left us, if he had not been born into an aristocratic family before the days of the Emancipation. He showed us what he could have done, but he never actually accomplished a twentieth part of what it was in him to do. For instance, in symphonic music (Kamarinskaya, and the two Spanish overtures) he simply played about like an amateur—and yet we are astonished at the force and originality of his gifts. What would he not have accomplished had he worked in the same way as the great masters of Western Europe?

“Although I am convinced that if a musician desires to attain to the greatest heights to which his inspiration will carry him he must develop himself as a craftsman, I will not assert that the same thing applies to the other arts. For instance, in the sphere you have chosen I do not think a man can force himself to create. For a lyrical poem, not only the mood, but the idea, must be there. But the idea will be evoked by some fortuitous phenomenon. In music it is only necessary to evoke a certain general mood or emotion. For example, to compose an elegy I must tune myself to a melancholy key. But in a poet this melancholy must take some concrete expression so to speak; therefore in his case an external impulse is indispensable. But in all these things the difference between the various creative temperaments plays a great part, and what is right for one would not be permissible for another. The majority of my fellow-workers, for instance, do not like working to order; I, on the other hand, never feel more inspired than when I am requested to compose something, when a term is fixed and I know that my work is being impatiently awaited.”

At the beginning of June, Ippolitov-Ivanov wrote to Tchaikovsky that the usual opera season would take place at Tiflis, and that, besides works by Tchaikovsky, his own opera Asra would be performed there. At the same time, he seems to have sounded his friend as to his prospects of succeeding to Altani’s post in Moscow.

“The rumours of Altani’s resignation were false,” replied Tchaikovsky, “and the work of his enemies.... But you have no notion of all the disagreeables and annoyances you would have to endure. A more suitable position for you would be a professorship at the Moscow Conservatoire. But Safonov, it appears, makes no propositions. Write to me: yes or no.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Frolovskoe, June 30th (July 12th), 1890.

“ ... I find more and more delight in the cultivation of flowers, and comfort myself with the thought of devoting myself entirely to this occupation when my powers of composition begin to decay. Meanwhile I cannot complain. Scarcely was the opera finished before I took up a new work, the sketch of which is already completed. I hope you will be pleased to hear I have composed a sextet for strings. I know your love of chamber music, and I am glad you will be able to hear my sextet; that will not necessitate your going to a concert, you can easily arrange a performance of it at home. I hope the work will please you: I wrote it with the greatest enthusiasm and without the least exertion.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Frolovskoe, June 30th (July 12th), 1890.

“Yesterday was my name-day. I had eleven guests to dinner, which was served in the garden. The peasants came again to get their money, and brought cracknels, etc. The summer is wonderful. My flowers have never been so luxuriant. Quantities of everything. Yesterday morning I had hardly left the house before I came upon two splendid white mushrooms.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Frolovskoe, July 2nd (14th), 1890.

“Dear, kind Friend,—At the same time as your letter yesterday, the composer Arensky came to see me, which delayed my immediate reply. I am afraid I did not fully express my thanks. But then, words are wanting to tell you of my eternal gratitude, and to say how deeply touched I am by your care and attention. Acting upon your advice, I have paid two-thirds of the sum to my current account. I have firmly resolved to begin to put by this year, so that in time I may buy a small landed property—perhaps Frolovskoe itself, since I am very fond of it, in spite of the demolition of the woods.

“Arensky has written an opera,[149] which Jurgenson has published. I had gone through it carefully and felt I must tell him exactly what I thought of this fine work. My letter touched him so deeply that he came here to thank me in person. Arensky is a man of remarkable gifts, but morbidly nervous and lacking in firmness—altogether a strange man.”

To P. Jurgenson.

“July 2nd (14th), 1890.

“Dear Friend,—The manuscript of the cantata is in the Petersburg Conservatoire. I cannot consent to its publication, because it is an immature work, for which there is no future. Besides, it is written to Schiller’s Ode to Joy. It is not seemly to enter into competition with Beethoven.

“As to the fate of The Little Shoes (Les Caprices d’Oxane), I fully believe it will come to have a place in the repertory, and regard it, musically speaking, as my best operatic work.

“Arensky was here yesterday, and showed me a book of theory. It is admirably put together, and would be very useful for teaching purposes. I strongly recommend you to buy it.”

To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich.

“Frolovskoe, August 3rd (15th), 1890.

“Your Imperial Highness,—Your kind and charming letter has reached me on the eve of my departure for a long journey, so forgive me if I do not answer it as fully as I ought. But I have much to say in answer to your remarks about Pique Dame.... Your criticisms of my sins as regards declamation are too lenient. In this respect I am past redemption. I do not think I have perpetrated many blunders of this kind in recitative and dialogue, but in the lyrical parts, where my mood has carried me away from all just equivalents, I am simply unconscious of my mistakes—you must get someone to point them out to me....

“As regards the repetition of words and phrases, I must say that my views differ entirely from those of your Imperial Highness. There are cases in which such repetitions are quite natural and in accordance with truth of expression.... But even were it not so, I should not hesitate for an instant to sacrifice the literal to the artistic truth. These truths differ fundamentally, and I could not forget the second in pursuit of the first, for, if we aimed at pushing realism in opera to its extreme limits, we should finally have to abandon opera itself. To sing instead of speaking—that is the climax of falsehood in the accepted sense of the word. Of course, I am the child of my generation, and I have no wish to return to the worn-out traditions of opera; at the same time I am not disposed to submit to the despotic requirements of realistic theories. I should be most grieved to think that any portions of Pique Dame were repellent to you—for I hoped the work might please you—and I have made a few changes in the scene where the governess scolds the girls, so that all the repetitions have some good reason....”

IX 1890-1891

On December 13th (25th), 1890, Tchaikovsky received a letter from Nadejda von Meck, informing him that in consequence of the complicated state of her affairs she was on the brink of ruin, and therefore no longer able to continue his allowance.

In the course of their correspondence, which extended over thirteen years, Nadejda Filaretovna had referred more than once to her pecuniary embarrassments and to her fears of becoming bankrupt. But each time she had added that the allowance made to Tchaikovsky could be in no way affected, since she had assured it to him for life, and that the sum of 6,000 roubles a year was of no consequence to her one way or the other. In November, 1889, she had spoken again of her business anxieties, but, as usual, without any reference to Tchaikovsky’s pension. On the contrary, in the summer of 1890 she showed her willingness to help him still further by advancing him a considerable sum. Consequently this news fell upon the composer like a bolt from the blue, and provoked the following reply:—

To N. F. von Meck.

