path: root/45259-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 45259 ***

Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)




  Every attempt has been made to replicate the original as printed. No
  attempt has been made to correct or normalize the spelling of
  non-English words. Some typographical errors have been corrected; a list
  follows the text. The Illustrations have been moved from mid-paragraph
  for ease of reading. (etext transcriber's note)









             THE LIFE & LETTERS OF PETER ILICH TCHAIKOVSKY




                         THE LIFE & LETTERS OF

                              PETER ILICH
                              TCHAIKOVSKY

                        BY MODESTE TCHAIKOVSKY
                        EDITED FROM THE RUSSIAN
                        WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
                      ROSA NEWMARCH: ILLUSTRATED

                  LONDON : JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD
                 NEW YORK : JOHN LANE COMPANY : MCMVI

         WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LIMITED, PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH

                                  TO

                       SERGEÏ IVANOVICH TANEIEV

                              AND TO ALL
                    WHO STILL CHERISH THE MEMORY OF

                        PETER ILICH TCHAIKOVSKY

                         I DEDICATE THIS WORK




INTRODUCTION


In offering to English and American readers this abridged edition of
_The Life and Letters of Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky_, my introduction must
of necessity take the form of some justification of my curtailments and
excisions.

The motives which led to this undertaking, and the reasons for my mode
of procedure, may be stated in a few words.

In 1900 I published a volume dealing with Tchaikovsky,[1] which was, I
believe, the first attempt to embody in book form all the
literature--scattered through the byways of Russian
journalism--concerning the composer of the Pathetic Symphony.

In the course of a year or two--the book having sold out in England and
America--a proposal was made to me to prepare a new edition. Meanwhile,
however, the authorised _Life and Letters_, compiled and edited by the
composer’s brother, Modeste Ilich Tchaikovsky, was being issued in
twenty-five parts by P. I. Jurgenson, of Moscow.[2] This original
Russian edition was followed almost immediately by a German translation,
published in Leipzig by the same firm.[3]

In November, 1901, the late P. I. Jurgenson approached me on the subject
of a translation, but his negotiations with an American firm eventually
fell through. He then requested me to find, if possible, an English
publisher willing to take up the book. Both in England and America the
public interest in Tchaikovsky seemed to be steadily increasing.
Frequent calls for copies of my small book--by this time out of
print--testified that this was actually the case.

An alternative course now lay before me: to revise my own book, with the
help of the material furnished by the authorised _Life and Letters_, or
to take in hand an English translation of the latter. The first would
have been the less arduous and exacting task; on the other hand, there
was no doubt in my mind as to the greater value and importance of
Modeste Tchaikovsky’s work.

The simplest--and in many ways most satisfactory--course seemed at first
to be the translation of the Russian edition in its entirety. Closer
examination, however, revealed the fact that out of the 3,000 letters
included in this book a large proportion were addressed to persons quite
unknown to the English and American publics; while at the same time it
contained a mass of minute and almost _local_ particulars which could
have very little significance for readers unversed in every detail of
Russian musical life.

Another practical question confronted me. What publisher would venture
upon launching this biographical three-decker, with its freight of 3,000
letters, amounting to nearly 2,000 pages of closely printed matter? Such
colossal biographies, however valuable as sources of information to the
specialist, are quite beyond all possibility of purchase or perusal by
the general public. That the author himself realised this, seems evident
from the fact that the German edition was lightened of about a third of
the original contents.

Following the lines of these authorised abridgments, while using my own
judgment as to the retention of some portions of the Russian text
omitted in the German edition, I have condensed the work still further.

It may be true, as Carlyle has said, that mankind takes “an unspeakable
delight in biography”; but it is equally certain that these “headlong
days” which have witnessed the extinction of the three-volume novel are
absolutely unfavourable to the success of the three-volume biography.

While admiring the patient and pious industry which has raised so
colossal a monument to Tchaikovsky’s memory, I cannot but feel that it
would be unreasonable to expect of any nation but his own a hero-worship
so devout that it could assimilate a _Tchaikovskiad_ of such prodigious
dimensions.

The present volume is the result of a careful selection of material. The
leading idea which I have kept in view throughout the fulfilment of my
task has been to preserve as far as possible the _autobiographical_
character of the book. Wherever feasible, I have preferred to let
Tchaikovsky himself tell the story of his life. For this reason the
proportion of letters to the additional biographical matter is even
greater in my version than in the German edition. When two or three
letters of only moderate interest have followed in immediate succession,
I have frequently condensed their contents into a single paragraph,
keeping as closely as possible to the phraseology of the composer
himself.

In one respect the present edition shows a clear improvement upon the
German. In the latter the dates have been given throughout in the Old
Style, thereby frequently causing confusion in the minds of Western
readers. In the English version--with a few unimportant exceptions--the
dates are given according to both calendars.

The most romantic episode of Tchaikovsky’s life--his friendship
extending over thirteen years with a woman to whom he never addressed a
direct personal greeting--is told in a series of intimate letters. In
these I have spared all but the most necessary abridgements.

The account of his tour in America, which takes the form of a diary kept
for the benefit of his near relatives, cannot fail to amuse and interest
all those who remember the favourable impression created by his
appearance at the inauguration of the Carnegie Hall, New York, in May,
1891.

The illustrations are the same as those published in the Russian and
German publications, with two notable additions: the photograph of
Tchaikovsky and Siloti, and the fine portrait by Kouznietsov.

My thanks are due to Mr. Grant Richards for permission to republish the
facsimile from the score of the Overture “_1812_”; also to Mr. W. W.
Manning and Mr. Adolf Brodsky for the kind loan of autographs.

In conclusion, let me say that in planning and carrying out this work it
is not so much the needs of the specialist I have kept most constantly
in view, as those of that large section of the musical public whose
interest in Tchaikovsky has been awakened by the sincerely emotional and
human elements of his music.

     ROSA NEWMARCH




CONTENTS


                                         PAGE
PART I. CHAPTERS I.-V. 1840-1861            1

PART II. CHAPTERS I.-VII. 1861-1866        30

PART III. CHAPTERS I.-XIII. 1866-1877      64

PART IV. CHAPTERS I.-VIII. 1877-1878      204

PART V. CHAPTERS I.-XX. 1878-1885         318

PART VI. CHAPTERS I.-XIII. 1885-1888      468

PART VII. CHAPTERS I.-XIX. 1888-1893      539

APPENDICES--A, B, C                       726

ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF NAMES               773

ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF MUSICAL WORKS       779




ILLUSTRATIONS

1. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1893, FROM A PORTRAIT BY KOUZNIETSOV     _Frontispiece_

                                                                 TO FACE
                                                                    PAGE
2. ILIA PETROVICH TCHAIKOVSKY, THE COMPOSER’S FATHER, IN 1860          4

3. THE HOUSE IN WHICH TCHAIKOVSKY WAS BORN, AT VOTINSK                 8

4. THE TCHAIKOVSKY FAMILY IN 1848, FROM A DAGUERROTYPE                14

5. ALEXANDRA ANDREIEVNA TCHAIKOVSKY, THE COMPOSER’S MOTHER, IN 1848   20

6. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1859 (VIGNETTE)                                     26

7. THE COMPOSER’S FATHER, WITH HIS TWIN SONS MODESTE AND ANATOL       34

8. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1859 (CARTE DE VISITE)                              42

9. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1863                                                56

10. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1867, IN WINTER DRESS                              78

11. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1868                                              102

12. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1873                                              132

13. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1874                                              150

14. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1877                                              214

15. FRAGMENT FROM A LETTER, WITH SKETCH FOR A THEME
    FOR “THE ENCHANTRESS”                                            482

16. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1888                                              540

17. TCHAIKOVSKY AND SILOTI                                           550

18. TCHAIKOVSKY’S HOUSE AT FROLOVSKOE                                560

19. THE HOUSE IN WHICH TCHAIKOVSKY LIVED AT KLIN                     680

20. TCHAIKOVSKY’S BEDROOM AT KLIN                                    694

21. SITTING-ROOM AT KLIN                                             700

22. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1893 (TAKEN IN LONDON)                            708


     “To regret the past, to hope in the future, and never to be
     satisfied with the present--this is my life.”--P. TCHAIKOVSKY
     (_Extract from a letter_)




THE LIFE & LETTERS OF PETER ILICH TCHAIKOVSKY




                                   PART I




I


One of the most characteristic traits of Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky was his
ironical attitude towards his family’s traditions of noble descent. He
never lost an opportunity of making fun of their armorial bearings,
which he regarded as “imaginary,” and clung obstinately to the plebeian
origin of the Tchaikovskys. This was not merely the outcome of his
democratic convictions, but had its origin, partly in the pride which
lay at the very root of his nature, and partly in his excessive
conscientiousness. He would not consider himself a scion of the
aristocracy, because his nearest ancestors could not boast of one
_boyar_, nor one owner of patrimonial estates. His father was the sole
serf-owner in the family, and _he_ possessed a cook with a numerous
progeny--ten souls in all.

But if he was unconcerned as to family descent, he was far from
indifferent as to nationality. The aristocratic pretensions of his
relatives aroused his mockery, but the mere suggestion of their Polish
origin stirred him to instant wrath. Love of Russia and all things
Russian was so deeply rooted in him that, while he cared nothing for
questions of pedigree, he rejoiced to discover among his earliest
ancestors on his father’s side one orthodox Russian from the district of
Kremenschug.

Tracing back Tchaikovsky’s pedigree, we do not find a single name
connected with music. There is not one instance of a professional
musician, and only three can be considered amateurs--his mother’s
brother, Michael Assier; her sister Catharine, in her day a well-known
amateur in Petersburg society; and the composer’s mother herself, who
sang the fashionable ballads of her youth with feeling and expression.
All the rest of the family--Assiers and Tchaikovskys alike--not only
lacked musical talent, but were indifferent to the art. Thus it is
almost impossible to ascertain from whom Peter Ilich inherited his
genius, if indeed there can be any question of heredity. His one certain
inheritance seems to have been an abnormally neurotic tendency, which
probably came to him through his grandfather Assier, who suffered from
epilepsy. If it is true, as a modern scientist asserts, that “genius” is
merely an abnormal physical condition, then it is possible that
Tchaikovsky may have inherited his musical gift, at the same time as his
“nerves,” from the Assier family.

       *       *       *       *       *

Little is known of the early life of the composer’s father, Ilia
Petrovich Tchaikovsky. In old age he rarely spoke of his youth, and did
not care to be questioned about it. Not that he had any painful memories
to conceal, but it was his habit to avoid all reference to himself, and
only to speak of his past when he had some amusing anecdote to relate,
or when he was induced by others to recall some glad, or sorrowful,
event of bygone days.

Ilia Petrovich Tchaikovsky was educated at the School of Mining
Engineers, which he left in 1817 at the age of twenty-two, having been
awarded the distinction of a silver medal. In the same year he was
appointed to an inspectorship in the Mining and Geological Department.
His career cannot have been brilliant, since it took him twenty years to
rise to the rank corresponding to a lieutenant-colonel. But the fact
that at thirty he was already a member of the Scientific Committee of
the Institute of Mining Engineers, and lectured on mining law and
statistics, proves him to have been a capable and industrious member of
his profession.

In private life, all who knew him agreed as to his sympathetic, jovial,
and straightforward character. Benevolence--or more correctly speaking,
a universal affection--was one of his chief characteristics. In youth,
manhood, and old age he loved his neighbour, and his faith in him
remained unshaken. His trustfulness knew no limits; and even the loss of
his entire fortune, due to misplaced confidence, did not avail to make
him suspicious of his fellow-men. To the end of his days, everyone he
met was “an excellent, honourable, good fellow.” Disillusionment cut him
to the quick, but had no power to obscure his rosy views of human
nature. It would be difficult to find a man who possessed so many
devoted friends.

Although a capable specialist, as regards general culture and
intelligence Ilia Petrovich had only a mediocre equipment. He had no
great taste for art and science. Music and the drama interested him
most. In his youth he played the flute a little, but gave it up early in
life.

On September 11th (23rd), 1827, Ilia Petrovich married Maria Carlovna
Keiser, by whom he had one daughter. Shortly afterwards he was left a
widower and, in October, 1833, married, for a second time, Alexandra
Andreievna Assier.

Almost as little is known of the childhood and youth of the composer’s
mother as of his father. As early as 1816 she was left motherless, and
was brought up in a Female Orphanage, where she completed her education
in 1829. The instruction in this school appears to have been excellent.
Alexandra Andreievna had a thorough knowledge of French and German. In
addition, she played the piano a little and sang nicely. A satisfactory
education for a girl who had neither means nor position.

Those who knew the composer’s mother describe her as tall and
distinguished-looking; not precisely handsome, but with wonderfully
expressive eyes. All agreed that there was something particularly
attractive in her appearance. Peter Ilich recollected his mother as a
tall woman, inclined to be stout, with wonderful eyes and beautiful
hands, although by no means small. “Such hands do not exist nowadays,
and never will again,” he used to say in after life.

Alexandra Andreievna, unlike her husband, was rather reserved and chary
of endearments. Her kindness, as compared to his universal amiability,
seemed somewhat austere, and showed itself more frequently in act than
in speech. The first child of this marriage was a daughter who died in
infancy.

In 1837 Ilia Tchaikovsky was appointed inspector of the mines at
Kamsko-Votinsk, in the Government of Viatka, where he settled with his
wife. On May 9th (21st), 1838, a son was born to them--Nicholas Ilich;
while on April 28th (May 10th), 1840, a second son came into the
world--Peter Ilich--the subject of this biography.

       *       *       *       *       *

The position of manager in the case of such important mines as those of
Votinsk closely resembled that of a wealthy landowner living on his
estate. In some respects it was even more advantageous, because he had
every luxury in life provided for him: a fine house, a staff of
servants, and almost unlimited control over a number of human beings.
Ilia Tchaikovsky even had at command a small army of a hundred Cossacks,
and a little court, consisting of such employés in the mines as had any
claim to social position. The fine salary, thanks to the wise economy
of his wife, sufficed not only for every comfort, but even admitted of
something being put by for less prosperous times.

[Illustration: ILIA PETROVICH TCHAIKOVSKY, THE COMPOSER’S FATHER, IN
1860]

The allowance provided for social purposes sufficed for widespread
hospitality, and, owing to the affability of the host, and the
characteristic charm of his wife, the Tchaikovskys’ house was the
favourite resort of all the neighbouring society. This circle had
nothing in common with the uncultured provincial society of those days.
It was composed chiefly of young men from St. Petersburg, holding
various Government appointments in the district, and of one highly
intellectual English family. The proximity of Asia and the remoteness
from civilised centres were scarcely perceptible.

About the period of Peter Ilich’s earliest recollections, two new
members were added to the Tchaikovsky family--a girl, Alexandra, born
December 28th, 1842 (January 9th, 1843), and a son, Hyppolite, born
April 10th (22nd), 1844. The care of the younger children now so
exclusively occupied the mother’s attention that she was obliged to
engage a governess for her eldest son, Nicholas, and a niece, Lydia, who
lived with the family. While on a visit to St. Petersburg she became
acquainted with Fanny Dürbach, and brought her back to Votinsk in
November, 1844.

In view of the lasting influence which her personality exercised upon
Peter Ilich, some account of this lady should be given here.

Fanny Dürbach had been specially trained as a teacher, and had already
had some experience in her work. She knew French and German thoroughly,
and was a strict Protestant. She is still living at Montbeillard, near
Belfort, where she continues to give lessons. The poverty in which she
lived impressed me still more on my visit to her in 1894, because I knew
that two years earlier my brother Peter Ilich had implored her to
accept a regular allowance, which she absolutely refused. “I am content
with what I have,” she told him; “as far as I can be, after the heavy
blows fate has dealt me, I am happy.” The expression of her face,
wonderfully young for a woman of seventy-two, and the light in her large
black eyes, bespoke such true peace of mind and purity of heart that I
felt sure neither her physical ailments, nor the lack of luxury in her
surroundings, had power to darken the light of her declining days.

Although Fanny Dürbach’s connection with the Tchaikovsky family lasted
only four years, her memory lives with them to-day, while all her
successors have long been forgotten. She, too, had retained a vivid
recollection of “the happiest time in her life,” and her account of her
arrival at Votinsk gives an animated picture of the patriarchal life of
the Tchaikovsky family.

     “I travelled from Petersburg with Madame Tchaikovsky and her son
     Nicholas. The journey took three weeks, during which time we became
     so friendly that we were quite intimate on our arrival. All the
     same, I felt very shy. Had it only depended upon Madame Tchaikovsky
     and her boy, all had been well; but there was still the prospect of
     meeting strangers and facing new conditions of life. The nearer we
     drew to the journey’s end, the more restless and anxious I became.
     On our arrival, a single moment sufficed to dispel all my fears. A
     number of people came out to meet us, and in the general greeting
     and embracing it was difficult to distinguish relatives from
     servants. All fraternised in the sincerity of their joy. The head
     of the family kissed me without ceremony, as though I had been his
     daughter. It seemed less like a first arrival than a return home.
     The next morning I began my work without any misgivings for the
     future.”




II.


Peter Ilich was four and a half years old when Fanny came to be
governess to Nicholas and his cousin Lydia, and on the first day his
mother had to yield to his tearful entreaties to share the lessons of
the elder children. Henceforward he always learnt with them, and
resented being excused any task on the grounds of his youth. He was
wonderfully quick in overtaking his fellow-pupils, and at six could read
French and German fluently. He learnt Russian with a tutor.

From the beginning, Fanny was especially attracted by her youngest
pupil; not only because he was more gifted and conscientious than the
others, nor because he was more docile than Nicholas, but because in all
the child’s ways there was something original and uncommon, which
exercised an indefinable charm on everyone who came in contact with him.

In looks he did not compare favourably with Nicholas, and was never so
clean and tidy. His clothes were always in disorder. Either he had
stained them in his absent-mindedness, or buttons were missing, or his
hair was only half-brushed, so that by the side of his spruce and
impeccable brother he did not show to advantage at first sight. But when
the charm of his mind, and still more of his heart, had time to work, it
was impossible not to prefer him to the other children. This sympathetic
charm, this gift of winning all hearts, Tchaikovsky retained to the last
day of his life.

To my inquiry in what way the boy’s charm showed itself most, our old
governess replied:--

     “In no one particular thing, but rather in all his ways and
     actions. At lessons no child was more industrious or quicker to
     understand; in playtime none was so full of fun. When we read
     together none listened so attentively as he did, and when on
     holidays I gathered my pupils around me in the twilight and let
     them tell tales in turn, no one could improvise so well as Peter
     Ilich. I shall never forget these precious hours of my life. In
     daily intercourse we all loved him, because we felt he loved us in
     return. His sensibility was extreme, therefore I had to be very
     careful how I treated him. A trifle wounded him deeply. He was
     brittle as porcelain. With him there could be no question of
     punishment; the least criticism or reproof, that would pass lightly
     over other children, would upset him alarmingly.”

The weak and unhappy always found in him a staunch protector. Once he
heard with indignation that someone was intending to drown a cat. When
he discovered the monster who was planning this crime, he pleaded so
eloquently that pussy’s life was saved.

Another proof of his compassion for the suffering was his extraordinary
sympathy for Louis XVII. Even as a grown man his interest in the unhappy
prince survived. In 1868 he bought a picture representing him in the
Temple, and had it framed. This picture, and the portrait of Anton
Rubinstein, remained for a long while the only adornments of his walls.

The boy was also influenced by that enthusiastic patriotism--not without
a touch of Chauvinism--which characterised the reign of Nicholas I. From
this early period dates that exclusive affection for everything Russian
which lasted his whole lifetime. Sometimes his love for his country was
shown in a very droll way. Fanny used to relate the following story:--

[Illustration: THE HOUSE IN WHICH TCHAIKOVSKY WAS BORN, AT VOTINSK]

     “Once, during the recreation hour, he was turning over the pages of
     his atlas. Coming to the map of Europe, he smothered Russia with
     kisses and spat on all the rest of the world. When I told him he
     ought to be ashamed of such behaviour, that it was wicked to hate
     his fellow-men who said the same ‘Our Father’ as himself, only
     because they were not Russians, and reminded him that he was
     spitting upon his own Fanny, who was a Frenchwoman, he replied at
     once: ‘There is no need to scold me; didn’t you see me cover France
     with my hand first?’”

Continuing her reminiscences, Fanny said:--

     “As our leisure hours were few, I insisted on devoting them to
     physical exercise; but often I met with some opposition from
     Pierre, who would go straight from his lessons to the piano.
     Otherwise he was obedient, and generally enjoyed romping with his
     sisters. Left to himself, he preferred to play the piano, or to
     read and write poetry.”

In the autumn of 1846 his half-sister Zinaïda left the Catharine
Institute, in St. Petersburg, and, her education being finished,
returned to live at home. With the arrival of this pretty and lively
school-girl the house became even merrier and brighter than before. To
the boy’s imagination, the new-comer seemed a visitant from a fairy
world.

In February, 1848, Ilia Tchaikovsky retired with the rank of
major-general. He was anxious to get an appointment as manager of
private mines, and with this object in view left Votinsk, with all his
family, for a long visit to Moscow. As it was intended on their arrival
to send Lydia and the elder boys to school, Fanny now took leave of her
friends for good. Not until forty-four years had elapsed did she renew
her acquaintance with the family in the person of Peter Ilich.

       *       *       *       *       *

Besides Fanny’s reminiscences, which form so valuable an addition to the
biography of Tchaikovsky, she also preserved the books in which her
favourite pupil set down his thoughts in leisure hours; more often than
not in the form of verse. The old lady could not be persuaded to let
these relics leave her keeping, but she willingly made extracts from
them.

These manuscript books naturally contain nothing of real artistic or
literary value, but they are not the less interesting on that account.
They show the origin and give the explanation of Tchaikovsky’s artistic
tendency, and are not merely interesting from a biographical point of
view, but as documents in which we may study the evolution of genius.
These childish verses prove a precocious desire for expression, before
the right medium had been discovered. Here the future musician is
knocking at the wrong door.

There are two copy-books and a few loose pages. The handwriting,
although not beautiful, is well formed and firm. The pages show traces
of carelessness. They would have been very differently written, had they
been intended for other eyes than his own. We find here a miscellany of
verses, extracts, rough copies of letters, attempts to draw houses, odd
words and phrases, all jotted down without any connection.

The first book opens with a translation from a French reading-primer,
_L’éducation maternelle_. It bears the date 1847, with a French
signature, and is followed by several poems, of which two are in Russian
and the rest in French. They may be divided into three groups: the poems
relating to God; those which have a patriotic tendency; and those which
display his sympathy for the weak and suffering and his love of animals.

The first poem, dated 1847, is called:

    L’ENFANT PARLE À SON ANGE GARDIEN

    _Tez_ ailes dorées ont volé chez moi(?)
    Ta _voi_ m’a _parler_
    O! que j’étais heureuse
    _Quant_ tu _venait_ chez moi
    Tes ailes _son blanc_ et _pur_ aussi
    Viens encore une _foix_
    Pour parler de Dieu puissant!

Later on come some notes headed: “La force, l’activité.” “Il avait dans
sa vie la force et l’activité!”

When we recollect the ebullient activity of Peter Ilich’s musical
career, and his unflagging energy, we cannot help giving to these
fortuitous entries, if not a predictive significance, at least that of a
conscious homage to the qualities he most admired.

His patriotic ardour found vent in four poems, dated 1847, of which the
following is a specimen:

    Terre! _apresent_ tu _est_ loin de moi
    Je ne te _voi_ plus, o patrie cherie!
    Je t’embrasse. O! pays _adorée_
    Toi, oh Russie _aimé_
    _Vien! vien! aupre_ de moi
    Toi, place où je suis né
    Je te salut! oh, terre cherie
    Longtemps quand je suis né
    Je n’avais ni memoire, ni raison
    Ni de dons pour parler
    Oh, je ne savais pas que ma Patrie est Russie!

He also attempted an historical essay in verse on Joan of Arc, whom he
had learnt to know from Masson’s _Les Enfants célèbres_. It is entitled:

    THE HEROINE OF FRANCE

    On t’aime, on ne t’oublie pas
    Heroïne si belle!
    Tu as sauvé la France
    Fille d’un berger!
    Mais qui fait ces actions si belles!

    Barbare anglais vous ont tuée,
    Toute la France vous admire
    Tes cheveux blonds jusqu’à tes genoux
    Ils sont très beau
    Tu étais si célèbre
    Que l’ange Michel t’apparut.
    Les célèbres on pense à eux
    Les mechants on les oublie!

After 1848 there are no more poetical effusions, perhaps because Fanny
was no longer there to preserve such documents; but more probably
because the boy had just begun to discover in music a new medium for the
expression of his sentiments.

       *       *       *       *       *

At Votinsk there were no musicians, with the exception of a few
indifferent amateur pianists. The mother sang a little, but only played
the piano for her children to dance to; at least, from the time of her
marriage, we never hear of a more serious _répertoire_. No other member
of the household could do even as much. Unfortunately Fanny was not at
all musical, so that the place of music master to the future composer
fell to the lot of an inanimate object--an orchestrion which his father
brought home with him after a visit to St. Petersburg.

This orchestrion was a superior one, with a varied programme. Peter
Ilich himself considered that he owed his first musical impressions to
this instrument, which he was never tired of hearing. A composition by
Mozart had a particular fascination for him, and his passionate worship
of this master dates from this period of childhood, when Zerlina’s
“Aria,” or any melody from _Don Juan_, played by the orchestrion, awoke
in him “a beatific rapture.” Thanks to this instrument, he first became
acquainted with the music of Bellini and Donizetti, so that even the
love of Italian opera, which he cherished all his life, may be said to
have originated in the same way.

Very early in life he displayed a remarkable ear and quick musical
perception. No sooner had he acquired some rudimentary knowledge from
his mother, than he could repeat upon the piano all he heard on the
orchestrion. He found such delight in playing that it was frequently
necessary to drag him by force from the instrument. Afterwards, as the
next best substitute, he would take to drumming tunes upon the
window-panes. One day, while thus engaged, he was so entirely carried
away by this dumb show that he broke the glass and cut his hand
severely. This accident led his parents to reflect upon the child’s
incurable tendency and consider the question of his musical education.
They decided to engage as pianoforte teacher a young lady called Marie
Markovna Palchikov. This was about a year after Fanny’s arrival. Where
this teacher came from, and how far she understood her business, we
cannot say. We only know she came on purpose to teach Peter Ilich, who
kept a pleasant recollection of her. But she cannot entirely have
satisfied the requirements of the future composer, because already in
1848 he could read at sight as easily as she did. Nor can her knowledge
of musical literature have been extensive, for her pupil could not
remember a single item in her repertory.

We know from Fanny’s own testimony that the boy spent every spare moment
at the piano, and that she did her utmost to prevent it. A musician’s
life did not offer to her mind a radiant prospect. She took more
pleasure in her pupil’s literary efforts, and called him in fun “the
juvenile Poushkin.” She also observed that music had a great effect upon
his nervous system. After his music lesson, or after having improvised
for any length of time, he was invariably overwrought and excited. One
evening the Tchaikovskys gave a musical party at which the children were
allowed to be present. At first Peter Ilich was very happy, but before
the end of the evening he grew so tired that he went to bed before the
others. When Fanny visited his room she found him wide awake, sitting up
in bed with bright, feverish eyes, and crying to himself. Asked what was
the matter, he replied, although there was no music going on at the
time: “Oh, this music, this music! Save me from it! It is here, here,”
pointing to his head, “and will not give me any peace.”

Occasionally a Polish officer visited Votinsk. He was an excellent
amateur and played Chopin’s “Mazurkas” particularly well. His coming was
a red-letter day for Peter Ilich. Once he learnt two mazurkas all by
himself, and played them so charmingly that the officer kissed him when
he had done. “I never saw Pierre so radiantly happy as that day,” says
Fanny.

This is all I have been able to glean with regard to Peter Ilich’s
musical development at this period of his life.




III


The Tchaikovsky family arrived in Moscow early in October, 1848. Here
they were predestined to misfortune and disappointment. The father had
confided to one of his friends at Votinsk that he had received the offer
of a fine appointment. On arriving in Moscow, he discovered that the
treacherous friend had betrayed his confidence and made use of the
information to secure the tempting berth for himself. Added to this, an
epidemic of cholera had just broken out in the town, and the children’s
maid nearly fell a victim to the disease. The uncertainty of their
position, the absence of their father--who, on hearing of the trick
which had been played him, hastened to Petersburg--the grim spectre of
the cholera, all combined to make their sojourn in Moscow anything but a
happy one. These things cut deep into the sensitive disposition of Peter
Ilich. Just at this moment he stood in the greatest need of loving and
careful supervision, and yet at no time did he suffer more from neglect,
for his mother was too preoccupied, and too anxious about the future of
the family, to spare time and consideration for the moods of its
individual members. The children were left to her stepdaughter, herself
still half a child, and devoid of all experience. Zinaïda was the
only one who did not make a pet of Peter, and it seems more than
probable that the young poet found her anything but a just and patient
teacher. Under these circumstances his recollections of the happy past
became more and more idealised, and his retrospective yearnings more
intense.

[Illustration: THE TCHAIKOVSKY FAMILY IN 1848

PETER ILICH TCHAIKOVSKY. ALEXANDRA ANDREIEVNA (THE MOTHER). ZINAIDA
ILYINICHA. NICHOLAS ILICH. HYPPOLITE ILICH. ILIA PETROVICH (THE FATHER).
7. ALEXANDRA ILYINICHA. (CENTRE)

(_From an old Daguerrotype_)]

Early in November the family removed to Petersburg and took up their
abode on the Vassily Ostrov, near the Exchange.

Here their first impressions were more favourable than in Moscow. The
modern capital was the mother’s native place, and almost like home to
the father. Both had many friends and relatives residing there. No
unexpected disagreeables awaited them in St. Petersburg, and they
settled down once again to a peaceful home life.

But now the real trials of life began for Peter Ilich. Immediately after
their arrival, he and his brother Nicholas were sent to a
boarding-school. From Fanny’s tender care they passed straight into the
hands of an unsympathetic teacher, and found themselves among a host of
boys, who received the new-comers with the customary greeting of whacks
and thumps. The work, too, was very hard. They left home at eight in the
morning and did not return till five in the afternoon. The home
preparation was so severe that sometimes the boys sat over their books
till midnight. Besides all this, Peter had regular music lessons with
the pianist Philipov. Judging from the rapid progress he made in a short
time, this teacher must have been thoroughly competent. Such hard work
was very fatiguing, especially as the boys were drinking in new æsthetic
impressions at the same time. The Tchaikovskys frequently took the
children to the opera and theatre.

If the singing and playing of mediocre amateurs had excited the future
composer to such an extent that their music haunted him for hours; if a
mechanical organ could completely enchant him--how infinitely more
intense must have been the first impression made by a full orchestra!
What an agitation, and at the same time what an unhealthy stimulus to
his over-sensibility!

This nervous tension began to be apparent, not only in his pallor and
emaciation, but in frequent ailments that kept him from school. There
was also a moral reaction, and the boy became capricious, irritable, and
unlike his former self.

In December both brothers had measles; but while in Nicholas the ailment
ran its usual course, Peter’s nervous irritability was much increased by
the illness, and the doctors believed he was suffering from some spinal
trouble. All work was forbidden, and the invalid rested until June,
1849. After a time, quiet and freedom from lessons improved the boy’s
physical health, but his moral character did not entirely regain its
former cheerful serenity. The wound was healed, but the scar remained.

       *       *       *       *       *

Early in 1849 Ilia Tchaikovsky was appointed manager of works on the
Yakovliev property at Alapaiev and Nijny-Neviansk.

Having left his eldest son at a boarding-school, to be prepared for the
School of Mining Engineers, he quitted Petersburg with the rest of his
family, and settled in the little town of Alapaiev.

The position was not so brilliant as the one he had held under the
Government, but the house was roomy and comfortable, and the
Tchaikovskys soon made themselves at home and endeavoured to revive the
patriarchal style in which they had lived at Votinsk.

The change from St. Petersburg, while it proved beneficial to Peter’s
health, did not cure his indolence, capriciousness, and irritability. On
the contrary, they seemed to increase, because his present surroundings
suggested comparisons with his ideal life at Votinsk, which were
unfavourable to Alapaiev. He was lonely, for he missed Nicholas;
although at the same time he was jealous of the continual
congratulations over each letter which came from Petersburg, announcing
his brother’s progress and success. The family were delighted, and
compared him with Peter, whose studies did not progress rapidly under
such an indifferent teacher as Zinaïda. “Pierre is not himself,” wrote
his mother at this time. “He has grown idle, learns nothing, and often
makes me cry with vexation.”

Even Peter himself confesses his indolence in a letter dated July 7th
(19th):--

     “MA CHÈRE M-ELLE FANNY,--Je vous prie beaucoup de me pardonner que
     je ne vous ai ecrit si longtemps. Mais comme vous savez que je ne
     ment pas, c’est _ma paresse_ qui en est cause, mais ce n’est pas
     _l’oublie_, parceque je Vous aime toujours comme je vous aimez
     avant. Nicholas apprend très bien.”[4]

Receiving no reply to this, he wrote again at the end of June. At last
an answer came, in which, apparently, Fanny scolded her old pupil, for
one of his cousins wrote at this time: “When your letter came, Aunty
read it aloud, and Peterkin cried bitterly. He loves you so.”

A real improvement in the boy’s character dated from the arrival of a
new governess, Nastasia Petrov. His mother was soon able to report to
Fanny that “Pierre is behaving better and learns willingly with his new
teacher.”

On May 1st (13th), 1850, twin boys were added to the Tchaikovsky
family--Anatol and Modeste. Peter Ilich informed Fanny of the event in
the following letter:--

     “[ALAPAIEV, _May_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1850.]

     “CHÈRE ET BONNE MELLE FANNY,--C’est avec une grande joie que j’ai
     appris la nouvelle que vous avez un élève _siban_ et si diligent.
     Je veux aussi Vous apprendre, ma chère Fanny, une nouvelle qui
     peutêtre Vous rejouira un peu; c’est la naissance de mes frères qui
     sont jumeaux (la nuit du premier Mai). Je les ai déjà vus plusieurs
     fois, mais chaque fois que je les vois je crois que ce sont des
     Anges qui ont descendu sur la terre.”[5]

Meanwhile he had made great progress in music. No doubt he had profited
greatly by Philipov’s instruction, as well as by the other musical
impressions he had received in Petersburg. Now, he not only played the
pieces he was learning, but would often improvise, “just for myself
alone when I feel sad,” as he says in one of his letters. His musical
idiom was growing richer, and music had become to him what poetry had
been at Votinsk. Henceforth we hear no more about verses. He had found
the right medium of expression for all that was in his soul. About this
time he began to compose, although his attempts were merely
improvisations. Musical sounds, according to his own account, followed
him everywhere, whatever he was doing. His parents did nothing, however,
to further his musical education, partly because they were afraid of a
return of his nervous disorder, and partly because they had no intention
of making their son a professional musician. No one at Alapaiev took any
interest in his musical talent, and he kept his thoughts to himself;
either from pride, or because as yet he had no great confidence in his
own gifts. The fact that his character was changing may also have had
something to do with his reserve. He felt he possessed something that
none of his associates could share, and, inwardly conscious of his
power, he was mortified that it should pass unobserved, and that no one
should be interested in his artistic aspirations.

When he went to St. Petersburg for the second time, he was no longer a
child. His natural qualities were unchanged, but experience had somewhat
hardened him. He was better fitted for the battle of life, but his
susceptibilities and his enthusiasms were a trifle blunted.

His young life had already a past, for he had learnt to suffer. Nor did
the future appear any more in a rainbow glory, since he realised that it
would bring renunciation as well as joy. But he carried a treasure in
his heart, a light hidden from all eyes but his own, which was to bring
him comfort and courage in the hour of trial.




IV


Early in August, 1850, Madame Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg,
accompanied by her daughter, her stepdaughter, and Peter Ilich.

The parents had originally intended to place both their sons at the
School of Mining Engineers. Their reason for altering this plan and
sending Peter to the School of Jurisprudence has not transpired.
Probably it was highly recommended to them by an old friend of Ilia
Tchaikovsky’s, M. A. Vakar, who had already the charge of Nicholas. This
gentleman’s brother, Plato Vakar, who was to play an important part in
the life of Peter Ilich, was a lawyer, a fine man with a brilliant
career in prospect. It is not at all improbable that the Tchaikovskys
resolved to send their son to the school of which he was such an
admirable example.

Peter Ilich was too young to pass straight into the School of
Jurisprudence. It was necessary that for two years he should attend the
preparatory classes. At first, all his Sundays and half-holidays were
spent with his mother, who also visited him on every opportunity; so
that in the beginning he did not feel the transition from home to school
life so severely. But his mother could not remain in Petersburg after
the middle of October, and then came one of the most terrible memories
of Peter’s life--the day of her departure.

When the actual moment of parting came, he completely lost his
self-control and, clinging wildly to his mother, refused to let her go.
Neither kisses, nor words of comfort, nor the promise to return soon,
were of any avail. He saw nothing, heard nothing, but hung upon her as
though he was part and parcel of the beloved presence. It became
necessary to carry off the poor child by force, and hold him fast until
his mother had driven away. Even then he broke loose, and with a cry of
despair, ran after the carriage, and clung to one of the wheels, as
though he would bring the vehicle to a standstill.

[Illustration: ALEXANDRA ANDREIEVNA TCHAIKOVSKY, THE COMPOSER’S MOTHER,
IN 1848]

To his life’s end Tchaikovsky could never recall this hour without a
shiver of horror. This first great trouble of his life was only partly
obliterated by a still greater grief--the death of his mother. Although
in after life he passed through many sad experiences, and knew
disappointment and renunciation, he could never forget the sense of
resentment and despair which possessed him as the carriage containing
his beloved mother passed out of sight. The shadow of this parting
darkened the first year of his school life. Home-sickness and yearning
effaced all other impressions, and destroyed all his earlier tendencies,
desires, and thoughts. For two whole years it is evident from his
letters that he lived only in the hope of seeing his parents again. He
knew no other preoccupations or distractions.

       *       *       *       *       *

Hardly had the boy’s mother left St. Petersburg, when an epidemic of
scarlet fever broke out in the school. The Vakars hastened to take Peter
into their own house, but unhappily the boy, although he escaped
illness himself, carried the infection with him. The eldest son, the
pride of the home, developed the complaint and died of it. Not a word of
reproach was breathed to Peter Ilich, the unhappy cause of the disaster;
but the boy could not rid himself of the sense that the parents must
regard him with secret bitterness. It is not surprising that just at
this time life seemed to him cold and cheerless, and that he longed more
than ever for his own people.

The Vakars left Petersburg in April, 1851, and a new home was found for
the two brothers in the family of M. Weiss. This change does not appear
to have had much effect on Peter Ilich. The tone of his letters remains
as homesick as before. But in the following May, Plato Vakar and his
wife took the boys into their own house, where they remained until their
parents returned to settle in St. Petersburg. In these surroundings
Peter’s spirits brightened perceptibly.

In September his father came alone and spent three weeks with his boys.
His departure was not so tragic an event as had been the mother’s a year
earlier. Peter was now older, and had learnt to do without his parents.
Henceforth his letters are calmer; his entreaties to his mother to come
occur less frequently, and are sometimes put in a playful manner.

       *       *       *       *       *

In May, 1852, the Tchaikovsky family returned to St. Petersburg. His
modest savings and the pension he drew from the Government enabled Ilia
Tchaikovsky to retire from work and live reunited with his children.

This period of the composer’s life offers few interesting events. The
monotony of his schooldays was only broken by his Sunday _exeat_ which
was spent at home.

In 1854 his half-sister, Zinaïda, was married; and in the course of the
same year a tragic event took place, which cast a gloom over the family
for long days to come. Two years later, in 1856, Peter Ilich refers to
this loss in a letter to Fanny:--

     “First I must give you some very sad news. A terrible grief befell
     us more than two years since. Four months after Zinaïda’s marriage
     my mother was taken ill with cholera. Thanks to the care of her
     doctor, she rallied, but not for long. Three days later she was
     taken from us without even time to bid us good-bye.”

This occurred in July, 1854, and the troubles of the bereaved family did
not end here. On the day of his wife’s funeral Ilia Tchaikovsky was also
seized with cholera; but although for several days he was in great
danger, his life was eventually spared to his family. In his bereaved
condition he now found it impossible to keep house. Consequently the
younger children were sent to various schools and institutions, while he
himself made a home in the household of his brother, Peter Petrovich
Tchaikovsky, who was then residing in Petersburg.

       *       *       *       *       *

The period between 1852 and 1854 had a twofold influence upon
Tchaikovsky’s character. The tears he had shed, the suffering he had
experienced during the two years spent away from home, had reformed his
nature, and brought back, in all his old candour and charm, the boy we
knew at Votinsk. The irritability, idleness, insincerity, and
dissatisfaction with his surroundings had now given place to his old
frankness of character, which had formerly fascinated all who came in
contact with him.

On the other hand, the former freedom in which his mind and soul
developed was now greatly restricted by his way of life, which, although
wholesome in some respects, was a direct hindrance to his artistic
development. His musical progress, which had made such strides between
1848 and 1849, now came to a standstill that lasted ten years.

Of the thirty-nine letters written during his first two years of
school-life, only two have any reference to music. Once he speaks of
having played a polka for his comrades, and adds that he had been
practising a piece learnt three years previously. Another time he writes
to his parents that some day he will relate them the story of _Der
Freischütz_, and recalls having heard _A Life for the Tsar_ on his first
visit to Petersburg.

It would, however, be incorrect to conclude from this that he lived
without musical impressions. He had strong predilections, and, as he
himself says, Weber’s inspired creation, together with _A Life for the
Tsar_ and certain airs from _Don Giovanni_--learnt by means of the
orchestrion at Votinsk--occupied the highest niches in the temple of his
gods. But he had no one to share his musical enthusiasms. At that period
there was not a single amateur among his acquaintances. Everyone with
whom he came in contact regarded music merely as a pastime, without
serious significance in life. Meeting with little sympathy from his
relatives or teachers, and even less from his schoolmates, he kept his
secret aspirations to himself. He showed a certain reticence in all that
concerned his music. When asked to play, he did so unwillingly, and
hurried to get the performance over. But when he sat down to the piano,
believing himself to be alone, he seemed quite absorbed in his
improvisations.

The only person with whom he could discuss his musical taste was his
aunt, Mme. E. A. Alexeiev. Her knowledge of instrumental music was
limited, but she could advance her nephew’s acquaintance with
vocal--especially operatic--music. Thanks to her, he learnt to know the
whole of _Don Giovanni_, and was never tired of reading the pianoforte
score.

     “The music of _Don Juan_,” he wrote in 1878, “was the first to make
     a deep impression upon me. It awoke a spiritual ecstasy which was
     afterwards to bear fruit. By its help I penetrated into that world
     of artistic beauty where only great genius abides. It is due to
     Mozart that I devoted my life to music. He gave the first impulse
     to my efforts, and made me love it above all else in the world.”

But although Tchaikovsky shrank from sharing his deeper musical emotions
with anyone, he was quite willing to take part with those who regarded
music as a mere recreation. He sang bravura airs with a facility of
vocalisation any _prima donna_ might have envied. Once he learnt, with
his aunt, the exceedingly florid duet in _Semiramide_, and sang the
soprano part admirably. He was very proud of his wonderful natural
shake.

About this time one of his most characteristic peculiarities first
showed itself: his docility and compliance to the opinions of others on
all questions save those concerned with music. Here he would brook no
interference. In spite of any attempts to influence his judgment in this
respect, he adhered to his own views and followed only his own inward
promptings. In all other matters he was malleable as wax.




V


Tchaikovsky’s school life had little or no effect upon his subsequent
career. The period between 1852-1859 reveals to us not so much the
evolution of an artist, as that of an amiable, but mediocre, official,
of whom scarcely a trace was to be found some five years later.

The biographical material of this period is necessarily very scanty,
being limited to the somewhat hazy reminiscences of his relatives and
school friends. Naturally enough it did not occur to anyone to take
notes of the comings and goings of a very ordinary young man.

Among the masters and pupils at the School of Jurisprudence no one seems
to have exercised any lasting influence, moral or intellectual, upon
Tchaikovsky.

He was studious and capable. Many of his studies interested him, but
neither he, nor any of his schoolmates, could recall one particular
subject in which he had won distinction. On the other hand, mathematics
alone seem to have offered any serious difficulty to him.

       *       *       *       *       *

The scholars of the School of Jurisprudence were drawn chiefly from the
upper middle classes, consequently Tchaikovsky found himself from the
first among his social equals. His final year was not especially
brilliant, but, besides the composer himself, it included the poet
Apukhtin and the famous lawyer Gerard.

According to the latter’s account, the scholars of that year aimed high.
All took a keen interest in literature. Even the lower forms possessed a
school magazine, to which Apukhtin, Maslov, Aertel, Gerard, and
Tchaikovsky were contributors. A “History of the Literature of our
Form,” very smartly written, emanated--so Maslov says--from
Tchaikovsky’s pen.

       *       *       *       *       *

Among the composer’s schoolfellows Vladimir Stepanovich Adamov takes the
first place. Although they spent but a few months in the same class, the
mutual attraction was so strong that they remained intimate friends
until death severed the connection. Adamov was a typical scholar of the
hard-working kind, yet at the same time he had æsthetic aspirations and
tastes. He was a passionate lover of nature and very fond of music,
although he never became more than an indifferent amateur singer. The
friends often went together to the Italian Opera. Adamov left the school
with a gold medal and rose rapidly to a high place in the Ministry of
Justice. His premature death in 1877 was a severe blow to Tchaikovsky,
for Adamov was one of the few intimate friends to whom he cared to
confide his artistic aspirations.

Apukhtin, who came to school in 1853, at thirteen, was a youthful
prodigy. His poetical gifts were already the admiration not only of his
comrades, but of the outer world. He possessed the same personal charm
as Tchaikovsky, but was far more sophisticated and self-conscious. The
universal admiration to which he was accustomed, the interest of such
writers as Tourgeniev and Fet, tended to encourage his vanity. The path
to fame lay clearly before him.

Apukhtin’s tendencies were decidedly sceptical. He was the exact
opposite of Tchaikovsky. Their temperaments were radically different.
But both loved poetry, and shared that delicate “flair” for all that is
choice--that mysterious “something” which draws artists together, no
matter when or where they chance to meet. The contrast in all other
respects only served to open new horizons to both and draw the bonds of
friendship closer.

As a friend and schoolmate, Tchaikovsky displayed the same qualities
which distinguished him as a child at Votinsk. Now, as subsequently in
the Ministry of Justice, at the Conservatoires of Petersburg and Moscow,
throughout Europe and across the Atlantic, we watch him drawing all
hearts towards himself, while the circle of his friendships was
constantly widening.

By the time he passed out of the preparatory classes, his ideal faith in
the order of things was shaken. He no longer worked with a kind of
religious fervour for work’s sake. Henceforward he did just what was
necessary to avoid punishment and to enable him to qualify for an
official post, without any real interest in the work. As to music,
neither he, nor any of his circle, had any confidence in an artistic
career. He scarcely realised in what direction he was drifting; yet with
the change from youth to manhood came also the desire to taste the
pleasures and excitements of life. The future appeared to him as an
endless festival, and as nothing had come, so far, to mar his happiness,
he gave himself up to this delightful illusion.

[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1859]

With an impulsive temperament, he took life easily: a good-natured,
careless young man, unencumbered by serious aspirations or intentions.

       *       *       *       *       *

In 1855, in consequence of the mother’s death, the family life of the
Tchaikovskys underwent great changes.

Ilia Tchaikovsky was a good father, but he did not understand the
education of the younger children. Realising this fact--and partly
because he found his loneliness unbearable--he now resolved to share the
home of his brother, Peter Petrovich Tchaikovsky.

Peter Petrovich was a white-haired man of seventy, every inch a soldier,
who had seen many campaigns, and bore many honourable scars. He was
exceedingly religious, and up to the time of his marriage had led a life
devoted to prayer, fasting, and warfare. He might have belonged to some
mediæval order of knighthood. Stern towards himself, he demanded blind
obedience from his wife and children; when he found that they did not
respond to his influence, he shut himself apart in grim disapproval and
wrote endless tracts on mystical subjects.

Madame Peter Tchaikovsky, although a little in awe of her husband,
permitted her children to enjoy all the amusements natural to their
age--balls, concerts, and other worldly dissipations. The young people
of both families led a merry, careless existence until the spring of
1858, when Ilia Tchaikovsky, thanks to his over-confidence in humanity,
suddenly lost his entire fortune and was obliged in his declining days
to seek a new appointment. Fortunately this was forthcoming and, as the
Director of the Technological Institute, he found himself once more in
comfortable circumstances. A married sister-in-law Elizabeth Schobert,
and her family, now joined the Tchaikovsky household, established in the
official residence that went with the new appointment.

On May 13th (25th), 1859, Peter Ilich left the School of Jurisprudence
and entered the Ministry of Justice as a first-class clerk. This event,
which would have meant so much to any other young man, signified little
to Tchaikovsky. He did not take his new work seriously, although he had
no presentiment of his future destiny. How little his official
occupations really interested him is evident from the fact that a few
months after he had changed his vocation he could not remember the
nature of his work in the Ministry of Justice. He only recollected one
of his colleagues, because of “something rather unusual that seemed to
flash from his eyes.” Twenty-five years later Tchaikovsky met this man
again in the person of the celebrated landscape painter Volkov.

One “traditional” anecdote, and the brief history of Peter Ilich as an
official is complete. He had been entrusted with a signed document from
the chief of his department, but on his way to deliver it he stopped to
talk with someone, and in his absence of mind never noticed that, while
talking, he kept tearing off scraps of the paper and chewing them--a
trick he always had with theatre tickets or programmes. There was
nothing for it but to re-copy the document and, however unpleasant, to
face his chief for a fresh signature.

Tchaikovsky delighted in nature and the freedom of the country. In
winter the theatre was his chief amusement, especially the French play,
the ballet, and the Italian opera. He was particularly fascinated by
ballets of the fantastic or fairy order, and gradually came to value
more and more the art of dancing.

The acting of Adelaide Ristori made a profound impression upon
Tchaikovsky. His greatest admiration, however, was for the singer
Lagroua. She was not a beautiful woman, but, in the part of Norma, she
displayed such tragic pathos, such plastic art, that she was worthy to
be compared with the greatest actresses.

In 1860 Tchaikovsky’s youngest sister and constant companion, Alexandra
Ilinichna, was married to Leo Vassilievich Davidov, and went to live in
the Government of Kiev. During the following year several other members
of the family went out into the world, so that the cheerful family life
came to an end, and a shade of melancholy crept over the remainder of
the household.

At this period Tchaikovsky’s attitude to his father and his aunts was
slightly egotistical and contemptuous. This was only a passing phase. He
was not actually wanting in affection for his own people, but was simply
bored in their society. At this age he could not endure a quiet life at
home.

Under such auspices dawned the year 1861, destined to inaugurate a new
epoch in the life of Tchaikovsky.




                                   PART II




I


At this time there were two music masters at the School of
Jurisprudence. Karel, who taught the piano, until he was succeeded by
Bekker, and Lomakin, the professor of singing.

It is not known whether Tchaikovsky ever took lessons with Karel. With
Bekker he did learn for a time, but the lessons made no impression upon
his memory.

The singing lessons he received from Lomakin amounted to little more
than choral practices. Lomakin was a very competent man, who brought the
school choir to a pitch of perfection; but he had not time to train
individual voices, consequently he exercised no direct influence on
Tchaikovsky, although he observed his beautiful soprano voice and his
great talent for music.

Besides these masters, Tchaikovsky took piano lessons at home from
Rudolf Kündinger.

Kündinger had come to Russia at eighteen, and delighted the public of
St. Petersburg by his brilliant virtuosity. Having attracted many
pupils, he settled in Petersburg. In 1855 the elder Tchaikovsky engaged
him to teach his son. Kündinger afterwards regretted that he kept no
record of these lessons. The boy struck him as talented, but nothing
made him suspect the germ of a great composer. One thing which impressed
Kündinger was his remarkable power of improvisation. Another was his
fine feeling for harmony. Kündinger would often show his pupil his own
compositions, and accept his suggestions as regards harmony, finding
them invariably to the point, although at that time Tchaikovsky knew
nothing of the theory of music.

His father consulted Kündinger as to the wisdom of allowing his son to
devote himself entirely to music. The teacher’s advice was directly to
the contrary. “I had to take into consideration the wretched status of a
professional musician in Russia at that time,” said Kündinger
afterwards; “besides I had no real faith in Peter Ilich’s gift for
music.”

If such specialists as Lomakin and Kündinger saw nothing phenomenal in
Tchaikovsky, it is hardly surprising that others should have failed to
do so. His school friends valued his musical talents, but were far from
suspecting him to be a future celebrity. His relations, especially his
sisters and cousins, thought his improvisation of dance music a pleasant
accomplishment, but otherwise regarded his music as “useless trifling.”
His father, alone, took the matter at all seriously. He engaged a good
teacher, and encouraged his son to study steadily. In a word, he did all
that a man could do, who knew absolutely nothing of music and musicians.

Tchaikovsky had only one morning and two evenings in the week in which
he was free to devote himself to music. Consequently he had no
opportunity of grounding himself in the art. When and how could he
become acquainted with the symphonic masterpieces of the great German
composers? Symphony concerts were then rare in St. Petersburg. The
future composer had no alternative but to study these works in
pianoforte arrangements. But such music was expensive and beyond his
slender means. This explains why his musical knowledge was so limited at
that time. We cannot say how many of the works of Beethoven, Mozart, and
Schubert he knew prior to 1861; it is certain that his knowledge was not
half so extensive as that of any good amateur of the present day. For
instance, he knew nothing of Schumann, nor the number and keys of
Beethoven’s symphonies. He frequented the Italian Opera, which was his
sole opportunity of hearing a good orchestra, chorus, and first-rate
soloists. Russian opera was then at a low ebb, and he only went to hear
his favourite work, _A Life for the Tsar_. All the other operas he heard
were sung by Italians. To these artists he owed not only his passion for
_Don Juan_ and _Freischütz_, but also his acquaintance with Meyerbeer,
Rossini, Donizetti, and Verdi, for whom he had a genuine enthusiasm.

During the fifties the celebrated singing master Piccioli was living in
Petersburg. He was a Neapolitan by birth, who had come to the Russian
capital some ten years earlier and settled there. His wife was a friend
of Alexandra Schobert, and in this way he became acquainted with the
Tchaikovskys. Although nearly fifty, he was very intimate with Peter,
who was but seventeen. But as to Piccioli’s real age, no one knew the
truth, for he kept it dark. He certainly dyed his hair and painted his
face, and cruel tongues did not hesitate to assert that he would never
see seventy again, and that he kept at the back of his head a small
apparatus for smoothing out his wrinkles. I remember how, as children,
my brother Anatol and I took great pains to discover this apparatus, and
how we finally decided it must be concealed somewhere under his collar.
As regards music, Piccioli gave utterance to such violently fanatical
views and convictions, and knew so well how to defend them with
persuasive eloquence, that he could have won over even a less pliant
nature than that of Tchaikovsky. He acknowledged only Rossini, Bellini,
Donizetti, and Verdi. He scorned and hated with equal thoroughness the
symphonies of Beethoven, the works of Bach, _A Life for the Tsar_, and
all the rest. Outside the creations of the great Italian melodists he
admitted no music whatever. In spite of his eloquence, the Italian
could not win over Tchaikovsky heart and soul to his way of thinking,
because the latter was not given to partiality, and also because his own
musical tastes were already firmly implanted, and could not be so easily
modified. He carried within him an Olympia of his own, to the deities of
which he did homage with all his soul. Nevertheless, the friendship
between himself and Piccioli remained unbroken, and to this he owed, in
a great measure, his thorough acquaintance with the music of the Italian
operatic school.

Since 1850 Tchaikovsky’s talent as a composer had only found expression
in improvisations for the piano. Although he had composed a good many
valses, polkas, and “Rêveries de Salon,” which were probably no worse
than similar pieces invented by his “composer” friends, he could not
bring himself to put his thoughts on paper--perhaps from excessive
modesty, perhaps from pride. Once only did he write out a song, composed
to words by the poet Fet: “My genius, my angel, my friend,” a mere empty
amateur effusion. Yet, as time passed, his musical consciousness, his
realisation of his true vocation, undoubtedly increased. Later in life
he said, that even at school, the thought of becoming a composer haunted
him incessantly, but, feeling that no one in his circle had any faith in
his talents, he seldom mentioned the subject. Occasionally he made a
prophetic utterance. Once, about the close of 1862, soon after he had
joined the classes at the Conservatoire, he was talking to his brother
Nicholas. Nicholas, who was one of those who did not approve of his
brother’s wish to study music, held forth on the subject, assuring him
he had not the genius of a Glinka, and that the wretched lot of a
mediocre musician was not an enviable one. At first Peter Ilich made no
reply, but as they were parting he said: “Perhaps I shall not turn out a
Glinka, but one thing I can assure you--you will be proud some day to
own me as a brother.” The look in his eyes, and the tone in which he
spoke these words, were never forgotten by Nicholas Tchaikovsky.

The slowness and unproductiveness of Tchaikovsky’s musical development
in the fifties was closely connected with his frivolous mode of life.
His nature--in reality lovable and accessible to all--and his fertile
genius seemed both hushed in a profound slumber; but at the moment of
his awakening, his musical gifts as well as all his other good qualities
simultaneously reappeared. With the superficial amateur vanished also
the mere society man; with the strenuous, zealous inquirer returned also
the tender, grateful son, the kind and thoughtful brother.

The change took place quite unobserved. It is difficult to give the
exact moment of its commencement, for it was not preceded by any
important events. Undoubtedly, it may be observed as early as 1861, when
Peter Ilich began once more to think of an artistic career and entered
into closer relationship with his family, striving to find at home that
satisfaction for his higher spiritual needs, which he had failed to
discover in his previous way of living. He had grown weary of an
easy-going life, and the desire to start afresh made itself increasingly
felt. He began to be afraid lest he might be overwhelmed in this slough
of a petty, useless, and vicious existence. In the midst of this
feverish pursuit of pleasure there came over him--so he said--moments of
agonising despair. Whether satiety came to him from some unknown event
in his life, or whether it gradually crept into his soul, no one can
tell, for he passed through these heavy hours alone. Those around him
only observed the change when it had already taken place, and the dawn
of a new life had gladdened his spiritual vision.

[Illustration: THE COMPOSER’S FATHER WITH HIS TWIN SONS MODESTE AND
ANATOL, 1855]

In a letter to his newly-married sister Alexandra, written in March,
1861, he speaks of an incident which may be regarded as the first step
towards his musical career. His father, on his own initiative, had
actually proposed that he should devote himself entirely to music.

     “At supper they were talking of my musical talent,” writes Peter
     Ilich, “and father declared it was not yet too late for me to
     become an artist. If it were only true! But the matter stands thus:
     that my talent, supposing I really have any, would hardly develop
     now. They have made me an official, although a poor one; I try as
     hard as I can to improve and to fulfil my duties more
     conscientiously, and at the same time I am to be studying
     thorough-bass!”

Another incident, as ordinary as the one just related, marks the change
in Tchaikovsky’s relations with his family, and throws a clearer light
upon this revolution in his spiritual life.

After the marriage of our sister Alexandra, the twins, Anatol and
myself, then about ten years old, were often very lonely. From three
o’clock in the afternoon--when we returned from school--until bedtime,
we were left to our own resources. One long and wearisome evening, as we
sat on the drawing-room window-sill kicking our heels, Peter came in and
found us. From our earliest infancy he inspired us, not so much with
love as with respect and adoration. A word from him was like a sacred
treasure. He, on the contrary, took no notice of us; we had no existence
for him.

The mere fact that he was in the house, and that we could see him,
sufficed to distract our dullness and cheer us up; but great indeed was
our astonishment when, instead of passing us by unobserved as usual, he
stopped to say: “Are you dull, boys? Would you like to spend the evening
with me?” To this day I cannot forget that memorable evening; memorable
indeed for us, since it was the beginning of a new existence.

The wisest and most experienced of teachers, the dearest and tenderest
of mothers, could not have replaced Peter Ilich in our life from that
hour; for he was all this, and our friend and comrade besides. All we
thought and felt we could tell him without any fear lest it would fail
to interest him. His influence upon us was unbounded. We, on our side,
became the first care and aim of his life. We three formed, as it were,
a family within the family. A year later Peter wrote to his sister:--

     “My attachment to these little folk grows from day to day. I am
     very proud of this feeling, perhaps the best which my heart has
     known. When I am unhappy I have only to think of them, and my life
     seems better worth living. I try as far as possible to give them a
     mother’s love and care....”




II


In spite of the important conversation at the supper-table, in spite of
the spiritual regeneration of Peter Ilich and the change in his
relations towards his family, his life remained externally the same. He
kept his official berth, and continued to go into society, frequenting
dances and theatres. Of all the pleasures he pursued, of all the desires
he cherished, only one remained unfulfilled--a tour abroad.

But now even this wish was to be satisfied.

An old friend of his father’s had to go abroad on business. As he was no
linguist, it was necessary to take a companion who would act as
interpreter, and he proposed that Peter Ilich should accompany him in
this capacity. Accordingly in June, 1861, the former writes to his
sister:--

     “As you probably have heard already, I am to go abroad. You can
     imagine my delight.... This journey seems to me at times an
     alluring, unrealisable dream. I shall not believe in it until I am
     actually on the steamer. I--in Paris! In Switzerland! It seems
     ridiculous to think of it!”

In July Tchaikovsky started with his friend, but not by steamer.

Their first halting-place was Berlin. In those days every Russian
considered it his duty to run down this city. To this duty--or rather
custom--Peter Ilich contributed his due. After he had visited Kroll’s,
and a dancing saloon, and seen Offenbach’s _Orphée aux Enfers_, he
writes with youthful _naïveté_: “Now we know our Berlin thoroughly, and
have had enough of it!”

After Berlin came Hamburg, which Tchaikovsky found “a considerable
improvement.” Brussels and Antwerp did not please him at all. At Ostend
they stayed three days. “It is beautiful here,” he wrote. “I love the
sea, especially when it foams and roars, and these last days it has been
furious.”

Next they went on to London. “Our visit would be very pleasant were it
not for the anxiety about your health,” he wrote to his father. “Your
letters are awaiting me in Paris, and my heart yearns for them, but we
must remain here a few days longer. London is very interesting, but
makes a gloomy impression. The sun is seldom visible, and it rains all
the time.” Here Tchaikovsky heard Patti for the first time, and although
later in life she fascinated him, now he could see “nothing particular”
in her.

As might be expected, Paris pleased him best of all the towns he
visited. Life in the French capital he found delightful. The six weeks
which he spent in Paris were the culmination of his pleasure trip. But
in the midst of his enjoyment he experienced a complete disenchantment
with his travelling companion. After a series of painful
misunderstandings they separated, and Peter Ilich returned to Russia
alone about the end of September.

Intellectually and artistically, Tchaikovsky profited little by this
journey. Indeed, it is astonishing how little sensitive he seems to have
been at that time to all such impressions. In the three months he was
abroad he only acquired one positive piece of information--where one
could derive the greatest pleasure. And yet his journey was not
altogether wasted. In the first place, it brought home to him the
strength of his attachment to his own people. He missed the twins most
of all. “Take care, father, that Toly and Modi[6] are not idle.” “Are
Toly and Modi working well?” “Don’t forget to tell the examiner that
Toly and Modi are prepared for the upper division,” so runs the gist of
his letters.

Secondly, on this journey he learnt to realise the inevitable end of an
idle and pleasure-seeking life, and to recognise that it led to nothing,
and that existence held other and nobler aims than the pursuit of
enjoyment. The various distractions of Parisian life brought about a
wholesome reaction, and on the threshold of a new career he could look
quietly on the termination of his former life, conscious only of an
ardent desire to step from the shadow into God’s daylight.

Soon after his return he wrote the following letter to his sister:--

     “_October_ 23_rd_ (_November_ 4_th_), 1861.

     “What shall I tell you about my journey? It is better to say
     nothing. If ever I started upon a colossal piece of folly, it was
     this same trip abroad. You remember my companion? Well, under the
     mask of _bonhomie_, which made me believe him to be a worthy man,
     was concealed the most commonplace nature. You can imagine if it
     was pleasant to spend three months with such a fellow-traveller.
     Added to which I ran through more money than I could afford and got
     nothing for it. Do you see what a fool I have been? But do not
     scold me. I have behaved like a child--nothing more.... You know I
     have a weakness: as soon as I have any money I squander it in
     pleasure. It is vulgar, wanting in good sense--I know it--but it
     seems in my nature. Where will it all lead? What can I hope from
     the future? It is terrible to think of. I know there will come a
     time when I shall no longer be able to fight against the
     difficulties of life. Until then I will do all I can to enjoy it.
     For the last fortnight all has gone badly with me; my official work
     has been very bad. Money vanishes like smoke. In love--no luck. But
     a better time will come soon.

     “P.S.--I have begun to study thorough-bass, and am making good
     progress. Who knows, perhaps in three years’ time you will be
     hearing my opera and singing my arias.”




III


The most remarkable feature in the process of Tchaikovsky’s
transformation from a smart Government official and society dandy into a
musical student lies in the fact that, with all its apparent suddenness
and irrevocableness, there was nothing hasty or emotional about the
proceeding. Not once, by word or deed, can we discern that he cherished
any idea of future renown. He scaled no rugged heights, he put forth no
great powers; but every move in his new career was carefully considered,
steadily resolved upon, and, in spite of a certain degree of caution,
firmly established. His peace of mind and confidence were so great that
they seemed part of his environment, and all hindrances and difficulties
vanished of their own accord and left the way open to him.

The psychological aspect of this transformation, the pathetic side of
the conflict which he sustained for over two years, must always remain
unrevealed; not because his correspondence at this time was scanty, but
because Peter Ilich maintained a jealous guard over the secrets of his
inner and spiritual life in which no stranger was permitted to
intermeddle. He chose to go through the dark hours alone, and remained
outwardly the same serene and cheerful young man as before. But if this
reincarnation was quite ordinary in its process, it was the more radical
and decisive.

Tchaikovsky’s situation is very clearly shown in four letters written to
his sister about this period, each letter corresponding with one of the
four phases of his evolution. These letters throw a clear light upon the
chief psychological moments of these two eventful years of his life.

The first, dated October 23rd (November 4th), 1861, has been already
quoted. Tchaikovsky just mentions in the postscript that he has begun
his musical studies as a matter of no importance whatever--and that in
itself is very enlightening. At that moment his harmony lessons with
Zaremba were only a detail in the life of a man of the world, as were
the Italian conversation lessons he was taking at the same time. His
chief interest was still his official career, and most of his leisure
was still given up to social enjoyment. The second letter shows matters
from a somewhat different point of view. Although only written a few
weeks later, it puts his musical studies in a new light. On December 4th
(16th), 1861, Tchaikovsky writes:--

     “I am getting on well. I hope soon to get a rise, and be appointed
     ‘clerk for special duty.’ I shall get an additional twenty roubles
     to my salary and less work. God grant it may come to pass!... I
     think I have already told you that I have begun to study the theory
     of music with success. You will agree that, with my rather
     exceptional talents (I hope you will not mistake this for
     bragging), it seems foolish not to try my chances in this
     direction. I only dread my own easy-going nature. In the end my
     indolence will conquer: but if not, I promise you that I shall do
     something. Luckily it is not yet too late.”

Between the second and third letters eight months elapsed. During this
period Peter Ilich had to refute his self-condemnation as regards
indolence, and to prove that it actually “was not yet too late” to
accomplish something.

I recollect having made two discoveries at this time which filled me
with astonishment. The first was that the two ideas “brother Peter” and
“work” were not necessarily opposed; the second, that besides pleasant
and interesting music, there existed another kind, exceedingly
unpleasant and wearisome, which appeared nevertheless to be the more
important of the two. I still remember with what persistency Peter Ilich
would sit at the piano for hours together playing the most “abominable”
and “incomprehensible” preludes and fugues.... My astonishment knew no
bounds when he informed me he was writing exercises. It passed my
understanding that so charming a pastime as music should have anything
in common with the mathematical problems we loathed. Outwardly Peter
Ilich’s life underwent one remarkable change. Of all his friends and
acquaintances he now only kept up with Apukhtin and Adamov.

Besides his work for Zaremba’s classes, Tchaikovsky devoted many hours
to the study of the classical composers. Yet, in spite of all this, his
official work still remained the chief aim of his existence. During the
summer of 1862 he was more attentive to his official duties than before,
because in the autumn a desirable vacancy was expected to occur, to
which he had every claim, so that it was important to prove to his
chief, by extra zeal and diligence, that he was worthy of the post. His
labour was wasted; the place was not bestowed upon him. His indignation
at being “passed over” knew no bounds, and there is little doubt that
this incident had a great deal to do with his resolution to devote
himself entirely to music. The last ties which bound him to the
bureaucratic world snapped under the strain of this act of “injustice.”

Meanwhile several changes had taken place in the family life of the
Tchaikovskys. Their aunt Madame Schobert had left them. Nicholas had
received an appointment in the provinces. Hyppolite was in the navy and
had been sent on a long voyage. The family was now reduced to four
members--the father, Peter Ilich, and the twins. The latter, deprived
of their aunt’s care, found in their brother more than ever both a tutor
and a guardian.

Tchaikovsky’s third letter to his sister, dated September 10th (22nd),
1862, brings us to a still more advanced phase of his transformation.
His official work has now taken quite a subordinate position, while
music is regarded as his speciality and life-work, not only by himself,
but by all his relatives.

     “I have entered the newly-opened Conservatoire,” he says, “and the
     course begins in a few days. As you know, I have worked hard at the
     theory of music during the past year, and have come to the
     conclusion that sooner or later I shall give up my present
     occupation for music. Do not imagine I dream of being a great
     artist.... I only feel I must do the work for which I have a
     vocation. Whether I become a celebrated composer, or only a
     struggling teacher--’tis all the same. In any case my conscience
     will be clear, and I shall no longer have any right to grumble at
     my lot. Of course, I shall not resign my present position until I
     am sure that I am no longer a clerk, but a musician.”

He had relinquished social gaiety. “I always have my midday meal at
home,” he wrote at this time, “and in the evening I often go to the
theatre with father, or play cards with him.” Soon he had not even
leisure for such distractions. His musical studies were not restricted
to two classes in the week, but began to absorb almost all his time.
Besides which he began to make new friends at the Conservatoire--mostly
professional musicians--with whom he spent the rest of his leisure.

Among these, Laroche plays so important a part in Tchaikovsky’s artistic
and intimate life that it is necessary to say something of his
personality before proceeding further.

[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1859]

Hermann Laroche, the well-known musical writer and critic, was born in
St. Petersburg, May 13th (25th), 1845. His father, a Hanoverian by
birth, was established in that city as a French teacher. His mother
was a highly educated woman, and was careful to make her son an
accomplished linguist. His musical talent was displayed at an early age.
At ten he had already composed a march and an overture. He began his
systematic musical education in 1860, at Moscow, under the guidance of
Dubuque. At first he wished to be a virtuoso, but his teachers persuaded
him to relinquish the idea, because his hands were not suited to the
piano, and they laid more stress on his talent for composing.

When he entered the Conservatoire in the autumn of 1862, Laroche
surpassed all his fellow-students in musical knowledge, and was also a
highly educated and well-read young man.

Tchaikovsky and Laroche met for the first time in October, 1862, at the
class of the professor of pianoforte, Gerke. Hermann Laroche was then
seventeen years of age. The important results of this friendship in
Tchaikovsky’s after-life will be seen as this book proceeds; at the
outset its importance was threefold. In the first place, he found in
this fellow-student, who was far better versed in musical literature
than himself, an unofficial guide and mentor; secondly, Laroche was the
first critic of Tchaikovsky’s school compositions--the first and also
the most influential, for, from the beginning, Peter Ilich placed the
greatest confidence in his judgment; and thirdly, Laroche supplanted all
former intimacies in Tchaikovsky’s life, and became his dearest
companion and friend. The variety of his interests, the keenness of his
critical judgments, his unfailing liveliness and wit, made the hours of
leisure which Tchaikovsky now spent with him both pleasant and
profitable; while Laroche’s inexperience of the practical side of life,
and his helplessness in his relations with others, amused Tchaikovsky
and gave him an opportunity of helping and advising his friend in
return.

Early in 1863 Tchaikovsky resigned his place in the Ministry of
Justice, and resolved to give himself up entirely to music. His material
prospects were not bright. His father could give him board and lodging;
the rest he must earn for himself. But his will was firm, for by this
time his self-confidence and love of his art had taken firm root.

The fourth and last letter to his sister, which sets forth the reasons
which induced him to give up his official appointment, reveals
altogether a new man.

     “_April_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1863.

     “DEAR SASHA,--From your letter which reached father to-day, I
     perceive that you take a lively interest in my situation and regard
     with some mistrust the step I have decided to take. I will now
     explain to you more fully what my hopes and intentions really are.
     My musical talent--you cannot deny it--is my only one. This being
     so, it stands to reason that I ought not to leave this God-sent
     gift uncultivated and undeveloped. For this reason I began to study
     music seriously. So far my official duties did not clash with this
     work, and I could remain in the Ministry of Justice. Now, however,
     my studies grow more severe and take up more time, so I find myself
     compelled to give up one or the other.... In a word, after long
     consideration, I have resolved to sacrifice the salary and resign
     my post. But it does not follow that I intend to get into debt, or
     ask for money from father, whose circumstances are not very
     flourishing just now. Certainly I am not gaining any material
     advantage. But first I hope to obtain a small post in the
     Conservatoire next season (as assistant professor); secondly, I
     have a few private lessons in view; and thirdly--what is most
     important of all--I have entirely renounced all amusements and
     luxuries, so that my expenditure has very much decreased. Now you
     will want to know what will become of me when I have finished my
     course. One thing I know for certain. I shall be a good musician
     and shall be able to earn my daily bread. The professors are
     satisfied with me, and say that with the necessary zeal I shall do
     well. I do not tell you all this in a boastful spirit (it is not
     my nature), only in order to speak openly to you without any false
     modesty. I cherish a dream; to come to you for a whole year after
     my studies are finished to compose a great work in your quiet
     surroundings. After that--out into the world.”

In the autumn of 1863, after a visit to Apukhtin, Tchaikovsky returned
to Petersburg, externally and inwardly a changed man. His hair had grown
long, and he wore a somewhat shabby, but once fashionable coat, a relic
of his “foppish days”; so that in the new Tchaikovsky the former Peter
Ilich was hardly recognisable. His circumstances at this time were not
brilliant. His father had taken a very modest lodging in Petersburg, and
could give his son nothing but bare board and lodging. To supply his
further needs, Peter Ilich took some private teaching which Anton
Rubinstein found for him. These lessons brought in about fifty roubles a
month (£5).

The sacrifice of all the pleasures of life did not in the least embitter
or disturb him. On the contrary, he made light of his poverty, and at no
time of his life was he so cheerful and serene as now. In a small room,
which only held a bed and a writing-table, he started bravely on his
new, laborious existence, and there he spent many a night in arduous
work.




IV


Laroche gives the following account of the years Tchaikovsky spent at
the Conservatoire of St. Petersburg:--

     “At the Conservatoire, founded by Anton Rubinstein in 1861, under
     the patronage of the Grand-Duchess Helen, the curriculum consisted
     of the following subjects: Choral Singing (Lomakin and Dütsch),
     Solo Singing (Frau Nissen-Soloman), Pianoforte (Leschetitzky and
     Beggrov), Violin (Wieniawsky), Violoncello (Schuberth), and
     Composition (Zaremba). Of all these subjects Tchaikovsky studied
     the last only.

     “Nicholas Ivanovich Zaremba was then forty years of age. A Pole by
     birth, he had studied law at the University of St. Petersburg, and
     had been a clerk in one of the Government offices....
     Music--especially composition--he had studied in Berlin under the
     celebrated theorist Marx, whom he almost worshipped. As a composer,
     Zaremba is not known to me. Never once, either in class or during
     his private lessons, did he say so much as a word about his own
     compositions. Only on one occasion he invited Peter Ilich to his
     house and, when they were alone together, showed him the manuscript
     of a string quartet of his own. The following day Peter Ilich told
     me the work was ‘very nice, in the style of Haydn.’

     “Zaremba had many of the qualities of an ideal teacher. Although,
     if I am not mistaken, teaching was somewhat new to him, he appeared
     fully equipped, with a course mapped out to the smallest details,
     firm in his æsthetic views, and inventive in illustrating his
     subject.... As became an out-and-out follower of Marx, Zaremba was
     a progressive liberal as regards music, believed in Beethoven
     (particularly in his latest period), detested the bondage of the
     schools, and was more disposed to leave his pupils to themselves
     than to restrict and hamper them with excessive severity. He taught
     on Marx’s method, with one deviation: he followed up his harmony
     course by one on strict counterpoint, using a text book of Heinrich
     Bellermann’s. I do not think, however, that he taught this on his
     own initiative, but possibly at Rubinstein’s expressed wish.

     “I have spoken of Zaremba as progressive. He was actually an
     enthusiastic admirer of Beethoven’s later period; but he stopped
     short at Beethoven, or rather at Mendelssohn. The later development
     of German music, which started from Schumann, was unknown to him.
     He knew nothing of Berlioz and ignored Glinka. With regard to the
     latter he showed very plainly his alienation from Russian soil.
     Tchaikovsky, who was more disposed towards empiricism, and by
     nature antagonistic to all abstractions, did not admire Zaremba’s
     showy eloquence, nor yet that structure of superficial logic, from
     the shelter of which he thundered forth his violent and arbitrary
     views. The misunderstanding between pupil and teacher was
     aggravated by the fact that Zaremba most frequently cited the
     authority of Beethoven, while, following the example of his master,
     Marx, he secretly--and sometimes openly--despised Mozart.
     Tchaikovsky, on the contrary, had more respect than enthusiasm for
     Beethoven, and never aimed at following in his footsteps. His
     judgment was always somewhat sceptical; his need of independence
     remarkable. During all the years I knew him, he never once
     submitted blindly to any influence, nor swore by anyone in _verba
     magistri_. His personal feelings sometimes coloured his views.
     Zaremba, however, exercised no such fascination for him. Neither in
     Tchaikovsky the composer, nor in Tchaikovsky the professor, do we
     find any subsequent traces of Zaremba’s teaching. This is the more
     remarkable, because the composer went to him as a beginner to be
     grounded in the rudiments of musical theory, so that he had every
     opportunity of making a deep and lasting impression. I must,
     however, relate one occurrence which partially contradicts my
     statement that Zaremba had no influence whatever upon his pupil.
     When in 1862, or the following year, I expressed my admiration for
     the energy and industry with which Tchaikovsky was working, he
     replied that when he first attended Zaremba’s classes he had not
     been so zealous, but had worked in ‘a very superficial way, like a
     true amateur,’ until on one occasion Zaremba had drawn him aside
     and impressed upon him the necessity of being more earnest and
     industrious, because he possessed a fine talent. Deeply touched,
     Peter Ilich resolved to conquer his indolence, and from that moment
     worked with untiring zeal and energy.

     “From 1861-2 Tchaikovsky learnt harmony, and from 1862-3 studied
     strict counterpoint and the church modes under Zaremba, with whom,
     in September, 1863, he began also to study form; while about the
     same time he passed into Rubinstein’s class for instrumentation.

     “The great personality of the Director of the Conservatoire
     inspired us students with unbounded affection, mingled with not a
     little awe. In reality no teacher was more considerate and kindly,
     but his forbidding appearance, his hot temper and roughness, added
     to the glamour of his European fame, impressed us profoundly.

     “Besides the direction of the Conservatoire, he taught the piano,
     and his class was the desired goal of every young pianist in the
     school, for although the other professors (Gerke, Dreyschock, and
     Leschetitzky) had excellent reputations, they were overshadowed by
     Rubinstein’s fame and by his wonderful playing. In his class, which
     then consisted of three male students and a host of women,
     Rubinstein would often set the most comical tasks. On one occasion,
     for instance, he made his pupils play Czerny’s “Daily Studies” in
     every key, keeping precisely the same fingering throughout. His
     pupils were very proud of the ordeals they were made to undergo,
     and their narrations aroused the envy of all the other classes. As
     a teacher of theory Anton Rubinstein was just the opposite of
     Zaremba. While the latter was remarkably eloquent, the former was
     taciturn to the last degree. Rubinstein spoke a number of
     languages, but none quite correctly. In Russian he often expressed
     himself fluently and appropriately, but his grammar was sometimes
     faulty, which was very noticeable in his exposition of a
     theoretical problem, demanding logical sequence. Yet it was
     remarkable that this deficiency in no way spoilt his lectures. With
     Zaremba, all was systematic, each word had its own place. With
     Rubinstein, reigned a fascinating disorder. I believe that ten
     minutes before the lesson he did not know what he was going to talk
     about, and left all to the inspiration of the moment. Although the
     literary form of his lectures suffered in consequence, and defied
     all criticism, they impressed us deeply, and we attended them with
     great interest. Rubinstein’s extraordinary practical knowledge, his
     breadth of view, his experience as a composer--almost incredible
     for a man of thirty--invested his words with an authority of which
     we could not fail to be sensible. Even the paradoxes he indulged
     in, which sometimes irritated and sometimes amused us, bore the
     stamp of genius and thought. As I have said, Rubinstein had no
     system whatever. If he observed in the course of a lesson that he
     was not in touch with his pupils, he was not discouraged, and
     always discovered some new way--as also in his pianoforte class--by
     which to impart some of his original ideas. On one occasion he set
     Tchaikovsky the task of orchestrating Beethoven’s D minor sonata
     in four different ways. Peter Ilich elaborated one of these
     arrangements, introducing the English horn and all manner of
     unusual accessories, for which the master reprimanded him severely.
     I must add that Rubinstein was sincerely attached to Tchaikovsky,
     although he never valued his genius at its true worth. It is not
     difficult to understand this, because Tchaikovsky’s artistic growth
     was perfectly normal and equal, and quite devoid of any startling
     developments. His work, which was generally of level excellence,
     lacked that brilliancy which rejoices the astonished teacher.

     “Rubinstein, on the contrary, cast a magic spell over Tchaikovsky.
     The pupil, who kept his complete independence of judgment, and even
     made fun of his master’s lack of logic and grammar in his lectures,
     contemplated, not without bitterness, his mass of colourless and
     insipid compositions. But neither the peculiarities of the teacher,
     nor the ever-increasing weakness of his works, could undermine
     Tchaikovsky’s regard for him as a man. This sentiment remained with
     him to the last, although his relations with Anton were never so
     intimate as with his brother, Nicholas Rubinstein. At this period
     of our lives Tchaikovsky’s personal respect for his master was of
     the greatest service to him. It made his work easier and gave
     impulse to his powers. Rubinstein observed his pupil’s zeal, and
     made increasing demands upon his capacity for work. But the harder
     the tasks set him, the more energetic Tchaikovsky became. Sometimes
     he spent the whole night upon some score he wished to lay before
     his insatiable teacher on the following day. This extraordinary
     industry does not appear to have injured his health.

     “The silent protest Tchaikovsky raised against Zaremba’s methods
     affected in a lesser degree his relations with Rubinstein. The
     latter had grown up in the period of Schubert, Mendelssohn and
     Schumann, and recognised only their orchestra, that is, the
     orchestra of Beethoven, with the addition of three
     trombones--natural horns and trumpets being replaced by chromatic
     ones. We young folk, however, were enthusiasts for the most modern
     of orchestras. Tchaikovsky was familiar with this style of
     orchestration from the operas of Meyerbeer and Glinka. He also
     heard it at the rehearsals of the Musical Society (to which, as
     students, we had free access), where Rubinstein conducted works by
     Meyerbeer, Berlioz, Liszt and Wagner. Finally, in 1862, Wagner
     himself visited Petersburg, and made us acquainted in a series of
     concerts, not only with the most famous excerpts from his earlier
     operas, but also with portions of the _Nibelungen Ring_. It was not
     so much Wagner’s music as his instrumentation which impressed
     Tchaikovsky. It is remarkable that, with all his love for Mozart,
     he never once attempted, even as a _tour de force_, to write for
     the classical orchestra. His medium of expression was the full
     modern orchestra, which came after Meyerbeer. He did not easily
     acquire the mastery of this orchestra, but his preference for it
     was already established. Rubinstein understood it admirably, and
     explained its resources scientifically to his pupils, in the hope
     that having once learnt its secrets, they would lay it aside for
     ever. In this respect he experienced a bitter disappointment in
     Tchaikovsky.

     “In spring the students were generally set an important task to be
     completed during the summer holidays. In the summer of 1864
     Tchaikovsky was expected to write a long overture on the subject of
     Ostrovsky’s[7] drama, _The Storm_. This work he scored for the most
     ‘heretical’ orchestra: tuba, English horn, harp, tremolo for
     violins _divisi_, etc. When the work was finished he sent it to me
     by post, with the request that I would take it to Rubinstein (I
     cannot remember why he could not attend in person). I carried out
     his wish, and Rubinstein told me to return in a few days to hear
     his opinion. Never in the course of my life have I had to listen to
     such a homily on my own sins as I then endured vicariously (it was
     Sunday morning too!). With unconscious humour, Rubinstein asked:
     ‘How dared you bring me such a specimen of your own composition,’
     and proceeded to pour such vials of wrath upon my head that
     apparently he had nothing left for the real culprit, for when Peter
     Ilich himself appeared a few days later, the Director received him
     amiably, and only made a few remarks upon the overture....

     “One of Rubinstein’s most urgent desires was the organisation of a
     school orchestra. In the early days of the Conservatoire, however,
     there was no immediate hope of realising this wish. Apart from the
     numerous violinists, attracted by the name of Wieniawsky, there
     were few, during the first year, who could play any other
     orchestral instrument even tolerably well. Rubinstein, who at that
     time had no great income, spent at least 1,500 roubles in the
     gratuitous tuition of those instruments he needed for his
     orchestra. There was an immediate response among those who were
     enterprising. Tchaikovsky expressed a wish to learn the flute. He
     studied for two years, and became a satisfactory second flute in
     this orchestra. On one occasion he took part in a flute quartet of
     Kuhlau’s at a musical evening in honour of Madame Clara Schumann’s
     visit to Petersburg. Afterwards, finding no special use for this
     accomplishment, he gave it up entirely.

     “Of even less importance were the organ lessons he took for a time
     from the famous Heinrich Stiehl. The majestic tone of this
     instrument, heard in the mystic twilight of the empty Lutheran
     church in Petersburg, made a profound impression upon Tchaikovsky’s
     poetic temperament. But the impression was fleeting; his
     imagination was attracted in other directions, and he grew more and
     more remote from the works of Bach. He never composed a single
     piece for this instrument.”




V


     “In the biography of an artist,” continues Laroche, “side by side
     with his individual evolution, the close observation of all
     external influences with which he comes in contact plays an
     important part. In Tchaikovsky’s case, I place among these
     influences, the musical repertory which was familiar to him, and
     such compositions as he specially studied or cared for. During the
     whole of his time at the Conservatoire, especially during the
     first two years, I was constantly with him, and am therefore a fair
     judge of the works which more or less left their impress upon his
     mind. I can enumerate almost all the compositions we played
     together during his first year: Beethoven’s _Ninth Symphony_,
     Schumann’s _Third Symphony_, his _Paradise and the Peri_, and
     _Lohengrin_. Tchaikovsky grumbled when I made him play long vocal
     works with endless recitatives, which became very wearisome on the
     piano, but the beauty of the more connected parts soon re-awakened
     his enthusiasm. Wagner gave him the least pleasure. He simply made
     light of _Lohengrin_, and only became reconciled to the whole opera
     much later in life.

     “One day he remarked fearlessly: ‘I am sure of this--Serov has more
     talent for composition than Wagner.’ Schumann’s _Third Symphony_
     and Rubinstein’s _‘Ocean’ Symphony_ made the greatest impression
     upon him. Later on, under the bâton of the composer, our enthusiasm
     for the latter continually increased. Many readers will be
     surprised to hear that one of Tchaikovsky’s earliest crazes was for
     Henri Litolff--but only for the two overtures, _Robespierre_ and
     _Les Girondistes_. I can say without exaggeration that, after
     hearing these two overtures and Meyerbeer’s _Struensee_,
     Tchaikovsky was always an impassioned lover of programme music. In
     his early overtures, including _Romeo and Juliet_, the influence of
     Litolff is easily perceptible, while he approached Liszt--who did
     far more to inspire the young generation--with hesitation and
     mistrust. During his student years, _Orpheus_ was the only one of
     Liszt’s symphonic poems which attracted him. The _Faust Symphony_
     he only valued long afterwards. It is but fair to state that
     Liszt’s symphonic poems, which enslaved a whole generation of
     Russian composers, only exercised an insignificant and ephemeral
     influence upon Tchaikovsky.

     “It is important to observe that, at this early period, he showed
     many curious and morbid musical antipathies which he entirely
     outgrew. These dislikes were not for particular composers, but for
     certain styles of composition, or, more strictly speaking, for
     their quality of sound. For instance, he did not like the
     combination of piano and orchestra, nor the timbre of a string
     quartet or quintet, and least of all the effect of the piano with
     one or more stringed instruments. Although, for the sake of
     experience, he had studied the general repertory of chamber music
     and pianoforte concertos, and now and then was charmed by a work of
     this nature, he afterwards took the first opportunity of condemning
     its ‘detestable’ quality of tone. Not once, but hundreds of times,
     he has vowed in my presence never to compose a pianoforte concerto,
     nor a violin and piano sonata, nor any work of this class. As
     regards the violin and pianoforte sonata, he has kept his word. Not
     less strange was his determination, at this time, never to write
     any small pieces for piano, or songs. He spoke of the latter with
     the greatest dislike. But this hatred must have been quite
     Platonic, for the next minute he was growing enthusiastic with me
     over the songs of Glinka, Schumann, or Schubert.

     “At this period in his life it was a kind of mania to declare
     himself quite incapable in certain branches of his art. For
     instance, he often declared he was absolutely unable to conduct.
     The art of conducting goes frequently with that of accompanying,
     and he was an excellent accompanist. This fact alone should have
     sufficed to prove the groundlessness of his assertions. At the
     Conservatoire the advanced students in the composition class were
     expected to conduct the school orchestra in turn. Tchaikovsky stood
     first on the list. I cannot remember whether he distinguished
     himself on this occasion, but I know that nothing particularly
     dreadful happened, and that he made no evident fiasco. Nevertheless
     he made this first experience the confirmation of his opinion. He
     declared that having to stand at the raised desk in front of the
     orchestra produced such nervous sensations that all the time he
     felt his head must fall off his shoulders; in order to prevent this
     catastrophe, he kept his left hand under his chin and only
     conducted with his right. This fixed idea lasted for years.

     “In 1868 Tchaikovsky was invited to conduct the dances from his
     opera _The Voyevode_ at a charity concert given in Moscow. I still
     see him before me, the bâton in his right hand, while his left
     firmly supported his fair beard!

     “Tchaikovsky’s ardent admiration for Glinka, especially for the
     opera _A Life for the Tsar_, included also this composer’s
     incidental music to the tragedy _Prince Kholmsky_. As regards
     _Russlan and Lioudmilla_, his views varied at first. Early in the
     sixties he knew only a few numbers from Glinka’s second opera,
     which pleased him unreservedly. He was equally delighted with the
     music and libretto of Serov’s opera _Judith_, which he heard in
     1863. It is remarkable that while a few masterpieces, such as _Don
     Juan_, _A Life for the Tsar_, and Schubert’s _Symphony in C_, took
     their places once and for ever in his appreciation, his judgment of
     other musical works was subject to considerable fluctuation. One
     year he was carried away by Beethoven’s _Eighth Symphony_, the next
     he pronounced it ‘very nice, but nothing more.’ For years he
     declared the music to _Faust_ by Pugni (a well-known composer of
     ballets) was infinitely superior to Gounod’s opera, and afterwards
     he described the French composer’s work as ‘a masterpiece.’
     Therefore it is all the more remarkable that he remained faithful
     to Serov’s opera _Judith_ to the end of his days.

     “His attitude to Serov’s literary work was exceedingly sceptical.
     We both attended the popular lectures given by this critic in 1864,
     and were amused at his desperate efforts to overthrow the authority
     of the Conservatoire, to abase Glinka and to exalt Verstovsky.[8]
     Serov’s attack upon Rubinstein would in itself have lowered him in
     the eyes of so devoted an adherent as Tchaikovsky, but he disliked
     him still more for such expressions as ‘the spiritual contents of
     music,’ ‘the organic unity of the music drama,’ and similar
     phrases, under which Serov concealed his vacillation and
     extraordinary lack of principle.

     “Tchaikovsky’s personal relations with the composer of _Judith_ are
     only known to me in part. They met, if I am not mistaken, in the
     autumn of 1864, and I was the means of their becoming acquainted.
     One of our fellow-students named Slavinsky, who visited Serov,
     invited me to go with him to one of his ‘composer’s Tuesdays.’
     About a year later I introduced Tchaikovsky to Serov. I recollect
     how on that particular evening Dostoievsky talked a great deal--and
     very foolishly--about music, as literary men do, who know nothing
     whatever about it. Serov’s personality did not please Tchaikovsky,
     and I do not think he ever went again, although he received a
     pressing invitation to do so.

     “Besides N. A. Hubert and myself, I cannot recall a single student
     at the Conservatoire with whom Tchaikovsky kept up a lasting
     intimacy. He was pleasant to all, and addressed a few in the
     familiar second person singular. Among these passing friends I may
     mention Gustav Kross, afterwards the first to play Tchaikovsky’s
     pianoforte concerto in public; Richard Metzdorf, who settled in
     Germany as a composer and Capellmeister; Karl van Ark, who became a
     professor at the Petersburg Conservatoire; Slavinsky and Joseph
     Lödscher. Of these fellow-students, the name of Nicholas Hubert
     occurs most frequently in subsequent pages. In spite of his foreign
     name, Hubert was really of Russian descent. From his childhood he
     lived only in and for music, and very early in life had to earn his
     living by teaching. The number of lessons he gave, combined with
     his weak and uncertain health, prevented him from working very hard
     at the Conservatoire, but he impressed us as talented and clever.
     He was fond of assembling his friends round the tea-table in his
     large, but scantily-furnished room, when the evening would be spent
     in music and discussion. Tchaikovsky, Lödscher and myself were the
     most regular guests at these evenings. The real intimacy, however,
     between Tchaikovsky and Hubert did not actually begin until many
     years later--about the middle of the eighties.”

With this chapter Laroche’s reminiscences of Tchaikovsky come to an
end.




VI.


In the autumn of 1863 the mother of Leo Davidov, who had married
Tchaikovsky’s sister, came to settle in St. Petersburg.

Alexandra Ivanovna, widow of the famous Decembrist, Vassily Davidov, was
a vigorous, kindly clever old lady, who had seen and suffered much in
her day. Of her very numerous family, four daughters and her youngest
son had accompanied her to Petersburg. Two of these daughters, Elizabeth
and Vera, became very friendly with Tchaikovsky, thanks to their common
love of music.

Peter Ilich never felt more at home than at the Davidovs. Apart from the
pleasure of acting as a guide to Vera in musical matters--introducing
her to the works of Schumann, Berlioz, and Glinka, whose charm he had
only just discovered for himself--he thoroughly enjoyed talking to her
mother and sister.

Tchaikovsky was always deeply interested in his country’s past,
especially in the period of Catherine II. and Alexander I. Alexandra
Davidov was, so to speak, a living chapter of history from the last
years of Alexander’s reign, and had known personally many famous men of
the time, among them the poet Poushkin, who often visited the Davidovs
at Kamenka. Consequently Tchaikovsky delighted in hearing her recall the
joys and sorrows of those far-off days.

Her daughter Elizabeth, an elderly spinster, also excited his interest.
She had been entrusted by her mother, when the latter had voluntarily
followed her husband into exile, to the care of Countess
Tchernischov-Kruglikov, and grew up in a house frequented by all the
notabilities of the early years of Nicholas I.’s reign.

[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1863]

She knew Gogol and Poushkin, and had made many journeys to Europe and
Siberia. Besides which she was deeply interested in art and literature,
and had a decided talent for drawing.

Among the few acquaintances who continued to show a friendly attitude to
Tchaikovsky, in spite of his becoming a musician, was Prince Alexis
Galitsin. He helped the struggling student and teacher by recommending
him to private pupils, and invited him to spend the summer on his
estate, Trostinetz, in the Government of Kharkov.

Life at the Prince’s country-seat seemed to Tchaikovsky like a fairy
tale. One event will suffice to show the attention with which he was
treated by his host. On his name-day, June 29th (July 11th), the Prince
gave an entertainment in his honour. After early service there was a
breakfast, and in the evening, after dark, a walk through the forest,
the paths being illuminated by torches, which made a grand effect. In
the heart of the woods a tent had been raised, in which a banquet was
prepared; while, on the open green around it, all kinds of national
amusements were organised in honour of the musician.

During this visit, Tchaikovsky composed and orchestrated his first
independent musical work, the overture to his favourite Russian play,
_The Storm_, by Ostrovsky. He had already hankered to write an opera on
this play, consequently when Rubinstein set him to compose an overture
by way of a holiday task, he naturally selected the subject which had
interested him for so long. On page 30 of his instrumentation
sketch-book for 1863-4 he made a pencil note of the programme of this
overture:--

     “Introduction; adagio (Catharine’s childhood and life before
     marriage); allegro (the threatening of the storm); her longing for
     a truer love and happiness; allegro appassionato (her spiritual
     conflict). Sudden change to evening on the banks of the Volga: the
     same conflict, but with traces of feverish joy. The coming of the
     storm (repetition of the theme which follows the adagio and the
     further development of it). The Storm: the climax of her desperate
     conflict--Death.”

The next important composition, which was not lost, like so many of
Tchaikovsky’s early works, was the “Dances of the Serving Girls,”
afterwards employed as a ballet in his opera, _The Voyevode_. It is
impossible to fix the precise date at which these dances were composed,
but early in 1865 they were already finished and orchestrated.




VII.


In 1865 Tchaikovsky’s father married--for the third time--a widow,
Elizabeth Alexandrov. This event made no difference to the life of Peter
Ilich, for he was attached to his stepmother, whom he had known for
several years, and to whom he often went for advice in moments of doubt
and difficulty. The summer of this year was spent with his sister at
Kamenka.

Kamenka, of which we hear so much in the life of Peter Ilich, is a rural
spot on the banks of the Tiasmin, in the Government of Kiev, and forms
part of the great estate which Tchaikovsky’s brother-in-law had
inherited from the exiled Decembrist Vassily Davidov. The place has
historical associations, having been the centre of the revolutionary
movement which disturbed the last years of Alexander I. Here, too, the
poet Poushkin came as a visitor, and his famous poem, “The Prisoner in
the Caucasus,” is said to have been written at Kamenka. The property
actually belonged to an elder brother, Nicholas Davidov, who practically
resigned it to the management of Tchaikovsky’s brother-in-law,
preferring the pleasures of his library and garden to the
responsibilities of a great landowner.

Kamenka did not boast great natural charms, nevertheless Tchaikovsky
enjoyed his visit there, and soon forgot the luxuries of Trostinetz.

Nicholas Davidov, although a kindly and sympathetic nature, held decided
opinions of his own, which were not altogether in keeping with the
liberalism then in vogue. This strong-minded man, who thought things out
for himself, impressed Tchaikovsky, and changed his political outlook.
Throughout life the composer took no very strong political views; his
tendencies leaned now one way, now another; but from the time of his
acquaintance with Nicholas Davidov his views were more disposed towards
conservativism. It was, however, the happy household at Kamenka that
exercised the greatest influence upon Tchaikovsky. Henceforth his
sister’s family became his favourite refuge, whither, in days to come,
he went to rest from the cares and excitements of life, and where,
twelve years later, he made a temporary home.

Perhaps these pleasant impressions were also strengthened by the
consciousness of work well accomplished. Anton Rubinstein had set him a
second task--the translation of Gevaert’s treatise on _Instrumentation_.
This he carried out admirably, besides the composition of the overture.

At Kamenka he had one disappointing experience. He had heard so much of
the beauty of the Little Russian folk-songs, and hoped to amass material
for his future compositions. This was not to be. The songs he heard
seemed to him artificial and retouched, and by no means equal in beauty
or originality to the folk melodies of Great Russia. He only wrote down
one song while at Kamenka--a tune sung daily by the women who worked in
the garden. He first used this melody in a string quartet, which he
began to compose in the autumn, but afterwards changed it into the
_Scherzo à la russe_ for pianoforte, Op. 1. No. 1. Towards the end of
August, Tchaikovsky returned to Petersburg with his brothers.

“Petersburg welcomed us with a deluge of rain,” he wrote to his sister
on his return. But in many other respects also the town made an
unfavourable impression upon Tchaikovsky. In the first place, the
question of a lodging gave him considerable trouble. The room which he
had engaged for eight roubles a month was small and uncomfortable. The
longer he stayed, the more he disliked it. He tried various quarters
without finding the quiet which was the first essential, and, in
November, finally took possession of a room lent him by his friend,
Apukhtin, who was going away for a time.