“Tiflis, September 22nd (October 4th), 1890.

“Dearest Friend,—The news you communicated to me in your last letter caused me great anxiety; not on my account, however, but on your own. It would, of course, be untrue were I to say that such a radical change in my budget did not in any way affect my financial position. But it ought not to affect me so seriously as you apparently fear. In recent years my earnings have considerably increased, and there are indications that they will continue to do so. Therefore, if I am accountable for any fraction of your endless cares and anxieties, I beg you, for God’s sake, to be assured that I can think of this pecuniary loss without any bitterness. Believe me, this is the simple truth; I am no master of empty phraseology. That I shall have to economise a little is of no importance. What really matters is that you, with your requirements and large ways of life, should have to retrench. This is terribly hard and vexatious. I feel as though I wanted to lay the blame on someone (you yourself are certainly above reproach), but I do not know who is the real culprit. Besides, not only is my indignation quite useless, but I have no right to interfere in your family affairs. I would rather ask Ladislaw Pakhulsky to tell me what you intend to do, where you will live, and how far you will be straitened as to means. I cannot think of you except as a wealthy woman. The last words of your letter have hurt me a little,[150] but I do not think you meant them seriously. Do you really think me incapable of remembering you when I no longer receive your money? How could I forget for a moment all you have done for me, and all for which I owe you gratitude? I may say without exaggeration that you saved me. I should certainly have gone out of my mind and come to an untimely end but for your friendship and sympathy, as well as for the material assistance (then my safety anchor), which enabled me to rally my forces and take up once more my chosen vocation. No, dear friend, I shall always remember and bless you with my last breath. I am glad you can now no longer spend your means upon me, so that I may show my unbounded and passionate gratitude, which passes all words. Perhaps you yourself hardly suspect how immeasurable has been your generosity. If you did, you would never have said that, now you are poor, I am to think of you ‘sometimes.’ I can truly say that I have never forgotten you, and never shall forget you for a moment, for whenever I think of myself my thoughts turn directly to you.

“I kiss your hands, with all my heart’s warmth, and implore you to believe, once and for all, that no one feels more keenly for your troubles than I do.

“I will write another time about myself and all I am doing. Forgive my hasty, badly written letter: I am too much upset to write well.”

To the above letter we need only add that Tchaikovsky, with his usual lack of confidence, greatly exaggerated to himself the consequences of this loss. A few days later he wrote to Jurgenson:—

“Now I must start quite a fresh life, on a totally different scale of expenditure. In all probability I shall be compelled to seek some occupation in Petersburg which will bring me in a good salary. This is very, very humiliating—yes, humiliating is the word!”

But this “humiliation” soon passed away. About this time his pecuniary situation greatly improved, and the success of Pique Dame more than covered the loss of his pension.

Soon, too, he was relieved as to the fate of Nadejda Filaretovna, for he learnt that her fears of ruin had been unfounded, and her financial difficulties had almost completely blown over. But with this relief—strange as it may appear—came also a sense of injury which Tchaikovsky carried to the grave. No sooner was he assured that his friend was as well off as before, than he began to persuade himself that her last letter had been nothing “but an excuse to get rid of him on the first opportunity”; that he had been mistaken in idealising his relations with his “best friend”; that the allowance had long since ceased to be the outcome of a generous impulse, and that Nadejda Filaretovna was no longer as grateful to him for his ready acceptance of her help, as he was to receive it.

“Such were my relations with her,” he wrote to Jurgenson, “that I never felt oppressed by her generous gifts; but now they weigh upon me in retrospect. My pride is hurt; my faith in her unfailing readiness to help me, and to make any sacrifice for my sake is betrayed.”

In his agony of wounded pride Tchaikovsky was driven to wish that his friend had really been ruined, so that he “might help her, even as she had helped him.” To these painful feelings was added all the bitterness involved in seeing their ideal connection shattered and dissolved. He felt as though he had been roughly awakened from some beautiful dream, and found in its stead “a commonplace, silly joke, which fills me with disgust and shame.”

But the worst blow was yet to come. Shortly after receiving Nadejda von Meck’s letter, Tchaikovsky’s circumstances—as we have already said—improved so greatly that it would not have been difficult for him to have returned her the sum she had allowed him. He believed, however, that this would have hurt her feelings, and he could not bring himself to mortify in the smallest degree the woman who had actually been his saviour at the most critical moment of his life. The only way out of this painful situation seemed the continuance of his correspondence with her, as though nothing had happened. His advances, however, met with nothing but silent opposition on the part of Nadejda Filaretovna, and this proved the unkindest cut of all. Her indifference to his fate, her lack of interest in his work, convinced him that things had never been what they seemed, and all the old ideal friendship now appeared to him as the whim of a wealthy woman—the commonplace ending to a fairy tale; while her last letter remained like a blot upon the charm and beauty of their former intercourse. Neither the great success of Pique Dame, nor the profound sorrow caused by the death of his beloved sister, in April, 1891, nor even his triumphs in America, served to soften the blow she had inflicted.

On June 6th (18th), 1891, he wrote from Moscow to Ladislaw Pakhulsky:—

“I have just received your letter. It is true Nadejda Filaretovna is ill, weak, and her nerves are upset, so that she can no longer write to me as before. Not for the world would I add to her sufferings. I am grieved, bewildered, and—I say it frankly—deeply hurt that she has ceased to feel any interest in me. Even if she no longer desired me to go on corresponding directly with her, it could have been easily arranged for you and Julia Karlovna to have acted as links between us. But she has never once inquired through either of you how I am living, or what I am doing. I have endeavoured, through you, to re-establish my correspondence with Nadejda Filaretovna, but not one of your letters has contained the least courteous reference to my efforts. No doubt you are aware that in September last she informed me that she could no longer pay my pension. You must also know how I replied to her. I wished and hoped that our relations might remain unchanged. But unhappily this seemed impossible, because of her complete estrangement from me. The result has been that all our intercourse was brought to an end directly I ceased to receive her money. This situation lowers me in my own estimation; makes the remembrance of the money I accepted from her well-nigh intolerable; worries and weighs upon me more than I can say. When I was in the country last autumn I re-read all her letters to me. No illness, no misfortune, no pecuniary anxieties could ever—so it seemed to me—change the sentiments which were expressed in these letters. And yet they have changed. Perhaps I idealised Nadejda Filaretovna because I did not know her personally. I could not conceive change in anyone so half-divine. I would sooner have believed that the earth could fail beneath me than that our relations could suffer change. But the inconceivable has happened, and all my ideas of human nature, all my faith in the best of mankind, have been turned upside down. My peace is broken, and the share of happiness fate has allotted me is embittered and spoilt.