Another unpleasant experience took the form of an obstinate affection of
the eyes, which hindered him from working regularly. Lastly, he began to
feel some anxiety as to his future livelihood when his course at the
Conservatoire should have come to an end. To continue in his present
course of existence seemed to him terrible. The small income, which
hitherto only had to serve him for his lesser needs, had now to cover
board and lodging--in fact, his entire expenses.

We may guess how hard was his struggle with poverty, when we find him
once more assailed by doubts as to his wisdom in having chosen the
musical profession, and even contemplating the idea of returning to the
service of the State. Some of his friends echoed his momentary cry of
weakness. One seriously proposed that he should accept the fairly good
pay of an inspector of meat. To the great advantage of all consumers,
and to the glory of Russian music, the proposal came to nothing.

Simultaneously with Tchaikovsky’s hardest struggle for existence, came
also the first hopes of artistic success. These triumphs were very
modest as compared to those which lay in store for him; but at that
period of his life the praise of his masters, the applause of his
fellow-students, and the first public performance of his works, sufficed
to fill him with happiness and self-confidence. The performance of his
“Dances of the Serving Maids,” at one of the summer concerts at
Pavlovsk, conducted by the “Valse King,” Johann Strauss, greatly cheered
the young composer.

His satisfaction was still further increased when Nicholas Rubinstein,
following the example of his illustrious brother, resolved to open a
Conservatoire in Moscow, and engaged Tchaikovsky as Professor of
Harmony.

Nicholas Rubinstein had first approached Serov, who was not unwilling to
accept the post. But the extraordinary success of his opera _Rogneda_ in
St. Petersburg, and the failure of _Judith_ in Moscow, caused him to
change his mind and wish to remain in that capital where he was best
appreciated. This took place in 1865. Nicholas Rubinstein, seeing no
other way out of the difficulty, decided to offer the professorship to
one of the students of the Petersburg Conservatoire, and his brother put
forward the claims of Tchaikovsky. Although the honour was great, the
emolument was not attractive, for it amounted only to fifty roubles (£5)
a month; that is to say, to something less than the modest income he had
hitherto managed to earn in Petersburg. Nevertheless, in November, he
decided to accept the post.

The remaining successes of this period relate to his compositions.

In spite of his eyes being affected, and his constant change of
quarters, the time had not been barren. He had composed a string quartet
in B♭ major,[9] and an overture in F major.[10] The quartet was
played at one of the pupils’ concerts at the Conservatoire, October 30th
(November 11th), 1865, and a fortnight later the overture was performed
by the school orchestra, under the bâton of the composer.

In November of this year, Tchaikovsky set to work upon a cantata for
chorus and orchestra, a setting of Schiller’s _Ode to Joy_.[11]

This task had been set him by Anton Rubinstein, and was intended for
performance at the prize distribution, which took place at the end of
the school year. On December 31st, 1865 (January 12th, 1866), the
cantata was performed by the pupils of the Conservatoire in the presence
of the Directors of the Russian Musical Society, the Board of Examiners,
the Director of the Court Chapel, Bachmetiev, and the Capellmeisters of
the Imperial Opera, Kajinsky, Liadov and Ricci.

The composer himself was not present, as he wished to avoid the _vivâ
voce_ examination, which ought to have preceded the performance of the
cantata. Anton Rubinstein was exceedingly displeased, and threatened to
withhold Tchaikovsky’s diploma until he submitted to this public test.
Matters were not carried so far. Apparently the young composer had given
sufficient proof of his knowledge in the cantata itself, and he received
not only his diploma, but a silver medal in addition.

In spite of this official success, the cantata did not win the approval
of the musical authorities.

Evidently Rubinstein was not satisfied with it, since he put off
Tchaikovsky’s request that the cantata might be performed by the Russian
Musical Society, by saying that he could only agree on condition that
“great alterations” were made in the score, for in its original form it
was not good enough to place beside the works of other Russian
composers--Sokalsky, Christianovich, Rimsky-Korsakov, and Balakirev.
Serov’s opinion of this composition was not more favourable.

In the opposite camp to Serov--among that young Russian school which
flocked round Dargomijsky, and included Balakirev, Rimsky-Korsakov, and
Cæsar Cui, the cantata met with even less approval. Three months after
its performance Cui, then critic of the St. Petersburg _Viedomosti_,
wound up his notice of the work as follows:--

     “In a word, I will only say that composers of the calibre of
     Reinthaler and Volkmann will probably rejoice over Mr.
     Tchaikovsky’s cantata, and exclaim, ‘Our number is increased.’”

Such were the judgments passed upon his first work by the musical lights
and the Press.

Laroche, however, was of a different opinion. He sent the following
letter to Tchaikovsky in Moscow:--

     “PETERSBURG (MIDNIGHT),
“_January_ 11_th_(23_rd_), 1866.

     “ ... I will tell you frankly that I consider yours is the greatest
     musical talent to which Russia can look in the future. Stronger and
     more original than Balakirev, loftier and more creative than Serov,
     far more refined than Rimsky-Korsakov. _In you I see the
     greatest--or rather the sole--hope of our musical future. Your own
     original creations will probably not make their appearance for
     another five years. But these ripe and classic works will surpass
     everything we have heard since Glinka._ To sum up: I do not honour
     you so much for what you _have_ done, as for what the force and
     vitality of your genius _will_ one day accomplish. The proofs you
     have given so far are but solemn pledges to outdo all your
     contemporaries.”




                                  PART III




I


Tchaikovsky’s first impressions of Moscow practically resolve themselves
into his association with a few Muscovites, with whom he was destined to
be linked to the end of his days. His subsequent life is so inseparably
connected with the narrow circle of his friends in the old capital, that
the reader needs to be introduced to some of them individually, before I
pass on to my brother’s career as a teacher and composer.

At the head of these musical friends stands Nicholas Rubinstein, of whom
it is no exaggeration to say that he was the greatest influence
throughout Tchaikovsky’s after career. No one, artist or friend, did so
much for the advancement of his fame, gave him greater support and
appreciation, or helped him more to conquer his first nervousness and
timidity, than the Director of the Moscow Conservatoire. Nicholas
Rubinstein is intimately associated with every event in Tchaikovsky’s
private and public life. Everywhere we shall come upon traces of his
helpful influence. It is not too much to assert that, during the first
years of Tchaikovsky’s life there, all Moscow was personified in
Nicholas Rubinstein.

       *       *       *       *       *

Laroche, in his _Reminiscences_, gives the following sketch of the
director:--

     “Nicholas Rubinstein was born June 2nd (14th), 1835. Like his
     celebrated brother, he showed a remarkable and precocious talent
     for music. It is said he learnt quicker, and was considered to have
     more genius than Anton. But while the latter devoted himself
     entirely to music and studied in Berlin, Nicholas elected for a
     university education.... As a student at the Moscow University, and
     even later--until the establishment of the Russian Musical
     Society--he earned his living by teaching the pianoforte. He had a
     number of pupils, and, as he himself told me, earned at one time as
     much as 7,000 roubles (over £700) a year. On his marriage he was
     compelled to give up playing in public, on account of the
     objections raised by his wife’s relations. His domestic life was
     not happy, and the differences of opinion between himself and his
     wife’s family led to a rupture two years later. His unusual powers
     were first recognised when he succeeded in founding the Moscow
     Conservatoire. Besides being a most gifted pianist, he had great
     talent as a conductor, and organiser of many schemes. He could
     represent all branches of musical society in his own person.
     Although he spent all his nights at the ‘English Club,’ playing
     cards for high stakes, he managed to take part in every social
     event, and was acquainted with all circles of Moscow society,
     commercial, official, artistic, scientific, and aristocratic.”

“As regards art,” says Kashkin, “Nicholas Rubinstein was purely an
idealist; he admitted no compromise, and was entirely above personal
likes or dislikes. He was always ready to help a fellow-artist,
especially a Russian, and, without stopping to consider his means,
simply gave whatever he had by him at the moment.

“Externally he differed greatly from his brother Anton. Nicholas
Rubinstein was short and stoutly built; fair-complexioned, with curly
hair. He had a dreamy expression, a languor of speech, and an air of
aristocratic weariness, which was contradicted by the indefatigable
energy of his temperament. Probably this languor proceeded from the fact
that he scarcely ever slept.

“He was Tchaikovsky’s senior by five years only; but in these early days
of their intercourse the difference between their ages seemed much
greater. This was partly accounted for by the fact that Tchaikovsky came
to Moscow in a somewhat subordinate position, whereas the name of
Rubinstein was one of the most popular in the town; but the difference
in character was also very great. Rubinstein belonged to the class of
dominating and ruling personalities; his was a forceful character which
impressed all who came in contact with him. Tchaikovsky, on the
contrary, was yielding and submissive in matters of daily existence,
although inwardly he protested against all attempts to influence and
coerce him, and generally preserved his freedom of opinion, at least as
regards music. This self-assertion did not, however, come naturally to
him, and for that reason he loved solitude. He avoided his fellow-men,
because he did not know how to hold his own among them; while at the
same time he disliked submitting to the will of others, but this was not
his attitude in 1866. At this time he was grateful for Nicholas
Rubinstein’s almost paternal care, and bowed to his decision, even in
the matter of dress.

“Their friendly relations were sometimes strained, but never broken,
although Peter Ilich was occasionally irritated by Rubinstein’s
masterful guidance, and was scolded in return for not being sufficiently
docile.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Rubinstein’s right hand,” says Laroche, “was Constantine Albrecht, the
Inspector of the Conservatoire. He was about five years older than
Tchaikovsky, and had held the post of ‘cellist at the Opera House since
the age of fifteen. Albrecht was a very capable and, in many respects, a
very interesting man, although he was not popular with the public.
Tchaikovsky was strongly attracted to him, and soon after his arrival in
Moscow arranged to take his meals daily at his house. Albrecht’s views,
or rather convictions, were extraordinarily paradoxical.

“In politics he took the Conservative side, but as regards music he was
probably the most advanced radical in Moscow. Wagner, Liszt, Beethoven
in his last period, and certain things of Schumann, were all he would
acknowledge. I must add, by way of an eccentricity, his admiration for
Dargomijsky’s _Roussalka_. He was an admirable choral conductor, and did
good work in this branch of his art, for many of the pupils trained by
him turned out excellent teachers. Besides music, Albrecht took great
interest in natural science and mathematics. In summer he was an
enthusiastic hunter of beetles and butterflies. But for the subjects in
which a musician should be interested--history, poetry, _belles-lettres_
he showed the most complete indifference. I doubt if he had ever read a
novel....”

       *       *       *       *       *

Tchaikovsky had a very high opinion of Albrecht as a composer, and often
regretted that so much talent should be wasted. But it was his
kindliness of heart, and above all his innate sense of humour, which
appealed most to Peter Ilich.

Very different, and far more important, were Tchaikovsky’s relations
with P. I. Jurgenson, the first--and always the chief--publisher of his
works.

Peter Ivanovich Jurgenson was born at Reval in 1836, and his childhood
was spent in very poor and depressing circumstances. At nineteen he
entered a music warehouse in Petersburg, where he soon won his
employer’s confidence, and rose to be manager to the firm of Schildbach,
in Moscow. Two years later, in 1861, he made a daring venture and set up
business on his own account. In Nicholas Rubinstein he found a powerful
friend and ally, who supported his enterprise for twenty years with
unfailing energy. By 1866 Jurgenson had passed through his worst
experiences, and began to play a prominent part in the musical life of
Moscow. Courageous and enterprising, he was one of the most active
adherents of Nicholas Rubinstein, that “Peter the Great” of musical
Moscow, to whom he rendered valuable assistance in founding the
Conservatoire. Jurgenson was the first Russian publisher to bring out
the works of the classical school in cheap editions, and also the
compositions of young native composers, including those of Tchaikovsky.

Although he came from the Baltic provinces, Jurgenson was an ardent
Russian patriot, and soon won the affection of Peter Ilich, who was
always a welcome guest in his house.

At the present moment the firm of Jurgenson is almost the sole possessor
of Tchaikovsky’s compositions. Among the 200,000 engraving-plates which
are preserved in their fireproof safes more than 70,000 belong to the
works of this composer.

The fourth of Tchaikovsky’s intimate friends, Nicholas Kashkin, received
him on his arrival with the cordiality of an old comrade, for he already
knew him from Laroche’s enthusiastic description.

“ ... Nicholas Dmitrievich Kashkin was the son of a well-known and
respected bookseller in the town of Voronejh,” says Laroche in his
reminiscences. From childhood he displayed great aptitude for the piano,
and by dint of self-teaching, made such progress that he could execute
difficult music, and was highly thought of in his native place. Yet he
was conscious that he lacked proper training, and at twenty-two went to
study with Dubuque, in Moscow.

Although Kashkin had no influence on Tchaikovsky’s development, their
relations were very friendly. When the latter came to Moscow, Kashkin
was already married and a professor at the Conservatoire. He and his
young wife took a great liking to the lonely composer, and the intimacy
ripened very quickly. All the teachers at the Conservatoire, including
Nicholas Rubinstein, valued Kashkin’s advice. All his friends regarded
him as a critic _par excellence_. Many years later he gave up teaching
at the Conservatoire, and became a professional critic. But even in this
difficult calling, which so often leads to misunderstanding and bitter
enmities, he managed to keep all his old friends, and even to make new
ones.

If I add to the names of N. Rubinstein, Albrecht, Jurgenson, and
Kashkin, two fellow-students already mentioned--Laroche and Hubert--the
list of Tchaikovsky’s intimate friends is complete. This little circle
was destined to give unfailing support to the growing reputation of the
composer, and to remain in the closest personal relations with him to
the end of his life. Amid these friends he found encouragement and
sympathy at the time when he stood most in need of them.




II


Tchaikovsky left St. Petersburg early in January, 1866.

At this time his letters show his depth of tenderness for his own
people, his first feelings of loneliness in the strange city, his
indifference to his surroundings, and finally his gradual attachment to
Moscow, which ended in being “the dearest town in the world.”

                  _To Anatol and Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “3.30 _p.m._, _January_ 6_th_ (18_th_).

     “MY DEAR BROTHERS,--My journey, although sad, is safely over. I
     thought about you the whole way, and it grieved me to think that
     lately I had overshadowed you with my own depression, although I
     fought hard against it. Do not, however, doubt my affection, even
     if I do not always show it outwardly. I am staying at the Hotel
     Kokorev. I have already seen Rubinstein and been introduced to two
     directors of the Musical Society. Rubinstein was so pressing in his
     invitation to me to live with him that I could not refuse, and
     shall go there to-morrow.... I hug you both. Do not cease to love
     me. Give my remembrances to everyone. Write! I will write again
     soon. I have just written to Dad. You must also do so.”

                             _To the same._

     “MOSCOW, _January_ 10_th_ (22_nd_).

     “DEAR BROTHERS,--I am now living with Nicholas Rubinstein. He is a
     very kind and sympathetic man. He has none of his brother’s
     unapproachable manner, but in other respects he is not to be
     compared with Anton--as an artist. I have a little room next to his
     bedroom, and, truth to tell, I am afraid the scratching of my pen
     must disturb him after he goes to bed, for our rooms are only
     divided by a thin partition. I am very busy (upon the orchestration
     of the C minor overture composed during the summer). I sit at home
     nearly all day, and Rubinstein, who leads rather an excitable life,
     cannot sufficiently marvel at my industry. I have been to both
     theatres. The opera was very bad, so for once I did not get as much
     artistic enjoyment from it as from the play.... I have hardly made
     any new acquaintances except Kashkin, a friend of Laroche’s and a
     first-rate musician, whom I have got to know very well indeed.

     “Sometimes I feel rather melancholy, but as a rule I am possessed
     by an insatiable craving for work, which is my greatest
     consolation.... I have promised Rubinstein my overture shall be
     performed here before I send it to Petersburg. Yesterday at bedtime
     I thought a great deal about you both. I pictured to myself all the
     horrors of the first night after the holidays, and fancied how Modi
     would hide his nose under the bed-clothes and cry bitterly. How I
     wish I could have comforted him! It is not a meaningless phrase,
     Modi, when I tell you to grind and grind and grind, and to make
     friends with your respectable companions, but not with that crazy
     fellow X.... I am afraid you will be left behind in your class and
     be one of those who get into the master’s black books. I have no
     fears for Toly, so I send him no advice. Toly, my dear, conquer
     your indolence as a correspondent and write to me. Hearty kisses!”

The overture in C minor, referred to in this letter, was submitted to
Nicholas Rubinstein a few days later. His opinion, however, was
unfavourable, and he declared the work unsuitable for performance by the
Musical Society. Tchaikovsky then sent the work to Petersburg, in order
that Laroche might ask Anton Rubinstein to perform it there. “I have
left your overture with Rubinstein,” Laroche wrote in reply, “and
repeated your request _verbatim_. He replied by a low, ironical bow. But
this is just his way.” The overture was not approved by Anton
Rubinstein, nor did it meet with a happier fate when Laroche tried to
persuade Liadov to give it a place at one of the opera concerts. Long
afterwards Tchaikovsky himself shared this adverse opinion of the work,
and wrote upon the cover of the manuscript, “Awful rubbish.”

                  _To his sister, Alexandra Davidov._

     “_January_ 15_th_ (27_th_).

     “ ... I have nothing particular to tell you about my life and work.
     I am to teach the theory of music, and yesterday I held the
     preliminary examination. Many pretty girls presented themselves....
     I like Moscow very well, but I doubt if I shall ever get accustomed
     to it; I have been too long rooted in Petersburg.”

                      _To A. and M. Tchaikovsky._

     “_January_ 15_th_ (27_th_).

     “MY DEAR BROTHERS,--Do not waste your money on stamps. It would be
     better to write only once a week, a long letter in the form of a
     diary....

     “I get on very well with everyone, especially with Rubinstein,
     Kashkin, Albrecht, and Osberg.[12] I have also made friends with a
     family of the name Tchaikovsky.[13] I have eaten a great deal at
     their house, but I did not take part in the dancing, although I was
     attired in Rubinstein’s dress-coat. The latter looks after me like
     a nurse, and insists upon doing so. To-day he forced me to accept
     half a dozen new shirts (you need not mention this to the Davidovs
     or anyone else), and to-morrow he will carry me off to his tailor
     to order me a frock-coat. He is a wonderfully kind man, but I
     cannot understand how he has won his great reputation as a
     musician. He is rather ordinary in this respect, not to be compared
     to his brother.[14]

     “In mentioning my friends here, I must not omit Rubinstein’s
     servant Alexander. He is a worthy old man, and possesses a splendid
     white cat which is now sitting on my lap, while I stroke it gently.
     My pleasantest pastime is to think of the summer. Lately I have
     felt drawn to Sasha, Leo, and their children, and have now decided
     to spend the summer with you at their house.”

                      _To A. and M. Tchaikovsky._

     “_Sunday, January_ 30_th_ (_February_ 11_th_).

     “ ... I laugh heartily over Dickens’s _Pickwick Papers_, with no
     one to share my mirth; but sometimes this thought incites me to
     even wilder hilarity. I recommend you to read this book; when one
     wants to read fiction it is best to begin with such an author as
     Dickens. He has much in common with Gogol; the same inimitable and
     innate humour and the same masterly power of depicting an entire
     character in a few strokes. But he has not Gogol’s depth....

     “The idea of an opera begins to occupy my attention. All the
     libretti Rubinstein has given me are utterly bad. I have found a
     subject, and intend to write words myself. It will simply be the
     adaptation of a tragedy. The poet Plestcheiev is living here, and
     has promised to help me.”

                  _To his sister, Alexandra Davidov._

     “_February_ 7_th_ (19_th_).

     “I am gradually becoming accustomed to Moscow, although sometimes I
     feel very lonely. My classes are very successful, to my great
     astonishment; my nervousness is vanishing completely, and I am
     gradually assuming the airs of a professor. My home-sickness is
     also wearing off, but still Moscow is a strange place, and it will
     be long before I can contemplate without horror the thought of
     remaining here for years--perhaps for ever....”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     (_The middle of February._)

     “MY DEAR FRIEND MODI,--I have been very busy lately, and therefore
     have not written for a long while. Rubinstein has entrusted me with
     some important work which has to be finished by the third week in
     Lent....

     “Life glides on quietly and monotonously, so that I have hardly
     anything to tell you. I often visit the Tarnovskys, whose niece is
     the loveliest girl I ever saw in my life. I am very much taken with
     her, which causes Rubinstein to be a perfect nuisance. The moment
     we arrive at the house the others begin to tease us and leave us
     together. At home she is called ‘Mufka,’ and just now I am
     wondering whether I dare use this name for her too. I only need to
     know her a little better. Rubinstein has also been in love with
     her, but his sentiments have now grown cooler.

     “My nerves are in good condition; I am very calm and even cheerful.
     I often console myself with thoughts of Easter, spring, and the
     summer holidays.”

The work to which Tchaikovsky refers at the beginning of this letter was
the instrumentation of his overture in F major, which had been
originally scored for the small orchestra of the Petersburg
Conservatoire. In later years the composer must have destroyed the
fuller arrangement of the work, although at this time he seems to have
been satisfied with the result.

                      _To A. and M. Tchaikovsky._

     “_March_ 6_th_ (18_th_).

     “ ... My overture was performed on Friday, and had a good success.
     I was unanimously recalled, and--to be grandiloquent--received with
     applause that made the welkin ring. More flattering still was the
     ovation I met with at the supper which Rubinstein gave after the
     concert.... After supper he proposed my health amid renewed
     applause. I go into these details because it is my first public
     success, and consequently very gratifying.”

At the end of March Tchaikovsky, eager as a schoolboy at the beginning
of his holidays, left Moscow for Petersburg, where he stayed until April
4th (16th).

                      _To A. and M. Tchaikovsky._

     “MOSCOW, _April_ 7_th_ (19_th_).

     “Brothers! Forgive me for not having written before. The journey
     was safely accomplished. The news of the attempt upon the Emperor’s
     life reached us at the station where we stopped for tea, but only
     in a very vague form.[15] We pictured to ourselves that he was
     actually dead, and one lady wept bitterly, while another began to
     extol all the virtues of the new sovereign. Only at Moscow I learnt
     the true account. The rejoicings here were beyond belief; yesterday
     at the Opera, where I went to hear _A Life for the Tsar_, when the
     Poles appeared on the stage the entire public began to shout, ‘Down
     with the Poles!’ In the last scene of the fourth act, in which the
     Poles put Sousanin to death, the singer who was taking this part
     resisted with such realistic violence that he knocked down several
     of the ‘Polish’ chorus-singers. When the rest of the ‘Poles’ saw
     that this outrage to art and to the truth delighted the public,
     they promptly fell down of their own accord, and the triumphant
     Sousanin walked away, shaking his fists at them, amid the
     vociferous applause of the Muscovites. At the end of the opera the
     Emperor’s portrait was brought on the stage, and an indescribable
     tumult followed.”

                        _To Alexandra Davidov._

     “_April_ 18_th_ (20_th_).

     “I am going to act as advocate for two mortals who are just crazy
     about Kamenka. You write that Toly and Modi might be left in
     Petersburg, but I am determined not to tell them your point of
     view. They would utterly lose heart--especially Toly. One of my
     chief reasons for caring to spend the summer at Kamenka is to be
     with them, and your house is the only place where we can be
     together for a time. If you only knew how these little fellows
     cling to me (and I return their love a hundredfold), you would not
     find it in your heart to separate us. Arrange, my dear, for this
     visit to come off. Very likely I shall be able to take part of the
     expense off your hands.”

Before the summer holidays came, Tchaikovsky’s health was in an
unsatisfactory condition. He complains in his letters of insomnia,
nervousness, and the throbbing sensations in his head, to which he often
refers as “my apoplectic symptoms.” At the end of April his depression
became very apparent, and he wrote to his brother Anatol:--

     “My nerves are altogether shaken. The causes are: (1) the symphony,
     which does not sound satisfactory; (2) Rubinstein and Tarnovsky
     have discovered that I am easily startled, and amuse themselves by
     giving me all manner of shocks all day long; (3) I cannot shake off
     the conviction that I shall not live long, and shall leave my
     symphony unfinished. I long for the summer and for Kamenka as for
     the Promised Land, and hope to find rest and peace, and to forget
     all my troubles there. Yesterday I determined to touch no more
     wine, spirits, or strong tea.

     “I hate mankind in the mass, and I should be delighted to retire
     into some wilderness with very few inhabitants. I have already
     secured my ticket in the _diligence_ for May 10th (22nd).”

The visit to Kamenka, to which he had looked forward through the winter
and spring, did not actually come to pass. In consequence of the state
of the high-roads, the diligence was unable to run beyond Dovsk; the
remainder of the journey had to be undertaken, at the traveller’s own
risk and expense, in a private post-chaise. Tchaikovsky’s funds did not
permit of this extra strain, and the visit to his sister was abandoned.
With the assistance of his father, Anatol was sent to Kamenka, while
Peter Ilich, with Modeste, went for a time to his sister’s mother-in-law
at Miatlev, near Petersburg.

In spite of the beauty of scenery and his pleasure in being with his
excellent friends, Elizabeth and Vera Davidov, in spite of being near
his father and the poetical impression derived from a trip to Lake
Ladoga, Tchaikovsky did not altogether enjoy his holiday at Miatlev. The
cause of this was his G minor symphony, afterwards known as _Winter Day
Dreams_. Not one of his compositions gave him so much trouble as this
symphony.

He began this work in Moscow during the spring, and it was the cause of
his nervous disorders and numerous sleepless nights. These difficulties
were partly caused by his want of experience in composition, and partly
by his habit of working by night as well as by day. At the end of June
he had a terrible nervous breakdown, and the doctor who was called in to
see him declared he had narrowly escaped madness, and that his condition
was very serious. The most alarming symptoms of the illness were his
hallucinations and a constant feeling of dread. That he suffered
intensely is evident from the fact that he never again attempted to work
through the night.

In consequence of his illness, Tchaikovsky was unable to finish the
symphony during the summer. Nevertheless, before his return to Moscow he
resolved to submit it to his former masters, Anton Rubinstein and
Zaremba, hoping they might offer to let it be heard at the Musical
Society.

Once more he was doomed to disappointment. His symphony was severely
criticised, rejected, and pronounced unworthy of performance. It was the
first completely independent work which he had composed after leaving
the Petersburg Conservatoire. The only other work upon which he was
engaged at this time was the orchestration of his F major and C minor
overtures, which still remain unpublished.




III

1866-1867


At the end of August Tchaikovsky returned to Moscow without any trace of
the hostile feeling with which he had gone there in the previous
January. In this change of attitude his artistic sensibility
unquestionably played a part. After the severe judgment of the
authorities in Petersburg upon his symphony, he could not fail to
contrast this reception unfavourably with the acknowledgments of the
Moscow musical world. He had learnt, too, the value of his colleagues,
N. Rubinstein, Albrecht and Kashkin, and looked forward to meeting them
again. Finally, he had the pleasant prospect of an increased salary,
commencing from September. He must have rejoiced to feel his extreme
poverty had touched its limits, and an income of over £120 a year seemed
almost wealth to him. “I have money enough and to spare,” he wrote to
his brothers in November.

The ties which bound him to Petersburg were slackening. His attachment
to his father remained unchanged, but he was growing accustomed to his
separation; moreover, the twins stood less in need of his tender
solicitude, since they were once more living at home with their father.

And yet he still hankered after the recognition of St. Petersburg;
Moscow was still “a strange city”; a provincial town, the appreciation
of which was hardly worth the conquest.

In 1866 the Conservatoire outgrew its quarters in Rubinstein’s house,
and it became necessary to locate it in a larger building. Rubinstein
now moved into quarters nearer the new Conservatoire, and Tchaikovsky
continued to live with him.

The opening of the buildings took place on September 1st (13th), and was
attended by most of the leaders of Moscow society. The consecration
service was followed by a banquet at which many toasts were given, and
even Tchaikovsky himself drank to the health of Rubinstein, after making
a cordial and eloquent speech in his honour. Kashkin, the only witness
of the event now living, writes:--

     “The banquet was followed by music, and Tchaikovsky, who was
     determined that the first music to be heard in the hall of the
     Conservatoire should be Glinka’s, opened the impromptu concert by
     playing the overture to _Russlan and Lieudmilla_ from memory.”

The influx of new colleagues which followed the enlargement of the
Conservatoire made very little difference to Tchaikovsky’s intimate
circle. He admired Laub’s incomparable playing without entering into
closer relations with him. He had more in common with Kossmann, an
excellent musician and a man of culture. His acquaintance with the
violinist Wieniawsky was of short duration, since at the end of six
months the latter resigned his post as teacher, and they never met
again. He often spent the evening with Dubuque, a most hospitable man,
and a famous pianist, who was considered the finest interpreter of
Field’s Nocturnes and other works which were accounted modern in those
days. To these acquaintances we may add Anton Door, the well-known
pianist, now residing in Vienna.

Among such of Tchaikovsky’s friends as did not belong to the musical
profession, the generous art patron Prince Vladimir Odoevsky takes the
first place. Peter Ilich was grateful for the interest which this
enlightened man took in him and his work. In 1878 he says in one of his
letters:--

[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY (IN WINTER DRESS), 1867]

     “He was the personification of kindness, and combined the most
     all-embracing knowledge, including the art of music.... Four days
     before his death he came to the concert to hear my orchestral
     fantasia, _Fatum_. How jovial he was when during the interval he
     came to give me his opinion! The cymbals which he unearthed and
     presented to me are still kept at the Conservatoire. He did not
     like the instruments himself, but thought I had a talent for
     introducing them at the right moment. So the charming old fellow
     searched all Moscow until he discovered a pair of good ‘piatti,’
     and sent them to me with a precious letter.”

In the literary and dramatic world Tchaikovsky had two good friends--the
dramatist Ostrovsky and Sadovsky. He won the sympathy of these
distinguished men entirely by his own personality, since neither of them
cared greatly for music.

During the season 1866-7 the composer made another friendship which was
of great importance to his future career. Vladimir Petrovich Begichev,
Intendant of the Imperial Opera, Moscow, enjoyed a considerable
reputation--first as an elderly Adonis, secondly as the hero of many
romantic episodes in the past, and thirdly as the husband of his wife, a
lady once renowned for her singing and for her somewhat sensational
past. By her first husband Madame Begichev had two sons--Constantine and
Vladimir Shilovsky. These young men were strongly attracted to art and
literature, and played a considerable part in Tchaikovsky’s subsequent
career.

Soon after his arrival in Moscow Tchaikovsky began to compose an
overture on the Danish National Hymn, which N. Rubinstein had requested
him to have ready for the approaching marriage of the Tsarevitch with
the Princess Dagmar, to be played in the presence of the royal pair
during their visit to Moscow.

As with all his commissioned works, Tchaikovsky had completed this
overture before the appointed day, although he had to compose under the
most unfavourable conditions. Rubinstein’s house was beset all day long
by professors from the Conservatoire and other visitors, who did not
hesitate to intrude into Tchaikovsky’s room, so that he found no peace
at home, and had to take refuge in a neighbouring inn, “The Great
Britain,” which was very little frequented during the daytime. When
finished, he dedicated the overture to the Tsarevitch, and received in
return a pair of jewelled sleeve-links, which he immediately sold to
Dubuque. Tchaikovsky, who generally judged his early works very
severely, kept a favourable recollection of this overture, and wrote to
Jurgenson, in 1892:--

     “My Danish Overture may become a popular concert work, for, as far
     as I can remember, it is effective and, from a musical standpoint,
     far superior to ‘1812.’”

After making some alterations in his symphony--undertaken at the desire
of Anton Rubinstein and Zaremba--Tchaikovsky, setting aside N.
Rubinstein, desired to hear the judgments of his old teachers, so
greatly was he still under the influence of Petersburg opinion. He only
permitted the least important movement to be heard at a Moscow Symphony
Concert in December--the scherzo, which had very little success. In
Petersburg the work was once more refused, but afterwards the two middle
movements (adagio and scherzo) were performed in February, 1867. The
reception was not encouraging, only one anonymous critic speaking warmly
in praise of the music.

In Tchaikovsky’s nature, side by side with his gentle and benevolent
attitude towards his fellow-men, there existed an extraordinary memory
for any injury; not in the ordinary sense of a desire for revenge, but
in the more literal meaning of unforgetfulness. He hardly ever forgot a
slight to his artistic pride. If it was offered by one whom he had
hitherto loved, he grew suddenly cold to him--and for ever. Not only for
months or years, but for decades, he would bear such a wound unhealed
in his heart, and it took a great deal to make him forget an
inconsiderate word, or an unfriendly action. It was no doubt the result
of having been spoilt as a child. From his earliest infancy he had been
kept from all unpleasantness, or even indifference, so that what would
have appeared a pin-prick to many seemed to him a mortal blow.

Not only the episode of the symphony--which afterwards won a fair
measure of success in St. Petersburg--but many other events contributed
to estrange Tchaikovsky from the city of his first affections. Gradually
the circle of his friends there decreased, and the most intimate of them
all, Laroche, was appointed Professor at the Moscow Conservatoire in
December, 1867. Besides which that little school of gifted “young
Russians,” under the leadership of Balakirev, and the protection of
Dargomijsky, which included Moussorgsky, Cui, Borodin and
Rimsky-Korsakov, were gaining more and more acknowledgment and weight in
Petersburg. This circle, supported by the pens of Cui and Stassov, who
held extremely modern views and were opposed to the Conservatoire and
Anton Rubinstein, made a very unsympathetic impression upon Tchaikovsky.

The hostility with which he regarded this group of composers had its
origin in his distrustful attitude towards society generally. He met all
strangers with dislike, but at the first friendly advance, or kind word,
he forgave them, and even thought them sympathetic.

So it was with his intercourse with the members of the New School in St.
Petersburg. Until 1868 none of them were known to him personally, but
all the same he was hostile to them. This was sufficient to awaken in
him the notion that they were all disposed to be his enemies, and when
in 1867 Anton Rubinstein resigned the conductorship of the Symphony
Concerts, and it passed into the hands of this school, he decided that
Petersburg was now a hostile camp, whereas in reality they were simply
neutral, or indifferent, to him.

Meanwhile, by closer acquaintance with Nicholas Rubinstein, Tchaikovsky
had begun to recognise his worth as an executant, a conductor, and an
indefatigable worker; while the presence of such musicians as Laub and
Kossmann, and such intimate friends as Kashkin, Albrecht and Laroche,
reconciled him to Moscow as a musical centre where it was worth while to
be appreciated.

The earliest of Tchaikovsky’s letters in 1867 is dated May 2nd (14th);
therefore it is difficult to fix the precise date at which he began to
compose his opera, _The Voyevode_. In any case he received the first
part of the libretto from Ostrovsky in March or April. I remember that
in the summer the first act was not even finished. At the very outset he
was delayed in his work because he lost the manuscript, and Ostrovsky
had to rewrite it from memory.

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “_May_ 2_nd_(14_th_), 1867.

     “All last week I was out of humour; first, because of the bad
     weather; secondly, from shortness of money; and thirdly, from
     despair of ever again finding the libretto.... Recently I made the
     acquaintance of Professor Bougaiev at his house. He is an
     extraordinarily learned man. He talked until late into the night
     about astronomy and its latest discoveries. Good God! How ignorant
     we are when we leave school! I shudder when I chance to come across
     a really well-read and enlightened man!...”

In the summer of 1867 Tchaikovsky decided to visit Finland with one of
the twins, his funds not being sufficient to allow of his taking both of
them. With his usual _naïveté_ as regards money matters, he set off with
Anatol, taking about £10 in his pocket, which he believed would suffice
for the trip. At the end of a few days in Viborg, finding themselves
nearly penniless, they took the first boat back to Petersburg. There a
great disappointment awaited them. Their father, from whom they hoped to
obtain some assistance, had already left for a summer holiday in the
Ural Mountains. The brothers then spent their last remaining shillings
in reaching Hapsal by steamer, where they were certain of finding their
faithful friends the Davidovs. They travelled as “between deck”
passengers and suffered terribly from the cold. But notwithstanding
these misadventures, out of which they derived more amusement than
discomfort, Peter Ilich enjoyed the summer holidays. His spirits were
excellent, and he worked hard at _The Voyevode_, while his leisure was
spent in the society of his dear friends. The evenings were devoted to
reading, and they were particularly interested in the dramatic works of
Alfred de Musset. This kind of life entirely satisfied Tchaikovsky’s
simple and steadfast nature, and his happy frame of mind is reflected in
the _Chant sans paroles_, which he composed at this time and
dedicated--with two additional pieces for piano--to Vera Vassilievna
Davidov, under the title of _Souvenir de Hapsal_.

On August 15th (27th), Tchaikovsky left Hapsal for Moscow, spending a
week in Petersburg on his way.




IV

1867-1868


     “Perhaps you may have observed”--writes Tchaikovsky to his
     sister--“that I long intensely for a quiet, peaceful life, such as
     one lives in the country. Vera Davidov may have told you how we
     often spoke in fun of our future farm, where we intended to end our
     days. As regards myself it is no joke. I am really attracted to
     this idea because, although I am far from being old, I am already
     very tired of life. Do not laugh; if you always lived with me you
     would see it for yourself. The people around me often wonder at my
     taciturnity and my apparent ill-temper, while actually I do not
     lead an unhappy existence. What more can a man want whose prospects
     are good, who is liked, and whose artistic work meets with
     appreciation? And yet, in spite of these favourable circumstances,
     I shrink from every social engagement, do not care to make
     acquaintances, love solitude and silence. All this is explained by
     my weariness of life. In those moments when I am not merely too
     lazy to talk, but too indolent even to think, I dream of a calm,
     heavenly, serene existence, and only realise this life in your
     immediate neighbourhood. Be sure of this: you will have to devote
     some of your maternal devotion to your tired old brother. Perhaps
     you may think such a frame of mind naturally leads a man to the
     consideration of matrimony. No, my dear future companion! My
     weariness has made me _too indolent_ to form new ties, _too
     indolent_ to found a family, _too indolent_ to take upon myself the
     responsibility of wife and children. In short, marriage is to me
     inconceivable. How I shall come to be united with your family I
     know not as yet; whether I shall become the owner of a plot of
     ground in your neighbourhood, or simply your boarder, only the
     future can decide. One thing is clear: my future happiness is
     impossible apart from you.”

Tchaikovsky never gives the true reason for his yearning after solitude
and a life of “heavenly quiet and serenity,” but it certainly did not
proceed from “misanthropy,” “indolence,” or weariness of life.

He was no misanthropist, for, as everyone who knew him must agree, it
would be difficult to find any man who gave out more sympathy than he
did. Laroche says:--

     “The number of people who made a good impression on him, who
     pleased him, and of whom he spoke in their absence as ‘good’ and
     ‘sympathetic,’ sometimes astounded me. The power of seeing the best
     side of people and of things was a gift inherited from his father,
     and it was precisely this love of his fellow-creatures which made
     him so beloved in return. He was no misanthropist, rather a
     philanthropist in the true sense of the word. Neither is there
     greater justice in his self-accusation of ‘indolence.’ Those who
     have followed him through his school-life, his official career, and
     his student days at the Conservatoire, will be of my opinion. But a
     glance at the number of his works, which reaches seventy-six,
     including ten operas and three ballets; at his letters (I possess,
     in all, four thousand); at his literary work (sixty-one articles);
     at his translations and arrangements, and his ten years’ teaching,
     will suffice to convince the most sceptical that his nature knew no
     moods of _dolce far niente_.”

As regards his “weariness of life,” he himself disposes of it in the
same letter, when he speaks of yearning for a calm and happy existence.
Those who are really world-weary have no longing for any kind of
existence. Neither misanthropy, indolence, nor weariness were his
permanent moods. His indefinite craving for an easier life was caused by
his creative impulse, which, waxing ever stronger and stronger, awoke
the desire for more leisure to devote to it. This longing for freedom
reached a climax in 1877, and brought about a complete change in his
life.

For the time being it was useless to think of solitude or freedom. All
he could hope for was the comparative liberty of his summer vacation.
Town life was a necessity to him from the material and moral point of
view, and although he complained of its being oppressive, I believe that
had he been compelled by fate to reside in the country--as he did some
years later--he would, at this earlier period of his career, have had
much more cause for complaint.

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “_August_ 31_st_, 1867 (_September_ 12_th_).

     “ ... At present I have nothing to do, and loaf about the town all
     day.... Ostrovsky still keeps me on the trot. I read in the
     Petersburg papers that he had completed my libretto, but it is not
     so. I had some difficulty in dragging the first half of the lost
     act out of him. I am wandering about with the intention of buying a
     large writing-table to make my room more comfortable, so that I can
     work at my opera at home. I am determined to finish it during the
     winter. Last night we celebrated Dubuque’s birthday, and I came
     back rather the worse for liquor.

     “I have spent two evenings running at the ‘English Club.’ What a
     delightful club! It would be jolly to belong to it, but it costs
     too much....”

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     (_About the end of October._)

     “I am getting along all right. On Saturday our first concert takes
     place, to which I look forward, for, generally speaking, the people
     here prefer carnal to spiritual entertainments, and eat and drink
     an incredible amount. The concert will supply me with a little
     musical food, of which I am badly in need, for I live like a bear
     in his cave, upon my own substance, that is to say, upon my
     compositions, which are always running in my head. Try as I may, it
     is impossible to lead a quiet life in Moscow, where one must
     over-eat and drink. This is the fifth day in succession that I have
     come home late with an overloaded stomach. But you must not imagine
     I am idle: from breakfast till the midday meal I work without a
     break.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_November_ 25_th_ (_December_ 7_th_).

     “Our mutual friend Klimenko is in Moscow, and visits us almost
     daily.

     “The Opera is progressing fairly well. The whole of the third act
     is finished, and the dances from it--which I orchestrated at
     Hapsal--will be given at the next concert.”

Ivan Alexandrovich Klimenko, whose name will often occur in the course
of this book, had previously made Laroche’s acquaintance at one of
Serov’s “Tuesday evenings.” An architect by profession, Kashkin
describes him as a very gifted amateur. He was devotedly attached to
Tchaikovsky, and one of the first to prophesy his significance for
Russian music.

At the second symphony concert, which took place early in December, “The
Dances of the Serving Maids,” from _The Voyevode_, were given. They had
an undeniable success, and were twice repeated in Moscow during the
season.

On December 12th (24th) Tchaikovsky wrote to his brother Anatol as
follows:--

     “You ask if I am coming to Petersburg. Wisdom compels me to say no.
     In the first place I have not money for the journey, and secondly,
     Berlioz is coming here at Christmas, and will give two
     concerts--one popular, and another in the place of our fourth
     symphony evening. I shall put off my visit until the Carnival or
     Lent....”

Berlioz went to Moscow about the end of December, 1867, direct from St.
Petersburg, where he had been invited by the directors of the Musical
Society--chiefly at the instigation of Dargomijsky and Balakirev--to
conduct a series of six concerts.

This was not his first visit to Russia. As early as 1847 he had been
welcomed in Petersburg, Moscow and Riga, by the instrumentality of
Glinka, who regarded him as “the greatest of contemporary musicians.” He
then met with an enthusiastic reception from the leaders of the Russian
musical world, Prince Odoevsky and Count Vielgorsky, and not only made a
large sum, but was equally fêted by the public. It is interesting to
note that not only Berlioz himself, but his Russian admirers seem to
have deluded themselves into the belief that he was “understood” and
“appreciated” in Russia. Prince Odoevsky, who published an article
extolling Berlioz’s genius the very day before his first concert in
Petersburg, exclaims in one of his letters to Glinka:--

     “Where are you, friend? Why are you not with us? Why are you not
     sharing our joy and pleasure? Berlioz has been ‘understood’ in St.
     Petersburg!! Here, in spite of the scourge of Italian cavatina,
     which has well-nigh ruined Slavonic taste, we showed that we could
     still appreciate the most complicated contrapuntal music in the
     world. There must be a secret sympathy between his music and our
     intimate Russian sentiment. How else can this public enthusiasm be
     explained?”

I am of opinion that it is more easily explicable by the fact that
Berlioz was a gifted conductor, and that the public had been
prepossessed in his favour by the laudatory articles of Prince Odoevsky
himself. Judging from the neglect of this famous composer in the present
day (_Faust_ is the only one of his works which is still popular), this
is surely the right point of view.

Twenty years later, in 1867, the enthusiastic welcome he received here
was chiefly due to his attraction as a conductor, and to the enthusiasm
of that small group of Russian musicians to whom he owed his invitation
to our country.

Tchaikovsky, whose views were entirely opposed to those of this circle,
held “his own opinions” in this, as in other matters. Although he fully
appreciated the important place which Berlioz filled in modern music,
and recognised him as a great reformer of the orchestra, he felt no
enthusiasm for his music. On the other hand, he had the warmest
admiration for the man, in whom he saw “the personification of
disinterested industry, of ardent love for art, of a noble and energetic
combatant against ignorance, stupidity, vulgarity, and routine....” He
also regarded him as “an old and broken man, persecuted alike by fate
and his fellow-creatures,” whom he cordially desired to console and
cheer--if only for the moment--by the expression of an ungrudging
sympathy.

On February 3rd (15th) Tchaikovsky’s G minor symphony was given at the
Musical Society, when its success surpassed all expectations. “The
adagio pleased best,” Tchaikovsky wrote to his brothers. The composer
was vociferously recalled, and, according to Countess Kapnist, appeared
upon the platform in rather untidy clothes, hat in hand, and bowed
awkwardly.

On February 19th (March 2nd) a charity concert was given in the Opera
House in aid of the Famine Fund. This was an event in Tchaikovsky’s
life, for he made his first public appearance as a conductor, the
“Dances” from _The Voyevode_, being played under his bâton. On this
occasion, too, he first became acquainted with the work of
Rimsky-Korsakov, whose “Serbian Fantasia” was included in the programme.

Tchaikovsky’s opinion of himself as a conductor we have learnt already
from Laroche. Kashkin gives the following account of this concert:--

     “When I went behind the scenes to see how the _débutant_ was
     feeling, he told me that to his great surprise he was not in the
     least nervous. Before it came to his turn I returned to my place.
     When Tchaikovsky actually appeared on the platform, I noticed that
     he was quite distracted; he came on timidly, as though he would
     have been glad to hide, or run away, and, on mounting to the
     conductor’s desk, looked like a man who finds himself in some
     desperate situation. Apparently his composition was blotted out
     from his mind; he did not see the score before him, and gave all
     the leads at the wrong moment, or to the wrong instruments.
     Fortunately the band knew the music so well that they paid no
     attention whatever to Tchaikovsky’s beat, but laughing in their
     sleeves, got through the dances very creditably in spite of him.
     Afterwards Peter Ilich told me that in his terror he had a feeling
     that his head would fall off his shoulders unless he held it
     tightly in position.”

That he had no faith in his powers of conducting is evident from the
fact that ten years elapsed before he ventured to take up the bâton
again.

In a notice of the concert, which appeared in _The Entr’acte_,
Tchaikovsky was spoken of as a “mature” musician, whose work was
remarkable for “loftiness of aim and masterly thematic treatment”; while
Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Serbian Fantasia” was dismissed as “colourless and
inanimate.”

Had such a judgment been pronounced a few months earlier, at a time when
Tchaikovsky knew nothing of the composer, and regarded the entire
Petersburg School as his enemies, who knows whether he would not have
felt a certain satisfaction--a kind of “Schadenfreude”--at its
appearance? Now, however, circumstances were altered. Not only had he
become well acquainted with the “Serbian Fantasia” at rehearsal, and
learnt to regard both the work and its composer with respect, but during
the last two or three months he had been more closely associated with
the leader of the New School, Mily Balakirev, and had become convinced
that, far from being his enemies, the Petersburg set were all interested
in his career.

The result of this pleasing discovery was a burning desire to show his
sympathy for a gifted colleague, and he wrote an article in direct
contradiction to the criticism of the _Entr’acte_. This was the
beginning of his literary activity. The article aroused considerable
attention in Moscow, and was warmly approved. Nor did it escape
observation in St. Petersburg. Consequently, when Tchaikovsky visited
his father at Easter, he was received in a very friendly spirit by “The
Invincible Band.”[16]

The rallying-point of “The Band” was Dargomijsky’s house. The composer,
although confined to his bed by a mortal illness, was working with fire
and inspiration at his opera, _The Stone Guest_. His young friends
regarded this work as the foundation-stone of the great temple of “The
Music of the Future,” and frequently assembled at the “Master’s” to note
the progress of the new creation and show him their own works. Even
Tchaikovsky, who had already met Dargomijsky at Begichev’s in Moscow,
found himself more than once among the guests, and made many new
acquaintances on these occasions.

At Balakirev’s, too, he met many musicians who held the views of the New
Russian School. Although Tchaikovsky entered into friendly relations
with the members of “The Invincibles,” he could not accept their tenets,
and with great tact and skill remained entirely independent of them.
While he made friends individually with Balakirev, Rimsky-Korsakov, Cui
and Vladimir Stassov, he still regarded their union with some hostility.

He laughed at their ultra-progressive tendencies and regarded with
contempt the naïve and crude efforts of some members of “The Band”
(especially Moussorgsky). But while making fun of these “unheard-of
works of genius,” which “throw all others into the shade,” and indignant
at their daring attacks upon his idol Mozart, Tchaikovsky was also
impressed by the force and vitality displayed in some of their
compositions, as well as by their freshness of inspiration and
honourable intentions, so that far from being repulsed, he learnt to
feel a certain degree of sympathy and a very great respect for this
school.

This dual relationship reacted in two different ways. Tchaikovsky never
hesitated to express quite openly his antipathy to the tendencies of
these innovators, while he refused to recognise the dilettante
extravagances of Moussorgsky as masterpieces, and always made it evident
that it would be distasteful to him to win the praise of Stassov and
Cui, and with it the title of “genius,” by seeking originality at the
expense of artistic beauty. At the same time he acted as the
propagandist of “The Band” in Moscow, was their intermediary with the
Moscow section of the Musical Society, and busied himself with the
performance or publication of their works. When in 1869 the Grand
Duchess Helena Paulovna desired to carry out a change in the management
of the symphony concerts, and Balakirev retired from the conductorship,
Tchaikovsky appeared for the second time as the champion of “The Band,”
and protested against the proceedings of the Grand Duchess in an
energetic article, in which he displayed also his sympathy with the
leader of the New Russian School. During the period when he was engaged
in musical criticism, he lost no opportunity of giving public expression
to his respect and enthusiasm for the works of Balakirev and
Rimsky-Korsakov.

But the most obvious sign of his sympathy with “The Band” is the fact
that he dedicated three of his best works to individual members--_Fatum_
and _Romeo and Juliet_ to Balakirev and _The Tempest_ to Vladimir
Stassov. Here undoubtedly we may see the indirect influence which the
New School exercised upon Tchaikovsky. He would not amalgamate with
them; nor would he adopt their principles. But to win their sympathy,
without actually having recourse to a compromise; to accept their advice
(_Romeo and Juliet_ was suggested by Balakirev and _The Tempest_ by
Stassov); to triumph over the tasks they set him and to show his
solidarity with “The Band,” only in so far as they both aimed at being
earnest in matters of art--all this seemed to him not only interesting,
but worthy of his vocation.

“The Invincible Band” repaid Tchaikovsky in his own coin. They
criticised some of his works as pedantic, “behind the times,” and
_routinier_, but at the outset of his career they took the greatest
interest in him, respected him as a worthy rival, strove to win him over
to their views, and continued to consider him “among the elect,” even
after the failure of their efforts at conversion.

The relations between Tchaikovsky and “The Band” may be compared to
those existing between two friendly neighbouring states, each leading
its independent existence, meeting on common grounds, but keeping their
individual interests strictly apart.

During the summer of this year Tchaikovsky went abroad with his
favourite pupil Vladimir Shilovsky, accompanied by the lad’s guardian,
V. Begichev, and a friend named De Lazary. In spite of a lingering wish
to spend his holidays with his own people in some quiet spot, the
opportunity seemed too good to be lost. His travelling companions were
congenial, and his duties of the lightest--merely to give music lessons
to young Shilovsky.

From Paris he wrote to his sister on July 20th (August 1st), 1868:--

     “Originally we intended to visit the most beautiful places in
     Europe, but Shilovsky’s illness, and the need of consulting a
     certain great doctor with all possible speed, brought us here, and
     has kept us against our will.... The theatres are splendid, not
     externally, but as regards the staging of pieces and the skill with
     which effects are produced by the simplest means. They know how to
     mount and act a play here in such a way that, without any
     remarkable display of histrionic talent, it is more effective than
     it would be with us, since it would probably lack rehearsal and
     _ensemble_.

     “As regards music, too, in the operas I have heard I remarked no
     singer with an exceptional voice, and yet what a splendid
     performance! How carefully everything is studied and thought out!
     What earnest attention is given to every detail, no matter how
     insignificant, which goes to make up the general effect! We have no
     conception of such performances.... The noise and bustle of Paris
     is far less suited to a composer than the quiet of such a lake as
     the Thuner See, not to mention the stinking, but beloved,
     Tiasmin,[17] which is happy in flowing by the house that holds
     some of my nearest and dearest. How have they passed this summer?”

Tchaikovsky returned to his duties at Moscow about the end of August.




V


                               1868-1869

Externally, Tchaikovsky’s life had remained unchanged during this
period. His lessons at the Conservatoire slightly increased, and his
salary consequently rose to over 1,400 roubles (£140). Under these
circumstances he began to think of finding separate quarters, since his
life with Nicholas Rubinstein was unfavourable to his creative work. The
latter, however, would not consent to this, and Tchaikovsky himself had
doubts as to whether his income would suffice for a separate
establishment.

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_September_ 3_rd_ (15_th_).

     “I have been working like a slave to-day. The day before yesterday
     I received an unexpected summons to attend at the theatre. To my
     great surprise I found two choral rehearsals of my opera (_The
     Voyevode_) had already been given, and the first solo rehearsal was
     about to take place. I have undertaken the pianoforte accompaniment
     myself. I doubt the possibility of getting up such a difficult work
     in a month, and already I shiver with apprehension at all the
     hurry-skurry and confusion which lie before me. The rehearsals will
     take place almost daily. The singers are all pleased with the
     opera....”

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “_September_ 25_th_ (_October_ 7_th_).

     “ ... When I saw that it was impossible to study my opera in so
     short a time, I informed the directors that so long as the Italian
     company remained in Moscow and absorbed the time of both chorus and
     orchestra, I would not send in the score of my work. I wrote to
     Gedeonov to this effect. In consequence, the performance is
     postponed until the Italians leave Moscow. I have a little more
     leisure now. Besides, Menshikova already knows the greater part of
     her rôle by heart. I lunched with her to-day, and she sang me
     several numbers from the opera, by no means badly. Time, on the
     whole, goes quickly and pleasantly.

     “I have some good news to give you about my future work. A few days
     ago I was lunching with Ostrovsky, and he proposed, entirely of his
     own accord, to write a libretto for me. The subject has been in his
     mind for the last twenty years, but he has never spoken of it to
     anyone before; now his choice has fallen upon me.

     “The scene is laid in Babylon and Greece, in the time of Alexander
     of Macedon, who is introduced as one of the characters. We have
     representatives of two great races of antiquity: the Hebrews and
     the Greeks. The hero is a young Hebrew, in love with one of his own
     race, who, actuated by ambitious motives, betrays him for the sake
     of Alexander. In the end the young Hebrew becomes a prophet. You
     have no idea what a fine plot it is! Just now I am writing a
     symphonic sketch, _Fatum_.[18] The Italian opera is creating a
     furore. Artôt is a splendid creature. She and I are good friends.”

“Early in 1868,” says Laroche, “an Italian opera company visited Moscow
for a few weeks, at the head of which was the impresario Merelli. Their
performances at the Opera drew crowded houses. The company consisted of
fifth-rate singers, who had neither voices nor talent; the one exception
was a woman of thirty, not good-looking, but with a passionate and
expressive face, who had just reached the climax of her art, and soon
afterwards began to go off, both in voice and appearance.

“Désirée Artôt, a daughter of the celebrated horn-player Artôt, and a
niece of the still more renowned violinist, had been trained by Pauline
Viardot-Garcia. Her voice was powerful, and adapted to express intense
dramatic pathos, but unfortunately it had no reserve force, and began to
deteriorate comparatively early, so that six or seven years after the
time of which I am speaking it had completely lost its charm. Besides
its dramatic quality, her voice was suitable for florid vocalisation,
and her lower notes were so good that she could take many mezzo-soprano
parts; consequently her repertory was almost unlimited.... It is not too
much to say that in the whole world of music, in the entire range of
lyrical emotion, there was not a single idea, or a single form, of which
this admirable artist could not give a poetical interpretation. The
timbre of her voice was more like the oboe than the flute, and was
penetrated by such indescribable beauty, warmth, and passion, that
everyone who heard it was fascinated and carried away. I have said that
Désirée Artôt was not good-looking. At the same time, without recourse
to artificial aids, her charm was so great that she won all hearts and
turned all heads, as though she had been the loveliest of women. The
delicate texture and pallor of her skin, the plastic grace of her
movements, the beauty of her neck and arms, were not her only weapons;
under the irregularity of her features lay some wonderful charm of
attraction, and of all the many ‘Gretchens’ I have seen in my day, Artôt
was by far the most ideal, the most fascinating.

“This was chiefly due to her talent as an actress. I have never seen
anyone so perfectly at home on the stage as she was. From the first
entrance, to the last cry of triumph or despair, the illusion was
perfect. Not a single movement betrayed intention or pre-consideration.
She was equally herself in a tragic, comic, or comedy part.”

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “_October_ 21_st_ (_November_ 2_nd_).

     “I am very busy writing choruses and recitatives to Auber’s _Domino
     Noir_, which is to be given for Artôt’s benefit. Merelli will pay
     me for the work. I have become very friendly with Artôt, and am
     glad to know something of her remarkable character. I have never
     met a kinder, a better, or a cleverer woman.

     “Anton Rubinstein has been here. He played divinely, and created an
     indescribable sensation. He has not altered, and is as nice as
     ever.

     “My orchestral fantasia _Fatum_ is finished.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     (_November._)

     “Oh, Moding, I long to pour my impressions into your artistic soul.
     If only you knew what a singer and actress Artôt is!! I have never
     experienced such powerful artistic impressions as just recently.
     How delighted you would be with the grace of her movements and
     poses!”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     (_December._)

     “ ... I have not written to you for a long while, but many things
     now make it impossible for me to write letters, for all my leisure
     is given to one--of whom you have already heard--whom I love
     dearly.

     “My musical situation is as follows: Two of my pianoforte pieces
     are to be published in a day or two. I have arranged twenty-five
     Russian folksongs for four hands, which will be published
     immediately, and I have orchestrated my fantasia _Fatum_ for the
     fifth concert of the Musical Society.

     “Recently a concert was given here for the benefit of poor
     students, in which ‘the one being’ sang for the last time before
     her departure, and Nicholas Rubinstein played my pianoforte piece
     dedicated to Artôt.”

                            _To his father._

     “_December_ 26_th_ (_January_ 7_th_, 1869).

     “MY DEAR, KIND DAD!--To my great annoyance, circumstances have
     prevented my going to Petersburg. This journey would have cost me
     at least a hundred roubles, and just now I do not possess them.
     Consequently I must send my New Year’s wishes by letter. I wish
     you happiness and all good things. As rumours of my engagement will
     doubtless have reached you, and you may feel hurt at my silence
     upon the subject, I will tell you the whole story. I made the
     acquaintance of Artôt in the spring, but only visited her once,
     when I went to a supper given after her benefit performance. After
     she returned here in autumn I did not call on her for a whole
     month. Then we met by chance at a musical evening. She expressed
     surprise that I had not called, and I promised to do so, a promise
     I should never have kept (because of my shyness with new friends)
     if Anton Rubinstein, in passing through Moscow, had not dragged me
     there. Afterwards I received constant invitations, and got into the
     way of going to her house daily. Soon we began to experience a
     mutual glow of tenderness, and an understanding followed
     immediately. Naturally the question of marriage arose at once, and,
     if nothing hinders it, our wedding is to take place in the summer.
     But the worst is that there are several obstacles. First, there is
     her mother, who always lives with her, and has considerable
     influence upon her daughter. She is not in favour of the match,
     because she considers me too young, and probably fears lest I
     should expect her daughter to live permanently in Russia. Secondly,
     my friends, especially N. Rubinstein, are trying might and main to
     prevent my marriage. They declare that, married to a famous singer,
     I should play the pitiable part of ‘husband of my wife’; that I
     should live at her expense and accompany her all over Europe;
     finally, that I should lose all opportunities of working, and that
     when my first love had cooled, I should know nothing but
     disenchantment and depression. The risk of such a catastrophe might
     perhaps be avoided, if she would consent to leave the stage and
     live entirely in Russia. But she declares that in spite of all her
     love for me, she cannot make up her mind to give up the profession
     which brings her in so much money, and to which she has grown
     accustomed. At present she is on her way to Moscow. Meanwhile we
     have agreed that I am to visit her in summer at her country house
     (near Paris), when our fate will be decided.

     “If she will not consent to give up the stage, I, on my part,
     hesitate to sacrifice my future; for it is clear that I shall lose
     all opportunity of making my own way, if I blindly follow in her
     train. You see, Dad, my situation is a very difficult one. On the
     one hand, I love her heart and soul, and feel I cannot live any
     longer without her; on the other hand, calm reason bids me to
     consider more closely all the misfortunes with which my friends
     threaten me. I shall wait, my dear, for your views on the subject.

     “I am quite well, and my life goes on as usual--only I am unhappy
     now she is not here.”

Tchaikovsky received the following letter in reply:--

     “_December_ 29_th_, 1868 (_January_ 10_th_, 1869).

     “MY DEAR PETER,--You ask my advice upon the most momentous event in
     your life.... You are both artists, both make capital out of your
     talents; but while she has made both money and fame, you have
     hardly begun to make your way, and God knows whether you will ever
     attain to what she has acquired. Your friends know your gifts, and
     fear they may suffer by your marriage--I think otherwise. You, who
     gave up your official appointment for the sake of your talent, are
     not likely to forsake your art, even if you are not altogether
     happy at first, as is the fate of nearly all musicians. You are
     proud, and therefore you find it unpleasant not to be earning
     sufficient to keep a wife and be independent of her purse. Yes,
     dear fellow, I understand you well enough. It is bitter and
     unpleasant. But if you are both working and earning together there
     can be no question of reproach; go your way, let her go hers, and
     help each other side by side. It would not be wise for either of
     you to give up your chosen vocations until you have saved enough to
     say: ‘This is _ours_, we have earned it in common.’

     “Let us analyse these words: ‘In marrying a famous singer you will
     be playing the pitiable part of attendant upon her journeys; you
     will live on her money and lose your own chances of work.’ If your
     love is not a fleeting, but solid sentiment, as it ought to be in
     people of your age; if your vows are sincere and unalterable, then
     all these misgivings are nonsense. Married happiness is based upon
     mutual respect, and you would no more permit your wife to be a kind
     of servant, than she would ask you to be her lackey. The travelling
     is not a matter of any importance, so long as it does not prevent
     your composing--it will even give you opportunities of getting your
     operas or symphonies performed in various places. A devoted friend
     will help to inspire you. When all is set down in black and white,
     with such a companion as your chosen one, your talent is more
     likely to progress than to deteriorate. (2) Even if your first
     passion for her does cool somewhat, will ‘nothing remain but
     disenchantment and depression’? But why should love grow cold? I
     lived twenty-one years with your mother, and during all that time I
     loved her just the same, with the ardour of a young man, and
     respected and worshipped her as a saint.... There is only one
     question I would ask you; have you proved each other? Do you love
     each other truly, and for all time? I know your character, my dear
     son, and I have confidence in you, but I have not as yet the
     happiness of knowing the dear woman of your choice. I only know her
     lovely heart and soul through you. It would be no bad thing if you
     proved each other, not by jealousy--God forbid--but by time....

     “Describe her character to me in full, my dear. Does she translate
     that tender word ‘Désirée’? A mother’s wish counts for nothing in
     love affairs, but give it your consideration.”

                  _Tchaikovsky to his brother Anatol._

     (_January._)

     “Just now I am very much excited. _The Voyevode_ is about to be
     performed. Everyone is taking the greatest pains, so I can hope for
     a good performance. Menshikova will do very well; she sings the
     ‘Nightingale’ song in the second act beautifully. The tenor is not
     amiss, but the bass is bad. If the work goes well I shall try to
     arrange for you both to come here in the Carnival Week, so that you
     may hear it.

     “I have already begun upon a second opera, but I must not tell you
     about the subject, because I want to keep it a secret that I have
     anything in hand. How astonished they will be to find in summer
     that half the opera is already put together! (I hope in summer I
     shall have some chance of working)....

     “With regard to the love affair I had early in the winter, I may
     tell you that it is very doubtful whether I shall enter Hymen’s
     bonds or not. Things are beginning to go rather awry. I will tell
     you more about it later on. I have not time now.”

During this month (January) Désirée Artôt, without a word of explanation
to her first lover, was married to the baritone singer Padilla at
Warsaw.

The news reached Tchaikovsky at a moment when his whole mind, time, and
interests were absorbed by the production of his first opera, and,
judging from the tone of his letters, it was owing to these
circumstances that it affected him less painfully than might have been
expected.

In any case, after the first hours of bitterness, Tchaikovsky bore no
grudge against the faithless lady. She remained for him the most perfect
artist he had ever known. As a woman she was always dear to his memory.
A year later he had to meet her again, and wrote of the prospect as
follows:--

     “I shall have very shortly to meet Artôt. She is coming here, and I
     cannot avoid a meeting, because immediately after her arrival we
     begin the rehearsals for _Le Domino Noir_ (for which I have written
     recitatives and choruses), which I shall be compelled to attend.
     This woman has caused me to experience many bitter hours, and yet I
     am drawn to her by such an inexplicable sympathy that I begin to
     look forward to her coming with feverish impatience.”

They met as friends. All intimate relations were at an end.

     “When, in 1869, Artôt reappeared at the Moscow Opera,” says
     Kashkin, “I sat in the stalls next to Tchaikovsky, who was greatly
     moved. When the singer came on, he held his opera glasses to his
     eyes and never lowered them during the entire performance; but he
     must have seen very little, for tear after tear rolled down his
     cheeks.”

Twenty years later they met once more. Youthful love and mutual sympathy
had then given place to a steady friendship, which lasted the rest of
their lives.

On January 30th (February 11th), 1869, _The Voyevode_ was given for the
first time for the singer Menshikova’s benefit.

The opera was very well received. The composer was recalled fifteen
times and presented with a laurel wreath. The performance, however, was
not without mishaps. Rapport, who took the lover’s part, had been kept
awake all night by an abscess on his finger, and was nearly fainting.
“If Menshikova had not supported him in her arms, the curtain must have
been rung down,” wrote Tchaikovsky to his brothers.

Kashkin says the chorus on a folksong, which occurred early in the
opera, pleased at once, and the “Nightingale” song became a favourite.
The tenor solo, “Glow, O Dawn-light,” based upon the pentatonic scale,
and the duet between Olona and Maria, “The moon sails calmly,” and the
last quartet all met with great success.

But the stormy ovation at the first performance, the enthusiasm of the
composer’s friends, and the appreciation of one or two specialists,
could not create a lasting success. The opera was only heard five times,
and then disappeared from the repertory for ever.

The first words of disapprobation and harsh criticism came from an
unexpected quarter--from Laroche. It was not only his “faint praise” of
this work, but the contemptuous attitude which Laroche now assumed
towards Tchaikovsky’s talent as a whole, which wounded the composer so
deeply that he broke off all connection with his old friend.

[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1868]

Soon after the production of _The Voyevode_ Tchaikovsky’s symphonic
fantasia _Fatum_ (or _Destiny_) was given for the first time at the
eighth concert of the Musical Society. By way of programme for this
work, which he dedicated to Balakirev, Tchaikovsky chose the following
lines from Batioushkov:--

    “Thou knowest what the white-haired Melchisedek
     Said when he left this life: Man is born a slave,
     A slave he dies. Will even Death reveal to him
     Why thus he laboured in this vale of tears,
     Why thus he suffered, wept, endured--then vanished?”

To the choice of this motto attaches a history in which a certain
Sergius Rachinsky played a part. This gentleman, Professor of Botany at
the Moscow University, was one of Tchaikovsky’s earliest and most
enthusiastic admirers. Rachinsky was a lover of music and literature,
but held the most unusual views upon these, as upon all other subjects.
For instance, he saw nothing in Ostrovsky, then at the height of his
fame, but discerned in Tchaikovsky, who was hardly known to the world,
the making of a “great” composer.

When, in 1871, the musician dedicated to Rachinsky his first quartet,
the latter exclaimed with enthusiasm: “C’est un brevet d’immortalité que
j’ai reçu.”

Originally _Fatum_ had no definite programme.

     “When the books for the concert were about to be printed,” relates
     Rachinsky, “Rubinstein, who was always very careful about such
     details, considered the bare title _Fatum_ insufficient, and
     suggested that an appropriate verse should be added. It chanced
     that I, who had not heard a note of the new work, had dropped in
     upon Rubinstein, and the verses of Batioushkov flashed across my
     mind. Rubinstein asked me to write them down at once, and added
     them to the programme-book with the composer’s consent.”

The quotation, therefore, has not the significance of a programme, but
was merely an epigraph added to the score.

The composer declared that _Fatum_ had a “distinct success” with the
public, and added that he “considered it the best work he had written so
far,” and “others are of my opinion.” From this we may gather that, with
the exception of Laroche, Tchaikovsky’s musical friends were pleased
with this composition.

_Fatum_ was given almost simultaneously by the Petersburg section of the
Musical Society, under Balakirev’s direction. But here the fantasia fell
flat, and pleased neither the public nor the musicians.

Nevertheless, Cui did not handle the young composer so severely as on
the occasion of his Diploma Cantata. He found fault with a good deal in
_Fatum_, but described the music as being on the whole “agreeable, but
not inspired,” the instrumentation “somewhat rough,” and the harmonies
“bold and new, if not invariably beautiful.”

Balakirev--to whom the work was dedicated--did not admire it, and his
feelings were shared by the rest of the “Invincible Band.” He wrote to
Tchaikovsky as follows:--

     “Your _Fatum_ has been played, and I venture to hope the
     performance was not bad--at least everyone seemed satisfied with
     it. There was not much applause, which I ascribe to the hideous
     crash at the end. The work itself does not please me; it is not
     sufficiently thought out, and shows signs of having been written
     hastily. In many places the joins and tacking-threads are too
     perceptible. Laroche says it is because you do not study the
     classics sufficiently. I put it down to another cause: you are too
     little acquainted with modern music. You will never learn freedom
     of form from the classical composers. You will find nothing new
     there. They can only give you what you knew already, when you sat
     on the students’ benches and listened respectfully to Zaremba’s
     learned discourses upon ‘The Connection between Rondo-form and
     Man’s First Fall.’

     “At the same concert _Les Préludes_ of Liszt was performed. Observe
     the wonderful form of this work; how one thing follows another
     quite naturally. This is no mere motley, haphazard affair. Or take
     Glinka’s _Night in Madrid_; in what a masterly fashion the various
     sections of this overture are fused together! It is just this
     organic coherence and connection that are lacking in _Fatum_. I
     have chosen Glinka as an example because I believe you have studied
     him a great deal, and I could see all through _Fatum_ you were
     under the influence of one of his choruses.

     “The verse you chose as an epigraph is altogether beneath
     criticism. It is a frightful specimen of manufactured rhyme. If you
     are really so attracted to Byronism, why not have chosen a suitable
     quotation from Lermontov? With the object of making the verse run
     smoother I left out the first two lines (Melchisedek seemed really
     too absurd!), but apparently I perpetrated a blunder. Our entire
     circle dropped upon me and assured me that the whole of the
     introduction to _Fatum_ was intended to express the awful utterance
     of Melchisedek himself. Perhaps they are right. If so, you must
     forgive my excellent intention.... I write to you quite frankly,
     and feel sure you will not on this account abandon your intention
     of dedicating _Fatum_ to me. This dedication is very precious, as
     indicating your regard for me, and on my part I reciprocate your
     feeling.”

Tchaikovsky did not resent Balakirev’s opinion, although it may have
wounded him. That he was grateful for the friendly tone of the letter,
in which Balakirev’s confidence in his talent was clearly perceptible,
is evident from the fact that three months later he appeared in the
press as the champion of the leader of the “Invincible Band.” Moreover,
after a short time, he shared Balakirev’s opinion of his work, and
destroyed the score of _Fatum_.

Early in the season Tchaikovsky began to look out for material for a new
opera. The chief requisite he asked was that the scene should not be
laid in Russia. The discussion with Ostrovsky of a plot from the period
of Alexander the Great, mentioned in his letter of September 25th, had
come to nothing. Without applying to another librettist, he began to
search for a ready-made text. Great was his joy to discover a book among
the works of Count Sollogoub, based upon his favourite poem, Joukovsky’s
“Undine.”

Without reflection, or closer inspection of the libretto, he began to
compose with fervour, even in the midst of the rehearsals for _The
Voyevode_; that is in January, 1869. By February he had already written
most of the first act. The two following acts he wrote in April, and
began the orchestration in the course of the same month. He hoped to
complete the first act in May, and the remainder during the summer, and
to send the whole score to the Direction of the Petersburg Opera by
November, when Gedeonov had given him a formal promise to produce it.

This feverish work, the many excitements of the winter season, his
anxiety about the elder of the twins, who had to pass his final
examination at the School of Jurisprudence, and all the trouble and
correspondence involved in trying to find him an opening in Moscow, told
upon Tchaikovsky’s nerves. His health was so far impaired that he
gradually lost strength, until he became quite exhausted, and the doctor
ordered him to the seaside, or to an inland watering-place, enjoining
absolute repose.

The summer was spent with his sister at Kamenka, where the whole family
was gathered together, with the exception of Nicholas. In June they
celebrated the wedding of his brother, Hyppolite, to Sophia Nikonov, and
Tchaikovsky, having recovered his spirits, took a leading part in all
the festivities.

The score of _Undine_ was finished by the end of July, and the composer
returned to Moscow earlier than usual--about the beginning of August.




VI

1869-1870


                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “_August_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1869.

     “ ... We have taken new quarters; my room is upstairs, and there is
     a place for you too. I made every possible pretext for living
     alone, but I could not manage it. However, now I shall pay my own
     expenses and keep my own servant.... Begichev has taken my opera to
     Petersburg. Whether it is produced or not, I have finished with it
     and can turn to something else. Balakirev is staying here. We often
     meet, and I always come to the conclusion that--in spite of his
     worthiness--his society weighs upon me like a stone. I particularly
     dislike the narrowness of his views, and the persistence with which
     he upholds them. At the same time his short visit has been of
     benefit to me in many respects.”

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “_August_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

     “I have no news to give. Balakirev leaves to-day. Although he has
     sometimes bored me, I must in justice say that he is a good,
     honourable man, and immeasurably above the average as an artist. We
     have just taken a touching farewell of each other....

     “I gave an evening party not long since. Balakirev, Borodin,
     Kashkin, Klimenko, Arnold and Plestcheiev were among the guests.

     “I met Laroche in The Hermitage and said ‘Good-day,’ but I have no
     intention of making it up with him.”

Towards the end of September, 1869, Tchaikovsky set to work upon his
overture to _Romeo and Juliet_, to which he had been incited by
Balakirev’s suggestions. Indeed, the latter played so important a part
in the genesis of this work that it is necessary to speak of it in
detail.

Balakirev not only suggested the subject, but took such a lively
interest in the work that he kept up a continuous current of good advice
and solicitations. In October he wrote:--

     “It strikes me that your inactivity proceeds from your lack of
     concentration, in spite of your ‘snug workshop.’ I do not know your
     method of composing, mine is as follows: when I wrote my _King
     Lear_, having first read the play, I felt inspired to compose an
     overture (which Stassov had already suggested to me). At first I
     had no actual material, I only warmed to the project. An
     Introduction, ‘maestoso,’ followed by something mystical (Kent’s
     Prediction). The Introduction dies away and gives place to a stormy
     allegro. This is Lear himself, the discrowned, but still mighty,
     lion. By way of episodes the characteristic themes of Regan and
     Goneril, and then--a second subject--Cordelia, calm and tender. The
     middle section (storm, Lear and the Fool on the heath) and
     repetition of the allegro: Regan and Goneril finally crush their
     father, and the overture dies away softly (Lear over Cordelia’s
     corpse), then the prediction of Kent is heard once more, and
     finally the peaceful and solemn note of death. You must understand
     that, so far, I had no definite musical ideas. These came later and
     took their place within my framework. I believe you will feel the
     same, if once you are inspired by the project. Then arm yourself
     with goloshes and a walking-stick and go for a constitutional on
     the Boulevards, starting with the Nikitsky; let yourself be
     saturated with your plan, and I am convinced by the time you reach
     the Sretensky Boulevard some theme or episode will have come to
     you. Just at this moment, thinking of your overture, an idea has
     come to me involuntarily, and I seem to see that it should open
     with a fierce ‘allegro with the clash of swords.’ Something like
     this:

[Illustration]

     “I should begin in this style. If I were going to write the
     overture I should become enthusiastic over this germ, and I should
     brood over it, or rather turn it over in my mind until something
     vital came of it.

     “If these lines have a good effect upon you I shall be very
     pleased. I have a certain right to hope for this, because your
     letters do me good. Your last, for instance, made me so unusually
     light-hearted that I rushed out into the Nevsky Prospect; I did not
     walk, I danced along, and composed part of my _Tamara_ as I went.”

When Balakirev heard that Tchaikovsky was actually at work, he wrote in
November:--

     “I am delighted to hear that the child of your fancy has quickened.
     God grant it comes to a happy birth. I am very curious to know what
     you have put into the overture. Do send me what you have done so
     far, and I promise not to make any remarks--good or bad--until the
     thing is finished.”

After Tchaikovsky had acceded to Balakirev’s request, and sent him the
chief subjects of his overture, he received the following answer, which
caused him to make some modifications in the work:--

     “ ... As your overture is all but finished, and will soon be
     played, I will tell you what I think of it quite frankly (I do not
     use this word in Zaremba’s sense). The first subject does not
     please me at all. Perhaps it improves in the working out--I cannot
     say--but in the crude state in which it lies before me it has
     neither strength nor beauty, and does not sufficiently suggest the
     character of Father Lawrence. Here something like one of Liszt’s
     chorales--in the old Catholic Church style--would be very
     appropriate (_The Night Procession_, _Hunnenschlacht_, and _St.
     Elizabeth_); your motive is of quite a different order, in the
     style of a quartet by Haydn, that genius of “burgher” music which
     induces a fierce thirst for beer. There is nothing of old-world
     Catholicism about it; it recalls rather the type of Gogol’s
     _Comrade Kunz_, who wanted to cut off his nose to save the money he
     spent on snuff. But possibly in its development your motive may
     turn out quite differently, in which case I will eat my own words.

     “As to the B minor theme, it seems to me less a theme than a lovely
     introduction to one, and after the agitated movement in C major,
     something very forcible and energetic should follow. I take it for
     granted that it will really be so, and that you were too lazy to
     write out the context.

     “The first theme in D flat major is very pretty, although rather
     colourless. The second, in the same key, is simply fascinating. I
     often play it, and would like to hug you for it. It has the
     sweetness of love, its tenderness, its longing, in a word, so much
     that must appeal to the heart of that immoral German, Albrecht. I
     have only one thing to say against this theme: it does not
     sufficiently express a mystic, inward, spiritual love, but rather a
     fantastic passionate glow which has hardly any nuance of Italian
     sentiment. Romeo and Juliet were not Persian lovers, but Europeans.
     I do not know if you will understand what I am driving at--I always
     feel the lack of appropriate words when I speak of music, and I am
     obliged to have recourse to comparison in order to explain myself.
     One subject in which spiritual love is well expressed--according to
     my ideas--is the second theme in Schumann’s overture, _The Bride of
     Messina_. The subject has its weak side too; it is morbid and
     somewhat sentimental at the end, but the fundamental emotion is
     sincere.

     “I am impatient to receive the entire score, so that I may get a
     just impression of your clever overture, which is--so far--your
     best work; the fact that you have dedicated it to me affords me the
     greatest pleasure. It is the first of your compositions which
     contains so many beautiful things that one does not hesitate to
     pronounce it good as a whole. It cannot be compared with that old
     Melchisedek, who was so drunk with sorrow that he must needs dance
     his disgusting _trepak_ in the Arbatsky Square. Send me the score
     soon; I am longing to see it.”

But even in a somewhat modified form, Balakirev was not quite satisfied
with the overture. On January 22nd (February 3rd), 1871, he wrote as
follows:--

     “I am very pleased with the introduction, but the end is not at all
     to my taste. It is impossible to write of it in detail. It would be
     better if you came here, so that I could tell you what I think of
     it. In the middle section you have done something new and good; the
     alternating chords above the pedal-point, rather _à la Russlan_.
     The close becomes very commonplace, and the whole of the section
     after the end of the second subject (D major) seems to have been
     dragged from your brain by main force. The actual ending is not
     bad, but why those accentuated chords in the very last bars? This
     seems to contradict the meaning of the play, and is inartistic.
     Nadejda Nicholaevna[19] has scratched out these chords with her own
     fair hands, and wants to make the pianoforte arrangement end
     pianissimo. I do not know whether you will consent to this
     alteration.”

When this arbitrary treatment of the composer’s intention had been
carried through, the indefatigable critic wrote once more:--

     “It is a pity that you, or rather Rubinstein, should have hurried
     the publication of the overture. Although the new introduction is a
     decided improvement, yet I had still a great desire to see some
     other alterations made in the work, and hoped it might remain
     longer in your hands for the sake of your future compositions.
     However, I hope Jurgenson will not refuse to print a revised and
     improved version of the overture at some future time.”

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “_October_ 7_th_ (19_th_).

     “The Conservatoire begins already to be repugnant to me, and the
     lessons I am obliged to give fatigue me as they did last year.
     Just now I am not working at all. _Romeo and Juliet_ is finished.
     Yesterday I received a commission from Bessel. He asked me to
     arrange Rubinstein’s overture to _Ivan the Terrible_. I have had a
     letter from Balakirev scolding me because I am doing nothing. I
     hear nothing definite about my opera: they say it will be
     performed, but the date is uncertain. I often go to the opera. The
     sisters Marchisio are good, especially in _Semiramide_. Yet when I
     hear them I am more and more convinced that Artôt is the greatest
     artist in the world.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_November_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

     “Yesterday I received very sad news from Petersburg. My opera is to
     wait until next season, because there is not sufficient time to
     study the two operas which stand before mine in the repertory:
     Moniuszko’s _Halka_ and Dütsch’s _Croat_. I am not likely therefore
     to come to Petersburg. From the pecuniary point of view the
     postponement of my opera is undesirable. Morally, too, it is bad
     for me; that is to say, I shall be incapable of any work for two or
     three weeks to come.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_January_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1870.

     “Balakirev and Rimsky-Korsakov have been here. We saw each other
     every day. Balakirev begins to respect me more and more. Korsakov
     has dedicated a charming song to me. My overture pleased them both,
     and I like it myself. Besides the overture, I have recently
     composed a chorus from the opera _Mandragora_, the text of which,
     by Rachinsky, is already known to you. I intended to write music to
     this libretto, but my friends dissuaded me, because they considered
     the opera gave too little scope for stage effects. Now Rachinsky is
     writing another book for me, called _Raymond Lully_.”

Kashkin was one of the friends who dissuaded Tchaikovsky from composing
_Mandragora_. The latter played him a ‘Chorus of Insects’ from the
unfinished work, which pleased him very much. But he thought the subject
more suitable for a ballet than an opera. A fierce argument took place
which lasted a long time. Finally, with tears in his eyes, Tchaikovsky
came round to Kashkin’s view, and relinquished his intention of writing
this opera. It made him very unhappy and more chary in future of
confiding his plans to his friends.

Laroche gives the following account of this unpublished chorus:--

     “‘The Elves’ Chorus’ is intended for boys’ voices in unison, with
     accompaniment for mixed chorus and orchestra. The atmosphere of a
     calm moonlight night (described in the text) and the fantastic
     character of the scene are admirably reproduced. In this chorus we
     find not only that silky texture, that softness, distinction, and
     delicacy which Tchaikovsky shows in all his best work, but far more
     marked indications of maturity than in any of his earlier
     compositions. The orchestration is very rich, and on the whole
     original, although the influence of Berlioz is sometimes
     noticeable.”

                      _To his sister, A. Davidov._

     “_February_ 5_th_ (17_th_).

     “One thing troubles me: there is no one in Moscow with whom I can
     enter into really intimate, familiar, and homely relations. I often
     think how happy I should be if you, or someone like you, lived
     here. I have a great longing for the sound of children’s voices,
     and for a share in all the trifling interests of a home--in a word,
     for family life.

     “I intend to begin a third opera; this time on a subject borrowed
     from Lajetnikov’s tragedy, _The Oprichnik_. My _Undine_ is to be
     produced at the beginning of next season, if they do not fail me.
     Although the spring is still far off and the frosts are hardly over
     yet, I have already begun to think of the summer, and to long for
     the early spring sunshine, which always has such a good effect upon
     me.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_March_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1870.

     “ ... The day after to-morrow my overture _Romeo and Juliet_ will
     be performed. There has been a rehearsal already: the work does not
     seem detestable. But the Lord only knows!...

     “In the third week of Lent excerpts from my opera _Undine_ will be
     played at Merten’s[20] concert. I am very curious to hear them.
     Sietov writes that there is every reason to believe the opera will
     be given early next season.”

Merten’s concert took place on March 16th (28th). Kashkin says it gave
further proof how hardly Tchaikovsky conquered the public sympathy.

     “In the orchestration of the aria from _Undine_,” he says, “the
     pianoforte plays an important and really beautiful part. Nicholas
     Rubinstein undertook to play it; yet, in spite of the wonderful
     rendering of the piece, it had very little success. After the
     adagio from the _First Symphony_--also included in the
     programme--even a slight hissing was heard. The Italian craze was
     still predominant at the Opera House, so that it was very difficult
     for a Russian work to find recognition.”

_Romeo and Juliet_, given at the Musical Society’s Concert on March 4th
(16th), had no success.

On the previous day the decision in the case of “Schebalsky _v._
Rubinstein” had been made public, and the Director of the Conservatoire
had been ordered to pay 25 roubles, damages for the summary and wrongful
dismissal of this female student. Rubinstein refused to pay, and gave
notice of appeal, but the master’s admirers immediately collected the
small sum, in order to spare him the few hours’ detention which his
refusal involved. This event gave rise to a noisy demonstration when he
appeared in public. Kashkin says:--

     “From the moment Nicholas Rubinstein came on the platform, until
     the end of the concert, he was made the subject of an extraordinary
     ovation. No one thought of the concert or the music, and I felt
     indignant that the first performance of _Romeo and Juliet_ should
     have taken place under such conditions.”

So it came about that the long-desired evening, which he hoped would
bring him a great success, brought only another disillusionment for
Tchaikovsky. The composer’s melancholy became a shade darker. “I just
idle away the time cruelly,” he writes, “and my opera, _The Oprichnik_,
has come to a standstill at the first chorus.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_March_ 25_th_ (_April_ 6_th_).

     “I congratulate you on leaving school. Looking back over the years
     that have passed since I left the School of Jurisprudence, I
     observe with some satisfaction that the time has not been lost. I
     wish the same for you....”

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “_April_ 23_rd_ (May 5_th_).

     “Rioumin[21] wants to convert me at any price. He has given me a
     number of religious books, and I have promised to read them all. In
     any case, I now walk in ways of godliness. In Passion week I fasted
     with Rubinstein.

     “About the middle of May I shall probably go abroad. I am partly
     pleased at the prospect and partly sorry, because I shall not see
     you.”

                          _To I. A. Klimenko._

     “_May_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1870.

     “ ... First I must tell you that I am sitting at the open window
     (at four a.m.) and breathing the lovely air of a spring morning. It
     is remarkable that in my present amiable mood I am suddenly seized
     with a desire to talk to you--to you of all people, you ungrateful
     creature! I want to tell you that life is still good, and that it
     is worth living on a May morning; and so, at four o’clock in the
     morning, I am pouring out my heart to you, while you, O empoisoned
     and lifeless being, will only laugh at me. Well, laugh away; all
     the same, I assert that life is beautiful in spite of everything!
     This ‘everything’ includes the following items: 1. Illness; I am
     getting much too stout, and my nerves are all to pieces. 2. The
     Conservatoire oppresses me to extinction; I am more and more
     convinced that I am absolutely unfitted to teach the theory of
     music. 3. My pecuniary situation is very bad. 4. I am very doubtful
     if _Undine_ will be performed. I have heard that they are likely to
     throw me over. In a word, there are many thorns, but the roses are
     there too....

     “As regards ambition, I must tell you that I have certainly not
     been flattered of late. My songs were praised by Laroche, although
     Cui has ‘slated’ them, and Balakirev thinks them so bad that he
     persuaded Khvostova--who wanted to sing the one I had dedicated to
     her--not to ruin with its presence a programme graced by the names
     of Moussorgsky & Co.

     “My overture, _Romeo and Juliet_, had hardly any success here, and
     has remained quite unnoticed. I thought a great deal about you that
     night. After the concert we supped, a large party, at Gourin’s (a
     famous restaurant). No one said a single word about the overture
     during the evening. And yet I yearned so for appreciation and
     kindness! Yes, I thought a great deal about you, and of your
     encouraging sympathy. I do not know whether the slow progress of my
     opera, _The Oprichnik_ is due to the fact that no one takes any
     interest in what I write; I am very doubtful if I shall get it
     finished for at least two years.”

Tchaikovsky spent only a few days in St. Petersburg before going abroad.
There he heard the final verdict upon his opera _Undine_. The conference
of the Capellmeisters of the Imperial Opera, with Constantine Liadov at
their head, did not consider the work worthy of production. How the
composer took this decision, what he felt and thought of it, we can only
guess from our knowledge of his susceptible artistic _amour propre_. At
the time, he never referred to the matter, either in letters or in
conversation. Eight years afterwards he wrote as follows:--

     “The Direction put aside my _Undine_ in 1870. At the time I felt
     much embittered, and it seemed to me an injustice; but in the end I
     was not pleased with the work myself, and I burnt the score about
     three years ago.”

Tchaikovsky travelled from St. Petersburg to Paris without a break,
being anxious to reach his friend Shilovsky with all possible speed. He
half feared to find him already on his death-bed. The young man was
extremely weak, but able to travel to Soden at the end of three days.
The atmosphere of ill-health in which Tchaikovsky found himself--Soden
is a resort for consumptive patients--was very depressing, but he
determined to endure it for his friend’s sake.

     “The care of Volodya,”[22] he wrote, “is a matter of conscience
     with me, for his life hangs by a thread ... his affection for me,
     and his delight on my arrival, touched me so deeply that I am glad
     to take upon myself the rôle of an Argus, and be the saviour of his
     life.”

But by coming abroad he sacrificed all opportunity of seeing the twins
and his sister Alexandra during the summer vacation.

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “SODEN, _June_ 24_th_ (_July_ 6_th_).

     “We lead a monotonous existence, and are dreadfully bored, but for
     this very reason my health is first-rate. The saline baths do me a
     great deal of good, and, apart from them, the way of living is
     excellent. I am very lazy, and have not the least desire to work. A
     few days ago a great festival took place at Mannheim, on the
     occasion of the hundredth anniversary of Beethoven’s birth. This
     festival, to which we went, lasted three days. The programme was
     very interesting, and the performance superb. The orchestra
     consisted of various bands from the different Rhenish towns. The
     chorus numbered 400. I have never heard such a fine and powerful
     choir in my life. The well-known composer, Lachner, conducted.
     Among other things I heard for the first time the difficult _Missa
     Solennis_. It is one of the most inspired musical creations.

     “I have been to Wiesbaden to see Nicholas Rubinstein. I found him
     in the act of losing his last rouble at roulette, which did not
     prevent our spending a very pleasant day together. He is quite
     convinced he will break the bank before he leaves Wiesbaden. I long
     to be with you all.”

The outbreak of the Franco-Prussian war drove all the visitors at Soden
into the neutral territory of Switzerland. It was little less than a
stampede, and Tchaikovsky describes their experiences in a letter to his
brother Modeste, dated July 12th (24th), 1870:--

     “INTERLAKEN.

     “We have been here three days, and shall probably remain a whole
     month.... The crush in the railway carriages was indescribable, and
     it was very difficult to get anything to eat and drink. Thank God,
     however, here we are in Switzerland, where everything goes on in
     its normal course. Dear Modi, I cannot tell you what I feel in the
     presence of these sublime beauties of Nature, which no one can
     imagine without beholding them. My astonishment, my admiration,
     pass all bounds. I rush about like one possessed, and never feel
     tired. Volodi, who takes no delight in Nature, and is only
     interested in the Swiss cheeses, laughs heartily at me. What will
     it be like a few days hence, when I shall scramble through the
     passes and over glaciers by myself! I return to Russia at the end
     of August.”

Tchaikovsky spent six weeks in Switzerland, and then went on to Munich,
where he stayed two days with his old friend Prince Galitsin. From
thence he returned to St. Petersburg by Vienna, which delighted him more
than any other town in the world. From Petersburg he went direct to
Moscow in order to take up his work at the Conservatoire.

During the whole of his trip abroad Tchaikovsky, according to his own
account, did no serious work beyond revising his overture _Romeo and
Juliet_. Thanks to the exertions of N. Rubinstein and Professor
Klindworth, the overture, in its new form, was published in Berlin the
following season, and soon found its way into the programmes of many
musical societies in Germany.

     “Karl Klindworth came from London to Moscow in 1868,” says Laroche.
     “He was then thirty-eight, and at the zenith of his physical and
     artistic powers. He was tall and strongly built, with fair hair and
     bright blue eyes. His appearance accorded with our ideas of the
     Vikings of old; he was, in fact, of Norwegian descent. He cordially
     detested London, where he had lived many years, although he spoke
     English fluently. London was at that time quite unprepared for the
     Wagnerian propaganda, and, apart from this, life had neither
     meaning nor charm for Klindworth. As a pupil of Bülow and Liszt, he
     had been devoted to the Wagnerian cult from his youth. He was
     invited by Nicholas Rubinstein to come to Moscow as teacher of the
     pianoforte; but he was not popular, either as a pianist, or in
     society.... It would seem as though there could be no common
     meeting-ground between this Wagnerian fanatic and Tchaikovsky. If
     one desired to be logical, it would further appear that, as a
     composer, Tchaikovsky would not only fail to interest Klindworth,
     but must seem to him quite in the wrong, since Wagner has written
     that concert and chamber music have long since had their day. But
     luckily men are devoid of the sense of logical sequence, and
     Klindworth proved a man of far more heart than one would have
     thought at first sight. Tchaikovsky charmed him from the first, not
     merely as a man, but as a composer. Klindworth was one of the first
     to spread Tchaikovsky’s works abroad. It was owing to him that they
     became known in London and New York; and it was through him also
     that Liszt made acquaintance with some of them. In Klindworth,
     Tchaikovsky found a faithful but despotic friend. Speaking
     picturesquely, Peter Ilich trembled before him like an aspen-leaf,
     did not dare openly to give his real opinions upon the composer of
     the _Nibelungen Ring_, and I believe he embellished as far as
     possible the views expressed in his articles from Bayreuth in order
     not to irritate Klindworth.”

While I am mentioning the important event of Tchaikovsky’s earliest
introduction to Western Europe, I must recall the prophetic words of a
young critic, then at the outset of his career. Five years before the
appearance of the overture _Romeo and Juliet_, in 1866, Laroche had
written to his friend:--

     “Your creative work will not really begin for another five years;
     but these mature and classic works will surpass all that we have
     produced since Glinka’s time.”

Being no musical critic, it is not for me to say whether, in truth, in
all Russian musical literature nothing so remarkable as _Romeo and
Juliet_ had appeared since Glinka. I can only repeat what has been said
by many musical authorities--that my brother’s higher significance in
the world of art dates from this work. His individuality is here
displayed for the first time in its fulness, and all that he had
hitherto produced seems--as in Laroche’s prophecy--to have been really
preparatory work.




VII

1870-1871


During this period Tchaikovsky’s spirits were, generally speaking,
fairly bright. Only occasionally they were damped by anxiety about the
twins, of whom the younger had left the School of Jurisprudence and
obtained a post in Simbirsk.[23] His lack of experience led him into
many blunders and mistakes, which gave trouble to his elder brother
Peter. His affection and over-anxiety caused the latter to exaggerate
the importance of these small errors of judgment, and he concerned
himself greatly about the future of his precious charge.

                          _To I. A. Klimenko._

     “_October_ 26_th_ (_November_ 7_th_), 1870.

     “ ... Anton Rubinstein is staying here. He opened the season,
     playing the Schumann Concerto at the first concert (not very well),
     and also Mendelssohn’s Variations and some Schumann Studies
     (splendidly). At the Quartet evening he played in his own Trio,
     which I do not much like. At an orchestral rehearsal, held
     specially for him, he conducted his new _Don Quixote_ Fantasia.
     Very interesting; first-rate in places. Besides this he has
     composed a violin concerto and a number of smaller pieces.
     Extraordinary fertility! Nicholas Rubinstein lost all his money at
     roulette during the summer. At the present moment he is working, as
     usual, with unflagging energy.

     “I have written three new pieces,[24] and a song,[25] as well as
     going on with my opera and revising Romeo and Juliet.”

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     (_About the beginning of November._)

     “ ... My time is very much occupied. I have foolishly undertaken to
     write music for a ballet _Cinderella_, at a very small fee. The
     ballet has to be performed in December, and I have only just begun
     it; but I cannot get out of the work, for the contract is already
     signed. _Romeo and Juliet_ will be published in Berlin and
     performed in several German towns....”

                    _To his sister, A. I. Davidov._

     “_December_ 20_th_, 1870 (_January_ 1_st_, 1871).

     “DEAREST,--Your letter touched me deeply, and at the same time made
     me feel ashamed. I wonder that you could doubt, even for an
     instant, the constancy of my affection for you! My silence proceeds
     partly from idleness, and partly from the fact that I need great
     peace of mind to write satisfactorily, and I hardly ever attain it.
     Either I am at the Conservatoire, or I am seizing a free hour for
     composition in feverish haste, or someone wants me to go out, or I
     have visitors at home, or I am so tired out I can only fall
     asleep.... I have already told you what an important part you play
     in my life--although you do not live near me. In dark hours my
     thoughts fly to you. ‘If things go very badly with me, I shall go
     to Sasha,’ I say to myself; or, ‘I think I will do this, I am sure
     Sasha would advise it’; or, ‘Shall I write to her? What would she
     think of this ...?’ What a joy to think that if I could get away
     from these surroundings into another atmosphere I should sun myself
     in your kindly heart! Next summer I will not fail to come to you. I
     shall not go abroad.”

                            _To his father._

     “_February_ 14_th_ (26_th_).

     “MY VERY DEAR FATHER,--You say it would not be a bad thing if I
     wrote to you at least once a month.

     “No, not once a month, but at least once a week I ought to send
     you news of all I am doing, and I wonder you have not given me a
     good scolding before this! But I will never again leave you so long
     without a letter. The news of the death of uncle Peter
     Petrovich[26] came to me several days ago. God give him everlasting
     peace, for his honest and pure soul deserved it! I hope, dear, you
     are bearing this trouble bravely. Remember that poor uncle, with
     his indifferent health and his many old wounds, had enjoyed a
     fairly long life.”

This letter closes Tchaikovsky’s correspondence for the year 1870-1. It
is very probable that some of his letters may have been lost, but
undoubtedly after February, 1871, he corresponded less frequently than
before.

Being very short of funds, he decided to act upon Rubinstein’s advice to
give a concert. To add to the interest of the programme he thought it
well to include some new and important work of his own. He could not
expect to fill the room, and an expensive orchestral concert was
therefore out of the question. This led to the composition of the first
String Quartet (D major). Tchaikovsky was engaged upon this work during
the whole of February.

The concert took place on March 16th (28th) in the small hall of the
Nobles’ Assembly Rooms. Thanks to the services of the Musical Society’s
quartet, with F. Laub as leader, Nicholas Rubinstein at the piano, and
Madame Lavrovsky--then at the height of her popularity--as vocalist,
Tchaikovsky had a good, although not a crowded, house.

In his reminiscences Kashkin says that among those who attended this
concert was the celebrated novelist, I. S. Tourgeniev, who was staying
in Moscow at the time, and was interested in the young composer, about
whom he had heard abroad. This attention on the part of the great writer
did not pass unnoticed, and was decidedly advantageous for the
musician. Tourgeniev expressed great appreciation of Tchaikovsky’s
works, although he arrived too late to hear the chief item on the
programme, the Quartet in D major.

At the end of May Tchaikovsky went to Konotop, where his eldest brother
Nicholas Ilich was residing, and from thence to visit Anatol in Kiev.
Afterwards the two brothers travelled to Kamenka, where they spent most
of the summer. Tchaikovsky, however, devoted part of his holidays to his
intimate friends Kondratiev and Shilovsky.

Kondratiev’s property (the village of Nizy, in the Government of
Kharkov) was beautifully situated on the prettiest river of Little
Russia, the Psiol, and united all the natural charms of South Russia
with the light green colouring of the northern landscape so dear to
Tchaikovsky. Here in the hottest weather, instead of the oppressive and
parched surroundings of Kamenka, he looked upon luxuriant pastures,
enclosed and shaded by ancient oaks. But what delighted him most was the
river Psiol with its refreshing crystal waters.