“No doubt Nadejda Filaretovna has dealt me this cruel blow unconsciously and unintentionally. Never in my life have I felt so lowered, or my pride so profoundly injured as in this matter. The worst is that, on account of her shattered health, I dare not show her all the troubles of my heart, lest I should grieve or upset her.

“I may not speak out, which would be my sole relief. However, let this suffice. Even as it is, I may regret having said all this—but I felt the need of giving vent to some of my bitterness. Of course, I do not wish a word to be said to her.

“Should she ever inquire about me, say I returned safely from America and have settled down to work in Maidanovo. You may add that I am well.

“Do not answer this letter.”

Nadejda Filaretovna made no response to this communication. Pakhulsky assured Tchaikovsky that her apparent indifference was the result of a serious nervous illness, but that in her heart of hearts she still cared for her old friend. He returned the above letter to Tchaikovsky, because he dare not give it to Nadejda Filaretovna during her illness, and did not consider himself justified in keeping it.

This was Tchaikovsky’s last effort to win back the affection of his “best friend.” But the wound remained unhealed, a cause of secret anguish which darkened his life to the end. Even on his death-bed the name of Nadejda Filaretovna was constantly on his lips, and in the broken phrases of his last delirium these words alone were intelligible to those around him.

Before taking leave of this personality who played so benevolent a part in Tchaikovsky’s existence, let it be said, in extenuation of her undeserved cruelty, that from 1890 Nadejda von Meck’s life was a slow decline, brought about by a terrible nervous disease, which changed her relations not only to him, but to others. The news of his end reached her on her death-bed, and two months later she, too, passed away, on January 13th (25th), 1894.

X

Early in September, 1890, Tchaikovsky spent a day or two in Kiev on his way to Tiflis. In the former town he learnt that Prianichnikov, a favourite singer and theatrical impresario, was anxious to produce Dame de Pique. The idea pleased Tchaikovsky, for, thanks to Prianichnikov’s energy, the opera at Kiev almost surpassed that of Moscow as regards ensemble and the excellence of the staging in general.

On October 20th (November 1st) Tchaikovsky conducted a concert given by the Tiflis branch of the Musical Society, the programme of which was drawn exclusively from his own works. The evening was a great success for the composer, who received a perfect ovation and was “almost smothered in flowers,” besides being presented with a bâton.

Tiflis was the first town to welcome Tchaikovsky with cordiality and enthusiasm; it was also the first to accord him a warm and friendly farewell, destined, alas! to be for eternity.

On his return to Frolovskoe he busied himself with the collected edition of his songs, which Jurgenson proposed to issue shortly. The composer stipulated that the songs should be reprinted in their original keys, for, as he writes to Jurgenson: “I have neither strength nor patience to look through all the transpositions, which have been very badly done, and are full of the stupidest mistakes.”

From Frolovskoe Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg, about the middle of November, to attend the rehearsals for his latest opera, Pique Dame. During his stay at the Hôtel Rossiya he arranged an audition of his newly composed sextet. The instrumentalists were: Albrecht, Hildebrandt, Wierzbilowicz, Hille, Kouznietsov and Heine. As audience, he invited Glazounov, Liadov, Laroche, and a few friends and relatives. Neither his hearers, nor the composer himself, were equally pleased with all the movements of the sextet, so that he eventually resolved to rewrite the Scherzo and Finale. Apart from this one disappointment, the rest of his affairs—including the rehearsals—went so well that his prevailing mood at this time was cheerful; although the numerous festivities given in his honour hindered him from keeping up his correspondence during this visit to Petersburg. Not a single letter appears to exist dating from these weeks of his life.

On December 6th (18th) a rehearsal of the opera was given before their Imperial Majesties and many leaders of society in the capital. The success of the work was very evident; yet Tchaikovsky had an idea that the Emperor did not care for it. As we shall see, later on, he was quite mistaken in coming to this conclusion.

The first public representation took place on December 7th (19th), 1890, just a year after the commencement of the work. Not one of Tchaikovsky’s operas had a better caste than Pique Dame. The part of Hermann was taken by the celebrated singer Figner, while the heroine was represented by his wife. The rôles of the old Countess and Paulina were respectively allotted to Slavina and Dolina. Each of these leading singers distinguished themselves in some special quality of their art. Throughout the entire evening artists and audience alike experienced a sense of complete satisfaction, rarely felt during any operatic performance. Napravnik as conductor, and Figner in the part of hero, surpassed themselves, and did most to ensure the success of the opera. The scenery and dresses, by their beauty and historical accuracy, were worthy of the fine musical interpretation.

The applause increased steadily to the end of the work, and composer and singers were frequently recalled. At the same time, no one would have ventured to predict that the opera would even now be holding its own in the repertory, for there was no question of a great ovation.

The critics not only unanimously condemned the libretto, but did not approve of the music. One remarked: “As regards instrumentation, Tchaikovsky is certainly a great poet; but in the actual music he not only repeats himself, but does not shrink from imitating other composers.” Another thought this “the weakest of all his efforts at opera.” A third called the work “a card problem,” and declared that, musically speaking, “the accessories prevailed over the essential ideas, and external brilliance over the inner content.”

A few days after the first performance of Pique Dame in St. Petersburg, Tchaikovsky went through the same experience in Kiev, with this difference, that the reception of the opera in the southern city far surpassed in enthusiasm that which had been accorded to it in the capital.

“It was indescribable,” he wrote to his brother on December 21st (January 2nd, 1891). “I am very tired, however, and in reality I suffer a great deal. My uncertainty as to the immediate future weighs upon me. Shall I give up the idea of wandering abroad or not? Is it wise to accept the offer of the Opera Direction,[151] for the sextet seems to point to the fact that I am going down-hill? My brain is empty; I have not the least pleasure in work. Hamlet[152] oppresses me terribly.”

To Ippolitov-Ivanov.

“Kamenka, December 24th, 1890 (January 5th, 1891).

“In Petersburg I frequently saw the Intendant of the Opera, and tried to throw out a bait with regard to your Asra. I shall be able to go more closely into the matter in January, but I can tell you already there is little hope for next year. Rimsky-Korsakov’s Mlada is being considered, and I am commissioned to write a one-act opera and a ballet.... In this way I am involuntarily a hindrance to the younger composers, who would be glad to see their works performed at the Imperial Opera. This troubles me, but the temptation is too great, and I am not yet convinced that the time has come for me to make room for the younger generation.... As I have also asked Kondratiev—at Arensky’s request—to persuade the Direction into giving a performance of his Dream on the Volga, I must warn you that you will meet with great difficulties in gaining your end.... No one knows better than I do how important it is for a young composer to get his works performed at a great theatre, therefore I would be willing to make some sacrifice, if I were sure it would be of any use. But supposing I were to relinquish my commission to compose an opera and a ballet. What would be the result? They would rather put on three foreign operas than risk a new Russian one by a young composer.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“Kamenka, January 1st (13th), 1890.

“Do you sometimes give a thought to King René’s Daughter?[153] It is very probable that I shall end by going to work in Italy. In that case the libretto ought to be in my hands by the end of January. And the ballet? I shall spend a fortnight at Frolovskoe.”

The time Tchaikovsky now spent at Frolovskoe was devoted to the Hamlet music, which he had promised Guitry should be ready in February.

Not one of his works inspired him with less enthusiasm than this. As a rule he rather enjoyed working to order, but he took up this task with great repugnance, because he had to begin by arranging the existing Hamlet overture, originally written for full orchestra, for the small band of the Michael Theatre. At his request the orchestra of twenty-nine was increased by seven musicians, but there was no room to accommodate a larger number. In spite of his disinclination for the work, Tchaikovsky succeeded in composing several numbers which delighted the public; while one movement (The Funeral March) became exceedingly popular.

Tchaikovsky arrived at Frolovskoe on January 6th (18th), and immediately telegraphed to the concert agent, Wolf, that he would be unable to fulfil the engagements made for him at Mainz, Buda-Pesth, and Frankfort.

It was not merely the composition of the Hamlet music which caused him to relinquish these engagements; at this time he was suffering from a nervous affection of the right hand, which made conducting a matter of considerable difficulty.

To S. I. Taneiev.

“January 14th (26th), 1891.

“The question: How should opera be written? is one I answer, have answered, and always shall answer, in the simplest way. Operas, like everything else, should be written just as they come to us. I always try to express in the music as truthfully and sincerely as possible all there is in the text. But truth and sincerity are not the result of a process of reasoning, but the inevitable outcome of our inmost feelings. In order that these feelings should have warmth and vitality, I always choose subjects in which I have to deal with real men and women, who share the same emotions as myself. That is why I cannot bear the Wagnerian subjects, in which there is so little human interest. Neither would I have chosen your subject, with its supernatural agencies, its inevitable crimes, its Eumenides and Fates as dramatis personæ. As soon as I have found a subject, and decided to compose an opera, I give free rein to my feelings, neither trying to carry out Wagner’s principles, nor striving after originality. At the same time I make no conscious effort to go against the spirit of my time. If Wagner had not existed, probably my compositions would have been different to what they are. I may add that even the ‘Invincible Band’ has had some influence on my operas. Italian music, which I loved passionately from my childhood, and Glinka, whom I idolised in my youth, have both influenced me deeply, to say nothing of Mozart. But I never invoked any one of these musical deities and bade him dispose of my musical conscience as he pleased. Consequently I do not think any of my operas can be said to belong to a particular school. Perhaps one of these influences may occasionally have gained the upper hand and I have fallen into imitation; but whatever happened came of itself, and I am sure I appear in my works just as God made me, and such as I have become through the action of time, nationality, and education. I have never been untrue to myself. What I am, whether good or bad, others must judge for me....

“Arensky’s opera[154] did not please me much when he played me fragments of it in Petersburg after his illness. I liked it a little better when he played it to you at Altani’s; far more when I went through it myself this summer; and now, having seen it actually performed, I think it one of the best of Russian operas. It is very elegant and equal throughout; only the end lacks something of inspiration. It has one defect: a certain monotony of method which reminds me of Korsakov.... Arensky is extraordinarily clever in music; everything is so subtly and truly thought out. He is a very interesting musical personality.”

To P. Jurgenson.

“January 15th (27th), 1891.

“Dear Friend,—Wolf has sent me the letter from that American gentleman who has arranged for my engagement. It is so easy and profitable that it would be foolish to lose this opportunity of an American tour, which has long been one of my dreams. This explains my telegram to you yesterday. In America, the news that I could not go, because my right hand was disabled, reached them by cable, and they were very much upset. Now they are awaiting an answer—yes or no.”

To the same.

“January 17th (29th), 1891.

“Dear Soul,—Send me immediately my Legend for chorus, and the Liturgy and other church works, with the exception of the Vespers. I must make a selection for the American festival.[155] Have you the Children’s Songs in Rahter’s edition? I want the German text for the Legend.”

At the close of January Tchaikovsky went to St. Petersburg. Early in February he had to conduct at a concert in aid of the school founded by the Women’s Patriotic League. This annual concert drew a fashionable audience, who only cared for the singing of such stars as Melba and the De Reszkes. Consequently Tchaikovsky’s Third Suite merely served to try their patience.

His reception on the 9th, at the performance of Hamlet (at the Michael Theatre), was equally poor. But he was agreeably surprised at the individual criticisms of his music which reached his ears. “I am not averse from your idea of publishing “the Hamlet music,” he wrote to Jurgenson, “for it pleased, and everyone is delighted with the March.”

Meanwhile the Direction of the Imperial Opera were discussing the opera and ballet which Tchaikovsky had been commissioned to compose. For the former, Herz’s play, King René’s Daughter—translated into Russian by Zvanstiev—was chosen; and for the ballet, Casse-Noisette (“The Nut-cracker”). Neither of these subjects awoke in Tchaikovsky that joy of creation he had experienced while composing The Sleeping Beauty and Pique Dame. There were several reasons for this. The Casse-Noisette subject did not at all please him. He had chosen King René’s Daughter himself, but he did not know as yet how the libretto would suit him. He was also annoyed with the Direction because they had engaged foreign singers, and were permitting them to sing in French and Italian at the Russian Opera. Thirdly, in view of the American tour, he did not feel master of his time, and really had no idea how he should get through so much music by December, 1891. Finally, he was very deeply mortified.