The place pleased Tchaikovsky, but his friend’s style of living was not
to his taste. It was too much like town life, with its guests and
festivities, and he preferred Shilovsky’s home at Ussovo, which was not
so beautifully situated, but possessed the greater charms of simplicity,
solitude, and quiet. Here he spent the last days of his vacation very
happily, and for many years to come Ussovo was his ideal of a summer
residence, for which he longed as soon as the trees and fields began to
show the first signs of green.




VIII

1871-1872


As I have already remarked, it was not Tchaikovsky’s nature to force the
circumstances of life to his own will. He could wait long and
patiently--and hope still longer. As in his early youth he had kept his
yearning for music hidden in his heart, until the strength of his desire
was such that nothing could shake his firm hold upon his chosen
vocation, so now, from the beginning of his musical career, he was
possessed by an intense longing to break away from all ties which
withheld him from the chief aim of his existence--to compose.

Just as a few years earlier he continued his work in the Ministry of
Justice in spite of its monotony, and kept up his social ties as though
he were waiting until a complete disgust for his empty and aimless life
should bring about a revulsion, so it was with him now. Although his
duties at the Conservatoire were repugnant to him, and he often
complained of the drawbacks of town life, which interfered with his
creative work, he went on in his usual course, as though afraid that his
need of excitement and pleasure was not quite satisfied, and might break
out anew.

The time for the realisation of his dream of complete freedom was not
yet come. Moscow was still necessary to his everyday life, and was not
altogether unpleasant to him. He was still dependent on his
surroundings. To break with them involved many considerations. Above
all, he must have emancipated himself, although in a friendly way, from
the influence of Nicholas Rubinstein. This was the first step to take in
the direction of liberty. With all his affection and gratitude, with all
his respect for Rubinstein as a man and an artist, he suffered a good
deal under the despotism of this truest and kindest of friends. From
morning till night he had to conform to his will in all the trifling
details of daily existence, and this was the more unbearable because
their ideas with regard to hours and occupations differed in most
respects.

Tchaikovsky had already made two attempts to leave Rubinstein and take
rooms of his own. But only now was he able to carry out his wish.
Nicholas Rubinstein absolutely stood in need of companionship, and
Tchaikovsky was fortunate in finding someone, in the person of N. A.
Hubert, ready and willing to take his place.

So it chanced that Tchaikovsky reached his thirty-second year before he
began to lead an entirely independent existence. His delight at finding
himself the sole master of his little flat of three rooms was
indescribable. He took the greatest pains to make his new home as
comfortable as possible with the small means at his disposal. His
decorations were not sumptuous: a portrait of Anton Rubinstein, given to
him by the painter Madame Bonné in 1865; a picture of Louis XVII. in the
house of the shoemaker Simon, given to him by Begichev in Paris; a large
sofa and a few cheap chairs, comprised the composer’s entire worldly
goods.

He now engaged a servant, named Michael Sofronov. Tchaikovsky never lost
sight of this man, although he was afterwards replaced by his brother
Alexis, who played rather an important part in his master’s life.

At this time the composer’s income was slightly increased. His salary at
the Conservatoire rose to 1,500 roubles a year (£150), while from the
sale of his works, and from the Russian Musical Society,[27] he received
about 500 roubles more.

Besides these 2,000 roubles, Tchaikovsky had another small source of
income, namely, his earnings as a musical critic. His employment in this
capacity came about thus. In 1871, Laroche, who wrote for the _Moscow
Viedomosti_, was offered a post at the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, and
passed on his journalistic work to N. A. Hubert, who, partly from
ill-health and partly from indolence, neglected the duties he had
undertaken. Fearing that Katkov, who edited the paper, might appoint
some amateur as critic, and so undo the progress in musical matters
which had been made during the past years, Tchaikovsky and Kashkin came
to Hubert’s aid and “devilled” for him as long as he remained on the
staff. Tchaikovsky continued to write for the _Viedomosti_ until the
winter of 1876.

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “_December_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).

     “I must tell you that at Shilovsky’s urgent desire I am going
     abroad for a month. I shall start in about ten days’ time, but no
     one--except Rubinstein--is to know anything about it; everyone is
     to think I have gone to see our sister.”

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “NICE, _January_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1872.

     “I have been a week at Nice. It is most curious to come straight
     from the depths of a Russian winter to a climate where one can walk
     out without an overcoat, where orange trees, roses, and syringas
     are in full bloom, and the trees are in leaf. Nice is lovely. But
     the gay life is killing.... However, I have many pleasant hours;
     those, for instance, in the early morning, when I sit alone by the
     sea in the glowing--but not scorching--sunshine. But even these
     moments are not without a shade of melancholy. What comes of it
     all? I am old, and can enjoy nothing more. I live on my memories
     and my hopes. But what is there to hope for?

     “Yet without hope in the future life is impossible. So I dream of
     coming to Kiev at Easter, and of spending part of the summer with
     you at Kamenka.”

By the end of January Tchaikovsky was back in Moscow.

In 1871 a great Polytechnic Exhibition was organised in this town in
celebration of the two hundredth anniversary of the birth of Peter the
Great. The direction of the musical section was confided to Nicholas
Rubinstein, but when he resigned, because his scheme was too costly to
be sanctioned by the committee, the celebrated ‘cellist, K. Davidov, was
invited to take his place. He accepted, and named Laroche and Balakirev
as his coadjutors. Balakirev was not immediately disposed to undertake
these duties, saying that he would first like to hear the opinion of
Nicholas Rubinstein as to the part which the Petersburg musicians were
to take in the matter. After two months of uncertainty, the committee
decided to dispense with his reply, and invited Rimsky-Korsakov to take
his place. At the same time Asantchevsky (then Director of the
Petersburg Conservatoire), Wurm, and Leschetitzky were added to the
musical committee.

This originally Muscovite committee, which ended in being made up of
Petersburgers, decided among other projects to commission from
Tchaikovsky a Festival Cantata, the text of which was to be specially
written for the occasion by the poet Polonsky.

By the end of December, or the beginning of January, the libretto was
finished. When Tchaikovsky undertook to do any work within a fixed limit
of time, he always tried to complete it before the date of contract
expired. On this occasion he was well beforehand with the work, and sent
in the cantata to the committee by the 1st of April. As he had only
received the words towards the end of January, after his return from
Nice, he could not have had more than two months in which to complete
this lengthy and complicated score.

In April he was at work again upon _The Oprichnik_, and must have
finished it early in May.

This, however, is a matter of conjecture, as between January 31st
(February 12th) and May 4th (16th), there does not exist a single one of
his letters.

On May 4th (16th), 1872, the score of _The Oprichnik_ was sent to
Napravnik in Petersburg.

The Festival Cantata was performed on May 31st (June 12th) at the
opening of the Polytechnic Exhibition, and shortly afterwards
Tchaikovsky left Moscow for Kamenka, where he spent the whole of June.
Here he began his Second Symphony in C minor. Early in July he went to
Kiev, and from thence to Kondratiev at Nizy, accompanied by his brother
Modeste. A part of this journey had to be accomplished by diligence. On
the return journey the two brothers were to travel together as far as
Voroshba, where Peter Ilich branched off for Shilovsky’s house at
Ussovo, and Modeste went on to Kiev. Between Sumy and Voroshba was a
post-house, at which the horses were generally changed.

We were in the best of spirits--it is Modeste who recounts the
adventure--and partook of a luxurious lunch, with wine and liqueurs.
These stimulants had a considerable effect upon our empty stomachs, so
that when we were informed of the fact that there were no fresh
post-horses at our disposal, we lost our tempers and gave the overseer a
good talking to. Peter Ilich quite lost his head, and could not avoid
using the customary phrase: “Are you aware to whom you are talking?” The
post-master was not in the least impressed by this worn-out phraseology,
and Peter Ilich, beside himself with wrath, demanded the report-book. It
was brought, and thinking that the unknown name of Tchaikovsky would
carry no weight, Peter Ilich signed his complaint: “Prince Volkonsky,
Page-in-Waiting.” The result was brilliant. In less than a quarter of an
hour the horses were harnessed, and the head-ostler had been severely
reprimanded for not having told the post-master that a pair had
unexpectedly returned from a journey.

Arrived at Voroshba, Peter Ilich hurried to the ticket-office and
discovered with horror that he had left his pocket-book, containing all
his money and papers, at the post-station. What was to be done? He could
not catch the train, and must therefore wait till the next day. This was
tiresome; but far worse was the thought that the post-master had only to
look inside the pocket-book to see Peter Ilich’s real name on his
passport and visiting-cards. While we sat there, feeling crushed, and
debating what was to be done, my train came in. I was forced to steam
off to Kiev, after bestowing the greater part of my available cash--some
five or six roubles--upon the unhappy pseudo-Prince.

Poor Peter Ilich spent a terrible night at the inn. Mice and rats--of
which he had a mortal terror--left him no peace. He waged war all night
with these pests, which ran over his bed and made a hideous noise. The
next morning came the news that the post-master would not entrust the
pocket-book to the driver of the post-waggon; Peter Ilich must go back
for it himself. This was a worse ordeal than even the rats and the
sleepless night.... As soon as he arrived he saw at once that the
post-master had never opened the pocket-book, for his manner was as
respectful and apologetic as before. Peter Ilich was so pleased with
this man’s strict sense of honour that before leaving he inquired his
name. Great was his astonishment when the post-master replied,
“_Tchaikovsky_”! At first he thought he was the victim of a joke, but
afterwards he heard from his friend Kondratiev that the man’s name was
actually the same as his own.

Tchaikovsky spent the rest of the summer at Ussovo, where he completed
the symphony commenced at Kamenka.




IX

1872-1873


Immediately after his return to Moscow, Tchaikovsky moved into new
quarters, which were far more comfortable than his first habitation.

We have already seen the motives which first induced him to take up
journalism. Now he felt it not only a matter of honour and duty towards
the interests of the Conservatoire to continue this work, but found it
also a welcome means of adding to his income, seeing that he lived
entirely upon his own resources. His literary efforts had been very
successful during the past year, and had attracted the attention of all
who were interested in music. Nevertheless his journalistic work, like
his lessons at the Conservatoire, was burdensome. He told himself “it
must be done,” and did it with the capability that was characteristic of
him, but without a gleam of enthusiasm or liking for the work. His
writing was interesting and showed considerable literary style; the
general character of his articles bespoke the cultivated and serious
musician, who is disinterested and just, and has a complete insight into
his art--but nothing more. We cannot describe him as a preacher of
profound convictions, who has power to carry home his ideas; or as a
critic capable of describing a work, or a composer, in a few delicate or
striking words. Reading his articles, we seem to be conversing with a
clever and gifted man, who knows how to express himself clearly; we
sympathise with him, earnestly wish him success in his campaign against
ignorance and charlatanism, and share his desire for the victory of
wholesome art over the public taste for “the Italians,” “American
valses,” and the rest. In these respects we may say that Tchaikovsky’s
labours were not lost.

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “MOSCOW, _November_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).

     “Modi, my conscience pricks me. This is the punishment for not
     having written to you for so long. What can I do when the symphony,
     which is nearing completion, occupies me so entirely that I can
     think of nothing else? This _work of genius_ (as Kondratiev calls
     it) will be performed as soon as I can get the parts copied. It
     seems to me to be my best work, at least as regards correctness of
     form, a quality for which I have not so far distinguished
     myself.... My quartet has created a sensation in Petersburg.”

                          _To I. A. Klimenko._

     “MOSCOW, _November_ 15_th_ (27_th_).

     “ ... Since last year nothing particular has happened in our lives
     here. We go to the Conservatoire as formerly, and occasionally meet
     for a general ‘boose,’ and are just as much bored as last year.
     Boredom consumes us all, and the reason is that we are growing old.
     Yes, it is useless to conceal that every moment brings us nearer to
     the grave....

     “As regards myself, I must honestly confess that I have but one
     interest in life: my success as a composer. But it is impossible to
     say that I am much spoilt in this respect. For instance, two
     composers, Famitzin and myself, send in our works at the same time.
     Famitzin is universally regarded as devoid of talent, while I, on
     the contrary, am said to be highly gifted. Nevertheless,
     _Sardanapalus_ is to be given almost immediately, whereas so far
     nothing has been settled as to the fate of _The Oprichnik_. This
     looks as though it were going to fall ‘into the water’[28] like
     _Undine_. For an Undine to fall into the water is not so
     disastrous; it is her element. But imagine a drowning Oprichnik,
     how he would battle with the waves! He would certainly perish. But
     if I went to his rescue I should be drowned too; therefore I have
     taken my oath never to dip pen in ink again if my _Oprichnik_ is
     refused.”

[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1873]

     _To Ilia Petrovich Tchaikovsky._

     “_November_ 22_nd_ (_December_ 4_th_).

     “MY DEAR, GOOD FATHER,-- ... As regards marriage, I must confess
     that I have often thought of finding myself a suitable wife, but I
     am afraid I might afterwards regret doing so. I earn almost enough
     (3,000 roubles a year), but I know so little about the management
     of money that I am always in debt and dilemma. So long as a man is
     alone, this does not much signify. But how would it be if I had to
     keep a wife and family?

     “My health is good: only one thing troubles me a little--my
     eyesight, which is tried by my work. It is so much weaker than
     formerly that I have been obliged to get a pair of eyeglasses,
     which I am told are very becoming to me. My nerves are poor, but
     this cannot be helped, and is not of much consequence. Whose nerves
     are not disordered in our generation--especially among artists?”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_December_ 10_th_ (22_nd_).

     “You say that Anatol has told you about my depression. It is not a
     question of depression, only now and then a kind of misanthropical
     feeling comes over me which has often happened before. It comes
     partly from my nerves, which sometimes get out of gear for no
     particular reason, and partly from the rather uncertain fate of my
     compositions. The symphony, on which I build great hopes, will not
     be performed apparently before the middle of January, at the
     earliest.

     “Christine Nilsson is having a great triumph here. I have seen her
     twice, and I must own she has made great progress as an actress
     since I heard her for the first time in Paris. As regards singing,
     Nilsson stands alone. When she opens her mouth one does not hear
     anything remarkable at first; then suddenly she takes a high C, or
     holds a sustained note pianissimo, and the whole house thunders its
     applause. But with all her good qualities she does not please me
     nearly so well as Artôt. If the latter would only return to Moscow
     I should jump for joy.”

During the Christmas holidays Tchaikovsky was called unexpectedly to St.
Petersburg to hear the verdict of the committee upon his opera, _The
Oprichnik_. The committee consisted of the various Capellmeisters of the
Imperial Theatre and Opera: Napravnik (Russian opera), Bevignani
(Italian opera), Rybassov (Russian plays), Silvain Mangen (French
plays), Ed. Betz (German plays), and Babkov (ballet). With the exception
of Napravnik, Tchaikovsky had no great opinion of these men, and
considered them much inferior to himself as judges of music. It seemed
to him particularly derogatory to have to appear before this Areopagus
in person. He did his best to avoid this formality, but in vain.

The meeting which he dreaded so much passed off quite satisfactorily.
_The Oprichnik_ was unanimously accepted.

During this visit to St. Petersburg Tchaikovsky was frequently in the
society of his friends of the “Invincible Band”; and it was evidently
under their influence that he took a Little Russian folksong as the
subject of the Finale of the Second Symphony. “At an evening at the
Rimsky-Korsakovs the whole party nearly tore me to pieces,” he wrote,
“and Madame Korsakov implored me to arrange the Finale for four hands.”
On this same occasion Tchaikovsky begged Vladimir Stassov to suggest a
subject for a symphonic fantasia. A week had hardly passed before
Stassov wrote the following letter:--

     “ST. PETERSBURG,
“_December_ 30_th_, 1872 (_January_ 11_th_, 1873).

     “DEAR PETER ILICH,--An hour after we had parted at the
     Rimsky-Korsakovs’--that is to say, the moment I was alone and could
     collect my thoughts--I hit upon the right subject for you. I have
     not written the last three days because I had not absolutely made
     up my mind. Now listen, please, to my suggestion. I have not only
     thought of one suitable subject--I have three. I began by looking
     at Shakespeare, because you said you would prefer a Shakesperean
     theme. Here I came at once upon the poetical _Tempest_, so well
     adapted for musical illustration, upon which Berlioz has already
     drawn for his fine choruses in _Lelio_. To my mind you might write
     a splendid overture on this subject. Every element of it is so full
     of poetry, so grateful. First the Ocean, the Desert Island, the
     striking and rugged figure of the enchanter Prospero, and, in
     contrast, the incarnation of womanly grace--Miranda, like an Eve
     who has not as yet looked upon any man (save Prospero), and who is
     charmed and fascinated by the first glimpse of the handsome youth
     Ferdinand, thrown ashore during the tempest. They fall in love with
     each other; and here I think you have the material for a
     wonderfully poetical picture. In the first half of the overture
     Miranda awakens gradually from her childish innocence to a maidenly
     love; in the second half, both she and Ferdinand have passed
     through ‘the fires of passion’--it is a fine subject. Around these
     leading characters others might be grouped (in the middle section
     of the work): the monstrous Caliban, the sprite Ariel, with his
     elfin chorus. The close of the overture should describe how
     Prospero renounces his spells, blesses the lovers, and returns to
     his country.”

Besides _The Tempest_ Stassov suggested two alternative
subjects--Scott’s _Ivanhoe_ and Gogol’s _Tarass Boulba_. Tchaikovsky,
however, decided upon the Shakespearean subject, and after informing
Stassov of his decision, received the following letter:--

     “ST. PETERSBURG,
“_January_ 21_st_ (_February_ 2_nd_), 1873.

     “I now hasten to go into further details, and rejoice in the
     prospect of your work, which should prove a worthy _pendant_ to
     your _Romeo and Juliet_. You ask whether it is necessary to
     introduce the tempest itself. Most certainly. Undoubtedly, most
     undoubtedly. Without it the overture would cease to be an overture;
     without it the entire programme would fall through.

     “I have carefully weighed every incident, with all their pros and
     cons, and it would be a pity to upset the whole business. I think
     the sea should be depicted twice--at the opening and close of the
     work. In the introduction I picture it to myself as calm, until
     Prospero works his spell and the storm begins. But I think this
     storm should be different from all others, in that it breaks out
     _at once_ in all its fury, and does not, as generally happens, work
     itself up to a climax by degrees. I suggest this original treatment
     because this particular tempest is brought about by enchantment and
     not, as in most operas, oratorios, and symphonies, by natural
     agencies. When the storm has abated, when its roaring, screeching,
     booming and raging have subsided, the Enchanted Island appears in
     all its beauty and, still more lovely, the maiden Miranda, who
     flits like a sunbeam over the island. Her conversation with
     Prospero, and immediately afterwards with Ferdinand, who fascinates
     her, and with whom she falls in love. The love theme (crescendo)
     must resemble the expanding and blooming of a flower; Shakespeare
     has thus depicted her at the close of the first act, and I think
     this would be something well suited to your muse. Then I would
     suggest the appearance of Caliban, the half-animal slave; and then
     Ariel, whose motto you may find in Shakespeare’s lyric (at the end
     of the first act), ‘Come unto these yellow sands.’ After Ariel,
     Ferdinand and Miranda should reappear; this time in a phase of
     glowing passion. Then the imposing figure of Prospero, who
     relinquishes his magic arts and takes farewell of his past; and
     finally the sea, calm and peaceful, which washes the shores of the
     desert island, while the happy inhabitants are borne away in a ship
     to distant Italy.

     “As I have planned all this in the order described, it seems to me
     impossible to leave out the sea in the opening and close of the
     work, and to call the overture “Miranda.” In your first overture
     you have unfortunately omitted all reference to Juliet’s nurse,
     that inspired Shakespearean creation, and also the picture of dawn,
     on which the love-scene is built up. Your overture is beautiful,
     but it might have been still more so. And now, please note that I
     want your new work to be wider, deeper, more mature. That it will
     have beauty and passion, I think I am safe in predicting. So I wish
     you all luck and--_vogue la galère!_”

                            _To V. Stassov._

     “_January_ 27_th_ (_February_ 8_th_), 1873.

     “HONOURED VLADIMIR VASSILIEVICH,--I scarcely know how to thank you
     for your excellent, and at the same time most attractive,
     programme. Whether I shall be successful I cannot say, but in any
     case I intend to carry out every detail of your plan. I must warn
     you, however, that my overture will not see the light for some time
     to come: at least, I have no intention of hurrying over it. A
     number of tiresome, prosaic occupations, among them the pianoforte
     arrangement of my opera, will, in the immediate future, take up the
     quiet time I should need for so delicate a work. The subject of
     _The Tempest_ is so poetical, its programme demands such perfection
     and beauty of workmanship, that I am resolved to suppress my
     impatience and await a more favourable moment for its commencement.

     “My symphony was performed yesterday, and met with great success;
     so great in fact that N. Rubinstein is repeating it at the tenth
     concert ‘by general request.’ To confess the truth, I am not
     altogether satisfied with the first two movements, but the finale
     on _The Crane_[29] theme has turned out admirably. I will speak to
     Rubinstein about sending the score; I must find out the date of the
     tenth concert. I should like to make a few improvements in the
     orchestration, and I must consider how long this will take, and
     whether it will be better to send the score to Nadejda
     Nicholaevna,[30] or to wait until after the concert.

     “Laroche paid me the compliment of coming to Moscow on purpose to
     hear my symphony. He left to-day.”

The Second Symphony appeared in the programme of the Musical Society’s
concert of January 6th (18th), 1873, and was very well received. Laroche
spoke very appreciatively of the new work.

The symphony was repeated at the tenth concert, when the composer was
recalled after each movement and presented with a laurel-wreath and a
silver goblet.

                  _To his father, I. P. Tchaikovsky._

     “_February_ 5_th_ (17_th_).

     “Time flies, for I am very busy. I am working at the pianoforte
     arrangement of my opera (_The Oprichnik_), writing musical
     articles, and contributing a biography of Beethoven to _The
     Grajdanin_.[31] I spend all my evenings at home, and lead the life
     of a peaceable and well-disposed citizen of Moscow. At last a very
     cold winter has set in. To-day the frost is so intense that the
     noses of the Muscovites risk becoming swollen and frost-bitten. But
     as I keep indoors, I am very snug and warm in my rooms.”

                             _To the same._

     “_April_ 7_th_ (19_th_).

     “For nearly a whole month have I been sitting diligently at work. I
     am writing music to Ostrovsky’s fairy tale, _Sniegourotchka_
     (‘Little Snow White’), and consequently my correspondence has been
     somewhat neglected. In addition to this, I cut my hand so severely
     the day before yesterday that it was two hours before the doctor
     could stop the bleeding and apply a bandage. Consequently I can
     only write with difficulty, so do not be surprised, my angel, at my
     writing so seldom.”

                             _To the same._

     “_May_ 24_th_ (_June_ 5_th_).

     “I have been feverishly busy lately with the preparations for the
     first performance of _Sniegourotchka_, the pianoforte arrangement
     of my symphony, the examinations at the Conservatoire, the
     reception of the Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich, etc. The
     latter was enthusiastic over my symphony, and paid me many
     compliments.”

I have already said that life was precious to Tchaikovsky. This was
noticeable in many ways, among others his passion for keeping a diary.
Every day had its great value for him, and the thought that he must bid
eternal farewell to it, and lose all trace of its experiences, depressed
him exceedingly. It was a consolation to save something from the limbo
of forgetfulness, so that in time to come he might recall to mind the
events through which he had lived. In old age he believed it would be a
great pleasure to reconstruct the joys of the past from these short
sketches and fragmentary jottings which no one else would be able to
understand. He preferred the system of brief and imperfect notes,
because in reading through the diaries of his childhood and youth, in
which he had gone more fully into his thoughts and emotions, he had felt
somewhat ashamed. The sentiments and ideas which he found so
interesting, and which once seemed to him so great and important, now
appeared empty, unmeaning and ridiculous, and he resolved in future only
to commit facts to paper, without any commentary.[32] Disillusioned by
their contents, he destroyed all his early diaries. About the close of
the seventies Tchaikovsky started a new diary, which he kept for about
ten years. He never showed it to anyone, and I had to give him my word
of honour to burn it after his death. After all, he did so himself, and
only spared what might be seen by strangers.

His first attempt at a diary dates from 1873. He began it in expectation
of many impressions during his tour abroad, the very day he left Nizy.

            _Extracts from the diary kept during the summer
of 1873._

     “KIEV, _June_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1873.

     “Yesterday, on the road from Voroshba to Kiev, music came singing
     and echoing through my head after a long interval of silence. A
     theme in embryo, in B major, took possession of my mind and almost
     led me on to attempt a symphony. Suddenly the thought came over me
     to cast aside Stassov’s not too successful _Tempest_ and devote the
     summer to composing a symphony which should throw all my previous
     works into the shade. Here is the embryo:--

[Illustration: musical notation]

     “_On the road to ..._

     “What is more wearisome than a railway journey and tiresome
     companions? An Italian, an indescribable fool, has tacked himself
     on to me, and I hardly know how to get rid of him. He does not even
     know where he is going, nor where to change his money. I changed
     mine at a Jew’s in Cracow. What a bore it all is! Sometimes I think
     of Sasha and Modi, and my heart is fit to break. At Volochisk great
     agitation, and my nerves upset. With the exception of the Italian,
     my fellow-travellers are bearable. I scarcely slept all night. The
     old man is a retired officer with the old, original whiskers. At
     the present moment the Italian is boring a lady. Lord, what an ass!
     I must get rid of him by some kind of dodge.”

     “_June_ 29_th_ (_July_ 11_th_).

     “I had four long hours to wait in Myslovitz; at last I am on the
     road to Breslau. The Italian is enchanted to think I shall travel
     with him to Liggia. He bores me to extinction. Oh, what an idiot!
     At Myslovitz I had an indifferent meal, and afterwards went for a
     walk through the pretty town. I can imagine my Italian’s face, and
     what he will say, when I suddenly vanish at Breslau! He will be
     left sitting there! My money goes like water!”

     “JEAN PROSCO, CONSTANTINOPLE,
“BRESLAU.

     “After all I had not the heart to deceive my Italian. I told him
     beforehand I intended to stop in Breslau. He almost dissolved into
     tears, and gave me his name, which I have put down above.”

     “3 _a.m._

     “How I love solitude sometimes! I must confess I am only staying
     here in order to put off my arrival in Dresden and the society of
     the Jurgensons. To sit like this--alone, to be silent, and to
     think!...”

     “_Not far from Dresden._

     “Theme for the first allegro, introduction from the same, but in
     4/4 time.”

[Illustration]

     “DRESDEN, _July_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).

     “I arrived here yesterday at six o’clock. As soon as I had secured
     a room I hurried to the theatre. _Die Jüdin (The Jewess)_ was being
     played--very fine. My nerves are terrible. Without waiting for the
     end, I went to find the Jurgensons at the hotel. Supper. Took tea
     with the Jurgensons. To-day I took a bath. Sauntered about the town
     with Jurgenson. Midday dinner at the table d’hôte. Very shortly we
     start for Saxon Switzerland. My frame of mind is not unbearable.”

     “DRESDEN.

     “The weather has broken up, and we have decided to turn back from
     our trip. We made the descent from the Bastei by another road
     between colossal rocks. We halted at a restaurant in the midst of
     the most sublime scenery. Breakfasted on the banks of the Elbe
     (_omelette aux confitures_) and returned to Dresden by boat. Our
     rooms were no longer to be had, and they have given me a wretched
     one.”

Throughout the whole of his tour through Switzerland we find similar
brief entries, recording very little beyond the state of the weather,
the names of the hotels at which they stayed, and the quality of the
meals provided.

At Cadenabbia (Como) the diary comes to an end with the following
entry:--

     “The journey (from Milan) was not long, and it was very pleasant on
     the steamer. We are staying at the lovely Hotel Bellevue.”

After Tchaikovsky’s return to Russia, early in August, he went straight
to his favourite summer resort Ussovo. The fortnight which he spent
there in complete solitude seemed to Tchaikovsky, in after days, one of
the happiest periods in his existence. Life abroad, under similar
circumstances, he found painful and unbearable, whereas in his own
country the presence even of a servant sufficed to spoil his solitude,
and the sense of increased energy and strength, which always came to him
in the lonely life of the country, was unknown in the bustle and stress
of the city. In a letter written in 1878 he recalls this visit to Ussovo
in the following words:--

                       _To N. F. M. (von Meck)._

     “_April_ 22_nd_ (_March_ 4_th_), 1878.

     “I know no greater happiness than to spend a few days quite alone
     in the country. I have only experienced this delight once in my
     life. This was in 1873. I came straight from Paris--it was early in
     August--to stay with a bachelor friend in the country, in the
     Government of Tambov. My friend, however, was obliged to go to
     Moscow for a few days, so I was left all alone in that lovely oasis
     amid the steppes of South Russia. I was in a highly strung,
     emotional mood; wandered for whole days together in the forest,
     spent the evenings on the low-lying steppe, and at night, sitting
     at my open window, I listened to the solemn stillness, which was
     only broken at rare intervals by some vague, indefinable sound.
     During this fortnight, without the least effort--just as though I
     were under the influence of some supernatural force--I sketched out
     the whole of _The Tempest_ overture. What an unpleasant and
     tiresome awakening from my dreams I experienced on my friend’s
     return! All the delights of direct intercourse with the sublimities
     and indescribable beauties of nature vanished in a trice! My corner
     of Paradise was transformed into the prosaic house of a well-to-do
     country gentleman. After two or three days of boredom I went back
     to Moscow.”

Tchaikovsky went to Ussovo about the 5th or 6th of August, and by the
7th (19th) had already set to work upon _The Tempest_. By August 17th
(29th) this symphonic poem was completely sketched out in all its
details, so that the composer could go straight on with the
orchestration on his return to Moscow. The Countess Vassilieva-Shilovsky
made me a present of this manuscript, upon which are inscribed the dates
I have just mentioned. At the present time the manuscript is in the
Imperial Public Library, St. Petersburg.




X

1873-1874


As soon as Tchaikovsky returned to Moscow, on September 1st, he set to
work upon the orchestration of _The Tempest_.

In the second half of the month he moved into new quarters in the
Nikitskaya (House Vishnevsky).

Nothing particularly eventful had happened since last year, either in
his career as professor or musical critic. His daily life ran in the
same grooves as before, with this difference only: the things which once
seemed to him new and interesting now appeared more and more wearisome
and unprofitable, and his moods of depression became more frequent, more
intense, and of longer duration.

                            _To V. Bessel._

     “_September_, 1873.

     “Be so kind as to do something for _The Oprichnik_. Yesterday they
     told me at the Opera House that the Direction had quite decided to
     produce it in Moscow during the spring. Although, with the
     exception of Kadmina, I have no strong forces to reckon upon here,
     yet I think we had better not raise any objections. Let them do it
     if they like. The _repétiteur_ has assured me that no expense shall
     be spared in mounting the opera brilliantly. The rehearsals will be
     carried on throughout the season. As regards _The Oprichnik_, I
     think it would be best to dedicate it to the Grand Duke Constantine
     Nicholaevich.”

                             _To the same._

     “_October_ 10_th_ (22_nd_).

     “DEAR FRIEND,--I have written to Gedeonov and told him that you are
     my representative as regards everything pertaining to the
     production of _The Oprichnik_. As to the pianoforte arrangement,
     you must wait patiently for a little while. When you meet Stassov,
     please tell him I have quite finished _The Tempest_, according to
     his programme, but I shall not send him the work until I have heard
     it performed in Moscow.”

                             _To the same._

     “_October_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

     “DEAR FRIEND,--Although I expected your bad news, I cannot conceal
     the fact that I am very much annoyed by it. It seems to be a
     foregone conclusion that I shall never hear a good performance of
     one of my operas. It is useless for you to hope that _The
     Oprichnik_ will be mounted next year. It will never be given at
     all, for the simple reason that I am not personally known to any of
     the ‘great people’ of the world in general, or to those of the
     Petersburg Opera in particular. Is it not ridiculous that
     Moussorgsky’s _Boris Godounov_, although refused by the Committee,
     should have been chosen by Kondratiev[33] for his benefit? Madame
     Platonova, too, interests herself in this work, while no one wants
     to hear anything about mine, which has been accepted by the
     authorities. It goes without saying that I will not consent to have
     the opera performed in Moscow unless it is produced in Petersburg
     too. My conscience pricks me that the work will involve you in
     some expense, but I hope I may have some opportunity of
     compensating you.

     “As to the dedication to the Grand Duke, would it not look strange
     to dedicate it to him now that the fate of the work is so
     uncertain? An unperformed opera seems to me like a book in
     manuscript. Would it not be better to wait? I am impatiently
     expecting the corrections of the symphony.”

                             _To the same._

     “_October_ 30_th_ (_November_ 11_th_).

     “DEAR FRIEND,--Hubert has given me the good news that luck has
     turned for the opera. I am so glad! Keep it a complete secret that
     I want to be in Petersburg for the first symphony concert, in order
     to hear my symphony.... Let me know the date and secure me a ticket
     for the gallery. But not a word, for Heaven’s sake, or my little
     joke will be turned into something quite unpleasant.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_November_ 28_th_ (_December_ 10_th_).

     “ ... My pecuniary situation will shortly be improved. _The
     Tempest_ is to be performed next week, when I shall receive the
     customary 300 roubles from the Musical Society. This sum will put
     me in good heart again. I am very curious to hear my new work, from
     which I hope so much. It is a pity you cannot hear it too, for I
     think a great deal of your wise opinion.

     “This year, for the first time, I have begun to realise that I am
     rather lonely here, in spite of many friends. There is no one to
     whom I can open my heart--like Kondratiev, for instance.”

At the third concert of the Moscow Musical Society _The Tempest_ was
given with great success, and repeated during the same season at an
extra concert.

            _From E. Napravnik to Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky._

     “_December_ 16_th_ (28_th_).

     “Although we shall probably not begin the rehearsals of your opera
     before the second week in Lent, may I ask you to lighten the work
     somewhat for the soloists and chorus by making a few cuts, _i.e._
     all those repetitions in words and music which are not essential to
     the development of the drama? I assure you the work will only gain
     by it. Besides this, I advise you to alter the orchestration, which
     is too heavy, and over-brilliant in places; it overwhelms the
     singers and puts them completely in the shade. I hope you will take
     my remarks in good part, as coming from one who for eleven years
     has been exclusively occupied with operatic art.”

                           _To E. Napravnik._

     “_December_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

     “HONOURED SIR,--Your remarks have not hurt my feelings: on the
     contrary, I am much obliged to you. Above all I am glad that your
     letter has given me the opportunity of making your acquaintance,
     and talking things over personally with you. I will do everything
     you think necessary as regards the distribution of the parts, the
     shortening of the scenes, and the changes in the orchestration. In
     order to discuss things in detail, I will go to Petersburg next
     Sunday and call upon you.... Pray do not mention my coming to
     anyone, as my visit will be short, and I do not want to see anyone
     but yourself.”

                          _To A. Tchaikovsky._

     “_January_ 26_th_ (_February_ 7_th_), 1874.

     “The difficulties with the Censor are happily settled; in fact, I
     am at peace as regards the opera, and convinced that Napravnik will
     take the greatest pains with it. I have written a new quartet, and
     it is to be played at a _soirée_ given by Nicholas Rubinstein.”

The new quartet mentioned in this letter was begun about the end of
December, or beginning of January. In his reminiscences, Kashkin gives
the following account of its first performance at N. Rubinstein’s:--

     “Early in 1874 the Second Quartet (F major) was played at a musical
     evening at Nicholas Rubinstein’s. I believe the host himself was
     not present, but his brother Anton was there. The executants were
     Laub, Grijimal, and Gerber. All the time the music was going on
     Rubinstein listened with a lowering, discontented expression, and,
     at the end, declared with his customary brutal frankness that it
     was not at all in the style of chamber music; that he himself could
     not understand the work, etc. The rest of the audience, as well as
     the players, were charmed with it.”

On March 10th (22nd) the Quartet was played at one of the Musical
Society’s chamber concerts, and according to _The Musical Leaflet_, had
a well-deserved success.

On February 25th (March 9th), the Second Symphony was performed for the
first time in Petersburg, under Napravnik’s direction. It was greatly
applauded, especially the finale; but, in the absence of the composer,
its success was not so remarkable, nor so brilliant, as it had been a
year earlier in Moscow. The symphony won the approval of the “Invincible
Band,” with the exception of Cæsar Cui, who expressed himself in the St.
Petersburg _Viedomosti_ as follows:--

     “The Introduction and first Allegro are very weak; the poverty of
     Tchaikovsky’s invention displays itself every moment. The March in
     the second movement is rough and commonplace. The Scherzo is
     neither good nor bad; the trio is so innocent that it would be
     almost too infantile for a ‘Sniegourotchka.’ The best movement is
     the Finale, and even then the opening is as pompously trivial as
     the introduction to a _pas de deux_, and the end is beneath all
     criticism.”

Towards the end of March, Tchaikovsky went to St. Petersburg to attend
the rehearsals of _The Oprichnik_, and took up his abode with his
father. During his first interviews with Napravnik his pride suffered
many blows to which he was not accustomed. Somewhat spoilt by Nicholas
Rubinstein’s flattering attitude towards every note of his recent
orchestral works, he was rather hurt by the number of cuts Napravnik
considered it necessary to make in the score of his opera. Afterwards he
approved of them all, but at the moment he felt affronted.

From the very first rehearsal Tchaikovsky was dissatisfied with his
work. On March 25th he wrote to Albrecht:--

     “Kindly inform all my friends that the first performance takes
     place on Friday in Easter week, and let me know in good time
     whether they intend to come and hear it, so that I may secure
     tickets for them. Frankly speaking, I would rather none of you
     came. _There is nothing really fine in the work._”

To his pupil, Serge Taneiev, he writes in the same strain:--

     “Serioja,[34] if you really seriously intend to come here on
     purpose to hear my opera, I implore you to abandon the idea, for
     there is _nothing good in it_, and it would be a pity if you
     travelled to Petersburg on that account.”

The more the opera was studied, the gloomier grew Tchaikovsky’s mood.
One day, unsuspicious of the true reason of his depression, I ventured
to criticise _The Oprichnik_ rather severely, and made fun of the scene
in which Andrew appears in Jemchoujny’s garden, merely to “draw” him for
some money. My brother lost his temper and flew out at me fiercely. I
was almost reduced to tears, for at the time I could not guess the real
reason for his anger. It was not until long after that I realised my
criticism had wounded his artistic feelings in the most sensitive spot.

Against Tchaikovsky’s wish, almost the entire teaching staff of the
Moscow Conservatoire, with N. Rubinstein at their head, appeared in
Petersburg for the first night of _The Oprichnik_, April 12th (24th),
1874.

Although none of the singers were remarkable, yet no individual artist
marred the _ensemble_. The chorus and orchestra were the best part of
it. The performance ran smoothly. The scenery and costumes were rather
old, for the authorities did not care to risk the expense of a very
luxurious setting for a new work by a composer whose name was not as yet
a guarantee for a brilliant success.

On the face of it, the work seemed to have a great success. After the
second act the composer was unanimously called before the curtain. The
public seemed to be in that enthusiastic mood which is the true
criterion of the success of a work.

In a box on the second tier sat the composer’s old father with his
family. He beamed with happiness. But when I asked him which he thought
best for Peter, this artistic success or the Empress Anne’s Order, which
he might have gained as an official, he replied: “The decoration would
certainly have been better.” This answer shows that in his heart of
hearts he still regretted that his son had ceased to be an official. Not
that this feeling sprang from petty ambition, or from any other prosaic
or egotistical reason, but because he believed that the life of the
ordinary man is safer and happier than that of the artist.

After the performance the directors of the Moscow and Petersburg
sections of the Russian Musical Society gave a supper in honour of
Tchaikovsky at the Restaurant Borcille.

[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1874]

In the course of the evening, Asantchevsky, then principal of the St.
Petersburg Conservatoire, delivered an address, in which he informed
the composer in flattering terms that the directors of the Petersburg
section of the Musical Society had decided to award him the sum of 300
roubles, being a portion of the Kondratiev Bequest for the benefit of
Russian composers.

The Press notices of _The Oprichnik_ were as contradictory as they were
numerous. The opinions of Cæsar Cui and Laroche represented as usual the
two opposite poles of criticism. The former declared that while

     “the text might have been the work of a schoolboy, the music is
     equally immature and undeveloped. Poor in conception, and feeble
     throughout, it is such as might have been expected from a beginner,
     but not from a composer who has already covered so many sheets of
     paper. Tchaikovsky’s creative talents, which are occasionally
     apparent in his symphonic works, are completely lacking in _The
     Oprichnik_. The choruses are rather better than the rest, but this
     is only because of the folksong element which forms their thematic
     material.... Not only will _The Oprichnik_ not bear comparison with
     other operas of the Russian school, such as _Boris Godounov_,[35]
     for instance, but it is even inferior to examples of Italian
     opera.”

In these words Cui apparently believed he had given the death-blow to
the composer of _The Oprichnik_.

Laroche’s view (in _The Musical Leaflet_) is quite opposed to that of
Cæsar Cui. He says:--

     “While our modern composers of opera contend with each other in
     their negation of music, Tchaikovsky’s opera does not bear the
     stamp of this doubtful progress, but shows the work of a gifted
     temperament. The wealth of musical beauties in _The Oprichnik_ is
     so great that this opera takes a significant place not only among
     Tchaikovsky’s own works, but among all the examples of Russian
     dramatic music. When to this rare melodic gift we add a fine
     harmonic style, the wonderful, free, and often daring progression
     of the parts, the genuinely Russian art of inventing chromatic
     harmonies for diatonic melodies, the frequent employment of
     pedal-points (which the composer uses almost too freely), the
     skilful manner in which he unites the various scenes into an
     organic whole, and finally the sonorous and brilliant
     orchestration, we have a score which displays many of the best
     features of modern operatic music, while at the same time it is
     free from most of the worst faults of contemporary composition.”

The most harsh and pitiless of critics, however, was the composer
himself, who wrote a fortnight after the first performance as follows:--

     “_The Oprichnik_ torments me. This opera is so bad that I always
     ran away from the rehearsals (especially of Acts iii. and iv.) to
     avoid hearing another note.... It has neither action, style, nor
     inspiration. I am sure it will not survive half a dozen
     performances, which is mortally vexatious.”

This prediction was not fulfilled, for by March 1st (13th), 1881, _The
Oprichnik_ was given fourteen times. This does not amount to a great
deal; but when we remember that not a single new opera of the Russian
school--_Boris Godounov_,[36] _The Stone Guest_, _William Ratcliff_,
_Angelo_--had exceeded sixteen performances, and many had only reached
eight, we must admit that _The Oprichnik_ had more than the average
success.

The third day after the performance of his opera Tchaikovsky started for
Italy. Besides wishing to rest after the excitement of the last few
days, he went as correspondent for the _Russky Viedomosti_ to attend the
first performance in Italy of Glinka’s _A Life for the Tsar_. The opera
was translated into Italian by Madame Santagano-Gortshakov and, thanks
to her initiative, was brought out at the Teatro dal Verme in Milan.

                          _To M. Tchaikovsky._

     “VENICE, _April_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1874.

     “All day long I have been walking up and down the Piazza San
     Marco.... My soul was very downcast. Why? For many reasons, one of
     which is that I am ashamed of myself. Instead of going abroad and
     spending money, I ought really to have paid your debts and
     Anatol’s--and yet I am hurrying off to enjoy the beautiful South.
     The thought of my wrong-doing and selfishness has so tormented me
     that only now, in putting my feelings on paper, does my conscience
     begin to feel somewhat lighter. So forgive me, dear Modi, for
     loving myself better than you and the rest of mankind.

     “Perhaps you will think I am posing as a benefactor. Not in the
     least. I know my egotism is limitless, or I should not have gone
     off on my trip while you had to remain at home.... Now I will tell
     you about Venice. It is a place in which--had I to remain for
     long--I should hang myself on the fifth day from sheer despair. The
     entire life of the place centres in the Piazza San Marco. To
     venture further in any direction is to find yourself in a labyrinth
     of stinking corridors which end in some _cul-de-sac_, so that you
     have no idea where you are, or where to go, unless you are in a
     gondola. A trip through the Canale Grande is well worth making, for
     one passes marble palaces, each one more beautiful and more
     dilapidated than the last. In fact, you might suppose yourself to
     be gazing upon the ruined scenery in the first act of _Lucrezia_.
     But the Doge’s Palace is beauty and elegance itself; and then the
     romantic atmosphere of the Council of Ten, the Inquisition, the
     torture chambers, and other fascinating things. I have thoroughly
     ‘done’ this palace within and without, and dutifully visited two
     others, and also three churches, in which were many pictures by
     Titian and Tintoretto, statues by Canova, and other treasures.
     Venice, however--I repeat it--is very gloomy, and like a dead city.
     There are no horses here, and I have not even come across a dog.

     “I have just received a telegram from Milan. _A Life for the Tsar_
     will not be performed before May 12th (new style), so I have
     decided to leave to-morrow for Rome, and afterwards go on to
     Naples, where I shall expect to find a letter from you.”

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “ROME, _April_ 20_th_ (_May_ 2_nd_), 1874.

     “DEAR TOLY,-- ... Solitude is a very good thing, and I like it--in
     moderation. To-day is the eighth day since I left Russia, and
     during the whole of this time I have not exchanged a friendly word
     with anyone. Except the hotel servants and railway officials, no
     human being has heard a word from my lips. I saunter through the
     city all the morning and have certainly seen most glorious things:
     the Colosseum, the Capitol, the Vatican, the Pantheon, and,
     finally--the loftiest triumph of human genius--St. Peter’s. Since
     the midday meal I have been to the Corso, but here I was overcome
     by such ‘spleen’ that I am striving to shake it off by writing
     letters and drinking tea.... Except for certain historical and
     artistic sights, Rome itself, with its narrow streets, is not
     interesting, and I cannot understand spending one’s whole life
     here, as many Russians do. I have sufficient funds to travel all
     over Italy. As regards money, from the moment I left Russia I have
     not ceased to reproach myself for my unfeeling egotism. If you only
     knew how my conscience has pricked me! But I had made up my mind to
     travel through Italy. It is too foolish; if I had wanted
     distraction I might just as well have gone to Kiev or the
     Crimea--it would have been cheap and as good. Dear Toly, I embrace
     you heartily. What would I give to see you suddenly appear on the
     scene!”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “FLORENCE, _April_ 27_th_ (_May_ 9_th_), 1874.

     “You are thinking: ‘Lucky fellow, first he writes from Venice and
     then from Florence.’ Yet all the while, Modi, you cannot imagine
     anyone who suffers more than I do. At Naples it came to such a pass
     that every day I shed tears from sheer home-sickness and longing
     for my dear folk.... But the chief ground of all my misery is _The
     Oprichnik_. Finally, the same terrible weather has followed me
     here. The Italians cannot remember a similar spring. At Naples,
     where I spent six days, I saw nothing, because in bad weather the
     town is impassable. The last two days it was impossible to go out.
     I fled post-haste, and shall go straight to Sasha[37] without
     stopping at Milan. I have very good grounds for avoiding Milan, for
     I hear from a certain Stchurovsky that the performance of _A Life
     for the Tsar_ will be bungled.... In Florence I only had time to go
     through the principal streets, which pleased me very much. I hate
     Rome, and Naples too; the devil take them both! There is only one
     town in the world for me--Moscow, and perhaps I might add Paris.”

Without waiting for the performance of _A Life for the Tsar_ at Milan,
which did not take place until May 8th (20th), Tchaikovsky returned to
Moscow early in this month.

For a short time his dissatisfaction with _The Oprichnik_ filled him
with such doubt of his powers that his spirits flagged. But his energy
quickly recovered itself. No sooner had he returned to Moscow, than he
was possessed by an intense desire to prove to himself and others that
he was equal to better things than _The Oprichnik_. The score of this
work seemed like a sin, for which he must make reparation at all costs.
There was but one way of atonement--to compose a new opera which should
have no resemblance to _The Oprichnik_, and should wipe out the memory
of that unhappy work.

In the course of this season, the Russian Musical Society organised a
prize competition for the best setting of the opera, _Vakoula the
Smith_.

While Serov was still engaged upon his opera, _The Power of the Evil
One_, he was suddenly seized with a desire to compose a Russian comic
opera, and chose a fantastic poem by Gogol. When he informed his
patroness, the Grand Duchess Helena Pavlovna, of his project, she
declared herself willing to have a libretto prepared by the poet
Polonsky at her own cost. Serov died before he had time to begin the
opera, and the Grand Duchess resolved to honour his memory by offering
two prizes for the best setting of the libretto he had been unable to
use. In January, 1873, the Grand Duchess Helena died, and the directors
of the Imperial Musical Society proceeded to carry out her wishes with
regard to the libretto of _Vakoula the Smith_.

The latest date at which the competitors might send in their scores to
the jury was fixed for August 1st (13th) 1875. The successful opera was
afterwards to be performed at the Imperial Opera House in Petersburg.

At first Tchaikovsky hesitated to take part in the competition, lest he
should be unsuccessful. But having read Polonsky’s libretto, he was
fascinated. The originality and captivating local colour, as well as the
really poetical lyrics with which the book is interspersed, commended it
to Tchaikovsky’s imagination, so that he could no longer resist the
impulse to set it to music. At the same time he feared the competition,
not so much because he desired the prize, as because, in the event of
failure, he could not hope to see his version of the libretto produced
at the Imperial Opera. This was his actual motive in trying to discover,
before finally deciding the matter, whether Anton Rubinstein, Balakirev,
or Rimsky-Korsakov were intending to compete. As soon as he had
ascertained that these rivals were not going to meet him in the field,
he threw himself into the task with ardour.

At the beginning of the summer vacation Tchaikovsky went to stay with
Kondratiev at Nizy, and set to work without loss of time. He was under
the misapprehension that the score had to be ready by August 1st of that
year (1874), besides which he felt a burning desire to wipe out the
memory of _The Oprichnik_ as soon as possible. By the middle of July,
when he left Nizy for Ussovo, he had all but finished the sketch of the
opera, and was ready to begin the orchestration. At Ussovo he redoubled
his efforts, and the work was actually completed by the end of August.
The entire opera had occupied him barely three months. He wrote no other
dramatic work under such a long and unbroken spell of inspiration. To
the end of his days Tchaikovsky had a great weakness for this particular
opera. In 1885 he made some not very important changes in the score. It
has been twice renamed; once as _Cherevichek_ (“The Little Shoes”), and
later as _Les Caprices d’Oxane_, under which title it now appears in
foreign editions.

During this season Tchaikovsky’s reputation greatly increased. The
success of his Second Symphony, and the performance of _The Oprichnik_,
made his name as well known in Petersburg as it had now become in
Moscow.

In his account of the first performance of _A Life for the Tsar_, at
Milan, Hans von Bülow, referring to Tchaikovsky, says:--[38]

     “At the present moment we know but one other who, like Glinka,
     strives and aspires, and whose works--although they have not yet
     attained to full maturity--give the complete assurance that such
     maturity will not fail to come. I refer to the young professor of
     composition at the Moscow Conservatoire--Tchaikovsky. A beautiful
     string quartet by him has won its way in many German towns. Many of
     his works deserve equal recognition--his pianoforte compositions,
     two symphonies, and an uncommonly interesting overture to _Romeo
     and Juliet_, which commends itself by its originality and luxuriant
     flow of melody. Thanks to his many-sidedness, this composer will
     not run the danger of being neglected abroad, as was the case with
     Glinka.”




XI

1874-1875


It was not until his return to Moscow that Tchaikovsky found out his
mistake as to the date of the competition. This discovery annoyed him
exceedingly. Like all composers, he burned with impatience to hear his
work performed as soon as possible. In his case such impatience was all
the greater, because he was not accustomed to delay; hitherto Nicholas
Rubinstein had brought out his works almost before the ink was dry on
the paper. Besides which Tchaikovsky had never before been so pleased
with any offspring of his genius as with this new opera. The desire to
see _Vakoula_ mounted, and thus to wipe out the bad impression left by
_The Oprichnik_, became almost a fixed idea, and led him to a course of
action which in calmer moments would have seemed to him reprehensible.

Tchaikovsky never had the art of keeping a secret, especially when it
was a question of the rehabilitation of his artistic reputation, such as
it seemed to him at present, for he believed it to have been damaged by
“the detestable _Oprichnik_.” Consequently he never took the least
trouble to conceal the fact that he was taking part in this competition.
For a man of his age he showed an inconceivable degree of _naïveté_, and
went so far as to try to induce the directors of the Opera in Petersburg
to have _Vakoula_ performed before the result of the competition was
decided. From the letter which I give below, it is easy to see how
little he thought at the moment of the injustice he was inflicting upon
the other competitors, and how imperfectly he realised the importance of
silence in such an affair as a competition, in which anonymity is the
first condition of impartial judgment.

                           _To E. Napravnik._

     “_October_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1874.

     “I have learnt to-day that you and the Grand Duke are much
     displeased at my efforts to get my opera performed independently of
     the decision of the jury. I very much regret that my strictly
     private communication to you and Kondratiev should have been
     brought before the notice of the Grand Duke, who may now think I am
     unwilling to submit to the terms of the competition. The matter can
     be very simply explained. I had erroneously supposed that August
     1st (13th), 1874, was the last day upon which the compositions
     could be sent in to the jury, and I hurried over the completion of
     my work. Only on my return to Moscow did I discover my mistake, and
     that I must wait more than a year for the decision of the judges.
     In my impatience to have my work performed (which is far more to me
     than any money) I inquired, in reply to a letter of
     Kondratiev’s--whether it might not be possible to get my work
     brought out independently of the prize competition. I asked him to
     talk it over with you and give me a reply. Now I see that I have
     made a stupid mistake, because I have no rights over the libretto
     of the opera. You need only have told Kondratiev to write and say I
     was a fool, instead of imputing to me some ulterior motive which I
     have never had. I beg you to put aside all such suspicions, and to
     reassure the Grand Duke, who is very much annoyed, so Rubinstein
     tells me.

     “Let me express my thanks for having included _The Tempest_ in your
     repertory. I must take this opportunity of setting right a little
     mistake in the instrumentation. I noticed in the introduction,
     where all the strings are divided into three, and each part has its
     own rhythm, that the first violins sounded too loud--first, because
     they are more powerful than the others, and secondly, because they
     are playing higher notes. As it is desirable that no distinct
     rhythm should be heard in these particular passages, please be so
     kind as to make the first violins play _ppp_ and the others simply
     _p_.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_October_ 29_th_ (_November_ 10_th_).

     “Just imagine, Modi, that up to the present moment I am still
     slaving at the pianoforte arrangement of my opera.... I have no
     time for answering all my letters. Many thanks for both yours; I am
     delighted to find that you write with the elegance of a Sévigné.
     Joking apart, you have a literary vein, and I should be very glad
     if it proved strong enough to make an author of you. Then, at last,
     I might obtain a good libretto, for it seems a hopeless business;
     one seeks and seeks, and finds nothing suitable. Berg, the poet,
     (editor of the _Grajdanin_, the _Niva_, and other Russian
     publications), suggested to me a subject from the period of the
     Hussites and Taborites. I inquired if he had any decided plan. Not
     in the least; he liked the idea of their singing hymns!!! I would
     give anything just now to get a good historical libretto--not
     Russian.

     “ ... I sit at home a good deal, but unfortunately I do not get
     much time for reading. I work or play. I have studied _Boris
     Godounov_ and _The Demon_ thoroughly. As to Moussorgsky’s music, it
     may go to the devil for all I care: it is the commonest, lowest
     parody of music. In _The Demon_ I have found some beautiful things,
     but a good deal of padding, too. On Sunday the Russian Quartet,
     that has brought out my quartet in D, is playing here.

     “I am glad my second quartet finds favour with you and Mademoiselle
     Maloziomov.[39] It is my best work; not one of them has come to me
     so easily and fluently as this. I completed it as it were at one
     sitting. I am surprised the public do not care for it, for I have
     always thought, among this class of works, it had the best chance
     of success.”

I cannot understand how my brother can have inferred from my letter that
the quartet had no success. It must have pleased, since it was repeated
at least once during the season. Cui spoke of it as a “beautiful,
talented, fluent work, which showed originality and invention.” Laroche
considered it “more serious and important than the first quartet”; and
Famitzin thought it showed “marked progress. The first movement
displayed as much style as Beethoven’s A minor quartet.”

On November 1st (13th) Napravnik conducted the first performance of _The
Tempest_ in St. Petersburg.

                  _From V. V. Stassov to Tchaikovsky._

     “_November_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 10 _a.m._

     “I have just come from the rehearsal for Saturday’s concert. Your
     _Tempest_ was played for the first time. Rimsky-Korsakov and I sat
     alone in the empty hall and overflowed with delight.

     “Your _Tempest_ is fascinating! Unlike any other work! The tempest
     itself is not remarkable, or new; Prospero, too, is nothing out of
     the way, and at the close you have made a very commonplace cadenza,
     such as one might find in the finale of an Italian opera--these are
     three blemishes. But all the rest is a marvel of marvels! Caliban,
     Ariel, the love-scene--all belong to the highest creations of art.
     In both love-scenes, what passion, what languor, what beauty! I
     know nothing to compare with it. The wild, uncouth Caliban, the
     wonderful flights of Ariel--these are creations of the first order.

     “In this scene the orchestration is enchanting.

     “Rimsky and I send you our homage and heartiest congratulations
     upon the completion of such a fine piece of workmanship. The day
     after to-morrow (Friday) we shall attend the rehearsal again. We
     could not keep away....”

_The Tempest_ not only pleased Stassov and “The Band,” but won
recognition even in the hostile camp. Laroche alone was dissatisfied. He
considered that in his programme music Tchaikovsky approached Litolff as
regards form and instrumentation, and Schumann and Glinka as regards
harmony. _The Tempest_ would not bear criticism as an organic whole.
“Beautiful, very beautiful, are the details,” he continues, “but even
these are not all on a level; for instance, the tempest itself is not
nearly so impressive as in Berlioz’s fantasia on the same subject.
Tchaikovsky’s storm is chiefly remarkable for noisy orchestration, which
is, indeed, of so deafening a character that the specialist becomes
curious to discover by what technical means the composer has succeeded
in concocting such a pandemonium.”

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “_November_ 21_st_ (_December_ 3_rd_).

     “Toly, your general silence makes me uneasy. I begin to think
     something serious has happened, or one of you is ill. I am
     particularly puzzled about Modeste. I am aware that my _Tempest_
     was performed a few days ago. Why does no one write a word about
     it? After my quartet, Modeste wrote at considerable length, and
     also Mademoiselle Maloziomov. Now--not a soul, except Stassov. Most
     strange!

     “I am now completely absorbed in the composition of a pianoforte
     concerto. I am very anxious Rubinstein should play it at his
     concert. The work progresses very slowly, and does not turn out
     well. However, I stick to my intentions, and hammer pianoforte
     passages out of my brain: the result is nervous irritability. For
     this reason I should like to take a trip to Kiev for the sake of
     the rest, although this city has lost nine-tenths of its charms for
     me now Toly does not live there. For this reason, too, I hate _The
     Oprichnik_ with all my heart....[40]

     “To-morrow the overture to my ‘unfinished opera’ will be given
     here.”

The “unfinished opera” is none other than _Vakoula the Smith_. The
overture had no success, but Tchaikovsky received the customary fee of
300 roubles from the Musical Society.

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_November_ 26_th_ (_December_ 8_th_).

     “ ... You do not write a word (about _The Tempest_), and
     Maloziomova is silent too. Laroche’s criticism has enraged me. With
     what _schadenfreude_ he points out that I imitate Litolff,
     Schumann, Berlioz, Glinka, and God knows whom besides. As though I
     could do nothing but compile! I am not hurt that he does not like
     _The Tempest_. I expected as much, and I am quite contented that he
     should merely praise the details of the work. It is the general
     tone of his remarks that annoys me; the insinuation that I have
     borrowed everything from other composers and have nothing of my
     own....”

The hyper-sensitiveness which Tchaikovsky shows in this letter is a
symptom of that morbid condition of mind, of which more will be said as
the book advances.

On December 9th Tchaikovsky attended the first performance of _The
Oprichnik_ at Kiev, and wrote an account of the event for the _Russky
Viedomosti_. The opera had a great success, and remained in the
repertory of the Kiev Opera House throughout the entire season.

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_January_ 6_th_ (18_th_) 1875.

     “I am very pleased with your newspaper article. You complain that
     writing comes to you with difficulty, and that you have to search
     for every phrase. But do you really suppose anything can be
     accomplished without trouble and discipline? I often sit for hours
     pen in hand, and have no idea how to begin my articles. I think I
     shall never hammer anything out; and afterwards people praise the
     fluency and ease of the writing! Remember what pains Zaremba’s
     exercises cost me. Do you forget how in the summer of ‘66 I worked
     my nerves to pieces over my First Symphony? And even now I often
     gnaw my nails to the quick, smoke any number of cigarettes, and
     pace up and down my room for long, before I can evolve a particular
     motive or theme. At other times writing comes easily, thoughts seem
     to flow and chase each other as they go. All depends upon one’s
     mood and condition of mind. But even when we are not disposed for
     it we must force ourselves to work. Otherwise nothing can be
     accomplished.

     “You write of being out of spirits. Believe me, I am the same.”

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “_January_ 9_th_ (21_st_).

     “I cannot endure holidays. On ordinary days I work at fixed hours,
     and everything goes on like a machine. On holidays the pen falls
     from my hand of its own accord--I want to be with those who are
     dear to me, to pour out my heart to them; and then I am overcome by
     a sense of loneliness, of desolation.... It is not merely that
     there is no one here I can really call my friend (like Laroche or
     Kondratiev), but also during these holidays I cannot shake off the
     effects of a cruel blow to my self-esteem--which comes from none
     others than Nicholas Rubinstein and Hubert. When you consider that
     these two are my best friends, and in all Moscow no one should feel
     more interest in my compositions than they, you will understand how
     I have suffered. A remarkable fact! Messrs. Cui, Stassov, and Co.
     have shown, on many occasions, that they take far more interest in
     me than my so-called friends! Cui wrote me a very nice letter a few
     days ago. From Korsakov, too, I have received a letter which
     touched me deeply.... Yes, I feel very desolate here, and if it
     were not for my work, I should become altogether depressed. In my
     character lurk such timidity of other people, so much shyness and
     distrust--in short, so many characteristics which make me more and
     more misanthropical. Imagine, nowadays, I am often drawn towards
     the monastic life, or something similar. Do not fancy I am
     physically out of health. I am quite well, sleep well, eat even
     better; I am only in rather a sentimental frame of mind--nothing
     more.”

Tchaikovsky has told so well the tale of Rubinstein’s injury to his
self-esteem in one of his subsequent letters to Frau von Meck, that I
think it advisable to publish the entire letter in this particular
chapter of the book.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “SAN REMO, _January_ 21_st_ (_February_ 2_nd_), 1878.

     “ ... In December, 1874, I had written a pianoforte concerto. As I
     am not a pianist, it was necessary to consult some virtuoso as to
     what might be ineffective, impracticable, and ungrateful in my
     technique. I needed a severe, but at the same time friendly, critic
     to point out in my work these external blemishes only. Without
     going into details, I must mention the fact that some inward voice
     warned me against the choice of Nicholas Rubinstein as a judge of
     the technical side of my composition. However, as he was not only
     the best pianist in Moscow, but also a first-rate all-round
     musician, and, knowing that he would be deeply offended if he heard
     I had taken my concerto to anyone else, I decided to ask him to
     hear the work and give me his opinion upon the solo parts. It was
     on Christmas Eve, 1874. We were invited to Albrecht’s house, and,
     before we went, Nicholas Rubinstein proposed I should meet him in
     one of the class-rooms at the Conservatoire to go through the
     concerto. I arrived with my manuscript, and Rubinstein and Hubert
     soon appeared. The latter is a very worthy, clever man, but without
     the least self-assertion. Moreover, he is exceedingly garrulous,
     and needs a string of words to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ He is incapable
     of giving his opinion in any decisive form, and generally lets
     himself be pulled over to the strongest side. I must add, however,
     that this is not from cowardice, but merely from lack of character.

     “I played the first movement. Never a word, never a single remark.
     Do you know the awkward and ridiculous sensation of putting before
     a friend a meal which you have cooked yourself, which he eats--and
     holds his tongue? Oh, for a single word, for friendly abuse, for
     _anything_ to break the silence! For God’s sake say _something_!
     But Rubinstein never opened his lips. He was preparing his
     thunderbolt, and Hubert was waiting to see which way the wind would
     blow. I did not require a judgment of my work from the artistic
     side; simply from the technical point of view. Rubinstein’s silence
     was eloquent. ‘My dear friend,’ he seemed to be saying to himself,
     ‘how can I speak of the details, when the work itself goes entirely
     against the grain?” I gathered patience, and played the concerto
     straight through to the end. Still silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “_March_ 9_th_ (21_st_).

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

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_March_ 12_th_ (24_th_).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




XII

1875-1876


                      _To N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov._

     “MOSCOW, _September_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1875.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                      _To N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov._

     “MOSCOW, _November_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1875.

     “MOST HONOURED NICHOLAI ANDREIEVICH,--To-day for the first time I
     have a free moment in which to talk to you. Business first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Laroche said:--

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

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “MOSCOW, _February_ 10_th_ (22_nd_).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                          _To M. Tchaikovsky._

     “BAYREUTH, _August_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).

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

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

In the articles Tchaikovsky sent to the _Russky Viedomosti_, he
describes his visit to Bayreuth in detail:--

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

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

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

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

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

                          _To M. Tchaikovsky._

     “VIENNA, _August_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1876.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




XIII

1876-1877


                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “MOSCOW, _September_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1876.

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

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “MOSCOW, _September_ 17_th_ (29_th_).

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

                          _To A. Tchaikovsky._

     “_September_ 20_th_ (_October_ 2_nd_).

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

                         _To Rimsky-Korsakov._

     “MOSCOW, _September_ 29_th_ (_October_ 11_th_), 1876.

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

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

                            _To A. Davidov._

     “_October_ 6_th_ (18_th_).

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

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_October_ 14_th_ (26_th_).

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

                           _To E. Napravnik._

     “_October_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

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

                            _To A. Davidov._

     “_November_ 8_th_ (20_th_).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                          _To S. I. Taneiev._

     “MOSCOW, _December_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1876.

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

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

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

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

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

                       _Taneiev to Tchaikovsky._

     “PARIS, _November_ 28_th_ (_December_ 10_th_), 1876.

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

     “The following was especially bad:--

     [Illustration: musical notation]

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

     [Illustration: musical notation]

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

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

                            _To S. Taneiev._

     “MOSCOW, _December_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1876.

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

                      _S. Taneiev to Tchaikovsky._

     “PARIS, _December_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1876.

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

                            _To S. Taneiev._

     “MOSCOW, _January_ 29_th_ (_February_ 10_th_), 1877.

     “DEAR SERGIUS,--My concert will not come off. In spite of gigantic
     efforts on my part, I cannot raise the necessary funds.

     “I am in despair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     “Yours,
“L. TOLSTOI.”



To this Tchaikovsky replied:--

     “MOSCOW, _December_ 24_th_, 1876 (_January_ 5_th_, 1877).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

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

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

     “Your brother,
“PETER.”



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

                      _To his sister, A. Davidov._

     “_February_ 22_nd_ (_March_ 6_th_).

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

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

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

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

                          _To I. A. Klimenko._

     “_May_ 8_th_ (20_th_).

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

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

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

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

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “_May_ 27_th_ (_June_ 8_th_).

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

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “GLIEBOVO, _June_ 6_th_ (18_th_).

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




                                   PART IV




I

1877-1878


Some time during the seventies, a violinist named Joseph Kotek entered
Tchaikovsky’s theory class at the Conservatoire.

He was a pleasant-looking young man, good-hearted, enthusiastic, and a
gifted virtuoso. His sympathetic personality and talented work attracted
Tchaikovsky’s notice, and Kotek became a special favourite with him.
Thus a friendship developed between master and pupil which was not
merely confined to the class-room of the Conservatoire.

Kotek was poor, and, on leaving the Conservatoire, was obliged to earn
his living by teaching, before he began to tour abroad.

At that time there lived in Moscow the widow of a well-known railway
engineer, Nadejda Filaretovna von Meck. This lady asked Nicholas
Rubinstein to recommend her a young violinist who could play with her at
her house.

Rubinstein recommended Kotek. No young musician could have desired a
better post. Nadejda von Meck, with her somewhat numerous family, lived
part of the year in Moscow and the rest abroad, or upon her beautiful
estate in the south-west of Russia. Kotek, therefore, besides a good
salary, enjoyed a chance of seeing something of the world, and had also
leisure to perfect himself on his instrument.

Kotek soon discovered that Nadejda von Meck shared his own admiration
for Tchaikovsky’s genius. An amateur of music in general, she was
particularly interested in Tchaikovsky’s works, a predilection which was
destined to have considerable influence upon the composer’s future
career. Nadejda von Meck was not only interested in the composer, but
also in the man. She endeavoured to learn something of his private life
and character, and cross-questioned everyone who had come in contact
with him. Consequently her acquaintance with Kotek was doubly agreeable,
because he could tell her a great deal about the composer who had given
her such keen artistic enjoyment.

From Kotek she learnt to know Tchaikovsky in his daily life, and her
affection for him continually increased. Naturally she found out about
his pecuniary needs and his longing for freedom, and in this way she
formed a wish to take some active part in his private life, and to make
it her first duty to allay his material anxieties.

Through Kotek she commissioned the composer, at a high fee, to arrange
several of his own works for violin and piano. Gradually, through the
medium of the young violinist, constant intercourse was established
between the patroness and the composer. On his side Tchaikovsky, who
liked whatever was original and unconventional, took the liveliest
interest in all Kotek detailed to him about “the eccentricities” of
Nadejda von Meck. Flattered and touched by the knowledge that he was a
household name in the family of this generous admirer, Tchaikovsky sent
her messages of grateful thanks by Kotek. Nadejda von Meck, elated that
her favourite composer did not disdain to execute her commissions,
returned similar expressions of gratitude and sympathy.

This was the commencement of the unusual relations between Tchaikovsky
and Nadejda von Meck.

This friendship was of great importance in Tchaikovsky’s life, for it
completely changed its material conditions and consequently influenced
his creative activity; moreover, it was so poetical, so out of the
common, so different from anything that takes place in everyday society,
that, in order to understand it, we must make closer acquaintance with
the character of this new friend and benefactress.

Nadejda Filaretovna von Meck was born January 29th (February 10th),
1831, in the village of Znamensk (in the Government of Smolensk).[47]
Although her parents were not rich, yet she enjoyed the advantage of an
excellent home education. Her father was an enthusiastic music-lover,
and his taste descended to his daughter. She would listen to him playing
the violin for hours together; but as he grew older the parts were
reversed, and Nadejda and her sister would play pianoforte duets to
their father. In this way she acquired an extensive knowledge of musical
literature.

No information is forthcoming as regards her general education. But from
her voluminous correspondence with Tchaikovsky, his brother Modeste
derives the impression that she was a proud and energetic woman, of
strong convictions, with the mental balance and business capacity of a
man, and well able to struggle with adversity; a woman, moreover, who
despised all that was petty, commonplace, and conventional, but
irreproachable in all her aspirations and in her sense of duty;
absolutely free from sentimentality in her relations with others, yet
capable of deep feeling, and of being completely carried away by what
was lofty and beautiful.

In 1848 Nadejda Filaretovna married K. von Meck, an engineer employed
upon the Moscow-Warsaw line, and with her marriage began a hard time in
her life. As a devoted wife and mother, Frau von Meck had a great deal
to endure, from which, however, she emerged triumphant in the end.

     “I have not always been rich,” she says in one of her letters to
     Tchaikovsky; “the greater part of my life I was poor, very poor
     indeed. My husband was an engineer in the Government service, with
     a salary of 1500 roubles a year (£150), which was all we had to
     live upon, with five children and my husband’s family on our hands.
     Not a brilliant prospect, as you see! I was nurse, governess, and
     sewing-maid to my children, and valet to my husband; the
     housekeeping was entirely in my hands; naturally there was plenty
     of work, but I did not mind that. It was another matter which made
     life unbearable. Do you know, Peter Ilich, what it is to be in the
     Government service? Do you know how, in that case, a man must
     forget he is a reasoning being, possessed of will-power and
     honourable instincts, and must become a puppet, an automaton? It
     was my husband’s position which I found so intolerable that finally
     I implored him to send in his resignation. To his remark that if he
     did so we should starve, I replied that we could work, and that we
     should not die of hunger. When at last he yielded to my desire, we
     were reduced to living upon twenty kopecks a day (5_d._) for
     everything. It was hard, but I never regretted for a moment what
     had been done.”

Thanks to this energetic step, taken at the entreaty of his wife, Von
Meck became engaged in private railway enterprises, and gradually
amassed a fortune and put by some millions of roubles.

In 1876 Nadejda was left a widow. Of eleven children, only seven lived
with her. The others were grown up, and had gone out into the world. She
managed her complicated affairs herself, with the assistance of her
brother and her eldest son. But her chief occupation was the education
of her younger children.

After her husband’s death, Nadejda von Meck gave up going into society;
she paid no more visits, and remained, in the literal sense of the word,
“invisible” to all but the members of her domestic circle.[48]

Nadejda von Meck was a great lover of nature, and travelled constantly.
She also read much, and was passionately fond of music, especially of
Tchaikovsky’s works.

The peculiar characteristic of the close and touching friendship between
Nadejda von Meck and Tchaikovsky was the fact that they never saw each
other except in a crowd--an accidental glimpse at a concert or theatre.
When they accidentally came face to face they passed as total strangers.
To the end of their days they never exchanged a word, scarcely even a
casual greeting. Their whole intercourse was confined to a brisk
correspondence. Their letters, which have been preserved intact, and
serve as the chief material for this part of my book, are so
interesting, and throw such a clear light on the unique relations
between this man and woman, that the publication of the entire
correspondence on both sides would be of profound interest.

But the time has not yet come for such an undertaking. I may only use
this valuable material (says Modeste Tchaikovsky) in so far as it
forwards the chief aim of this book--to tell the story of Tchaikovsky’s
life. I may only write of Nadejda von Meck as my brother’s “best friend”
and benefactress, without intruding upon her intimate life which she has
described in her frank, veracious, and lengthy letters.

Shortly after she had sent Tchaikovsky a commission, through Kotek, for
a violin and pianoforte arrangement, he received his first letter from
Nadejda von Meck.

                    _N. F. von Meck to Tchaikovsky._

     “_December_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1876.

     “HONOURED SIR,--Allow me to express my sincere thanks for the
     prompt execution of my commission. I deem it superfluous to tell
     you of the enthusiasm I feel for your music, because you are
     doubtless accustomed to receive homage of a very different kind to
     any which could be offered you by so insignificant a person,
     musically speaking, as myself. It might, therefore, seem ridiculous
     to you; and my admiration is something so precious that I do not
     care to have it laughed at. Therefore I will only say one thing,
     which I beg you to accept as the literal truth--that your music
     makes life easier and pleasanter to live.”

                 _From Tchaikovsky to N. F. von Meck._

     “_December_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1876.

     “HONOURED MADAM,--I thank you most cordially for the kind and
     flattering things you have written to me. On my part, I can assure
     you that, amid all his failures and difficulties, it is a great
     comfort to a musician to know that there exists a handful of
     people--of whom you are one--who are genuine and passionate lovers
     of music.”

Two months later he received another commission, and a longer letter,
which paved the way to intimate friendship and lasting influence.

                    _N. F. von Meck to Tchaikovsky._

     “MOSCOW, _February_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1877.

     “DEAR SIR--PETER ILICH,--I do not know how to express my thanks for
     your kind indulgence for my impatience. Were it not for the real
     sympathy I feel for you, I should be afraid you might want to get
     rid of me; but I value your kindness too greatly for this to
     happen.

     “I should like to tell you a great deal about my fantastic feelings
     towards you, but I am afraid of taking up your leisure, of which
     you have so little to spare. I will only say that this
     feeling--abstract as it may be--is one of the best and loftiest
     emotions ever yet experienced by any human being. Therefore you may
     call me eccentric, or mad, if you please; but you must not laugh at
     me. All this would be ridiculous, if it were not so sincere and
     serious.

     “Your devoted and admiring
“N. F. VON MECK.”



                 _From Tchaikovsky to N. F. von Meck._

     “_February._ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1877

     “DEAR MADAM--NADEJDA FILARETOVNA,--Accept my hearty thanks for the
     too lavish fee with which you have repaid such a light task. I am
     sorry you did not tell me all that was in your heart. I can assure
     you it would have been very pleasant and interesting, for I, too,
     warmly reciprocate your sympathy. This is no empty phrase. Perhaps
     I know you better than you imagine.

     “If some day you will take the trouble to write me all you want to
     say, I shall be most grateful. In any case I thank you from my
     heart for your expressions of appreciation, which I value very
     highly.”

                      _N. F. Meck to Tchaikovsky._

     “MOSCOW, _March_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1877.

     “DEAR SIR--PETER ILICH,--Your kind answer to my letter proved a
     greater joy than I have experienced for a long while, but--you know
     human nature: the more we have of a good thing, the more we want.
     Although I promised not to be a nuisance, I already doubt my own
     powers of refraining, because I am going to ask you a favour which
     may seem to you very strange; but anyone who lives the life of an
     anchorite--as I do--must naturally end by regarding all that
     relates to society and the conventionalities of life as empty and
     meaningless terms. I do not know how you look upon these matters,
     but--judging from our short acquaintance--I do not think you will
     be disposed to criticise me severely; if I am wrong, however, I
     want you to say so frankly, without circumlocution, and to refuse
     my request, which is this: give me one of your photographs. I have
     already two, but I should like one from you personally; I want to
     read in your face the inspiration, the emotions, under the
     influence of which you write the music which carries us away to
     that world of ideal feelings, aspirations and desires which cannot
     be satisfied in life. How much joy, but how much pain is there in
     this music! Nor would we consent to give up this suffering, for in
     it we find our highest capacities; our happiness, our hopes, which
     life denies us. _The Tempest_ was the first work of yours I ever
     heard. I cannot tell you the impression it made upon me! For
     several days I was half out of my mind. I must tell you that I
     cannot separate the man from the musician, and, as the high priest
     of so lofty an art, I expect to find in him, more than in ordinary
     men, the qualities I most reverence. Therefore after my first
     impression of _The Tempest_ I was seized with the desire to know
     something of the man who created it. I began to make inquiries
     about you, took every opportunity of hearing what was said of you,
     stored up every remark, every fragment of criticism, and I must
     confess that just those things for which others blamed you were
     charms in my eyes--everyone to his taste! Only a few days ago--in
     casual conversation--I heard one of your opinions, which delighted
     me, and was so entirely in accordance with my own that I felt
     suddenly drawn to you by more intimate and friendly ties. It is not
     intercourse that draws people together, so much as affinities of
     opinion, sentiment, and sympathy, so that one person may be closely
     united to another, although in some respects they remain strangers.

     “I am so much interested to know all about you that I could say at
     almost any hour where you are, and--up to a certain point--what you
     are doing. All I have observed myself, all I have heard of you from
     others--the good and the bad--delights me so much that I offer you
     my sincerest sympathy and interest. I am glad that in you the
     musician and the man are so completely and harmoniously blended.

     “There was a time when I earnestly desired your personal
     acquaintance; but now I feel the more you fascinate me, the more I
     shrink from knowing you. It seems to me I could not then talk to
     you as I do now, although if we met unexpectedly I could not behave
     to you as to a stranger.

     “At present I prefer to think of you from a distance, to hear you
     speak and to be at one with you in your music. I am really unhappy
     never to have had the opportunity of hearing _Francesca da Rimini_;
     I am impatient for the appearance of the pianoforte arrangement.

     “Forgive me all my effusions; they cannot be of any use to you; yet
     you will not regret that you have been able to infuse a little
     life--especially by such ideal ways and means--into one who, like
     myself, is so nearly at the end of her days as to be practically
     already dead.

     “Now one more ‘last request,’ Peter Ilich. There is one particular
     number in your _Oprichnik_ about which I am wildly enthusiastic. If
     it is possible, please arrange this for me as a funeral march for
     four hands (pianoforte). I am sending you the opera in which I have
     marked the passages I should like you to arrange. If my request is
     tiresome, do not hesitate to refuse; I shall be regretful, but not
     offended. If you agree to it, take your own time, because it will
     be an indulgence I have no right to expect. Will you allow me to
     have your arrangements published, and if so, should I apply to
     Jurgenson or Bessel?

     “Furthermore, allow me in future to drop all formalities of ‘Dear
     Sir,’ etc., in my letters to you; they are not in my style, and I
     shall be glad if you will write to me without any of this
     conventional politeness. You will not refuse me this favour?

     “Yours, with devotion and respect,
“N. F.

     “P.S.--Do not forget to answer my first request.”

                    _Tchaikovsky to N. F. von Meck._

     “MOSCOW, _March_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1877.

     “You are quite right, Nadejda Filaretovna, in thinking that I am
     able to understand your inward mind and temperament. I venture to
     believe that you have not made a mistake in considering me a
     kindred spirit. Just as you have taken the trouble to study public
     opinion about me, I, too, have lost no opportunity of learning
     something about you and your manner of life. I have frequently been
     interested in you as a fellow-creature in whose temperament I
     recognised many features in common with my own. The fact that we
     both suffer from the same malady would alone suffice to draw us
     together. This malady is misanthropy; but a peculiar form of
     misanthropy, which certainly does not spring from hatred or
     contempt for mankind. People who suffer from this complaint do not
     fear the evil which others may bring them, so much as the
     disillusionment, that craving for the ideal, which follows upon
     every intimacy. There was a time when I was so possessed by this
     fear of my fellow-creatures that I stood on the verge of madness.
     The circumstances of my life were such that I could not possibly
     escape and hide myself. I had to fight it out with myself, and God
     alone knows what the conflict cost me!

     “I have emerged from the strife victorious, in so far that life has
     ceased to be unbearable. I was saved by work--work which was at the
     same time my delight. Thanks to one or two successes which have
     fallen to my share, I have taken courage, and my depression, which
     used often to drive me to hallucinations and insanity, has almost
     lost its power over me.

     “From all I have just said, you will understand I am not at all
     surprised that, although you love my music, you do not care to know
     the composer. You are afraid lest you should miss in my personality
     all with which your ideal imagination has endowed me. You are
     right. I feel that on closer acquaintance you would not find that
     harmony between me and my music of which you have dreamt.

     “Accept my thanks for all your expressions of appreciation for my
     music. If you only realised how good and comforting it is to a
     musician to know one soul feels so deeply and so intensely all that
     he experienced himself while planning and finishing his work! I am
     indeed grateful for your kind and cordial sympathy. I will not say
     what is customary under the circumstances: that I am unworthy of
     your praise. Whether I write well or ill, I write from an
     irresistible inward impulse. I speak in music because I have
     something to say. My work is ‘sincere,’ and it is a great
     consolation to find you value this sincerity.

     “I do not know if the march will please you.... if not, do not
     hesitate to say so. Perhaps, later on, I might be more successful.

     “I send you a cabinet photograph; not a very good one, however. I
     will be photographed again soon (it is an excruciating torture to
     me), and then I shall be very pleased to send you another
     portrait.”

                         _From N. F. von Meck._

     “_March_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1877.

     “Your march is so wonderful, Peter Ilich, that it throws me--as I
     hoped--into a state of blissful madness; a condition in which one
     loses consciousness of all that is bitter and offensive in life....
     Listening to such music, I seem to soar above all earthly thoughts,
     my temples throb, my heart beats wildly, a mist swims before my
     eyes and my ears drink in the enchantment of the music. I feel that
     all is well with me, and I do not want to be reawakened. Ah, God,
     how great is the man who has power to give others such moments of
     bliss!”

About the end of April, at a moment when Tchaikovsky found himself in
great pecuniary straits, he received another commission from his
benefactress. This time Frau von Meck asked for an original work for
violin and pianoforte, and proposed a very extravagant fee in return.

[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1877]

Tchaikovsky replied as follows:--

     “_May_ 1_st_(13_th_), 1877.

     “HONOURED NADEJDA FILARETOVNA,--In spite of obstinate denials on
     the part of a friend who is well known to both of us,[49] I have
     good reason to suppose that your letter, which I received early
     this morning, is due to a well-intentioned ruse on his part. Even
     your earlier commissions awoke in me a suspicion that you had more
     than one reason for suggesting them: on the one hand, you really
     wished to possess arrangements of some of my works; on the
     other--knowing my material difficulties--you desired to help me
     through them. The very high fees you sent me for my easy tasks
     forced me to this conclusion. This time I am convinced that the
     second reason is almost wholly answerable for your latest
     commission. Between the lines of your letter I read your delicacy
     of feeling and your kindness, and was touched by your way of
     approaching me. At the same time, in the depths of my heart, I felt
     such an intense _unwillingness_ to comply with your request that I
     cannot answer you in the affirmative. I could not bear any
     insincerity or falsehood to creep into our mutual relations. This
     would undoubtedly have been the case had I disregarded my inward
     promptings, manufactured a composition for you without pleasure or
     inspiration, and received from you an unsuitable fee in return.
     Would not the thought have passed through your mind that I was
     ready to undertake any kind of musical work provided the fee was
     high enough? Would you not have had some grounds for supposing
     that, had you been poor, I should not have complied with your
     requests? Finally, our intercourse is marred by one painful
     circumstance--in almost all our letters the question of money crops
     up. Of course it is not a degradation for an artist to accept money
     for his trouble; but, besides labour, a work such as you now wish
     me to undertake demands a certain degree of what is called
     inspiration, and at the present moment this is not at my disposal.
     I should be guilty of artistic dishonesty were I to abuse my
     technical skill and give you false coin in exchange for true--only
     with a view to improving my pecuniary situation.

     “At the present moment I am absorbed in the symphony[50] I began
     during the winter. I should like to dedicate it to you, because I
     believe you would find in it an echo of your most intimate thoughts
     and emotions. Just now any other work would be a burden--work, I
     mean, that would demand a certain mood and change of thought. Added
     to this, I am in a very nervous, worried and irritable state,
     highly unfavourable to composition, and even my symphony suffers in
     consequence.”

Tchaikovsky’s refusal did not offend Frau von Meck; on the contrary, she
was deeply grateful for his honourable and straightforward explanation.
The incident only served to strengthen the friendship between them, and
the result of their closer and more outspoken intercourse was a
remittance of 3,000 roubles to pay his debts. Having made herself his
sole creditor, she now became his benefactress and patroness, and from
this time forward took charge of his material welfare. But not only in
this way did she warm and brighten the course of Tchaikovsky’s life; of
greater value was the deep sympathy in which her generosity had its
root, a sympathy which shows in every line of her letters.

     “I am looking after you for my own sake,” she wrote. “My most
     precious beliefs and sympathies are in your keeping; your very
     existence gives me so much enjoyment, for life is the better for
     your letters and your music; finally, I want to keep you for the
     service of the art I adore, so that it may have no better or
     worthier acolyte than yourself. So, you see, my thought for your
     welfare is purely egotistical and, so long as I can satisfy this
     wish, I am happy and grateful to you for accepting my help.”




II


                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “GLIEBOVO, _June_ 23_rd_ (July 5_th_), 1877.

     “DEAR ANATOL,--You are right in supposing that I am hiding
     something from you, but you have made a false guess as to what this
     ‘something’ really is. Here is the whole matter. At the end of May
     an event took place which I kept from you and from all my family
     and friends, so that you should none of you worry yourselves with
     unnecessary anxieties as to whether I had done wisely or not. I
     wanted to get the business over and confess it afterwards. I am
     going to be married. I became engaged at the end of May, and meant
     to have the wedding early in July, without saying a word to anyone.
     Your letter shook my resolve. I could not avoid meeting you, and I
     felt I could not play a comedy of lies as to my reason for not
     being able to go to Kamenka. Besides I came to the conclusion that
     it was not right to get married without Dad’s blessing. So I
     decided to make a clean breast of it. The enclosed letter is for
     Dad. Do not worry about me. I have thought it over, and I am taking
     this important step in life with a quiet mind. You will realise
     that I am quite calm when I tell you--with the prospect of marriage
     before me--I have been able to write two-thirds of my opera.[51] My
     bride is no longer very young, but quite suitable in every respect,
     and possessed of one great attraction: she is in love with me. She
     is poor, and her name is Antonina Ivanovna Milioukov. I now invite
     you to my wedding. You and Kotek will be the sole witnesses of the
     ceremony. Ask father not to say a word about it to anyone. I will
     write to Sasha and to the rest of my brothers myself.”

                  _To his father, I. P. Tchaikovsky._

     “GLIEBOVO, _June_ 23_rd_ (July 5_th_), 1877.

     “DEAR FATHER,--Your son Peter intends to marry. But as he must not
     be united without your blessing upon his new life, he writes to ask
     for it. My bride is poor, but a good, honourable woman, who is
     deeply attached to me. Dear Dad, you know a man does not rush
     thoughtlessly into marriage at my age, so do not be anxious. I am
     sure my future wife will do all she can to make my life peaceful
     and happy.... Take care of yourself, dear, and write to me at once.
     I kiss your hands.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MOSCOW, _July_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1877.

     “First of all I must tell you that at the end of May I became
     engaged, to my own surprise. This is how it came about. One day I
     received a letter from a girl whom I had already seen and met. I
     learnt from this letter that for a long time past she had honoured
     me with her love. The letter was so warm and sincere that I decided
     to answer it, which I had always carefully avoided doing in other
     cases of the kind. Without going into the details of this
     correspondence, I will merely say that I ended by accepting her
     invitation to visit her. Why did I do this? Now it seems as though
     some hidden force drew me to this girl. When we met I told her
     again that I could only offer gratitude and sympathy in exchange
     for her love. But afterwards I began to reflect upon the folly of
     my proceedings. If I did not care for her, if I did not want to
     encourage her affections, why did I go to see her, and where will
     all this end? From the letters which followed, I came to the
     conclusion that, having gone so far, I should make her really
     unhappy and drive her to some tragic end were I to bring about a
     sudden rupture. I found myself confronted by a painful dilemma:
     either I must keep my freedom at the expense of this woman’s ruin
     (this is no empty word, for she loved me intensely), or I must
     marry. I could but choose the latter course. Therefore I went one
     evening to my future wife and told her frankly that I could not
     love her, but that I would be a devoted and grateful friend; I
     described to her in detail my character, my irritability, my
     nervous temperament, my misanthropy--finally, my pecuniary
     situation. Then I asked her if she would care to be my wife. Her
     answer was, of course, in the affirmative. The agonies I have
     endured since that evening defy description. It is very natural. To
     live thirty-seven years with an innate antipathy to matrimony, and
     then suddenly, by force of circumstances, to find oneself engaged
     to a woman with whom one is not in the least in love--is very
     painful. To give myself time to consider and grow used to the idea,
     I decided not to upset my original plans, but to spend a month in
     the country just the same. I did so, and the quiet, rural life
     among congenial friends, surrounded by beautiful scenery, has had a
     very beneficial effect. I consoled myself with the thought that we
     cannot escape our fate, and there was something fatalistic in my
     meeting with this girl. Besides, I know from experience that the
     terrible, agitating _unknown_ often proves beneficial and _vice
     versâ_. How often we are disappointed in the happiness which we
     have expected and striven to attain! Let come what come may!

     “Now a few words as to my future wife. Her name is Antonina
     Ivanovna Milioukov, and she is twenty-eight. She is rather
     good-looking, and of spotless reputation. She keeps herself, and
     lives alone--from a feeling of independence--although she has a
     very affectionate mother. She is quite poor and of moderate
     education, but apparently very good and capable of a loyal
     attachment.

     “During the month of July I finished a large part of the opera, and
     might have accomplished more but for my agitated frame of mind. I
     have never regretted my choice of subject for an instant. I cannot
     understand how it is that you who love music cannot appreciate
     Poushkin, who, by the power of his genius, often oversteps the
     limitations of poetry and enters the illimitable sphere of music.
     This is no mere phrase. Apart from the substance and form of his
     verses, they have another quality, something in their sequence of
     sound which penetrates to our inmost soul. This ‘something’ is
     music.

     “Wish that I may not lose courage in the new life which lies before
     me. God knows I am filled with the best of intentions towards the
     future companion of my life, and if we are both unhappy I shall not
     be to blame. My conscience is clear. If I am marrying without love,
     it is because circumstances have left me no alternative. I gave way
     thoughtlessly to her first expressions of love; I ought never to
     have replied to them. But having once encouraged her affection by
     answering her letter and visiting her, I was bound to act as I have
     done. But, as I say, my conscience is clear: I have neither lied to
     her, nor deceived her. I told her what she could expect from me,
     and what she must not count upon receiving.”

Tchaikovsky sent a similar intimation to his sister at Kamenka, and to
his brother Modeste. As he had anticipated, his father was the only
person who really rejoiced at the news. He replied as follows:--

                       _From I. P. Tchaikovsky._

     “PAVLOVSK, _June_ 27_th_ (_July_ 9_th_), 1877.

     “MY DEAR SON PETER,--Toly gave me your letter in which you ask for
     my blessing upon your marriage. This news delighted me so that I
     was ready to jump for joy. God be praised! The Lord’s blessing be
     upon you! I have no doubt that your chosen bride is equally worthy
     of the same good wishes which your father--an old man of
     eighty-three--and all your family bestow upon you; and not your
     family only, but all who have come in contact with you.

     “Is it not so, dear Antonina Ivanovna? After yesterday you must
     give me leave to call you my God-sent daughter, and to bid you love
     your chosen husband, for he is indeed worthy of it. And you, dear
     bridegroom, let me know the day and hour of your wedding, and I
     will come myself (if you agree to it) to give you my blessing....”

Of all Tchaikovsky’s family, Anatol was the only one able to go to
Moscow, and he arrived too late to prevent his brother from taking the
rash and foolish step he had decided upon.

The marriage took place on July 6th (18th).

I shall not attempt to follow step by step the whole sad story of my
brother’s marriage. First of all, I do not possess the necessary sense
of impartiality; secondly, I have no evidence for the other side of the
case, nor any hope of procuring it in the future; and thirdly, I do not
wish to hurt the legitimate sensitiveness of several people still
living, I can only say that from the first hour of his married life
Tchaikovsky had to pay the penalty of his rash and ill-considered act
and was profoundly miserable.

On the evening of the wedding-day the newly married couple left for St.
Petersburg and returned to Moscow at the end of a week. They then paid a
short visit to the bride’s mother, who lived in the country, after which
it was settled that Tchaikovsky should go alone to Kamenka, while his
wife prepared the new home in Moscow.

On July 26th (August 7th) he wrote to N. F. von Meck: “I leave in an
hour’s time. A few days longer, and I swear I should have gone mad.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _August_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1877.

     “If I were to say that I had returned to my normal condition, it
     would not be true. But this is impossible. Only time can cure me,
     and I have no doubt that gradually I shall become reconciled. I am
     quiet here, and begin to look the future in the face without fear.
     One thing annoys me; I am absolutely incapable of taking up my
     work. Yet it would be the finest remedy for my morbid state of
     mind. I must hope that the hunger for work will return ere long.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “_August_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1877.

     “I am much better.... I feel _sure_ I shall now triumph over my
     difficult and critical situation. I must struggle against _my
     feeling of estrangement_ from my wife and try to keep all her good
     qualities in view. For undoubtedly she has good qualities.

     “I have so far improved that I have taken in hand the orchestration
     of _your_ symphony. One of my brothers, whose judgment I value, is
     very pleased with such parts of it as I have played to him. I hope
     _you_ will be equally pleased. That is the chief thing.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _August_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1877.

     “You are right, Nadejda Filaretovna, there are times in life when
     one must fortify oneself to endure and create for oneself some kind
     of joy, however shadowy. Here is a case in point: either live with
     people and know that you are condemned to every kind of misery, or
     escape somewhere and isolate yourself from every possibility of
     intercourse, which, for the most part, only leads to pain and
     grief. My dream has always been to work as long as I had power to
     do so, and when I felt convinced that I could do no more, to hide
     myself somewhere, far away from the strife, and look on at the
     agitations of the human ant-hill. This dream of being at rest in
     some remote corner has been the great consolation and goal of my
     life. Now, by my own act, I have deprived myself of all hope of
     ever reaching this harbour of refuge.... My new tie forces me into
     the arena of life--there is no escape from it. As you say, there is
     nothing to be done, but to set to and create some artificial
     happiness....

     “Our symphony progresses. The first movement will give me a great
     deal of trouble as regards orchestration. It is very long and
     complicated; at the same time I consider it the best movement. The
     three remaining movements are very simple, and it will be pleasant
     and easy to orchestrate them. The Scherzo will have quite a new
     orchestral effect, from which I expect great things. At first only
     the string orchestra is heard, always pizzicato. In the trio the
     wood-wind plays by itself, and at the end of the Scherzo all three
     groups of instruments join in a short phrase. I think this effect
     will be interesting.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _August_ 30_th_ (_September_ 11_th_), 1877.

     “The weather grows more and more autumnal. The fields are bare, and
     it is time I took my departure. My wife writes that our rooms are
     now ready....”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MOSCOW, _September_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1877.

     “I have not yet been to the Conservatoire. My classes only begin
     to-day. The arrangements of our home leave nothing to be desired.
     My wife has done all she possibly could to please me. It is really
     a comfortable and pretty home. All is clean, new and artistic.

     “The orchestration of the first movement of our symphony is quite
     finished. Now I shall give myself a few days to grow used to my
     new life. In any case the symphony will not be ready before the end
     of the winter.”

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “MOSCOW, _September_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1877.

     “ ... My wife came to meet me. Poor woman, she has gone through
     some miserable experiences in getting our home ready; while
     awaiting my arrival she has had to change her cook twice. She had
     to take one into the police court. Twice she was robbed, and for
     the last few days she has been obliged to remain at home all day,
     not daring to leave the place in the care of the cook. But our home
     pleases me; it is pretty, comfortable, and not altogether wanting
     in luxury.”

Shortly after writing this letter Tchaikovsky’s health broke down.
According to a telegram which he sent to Petersburg, he left Moscow
suddenly on September 24th (October 6th) in a condition bordering upon
insanity.

Anatol says that his brother was scarcely recognisable when he met him
on the platform of the Nicholas Station in Petersburg; his face had
entirely changed in the course of a month. From the station he was taken
to the nearest hotel, where, after a violent nervous crisis, he became
unconscious, in which state he remained for forty-eight hours. When this
crisis was over, the doctors ordered a complete change of life and scene
as the sole chance of recovery. Anatol went immediately to Moscow,
hastily arranged his brother’s affairs, left his wife to the care of her
family, for the time being, and then took the invalid away as soon as
possible.

Not once in the whole course of his life--neither at the time nor
subsequently--did Tchaikovsky, in speech or writing, lay the blame for
this unhappy incident upon his wife. Following his example, therefore, I
cannot complete this chapter without exonerating her from every shadow
of responsibility for all that happened.

Tchaikovsky himself declared that “she always behaved honourably and
with sincerity,” never consciously deceived him and was “unwittingly and
involuntarily” the cause of all her husband’s misery.

As to Tchaikovsky’s treatment of his wife, the sternest judge must admit
that it was frank and honourable and that he did not attempt to mislead
her. Both of them believed, under the influence of an abnormal and fatal
exaltation, that, after self-revelation, they understood each other and
were honestly convinced they would get on together. It was not until
they entered into closer relationship that they discovered, to their
horror, they were far from having told each other all; that a gulf of
misunderstanding lay between them which could never be bridged over,
that they had been wandering as it were in a dream, and had
unintentionally deceived each other.

Under the circumstances separation was the only solution of the
difficulty, the sole method of regaining their peace of mind and of
saving Tchaikovsky’s life.

On October 3rd (15th) the composer reached Berlin, accompanied by his
brother Anatol. The dangerous crisis in his illness was over and a slow
convalescence began.




III


Tchaikovsky selected Clarens as his first resting-place, and settled
down at the Villa Richelieu on the shore of the Lake of Geneva.

He had only money enough to last five or six weeks; but at the end of
that time he had no inclination--nor was he in a condition--to return to
his work in Moscow. His constitution was so shaken and impaired by his
nervous illness that at least a year’s rest was necessary for his
complete restoration.

There was some hope of getting a little money in the winter, if the
Principal of the Petersburg Conservatoire, Karl Davidov, appointed him
delegate for the forthcoming exhibition in Paris. But the chance was
very uncertain, and even if he were nominated, the office was not very
well suited to Tchaikovsky, because it demanded not only great energy,
but constant social intercourse, whereas the condition of his health
needed complete repose.

All the same, Tchaikovsky would have been glad of the appointment as
affording the one means of remaining longer abroad.

This anxiety as to his future counteracted in some degree the benefit
derived from the quiet and solitude of Clarens. To escape from his
difficulties Tchaikovsky was obliged to have recourse to the kindness of
Nicholas Rubinstein and Nadejda von Meck.

Rubinstein interested himself in the matter of the delegation, and wrote
as follows:--

     “It has been decided to send you all the money which is left over
     from the expenses of your classes in monthly instalments. Try to
     calm yourself; take care of your health, and fear nothing. You are
     far too highly valued as a musician to be compromised by secondary
     considerations.”