The source of his vexation lay in the fact that after its thirteenth performance Pique Dame was unexpectedly withdrawn until the autumn, although almost all the tickets had been secured beforehand for at least another ten performances. No definite reason was assigned for this action, which was the outcome of mere caprice on the part of some unknown person. Tchaikovsky’s anxiety was aggravated by the fear that his favourite work might disappear altogether from the repertory. He suspected that its withdrawal was ordered at the desire of the Emperor, who—so he fancied—did not like the opera. Anyone else would have discovered the real reason by the medium of inquiry, but Tchaikovsky was prevented from speaking of it in Petersburg “by pride and fear,” as he wrote to Jurgenson, “lest people should think I was regretting the royalty; and, on their part, the members of the operatic Direction carefully avoided mentioning the subject to me.” After a while he poured out his heart in a letter to Vsievolojsky, who, in reply, entirely reassured him as to his fears. The Emperor, he said, was very pleased with Pique Dame, and all that Tchaikovsky composed for the opera in Petersburg awakened a lively interest in the Imperial box. “Personally, I need not ‘lay floral tributes’ before you,” he concludes, “for you know how greatly I admire your talents.... In Pique Dame your dramatic power stands out with startling effect in two scenes: the death of the Countess and Hermann’s madness. I think you should keep to intimate drama and avoid grandiose subjects. Jamais, au grand jamais, vous ne m’avez impressioné comme dans ces deux tableaux d’un réalisme saissisant.”

Comforted by this letter, Tchaikovsky set to work upon his new ballet, Casse-Noisette. “I am working with all my might,” he wrote to his brother from Frolovskoe, “and I am growing more reconciled to the subject. I hope to finish a considerable part of the first act before I go abroad.”

Early in March he left Frolovskoe and travelled to Paris, viâ St. Petersburg.

To Vladimir Davidov.

“Berlin, March 8th (20th), 1891.

“Against this form of home-sickness, that you have hardly experienced as yet, which is more agonising than anything in this world, there is but one remedy—to get drunk. Between Eydkuhnen and Berlin I consumed an incredible amount of wine and brandy; consequently I slept, though badly.... To-day I am less home-sick, yet all the while I feel as though some vampire were sucking at my heart. I have a headache, and feel weak, so I shall spend the night in Berlin.... After the midday meal I shall take a long walk through the town and go to a concert where my ‘1812’ overture is being played.

“It is great fun to sit incognito among a strange audience and listen to one’s own works. I leave to-morrow, and my next letter will be written from Paris. Bob, I idolise you! Do you remember how I once told you that the happiness your presence gave me was nothing compared to all I suffered in your absence? Away from home, with the prospect of long weeks and months apart, I feel the full meaning of my affection for you.”

“I had already been in Paris a month when my brother arrived on March 10th (22nd),” says Modeste Tchaikovsky. “This was the first time I had seen him abroad, except in a very intimate circle. Now I saw him as the artist on tour. This period has left an unpleasant impression on my memory. He had not told me the hour of his arrival, and I only knew of it when I returned one evening to my hotel. He was already asleep, and the servants told me he did not wish to be aroused. This, in itself, was a symptom of an abnormal frame of mind. As a rule he was eager for the first hour of meeting. We met the next morning, and he evinced no sign of pleasure, only wondered how I—who was under no obligation—could care to stay so long away from Russia. A chilling and gloomy look, his cheeks flushed with excitement, a bitter laugh upon his lips—this is how I always remember Peter Ilich during that visit to Paris. We saw very little of each other; he was continually occupied either with Colonne, or Mackar, or somebody. Or he sat in his room surrounded by visitors of all kinds. The real Peter Ilich only reappeared in the evening when, in the society of Sophie Menter, Sapellnikov, and Konius—a young violinist in Colonne’s orchestra, formerly his pupil in Moscow—he rested after the rush and bustle of the day.”

The concert which Tchaikovsky was to conduct in Paris on March 24th (April 5th) was the twenty-third of Colonne’s series, and the French conductor had relinquished his place for the occasion because he himself was engaged in Moscow. The colossal programme included: (1) the Third Suite, (2) Pianoforte Concerto No. 2 (Sapellnikov), (3) Sérénade Mélancolique (Johann Wolf), (4) Songs, (5) Andante from the First Quartet (arranged for string orchestra), (6) Symphonic Fantasia, The Tempest, (7) Slavonic March. The room was crowded, and all the works met with notable success. The Press was also unanimous in its favourable verdict.

But nothing could appease Tchaikovsky’s home-sickness. There still remained twelve days before he sailed from Havre for America. Partly to work at his opera and ballet, partly to have a little rest and freedom, he decided to spend ten days at Rouen. On April 4th Sophie Menter, Sapellnikov, and myself were to meet him there, and see him off the following day from Havre.

This plan was not carried out, however, for on March 29th I received a telegram informing me of the death of our sister Alexandra Davidov.

For some years past, in consequence of a serious illness, which gradually cut her off from her relations with others, this sister had not played so important a part in the life of Peter Ilich. Continually fighting against her malady, sorely tried by the death of her two elder daughters, she could not keep up the same interest as of old in her brother’s existence. Yet he loved her dearly, and she was as essential to his happiness as ever. She, who had been to him a haven and a refuge from all the troubles of life, was still the holiest reliquary of his childhood, his youth, and the Kamenka period of his life; for, together with Nadejda von Meck, she had been his chief support, making him welcome, and bestowing upon him the most affectionate attention.