Tchaikovsky replied, expressing his gratitude and reporting the progress
of his opera.

     “The first act of _Eugene Oniegin_ will soon be in your hands,” he
     writes. “I shall be very happy if it pleases you. I composed it
     with great enthusiasm. A performance at the Conservatoire is just
     my ideal. The opera is intended for a modest setting and a small
     theatre.”

               _From Nicholas Rubinstein to Tchaikovsky._

     “FRIEND PETER,--I am very glad you are getting better and gradually
     returning to work. I am full of curiosity about _Eugene Oniegin_.
     Be so kind as to assign the parts. Even if they have to be changed
     afterwards, it is important to know your views. Can I also count on
     the Symphony?

     “I have seen Frau von Meck. We talked a great deal about you. I
     think she will send you another commission, or money direct.”

Rubinstein was not mistaken. Even before she received Tchaikovsky’s
letter asking for assistance, Nadejda von Meck had decided to take upon
herself the responsibility of his maintenance, and asked him to accept
an annual allowance of 6,000 roubles (£600). In reply to his request,
which was accompanied by many apologies, she wrote as follows:--

     “.... Are we really such strangers? Do you not realise how much I
     care for you, how I wish you all good? In my opinion it is not the
     tie of sex or kindred which gives these rights, but the sense of
     mental and spiritual communion. You know how many happy moments you
     have given me, how grateful I am, how indispensable you are to me,
     and how necessary it is that you should remain just as you were
     created; consequently what I do is not done for your sake, but for
     my own. Why should you spoil my pleasure in taking care of you, and
     make me feel that I am not very much to you after all? You hurt me.
     If I wanted something from you, of course you would give it me--is
     it not so? Very well, then we cry quits. Do not interfere with my
     management of your domestic economy, Peter Ilich.

     “I do not know what you think, but for my part I would rather we
     kept our friendship and correspondence to ourselves. Therefore in
     talking to Nicholas Rubinstein I spoke of you as a complete
     stranger; I inquired, as though quite in the dark, your reasons for
     leaving Moscow, where you had gone, how long you were going to
     remain away, and so on. He was anxious, I thought, to make me take
     a warmer interest in you, but I kept to the part of a disinterested
     admirer of your talents.”

Thus, thanks to his new friend, Tchaikovsky became an independent man as
regards his material welfare, and a new life opened out before him,
such as hitherto he had only imagined as an unrealisable dream. He had
attained that freedom of existence which was indispensable to his
creative activity. Now, at last, he was at liberty to employ his time as
he pleased, and to arrange his manner of living to suit his own tastes
and requirements.




IV


In consequence of this entire change of circumstances, Tchaikovsky
abandoned his original idea of spending the whole winter in Clarens. In
thanking his benefactress for her generous help, he says:--

     “I shall only remain here until--thanks to you--I receive the
     wherewithal to go to Italy, which calls me with all its force. It
     is very quiet and very beautiful here, but somewhat depressing.

     “You say liberty is unattainable, and that there is no method of
     procuring it. Perhaps it is impossible to be completely free; but
     even this comparative freedom is the greatest joy to me. At least I
     can work. Work was impossible in the vicinity of one who was so
     much to me externally, while remaining a stranger to my inner life.
     I have been through a terrible ordeal, and it is marvellous that my
     soul still lives, though deeply wounded.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “CLARENS, _October_ 25_th_ (_November_ 6_th_), 1877.

     “Your letter is so warm and friendly that it would suffice of
     itself to reawaken in me the desire for life, and to help me to
     endure all its miseries. I thank you for everything, my invaluable
     friend. I do not suppose that I shall ever have an opportunity of
     proving that I am ready to make any sacrifice for you in return; I
     think you will never be compelled by circumstances to demand any
     supreme service from my friendship; therefore I can only please
     and serve you by means of my music. Nadejda Filaretovna, every note
     which comes from my pen in future is dedicated to you! To you I owe
     this reawakened love of work, and I will never forget for a moment
     that you have made it possible to carry on my career. Much, much
     still remains for me to do! Without false modesty, I may tell you
     that all I have done so far seems to me poor and imperfect compared
     with what I _can_, _must_, and _will_ do in the future.

     “I like my present quarters very well. Apart from the glorious view
     of the lake and mountains of Savoy, with the Dent du Midi, which I
     get from my windows, I am pleased with the villa itself.... But I
     must confess I am continually haunted by the thought of a long
     visit to Italy, so that I have decided to start for Rome with my
     brother about a fortnight hence. Afterwards we shall go on to
     Naples or Sorrento. After a few days amid the mountains, have you
     never had the yearning, from which I think no northerner ever
     escapes, for wide horizons and the unbounded expanse of the
     plains?... Gradually I am going back to my work, and I can now
     definitely say that _our_ Symphony will be finished by December at
     the latest, so you will be able to hear it this season. May this
     music, which is so closely bound up with the thought of you, speak
     to you and tell you that I love you with all my heart and soul, O
     my best and incomparable friend!”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “CLARENS, _October_ 30_th_ (_November_ 11_th_), 1877.

     “ ... Whenever I think calmly over all I have been through, I come
     to the conclusion that there is a Providence who has specially
     cared for me. Not only have I been saved from ruin--which seemed at
     one time inevitable--but things are now well with me, and I see
     ahead the dawn-light of happiness and success. As regards religion,
     I must confess I have a dual temperament, and to this day I have
     found no satisfactory solution of the problem. On the one hand, my
     reason obstinately refuses to accept the dogmatic teaching either
     of the orthodox Russian, or of any other Christian Church. For
     instance, however much I may think about it, I can see no sense in
     the doctrine of retribution and reward. How is it possible to draw
     a hard-and-fast line between the sheep and the goats? What is to be
     rewarded and what is to be punished? Equally impossible to me is
     the belief in immortality. Here I am quite in accord with the
     pantheistic view of immortality and the future life.

     “On the other hand, my whole upbringing, customs of childhood, and
     the poetical image of Christ and all that belongs to His teaching,
     are so deeply implanted in me, that involuntarily I find myself
     calling upon Him in my grief and thanking Him in my happiness.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “FLORENCE, _November_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1877.

     “I am ashamed, not without reason, to have to write you a
     melancholy letter. At first I thought I would not write at all, but
     the desire to talk with you a little got the upper hand. It is
     impossible to be insincere with you, even when I have the best of
     reasons for concealing my thoughts.

     “We came here quite unexpectedly. I was so unwell in Milan that I
     decided to remain a day here, which our tickets permit us to do. My
     indisposition is not of such great importance. The real trouble is
     my depression--a wearing, maddening depression, which never leaves
     me for a moment. In Clarens, where I was living an absolutely quiet
     life, I was often overcome by melancholy. Not being able to account
     for these attacks of depression, I attributed them to the
     mountains. What childishness! I persuaded myself that I need only
     cross the frontiers of Italy, and a life of perfect happiness would
     begin! Nonsense! Here I feel a hundred times worse. The weather is
     glorious, the days are as warm as in July, there is something to
     see, something to distract me, and yet I am tormented by an
     overwhelming, gigantic depression. How to account for it I do not
     know. If I had not asked all my correspondents to address their
     letters to me in Rome, I think I should not travel any further. I
     must get as far as that, it is clear, but I am not fit just now for
     a tourist’s life.... I have not come here for sight-seeing, but to
     cure myself by work. At the present moment it seems to me
     impossible to work in Italy, especially in Rome. I regret
     _terribly_ the peace and quiet of Clarens, where I had made a
     successful effort to return to my work, and I am seriously
     wondering whether it might not be better to return there.... What
     will become of me when my brother goes? I cannot think of that
     moment without a shudder. But I neither wish, nor am I able, to
     return to Russia. You see how I keep turning in this _cercle
     vicieux_....”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ROME, _November_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1877.

     “ ... We arrived in Rome quite early this morning. This time I
     entered the famous city with a troubled heart. How true it is that
     we do not draw our happiness from our surroundings, but from our
     inward being! This has been sufficiently proved by my present tour
     in Italy.

     “ ... I am still quite a sick man. I cannot bear the least noise as
     yet. Yesterday in Florence, and to-day in Rome, every vehicle that
     rolled by threw me into an insane rage; every sound, every cry
     exasperated my nerves. The crowds of people flowing through the
     narrow streets annoy me so that every stranger I meet seems to me
     an enemy. Now, for the first time, I begin to realise the folly of
     my journey to Rome. My brother and I have just been to St. Peter’s:
     all I have gained by it is overwhelming physical fatigue. Of the
     noisy streets, the bad air, the dirt, I will say nothing. I know my
     morbid condition makes me see only the bad side of Rome in all its
     hatefulness, while the beauties of the city seem veiled to my eyes;
     but this is a poor consolation. Yesterday I discussed with my
     brother what we should do next, and came to this conclusion. It is
     evident that I cannot continue my tour. If I feel ill in Florence
     and Rome, it will be just as bad in Naples. A fortnight hence my
     brother must leave me; in order somewhat to prolong our time
     together, I have decided to accompany him as far as Vienna. I have
     also come to the conclusion that I ought not to be left alone.
     Therefore I have sent for my servant, who is leading an idle life
     in Moscow. I shall await his coming in Vienna, and then return to
     Clarens, where I think of staying.

     “To-morrow, or the next day, we shall go to Venice for a few days
     before starting for Vienna. Venice is quiet, and I can work there;
     and it is very important I should do so....”

                       _To Nicholas Rubinstein._

     “ROME, _November_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1877.

     “I am agitated by uncertainty as to whether the first act[52] will
     please you or not. Pray do not give it up on your first
     impressions: they are often so deceptive. I wrote that music with
     such love and delight! The following numbers were specially dear to
     me: (1) the first duet behind the scenes, which afterwards becomes
     the quartet; (2) Lensky’s Arioso; (3) the scene in Tatiana’s room;
     (4) the chorus of maidens. If you can tell me it pleases you and
     Albrecht (I value his opinion so highly), it will make me very
     happy. As soon as I have finished the first scene of the second act
     and sent it to you, I will attack the Symphony with all zeal, and
     so I implore you to keep a place for it at the Symphony Concerts.

     “I thank you, dear friend, with all my heart for the many things
     you have done for me, and for your kind letter, in which I
     recognise with joy your loyal friendship. But, for God’s sake, do
     not summon me back to Moscow before next September. I know I shall
     find nothing there but terrible mental suffering.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “VENICE, _November_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1877.

     “DEAR NADEJDA FILARETOVNA,--The last day in Rome compensated for
     all my troubles, but it was also rather fatiguing. In the morning I
     had to go in search of the Symphony (No. 4), which had been sent
     from Clarens. I inquired at the post office, at the station, at
     various other offices. Everywhere they received me politely, looked
     for the parcel, and failed to find it. Imagine my anxiety. If the
     Symphony had been lost, I should never have had the energy to
     rewrite it from memory. At last I requested that it should be
     diligently sought for, and--behold the parcel was discovered! It
     was a great comfort.

     “Afterwards I visited the Capitol with my brother. I found much
     that was interesting here and which touched me directly--for
     instance, the statue of the Dying Gladiator. I cannot say the same
     of the Venus of the Capitol, which still leaves me quite cold, as
     on my first visit. At two o’clock we went to the Palace of the
     Cæsars, and looked into the Villa Borghese as we passed, to see the
     collection of pictures. Here, too, I was capable of taking in some
     artistic impressions. One picture particularly attracted my
     attention--the Death of a Saint (Jerome, if I am not mistaken), by
     Domenicchino. But I must tell you frankly that I am no enthusiastic
     amateur of pictures, and I lack any profound insight into the
     subtleties of painting or sculpture. I soon get tired in the
     galleries. Among a number of pictures there are seldom more than
     two or three which remain firmly fixed in my mind’s eye; but these
     I study in every detail, and endeavour to enter into their spirit,
     while I run through the others with a superficial glance....
     Besides the picture by Domenicchino, some of Raphael’s pleased me
     very much, especially the portraits of Cæsar Borgia and Sixtus
     V.[53]

     “The grandest, the most overpowering, of all the sights I saw was
     the Palace of the Cæsars. What gigantic proportions, what wealth of
     beauty! At every step we are reminded of the past; we endeavour to
     reconstruct it and the further we explore it, the more vivid are
     the gorgeous pictures which crowd the imagination. The weather was
     lovely. Every moment we came upon some fresh glimpse of the city,
     which is as dirty as Moscow, but far more picturesquely situated,
     and possessing infinitely greater historical interest. Quite close
     by are the Colosseum and the ruined Palace of Constantine.[54] It
     is all so grand, so beautiful, so rare! I am very glad to have left
     Rome under this ineffaceable impression. I wanted to write to you
     in the evening, but after packing I was too tired to move a finger.

     “At six o’clock this morning we arrived in Venice. Although I had
     not been able to close my eyes all night, and although it was still
     quite dark and cold when we got here, I was charmed with the
     characteristic beauty of the place. We are staying at the Grand
     Hôtel. In front of our windows is S. Maria della Salute, a
     graceful, pretty building on the Canale Grande.”

                          _To N. F. Von Meck._

     “VENICE, _November_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1877.

     “ ... I have received a very comforting letter from my sister, and
     am busy with the orchestration of the first scene of the second act
     of my _Oniegin_.

     “Venice is a fascinating city. Every day I discover some fresh
     beauty. Yesterday we went to the Church of the Frati, in which,
     among other art treasures, is the tomb of Canova. It is a marvel of
     beauty! But what delights me most is the absolute quiet and absence
     of all street noises. To sit at the open window in the moonlight
     and gaze upon S. Maria della Salute, or over to the Lagoons on the
     left, is simply glorious! It is very pleasant also to sit in the
     Piazza di San Marco (near the Café) in the afternoon and watch the
     stream of people go by. The little corridor-like streets please me,
     too, especially in the evening when the windows are lit up. In
     short, Venice has bewitched me. To-day I have been considering
     whether it would not be better to stay here than at
     Clarens--Clarens is quiet, cheap, and nice, but often dull; here
     nature is less beautiful, but there is more life and movement, and
     this is not of the kind that bewilders and confuses me....
     To-morrow I will look for a furnished apartment. If I succeed in
     finding one--I shall be just as undecided as before.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “VENICE, _November_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1877.

     “ ... The few days spent here have done me a great deal of good.
     First, I have been able to work a little, so that my brother will
     take the second scene of the opera--not quite finished--back to
     Moscow with him. Secondly, I feel much better, although I was not
     very well yesterday. It is only a slight chill, however. Thirdly, I
     am quite in love with my beautiful Venice, and have decided to come
     back here after parting from my brother in Vienna. Do not laugh,
     for Heaven’s sake, at my uncertainty and vacillation. This time my
     decision is irrevocable. I have gone so far as to take a very nice
     apartment in the Riva dei Chiavoni.

     “To-morrow I go to Vienna. On my return I will begin to work at the
     Symphony--_our_ Symphony.

     “Do you know what enrages me in Venice?--The vendors of the evening
     papers. If I go for a walk across the Piazza di San Marco I hear on
     every side, ‘_Il Tempo! La Gazzetta di Venezia! Vittoria dei
     Turchi!_’ This ‘_Vittoria dei Turchi_’ is shouted every evening.
     Why do they never cry one of our actual victories? Why do they try
     to attract customers by fictitious Turkish successes? Can it be
     that peaceful, beautiful Venice, who once lost her strength in
     fighting these same Turks, is as full of hatred for Russia as all
     the rest of Western Europe?

     “Beside myself with indignation, I asked one of them, ‘Ma dovè la
     vittoria?’ It turned out that a Turkish victory was really a
     reconnaissance, in which the Russians had had about one hundred
     casualties. ‘Is that a victory?’ I asked him angrily. I could not
     understand his reply, but he cried no more ‘victories.’ One must
     acknowledge the amiability, politeness, and obligingness of the
     Italians. These qualities of theirs strike one very forcibly when
     one comes direct from Switzerland, where the people are gloomy,
     unfriendly, and disinclined for a joke. To-day, when I met the same
     vendor of papers, he greeted me civilly, and instead of calling
     out, ‘Grande vittoria dei Turchi’--with which words the others were
     recommending their wares--he began to cry, ‘Gran combattimento a
     Plevna, vittoria dei Russi!’ I knew he lied, but it pleased me all
     the same, since it expressed the innate courtesy of a poor man.

     “When will it end, this terrible war, in which such unimportant
     results have to be won at such vast sacrifices? And yet it must be
     fought out to the end, until the enemy is utterly vanquished. This
     war cannot and must not be settled by compromises and side issues.
     One or the other must give in. But how disgraceful it seems to
     speak of such a life-and-death struggle while sitting in a bright,
     comfortable, well-lit room, knowing neither hunger nor thirst, and
     well protected from bad weather and all other physical deprivations
     and discomforts! From moral and spiritual troubles we are none of
     us safe. As to my own, I know one remedy and alleviation--my work.
     But our strength is not always equal to our work. Oh, my God, if I
     could only find strength and gladness of heart for new works! Just
     now I can only go on patching up the old ones.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “VIENNA, _November_ 20_th_ (_December_ 2_nd_), 1877.

     “ ... Yesterday evening found us in Vienna. The journey across the
     Semmering left a fascinating impression. The weather was fine. On
     the journey I read and re-read your letter, my dear friend.

     “ ... Now it is evident that theoretically you have separated
     yourself from the Church and from dogmatic belief. I perceive that
     after years of thought you have framed for yourself a kind of
     religio-philosophic catechism. But it strikes me you are mistaken
     in supposing that parallel with the bulwarks of the old, strong
     faith which you have overthrown, you have raised new ones, so sure
     and reliable that you can afford to do away entirely with the old
     lines of defence. Herein lies precisely the sceptic’s tragedy: once
     he has broken the ties which bind him to traditional belief, he
     passes from one set of philosophical speculations to another,
     always imagining he will discover that inexhaustible source of
     strength, so needful for the battle of life, with which the
     believer is fully equipped. You may say what you please, but a
     faith--not that which proceeds from mere deficiency of reasoning
     power and is simply a matter of routine--but a faith founded on
     reason and able to reconcile all misconceptions and contradictions
     arising from intellectual criticism--such a belief is the supreme
     happiness. A man who has both intellect and faith (and there are
     many such) is clad, as it were, in a panoply of armour which can
     resist all the blows of fate. You say you have fallen away from the
     accepted forms of religion and have made a creed for yourself. But
     religion is an element of reconciliation. Have you this sense of
     being reconciled? I think not. For if you had, you would never have
     written that letter from Como. Do you remember? That yearning, that
     discontent, that aspiration towards some vague ideal, that
     isolation from humanity, the confession that only in music--the
     most ideal of all the arts--could you find any solution of these
     agitating questions, all proved to me that your self-made religion
     did not give that absolute peace of mind which is peculiar to those
     who have found in their faith a ready-made answer to all those
     doubts which torment a reflective and sensitive nature. And, do you
     know--it seems to me you only care so much for my music because I
     am as full of the ideal longing as yourself. Our sufferings are the
     same. Your doubts are as strong as mine. We are both adrift in that
     limitless sea of scepticism, seeking a haven and finding none.

     “Are not these the reasons why my music touches you so closely? I
     also think you are mistaken in calling yourself a realist. If we
     define ‘realism’ as contempt for all that is false and
     insincere--in life as in art--you are undoubtedly a ‘realist.’ But
     when we consider that a true realist would never dream of seeking
     consolation in music, as you do, it is evident you are far more of
     an idealist. You are only a realist in the sense that you do not
     care to waste time over sentimental, trivial, and aimless dreams,
     like so many women. You do not care for phrases and empty words,
     but that does not mean you are a realist. Impossible! Realism
     argues a certain limited outlook, a thirst for truth which is too
     quickly and easily satisfied. A realist does not actually feel
     eager to comprehend the essential problems of existence; he even
     denies the need of seeking truth, and does not believe in those
     who are searching for reconcilement and religion, philosophy, or
     art. Art--especially music--counts for nothing with the realist,
     because it is the answer to a question which his narrow intellect
     is incapable of posing. For these reasons I think you are wrong in
     declaring you have enrolled under the banner of realism. You say
     music only produces in you a pleasant, purely physical, sensation.
     Against this I distinctly protest. You are deceiving yourself. Do
     you really only care for music in the same way that I enjoy a
     bottle of wine or a pickled gherkin? Nay, you love music as it
     should be loved: that is to say, you give yourself up to it with
     all your soul and let it exercise its magic spell all unconsciously
     upon your spirit.

     “Perhaps it may seem strange that I should doubt your
     self-knowledge. But, to my mind, you are, first of all, a very good
     woman, and have been so from your birth up. You honour what is good
     because the aspiration towards the right, as well as the hatred of
     lies and evil, is innate in you. You are clever, and consequently
     sceptical. An intelligent man cannot help being a sceptic; at least
     he must at some period of his life experience the most agonising
     scepticism. When your innate scepticism led you to the negation of
     tradition and dogma you naturally began to seek some way of escape
     from your doubts. You found it _partly_ in the pantheistic point of
     view, and _partly_ in music; but you discovered no perfect
     reconcilement with faith. Hating all evil and falsehood, you
     enclose yourself in your narrow family circle in order to shut out
     the consciousness of human wickedness. You have done much good,
     because, like your innate love of nature and art, this doing good
     is an invincible craving of your soul. You help others, not in
     order to purchase that eternal happiness which you neither quite
     believe in nor quite deny, but because you are so made that you
     cannot help doing good.”

                          _To N. F. Von Meck._

     “VIENNA, _November_ 23_rd_ (_December_ 5_th_), 1877.

     “The continuation of my letter:--

     “My feeling about the Church is quite different to yours. For me
     it still possesses much poetical charm. I very often attend the
     services. I consider the liturgy of St. John Chrysostom one of the
     greatest productions of art. If we follow the service very
     carefully, and enter into the meaning of every ceremony, it is
     impossible not to be profoundly moved by the liturgy of our own
     Orthodox Church. I also love vespers. To stand on a Saturday
     evening in the twilight in some little old country church, filled
     with the smoke of incense; to lose oneself in the eternal
     questions, _whence_, _why_, and _whither_; to be startled from
     one’s trance by a burst from the choir; to be carried away by the
     poetry of this music; to be thrilled with quiet rapture when the
     Golden Gates of the Iconostasis are flung open and the words ring
     out, ‘Praise the name of the Lord!’--all this is infinitely
     precious to me! One of my deepest joys!

     “Thus, from one point of view, I am firmly united to our Church.
     From other standpoints I have--like yourself--long since lost faith
     in dogma. The doctrine of retribution, for instance, seems to me
     monstrous in its injustice and unreason. Like you, I am convinced
     that if there is a future life at all, it is only conceivable in
     the sense of the indestructibility of matter, in the pantheistic
     view of the eternity of nature, of which I am only a microscopic
     atom. I cannot believe in a personal, individual immortality.

     “How shall we picture to ourselves eternal life after death? As
     endless bliss? But such endless joy is inconceivable apart from its
     opposite--eternal pain. I entirely refuse to believe in the latter.
     Finally, I am not sure that life beyond death is desirable, for it
     would lose its charm but for its alternations of joy and sorrow,
     its struggle between good and evil, darkness and light. How can we
     contemplate immortality as a state of eternal bliss? According to
     our earthly conceptions, even bliss itself becomes wearisome if it
     is never broken or interrupted. So I have come to the conclusion,
     as the result of much thinking, that there is no future life. But
     conviction is one thing, and feeling and instinct another. This
     denial of immortality brings me face to face with the terrible
     thought that I shall never, never, again set eyes upon some of my
     dear dead. In spite of the strength of my _convictions_, I shall
     never reconcile myself to the thought that my dear mother, whom I
     loved so much, actually _is not_; that I shall never have any
     chance of telling her how, after twenty-three years of separation,
     she is as dear to me as ever.

     “You see, my dear friend, I am made up of contradictions, and I
     have reached a very mature age without resting upon anything
     positive, without having calmed my restless spirit either by
     religion or philosophy. Undoubtedly I should have gone mad but for
     _music_. Music is indeed the most beautiful of all Heaven’s gifts
     to humanity wandering in the darkness. Alone it calms, enlightens,
     and stills our souls. It is not the straw to which the drowning man
     clings; but a true friend, refuge, and comforter, for whose sake
     life is worth living. Perhaps there will be no music in heaven.
     Well, let us give our mortal life to it as long as it lasts.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “VIENNA, _November_ 26_th_ (_December_ 8_th_), 1877.

     “I am still in Vienna. Yesterday I heard that my servant would
     leave Moscow on Saturday. Although I have given him the most minute
     instructions what to do on the journey, I have no idea how he will
     cross the frontier, not knowing a single word of any foreign
     language. I fancy there will be many tragic-comic episodes.
     Sometimes I think it is not very wise to have a Russian servant.
     And yet--I do not know what I should have done, since I cannot
     endure complete solitude. Besides which I know it will be a comfort
     to my brother to feel I am not quite alone. I have seen Wagner’s
     _Walküre_. The performance was excellent. The orchestra surpassed
     itself; the best singers did all within their powers--and yet it
     was wearisome. What a Don Quixote is Wagner! He expends his whole
     force in pursuing the impossible, and all the time, if he would but
     follow the natural bent of his extraordinary gift, he might evoke a
     whole world of musical beauties. In my opinion Wagner is a
     symphonist by nature. He is gifted with genius which has wrecked
     itself upon his tendencies; his inspiration is paralysed by
     theories which he has invented on his own account, and which,
     _nolens volens_, he wants to bring into practice. In his efforts to
     attain _reality_, _truth_, and _rationalism_ he lets _music_ slip
     quite out of sight, so that in his four latest operas it is, more
     often than not, conspicuous by its absence. I cannot call that
     music which consists of kaleidoscopic, shifting phrases, which
     succeed each other without a break and never come to a close, that
     is to say, never give the ear the least chance to rest upon musical
     form. Not a single broad, rounded melody, nor yet one moment of
     repose for the singer! The latter must always pursue the orchestra,
     and be careful never to lose his note, which has no more importance
     in the score than some note for the fourth horn. But there is no
     doubt Wagner is a wonderful symphonist. I will just prove to you by
     one example how far the symphonic prevails over the operatic style
     in his operas. You have probably heard his celebrated
     _Walkürenritt_? What a great and marvellous picture! How we
     actually seem to see these fierce heroines flying on their magic
     steeds amid thunder and lightning! In the concert-room this piece
     makes an extraordinary impression. On the stage, in view of the
     cardboard rocks, the canvas clouds, and the soldiers who run about
     very awkwardly in the background--in a word, seen in this very
     inadequate theatrical heaven, which makes a poor pretence of
     realising the illimitable realms above, the music loses all its
     powers of expression. Here the stage does not enhance the effect,
     but acts rather like a wet blanket. Finally I cannot understand,
     and never shall, why the _Nibelungen_ should be considered a
     literary masterpiece. As a national saga--perhaps, but as a
     libretto--distinctly not!

     “Wotan, Brünnhilda, Fricka, and the rest are all so impossible, so
     little human, that it is very difficult to feel any sympathy with
     their destinies. And how little life! For three whole hours Wotan
     lectures Brünnhilda upon her disobedience. How wearisome! And with
     it all, there are many fine and beautiful episodes of a purely
     symphonic description.

     “Yesterday Kotek[55] and I looked through a new symphony by Brahms
     (No. I in C minor), a composer whom the Germans exalt to the skies.
     He has no charms for me. I find him cold and obscure, full of
     pretensions, but without any real depths. Altogether it seems to me
     Germany is deteriorating as regards music. I believe the French are
     now coming to the front. Lately I have heard Délibes’ very clever
     music--in its own style--to the ballet _Sylvia_, I became
     acquainted with this music in the pianoforte arrangement some time
     ago, but the splendid performance of it by the Vienna orchestra
     quite fascinated me, especially the first part. _The Swan Lake_ is
     poor stuff compared to _Sylvia_. Nothing during the last few years
     has charmed me so greatly as this ballet of Délibes and _Carmen_.”

                          _To N. F. von Meek._

     “VIENNA, _November_ 27_th_ (_December_ 9_th_), 1877.

     “Kotek and my brother have gone to the Philharmonic concert, at
     which my favourite Third Symphony of Schumann is being played. I
     preferred to remain at home alone. I was afraid I might meet some
     of the local musicians with whom I am acquainted. If only I came
     across one, by to-morrow I should have to call on at least ten
     musical ‘lions’, make their acquaintance, and express my gratitude
     for their favours. (Last year, without any initiative on my part,
     my overture _Romeo and Juliet_ was performed here and unanimously
     hissed.) No doubt I should do much towards making my works known
     abroad if I went the round of the influential people, paying visits
     and compliments. But, Lord, how I hate that kind of thing! If you
     could only hear the offensively patronising tone in which they
     speak of Russian music! One reads in their faces: ‘Although you are
     a Russian, my condescension is such that I honour you with my
     attention.’ God be with them! Last year I met Liszt. He was
     sickeningly polite, but all the while there was a smile on his lips
     which expressed the above words pretty plainly. At the present
     moment, as you will understand, I am less than ever in the mood to
     be civil to these gentlemen.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “VIENNA, _November_ 29_th_ (_December_ 10_th_), 1877.

     “My brother only left at a quarter to eleven. I will not go into my
     feelings; you know what they are. My servant arrived yesterday at
     five o’clock. I was quite wrong in supposing he would encounter any
     serious difficulties on account of his ignorance of the language;
     and equally wrong as to his first impressions of foreign lands. He
     is, like all Russian peasants, as plucky as he is quick-witted, and
     knows how to get out of the most difficult situations; consequently
     he crossed the frontier as easily as though he had been in the
     habit of making the journey frequently. As to his impressions, he
     thinks the houses in Vienna far inferior to those in Moscow, and
     Moscow altogether incomparably more beautiful. The news of the
     capture of Plevna has made the separation from my brother more
     bearable. When the waiter brought my early coffee yesterday, with
     the announcement, ‘Plevna has fallen,’ I nearly embraced him! It
     seems from the papers as though Austria was not best pleased, and
     was rather aggrieved at the capitulation of the flower of the
     Turkish army.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “VENICE, _December_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1877.

     “ ... There is one thing in your letter with which I cannot agree
     in the least--your view of music. I particularly dislike the way in
     which you compare music with a form of intoxication. I think this
     is quite wrong. A man has recourse to wine in order to stupefy
     himself and produce an illusion of well-being and happiness. But
     this dream costs him very dear! The reaction is generally terrible.
     But in any case wine can only bring a momentary oblivion of all our
     troubles--no more. Has music a similar effect? Music is no
     illusion, but rather a revelation. Its triumphant power lies in the
     fact that it reveals to us beauties we find in no other sphere; and
     the apprehension of them is not transitory, but a perpetual
     reconcilement to life. Music enlightens and delights us. It is
     extremely difficult to analyse and define the process of musical
     enjoyment, but it has nothing in common with intoxication. It is
     certainly not a physiological phenomenon. Of course the
     nerves--therefore to some extent our physical organs--take part in
     our musical impressions and, in this sense, music gives physical
     delight: but you must own it is exceedingly difficult to draw a
     hard-and-fast line between the physical and psychical functions;
     for instance, thought is a physiological process in so far as it
     pertains to the functions of the brain. But when all is said and
     done, this is only a matter of words. If we both look upon the
     enjoyment of music from opposite points of view, at least one thing
     is certain: our love of it is equally strong, and that is
     sufficient for me. I am glad you apply the word _divine_ to the art
     to which I have dedicated my life.

     “In your philosophy I altogether approve your views of good and
     evil. These views are perhaps rather fatalistic, but full of
     Christian charity towards your weak and sinful fellow-creatures.
     You are quite right in saying that it is foolish to expect wisdom
     and virtue from a person not endowed with these qualities. Here
     again I hit upon the obvious difference between your personality
     and mine; I have always compelled myself to regard the evil in
     man’s nature as the inevitable negation of good. Taking this point
     of view (which originates, if I am not mistaken, with Spinoza), I
     ought never to feel anger or hatred. Actually, however, no moment
     passes in which I am not prepared to lose my temper, to hate and
     despise my fellow-creatures, just as though I was not aware that
     each person acts according to the decree of fate. I know that you
     are a stranger to the least feeling of spite or contempt. You elude
     the blows aimed at you by others, and never retaliate. In short,
     you carry your philosophy into your workaday life. I am different;
     I think one thing and do another.

     “I will just give you an instance. I have a friend called
     Kondratiev; he is a very nice, pleasant fellow, with only one
     fault--egotism. But he can cloak this failing under such charming,
     gentlemanly disguises that it is impossible to be angry with him
     for long. In September, when I was passing through the climax of my
     suffering in Moscow, and was looking about in a paroxysm of
     depression for someone to come to my aid, Kondratiev--who was then
     living on his property in the Government of Kharkov--chanced to
     write to me one of his usual kindly letters, assuring me of his
     friendship. I did not want to reveal my state to my brothers at
     that time, for fear of making them unhappy. My cup of misery was
     overflowing. I wrote to Kondratiev, telling him of my terrible and
     hopeless condition. The meaning of my letter, expressed between the
     lines, was: ‘I am going under, save me! Rescue me, but be quick
     about it!’ I felt sure that he, a well-to-do and independent man,
     who was--as he himself declared--ready to make any sacrifice for
     friendship’s sake, would immediately come to my assistance.
     Afterwards you know what happened. Not until I was in Clarens did I
     receive the answer to my letter, which had reached Moscow a week
     after my flight from thence. In this reply Kondratiev said he was
     sorry for my plight, and concluded with the following words: ‘Pray,
     dear friend, pray. God will show you how to overcome your sad
     condition.’ A cheap and simple way of getting out of the
     difficulty! To-night I have been reading the third volume of
     Thackeray’s splendid novel _Pendennis_. ‘The Major’ is a living
     type, who frequently reminds me of Kondratiev. One episode recalled
     my friend so vividly that I sprang out of bed, then and there, and
     wrote him in terms of mockery which disclosed all my _temper_. When
     I read your letter I felt ashamed. I wrote to him again, and asked
     pardon for my unreasonable anger. See what a good influence you
     have on me, dear friend! You are my Providence and my comforter!”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “VENICE, _December_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1877.

     “I am working diligently at the orchestration of _our_ Symphony,
     and am quite absorbed in the task.

     “None of my earlier works for orchestra have given me such trouble
     as this; but on none have I expended such love and devotion. I
     experienced a pleasant surprise when I began to work at it again.
     At first I was only actuated by a desire to bring the unfinished
     Symphony to an end, no matter what it cost me. Gradually, however,
     I fell more and more under the spell of the work, and now I can
     hardly tear myself away from it.

     “Dear Nadejda Filaretovna, I may be making a mistake, but it seems
     to me this Symphony is not a mediocre work, but the best I have
     done so far. How glad I am that it is _ours_, and that, hearing it,
     you will know how much I thought of you with every bar. Would it
     ever have been finished but for you? When I was still in Moscow and
     believed my end to be imminent, I made the following note upon the
     first sketch, which I had quite forgotten until I came upon it just
     now: ‘In case of my death I desire this book to be given to N. F.
     von Meck.’ I wanted you to keep the manuscript of my last
     composition. Now I am not only well, but have to thank you for
     placing me in such a position that I can devote myself entirely to
     my work, and I believe a composition is taking form under my pen
     which will not be destined to oblivion. I may be wrong, however;
     all artists are alike in their enthusiasm for their latest work. In
     any case, I am in good heart now, thanks to the interest of the
     Symphony. I am even indifferent to the various petty annoyances
     inflicted upon me by the hotel-keeper. It is a wretched hotel; but
     I do not want to leave until the question of my brother’s coming is
     decided.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “VENICE, _December_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1877.

     “To-day I have received the pleasant news that Modeste and his nice
     pupil are coming to join me. The boy’s father (Konradi) has only
     consented to this arrangement on condition that I will go to some
     place where the climate is suitable for his son. He suggests San
     Remo, where there are plenty of comfortable hotels and pensions....
     I have had a letter from my brother Anatol, which was very
     comforting. They are just as fond of me as ever at Kamenka; I am
     quite at rest on this score. I had a fancy that they only pitied
     me, and this hurt me very deeply! Lately I have begun to receive
     letters from them ... but my brother has reassured me that all the
     folk at Kamenka--a group of beings who are very, very dear to
     me--have forgiven me, and understand I acted blindly, and that my
     fault was involuntary.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MILAN, _December_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1877.

     “I only arrived here at four o’clock, and after a short walk in the
     charming town went to the theatre in the evening. Unfortunately,
     not to La Scala, which was closed to-night, but to Dal Verme, where
     four years ago _A Life for the Tsar_ was produced. This evening
     _Ruy Blas_, by Marcetti, was given. This opera has made a stir in
     Italy for some years, so I hoped to hear something interesting. It
     proved, however, to be a dull, commonplace imitation of Verdi, but
     lacking the strength and sincere warmth which characterise the
     coarse, but powerful, works of this composer. The performance was
     worse than mediocre. Sometimes it awoke sad thoughts in my mind. A
     young queen comes upon the stage, with whom everyone is in love.
     The singer who took this part seemed very conscientious and did her
     utmost. How far she was, however, from resembling a beautiful,
     queenly woman who has the gift of charming every man she sets eyes
     upon! And the hero, Ruy Blas! He did not sing so badly, but instead
     of a handsome young hero, one saw--a lackey. Not the smallest
     illusion! Then I thought of my own opera. Where shall I find a
     Tatiana such as Poushkin dreamed of, and such as I have striven to
     realise in music? Where is the artist who can approach the ideal
     Oniegin, that cold-hearted dandy, impregnated to the marrow of his
     bones with the fashionable notion of ‘good tone’? Where is there a
     Lensky, that youth of eighteen, with the flowing locks and the
     gushing and would-be-original manners of a poetaster _à la_
     Schiller? How commonplace Poushkin’s charming characters will
     appear on the stage, with all its routine, its drivelling
     traditions, its veterans--male and female--who undertake without a
     blush to play the parts of girl-heroines and beardless youths!
     Moral: it is much pleasanter to write purely instrumental music
     which involves fewer disappointments. What agony I have had to go
     through during the performance of my operas, more especially
     _Vakoula_! What I pictured to myself had so little resemblance to
     what I actually saw on the stage of the Maryinsky Theatre! What an
     Oxane, what a Vakoula! You saw them?

     “After the opera to-night there was a very frivolous ballet with
     transformation scenes, a harlequin, and all manner of astonishing
     things; but the music was dreadfully commonplace. At the same time
     it amused while the opera performance irritated me. Yet _Ruy Blas_
     is an excellent operatic subject.

     “From Venice I carried away a charming little song. I had two
     pleasant musical experiences while in Italy. The first was in
     Florence. I cannot remember whether I told you about it before. One
     evening Anatol and I suddenly heard someone singing in the street,
     and saw a crowd in which we joined. The singer was a boy about ten
     or eleven, who accompanied himself on a guitar. He sang in a
     wonderfully rich, full voice, with such warmth and finish as one
     rarely hears, even among accomplished artists. The intensely tragic
     words of the song had a strange charm coming from these childish
     lips. The singer, like all Italians, showed an extraordinary
     feeling for rhythm. This characteristic of the Italians interests
     me very much, because it is directly contrary to our folksongs as
     sung by the people.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “SAN REMO, _December_ 20_th_, 1877 (_January_ 1_st_, 1878).

     “I have found an abode in the Pension “Joli”; four poorly furnished
     rooms which form a little separate flat at a comparatively low
     rent.

     “The situation of San Remo is truly enchanting. The little town
     lies on a hill, and is closely packed together. The lower town
     consists almost exclusively of hotels, which are all overcrowded.
     San Remo has become the fashion since our Empress stayed here.
     To-day, without exaggeration, we are having summer weather. The sun
     was almost unbearable, even without an overcoat. Everywhere one
     sees olive trees, palms, oranges, lemons, heliotrope, jasmine--in
     short, it is gloriously beautiful. And yet--shall I tell you or
     not? When I walk by the sea I am seized with a desire to go home
     and pour out all my yearning and agitations in a letter to you, or
     to Toly. Why? Why should a simple Russian landscape, a walk through
     our homely villages and woods, a tramp over the fields and steppes
     at sunset, inspire me with such an intense love of nature that I
     throw myself down on the earth and give myself up to the
     enchantment with which all these humble things can fill me? Why? I
     only observe the fact without attempting to explain it.

     “I am very glad, however, that I continued my walk, for had I
     listened to my inner promptings, you would have had to endure
     another of my jeremiads. I know I shall feel quite differently
     to-morrow, especially when I begin the finale of my Symphony; but
     to-day? I am unequal to describing exactly what I feel, or what I
     want. To return to Russia--no. It would be terrible to go back; for
     I know I shall return a different man.

     “And here?--There is no more lovely spot on earth than San Remo,
     and yet I assure you that neither the palms, nor the oranges, nor
     the beautiful blue sea, nor the mountains, make the impression upon
     me which they might be expected to do. Consolation, peace,
     well-being I can only draw from within. The success of the
     Symphony, the consciousness that I am writing something good, will
     reconcile me to-morrow to all the friction and worry of previous
     days. The arrival of my brother will be a great joy. I have a
     curious feeling towards nature--at least towards such a luxuriant
     nature as surrounds me here. It dazzles me, gets on my nerves,
     makes me angry. I feel at such moments as though I were going out
     of my mind. But enough of all this ... really I am like the old
     woman whose fate Poushkin describes in his fable of ‘The Fisherman
     and the little Fish.’ The greater reason I have to be happy, the
     more discontented I become. Since I left Russia a few dear souls
     have shown me such proofs of affection as would suffice to make the
     happiness of a hundred men. I see that as compared to millions of
     people who are really unhappy, I should regard myself as a spoilt
     child of fortune, and yet I am not happy, not happy, not happy.
     There are moments of happiness. There is also that preoccupation
     with my work which often possesses me so entirely that I forget
     everything not directly connected with my art. But happiness does
     not exist for me. However, here is my jeremiad after all; it seems
     to have been inevitable! And it is ridiculous, besides, being in
     some sort indelicate. But since once for all you are my best
     friend, dear Nadejda Filaretovna, must I not tell you all, _all_
     that goes on in my queer, morbid soul? Forgive me this. To-morrow I
     shall regret it; to-day it has been a relief to grumble to you a
     little. Do not attach too much importance to it. Do you know what I
     sometimes feel on such days as this? It comes over me suddenly that
     no one really loves me, or can love me, because I am a pitiable,
     contemptible being. And I have not strength to put away such
     thoughts ... but there--I am beginning my lamentations over again.

     “I quite forgot to tell you, I spent a day in Genoa. In its way it
     is a fine place. Do you know Santa Maria di Carignano, from the
     tower of which one gets such a wonderful view over the whole town?
     Extraordinarily picturesque!”

Shortly after Tchaikovsky left Russia for this tour abroad, he was asked
to represent his country as musical delegate at the Paris Exhibition.
The part was not suited to his nervous and retiring nature, but, as the
prospect seemed remote, he had not given a definite refusal, and by
December had almost entirely forgotten the proposal. Then, to his
extreme annoyance, he received a communication from the Minister of
Finance, nominating him to the post with a fee of 1,000 francs per
month. Tchaikovsky was thrown into the greatest consternation at this
news, as we may gather from the letters he wrote at this time.

     “How shall I escape from this dilemma?” he says to Nadejda von
     Meck. “I cannot prevent my brother’s coming here, because I have no
     idea where he is just now.... Neither is there time for me to take
     counsel with my friends. Who knows, perhaps it might be good for
     me to come out of my cell and plunge, against my will, into the
     stream of Paris life? But if only you knew what it would cost me!
     It goes without saying that I have not been able to do a stroke of
     work to-day. O God, when shall I eventually find peace?”

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “SAN REMO, _December_ 23_rd_, 1877 (_January_ 4_th_), 1878.

     “ ... The day before yesterday I tried to imagine what you would
     say if you were here. I believe you would advise me to go to Paris.

     “But if you saw my miserable face to-day, and could watch me
     striding up and down my room like a madman, you would certainly
     say--Stay where you are! Now that I have decided to refuse the post
     I shall be tormented with the thought that you, Nadejda von Meck,
     and the others, will be vexed with me.... There is one thing I have
     hidden from you; since the day you left I have taken several
     glasses of brandy at night, and during the day I drink a good deal.
     I cannot do without it.

     “I never feel calm except when I have taken a little too much. I
     have accustomed myself so much to this secret tippling that I feel
     a kind of joy at the sight of the bottle I keep near me. I can only
     write my letters after a nip. This is a proof that I am still out
     of health.

     “In Paris I should have to be drinking from morning till night to
     be equal to all the excitement. My hope is in Modeste. A quiet life
     in a pleasant spot and plenty of work--that is what I need. In a
     word, for God’s sake do not be angry with me that I cannot go to
     Paris.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “SAN REMO, _December_ 24_th_, 1877 (_January_ 5_th_, 1878).

     “I have just received your letter, and must answer it fully. The
     young Petersburg composers are very gifted, but they are all
     impregnated with the most horrible presumptuousness and a purely
     amateur conviction of their superiority to all other musicians in
     the universe. The one exception, in later days, has been
     Rimsky-Korsakov. He was also an ‘auto-dictator’ like the rest, but
     recently he has undergone a complete change. By nature he is very
     earnest, honourable, and conscientious. As a very young man he
     dropped into a set which first solemnly assured him he was a
     genius, and then proceeded to convince him that he had no need to
     study, that academies were destructive to all inspiration and dried
     up creative activity. At first he believed all this. His earliest
     compositions bear the stamp of striking ability and a lack of
     theoretical training. The circle to which he belonged was a mutual
     admiration society. Each member was striving to imitate the work of
     another, after proclaiming it as something very wonderful.
     Consequently the whole set suffered from one-sidedness, lack of
     individuality and mannerisms. Rimsky-Korsakov is the only one among
     them who discovered, five years ago, that the doctrines preached by
     this circle had no sound basis, that their mockery of the schools
     and the classical masters, their denial of authority and of the
     masterpieces, was nothing but ignorance. I possess a letter dating
     from that time which moved me very deeply. Rimsky-Korsakov was
     overcome by despair when he realised how many unprofitable years he
     had wasted, and that he was following a road which led nowhere. He
     began to study with such zeal that the theory of the schools soon
     became to him an indispensable atmosphere. During one summer he
     achieved innumerable exercises in counterpoint and sixty-four
     fugues, ten of which he sent me for inspection. From contempt for
     the schools, Rimsky-Korsakov suddenly went over to the cult of
     musical technique. Shortly after this appeared his symphony and
     also his quartet. Both works are full of obscurities and--as you
     will justly observe--bear the stamp of dry pedantry. At present he
     appears to be passing through a crisis, and it is hard to predict
     how it will end. Either he will turn out a great master, or be lost
     in contrapuntal intricacies.

     “C. Cui is a gifted amateur. His music is not original, but
     graceful and elegant; it is too coquettish--‘made up’--so to speak.
     At first it pleases, but soon satiates us. That is because Cui’s
     speciality is not music, but fortification, upon which he has to
     give a number of lectures in the various military schools in St.
     Petersburg. He himself once told me he could only compose by
     picking out his melodies and harmonies as he sat at the piano. When
     he hit upon some pretty idea, he worked it up in every detail, and
     this process was very lengthy, so that his opera _Ratcliff_, for
     instance, took him ten years to complete. But, as I have said, we
     cannot deny that he has talent of a kind--and at least taste and
     instinct.

     “Borodin--aged fifty--Professor of Chemistry at the Academy of
     Medicine, also possesses talent, a very great talent, which however
     has come to nothing for the want of teaching, and because blind
     fate has led him into the science laboratories instead of a vital
     musical existence. He has not as much taste as Cui, and his
     technique is so poor that he cannot write a bar without assistance.

     “With regard to Moussorgsky, as you very justly remark, he is ‘used
     up.” His gifts are perhaps the most remarkable of all, but his
     nature is narrow and he has no aspirations towards self-perfection.
     He has been too easily led away by the absurd theories of his set
     and the belief in his own genius. Besides which his nature is not
     of the finest quality, and he likes what is coarse, unpolished, and
     ugly. He is the exact opposite of the distinguished and elegant
     Cui.

     “Moussorgsky plays with his lack of polish--and even seems proud of
     his want of skill, writing just as it comes to him, believing
     blindly in the infallibility of his genius. As a matter of fact his
     very original talent flashes forth now and again.

     “Balakirev is the greatest personality of the entire circle. But he
     relapsed into silence before he had accomplished much. He possesses
     a wonderful talent which various fatal hindrances have helped to
     extinguish. After having proclaimed his agnosticism rather widely,
     he suddenly became ‘pious.’ Now he spends all his time in church,
     fasts, kisses the relics--and does very little else. In spite of
     his great gifts, he has done a great deal of harm. For instance, he
     it was who ruined Korsakov’s early career by assuring him he had no
     need to study. He is the inventor of all the theories of this
     remarkable circle which unites so many undeveloped, falsely
     developed, or prematurely decayed, talents.

     “These are my frank opinions upon these gentlemen. What a sad
     phenomenon! So many talents from which--with the exception of
     Rimsky-Korsakov--we can scarcely dare to hope for anything serious.
     But this is always our case in Russia: vast forces which are
     impeded by the fatal shadow of a Plevna from taking the open field
     and fighting as they should. But all the same, these forces exist.
     Thus Moussorgsky, with all his ugliness, speaks a new idiom.
     Beautiful it may not be, but it is new. We may reasonably hope that
     Russia will one day produce a whole school of strong men who will
     open up new paths in art. Our roughness is, at any rate, better
     than the poor, would-be-serious pose of a Brahms. The Germans are
     hopelessly played out. With us there is always the hope that the
     moral Plevna will fall, and our strength will make itself felt. So
     far, however, very little has been accomplished. The French have
     made great progress. True, Berlioz has only just begun to be
     appreciated, ten years after his death; but they have many new
     talents and opponents of routine. In France the struggle against
     routine is a very hard matter, for the French are terribly
     conservative in art. They were the last nation to recognise
     Beethoven. Even as late as the forties they considered him a
     _madman_ or an _eccentric_. The first of French critics, Fétis,
     bewailed the fact that Beethoven had committed so many sins against
     the laws of harmony, and obligingly _corrected_ these mistakes
     twenty-five years later.

     “Among modern French composers Bizet and Délibes are my favourites.
     I do not know the overture _Patrie_, about which you wrote to me,
     but I am very familiar with Bizet’s opera _Carmen_. The music is
     not profound, but it is so fascinating in its simplicity, so full
     of vitality, so sincere, that I know every note of it from
     beginning to end. I have already told you what I think of Délibes.
     In their efforts towards progress the French are not so rash as our
     younger men; they do not, like Borodin and Moussorgsky, go beyond
     the bounds of possibility.”




V


                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “SAN REMO, _January_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1878.

     “Returning to San Remo, I found a mass of letters and your
     telegram. This time I actually heard from you the first
     intelligence of Radetzky’s victory.[56] Thank you for the good news
     and all your wishes. Whatever may chance, the year before me can
     bring nothing worse than the last. At any rate the present leaves
     nothing to be desired, except for my unhappy disposition, which
     always exaggerates the evil and does not sufficiently rejoice in
     the good. Among my letters was one from Anatol, who writes a great
     deal about my wife and the whole unhappy affair. All goes well, but
     directly I begin to think over the details of a past which is still
     too recent, my misery returns. I have also received a letter from
     the committee of the Russian section of the Paris Exhibition, which
     has made me regret my refusal. My conscience still pricks me. Is it
     not foolish and egotistical on my part to decline the office of
     delegate? I write this to you, because I am now in the habit of
     telling you _everything_....”

                         _To N. G. Rubinstein._

     “SAN REMO, _January_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1878.

     “ ... From Albrecht’s telegram, which I found here on my return
     from Milan, I gather that you are vexed with me for having declined
     to act as delegate. Dear friend, you know me well; could I really
     have helped the cause of Russian music in Paris? You know how
     little gift I have for organising. Added to which there is my
     misanthropical shyness, which is becoming a kind of incurable
     malady. What would have been the result? I should only worry myself
     to death with both the French and the Russian rabble, and nothing
     would be carried out. As regards myself, or any personal profit it
     might bring me, it will be sufficient to say that, without
     exaggeration, I would rather be condemned to penal servitude than
     act as delegate in Paris. Were I in a different frame of mind, I
     might agree that the visit could be of use to me; but not at
     present. I am ill, mentally and physically; just now I could not
     live in any situation in which I had to be busy, agitated, and
     conspicuously before the world.... Now as regards the symphony (No.
     4) I despatched it to you from Milan on Thursday. Possibly it may
     not please you at first sight, therefore I beg you not to be too
     hasty in your judgment, but only to write me your opinion after you
     have heard it performed. I hope you will see your way to bringing
     it out at one of the later concerts. It seems to me to be my best
     work. Of my two recent productions--the opera and the symphony--I
     give decided preference to the latter.... You are the one conductor
     in all the world on whom I can rely. The first movement contains
     one or two awkward and recurrent changes of time to which I call
     your special attention. The third movement is to be played
     _pizzicato_; the quicker the better, but I do not quite know how
     fast it is possible to play _pizzicato_.”

                          _To S. I. Taneiev._

     “SAN REMO, _January_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1878.

     “ ... Very probably you are quite right in saying that my opera is
     not effective for the stage. I must tell you, however, I do not
     care a rap for such effectiveness. It has long been an established
     fact that I have no dramatic vein, and now I do not trouble about
     it. If it is really not fit for the stage, then it had better not
     be performed! I composed this opera because I was moved to express
     in music all that seems to cry out for such expression in _Eugene
     Oniegin_. I did my best, working with indescribable pleasure and
     enthusiasm, and thought very little of the treatment, the
     effectiveness, and all the rest. I spit upon ‘effects’! Besides,
     what are effects? For instance, if _Aïda_ is effective, I can
     assure you I would not compose an opera on a similar subject for
     all the wealth of the world; for I want to handle human beings, not
     puppets. I would gladly compose an opera which was completely
     lacking in startling effects, but which offered characters
     resembling my own, whose feelings and experiences I shared and
     understood. The feelings of an Egyptian Princess, a Pharaoh, or
     some mad Nubian, I cannot enter into, or comprehend. Some instinct,
     however, tells me that these people must have felt, acted, spoken,
     and expressed themselves quite differently from ourselves.
     Therefore my music, which--entirely against my will--is impregnated
     with Schumannism, Wagnerism, Chopinism, Glinkaism, Berliozism, and
     all the other ‘isms’ of our time, would be as out of keeping with
     the characters of _Aïda_ as the elegant speeches of Racine’s
     heroes--couched in the second person plural--are unsuited to the
     real Orestes or the real Andromache. Such music would be a
     _falsehood_, and all falsehoods are abhorrent to me. Besides, I am
     reaping the fruits of my insufficient harvest of book-learning. Had
     I a wider acquaintance with the literatures of other countries, I
     should no doubt have discovered a subject which was both suitable
     for the stage and in harmony with my taste. Unfortunately I am not
     able to find such things for myself, nor do I know anyone who could
     call my attention to such a subject as Bizet’s _Carmen_, for
     example, one of the most perfect operas of our day. You will ask
     what I actually require. I will tell you. Above all I want no
     kings, no tumultuous populace, no gods, no pompous marches--in
     short, none of those things which are the attributes of ‘grand
     opera.’ I am looking for an intimate yet thrilling drama, based
     upon such a conflict of circumstance as I myself have experienced
     or witnessed, which is capable of touching me to the quick. I have
     nothing to say against the fantastic element, because it does not
     restrict one, but rather offers unlimited freedom. I feel I am not
     expressing myself very clearly. In a word, Aïda is so remote, her
     love for Radames touches me so little--since I cannot picture it in
     my mind’s eye--that my music would lack the vital warmth which is
     essential to good work. Not long since I saw _L’Africaine_ in
     Genoa. This unhappy African, what she endures! Slavery,
     imprisonment, death under a poisoned tree, in her last moment the
     sight of her rival’s triumph--and yet I never once pitied her! But
     what effects there were: a ship, a battle, all manner of dodges!
     When all is said and done, what is the use of these effects?...
     With regard to your remark that Tatiana does not fall in love with
     Oniegin at first sight, allow me to say--you are mistaken. She
     falls in love at once. She does not learn to know him first, and
     then to care for him. Love comes suddenly to her. Even before
     Oniegin comes on the scene she is in love with the hero of her
     vague romance. The instant she sets eyes on Oniegin she invests him
     with all the qualities of her ideal, and the love she has hitherto
     bestowed upon the creation of her fancy is now transferred to a
     human being.

     “The opera _Oniegin_ will never have a success; I feel already
     assured of that. I shall never find singers capable, even
     partially, of fulfilling my requirements. The routine which
     prevails in our theatres, the senseless performances, the system of
     retaining invalided artists and giving no chance to younger ones:
     all this stands in the way of my opera being put on the stage. I
     would much prefer to confide it to the theatre of the
     Conservatoire. Here, at any rate, we escape the commonplace routine
     of the opera, and those fatal invalids of both sexes. Besides
     which, the performances at the Conservatoire are private, _en petit
     comité_. This is more suitable to my modest work, which I shall not
     describe as an opera, if it is published. I should like to call it
     ‘lyrical scenes,’ or something of that kind. This opera has no
     future! I was quite aware of this when I wrote it; nevertheless, I
     completed it and shall give it to the world if Jurgenson is willing
     to publish it. I shall make no effort to have it performed at the
     Maryinsky Theatre; on the contrary, I should oppose the idea as far
     as possible. It is the outcome of an invincible inward impulse. I
     assure you one should only compose opera under such conditions. It
     is only necessary to think of stage effects to a certain extent. If
     my enthusiasm for _Eugene Oniegin_ is evidence of my limitations,
     my stupidity and ignorance of the requirements of the stage, I am
     very sorry; but I can at least affirm that the music _proceeds in
     the most literal sense from my inmost being_. It is not
     manufactured and forced. But enough of _Oniegin_.

     “Now a word as to my latest work, the Fourth Symphony, which must
     have reached Moscow by now. What will you think of it? I value your
     opinion highly, and fear your criticism. I know you are absolutely
     sincere, that is why I think so much of your judgment. I cherish
     one dream, one intense desire, which I hardly dare disclose, lest
     it should seem selfish. You must write and play, and play and
     write, for your own self, and you ought not to waste time on
     _arrangements_. There are but two men in Moscow--nay, in the whole
     world--to whom I would entrust the arrangement of my symphony for
     four hands. One of these is Klindworth, and the other a certain
     person who lives in the _Oboukhov pereoulok_. The latter would be
     all the dearer to me, if I were not afraid of asking too much. Do
     not hesitate to refuse my request. Yet if you feel able to say
     ‘yes,’ I shall jump for joy, although my corpulence would be rather
     an impediment to such behaviour.”

                          _To K. K. Albrecht._

     “SAN REMO, _January_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1878.

     “To-day I received your letter. Had it come a fortnight ago I
     should no doubt have reflected whether in refusing the office of
     delegate I had done something foolish or wrong. Now, however, the
     matter is decided, and on mature consideration I am convinced I was
     wise not to undertake a business so antipathetic to my
     temperament.... Let us thoroughly consider the question. In what
     way could I have been useful as a delegate: First, to the cause of
     Russian music, and secondly, to myself?

     “1. _As regards Russian music...._ What could I have done, under
     the circumstances, to interest the Parisians in our music? How
     could I (unless funds were forthcoming) arrange concerts and
     evenings for chamber music? What a poor figure I should have cut
     beside the other delegates, who were well supplied with money! But
     even had funds been forthcoming, what could I have done? Can I
     conduct anything? I might have beaten time to my own compositions,
     but I could not fill up the programmes with my works. I must, on
     the contrary, have put them aside in order to bring forward the
     compositions of Glinka, Dargomijsky, Serov, Rimsky-Korsakov, Cui,
     and Borodin. And for all this I should have had to prepare myself,
     unless I risked bringing disgrace upon Russian music. That I should
     have disgraced it is certain. Then all Russia would have blamed me
     afterwards, and with justification. I do not deny the fact that a
     man of temperament, skill, and talent for organisation could do
     much. But you know that apart from my speciality I am a useless
     sort of being. So, you see, I should have been of _no service to
     Russian music_, even if the Government had allowed me sufficient
     money to carry out any plans.

     “2. _As concerns myself...._ I must say that the idea of making the
     acquaintance of the Parisian musical lights seemed to me the most
     terrible part of the business. To make myself amiable and pay court
     to all the ragtag and bobtail is not in my line. Pride shows itself
     in many different ways. In my case it takes the form of avoiding
     all contact with people who do not know or appreciate my worth. For
     instance, it would be unbearable to have to stand humbly before
     Saint-Saëns and to be honoured by his gracious condescension, when
     in my heart of hearts I feel myself _as far above him as the Alps_.
     In Paris my self-respect (which is very great in spite of my
     apparent modesty) would suffer hourly from having to mix with all
     kinds of celebrities who would look down upon me. To bring my works
     to their notice, to convince them that I am of some
     consequence--this is impossible to me.... Now let us leave the
     question of my own reputation and speak of my health. Physically I
     feel very well, at any rate better than could be expected; but
     mentally I am still far from sound. In a word, I am on the verge of
     insanity. I can only live in an atmosphere of complete quiet, quite
     away from all the turmoil of great cities. In order that you may
     realise how changed I am, let me tell you that now I spit--yes,
     spit upon the thought of all success or notoriety abroad. I beg and
     pray one thing only: to be let alone. I would gladly be dropped in
     some remote desert, if I could thus avoid contact with my
     fellow-men.... I cannot live without work, and when I can no longer
     compose I shall occupy myself with other musical matters. But I
     will not lift a finger to push my works in the world, because I do
     not care about it one way or the other. Anyone can play or sing my
     works if they please; if no one pleases--it is all the same to me,
     for, as I tell you, I _spit, spit, spit_ upon the whole business!!!
     Once again, I repeat: were I rich I should live in complete
     seclusion from the world and only occasionally visit Moscow, to
     which I am deeply attached.... I am grieved, my dear Karl, that you
     are vexed with me. But listen: I have learnt from bitter experience
     that we cannot do violence to our nature without being punished for
     it. My whole self, every nerve, every fibre in me, protests against
     undertaking this post of delegate, and I subscribe to this protest.

     “Karl, I recommend to you most highly my latest work. I mean my
     symphony. Feel kindly towards it, for I cannot be at rest without
     your praise. You do not guess how I value your opinion. Give
     Kashkin my best thanks for his letter and show him this one by way
     of reply, as it will serve for him too. Your warm words about
     _Eugene Oniegin_ are 1,000,000,000,000 times more to me than the
     condescension of any Frenchmen. I embrace you both, and also
     Rubinstein. But as to fame, I _spit, spit_, yes, _spit_ upon it.”

                         _To. N. F. von Meck._

     “SAN REMO, _January_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1876.

     “Two nights running we have had a gale from the northwest. It
     howled and whistled until I had the shivers. Last night it rattled
     and shook my window so that I could not sleep and began to think
     over my life. I do not know whence it came, but suddenly a very
     pleasant thought passed through my mind. I thought that I had never
     yet shown my gratitude to you in its fullest extent, my best and
     dearest friend. I saw clearly that all you are doing for me, with
     such untiring goodness and sympathy, is so beyond measure generous
     that I am not really worthy of it. I recollected the crisis when I
     found myself on the verge of an abyss, and believed that all was
     over, that nothing remained but to vanish from the face of the
     earth, and how, at the same time, an inward voice reminded me of
     you and predicted that you would hold out your hand to me. The
     inner voice proved true. You and my brothers have given me back my
     life. Not only am I still living, but I can work; without work
     life has no meaning for me. I know you do not want me to be pouring
     out assurances of my gratitude every moment; but let me say once
     for all that I owe you everything, everything; that you have not
     only given me the means to come through a very difficult crisis
     without anxiety, but have brought the new elements of light and
     gladness into my life. I am now speaking of your friendship, my
     dear, kind Nadejda Filaretovna, and I assure you since I have found
     in you so eternally good a friend, I can never be quite unhappy
     again. Perhaps the time will come when I shall no longer require
     the material assistance you have bestowed upon me with such
     admirable delicacy of feeling, such fabulous generosity; but I
     shall never be able to do without the moral aid and comfort I have
     derived from you. With my undecided character, which is innate in
     me, and with my faculty for getting out of heart, I am happy in the
     consciousness of having so good a friend at hand, who is always
     ready to help me and point out the right course of action. I know
     you will not only be the upholder of my good and wise achievements,
     but also a judge of my faults; a compassionate judge, however, who
     has my welfare at heart. All this I said to myself as I lay awake
     last night, and determined to write it to you to-day. In doing so I
     am merely satisfying my great desire to open my heart to you.

     “Such a strange coincidence happened this morning! A letter from N.
     Rubinstein[57] was put into my hands. He has returned from his
     journey, and lost no time in replying to my letter, in which I
     excused myself for shirking the duties of delegate. His letter
     breathes savage wrath. This would not matter so much, but that the
     whole tone of the communication is so dry, so lacking in cordial
     feeling, so exaggerated! He says my illness is a mere fraud, that I
     am only _putting it on_, that I prefer the _dolce far niente_
     aspect of life, that I am drifting away from my work, and that he
     deeply regrets having shown me so much sympathy, because it has
     only encouraged my indolence!!! etc., etc.”

This lack of sympathy and complete misunderstanding of his motives
provoked a sharp reply on Tchaikovsky’s part. But in calmer moments he
saw clearly all the artistic benefit he had derived from N. Rubinstein’s
friendship, and never ceased to feel grateful for it.

                       _To Nicholas Rubinstein._

     “SAN REMO, _January_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1878.

     “ ... I received your letter to-day. It would have annoyed me very
     much, had I not told myself you were keeping in view my ultimate
     recovery. To my regret, however, you seem to see what is good for
     me precisely where I--and several others--see what is inimical to
     my health; in the very thing which appears to me an unprofitable
     and aimless exertion.... All you have written to me, and also your
     manner of saying it, only proves _how little you know me_, as I
     have frequently observed on former occasions. Possibly you may be
     right, and I am only _putting it on_; but that is precisely the
     nature of my illness.... From your letter I can only gather the
     impression that in you I possess a great benefactor, and that I
     have proved an ungrateful and unworthy recipient of your favours.
     It is useless to try this tone! I know how much I am indebted to
     you; but, in the first place, your reproaches cool my gratitude,
     and, secondly, it annoys me when you pose as a benefactor in a
     matter in which you have proved yourself quite the reverse.

     “ ... But, enough of this. Let us rather speak of those things in
     which you have really been my benefactor. Not possessing any gifts
     as a conductor, I should certainly have failed to make a name, had
     not so admirable an interpreter of my works been always at hand.
     Without you I should have been condemned to perpetual maltreatment.
     You are the one man who has rightly understood my works. Your
     extraordinary artistic instinct enables you to take a difficult
     work--without any previous study--and carry it through with only
     two rehearsals. I must beg you once again to bring this power to
     bear upon my opera and symphony. As regards the former--much as I
     desire it--I shall not be hurt if you find it impossible to perform
     it this season. The symphony, on the other hand, must be given
     soon, for in many ways it would seriously inconvenience me if the
     performance were postponed.... I have often told you that in spite
     of my loathing for the duties of a professor, and the thought of
     being tied for life to the Conservatoire, custom has now made it
     impossible for me to live anywhere but in Moscow and in your
     society.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “SAN REMO, _January_ 15_th_ (27_th_) 1878.

     “We have just returned from a beautiful excursion to Colla....
     To-day was exquisite; a real spring day. We hired a donkey for
     Kolya,[58] so that he might take part in the outing. It was not a
     very steep climb, and all the way the olive trees shut out the
     views of the sea and town, but all the same it was beautiful. Once
     I walked ahead of the others and sat under a tree, when suddenly
     there came over me that feeling of intense delight which I so often
     experienced during my country rambles in Russia, and for which I
     have longed in vain since I have been here. I was alone in the
     solemn stillness of the woods. Such moments are wonderful,
     indescribable, not to be compared with any other experience. The
     indispensable condition is--solitude. I always like walking alone
     in the country. The companionship of anyone as dear to me as my
     brother has its charms, but it is quite a different thing. In a
     word, I was happy. First of all I felt a great desire to write to
     you, and on the way home yet another pleasure awaited me. Do you
     love flowers? I am passionately fond of them, especially the wild
     flowers of the field and forest. To my mind the queen of flowers is
     the lily-of-the-valley; I love it to distraction. Modeste, who is
     equally fond of flowers, is all for the violet, so that we often
     fall out on the subject. I declare that violets smell of pomade,
     and he retorts that my lilies look like nightcaps. In any case I
     recognise in the violet a dangerous rival to the
     lily-of-the-valley, and am very fond of it. There are plenty of
     violets to be bought in the streets here, but as I had failed to
     find a single flower, even after the most diligent search, I began
     to regard this as the special privilege of the children of the
     soil. To-day, on my way home, I had the luck to come upon a place
     where they grew in profusion. This is the second subject of my
     letter. I send you a few sweet blossoms gathered by my own hand.
     May they remind you of the South, the sun, and the sea!”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “SAN REMO, _January_ 25_th_ (_February_ 6_th_), 1878.

     “I am feeling splendidly well. My physical health is first-rate; my
     head clear and strong. I observe myself with delight, and have come
     to the conclusion that I am now completely recovered. Do you know,
     my dear friend, people have not been altogether wrong in reporting
     that I had gone out of my mind? When I look back on all I did, and
     all the follies I committed, I am unwillingly forced to the
     conclusion that my brain was temporarily affected, and has only now
     returned to its normal state. Much in my recent condition now takes
     on the semblance of a strange dream; something remote, a weird
     nightmare in which a man bearing my name, my likeness, and my
     consciousness acted as one acts in dreams: in a meaningless,
     disconnected, paradoxical way. That was not my sane self, in full
     possession of logical and reasonable will-powers. Everything I did
     then bore the character of an unhealthy conflict between will and
     intelligence, which is nothing less than insanity. Amid these
     nightmares which darkened my world during this strange and
     terrible--but fortunately brief--period, I clung for salvation to
     the one or two beings who were dearest to me, who seemed sent to
     draw me out of the abyss. To you, and to my two dear brothers, _to
     all three of you_, I owe, not only my life, but my mental and
     physical recovery.”

                         _To P. I. Jurgenson._

     “SAN REMO, _January_ 26_th_ (_February_ 7_th_), 1878.

     “Your letter reached me to-day, dear Peter Ivanovich. You are very
     kind. I am deeply touched by your liberality. All the same, I will
     not accept any money for the opera unless it should be performed in
     some important theatre, and, even then, nothing approaching to the
     large sum you propose. The fee for the symphony I wish to pass on
     to Taneiev. For the translations I cannot take anything from you,
     because I think them very poor. As regards a fee for the violin and
     ‘cello pieces, we will speak of it later.

     “Dearest friend, I am only too thankful that you are not
     parsimonious to me and are so willing to publish my works. But this
     is nothing new, I have always appreciated your large-hearted
     liberality. _Merci, merci, merci!_”

                       _To Nicholas Rubinstein._

     “SAN REMO, _January_ 30_th_ (_February_ 11_th_), 1878.

     “DEAR FRIEND,--I have read your letter with great pleasure.... If I
     expressed myself too sharply, please forget it. Now let us drop the
     subject entirely.

     “I think you have acted wisely in postponing my opera until next
     year. I agree with you that it is better to have it studied without
     undue haste and to perform the work in its entirety. You may rest
     assured that I shall not give the work to the Petersburg
     Conservatoire. So far, I have not been asked to do so; if I were
     invited, I should refuse. I hope this letter may reach you about
     the moment of the first rehearsal of my (Fourth) Symphony. I am
     very anxious about the Scherzo. I think I told you that the quicker
     it can go, the better. Now I begin to think it should not be taken
     _too_ fast. However, I entrust myself entirely to your
     intelligence, and believe you will find out the right _tempo_
     better than I can.

     “I have read your letter a second time. You ask if I care to have
     your advice. Of course I do. You know I am always ready to accept
     the advice of a judicious friend and that I have frequently sought
     yours, not only in matters concerning music, but in my daily life.
     It was not the advice you gave me in your letter which hurt me, but
     the harsh, dry tone (at least so it seemed to me) of your
     communication, the reproach to my indolence, and the insinuation
     that I only refused to go to Paris because N. von Meck was allowing
     me enough to live upon; in short, you entirely misunderstood the
     true motives of my conduct.

     “I have become terribly misanthropical, and dread the thought of
     having to change my present mode of life, in which I hardly come
     in contact with anyone. At the same time I am weary of it, and
     would gladly relinquish all the natural beauties and the climate of
     this place to be once more in my beloved Moscow.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “SAN REMO, _February_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1878.

     “MY DEAR FRIEND,--Yesterday I forgot to thank you for the
     Schopenhauer.[59]

     “Has not the thought occurred to you that now I am quite recovered
     I ought to return to Russia to take up my duties at the
     Conservatoire and my old ways of life? The thought constantly
     passes through my mind, and perhaps it might be good for me in
     every way if I decided to act upon it. And yet, with all my longing
     for Russia, and my attachment to Moscow, I should find it terribly
     hard suddenly to give up this life of freedom and the convalescence
     I am now enjoying, and return to my teaching and my various
     complications--in a word, to my old life. I shudder at the very
     thought. Give me your frank opinion. Answer me this question,
     entirely oblivious of the fact that you are making me an allowance.
     The fact that I profited by your wealth to travel abroad for my
     health’s sake does not weigh upon me seriously. I know the
     sentiment which prompted your offer of pecuniary assistance, and I
     have long since grown to regard the situation as quite normal. My
     relations with you are outside the scope of everyday friendship.
     From you I can accept assistance without any sense of
     embarrassment. This is not the difficulty.

     “Since Rubinstein told me I was drifting into indolence and
     feigning ill-health (that was his expression) I have been somewhat
     troubled by the thought that perhaps it was actually my duty to
     hasten back to Moscow. Help me to decide this question, kind
     friend, without showing me excessive indulgence.

     “On the other hand, if they have been able to do without me for six
     months, surely now--when there remain but three months before the
     vacation--I shall not be greatly missed.... To sum up the foregoing
     arguments: although I may now be equal to resuming my duties, it
     would be very hard upon me to be forced to do so, because I am most
     anxious to give myself a longer convalescence in order to return in
     September altogether a new man, having forgotten--as far as
     forgetfulness is possible--the unhappy events of six months ago. My
     request to you involves a strange contradiction. I ask you to tell
     me the truth and, without allowing yourself to be influenced by any
     side issues, to exact the fulfilment of my duty; while at the same
     time you will read between the lines: for God’s sake do not insist
     on my returning to Moscow now, for it will make me profoundly
     miserable.

     “I remember writing to you in a very depressed frame of mind from
     Florence, for I was out of spirits at the time. Florence itself was
     in no way to blame for my mood. Now I am feeling quite well again,
     I have conceived a great wish to return there, chiefly because
     Modeste has never been in Italy and I know how he would enjoy all
     the art treasures in that city. He has far greater feeling for the
     plastic arts than I have, and possibly his enthusiasm may be
     communicated to me. So I have decided to await the coming of spring
     in Florence and then go to Switzerland _viâ_ Mont Cenis. Early in
     April I shall return to Russia, probably to Kamenka, where I shall
     stay until September.

     “I will not attempt to conceal from you, most invaluable of
     friends, that the consciousness of having achieved two works on a
     large scale, in both of which, it seems to me, I have made a
     distinct advance, is a great source of consolation. The rehearsals
     for the symphony will commence soon. Would you find it possible--if
     you are quite well by then--to attend one of them? One gains so
     much by hearing a new and lengthy work twice. I am so anxious you
     should like this symphony! It is impossible to get a true idea of
     it at one hearing. The second time it grows clearer. Much that
     escapes us at first then attracts our attention; the details fall
     into place; the leading ideas assume their proper proportions as
     compared with the subordinate matter. It would be such an excellent
     thing if you could manage this.

     “I am in a rose-coloured mood. Glad the opera is finished, glad
     spring is at hand, glad I am well and free, glad to feel safe from
     unpleasant meetings, but happiest of all to possess in your
     friendship, and in my brothers’ affection, such sure props in life,
     and to be conscious that I may eventually perfect my art. I trust
     this feeling is no self-deception, but a just appreciation of my
     powers. I thank you for all, for all.”




VI


                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “FLORENCE, _February_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1878.

     “We arrived in Florence to-day. A charming and attractive town. I
     came here with the pleasantest feelings, and thought how different
     the place appeared to me two months ago. What a change has taken
     place in my mental state! What a sad and sorry creature I was
     then--and now, how well I am! What glad days lie before me! Once
     again I am able to delight in life, in the full, luxuriant life of
     Italy.

     “This evening we wandered through the streets. How beautiful! A
     mild evening; the life and bustle of the thoroughfares; the
     brilliant illumination of the shop-windows! What fun it is to mix
     with the crowd, unknown and unrecognised! Italy is beginning to
     cast over me her magic spell. I feel so free here, so cheerful,
     amid the turmoil and hum of life.

     “But in spite of the enjoyments of life in Italy, in spite of the
     good effect it has upon me--I am, and shall ever be, faithful to my
     Russia. Do you know, I have never yet come across anyone so much in
     love with Mother Russia--especially Great Russia--as myself? The
     verses by Lermontov which you sent me only depict one side of our
     native land: that indefinable charm which lies in our modest,
     plain, poor, but wide and open landscape. I go further. I am
     passionately devoted to the Russian people, to the language, to the
     Russian spirit, to the fine Russian type of countenance and to
     Russian customs. Lermontov says frankly: ‘the sacred traditions of
     our past’ do not move his soul. I love these traditions. I believe
     my sympathy for the Orthodox faith, the tenets of which have long
     been undermined in me by destructive criticism, has its source in
     my innate affection for its national element. I could not say what
     particular virtue or quality it is which endears Russia and the
     Russians to me. No doubt such qualities exist. A lover, however,
     does not love for such reasons, but because he cannot help himself.

     “This is why I feel so angry with those among us who are ready to
     perish of hunger in a garret in Paris, and who seem to enjoy
     running down everything Russian; who can spend their whole lives
     abroad without regret, on the grounds that there are fewer comforts
     to be had in Russia. I hate these people; they trample in the mud
     all that to me is inexpressibly precious and sacred.

     “But to return to Italy. It would be a heavy punishment to be
     condemned to spend my life in this beautiful land; but a temporary
     sojourn here is another matter. Everything in Italy exercises a
     charm for one who is travelling for health and relaxation.... This
     conviction has so gained ground with me that I am beginning to
     wonder if, instead of going to Switzerland, it might not be better
     to visit Naples. Naples continually beckons and calls to me! I have
     not yet definitely decided. It will be wiser to think it over. Of
     course I shall let you know the result of my reflections in good
     time.

     “I think you must have been amused by the letter in which I told
     you I was going to give you a brief outline of Schopenhauer’s
     philosophy. It is evident that you are thoroughly acquainted with
     the subject, while I have hardly yet reached the essential
     question: the moral aspect of the matter. It strikes me you make a
     very just evaluation of his curious theories. His final deductions
     contain something hurtful to human dignity, something dry and
     egotistical, which is not warmed by any love towards mankind.
     However, as I have said, I have not yet got to the root of the
     matter. In the exposition of his views upon the meaning of
     intelligence and will, and their interrelationship, there is much
     truth and ingenuity. Like yourself, I marvel how a man who has
     never attempted to carry out in his own life his theories of
     austere asceticism should preach to others the complete
     renunciation of all the joys of life. In any case the book
     interests me immensely, and I hope to discuss it further with you
     after a more thorough study of its contents. Meanwhile, just one
     observation: how can a man who takes so low a view of human
     intelligence, and accords it so subordinate a position, display at
     the same time such self-assurance, such a haughty belief in the
     infallibility of his own reason, heaping contempt upon the views of
     others, and regarding himself as the sole arbiter of truth? What a
     contradiction! To declare at each step that the reasoning faculty
     in man is something fortuitous, a function of the brain (therefore
     merely a physiological function), and as weak and imperfect as all
     human things--and at the same time to set such value upon his own
     process of reasoning! A philosopher like Schopenhauer, who goes so
     far as to deny to mankind anything beyond an instinctive desire to
     perpetuate his species, ought, first of all, to be prepared to
     acknowledge the complete uselessness of all systems of philosophy.
     A man who is convinced that non-existence is the best thing of all
     should endeavour to act up to his conviction; should suppress
     himself, annihilate himself, and leave those in peace who desire to
     live. So far, I cannot quite make out whether he really believes
     himself to be doing mankind a great service by his philosophy. What
     use is it to prove to us that there can be nothing more lamentable
     than existence? If the blind instinct of perpetuation is so strong
     in us, if no power suffices to weaken our love of individual life,
     why should he poison this life with his pessimism? What end does
     this serve? It might seem as though he were advocating suicide; but
     on the contrary, he forbids self-destruction. These are questions
     which arise in my mind, and to which perhaps I may find answers
     when I have finished the book.

     “You ask me, my friend, if I have known love other than platonic.
     Yes and no. If the question had been differently put, if you had
     asked me whether I had ever found complete happiness in love, I
     should have replied no, and again, no. Besides, I think the answer
     to this question is to be heard in my music. If, however, you ask
     me whether I have felt the whole power and inexpressible stress of
     love, I must reply yes, yes, yes; for often and often have I
     striven to render in music all the anguish and the bliss of love.
     Whether I have been successful I do not know, or rather I leave
     others to judge. I do not in the least agree with you that music
     cannot interpret the universal nature of love. On the contrary, I
     think only music is capable of doing so. You say words are
     necessary. O no! This is just where words are not needed, and where
     they have no power; a more eloquent language comes in, which is
     music. Look at the poetical forms to which poets have recourse in
     order to sing of love; they simply usurp the spheres which belong
     inseparably to music. Words clothed in poetical forms cease to be
     mere words; they become partly music. The best proof that
     love-poetry is really more music than words lies in the fact that
     such poetry--if you read it carefully from the point of view of
     words rather than of music--contains very little meaning. (I refer
     you to the poet Fet, whom I greatly admire.) And yet it has a
     meaning, and a very profound one, although it is more musical than
     literary.

     “I am delighted that you value instrumental music so highly. Your
     observation that words often spoil music and degrade it from its
     highest level is perfectly true. I have often felt this very
     keenly, and perhaps therein lies the reason why I am more
     successful with instrumental than with vocal music.”

On February 10th (22nd), Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony was performed for
the first time at one of the symphony concerts of the Russian Musical
Society. It did not produce, either upon the public or the Press, that
impression which the composer had confidently awaited. Most of the
papers passed it over in silence, and the remainder only record an
indifferent success, both for the work and its performance.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “FLORENCE, _February_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1878.

     “Early yesterday came your telegram, dear friend. It gave me
     inexpressible pleasure. I was more than anxious to know how you
     liked the Symphony. Probably you would have given me some friendly
     sign of your sympathy, even if you had not cared much about it.
     From the warm tone of your telegram, however, I see that you are
     satisfied, on the whole, with the work which was written for you.
     In my heart of hearts I feel sure it is the best thing I have done
     so far. It seems rather strange that not one of my friends in
     Moscow has thought it worth while to give me any news of the
     Symphony, although I sent off the score nearly six weeks ago. At
     the same time as your telegram I received one signed by Rubinstein
     and all the others. But it only stated the fact that the work had
     been very well performed. Not a word as to its merits; perhaps that
     is intended to be understood. Thank you for your news of the
     success of ‘my favourite child,’ and the cordial words of your
     telegram. My thoughts were in the concert-room. I calculated the
     moment when the opening phrase would be heard, and endeavoured, by
     following every detail, to realise the effect of my music upon the
     public. The first movement (the most complicated, but also the
     best) is probably far too long, and would not be completely
     understood at the first hearing. The other movements are simple....

     “I have not finished Schopenhauer yet, and am saving up my opinions
     upon it for some future letter. I have been twice with my brother
     to the Uffizi and Palazzo Pitti. Thanks to Modeste, I took in a
     good many artistic impressions. He was lost in ecstasy before the
     masterpieces of Raphael and Leonardo da Vinci. We also visited an
     exhibition of modern pictures, and discovered a few fine works. If
     I am not mistaken, the spirit of realism has entered into modern
     Italian painting. All the pictures I have seen here by painters of
     the present day are more remarkable for the truthful presentment of
     details than for profound or poetic thought. The figures are very
     lifelike, even when the conception is crude. For instance, a page
     drawing aside a curtain; both page and curtain are so real that one
     actually expects to see some movement. An old Pompeiian woman,
     leaning back in an ancient chair and indulging in a burst of
     Homeric laughter, makes one want to laugh too. All this has no
     pretensions to profound thought, but the drawing and colouring are
     astonishingly truthful.

     “As regards music, Italy is in a bad way. Such a town as Florence,
     for instance, has no opera house. There are theatres, but nothing
     is given in them because there is no impresario.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “FLORENCE, _February_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1878.

     “ ... Of all that I have seen here the chapel of the Medici in San
     Lorenzo has made the most profound impression upon me. It is
     grandiose and beautiful. Here, for the first time, I realised the
     greatness of Michael Angelo in its fullest significance. I think he
     has a spiritual affinity with Beethoven. The same breadth and
     power, the same daring courage, which sometimes almost oversteps
     the limits of the beautiful, the same dark and troubled moods.
     Probably this idea is not original. Taine gives a very ingenious
     comparison between Raphael and Mozart. But whether anyone has ever
     drawn a parallel between Michael Angelo and Beethoven I cannot say.

     “I have finished Schopenhauer. I do not know what impression this
     philosophy might have made upon me had I come to know it in some
     other place, under different surroundings. Here it seems to me only
     a brilliant paradox. I think Schopenhauer’s inconsequence lies in
     his ultimate conclusions. When he has proved that non-existence is
     better than existence, we say to ourselves: granted, but what are
     we to do? It is in his reply to this question that he shows his
     weakness. Logically, his theories lead direct to suicide. But
     Schopenhauer evidently shrinks from this dangerous method of
     shifting the burden of life, and not daring to recommend
     self-destruction as a universal method of carrying his philosophy
     into practice, he falls into a curious sophistry and endeavours to
     prove that the man who commits suicide merely lays stress on his
     love of life. This is neither logical nor ingenious. As regards
     ‘Nirvana,’ this is a species of insanity not worth discussion. But,
     in any case, I have read Schopenhauer with the greatest interest,
     and found in him much that is extraordinarily clever. His
     definition of love is original, although a few details are somewhat
     distorted and wrested from the truth. You are quite right in
     saying that we must regard with suspicion the views of a
     philosopher who bids us renounce all joy in life and stamp out
     every lust of the flesh, while he himself, without any qualms of
     conscience, enjoyed the pleasures of existence to the day of his
     death, and had a very good notion of managing his affairs for the
     best.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck_.

     “FLORENCE, _February_ 17_th_ (_March_ 1_st_), 1878.

     “What joy your letter brought me to-day, dearest Nadejda
     Filaretovna! I am inexpressibly delighted that the symphony pleases
     you: that, hearing it, you felt just as I did while writing it, and
     that my music found its way to your heart.

     “You ask if in composing this symphony I had a special programme in
     view. To such questions regarding my symphonic works I generally
     answer: nothing of the kind. In reality it is very difficult to
     answer this question. How interpret those vague feelings which pass
     through one during the composition of an instrumental work, without
     reference to any definite subject? It is a purely lyrical process.
     A kind of musical shriving of the soul, in which there is an
     encrustation of material which flows forth again in notes, just as
     the lyrical poet pours himself out in verse. The difference
     consists in the fact that music possesses far richer means of
     expression, and is a more subtle medium in which to translate the
     thousand shifting moments in the mood of a soul. Generally
     speaking, the germ of a future composition comes suddenly and
     unexpectedly. If the soil is ready--that is to say, if the
     disposition for work is there--it takes root with extraordinary
     force and rapidity, shoots up through the earth, puts forth
     branches, leaves, and, finally, blossoms. I cannot define the
     creative process in any other way than by this simile. The great
     difficulty is that the germ must appear at a favourable moment, the
     rest goes of itself. It would be vain to try to put into words that
     immeasurable sense of bliss which comes over me directly a new idea
     awakens in me and begins to assume a definite form. I forget
     everything and behave like a madman. Everything within me starts
     pulsing and quivering; hardly have I begun the sketch ere one
     thought follows another. In the midst of this magic process it
     frequently happens that some external interruption wakes me from my
     somnambulistic state: a ring at the bell, the entrance of my
     servant, the striking of the clock, reminding me that it is time to
     leave off. Dreadful, indeed, are such interruptions. Sometimes they
     break the thread of inspiration for a considerable time, so that I
     have to seek it again--often in vain. In such cases cool headwork
     and technical knowledge have to come to my aid. Even in the works
     of the greatest master we find such moments, when the organic
     sequence fails and a skilful join has to be made, so that the parts
     appear as a completely welded whole. But it cannot be avoided. If
     that condition of mind and soul, which we call _inspiration_,
     lasted long without intermission, no artist could survive it. The
     strings would break and the instrument be shattered into fragments.
     It is already a great thing if the main ideas and general outline
     of a work come without any racking of brains, as the result of that
     supernatural and inexplicable force we call inspiration.

     “However, I have wandered from the point without answering your
     question. _Our_ symphony has a programme. That is to say, it is
     possible to express its contents in words, and I will tell you--and
     you alone--the meaning of the entire work and of its separate
     movements. Naturally I can only do so as regards its general
     features.

     “The Introduction is the germ, the leading idea of the whole work.

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     “This is Fate, that inevitable force which checks our aspirations
     towards happiness ere they reach the goal, which watches jealously
     lest our peace and bliss should be complete and cloudless--a force
     which, like the sword of Damocles, hangs perpetually over our
     heads and is always embittering the soul. This force is inescapable
     and invincible. There is no other course but to submit and inwardly
     lament.

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     “The sense of hopeless despair grows stronger and more poignant. Is
     it not better to turn from reality and lose ourselves in dreams?

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     O joy! A sweet and tender dream enfolds me. A bright and serene
     presence leads me on.

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     How fair! How remotely now is heard the first theme of the Allegro!
     Deeper and deeper the soul is sunk in dreams. All that was dark and
     joyless is forgotten.

     “Here is happiness!

     “It is but a dream, Fate awakens us roughly.

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     So all life is but a continual alternation between grim truth and
     fleeting dreams of happiness. There is no haven. The waves drive us
     hither and thither, until the sea engulfs us. This is,
     approximately, the programme of the first movement.

     “The second movement expresses another phase of suffering. Now it
     is the melancholy which steals over us when at evening we sit
     indoors alone, weary of work, while the book we have picked up for
     relaxation slips unheeded from our fingers. A long procession of
     old memories goes by. How sad to think how much is already _past
     and gone_! And yet these recollections of youth are sweet. We
     regret the past, although we have neither courage nor desire to
     start a new life. We are rather weary of existence. We would fain
     rest awhile and look back, recalling many things. There were
     moments when young blood pulsed warm through our veins and life
     gave all we asked. There were also moments of sorrow, irreparable
     loss. All this has receded so far into the past. How sad, yet sweet
     to lose ourselves therein!

     “In the third movement no definite feelings find expression. Here
     we have only capricious arabesques, intangible forms, which come
     into a man’s head when he has been drinking wine and his nerves are
     rather excited. His mood is neither joyful nor sad. He thinks of
     nothing in particular. His fancy is free to follow its own flight,
     and it designs the strangest patterns. Suddenly memory calls up the
     picture of a tipsy peasant and a street song. From afar come the
     sounds of a military band. These are the kind of confused images
     which pass through our brains as we fall asleep. They have no
     connection with actuality, but are simply wild, strange, and
     bizarre.

     “The fourth movement. If you can find no reasons for happiness in
     yourself, look at others. Go to the people. See how they can enjoy
     life and give themselves up entirely to festivity. A rustic holiday
     is depicted. Hardly have we had time to forget ourselves in the
     spectacle of other people’s pleasure, when indefatigable Fate
     reminds us once more of its presence. Others pay no heed to us.
     They do not spare us a glance, nor stop to observe that we are
     lonely and sad. How merry, how glad they all are! All their
     feelings are so inconsequent, so simple. And will you still say
     that all the world is immersed in sorrow? Happiness does exist,
     simple and unspoilt. Be glad in others’ gladness. This makes life
     possible.

     “I can tell you no more, dear friend, about the symphony.
     Naturally my description is not very clear or satisfactory. But
     there lies the peculiarity of instrumental music; we cannot analyse
     it. ‘Where words leave off, music begins,’ as Heine has said.

     “It is growing late. I will not tell you anything about Florence in
     this letter. Only one thing--that I shall always keep a happy
     memory of this place.

     “P.S.--Just as I was putting my letter into the envelope I began to
     read it again, and to feel misgivings as to the confused and
     incomplete programme which I am sending you. For the first time in
     my life I have attempted to put my musical thoughts and forms into
     words and phrases. I have not been very successful. I was horribly
     out of spirits all the time I was composing this symphony last
     winter, and this is a true echo of my feelings at the time. But
     only an echo. How is it possible to reproduce it in clear and
     definite language? I do not know. I have already forgotten a good
     deal. Only the general impression of my passionate and sorrowful
     experiences has remained. I am very, very anxious to know what my
     friends in Moscow say of my work.

     “Last night I went to the People’s Theatre, and was very much
     amused. Italian humour is coarse, and lacks grace and delicacy, but
     it carries everything before it.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “FLORENCE, _February_ 20_th_ (_March_ 4_th_), 1878.

     “To-day is the last day but one of the Carnival.... My window is
     open. I am drinking in with delight the cool night air after a hot
     spring day. How strange, how odd, but yet how sweet, to think of my
     dear and distant country! There it is still winter! Probably you
     are sitting near the stove in your study. Fur-clad figures go to
     and fro in your house. The silence is unbroken by any sound of
     wheels, since all conveyances are turned into sleighs. How far we
     are apart! You amid winter snows, and I in a land where spring is
     green, and my window stands open at 11 p.m.! And yet I look back
     with affection to our seasons. I love our long, hard winters. How
     beautiful it is! How magical is the suddenness of our spring, when
     it bursts upon us with its first message! I delight in the trickle
     of melting snow in the streets, and the sense of something
     life-giving and exhilarating that pervades the atmosphere! With
     what delight we welcome the first blade of grass, the first
     sprouting seed, the arrival of the lark and all our summer guests!
     Here, spring comes by gradual stages, so that we cannot actually
     fix the time of its awakening.

     “Do you remember I once wrote to you from Florence about a boy with
     a lovely and touching voice? A few days ago I met some
     street-singers, and inquired about him. They knew him, and promised
     to bring him to me on the Lung’ Arno at nine o’clock. Punctual to
     the moment I appeared at the place of meeting. The man who had
     promised was there with the boy. A curious crowd stood around them.
     As the numbers increased, I beckoned him aside and led the way into
     a side street. I had my doubts as to whether it was the same boy.
     ‘As soon as I begin to sing,’ he said, ‘you will be convinced that
     I am the same. Give me a silver piece of fifty centimes first.’
     These words were spoken in a glorious voice, which seemed to come
     from his inmost soul. What I felt when he began to sing is beyond
     all words!

     “I wept, I trembled, I was consumed with pure delight. He sang once
     more, ‘Perchè tradirmi, perchè lasciarmi!’ I do not remember any
     simple folksong ever having made such an impression upon me. This
     time the lad sang me a charming new melody, which I intend to make
     him sing again, so that I may write it down for my own use on some
     future occasion. I pitied this child. He seems to be exploited by
     his father and other relatives. Just now, during the Carnival, he
     is made to sing from morning till night, and will continue to do so
     until his voice vanishes for good and all.... If he belonged to a
     respectable family he might have some chance of becoming a great
     artist. One must live for a time with Italians in order to
     understand their supremacy in vocal art. Even as I write, I can
     hear in the distance a wonderful tenor singing some song with all
     his might. But even when the quality of the voice is not beautiful,
     every Italian can boast that he is a singer by nature. They all
     have a true _émission_ (production), and sing from their chests,
     not from their throats and noses as we do.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “CLARENS, _March_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1878.

     “I have been very much occupied with music the last few days, as
     the weather has made going out impossible. To-day I played nearly
     all day with Kotek. Do you know the _Symphonie Espagnole_, by the
     French composer, Lalo? The piece has been recently brought out by
     that very modern violinist, Sarasate. It is for solo violin and
     orchestra, and consists of five independent movements, based upon
     Spanish folksongs. The work has given me great enjoyment. It is so
     fresh and light, and contains piquant rhythms and melodies which
     are beautifully harmonised. It resembles many other works of the
     modern French school with which I am acquainted. Like Leo Délibes
     and Bizet, Lalo is careful to avoid all that is _routinier_, seeks
     new forms without trying to be profound, and is more concerned with
     musical beauty than with tradition, as are the Germans. The young
     generation of French composers is really very promising.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “CLARENS, _March_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1878.

     “It is delightful to talk to you about my own methods of
     composition. So far I have never had any opportunity of confiding
     to anyone these hidden utterances of my inner life; partly because
     very few would be interested, and partly because, of these few,
     scarcely one would know how to respond to me properly. To you, and
     you alone, I gladly describe all the details of the creative
     process, because in you I have found one who has a fine feeling and
     can understand my music.

     “Do not believe those who try to persuade you that composition is
     only a cold exercise of the intellect. The only music capable of
     moving and touching us is that which flows from the depths of a
     composer’s soul when he is stirred by inspiration. There is no
     doubt that even the greatest musical geniuses have sometimes
     worked without inspiration. This guest does not always respond to
     the first invitation. We must _always_ work, and a self-respecting
     artist must not fold his hands on the pretext that he is not in the
     mood. If we wait for the mood, without endeavouring to meet it
     half-way, we easily become indolent and apathetic. We must be
     patient, and believe that inspiration will come to those who can
     master their _disinclination_. A few days ago I told you I was
     working every day without any real inspiration. Had I given way to
     my disinclination, undoubtedly I should have drifted into a long
     period of idleness. But my patience and faith did not fail me, and
     to-day I felt that inexplicable glow of inspiration of which I told
     you; thanks to which I know beforehand that whatever I write to-day
     will have power to make an impression, and to touch the hearts of
     those who hear it. I hope you will not think I am indulging in
     self-laudation, if I tell you that I very seldom suffer from this
     disinclination to work. I believe the reason for this is that I am
     naturally patient. I have learnt to master myself, and I am glad I
     have not followed in the steps of some of my Russian colleagues,
     who have no self-confidence and are so impatient that at the least
     difficulty they are ready to throw up the sponge. This is why, in
     spite of great gifts, they accomplish so little, and that in an
     amateur way.

     You ask me how I manage my instrumentation. I never compose in the
     _abstract_; that is to say, the musical thought never appears
     otherwise than in a suitable external form. In this way I invent
     the musical idea and the instrumentation simultaneously. Thus I
     thought out the scherzo of our symphony--at the moment of its
     composition--exactly as you heard it. It is inconceivable except as
     _pizzicato_. Were it played with the bow, it would lose all its
     charm and be a mere body without a soul.

     As regards the Russian element in my works, I may tell you that not
     infrequently I begin a composition with the intention of
     introducing some folk-melody into it. Sometimes it comes of its own
     accord, unintentionally (as in the finale of our symphony). As to
     this national element in my work, its affinity with the folksongs
     in some of my melodies and harmonies proceeds from my having spent
     my childhood in the country, and having, from my earliest years,
     been impregnated with the characteristic beauty of our Russian
     folk-music. I am passionately fond of the national element in all
     its varied expressions. In a word, I am Russian in the fullest
     sense of the word.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “CLARENS, _March_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1872.

     “The wintry weather still continues. To-day it has never ceased
     snowing. However, I am not at all bored, and time passes very
     quickly while I am at work. The sonata and concerto interest me
     greatly. For the first time in my life I have begun to work at a
     new piece before finishing the one on hand. Hitherto I have
     invariably followed the rule not to take up a new composition until
     the old was completed. This time I could not resist the pleasure of
     sketching out the concerto, and allowed myself to be so carried
     away that the sonata has been set aside; but I return to it at
     intervals.

     “I have read the two volumes of _Russian Antiquities_ with delight.
     As they were already cut, I conclude you have read them yourself.

     “Do you not think, dear friend, that Serov’s letters are extremely
     interesting? At least I find them so, because I well remember the
     period to which the correspondence belongs. I made Serov’s
     acquaintance just at the moment when _Judith_[60] was first
     performed, and I attended many of the rehearsals. The work roused
     my enthusiasm at the time, and Serov seemed to me a genius.
     Afterwards I was bitterly disappointed in him, not only as a man,
     but as a composer. His personality was never very sympathetic to
     me. His petty vanity and self-adoration, which often showed
     themselves in the most naïve way, were repugnant and
     incomprehensible in so gifted and clever a man. For he was
     remarkably clever in spite of his small-minded egotism.