I was aware that the news of her death would come as a crushing blow to my brother, and felt it imperative to break it to him in person. The same day I set out for Rouen. Peter Ilich was as delighted to see me as though we had not met for ages. It was not difficult to guess at the overwhelming loneliness which he had experienced during his voluntary exile. Apart from the fact that I found it hard to damp his cheerful mood, I became more and more preoccupied with the idea: was it wise to tell him of our loss under the present circumstances? I knew it was too late for him to give up his journey to America. He had already taken his ticket to New York. What would he have done during the long voyage alone, which he already dreaded, had he been overweighted with this grief? In America, distracted by the anxieties of his concerts, the sad news would not come as so great a shock. Therefore, in answer to his question, why had I come, I did not reveal the truth, but simply said that I, too, felt home-sick, and had come to say good-bye before starting for Russia the next day. He seemed almost pleased at my news.... Incomprehensible to others, I understood his satisfaction. He had often said: “Modeste is too closely akin to myself.” In Paris, it vexed him to realise that I did not yearn for our native land. Now that he believed I was content to cut short my stay abroad, he forgave me, and our meeting was as hearty as though we had come together after a long separation. This made it all the more difficult to tell him what had happened, and I returned to Paris after a touching farewell, without having broken the news to him. I had warned our friends in Paris, and there were no Russian newspapers to be had in Rouen. All letters from home were to be addressed to the Hôtel Richepanse, whence I requested that they should be forwarded straight to America.

Firmly convinced that my brother would not receive the melancholy news until he reached New York, I started for St. Petersburg.

But no sooner had his brother left Rouen than Tchaikovsky’s depression reached a climax. First of all he wrote to Vsievolojsky that he could not possibly have the ballet and opera ready before the season of 1892-3; and then he resolved to return to Paris for a couple of days, to distract his anxiety as to the approaching journey.

On his arrival the truth became known to him, and he wrote the following letter to his brother:—

“Modi, yesterday I went to Paris. There I visited the reading-room in the Passage de l’Opéra, took up the Novoe Vremya and read the announcement of Sasha’s death. I started up as though a snake had stung me. Later on I went to Sophie Menter’s and Sapellnikov’s. What a fortunate thing they were here! I spent the night with them. To-day I start, viâ Rouen and Le Havre. At first I thought it was my duty to give up America and go to Petersburg, but afterwards I reflected that this would be useless. I should have had to return the 5,000 francs I had received, to relinquish the rest, and lose my ticket. No, I must go to America. Mentally I am suffering much. I am very anxious about Bob, although I know from my own experience that at his age we easily recover from such blows.

“.... For God’s sake write all details to New York. To-day, even more than yesterday, I feel the absolute impossibility of depicting in music the ‘Sugar-plum Fairy.’”

XI

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“S.S. ‘La Bretagne,’ Atlantic Ocean,

“April 6th (18st), 1891.

“During the voyage I shall keep a diary, and send it to you when I get to New York. Please take care of it, for I mean to write an article later on, for which my diary will serve as material.... The ship is one of the largest and most luxurious. I dined in Le Havre, walked about a little, and at 10 p.m. made myself comfortable in my cabin.... There I suddenly felt more miserable than ever. Principally because I had received no answer to my telegram to Petersburg. I cannot think why. Probably the usual telegraphic blunder, but it is very hard to leave without any news.... I curse this voyage.

“The ship is superb. A veritable floating palace. There are not a great number of passengers, about eighty in the first class.... At dinner I sit at a little table with an American family. Very uncomfortable and wearisome.

“At five o’clock there was a tragic occurrence, which had a depressing effect upon me and all the other passengers. I was below, when suddenly a whistle was heard, the ship hove to, and everyone was greatly excited. A boat was lowered. I went on deck and heard that a young man, a second-class passenger, had suddenly taken out his pocket-book, scribbled a few words in haste, thrown himself overboard and disappeared beneath the waves. A life-belt was flung to him, and a boat was lowered immediately, which was watched with the greatest anxiety by all of us. But nothing was to be seen on the surface of the sea, and after half an hour’s search we continued our course. In his pocket-book was found thirty-five francs, and on a sheet of paper a few words hardly decipherable. I was the first to make them out, for they were written in German, and all the passengers were French or Americans. ‘Ich bin unschuldig, der Bursche weint ...’ followed by a few scrawls no one could read. Afterwards I heard that the young man had attracted attention by his strange conduct, and was probably insane.

“The weather is beautiful, and the sea quite calm. The ship moves so quietly that one can hardly believe oneself on the water. We have just seen the lighthouse at the Lizard. The last sight of land before we reach New York.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“April 7th (19th), 1891.

“Early this morning the tossing began, and grew gradually worse, until at times I felt horribly nervous. It was a comfort that most of the passengers had made the voyage very often, and were not in the least afraid of going down, as I was, only of being sea-sick. I was not afraid of that, for I felt no symptoms whatever. The steward to whom I spoke called it ‘une mer un peu grosse.’ What must ‘une mer très grosse’ be like? The aspect of the sea is very fine, and when I am free from alarm I enjoy watching the grand spectacle. I am interested in three huge sea-gulls which are following us. They say they will go with us to Newfoundland. When do they rest, and where do they spend the night? I read all day, for there is nothing else to do. Composition goes against the grain. I am very depressed. When I opened my heart to my acquaintance, the commercial traveller in the second class, he replied, ‘Well, at your age it is very natural,’ which hurt my feelings.... I would rather not say what I feel.... It is for the last time.... When one gets to my years it is best to stay at home, close to one’s own folk. The thought of being so far from all who are dear to me almost kills me. But otherwise I am quite well, thank God. A ‘miss’ has been singing Italian songs the whole evening, and her performance was so abominable, such an effrontery, that I was surprised no one said anything rude to her.”

To M. Tchaikovsky.

“April 8th (20th), 1891.

“I had a good night. When everyone had gone to bed I walked for a long time on deck. The wind went down, and it was quite calm by the time I went to my cabin. To-day it is sunny, but the wind has been getting up since midday. There is now a head sea instead of the waves coming broadside on. But the ship is so big that very few have been sea-sick. My friendship with the commercial traveller and his companions grows more intimate. They are very lively, and entertain me more than the correct and respectable first-class passengers.... The most interesting of these is a Canadian bishop with his secretary, who has been to Europe to receive the Pope’s blessing. Yesterday he celebrated mass in a private cabin, and I chanced to be present. While I am writing, the ship is beginning to pitch more, but now I realise it must be so in mid-ocean, and I am getting used to it.”

“April 9th (21st), 1891.

“In the night the ship pitched so that I awoke, and had palpitations and almost nervous fever. A glass of brandy soon picked me up and had a calming effect. I put on my overcoat and went on deck. It was a glorious moonlight night. When I saw that everything was going on as usual, I realised that there was no cause for fear.... By morning the wind had dropped. We were in the Gulf Stream. This was evident, because suddenly it became much warmer. There are about a hundred emigrants on board, mostly Alsatians. As soon as the weather improves they give a ball, and it is amusing to see them dancing to the strains of their concertinas. These emigrants do not appear at all unhappy. The unsympathetic lady who sits near me at table is the wife of a member of the Boston orchestra. Consequently to-day the conversation turned upon music. She related some interesting things about the Boston concerts and musical life there.

“To-day we passed a few sailing vessels, and a huge whale which sent up a spout of water into the air.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“April 10th (22nd), 1891.

“I believed I was quite immune from sea-sickness. It appears that I am not. Last night the weather got worse and worse. When I got up at seven a.m. it was so bad, and the sea so rough, that I enjoyed watching it, in spite of the huge ocean waves. It continued to blow until two o’clock, when it was so terrible that I expected every moment the ship would go down. Of course there was really no question whatever of our sinking. Not only the captain, but the sailors and all the stewards took it as a matter of course. But to me, who only know the sea from the Mediterranean, it was like hell let loose. Everything cracked and groaned. One minute we were tossed up to the clouds, the next we sank into the depths. It was impossible to go on deck, for the wind almost blew one overboard—in short, it was terrible. Most of the passengers were ill, but some enjoyed it, and even played the piano, arranged card-parties, etc. I had no appetite for breakfast, afterwards I felt very uncomfortable, and at dinner I could not bear the sight of the food. I have not really been ill, but I have experienced disagreeable sensations. It is impossible to sleep. Brandy and coffee are the only nourishment I have taken to-day.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“April 12th (24th), 1891.

“The night was horrible. Towards morning the weather improved, and remained bearable until four o’clock. Then came a fresh misery. As we approached the ‘sand banks’ of Newfoundland we passed into a belt of dense fog—which seems the usual experience here. This is the thing most dreaded at sea, because a collision, even with a small sailing vessel, may sink the ship. Our speed was considerably slackened, and every few seconds the siren was heard; a machine which emits a hideous roar, like a gigantic tiger. It gets terribly on one’s nerves.... Now the people on board have discovered who I am, and amiabilities, compliments, and conversations have begun. I can never walk about by myself. Besides, they press me to play. I refuse, but apparently it will never end until I have played something on the wretched piano.... The fog is lifting, but the rolling is beginning again.”

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“April 12th (24th), 1891.

“I absolutely cannot write. Since yesterday evening I have been a martyr. It is blowing a fearful gale. They say it was predicted by the Meteorological Observatory. It is horrible! Especially to me, a novice. They say it will last till we get to New York. I suffer as much mentally as physically; simply from fright and anxiety.”

“April 13th (25th), 1891.

“After writing the above lines I went into the smoking-room. Very few passengers were there, and they sat idle, with gloomy, anxious faces.... The gale continually increased. There was no thought of lying down. I sat in a corner of the sofa in my cabin and tried not to think about what was going on; but that was impossible, for the straining, creaking, and shivering of the vessel, and the howling of the wind outside, could not be silenced. So I sat on, and what passed through my mind I cannot describe to you. Unpleasant reflections. Presently I noticed that the horrible shocks each time the screw was lifted out of the water came at longer intervals, the wind howled less. Then I fell asleep, still sitting propped between my trunk and the wall of the cabin.... In the morning I found we had passed through the very centre of an unusually severe storm, such as is rarely experienced. At two o’clock we met the pilot who had long been expected. The whole bevy of passengers turned out to see him waiting for us in his tiny boat. The ship hove to, and we took him on board. There are only about twenty-four hours left. In consequence of the gale we are a few hours late. I am very glad the voyage is nearing its end: I simply could not bear to remain any longer on board ship. I have decided to return from New York by a German liner on April 30th (May 12th). By May 10th (22nd), or a little later, I shall be in Petersburg again, D.V.”

XII

To Modeste Tchaikovsky.

“New York, April 15th (27th), 1891.

“The remainder of the journey was happily accomplished. The nearer we came to New York, the greater grew my fear and home-sickness, and I regretted ever having undertaken this insane voyage. When all is over I may look back to it with pleasure, but at present it is not without suffering. Before we reached New York—endless formalities with passports and Customs. A whole day was spent in answering inquiries. At last we landed at 5 p.m. I was met by four very amiable gentlemen and a lady, who took me straight to the Hotel Normandie. Here I explained to Mr. Morris Reno[156] that I should leave on the 12th. He said that would not be feasible, because an extra concert had been fixed for the 18th, of which Wolf had not said a word to me. After all these people had gone, I began to walk up and down my rooms (I have two) and shed many tears. I declined their invitations to dinner and supper, and begged to be left to myself for to-night.

“After a bath, I dressed, dined against my inclination, and went for a stroll down Broadway. An extraordinary street! Houses of one and two stories alternate with some nine-storied buildings. Most original. I was struck with the number of nigger faces I saw. When I got back I began crying again, and slept like the dead, as I always do after tears. I awoke refreshed, but the tears are always in my eyes.”

Diary.

“Monday, April 15th (27th).

“Mayer[157] was my first visitor. The cordial friendliness of this pleasant German astonished and touched me. For, being the head of a pianoforte firm, he had no interest in paying attentions to a musician who is not a pianist. Then a reporter appeared, and I was very thankful for Mayer’s presence. Many of his questions were very curious. Reno next arrived, bringing an interesting friend with him. Reno told me I was expected at the rehearsal. After we had got rid of the interviewer we went on foot to the music hall.[158] A magnificent building. We got to the rehearsal just at the end of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Damrosch[159](who was conducting without his coat) appeared very pleasant. I wanted to speak to him at the finish of the Symphony, but had to wait and answer the cordial greetings of the orchestra. Damrosch made a little speech. More ovations. I could only rehearse the first and third movements of the First Suite. The orchestra is excellent. After the rehearsal I breakfasted with Mayer, who then took me up Broadway, helped me to buy a hat, presented me with a hundred cigarettes, showed me the very interesting Hoffman Bar, which is decorated with the most beautiful pictures, statues and tapestries, and finally brought me home. I lay down to rest, completely exhausted. Later on I dressed, for I was expecting Reno, who soon turned up. I tried to persuade him to let me give up Philadelphia and Baltimore, but he did not seem inclined to grant my request. He took me to his house and introduced me to his wife and daughters, who are very nice. Afterwards he went with me to Damrosch’s. A year ago Damrosch married the daughter of a very rich and distinguished man. They are a very agreeable couple. We sat down three to dinner. Then Damrosch took me to visit Carnegie,[160] the possessor of 30,000,000 dollars, who is very like our dramatist Ostrovsky. I was very much taken with the old man, especially as he is an admirer of Moscow, which he visited two years ago. Next to Moscow, he admires the national songs of Scotland, a great many of which Damrosch played to him on a magnificent Steinway grand. He has a young and pretty wife. After these visits I went with Hyde[161] and Damrosch to see the Athletic Club and another, more serious in tone, which I might perhaps compare with our English Club. The Athletic Club astonished me, especially the swimming bath, in which the members bathe, and the upper gallery, where they skate in winter. We ordered drinks in the serious club. I reached home about eleven o’clock. Needless to say, I was worn out.