     “All the same, he was an interesting personality. At the age of
     forty-three he had not composed _anything at all_; he had made
     some attempts, but was either inflated by his self-admiration, or
     else he entirely lost heart. Finally, after twenty-five years of
     irresolution, he set to work upon _Judith_, and astonished the
     world, which expected from him a dull and pretentious work, in the
     style of Grand Opera. It was supposed that a man who had reached
     maturity without having produced a single composition could not be
     greatly gifted. But the world was wrong. The novice of forty-three
     presented the public of St. Petersburg with an opera which, in
     every respect, must be described as _beautiful_, and shows no
     indications whatever of being the composer’s _first work_. I do not
     know whether you have heard _Judith_, dear friend; the opera has
     many good points. It is written with unusual warmth, and sometimes
     rises to great emotional heights. It had considerable success with
     the public, and was extraordinarily well received by musical
     circles, especially by the younger generation. Serov, who had
     hitherto been unknown, and led a very humble life, in which he had
     been obliged to fight poverty, became suddenly the hero of the
     hour, the idol of a certain set, in fact, a celebrity. This
     unexpected success turned his head, and he began to regard himself
     as a genius. The childishness with which he sings his own praises
     in his letters is quite remarkable. Never before was there such
     originality of style, or such beauty of melody. And Serov actually
     had proved himself a gifted composer, but not a genius of the first
     order. His second opera, _Rogneda_, is already a falling off from
     the first. Here he is evidently striving for effect, frequently
     degenerates into the commonplace, and attempts to impress the
     gallery by coarse and startling effects. This is all the more
     remarkable because, as a true Wagnerian, he inveighed in speech and
     in writing against Meyerbeer’s vulgar and flashy style. _The Power
     of the Evil One_ is still weaker. Serov is, in reality, a very
     peculiar and interesting musical phenomenon. If we consider his
     voluminous critical articles, we shall observe that his practice
     does not agree with his principles; he composes his music on
     methods diametrically opposed to those which he advocates in his
     writings. I have held forth at length upon Serov, because I am
     still under the influence of his letters, which I read yesterday,
     and all day to-day I can think of nothing else. I recall the
     arrogance with which he behaved to me, and how I longed for his
     recognition. Now I know that this very clever and highly cultured
     man possessed one weakness: he could not appreciate anyone but
     himself. He disparaged the success of others; detested those who
     had become famous in his own art, and frequently gave way to
     impulses of small-minded egotism. On the other hand, one forgave
     him all, on account of what he suffered before success raised him
     from poverty, and because he bore his troubles in a strong, manly
     spirit for love of his art. Having regard to his birth, education,
     and connections, he might have had a brilliant career, but his love
     for music won the day. How painful it was to me to learn from his
     letters that he met with neither support nor encouragement at home
     but, on the contrary, with derision, mistrust, and hostility!

     “I do not know how to thank you, my dear, for the collection of
     poems you have sent me. I am particularly delighted with those of
     A. Tolstoi, of whom I am very fond, and--apart from my intention to
     use some of his words for songs--it will be a great pleasure to
     read a few of his longer poems again. I am specially interested in
     his _Don Juan_, which I read long ago.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “CLARENS, _March_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1878.

     “I have just been reading the newspapers, and am thoroughly
     depressed. Undoubtedly a war is imminent. It is terrible. It seems
     to me that now I am no longer absorbed in my personal troubles, I
     feel far more keenly all the wounds inflicted upon our Fatherland,
     although I have no doubt that in the end Russia--indeed, the whole
     Slavonic world--will triumph, if only because we have truth and
     honour on our side. I am glad I shall be in Russia during the war.
     How many unpleasant moments have I endured abroad, seeing the
     satisfaction (_Schadenfreude_) which greeted the news of every
     small misfortune that befell us, and the ill-feeling which was
     provoked by any victory on our part! Let us hope our cup of
     bitterness may pass from us. There are good men to be found among
     us in every walk of life--with one exception. I am now speaking of
     my own special line. Whether the (Moscow) Conservatoire was
     somewhat too forcibly planted upon Muscovite soil by the despotic
     hand of N. Rubinstein, or whether the Russian intellect is not made
     to grasp the theory of music, it is certain that there is nothing
     more difficult than to find a good teacher of harmony. I have come
     to this conclusion because--in spite of the low valuation I set
     upon my teaching capacities, in spite, too, of my loathing for a
     professor’s work--I am indispensable to the Conservatoire. If I
     resigned my post, it would be hardly possible to find anyone to
     take my place. This is the reason why I hold it to be my duty to
     remain there until I feel sure the institution would not suffer
     from my departure. I am telling you all this, my dear, because I
     have been constantly wondering of late whether it might not be
     possible to slip this heavy load from my shoulders.

     “How unpleasant teaching will be after these months of freedom! I
     can give you no adequate idea how derogatory this kind of work can
     be to a man who has not the smallest vocation for it. Among the
     male students I have to deal with a considerable number of raw
     youths who intend, however, to make music their profession:
     violinists, horn-players, teachers, and so on. Although it is very
     hard to have to explain to such lads, for twelve consecutive years,
     that a triad consists of a third and fifth, I feel at least that I
     am instilling into them some indispensable knowledge. Here, at any
     rate, I am of some use. But the ladies’ classes! O Lord! Out of the
     sixty or seventy girls who attend my harmony lessons there are, at
     the utmost, five who will really turn out musicians. All the rest
     come to the Conservatoire simply for occupation, or from motives
     which have nothing to do with music. It cannot be said that these
     young ladies are less intelligent, or industrious, than the men.
     Rather the reverse; the women are more conscientious and make
     greater efforts. They take in a new rule far quicker--but only up
     to a certain point. Directly this rule ceases to be applied
     mechanically, and it becomes a question of initiative, all these
     young women, although inspired with the best intentions in the
     world, come hopelessly to grief. I often lose my patience and my
     head, forget all that is going on, and go into a frantic rage, as
     much with myself as with them. I think a more patient teacher might
     produce better results. What makes one despair is the thought that
     it is all to no purpose: a mere farce! Out of the crowd of girls I
     have taught in the Conservatoire only a very small number came to
     the classes with a serious aim in view. For how few of them is it
     worth while to torment and exhaust myself, to wear myself to
     thread-paper! For how few is my teaching of any real importance!
     There are many other unpleasant aspects of my work.

     “And yet I am _bound_ to continue it. I am delighted at what you
     tell me about my pupils’ sympathy. I always feel they must hate me
     for my irritability, which sometimes overstepped the bounds of
     reason; as well as for my scolding and eternal discontent. I was
     very glad to be convinced of the contrary.”

                         _To P. I. Jurgenson._

     “CLARENS, _March_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1878.

     “ ... The violin concerto is rapidly nearing completion. I hit upon
     the idea quite accidentally, began to work at it, was completely
     carried away, and now the sketch is all but finished. Altogether a
     considerable number of new compositions are hanging over your head:
     seven little pieces, two songs, and a pianoforte sonata which I
     have begun. By the end of the summer I shall have to engage a
     railway truck to convey them all to you. I can hear your energetic
     expletive: ‘The devil take you!’”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “CLARENS, _March_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1878.

     “Yesterday I received your letter with the news of Rubinstein’s
     concert. I am so glad you were pleased with my concerto. I was
     convinced from the first that Nicholas Grigorievich would play it
     splendidly. The work was originally intended for him, and took into
     consideration his immense virtuosity. It is good to see from your
     letter how attentively you follow every new musical event. Hardly
     has a new concerto by Max Bruch appeared than you know all about
     it. I do not know it yet; nor the concerto by Goldmark which you
     mention. I only know one of his orchestral works, the overture to
     _Sakuntala_, and a quartet. Both compositions are clever and
     sympathetic. Goldmark is one of the few German composers who
     possess some originality and freshness of invention.

     “Why do you not care for Mozart? In this respect our opinions
     differ, dear friend. I not only like Mozart, I idolise him. To me
     the most beautiful opera ever written is _Don Juan_. You, who
     possess such a fine musical taste, must surely love this pure and
     ideal artist. It is true Mozart used up his forces too generously,
     and often wrote without inspiration, because he was compelled by
     want. But read his biography by Otto Jahn, and you will see that he
     could not help it. Even Bach and Beethoven have left a considerable
     number of inferior works which are not worthy to be spoken of in
     the same breath as their masterpieces. Fate compelled them
     occasionally to degrade their art to the level of a handicraft. But
     think of Mozart’s operas, of two or three of his symphonies, his
     Requiem, the six quartets dedicated to Haydn, and the D minor
     string quintet. Do you feel no charm in these works? True, Mozart
     reaches neither the depths nor heights of Beethoven. And since in
     life, too, he remained to the end of his days a careless child, his
     music has not that subjectively tragic quality which is so
     powerfully expressed in that of Beethoven. But this did not prevent
     him from creating an objectively tragic type, the most superb and
     wonderful human presentment ever depicted in music. I mean Donna
     Anna, in _Don Juan_. Ah, how difficult it is to make anyone else
     see and feel in music what we see and feel ourselves! I am quite
     incapable of describing to you what I felt on hearing _Don Juan_,
     especially in the scene where the noble figure of the beautiful,
     proud, revengeful woman appears on the stage. Nothing in any opera
     ever impressed me so profoundly. And afterwards, when Donna Anna
     recognises in Don Juan the man who has wounded her pride and
     killed her father, and her wrath breaks out like a rushing torrent
     in that wonderful recitative, or in that later aria, in which every
     note in the orchestra seems to speak of her wrath and pride and
     actually to quiver with horror--I could cry out and weep under the
     overwhelming stress of the emotional impression. And her lament
     over her father’s corpse, the duet with Don Ottavio, in which she
     vows vengeance, her arioso in the great sextet in the
     churchyard--these are inimitable, colossal operatic scenes!

     “I am so much in love with the music of _Don Juan_ that even as I
     write to you I could shed tears of agitation and emotion. In his
     chamber music, Mozart charms me by his purity and distinction of
     style and his exquisite handling of the parts. Here, too, are
     things which can bring tears to our eyes. I will only mention the
     adagio of the D minor string quintet. No one else has ever known as
     well how to interpret so exquisitely in music the sense of resigned
     and inconsolable sorrow. Every time Laub played the adagio I had to
     hide in the farthest corner of the concert-room, so that others
     might not see how deeply this music affected me....

     “I could go on to eternity holding forth to you upon this sunny
     genius, for whom I cherish a cult. Although I am very tolerant to
     other people’s musical views, I must confess, my dear, that I
     should like very much to convert you to Mozart. I know that would
     be difficult. I have met one or two others, besides yourself, who
     have a fine feeling for music, yet nevertheless failed to
     appreciate Mozart. I should have tried in vain to make them
     discover the beauties of his music. Our musical sympathies are
     often affected by purely external circumstances. The music of _Don
     Juan_ was the first which stirred me profoundly. It roused in me a
     divine enthusiasm which was not without after-results. Through its
     medium I was transplanted to that region of artistic beauty where
     only genius dwells. Previously I had only known the Italian opera.
     It is thanks to Mozart that I have devoted my life to music. All
     these things have probably played a part in my exclusive love for
     him--and perhaps it is foolish of me to expect those who are dear
     to me to feel towards Mozart as I do. But if I could do anything
     to change your opinion--it would make me very happy. If ever you
     tell me that you have been touched by the adagio of the D minor
     quintet I shall rejoice.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “CLARENS, _March_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1878.

     “ ... You need not be troubled about my fame abroad, my dear. If I
     am destined ever to acquire such fame, it will come of its own
     accord, although in all probability not while I am alive to see it.
     When you come to think that during my many trips abroad I have
     never called on influential people, or sent them my compositions,
     that I have never pushed my reputation in other countries, we must
     be satisfied with any little success which my works may win. Do you
     know, all my pianoforte compositions are reprinted in Leipzig, and
     my songs also, with translations of the words? My principal works
     (with the exception of the operas) can be procured without
     difficulty in most of the large towns of France, Germany, and
     England. I myself bought my Third Symphony, arranged for four
     hands, and my Third Quartet, in Vienna. I have even come across
     some transcriptions hitherto unknown to me: the Barcarole for piano
     (Op. 37_a_) arranged for violin and piano, the andante from the
     First Quartet for flute. Brandus, in Paris, keeps all my works in
     stock. There are many reasons why my symphonic works are so seldom
     heard of abroad. In the first place I am a Russian, and
     consequently looked upon with prejudice by every Western European.
     Secondly--also because I am a Russian--there is something exotic in
     my music which makes it inaccessible to foreigners. My overture to
     _Romeo and Juliet_ has been played in every capital, but always
     without success. In Vienna and Paris it was hissed. A short time
     ago it met with no better reception in Dresden. In some other towns
     (London and Hamburg) it was more fortunate, but, all the same, my
     music has not been included in the standard repertory of Germany
     and other countries. Among musical circles abroad my name is not
     unknown. A few men have been specially interested in me, and taken
     some pains to include my works in their concert programmes; but
     have generally met with insurmountable obstacles. For instance,
     Hans Richter, the Bayreuth conductor. In spite of all protests, he
     put my overture into the programme of one of the eight Philharmonic
     concerts which he conducts in Vienna. Disregarding its failure, he
     wished this season to do my Third Symphony; but after one rehearsal
     the directors of the Philharmonic pronounced the work ‘too
     Russian,’ and it was unanimously rejected. There is no doubt that I
     could do a great deal to spread my works abroad if I went the round
     of all the European capitals, calling upon the ‘big wigs,’ and
     displaying my wares to them. But I would rather abandon every joy
     in life. Good Lord! what one must undergo, what wounds to one’s
     self-respect one must be prepared to receive before one can catch
     the attention of these gentlemen! I will give you an instance.
     Supposing I wanted to become known in Vienna: Brahms is the musical
     lion of Vienna. Consequently, I should have to pay my respects to
     him. Brahms, the celebrity--and I, the unknown composer. I may tell
     you, however, without false modesty, that I place myself a good
     deal higher than Brahms. What could I say to him? If I were an
     honourable and sincere man I should have to say something of this
     kind: ‘Herr Brahms, I regard you as an uninspired and pretentious
     composer, without any creative genius whatever. I do not rate you
     very highly, and look down upon you with disdain. But you could be
     of some use to me, so I have come to call upon you.’ But if I were
     a dishonest man, then I should say exactly the opposite. I cannot
     adopt either course.

     “I need not go into further details. You alone--with the exception
     of my brothers--can fully enter into my feelings. My friends in
     Moscow cannot reconcile themselves to my having declined to act as
     delegate in Paris. They cannot believe that my association with
     such distinguished names as Liszt (who represents Hungary) and
     Verdi would not do much to promote my reputation. My dear friend, I
     have the reputation of being modest. But I will confess to you that
     my modesty is nothing less than a secret, but immense, _amour
     propre_. Among all living musicians there is not one before whom I
     would willingly lower my crest. At the same time, Nature, who
     endowed me with such pride, denied me the capacity for showing off
     my wares. _Je ne sais pas me faire valoir_. I do not know how to
     meet fame half-way on my own initiative, and prefer to wait until
     it comes to me unsought. I have long since resigned myself to the
     belief that I shall not live to see the general recognition of my
     talents.

     “You speak of Anton Rubinstein. How can I compare myself to him? He
     is at present the greatest pianist in the world. He combines the
     personalities of a remarkable virtuoso and a gifted composer, so
     that the latter is borne as it were upon the shoulders of the
     former. In my lifetime I shall never attain to a tenth part of what
     he has accomplished. Now we are on the subject of Rubinstein, let
     me tell you this: as my teacher, he knew my musical temperament
     better than anyone else, so that he might have done much to further
     my reputation abroad. Unfortunately, this ‘great light’ has always
     treated me with a loftiness bordering on contempt. No one has
     inflicted such cruel wounds upon my self-esteem as Rubinstein.
     Externally, he has always been amiable and friendly. But beneath
     this friendly manner he showed plainly that he did not think me
     worth a brass farthing! The one ‘big wig’ who has always been most
     kindly disposed towards me is Bülow. Unluckily, he has been forced
     almost to abandon his musical career on account of ill-health, and
     cannot therefore do much more on my behalf. Thanks to him, I am
     well known in England and America. I have a number of Press notices
     relating to myself which appeared in these countries, and were sent
     to me by Bülow.

     “You need not worry yourself, my dear. If fame is destined for me,
     it will come with slow but sure steps. History convinces us that
     the success which is long delayed is often more lasting than when
     it comes easily and at a bound. Many a name which resounded through
     its own generation is now engulfed in the ocean of oblivion. An
     artist should not be troubled by the indifference of his
     contemporaries. He should go on working and say all he has been
     predestined to say. He should know that posterity alone can deliver
     a true and just verdict. I will tell you something more. Perhaps I
     accept my modest share with so little complaint because my faith
     in the judgment of the future is immovable. I have a foretaste
     during my lifetime of the fame which will be meted out to me when
     the history of Russian music comes to be written. For the present I
     am satisfied with what I have already acquired. I have no right to
     complain. I have met people on my way through life whose warm
     sympathy for my music more than compensates me for the
     indifference, misunderstanding, and ill-will of others.”




VII


                  _From S. I. Taneiev to Tchaikovsky._

     “_March_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1878.

     “ ... The first movement of your Fourth Symphony is
     disproportionately long in comparison with the others; it seems to
     me a symphonic poem, to which the three other movements are added
     fortuitously. The fanfare for trumpets in the introduction, which
     is repeated in other places, the frequent change of _tempo_ in the
     tributary themes--all this makes me think that a programme is being
     treated here. Otherwise this movement pleases me.

     But the rhythm [Illustration: musical notation] appears too often
     and becomes wearisome.

     “The Andante is charming (the middle does not particularly please
     me). The Scherzo is exquisite, and goes splendidly. The Trio I
     cannot bear: it sounds like a ballet movement.

     “Nicholas Grigorievich (Rubinstein) likes the Finale best, but I do
     not altogether agree with him. The variations on a folksong do not
     strike me as very important or interesting.

     “In my opinion the Symphony has one defect, to which I shall never
     be reconciled: in every movement there are phrases which sound like
     ballet music: the middle section of the Andante, the Trio of the
     Scherzo, and a kind of march in the Finale. Hearing the Symphony,
     my inner eye sees involuntarily ‘our _prima ballerina_,’ which
     puts me out of humour and spoils my pleasure in the many beauties
     of the work.

     “This is my candid opinion. Perhaps I have expressed it somewhat
     freely, but do not be hurt. It is not surprising that the Symphony
     does not entirely please me. Had you not sent _Eugene Oniegin_ at
     the same time, perhaps it might have satisfied me. It is your own
     fault. Why have you composed such an opera, which has no parallel
     in the world? _Oniegin_ has given me such pleasure that I cannot
     find words to express it. A splendid opera! And yet you say you
     want to give up composing. You have never done so well. Rejoice
     that you have attained such perfection, and profit by it.”

                       _Tchaikovsky to Taneiev._

     “CLARENS, _March_ 27_th_ (April 8_th_), 1878.

     “DEAR SERGE,--I have read your letter with the greatest pleasure
     and interest.... You need not be afraid that your criticism of my
     Fourth Symphony is too severe. You have simply given me your frank
     opinion, for which I am grateful. I want these kind of opinions,
     not choruses of praise. At the same time many things in your letter
     astonished me. I have no idea what you consider ‘ballet music,’ or
     why you should object to it. Do you regard every melody in a lively
     dance-rhythm as ‘ballet music’? In that case how can you reconcile
     yourself to the majority of Beethoven’s symphonies, for in them you
     will find similar melodies on every page? Or do you mean to say
     that the Trio of my Scherzo is in the style of Minkus, Gerber, or
     Pugni? It does not, to my mind, deserve such criticism. I never can
     understand why ‘ballet music’ should be used as a contemptuous
     epithet. The music of a ballet is not invariably bad, there are
     good works of this class--Délibes’ _Sylvia_, for instance. And when
     the music is good, what difference does it make whether the
     Sobiesichanskaya[61] dances to it or not? I can only say that
     certain portions of my Symphony do not please you because _they
     recall the ballet_, not because they are intrinsically bad. You may
     be right, but I do not see why dance tunes should not be employed
     episodically in a symphony, even with the avowed intention of
     giving a touch of coarse, everyday humour. Again I appeal to
     Beethoven, who frequently had recourse to similar effects. I must
     add that I have racked my brains in vain to recall in what part of
     the Allegro you can possibly have discovered ‘ballet music.’ It
     remains an enigma. With all that you say as to my Symphony having a
     programme, I am quite in agreement. But I do not see why this
     should be a mistake. I am far more afraid of the contrary; I do not
     wish any symphonic work to emanate from me which has nothing to
     express, and consists merely of harmonies and a purposeless design
     of rhythms and modulations. Of course, my Symphony is programme
     music, but it would be impossible to give the programme in words;
     it would appear ludicrous and only raise a smile. Ought not this to
     be the case with a symphony which is the most lyrical of all
     musical forms? Ought it not to express all those things for which
     words cannot be found, which nevertheless arise in the heart and
     clamour for expression? Besides, I must tell you that in my
     simplicity I imagined the plan of my Symphony to be so obvious that
     everyone would understand its meaning, or at least its leading
     ideas, without any definite programme. Pray do not imagine I want
     to swagger before you with profound emotions and lofty ideas.
     Throughout the work I have made no effort to express any new
     thought. In reality my work is a reflection of Beethoven’s Fifth
     Symphony; I have not copied his musical contents, only borrowed the
     central idea. What kind of a programme has this Fifth Symphony, do
     you think? Not only has it a programme, but it is so clear that
     there cannot be the smallest difference of opinion as to what it
     means. Much the same lies at the root of my Symphony, and if you
     have failed to grasp it, it simply proves that I am no
     Beethoven--on which point I have no doubt whatever. Let me add that
     there is not a single bar in this Fourth Symphony of mine which I
     have not truly felt, and which is not an echo of my most intimate
     spiritual life. The only exception occurs perhaps in the middle
     section of the first movement, in which there are some forced
     passages, some things which are laboured and artificial. I know
     you will laugh as you read these lines. You are a sceptic and a
     mocking-bird. In spite of your great love of music you do not seem
     to believe that a man can compose from his inner impulses. Wait
     awhile, you too will join the ranks! Some day, perhaps very soon,
     you will compose, not because others ask you to do so, but because
     it is your own desire. Only then will the seed which can bring
     forth a splendid harvest fall upon the rich soil of your gifted
     nature. I speak the truth, if somewhat grandiloquently. Meanwhile
     your fields are waiting for the sower. I will write more about this
     in my next. There were beautiful details in your score, it only
     lacks ... but I will not forestall matters. In my next letter I
     will talk exclusively of yourself.

     “There have been great changes in my life since I wrote that I had
     lost all hope of composing any more. The devil of authorship has
     awoke in me again in the most unexpected way.

     “Please, dear Serge, do not see any shadow of annoyance in my
     defence of the Symphony; of course I should like you to be pleased
     with everything I write, but I am quite satisfied with the interest
     you always show me. You cannot think how delighted I am with your
     approval of _Oniegin_. I value your opinion very highly, and the
     more frankly you express it, the more I feel its worth. And so I
     cordially thank you, and beg you not to be afraid of over-severity.
     I want just those stinging criticisms from you. So long as you give
     me the truth, what does it matter whether it is favourable or not?”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “_April_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1878.

     “ ... It is very early. I slept badly, and after an unsuccessful
     attempt to doze off again, I got up and came to sit near the
     window, where I am now writing to you. What a wonderful morning!
     The sky is absolutely clear. A few little harmless clouds are
     floating over the mountains on either side the lake. From the
     garden comes the twitter of innumerable birds. The Dent du Midi is
     clear of mist, and glitters in the sunlight which catches its
     snow-clad peaks. The lake is smooth as a mirror. How beautiful it
     all is! Does it not seem hard that the fine weather should have
     come just as I am on the point of departure?

     “As regards Mozart, let me add these words. You say my worship for
     him is quite contrary to my musical nature. But perhaps it is just
     because--being a child of my day--I feel broken and spiritually out
     of joint, that I find consolation and rest in the music of Mozart,
     wherein he gives expression to that joy of life which was part of
     his sane and wholesome temperament, not yet undermined by
     reflection. It seems to me that an artist’s creative power is
     something quite apart from his sympathy with this or that great
     master. For instance, a man may admire Beethoven, and yet by
     temperament be more akin to Mendelssohn. Could there be a more
     glaring instance of inconsistency, for instance, than Berlioz the
     composer and champion of ultra-romanticism in music, and Berlioz
     the critic and adorer of Glück? Perhaps this is just an example of
     the attraction which makes extremes meet, and causes a big, strong
     man to fall in love with a tiny, delicate woman, and _vice versâ_.
     Do you know that Chopin did not care for Beethoven, and could
     hardly bear to hear some of his works? I was told this by a man who
     knew him personally. At any rate, I will conclude by saying that
     dissimilarity of temperament between two artists is no hindrance to
     their mutual sympathy.”

                          _To N. F. von Meek._

     “VIENNA, _April_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1878.

     “ ... My next letter will reach you from Russia.

     “I was surprised to find the spring so much further advanced in
     Vienna than at Clarens. The trees there had scarcely begun to show
     green, while here there is a look of summer already. Vienna is so
     bright and sunny to-day, it would certainly have made a pleasant
     impression upon me had I not read the morning papers, which are
     full of poisonous, malicious, and abominable slanders about Russia.
     The _Neue Freie Presse_ takes pains to inform its readers that the
     action of the girl who fired at Trepov has created a revolution in
     Russia, that the Emperor is in peril, and must flee from the
     country, etc., etc.

     “Now, on the point of taking leave of foreign lands and turning my
     face homewards, a sound, sane man, full of renewed strength and
     energy--let me thank you once again, my dear and invaluable friend,
     for all I owe you, which I can never, never forget.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _April_ 12_th_ (24_th_).

     “At last we have arrived. The journey was long and tedious and my
     expectations were disappointed. I had always thought my home-coming
     would fill me with such sweet and profound sentiments. Nothing of
     the kind! A tipsy policeman who would hardly let us pass because he
     could not grasp that the number of passengers on my passport
     corresponded to the figure on his own; an officer of customs who
     demanded duty to the amount of fourteen gold roubles upon a dress I
     had bought for my sister for seventy francs; a conversation with a
     very importunate gentleman, bent on convincing me that the policy
     of England was the most humane in the world; the crowd of dirty
     Jews with their accompanying odours; the numbers of young
     conscripts who travelled in our train, and the farewell scenes with
     their wives and mothers at every station--all these things spoilt
     my pleasure in returning to my beloved native land. At Shmerinka we
     had to wait a few hours; unfortunately, as it was night, I could
     not see Brailov,[62] although I knew in which direction to look for
     it.... As my sister’s house is rather crowded, she has taken a
     nice, quiet room near at hand for me. I have also a garden, well
     stocked with flowers, which will soon begin to exhale their lovely
     perfumes. My little home is very cosy and comfortable. There is
     even a piano in the tiny parlour next to my bedroom. I shall be
     able to work undisturbed.

     “ ... How glad I am, dear Nadejda Filaretovna, that you take such a
     just and sensible view of the agitating events which have been
     taking place in Petersburg and Moscow! I did not expect you to
     think differently, although I feared lest your pity for Sassoulich
     personally--in any case a very diluted and involuntary
     sympathy--might possibly have influenced your opinion. It is _one
     thing_, however, to feel sorry for her, and to detest the arrogant
     and brutal conduct of the arbitrary Prefect of Petersburg, and
     quite _another thing_ to approve of that display of unpatriotic
     sentiment by which her acquittal has been signalised, and with the
     Moscow riots. It seems to me that both these events are most
     disquieting at the present moment, and I am exceedingly glad that
     the Russian lower classes have shown the crazy leaders of our
     younger generation how little their orders are in accord with sound
     sense and the spirit of the nation. I am glad to feel once again
     that, in spite of a few differences as to details, we are in
     agreement on most important matters.”

A few days after receiving this letter, N. F. von Meck invited
Tchaikovsky to spend some weeks in the restful solitude of her estate at
Brailov. “Of course she herself will not be there,” he wrote to his
brother on April 27th (May 9th). “I am delighted to accept her
invitation.” Meanwhile his days at Kamenka were fully occupied, as may
be seen from the following extract from a letter to Nadejda von Meck,
dated April 30th, 1878:--

     “I am working very hard. The sonata is already finished, as are
     also twelve pieces--of moderate difficulty--for pianoforte. Of
     course all this is only sketched out. To-morrow I shall begin a
     collection of miniature pieces for children. I thought long ago it
     would not be a bad thing to do all in my power to enrich the
     children’s musical literature, which is rather scanty. I want to
     write a whole series of perfectly easy pieces, and to find titles
     for them which would interest children, as Schumann has done. I
     have planned songs and violin pieces for later on, and then, if the
     favourable mood lasts long enough, I want to do something in the
     way of Church music. A vast and almost untrodden field of activity
     lies open to composers here. I appreciate certain merits in
     Bortniansky, Berezovsky, and others; but how little their music is
     in keeping with the Byzantine architecture, the ikons, and the
     whole spirit of the Orthodox liturgy! Perhaps you are aware that
     the Imperial Chapels have the monopoly of Church music, and that it
     is forbidden to print, or to sing in church, any sacred
     compositions which are not included in the published collections of
     these Chapels. Moreover, they guard this monopoly very jealously,
     and will not permit new settings of any portions of the liturgy
     under any circumstances whatever. My publisher, Jurgenson, has
     discovered a way of evading this curious prohibition, and if I
     write anything of this kind, he will publish it abroad. It is not
     improbable that I shall decide to set the entire liturgy of St.
     John Chrysostom. I shall arrange all this by July. I intend to rest
     absolutely during the whole of that month, and to start upon some
     important work in August. I should like to write an opera. Turning
     over books in my sister’s library, I came upon Joukovsky’s
     _Undine_, and re-read the tale which I loved as a child. In 1869 I
     wrote an opera on this subject, and submitted it to the Opera
     Direction. It was rejected. Although at the time I thought this
     very unjust, yet afterwards I became disillusioned with my own
     work, and was very glad it had not had the chance of being damned.
     Now I am again attracted to the subject.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KIEV, _May_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1878.

     “My telegram to-day, sent from Kiev, must have astonished you, dear
     friend. I left quite suddenly, as my sister had to come here sooner
     than she expected.... I could not wait at Kamenka for your letter
     containing directions for my journey to Brailov; but, in any case,
     I shall leave here on Tuesday, and arrive at Shmerinka at 7 a.m. on
     Wednesday.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “BRAILOV, _May_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1878.

     “Seated in the carriage, after you left me, of course I dissolved
     in tears. The recollection of our meeting in Milan came back to
     me. How jolly it was! The journey to Genoa and afterwards! How
     beautiful it all seemed to me--and it was nearly six months ago!
     Here followed a fresh burst of tears.

     “One of my fellow-travellers, who seemed to know this
     neighbourhood, told us that Brailov belonged to the banker Meck,
     had cost three million roubles, and brought the owner a yearly
     income of 700,000 roubles, and other nonsense. I was very much
     excited on the journey. In the waiting-room at Shmerinka I was
     greeted by the same waiter--you remember him--who served our
     supper; I told him to inquire whether any horses had been sent from
     Brailov. Two minutes later Marcel appeared. He is not a Frenchman,
     but a native. He was very attentive and amiable. His coat and hat
     were infinitely superior to mine, so that I felt quite embarrassed
     as I took my seat in the luxuriously appointed carriage, while he
     mounted the box beside the coachman. The house is really a palace.
     At Marcel’s invitation I entered the dining-room, where a huge
     silver samovar steamed on the table, together with a coffee-pot
     upon a spirit-lamp, cups of rare china, eggs, butter, etc. I
     observed that Marcel had received his instructions; he did not
     attempt to converse, nor to stand behind my chair, but just served
     what was necessary and went away. He inquired how I desired to
     arrange my day. I _ordered_ my midday meal at one o’clock, tea at
     nine, and a cold supper. After coffee I explored the house, which
     contains a series of separate suites of rooms. A large wing, built
     in stone for the accommodation of guests, is arranged like a kind
     of hotel; a long corridor with rooms on each side, which are always
     kept exactly as though they were inhabited. The first floor, which
     I occupy, is furnished with the utmost comfort. There are many
     bookcases containing very interesting illustrated publications. In
     the music-room, a grand piano, a very fine harmonium, and plenty of
     music. In Nadejda Filaretovna’s study there are a few pictures. At
     one o’clock I had dinner, a very exquisite, but rather slight,
     repast. The _Zakouska_ (_hors d’œuvre_) excellent, the wine
     ditto. After dinner I looked through the music and strolled in the
     garden. At four o’clock I ordered the carriage and took a drive.
     The neighbourhood of Brailov is not very pretty. There is no view
     from the windows. The garden is extensive and well stocked,
     especially with lilacs and roses, but it is not picturesque, nor
     sufficiently shady. On the whole I like the house best....”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “BRAILOV, _May_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1878.

     “How lovely, how free, it is in your country home! The sun has set,
     and over the wide fields in front of the main entrance the heat is
     already giving way to the cool evening breeze. The lilacs scent the
     air, and the cockchafers break the stillness with their bass note.
     The nightingale is singing in the distance. How glorious it is!”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “BRAILOV, _May_ 21_st_ (_June_ 2_nd_), 1878.

     “My life at Brailov flows tranquilly on. In the early morning after
     coffee I stroll in the garden, and then slip out through the little
     wooden door in the wall near the stable, and, jumping the ditch,
     find myself in the old, forsaken garden of the monastery, where the
     monks used to wander of old, but which is now tenanted by all kinds
     of birds. Not infrequently the oriole and the nightingale are seen
     there. This garden is apparently deserted, for the paths are so
     overgrown and the greenery so fresh that one could fancy oneself in
     the heart of the forest. First I wander through it, then sit down
     in a shady place for an hour or so. Such moments of solitude amid
     the flowers and green branches are incomparable; then I can watch
     every form of organic life which manifests itself silently, without
     a sound, yet speaks more forcibly of the illimitable and the
     eternal than the rumbling of bridges and all the turmoil of the
     streets. In one of your letters you say I shall not find a Gorge de
     Chaudière at Brailov. I do not want it! Such places satisfy one’s
     curiosity rather than one’s heart and imagination; one sees more
     English tourists than birds and flowers; they bring more fatigue
     than enjoyment.

     “After my walk I work at the violin pieces, one of which is quite
     finished. If I am not mistaken, it will please you, although the
     accompaniment is rather difficult in places, and this, I fear, will
     make you angry.

     “Punctually at 1 p.m. Marcel summons me to the dining-room, where,
     in the middle of the elegantly appointed table, two big bouquets
     are arranged, which give me fresh cause for delight. Then follows a
     real Balthazar’s feast. Each time I feel a little ashamed to sit
     down alone to such a liberal and sumptuous table.

     “After dinner I walk in the garden, read, or write letters until
     4.30, when I go for a drive.

     “Yesterday the rain prevented me from taking my usual
     constitutional in the meadows facing the house. At sunset I like a
     more open space, and these meadows enclosed by trees, lilac bushes,
     and the stream, offer a charming evening walk.

     “Then I generally spend half an hour at your splendid harmonium. I
     like to observe all its curious acoustic properties, which are
     called aliquot tones. No doubt you have observed that when you play
     chords on the organ, besides the sound which comes from the notes
     struck, another sound is heard in the bass, which sometimes
     harmonises with the chord and sometimes results in a harsh discord.
     Occasionally the most curious combinations are produced. This is
     what I discovered yesterday.

[Illustration]

     Try this acoustic experiment by drawing out register No. 1, that is
     to say Flute and Cor Anglais. D and F sharp, A and C are perfectly
     in tune, but the E sounds rather sharp.

     “At 9 p.m. the second Balthazar’s feast takes place. Then I play
     and make myself acquainted with your musical library. Yesterday I
     played through a serenade for strings by Volkmann with great
     pleasure. A sympathetic composer. He has many simple and natural
     charms.

     “Do you know that Volkmann is quite an old man and lives in the
     greatest poverty at Pesth? Once the musicians in Moscow got up a
     small fund for him, amounting to 300 roubles, in gratitude for
     which he dedicated his Second Symphony to the Moscow Musical
     Society. I never could discover why he was so poor.

     “At 11 p.m. I go to my room and undress. Marcel, the good-natured
     soldier-porter, and Alexis go to bed. I am left alone to read,
     dream, or recall the past; to think of those near and dear to me;
     to open the window and gaze out on the stars; to listen to the
     sounds of night; and finally--to go to bed.

     “A wonderful life! Like a vision, a dream! Kind and beloved Nadejda
     Filaretovna, how grateful I am to you for everything! Sometimes my
     sense of gratitude is so keen I feel I must proclaim it aloud.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “BRAILOV, _May_ 23_rd_ (_June_ 4_th_), 1878.

     “As I walked through the woods yesterday I found a quantity of
     mushrooms. Mushrooming is my greatest delight in summer. The moment
     in which one first sees a plump, white mushroom is simply
     fascinating! Passionate card-lovers may experience the same feeling
     when they see the ace of trumps in their hand. All night long I
     dreamed of large, fat, pink mushrooms. When I awoke I reflected
     that these _mushroomy dreams_ were very childish. And, in truth,
     one would become a child again if one lived long all alone with
     Nature. One would become far more receptive to the simple, artless
     joys which she offers us.

     “Do you know what I am preoccupied with at present? When I was
     sitting alone one evening at Kiev, while my sister and Modeste had
     gone to the theatre to see Rossi in _Romeo and Juliet_, I read the
     play through once more. Immediately I was possessed with the idea
     of composing an opera on the subject. The existing operas of
     Bellini and Gounod do not frighten me. In both of them Shakespeare
     is mutilated and distorted until he is hardly recognisable. Do you
     not think that this great work of the arch-genius is well adapted
     to inspire a musician? I have already talked it over with Modeste;
     but he shrank from the magnitude of the task. Nothing venture,
     nothing have. I shall think over the plan of this opera and throw
     all my energies into the work for which I am reserving them.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “BRAILOV, _May_ 25_th_ (_June_ 6_th_), 1878.

     “Modi, ever since I re-read _Romeo and Juliet_, _Undine_,
     _Berthalde_, _Gulbrand_, and the rest seem to me a pack of childish
     nonsense. Of course, I shall compose an opera on _Romeo and
     Juliet_. All your objections will vanish before the vast enthusiasm
     which possesses me. It shall be my finest work. It seems absurd
     that I have only just found out that fate has to some extent
     ordained me for this task. Nothing could be better suited to my
     musical temperament. No kings, no marches--in a word, none of the
     usual accessories of Grand Opera. Nothing but love, love, love. And
     then how delightful are the minor characters: Friar Lawrence,
     Tybalt, Mercutio! You need not be afraid of monotony. The first
     love duet will be very different from the second. In the first,
     brightness and serenity; in the second, a tragic element. From
     children, happily and carelessly in love, Romeo and Juliet have
     become passionate and suffering beings, placed in a tragic and
     inextricable dilemma. How I long to get to work on it!”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “BRAILOV, _May_ 27_th_ (_June_ 8_th_), 1878.

     “Yesterday I played the whole of _Eugene Oniegin_, from beginning
     to end. The author was the sole listener. I am half ashamed of what
     I am going to confide to you in secret: the listener was moved to
     tears, and paid the composer a thousand compliments. If only the
     audiences of the future will feel towards this music as the
     composer himself does!”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “BRAILOV, _May_ 29_th_ (_June_ 10_th_), 1878.

     “I am spending my last days here. I need hardly tell you why I
     cannot accept your hospitality any longer, although I might remain
     until June 10th (22nd). I have spent many unforgettable days here;
     I have experienced the purest and most tranquil enjoyment. I have
     drunk in the beauties and sympathetic surroundings of Brailov, so
     that my visit will remain one of the most beautiful memories of my
     life. I thank you. Nevertheless it is time I went away.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “BRAILOV, _May_ 30_th_ (_June_ 11_th_), 1878.

     “I have given my pieces (which are dedicated to Brailov) to Marcel,
     so that he may deliver them to you. The first is the best, I think,
     but also the most difficult; it is called _Meditation_. The second
     is a very quick Scherzo, and the third a ‘_Chant sans Paroles_.’ It
     was very hard to part with them to Marcel. Just recently I had
     started copying them! Then the lilacs were still in full bloom, the
     grass uncut, and the roses had hardly begun to bud!”




VIII


                            _To N. F. Meck._

     “VILLAGE OF NIZI, _June_ 6_th_ (18_th_) 1878.

     “Forgive me, my friend, for not having written to you from
     Petersburg. In the first place, I was afraid my letter might not
     reach you in time, and secondly, you cannot imagine what a _hell_
     my three days’ sojourn in Moscow proved to be. They seemed more
     like three centuries. I experienced the same joy when I found
     myself in the train once more that I might have felt on being
     released from a narrow prison cell. I have come here in answer to
     the invitation of a hospitable old friend, Kondratiev, whom I
     formerly used to visit almost every summer. Here I composed
     _Vakoula_ and many other works.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _June_ 24_th_ (_July_ 6_th_), 1878.

     “You want to know my methods of composing? Do you know, dear
     friend, that it is very difficult to give a satisfactory answer to
     your question, because the circumstances under which a new work
     comes into the world vary considerably in each case.

     “First, I must divide my works into two categories, for this is
     important in trying to explain my methods.

     “(1) Works which I compose on my own initiative--that is to say,
     from an invincible inward impulse.

     “(2) Works which are inspired by external circumstances: the wish
     of a friend, or a publisher, and _commissioned_ works.

     “Here I should add experience has taught me that the intrinsic
     value of a work has nothing to do with its place in one or the
     other of these categories. It frequently happens that a composition
     which owes its existence to external influences proves very
     successful; while one that proceeds entirely from my own initiative
     may, for various indirect reasons, turn out far less well. These
     indirect circumstances, upon which depends the mood in which a work
     is written, are of the very greatest importance. During the actual
     time of creative activity complete quiet is absolutely necessary to
     the artist. In this sense every work of art, even a musical
     composition, is _objective_. Those who imagine that a creative
     artist can--through the medium of his art--express his feelings at
     the moment when he is _moved_, make the greatest mistake.
     Emotions--sad or joyful--can only be expressed _retrospectively_,
     so to speak. Without any special reason for rejoicing, I may be
     moved by the most cheerful creative mood, and, _vice versâ_, a work
     composed under the happiest surroundings may be touched with dark
     and gloomy colours.

     “In a word, an artist lives a double life: an everyday human life,
     and an artistic life, and the two do not always go hand in hand.

     “In any case, it is absolutely necessary for a composer to shake
     off all the cares of daily existence, at least for a time, and give
     himself up entirely to his art-life.

     “Works belonging to the first category do not require the least
     effort of will. It is only necessary to obey our inward promptings,
     and if our material life does not crush our artistic life under its
     weight of depressing circumstances, the work progresses with
     inconceivable rapidity. Everything else is forgotten, the soul
     throbs with an incomprehensible and indescribable excitement, so
     that, almost before we can follow this swift flight of inspiration,
     time passes literally unreckoned and unobserved.

     “There is something _somnambulistic_ about this condition. _On ne
     s’entend pas vivre._ It is impossible to describe such moments.
     Everything that flows from one’s pen, or merely passes through
     one’s brain (for such moments often come at a time when writing is
     an impossibility) under these circumstances is _invariably good_,
     and if no external obstacle comes to hinder the creative glow, the
     result will be an artist’s best and most perfect work.
     Unfortunately such external hindrances are inevitable. A duty has
     to be performed, dinner is announced, a letter arrives, and so on.
     This is the reason why there exist so few compositions which are of
     equal quality throughout. Hence the _joins_, _patches_,
     _inequalities and discrepancies_.

     “For the works in my second category it is necessary to _get into
     the mood_. To do so we are often obliged to fight with indolence
     and disinclination. Besides this, there are many other fortuitous
     circumstances. Sometimes the victory is easily gained. At other
     times inspiration eludes us, and cannot be recaptured. I consider
     it, however, the _duty_ of an artist not to be conquered by
     circumstances. He must not wait. Inspiration is a guest who does
     not care to visit those who are indolent. The reproaches heaped
     upon the Russian nation because of its deficiency in original works
     of art are not without foundation, for the Russians are lazy. A
     Russian is always glad to procrastinate: he is gifted by nature,
     but at the same time nature has withheld from him the power of
     will. A man must learn to conquer himself, lest he should
     degenerate into _dilettantism_, from which even so colossal a
     talent as Glinka’s was not free. This man, endowed with an
     extraordinary and special creative talent, achieved astonishingly
     little, although he attained a fairly ripe age. Read his _Memoirs_.
     You will see that he worked like a _dilettante_--on and off, when
     he was in the mood. However proud we may be of Glinka, we must
     acknowledge that he did not entirely fulfil his task, if we take
     into consideration the magnitude of his gifts. Both his operas, in
     spite of their astonishing and original beauty, suffer from glaring
     inequalities of style. Side by side with touches of genius and
     passages of imperishable beauty we find childish and weak numbers.
     What might not Glinka have accomplished had he lived amid different
     surroundings, had he worked like an artist who, fully alive to his
     power and his duty, develops his gifts to the ultimate limit of
     perfection, rather than as an amateur who makes music his pastime!

     “I have explained that I compose either from an inward impulse,
     winged by a lofty and undefinable inspiration, or I simply _work_,
     invoking all my powers, which sometimes answer and sometimes remain
     deaf to my invocation. In the latter case the work created will
     always remain the mere product of labour, without any glow of
     genuine musical feeling.

     “I hope you will not think I am boasting, if I say that my appeal
     to inspiration is very rarely in vain. In other words, that power
     which I have already described as a capricious guest has long since
     become fast friends with me, so that we are inseparable, and it
     only deserts me when my material existence is beset by untoward
     circumstances and its presence is of no avail. Under normal
     conditions I may say there is no hour of the day in which I cannot
     compose. Sometimes I observe with curiosity that uninterrupted
     activity, which--independent of the subject of any conversation I
     may be carrying on--continues its course in that department of my
     brain which is devoted to music. Sometimes it takes a preparatory
     form--that is, the consideration of all details that concern the
     elaboration of some projected work; another time it may be an
     entirely new and independent musical idea, and I make an effort to
     hold it fast in my memory. Whence does it come? It is an
     inscrutable mystery.

     “Now I will try to describe my actual procedure in composition. But
     not until _after dinner_. _Au revoir._ If you only knew how
     _difficult_, yet at the same time how _pleasant_ it is to talk to
     you about all this!

                            “_Two o’clock._

     “I usually write my sketches on the first piece of paper to hand. I
     jot them down in the most abbreviated form. A melody never stands
     alone, but invariably with the harmonies which belong to it. These
     two elements of music, together with the rhythm, must never be
     separated; every melodic idea brings its own inevitable harmony and
     its suitable rhythm. If the harmony is very intricate, I set down
     in the sketch a few details as to the working out of the parts;
     when the harmony is quite simple, I only put in the bass, or a
     figured bass, and sometimes not even this. If the sketch is
     intended for an orchestral work, the ideas appear ready-coloured by
     some special instrumental combination. The original plan of
     instrumentation often undergoes some modifications.

     “The text must _never_ be written after the music, for if music is
     written to given words only, these words invoke a suitable musical
     expression. It is quite possible to fit words to a short melody,
     but in treating a serious work such adaptation is not permissible.
     It is equally impossible to compose a symphonic work and afterwards
     to attach to it a programme, since every episode of the chosen
     programme should evoke its corresponding musical presentment. This
     stage of composition--the sketch--is remarkably pleasant and
     interesting. It brings an indescribable delight, accompanied,
     however, by a kind of unrest and nervous agitation. Sleep is
     disturbed and meals forgotten. Nevertheless, the development of the
     project proceeds tranquilly. The instrumentation of a work which is
     completely thought out and matured is a most enjoyable task.

     “The same does not apply to the bare sketch of a work for
     pianoforte or voice, or little pieces in general, which are
     sometimes very tiresome. Just now I am occupied with this kind of
     work. You ask: do I confine myself to established forms? Yes, and
     no. Some compositions imply the use of traditional forms; but only
     as regards their general features--the sequence of the various
     movements. The details permit of considerable freedom of treatment,
     if the development of the ideas require it. For example, the first
     movement of _our_ Symphony is written in a very informal style. The
     second subject, which ought, properly speaking, to be in the major,
     is in a somewhat remote minor key. In the recapitulation of the
     principal part the second subject is entirely left out, etc. In the
     finale, too, there are many deviations from traditional form. In
     vocal music, in which everything depends on the text, and in
     fantasias (like _The Tempest_ and _Francesca_) the form is quite
     free. You ask me about melodies built upon the notes of the
     harmony. I can assure you, and prove it by many examples, that it
     is quite possible, by means of rhythm and the transposition of
     these notes, to evolve millions of new and beautiful melodic
     combinations. But this only applies to homophonic music. With
     polyphonic music such a method of building up a melody would
     interfere with the independence of the parts. In the music of
     Beethoven, Weber, Mendelssohn, Schumann, and especially Wagner, we
     frequently find melodies which consist of the notes of the common
     chord; a gifted musician will always be able to invent a new and
     interesting fanfare. Do you remember the beautiful Sword-motive in
     the Nibelungen?

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     “I am very fond of a melody by Verdi (a very gifted man):

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     “How glorious and how fresh the chief theme of the first movement
     of Rubinstein’s _Ocean_ symphony:

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     “If I racked my brains a little, I should find countless examples
     to support my assertion. Talent is the sole secret. It knows no
     limitations: it creates the most beautiful music out of nothing.
     Could there be anything more trivial than the following melody?

     Beethoven, Seventh Symphony:

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     or Glinka, _Jota aragonesa_:

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     “And yet what splendid musical structures Beethoven and Glinka have
     raised on these themes!”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _June_ 25_th_ (_July_ 7_th_), 1878.

     “Yesterday, when I wrote to you about my methods of composing, I
     did not sufficiently enter into that phase of work which relates to
     the working out of the sketch. This phase is of primary importance.
     What has been set down in a moment of ardour must now be
     critically examined, improved, extended, or condensed, as the form
     requires. Sometimes one must do oneself violence, must sternly and
     pitilessly take part against oneself, before one can mercilessly
     erase things thought out with love and enthusiasm. I cannot
     complain of poverty of imagination, or lack of inventive power;
     but, on the other hand, I have always suffered from my want of
     skill in the management of form. Only after strenuous labour have I
     at last succeeded in making the form of my compositions correspond,
     more or less, with their contents. Formerly I was careless and did
     not give sufficient attention to the critical overhauling of my
     sketches. Consequently my _seams_ showed, and there was no organic
     union between my individual episodes. This was a very serious
     defect, and I only improved gradually as time went on; but the form
     of my works will never be _exemplary_, because, although I can
     modify, I cannot radically alter the essential qualities of my
     musical temperament. But I am far from believing that my gifts have
     yet reached their ultimate development. I can affirm with joy that
     I make continual progress on the way of self-development, and am
     passionately desirous of attaining the highest degree of perfection
     of which my talents are capable. Therefore I expressed myself badly
     when I told you yesterday that I transcribed my works direct from
     the first sketches. The process is something more than copying; it
     is actually a critical examination, leading to corrections,
     occasional additions, and frequent curtailments.

     “In your letter you express a wish to see my sketches. Will you
     accept the original sketch for my opera _Eugene Oniegin_? As the
     pianoforte score will be published in the autumn, it might interest
     you to compare the autograph sketches with the completed work. If
     so, I will send you the manuscript as soon as I return to Moscow. I
     suggest _Oniegin_ because none of my works has been written with
     such fluency; therefore the manuscript is easy to read, as it
     contains few corrections.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “VERBOVKA, _July_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1878.

     “ ... My work progresses slowly. The sonata is finished, however,
     and to-day I have begun to write out some songs, composed partly
     abroad and partly at Kamenka, in April. I have heard from Jurgenson
     that four great Russian concerts, conducted by N. Rubinstein, are
     to take place in Paris. My Pianoforte Concerto, _The Tempest,
     Francesca_, and two movements from _our_ Symphony are to be given.
     I will let you have further particulars, in case you care to time
     your visit to Paris so that it coincides with the concerts. Among
     those engaged to take part in them is Lavrovsky.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “_July_ 25_th_ (_August_ 6_th_), 1878.

     “I write to you, dear friend, with a light heart, happy in the
     consciousness of having finished a work (the Liturgy).... People
     who go to work in feverish haste (like myself) are really the
     laziest folk. They get through their work as fast as possible in
     order to enjoy idleness. Now I can indulge to the full my secret
     delight in doing nothing.”

                         _To P. I. Jurgenson._

     “VERBOVKA, _July_ 29_th_ (_August_ 10_th_), 1878.

     “DEAR FRIEND,--My manuscripts will have been taken to you. You will
     find plenty of material for your engravers. I send you five pieces,
     and besides these I shall shortly despatch three pieces for violin.

     “I should like to receive the following fees:--[63]

                                               £   _s.__d._
      “1.  Sonata (50 roubles)                 5    0   0
       2.  Twelve pieces (at 25 roubles each) 30    0   0
       3.  The Children’s Album (240 roubles) 24    0   0
       4.  Six songs (at 25 roubles)          15    0   0
       5.  Violin pieces (at 25 roubles each)  7   10   0
       6.  The Liturgy                        10    0   0
                                             ____________
                                              91   10   0

     “In a round sum 900 roubles; but having regard to the fact that I
     have written such a quantity at once, I will let you have the lot
     for 800 roubles.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “_August_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1878.

     “With my usual habit of worrying and upsetting myself about things,
     I am now troubled because I did not get to Brailov in
     time--immediately after your departure. I am afraid this may have
     caused some inconvenience to your servants. But what could I do? I
     wish someone could explain to me the origin of that curious
     exhaustion which comes upon me almost every evening, about which I
     have already written to you. I cannot say it is altogether
     disagreeable, because it usually ends in a heavy, almost lethargic
     sleep, and such repose is bliss. Nevertheless the attacks are
     tiresome and unpleasant, because of the vague anxiety, the
     undefinable yearning, which take an inconceivably strong hold upon
     my spirit, and end in a positive longing for Nirvana--_la soif du
     néant_. Probably the cause of this psychological phenomenon is of
     quite a prosaic nature; I think it is not so much a mental ailment
     as a result of bad digestion, a sequel of my catarrh of the
     stomach. Unluckily we cannot get over the fact that the material
     influences the spiritual! Too often, alas! a pickled gherkin too
     much has played the most important part in the highest functions of
     the human intellect. Forgive me, dear friend, for boring you with
     these continual complaints about my health, which are out of place,
     for in reality I am a perfectly sound man, and the little ailments
     about which I grumble are not serious. I only want repose, and I
     shall certainly find it in Brailov. Good Lord! how I long for the
     dear house and the dear neighbourhood!”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “BRAILOV, _August_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1878.

     “I have brought a great many interesting books with me, among them
     _Histoire de ma vie_, by George Sand. The book is rather carelessly
     written--without logical sequence, like a clever gossip relating
     his own reminiscences, but with many digressions. But it has much
     sincerity, a complete absence of pose, and remarkably clever
     portraiture of the people among whom she moved in her youth. Your
     library, too, contains many books I cannot put down when I have
     once opened them. Among these is a superb edition of de Musset, one
     of my favourite authors. To-day, looking through this volume, I
     became so absorbed in _Andrea del Sarto_ that--seated upon the
     floor--I was compelled to read the whole work to the end. I am
     passionately fond of all de Musset’s dramatic works. How often have
     I thought of using one of his comedies or plays as an opera
     libretto! Unfortunately they are all too French, and not to be
     thought of in a translation; for instance, _Le Chandelier_, or _On
     ne badine pas avec l’amour_. Some, less _local_ in character, are
     lacking in dramatic movement, such as _Lorenzaccio_, or _Andrea del
     Sarto_. Others, again, contain too much philosophising, like _Les
     caprices de Marianne_.

     “I cannot understand why French composers have hitherto neglected
     this rich source of inspiration.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “BRAILOV, _August_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1878.

     “I return once more to Alfred de Musset. You must read his
     _Proverbes Dramatiques_ from end to end. I recommend you especially
     _Les caprices de Marianne_, _On ne badine pas avec l’amour_, and
     _Le Chandelier_. Do not these things cry aloud for music? What
     thought! what wit! How profoundly felt and fascinating in their
     elegance! Yet in reading his works we feel that all is written with
     a light hand, not for the sake of the ideas; that is, we never feel
     that these ideas have been forcibly obtruded upon the artistic
     material, thereby paralysing the free development of the characters
     and situations. Then I delight in his truly Shakespearean
     anachronisms: for instance, when an imaginary King of Bavaria
     discusses the art of Grisi with some fantastic Duke of Mantua. Like
     Shakespeare, de Musset does not keep to the _verities of place_,
     yet all the same we find among his characters, as among those of
     Shakespeare, many of those universal human presentments who,
     independent of time and locality, belong to the eternal truth. Only
     with de Musset the frame is narrower and the flight less lofty.
     Nevertheless, no other dramatic writer approaches Shakespeare so
     closely. _Les Caprices de Marianne_ has made a peculiarly strong
     impression upon me, and I have thought of nothing else all day long
     but the possibility of turning it into an opera. I feel the
     necessity of considering a libretto. My enthusiasm for _Undine_ has
     cooled. I am still captivated by _Romeo and Juliet_, but--first it
     is very difficult, and secondly, I am rather frightened of Gounod,
     who has already written a mediocre opera on this subject.”

                          _To N. F. Von Meck._

     “VERBOVKA, _August_ 25_th_ (_September_ 6_th_), 1878.

     “ ... I have already told you that at Brailov I jotted down the
     sketch of a scherzo for orchestra. Afterwards the idea came to me
     of composing a series of orchestral pieces out of which I could put
     together a Suite, in the style of Lachner. Arrived at Verbovka, I
     felt I could not restrain my impulse, and hastened to work out on
     paper my sketches for this Suite. I worked at it with such delight
     and enthusiasm that I literally lost count of time. At the present
     moment three movements are finished, the fourth is sketched out,
     and the fifth sits waiting in my head.... The Suite will consist of
     five movements: (1) Introduction and Fugue, (2) Scherzo, (3)
     Andante, (4) Intermezzo (_Echo du bal_), (5) Rondo. While engaged
     upon this work my thoughts were perpetually with you; every moment
     I asked myself if such and such passages would please, or such and
     such melodies touch you? Therefore my new work can only be
     dedicated to _my best friend_.

     “To-morrow I travel straight to Petersburg to see my father and
     Anatol again, and shall remain there two or three days. Then I go
     to Moscow. I look to the future with a little apprehension, a
     little sadness, and a trifle of disgust.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “KIEV, _August_ 29_th_ (_September_ 10_th_), 1878.

     “In to-day’s paper (the _Novoe Vremya_) I found an article
     containing a mean, base and vulgar attack upon the Moscow
     Conservatoire. Very little is said about me personally; it simply
     states that I occupy myself exclusively with music and take no part
     in the intrigues.

     “Going along in the train, with this paper in my hand, I resolved
     to resign my professorship. I should have done so immediately, and
     not returned to Moscow at all, if my rooms had not been already
     engaged, and if I had not been definitely expected at the
     Conservatoire. I have made up my mind to wait until December, then
     I will go to Kamenka for the holidays and write from there that I
     am indisposed. Of course I shall give private information of my
     intentions to Rubinstein, so that he may have time to engage
     another professor. So _vive la liberté_, and especially Nadejda
     Filaretovna! There is no doubt whatever that she will approve of my
     decision--consequently I shall be able to lead a glorious,
     wandering life, sometimes in Kamenka, sometimes in Verbovka,
     sometimes in Petersburg or abroad....

     “For God’s sake go on with your novel! Work is the sole cure for
     _les misères de la vie humaine_. Besides, it gives you
     independence.

     “You will say you have _no time_ for writing because you are
     occupied all day with Kolya. All the same, I repeat: Write, write,
     write! I might offer myself as an example. I used to have six
     hours’ exhausting teaching at the Conservatoire, besides living
     with Rubinstein--whose ways hindered me exceedingly--in a house
     next door to the Conservatoire, whence was borne the sound of
     unceasing scales and exercises which made it difficult to compose.
     Your occupations with Kolya may be somewhat heavier than my theory
     classes, but still I say, Write! Meanwhile I embrace you, dear
     Modi! What does anything matter when people love as I love you and
     you love me (forgive my self-assurance)!”




                                   PART V




I

1878-1879


When in 1877 Tchaikovsky declined to act as delegate for the Paris
Exhibition, the office was accepted by Nicholas Rubinstein, who, in
September, 1878, gave four important concerts at the Trocadéro, the
programmes of which were drawn exclusively from the works of Russian
composers.

Tchaikovsky was represented by the following works: the Pianoforte
Concerto (B♭ minor), _The Tempest_, _Chant sans Paroles_ (played by
Nicholas Rubinstein), and “Serenade and Valse” for violin (played by
Bartzevich). The success of these compositions, especially of the
Concerto, thanks to Rubinstein’s artistic interpretation, was so great
that, judging by the opinions of Tchaikovsky’s friends and opponents,
the chief interest of all four concerts centred in them. Eye-witnesses
declare they never saw such enthusiasm in any concert-room as was
displayed on the first evening after the performance of the B♭ minor
Concerto. The work was repeated with equal success at the fourth
concert.

The Paris Press accorded the warmest greeting to Tchaikovsky, whose name
was as yet almost unknown to them, the most appreciative criticisms
being expended upon the Concerto. _The Tempest_ came in for its share
of applause, while the violin pieces were not so well received.

The importance of Tchaikovsky’s success was, however, greatly overrated,
both by himself and all his friends, including N. Rubinstein. They none
of them realised that Paris forgets as lightly as it warms to
enthusiasm. Scarcely six months elapsed before _The Tempest_, which had
delighted the Parisian public at the Trocadéro, was received with
suspicion and curiosity, as the unknown work of an unknown composer of
queer Russian music.

About the same time, Bilse brought forward _Francesca da Rimini_ in
Berlin. Here, where Russian music had such propagandists as Hans von
Bülow and Klindworth, Tchaikovsky was not altogether unknown; but
although some of his works, like the Andante from the first quartet,
were almost popular, yet the composer had been regarded with a certain
disdain, and almost ignored by the majority of the German critics. This
time it was different. On the same evening as _Francesca_, Bilse also
conducted Brahms’s Second Symphony, which, being a novelty, drew all the
musical lights of Berlin to the concert. It was only thanks to these
circumstances that _Francesca_ was not entirely passed over by the
critics. The Press split into two camps: one stood up for Brahms and
attacked Tchaikovsky, the other took the opposite view. The hostile
party was the stronger. Richard Würst called the work “a musical
monstrosity.”[64] “We know,” he continued, “a few songs, pianoforte
pieces, and a Cossack fantasia (?) by this composer; these compositions
bear the stamp of an original talent, but are not pleasing on the whole.
In the Symphonic Fantasia (_Francesca_) this unpleasantness is so
obvious as to make us forget the originality of the composer. The first
and last allegros, which depict the whirlwinds of hell, have neither
subjects nor ideas, but only a mass of sounds, and these earsplitting
effects seem to us, from an artistic point of view, too much even for
hell itself. The middle section, which describes the unhappy fate of
Francesca, Paolo, and myself, shows--in spite of its endless length--at
least some trace of catching melody.” Another critic, O. Lumprecht
(_National Zeitung_, September 17th, 1878), applies to _Francesca_ such
terms as “madness,” “musical contortions,” etc.

Among the friendly party _Francesca_ was favourably compared to the
Brahms Symphony, especially by Moszkowski. Among private opinions should
be mentioned that of Hans von Bülow, who wrote to Tchaikovsky shortly
after the performance that he was far more charmed with _Francesca_ than
with _Romeo and Juliet_. Kotek says that Joachim was pleased with the
work in spite of his prepossession in favour of his friend Brahms, while
Max Bruch when asked his opinion of _Francesca_ replied: “I am far too
stupid to criticise such music.” In spite of the over-ruling of
unfavourable criticism, and its mediocre success with the public, Bilse
had the courage to repeat _Francesca da Rimini_ in the course of the
same season.

       *       *       *       *       *

Early in September Tchaikovsky returned to Moscow to take up his duties
at the Conservatoire. His quarters were already prepared for him.
Nevertheless, before returning to the town he had once loved and
believed to be a necessary part of his happiness, he had already
resolved “to leave it again at the earliest opportunity.”

This curious discrepancy between his actions and his intentions, this
external submission to, and inward protest against, the compelling
circumstances of life, so characteristic of Tchaikovsky, has already
become familiar to us. He was incapable of clearing a direct way for
himself to some definite goal; he could only desire intensely and await
with patience the course of events, until the obstacles gave way of
themselves and the path was open to him at last.

After the mental collapse he had suffered, and during the pause in his
creative activity in November and December, 1877, he thought of the
return to his old life in Moscow with fear and trembling, while still
regarding it as an inevitable necessity. The great distance which lay
between himself and Moscow softened all its sharpness of outline, and
veiled all the unpleasant side of life in that city. From far-away Italy
and Switzerland he no longer looked back upon everyday Moscow, but saw
rather the white City of the Tsars, with its flashing golden cupolas,
which was so dear to his patriotic soul. He no longer saw the
Conservatoire, with its tiresome classes and petty commonplace
interests, but a little group of true friends for whom he yearned. All
this drowned the resolve which already existed in his inmost heart,
never to return to his old way of life. He attributed this dislike of
his former existence to his ill-health, and cherished the hope that the
ideal conditions of his life abroad would restore his nerves and soothe
his irritability; he was convinced that he would completely recover, and
take up his professorship once more with a stout heart.

But it proved otherwise. From the month of January, when he was able to
arrange his life as he pleased, when, with improved health, the desire
to compose awoke once more--from the moment, in fact, in which his real
recovery began--life in Moscow seemed to him to be more dreadful and
impossible; his connection with the Conservatoire, and with the social
life of the capital, more and more unbearable; while the free,
untrammelled existence in which nothing hindered his creative activity
grew more attractive in his eyes. Never had Tchaikovsky been so
lastingly happy as during the period dating from 1878. Never had “the
calm, peaceful existence in solitude” appeared so alluring, nor his
imagination so quick and so varied. Consequently everything which
disturbed his existence at that happy time seemed hostile and
unfavourable to its continuance.

Only the weak bond of his promise to return to the Conservatoire
remained to be broken.

At the moment in which Tchaikovsky left the train in which he arrived
and set foot on Moscow soil, he was possessed with “the idea” of leaving
again as soon as possible. This thought gradually grew into a fixed
idea, under the influence of which everything that had once been dear to
him--his faithful friends included--stirred in him an exaggerated
feeling of resentment and, by way of reaction, caused everything which
reminded him of his freedom to appear in a rosy light. In his first
letters from Moscow he scarcely speaks on any other topic but the
irksomeness of life there, and the delight with which he looks back to
every detail of his visits to Italy, Switzerland and Brailov.

There was nothing to be done, however, until Rubinstein’s return from
the Paris Exhibition, which would not be before the end of September.

     “I had been anxiously awaiting his coming,” wrote Tchaikovsky to
     Nadejda von Meck, “because I wanted to tell him, as soon as
     possible, of my intention to retire from the Conservatoire. He was
     received with great rejoicings, and a dinner in his honour was
     given at ‘The Hermitage,’[65] at which I was present. In his reply
     to the first toast to his health, Rubinstein said he had been
     greatly gratified by the success of my works at his concerts, that
     the Conservatoire had reason to be proud of its connection with so
     famous a man, etc. The speech ended in an ovation to me. I need
     hardly tell you how painful this speech and ovation were.

     “The next day I informed him of my future plans. I expected
     Nicholas Rubinstein to burst forth with indignation, and try to
     convince me that it was better for me to stay where I was. On the
     contrary, he listened to me laughingly, as one might to a tiresome
     child, and expressed his regret. He merely remarked that the
     Conservatoire would lose a great deal of its prestige with the
     withdrawal of my name, which was as good as saying that the pupils
     would not really suffer much by my resignation. Probably he is
     right, for I am a poor and inexperienced teacher--yet I anticipated
     greater opposition to my resignation.”

It was decided that Tchaikovsky should stay on for a month or two at the
Conservatoire, in order to give his successor Taneiev time to prepare
for his classes; but when it was announced that Hubert, not Taneiev, was
to succeed him, he “hastened the course of events” and informed
Rubinstein that he should leave Moscow early in October.

From Moscow Tchaikovsky went to St. Petersburg, which was equally
unsuited to his condition of mind. The invitations to dinners, suppers,
and evening parties, fatigued him and wore him out. The bad impression
which Petersburg left upon him on this occasion was increased by the
disappointment he experienced as regards his favourite opera, _Vakoula
the Smith_, which was just being given at the Maryinsky Theatre.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “PETERSBURG, _October_ 30_th_ (_November_ 11_th_), 1878.

     “_Vakoula the Smith_ went quite smoothly and well, just as it did
     at the first performance; but it was very stereotyped and
     colourless. All the while I felt angry with one man: that was
     _myself_. Good Lord! what heaps of unpardonable mistakes there are
     in this opera which I alone could have made! I have done my best to
     neutralise the effect of all those situations which were calculated
     to please. If only I had held the purely musical inspiration in
     check, and kept the scenic and decorative effects more in view! The
     entire opera suffers from a plethora of details and the tiresome
     use of chromatic harmonies. _C’est un menu surchargé de mets
     épicés_. It contains too many delicacies and not enough simple,
     wholesome fare. The recent production of the opera has been a
     lesson to me for the future. I think _Eugene Oniegin_ is a step in
     advance.”




II


At the beginning of November Tchaikovsky went to Kamenka, and here for
the first time he began to breathe freely after two anxious and
depressing months.

“I feel very well here,” he wrote in November. To “feel well” was the
equivalent with him of “being equal to hard work.” As a matter of fact
he composed more at Kamenka in a fortnight than during the two months he
had spent in Moscow and Petersburg. On November 13th (25th) he wrote to
his brother Modeste:--

     “Inspiration has come to me, so the sketch of the Suite is almost
     finished. But I am anxious because I left the manuscript of the
     first three movements in Petersburg, and it may get lost. I wrote
     the last two movements here. This short and--if I am not
     mistaken--excellent Suite is in five movements: (1) Introduction
     and Fugue, (2) Scherzo, (3) Andante, (4) March Miniature, (5)
     Giant’s Dance.”

                          _To A. Tchaikovsky._

     “FLORENCE, _November_ 21_st_ (_December_ 3_rd_), 1878.

     “ ... I came here yesterday, direct from Vienna, without visiting
     Venice. I was met by Pakhulsky (Kotek’s successor with N. F. von
     Meck), who took me to my quarters, which were warm and bright, and
     all ready for their admiring tenant.

     “The apartment Nadejda Filaretovna has taken for me consists of a
     suite of five rooms: drawing-room, dining-room, bedroom,
     dressing-room, and a room for Alexis.

     “In the drawing-room there is a splendid grand piano, on the
     writing-table every kind of stationery, and two big bouquets. The
     furniture is luxurious. I am delighted that the house stands
     outside the town, and that I have such a beautiful view from my
     windows!

     “On the journey here I was troubled with the thought that Nadejda
     Filaretovna would be living so close to me; that we might meet. I
     even had a momentary suspicion that she might invite me. But a
     letter from her, which I found upon my writing-table yesterday,
     completely set my mind at rest. She will be leaving in three weeks,
     and during that time probably we shall not see each other once.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “FLORENCE, _November_ 20_th_ (_December_ 2_nd_), 1878.

     “ ... If you knew what a blessing this quiet, regular, and solitary
     life is, especially in such sympathetic surroundings! I shall begin
     the instrumentation of the Suite with ardour, because I am strongly
     attracted to a new subject for an opera: Schiller’s _Maid of
     Orleans_.... This idea came to me at Kamenka, while turning over
     the pages of Joukovsky. The subject offers much musical material.
     Verdi’s opera, _Giovanna d’Arco_, is not taken from Schiller in the
     first place, and secondly it is extremely poor. But I am glad I
     bought it. It will be very useful to compare the libretto with the
     French.”

     “_November_ 22_nd_ (_December_ 4_th_), 1878.

     “I have never thanked you, my good fairy, for the fine instrument.
     I often reproach myself for not being sufficiently grateful. On the
     other hand I am afraid of wearying you with my reiterated assurance
     of gratitude.”

                         _To P. I. Jurgenson._

     “FLORENCE, _November_ 24_th_ (_December_ 6_th_), 1878.

     “In the evening I often pace my verandah and enjoy the utter
     stillness. That strikes you as peculiar: how can anyone enjoy the
     absence of all sound, you will ask? If you were a musician, perhaps
     you, too, would have the gift of hearing, when all is still in the
     dead silence of night, the deep bass note which seems to come from
     the earth in its flight through space. But this is nonsense!”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “FLORENCE, _November_ 26_th_ (_December_ 8_th_), 1878.

     “Please send me the Lalo Concerto again. I only looked through the
     first movement attentively, and found it rather insipid. After what
     you have written I should like to run through the work again.

     “I read Italian pretty well, but speak it badly. Once upon a time I
     studied it and could speak fluently. That was in the days of my
     admiration for Ristori.

     “I place Massenet lower than Bizet, Délibes, or even Saint-Saëns,
     but he, too, has--like all our French contemporaries--that element
     of freshness which is lacking in the Germans.

     8 _p.m._

     “Modeste’s telegram was a pleasant surprise. I had no idea the
     Symphony (No. 4) was going to be played yet. His news of its
     success is entirely trustworthy. First, because Modeste knows that
     I am not pleased when people send me exaggerated reports of such
     events; and secondly because the Scherzo was encored--an undoubted
     proof of success. After this news I am entirely lost in our
     Symphony. All day long I keep humming it, and trying to recall how,
     where, and under what impression this or that part of it was
     composed. I go back to two years ago, and return to the present
     with joy! What a change! What has not happened during these years!
     When I began to work at the Symphony I hardly knew you at all. I
     remember very well, however, that I dedicated my work to you. Some
     instinct told me that no one had such a fine insight into my music
     as yourself, that our natures had much in common, and that you
     would understand the contents of this Symphony better than any
     other human being. I love this child of my fancy very dearly. It is
     one of the things which will never disappoint me.”

     The success of the Fourth Symphony, at a concert of the Russian
     Musical Society in St. Petersburg, on November 25th (December 7th),
     was most brilliant, and the Press was almost unanimous in its
     acknowledgment of the fact.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “FLORENCE, _November_ 27_th_ (_December_ 9_th_), 1878.

     “Permit me, dear friend, to give you my opinion of Lalo’s Concerto,
     which I have played through several times, and begin to know pretty
     thoroughly. Lalo is very talented, there is no doubt about it, but
     he is either a very young man--because all his deficiencies may be
     referred to a certain immaturity of style--or he will not go far,
     since, in a man of ripe age, these deficiencies point to an
     organic, incurable fault. I do not consider the Concerto as good as
     the ‘Spanish Symphony.’ All that was wild, lawless, and rhapsodical
     in the latter--which I attributed to the oriental and Moorish
     character of the Spanish melodies--is to be found also in the
     Concerto, which, however, is not at all Spanish. Let us analyse the
     first movement. It does not consist of two themes, as is usually
     the case, but of several--of five, in fact.

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     “This is too much. A musical work must be digestible, and should
     not consist of too many ingredients. Then, of these themes, only
     the fifth can be considered successful. The rest are colourless,
     or, like the second, made up of scraps, which have no organic unity
     and lack definite outline. Thirdly, every one of these themes,
     except the fifth, shows a monotonous method, which occurs only too
     often in the ‘Spanish Symphony’: the alternation of rhythms of 3
     and 2. If a man cannot keep his inspiration within the limits of
     balanced form, then he should strive, at least, to vary the rhythms
     of his themes; in this Concerto the rhythmical treatment is
     monotonous. I will say nothing about the laboured way in which the
     various episodes follow one another; it would take us too far
     afield. Then as to harmony. The Concerto is full of queer, wild
     harmonies. In a modest violin Concerto such spicy condiments are
     out of place; but apart from that, I must say they have a kind of
     crude character, because they are not the outcome of the essential
     musical idea, but are forced upon it, like a schoolboy’s bravado
     put on for his teacher’s benefit. Other passages--also in the
     schoolboy style--are really rather slovenly, so to speak. For
     instance, this ‘smudge’ _à la_ Moussorgsky, which occurs twice
     over:

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     “If we play this horrible combination in quavers we get the
     following:--

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     “This is repulsive, and quite unnecessary, because it is based upon
     nothing, and at first I took it for a misprint. Do not imagine, my
     friend, that it is the pedantic harmony master who speaks thus. I
     myself am very partial to dissonant combinations, when they have a
     motive, and are rightly used. But there are limits which must not
     be overstepped. Now, to enter into technical details, let me say
     that no breach of the laws of harmony, no matter whether it is
     harsh or not, really sounds well unless it has been made under the
     influence of the melodic origin. In other words, a dissonance
     should only be resolved harmonically, or melodically. If neither of
     these courses is adopted, we merely get abominations _à la_
     Moussorgsky. In the example cited above I might possibly be
     reconciled to the painful dissonance if, in the next bar, each part
     followed the melodic plan. But this is not the case with Lalo. With
     him abomination follows abomination. Now that I have done scolding,
     I will say something good. The various movements, although
     disconnected, show warmth and many beautiful details of harmony. On
     the whole the music has a piquant character peculiarly French,
     although not nearly so elegant as Bizet’s work.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “FLORENCE, _November_ 28_th_ (_December_ 10_th_), 1878.

     “Yesterday’s performance at Pergola left a sad impression upon me.
     What a deterioration Italian music has suffered! What commonplace,
     yet pretentious stuff! What an incredibly poor performance as
     regards orchestra and chorus! The staging, too, was wretched. Such
     scenery in the town where Raphael and Michael Angelo once lived!”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “FLORENCE, _December_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1878.

     “A great number of my works I regard as weak. Several of these (the
     minority) have been published. Of those unpublished, many no longer
     exist, such as the operas _Undine_ and _The Voyevode_ (which were
     never performed), the symphonic fantasia _Fatum_, a Festival
     overture on the Danish National Hymn, and a cantata; but you are
     welcome to those I have kept, in order to complete your
     collection. They are very poor, although they contain some episodes
     and details I should be sorry to see disappear for ever.

     “Laroche does not call me the enemy of programme music, but thinks
     I have no gift for this kind of work; therefore he describes me as
     an anti-programme composer. He takes every opportunity of
     expressing his regret that I so frequently compose programme music.
     What is programme music? Since for you and me a mere pattern of
     sounds has long since ceased to be music at all, all music is
     programme music from our point of view. In the limited sense of the
     word, however, it means symphonic, or, more generally, instrumental
     music which illustrates a definite subject, and bears the title of
     this subject. Beethoven partly invented programme music in the
     ‘Eroica’ symphony, but the idea is still more evident in the
     ‘Pastoral’. The true founder of programme music, however, was
     Berlioz, every one of whose works not only bears a definite title,
     but appears with a detailed explanation. Laroche is entirely
     opposed to a programme. He thinks the composer should leave the
     hearer to interpret the meaning of the work as he pleases; that the
     programme limits his freedom; that music is incapable of expressing
     the concrete phenomena of the physical and mental world.
     Nevertheless, he ranks Berlioz very highly, declares him to be an
     altogether rare genius and his music exemplary; but, all the same,
     he considers his programmes superfluous. If you care to hear my
     opinion on the subject, I will give it in a few words. I think the
     inspiration of a symphonic work can be of two kinds: subjective or
     objective. In the first instance it expresses the personal emotion
     of joy or sorrow, as when the lyric poet lets his soul flow out in
     verse. Here a programme is not only unnecessary, but impossible. It
     is very different when the composer’s inspiration is stirred by the
     perusal of some poem, or by the sight of a fine landscape, and he
     endeavours to express his impressions in musical forms. In this
     case a programme is indispensable, and it is a pity Beethoven did
     not affix one to the sonata you mention. To my mind, both kinds of
     music have their _raison d’être_, and I cannot understand those who
     will only admit one of these styles. Of course, every subject is
     not equally suitable for a symphony, any more than for an opera;
     but, all the same, programme music can and must exist. Who would
     insist in literature upon ignoring the epic and admitting only the
     lyric element?”




III


Shortly after writing the above letter Tchaikovsky left Florence for
Paris. He did not remain there any length of time, but went to Clarens
on December 28th in order to work at _The Maid of Orleans_ in the quiet
atmosphere of the Villa Richelieu.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “CLARENS, _December_ 31_st_ (_January_ 12_th_), 1878.

     “To-day I began to work, and wrote out the first chorus of the
     first act. The composition of this work is rendered more difficult
     because I have no ready-made libretto, and have not yet come to any
     definite plan as to the general outline. Meanwhile, only the text
     for the first act is complete. This I have written myself, keeping
     as far as possible to Joukovsky’s version, although I have drawn
     upon other sources: Barbier, for instance, whose tragedy has many
     good points. I find the versification very difficult.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “CLARENS, _January_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1879.

     “I am very well pleased with my musical work. As regards the
     literary side of it, I believe it will cost me some days of my
     life. I cannot describe how it exhausts me. How many penholders I
     gnaw to pieces before a few lines grow perfect! How often I jump up
     in sheer despair because I cannot find a rhyme, or the metre goes
     wrong, or because I have absolutely no notion what this or that
     character would say at a particular moment! As regards rhyme, I
     think it would be a blessing if someone would publish a rhyming
     dictionary. If I am not mistaken, there is one in German, and
     perhaps in Russian too, but I am not sure of it.”

                         _To P. I. Jurgenson._

     “CLARENS, _January_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1879.

     “There exist, as you are aware, three remarkable personages, whom
     you know intimately: the feeble poetaster N. N.,[66] who has
     written a few verses for your editions of Russian songs; B. L.,[67]
     formerly musical critic of the _Russky Viedomosti_, and the
     composer and ex-professor, Mr. Tchaikovsky.

     “An hour or two ago Mr. Tchaikovsky invited the two other
     gentlemen--who live with him--to follow him to the piano, and
     played them the second act of his new opera _The Maid of Orleans_.
     Mr. Tchaikovsky, who is on very intimate terms with Messrs. N. N.
     and B. L., conquered his timidity without much difficulty, and
     played his new work with great skill and inspiration. You should
     have seen the enthusiasm of these two gentlemen! Anyone might have
     supposed they had some share in the composition of the opera, to
     see how they strutted about the room and admired the music.
     Finally, the composer, who had long tried to preserve his modesty
     intact, was infected by their enthusiasm, and all three rushed on
     to the balcony, as though possessed, to cool their disordered
     nerves and control their wild desire to hear the rest of the opera
     as soon as possible. In vain Messrs. N. N. and B. L. endeavoured to
     persuade Mr. Tchaikovsky that operas could not be tossed out like
     pancakes, the latter began to despair over the weakness of human
     nature and the impossibility of transferring to paper in a single
     night all that had long been seething in his brain. Finally, the
     good folks induced the insane composer to calm himself, and he sat
     down to write to a certain publisher in Moscow....”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “_January_ 20_th_ (_February_ 1_st_), 1879.

     “Of the music you sent me, I have only played, as yet, through the
     pieces by Grieg and two acts of Goldmark’s opera, _The Queen of
     Sheba_. I do not know if I ever told you that I bought _Le Roi de
     Lahore_ in Paris. Thus I possess two operas of the most modern
     French school. Let me tell you, dear friend, that I have no
     hesitation in giving the preference to _Le Roi de Lahore_. I know
     you do not care very much for Massenet, and hitherto I, too, have
     not felt drawn to him. His opera, however, has captivated me by its
     rare beauty of form, its simplicity and freshness of ideas and
     style, as well by its wealth of melody and distinction of harmony.
     Goldmark’s opera does not greatly please me--just enough to
     interest me in playing it through. Yet it is the work of a good
     German master. But all the German composers of the present day
     write laboriously, with pretensions to depth of thought, and strive
     to atone for their extraordinary poverty of invention by
     exaggerated colouring. For instance, the duet in the second act.
     How unvocal! How little freedom it gives to the singer! What
     insipid melodies! Massenet’s love duet, on the contrary, is far
     simpler, but a thousand times fresher, more beautiful, more
     melodious....

     “Learn to know this opera, dear friend, and give me your opinion
     upon it.

     “My work progresses. I am composing the first scene of Act III.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “CLARENS, _January_ 24_th_ (_February_ 5_th_), 1879.

     “Do not be surprised if my letter is somewhat incoherent. I am very
     tired after my day’s work. To-day I wrote the love duet in the
     second act, and it is very complicated, so that at the present
     moment my brain works with difficulty. I jumped from the first
     scene of the third act to the fourth, because it is not so easy,
     and I wanted to get the most difficult scene--between Lionel and
     Joan--off my mind. On the whole I am pleased with myself, but feel
     rather exhausted. In Paris, I will rest by returning to my Suite
     and leaving the two remaining scenes of the opera until my return
     to Russia.

     “I have added a new joy to life. In Geneva I bought the pianoforte
     arrangements of several Mozart and Beethoven quartets, and I play
     one every evening. You have no idea how I enjoy this, and how it
     refreshes me! I would give anything for my _Maid of Orleans_ to
     turn out as good as _Le Roi de Lahore_.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “_January_ 25_th_ (_February_ 6_th_), 1879.

     “I will gladly follow your advice and write to Jurgenson to send a
     copy of _Eugene Oniegin_ to Bülow. Generally speaking, I never send
     my works on my own initiative to musical celebrities, but Bülow is
     an exception, because he is really interested in Russian music and
     in me personally. He is the sole German musician who admits the
     possibility of the Russians rivalling the Germans as composers.
     Speaking of the German view of our compatriots, I do not think I
     ever told you about the fiasco of my _Francesca_ in Berlin this
     winter. Bilse gave it twice. The second performance was a daring
     act on his part, since after the first hearing the entire Press was
     unanimous in damning my unfortunate fantasia....”




IV


                         _To P. I. Jurgenson._

     “PARIS, _February_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1879.

     “Do you imagine I am going to dish you up my impressions of Paris?
     ‘You are mistaken, friend,’ as Kashkin is always saying. I only
     arrived early this morning. My departure from Clarens was highly
     dramatic. The landlady wept; the landlord shook me warmly by the
     hand; the maid (a very nice creature) also wept, so that I, too,
     was reduced to tears. I assure you I have never been so comfortable
     anywhere abroad as there. If circumstances permit, and no untoward
     changes occur in my life, I intend henceforth to spend a
     considerable part of each winter in Clarens....”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “_February_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1879.

     “At the present moment I am engaged upon the great _ensemble_ in
     the third act (septet and chorus), which presents many technical
     difficulties. The first part of the septet is finished, and very
     successful, if I am not mistaken. The brilliance and bustle of
     Paris have their advantages. The variety of circumstances and
     impressions distract my thoughts from the musical work. Perhaps
     this is the reason why the number which I expected to find most
     fatiguing has proved comparatively easy. For the books and music I
     am very grateful to you....”

                         _To P. I. Jurgenson._

     “PARIS, _February_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1879.

     “Here I live the life of an anchorite, and only emerge twice a day
     to satisfy the cravings of my stomach and take a little exercise.

     “Last Sunday, however, I had a real musical treat. Colonne
     conducted one of my favourite works--Berlioz’s _Faust_. The
     performance was excellent. It was so long since I had heard any
     good music that I was steeped in bliss, all the more because I was
     alone, with no acquaintances sitting by my side. What a work!! Poor
     Berlioz! As long as he was alive no one wanted to hear about him.
     Now the newspapers call him ‘the mighty Hector....’ O God, how
     happy I am now! Did I ever dream that I should enjoy life so
     much?...”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “PARIS, _February_ 19_th_ (_March_ 3_rd_), 1879.

     “My whole life long I have been a martyr to my enforced relations
     with society. By nature I am a savage. Every new acquaintance,
     every fresh contact with strangers, has been the source of acute
     moral suffering. It is difficult to say what is the nature of this
     suffering. Perhaps it springs from a shyness which has become a
     mania, perhaps from absolute indifference to the society of my
     fellows, or perhaps the difficulty of saying, without effort,
     things about oneself that one does not really think (for social
     intercourse involves this)--in short, I do not really know what it
     is. So long as I was not in a position to avoid such intercourse, I
     went into society, pretended to enjoy myself, played a certain part
     (since it is absolutely indispensable to social existence), and
     suffered horribly all the time. I could wax eloquent on the
     subject.... To cut a long story short, however, I will merely tell
     you that two years ago Count Leo Tolstoi, the writer, expressed a
     wish to make my acquaintance. He takes a great interest in music.
     Of course, I made a feeble attempt to escape from him, but without
     success. He came to the Conservatoire and told Rubinstein he had
     not left the town because he wanted to meet me. Tolstoi is very
     sympathetic towards my musical gifts. It was impossible to avoid
     his acquaintance, which was obviously flattering and agreeable. We
     met, and I, assuming the part of a man who is immensely gratified,
     said I was very happy--most grateful--a whole series of
     indispensable but insincere phrases. ‘I want to know you better,’
     he said; ‘I should like to talk to you about music.’ Then and
     there, after we had shaken hands, he began to give me his musical
     views. He considers Beethoven lacks inspiration. We started with
     this. Thus this writer of genius, this searcher of human hearts,
     began by asserting, in a tone of complete assurance, what was most
     offensive to the stupidity of the musician. What is to be done
     under such circumstances? Discuss? Yes, I discussed. But could such
     a discussion be regarded as serious? Properly speaking, I ought to
     have felt honoured by his notice. Probably another would have been.
     I merely felt uncomfortable, and continued to enact the
     comedy--pretending to be grateful and in earnest. Afterwards he
     called upon me several times, and although after this meeting I
     came to the conclusion that Tolstoi, if somewhat paradoxical, was
     straightforward, good, and in his way had even a fine taste for
     music, yet, at the same time, I had no more to gain from his
     acquaintance than from that of any other man.

     “The society of another fellow-creature is only pleasant when a
     long-standing intimacy, or common interests, make it possible to
     dispense with all effort. Unless this is the case, society is a
     burden which I was never intended by nature to endure.

     “This is the reason, dear friend, why I have not called upon
     Tourgeniev. There are numbers of people I might visit here.
     Saint-Saëns, for instance, on whom I promised to call whenever I
     was in Paris. Anyone else in my place would make the acquaintance
     of the local musicians. It is a pity I cannot, for I lose a good
     deal by my misanthropy. Oh, if you only knew how I have struggled
     against this weakness, how hard I have contended with my strange
     temperament in this respect!

     “Now I am at rest. I am finally convinced that at my age it is
     useless to continue my education. I assure you I have been very
     happy since I drew into my shell, and since music and books became
     my faithful and inseparable companions. As to intercourse with
     famous people, I know from experience that their works, musical or
     literary, are far more interesting than their personalities.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “PARIS, _February_ 22_nd_ (_March_ 6_th_), 1879.

     “DEAR MODI,--Yesterday was a very important day for me. Quite
     unexpectedly I finished the opera. When you have written the last
     word of a novel you will understand what a joy it is to feel such a
     weight off your mind. To squeeze music out of one’s brain every day
     for ten weeks is indeed an exhausting process. Now I can breathe
     freely!

     “Yesterday evening I walked about Paris feeling quite another man.
     I even _sauntered_, and perhaps that is why my old love for the
     place is reawakened. Perhaps, too, the fact that Colonne intends to
     give my _Tempest_ at the next Sunday concert has something to do
     with it. Now I see my name on all the hoardings and posters I feel
     quite at home. I will confess that although I am pleased, yet I am
     also rather anxious. I know beforehand that it will not be well
     played, and will be hissed by the public--the invariable fate of
     all my compositions abroad. Therefore it would be better if the
     performance took place after I have left Paris. It cannot be
     helped, however. I shall have to endure some misery on Sunday, but
     not much, because I am only here as a bird of passage, and I know
     that the time is coming when I need not endure any more.

     “In any case, yesterday and to-day I have strutted through the
     streets of Paris like a cock, and comforted myself with the feeling
     that I need not work. You would never have recognised your brother
     in a new overcoat, silk hat, and elegant gloves....”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “PARIS, _February_ 24_th_ (_March_ 8_th_), 1879.

     “Yesterday I saw _L’Assomoir_. It is interesting to sit through
     this piece, for it is highly entertaining to see washer-women
     getting up linen in the second scene, all the characters dead drunk
     in the sixth, and in the eighth, the death of a confirmed toper in
     an attack of _delirium tremens_. The play deals a double blow at
     that feeling for beauty which exists in us all. First, it is
     adapted from a novel written by a talented, but cynical, man who
     chooses to wallow in human filth, moral and physical. Secondly, to
     make it more effective and pander to the taste of the Boulevard
     public, a melodramatic element has been brought into the play which
     is not in keeping with the rest of it. In this way _L’Assomoir_
     loses on the stage its chief merit--the wonderfully realistic
     presentment of everyday life.

     “But what do you think of Monsieur Zola, the high priest of the
     realistic cult, the austere critic who recognises no literary art
     but his own, when he allows perfectly unreal and improbable
     episodes and characters to be tacked on to his play--all for the
     sake of a royalty?”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “PARIS, _February_ 26_th_ (_March_ 10_th_), 1879.

     “Yesterday was a very exciting day. In the morning at the Châtelet
     Concert the performance of my _Tempest_ took place. The agonies I
     endured are the best proof that a country life is the most
     tolerable for me. What used to be a pleasure--the hearing of one
     of my own works--has now become a source of misery. The evening
     before I began to suffer from colic and nausea. My agitation
     continued to grow _crescendo_ until the opening chords, and while
     the work was proceeding I felt I should die of the pain in my
     heart. It was not the fear of failure with the public, but because
     lately the first hearing of all my works has brought me the
     sharpest disappointment. Mendelssohn’s _Reformation_ symphony
     preceded _The Tempest_, and all the time I was admiring this fine
     masterpiece. I have not attained to the rank of a master. I still
     write like a gifted young man from whom much is to be expected.
     What surprised me chiefly was the fact that my orchestration
     sounded so poor. Of course, my reason told me I was exaggerating my
     own defects, but this was no great consolation. _The Tempest_ was
     not badly played. The orchestra took pains, but showed no warmth of
     enthusiasm. One member of the band (a ‘cellist) kept staring,
     smiling, and nodding his head, as much as to say: ‘Excuse our
     playing such an extraordinary work; it is not our fault; we are
     ordered to play it, and we obey.’ After the last bars had died
     away, there followed some feeble applause, mingled with two or
     three audible hisses, at which the whole room broke out into
     exclamations of ‘O! O!’ which were intended as a kindly protest
     against the hisses. Then came silence. The whole business passed
     over me without leaving any special bitterness. I was only vexed to
     feel that _The Tempest_, which I have hitherto regarded as one of
     my most brilliant works, is in reality so unimportant. I left the
     room and, as the weather was very fine, took a two hours’ stroll.
     On returning home I wrote a card to Colonne, telling him that I
     could only remain another day in Paris, and could not therefore
     call to thank him personally.

     “I must soon leave Paris. I am reconciled to the failure of _The
     Tempest_. I speak of it as a failure _to myself_, but I console
     myself with the thought that after the opera and the Suite I shall
     at last compose a fine symphonic work. And so, in all probability,
     I shall strive for mastery until my last breath, without ever
     attaining it. Something is lacking in me--I can feel it--but there
     is nothing to be done.”

The _Gazette Musicale_ published Tchaikovsky’s letter to Colonne, which
ran as follows:--

     “SIR,--As luck would have it, I came to Paris for one day only, the
     very one upon which you presented my _Tempest_ to the public. I was
     at the Châtelet. I heard it, and hasten to thank you for the kind
     and flattering attention bestowed on my music, and for your fine
     interpretation of my difficult and ungrateful work. I also send my
     hearty thanks to the members of your splendid orchestra for the
     trouble they took to interpret every detail of the score in the
     most artistic way.

     “As to the feeble applause and somewhat energetic hisses with which
     the public greeted my unlucky _Tempest_, they affected me deeply,
     but did not surprise me--I expected them. If a certain degree of
     prejudice against our Muscovite barbarity had something to do with
     this, the intrinsic defects of the work itself are also to blame.
     The form is diffuse and lacking in proportion. In any case the
     performance which, as I have said, was excellent, has nothing to do
     with the failure of the work.

     “I should certainly have gone round to shake hands with you and
     express my gratitude in person, had not the state of my health
     prevented my doing so. I am only passing through Paris. I am
     obliged therefore, dear sir, to have recourse to my pen, in order
     to convey to you my thanks. Rest assured that my gratitude will not
     be effaced from my heart.

     “Your devoted
“P. T.”



In publishing this letter, the _Gazette Musicale_ preceded it by a few
lines in praise of “this rare witness to the noble and sincere modesty
of a composer.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “PARIS, _February_ 27_th_ (_March_ 11_th_), 1879.

     “For the first time in my life I have read Rousseau’s
     _Confessions_. I do not know if I ought to recommend the book to
     you, supposing you have never read it, for side by side with
     passages of genius, it contains much cynical information which
     makes it almost unfit for a woman to read. Nevertheless I cannot
     help admiring the astonishing strength and beauty of style, as well
     as the true and profound analysis of the human soul. Apart from
     this, I find an indescribable delight in recognising features in my
     own character which I have never met with before in any literary
     work, and which are here described with extraordinary subtlety. For
     instance, he explains why, being a clever man, he never succeeds in
     giving any impression of his cleverness when in society. He speaks
     of his misanthropical tendencies, and of the unbearable necessity
     of keeping up forced conversations, when, in order to keep the ball
     rolling, one is obliged to pour forth empty words which in no way
     express the result of intellectual work, or spiritual impulse. How
     subtle and true are his remarks upon the scourge of social life.”

At the beginning of March Tchaikovsky returned to St. Petersburg. As
invariably happened when his solitude was interrupted and a break in his
work occurred, he now passed through a period of depression and
discontent with his surroundings, which were actually in no way to blame
for his frame of mind.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “_March_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1879.

     “ ... On Friday I go to Moscow with my brothers to attend the first
     performance of _Eugene Oniegin_, after which I shall return to
     Petersburg, where I remain until Easter.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “PETERSBURG, _March_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1879.

     “I have just returned from Moscow. Instead of leaving on Friday, I
     went on Wednesday, because Jurgenson telegraphed that my presence
     was required at the last rehearsal. I arrived just before the
     costume rehearsal took place. The stage was fully lighted, but the
     hall itself was quite dark, which gave me the opportunity of
     concealing myself in a corner and listening to the opera
     undisturbed. On the whole the performance was very satisfactory.
     The orchestra and chorus got through their business splendidly. The
     soloists, on the other hand, left much to be desired....

     “These hours, spent in a dark corner of the theatre, were the only
     pleasant ones during my visit to Moscow. Between the acts I saw all
     my former colleagues once more. I observed with delight that the
     music of _Oniegin_ seemed to win their favour. Nicholas Rubinstein,
     who is so parsimonious in praise, told me that he had ‘fallen in
     love’ with it. After the first act Taneiev wanted to express his
     sympathy, instead of which he burst into tears. I cannot really
     tell you how this touched me.... On Saturday (the day of the
     performance) my brothers and a few other Petersburgers, among them
     Anton Rubinstein, arrived early.

     “Throughout the day I was greatly excited, especially as I had
     yielded to Nicholas Rubinstein’s entreaty and declared my
     willingness to come before the curtain in case I should be called
     for.

     “During the performance my excitement reached its zenith. Before it
     began, Nicholas Rubinstein invited me behind the scenes, where, to
     my horror, I found myself confronted by the whole Conservatoire. At
     the head of the professors stood. Nicholas Grigorievich himself,
     who handed me a wreath, amid the hearty applause of the bystanders.
     Of course I had to say a few words in answer to Rubinstein’s
     speech. God knows what it cost me! Between the acts I was recalled
     several times. I have never seen such an enthusiastic audience. I
     draw this conclusion from the fact that it was invariably
     myself--not the performers--who received a recall.

     “After the performance there was a supper at ‘The Hermitage,’ at
     which even Anton Rubinstein was present. I have absolutely no idea
     whether my _Oniegin_ pleased him or not. He never said a word to me
     on the subject. It was 4 a.m. before I returned home with a
     splitting headache, and spent a wretched night. I recovered during
     the return journey to Petersburg, and to-day I feel quite
     refreshed. I shall try not to go out during the next fortnight, but
     to give myself up in earnest to the instrumentation of my Suite.”

To Tchaikovsky’s account of the first performance, I can only add my
personal impression that the actual success of the opera was poor, and
the ovation given to my brother was rather in consideration of former
services than in honour of the music itself, which had only a moderate
success.

This cool reception of a work, afterwards to become one of Tchaikovsky’s
most popular operas, can be accounted for in the first place by its
indifferent interpretation. It had been carefully prepared, but was
entrusted to inexperienced students of the Conservatoire, instead of
mature artists; consequently the work was not represented in its best
light. The comparatively recent period of the tale, and the audacity of
the librettist in representing upon the stage the almost canonised
personality of Tatiana, and, what was still worse, the additions made to
Poushkin’s incomparable poem--all contributed to set public taste
against the opera. Besides which, both libretto and music lacked those
dramatic incidents which generally evoke the public enthusiasm.

Respecting Anton Rubinstein’s judgment of _Eugene Oniegin_, the widow of
the great pianist said that her husband was not at all pleased with the
opera at the first hearing. On his return to Petersburg he criticised
the work from beginning to end, and declared it to be utterly wanting in
the “grand opera style.” Some years later he altered his opinion, and
when his wife reminded him of the first failure of the work, replied:
“What do you know about it? No one who has been brought up upon gipsy
songs and Italian opera has any right to criticise such a composition.”

With the exception of Laroche, most of the critics praised _Eugene
Oniegin_, although without much enthusiasm.




V


Early in April Tchaikovsky left Petersburg for Kamenka.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _April_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1879.