“April 16th (28th).

“Slept very well. A messenger came from * * * * to know if I wanted anything. These Americans strike me as very remarkable, especially after the impression the Parisians left upon me: there politeness or amiability to a stranger always savoured of self-interest; whereas in this country the honesty, sincerity, generosity, cordiality, and readiness to help you without any arrière-pensée, is very pleasant. I like this, and most of the American ways and customs, yet I enjoy it all in the same spirit as a man who sits at a table laden with good things and has no appetite. My appetite will only come with the near prospect of my return to Russia.

“At eleven a.m. I went for a walk, and breakfasted in a very pretty restaurant. Home again by one o’clock and reflected a little. Reinhard,[162] an agreeable young man, came to take me to Mayer’s. On the way we turned into the Hoffman Bar. Saw Knabe’s warehouse. Mayer took me to a photographic studio. We went up by the lift to the ninth or tenth floor, where a little old man (the owner of the studio) received us in a red nightcap. I never came across such a droll fellow. He is a parody of Napoleon III. (very like the original, but a caricature of him). He turned me round and round while he looked for the best side of my face. Then he developed rather a tedious theory of the best side of the face and proceeded to experiment on Mayer. Finally I was photographed in every conceivable position, during which the old man entertained me with all kinds of mechanical toys. But, with all his peculiarities, he was pleasant and cordial in the American way. From the photographer I drove with Mayer to the park, which is newly laid out, but very beautiful. There was a crowd of smart ladies and carriages. We called for Mayer’s wife and daughter and continued our drive along the high bank of the Hudson. It became gradually colder, and the conversation with these good German-Americans wearied me. At last we stopped at the celebrated Restaurant Delmonico, and Mayer invited me to a most luxurious dinner, after which he and the ladies took me back to my hotel. I hurried into my dress-coat and waited for Mr. Hyde. Then, together with him and his wife, Damrosch, and Mr. and Mrs. Reno, we all went to a somewhat tedious concert at the great Opera House. We heard an oratorio, The Captivity, by the American composer Max Wagrich. Most wearisome. After this I wanted to go home, but the dear Hydes carried me off to supper at Delmonico’s. We ate oysters with a sauce of small turtles (!!!), and cheese. Champagne, and an iced peppermint drink, supported my failing courage. They brought me home at twelve o’clock. A telegram from Botkin summoning me to Washington.

“April 17th (29th).

“Passed a restless night. After my early tea I wrote letters. Then I sauntered through Fifth Avenue. What palaces! Breakfasted alone at home. Went to Mayer’s. The kindness and attentiveness of this man are simply wonderful. According to Paris custom, I try to discover what he wants to get out of me. But I can think of nothing. Early this morning he sent Reinhard to me again, in case I wanted anything, and I was very glad of his help, for I did not know what to do about the telegram from Washington. By three o’clock I was at home, waiting for William de Sachs, a very amiable and elegant gentleman, who loves music and writes about it. He was still here when my French friends from the steamer arrived. I was very glad to see them and we went out together to have some absinthe. When I got back I rested for a while. At seven o’clock Hyde and his wife called for me. What a pity it is that words and colours fail me to describe this most original couple, who are so extremely kind and friendly! The language in which we carry on our conversation is very amusing; it consists of the queerest mixture of English, French and German. Every word which Hyde utters in our conversation is the result of an extraordinary intellectual effort: literally a whole minute passes before there emerges, from an indefinite murmur, some word so weird-sounding that it is impossible to tell to which of the three languages it belongs. All the time Hyde and his wife have such a serious, yet good-natured air. I accompanied them to Reno’s, who was giving a big dinner in my honour. The ladies—all in full evening dress. The table decorated with flowers. At each lady’s place lay a bunch of flowers, while the men had lilies-of-the-valley, which we put in our buttonholes as soon as we were seated at table. Each lady had also a little picture of myself in a pretty frame. The dinner began at half-past seven, and was over at eleven. I am not exaggerating when I say this, for it is the custom here. It is impossible to describe all the courses. In the middle of the dinner ices were served in little cases, to which were attached small slates with pencils and sponges, on which fragments from my works were beautifully inscribed. I had to write my autograph on these slates. The conversation was very lively. I sat between Mrs. Reno and Mrs. Damrosch. The latter is a most charming and graceful woman. Opposite to me sat Carnegie, the admirer of Moscow, and the possessor of forty million dollars. His likeness to Ostrovsky is astonishing. Tormented by the want of a smoke, and almost ill with over-eating, I determined about eleven o’clock to ask Mrs. Reno’s permission to leave the table. Half an hour later we all took our leave.”

To V. Davidov.

“New York, April 18th (30th), 1891.

“Have just received my letters. It is impossible to say how precious these are under the present circumstances. I was unspeakably glad. I make copious entries every day in my diary and, on my return, you shall each have it to read in turn, so I will not go into details now. New York, American customs, American hospitality—all their comforts and arrangements—everything, in fact, is to my taste. If only I were younger I should very much enjoy my visit to this interesting and youthful country. But now, I just tolerate everything as if it were a slight punishment mitigated by many pleasant things. All my thoughts, all my aspirations, tend towards Home, Home!!! I am convinced that I am ten times more famous in America than in Europe. At first, when others spoke about it to me, I thought it was only their exaggerated amiability. But now I see that it really is so. Several of my works, which are unknown even in Moscow, are frequently played here. I am a much more important person here than in Russia. Is not that curious?”