     “My opera reposes for the time being in my portfolio. I am working
     at the Suite. To-day I finished the score, and to-morrow I shall
     start upon the arrangement for four hands....

     “I have another fortnight’s work to bestow upon the Suite. At
     Brailov I shall be able to give myself up entirely to my increasing
     love of nature. There is no other spot in the world which can offer
     me so much in this respect. To live in your house, to feel myself
     free and alone, to be able to visit the forests every day and
     wander all day among the flowers, to listen to the nightingale at
     night, to read your books, play upon your instruments and think of
     you--these are joys I cannot find elsewhere.”

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “KAMENKA, _April_ 22_nd_ (_May_ 4_th_), 1879.

     “I am beginning to be proud of my works, now that I see what an
     extraordinary effect some of them make. Everyone here is crazy over
     the Andante, and when I played it with my brother as a pianoforte
     duet, one girl fainted away (this is a fact!!). To make the fair
     sex faint is the highest triumph to which any composer can attain.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “BRAILOV, _May_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1879.

     “Yesterday I began to study the score of _Lohengrin_. I know you
     are no great admirer of Wagner, and I, too, am far from being a
     desperate Wagnerite. I am not very sympathetic to Wagnerism as a
     principle. Wagner’s personality arouses my antipathy, yet I must do
     justice to his great musical gift. This reaches its climax in
     _Lohengrin_, which will always remain the crown of all his works.
     After _Lohengrin_, began the deterioration of his talent, which was
     ruined by his diabolical vanity. He lost all sense of proportion,
     and began to overstep all limits, so that everything he composed
     after _Lohengrin_ became incomprehensible, impossible music which
     has no future. What chiefly interests me in _Lohengrin_ at present
     is the orchestration. In view of the work which lies before me, I
     want to study this score very closely, and decide whether to adopt
     some of his methods of instrumentation. His mastery is
     extraordinary, but, for reasons which would necessitate technical
     explanations, I have not borrowed anything from him. Wagner’s
     orchestration is too symphonic, too overloaded and heavy for vocal
     music. The older I grow, the more convinced I am that symphony and
     opera are in every respect at the opposite poles of music.
     Therefore the study of _Lohengrin_ will not lead me to change my
     style, although it has been interesting and of negative value.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “BRAILOV, _May_ 7_th_ (19_th_), _1879_.

     “Yesterday I was talking to Marcel about the completion of the
     Catholic chapel, started long ago, but interrupted by order of the
     Government. Now the necessary permission has been obtained, and the
     priest has funds for the work; but another difficulty exists which
     you alone can overcome. One of your offices just touches the wall
     of the church, and could easily be transported to another spot.
     Last year I went into the chapel in which the service is held, and
     I must honestly say that I was sorry to see this obvious proof of
     Catholic persecution ... it is not large enough to hold a tenth
     part of the congregation. I am an energetic champion of religious
     freedom. Marcel tells me the priest did not like to trouble you
     with his requests, therefore I am animated with a desire to come to
     his assistance. I take the liberty of telling you that the
     Catholics of Brailov are hoping for your kind permission to have
     your building removed. If this should prove to be impossible, at
     least forgive me, dear friend, for my untimely interference on
     their behalf.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “BRAILOV, _May_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1879.

     “I have just been in the church attached to the monastery. There
     were many people, both in the church and in the courtyard of the
     building. I heard the blind ‘lyre singer.’ He calls himself ‘lyre
     singer’ on account of the instrument with which he accompanies
     himself, which, however, has nothing in common with the lyre of
     antiquity. It is curious that in Little Russia every blind beggar
     sings exactly the same tune with the same refrain. I have used part
     of this refrain in my Pianoforte Concerto.

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     “At the present moment I am writing on the balcony. Before me is
     the bunch of lilies of the valley from Simakov. I am never tired of
     looking at these enchanting creations of nature.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _May_ 29_th_ (_June_ 10_th_), 1879.

     “To-day I finished the first act of my opera (_The Maid of
     Orleans_). It has grown into a somewhat bulky score. What a delight
     to look through a newly finished score! To a musician a score means
     something more than a collection of all kinds of notes and pauses.
     It is a complete picture, in which the central figures stand out
     clearly from the accessories and the background.

     “To me every orchestral score is not merely a foretaste of oral
     delight, but also a joy to look upon. For this reason I am
     painfully particular about my scores, and cannot bear corrections,
     erasures, or blots.”[68]

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _June_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1879.

     “Early this morning I had a telegram from Jurgenson, to say he had
     won his case against Bachmetiev, the Director of the Imperial
     Chapel. I think I told you that early last year my Liturgy (of St.
     John Chrysostom) was confiscated from Jurgenson’s by order of
     Bachmetiev.... Only those works which have been recognised by the
     Chapel can be publicly sold or performed. This is the reason why,
     until now, no Russian musicians have written Church music. After
     the confiscation of my composition, Jurgenson brought an action for
     damages against Bachmetiev, and has won his case.... This does not
     matter so much for my Liturgy, as for the principle involved.

     “Twenty-five years ago to-day my mother died. It was the first
     profound sorrow of my life. Her death had a great influence on the
     fate of myself and our entire family. She was carried off by
     cholera, quite unexpectedly, in the prime of life. Every moment of
     that terrible day is still as clear in my remembrances as though it
     had happened yesterday.”

On June 20th Tchaikovsky wrote to N. F. von Meck that he had received
three very agreeable letters from abroad. In one Colonne expressed his
respect in the kindliest manner, and assured Tchaikovsky that, in spite
of the cold reception of _The Tempest_, his name should figure again in
the programmes of the Châtelet. A second communication came from the
‘cellist Fitzenhagen (professor at the Moscow Conservatoire), telling
him of the impression he had created with the “Variations on a Rococo
theme” at the Wiesbaden Festival. Liszt remarked on this occasion, “At
last here is music again.” The third letter--from Hans von
Bülow--announced the great success of Tchaikovsky’s first Pianoforte
Concerto at the same festival. Von Bülow had already played it with even
greater success in London.

Almost on the same day Tchaikovsky also heard the good news that his
Liturgy had been performed in the University Church at Kiev.




VI


On August 7th Tchaikovsky finished the third act of _The Maid of
Orleans_ and, suffering from physical and nervous exhaustion, left
Kamenka for Simaki,[69] as Nadejda von Meck was occupying her house at
Brailov.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “I am enchanted. I could not imagine more beautiful surroundings.
     The garden in which I have just been walking with Pakhulsky has
     surpassed all my expectations. The house is a splendid retreat! If
     you only realised how much I am in need just now of all the
     comforts which I get as your guest in this delightful spot!

     “I intend to finish the orchestration of the last act of my opera
     while I am here, and shall begin work to-morrow. I shall get this
     heavy burden off my shoulders, and then I can draw breath and enjoy
     the incomparable sensation of having completed a long work.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “SIMAKI, _August_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1879.

     “I hasten to send you my first impressions of this place. A very,
     very old house, a shady garden with ancient oaks and lime trees; it
     is very secluded, but therein lies its charm. At the end of the
     garden flows a stream. From the verandah there is a fine view over
     the village and the forests. The absolute quiet and comfort of the
     place exactly suit my taste and requirements. I have at my disposal
     an old manservant called Leon, a cook whom I never see, and a
     coachman with a phaeton and four horses. I could gladly dispense
     with the last, since it necessitates my driving occasionally, while
     in reality I prefer to walk. The proximity of Nadejda Filaretovna
     troubles me somewhat, although it is really folly. I know my
     seclusion will not be disturbed. I am so accustomed to regard her
     as a kind of remote and invisible genius that the consciousness of
     her mortal presence in my neighbourhood is rather disconcerting.
     Yesterday I met Pakhulsky, who spent part of the evening with me.
     But I told him plainly that I wanted to be left quite alone for a
     few days.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “_August_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1879.

     “Pakhulsky told me that next time he came he was to bring
     Milochka[70] with him. I am very fond of Milochka; it is a pleasure
     to look at the photograph of her charming face. I am sure she is a
     dear, sweet, sympathetic child. I love children, and could only say
     ‘yes’ to such a proposal. But what I could not say to Pakhulsky I
     can say to you.

     “Forgive me, dear friend, and make fun of my mania if you like--but
     I am not going to invite Milochka here, for this reason: my
     relations towards you--as they exist at present--are my chief
     happiness, and of the greatest importance to my well-being. I do
     not want them altered by a hair’s breadth. The whole charm and
     poetry of our friendship lies in your being so near and so dear to
     me, while at the same time I do not know you at all in the ordinary
     sense of the word. This condition of things must extend to your
     nearest belongings. I will love Milochka as I have hitherto loved
     you. If she appeared before me--_le charme serait rompu!_

     “Every member of your family is dear to me--particularly
     Milochka--yet for God’s sake let everything remain as it has been.
     What could I say if she asked me why I never went to see her
     mother? I should have to open our acquaintance with a _lie_. This
     would be a grief to me, even though it were a trifling falsehood.
     Pardon my frankness, dear and noble friend....

     “If you have Beethoven’s Sonatas, be so kind as to send them to
     me.”

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “SIMAKI, _August_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1879.

     “Time slips away unobserved. Yesterday something very painful
     happened. About four o’clock in the afternoon I was walking in the
     woods, feeling sure I should not meet Nadejda Filaretovna, because
     it was her dinner-hour. It chanced, however, that I went out a
     little earlier, and she was dining somewhat later, so we ran
     against each other quite by chance. It was an awkward predicament.
     Although we were only face to face for a moment, I felt horribly
     confused. However, I raised my hat politely. She seemed to lose her
     head entirely and did not know what to do. She was in one carriage
     with Milochka, and the whole family followed in two others. I
     wandered into the forest in search of mushrooms, and when I
     returned to the little table where tea was prepared for me, I found
     my letters and newspapers awaiting me. It appears she sent a man on
     horseback to look for me, so that I might get my post at tea-time.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “SIMAKI, _August_ 27_th_ (_September_ 8_th_), 1879.

     “Now I can almost say _finished_! I have worked at _The Maid of
     Orleans_ from the end of November (Florence) to the end of August
     (Simaki), just nine months. It is remarkable that I began and
     finished this opera as the guest of my dear friend.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “_August_ 31_st_ (_September_ 12_th_), 1879.

     “Do you not like such grey days as to-day? I love them. The
     beginning of autumn can only be compared to spring as regards
     beauty. It seems to me September, with its tender, melancholy
     colouring, has a special power to fill me with calm and happy
     feelings. Around Simaki there are many delightful spots which I
     like best to frequent at sunset, or on sunless days like to-day.
     For instance, if you turn to the right, past the kitchen garden,
     and take the lower path (parallel to the village) by the fen where
     the reeds grow. I am very fond of that spot. But by day the sun
     spoils the picturesque view of the village.

     “At evening, too, or on a cloudy day, it is delightful to sit on
     some high-lying spot, and look over the old willows, or poplars,
     across to the village, with its modest church (what a charm is
     given to every rural landscape by these churches), and far away to
     the distant forests. I often spend an hour in this way....”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_August_ 31_st_ (_September_ 12_th_), 1879.

     “I have just received a telegram from Anatol: ‘Have just been
     dismissed in consequence of an unpleasantness in my department.
     Most anxious to speak to you.’ I am starting for Petersburg at
     once. A great fear of the future possesses me. In spite of the many
     delightful moments spent here, I have had a continual foreboding of
     something unlucky, and always about Toly.”




VII

1879-1880


                         _To P. I. Jurgenson._

     (_Early in September._)

     “You will be very much astonished to hear of my being in
     Petersburg. I was summoned by a telegram from my brother Anatol,
     announcing that in consequence of some unpleasantness he had to
     resign his position in the Government service.... I think the
     matter can be so arranged that he can keep his place....

     “I do not know how long I shall stay here. It depends upon the
     progress of my brother’s affairs. O detested Petersburg!”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “PETERSBURG, _September_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1879.

     “I received your letter yesterday, dear friend. How I envied you
     when I read your account of the lovely autumn weather you were
     enjoying! The weather is not bad here, but what is the use of it to
     me?

     “I often go to the opera, but I do not enjoy it much. The
     impossibility of escaping from innumerable acquaintances bores me
     dreadfully. No matter where I hide myself, there are always idle
     people who poison my pleasure in the music by their kind
     attentions. They will worry me with the usual commonplace
     questions: ‘How are you?’ ‘What are you composing now?’ etc. But
     the invitations are the most intolerable. It requires so much
     courage to refuse them.

     “In one of your letters you asked me to tell you the whole method
     of procedure in order to get an opera accepted for performance. One
     has to send the score and pianoforte arrangement, with a written
     request for its performance, to the Direction of the Imperial Opera
     House. Then, in order to be successful, one must set in motion the
     whole machinery of solicitation and entreaty. This is just what I
     do not understand. My first two operas were performed, thanks to
     the assistance of the Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich who likes
     my music. How things will go this time I cannot say. I shall
     impress upon Jurgenson to do all that is necessary. Two days ago I
     was talking to Napravnik (one of the worthiest members of the
     musical world), who takes a lively interest in the fate of my
     opera. He told me it could not be performed this season, but
     advised me to send in the score as soon as possible.”

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “MOSCOW, _September_ 20_th_ (_October_ 2_nd_), 1879.

     “Forgive me for not having written before to-day. Yesterday it was
     impossible.... Rubinstein and Jurgenson soon put in an appearance,
     and compelled me to leave the tea, upon which I had just started,
     and go out to breakfast with them. O Moscow! Scarcely has one set
     foot in it before one must needs begin to drink! At five o’clock I
     was invited to dinner at the Jurgensons’, where we began again. I
     cannot tell you how strange and repugnant to me is this Moscow
     atmosphere of swilling.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “GRANKINO, _September_ 25_th_ (_October_ 7_th_), 1879.

     “I left Moscow on the 22nd. No sooner did the train begin to move,
     and I saw the outskirts of the town, than the black curtain, which
     had hung before my eyes during the whole of my time in the two
     capitals, suddenly vanished. I was once more free and happy.

     “Here I found both your letters. I cannot tell you how glad I was
     to read your dear words. It was a surprise to hear our symphony was
     at last published, for the distracted Jurgenson forgot to mention
     this....

     “I owe you everything: my life, the possibility of going forward to
     distant goals, freedom, and that complete happiness which formerly
     I believed to be unattainable.

     “I read your letters with such a sense of eternal gratitude and
     affection that I cannot put it into words....”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _October_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1879.

     “At the present moment--I do not know why--I am going through an
     intense Italian craze. I feel so delighted, so happy, at the mere
     thought that before long I, too, shall be in Italy. Naples,
     Pompeii, Vesuvius ... enchanting, lovely!

     “I found the proofs of the Suite here. In three days I corrected
     and sent them back, so that I can now take a holiday--read, walk,
     play, dream--to my heart’s desire. For how long? I do not know. At
     any rate, I will not undertake any work during my first days in
     Naples. Do you not think that in the land of _lazzarone_ one must
     be lazy too?”

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “KAMENKA, _October_ 7_th_ (19_th_) 1879.

     “No news. I feel very well, only a little misanthropical now and
     then. To-day there are visitors. When there are none I feel quite
     at ease. We all sit and sew. I have hemmed and marked a
     pocket-handkerchief.”[71]

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _October_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1879.

     “How can I thank you for the trouble you have taken about our
     symphony? I am delighted Colonne will play it. At the same time
     there is no doubt it will have no success whatever with the public.
     Perhaps it might rouse a spark of sympathy in the hearts of ten or
     twelve people--and that would be a great step in advance.... Only
     one thing troubles me. Does Colonne really want to be paid for
     doing the work? It would gratify me to know that his readiness to
     perform the symphony was not based upon pecuniary considerations.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _October_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1879.

     “The last few days I have felt a secret dissatisfaction with
     myself, which has degenerated into boredom. I realised that I
     wanted work and began to occupy myself. The boredom immediately
     vanished and I felt relieved. I have begun a pianoforte concerto
     and intend to work at it without haste and over-fatigue.

     “Have you read V. Soloviev’s philosophical articles? They are
     admirably written; very popular in form, so that they do not
     overstep the intelligence of the ordinary reader, yet very clever.
     I do not know to what conclusions the writer will eventually come.
     In the last number he proves very effectively the untenableness of
     positivism, which denies metaphysics, yet cannot get along without
     philosophy. Soloviev speaks in a very striking way of the delusion
     of the materialists who, because they deny metaphysics, believe
     they are only dealing with what actually exists, that is, with the
     material; whereas the material has no objective existence, and is
     only a phenomenon, the result of the activity of our sense and
     intellect. I express his ideas very indifferently, but I advise you
     to read this book for yourself.

     “Yesterday I heard from Anatol about the performance of _Vakoula
     the Smith_, which took place the previous week. The theatre was
     full, but the public cool, just as on former occasions. Anatol
     attributes this to the indifferent performance. But I can see with
     startling clearness that this attitude of reserve is the outcome of
     my own stupid mistakes. I am glad to know that _The Maid of
     Orleans_ is free from the faults of my earlier pseudo-opera style,
     in which I wearied my listeners with a superfluity of details, and
     made my harmony too complicated, so that there was no moderation in
     my orchestral effects. Besides which, I gave the audience no
     repose. I set too many heavy dishes before them. Opera style should
     be broad, simple, and decorative. _Vakoula_ is not in true opera
     style, but is far more like symphonic or chamber music. It is only
     surprising that it has not proved a complete failure. It is
     possible that it may find favour with the public in course of time.
     I place it in the front rank of my works, although I see all its
     defects. It was a labour of love, an enjoyment, like _Oniegin_, the
     Fourth Symphony, and the Second Quartet.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _October_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1879.

     “Only a month--and I shall be at Naples! I look forward to this as
     a child to his birthday, and the presents it will bring. Meanwhile
     things are going well with me. My latest musical creation begins to
     grow and display more characteristic features. I work with greater
     pleasure and try to curb my habitual haste, which has often been
     injurious to my work.”

On October 21st Nicholas Rubinstein played Tchaikovsky’s Pianoforte
Sonata at a concert of the Musical Society in Moscow. The success was
so great that the famous pianist repeated it at his own concert in the
course of the same season.

On November 11th the composer’s First Suite had a decided success,
judging by the newspapers. The short number which Tchaikovsky once
thought of cutting out of the work was encored.

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “BERLIN, _November_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1879.

     “MY DEAR ANATOL,--I have had an ideal journey. I arrived in Berlin
     early this morning. After breakfast I went to see Kotek. The good
     man seemed wild with delight at seeing me again, and even I was
     glad. But at the end of two hours of musical tittle-tattle I was
     tired, and thankful he had to attend a rehearsal. Strange! The
     longer I live, the less I care for the society of my
     fellow-creatures. There is no doubt that I am fond of Kotek, but
     his chatter wearies me more than the severest physical exertion.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “PARIS, _November_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1879.

     “I know the Variations by Rimsky-Korsakov & Co.[72] very well. The
     work is original in its way and shows some remarkable talent for
     harmony in its authors. At the same time I do not care for it. It
     is too heavy and spun-out for a joke, and the everlasting
     repetition of the theme is--clumsy. As a work of art it is a mere
     nonentity. It is not surprising that a few clever men should have
     amused themselves by inventing all kinds of variations upon a
     commonplace theme; the surprising thing is their having published
     them. Only amateurs can suppose that every piquant harmony is
     worthy to be given to the public. Liszt, the old Jesuit, speaks in
     terms of exaggerated praise of every work which is submitted to his
     inspection. He is at heart a good man, one of the very few great
     artists who have never known envy (Wagner and in some measure Anton
     Rubinstein owe their success to him; he also did much for Berlioz);
     but he is too much of a Jesuit to be frank and sincere.”

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “PARIS, _November_ 19_th_ (_December_ 1_st_), 1879.

     “DEAR FRIEND,--What happiness to get right away from one’s own
     country! Not until I had passed the frontiers, did I breathe freely
     and feel at ease. On the journey I came across Joseph Wieniawsky,
     who was in the same corridor train. I immediately told him I was
     not alone, but travelling with a lady, upon which he winked at me
     slyly, as much as to say, ‘Of course, we know, shocking dog!’

     “At present I want to work slowly at my Concerto; later I mean to
     look through my old works, especially the Second Symphony, which I
     intend to revise thoroughly.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “PARIS, _November_ 21_st_ (_December_ 3_rd_), 1879.

     “To-day, being a Saint’s Day, Alexis went to church, and told me
     the Grand Duke Nicholas Nicholaevich, with all his suite in full
     uniform, had attended the service. I could not account for this
     until I took up the _Gaulois_ at breakfast, and read of an attempt
     made in Moscow on the Tsar’s life.... The Emperor escaped unharmed.

     “I do not believe, dear friend, that we are in immediate danger of
     a war with Prussia. Such a war, although inevitable, is improbable
     during the lives of the present emperors. How can it be possible to
     think of war, when such horrors are taking place in our midst?... I
     think the Tsar would do well to assemble representatives throughout
     all Russia, and take counsel with them how to prevent the
     recurrence of such terrible actions on the part of mad
     revolutionaries. So long as all of us--the Russian citizens--are
     not called to take part in the government of the country, there is
     no hope of a better future.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “PARIS, _November_ 26_th_ (_December_ 8_th_), 1879.

     “I am not altogether at one with you as regards Cui. I do not
     recognise in him any great creative power, although his music has a
     certain elegance, agreeable harmonies, and shows good taste, in
     which he is distinguished from the other members of ‘the band,’
     especially Moussorgsky. By nature Cui is more drawn towards light
     and piquantly rhythmic French music; but the demands of ‘the band’
     which he has joined compel him to do violence to his natural gifts
     and to follow those paths of would-be original harmony which do not
     suit him. Cui is now forty-four years of age and has only composed
     two operas and two or three dozen songs. He was engaged for ten
     years upon his opera _Ratcliff_. It is evident that the work was
     composed piecemeal, hence the lack of any unity of style.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “PARIS, _November_ 27_th_ (_December_ 9_th_), 1879.

     “Now I will answer your question. My _Voyevode_ is undoubtedly a
     very poor opera. I do not speak of the music only, but of all that
     goes to the making of a good opera. The subject is lacking in
     dramatic interest and movement, and the work was written hastily
     and carelessly. I wrote music to the words without troubling to
     consider the difference between operatic and symphonic style. In
     composing an opera the stage should be the musician’s first
     thought, he must not abuse the confidence of the theatre-goer who
     comes _to see_ as well as _to hear_. Finally, the style of music
     written for the stage should be the same as the decorative style in
     painting, clear, simple, and highly coloured. A picture by
     Meissonier would lose half its charm if exhibited on the stage; and
     subtle, delicately harmonised music would be equally inappropriate,
     since the public demands sharply defined melodies on a background
     of subdued harmony. In my _Voyevode_ I have been chiefly concerned
     with filigree work, and have forgotten the requirements of the
     stage.

     “The stage often paralyses a composer’s inspiration, that is why
     symphonic and chamber music are so far superior to opera. A
     symphony or sonata imposes no limitations, but in opera, the first
     necessity is to speak the musical language of the great public....
     The final defect of _The Voyevode_ lies in the heaviness of its
     orchestration, which overpowers the soloists. These are all the
     faults of inexperience; we must leave a whole series of failures
     behind us before we can attain to perfection. This is the reason
     why I am not ashamed of my first opera. It has taught me useful
     lessons. And you see, dear friend, how strenuously I have
     endeavoured to correct my errors. Even _Undine_ (the opera I
     burnt), _The Oprichnik_, and _Vakoula_ are not what they should be.
     I find this branch of art very difficult! I think _The Maid of
     Orleans_ at last fulfils every requirement, but perhaps I deceive
     myself. If it is so, if it turns out that I have failed to grasp
     the true opera style, even in this work, then I shall be convinced
     of the justice of the opinion that I am by nature only a symphonic
     composer and should not attempt dramatic music. In that case, I
     shall abandon all attempts at opera.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “PARIS, _December_ 1879.

     “I have read the proclamation you mention. It is impossible to
     conceive anything more astounding and cynical. How will such
     revolutionary proceedings forward the reforms with which, sooner or
     later, the Tsar will crown his reign? That which the Socialists are
     doing in the name of Russia is foolish and insolent. But equally
     false is their pretence of readiness to shake hands with all
     parties and to leave the Emperor in peace as soon as he summons a
     Parliament. This is not what they really aim at, for they mean to
     go further--to a socialist-republic, or to anarchy. But no one will
     swallow this bait. Even were a constitution granted to Russia in
     the remote future, the first act of the _Zemstvo_ should be
     extermination of this band of murderers who hope to become the
     leaders of the country.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “PARIS, _December_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1879.

     “The sketch of my Concerto is finished and I am very pleased with
     it, especially with the Andante. Now I shall take in hand the
     revision of my Second Symphony, of which only the last movement can
     be left intact. I published this work through Bessel in 1872, as a
     return for the trouble he took over the performance of _The
     Oprichnik_.... For seven years he has led me a dance over the
     engraving of the score--always putting me off with the assurance
     that it would soon be ready. I was sometimes furious with him, but
     his lack of conscience has proved itself a blessing in disguise!...
     If I succeed in working steadily in Rome, I shall make a good work
     out of my immature, mediocre symphony.”




VIII


After spending a few days in Turin, Tchaikovsky reached Rome on December
8th (20th), 1879. From thence he wrote, on the 12th (24th), to Frau von
Meck:--

     “Yesterday we made a pilgrimage to S. Pietro in Montorio. Probably
     you know the place, therefore I need not describe the beauty of the
     view from the terrace below the church. To-day I visited San
     Giovanni in Laterano and carried away some profound artistic
     impressions. I also went to Scala Santa. High Mass was being
     celebrated in the church. The choir sang a Mass _a capella_ and
     also with the organ. Quite modern music, utterly unsuitable in
     church, but beautifully sung. What voices there are in Italy! The
     tenor gave a solo, in the style of a wretched operatic aria, in
     such a magnificent voice that I was quite carried away. But the
     Mass itself lacks that solemn, poetical atmosphere with which our
     liturgy is surrounded.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ROME, _December_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1879.

     “It is Christmas here to-day. We went to Mass at St. Peter’s. What
     a colossal edifice--this cathedral!”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ROME, _December_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1879.

     “Yesterday we went up Monte Testaccio, with its lovely view of Rome
     and the Campagna. From there we visited S. Paolo Fuori le Mura, a
     basilica of huge proportions and vast wealth. To-day I am going for
     the first time to ‘do’ the Forum thoroughly. This has a three-fold
     interest for me because I am just reading Ampère’s _Histoire
     romaine à Rome_, in which all that has taken place in this building
     is minutely described.

     “I have a very good piano now. I got a few volumes of Bach’s works
     from Ricordi, and play a number of them, alone, or four-handed,
     with my brother Modeste. But work will not come back to me. Rome
     and Roman life are too characteristic, too exciting and full of
     variety, to permit of my sticking to my writing-table. However, I
     hope the power of work will gradually return. Yesterday I heard a
     charming popular song, of which I shall certainly make use some
     future day.”

                         _To P. I. Jurgenson._

     “ROME, _December_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1879.

     “DEAR FRIEND,-- ... Nicholas Rubinstein’s opinion that my Suite is
     so difficult that it is impossible, has surprised and annoyed me
     very much. Either Rubinstein is mistaken, or I must give up
     composing; one or the other. Why, it is my chief anxiety to write
     more easily and simply as time goes on, and the more I try--the
     worse I succeed! It is dreadful!

     “I asked Taneiev to write and tell me what actually constituted
     these terrible difficulties. I feel a little hurt that none of my
     friends telegraphed to me after the performance. I am forgotten.
     The one interest which binds me to life is centred in my
     compositions. Every first performance marks an epoch for me. Can no
     one realise that it would have been a joy to receive a few words of
     appreciation, by which I should have known that my new work had
     been performed and had given pleasure to my friends?

     “I do not understand what you say about the ‘Marche Miniature.’ We
     never cut it out. The March was to be kept, but as it was not
     suitable as No. 5 it was to be published at the end of the
     Suite.... For God’s sake answer my letters quicker. Your
     communication has upset my nerves and I feel as ill as a dog.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     ROME, _December_ 22_nd_ (_January_ 3_rd_, 1880), 1879.

     “To-day I went to the Capitol with Modeste. We spent an hour and a
     half in the Hall of the Emperors. The busts are highly
     characteristic! What a revolting, sensual, animal face Nero has!
     How sympathetic is Marcus Aurelius! How fine the old Agrippina! How
     repulsive Caracalla! Some of these countenances in no way bear out
     one’s idea of the originals. For instance, Julius Cæsar altogether
     lacks power and greatness; he looks like a Russian Councillor of
     State. And Trajan? Who could guess from his narrow forehead,
     prominent chin, and commonplace expression, that the original of
     the portrait was a great man?...”

A few days later, Tchaikovsky recounted to Nadejda von Meck his
impressions of the treasures of the Vatican:--

     “The frescoes of Michel Angelo now appear less incomprehensible to
     me, although I do not share Modeste’s enthusiasm for them. His
     athletic, muscular figures, and the gloomy vastness of his
     pictures, are gradually becoming more intelligible. His art now
     interests and overcomes me, but it does not delight me, or touch my
     heart. Raphael is still my favourite--the Mozart of painters.
     Guercino’s pictures please me very much, some of his Madonnas are
     so angelically beautiful, they fill me with silent ecstasy.
     However, I must confess that I am not gifted by nature with a fine
     appreciation of the plastic arts, for very few pictures make an
     impression upon me.... To study all the art treasures of Rome
     conscientiously would need a whole lifetime. To-day I discovered
     once more how important it is to look long and carefully at a
     picture. I sat before Raphael’s ‘Annunciation,’ and at first I did
     not see much in the picture, but the longer I looked the more
     profoundly was I penetrated with its beauty as a whole, and the
     wonder of its details. Alas! I had only just begun to really enjoy
     the work, when Modeste came to tell me it was three o’clock and
     time to go on to the Sistine Chapel.... I do not think I could live
     long in Rome. There are too many interests; it leaves no time for
     reflection, no time to deepen one’s own nature. I should prefer
     Florence as a permanent place of residence; it is quieter, more
     peaceful. Rome is richer and grander; Florence more sympathetic.

     “I agree with Goethe’s characteristic opinion of Rome.... ‘It would
     be a fine thing to spend a few centuries there in Pythagorean
     silence.’”

                     _S.I. Taneiev to Tchaikovsky._

     “MOSCOW.

     “N. Rubinstein has pointed out to me all those parts in the score
     of your Suite which he considers awkward.

     “The difficulties are chiefly centred in the wind instruments,
     especially in the wood-wind. They are as follows:--

     “(1) Too few pauses; the wood-wind have to play for too long at a
     time without opportunities for breathing. In those places where you
     have doubled the strings (as in the Fugue) it does not matter so
     much, they can make a slight break without its being observable.
     But it is very different when they are playing alone. For instance,
     in the newly added movement there is a part for three flutes which
     have to play triplets for twenty-two bars, without a break.

     “(2) Difficult passages: these occur very often in the wood-wind
     and demand _virtuosi_ to execute them properly. In the Andante the
     passages leading to the second theme are extremely difficult (where
     oboe and clarinet, and the second time flute and clarinet, have
     triplets of semi-quavers). This part went very badly at the
     rehearsals, and even at the concert, although the musicians had
     practised their parts at home. It offers such difficulties that it
     is impossible to render it with the expression marks indicated, for
     the musicians have enough to do to get their right note (the double
     flat for clarinet is particularly awkward).

     “(3) The compass of all the wood-wind instruments is too extended.
     The first bassoon usually plays in the tenor register, while the
     second takes the lower notes. Not only the musicians, but also
     their instruments, have got accustomed to this; the lower notes of
     the first bassoon are not quite in tune; the same thing applies to
     the upper notes of the second bassoon. But your Suite opens with a
     unison passage for both fagotti, which employs almost the entire
     range of these instruments: from

     [Illustration: musical notation] to [Illustration: musical
     notation]

     In the march the oboes have the following notes:--

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     which Z. played at the first rehearsal as:--

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     When Rubinstein asked him why he did not play the notes as they
     were written, he replied that he could do so, but it would be very
     bad for his lips, because they lay too high. The French oboe
     players, he continued, could bring out these high notes better,
     because they had different and finer mouthpieces; but with these
     mouthpieces the middle and lower notes suffered.

     “(4) Difficult rhythms which make the execution irregular. The
     absence, too, of what the Germans call “Anhaltspunkt”
     (punctuation)--the absence of notes on the strong beats of the bar.
     Take this rhythm in the Scherzo for instance:--

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     the last notes come on the second crotchet, and the pause on the
     third beat. In consequence, it is very difficult to play these
     notes equally, they always sound a little one on the top of the
     other. The same with the following passage:--

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     Altogether the Scherzo requires enormous virtuosity, which most
     members of the orchestra do not possess.

     “Apparently some passages do not sound as you thought they would.
     At the beginning of the Scherzo (where the wood-wind enters) there
     is a modulation to B♭ major through the dominant chord on F.

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     The superfluity of chromatic harmonies, as well as the difficulty
     of executing clearly all that is written for the wind, causes these
     passages to sound unintelligible and to have the effect of a series
     of wrong notes....”

                          _To S. I. Taneiev._

     “ROME, _January_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1880.

     “Nicholas Rubinstein’s explanation is not at all satisfactory. From
     all he says, I can plainly see that he was out of temper and
     visited it upon the Suite. No one will induce me to believe this
     passage

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     is difficult to play on the oboe or clarinet, or that the flutes
     cannot play twenty-two bars of triplets in a rapid tempo. They
     could easily manage to play such a passage for 220 bars. It would
     be very innocent to imagine that this must be done in one breath.
     They can breathe every time. I play the flute a little myself and
     am certain of it. Difficulty is a relative matter: for a beginner
     it would not only be difficult, but impossible, but for an
     averagely good orchestral player it is not hard. I do not lay
     myself out to write easy things; I know my instrumentation is
     almost always rather difficult. But you must admit that compared
     with _Francesca_, or the Fourth Symphony, the Suite is child’s
     play. Altogether Rubinstein’s criticisms are such that--were they
     accurate--I should have to lay down my pen for ever. What? For ten
     years I have taught instrumentation at the Conservatoire (not
     remarkably well perhaps, but without compromising myself), and two
     years later remarks are made to me which could only be addressed to
     a very backward pupil! One of two things: either I never understood
     anything about the orchestra, or this criticism of my Suite is on a
     par with N. R.’s remarks upon my Pianoforte Concerto in 1875: that
     it was impracticable. What was impossible in 1875 was proved quite
     possible in 1878.

     “I explain the whole affair thus: the oboist Herr Z. was in a bad
     temper--which not infrequently happens with him--and this infected
     Rubinstein. I like the idea that the high notes are ruination to
     Herr Z.’s lips!!! It is a thousand pities these precious lips, from
     which Frau Z. has stolen so many kisses, should be spoilt for ever
     by the E in alt. But this will not hinder me from injuring these
     sacred lips by writing high notes--notes moreover that every oboist
     can easily play, even without a French mouthpiece!”




IX


                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ROME, _January_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1880.

     “When I look back upon the year that has flown, I feel I must sing
     a hymn of thanksgiving to fate which has brought me so many
     beautiful days in Russia and abroad. I can say that throughout the
     whole year I have led a calm and cheerful life, and have been
     happy, so far as happiness is possible.”

                         _To P. I. Jurgenson._

     “ROME, _January_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1880.

     “My health is bad, and my mental condition not very good. I have
     had sad news from Petersburg: my sister is ill and also her
     daughter. Yesterday I heard of my father’s death. He was
     eighty-five, so this news did not altogether take me by surprise.
     But he was such a wonderful, angelic old soul. I loved him so much,
     it is a bitter grief to feel I shall never see him again.”

On hearing this news, Tchaikovsky burst into tears. Afterwards he became
quiet and resigned. But the peaceful end of this venerable old man could
not make a great gap in the busy life of his son, to whom,
notwithstanding, he had been very dear.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ROME, _January_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1880.

     “This morning I received an amiable letter from Colonne, telling me
     my symphony[73] would be given to-morrow at the Châtelet. This has
     vexed me. If he had written a day earlier, I might have reached
     Paris in time. But Colonne is not to blame because, in order to
     preserve my incognito, I told him I could not be present at the
     performance of my symphony, on account of my health.

     “How am I to thank you for this kindness, dear friend? I know the
     symphony will not have any success, but it will interest many
     people, and this is very important for the propaganda of my works.”

Although Colonne sent a telegram of congratulation immediately after the
concert, the letter which followed announced, in the politest manner,
the partial failure of the symphony. _La Gazette Musicale_ says the
first and last movements were received with “icy coldness,” and the
public only showed enthusiasm for the Scherzo, and portions of the
Andante.

Almost simultaneously with the performance of the Fourth Symphony in
Paris, Tchaikovsky’s Quartet No. 3, Op. 30, and the Serenade for violin
and pianoforte were given by the Société de S. Cécile. All the
newspapers were unanimously agreed as to the success of these works.

From this time Tchaikovsky’s works began to make their way abroad. From
New York, Leopold Damrosch sent him tidings of the great success of his
First Suite; while Jurgenson wrote to tell him of the triumph of his
Pianoforte Concerto in B♭ minor, which had been played twice by Bülow
and once by Friedenthal in Berlin, by Breitner in Buda-Pesth, and by
Rummel in New York.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ROME, _January_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1880.

     “What a superb work is Michel Angelo’s ‘Moses’! It is indeed
     conceived and executed by a genius of the highest order. It is said
     the work has some defects. This reminds me of old Fétis, who was
     always on the look-out for errors in Beethoven’s works, and once
     boasted in triumph of having discovered in the _Eroica_ symphony an
     inversion which was not in good taste.

     “Do you not think Beethoven and Michel Angelo are allied by
     nature?”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “_February_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1880.

     “Just now we are at the very height of the Carnival. At first, as I
     have told you, this wild folly did not suit me at all, but now I am
     growing used to it. Of course the character of the festival here is
     conditioned by climate and custom. Probably if a Roman was set down
     among us in our Carnival week, the crowd of tipsy people swinging
     and toboganning would seem to him even more barbarous!

     “I am working at the sketch of an Italian Fantasia based upon
     folksongs. Thanks to the charming themes, some of which I have
     taken from collections and some of which I have heard in the
     streets, this work will be effective.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “_February_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1880.

     “Yesterday we made the most of glorious weather and went to Tivoli.
     It is the loveliest spot I ever beheld. As soon as we arrived we
     went to lunch at the Albergo della Sybilla. Our table was near the
     edge of a ravine, where a waterfall splashed in the depths below;
     on all sides the steep banks and rocks were covered with pines and
     olive trees. The sun was hot as in June. After breakfast we took a
     long walk and visited the celebrated Villa d’Este, where Liszt
     spends three months every year. It is magnificent, and from the
     park there is a fine view over the Campagna.

     “To-day we went to the gallery of the Palazzo Borghese, in which
     there are some masterpieces. I was most impressed by Correggio’s
     superb picture ‘Danae.’[74]

     “Dear friend, leading such a life, amid all these beautiful
     impressions of nature and art, ought not a man to be happy? And yet
     a worm continually gnaws in secret at my heart. I sleep badly, and
     do not feel that courage and freshness which I might expect under
     the present conditions. Only for a moment can I conquer my mental
     depression. My God! What an incomprehensible and complicated
     machine the human organism is! We shall never solve the various
     phenomena of our spiritual and material existence. And how can we
     draw the line between the intellectual and physiological phenomena
     of our life? At times it seems to me as though I suffered from a
     mysterious, but purely physical, malady which influences my mental
     phases. Lately I have thought my heart was out of order; but then I
     remembered that last summer the doctor who examined it declared my
     heart to be absolutely sound. So I must lay the blame on my
     nerves--but what are nerves? Why, on one and the same day, without
     any apparent reason, do they act quite normally for a time, and
     then lose their elasticity and energy, and leave one incapable of
     work and insensible to artistic impressions? These are riddles.

     “There is a lovely bunch of violets in front of me. There are
     quantities here. Spring is coming in to her own.”

                         _To P. I. Jurgenson._

     “ROME, _February_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1880.

     “Good Lord, what a stupid idea to go and print that score!!![75] It
     is not profitable, is no use to anyone, nor satisfactory in any
     respect--simply absurd. The moral is: when you want to prepare a
     little surprise for me, ask my advice first. I assure you, in spite
     of my well-known _naïveté_, I have more sound common sense than
     many clever, worthy, but too enthusiastic people--such as the
     person for example who suggested you should engrave this score. All
     the same, my unfavourable view does not prevent my being
     grateful--even in this case--for your friendship, which I value
     tremendously.

     “Is it not time to lay the score of _The Maid of Orleans_ before
     the Opera Direction? I think it is just the right moment....”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ROME, _February_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1880.

     “The more I look at Michel Angelo’s works the more wonderful they
     seem to me. Just now I was contemplating his ‘Moses.’ The church
     was empty, and there was nothing to disturb my meditations. I
     assure you I was filled with terror. You will remember that Moses
     is standing with his head slightly turned towards the sacrifice
     which is to be offered to Baal. His expression is angry and
     menacing; his figure majestic and commanding. One feels he has only
     to speak a word, for erring mortals to fall on their knees before
     him. It is impossible to conceive anything more perfect than this
     great statue. With this genius the form expresses his entire
     thought, there is nothing forced, no pose, such as we see, for
     instance, in Bernini’s statues, of which Rome unfortunately
     possesses so many examples.

     “I am so pleased with a book that has come into my hands, I cannot
     put it down. It is nothing less than an excellent rendering of
     Tacitus into French. He is a great artist.”

About this time the performance of Tchaikovsky’s opera _The Oprichnik_
was forbidden, because the subject was considered too revolutionary in
that moment of political agitation. “Je n’ai qu’à m’en féliciter,” wrote
the composer on receiving the news, “for I am glad of any hindrance to
the performance of this ill-starred opera.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ROME, _February_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1880.

     “I chose the title of Divertimento for the second movement of my
     Suite, because it was the first which occurred to me. I wrote the
     movement without attaching any great importance to it, and only
     interpolated it in the Suite to avoid rhythmical monotony. I wrote
     it actually at one sitting, and spent much less time upon it than
     upon any other movement. As it turns out, this has not hindered it
     from giving more pleasure than all the rest. You are not the only
     one who thinks so. It proves for the thousandth time that an author
     never judges his own works with justice.

     “I am most grateful to you for calling Colonne’s attention to my
     new works, but I must tell you frankly: it would be very
     disagreeable to me if you were again to repay him in a material
     form for his attention.... The first time it was very painful that
     you should have spent a considerable sum of money, although I was
     glad to feel that, thanks to your devoted friendship, _our_
     symphony should be made known to the Paris public. I was grateful
     for this new proof of your sympathy. But now it would be painful
     and disgraceful to me to know that Colonne could only see the worth
     of my compositions by the flashlight of gold. All the same, I am
     grateful for your recommendation.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ROME, _February_ 18_th_ (_March_ 1_st_), 1880.

     “The Concerto[76] of Brahms does not please me better than any
     other of his works. He is certainly a great musician, even a
     Master, but, in his case, his mastery overwhelms his inspiration.
     So many preparations and circumlocutions for something which ought
     to come and charm us at once--and nothing does come, but boredom.
     His music is not warmed by any genuine emotion. It lacks poetry,
     but makes great pretensions to profundity. These depths contain
     nothing: they are void. Take the opening of the Concerto, for
     instance. It is an introduction, a preparation for something fine;
     an admirable pedestal for a statue; but the statue is lacking, we
     only get a second pedestal piled upon the first. I do not know
     whether I have properly expressed the thoughts, or rather feelings,
     which Brahms’s music awakens in me. I mean to say that he never
     expresses anything, or, when he does, he fails to express it fully.
     His music is made up of fragments of some indefinable _something_,
     skilfully welded together. The design lacks definite contour,
     colour, life.

     “But I must simply confess that, independent of any definite
     accusation, Brahms, as a musical personality, is antipathetic to
     me. I cannot abide him. Whatever he does--I remain unmoved and
     cold. It is a purely instinctive feeling.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “ROME, _February_ 26_th_ (_March_ 9_th_), 1880.

     “To-day I went on foot to the Vatican and sat a long while in the
     Sistine Chapel. Here a miracle was worked. I felt--almost for the
     first time in my life--an artistic ecstasy for painting. What it
     means to become gradually accustomed to the painter’s art! I
     remember the time when all this seemed to me absurd and
     meaningless....”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “BERLIN, _March_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1880.

     “In Paris I went to the ‘Comédie Francaise,’ and fell in love with
     Racine or Corneille (which of them wrote _Polyeucte_?). The beauty
     and strength of these verses and, still more, the lofty artistic
     truth! At the first glance this tragedy seems so unreal and
     impossible. The last act, however, in which Felix,
     conscience-stricken and illumined by Christ, suddenly becomes a
     Christian, touched me profoundly....

     “After reading Toly’s letter I went to Bilse’s concert. The large,
     luxuriously decorated hall, with its smell of indifferent cigars
     and food, its stocking-knitting ladies and beer-drinking men, made
     a curious impression upon me. After Italy, where we were constantly
     out in the beautiful, pure air, it was quite repugnant. But the
     orchestra was excellent, the acoustic splendid, and the programme
     good. I heard Schumann’s ‘Genoveva,’ the ‘Mignon’ overture, and a
     very sparkling _pot-pourri_, and I was very pleased with it all.
     How glad I shall be to hear the _Flying Dutchman_ to-day!”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “BERLIN, _March_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1880.

     “To-day I went to the Aquarium, where I went into ecstasies over
     the chimpanzee. He lives in intimate friendship with a dog. It is
     delightful to see the two play together, and the chimpanzee laughs
     in the drollest way when he takes refuge in some place where the
     dog cannot get at him!

     “I notice that I am making great progress in my appreciation of
     painting. I take the greatest delight in many things, especially in
     the Flemish school. Teniers, Wouvermans, and Ruysdael please me far
     more than the renowned Rubens, who represents even Christ as
     healthily robust, with unnaturally pink cheeks. One fact makes me
     begin to see myself as _a great_ connoisseur. I recognise
     Correggio’s brush before I see his name in the catalogue! But then
     Correggio has his own manner, and all his male figures and heads
     resemble the Christ in the Vatican, and his women the Danae in the
     Borghese Palace.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ST. PETERSBURG, _March_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1880.

     “Your benevolence to poor, dying Henry Wieniawsky touches me
     deeply.[77] ... I pity him greatly. In him we shall lose an
     incomparable violinist and a gifted composer. In this respect I
     think Wieniawsky very talented ... the beautiful _Légende_ and
     parts of the A minor Concerto show a true creative gift.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ST. PETERSBURG, _March_ 20_th_ (_April_ 1_st_), 1880.

     “Yesterday I suffered a good deal. The Grand Duke Constantine
     Nicholaevich has a son Constantine. This young man of
     two-and-twenty is passionately fond of music, and is very partial
     to mine. He expressed a wish to become more closely acquainted with
     me, and asked a relative of mine, the wife of Admiral Butakov, to
     arrange an evening party at which we might meet.

     “As he knows my misanthropical habits, this evening was to be of an
     informal nature, without dress coats and white ties. It was
     impossible to escape. The young man is very pleasant and has
     musical ability. We talked music from 9 p.m. until 2 a.m. He
     composes very nicely, but unfortunately has no time to devote
     himself to it seriously.”

On March 25th several of Tchaikovsky’s works were performed at a concert
given by two singers, well known in Petersburg, V. Issakov and Madame
Panaev. The First Suite and the _Romeo and Juliet_ overture were played
by the orchestra of the Russian Opera under Napravnik. The Suite had the
greatest success, especially the “Marche Miniature.” The great novelist
Tourgeniev was present on this occasion.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MOSCOW, _April_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1880.

     “I have come here with the intention of spending three days
     incognito and finishing my work. Besides, I need the rest. Imagine,
     my dear friend, for the last few days I have hardly ever been out
     of a tail coat and white tie and associating with the most august
     personages. It is all very flattering, sometimes touching; but
     fatiguing to the last degree. I feel so happy and comfortable in my
     room in the hotel, not being obliged to go anywhere, or do
     anything!”




X


                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _April_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1880.

     “To-day a cold north wind is blowing. Spring has not yet entered
     into possession of her own, and the nightingale is not singing yet.
     Still, it is beautiful in the forest.

     “During the last few days I have read through two new operas: Anton
     Rubinstein’s _Kalashnikov_ and _Jean de Nivelles_ by Délibes. The
     former is weak all through. Rubinstein is like a singer who has
     lost her voice, but still believes she sings charmingly. His talent
     has long since lost its charm. He really ought to give up composing
     and to be contented with his earlier works. I pray that I may
     never fall into the same error. Délibes makes just the opposite
     impression. His work is fresh, graceful, and very clever.”

About the end of April the director of the Kiev branch of the Russian
Musical Society offered to make Tchaikovsky the principal of this
section, and of the musical school connected with it. Although on
account of its proximity to the home of the Davidovs at Kamenka, the
neighbourhood of Kiev offered many attractions to him, he declined the
offer without hesitation. He had tasted the fruits of liberty and was
more than ever convinced that teaching was not his vocation.

During his stay at Kamenka, Tchaikovsky finished the orchestration of
his “Italian Fantasia,” which he considered, apart from its musical
worth, one of his most effective and brilliant orchestral works.

                         _To P. I. Jurgenson._

     “KAMENKA, _June_ 23_rd_ (_July_ 5_th_), 1880.

     “DEAR SOUL,--I believe you imagine I have no greater happiness than
     to compose occasional pieces to be played at forthcoming
     exhibitions, and that I ought to put my inspirations down
     post-haste upon paper, without knowing how, when, or where. I shall
     not stir a finger until I get a positive commission. If something
     vocal is required of me, I must be supplied with a suitable text
     (when it is a question of an order I am ready to set an
     advertisement of corn-plasters to music); if it is to be an
     instrumental work, I must have some idea of the form it should
     take, and what it is intended to illustrate. At the same time a
     definite fee must be offered, with a definite agreement as to who
     is responsible for it, and when I shall receive it. I do not make
     all these demands from caprice, but because I am not in a position
     to write these festival works without having some positive
     instructions as to what is required of me. There are two kinds of
     inspiration: one comes direct from the soul, by freedom of choice,
     or other creative impulse; the other _comes to order_.... Matters
     of business must be put very clearly and distinctly. Fancy if I had
     already been inspired to write a Festival Overture for the opening
     of the Exhibition! What would have come of it? It might have
     happened that the great _Anton_ had also (_An_-)_toned_ something
     of his own. Where should I have been with my scribblings?

     “I shall finish the corrections of the fourth act to-day. The opera
     (_The Maid of Orleans_) has become a long affair. My poor
     publisher! Well, we must live in hope!”

Early in July Tchaikovsky visited Nadejda von Meck’s estate at Brailov,
for the sake of repose. At this time a feeling of dissatisfaction with
his work seems to have taken possession of him. “I have written much
that is beautiful,” he wrote to his brother Modeste, “but how weak, how
lacking in mastery!... I have made up my mind to write nothing new for a
time, but to devote myself to the correcting and re-editing of my
earlier works.”

A letter to Nadejda von Meck, dated Brailov, July 5th (17th), 1880,
contains some interesting comments upon Glinka and his work.

     “ ... Glinka is quite an unusual phenomenon! Reading his _Memoirs_,
     which reveal a nice, amiable, but rather commonplace man, we can
     hardly realise that the same mind created that wonderful
     ‘Slavsia,’[78] which is worthy to rank with the work of the
     greatest geniuses. And how many more fine things there are in his
     other opera (_Russlan_) and the overtures! How astonishingly
     original is his _Komarinskaya_, from which all the Russian
     composers who followed him (including myself) continue to this day
     to borrow contrapuntal and harmonic combinations directly they have
     to develop a Russian dance-tune! This is done unconsciously; but
     the fact is, Glinka managed to concentrate in one short work what a
     dozen second-rate talents would only have invented with the whole
     expenditure of their powers.

     “And it was this same Glinka who, at the height of his maturity,
     composed such a weak, trivial thing as the Polonaise for the
     Coronation (written a year before his death), or the children’s
     polka, of which he speaks in his _Memoirs_ at such length, and with
     such self-satisfaction, as though it had been a masterpiece.

     “Mozart, too, expresses himself with great _naïveté_ in his letters
     to his father and, in fact, all through his life. But this was a
     different kind of simplicity. Mozart is a genius whose childlike
     innocence, gentleness of spirit and virginal modesty are scarcely
     of this earth. He was devoid of self-satisfaction and boastfulness;
     he seems hardly to have been conscious of the greatness of his
     genius. Glinka, on the contrary, is imbued with a spirit of
     self-glorification; he is ready to become garrulous over the most
     trivial events in his life, or the appearance of his least
     important works, and is convinced it is all of historical
     importance. Glinka is a gifted Russian aristocrat of his time, and
     has the faults of his type: petty vanity, limited culture,
     intolerance, ostentatiousness and a morbid sensibility to, and
     impatience of, all criticism. These are generally the
     characteristics of mediocrity; how they come to exist in a man who
     ought--so it seems--to dwell in calm and modest pride, conscious of
     his power, is beyond my comprehension! In one page of his _Memoirs_
     Glinka says he had a bulldog whose conduct was not irreproachable,
     and his servant had to be continually cleaning the room. Kukolnik,
     to whom Glinka entrusted his _Memoirs_ for revision, remarked in
     the margin, ‘Why put in this?’ Glinka pencilled underneath, ‘Why
     not?’ Is not this highly characteristic? Yet, all the same, he
     composed the ‘Slavsia’!”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “BRAILOV, _July_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1880.

     “To-day I went to the Orthodox, the new Catholic, and the monastery
     churches. There is something about the monastic singing here, as in
     all Russian churches, which enrages me to the last degree. It is
     the chord of the dominant seventh in its original position, which
     we misuse so terribly. There is nothing so unmusical, or so
     unsuitable to the Orthodox Church as this commonplace chord, which
     was introduced during the eighteenth century by Messrs. Galuppi,
     Sarti, Bortniansky and Co., and has since become so much a part of
     our church music that the _Gospodi pomilui_[79] cannot be sung
     without it. This chord reminds me of the accordion, which only
     gives out two harmonies: the tonic and dominant. It disfigures the
     natural progression of the parts and weakens and vulgarises our
     church music. To make you clearly understand what it is that annoys
     me I will give you an example:--

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     instead of this they ought to sing

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     “The new Catholic church makes a pleasant impression. I much prefer
     our Orthodox liturgy to the Mass, especially to the so-called ‘Low
     Mass,’ which seems to me devoid of all solemnity.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “BRAILOV, _July_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1880.

     “Yesterday I went an expedition in the forest, where formerly there
     used to be wild goats, of which now only one specimen is left. They
     say the others were all devoured by the wolves in winter. It is a
     great pity! But I was consoled by the beauty of the evening and a
     wonderful walk. At sunset I had tea, and then wandered alone by the
     steep bank of the stream behind the deer-park, and drank in all the
     deep delight of the forest at sundown, and freshness of the evening
     air. Such moments, I thought, helped us to bear with patience the
     many minor grievances of existence. They make us in love with life.
     We are promised eternal happiness, immortal existence, but we do
     not realise this, nor shall we perhaps attain to it. But if we are
     worthy of it, and if it is really eternal, we shall soon learn to
     enjoy it. Meanwhile, one wishes to live, in order to experience
     again such moments as those of yesterday.

     “To-day I intended to leave for Simaki, but while I am writing to
     you a terrific storm is raging, and it is evidently going to be a
     wet day; so perhaps I shall remain here. I am drawn to Simaki, and
     yet I regret leaving Brailov. Dear friend, to-day I have committed
     a kind of burglary in your house, and I will confess my crime.
     There was no key to the bookcase in the drawing-room next to your
     bedroom, but I saw it contained some new books which interested me
     greatly. Even Marcel could not find the key, so it occurred to me
     to try the one belonging to the cupboard near my room, and it
     opened the bookcase at once. I took out Byron and Martinov’s
     _Moscow_. Make your mind easy, all your books and music remain
     untouched. To quiet Marcel’s conscience I gave him, when about to
     leave for Simaki, a memorandum of what I had taken, and before I
     actually depart I will return him the books and music to replace in
     their proper order. Pray forgive my self-justification.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “SIMAKI, _July_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1880.

     “ ... I expected a great deal from Simaki, but the reality far
     surpasses my expectations. What a wonderful spot this is, and how
     poor Brailov seems now I am here! The small house is just the same
     as when I saw it last year, only it has been done up a little; the
     furniture and upholstery are partly new; the arrangements are the
     ideal of comfort. But the surroundings are enchanting! The garden
     is a mass of flowers. I simply swim in an ocean of delightful
     impressions. An hour ago I was in the millet-field which lies
     beyond the garden, and so great was my ecstasy that I fell upon my
     knees and thanked God for the profound joy I experienced. I stood
     on rising ground; nothing was visible in the distance but the dense
     green which surrounds my little house; on every side the forest
     spreads to the hills; across the stream lay the hamlet, whence came
     various pleasant rural sounds; the voices of children, the bleating
     of sheep and the lowing of cattle, driven home from pasture. In the
     west the sun was setting in splendour; while in the east the
     crescent moon was already up. Everywhere beauty and space! What
     moments life holds! Thanks to these intervals, it is possible to
     forget everything!”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “SIMAKI, _July_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1880.

     “ ... The night has been glorious! At 2 a.m. I reluctantly left my
     place by the window. The moon shone brightly. The stillness, the
     perfume of the flowers, and those wondrous indefinable sounds that
     belong to the night--ah God, how beautiful it all is! Dear friend,
     I am glad you are at Interlaken, of which I am very fond; but all
     the same I do not envy you. It would be hard to find a place in
     which the conditions of life would conform better to my ideal than
     Simaki. All day long I feel as though I were lost in some
     wonderful, fantastic dream.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “SIMAKI, _July_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1880.

     “I have just been playing the first act of _The Maid of Orleans_,
     which is now ready for the printer. Either I am mistaken, or it is
     not in vain, dear friend, that you have had the clock you gave me
     decorated with the figure of my latest operatic heroine. I do not
     think _The Maid of Orleans_ my finest, or the most emotional, of my
     works, but it seems to me to be the one most likely to make my name
     popular. I believe _Oniegin_ and one or two of my instrumental
     works are far more closely allied to my individual temperament. I
     was less absorbed in _The Maid of Orleans_ than in our Symphony,
     for instance, or the second Quartet; but I gave more consideration
     to the scenic and musical effects--and these are the most important
     things in opera.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “SIMAKI, _July_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1880.

     “Yesterday evening--to take a rest from my own work--I played
     through Bizet’s Carmen from cover to cover. I consider it a _chef
     d’œuvre_ in the fullest sense of the word: one of those rare
     compositions which seems to reflect most strongly in itself the
     musical tendencies of a whole generation. It seems to me that our
     own period differs from earlier ones in this one characteristic:
     that contemporary composers _are engaged in the pursuit of charming
     and piquant effects_, unlike Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, and
     Schumann. What is the so-called New Russian School but the cult of
     varied and pungent harmonies, of original orchestral combinations
     and every kind of purely external effect? Musical ideas give place
     to this or that union of sounds. Formerly there was _composition_,
     _creation_; now (with few exceptions) there is only research and
     invention. This development of musical thought is naturally purely
     intellectual, consequently contemporary music is clever, piquant,
     and eccentric; but cold and lacking the glow of true emotion. And
     behold, a Frenchman comes on the scene, in whom these qualities of
     piquancy and pungency are not the outcome of effort and reflection,
     but flow from his pen as in a free stream, flattering the ear, but
     touching us also. It is as though he said to us: ‘You ask nothing
     great, superb, or grandiose--you want something _pretty_, here is a
     _pretty opera_;’ and truly I know of nothing in music which is more
     representative of that element which I call _the pretty_ (_le
     joli_).... I cannot play the last scene without tears in my eyes;
     the gross rejoicings of the crowd who look on at the bull-fight,
     and, side by side with this, the poignant tragedy and death of the
     two principal characters, pursued by an evil fate, who come to
     their inevitable end through a long series of sufferings.

     “I am convinced that ten years hence _Carmen_ will be the most
     popular opera in the world. But no one is a prophet in his own
     land. In Paris _Carmen_ has had no real success.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “SIMAKI, _July_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1880.

     “MY DEAR MODI,--How worried I am by my _Maid of Orleans_, and how
     glad I am to have done with her! Now she has flown to Moscow and,
     until the time of performance comes, I need not bother about her
     any more....

     “Thanks (in an ironical sense) for your suggestion that I should
     read _L’homme qui rit_. Do you not know the story of my relations
     to Victor Hugo? Anyhow, I will tell you what came of them. I took
     up _Les travailleurs de la Mer_; I read, and read, and grew more
     and more irritated by his grimaces and buffoonery. Finally, after a
     whole series of short, unmeaning phrases, consisting of
     exclamations, antitheses, and asterisks, I lost my temper, spat
     upon the book, tore it to pieces, stamped upon it, and wound up by
     throwing it out of the window. From that moment I cannot bear the
     mention of Victor Hugo! Believe me, your Zola is just such another
     mountebank, but more modern in spirit. I do not dislike him quite
     so much as Hugo, but very nearly. He disgusts me, as a girl would
     disgust me who pretended to be simple and natural, while all the
     time she was essentially a flirt and coquette.

     “In proportion as I like modern French music, their literature and
     journalism seem to me revolting.

     “Yesterday I wrote to you about Bizet, to-day I am enthusiastic
     about Massenet. I found his oratorio, _Mary Magdalene_, at N. F.’s.
     After I had read the text, which treats not only of the relations
     between Christ, the Magdalene, and Judas, but also of Golgotha and
     the Resurrection, I felt a certain prejudice against the work,
     because it seemed too audacious. When I began to play it, however,
     I was soon convinced that it was no commonplace composition. The
     duet between Christ and the Magdalene is a masterpiece. I was so
     touched by the emotionalism of the music, in which Massenet has
     reflected the eternal compassion of Christ, that I shed many tears.
     Wonderful tears! All praise to the Frenchman who had the art of
     calling them forth.... The French are really first in contemporary
     music. All day long this duet has been running in my head, and
     under its influence I have written a song, the melody of which is
     very reminiscent of Massenet.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “SIMAKI, _July_ 24_th_ (_August_ 5_th_), 1880.

     “Have I told you, dear friend, that I am studying English? Here I
     work very regularly, and with good results. I hope in six months I
     shall be able to read English easily. That is my sole aim; I know
     that at my age it is impossible to speak it well. But to read
     Shakespeare, Dickens, and Thackeray in the original would be the
     consolation of my old age.”[80]

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “KAMENKA, _July_ 31_st_ (_August_ 12_th_), 1880.

     “It is two days since I came to Kamenka. I was glad, very glad, to
     see all our people again, but I am not in high spirits. A kind of
     apathy has come over me; a dislike to work, to reading, and
     particularly to exercise, although I dutifully do my two hours a
     day. Apart from the people, everything here seems to me stuffy and
     frowsy, beginning with the air. When I think of the intoxicating
     charm of the gardens, the air perfumed by field and forest, at
     Simaki; when I look at the poor, dusty trees, and the arid, barren
     soil of this place; when instead of the clear, cold stream I have
     to content myself with my sitz-bath--I am overcome with a sickening
     sense of regret.”

                         _To P. I. Jurgenson._

     “KAMENKA, _August_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1880.

     “If I should ever become famous, and anyone should collect
     materials for my biography, your letter to-day would give a very
     false impression of me. Anyone would suppose I had been in the
     habit of flattering influential people and making advances to them
     with the object of getting my works performed. This would be
     entirely untrue. I have never in my life raised a finger to win the
     favour of Bilse, or another. This is a sort of ‘passive’ pride. It
     is another matter if the advances are made from the other side....

     “As regards your advice to imitate Anton Rubinstein, I must tell
     you that our positions are so different that no comparison can be
     made between us. Take away Rubinstein’s virtuosity, and he
     immediately falls from his greatness to the level of my
     nothingness. Well, I should like to see which of us has the most
     composer’s pride! In any case I am not such a grandee that at the
     advances of so profitable and influential a personage as Bilse I
     can reply: ‘this is no business of mine; apply to Jurgenson.’

     “The corrected manuscripts are ready, and shall be sent to-morrow.
     The _Italian Capriccio_ can be printed, but I should like to look
     through the concerto once more, and beg you to send me another
     revise. When I sent it to Nicholas Rubinstein in the spring, I
     asked him to make his criticisms to Taneiev, and to request the
     latter to make the necessary alterations in the piano part without
     changing the musical intention, of which I will not alter a single
     line. Taneiev replied that there were no alterations required.
     Consequently this must have been Rubinstein’s opinion. But we can
     hardly assume that he will study the work.”

From a letter to Jurgenson, dated some days later than the above, we see
that Tchaikovsky had resolved to devote part of the current year to
revising all his works published by this firm “from Opus I. to the Third
Symphony.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _August_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1880.

     “You ask me if I share your feelings when thinking of the
     possibility of monumental fame? _Fame!_ What contradictory
     sentiments the word awakes in me! On the one hand I desire and
     strive for it; on the other I detest it. If the chief thought of my
     life is concentrated upon my creative work, I cannot do otherwise
     than wish for fame. If I feel a continual impulse to express
     myself in the language of music, it follows that I need to be
     heard; and the larger my circle of sympathetic hearers, the better.
     I desire with all my soul that my music should become more widely
     known, and that the number of those people who derive comfort and
     support from their love of it should increase. In this sense not
     only do I love fame, but it becomes the aim of all that is most
     earnest in my work. But, alas! when I begin to reflect that with an
     increasing audience will come also an increase of interest in my
     personality, in the more intimate sense; that there will be
     inquisitive people among the public who will tear aside the curtain
     behind which I have striven to conceal my private life; then I am
     filled with pain and disgust, so that I half wish to keep silence
     for ever, in order to be left in peace. I am not afraid of the
     world, for I can say that my conscience is clear, and I have
     nothing to be ashamed of; but the thought that someone may try to
     force the inner world of my thoughts and feelings, which all my
     life I have guarded so carefully from outsiders--this is sad and
     terrible. There is a tragic element, dear friend, in this conflict
     between the desire for fame and the fear of its consequences. I am
     attracted to it like the moth to the candle, and I, too, burn my
     wings. Sometimes I am possessed by a mad desire to disappear for
     ever, to be buried alive, to ignore all that is going on, and be
     forgotten by everybody. Then, alas! the creative inspiration
     returns.... I fly to the flame and burn my wings once more!

     “Do you know my wings will soon have to bear the weight of my
     opera? I shall be up to my neck in theatrical and official mire,
     and be suffocated in an atmosphere of petty intrigue, of
     microscopical, but poisonous, ambitions, and every kind of dense
     stupidity. What is to be done? Either do not write operas, or be
     prepared for all this! I believe I never shall compose another
     opera. When I look back upon all I went through last spring, when I
     was occupied with the performance of my last one, I lose all desire
     to write for the stage.”




XI

1880-1881


                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _September_ 4_th_ (16_th_) 1880.

     “I am doing nothing whatever, only wandering through the forests
     and fields all day long. I want to take a change from my own work,
     with its eternal proof-correcting, and to play as much as possible
     of other people’s music; so I have begun to study Mozart’s
     _Zauberflöte_. Never was so senselessly stupid a subject set to
     such captivating music. How thankful I am that the circumstances of
     my musical career have not changed by a hair’s breadth the charm
     Mozart exercises for me! You would not believe, dear friend, what
     wonderful feelings come over me when I give myself up to his music.
     It is something quite different from the stressful delight awakened
     in me by Beethoven, Schumann, or Chopin.... My contemporaries were
     imbued with the spirit of modern music from their childhood, and
     came to know Mozart in later years, after they had made
     acquaintance with Chopin, who reflects so clearly the Byronic
     despair and disillusionment. Fortunately, fate decreed that I
     should grow up in an unmusical family, so that in childhood I was
     not nourished on the poisonous food of the post-Beethoven music.
     The same kind fate brought me early in life in contact with Mozart,
     and thus opened up to me unsuspected horizons. These early
     impressions can never be effaced. Do you know that when I play
     Mozart, I feel brighter and younger, almost a youth again? But
     enough. I know that we do not agree in our appreciation of Mozart,
     and that my dithyramb does not interest you in the least.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _September_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1880.

     “How fleeting were my hopes of a prolonged rest! Scarcely had I
     begun to enjoy a few days’ leisure than an indefinable mood of
     boredom, even a sense of not being in health, came over me. To-day
     I began to occupy my mind with projects for a new symphony, and
     immediately I felt well and cheerful. It appears as though I could
     not spend a couple of days in idleness, unless I am travelling. I
     dread lest I should become a composer of Anton Rubinstein’s type,
     who considers it his bounden duty to present a new work to the
     public every day in the week. In this way he has dissipated his
     great creative talent, and has only small change to offer instead
     of the sterling gold which he could have given us had he written in
     moderation. Lately I have been seeking some kind of occupation that
     would take me completely away from music for a time, and would
     seriously interest me. Alas, I have not discovered it! There is no
     guide to the history of music in Russian, and it would be a good
     thing if I could occupy myself with a book of this kind; I often
     think of it. But then I should have to give up composing for at
     least two years, and that would be too much. To start upon a
     translation--that is not very interesting work. Write a monograph
     upon some artist? So much has already been written about the great
     musicians of Western Europe. For Glinka, Dargomijsky, and Serov I
     cannot feel any enthusiasm, for, highly as I value their works, I
     cannot admire them as men. I have told you what I think of Glinka.
     Dargomijsky was even less cultured. As to Serov, he was a clever
     man of encyclopedic learning, but I knew him personally, and could
     not admire his moral character. As far as I understood him, he was
     not good-hearted, and that is sufficient reason why I do not care
     to devote my leisure to him. It would have been a delight to write
     the biography of Mozart, but it is impossible to do so after Otto
     Jahn, who devoted his life to the task.

     “So there is no other occupation open to me but composition. I am
     planning a symphony or a string quartet. I do not know which I
     shall decide upon.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _September_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1880.

     “I venture to approach you, dear friend, with the following
     request. An employé in a counting-house, here in Kamenka, has a son
     who is remarkably gifted for painting. It seemed to me cruel not to
     give him the means of studying, so I sent him to Moscow and asked
     Anatol to take him to the School of Painting and Sculpture. All
     this was arranged, and then it turned out that the boy’s
     maintenance would cost far more than I expected. And so I thought I
     would ask you whether in your house there was any corner in which
     this lad might live? Not, of course, without some kind of
     supervision. He would only need a tiny room with a bed, a cupboard,
     and a table where he could sleep and work. Perhaps your servants
     would look after him, and give him a little advice? The boy is of
     irreproachable character: industrious, good, obedient, clean in his
     person--in short, exemplary. I would undertake his meals....[81]

     “I have also unearthed a musical talent here, in the daughter of
     the local priest, and have been successful in placing her at the
     Conservatoire.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _September_ 19_th_ (_October_ 1_st_), 1880.

     “Yesterday I received an official intimation from the Imperial
     Opera to the effect that my opera has been accepted and will be
     produced in January. The libretto has been passed by the censor
     with one or two exceptions: the _Archbishop_ must be called the
     _Wanderer_(?); ‘every allusion to the Cross must be omitted, and no
     cross may be seen upon the stage.’ There is nothing for it but to
     submit.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _September_ 28_th_ (_October_ 10_th_), 1880.

     “Nicholas Rubinstein has requested me to write an important work
     for chorus and orchestra, to be produced at the Moscow Exhibition.
     Nothing is more unpleasant to me than the manufacturing of music
     for such occasions.... But I have not courage to refuse....”

                          _To N, F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _October_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1880.

     “You can imagine, dear friend, that recently my Muse has been very
     benevolent, when I tell you that I have written two long works very
     rapidly: a Festival Overture for the Exhibition and a Serenade in
     four movements for string orchestra. The overture[82] will be very
     noisy. I wrote it without much warmth of enthusiasm; therefore it
     has no great artistic value. The Serenade, on the contrary, I wrote
     from an inward impulse; I felt it, and venture to hope that this
     work is not without artistic qualities.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _October_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1880.

     “ ... How glad I am that my opera pleases you! I am delighted you
     find no ‘Russianisms’ in it, for I dreaded this and had striven in
     this work to be as objective as possible.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _October_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1880.

     “Of course I am no judge of my own works, but I can truthfully say
     that--with very few exceptions--they have all been _felt_ and
     _lived_ by me, and have come straight from my heart. It is the
     greatest happiness to know that there is another kindred soul in
     the world who has such a true and delicate appreciation of my
     music. The thought that she will discern all that I have felt,
     while writing this or that work, invariably warms and inspires me.
     There are few such souls; among those who surround me I can only
     point to my brothers. Modeste is very near to me in mind and
     sentiment. Among professional musicians I have met with the least
     congenial sympathy....

     “You ask why I have never written a trio. Forgive me, dear friend,
     I would do anything to give you pleasure--but this is beyond me! My
     acoustic apparatus is so ordered that I simply cannot endure the
     combination of pianoforte with violin or violoncello. To my mind
     the _timbre_ of these instruments will not blend, and I assure you
     it is a torture to me to have to listen to a trio or sonata of any
     kind for piano and strings. I cannot explain this physiological
     peculiarity; I simply state it as a fact. Piano and orchestra--that
     is quite another matter. Here again there is no blending of tone;
     the piano by its elastic tone differs from all other instruments in
     _timbre_; but we are now dealing with two equal opponents: the
     orchestra, with its power and inexhaustible variety of colour,
     opposed by the small, unimposing, but high-mettled pianoforte,
     which often comes off victorious in the hands of a gifted
     executant. Much poetry is contained in this conflict, and endless
     seductive combinations for the composer. On the other hand, how
     unnatural is the union of three such individualities as the
     pianoforte, the violin and the violoncello! Each loses something of
     its value. The warm and singing tone of the violin and the ‘cello
     sounds limited beside that _king_ of instruments, the pianoforte;
     while the latter strives in vain to prove that it can sing like its
     rivals. I consider the piano should only be employed under these
     conditions: (1) As a solo instrument; (2) opposed to the orchestra;
     (3) for accompaniment, as the background to a picture. But a trio
     implies equality and relationship, and do these exist between
     stringed solo instruments and the piano? They do _not_; and this is
     the reason why there is always something artificial about a
     pianoforte trio, each of the three instruments being continually
     called upon to express what the composer imposes upon it, rather
     than what lies within its characteristic utterance; while the
     musician meets with perpetual difficulties in the distribution of
     the voices and grouping of the parts. I do full justice to the
     inspired art with which Beethoven, Schumann, and Mendelssohn have
     conquered these difficulties. I know there exist many trios
     containing music of admirable quality; but personally I do not care
     for the trio as a form, therefore I shall never produce anything
     sincerely inspired through the medium of this combination of
     sounds. I know, dear friend, that we disagree on this point, and
     that you, on the contrary, are fond of a trio; but in spite of all
     the similarity between our artistic temperaments, we remain two
     separate individualities; therefore it is not surprising that we
     should not agree in every particular.”

During the autumn of 1880 Tchaikovsky suffered greatly from neuralgic
headaches. He remained at Kamenka until early in November, when he
returned to Moscow for a short time, in order to correct proofs and
settle other business matters. Towards the end of the month he wrote to
Nadejda von Meck from St. Petersburg:--

     “_November_ 27_th_ (_December_ 9_th_), 1880.

     “The directors of the Moscow Musical Society are greatly interested
     in my Liturgy (St. John Chrysostom). One of their number, named
     Alexeiev, gave a good fee to have it studied by one of the best
     choirs. This resulted in a performance of the work in the
     concert-room of the Moscow Conservatoire. The choir sang
     wonderfully well, and it was altogether one of the happiest moments
     in my musical career. It was decided to give the Liturgy at an
     extra concert of the Musical Society. On the same evening my
     Serenade for strings was played, in order to give me an agreeable
     surprise. For the moment I regard it as my best work....

     “Have I told you already that _Eugene Oniegin_ is to be splendidly
     mounted at the Opera in Moscow? I am very pleased, because it will
     decide the important question whether the work will become part of
     the repertory or not, that is to say, whether it will keep its
     place on the stage. As I never intended it for this purpose, I did
     nothing on my own initiative to get it produced.”

While in St. Petersburg, Tchaikovsky undertook to make some changes in
his new opera, _The Maid of Orleans_. This was in order that the part of
Joan of Arc herself might be taken by Madame Kamensky, a mezzo-soprano
of unusual range and quality.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MOSCOW, _December_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1880.

     “One newspaper blames me for having dedicated my opera, _The Maid
     of Orleans_, to Napravnik, and considers it an unworthy action on
     my part to win his good graces in this way. Napravnik--one of the
     few thoroughly honest musicians in Petersburg--will be very much
     upset. They also find fault with me because my opera is not on
     sale.

     “All this is very galling and vexatious, but I do not let it
     trouble me much.

     “I have sworn to myself to avoid Moscow and Petersburg in future.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MOSCOW, _December_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1880.

     “I have been very much upset the last few days. Last year I
     received a letter from a young man, unknown to me, of the name of
     Tkachenko, containing the curious proposal that I should take him
     as my servant and give him music lessons in return. The letter was
     so clever and original, and showed such a real love of music, that
     it affected me very sympathetically. A correspondence between us
     followed, from which I learnt that he was already twenty-three, and
     had no musical knowledge. I wrote frankly to him that at his age it
     was too late to begin to study music. After this, I heard no more
     of him for nine months. The day before yesterday I received another
     letter from him, returning all my previous correspondence, in order
     that it might not fall into strange hands after his death. He took
     leave of me and said he had resolved to commit suicide. The letter
     was evidently written in a moment of great despair, and touched me
     profoundly. I saw from the postmark that it was written from
     Voronezh, and decided to telegraph to someone there, asking them to
     seek Tkachenko with the help of the police and tell him--if it were
     not already too late--he might expect a letter from me.
     Fortunately, Anatol had a friend at Voronezh, to whom we
     telegraphed at once. Last night I heard from him that Tkachenko had
     been discovered _in time_. He was in a terrible condition.

     “I immediately sent him some money and invited him to come to
     Moscow. How it will end I do not know, but I am glad to have saved
     him from self-destruction.”

At this time Tchaikovsky’s valet, Alexis, was compelled to fulfil his
military service, and master and servant were equally affected at the
moment of separation.

On December 6th (18th) the _Italian Capriccio_ was performed for the
first time under the conductorship of Nicholas Rubinstein. Its success
was incontestable, although criticism varied greatly as to its merits,
and the least favourable described it as being marred by “coarse and
cheap” effects. In St. Petersburg, where it was given a few weeks later
by Napravnik, it met with scant appreciation; Cui pronounced it to be
“no work of art, but a valuable gift to the programmes of open-air
concerts.”

The performance of the Liturgy took place in Moscow on December 18th
(30th). Thanks to the stir which had been made by the confiscation of
Tchaikovsky’s first sacred work, the concert was unusually crowded. At
the close the composer was frequently recalled. Nevertheless, there was
considerable difference of opinion as to the success of the work.

Tchaikovsky was not much affected by the views of the professional
critics; but he was deeply hurt by a letter emanating from the venerable
Ambrose, vicar of Moscow, which appeared in the _Rouss_. This letter
complained that the Liturgy was the most sacred possession of the
people, and should only be heard in church; that to use the service as a
libretto was a profanation of the holy words. It concluded by
congratulating the orthodox that the text had at least been treated by a
worthy musician, but what would happen if some day a “Rosenthal” or a
“Rosenbluhm” should lay hands upon it? Inevitably then “our most sacred
words would be mocked at and hissed.”

Fatigued by the excitement of these weeks, Tchaikovsky returned to
Kamenka to spend Christmas in the restful quiet of the country.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first performance of _Eugene Oniegin_ at the Opera House in Moscow
took place on January 11th (23rd), 1881. The scenery was not new and
left much to be desired. The singers, with the exception of Madame
Kroutikov, who took the part of Madame Larina, and Bartsal, who appeared
as the Frenchman Triquet, were lacking in experience. The costumes,
however, were perfectly true to history. The performance evoked much
applause, but more for the composer than for the opera itself. The great
public allowed the best situations in the work to pass unnoticed, but
the opera found an echo in the hearts of the minority, so that gradually
the work gained the appreciation of the crowd and won a lasting success.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MOSCOW, _January_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1881.

     “Yesterday was the first night of _Eugene Oniegin_. I was oppressed
     by varied emotions, both at the rehearsals and on the night itself.
     At first the public was very reserved; by degrees, however, the
     applause grew and at the last all went well. The performance and
     mounting of the opera were satisfactory....

     “Tkachenko (the young man who wanted to commit suicide) has
     arrived. I have seen him. On the whole he made a sympathetic
     impression upon me. His sufferings are the outcome of the internal
     conflict which exists between his aspirations and stern reality. He
     is intelligent and cultivated, yet in order to earn his bread he
     has had to be a railway guard. He is very anxious to become a
     musician. He is nervous, and morbidly modest, and seems to be
     broken in spirit. Poverty and solitude have made him
     misanthropical. His views are rather strange, but he is by no means
     stupid. I am sorry for him and have agreed to look after him. I
     have decided that he shall go to the Conservatoire, and then it
     will be seen whether he can take up music, or some other career. It
     will not be difficult to make a useful and contented man of him.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MOSCOW, _January_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1881.

     “Dear, kind friend, it has come to this: I take up my pen to write
     to you unwillingly, because I feel the immediate need to pour out
     all the suffering and bitterness which is heaped up in me. You will
     wonder how a man who is successful in his work can still complain
     and rail at fate? But my successes are not so important as they
     seem; besides they do not compensate me for the intolerable
     sufferings I undergo when I mix in the society of my
     fellow-creatures; when I have to be constantly posing before them;
     when I cannot live as I wish, and as I am accustomed to do, but am
     tossed to and fro like a ball in the round of city life....

     “_Eugene Oniegin_ does not progress. The prima donna is seriously
     ill, so that the opera cannot be performed again for some time....
     The criticisms upon it are peculiar. Some critics find the
     ‘couplets’ for Triquet the best thing in the work and think
     Tatiana’s part dry and colourless. Others think I have no
     inspiration, but great cleverness. The Petersburg papers write in
     chorus to rend my _Italian Capriccio_, declaring it to be vulgar;
     and Cui prophesies that _The Maid of Orleans_ will turn out a
     commonplace affair.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “PETERSBURG, _January_ 27_th_ (_February_ 8_th_), 1881.

     “I will tell you something about Tkachenko. He is an extraordinary
     being! I had looked after him in every respect, and he began his
     studies with great zeal. The day before I left Moscow he came to
     ‘talk to me on serious business,’ and the longer he talked, the
     more convinced I became that he is mentally and morally deranged.
     He has taken it into his head that _I am not keeping him for his
     own sake_, but in order _to acquire the reputation of a
     benefactor_. He added that he was not disposed to be the _victim_
     of my desire for popularity, and absolutely refused to recognise me
     as his benefactor, so I was not to reckon upon his gratitude.

     “I replied coldly, and advised him to devote himself to his work,
     without troubling himself as to my motives for assisting him. I
     assured him I was quite indifferent as to his gratitude, that I was
     just leaving the town, and begged him not to waste his thoughts on
     me, but to fix them exclusively upon his work.

     “I have entrusted him to the supervision of Albrecht, the Inspector
     of the Conservatoire.

     “Have you heard of Nicholas Rubinstein’s illness? His condition is
     serious, but in spite of it he goes about and does his work. The
     doctors insist upon his going away and taking rest; but he declares
     he could not live without the work he is used to....”

On January 21st (February 2nd) Tchaikovsky’s Second Symphony was given
in its revised form at the Musical Society in St. Petersburg, and,
according to the newspapers, met with a great success. Not a single
critic, however, observed the changes in the work, nor that the first
movement was entirely new.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “PETERSBURG, _February_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1881.

     “ ... The mounting of _The Maid of Orleans_ will be very beggarly.
     The Direction, which has spent 10,000 (roubles) upon a new ballet,
     refuses to sacrifice a kopeck for the opera.”

                             _To the same._

     “PETERSBURG, _February_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1881.

     “The opera has been postponed until February 13th. I shall set off
     the very next day. The plan of my journey is: Vienna, Venice, Rome.
     The rehearsals are in progress. Most of the artists show great
     sympathy for my music, of which I am very proud. But the officials
     are doing all in their power to spoil the success of the opera. A
     certain Loukashevich is trying by every kind of intrigue to prevent
     Madame Kamensky from taking the part of Joan of Arc. When at
     yesterday’s rehearsal--for scenic and vocal reasons--I transferred
     a melody from Joan’s part to that of Agnes Sorel, he declared _I
     had no right to do such a thing without permission_. Sometimes I
     feel inclined to withdraw the score and leave the theatre.”

The production of _The Maid of Orleans_ at the Maryinsky Theatre left a
very unpleasant memory in Tchaikovsky’s mind. The intrigues between the
prima donnas, the hostile attitude of the Direction, his dissatisfaction
with some of the singers--all embittered the composer in the highest
degree. His artistic vanity was exceedingly sensitive, even when his
best friends told him “the plain truth.” He submitted to the criticisms
of Napravnik, and followed his advice regarding many details, because he
was convinced of this musician’s goodwill and great experience. If he
got through this trying time fairly well, it was thanks to the fact that
he himself, as well as the artists who were taking part in the work, did
not doubt that the opera would eventually have a great success.

On the day following the performance, Tchaikovsky wrote:--

     “The success of the opera was certain, even after the first act ...
     the second scene of the third act was least applauded, but the
     fourth act was very well received. Altogether I was recalled
     twenty-four times. Kamenskaya was admirable; she even acted well,
     which she seldom does. Prianichnikov was the best among the other
     singers.”

Tchaikovsky started for Italy under this favourable impression, and
first became aware through a telegram from Petersburg in the _Neue Freie
Presse_ that, in spite of an ovation from the public, _The Maid of
Orleans_ was “poor in inspiration, wearisome, and monotonous.” This was
his first intimation of the attacks upon the opera which were made by
the Press, and which caused the opera to be hastily withdrawn from the
repertory of the Maryinsky Theatre.

Cui, as usual, led the chorus of unfavourable opinion, but all the other
critics were more or less in agreement with his views.




XII


Impatient for the sunshine, Tchaikovsky broke his journey at Florence,
whence he wrote to Nadejda von Meck on February 19th (March 3rd),
1881:--

     “What light! What sunshine! What a delight to sit at the open
     window with a bunch of violets before me, and to drink in the fresh
     air! I am full of sensations. I feel so well, and yet so sad--I
     could weep. Yet I know not why. Only music can express these
     feelings.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ROME, _February_ 22_nd_ (_March_ 6_th_), 1881.

     “I have just been lunching with the Grand Dukes Serge and Paul
     Alexandrovich. The invitation came early this morning, and I had to
     go out in search of a dress-coat. It was no easy matter to procure
     one, for, being Sunday, nearly all the shops were closed. It was
     with difficulty that I arrived at the Villa Sciarra in proper time.
     The Grand Duke Constantine introduced me to his cousins, who showed
     me much kindness and attention. All three are very sympathetic; but
     you can imagine, with my misanthropical shyness, how trying I find
     such meetings with strangers, especially with men of that
     aristocratic world. On Tuesday there is a dinner at Countess
     Brobinsky’s, and I have also been invited to a soirée by Countess
     Sollogoub. I did not expect to have to lead this kind of life in
     Rome. I shall have to leave, for no doubt other invitations await
     me which I cannot refuse. Lest I should offend somebody, I am weak
     enough invariably to accept. I have not strength of mind to decline
     all such engagements.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “ROME, _February_ 26_th_ (_March_ 10_th_), 1881.

     “I can just imagine how you are making fun of my worldliness! I
     cannot understand where I get strength to endure this senseless
     existence! Naturally, I am annoyed, and my visit to Rome is
     spoilt--but I have not altogether lost heart, and find occasional
     opportunities of enjoying the place. O society! What can be more
     appalling, duller, more intolerable? Yesterday I was dreadfully
     bored at Countess X.’s, but so heroically did I conceal my feelings
     that my hostess in bidding me good-bye said: ‘I cannot understand
     why you have not come to me before. I am sure that after to-night
     you will repent not having made my acquaintance sooner.’ This is
     word for word! She really pities me! May the devil take them all!”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “NAPLES, _March_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1881.

     “Yesterday I was about to write to you when Prince Stcherbatiov
     came to tell me of the Emperor’s death,[83] which was a great shock
     to me. At such moments it is very miserable to be abroad. I long
     to be in Russia, nearer to the source of information, and to take
     part in the demonstrations accorded to the new Tsar ... in short,
     to be living in touch with one’s own people. It seems so strange
     after receiving such news to hear them chattering at table d’hôte
     about the beauties of Sorrento, etc.

     “The Grand Dukes wanted to take me with them to Athens and
     Jerusalem, which they intended to visit a few days hence. But this
     has fallen through, for all three are on their way to Petersburg by
     now.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_March_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1881.

     “DEAR MODI,--In Nice I heard by telegram from Jurgenson that
     Nicholai Grigorievich (Rubinstein) was very ill. Then two telegrams
     followed from the Grand Hotel (1) that his state was hopeless, (2)
     that he had already passed away. I left Nice at once. Mentally, I
     endured the torments of the damned during my journey. I must
     confess, to my shame, I suffered less from the sense of my
     irreparable loss, than from the horror of seeing in Paris--in the
     Grand Hotel too--the body of poor Rubinstein. I was afraid I should
     not be able to bear the shock, although I exerted all my will-power
     to conquer this shameful cowardice. My fears were in vain. The body
     had been taken to the Russian church at six o’clock this morning.
     At the Hotel I found only Madame Tretiakov,[84] who never left
     Nicholas Rubinstein during the last six days of his life. She gave
     me all details.”[85]

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “PARIS, _March_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1881.

     “You regret having written me the letter in which you gave
     expression to your anger against those who have embittered your
     life. But I never for an instant believed that you could really
     _hate_ and _never forgive_, whatever might happen. It is possible
     to be a Christian in life and deed without clinging closely to
     dogma, and I am sure that un-Christian feelings could only dwell in
     you for a brief moment, as an involuntary protest against human
     wickedness. Such really good people as you do not know what _hate_
     means in the true sense of the word. What can be more aimless and
     unprofitable than hate? According to Christ’s words, our enemies
     only injure us from _ignorance_. O, if only men could only be
     Christians in truth as well as in form! If only everyone was
     penetrated by the simple truths of Christian morality! That can
     never be, for then eternal and _perfect_ happiness would reign on
     earth; and we are imperfect creations, who only understand goodness
     and happiness as the opposites of evil. We are, as it were,
     specially created to be eternally reverting to evil, to perpetually
     seek the ideal, to aspire to everlasting truth--and never to reach
     the goal. At least we should be indulgent to those who, in their
     blindness, are attracted to evil by some inborn instinct. Are they
     to be blamed because they exist only to bring the chosen people
     into stronger relief? No, we can only say with Christ, ‘Lord,
     forgive them, they know not what they do.’ I feel I am expressing
     _vague_ thoughts _vaguely_--thoughts which are wandering through my
     mind, because a man who was good and dear to me has just vanished
     from this earth. But if I think and speak vaguely, I _feel_ it all
     clearly enough. My brain is obscured to-day. How could it be
     otherwise in face of those enigmas--_Death_, _the aim and meaning
     of life_, _its finality or immortality_? Therefore the light of
     _faith_ penetrates my soul more and more. Yes, dear friend, I feel
     myself increasingly drawn towards this, the one and only shield
     against every calamity. I am learning to love God, as formerly I
     did not know how to do. Now and then doubts come back to me; I
     still strive at times to conceive the inconceivable with my feeble
     intellect; but the voice of divine truth speaks louder within me. I
     sometimes find an indescribable joy in bowing before the
     Inscrutable, Omniscient God. I often pray to Him with tears in my
     eyes (where He is, what He is, I know not; but I know He exists),
     and implore Him to grant me love and peace, to pardon and
     enlighten me; and it is sweet to say to Him, ‘Lord, Thy will be
     done,’ because I know His will is _holy_. Let me also tell you that
     I see clearly the finger of God in my own life, showing me the way
     and upholding me in all danger. Why it has been God’s will to
     shield me I cannot say. I wish to be _humble_, and not to regard
     myself as one of the elect, for God loves all His creatures
     equally. I only know He really cares for me, and I shed tears of
     gratitude for His eternal goodness. That is not enough. I want to
     accustom myself to the thought that all trials are good in the end.
     I want to love God always, not only when He sends me good, but when
     He proves me; for somewhere there must exist that kingdom of
     eternal happiness, which we seek so vainly upon earth. The time
     will come when all the questionings of our intellects will be
     answered, and we shall know why God sends us these trials. I want
     to believe that there is another life. When this desire becomes a
     fact, I shall be happy, in so far as happiness is possible in this
     world.

     “To-day I attended the funeral service in the church, and
     afterwards I accompanied the remains to the Gare du Nord, and saw
     that the leaden coffin was packed in a wooden case and placed in a
     luggage van. It was painful and horrible to think that our poor
     Nicholai Grigorievich should return thus to Moscow. Yes, it was
     intensely painful. But faith has now taken root in me, and I took
     comfort from the thought that it was God’s _inscrutable_ and _holy_
     will.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “PARIS, _March_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1881.

     “Modi, we shall soon meet again, so I will say nothing now about
     the last sad days. My present trip has been altogether unfortunate
     and calculated to weaken my love of going abroad. Once more I am
     face to face with changes which will affect my whole future life.
     First, the death of Nicholas Rubinstein, which is of great
     importance to me, and, secondly, the fact that Nadejda von Meck is
     on the verge of bankruptcy. I heard this talked about in Moscow,
     and begged her to tell me the truth. From her reply I see it is
     actually so. She writes that the sum I receive from her is nothing
     as compared to the millions that have been lost, and that she
     wishes to continue to pay it as before, but begs me not to mention
     it to anyone. But you see that this allowance is no longer a
     certainty, and therefore sooner or later I must return to my
     teaching. All this is far from cheerful.”

                         _To Nadejda von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _April_ 29_th_ (_May_ 11_th_), 1881.

     “I only stayed a few days in Moscow, where I was forced to collect
     all my strength in order to decline most emphatically the
     directorship of the Conservatoire. I arrived here to-day.”

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “KAMENKA, _May_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1881.

     “As my sister is ill and has gone away with her husband, I am
     playing the part of the head of the family and spend most of my
     time with the children. This would be a nuisance if I did not care
     for them as though they were my own.... I have no inclination to
     compose. I wish you would commission something. Is there really
     nothing you want? Some external impulse might perhaps reawaken my
     suspended activity. Perhaps I am getting old and all my songs are
     sung.”

                         _To Nadejda von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _May_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1881.

     “I think I have now found a temporary occupation. In my present
     religious frame of mind it will do me good to dip into Russian
     church music. At present I am studying the ‘rites,’ that is to say,
     the root of our church tunes, and I want to try to harmonise them.

     “Every day I pray that God may preserve and uphold you for the sake
     of so many people.”

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “KAMENKA, _May_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1881.

     “I beg you to send me the following:--

     “(1) I want to write a Vesper service and require the words in
     full. If there is a book on sale, a kind of ‘short guide to the
     Liturgy for laymen,’ please send it to me.

     “(2) I have begun to study the rites and ceremonials of the Church,
     but to acquire sufficient information on the subject I need
     Razoumovsky’s _History of Church Music_.

     I send thanks in anticipation.”

Tchaikovsky describes his condition at this time as “grey, without
inspiration or joy,” but “physically sound.” He often felt that the
spring of inspiration had run dry, but consoled himself with the
remembrance that he had passed through other periods “equally devoid of
creative impulse.”

                           _To E. Napravnik._

     “KAMENKA, _June_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1881.

     “Last winter, at N. Rubinstein’s request, I wrote a Festival
     Overture for the concerts of the Exhibition, entitled _The Year
     1812_. Could you possibly manage to have this played? If you like I
     will send the score for you to see. It is not of any great value,
     and I shall not be at all surprised or hurt if you consider the
     style of the music unsuitable to a symphony concert.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “KAMENKA, _June_ 21_st_ (_July_ 3_rd_), 1881.

     “My Vesper music compels me to look into many service books, with
     and without music. If you only knew how difficult it is to
     understand it all! Every service contains some chants that may be
     modified and others that may not. The latter--such as _Khvalitey_
     and _Velikoe slavoslovie_--do not present any great difficulties;
     but those that change--such as the canonical verses to _Gospodi
     vozzvakh_--are a science in themselves, for which a lifetime of
     study would hardly suffice. I should like at least to succeed in
     one Canon, the one relating to the Virgin. Imagine that, in spite
     of all assistance, I can arrive neither at the words nor the music.
     I went to ask our priest to explain it to me, but he assured me
     that he himself did not know anything about it and went through the
     routine of his office without referring to the Typikon. I am
     swallowed up in this sea of Graduals, Hymns, Canticles, Tropaires,
     Exapostelaires, etc., etc. I asked our priest how his assistant
     managed, and how he knew how, when, and where, to sing or read (for
     the Church prescribes to the smallest detail on what days, with
     what voice, and how many times things have to be read). He replied:
     ‘I do not know; before every service he has to look out something
     for himself.’ If the initiated do not know, what can a poor sinner
     like myself expect?”

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “KAMENKA, _June_ 21_st_ (_July_ 3_rd_), 1881.

     “I have received Bortniansky’s works and looked them through. To
     edit them would be a somewhat finicking and wearisome task, because
     the greater number of his compositions are dull and worthless. Why
     do you want to issue a ‘Complete Edition’? Let me advise you to
     give up this plan and only bring out a ‘Selection from the works of
     Bortniansky.’ ... ‘Complete Edition’? An imposing word, but out of
     place in connection with a man of no great talent, who has written
     a mass of rubbish, and only about a dozen good things. I am
     doubtful whether I should lend my name to such a publication ... on
     the other hand I am a musician, and live by my work; consequently
     there is nothing derogatory in my editing this rubbish for the sake
     of what I can earn. My pride, however, suffers from it. Think it
     over and send me a reply.”

[Illustration: OPENING BARS FROM THE OVERTURE “1812”

_From the MS. in the possession of P. Jurgenson, Moscow_]

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _July_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1881.

     “I am very glad, my dear, you like my songs and duets. I will take
     this opportunity of telling you which of these vocal compositions I
     care for most. Among the duets I prefer ‘Thränen’ (‘Tears’), and
     among the songs: (1) the one to Tolstoi’s words, (2) the verses of
     Mickievicz, and (3) ‘War ich nicht der Halm.’ The ‘Schottische
     Ballade’ is also one of my favourites, but I am convinced it will
     never be so popular as I fancied it would. It should not be so much
     sung, as declaimed, but with the most impassioned feeling.

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “KAMENKA, _July_ 31_st_ (_August_ 12_th_), 1881.

     “I am working intensely hard at Bortniansky to get this dreadful
     work done as soon as possible. His works as a rule are quite
     antipathetic to me. I shall finish the job, for I always complete
     anything I have begun. But some day I shall actually burst with
     rage....”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “KAMENKA, _August_ 24_th_ (_September_ 5_th_), 1881.

     “I wish with all my heart you could hear my Serenade properly
     performed. It loses so much on the piano, and I think the middle
     movements--played by the violins--would win your sympathy. As
     regards the first and last movements you are right. They are merely
     a play of sounds, and do not touch the heart. The first movement is
     my homage to Mozart; it is intended to be an imitation of his
     style, and I should be delighted if I thought I had in any way
     approached my model. Do not laugh, dear, at my zeal in standing up
     for my latest creation. Perhaps my paternal feelings are so warm
     because it is the youngest child of my fancy....

     “As regards Balakirev’s songs, I am quite of your opinion. They are
     actually little masterpieces, and I am passionately fond of some of
     them. There was a time when I could not listen to ‘Selim’s Song’
     without tears in my eyes, and now I rank ‘The Song of the Golden
     Fish’ very highly.”

                          _To S. I. Taneiev._

     “_August_ 25_th_ (_September_ 6_th_), 1881.

     “I am almost certain my Vespers will not please you. I see nothing
     in them which would win your approval. Do you know, Sergei
     Ivanovich, I believe I shall never write anything good again, I am
     no longer in a condition to compose. What form should I
     choose?--none of them appeal to me. Always the same indispensable
     _remplissage_, the same routine, the same revolting methods, the
     same conventions and shams. If I were young, this aversion from
     composition might be explained by the fact that I was gathering my
     forces, and would suddenly strike out some new path of my own
     making. But, alas! the years are beginning to tell. To write in a
     naïve way, as the bird sings, is no longer possible, and I lack
     energy to invent something new. I do not tell you this because I
     hope for your encouraging denial, but simply as a fact. I do not
     regret it. I have worked much in my time, in a desultory way, and
     now I am tired. It is time to rest....

     “Do not speak to me of coming back to the Conservatoire; at present
     this is impossible. I cannot answer for the future. You, on the
     contrary, seem made to carry on Rubinstein’s work.”




XIII

1881-1882


In one of his letters to Nadejda von Meck, written in 1876, Tchaikovsky
says: “I no longer compose anything--a sure indication of an agitated
mind.”

From November, 1880, until September, 1881, Tchaikovsky wrote
nothing--from which we may conclude that during this time he again
underwent a period of spiritual and mental disturbance.

It is not surprising that during the time he spent in Moscow and
Petersburg (November to February) he should not have written a note. We
know that town life--to which was added at this time the anxieties
attendant upon the production of two operas--stifled all his inclination
for composing. His visit to Rome, with its many social obligations, was
also unfavourable to creative work.

That Tchaikovsky continued to be silent even after his return to Kamenka
cannot, however, be attributed to unsuitable surroundings or external
hindrances. It points rather to a restless and unhappy frame of mind.

There were numerous reasons to account for this condition.

In the first place he was touched to the quick by the loss of Nicholas
Rubinstein. In spite of their many differences he had loved him with all
his heart, and valued him as “one of the greatest virtuosi of his day.”
He had also grown to regard him as one of the chief props of his
artistic life. Nicholas Rubinstein was always the first, and best,
interpreter of his works for pianoforte and orchestra. Whenever
Tchaikovsky wrote a symphonic work, he already heard it in imagination
as it would sound in the concert-room in Moscow, and knew beforehand
that under Rubinstein’s direction he would experience no disappointment.
The great artist had the gift of discovering in Tchaikovsky’s works
beauties of which the composer himself was hardly conscious. There was
the sonata, for instance, which Tchaikovsky “did not recognise” when he
heard it played by N. Rubinstein. And now this sure and subtle
interpreter of all his new works was gone for ever.

Apart from personal relations, Rubinstein’s intimate connection with the
Conservatoire had its influence upon Tchaikovsky. Although the latter
had resigned his position there, he had not ceased to take an interest
in the musical life of Moscow. After his friend’s death Tchaikovsky was
aware that everyone was waiting for him to decide whether he would take
over Rubinstein’s work. To accept this duty meant to abandon his career
as a composer. There was no mental conflict, because he never hesitated
for a moment in deciding that nothing in the world would make him give
up his creative work. At the same time he felt so keenly the helpless
position of the Conservatoire that he could not avoid some
self-reproach; and thus the calm so needful for composition was
constantly disturbed.

Another reason for his sadness was of a more intimate character. After
many years of unclouded happiness, a time of severe trial had come to
the numerous Davidov family, which was not without its influence upon
Tchaikovsky. Kamenka, formerly his refuge from all the tempests of life,
was no longer so peaceful a harbour, because his ever-increasing
attachment to his sister’s family made him more sensible of their joys
and sorrows. At this time the shadows prevailed, for Alexandra Ilinichna
was confined to bed by a long and painful illness, which eventually
ended in her death.

Finally, Tchaikovsky suffered much at this time from the loss of his
faithful servant Alexis Safronov, who had been in his service from 1873
to 1880, when he was called upon to serve his time in the army.

Tchaikovsky spent most of September, 1881, in Moscow, in the society of
his brother Anatol. This visit was comparatively agreeable to him,
because the greater part of Moscow society had not yet returned from
their summer holidays, and he felt free.

He left Moscow on October 1st (13th).

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “KAMENKA, _October_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1881.

     “I inhabit the large house where my sister’s family used to live,
     but at present there are no other human beings but myself and the
     woman who looks after me. I have laid myself out to complete the
     arrangements of Bortniansky’s works for double chorus in a month.
     Good Lord, how I loathe Bortniansky! Not himself, poor wretch, but
     his wishy-washy music! Yet if I had not undertaken this work I
     should find myself in a bad way financially. Were I to tell you how
     much money I got through in Moscow, without knowing why or
     wherefore, you would be horrified and give me a good scolding....”

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “KAMENKA, _October_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1881.

     “DEAR FRIEND,--I know you will laugh at me when you read this
     letter.... There is a young man here of eighteen or nineteen who is
     very clever and capable, but dislikes his present occupation
     because his domestic circumstances are miserable, and he longs for
     a wider sphere and experience of life. He has the reputation of
     being honest and industrious, and knows something of the
     book-trade.... Could you make him useful in your publishing house,
     or in the country? Dear friend, do look after him! What can I do
     for him? This is ‘my fate’ over again. In any case I shall not
     abandon him, for I am sure he would come to grief here.

     “Laugh if you like, but have compassion and answer me.”[86]

                         _To Nadejda von Meck._

     “KIEV, _November_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1881.

     “Because I am deeply interested in Church music just now, I go to
     the churches here very frequently, especially to the ‘Lavra.’[87]
     On Sunday the bishop celebrated services in the monasteries of
     Michael and the Brotherhood. The singing in these churches is
     celebrated, but I thought it very poor, and pretentious, with a
     repertory of commonplace concert pieces. It is quite different in
     the ‘Lavra,’ where they sing in their own old style, following the
     traditions of a thousand years, without notes and without any
     attempts at concert-music. Nevertheless it is an original and
     grand style of sacred singing. The public think the music of the
     ‘Lavra’ is bad, and are delighted with the sickly-sweet singing of
     other churches. This vexes and enrages me. It is difficult to be
     indifferent to the matter. My efforts to help our church music have
     been misunderstood. My Liturgy is forbidden. Two months ago the
     ecclesiastical authorities in Moscow refused to let it be sung at
     the memorial service for Nicholas Rubinstein. The Archbishop
     Ambrose pronounced it to be a _Catholic_ service.... The
     authorities are pig-headed enough to keep every ray of light out of
     this sphere of darkness and ignorance.

     “To-morrow I hope to leave for Rome, where I expect to meet my
     brother Modeste.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ROME, _November_ 26_th_ (_December_ 8_th_), 1881.

     “The day before yesterday I was at the concert in honour of Liszt’s
     seventieth birthday. The programme consisted exclusively of his
     works. The performance was worse than mediocre. Liszt himself was
     present. It was touching to witness the ovation which the
     enthusiastic Italians accorded to the venerable genius, but Liszt’s
     works leave me cold. They have more poetical intention than actual
     creative power, more colour than form--in short, in spite of being
     externally effective, they are lacking in the deeper qualities.
     Liszt is just the opposite of Schumann, whose vast creative force
     is not in harmony with his colourless style of expression. At this
     concert an Italian celebrity played; Sgambati is a very good
     pianist, but exceedingly cold.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ROME, _November_ 27_th_ (_December_ 9_th_), 1881.

     “I cannot take your advice to publish my opera with a French
     title-page. Such advances to foreign nations are repugnant to me.
     Do not let us go to them, let them rather come to us. If they want
     our operas then--not the title-page only, but the full text can be
     translated, as in the case of the proposed performance at Prague.
     So long as an opera has not crossed the Russian frontier, it is not
     necessary--to my mind--that it should be translated into the
     language of those who take no interest in it.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ROME, _December_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1881.

     “Yesterday I received sad news from Kamenka. In the neighbourhood
     lies a little wood, the goal of my daily walk. In the heart of the
     wood lives a forester with a large and lovable family. I never saw
     more beautiful children. I was particularly devoted to a little
     girl of four, who was very shy at first, but afterwards grew so
     friendly that she would caress me prettily, and chatter delightful
     nonsense, which was a great pleasure to me. Now my brother-in-law
     writes that this child and one of the others have died of
     diphtheria. The remaining children were removed to the village by
     his orders, but, he adds, ‘I fear it is too late.’ Poor Russia!
     Everything there is so depressing, and then this terrible scourge
     which carries off children by the thousand.”

The violin concerto was the only one of Tchaikovsky’s works which
received its first performance outside Russia. This exceptional
occurrence took place in Vienna. The originality and difficulty of this
composition prevented Leopold Auer, to whom it was originally dedicated,
from appreciating its true worth, and he declined to produce it in St.
Petersburg.[88] Two years passed after its publication, and still no one
ventured to play it in public. The first to recognise its importance,
and to conquer its difficulties, was Adolf Brodsky. A pupil of
Hellmesberger’s, he held a post at the Moscow Conservatoire for a time,
but relinquished it in the seventies in order to tour in Europe. For two
years he considered the concerto without, as he himself says, being able
to summon courage to learn it. Finally, he threw himself into the work
with fiery energy, and resolved to try his luck with it in Vienna. Hans
Richter expressed a wish to make acquaintance with the new concerto, and
finally it was included in the programme of one of the Philharmonic
Concerts, December 4th, 1881. According to the critics, and Brodsky’s
own account, there was a noisy demonstration at the close of the
performance, in which energetic applause mingled with equally forcible
protest. The former sentiment prevailed, and Brodsky was recalled three
times. From this it is evident that the ill-feeling was not directed
against the executant, but against the work. The Press notices were very
hostile. Out of ten criticisms, two only spoke quite sympathetically of
the concerto. The rest, which emanated from the pens of the best-known
musical critics, were extremely slashing. Hanslick, the author of the
well-known book, _On the Beautiful in Music_, passed the following
judgment upon this work:--

     “Mozart’s youthful work (the _Divertimento_) would have had a more
     favourable position had it been played after, instead of before,
     Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto; a drink of cold water is welcome to
     those who have just swallowed brandy. The violinist, A. Brodsky,
     was ill-advised to make his first appearance before the Viennese
     public with this work. The Russian composer, Tchaikovsky, certainly
     possesses no commonplace talent, but rather one which is forced,
     and which, labouring after genius, produces results which are
     tasteless and lacking in discrimination. Such examples as we have
     heard of his music (with the exception of the flowing and piquant
     Quartet in D) offer a curious combination of originality and
     crudeness, of happy ideas and wretched affectations. This is also
     the case as regards his latest long and pretentious Violin
     Concerto. For a time it proceeds in a regular fashion, it is
     musical and not without inspiration, then crudeness gains the upper
     hand and reigns to the end of the first movement. The violin is no
     longer played, but rent asunder, beaten black and blue. Whether it
     is actually possible to give clear effect to these hair-raising
     difficulties I do not know, but I am sure Herr Brodsky in trying to
     do so made us suffer martyrdom as well as himself. The Adagio, with
     its tender Slavonic sadness, calmed and charmed us once more, but
     it breaks off suddenly, only to be followed by a finale which
     plunges us into the brutal, deplorable merriment of a Russian
     holiday carousal. We see savages, vulgar faces, hear coarse oaths
     and smell fusel-oil. Friedrich Fischer, describing lascivious
     paintings, once said there were pictures ‘one could see stink.’
     Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto brings us face to face for the first
     time with the revolting idea: May there not also be musical
     compositions which we can hear stink?”

Hanslick’s criticism hurt Tchaikovsky’s feelings very deeply. To his
life’s end he never forgot it, and knew it by heart, just as he
remembered word for word one of Cui’s criticisms dating from 1866. All
the deeper and more intense therefore was his gratitude to Brodsky. This
sentiment he expressed in a letter to the artist, and in the dedication
of the Concerto he replaced Auer’s name by that of Brodsky.

While Tchaikovsky was touched by Brodsky’s courage in bringing forward
the Concerto, he was unable to suppress his sense of injury at the
attitude of his intimate friend Kotek, who weakly relinquished his
original intention of introducing the work in St. Petersburg. Still more
did he resent the conduct of Auer, who, he had reason to believe, not
only declined to produce the Concerto himself, but advised Sauret not to
play it in the Russian capital.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     ROME, 1881.

     “Do you know what I am writing just now? You will be very much
     astonished. Do you remember how you once advised me to compose a
     trio for pianoforte, violin, and violoncello, and my reply, in
     which I frankly told you that I disliked this combination?
     Suddenly, in spite of this antipathy, I made up my mind to
     experiment in this form, which so far I have never attempted. The
     beginning of the trio is finished. Whether I shall carry it
     through, whether it will sound well, I do not know, but I should
     like to bring it to a happy termination. I hope you will believe
     me, when I say that I have only reconciled myself to the
     combination of piano and strings in the hope of giving you pleasure
     by this work. I will not conceal from you that I have had to do
     some violence to my feelings before I could bring myself to express
     my musical ideas in a new and unaccustomed form. I wish to conquer
     all difficulties, however; and the thought of pleasing you impels
     me and encourages my efforts.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ROME, _December_ 22_nd_, 1881 (_January_ 3_rd_, 1882).

     “Things are well with me in the fullest sense of the word.... If
     everything were well in Russia, and I received good news from home,
     it would be impossible to conceive a better mode of life. But
     unhappily it is not so. Our dear, but pitiable, country is passing
     through a dark hour. A vague sense of unrest and dissatisfaction
     prevails throughout the land; all seem to be walking at the edge of
     a volcanic crater, which may break forth at any moment....

     “According to my ideas, now or never is the time to turn to the
     people for counsel and support; to summon us all together and to
     let us consider in common such ways and means as may strengthen our
     hands. The Zemsky Sobor--this is what Russia needs. From us the
     Tsar could learn the truth of things; we could help him to suppress
     rebellion and make Russia a happy and united country. Perhaps I am
     a poor politician, and my remarks are very naïve and
     inconsequential, but whenever I think the matter over, I see no
     other issue, and cannot understand why the same thought does not
     occur to him, in whose hands our salvation lies. Katkov, who
     describes all parliamentary discussions as talkee-talkee, and hates
     the words _popular representation_ and _constitution_, confuses the
     idea of the Zemsky Sobor, which was frequently summoned in old
     days when the Tsar stood in need of counsel, with the Parliaments
     and Chambers of Western Europe. A Zemsky Sobor is probably quite
     opposed to a constitution in the European sense; it is not so much
     a question of giving us at once a responsible Ministry, and the
     whole routine of English parliamentary procedure, as of revealing
     the true state of things, giving the Government the confidence of
     the people, and showing us some indication of where and how we are
     being led.

     “I had no intention of turning a letter to you into a political
     dissertation. Forgive me, dear friend, if I have bored you with it.
     I only meant to tell you the Italian sun is beautiful, and I am
     enjoying the glory of the South; but I live the life of my country,
     and cannot be completely at rest here so long as things are not
     right with us. Nor is the news I receive from my family in Russia
     very cheerful just now.”

                           _To P Jurgenson._

     “_Rome_, _January_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1882.

     “This season I have no luck. _The Maid of Orleans_ will not be
     given again; _Oniegin_ ditto; Auer intrigues against the Violin
     Concerto; no one plays the Pianoforte Concerto (the second); in
     short, things are bad. But what makes me furious, and hurts and
     mortifies me most, is the fact that the Direction, which would not
     spend a penny upon _The Maid of Orleans_, has granted 30,000
     roubles for the mounting of Rimsky-Korsakov’s _Sniegourochka_. Is
     it not equally unpleasant to you to feel that ‘our subject’ has
     been taken from us, and that Lel will now sing new music to the old
     words? It is as though someone had forcibly torn away a piece of
     myself and offered it to the public in a new and brilliant setting.
     I could cry with mortification.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ROME, _January_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1882.

     “The trio is finished.... Now I can say with some conviction that
     the work is not bad. But I am afraid, having written all my life
     for the orchestra, and only taken late in life to chamber music, I
     may have failed to adapt the instrumental combinations to my
     musical thoughts. In short, I fear I may have arranged music of a
     symphonic character as a trio, instead of writing directly for my
     instruments. I have tried to avoid this, but I am not sure whether
     I have been successful.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “ROME, _January_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 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_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 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_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 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_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 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_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 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_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 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_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 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_ 29_th_ (_June_ 10_th_), 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_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 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_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 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_ 26_th_ (_August_ 7_th_), 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_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 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_ 23_rd_ (_September_ 4_th_), 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_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 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_ 20_th_ (_October_ 2_nd_), 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_ 21_st_ (_October_ 3_rd_), 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_ 20_th_ (_November_ 1_st_), 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_ 29_th_ (_November_ 10_th_) 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_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 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_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 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_ 23_rd_ (_December_ 5_th_), 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_ 5_th_ (17_th_) 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_ 31_st_, 1882 (_January_ 12_th_, 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_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 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_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 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           3 r.

      “For the composition of eight
      connecting bars                4 r.

      “For four additional lines to
      the third verse, at forty
      kopecks per line               1 r. 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_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 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_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 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_ 24_th_ (_March_ 8_th_), 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_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 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_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 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_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 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_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 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_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 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_ 24_th_ (_June_ 5_th_), 1883.

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

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “PODOUSHKINO, _June_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 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_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 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_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 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_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 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_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 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_ 19_th_ (_October_ 1_st_), 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_ 26_th_ (_October_ 8_th_), 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_ 28_th_ (_October_ 10_th_), 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_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 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_ 25_th_ (_November_ 6_th_), 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_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 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_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 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_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 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_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 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_ 18_th_ (_March_ 1_st_), 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_ 18_th_ (_March_ 1_st_), 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_ 27_th_ (_March_ 10_th_), 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_ 29_th_ (_March_ 12_th_), 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_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 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_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 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_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 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_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 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_ 17_th_ (29_th_).

     “ ... Jotted down a few ideas.”

     “_April_ 19_th_ (_May_ 1_st_).

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

     _April_ 24_th_ (_May_ 6_th_).

     “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_ 26_th_ (_May_ 8_th_).

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

     “_April_ 30_th_ (_May_ 12_th_), 1884.

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

               _Extracts from a Letter to Anna Merkling._

     “KAMENKA, _April_ 27_th_ (_May_ 9_th_), 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_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).

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

     “_May_ 6_th_ (18_th 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_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 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_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1884.

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

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     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_ 12_th_ (24_th_).

     “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_ 17_th_ (29_th_).

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

     “_May_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

     “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_ 21_st_ (_June_ 2_nd_).

     “Worked well. Four variations completed.”

     “_May_ 23_rd_ (_June_ 4_th_).

     “.... The Suite is finished.”

     _To P. Jurgenson._

     “GRANKINO, _June_ 20_th_ (_July_ 2_nd_), 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_ 30_th_ (_July_ 12_th_), 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_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 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_ 28_th_ (_August_ 9_th_), 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_ 25_th_ (_August_ 6_th_), 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_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 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_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 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_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 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_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 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_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 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.




                                   PART VI




I


Strong and energetic, fearing neither conflict nor effort, the
Tchaikovsky who entered upon this new phase of life in no way resembled
the man we knew in 1878.

The duties connected with his public career no longer dismayed him; on
the contrary, they proved rather attractive, now he had strength to cope
with them. At the same time interests stirred within him such as could
not have been satisfied in his former restricted existence. Thanks to
the enormous success of _Eugene Oniegin_, his fame had now reached every
class in educated Russia, and he was compelled to accept a certain rôle
which--at least, in these first days of success--was not unpleasant to
him. He was glad to pay attentions to others, to help everyone who came
his way, because by this means he could show his gratitude to the public
for the enthusiastic reception accorded to his work. He was no longer a
misanthropist, rather he sought those to whom he was dear, not only as a
man, but as a personage. Amongst these, his old and faithful friends in
Moscow took the first place. These intimacies were now renewed, and
every fresh meeting with Laroche, Kashkin, Jurgenson, Albrecht, Hubert,
and Taneiev gave him the keenest delight. Although death had separated
him from Nicholas Rubinstein, he showed his devotion to the memory of
his friend by taking the deepest interest in his orphaned children.

In February, 1885, Tchaikovsky was unanimously elected Director of the
Moscow branch of the Russian Musical Society.

As the most popular musician in Russia, he no longer avoided intercourse
with his fellow-workers. He was ready with advice, assistance and
direction, and regarded it as a duty to answer every question addressed
to him. His correspondence with his “colleagues” would fill a book in
itself.

He received letters not only from professional musicians, but from
amateurs, male and female, students, enthusiastic girls, officers, and
even occasionally from priests. To all these letters he replied with
astonishing conscientiousness and strove, in so far as he could, to
fulfil all their requests, which often led to touching, or sometimes
grotesque, expressions of gratitude from the recipients of his favours.

As a composer Tchaikovsky no longer stood aloof, leaving the fate of his
compositions to chance; nor did he regard it as _infra dig._ to make
them known through the medium of influential people. After a
convalescence which had lasted seven years, Tchaikovsky returned to all
these activities with vigour and enjoyment, although after a time his
courage flagged, and all his strength of will had to be requisitioned to
enable him “to keep up this sort of existence.” Enthusiasm waned, and
there succeeded--in his own words--“a life-weariness, and at times an
insane depression; something hopeless, despairing, and final--and (as in
every Finale) a sense of triviality.”

The new conditions of his life are reflected in his constantly
increasing circle of acquaintances. In every town he visited he made new
friends, who were drawn to him with whole-hearted affection. With many
of them he entered into brisk correspondence. In some cases this was
continued until his death; in other instances the exchange of letters
ceased after a year or two, to make way for a fresh correspondence.

The most important and interesting of Tchaikovsky’s correspondents
during this time are: Julie Spajinsky, wife of the well-known dramatist
(1885-1891); Emilie Pavlovskaya, the famous singer, with whom
Tchaikovsky became acquainted during the rehearsal for _Mazeppa_ in
1884, and continued to correspond until 1888; the Grand Duke Constantine
Constantinovich; the composer Ippolitov-Ivanov and his wife, the
well-known singer, Zaroudna; Vladimir Napravnik, son of the conductor;
the pianists Sapellnikov and Siloti. With Glazounov, Désirée Artôt,
Brodsky, Hubert, his cousin Anna Merkling, and many others, there was an
occasional exchange of letters.

The greater part of these communications, notwithstanding the intimate
style and frankness of the writer’s nature, bear signs of effort, and
give the impression of having been written for duty’s sake. Taken as a
whole, they are not so important, or so interesting, as the letters to
Nadejda von Meck, and to Tchaikovsky’s own family, belonging to the
Moscow period.

The same may be said of the majority of new acquaintances made during
the later years of his life, of which no epistolary record remains.
These were so numerous that it would be impossible to speak of them
individually. They included such personalities as Liadov, Altani, Grieg,
Sophie Menter, Emil Sauer, Louis Diemer, Colonne, Carl Halir. Besides
these, he was in touch with a vast number of people belonging to the
most varied strata of social life. Among them was Legoshin, valet to his
friend Kondratiev. Tchaikovsky got to know this man by the death-bed of
his master, and valued his purity of heart and integrity more and more
as years went by. Another unprofessional friend was the celebrated
Russian general, Dragomirov. While travelling to France by sea, he made
the acquaintance of an extraordinarily gifted boy, the son of Professor
Sklifasskovsy. The friendship was brief as it was touching, for the
youth died a year later. Tchaikovsky was deeply affected by his loss,
and dedicated to his memory the _Chant Elégiaque_, op. 72.

All these new friendships served to surround the composer with that
atmosphere of affection and appreciation which was as indispensable to
him as his daily bread. But none of them were as deep and lasting as the
ties of old days, none so close and intimate; nor did they contribute
any new element to his inner life....

One word as to the dearest of all his later affections. His sister, A.
Davidov, had three sons. The second of these, Vladimir, had always been
Tchaikovsky’s favourite from childhood. Up to the age of eighteen,
however, these pleasant relations between uncle and nephew had not
assumed any deep significance. But as Vladimir Davidov grew up,
Tchaikovsky gradually felt for him a sentiment which can only be
compared to his love for the twins, Toly and Modi, in their youth. The
difference of age was no hindrance to their relations. Tchaikovsky
preferred the companionship of his nephew; was always grieved to part
with him; confided to him his inmost thoughts, and finally made him his
heir, commending to this young man all those whom he still desired to
assist and cherish, even after his death.




II


                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MOSCOW, _January_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1885.

     “It is so long since I wrote, dear friend! Two events have
     interrupted my correspondence with you: on Christmas Eve I received
     a telegram announcing the death of Kotek. Not only was I much upset
     by this intelligence, but the sad duty of breaking the news to his
     parents devolved upon me.... I have also had to make the difficult
     corrections in my new Suite myself. Hans von Bülow is shortly to
     conduct in Petersburg, and all must be ready four or five days
     hence. While I was away nothing was done here. I was furious, rated
     Jurgenson and the engravers, and worked till I was worn out;
     therefore I have had no time to lament for poor Kotek.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MOSCOW, _January_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1885.

     “All my thoughts are now directed towards taking up my abode in
     some village near Moscow. I am no longer satisfied with a nomadic
     existence, and am determined to have a _home of my own_ somewhere.
     As I am sure I am not in a position to buy a country house, I have
     decided to rent one.”

The first performance of the Third Suite, which took place at a symphony
concert in Petersburg, on January 12th (24th), 1885, under Von Bülow’s
direction, was a veritable triumph for Tchaikovsky. Never before had any
of his works been received with such unanimous enthusiasm. Doubtless
this was partly owing to the accessible and attractive character of the
music, but far more to the admirable way in which it was interpreted.

Hans von Bülow was a great pianist, yet in this sphere he had rivals who
almost overshadowed his fame. As a conductor, however, he ranked, after
Richard Wagner, as the first man of his day. In spite of his years he
was as enthusiastic as a youth, highly strung, receptive, and a fine
all-round musician. He knew how to bring out every detail in a work, and
thus infused his own virtuoso-inspiration into each individual player.
Under him--in spite of his mannerisms and ungraceful movements--the
orchestra performed wonders, and threw new light upon the most hackneyed
works (such as the overture to _Freischütz_), holding the attention of
the audience from the opening phrase to the last chord.

Quick, restless, and continually under the influence of some
inspiration, he was as extreme and pitiless in his dislikes as he was
sentimental and enthusiastic in his sympathies. He could not merely like
or dislike. He hated or adored.

After having been in turn a passionate partisan of the classical
masters, of Wagner and of Brahms, he became in the seventies a great
admirer of Russian music, and was devoted to Tchaikovsky’s works. His
devotion was then at its zenith, consequently he put into his
interpretation of the Third Suite not merely his accustomed experience,
but all the fire of his passing enthusiasm. I say “passing,” because
some ten years later this enthusiasm had somewhat cooled, and he had
begun to rave over the works of Richard Strauss, who at that time had
scarcely entered upon his career as a composer.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MOSCOW, _January_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1885.

     “DEAR, KIND FRIEND,--Forgive me my indolence, and for so seldom
     writing. To-day I returned from Petersburg, where I spent a week of
     feverish excitement. The first few days were taken up by the
     rehearsals for the concert at which my new Suite was to be
     performed. I had a secret presentiment that it would please the
     public. I experienced both pleasure and fear. But the reality far
     surpassed my expectations. I have never had such a triumph; I could
     see that the greater part of the audience was touched and grateful.
     Such moments are the best in an artist’s life.... On the 15th
     (27th) _Oniegin_ was performed in the presence of the Emperor and
     Empress, and other members of the Tsar’s family. The Emperor
     desired to see me. We had a long and friendly conversation, in the
     course of which he asked all about my life and musical work, and
     then took me to the Empress, who paid me the most touching
     attention. The following evening I returned to Moscow.”

On January 16th (28th), the new Suite was given in Moscow, under
Erdmannsdörfer. It met with considerable success, but not with such
appreciation as in Petersburg. Erdmannsdörfer’s interpretation was fine,
but lacked the inspiration by means of which Hans von Bülow had
electrified his audience. At this time Tchaikovsky was in search of an
operatic subject. Just then, says his brother Modeste, “I was in Moscow,
and remarked one day that certain scenes from Shpajinsky’s play, _The
Enchantress_, would make an effective opera without using the whole
drama as a libretto.” The following day Tchaikovsky wrote to the author,
asking permission to use the play for musical setting. Shpajinsky
replied that he would be pleased to co-operate with the composer.

When the time came for Tchaikovsky to find a residence in his native
land, or to go abroad according to his usual custom, he was seized with
an inexplicable fear of the journey, and sent his servant Alexis to take
a furnished house, in the village of Maidanovo, near Klin. “The house,”
he wrote to Nadejda von Meck, “contains many beautifully furnished
rooms, and has a fine view. Apparently it is a pleasant place to live
in, but the number of rooms gives me some anxiety, because they must be
heated in winter.” Finally he decided to take it for a year, and should
it prove beyond his means, to look out for something more suitable in
the meanwhile.

The village of Maidanovo lies close to the town of Klin. The manor house
stands upon a high bank, overlooking the river Sestra, and is surrounded
by a large park. Once it belonged to an aristocratic Russian family, but
had gradually fallen into decay. Nevertheless, it bore many traces of
its former splendour: the remains of a rosary in front of the façade,
arbours, lakes, little bridges, rare trees, an orangery and a marble
vase, placed in a shady spot in the park. In 1885 this property was
already spoilt by the numerous country houses built by rich owners in
the immediate neighbourhood. But Tchaikovsky was so enamoured of the
scenery of Great Russia that he was quite satisfied with a birch or
pine wood, a marshy field, the dome of a village church and, in the far
distance, the dark line of some great forest. The chief motive, however,
for his choice of this neighbourhood, where he lived to the end of his
days, was not so much the charm of scenery as its situation between the
two capitals. Klin lies near Moscow, and is also easily accessible from
Petersburg, so that Tchaikovsky was within convenient distance from
either city; while at the same time he was beyond the reach of
accidental visitors, who now frequently molested him.

The first glimpse of Maidanovo disappointed Tchaikovsky. All that seemed
splendid and luxurious to his man Alexis appeared in his eyes tasteless
and incongruous. Nevertheless, he felt it would be pleasant as a
temporary residence. The view from the windows, the quiet and sense of
being _at home_, delighted him. The cook was good and inexpensive. The
only other servants he employed were a moujik and a washerwoman. “In
spite of my disappointment,” he writes to his brother, “I am contented,
cheerful, and quiet.... I am now receiving the newspapers, which makes
life pleasanter. I read a great deal, and am getting on with English,
which I enjoy. I eat, walk, and sleep when--and as much as--I please--in
fact I live.”




III


                          _To E. Pavlovskaya._

     “MAIDANOVO, _February_ 20_th_ (March 4_th_), 1888.

     “DEAR EMILIE KARLOVNA,--I rather long for news of you. Where are
     you now? I have settled down in a village. My health is not good
... in Carnival week I suffered from the most peculiar nervous
     headaches.... As I felt sure my accursed and shattered nerves were
     to blame, and I only wanted rest, I hurried into the country.... My
     _Vakoula_ will be quite a respectable opera, you can feel sure of
     that. I always see you as Oxana, and so you dwell in my company
     without suspecting it. I have made every possible alteration which
     could retrieve the work from its unmerited oblivion. I hope it will
     be quite ready by Easter. I intend to begin a new opera in spring,
     so I shall once more have an opportunity of spending all my time
     with my ‘benefactress.’”[103]

In February Taneiev played the new Fantasia for pianoforte in Moscow.
Its immediate success was very great, but probably the applause was as
much for the favourite pianist as for the work itself, for neither in
Moscow nor yet in Petersburg--where Taneiev played it a year later--did
this composition take any lasting hold upon the public.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _March_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1885.

     “DEAR FRIEND,--Your letter gave me food for reflection. You are
     quite right: property is a burden, and only he who owns nothing is
     quite free. But, on the other hand, one must have a _home_. If I
     could live in Moscow, I should rent a house there. But it is not
     sufficient to _rent_ a place in the country if one wants to feel at
     home. Here in Maidanovo, for instance, I have already found it very
     unpleasant to have my landlady living close by. I cannot plant the
     flowers I like, nor cut down a tree that obstructs my view. I
     cannot prevent people from walking in front of my windows, because
     there are other houses let in the park. I think, with my reserved
     character and nature, it would be better to have a little house and
     garden of my own....

     “The Russian solitudes of which you speak do not frighten me. One
     can always take a great store of books and newspapers from town,
     and, moreover, I am very simple in my tastes.

     “I do not at all agree with your idea that in our country it must
     always be _horrid_, _dark_, _marshy_, etc. Even as the Esquimaux,
     or the Samoyede, loves his icy northern land, I love our Russian
     scenery more than any other, and a Russian landscape in winter has
     an incomparable charm for me. This does not hinder me in the least
     from liking Switzerland or Italy, in a different way. To-day I find
     it particularly difficult to agree with you about the poverty of
     our Russian scenery: it is a bright, sunny day, and the snow
     glistens like millions of diamonds. A wide vista lies before my
     window.... No! it is beautiful here in this land of ours, and one
     breathes so easily under this boundless horizon.

     “It seems to me you think too gloomily, too despairingly, of
     Russia. Undoubtedly there is much to be wished for here, and all
     kinds of deceit and disorder do still exist. But where will you
     find perfection? Can you point out any country in Europe where
     everyone is perfectly contented? There was a time when I was
     convinced that for the abolishment of autocracy and the
     introduction of law and order, political institutions, such as
     parliaments, chambers of deputies, etc., were indispensable, and
     that it was only necessary to introduce these reforms with great
     caution, then all would turn out well, and everyone would be quite
     happy. But now, although I have not yet gone over to the camp of
     the ultra-conservatives, I am very doubtful as to the actual
     utility of these reforms. When I observe what goes on in other
     countries, I see everywhere discontent, party conflict and hatred;
     everywhere--in a greater or less degree--the same disorder and
     tyranny prevails. Therefore I am driven to the conclusion that
     there is no ideal government, and, until the end of the world, men
     will have to endure in patience many disappointments with regard to
     these things. From time to time great men--benefactors of
     mankind--appear, who rule justly and care more for the common
     welfare than for their own. But these are very exceptional.
     Therefore I am firmly convinced that the welfare of the great
     majority is not dependent upon _principles_ and _theories_, but
     upon those individuals who, by the accident of their birth, or for
     some other reason, stand at the head of affairs. In a word, mankind
     serves man, not a personified principle. Now arises the question:
     Have we a _man_ upon whom we can stake our hopes? I answer, Yes,
     and this man is the Emperor. His personality fascinates me; but,
     apart from personal impressions, I am inclined to think that the
     Emperor is a good man. I am pleased with the caution with which he
     introduces the new and does away with the old order. It pleases me,
     too, that he does not seek popularity; and I take pleasure also in
     his blameless life, and in the fact that he is an honourable and
     good man. But perhaps my politics are only the _naïveté_ of a man
     who stands aloof from everyday life and is unable to see beyond his
     own profession.”

                        _To E. K. Pavlovskaya._

     “MAIDANOVO, _March_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1885.

     “I am now arranging the revised score of _Vakoula_, orchestrating
     the new numbers and correcting the old. I hope to have finished in
     a few weeks. The opera will be called _Cherevichek_,[104] to
     distinguish it from the numerous other _Vakoulas_: Soloviev’s and
     Stchourovsky’s for instance. The authorities have promised to
     produce the opera in Moscow; it will hardly be possible in
     Petersburg, as they have already accepted two new operas there.

     “As to _The Captain’s Daughter_,[105] if only I could find a clever
     librettist, capable of carrying out such a difficult task, I would
     begin the work with pleasure. Meanwhile I have made a note of _The
     Enchantress_, by Shpajinsky. The latter has already started upon
     the libretto. He will make many alterations and, if I am not
     mistaken, it will make a splendid background for the music. You
     will find it your most suitable rôle. If _Les Caprices d’Oxane_
     should be produced, you will continue to play the part of my
     ‘benefactress,’ for you give me incredibly more than I give you.
     But if, with God’s help, I achieve _The Enchantress_, I hope I may
     become your benefactor in some degree. Here you shall have a fine
     opportunity to display your art.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _April_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1885.

     “MY DEAREST FRIEND,--I am once more back in Maidanovo, after a week
     and a half of travelling hither and thither. I worked almost
     without a break through the whole week before Palm Sunday and the
     whole of Passion Week, in order to be ready for the Easter
     festival. By Saturday everything was finished, and (although not
     well) I arrived in Moscow in time for the early service. I did not
     pass my holidays very pleasantly, and at the end of Easter Week I
     went to Petersburg, where I had to see Polonsky, author of the
     libretto of _Vakoula_, about the printing of the opera in its new
     form. I stayed four days in Petersburg, and spent them with my
     relations in the usual running about, which I found as wearisome as
     it was fatiguing. On Monday I travelled to Moscow in order to
     attend the reception of the Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich,
     who was to be present at the performance of the opera at the
     Conservatoire. As a member of the Musical Committee, I could not
     avoid taking part in the official reception to the Grand Duke,
     which I found a great bore. The performance went very well. Many
     thanks for sending me the articles in the _Novoe Vremya_. I had
     already seen them, and was very pleased with their warmth of tone.
     I am never offended at frank criticism, for I am well aware of my
     faults, but I feel very bitterly the cold and inimical note which
     pervades Cui’s criticisms. It is not very long since the Russian
     Press (principally the Petersburg organs) began to notice me in a
     friendly spirit. Ivanov, the author of the articles in the _Novoe
     Vremya_, had formerly no good opinion of me, and used to write in a
     cold and hostile manner, although in Moscow I taught him theory for
     three years, and did not in the least deserve his enmity, as
     everyone knows. I can never forget how deeply his criticism of
     _Vakoula_ wounded me ten years ago.”

                         _To Rimsky-Korsakov._

     “MAIDANOVO, _April_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1885.

     “DEAR NICHOLAS ANDREIEVICH,--Since I saw you last I have had so
     much to get through in a hurry that I could not spare time for a
     thorough revision of your primer. But now and again I cast a glance
     at it, and jotted down my remarks on some loose sheets. To-day,
     having finished my revision of the first chapter, I wanted to send
     you these notes, and read them through again. Then I hesitated:
     should I send them or not? All through my criticism of your
     book[106] ran a vein of irritation, a grudging spirit, even an
     unintentional suspicion of hostility towards you. I was afraid the
     mordant bitterness of my observations might hurt your feelings.
     Whence this virulence? I cannot say. I think my old hatred of
     teaching harmony crops up here; a hatred which partly springs from
     a consciousness that our present theories are untenable, while at
     the same time it is impossible to build up new ones; and partly
     from the peculiarity of my musical temperament, which lacks the
     power of imparting conscientious instruction. For ten years I
     taught harmony, and during that time I loathed my classes, my
     pupils, my text-book, and myself as teacher. The reading of your
     book reawakened my loathing, and it was this which stirred up all
     my acrimony and rancour.... Now I am going to lay a serious
     question before you, which you need not answer at once, only after
     due consideration and discussion with your wife.

     “Dare I hope that you would accept the position of Director of the
     Moscow Conservatoire should it be offered you? I can promise you
     beforehand so to arrange matters that you would have sufficient
     time for composing, and be spared all the drudgery with which N.
     Rubinstein was overwhelmed. You would only have the supervision of
     the musical affairs.

     “Your upright and ideally honourable character, your distinguished
     gifts, both as artist and as teacher, warrant my conviction that in
     you we should find a splendid Director. I should consider myself
     very fortunate could I realise this ideal.

     “So far, I have not ventured to speak of it to anyone, and beg you
     to keep the matter quiet for the present.

     “Think it over, dear friend, and send me your answer....”[107]

                        _To E. K. Pavlovskaya._

     “MAIDANOVA, _April_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1885.

     “MY DEAR EMILIE KARLOVNA,--Your exceedingly malicious criticism of
     _The Enchantress_ not only failed to annoy me, but awoke my
     gratitude, for I wanted to know your opinion. I had even thought of
     asking you if you would go to see the play itself and give me your
     impressions. My conception and vision of the type of Natasha
     differs entirely from yours. Of course, she is a licentious woman;
     but her spell does not consist merely in the fact that she can win
     people with her fine speeches. This spell might suffice to draw
     customers to her inn--but would it have power to change her sworn
     enemy, the Prince, into a lover? Deep hidden in the soul of this
     light woman lies a certain moral force and beauty which has never
     had any chance of development. _This power is love._ Natasha is a
     strong and womanly nature, who can only love once, and she is
     capable of sacrificing all and everything to her love. So long as
     her love has not yet ripened, Natasha dissipates her forces, so to
     speak, in current coin; it amuses her to make everyone fall in love
     with her with whom she comes in contact. She is merely a
     sympathetic, attractive, undisciplined woman; she knows she is
     captivating, and is quite contented. Lacking the enlightenment of
     religion and culture--for she is a friendless orphan--she has but
     one object in life--to live gaily. Then appears _the_ man destined
     to touch the latent chords of her better nature, and she is
     transfigured. Life loses all worth for her, so long as she cannot
     reach her goal; her beauty, which, so far, had only possessed an
     instinctive and elementary power of attraction, now becomes a
     strong weapon in her hand, by which, in a single moment, she
     shatters the opposing forces of the Prince--his hatred. Afterwards
     they surrender themselves to the mad passion which envelops them
     and leads to the inevitable catastrophe of their death; but this
     death leaves in the spectator a sense of peace and reconciliation.
     I speak of what is going to be in my opera; in the play everything
     is quite different. Shpajinsky quite understands my requirements,
     and will carry out my intentions in delineating the principal
     characters. He will soften down the hardness of Natasha’s _manières
     d’être_, and will give prominence to the power of her moral beauty.
     _He and I_--_you_ too, later, if only you will be reconciled to
     this rôle--will so arrange things that in the last act there shall
     not be a dry eye in the audience. This is my own conception of this
     part, and I am sure it _must_ please you, and that you will not
     fail to play it splendidly. My enthusiasm for _The Enchantress_ has
     not made me unfaithful to the desire, so deeply rooted in my soul,
     to illustrate in music those words of Goethe’s: ‘The eternal
     feminine draws us onward.’ The fact that the womanly power and
     beauty of Natasha’s character remain so long hidden under a cloak
     of licentiousness, only augments the dramatic interest. Why do you
     like the part of Traviata or of Carmen? Because power and beauty
     shine out of these two characters, although in a somewhat coarser
     form. I assure you, you will also learn to like _The Enchantress_.”

                          _To M. Tchaikovsky._

     “MAIDANOVO, _April_ 26_th_ (_May_ 8_th_), 1885.

     “The business connected with _Cherevichek_ has ended very well.
     Vsievolojsky put an end to the irresolution of the so-called
     management and ordered the opera to be produced in the most
     sumptuous style. I was present at a committee at which he presided,
     when the mounting was discussed. They will send Valetz, the
     scene-painter, to Tsarskoe-Selo, so that he may faithfully
     reproduce some of the rooms in the palace. I am very pleased.”

[Illustration: FRAGMENT FROM A LETTER IN WHICH TCHAIKOVSKY SKETCHES A
THEME FOR “THE ENCHANTRESS”]

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “MAIDANOVO, _April_ 26_th_ (_May_ 8_th_), 1885.

     “The position of my budget is as follows: I possess (together with
     the Moscow royalty which I have not yet received) 6,000 roubles.
     From Petersburg and Moscow there must still be about 800 or 1,000
     roubles to come in; the honorarium from the church music, 300
     roubles; the honorarium from the Moscow Musical Society, 300
     roubles.

     “Total: 6000 + 800 + 300 + 300 = 7,500 (_sic!_).

     “Up to the present I have not received more than 3,000 roubles from
     you.

     “Consequently the capital which you have in hand amounts to
     4,500-5000 roubles. A nice little sum.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MOSCOW, _May_ 26_th_ (_June_ 7_th_), 1885.

     “ ... I am completely absorbed in the affairs of the Conservatoire,
     and have decided that the position of Director shall be offered to
     Taneiev. If I do not succeed in this, I shall retire from the
     Committee. Finally, I can tell you what, so far, I have said to no
     one here: I hate every public office more than ever. Oh, God! how
     many disappointments have I experienced and how many bitter truths
     I have learnt! No! next year I must get right away.”

Tchaikovsky actually succeeded in getting Taneiev chosen as Director of
the Conservatoire. Through him Hubert, who had long been absent from the
Conservatoire, was once more reinstated as a teacher. To support
Taneiev’s authority Tchaikovsky determined to resume his place upon the
teaching staff, and undertook the gratuitous class for composition. This
only necessitated his attendance once a month to supervise the work of
the few (two to three) students of which the class was composed.

                          _To S. I. Taneiev._

     “MAIDANOVO, _June_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1885.

     “Alexeiev has told me that according to the rules of the
     Conservatoire it is not permissible for me to be both teacher and
     member of Committee. Of course, I will not go back on my word, and
     I leave it to you to decide which would be the most useful--to
     remain on the Committee, or undertake the somewhat honorary post of
     professor. I think it would be best to remain on the Committee, but
     just as you like. In any case I will do my duty conscientiously, on
     the condition that my freedom is not curtailed and that I may
     travel whenever I please....

     “So, my dear chief, my fate lies in your hands.

     “After some hesitation I have made up my mind to compose _Manfred_,
     because I shall find no rest until I have redeemed my promise, so
     rashly given to Balakirev in the winter. I do not know how it will
     turn out, but meantime I am very discontented. No! it is a thousand
     times pleasanter to compose without any programme. When I write a
     programme symphony I always feel I am not paying in sterling coin,
     but in worthless paper money.”




IV


Tchaikovsky began the composition of _Manfred_ in June. The following
letter from Balakirev, dated 1882, led him to choose this subject for a
symphonic work.

                   _M. Balakirev to P. Tchaikovsky._

     “PETERSBURG, _October_ 28_th_ (_November_ 9_th_), 1882.

     “Forgive me for having left your last letter so long unanswered. I
     wanted to write to you in perfect peace and quiet, but many things
     hindered me. You are more fortunate than we are, for you do not
     need to give lessons, and can devote your whole time to art. I
     first offered the subject about which I spoke to you to Berlioz,
     who declined my suggestion on account of age and ill-health. Your
     _Francesca_ gave me the idea that you were capable of treating this
     subject most brilliantly, provided you took great pains, subjected
     your work to stringent self-criticism, let your imagination fully
     ripen, and did not hurry. This fine subject--Byron’s _Manfred_--is
     no use to me, for it does not harmonise with my intimate moods.

     “Let me tell you first of all that your Symphony--like the Second
     Symphony of Berlioz--must have an _idée fixe_ (the _Manfred_
     theme), which must be carried through all the movements. Now for
     the programme:--

     “_First Movement._ Manfred wandering in the Alps. His life is
     ruined. Many burning questions remain unanswered; nothing is left
     to him but remembrance. The form of the ideal Astarte floats before
     his imagination; he calls to her in vain: the echo of the rocks
     alone repeats her name. Thoughts and memories burn in his brain and
     prey upon him; he implores the forgetfulness that none can give him
     (F♯ minor, second theme D major and F♯ minor).

     “_Second Movement._ In complete contrast to the first. Programme:
     The customs of the Alpine hunters: patriarchal, full of simplicity
     and good humour. Adagio Pastorale (A major). Manfred drops into
     this simple life and stands out in strong contrast to it. Naturally
     at the beginning a little hunting theme must be introduced, but in
     doing this _you must take the greatest care not to descend to the
     commonplace_. For God’s sake avoid copying the common German
     fanfares and hunting music.

     “_Third Movement._ Scherzo fantastique (D major). Manfred sees an
     Alpine fairy in the rainbow above a waterfall.

     “_Fourth Movement._ Finale (F♯ minor). A wild Allegro
     representing the caves of Ariman, whither Manfred has come to try
     and see Astarte once more. The appearance of Astarte’s wraith will
     form the contrast to these infernal orgies (the same theme which
     was employed in the first movement in D major now reappears in D♭
     major; in the former it dies away like a fleeting memory, and is
     immediately lost in Manfred’s phase of suffering--but now it can be
     developed to its fullest extent). The music must be light,
     transparent as air, and ideally virginal. Then comes the repetition
     of Pandemonium, and finally the sunset and Manfred’s death.

     “Is it not a splendid programme? I am quite convinced that if you
     summon up all your powers it will be your _chef-d’œuvre_.

     “The subject is not only very deep, but in accordance with
     contemporary feeling; for all the troubles of the modern man arise
     from the fact that he does not know how to preserve his ideals.
     They crumble away and leave nothing but bitterness in the soul.
     Hence all the sufferings of our times.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _June_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1885.

     “DEAR FRIEND.--I can at last congratulate you on the beautiful
     weather. I should enjoy it twice as much if Maidanovo were more
     congenial to me. But alas! the lovely park, the beautiful views,
     and the splendid bath, are all alike spoiled by the _summer
     visitors_. I cannot take a step in the park without coming across
     some neighbour. It was beautiful in the winter, but I ought to have
     thought of the summer and the summer tourist.

     “I am deep in the composition of a new symphonic work. Shpajinsky
     could not send me the first act of _The Enchantress_ at the date
     agreed upon, so without losing any time, in April I set to work
     upon the sketches for a programme Symphony, upon the subject of
     Byron’s _Manfred_. I am now so deep in the composition of this work
     that the opera will probably have to be laid aside for some time.
     The Symphony gives me great trouble. It is a very complicated and
     serious work. There are times when it seems to me it would be wise
     to cease from composing for a while; to travel and rest. But an
     unconquerable desire for work gains the upper hand and chains me to
     my desk and piano.”

                         _To E. K. Pavlovskya._

     “MAIDANOVO, _July_ 20_th_ (_August_ 1_st_), 1885.

     “ ... I have been playing through some numbers from _Harold_. A
     very interesting work and a clever one, well thought out and full
     of talent. But are you not surprised that Napravnik, who is so
     against Wagner, should have written a genuine Wagnerian opera? I
     was filled with astonishment.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _August_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1885.

     “The horizon has been shrouded for days in thick mist, caused, they
     say, by forest fires and smouldering peat-mosses. This mist gets
     thicker and thicker, and I begin to fear we shall be suffocated. It
     has a very depressing effect. In any case my mental condition has
     been very gloomy of late. The composition of the _Manfred_
     Symphony--a work highly tragic in character--is so difficult and
     complicated that at times I myself become a Manfred. All the same,
     I am consumed with the desire to finish it as soon as possible, and
     am straining every nerve: result--extreme exhaustion. This is the
     eternal _cercle vicieux_ in which I am for ever turning without
     finding an issue. If I have no work, I worry and bore myself; when
     I have it, I work far beyond my strength.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _August_ 31_st_ (_September_ 12_th_), 1885.

     “ ... My fate, that is to say the question of my future home, is at
     last decided. After a long and unsuccessful search I have agreed to
     my landlady’s proposal to remain at Maidanovo. I shall not stay in
     the uncomfortable and unsuitable house in which I have been living,
     but in one which she herself has occupied. This house stands
     somewhat apart from the others, and a large piece of the garden is
     to be fenced in and kept for my especial use; the house itself was
     thoroughly done up last summer. Although the neighbourhood is not
     what I could wish, yet, taking into consideration the proximity of
     a large town with station, shops, post, telegraph office, doctor
     and chemist--and also my dislike for searching further--I have
     decided to take this place for two years. It is pleasant and
     comfortable, and I think I shall feel happy there. I am now
     starting to furnish, and shall enter on my tenancy on September
     15th. If during the next two years I feel comfortably settled, I
     shall not search any more, but remain there to the end of my days.
     It is indeed time that I had a settled home.”




V

1885-1886


All the important epochs in Tchaikovsky’s life were preceded by a
transition period in which he tried, as it were, whether the proposed
change would be feasible or not. From 1861-2, before he became a student
at the Conservatoire, he was half-musician, half-official; in 1866,
before he became a professor at the Conservatoire, and entirely a
Muscovite, he was for eight months half-Petersburger and half-Muscovite;
in 1877, before he gave up his professorship and started on what he
called “the nomadic life” of the last seven years, he was half-professor
and half-tourist; now, from February to September, 1885, he was rather a
summer visitor than an inhabitant of the village of Maidanovo, but he
had proved the firmness of his decision to remain there. It was only in
the beginning of September that he became the true “hermit of Klin,”
who, alas, was often compelled to leave his hermitage. As he had now
decided to settle down in a home of his own, he proceeded to make it
comfortable.... With a school-girl’s _naïveté_ in all practical
questions of life, Tchaikovsky could not do much himself towards
furnishing his little home, and handed over the task to his servant
Alexis. He himself only helped by purchasing the most unnecessary things
(for example, he bought two horses, which he sold again with great
difficulty, also an old English clock, which proved quite useless), or
by furnishing his library with books and music. He was as pleased as a
child, and was never tired of talking of “my cook,” “my washerwoman,”
“my silver,” “my tablecloths,” and “my dog.” He considered all these to
be of the very best, and praised them to the skies. With the exception
of some portraits and ikons, all the remainder of Tchaikovsky’s movable
property dates its existence from this time.

In comparison with the luxurious houses of other men in his position,
painters, writers, and artists, Tchaikovsky’s home was very modest. It
contained only what was absolutely necessary. He did not possess
beautiful or luxurious things, because his means were decidedly smaller
than those of his colleagues in Western Europe, and also because he paid
but little attention to outward appearances. If tables, cupboards, or
curtains fulfilled their purpose fairly well, he was quite content.
Workmanship and material were matters of indifference to him. He also
troubled very little about “style” (he could not distinguish one style
from another); even if a table was shaky, or the door of a cupboard
refused to close, he took it all quite calmly. He would not surround
himself with luxury, because his money belonged less to himself than to
others, and because, even at the close of his life, when his income was
20,000 roubles a year, he remained free from all pretentious notions.

Little as Tchaikovsky troubled about buying furniture, he cared still
less about the placing of it. He entrusted the matter entirely to the
will of his servant, who, knowing and taking into consideration his
little fancies and habits, arranged everything just as “his master liked
it,” without paying any heed to beauty or tastefulness. Tchaikovsky
preferred that nothing should be altered in his surroundings; he found
it most disagreeable to have to accustom himself to anything new, still
more to miss any of his old friends. Henceforth a certain tradition
which surrounded every piece of furniture was always considered, if
possible, at each removal, so that wherever Tchaikovsky might be, the
appearance of his room remained the same. The division of his time in
Klin was never changed to the end of his life.

Tchaikovsky rose between seven and eight a.m. Took tea (generally
without anything to eat) between eight and nine, and then read the
Bible. After which he occupied himself with the study of the English
language, or with reading such books as provided not only recreation,
but instruction. In this way he read Otto Jahn’s _Life of Mozart_ in the
original, the philosophical writings of Spinoza, Schopenhauer, and many
others. He next took a walk for about three-quarters of an hour. If
Tchaikovsky talked while taking his morning tea, or took his walk in
company with a visitor, it signified that he did not intend to compose
that day, but would be scoring, writing letters, or making corrections.
During his life at Klin, when engaged on a new work, he could not endure
company, not only in the morning, but also during the day. In earlier
days in Moscow, abroad, or in Kamenka, he had to content himself with
the solitude of his room during his hours of active work. The presence
of his servant Alexis did not in any way disturb him. The latter, the
sole witness of the creative process of the majority of his master’s
works, did not even appear to hear them, and only once unexpectedly gave
expression to his enthusiasm for the Chorus of Maidens in the third
scene of _Eugene Oniegin_, to the great astonishment and perturbation of
his master. To his “perturbation,” because he feared in future to be
continually overheard and criticised. But this was fortunately the only
flash of enlightenment which penetrated Safronov’s musical darkness.

_Manfred_ was the last work Tchaikovsky composed in anything but
complete isolation, and this is probably the reason why the task proved
so difficult, and cost him such moments of depression. The principal
advantage of his new surroundings was the enjoyment of complete solitude
during his hours of work.

We may mention that his reserve as to his compositions dates from this
time. In the earlier days of his musical life Tchaikovsky had been very
communicative about his work; even before his compositions were finished
he was ready to discuss them. In the evening he would ask the opinion of
those with whom he lived upon what he had composed in the morning, and
was always willing to let them hear his work. In course of time,
however, the circle of those to whom he communicated the fruits of his
inspiration became ever smaller, and when he played any of his
compositions he begged his hearers to keep their opinions to themselves.
From 1885 he ceased to show his works to anyone. The first to make
acquaintance with them was the engraver at Jurgenson’s publishing house.

Tchaikovsky never wasted time between 9.30 and 1 p.m., but busied
himself in composing, orchestrating, making corrections, or writing
letters. Before he began a pleasant task he always hastened to get rid
of the unpleasant ones. On returning from a journey he invariably began
with his correspondence, which, next to proof-correcting, he found the
most unpleasant work. In the nineties his correspondence had attained
such volume that Tchaikovsky was frequently engaged upon it from morning
till night, and often answered thirty letters a day.

Tchaikovsky dined punctually at 1 p.m., and, thanks to his excellent
appetite, always enjoyed any fare that was set before him, invariably
sending a message of thanks to the cook by Safronov. As he was always
very abstemious and plain in his meals, it often happened that his
guests, instead of complimenting the cook, felt inclined to do just the
contrary. Wet or fine, Tchaikovsky always went for a walk after dinner.
He had read somewhere that, in order to keep in health, a man ought to
walk for two hours daily. He observed this rule with as much
conscientiousness and superstition as though some terrible catastrophe
would follow should he return five minutes too soon. Solitude was as
necessary to him during this walk as during his work. Not only a human
being, but even a favourite dog was a bother.

Every witness of his delight in nature spoilt his enjoyment; every
expression of rapture destroyed the rapture itself, and in the very
moment when he said to his companion, “How beautiful it is here!” it
ceased to be beautiful in his eyes.

Most of the time during these walks was spent in composition. He thought
out the leading ideas, pondered over the construction of the work, and
jotted down fundamental themes. In Klin there are carefully preserved
many little exercise books, which he had used for this purpose. If in
absence of mind Tchaikovsky had left his note-book at home, he noted
down his passing thoughts on any scrap of paper, letter, envelope, or
even bill, which he chanced to have with him. The next morning he looked
over these notes, and worked them out at the piano. With the exception
of two scenes in _Eugene Oniegin_, some piano pieces, and songs, he
always worked out his sketches at the piano, so that he should not trust
entirely to his indifferent memory. He always wrote out everything very
exactly, and here and there indicated the instrumentation. In these
sketches the greater part of a work was generally quite finished. When
it came to the orchestration he only copied it out clearly, without
essentially altering the first drafts. When he was not busy with music
during his walks, he recited aloud or improvised dramatic scenes (almost
always in French). Sometimes he occupied himself by observing insects.
In the garden at Grankino was an ant-hill, to which he played the part
of benefactor, providing it with insects from the steppe.

During the first year of his life at Maidanovo Tchaikovsky himself
ruined the charm of these walks. Like every good-hearted summer visitor
he had given tips lavishly to the village children. At first it was a
pleasure, but afterwards turned into a veritable nuisance. The children
waited for him at every corner, and when they noticed that he began to
avoid them, they surprised him in the most unexpected places in the
forest. This quest of pennies spread from the children to the young
people of the village, nay, even to the men and women, so that at last
he could hardly take a step without being waylaid by beggars. There was
nothing left for Tchaikovsky but to keep within the precincts of his
park.

About 4 p.m. Tchaikovsky went home to tea, read the papers if he was
alone, but was very pleased to talk if he had visitors. At five he
retired once more and worked till seven. Before supper, which was served
at 8 p.m., Tchaikovsky always took another constitutional. This time he
liked to have company, and generally went into the open fields to watch
the sunset. In the autumn and winter he enjoyed playing the piano either
alone, or arrangements for four hands if Laroche or Kashkin were there.
After supper he sat with his guests till 11 p.m., playing cards or
listening while one of them read aloud. Laroche was his favourite
reader, not because he showed any particular talent that way, but
because at every phrase his face expressed his enjoyment, especially if
the author of the book happened to be Gogol or Flaubert. When there were
no visitors, Tchaikovsky read a number of historical books dealing with
the end of the eighteenth or beginning of the nineteenth century, or
played patience--and was a little bored. At 11 p.m. he went to his room,
wrote up his diary, and read for a short time. He never composed in the
evening after the summer of 1866.

Unexpected guests were treated most inhospitably, but to invited guests
he was amiability itself, and often gave himself the pleasure of
gathering together his Moscow friends--Kashkin, Hubert, Albrecht,
Jurgenson, and Taneiev. But those who stayed with him longest and most
frequently were Laroche, Kashkin, and myself.




VI


In the beginning of the eighties Tchaikovsky’s fame greatly increased in
Europe and America, not only without any co-operation on his part, but
even without his being aware of it. More and more frequently came news
of the success of one or other of his works, and letters from various
celebrated artists who had played his compositions, or wished to do so.
The Committees of the Paris “Sebastian Bach Society” and the Association
for the National Edition of Cherubini’s works both elected him an
honorary member. Nevertheless it surprised him greatly to learn that a
Paris publisher (Félix Mackar) had proposed to P. Jurgenson to buy the
right of bringing out his works in France. The sum which Jurgenson
received was not indeed excessive, but it testified to the fact that
Tchaikovsky’s fame had matured and reached the point when it might bring
him some material advantage. Incidentally it may be mentioned that P.
Jurgenson, without any legal obligation, handed over to Tchaikovsky half
the money he received from F. Mackar, so that the former became quite
suddenly and unexpectedly a capitalist, although at the end of the year
he was not a single kopek to the good. After F. Mackar had become the
representative of Tchaikovsky’s interests in Paris he pushed his works
with great zeal. First of all he induced him to become a member of the
Society of Composers and Publishers, the aim of which was to enforce a
certain fee for every work by one of its members performed in public.
The yearly sum which Tchaikovsky now began to draw from France can be
taken as an authentic proof of the growth of his popularity in that
country. This sum increased every year until 1893. After Tchaikovsky’s
death it suddenly decreased in a very marked manner. Elsewhere I will
give some explanation of this curious fact.

Mackar also started his gratuitous _Auditions_ of Tchaikovsky’s works.
These _Auditions_, in spite of the free admission, were not very well
patronised by the Paris public, who were satiated with music. But they
produced one very important result. The best artists (Marsick, Diemer,
and others) willingly took part in them, and henceforth Tchaikovsky’s
name appeared more often in the programmes of the Paris concerts.

                        _To E. K. Pavlovskaya._

     “MAIDANOVO, _September_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1885.

     “ ... _Manfred_ is finished, and I have set to work upon the opera
     without losing an hour.... The first act (the only one in hand) is
     splendid: life and action in plenty. If nothing prevents me I hope
     to have the sketch ready by the spring: so that I may devote next
     year to the instrumentation and working out. The opera can then be
     produced in the season 1887-8. Dear E. K., do please say a good
     word on every possible occasion for _The Enchantress_.”

                          _To A. P. Merkling._

     “MAIDANOVO, _September_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1885.

     “ ... Annie, first of all I am going to flatter you a little and
     then ask you to do something for me. After much searching and
     trouble I have rented a very pretty house here in Maidanovo.... I
     am now furnishing this house ... now ... some good people ... have
     promised ... if I am not mistaken ... that is, how shall I express
     myself?... to sew ... woollen _portières_ ... or curtains ... that
     is, I would like to know ... perhaps at once ... if you would ...
     I, in a word ... oh! how ashamed I am ... write please, how what
... now, I hope, I have made myself understood....”[108]

                          _To A. S. Arensky._

     “MAIDANOVO, _September_ 25_th_ (_October_ 7_th_), 1885.

     “DEAR ANTON STEPANOVICH,--Pardon me if I force my advice upon you.
     I have heard that 5/4 time appears twice in your new Suite. It
     seems to me that the mania for 5/4 time threatens to become a habit
     with you. I like it well enough if it is indispensable to the
     musical idea, that is to say if the time signature and rhythmic
     accent respectively form no hindrance. For example, Glinka, in the
     chorus of the fourth act of _A Life for the Tsar_, clearly could
     not have written in anything else but 5/4 time: here we find an
     actual 5/4 rhythm that is a continual and uniform change from 2/4
     to 3/4:

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     “It would be curious, and certainly ‘an effort to be original,’ to
     write a piece with a simple rhythm of 2/4 or 3/4 time in 5/4 time.
     You will agree with me that it would have been very stupid of
     Glinka to have written his music thus:

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     “It would be the same to the ear whether 2/4 or 3/4: it would not
     be a mathematical blunder, but a very clumsy musical one.

     “You have made just such a mistake in your otherwise beautiful
     _Basso ostinato_. I made the discovery yesterday that in this
     instance 5/4 time was not at all necessary. You must own that a
     series of three bars of 5/4 is mathematically equal to a similar
     series of 3/4 time;[109] in music, on the contrary, the difference
     between them is quite as sharp as between 3/4 and 6/8.

     “In my opinion, your _Basso ostinato_ should be written in 3/4 or
     6/4 time, but not in 5/4.

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     “I cannot imagine a more distinct five-bar rhythm in 3/4 time. What
     do you think?”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _September_ 27_th_ (_October_ 9_th_), 1885.

     “The first act of _The Enchantress_ lies finished before me, and I
     am growing more and more enthusiastic over the task in prospect.

     “Dear friend, I like your arrogant views upon my opera. You are
     quite right to regard this insincere form of art with suspicion.
     But for a composer opera has some irresistible attraction; it alone
     offers him the means of getting into touch with the great public.
     My _Manfred_ will be played once or twice, and then disappear; with
     the exception of a few people who attend symphony concerts, no one
     will hear it. Opera, on the contrary--and opera alone--brings us
     nearer to our fellows, inoculates the public with our music, and
     makes it the possession, not only of a small circle, but--under
     favourable circumstances--of the whole nation. I do not think this
     tendency is to be condemned; that is to say, Schumann, when he
     wrote _Genoveva_, and Beethoven, when he wrote _Fidelio_, were not
     actuated by ambition, but by a natural desire to increase the
     circle of their hearers and to penetrate as far as possible into
     the heart of humanity. Therefore we must not only pursue what is
     merely effective, but choose subjects of artistic worth which are
     both interesting and touching.”

                          _To M. Tchaikovsky._

     “MAIDANOVO, _October_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1885.

     “What a wretch Zola is!! A few weeks ago I accidentally took up his
     _Germinal_, began to read it, got interested, and only finished it
     late at night. I was so upset that I had palpitations, and sleep
     was impossible. Next day I was quite ill, and now I can only think
     of the novel as of some fearful nightmare....”

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “MAIDANOVO, _October_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1885.

     “DEAR FRIEND,--Hubert tells me you do not think it possible to
     publish _Manfred_ this season. Is this true? The question is this,
     I cannot allow two opportunities to slip: (1) Bülow is conducting
     in Petersburg; (2) Erdmannsdörfer is conducting in Moscow--perhaps
     his last season--and, in spite of all, he is one of the few people
     on whom I can depend. On the other hand, I am not in a position to
     spend an incredible amount of trouble on a work which I regard as
     one of my very best, and then wait till it is played _some time_.
     As far as I am concerned, it is all the same to me whether it is
     played from written or printed notes--so long as it is done. I
     believe it might be ready by February. But if you think that this
     is quite impossible, then I propose that you decline _Manfred_
     altogether (this will not offend me at all, for I know you cannot
     do the impossible for the sake of my whims). Only understand that I
     cannot on any account wait till next season, and cost what it may,
     I will see _Manfred_ produced. Do not take my caprice (if it is a
     caprice) amiss, and answer me at once.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _October_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1885.

     “ ... As regards the lofty significance of symphony and chamber
     music in comparison with opera, let me only add that to refrain
     from writing operas is the work of a hero, and we have one such
     hero in our time--Brahms. Cui has justly remarked in one of his
     recent articles that Brahms, both as man and artist, has only
     followed the highest ideals--those which were worthy of respect and
     admiration. Unfortunately his creative gift is poor, and does not
     correspond to his great aspirations. Nevertheless he is a hero.
     This heroism does not exist in me, for the stage with all its
     glitter attracts me irresistibly.”




VII


                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _November_ 19_th_ (_December_ 1_st_), 1885.

     “ ... I spent a week in Moscow, and was present at three concerts.
     The first, given by Siloti, who has just returned from abroad to
     serve his time in the army. He has made great progress. Then the
     Musical Society gave a concert and quartet-matinée, at which the
     celebrated Paris violinist, Marsick, played. All three concerts
     gave me great pleasure, as I have not heard any good music for so
     long. For a musician who writes as much as I do it is very
     necessary and refreshing to hear foreign music from time to time.
     Nothing inspires me more than listening to a great foreign work:
     immediately I want to write one equally beautiful.

     “I have also been once or twice to the Conservatoire, and was very
     pleased to notice that Taneiev is just the Director we wanted under
     the circumstances. His work shows resolution, firmness, energy, and
     also capability. I hear nothing about _Les Caprices d’Oxane_, and
     begin to fear the work will not be produced this season.”

The following letter was written after Ippolitov-Ivanov had communicated
the success of _Mazeppa_ in Tiflis.

                   _To M. M. Ippolitov-Ivanov._[110]

     “_December_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1885.

     “ ...As to _Mazeppa_, accept my warmest thanks. My brother and his
     wife, who live in Tiflis, and had seen the opera in Moscow and
     Petersburg, tell me it went splendidly.

     “For some time I have been longing to find a subject--not too
     dramatic--for an opera, and then to write a work suitable to the
     resources of the provincial stage. Should God grant me a long life,
     I hope to carry out this plan, and thus to obliterate the
     unpleasant recollections of the immeasurable trouble which the
     rehearsals of _Mazeppa_ must have left with you. But the harder
     your task, the warmer my thanks.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “MAIDANOVO, _December_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1885.

     “I am going to Moscow on December 14th (26th), principally to
     decide the fate of _Les Caprices d’Oxane_. I shall make heroic
     efforts to have my opera produced. I am advised to conduct it
     myself, and it is possible I may decide to do so. In any case, I
     shall spend the holidays in Petersburg.... I am working very hard
     at the corrections of _Manfred_. I am still convinced it is my best
     work. Meanwhile _The Enchantress_ is laid aside, but the first act
     is quite finished. The libretto is splendid. In this I am lucky.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _December_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1885.

     “ ... My Third Suite was played at the last concert. The public
     gave me an enthusiastic ovation.... Lately we have had such lovely
     moonlight nights, without a breath of wind. O God, how beautiful
     they are! The Russian winter has a particular charm for me, but
     that does not prevent me from planning a journey to Italy in the
     spring. I am thinking of going by sea from Naples to
     Constantinople, then to Batoum, and thence by train to Tiflis to
     visit my brother Anatol, who is already expecting me.”

                          _To S. I. Taneiev._

     “MAIDANOVO, _December_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1885.

     “ ... Imagine! I am rejoicing at the thought of hearing Beethoven’s
     First Symphony. I had no suspicion that I liked it so much. The
     reason is perhaps that it is so like my idol, Mozart. Remember that
     on October 27th, 1887, the centenary of _Don Juan_ will be
     celebrated.”

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “_December_ 22_nd_ (_January_ 3_rd_), 1885.

     “ ... I have only just now been able to consider this question of
     _Manfred_, of Mackar, and the fee, and this is my decision: Even
     were _Manfred_ a work of the greatest genius, it would still remain
     a symphony which, on account of its unusual intricacy and
     difficulty, would only be played once in ten years. This work
     cannot therefore bring any profit either to you or Mackar. On the
     other hand, I value it highly. How is the material value of such a
     work to be decided? I may be wrong, but it seems to me my best
     composition, and a few hundred roubles would not repay me for all
     the work and trouble I have put into it. If you were very rich, I
     would unhesitatingly demand a very large sum, on the grounds that
     you could recover your outlay on other things--but you are not at
     all rich. As for Mackar--to speak frankly--I am greatly touched by
     his cheerful self-sacrifice, for certainly he can have made very
     little out of my works in France. After having just received 20,000
     francs from him, we must not show ourselves too grasping,
     especially as we know that there is not much to be made out of
     _Manfred_.”

     “In short, I have made up my mind to claim nothing from Mackar, or
     from you, and have already told him this. I tell you also, so that
     you should not demand the promised thousand francs from him. The
     demanding of payment for restoration of his copy--is your affair.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _January_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1886.

     “DEAR FRIEND,-- ... This time I have not brought back any pleasant
     impressions with me from Petersburg. My operas--I do not know
     why--have not been given lately, and I feel this the more bitterly
     because, owing to the unusual success of _Oniegin_, it appears that
     the Direction has been urging that it should be given with greater
     frequency. The new symphony _Manfred_ is completely ignored, for no
     preparations for its production are being made. In all this I do
     not recognise any enmity towards me personally, for in truth I have
     no enemies, but a kind of contempt which is a little wounding to my
     artistic vanity. Certainly this is an unfavourable year for me.
     They have decided not to give _Les Caprices d’Oxane_ in Moscow this
     season, and I had been expecting it so impatiently!

     “I have a piece of news for you to-day, which pleased me very much.
     I had observed that here in Maidanovo the village children are
     constantly idle and run about without any occupation, which induced
     me to consult with the local priest about the founding of a school.
     This has proved to be possible, so long as I assure them an annual
     sum. I have consented to do so, and the priest began to take the
     necessary steps about two months ago. The official permission to
     open a school has arrived and the instruction can begin this week.
     I am very glad.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _January_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1886.

     “ ... The priest came to see me to-day, and brought me an
     invitation to the opening of the school on the 19th. I am proud to
     have initiated this work. I hope some good will come of it. In
     spite of the greatest care and moderation, I suffer from dyspepsia.
     It is not serious, and I have no doubt a cure at Vichy will
     completely set me up.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MOSCOW, _February_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1886.

     “How difficult it is after receiving your money to say in the
     baldest way,‘Money received, many thanks!’ If only you had an
     inkling of all the happiness I owe you, and the whole meaning of
     that ‘independence and freedom’ which are the result of my liberty.
     Life is an unbroken chain of little unpleasantnesses and collision
     with human egoism and pride, and only he can rise above these
     things who is free and independent. How often do I say to myself:
     _Well that it is so, but how if it were otherwise?_

     “Just lately I had some very unpleasant frictions which only just
     fell short of open quarrels, but failed to upset me because I could
     appear to ignore the wrong inflicted upon me. Yes, in the last few
     years of my life there have been many occasions on which I have
     sincerely felt the debt of gratitude I owe to you. And yet I
     usually send you the receipt as if it were a matter of course. My
     gratitude has no limits, my dear.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _February_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1886.

     “.... To-day I returned from Moscow, where I have been attending
     Rubinstein’s concerts once a week. Were it only a question of
     listening to that marvellous pianist, I should not have found the
     journeys at all tedious, in spite of my dislike of leaving home.
     But I had to go to all the dinners and suppers which were held in
     his honour, which I generally found intolerably wearisome and most
     injurious to my health. At the last concert Rubinstein played
     pieces by Henselt, Thalberg, Liszt, and others. There was very
     little artistic choice, but the performance was indeed
     astonishing.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _February_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1886.

     “ ... The festival which the town of Moscow held in Rubinstein’s
     honour was a great success. He was visibly touched by the energy
     and warmth with which the Muscovites expressed their affection for
     him. Indeed, everyone must recognise that Rubinstein is worthy of
     all such honour. He is not only a gifted artist, but also a most
     honourable and generous man.”

                                _Diary._

     “MAIDANOVO, _February_ 22_nd_ (March 8_th_), 1886.

     “What an unfathomable gulf lies between the Old and the New
     Testament! Read the psalms of David, and at first it is impossible
     to understand why they have taken such a high place from an
     artistic point of view; and, secondly, why they should stand beside
     the Gospels. David is altogether _of this_ world. He divides the
     whole of humanity into two unequal portions: sinners (to which
     belong the greatest number) and the righteous, at whose head he
     places himself. In every psalm he calls down God’s wrath upon the
     sinner and His praise upon the righteous; yet the reward and the
     punishment are both worldly. The sinners shall be undone, and the
     righteous shall enjoy all the good things of this earthly life. How
     little that agrees with Christ’s teaching, who prayed for His
     enemies, and promised the good no earthly wealth, but rather the
     kingdom of heaven! What touching love and compassion for mankind
     lies in these words: ‘Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are
     heavy laden’! In comparison with these simple words all the psalms
     of David are as nothing.”

                                _Diary._

     “_February_ 28_th_ (_March_ 12_th_), 1886.

     “ ... At tea I read through Alexis Tolstoi’s _St. John Chrysostom_
     and _The Sinner_, which reduced me to tears. While in this
     agitation of spirit, into which any strong artistic enjoyment
     throws me, I received a telegram from the Conservatoire: ‘The Grand
     Duke is coming.’ So all plans go to the devil! Despair,
     irresolution, and even terror at the prospect of the journey. Went
     in and fed my landlady’s hungry dog. In the twilight I was overcome
     with insane depression. Played through my Second Suite, and was
     glad to find it not so bad as I had imagined.”

                                _Diary._

     “_March_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1886.

     “.... Played through _Nero_, and cannot sufficiently marvel at the
     audacious coolness of the composer. The very sight of the score
     makes me fume. However, I only play this abomination because the
     sense of my superiority--at least, as regards
     conscientiousness--strengthens my energy. I believe I compose
     badly, but when I come across such an atrocity, written in all
     earnestness, I feel a certain relief. I am ashamed to show so much
     anger over such a publication--but there is no need to disguise
     one’s feelings in a diary.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _March_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1886.

     “DEAR FRIEND,--I have not written to you for a long time owing to a
     ten days’ visit to Moscow.... I devoted two days to the rehearsal
     of _Manfred_, and attended the concert at which it was played. I am
     quite satisfied; I am sure it is my best symphonic work. The
     performance was excellent, but it seemed to me the public were
     unintelligent and cold, although they gave me quite an ovation at
     the end....”

The very short and sparse Press notices of _Manfred_ add nothing
essential to Tchaikovsky’s words. They merely confirm the fact that the
Symphony received an excellent rendering, but the author’s high opinion
of his work only held good as regards the first two movements; later on
he came to reckon the other movements, the Pastorale, Ariman’s Kingdom,
and Manfred’s Death, as being on a level with _The Oprichnik_, one of
the least favoured of his works.

Although out of chronological order, I may mention here that on the
occasion of a performance of this work in Petersburg (December, 1886)
Cui gave it the most enthusiastic and unreserved praise. Everything
pleased him, especially the Scherzo, and his criticism closed with these
words: “We must be grateful to Tchaikovsky for having enriched the
treasury of our national symphonic music.”




VIII


                          _To M. Tchaikovsky._

     “TIFLIS, _April_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1886.

     “ ... I left Moscow on March 23rd (April 4th), and travelled direct
     to Taganrog to Hyppolite, whose guest I was for two days, so as to
     arrive in Vladikavkas on the 28th.

     “Early on Sunday (30th) I started in a four-horse post-carriage,
     accompanied by a guard, whose sole duty is to look after the
     requirements and comforts of the travellers. I had not slept the
     preceding night on account of the horrible bed and the insects
     (when I think of the _best_ hotel in Vladikavkas I feel quite
     sick), and thought therefore that the beauties of the Georgian Road
     would make but little impression on me. The road is, however, so
     grand, so astonishingly beautiful, that I never thought of sleeping
     the whole day long. The variety of impressions did not allow my
     interest to flag for a moment. At first the approach to the
     mountains was slow, although they appeared to be quite close to us,
     and yet we still drove on and on. Then the valley of the Terek
     became narrower, and we reached the wild and gloomy Darjal Gorge.
     Afterwards we ascended into the region of snow. Shortly before I
     started on my journey there had been an avalanche, and hundreds of
     miserable-looking natives were busy shovelling away the snow. At
     last we were driving higher and higher between great snow walls,
     and it was necessary to put on our furs. By six o’clock we were
     descending into the Aragva Valley, and spent the night in Mlety. I
     occupied the _imperial rooms_. After the dirt of the Vladikavkas
     hotel I found the clean rooms, good beds, and daintily-set table
     very delightful. I dined, took a little walk by moonlight in the
     gallery, and went to bed at nine o’clock. Next morning I started
     off again. Already we could feel the breath of the south in the
     air; the sides of the mountains were cultivated, and constantly
     there came in sight picturesque _aouli_[111] and all kinds of
     dwellings. The descent was made at a terrific pace, considering the
     curves of the road. Not far from Dushet such a wonderful view came
     in sight that I almost wept with delight. The further we descended,
     the more the influence of the south wind was felt. At last we
     reached Mtskhet (noted for the ruins of its castle and the
     celebrated cathedral), and at half-past five we reached Tiflis.
     Toly and his wife were not there; they had not expected me till
     later, and had gone to meet me at Mtskhet. They did not arrive till
     eight o’clock. Meanwhile I had had time to wash, dress, and see
     something of the town. It is delightful. The trees are not yet all
     green; the fruit trees are in full blossom; a mass of flowers in
     the gardens. It is as warm as in June--in a word, really
     spring--just as it was four years ago when we left Naples. The
     chief streets are very lively; splendid shops, and quite a European
     air. But when I came to the native quarters I found myself in
     entirely new surroundings. The streets mean and narrow, as in
     Venice; on both sides an endless row of small booths and all kinds
     of workshops, where the natives squat and work before the eyes of
     the passers-by....”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “TIFLIS, _April_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1886.

     “I begin to know Tiflis quite well already, and have seen the
     sights. I have been in the baths, built in Oriental style. Visited
     the celebrated churches, amongst others the Armenian church, where
     I was not only very much interested in the peculiarities of the
     service, but also in the singing; I also visited David’s monastery
     on the hill, where Griboiedov[112] lies buried. One evening I went
     to a concert given by the Musical Society, where a very poor, thin
     orchestra played Beethoven’s Third Symphony, Borodin’s _Steppes_,
     and my Serenade for strings, to a public which was conspicuous by
     its absence. Many excellent musicians live in Tiflis; the most
     prominent are the talented composer Ippolitov-Ivanov and the
     pianist Eugene Korganov, an Armenian, and a former student of the
     Moscow Conservatoire. They show me every attention, and although I
     should much prefer to remain incognito, I am much touched by this
     proof of the love and sympathy of my fellow-workers. I had
     certainly not expected to find my music so widely known in Tiflis.
     My operas are played oftener here than anywhere else, and I am
     pleased that _Mazeppa_ is such a great favourite.”

                                _Diary._

     “TIFLIS, _April_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1886.

     “While waiting for Korganov I busied myself with looking through
     his works. He came first, then Ippolitov-Ivanov. The poor Armenian
     (a very nice man and a good musician) was very grieved at my
     criticism. Then Ivanov played his things: very good.”

                          _To M. Tchaikovsky._

     “TIFLIS, _April_ 23_rd_ (_May_ 5_th_), 1886.

     “MODI,--I only remain a few days longer in Tiflis. I could count
     this month the happiest in my life, if it were not for the
     visitors, and for my social existence. I do not think I have yet
     written to you of the honour paid me on the 19th. It was simply
     splendid. At eight o’clock, accompanied by Pani,[113] I entered the
     Director’s box, which was decorated with flowers and foliage. The
     whole theatre rose, and amid great applause I was presented with a
     silver wreath and many others. A deputation from the Musical
     Society read an address. Then the concert began, which consisted
     entirely of my works. There were endless cheers! I have never
     experienced anything like it before. After the concert, a
     subscription supper, with many toasts. A most exhausting evening,
     but a glorious remembrance.”

This was the first great honour in Tchaikovsky’s life, and made a most
agreeable impression on him, as proving the recognition of his merit by
the Russian nation. Tchaikovsky, in the depths of his heart, was well
aware that fame would eventually come, and that he would be worthy of
it. He did not realise, however, that what he had already created was as
worthy of fame as what he should create in the future. He knew, indeed,
that the popularity of his name had greatly increased in the last few
years, but he was still far from suspecting the truth. The honour paid
him in Tiflis revealed to him his real relation to the Russian public.
This revelation was so pleasing to his artistic vanity that it overcame
for a moment his characteristic timidity and his dislike of posing
before the public.




IX


Just at this time Tchaikovsky had to travel to Paris on important family
business. He wished also to take this opportunity of making acquaintance
with his Paris publisher, Mackar. To avoid the fatigue of the wearisome
railway journey, he thought of taking the steamer from Batoum to Italy,
thence by train to France. But owing to cholera at Naples, the French
steamer belonging to the Batoum-Marseilles line did not call at the
Italian port. Tchaikovsky therefore gave up his idea of visiting Italy,
and took a through ticket for Marseilles by one of the steamers of the
“Packet Company.”

                          _To A. Tchaikovsky._

     “STEAMSHIP ‘ARMENIA,’ _May_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1886.

     “ ... I am feeling less home-sick to-day, and better able to enjoy
     the sea, the mountains, and the sun ... but how stupid it is, that
     one can only be alone in one’s cabin! On deck, scarcely a quarter
     of an hour passes without someone beginning a conversation. I know
     all the passengers already, but have not taken to anyone. The
     captain talks to me about music, and enrages me by his stupid
     opinions. A Frenchman, a doctor from Trebizond, also sets up to be
     a lover of music, and thinks it his duty--now he has discovered I
     am a musician--to talk to me about this detestable art, which seems
     to possess the quality of interesting everybody....”

                          _To A. Tchaikovsky._

     “ARCHIPELAGO, _May_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1886.

     “The day before yesterday, about midday, we reached the Bosphorus
     in the most glorious weather. It is wonderfully beautiful, and the
     further one goes the more beautiful it becomes. About three o’clock
     we arrived at Constantinople. The motion was very great during the
     passage into the harbour. About five o’clock we got into a boat,
     and were rowed over to the town. The captain had made up his mind
     to stay twenty-four hours in Constantinople, so I thought I would
     spend the night at an hotel. The next day I visited the places of
     interest. The cathedral of St. Sophia delighted and astonished me.
     But, on the whole, I do not much care for Constantinople, and the
     famous Constantinople dogs simply make me feel sick. By 5 p.m. we
     were once more on board, and started immediately. New passengers
     had joined the ship. I preferred to remain in my own snug little
     cabin; the whole evening I watched the water and the moonlight, and
     absorbed all the poetry of a sea journey. To-day is a little
     rougher. Many are ill--even men. I am quite well, and find a
     certain pleasure in the motion, and in watching the foaming blue
     waves. No trace of fear. I am quite accustomed to my surroundings,
     and have made friends with everyone, especially a Turkish officer,
     who is travelling to Paris.”

                          _To M. Tchaikovsky_.

     “‘ARMENIA,’ _May_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1886.

     “ ... To-day the sea is just like a mirror. So far we have been
     very lucky, and it is impossible to imagine anything more
     beautiful than such a journey. Of course there are some wearisome
     moments, especially when they begin to talk of music. The chief
     offender is an Englishman, who continually bothers me with
     questions as to whether I like this or that song by Tosti, Denza,
     etc. Also a French doctor, who has invented a new piano in which
     every sign for transposition (♯, ♭, x, ♭♭) has its own
     keynote. He talks incessantly of his awful invention, and gives me
     long pamphlets on the subject. We have already passed Sicily and
     the heel of the Italian boot. Etna is smoking a little, and to the
     left there is a horrible pillar of smoke and fire which excites us
     all very much. The captain cannot say for certain what it means,
     and seems somewhat disturbed by it. Consequently I, too, feel a
     little afraid.”

                          _To A. Tchaikovsky_.

     “‘ARMENIA,’ _May_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1886.

     “The pillar of smoke and fire about which I wrote yesterday proves
     to be a terrible eruption of Mount Etna, not at the top, but at the
     side. This eruption was distinctly visible at a distance of three
     hundred versts, and the nearer we came the more interesting was the
     sight. Alexis woke me at two in the morning, that I might see this
     unique spectacle. We were in the Straits of Messina; the sea, which
     had been quite calm all day, was now very rough; I cannot describe
     the beauties of the moonlight, the fire from Mount Etna, and the
     swelling waves. At 3 a.m. I went back to bed and at five the
     captain sent a sailor to wake me, so that I might see the town of
     Messina, the sunrise, and the eruption on the other side. Later we
     passed between the volcano Stromboli and a new little island giving
     forth smoke; at least, the captain, who knows these parts well, has
     never suspected a volcano here and thinks it may portend a serious
     eruption. To-day the weather is splendid and the sea much
     quieter.”

                                _Diary_.

     “PARIS, _May_ 21_st_ (_June_ 2_nd_), 1886.

     “I decided to go and see Mackar. What I suffered, and how excited I
     was, passes description. Ten times I tried to go in, and always
     turned away again--even a large glass of absinthe did not help me.
     At last I went. He was expecting me. I had pictured him a little
     man like Wuchs. He is astonishingly like Bessel. We talked a little
     (someone near me was buying my works), and then I left. Naturally I
     felt a weight off my heart.”

                      _To P. V. Tchaikovsky_.[114]

     “PARIS, _June_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1886.

     “ ... Yesterday I had breakfast with old Madam Viardot. She is such
     a stately and interesting woman; I was quite enchanted. Although
     seventy, she only looks about forty. She is very lively, amiable,
     gay, and sociable, and knew how to make me feel at home from the
     very first moment.”

Later Tchaikovsky wrote the following details to Nadejda von Meck
concerning his acquaintance with Madame Viardot:--

     “ ... Madame Viardot often speaks about Tourgeniev, and described
     to me how he and she wrote ‘The Song of Love Triumphant’ together.
     Have I already told you that I was with her for two hours while we
     went through the _original score_ of Mozart’s _Don Juan_, which
     thirty years ago her husband had picked up very cheaply and quite
     by accident? I cannot tell you what I felt at the sight of this
     musical relic. I felt as if I had shaken Mozart by the hand and
     spoken to him!...”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky_.

     “_June_ 23_rd_ (11_th_), 1886.

     “Yesterday, at the invitation of Ambrose Thomas, I visited the
     Conservatoire during the examination of the pianoforte class. He
     is a very nice, friendly old man. A certain Madame Bohomoletz, a
     rich lady (half Russian), gave a dinner in my honour, followed by a
     musical evening, at which my quartet was played (Marsick and
     Brandoukov) and my songs were sung.... Leo Délibes has visited me;
     this touched me very deeply. Certainly it seems I am not as unknown
     in Paris as I thought....”

I will add to this short and disjointed account that Tchaikovsky was
received in a most friendly manner by Professor Marmontel, a warm
admirer of his works, also by the composers Lalo, Lefèbre, Fauré, and
others. The meeting with Colonne and Lamoureux is described by
Tchaikovsky himself in a later letter:--

     “ ... I saw Colonne several times. He was very friendly, and
     expressed a wish to give a concert of my compositions. He asked me
     to send him some of my new scores to Aix-les-Bains, so that he
     could arrange a programme during the course of the summer. He
     continually lamented his _poverty_ and the ‘_terrible_ Concurrence
     Lamoureux.’ As to Lamoureux, he was amiability itself, and made me
     a thousand promises.”

Tchaikovsky was thrown into close contact with many other artists,
several of whom, like the well-known pianist Diemer, for instance,
remained his devoted friends to the end.




X


                          _To N. F. von Meck_.

     “MAIDANOVO, _June_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1886.

     “How glad I am to be at home once more! How dear and cosy is my
     little house which, when I left, lay deep in snow, and is now
     surrounded by foliage and flowers! The three months I spent abroad
     were lost time as regards work, but I feel I have gained in
     strength, and can now devote my whole time to it without exhausting
     myself.”

                                _Diary._

     “_July_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1886.

     “ ... Worked atrociously again. And yet people say I am a genius!
     Nonsense!”

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “MAIDANOVO, _July_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1886.

     “DEAR FRIEND,--I completely understand the difficulties of your
     situation. One of my letters to you is wanted for publication. You
     possess hundreds of my letters, but not one suitable to the case.
     Very natural; our correspondence was either too business-like, or
     too intimate. How can I help you? I cannot commit forgery, even for
     the pleasure of appearing in Mme. La Mara’s book;[115] I cannot
     write a letter especially for her collection and take this lucky
     opportunity of displaying myself in the most favourable light as
     musician, thinker, and man. Such a sacrifice on the altar of
     European fame is repugnant to me, although, on the other hand, it
     would be false to say that Mme. La Mara’s wish to place me among
     the prominent musicians of our time did not flatter me in the
     least. On the contrary, I am very deeply touched and pleased by the
     attention of the well-known authoress, and openly confess I should
     be very glad to be included in the company of Glinka, Dargomijsky,
     and Serov. If she were not in such a hurry, it would be better to
     send to one of my musical friends, such as Laroche, who could not
     fail to find among all my letters some with detailed effusions
     about my musical likes and dislikes; in short, a letter in which I
     speak quite candidly as a musician. But there is no time, and
     Laroche is away. Is it not curious that it should be difficult to
     find a suitable letter from a man who has carried on--and still
     carries on--the widest correspondence, dealing not only with
     business matters, but with artistic work? I am continually
     exchanging letters with four brothers, a sister, several cousins,
     and many friends, besides a quantity of casual correspondence with
     people often unknown to me. The necessity of sacrificing so much of
     my time to letter-writing is such a burden to me that, from the
     bottom of my heart, I curse all the postal arrangements in the
     world. The post often causes me sad moments, but it also brings me
     the greatest joy. One person plays the chief part in the story of
     the last ten years of my life: she is my good genius; to her I owe
     all my prosperity and the power to devote myself to my beloved
     work. Yet I have never seen her, never heard her voice; all my
     intercourse with her is through the post. I can certainly say I
     flood the world with my correspondence, and yet I am not in a
     position to help you out of your difficulty.

     “There is nothing to be done, but to send this letter itself to
     Mme. La Mara. If it does not represent me in the least as a
     musician, it will at any rate give the authoress a chance of
     satisfying her flattering wish to place me among the prominent
     musicians of the day.”

                                _Diary._

     “_August_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1886.

     “ ... Played _Manon_ at home. It pleased me better than I expected.
     I spent moments of longing and loneliness.”

     “_August_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).

     “ ... Played _Manon_. To-day Massenet seems to cloy with
     sweetness.”

     “_August_ 4_th_ (16_th_).

     “ ... Played Massenet at home. How stale he has grown! The worst of
     it is, that in this staleness I trace a certain affinity to
     myself.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _August_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1886.

     “ ... I feel at my best when I am alone; when trees, flowers, and
     books take the place of human society. O God, how short life is!
     How much I have yet to accomplish before it is time to leave off!
     How many projects! When I am quite well--as I am at present--I am
     seized with a feverish thirst for work, but the thought of the
     shortness of human life paralyses all my energy. It was not always
     so. I used to believe I could, and must, carry out all my ideas to
     completion; therefore my impulses towards creative work were then
     more lasting and more fruitful. In any case I hope to have the
     outline of the opera (_The Enchantress_) ready in a month’s time,
     and then to begin the orchestration.”

                                _Diary._

     “_August_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1886.

     “Played the conclusion of the sickly _Manon_ and Lefèbre’s
     inanities to the end.”

     “_August_ 15_th_ (27_th_).

     “ ... Worked a little before and after supper. Kouma’s Arioso is
     finished. Read Loti’s _Pêcheurs d’Islande_. Not very pleased with
     it. The tone of the descriptions remind me of that ... Zola
     and....”

     “_August_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

     “Walked in the garden. Worked and completely finished the rough
     sketches for the opera. Thank God!”

                          _To M. Tchaikovsky._

     “MAIDANOVA, _September_, 9_th_ (21_st_), 1886.

     “ ... I have been all through Vietinghov-Scheel’s opera. Good
     heavens! what a weak piece of work! He is a child, and no mature
     artist. It is a shame such a work should be given at the Imperial
     Opera. However, in this way the Direction have done Rubinstein a
     great service. His _Demon_ appears a masterpiece in comparison with
     that little Scheel affair. To tell the truth, at present the best
     operas in the world are composed by P. I. Tchaikovsky, and _The
     Enchantress_ is the most beautiful of them all. A gem all round. At
     least so it appears to me at this moment. Probably it appears to
     Vietinghov that his _Tamara_ is far more beautiful; and God alone
     knows which of us is right.”

                                _Diary._

     “_September_ 20_th_ (October 2_nd_), 1886.

     “Tolstoi never speaks with love and enthusiasm of any prophet of
     Truth (with the exception of Christ), but rather with contempt and
     hatred. We do not know how he regards Socrates, Shakespeare, or
     Gogol. We do not know if he cares for Michael Angelo and Raphael,
     Tourgeniev, George Sand, Dickens and Flaubert. Perhaps his
     sympathies and antipathies in the sphere of philosophy and art are
     known to his intimates, but this inspired talker has never openly
     let fall a word which could enlighten us as to his attitude towards
     those great spirits who are on an equality with him. For instance,
     he has told me that Beethoven had no talent (as compared with
     Mozart), but he has never expressed himself in writing either on
     music or any kindred subject. Truly I think this man inclines only
     before God or the people, before humanity as a whole. There is no
     individual before whom he would bow down. Suitaiev was not an
     individual in Tolstoi’s eyes, but the people itself, the
     personified wisdom of the people. It would be interesting to know
     what this giant liked or disliked in literature.

     “Probably after my death it will be of some interest to the world
     to hear of my musical predilections and prejudices, the more so
     that I have never expressed them by word of mouth.

     “I will begin by degrees, and when touching upon contemporary
     musicians I shall also speak of their personalities.

     “To begin with Beethoven, whom I praise unconditionally, and to
     whom I bend as to a god. But what is Beethoven to me? I bow down
     before the grandeur of some of his creations, but I do not love
     Beethoven. My relationship to him reminds me of that which I felt
     in my childhood to the God Jehovah. I feel for him--for my
     sentiments are still unchanged--great veneration, but also fear. He
     has created the heaven and the earth, and although I fall down
     before him, I do not love him. Christ, on the contrary, calls forth
     exclusively the feeling of _love_. He is God, but also Man. He has
     suffered like ourselves. We pity Him and love in Him the ideal side
     of man’s nature. If Beethoven holds an analogous place in my heart
     to the God Jehovah, I love Mozart as the musical Christ. I do not
     think this comparison is blasphemous. Mozart was as pure as an
     angel, and his music is full of divine beauty.

     “While speaking of Beethoven I touch on Mozart. To my mind, Mozart
     is the culminating point of all beauty in the sphere of music. He
     alone can make me weep and tremble with delight at the
     consciousness of the approach of that which we call the ideal.
     Beethoven makes me tremble too, but rather from a sense of fear and
     yearning anguish. I do not understand how to analyse music, and
     cannot go into detail.... Still I must mention two facts. I love
     Beethoven’s middle period, and sometimes his first; but I really
     hate his _last_, especially the latest quartets. They have only
     brilliancy, nothing more. The rest is chaos, over which floats,
     veiled in mist, the spirit of this musical Jehovah.

     “I love everything in Mozart, for we love everything in the man to
     whom we are truly devoted. Above all, _Don Juan_, for through that
     work I have learnt to know what music is. Till then (my seventeenth
     year) I knew nothing except the enjoyable _semi-music_ of the
     Italians. Although I love everything in Mozart, I will not assert
     that every one of his works, even the most insignificant, should be
     considered a masterpiece. I know quite well that no single example
     of his Sonatas is a great creation, and yet I like each one,
     because it is his, because he has breathed into it his sacred
     breath.

     “As to the forerunner of both these artists, I like to play Bach,
     because it is interesting to play a good fugue; but I do not regard
     him, in common with many others, as a great genius. Handel is only
     fourth-rate, he is not even interesting. I sympathise with Glück in
     spite of his poor creative gift. I also like some things of Haydn.
     These four great masters have been surpassed by Mozart. They are
     rays which are extinguished by Mozart’s sun.”

            _To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._

     “_September_, 1886.

     “YOUR IMPERIAL HIGHNESS,--Permit me to thank you cordially for your
     valued present and your sympathetic letter. Very highly do I esteem
     the attention of which you have thought me worthy.

     “I only regret, your Highness, that while looking for poems for my
     songs which are to be dedicated to her Majesty, I had not as yet
     the pleasure of possessing that charming little book which, thanks
     to your flattering attention, is now in my hands. How many of your
     poems glow with that warm and sincere feeling which makes them
     suitable for musical setting! When I read your collection of verses
     I determined at once to select some for my next song-cycle, and to
     dedicate them, with your gracious permission, to your Highness. I
     should be much pleased if you would accept this dedication as the
     expression of my sincere devotion.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _October_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1886.

     “ ... What you say about _my conducting_ is as balm to my wounded
     heart. The consciousness of my inability to conduct has been a
     torment and a martyrdom to me all my life. I think it is
     contemptible and shameful to have so little self-control that the
     mere thought of stepping into the conductor’s desk makes me tremble
     with fright This time too--although I have already promised to
     conduct myself--I feel when the time comes my courage will vanish
     and I shall refuse.”

                                _Diary._

     “MAIDANOVO, _October_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1886.

     “Played Brahms. It irritates me that this self-conscious mediocrity
     should be recognised as a genius. In comparison with him, Raff was
     a giant, not to speak of Rubinstein, who was a much greater man.
     And Brahms is so chaotic, so dry and meaningless!”




XI


At the end of October Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg, to be present at
the first performance of Napravnik’s opera, _Harold_. But as the
performance was constantly postponed, he finally returned to Maidanovo
without waiting for it. Nevertheless, the journey was not without
results, for Vsievolojsky, Director of the Imperial Opera, commissioned
Tchaikovsky for the first time to compose a ballet. Joukovsky’s _Undine_
was chosen as a subject.

Judging from all accounts, this visit to Petersburg must have convinced
Tchaikovsky of his great popularity there. Not only did he meet with a
very friendly reception from the composers, with Rimsky-Korsakov at
their head, but he received from an anonymous well-wisher, through the
medium of Stassov, a premium of 500 roubles, usually bestowed on the
best musical novelty of the season, judged in this instance to be
_Manfred_. He was also honoured by a brilliant gathering on the occasion
of his election as honorary member of the St. Petersburg Chamber Music
Society.

                         _To Rimsky-Korsakov._

     “_October_ 30_th_ (_November_ 11_th_), 1886.

     “DEAR NICHOLAS ANDREIEVICH,--I have a favour to ask. Arensky is now
     quite recovered, although I find him somewhat depressed and
     agitated. I like him so much and wish you would sometimes take an
     interest in him, for, as regards music, he venerates you more than
     anyone else. The best way of doing this would be to give one of his
     works at one of your next concerts. There, where all Russian
     composers find a place, should be a little room for Arensky, who,
     at any rate, is as good as the rest. But as you would not like to
     offend anyone, I propose that you should put one of Arensky’s works
     in the programme of your fourth concert instead of my _Romeo_
     overture. He needs stirring up; and such an impulse given by you
     would count for so much with him, because he loves and respects
     you. Please think it over and grant my wish. Thereby you will make
     your deeply devoted pupil (Arensky) very happy.

     “In conclusion, I must add that your ‘Spanish Capriccio’ is a
     _colossal masterpiece of instrumentation_, and you may regard
     yourself as the greatest master of the present day.”

                          _To M. Tchaikovsky._

     “MOSCOW, _November_ 19_th_ (_December_ 1_st_), 1886.

     “ ... I arrived in Moscow early to-day. There has already been a
     rehearsal. I was ill again after my last letter to you. This time I
     was so bad that I decided to send for the doctor. It seemed to me
     that I was about to have a strange illness. Suddenly I received a
     telegram saying that I must be at the rehearsal.[116] I answered
     that the rehearsal was not to be thought of, for I could not
     travel. But at the end of half an hour I suddenly felt so well
     that--in spite of terrible disinclination--I went to Moscow. Every
     trace of headache, which for ten days had so affected me, vanished.
     Is not this a curious pathological case?”

                          _To A. S. Arensky._

     “_November_ 24_th_ (_December_ 6_th_), 1886.

     “DEAR FRIEND ANTON STEPANOVICH,--I only received your welcome
     letter yesterday; I knew already from Taneiev that you had composed
     _Marguerite Gautier_ and dedicated it to me. Thank you cordially
     for this dedication. The attention and honour you have shown me
     touch me deeply. _Marguerite_ lies beside me on the table, and--in
     my free moments, which are not many--I cast a glance at it here and
     there, with much interest and pleasure. Please do not feel hurt
     that I did not write you my impressions at once. At the first
     glance I found the work very interesting, because you have entirely
     departed from your accustomed style. _Marguerite_ has so little
     resemblance to the Suite and the Symphony that one could easily
     suppose it came from the pen of a different man. The elegance of
     form, harmony, and orchestration are the same, but the character of
     the theme and its working out are quite different. Naturally the
     question arises: Is it better than the Symphony and the Suite? At
     present I cannot answer.”

Although somewhat anticipating my narrative, I will insert here an
extract from a later letter of Tchaikovsky’s, in which he gives Arensky
his opinion of _Marguerite Gautier_.

                            _To A. Arensky._

     “MAIDANOVO, _April_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1887.

     “DEAR ANTON STEPANOVICH,--I wrote to you in August that I would
     pronounce judgment on _Marguerite Gautier_ as soon as I had heard
     the work and had leisure to study the score. I held it all the more
     my duty to wait because, although I value your talent very highly,
     I do not like your Fantasia. It is very easy to praise a man who is
     highly esteemed. But to say to him: ‘Not beautiful; I do not like
     it,’ without basing one’s judgment on a full explanation, is very
     difficult....

     “I must state my opinion briefly. First the choice of subject. It
     was very painful and mortifying to me, and to all your friends,
     that you had chosen _La Dame aux Camelias_ as the subject of your
     Fantasia. How can an educated musician--when there are Homer,
     Shakespeare, Gogol, Poushkin, Dante, Tolstoi, Lermontov, and
     others--feel any interest in the production of Dumas _fils_, which
     has for its theme the history of a demi-mondaine adventuress which,
     even if written with French cleverness, is in truth false,
     sentimental, and vulgar? Such a choice might be intelligible in
     Verdi, who employed subjects which could excite people’s nerves at
     a period of artistic decadence; but it is quite incomprehensible in
     a young and gifted Russian musician, who has enjoyed a good
     education, and is, moreover, a pupil of Rimsky-Korsakov and a
     friend of S. Taneiev.

     “Now for the music: (1) _The Orgies._--If we are to realise in
     these orgies a supper after a ball at the house of a light woman,
     in which a crowd of people participate, eat mayonnaise with
     truffles, and afterwards dance the _cancan_, the music is not
     wanting _in realism_, fire, and brilliancy. It is, moreover,
     saturated with Liszt, as is the whole Fantasia. Its beauty--if one
     looks at it closely--is purely on the surface; there are no
     enthralling passages. Such beauty is not _true_ beauty, but only a
     forced imitation, which is rather a fault than a merit. We find
     this superficial beauty in Rossini, Donizetti, Bellini,
     Mendelssohn, Massenet, Liszt, and others. But they were also
     masters in their own way, though their chief characteristic was not
     the Ideal, after which we ought to strive. For neither Beethoven,
     nor Bach (who is wearisome, but still a genius), nor Glinka, nor
     Mozart, ever strove after this surface beauty, but rather the
     ideal, often veiled under a form which at first sight is
     unattractive.

     “(2) _Pastorale in Bougival._--Oh God! If you could only understand
     how unpoetical and unpastoral this Bougival is, with its boats, its
     inns, and its _cancans_! This movement is as good as most
     conventional pastoral ballets that are composed by musicians of
     some talent.

     “(3) _The Love Melody_

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     is altogether beautiful. It reminds me of Liszt. Not of any
     particular melody, but it is in his style, after the manner of his
     semi-Italian melodies, which are wanting in the plasticity and
     simplicity of the true Italian folk airs. Moreover, the
     continuation of your theme:

     [Illustration: musical notation]

     is not only beautiful, but wonderful; it captivates both the ear
     and the heart.

     “No one can ever reproach you with regard to the technical part of
     your work, which deserves unqualified praise.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “MOSCOW, _December_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1886.

     “MY DEAR MODI,--Something very important happened to-day. I
     conducted the first orchestral rehearsal in such style that all
     were astonished (unless it were mere flattery), for they had
     expected I should make a fool of myself. The nearer came the
     terrible day, the more unbearable was my nervousness. I was often
     on the point of giving up the idea of conducting. In the end I
     mastered myself, was enthusiastically received by the orchestra,
     found courage to make a little speech, and raised the bâton. Now I
     know I _can_ conduct, I shall not be nervous at the performance.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MOSCOW, _January_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1887.

     “MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--I have been enjoying your hospitality for a
     week.[117] I live in your house as if under the wing of Christ.
     Your servants are so careful of my welfare that I cannot praise
     them enough. I only regret that I can be so little at home. Daily
     rehearsals. I take a walk every morning, and by eleven o’clock I am
     waiting in the conductor’s desk. The rehearsal is not over till
     four o’clock, and then I am so tired that when I return home I have
     to lie down for a while. Towards evening I feel better and take
     some food.

     “The conducting gives me great anxiety and exhausts my whole
     nervous system. But I must say it also affords me great
     satisfaction. First of all, I am very glad to have conquered my
     innate, morbid shyness; secondly, it is a good thing for a composer
     to conduct his own work, instead of having constantly to interrupt
     the conductor to draw his attention to this, or that, mistake;
     thirdly, all my colleagues have shown me such genuine sympathy that
     I am quite touched by it, and very pleased. Do you know I feel much
     less agitation than when I sit at the rehearsal doing nothing. If
     all goes well, I believe that not only will my nerves be none the
     worse, but it will have a beneficial effect on them.”

The first performance of _Les Caprices d’Oxane_ took place at Moscow on
January 19th (31st), 1887, and had a far-reaching influence on
Tchaikovsky’s future, because he then made his first successful attempt
at conducting. The great interest which the production of a new opera
always awakens was thereby doubled, and all the places were taken before
the opening night. The singers did their work conscientiously; there was
no fault to be found, but no one made a memorable “creation” of any
part. The mounting and costumes were irreproachable.

The public greeted the composer-conductor with great enthusiasm. Gifts
of all kinds showed plainly that it was Tchaikovsky himself who was
honoured, not the new conductor and composer of _Les Caprices d’Oxane_.
The opera was a success; four numbers had to be repeated _da capo_.

The Press criticisms on this occasion were all favourable, even the
_Sovremenny Izvesty_, in which Krouglikov, as we know, generally
criticised Tchaikovsky’s works so severely. In short, the opera really
had a brilliant success; far greater than that achieved by _Eugene
Oniegin_ in Petersburg. Nevertheless this opera only remained in the
repertory for two seasons.

But little can be said about that which interests us most--the
impression made by Tchaikovsky’s conducting. The severest judge and
critic, Tchaikovsky himself, was satisfied. We know in what an objective
spirit he criticised the success of his works, so we can safely believe
him when he says he fulfilled his task satisfactorily. He describes this
memorable evening as follows:--

                        _To E. K. Pavlovskaya._

     “MOSCOW, _January_ 20_th_ (_February_ 1_st_), 1887.

     “I did not expect to be very excited on the day of the performance,
     but when I awoke, quite early, I felt really ill, and could only
     think of the approaching ordeal as of a horrible nightmare. I
     cannot describe what mental agonies I suffered during the course
     of the day. Consequently, at the appointed hour, I appeared half
     dead at the theatre. Altani accompanied me to the orchestra.
     Immediately the curtain went up and, amid great applause, I was
     presented with many wreaths from the chorus, orchestra, etc. While
     this took place, I somewhat recovered my composure, began the
     Overture well, and by the end felt quite master of myself. There
     was great applause after the Overture. The first Act went
     successfully, and afterwards I was presented with more wreaths,
     among them yours, for which many thanks. I was now quite calm, and
     conducted the rest of the opera with undivided attention. It is
     difficult to say if the work really pleased. The theatre was at
     least half-full of my friends. Time and future performances will
     show if the applause was for me personally (for the sake of past
     services), or for my work. Now the question is, how did I conduct?
     I feel some constraint in speaking about it. Everyone praised me;
     they said they had no idea I possessed such a gift for conducting.
     But is it true? Or is it only flattery? I shall conduct twice more,
     and after the third time I ought to know for certain how much truth
     there is in all this.”

I have seldom seen Tchaikovsky in such a cheerful frame of mind as on
that evening. We did not reach home till after five o’clock in the
morning, and he immediately sank into a deep sleep. After so many days
of anxiety and excitement he really needed rest! No one was more
unprepared than he for the sad news which reached us next morning.

About seven o’clock I was aroused by a telegram which announced the
death of our niece Tatiana, the eldest daughter of Alexandra Davidov.
She had died quite suddenly at a masked ball in Petersburg. Not only was
she a near relative, but also a highly gifted girl of great beauty. It
required considerable resolution on my part to break the sad news to my
brother when he awoke at eleven o’clock, happy and contented, and still
under the pleasant impressions of the previous evening.

In spite of this heavy blow, Tchaikovsky did not alter his decision to
conduct _Les Caprices d’Oxane_ for two nights longer. The constant
activity, and anxiety of a different nature, helped to assuage the
violence of his grief.




XII


                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _February_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1887.

     “I have now been at home five days, yet there is no question of
     rest; on the contrary, I am working with such feverish haste at
     _The Enchantress_ that I feel quite exhausted. I cannot live
     without work, but why do circumstances always compel me to be in a
     hurry, to have to overtax my strength? I see such an endless pile
     of work before me to which I am pledged that I dare not look into
     the future. How short life is! Now that I have probably reached
     that last step which means the full maturity of my talent, I look
     back involuntarily and, seeing so many years behind me, glance
     timidly at the path ahead and ask: Shall I succeed? Is it worth
     while? And yet it is only now that I begin to be able to compose
     without self-doubt, and to believe in my own powers and knowledge.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _February_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1887.

     “I am already dreaming of a time when I shall give concerts abroad.
     But of what does one not dream? If only I were twenty years
     younger!!! One thing is certain: my nerves are much stronger, and
     things which formerly were not to be thought of are now quite
     possible. Undoubtedly I owe this to my free life, relieved from all
     anxiety of earning my daily bread. And who but you, dear friend, is
     the author of all the good things fate has brought me?

     “The concert will take place in Petersburg on March 5th.”

On February 23rd (March 7th) Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg to attend
the rehearsals for the Philharmonic Concert, at which the St. Petersburg
public was to make his acquaintance as a conductor, from which dated the
commencement of a whole series of similar concerts which made his name
known in Russia, Europe and America.

On February 28th (March 12th) the first rehearsal took place, and
Tchaikovsky writes in his diary in his customary laconic style:
“Excitement and dread.” Henceforth, to the very end of his life, it was
not the concert itself so much as the first rehearsal which alarmed him.
By the second rehearsal he had usually recovered himself. Abroad, he
found it particularly painful to stand up for the first time before an
unknown orchestra.

All the important musical circles in Petersburg showed a lively interest
in Tchaikovsky’s début as a concert conductor. The three rehearsals
attracted a number of the first musicians, who encouraged him by their
warm words of sympathy. No début could have been made under more
favourable conditions.

The concert itself, which took place on March 5th (17th), in the hall of
the Nobles’ Club, went off admirably. The programme consisted of: (1)
Suite No. 2 (first performance in St. Petersburg), (2) Aria from the
opera _The Enchantress_, (3) the “Mummers’ Dance” from the same opera,
(4) Andante and Valse from the Serenade for strings, (5) _Francesca da
Rimini_, (6) Pianoforte solos, (7) Overture “_1812_.”

The hall was full to overflowing, and the ovations endless. The Press
criticisms of the music, as well as of Tchaikovsky’s conducting, proved
colourless and commonplace, but on the whole laudatory. Even Cui
expressed some approbation for Tchaikovsky as a conductor, although he
again found fault with him as a composer.

Tchaikovsky’s diary contains the following brief account of the concert:
“My concert. Complete success. Great enjoyment--but still, why this
drop of gall in my honeypot?”

In this question lie the germs of that weariness and suffering which had
their growth in Tchaikovsky’s soul simultaneously with his pursuit of
fame, and reached their greatest intensity in the moment of the
composer’s greatest triumphs.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _March_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1887.

     “The Empress has sent me her autograph picture in a beautiful
     frame.[118] This attention has touched me deeply, especially at a
     time when she and the Emperor have so many other things to think
     about.”

                                _Diary._

     “Ippolitov-Ivanov and his wife came very late, about ten o’clock. I
     met them out walking. At first I felt annoyed to see them, and
     vexed at my work being interrupted; but afterwards these good
     people (she is extremely sympathetic) made me forget everything,
     except that it is the greatest pleasure to be in the society of
     congenial friends. Ivanov played, and she sang beautiful fragments
     from his opera _Ruth_ (the duet especially charmed me). They left
     at six. Worked before and after supper.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “MAIDANOVO, _March_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1887.

     “_Ruth_ pleases me more and more. I believe Ippolitov-Ivanov will
     come to the front, if only because he has something original about
     him, and this ‘something’ is also very attractive.”

                                _Diary._

     “_March_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1887.

     “I will not conceal it: all the poetry of country life and solitude
     has vanished. I do not know why. _Nowhere do I feel so miserable as
     at home._ If I do not work, I torment myself, am afraid of the
     future, etc. Is solitude really necessary to me? When I am in town,
     country life seems a paradise; when I am here, I feel no delight
     whatever. To-day, in particular, I am quite out of tune.”

     “_March_ 19_th_ (31_st_).

     “Have just read through my diary for the last two years. Good
     heavens! how could my imagination have been so deceived by the
     melancholy bareness of Maidanovo? How everything used to please
     me!”

     “_March_ 26_th_ (_April_ 7_th_).

     “Read through Korsakov’s ‘Snow-Maiden,’ and was astonished at his
     mastery. I envy him and ought to be ashamed of it.”

     “_March_ 30_th_ (_April_ 11_th_).

     “After supper I read the score of _A Life for the Tsar_. What a
     master! How did Glinka manage to do it? It is incomprehensible how
     such a colossal work could have been created by an amateur
     and--judging by his diary--a rather limited and trivial nature.”

     “_April_ 16_th_ (28_th_).

     “Played through _The Power of the Evil One_.[119] An almost
     repulsive musical monstrosity; yet, at the same time, talent,
     intuition, and imagination.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MAIDANOVO, _April_ 24_th_ (_May_ 6_th_), 1887.

     “MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--I wished to leave Maidanovo a month ago, and
     yet I am still here. My work (the orchestration of the opera)
     detains me. This work is not really difficult, but it takes time. I
     notice that the older I grow, the more trouble my orchestration
     gives me. I judge myself more severely, am more careful, more
     critical with regard to light and shade. In such a case the country
     is a real boon. Saint-Saëns has invited me to be present at both
     his concerts at Moscow, but I have courteously refused. Poor
     Saint-Saëns had to play to an empty room. I knew it would be so,
     and that the poor Frenchman would take it deeply to heart, so I did
     not wish to be a witness of his disappointment. But also I did not
     want to interrupt my work.”

Tchaikovsky stayed at Maidanovo to complete the instrumentation of the
whole score of _The Enchantress_, and left on May 9th to visit his sick
friend, Kondratiev, before starting on his journey to the Caucasus.




XIII


                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “THE CASPIAN SEA, _May_ 28_th_ (_June_ 9_th_), 1887.

     “I left Moscow on the 20th. At Nijni-Novogorod I had great trouble
     in securing a second-class ticket for the steamer, _Alexander II_.
     This steamer is considered the best, and is therefore always full.
     My quarters were very small and uncomfortable, but I enjoyed the
     journey down the Volga. It was almost high tide, and therefore the
     banks were so far away that one could almost imagine oneself at
     sea. Mother Volga is sublimely poetical. The right bank is hilly,
     and there are many beautiful bits of scenery, but in this respect
     the Volga cannot compare with the Rhine, nor even with the Danube
     and Rhône. Its beauty does not lie in its banks, but in its
     unbounded width and in the extraordinary volume of its waters,
     which roll down to the sea without any motion. We stopped at the
     towns on the way just long enough to get an idea of them. Samara
     and the little town of Volsk pleased me best, the latter having the
     most beautiful gardens I have ever seen. We reached Astrakhan on
     the fifth day. Here we boarded a little steamer, which brought us
     to the spot where the mouth of the Volga debouches into the open
     sea, where we embarked on a schooner, on board which we have been
     for the last two days. The Caspian Sea has been very treacherous.
     It was so stormy during the night that I was quite frightened.
     Every moment it seemed as if the trembling ship must break up
     beneath the force of the waves; so much so that I could not close
     an eye all night. But in spite of this I was not sea-sick. We
     reached Baku to-day. The storm has abated. I shall not be able to
     start for Tiflis until to-morrow morning, for we cannot catch the
     train to-day.”

On the journey between Tsaritsin and Astrakhan, Tchaikovsky had a very
droll experience. He had managed so cleverly that no one on board knew
who he was. One day a little musical entertainment was got up, and
Tchaikovsky offered to undertake the accompanying. It so happened that a
lady amateur placed one of his own songs before him and explained to him
the manner in which he was to accompany it. On his timidly objecting,
the lady answered that she must know best, as Tchaikovsky himself had
gone through the song in question with her music mistress. The same
evening a passenger related how Tchaikovsky had been so delighted with
the tenor Lody in the rôle of Orlik in _Mazeppa_[120] that after the
performance “he fell on Lody’s neck and wept tears of emotion.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “TIFLIS, _May_ 30_th_ (_June_ 11_th_), 1887.

     “Baku, in the most unexpected fashion, has turned out to be an
     altogether beautiful place, well planned and well built, clean and
     very characteristic. The Oriental (especially the Persian)
     character is very prevalent, so that one could almost imagine
     oneself to be on the other side of the Caspian Sea. It has but one
     drawback: the complete lack of verdure....

     “On the day after my arrival I visited the neighbourhood of the
     naphtha wells, where some hundred boring-towers throw up a hundred
     thousand _pouds_ of naphtha every minute. The picture is grand but
     gloomy....

     “The road between Baku and Tiflis runs through a stony, desolate
     country.”

     The end of this journey was Borjom, where he intended to pass the
     whole summer in the family of his brother Anatol. He reached there
     on June 11th. He only learnt to appreciate by degrees the
     enchanting beauty of the neighbourhood. The horizon, shut in by
     lofty mountains, the sombre flora, their luxuriance, and the depth
     of the shadows, made an unpleasant impression upon him at first.
     Only after he had learnt to know the inexhaustible number and
     variety of the walks did he begin to like this country more and
     more. When, ten days later, his brother Modeste arrived at Borjom
     he was already full of enthusiasm and ready to initiate him into
     all the beauties of the place.

     Tchaikovsky worked very little while at Borjom, only spending an
     hour a day at the instrumentation of the “Mozartiana” Suite.

     At the commencement of July Tchaikovsky left Borjom in response to
     a telegram from his friend Kondratiev, who had been removed to
     Aix-la-Chapelle, in the hopes that the baths might prolong his life
     for a few months. Kondratiev’s condition was so critical that
     Tchaikovsky could not do less than interrupt his own cure and join
     his friend as soon as possible.

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “AIX-LA-CHAPELLE, _July_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1887.

     “I do not dislike Aix--that is all I can say. What is really bad
     here is the atmosphere, saturated as it is with smells of cooking,
     cinnamon, and other spices. I think sorrowfully of the air in
     Borjom, but I try to dwell upon it as little as possible. However,
     I feel more cheerful here than I did on the journey. I see that my
     arrival has given much pleasure to Kondratiev and Legoshin, and
     that I shall be of use to them.”

                                _Diary._

     “AIX, _July_ 22_nd_ (_August_ 3_rd_), 1887.

     “I sit at home full of remorse. The cause of my remorse is this:
     life is passing away and draws near to its end, and yet I have not
     fathomed it. Rather do I drive away those disquieting questions of
     our destiny when they intrude themselves upon me, and try to hide
     from them. Do I live truly? Do I act rightly? For example, I am now
     sitting here, and everyone admires my _sacrifice_. Now there is no
     question of sacrifice. I lead a life of ease, gormandise at the
     _table d’hôte_, do nothing, and spend my money on luxuries, while
     others want it for absolute necessities. Is not that the veriest
     egoism? I do not act towards my neighbours as I ought.”

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “AIX, _July_ 29_th_ (_August_ 10_th_), 1887.

     “DEAR FRIEND,--To-day I am sending you my Mozart Suite, registered.
     Three of the borrowed numbers in the Suite are pianoforte pieces
     (Nos. 1, 2, 4); one (No. 3) is the chorus ‘Ave Verum.’ Of course, I
     should be glad if the Suite could be played next season. That is
     all.”

Tchaikovsky’s “heroic act” of friendship consumed more than a month of
his time. While paying full tribute to the generosity of his
undertaking, we must confess that he failed to grasp the relation
between wishing and doing. Tchaikovsky, filled with real and
self-denying compassion for the sufferings of his neighbour, was
wanting--as in all practical questions of life--in the necessary
ability, self-control, and purpose. In the abstract, no one had more
sympathy for his neighbour than he; but in reality no one was less able
to do much for him. Anyone who could ask the trivial question: “Where
wadding, needles, and thread could be bought?” would naturally lose his
head at the bedside of a dying man. The consciousness of his
helplessness and incapacity to lessen his friend’s suffering in the
least, his irresolution in face of the slightest difficulty, rendered
Tchaikovsky’s useless visit to Aix all the more painful. He suffered for
the dying man and for himself. The result was that he did “too much” for
friendship and “too little” for his sick friend; at least, in comparison
to the extraordinary sacrifice of strength which his generous action
demanded. When, at the end of August, the dying man’s nephew came to
relieve him, Tchaikovsky fled from Aix, deeply grieved at parting from
his friend “for ever,” humbled at his own mental condition, and angry at
his inability “to see the sad business through to the end.” Exhausted,
and wrathful with himself, he arrived at Maidanovo on August 30th
(September 11th), where the news of Kondratiev’s death reached him a
fortnight later.

                                _Diary._

     “_September_ 21_st_ (_October_ 3_rd_), 1887.

     “How short is life! How much I have still to do, to think, and to
     say! We keep putting things off, and meanwhile death lurks round
     the corner. It is just a year since I touched this book, and so
     much has changed since then. How strange! Just 365 days ago I was
     afraid to confess that, in spite of the glow of sympathetic feeling
     which Christ awoke in me, I dared to doubt His divinity. Since then
     my _religion_ has become more clearly defined, for during this time
     I have thought a great deal about God, life, and death. In Aix
     especially I meditated on the fatal questions: why, how, for what
     end? I should like to define my religion in detail, if only I might
     be quite clear, once for all, as to my faith, and as to the
     boundary which divides it from speculation. But life and its
     vanities are passing, and I do not know whether I shall succeed in
     expressing the _symbol_ of that faith which has arisen in me of
     late. It has very definite forms, but I do not use them when I
     pray. I pray just as before; as I was taught. Moreover, God can
     hardly require to know how and why we pray. God has no need of
     prayers. _But we have._”

On October 20th (November 1st) _The Enchantress_ was produced under the
bâton of the composer, and the performance was altogether most brilliant
and artistic.

On this first night Tchaikovsky does not appear to have observed that
the opera was a failure. He thought, on the contrary, that it pleased
the public. After the second performance (on October 23rd),
which--notwithstanding that it went better than the first--still failed
to move the audience to applause, he first felt doubts as to its
success. The indifference of the public was clearly apparent after the
third and fourth representations, when his appearance in the conductor’s
desk was received in chilling silence. It was only then that he realised
that _The Enchantress_ was a failure. On the fifth night the house was
empty.

Tchaikovsky, as we shall see, ascribed this failure to the ill-will of
the critics. After I had read through all the notices--says Modeste--it
seemed to me that, in the present instance, my brother had done them too
much honour. In none of the eleven criticisms did I trace that tone of
contempt and malicious enjoyment with which his other operas had been
received. No one called _The Enchantress_ a “still-born nonentity,” as
Cui had said of _Eugene Oniegin_; no one attempted to count up the
deliberate thefts in _The Enchantress_, as Galler had done with
_Mazeppa_. The reason for the failure of _The Enchantress_ must be
sought elsewhere: possibly in the defective interpretation of both the
chief parts; but more probably in the qualities of the music, which
still awaits its just evaluation at the hands of a competent critic.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MOSCOW, _November_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1887.

     “MY DEAR FRIEND,--Please forgive me for so seldom writing. I am
     passing through a very stirring period of my life, and am always in
     such a state of agitation that it is impossible to speak to you
     from my heart as I should wish. After conducting my opera four
     times, I returned here, about five days ago, in a very melancholy
     frame of mind. In spite of the ovation I received on the opening
     night, my opera has not taken with the public, and practically met
     with no success. From the Press I have encountered such hatred and
     hostility that, even now, I cannot account for it. On no other
     opera have I expended so much labour and sacrifice; yet never
     before have I been so persecuted by the critics. I have given up
     the journey to Tiflis, for I shall scarcely have time to get
     sufficient rest in Maidanovo before I have to start on my concert
     tour abroad. I conduct first in Leipzig, and afterwards in Dresden,
     Hamburg, Copenhagen, Berlin, and Prague. In March I give my own
     concert in Paris, and from there I go to London, as I have received
     an invitation from the Philharmonic Society. In short, a whole
     crowd of new and strong impressions are awaiting me.”

The Symphony Concert of the Russian Musical Society, November 14th
(26th), was the first concert ever conducted by Tchaikovsky in Moscow.
The programme consisted exclusively of his own works, including
“Mozartiana” (first time), _Francesca da Rimini_, the Fantasia for
pianoforte, op. 56 (Taneiev as soloist), and the Arioso from _The
Enchantress_. On the following day the same programme was repeated by
the Russian Musical Society at a popular concert. The “Mozartiana” Suite
was a great success (the “Ave Verum” was encored), and the Press--in
contradistinction to that of St. Petersburg--spoke with great warmth and
cordiality of the composer and conductor.

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “_November_ 24_th_ (_December_ 6_th_) 1887.

     “In to-day’s paper I accidentally saw that the eighth performance
     of _The Enchantress_ was given before a half-empty house. It is an
     undoubted _fiasco_. This failure has wounded me in my inmost soul,
     for I never worked with greater ardour than at _The Enchantress_.
     Besides, I feel ashamed when I think of you, for you must have
     sustained a terrible loss. I know well enough that some day the
     opera will be reinstated, but when? Meanwhile it makes me very
     bitter. So far I have always maintained that the Press could not
     influence one’s success or failure; but now I am inclined to think
     that it is only the united attack of these hounds of critics which
     has ruined my opera. The devil take them! Why this spite? Just now,
     for example, in to-day’s number of the _Novosti_, see how they rail
     at our Musical Society and at me, because of this Popular Concert!
     Incomprehensible!”




                               PART VII




     I

     1888


     With December, 1887, began a new and last period in the life of
     Tchaikovsky, during which he realised his wildest dreams of fame,
     and attained to such prosperity and universal honour as rarely fall
     to the lot of an artist during his lifetime. Distrustful and modest
     (from an excess of pride), he was now in a perpetual state of
     wonder and delight to find himself far more appreciated in Russia
     and abroad than he had ever hoped in the past. Physically neither
     better nor worse than in former years, possessing the unlimited
     affections of those whom he loved in return,--he was, to all
     appearance, an example of mortal happiness, yet in reality he was
     less happy than before.

     Those menacing blows of fate--like the opening of Beethoven’s Fifth
     Symphony--had sounded, although muffled and distant, even on the
     day of Tchaikovsky’s first concert (March 5th); while that
     intangible and groundless sense of bitterness--that “touch of
     gall,” as he himself calls it--was present even in that triumphant
     moment when he found himself master of the orchestra and all its
     tempestuous elements, as though prophetic of those sufferings which
     overshadowed the last years of his life. At the time he did not
     understand this vague warning; afterwards, when it came back to
     him, he realised it had been a friendly caution, not to continue
     the chase for fame; not to take up occupations that went against
     his nature, nor to spend his strength upon the attainment of things
     which would come of themselves; finally, to cling to his true
     vocation, lest disappointment should await him in the new path he
     had elected to follow. In February he wrote to Nadejda von Meck:
     “New and powerful impressions continually await me. Probably my
     fame will increase, but would it not be better to stay at home and
     work? God knows! I can say this: I regret the time when I was left
     in peace in the solitude of the country.” And this regret grew
     keener, as his weariness grew more intolerable. The more he
     accustomed his temperament to unsuitable occupations, the further
     he advanced his reputation, the more complete was his
     disenchantment with the prize. Radiant and glittering as it had
     appeared from afar, seen closer, it proved insignificant and
     tarnished. Hence the profound disillusionment, “the insane
     depression,” the something “hopeless and final” which make so dark
     a background to the picture of his brilliant success at home and
     abroad.

     Tchaikovsky left Russia on December 15th (27th) and arrived in
     Berlin two days later. Here he was to meet Herr N---- who was
     acting as his concert agent during this tour. He had no sooner
     settled in his hotel than, picking up a newspaper, his eye fell
     upon a paragraph to the effect that: “To-day, December 29th, the
     Russian composer Tchaikovsky arrives in Berlin. To-morrow his
     numerous friends (?) and admirers (?) will meet to celebrate his
     arrival by a luncheon at the ---- restaurant, at one o’clock.
     Punctual attendance is requested.” “No words could describe my
     horror and indignation,” wrote Tchaikovsky. “At that moment I could
     cheerfully have murdered Herr N----. I went out to breakfast at a
     café in the Passage, and afterwards to the Museum, walking in fear
     and trembling lest I should meet Herr N---- or some of my numerous
     _friends and admirers_.”

[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1888

(_From a photograph by Reitlinger, Paris_)]

The following morning the dreaded interview with his agent took place.
Tchaikovsky found him not altogether unsympathetic, but during the
entire tour he realised that he was dealing with a very peculiar and
eccentric man, whom he never really understood.

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “LEIPZIG, _December_ 21_st_, 1887 (_January_ 2_nd_, 1888).

     “I have made acquaintance with Scharwenka and a number of other
     people. I also met Artôt.[121] Everyone was astonished to see me
     with N----, who follows me like my own shadow. At three o’clock I
     left for Leipzig, luckily without N---- for once, and was met by
     Brodsky, Siloti, and two of my admirers. I had supper with Brodsky.
     There was a Christmas-tree. His wife and sister-in-law are
     charming--really good Russian women. All the time the tears were in
     my eyes. Next day I took a walk (it was New Year’s Day), and went
     back to dine with Siloti at Brodsky’s. He was just trying a new
     trio by Brahms. The composer himself was at the piano. Brahms is a
     handsome man, rather short and stout.[122] He was very friendly to
     me. Then we sat down to table. Brahms enjoys a good drink. Grieg,
     fascinating and sympathetic, was there too.[123] In the evening I
     went to the Gewandhaus, when Joachim and Hausmann played the new
     Double Concerto of Brahms for violin and ‘cello, and the composer
     himself conducted. I sat in the Directors’ box, and made
     acquaintance with such numbers of people that I could not keep pace
     with them all. The Directors informed me that my rehearsal was
     fixed for the next day. What I suffered during the evening--in fact
     the whole time--cannot be described. If Brodsky and Siloti had not
     been there, I think I should have died. I spent a terrible night.
     The rehearsal took place early this morning. I was formally
     introduced to the orchestra by Carl Reinecke. I made a little
     speech in German. The rehearsal went well in the end. Brahms was
     there, and yesterday and to-day we have been a good deal together.
     We are ill at ease, because we do not really like each other, but
     he takes great pains to be kind to me. Grieg is charming. Dined
     with Siloti. Quartet concert at night. The new trio of Brahms.
     Home-sick. Very tired.

     “You cannot imagine a finer room than at the Gewandhaus. It is the
     best concert-room I ever saw in my life.”

                         _To P. I. Jurgenson._

     “LEIPZIG, _December_ 24_th_, 1887 (_January_ 5_th_, 1888).

     “Yesterday the public rehearsal took place. I was very nervous, but
     my success was unusually flattering.... To-night, however, all may
     be reversed, for it is by no means certain that I shall not make a
     fool of myself. I have seen a good deal of Brahms. He is by no
     means a total abstainer, but he is very pleasant, and not so vain
     as I expected. But it is Grieg who has altogether won my heart. He
     is most taking and sympathetic, and his wife equally so. Reinecke
     is very amiable. At the first rehearsal he introduced me to the
     band, and I made the following speech: ‘Gentlemen, I cannot speak
     German, but I am proud to have to do with such a ... such a ...
     that is to say ... I am proud ... I cannot.’ The band is splendid;
     I could not have believed that our musicians--good as they
     are--were still so far behind a first-rate German orchestra.”

     “_December_ 25_th_ (_January_ 6_th_).

     “The concert has gone off well. The reception of the Suite was
     good, but not to be compared with that at the public rehearsal,
     when the audience consisted almost entirely of students and
     musicians. After the concert I went to a banquet arranged in my
     honour by Reinecke. He related much that was interesting about
     Schumann and, generally speaking, I felt very much at ease with
     him. Afterwards I had to go on to a fête given by the Russian
     students, and I did not get home until very late. Now I am just off
     to a Tchaikovsky Festival held by the Liszt-Verein. It begins at 11
     a.m.”

The Press notices upon Tchaikovsky’s début in Leipzig as conductor and
composer were numerous and lengthy. Keeping in view the importance of
this occasion, and the influence it exercised on his future career, it
has been thought well to give some extracts from the most interesting of
these criticisms, which will be found in the Appendix.[124]

At the Tchaikovsky Festival given by the Liszt-Verein, his Quartet, op.
11, Trio, and some of his smaller compositions were included in the
programme. The following day the composer returned to Berlin, where he
arranged with the Directors of the Philharmonic Society to give a
concert of his works on February 8th. He then left for Hamburg in the
company of Adolf Brodsky, where the latter was to take part in a concert
conducted by Hans von Bülow. As Tchaikovsky had the prospect of a few
days’ leisure, he decided to spend them in Lübeck, whence he wrote to
his brother Modeste on December 30th, 1887 (January 11th 1888):--

     “What joy! I do so enjoy finding myself in a strange town, in a
     capital hotel, with the prospect of five peaceful days before me! I
     arrived in Hamburg with Brodsky at 6 a.m. The rehearsal for Bülow’s
     concert began at ten o’clock. Bülow was delighted to see me. He has
     altered and aged. He seems, too, calmer, more subdued, and softer
     in manner.... I went to the concert in the evening. Bülow conducted
     with inspiration, especially the ‘Eroica.’ I came on here to-day.
     It is very pleasant. What a blessing to be silent! To feel that no
     one will be coming, that I shall not be dragged out anywhere!”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_January_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1888.

     “ ... At last January (old style) has come. Now at any rate I can
     reckon four months to my return to Russia. I went to the theatre
     yesterday. Barnay was the star in _Othello_. He is sometimes
     astounding, quite a genius, but what an agonising play! Iago is too
     revolting--such beings do not exist.”

On January 1st, 1888, a piece of good fortune fell to Tchaikovsky’s lot.
Thanks to the efforts of Vsievolojsky, Director of the Imperial Opera,
the Emperor bestowed upon him a life pension of 3,000 roubles (£300) per
annum.

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “HAMBURG, _January_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1888.

     “On my appearance I was enthusiastically received by the orchestra,
     and their applause was supported by the public, which was not the
     case in Leipzig. I conducted without agitation, but towards the end
     I grew so tired I was afraid I could not hold out. Sapellnikov[125]
     played splendidly. After the concert there was a large party at
     the house of Bernuth, the Director of the Philharmonic. About a
     hundred guests were present, all in full-dress. After a long speech
     from Bernuth, I replied in German, which created a _furore_. Then
     we began to eat and drink. Yesterday was terrible; I cannot
     describe how I was torn to pieces, nor how exhausted I felt
     afterwards. In the evening there was a gala in my honour, at which
     my compositions were exclusively performed. The Press was very
     favourable.

     “After the _soirée_ followed a fearful night of it, in company with
     many musicians, critics, and amateurs, admirers of my music. I feel
     befogged. To-day I start for Berlin. Bülow is very amiable.”

The programme of the concert at which Tchaikovsky made his first
appearance in Hamburg was as follows: Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for
strings, Pianoforte Concerto in B♭ minor (Sapellnikov), the Theme and
Variations from his Third Suite, and Haydn’s “Oxford” Symphony.[126]

Between the Hamburg and Berlin concerts Tchaikovsky was anxious for a
little repose, and decided to spend a few days at Magdeburg. On the one
day spent in Berlin _en passant_ he heard, for the first time, a work by
Richard Strauss. “Bülow has taken him up just now,” he wrote to his
brother, “as formerly he took up Brahms and others. To my mind such an
astounding lack of talent, united to such pretentiousness, never before
existed.”

Tchaikovsky now began to receive invitations from many musical centres
to conduct his own works. Colonne had engaged him for two concerts in
Paris on March 11th and 18th. Several other offers, including Weimar and
the Dresden Philharmonic, had to be refused because the dates did not
fit in with his plans.

On the advice of Bülow, Wolf, and other friends he decided to alter the
programme of the forthcoming concert at Berlin, for which he had put
down his _Francesca da Rimini_. “Perhaps they are right,” he says in a
letter to his brother. “The taste of the German public is quite
different to ours. Now I understand why Brahms is idolised here,
although my opinion of him has not changed. Had I known this sooner,
perhaps I, too, might have learnt to compose in a different way. Remind
me later to tell you about my acquaintance with the venerable
Ave-Lallemant,[127] which touched me profoundly.

“Sapellnikov made quite a sensation in Hamburg. He really has a great
talent. He is also a charming and good-hearted young man.”

                           _To V. Napravnik._

     “MAGDEBURG, _January_, 12_th_ (24_th_), 1888.

     “The newspapers have published long articles about me. They ‘slate’
     me a good deal, but pay me far more attention than our own Press.
     Their views are sometimes funny. A critic, speaking of the
     variations in the Third Suite, says that one describes a sitting of
     the Holy Synod and another a dynamite explosion.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “LEIPZIG, _January_ 20_th_ (_February_ 1_st_), 1888.

     “ ... How shall I describe all I am experiencing just now?
     Continual home-sickness, some well-nigh intolerable hours, and a
     few very pleasant moments. I intended to spend a few quiet days
     here, instead of which I am whirled along in a stream of gaiety:
     dinners, visits, concerts, suppers, the theatre, etc. My sole
     comfort is the society of Siloti, Brodsky (I am quite in love with
     his wife and sister-in-law), and Grieg and his wife. But besides
     these, every day I make new and sympathetic acquaintances. I take
     Sapellnikov with me wherever I go, and have introduced him to many
     people in the musical world. Wherever he plays he creates a
     sensation. I am more and more convinced of his superb talent.... I
     went to a Quartet Concert, at which I heard a quartet by an
     exceedingly gifted Italian, Busoni. I quickly made friends with
     him. At an evening given by Brodsky I was charmed with a new sonata
     by Grieg. Grieg and his wife are so quaint, sympathetic,
     interesting, and original that I could not describe them in a
     letter. I regard Grieg as very highly gifted. To-day I dine with
     him at Brodsky’s. To-night is the extra concert in aid of the funds
     for the Mendelssohn Memorial, and to-morrow the public rehearsal of
     the Gewandhaus Concert, at which Rubinstein’s symphony will be
     given. Afterwards I am giving a dinner to my friends at a
     restaurant, and start for Berlin at five o’clock. How tired I am!”

     “_January_ 23_rd_ (_February_ 4_th_).

     “ ... to-day I got rid of N----. We parted in peace, but my purse
     was lighter by five hundred marks in consequence. I do not regret
     it in the least; I would have given a good deal more to see the
     last of this gentleman.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “BERLIN, _January_ 23_rd_ (_February_ 4_th_).

     “ ... I have made great progress in my conducting.... Wolf gave a
     large dinner-party at my desire, in order that all the great
     lights here might hear Sapellnikov. All the critics were there.
     Sapellnikov created a _furore_. For the last three weeks we have
     been inseparable. I have grown so fond of him, and he so attached
     and good to me--just as though he were a near relation. Since
     Kotek’s days I have never cared for anyone so much. It is
     impossible to imagine anyone more sympathetic, gentle, kindly; more
     delicate-minded and distinguished. On his return I beg you not only
     to be friendly to him, but to introduce him to all our relatives. I
     consider him--and I am not alone in my opinion--a future genius as
     regards the piano. Yesterday Bock had a party. Artôt was there. I
     was inexpressibly glad to see her again; we made friends at once,
     without a word as to the past. Her husband, Padilla, embraced me
     heartily. To-morrow she gives a dinner. As an elderly woman she is
     just as fascinating as twenty years ago.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck_.

     “LEIPZIG, _January_ 30_th_ (_February_ 11_th_), 1888.

     “MY DEAR FRIEND,--My concert in Berlin was a great success.[128] I
     had a splendid orchestra to deal with and musicians who were in
     sympathy with me from the very first rehearsal. The programme was
     as follows:--

     “(1) Overture, _Romeo and Juliet_; (2) Pianoforte Concerto, played
     by Siloti; (3) Introduction and Fugue from the First Suite; (4)
     Andante from the First Quartet; (5) Songs, sung by Fräulein Friede;
     (6) Overture, “_1812_.”

     “The public gave me a most enthusiastic reception. Of course, all
     this is very pleasant, but at the same time I feel so worn out I
     hardly know how I am to get through all that lies before me.... Can
     you recognise in this Russian musician, touring all over Europe,
     the man who, a few years ago, fled from life and society, and lived
     in solitude abroad, or in the country?

     “A real triumphal festival awaits me in Prague. The programme of my
     week’s visit there is already arranged, and has been sent to me. It
     includes any number of ovations and receptions. The idea is to give
     my concert there a certain patriotic and anti-German character.
     This puts me in an awkward position, because I have been received
     in a very friendly way in Germany.”

In spite of the applause of the public and the flattering notices in the
Press, Tchaikovsky’s visit made less impression in Berlin than in
Leipzig and Hamburg. Whereas in the latter towns his concerts were the
great events of the day, in the capital the début of a Russian composer
passed comparatively unnoticed amid a thousand other interests. A brief
entry in his diary on January 28th about “a bucket of cold water” seems
to point to a certain disillusionment as to the character of his
reception in Berlin. Possibly he had heard rumours that the concert-room
had been liberally “papered,” and in this way a certain amount of
artificial enthusiasm spread through the audience.

In any case, it was Leipzig, rather than Berlin, that showed the greater
interest in Tchaikovsky during this tour, and he was glad to return
there for a few days before leaving Germany. “I have come back to
Leipzig,” he wrote to a relative on January 30th (February 11th), 1888,
“as I had promised to be present at the concert given in my honour by
the Liszt-Verein. The concert could not come off, so yesterday, at my
request, Wagner’s _Meistersinger_ was performed at the theatre instead.
I had never heard this opera. Early this morning I was awakened by the
strains of the Russian hymn. An orchestra was serenading me. They played
for nearly an hour under my windows, and the whole hotel ran out to see
and hear.”

The marvellous performance of _Meistersinger_ under Nikisch, and the
touching ovation in the form of a serenade, were the closing events of
Tchaikovsky’s first concert tour in Germany. In Bohemia and France far
more brilliant receptions awaited him, but these were of quite a
different nature.




II


On January 31st (February 12th) Tchaikovsky, accompanied by Siloti,
arrived at the frontiers of Bohemia. The triumphal character of the
reception which awaited him was soon made apparent by the extraordinary
attentions of the railway officials. At one of the last stations before
Prague, a deputation of members of various societies had assembled to
welcome him. At Prague a representative of the “Russian Club” awaited
him on the platform, having come expressly from Vienna to pay him this
compliment. He presented Tchaikovsky with an address in Russian. This
was followed by a speech in Czech, delivered by Dr. Strakaty, the
representative of the “Umclecká Beseda,”[129] after which children
presented him with flowers, and he was hailed with prolonged cries of
“Slava!” (Hurrah!). The carriage which awaited him, and the suite of
rooms at the Hotel de Saxe, were provided for him at the expense of the
Artists’ Club.

In the evening he was invited to hear Verdi’s _Otello_, and a box was
reserved for him at the Opera House. Rieger, “the leader of the Czech
people,” was the first to greet the guest, after which followed many of
the most prominent men in Bohemia.

The following day Tchaikovsky received a visit from Dvořák, and the
two composers quickly made friends with each other.

[Illustration: ALEXANDER SILOTI]

[Illustration: PETER ILICH TCHAIKOVSKY]

It is impossible to give in detail the programme drawn up for each day
of the composer’s visit to Prague. He made an almost royal progress to
all the chief places of interest. On one occasion, entering the
“Rathaus” while a session was being held, the entire body of members
rose to greet him. One evening he was serenaded by the famous Choral
Union “Hlahol.” He listened to the songs from his balcony, and
afterwards came down to thank the singers in person. An offer, made in
the course of his speech, to compose something expressly for the Society
was received with loud cheering. On February 6th (18th) he was invited
to the Students’ Union and presented to the students. In his diary he
speaks of this as “a very solemn and touching ceremony.” Accompanied by
cries of “Slava!” and “Na Sdrava!” he was next led off to the public
rehearsal of the concert. The evening wound up with a brilliant _soirée_
at the Town Club (Meschtschanska Beseda).

The first concert itself took place on February 7th (19th), in the
“Rudolfinum.” The programme consisted entirely of Tchaikovsky’s music,
and included: (1) Overture, _Romeo and Juliet_; (2) Concerto for
Pianoforte (B♭ minor), played by Siloti; (3) Elégie from the Third
Suite; (4) Violin Concerto, played by Halir; (5), Overture, “_1812_.” Of
all these works the last-named excited the greatest applause.
Tchaikovsky sums up his impressions as follows: “Undoubtedly it was the
most eventful day of my life. I have become so attached to these good
Bohemians ... and with good reason! Heavens, what enthusiasm! Such as I
have never known, but in my own dear Russia!”

Two days later, on February 9th (21st), the second concert was given in
the _foyer_ of the Opera House. This time the programme comprised: (1)
Serenade for strings; (2) Variations from the Third Suite; (3)
Pianoforte Solos (Siloti); (4) Overture, “_1812_.” The ovations were
even more hearty, and the gifts more costly, than at the first concert.
“An overwhelming success,” says Tchaikovsky in his diary. “A moment of
absolute bliss. But only one moment.”

On the evening of February 10th (22nd), sped by farewell addresses, and
smothered in flowers, the composer took leave of the festive city of
Prague.

Although the chief object of Tchaikovsky’s tour was to make his works
more widely known in Europe, and to carry them beyond the confines of
his native land, he combined with this aim--although in a lesser
degree--the desire to see for himself the extent of his reputation and
to reap some profit by it. Distrustful and modest as he was, he made no
great demands in this respect, and even the appreciation he received in
Germany quite surpassed his expectations. The honour done him in Prague
far outstripped his wildest dreams. These ten days were the culminating
point of Tchaikovsky’s fame during his lifetime. Allowing that
nine-tenths of the ovations lavished on him were really intended for
Russia, even then, he could not fail to be flattered that he was the
chosen recipient of the sympathy of the Czechs for the Russians, since
it proved that he was already famous as a composer. It was flattering,
too, to feel that he was honoured by a nation which could be regarded as
one of the most musical in the world. It pleased him that Prague--the
first place to recognise the genius of Mozart--should pay him honour,
thus uniting his fate with that of the illustrious German. It touched
Tchaikovsky deeply to feel that those who gave him one “moment of
absolute happiness” were descendants of the same race which, long ago,
had given a portion of joy to him who was his teacher and model, both as
man and as musician. This strange coincidence was the most flattering
event of his life--the highest honour to which he had ever ventured to
aspire.

Simultaneously with this climax of his renown, came one of the bitterest
experiences of his life. The Russian Press did not give a line to this
triumph of a native composer in Prague. He felt this to be a profound
injury, which surprised and mortified him the more, because all these
triumphs in his life were regarded as important events even by the
Czechs themselves. It was most painful to realise that Russia, for whom
the greater part of these honours were intended, knew nothing whatever
about them; that on account of the attitude of the Press towards him,
personally, this warm sympathy, meant for his countrymen as a whole,
would never be known to them, nor evoke any response.

Quite another kind of ovation awaited Tchaikovsky in Paris. Here, too,
his success surpassed his expectations; but the sympathy of the French
capital differed as widely in character from that which was shown him in
Prague as the Czechs differ from the French in their musical tastes and
their relations towards the Russians. There is no country in which music
is better loved, or more widely understood, than in Bohemia. Nor is
there any other nation which feels such appreciation for all that is
Russian; not merely as a matter of passing fashion, but on account of
actual kinship between the Eastern and Western Slav. In Bohemia,
therefore, both as a musician and a native of Russia, Tchaikovsky had
been received with a warmth and sincerity hardly to be expected from
France. It is true a little political feeling influenced his reception
in Paris; it was just the beginning of the Franco-Russian
_rapprochement_, so that everything Russian was the fashion of the hour.
Many French people, who were not in the least musical, regarded it as
their duty to express some appreciation of Tchaikovsky--simply because
he was a Russian. All this, like the French sympathy itself, had no
solid foundation of national affinity, but merely sprang from an
ephemeral political combination. The enthusiastic, explosive, but
fleeting, craze of the French for all that was Russian showed itself in
hats _à la_ Kronstadt, in shouting the Russian national anthem
simultaneously with the “Marseillaise,” in ovations to the clown Durov,
and in a “patronising” interest for our art and literature--as species
of curiosities--rather than in the hearty relations of two countries
drawn together by true affinity of aims and sympathies. Naturally the
festivities of Kronstadt, Toulon, and Paris led to no real appreciation
of Poushkin, Gogol, Ostrovsky, Glinka, Dargomijsky, or Serov, only, at
the utmost, to a phase of fashion, thanks to which Tolstoi and
Dostoievsky found a certain superficial vogue, without being understood
in their fullest value. Tchaikovsky was also a modern, and this lent a
kind of brilliance to his reception in Paris; but it was purely
external.... It may truly be said that all Prague welcomed the composer;
whereas in Paris only the musicians and amateurs, a few newspapers in
favour of the Franco-Russian alliance, and that crowd which is always in
pursuit of novelty, were interested in Tchaikovsky’s visit.

Time has proved the respective value of these ovations. Although it is
now fifteen years since Tchaikovsky visited Prague, his operas still
hold their own in the repertory of the theatre, and his symphonic music
is still as well known there and as much loved as in Russia. In Paris,
on the contrary, not only are his works rarely given, either on the
stage or in the concert-room, but his name--although it has gained in
renown all over Europe--is not considered worthy of inclusion among
those which adorn the programmes of the Conservatoire concerts. And yet
those who are at the head of this institution are the same men who
honoured him in 1888. Is not this a proof of that hidden but smouldering
antipathy which the French really feel for the Russian spirit--that
spirit which Tchaikovsky shares in common with his great predecessors in
music, and with the representatives of all that Russia has produced of
lofty and imperishable worth?

Tchaikovsky arrived in Paris on February 12th (24th), and went almost
straight from the station to the rehearsal of his Serenade for strings,
which--conducted by the composer--was to be played by Colonne’s
orchestra at a _soirée_ given by M. N. Benardaky.

N. Benardaky had married one of the three sisters Leibrock, operatic
artists well known to the Russian public. He had a fine house in Paris,
frequented by the _élite_ of the artistic world. As a wealthy patron of
art--and as a fellow-countryman--he inaugurated the festivities in
Tchaikovsky’s honour by this musical evening.

Over three hundred guests were present, and, besides his Serenade for
strings, Tchaikovsky conducted the Andante from his Quartet and presided
at the piano. The composer was grateful to his kindly host for the
unexpected and--according to Parisian custom--absolutely indispensable
_réclame_ which this entertainment conferred upon him. To ensure the
success of the evening, and in return for the service done him,
Tchaikovsky felt himself obliged to run from rehearsal to rehearsal,
from musician to musician. To appear as a conductor before this
assemblage of amateurs--more distinguished for vanity than for love of
art--and to earn their languid approval, seemed to him flattering and
important. But when we reflect what far greater trouble and fatigue this
entailed upon him than his appearance before the Gewandhaus
audience--whose opinion was really of weight and value--we cannot but
regret the waste of energy and the lowering of the artist’s dignity.
When we think of him, exhausted and out of humour, amid this crowd of
fashionably attired strangers, who to-morrow would be “consecrating” the
success of the latest chansonette singer, or the newest dance of a Loie
Fuller--we cannot but rebel against fate, who took him from his rural
quiet, from the surroundings to which he was attached, in which--sound
in body and mind--it was his pleasure to plan some new composition in
undisturbed solitude. Thank God, my brother comforted himself with the
belief that it was necessary to suffer this martyrdom cheerfully, and
that he did not live to realise that it was indeed useless, for nowhere
did he make a greater sacrifice for popularity’s sake with smaller
results than in Paris.

Those musicians who had been absent during Tchaikovsky’s visit to Paris
in 1886 now made his acquaintance for the first time. All of them,
including Gounod, Massenet, Thomé and others, received him with great
cordiality and consideration. The sole exception was Reyer, the composer
of _Salammbô_, whose indifference was the less hurtful to Tchaikovsky
because he did not esteem him greatly as a musician. Of the _virtuosi_
with whom he now became acquainted, Paderewski made the most impression
upon him.

Among the brilliant Parisian gatherings held in Tchaikovsky’s honour
must be mentioned the memorable evening at Colonne’s; the _soirée_ given
by the aristocratic amateur, Baroness Tresderne, at whose house in the
Place Vendôme Wagner’s Trilogy had been heard for the first time in
Paris (“Marchionesses, duchesses--bored,” is Tchaikovsky’s laconic entry
in his diary the day after this entertainment); the fête at the Russian
Embassy; a reception at Madame Pauline Viardot’s; and an entertainment
arranged by the _Figaro_.

Tchaikovsky made two public appearances in the double capacity of
composer and conductor; both these were at the Châtelet concerts. At the
first, half the programme was devoted to his works, including the
Serenade for strings, Fantasia for pianoforte (Louis Diemer), Songs
(Madame Conneau), pieces for violoncello (Brandoukov), and Theme and
Variations from the Third Suite.

On ascending to the conductor’s desk he was received with a storm of
applause, intended as much for his nationality as for his personality.
Of his orchestral works, the Valse from the Serenade won most success,
and had to be repeated in order to satisfy the audience.

The second concert, which took place a week later, consisted almost
exclusively of Tchaikovsky’s works. The Variations from the Third
Suite, the Elégie, and Valse from the Serenade, and the pieces for
violoncello were repeated; to which were added the Violin Concerto
(Marsick) and _Francesca da Rimini_. The applause was as vociferous as
on the first occasion, although comparatively little of it fell to the
lot of _Francesca_.

As long as they dealt with the private performances in the houses of
Benardaky, Colonne, Madame Tresderne, or at the _Figaro_, the
representatives of the Paris Press spoke with enthusiasm of the
composer, of his works, and his nationality. After the public concerts,
however, there was a sudden change of tone, and their fervour waned. It
seemed they had most of them studied Cui’s book, _La Musique en Russie_,
to good purpose, for, without quoting their source of information, they
discovered that Tchaikovsky “was not so Russian as people imagined,”
that he did not display “much audacity or a strong originality,” wherein
lay the chief charm of the great Slavs: Borodin, Cui, Rimsky-Korsakov,
Liadov, etc.

The Western cosmopolitanism of Tchaikovsky’s works was made a subject of
reproach. “The German dominates and absorbs the Slav,” says one critic,
who had looked for “impressions exotiques” at the Châtelet--perhaps for
something in the style of the music of Dahomey, which had created such a
sensation at the Jardin d’Acclimatation.

The remaining critics, who had not read Cui’s book, disapproved of the
length of Tchaikovsky’s works, and held up to him as models, Saint-Saëns
and other modern French composers. His own sense of disappointment
appears in a letter addressed to P. Jurgenson towards the end of his
visit:--

     “I have expended a great deal of money, and even more health and
     strength,” he writes.[130] “In return I have gained some
     celebrity, but every hour I ask myself--Why? Is it worth while? And
     I come to the conclusion it is far better to live quietly without
     fame.”

From Paris Tchaikovsky crossed to England.

     “The journey to London was terrible,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck.
     “Our train was brought to a standstill in the open country in
     consequence of a snowstorm. On the steamer it was alarming, for the
     storm was so severe that every moment we dreaded some catastrophe.”

Tchaikovsky only spent four days in London. No one welcomed him, no one
paid him special attention, or worried him with invitations. Except for
a complimentary dinner given to him by Berger, the Secretary of the
Philharmonic Society, he spent his time alone, or in the society of the
violinist Ondricek and his wife. Yet, in spite of appearances, his visit
to London had brilliant results for his future reputation. Next to
Russia and America his music at present is nowhere more popular than in
England.

He conducted the Serenade for strings and the Variations from the Third
Suite. “The success was great,” he wrote, in the letter quoted above.
“The Serenade pleased most, and I was recalled three times, which means
a good deal from the reserved London public. The Variations were not so
much liked, but all the same they elicited hearty applause.”

The leading London papers mostly gave Tchaikovsky the credit of a signal
success. The _Musical Times_ only regretted that he had not chosen some
more serious work for his début before the London public. “The Russian
composer was received with signs of unanimous approbation,” said the
_Times_, while the _Daily Chronicle_ felt convinced that Tchaikovsky
must have been fully satisfied with the extraordinarily warm welcome
accorded him by the Londoners.

“Thus ended the torments, fears, agitations, and--to speak the
truth--the joys of my first concert tour abroad.” In these words
Tchaikovsky concludes his letter to N. F. von Meck, from which the above
extracts have been quoted.




III


After a long journey--six nights in the train--Tchaikovsky reached
Tiflis on March 26th (April 7th), 1888. Here he stayed with his brother
Hyppolite, whom he had not seen for two years. About the end of April he
travelled north to take possession of the country house at Frolovskoe,
which had been prepared for him during his absence by his servant
Alexis. He describes it as a highly picturesque spot, lying on a wooded
hill on the way from Moscow to Klin. It was simpler and not so well
furnished as Maidanovo. There was no park planted with lime trees, there
were no marble vases; but its unpretentiousness was an added
recommendation in Tchaikovsky’s eyes. Here he could be alone, free from
summer excursionists, to enjoy the little garden (with its charming pool
and tiny islet) fringed by the forest, behind which the view opened out
upon a distant stretch of country--upon that homely, unassuming
landscape of Central Russia which Tchaikovsky preferred to all the
sublimities of Switzerland, the Caucasus, and Italy. Had not the forest
been gradually exterminated, he would never have quitted Frolovskoe, for
although he only lived there for three years, he became greatly
attached to the place. A month before his death, travelling from Klin to
Moscow, he said, looking out at the churchyard of Frolovskoe: “I should
like to be buried there.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “KLIN, _May_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1888.

     “I am in love with Frolovskoe. The neighbourhood is a paradise
     after Maidanovo. It is, indeed, so beautiful that when I go out for
     half an hour’s walk in the morning, I feel compelled to extend it
     to two hours.... I have not yet begun to work, excepting at some
     corrections. To speak frankly, I feel as yet no impulse for
     creative work. What does this mean? Have I written myself out? No
     ideas, no inclination? Still I am hoping gradually to collect
     material for a symphony.

     “To-day we were to have sown seeds and planted flowers in the beds
     in front of the house. I was looking forward to it with such
     pleasure, but the rain has hindered us. By the time you arrive all
     our seeds will be in.”

[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY’S HOUSE AT FROLOVSKOE]

            _To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._

     “FROLOVSKOE, _May_ 30_th_ (_June_ 11_th_), 1888.

     “YOUR HIGHNESS,--I am very glad you were not offended by my
     remarks, and thank you most heartily for your explanations in
     reference to them.[131] In matters of versification I am only an
     amateur, but have long wished to become thoroughly acquainted with
     the subject. So far, I have only reached the stage of inquiry. Many
     questions interest me to which no one seems able to give a clear
     and decided reply. For instance, when I read Joukovsky’s
     translation of the _Odyssey_, or his _Undine_, or Gniedich’s
     version of the _Iliad_, I suffer under the intolerable monotony of
     the Russian hexameter as compared with the Latin (I do not know the
     Greek), which has strength, beauty, and variety. I know that the
     fault lies in the fact that we do not use the spondee, but I
     cannot understand why this should be. To my mind we ought to
     employ it. Another question that greatly occupies me is why, as
     compared with Russian poetry, German verse should be less severe in
     the matter of regular rhythm and metre. When I read Goethe I am
     astonished at his audacity as regards metrical feet, the cæsura,
     etc., which he carries so far that, to an unpractised ear, many of
     his verses scarcely seem like verse. At the same time, the ear is
     only taken by surprise--not offended. Were a Russian poet to do the
     same, one would be conscious of a certain lameness. Is it in
     consequence of the peculiar qualities of our language, or because
     tradition allows greater freedom to the Germans than to us? I do
     not know if I express myself correctly; I only state that, as
     regards regularity, refinement, and euphony, much more is expected
     from the Russian than from the German poet. I should be glad to
     find some explanation of this....”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “FROLOVSKOE, _June_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1888.

     “.... Just now I am busy with flowers and flower-growing. I should
     like to have as many flowers as possible in my garden, but I have
     very little knowledge or experience. I am not lacking in zeal, and
     have indeed taken cold from pottering about in the damp. Now, thank
     goodness, it is warmer weather; I am glad of it, for you, for
     myself, and for my dear flowers, for I have sown a quantity, and
     the cold nights made me anxious for them....”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “FROLOVSKOE, _June_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1888.

     “.... Now I shall work my hardest. I am dreadfully anxious to prove
     not only to others, but also to myself, that I am not yet _played
     out_ as a composer.... Have I already told you that I intend to
     write a symphony? The beginning was difficult; now, however,
     inspiration seems to have come. We shall see!”

            _To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._

     “FROLOVSKOE, _June_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1888.

     “YOUR IMPERIAL HIGHNESS,--I am the more glad to hear your
     favourable verdict upon my songs, because I was afraid you would
     think them weak.... I composed them at a time when my state of mind
     was anything but promising for good work. At the same time, I did
     not wish to postpone the setting of your words, as I had informed
     you long ago of my intention with regard to them....

     “I am not at all astonished that you should write beautiful verses
     without being an adept in the science of versification. Several of
     our poets--Plestcheiev for one--have told me the same. All the
     same, I think it would be better if some of our gifted Russian
     poets were more interested in the technique of their art. ‘I am
     sick of four iambic feet,’ said Poushkin, and I would add that
     sometimes his readers get weary of it too. To discover new metres
     and rare rhythmic combinations must be very interesting. Were I a
     poet, I should certainly try to write in varied rhythms like the
     Germans....”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “FROLOVSKOE, _June_ 22_nd_ (_July_ 4_th_), 1888.

     “ ... Lately I have been in frequent correspondence with the Grand
     Duke Constantine Constantinovich, who sent me his poem, ‘St.
     Sebastian,’ with the request that I would say what I thought of it.
     On the whole I liked it, but I criticised a few details very
     freely. He was pleased with this, but defended himself, and thus a
     brisk exchange of letters has taken place. He is not only gifted,
     but surprisingly modest, devoted to art, and ambitious to excel in
     it rather than in _the service_. He is also an excellent
     musician--in fact, a rare and sympathetic nature.

     “It is well that the political horizon is clearer, and if it be
     true that the German Emperor is to visit Russia, we may say with
     some certainty that the horrors of war will not break out for many
     years to come....”

                                _Diary._

     “_June_ 27_th_ (_July_ 9_th_), 1888.

     “It seems to me letters are not perfectly sincere--I am judging by
     myself. No matter to whom I am writing, I am always conscious of
     the effect of my letter, not only upon the person to whom it is
     addressed, but upon any chance reader. Consequently I embroider. I
     often take pains to make the tone of a letter simple and
     sincere--at least to make it _appear_ so. But apart from letters
     written at the moment when I am worked upon, I am never quite
     myself in my correspondence. These letters are to me a source of
     repentance, and often of agonising regret. When I read the
     correspondence of great men, published after their death, I am
     always disturbed by a vague sense of insincerity and falsehood.

     “I will go on with the record of my musical predilections which I
     began some time ago. What are my feelings towards the Russian
     composers?

                                GLINKA.

     “An unheard-of and astonishing apparition in the world of art. A
     dilettante who played the violin and the piano a little; who
     concocted a few insipid quadrilles and fantasias upon Italian airs;
     who tried his hand at more serious musical forms (songs, quartets,
     sextets, etc.), but accomplished nothing which rose superior to the
     jejune taste of the thirties; suddenly, in his thirty-fourth year,
     creates an opera, which for inspiration, originality, and
     irreproachable technique, is worthy to stand beside all that is
     loftiest and most profound in musical art! We are still more
     astonished when we reflect that the composer of this work is the
     author of the _Memoirs_ published some twenty years later. The
     latter give one the impression of a nice, kind, commonplace man,
     with not much to say for himself. Like a nightmare, the questions
     continually haunt me: How could such colossal artistic force be
     united to such emptiness? and how came this average amateur to
     catch up in a single stride such men as Mozart and Beethoven? Yes,
     for he _has_ overtaken them. One may say this without exaggeration
     of the composer of the ‘Slavsia.’ This question may be answered by
     those who are better fitted than myself to penetrate the mysteries
     of the artistic spirit which makes its habitation in such fragile
     and apparently unpromising shrines. I can only say no one loves and
     appreciates Glinka more than I do. I am no indiscriminate
     worshipper of _Russlan_; on the contrary, I am disposed to prefer
     _A Life for the Tsar_, although _Russlan_ may perhaps be of greater
     musical worth. But the elemental force is more perceptible in his
     earlier opera; the ‘Slavsia’ is overwhelming and gigantic. For this
     he employed no model. Neither Glück nor Mozart composed anything
     similar. Astounding, inconceivable! _Kamarinskaya_ is also a work
     of remarkable inspiration. Without intending to compose anything
     beyond a simple, humorous trifle, he has left us a little
     masterpiece, every bar of which is the outcome of enormous creative
     power. Half a century has passed since then, and many Russian
     symphonic works have been composed; we may even speak of a
     symphonic school. Well? The germ of all this lies in
     _Kamarinskaya_, as the oak tree lies in the acorn. For long years
     to come Russian composers will drink at this source, for it will
     need much time and much strength to exhaust its wealth of
     inspiration. Yes! Glinka was a true creative genius!”

                          _To N. F. Von Meck._

     “FROLOVSKOE, _July_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1888.

     “.... My name-day was a great interruption to my work, for my
     visitors arrived the day before and only left yesterday evening. My
     guests were Laroche and his wife, Jurgenson, Albrecht, Siloti, and
     Zet,[132] who arrived quite unexpectedly from Petersburg. The last
     named (who has been highly recommended to me) has been my concert
     agent since May.... He is a great admirer of my work, and cares
     less to make money out of his position than to forward my interests
     in Europe and America....”

At this time Tchaikovsky received an offer from an American impresario
offering him a three months’ concert tour at a fee of 25,000 dollars.
The sum appeared to the Russian composer fabulous in its amount. “Should
this really come off,” he says, “I could realise my long-cherished wish
to become a landowner.”

                                _Diary._

     “_July_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1888.

     “Dargomijsky? Certainly he was a gifted man. But never was the type
     of amateur musician more strikingly realised than in him. Glinka,
     too, was a dilettante, but his immense inspiration served him as a
     defence from amateurishness. Except for his fatal _Memoirs_, we
     should not have realised his dilettantism. It is another matter
     with Dargomijsky: his amateurishness lies in his creative work, in
     his very forms themselves. To possess an average talent, to be weak
     in technique and yet to pose as an _innovator_--is pure
     amateurishness. When, at the close of his life, Dargomijsky
     composed _The Stone Guest_, he seriously believed he had overturned
     the old foundations and erected something new and colossal in their
     place. A piteous error; I saw him in this last period of his life,
     and in view of his suffering condition (he had a heart disease)
     there could be no question of a discussion. But I have never come
     in contact with anything more antipathetic and false than this
     unsuccessful attempt to drag _truth_ into this sphere of art, in
     which everything is based upon falsehood, and “truth,” in the
     everyday sense of the word, is not required at all. Dargomijsky was
     no _master_ (he had not a tenth part of Glinka’s mastership). He
     possessed a certain originality and piquancy. He was most
     successful in _curiosities_. But artistic beauty does not lie in
     this direction, as so many of us think.

     “I might speak personally of Dargomijsky (I frequently saw him in
     Moscow at the time of his success there), but I prefer not to
     recall my acquaintance. He was very cutting and unjust in his
     judgments (when he raged against the brothers Rubinstein, for
     instance), but was pleased to talk of himself in a tone of
     self-laudation. During his fatal illness he became far more kindly
     disposed, and showed much cordial feeling to his younger
     colleagues. I will only keep this memory of him. Unexpectedly he
     showed me great sympathy (in respect of my opera _The
     Voyevode_).[133] Apparently he did not believe the report that I
     had hissed at the first performance of his _Esmeralda_ in Moscow.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “FROLOVSKOE, _July_ 25_th_ (_August_ 6_th_), 1888.

     “ ... The real summer weather has not lasted long, but how I
     enjoyed it! My flowers, which I feared would die, have nearly all
     recovered, and some have blossomed luxuriantly. I cannot tell you
     what a pleasure it has been to watch them grow and to see
     daily--even hourly--new blossoms coming out. Now I have as many as
     I want. When I am quite old, and past composing, I shall devote
     myself to growing flowers. I have been working with good results,
     and half the symphony is orchestrated. My age--although not very
     advanced--begins to tell. I get very tired now, and can no longer
     play or read at night as I used. Lately I miss the chance of a game
     of _vint_[134] in the evenings; it is the one thing that rests and
     distracts me.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “FROLOVSKOE, _August_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1888.

     “Again I am not feeling well ... but I am so glad to have finished
     the Symphony (No. 5) that I can forget all physical ailments. I
     have made no settled plans for the winter. There is a prospect of a
     tour in Scandinavia and also in America. But nothing is decided as
     to the first, and the second seems so fantastic that I can hardly
     give it a serious thought. I have promised to conduct at Dresden,
     Berlin, and Prague.... In November I am to conduct a whole series
     of my works in Petersburg (at the Philharmonic), including the new
     Symphony. They also want me in Tiflis, but I do not know if it will
     come off.”




     IV

     1888-1889


     The winter season 1888-1889 opened with much arduous work and
     personal anxiety. Tchaikovsky’s niece, Vera, the second daughter of
     his sister Alexandra Davidov, was in a dying condition, and his old
     friend Hubert was suffering from a terrible form of intermittent
     fever. One gleam of joy shone through the darkness. His Moscow
     friends, Taneiev in particular, were delighted with the Fifth
     Symphony, a work which had filled Tchaikovsky himself with gloomy
     misgivings. At this time he was engaged in an active correspondence
     upon music and poetry with the Grand Duke Constantine.

                  _To the Grand Duke Constantinovich._

     “FROLOVSKOE, _September_ 21_st_(_October_ 3_rd_), 1888.

     “ ... Fet[135] is quite right in asserting, as you say he does,
     that ‘all which has no connection with the leading idea should be
     cast aside, even though it is beautiful and melodious.’ But we must
     not deduce from this that only what is terse can be highly
     artistic; therefore, to my mind, Fet’s rule that an exemplary lyric
     must not exceed a certain limit is entirely wrong. All depends upon
     the nature of the leading idea and the poet who expresses it. Of
     two equally inspired poets, or composers, one, by reason of his
     artistic temperament, will show greater breadth of treatment, more
     complexity in the development of the leading idea, and a greater
     inclination for luxuriant and varied elaboration; while the other
     will express himself concisely. All that is good, but superfluous,
     we call ‘padding.’ Can we say we find this padding in Beethoven’s
     works? I think most decidedly we do not. On the contrary, it is
     astonishing how equal, how significant and forceful, this giant
     among musicians always remains, and how well he understands the
     art of curbing his vast inspiration, and never loses sight of
     balanced and traditional form. In his last quartets, which were
     long regarded as the productions of an insane and deaf man, there
     seems to be some padding, until we have studied them thoroughly.
     But ask someone who is well acquainted with these works, a member
     of a quartet who plays them frequently, if there is anything
     superfluous in the C♯ minor Quartet. Unless he is an
     old-fashioned musician, brought up upon Haydn, he would be
     horrified at the idea of abbreviating or cutting any portion of it.
     In speaking of Beethoven I was not merely thinking of his latest
     period. Could anyone show me a bar in the _Eroica_, which is very
     lengthy, that could be called superfluous, or any portion that
     could really be omitted as padding? So everything that is long is
     not _too long_; many words do not necessarily mean empty verbiage,
     and terseness is not, as Fet asserts, the essential condition of
     beautiful form. Beethoven, who in the first movement of the
     _Eroica_ has built up a superb edifice out of an endless series of
     varied and ever new architectural beauties upon so simple and
     seemingly poor a subject, knows on occasion how to surprise us by
     the terseness and exiguity of his forms. Do you remember the
     Andante of the Pianoforte Concerto in B flat? I know nothing more
     inspired than this short movement; I go cold and pale every time I
     hear it.

     “Of course, the classical beauty of Beethoven’s predecessors, and
     their art of keeping within bounds, is of the greatest value. It
     must be owned, however, that Haydn had no occasion to limit
     himself, for he had not an inexhaustible wealth of material at
     command. As to Mozart, had he lived another twenty years, and seen
     the beginning of our century, he would certainly have sought to
     express his prodigal inspiration in forms less strictly classical
     than those with which he had to content himself.

     “While defending Beethoven from the charge of long-windedness, I
     confess that the post-Beethoven music offers many examples of
     prolixity which is often carried so far as to become mere padding.
     That inspired musician who expresses himself with such breadth,
     majesty, force, and even brusqueness, has much in common with
     Michael Angelo. Just as the Abbé Bernini has flooded Rome with his
     statues, in which he strives to imitate the style of Michael
     Angelo, without possessing his genius, and makes a caricature of
     what is really powerful in his model, so Beethoven’s musical style
     has been copied over and over again. Is not Brahms in reality a
     caricature of Beethoven? Is not this pretension to profundity and
     power detestable, because the content which is poured into the
     Beethoven mould is not really of any value? Even in the case of
     Wagner (who certainly has genius), wherever he oversteps the limits
     it is the spirit of Beethoven which prompts him.

     “As regards your humble servant, I have suffered all my life from
     my incapacity to grasp form in general. I have fought against this
     innate weakness, not--I am proud to say--without good results; yet
     I shall go to my grave without having produced anything really
     perfect in form. There is frequently _padding_ in my works; to an
     experienced eye the stitches show in my seams, but I cannot help
     it. As to _Manfred_, I may tell you--without any desire to pose as
     being modest--that this is a repulsive work, and I hate it, with
     the exception of the first movement. I intend shortly, with the
     consent of my publisher, to destroy the remaining three movements
     and make a symphonic poem out of this long-winded symphony. I am
     sure my _Manfred_ would then please the public. I enjoyed writing
     the first movement, whereas the others were the outcome of
     strenuous effort, in consequence of which--as far as I remember--I
     felt quite ill for a time. I should not think of being offended at
     what your Highness says about _Manfred_. You are quite right and
     even too indulgent.”

            _To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._

     “FROLOVSKOE, _October_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1888.

     “YOUR IMPERIAL HIGHNESS,--Just returned from Moscow, where I have
     seen my poor friend Hubert laid in his grave, and still depressed
     by my painful experiences, I hasten to answer your letter.... Your
     Highness must bear in mind that although one art stands in close
     relationship to the other, at the same time each has its
     peculiarities. As such we must regard the “verbal repetitions”
     which are only possible to a limited extent in literature, but are
     a necessity in music. Beethoven never repeats an entire movement
     without a special reason, and, in doing so, rarely fails to
     introduce something new; but he has recourse to this characteristic
     method in his instrumental music, knowing that his idea will only
     be understood after many statements. I cannot understand why your
     Highness should object to the constant repetition of the subject in
     the Scherzo of the Ninth Symphony. I always want to hear it over
     and over again. It is so divinely beautiful, strong, original, and
     significant! It is quite another matter with the prolixity and
     repetitions of Schubert, who, with all his genius, constantly harps
     upon his central idea--as in the Andante of the C major Symphony.
     Beethoven develops his first idea fully, in its entirety, before
     repeating it; Schubert seems too indolent to elaborate his first
     idea, and--perhaps from his unusual wealth of thematic
     material--hurries on the beginning to arrive at something else. It
     seems as though the stress of his inexhaustible inspiration
     hindered him from the careful elaboration of the theme, in all its
     depth and delicacy of workmanship.

     “God grant I may be in Petersburg to hear the performance of
     Mozart’s _Requiem_ in the Marble Palace. I hope your Highness will
     permit me to be present at this concert. The _Requiem_ is one of
     the most divine creations, and we can but pity those who are unable
     to appreciate it.

     “As regards Brahms, I cannot at all agree with your Highness. In
     the music of this master (it is impossible to deny his mastery)
     there is something dry and cold which repulses me. He has very
     little melodic invention. He never speaks out his musical ideas to
     the end. Scarcely do we hear an enjoyable melody, than it is
     engulfed in a whirlpool of unimportant harmonic progressions and
     modulations, as though the special aim of the composer was to be
     unintelligible. He excites and irritates our musical senses without
     wishing to satisfy them, and seems ashamed to speak the language
     which goes straight to the heart. His depth is not real: _c’est
     voulu_. He has set before himself, once and for all, the aim of
     trying to be profound, but he has only attained to an appearance of
     profundity. The gulf is void. It is impossible to say that the
     music of Brahms is weak and insignificant. His style is invariably
     lofty. He does not strive after mere external effects. He is never
     trivial. All he does is serious and noble, but he lacks the chief
     thing--beauty. Brahms commands our respect. We must bow before the
     original purity of his aspirations. We must admire his firm and
     proud attitude in the face of triumphant Wagnerism; but to love him
     is impossible. I, at least, in spite of much effort, have not
     arrived at it. I will own that certain early works (the Sextet in
     B♭) please me far more than those of a later period, especially
     the symphonies, which seem to me indescribably long and
     colourless.... Many Brahms lovers (Bülow, among others) predicted
     that some day I should see clearer, and learn to appreciate
     beauties which do not as yet appeal to me. This is not unlikely,
     for there have been such cases. I do not know the _German Requiem_
     well. I will get it and study it. Who knows?--perhaps my views on
     Brahms may undergo a complete revolution.”

                         _To Ippolitov-Ivanov._

     “_October_ 27_th_ (_November_ 8_th_), 1888.

     “I cannot possibly give you any definite news as to my journey to
     Tiflis. It will be two or three weeks, at the earliest, before I
     know when I shall have to go abroad.... I only know that _I will
     come to Tiflis, even if I am dying_. As to my fee, we will not
     speak of it. Before I take anything from you, something must be
     there. Let us see how the concert succeeds, and then we can settle
     how much you shall give me as ‘a tip.’ If it is not a success, I
     shall accept nothing.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “FROLOVSKOE, _October_ 27_th_ (_November_ 8_th_), 1888.

     “Now we are having sharp frosts, without snow, and fine, sunny
     days. It depresses me to think that I must soon leave my quiet
     home, my regular life, and daily constitutionals. Three days hence
     I go to Petersburg, where my concert takes place on November 5th
     (17th). On the 12th (24th) I take part in the Musical Society’s
     concert, and leave for Prague the next day to attend the rehearsals
     for _Eugene Oniegin_. I have been working very hard lately. The
     orchestration of the _Hamlet_ overture is now finished. I have made
     innumerable corrections in the Symphony, and have been preparing
     everything I have to conduct at the forthcoming concerts.

     “I hope to spend December here, for I have to return direct from
     Prague in order to conduct the new Symphony in Moscow, and then I
     shall hasten to my harbour of refuge.”

The Philharmonic concert in St. Petersburg was apparently a great
success, but the Press notices of the new Symphony (No. 5) were far from
satisfactory. On November 12th (24th) Tchaikovsky conducted it once more
at the Musical Society, and on this occasion the fantasia-overture
_Hamlet_ was heard for the first time. Both works were well received by
the public.




V


On this occasion Prague received Tchaikovsky less hospitably than on his
first visit. “The rehearsal,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck, “took place
the very day I arrived. Last year, if you remember, I conducted two
grand patriotic concerts, without a fee. To show their gratitude for my
having come to the performance of the opera here, the management of the
Prague Theatre organised a concert, of which I was to receive half the
profits. But they chose such a bad day, and arranged everything so
stupidly, that the concert only realised three hundred florins. After
being received like a prince last year, when the enthusiasm which
greeted me almost amounted to a frenzy, I felt somewhat hurt at this
meagre offering on the part of the Prague public. I therefore declined
the money, and made it over to the Musicians’ Pension Fund. This was
soon made public, and the Theatre Direction was overwhelmed with
reproaches. The whole Press took up the matter, and thanks to this, the
performance of _Oniegin_, which I conducted the evening before last,
gave rise to a series of enthusiastic ovations. Yesterday I left Prague,
crowned with laurels; but, alas! my laurel wreaths were all I carried
away. I do not know how to look after my pecuniary interests.”

The success of _Oniegin_ in Prague was extraordinary, and the opera has
kept its place in the repertory up to the present time.

Amid the chorus of praise, in which both the public and the Press
united, one voice was especially valued by Tchaikovsky--that of his
famous colleague, Anton Dvořák.

                     _A. Dvořák to P. Tchaikovsky._

     “PRAGUE, _January_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1889.

     “DEAR FRIEND,--When you were lately with us in Prague I promised to
     write to you on the subject of your opera _Oniegin_. I am now moved
     to do so, not only in answer to your request, but also by my own
     impulse to express all I felt on hearing your work. I confess with
     joy that your opera made a profound impression on me--the kind of
     impression I expect to receive from a genuine work of art, and I do
     not hesitate to tell you that not one of your compositions has
     given me such pleasure as _Oniegin_.

     “It is a wonderful creation, full of glowing emotion and poetry,
     and finely elaborated in all its details; in short, this music is
     captivating, and penetrates our hearts so deeply that we cannot
     forget it. Whenever I go to hear it I feel myself transported into
     another world.

     “I congratulate both you and ourselves upon this work. God grant
     you may give us many another like it.

     “I embrace you, and remain your sincerely devoted

     “ANTON DVOŘÁK.”



On his way home from Prague to Vienna, Tchaikovsky heard of the death of
his niece, Vera Rimsky-Korsakov, _née_ Davidov. Although he had long
since given up all hope of her recovery, this news affected him deeply.

From Prague he returned to Frolovskoe for a short time. On December 10th
(22nd) he conducted his new works at a Symphony Concert in Moscow. These
included the new Symphony (No. 5, E minor) and the second Pianoforte
Concerto, with Sapellnikov as soloist; both works achieved great
success.

December 17th (29th) found him again in Petersburg, where, at the fourth
of Belaiev’s “Russian Symphony Concerts,” he conducted his _Tempest_
overture, and on the following day was present at a performance of the
_Oprichnik_ given by the pupils of the Petersburg Conservatoire.
Tchaikovsky was interested to renew his impressions of this work, and to
prove whether his prejudice against it was well founded. In spite of a
very good performance, his opinion of the opera remained unaltered.

The next work which Tchaikovsky took in hand after his return from
Prague was the music of the ballet, _The Sleeping Beauty_, the programme
of which had been prepared by Vsievolojsky, Director of the Imperial
Opera. Tchaikovsky was charmed with the subject and the proposed
mounting of the work, and retired to Frolovskoe late in December, in
order to devote himself to the task.

In view of the great popularity to which his Fifth Symphony has since
attained, it is interesting to read the composer’s own judgment of the
work, recorded within a few weeks of its first performance. Writing to
Nadejda von Meck, in December, 1888, he says:--

     “ ... After two performances of my new Symphony in Petersburg, and
     one in Prague, I have come to the conclusion that it is a failure.
     There is something repellent, something superfluous, patchy, and
     insincere, which the public instinctively recognises. It was
     obvious to me that the ovations I received were prompted more by my
     earlier work, and that the Symphony itself did not really please
     the audience. The consciousness of this brings me a sharp twinge of
     self-dissatisfaction. Am I really played out, as they say? Can I
     merely repeat and ring the changes on my earlier idiom? Last night
     I looked through _our_ Symphony (No. 4). What a difference! How
     immeasurably superior it is! It is very, very sad!”

Such attacks of pessimism as to his creative powers were often, as we
have already seen, the forerunner of a new tide of inspiration. This was
now the case. Since _Eugene Oniegin_ Tchaikovsky had never worked at
anything with the ease and enthusiasm which inspired him in the first
four tableaux of this ballet, _The Sleeping Beauty_, the sketch of which
was completely finished by January 18th (30th).

The monotony of these six weeks’ work was relieved by news of the
success of the Fifth Symphony in Moscow, and also by the kindness of his
friend, Peter Jurgenson, who surprised him at Christmas with a beautiful
and valuable gift--the complete edition of Mozart’s works. These he
commissioned Alexis to present to his master, together with a tiny
Christmas-tree.

On January 24th (February 5th), 1889, Tchaikovsky started on his second
concert tour abroad. He experienced “the usual feelings of
home-sickness,” and began to anticipate the joy of his return. He
remained three days in Berlin, and arrived in Cologne on January 29th
(February 10th), where he was to make his first appearance as composer
and conductor, with his Third Suite (in G), at a so-called “Gürzenich”
concert.

                          _To M. Tchaikovsky._

     “COLOGNE, _January_ 30_th_ (_February_ 11_th_), 1889.

     “ ... To-day was my first rehearsal. It went very well, and the
     orchestra is excellent, so that the three hours passed very
     pleasantly, excepting for the agitation at the start. Hardly had I
     got back to my hotel before I was seized with home-sickness and a
     wild longing for April 8th....”

Tchaikovsky made his début at Cologne on January 31st (February 12th).
He thus describes his impressions to Glazounov:--

     “I arrived shortly before the first of the three rehearsals. One
     hardly expects to find a first-class orchestra in a town of
     secondary importance, and I was convinced it would only be a very
     poor one. The local conductor, Wüllner, has, however, worked with
     such care and energy that he has succeeded in organising a
     magnificent orchestra, which filled me with astonishment and
     admiration from the very opening of my Third Suite. Twenty first
     violins! And such violins! The wind, too, is admirable. They read
     the Scherzo, which is particularly difficult, as if they were
     playing it for the tenth time. With such an orchestra and three
     rehearsals, it was easy to achieve an admirable performance. The
     concert-hall is also excellent; the audience equally so, and not so
     stupidly conservative as in many German towns. The success was
     great, and when I was recalled the musicians greeted me with a
     fanfare.

     “Early on February 1st (13th),” the letter continues, “I started
     for Frankfort. Here the orchestra is equally large and excellent.
     The violins did not seem to me quite as good as those in Cologne,
     although they consist mostly of leaders from the neighbouring
     towns--so I was told--who come here to play at the great concerts.
     There are twelve ‘cellos. One of them, Kossmann, the celebrated
     virtuoso, was once professor at Moscow. My Overture “_1812_” was in
     the programme. At the first rehearsal, however, the managers of the
     concert took fright at the noisy Finale, and timidly requested me
     to choose another piece. Since, however, I had no other piece at
     hand, they decided to confine themselves to the Suite. The success
     here was as great as it was unexpected, for the Frankfort public is
     very classical, and I am regarded in Germany as a notorious
     revolutionary.”

Of those in Frankfort whose society Tchaikovsky most enjoyed, he
mentions in his diary the family of the celebrated music publisher,
pianist, and composer, Otto Neitzel, and Ivan Knorr, Professor at the
Frankfort Conservatoire, besides the ‘cellist Kossmann.

Tchaikovsky reached Dresden on February 4th (16th). Here disappointment
awaited him. The orchestra proved to be only “third-rate,” to use his
own words, and the work he had to rehearse made even greater technical
demands than the Third Suite; it was his favourite composition--the
Fourth Symphony. The _Dresdner Zeitung_ spoke of “a very poor rendering
of several passages, the result of insufficient rehearsal.” The concert
took place on February 8th (20th). The first Pianoforte Concerto (Emil
Sauer) was included in the programme. According to Tchaikovsky’s
account, “the first movement pleased the audience a little, the Andante
pleased better, the Scherzo still more, while the Finale had a real
success. The musicians honoured me with a fanfare. Sauer played
incomparably.”

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “DRESDEN, _February_ 5_th_ (17_th_) 1889.

     “DEAR FRIEND,--I had forgotten to answer you about Paris. Please
     remember that it is impossible to give a concert there unless
     support is guaranteed by the French. I hear that Slaviansky,
     Bessel, and others want to have a finger in the pie. I have not the
     least wish to associate myself with them. You can simply say that,
     without a guarantee, we are not in a position to undertake
     anything.[136] Heavens, how tired I am, and how bored by all this!

     “ ... I expect soon to hear decisively from Klindworth and
     Dvořák. A letter to hand from Massenet. He accepts with
     enthusiasm, but begs to keep the date open for the present, as it
     depends on the fate of his new opera.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “BERLIN, _February_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1889.

     “After an exhausting tour I arrived here yesterday. In one week I
     had three concerts and nine rehearsals. I cannot conceive whence I
     draw strength for all this. Either these fresh exertions will prove
     injurious, or this feverish activity will be an antidote to my
     troubles, which are chiefly the result of the constant sitting my
     work entails. There is no medium; I must return to Russia ‘_either
     with my shield or upon it_.’ I am inclined to think that, in spite
     of hard moments and the continual self-conflict, all this is good
     for me.”

                           _To A. Glazounov._

     “BERLIN, _February_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1889.

     “ ... If my whole tour consisted only of concerts and rehearsals,
     it would be very pleasant. Unhappily, however, I am overwhelmed
     with invitations to dinners and suppers.... I much regret that the
     Russian papers have said nothing as to my victorious campaign. What
     can I do? I have no friends on the Russian Press. Even if I had, I
     should never manage to advertise myself. My Press notices abroad
     are curious: some find fault, others flatter; but all testify to
     the fact that Germans know very little about Russian music. There
     are exceptions, of course. In Cologne and in other towns I came
     across people who took great interest in Russian music and were
     well acquainted with it. In most instances Borodin’s E flat
     Symphony is well known. Borodin seems to be a special favourite in
     Germany (although they only care for this symphony). Many people
     ask for information about you. They know you are still very young,
     but are amazed when I tell them you were only fifteen when you
     wrote your Symphony in E flat, which has become very well known
     since its performance at the festival. Klindworth intends to
     produce a Russian work at his concert in Berlin. I recommended him
     Rimsky-Korsakov’s _Caprice Espagnol_ and your _Stenka Razin_.”

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “LEIPZIG, _February_ 17_th_ (_March_ 1_st_), 1889.

     “Klindworth says that I am an ‘excellent conductor.’ First-rate,
     isn’t it?

     “Klindworth is prepared to appear next season at our concerts for
     anything we like to offer. He will give a Wagner programme.
     Dvořák promises to conduct a whole concert; but he cannot travel
     alone, and brings his wife, so he asks a higher fee. Never mind. In
     the spring it would be well to get out an advertisement with such
     names as Massenet, Dvořák, Klindworth. I shall make an attempt
     to invite Brahms. That would be grand!

     “When in Berlin, Artôt and dear Hugo Bock were my great comfort.”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “GENEVA, _February_ 21_st_ (_March_ 5_th_), 1889.

     “I am engaged to give a concert of my own compositions here. It
     takes place on Saturday, March 9th. The orchestra is very small,
     only third-rate. Had I known, I never would have come, but the
     theatrical Director (he is no musician) probably believes that the
     quality and number of an orchestra are of no importance to a
     wandering musician. How I shall get through with this small
     provincial band, I really do not know. However, I must confess that
     they showed great zeal at yesterday’s rehearsal....”

After all, this concert was a success. The room was crowded, and the
Russian colony presented Tchaikovsky with a gilt laurel-wreath.

On February 27th (March 11th) Tchaikovsky arrived in Hamburg. Brahms
was at his hotel, occupying the room next his own. Peter Ilich felt
greatly flattered on learning that the famous German composer was
staying a day longer on purpose to hear the rehearsal of his Fifth
Symphony. Tchaikovsky was very well received by the orchestra. Brahms
remained in the room until the end of the rehearsal. Afterwards, at
luncheon, he gave his opinion of the work “very frankly and simply.” It
had pleased him on the whole, with the exception of the Finale. Not
unnaturally, the composer of this movement felt “deeply hurt” for the
moment; but happily the injury was not incurable, as we shall see.
Tchaikovsky took this opportunity to invite Brahms to conduct one of the
Symphony Concerts in Moscow, but the latter declined. Nevertheless
Tchaikovsky’s personal liking for the composer of the _German Requiem_
was increased, although his opinion of his compositions was not changed.
Tchaikovsky played no part in the conflict between Brahms and Wagner,
which divided all musical Germany into two hostile camps. Brahms’s
personality as man and artist, his purity and loftiness of aim, and his
earnestness of purpose won his sympathy. Wagner’s personality and
tendencies were antipathetic to him; but while the inspired music of the
latter found an echo in his heart, the works of Brahms left him cold.

At the second rehearsal all went “excellently,” and at the third
Tchaikovsky observed that the Symphony pleased the musicians. At the
public rehearsal “there was real enthusiasm,” and although the
demonstration at the concert on March 3rd (15th) was less noisy, the
success of the Symphony was no less assured.

The pleasant impressions of the evening were slightly marred by the
absence--on account of illness--of Ave-Lallemant, to whom the Symphony
is dedicated.

                            _To V. Davidov._

     “HANOVER _March_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1889.

     “ ... The concert at Hamburg has taken place, and I may
     congratulate myself on a great success. The Fifth Symphony was
     magnificently played, and I like it far better now, after having
     held a bad opinion of it for some time. Unfortunately the Russian
     Press continues to ignore me. With the exception of my nearest and
     dearest, no one will ever hear of my successes. In the daily papers
     here one reads long telegrams about the Wagner performances in
     Russia. Certainly I am not a second Wagner, but it would be
     desirable for Russia to learn how I have been received in Germany.”

                          _To M. Tchaikovsky._

     “ ... Success is very pleasant at the time, but when there is
     neither rehearsal nor concert, I immediately relapse into my usual
     state of depression and boredom. Only one concert remains, the one
     in London, but not for another month. How on earth shall I kill
     time till then? Possibly I may go straight to Paris. Rushing about
     there ought to drive away _ennui_. How one wastes time!”

The three days’ visit to Hanover only differed from Tchaikovsky’s
sojourn in other towns in that he missed the only thing that could help
him to conquer his chronic home-sickness--concerts and rehearsals.

“Curious fact,” he remarks in his diary, “I seek solitude, and suffer
when I have found it.” In this state of fluctuation between _bad_ and
_worse_ Tchaikovsky had spent his time since he left Russia; but the
_worst_ was reserved for Hanover, where he experienced “extreme
loneliness.”

On March 8th (20th) he arrived in Paris, and remained there until the
30th (April 11th).

As his present visit to the French capital was not undertaken in a
public capacity, it was neither so brilliant, nor so fatiguing, as that
of the previous year. At the same time he came in contact with many
people and received a number of invitations. On March 19th (31st) he was
present at one of Colonne’s concerts, when three numbers from his Third
Suite were played.

During this holiday in Paris Tchaikovsky had only two aims in view: to
secure Massenet for one of the Moscow Symphony Concerts and to use his
influence in favour of Sapellnikov, whose gifts as a pianist he valued
very highly.

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “_March_ 21_st_ (_April_ 2_nd_), 1889.

     “I have seen Massenet several times; he is very much flattered and
     prepared to come. The spring will suit him best. I have engaged
     Paderewski, who has had a colossal success in Paris. He is not
     inferior to D’Albert, and one of the very first pianists of the
     day.

     “The Third Suite had a splendid success at Colonne’s concert.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “PARIS, _April_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1889.

     “MODI,--Vassia[137] played to Colonne yesterday evening. After the
     Chopin Polonaise Colonne was astonished, and said he would engage
     him next year and do ‘_les choses en grand_.’ ... Vassia has made a
     _furore_.”

                            _To V. Davidov._

     “LONDON, 1889.

     “ ... The evening before I left Paris I went to Madame Viardot’s. I
     heard an opera which she composed twenty years ago to a libretto by
     Tourgeniev.[138] The singers were her two daughters and her pupils,
     among whom was a Russian, who danced a national dance to the
     delight of all the spectators. I have seen the celebrated Eiffel
     Tower quite near. It is very fine.... I very much enjoyed hearing
     the finest of Berlioz’s works, _La Damnation de Faust_. I am very
     fond of this masterpiece, and wish you knew it. Lalo’s opera, _Le
     Roi d’Ys_, also pleased me very much. It has been decided that I
     shall compose an opera to a French book, _La Courtisane_.[139] I
     have made acquaintance with a number of the younger French
     composers;[140] they are all the most rabid Wagnerites. But
     Wagnerism sits so badly on the French! With them it takes the form
     of a childishness which they pursue in order to appear earnest.”

                             _To the same._

     “LONDON, _March_ 30_th_ (_April_ 11_th_), 1889.

     “ ... Before all else, let me inform you that I have made
     acquaintance with London fog. Last year I enjoyed the fog daily,
     but I never dreamt of anything like the one we had to-day. When I
     went to rehearsal this morning it was rather foggy, as it often is
     in Petersburg. But when at midday I left St. James’s Hall with
     Sapellnikov and went into the street, it was actually night--as
     dark as a moonless, autumn night at home. It made a great
     impression upon us both. I felt as though I were sitting in a
     subterranean dungeon. Now at 4 p.m. it is rather lighter, but still
     gloomy. It is extraordinary that this should happen half-way
     through April. Even the Londoners are astonished and annoyed.

     “Ah, Bob, how glad I shall be to get back to Frolovskoe! I think I
     shall never leave it again.

     “The rehearsal went off very well to-day; the orchestra here is
     very fine. Sapellnikov has not played yet. To-morrow he will
     certainly make a sensation among the musicians....”

At the London Philharmonic Tchaikovsky conducted his first Pianoforte
Concerto (with Sapellnikov as soloist) and the Suite No. 1. Both works
had a brilliant success. This was evident from the opinions of the
Press, although the lion’s share of praise fell to the lot of
Sapellnikov. _The Musical Times_ regretted that one of Tchaikovsky’s
symphonies had not been given instead of the Suite, and considered this
work was not sufficiently characteristic to give a just idea of the
composer’s talent.

       *       *       *       *       *

Tchaikovsky left London very early on the morning of March 31st (April
12th), and arrived at Marseilles on the following day, where he embarked
for Batoum by the Messageries Maritimes.

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “CONSTANTINOPLE, _April_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1889.

     “ ... We left Marseilles a week ago. The ship is a good one, the
     food excellent. It was sometimes very rough. Between Syra and
     Smyrna there was quite a storm, to which I cannot look back without
     horror. Both these places pleased me very much. I got to know two
     Russians on board: a lad of fourteen, Volodya Sklifassovsky (son of
     the celebrated surgeon), and Hermanovich, a student at the Moscow
     University, who was travelling with him. Both were charming beings,
     with whom I made fast friends. They were going to Odessa--I to
     Batoum. We spent the whole of the evening together in the town, but
     slept on board. I shall miss them very much....”

            *       *       *       *       *

     When Tchaikovsky parted from his new friends he returned to his
     cabin and “cried bitterly,” as though he had some premonition that
     he should never again see this lovable and highly gifted boy on
     earth. Volodya Sklifassovsky died in January, 1890.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “TIFLIS, _April_ 20_th_ (_May_ 2_nd_), 1889.

     “ ... A glorious land, the Caucasus! How indescribably beautiful is
     the valley of the Rion, for instance, with its rich vegetation,
     through which runs the railway from Batoum to this place! Imagine,
     my dear, a wide valley, shut in on either side by rocks and
     mountains of fantastic form, in which flourish rhododendrons and
     other spring flowers, besides an abundance of trees, putting forth
     their fresh green foliage; and, added to this, the noisy, winding,
     brimming waters of the Rion.... In Tiflis, too, it is wonderful
     just now; all the fruit trees are in blossom. The weather is so
     clear that all the distant snow-peaks are visible, and the air is
     full of the feeling of spring, fragrant and life-giving. After the
     London fog it seems so beautiful, I can find no words to express
     it....”

By May 7th (19th) Tchaikovsky was back in Moscow. The following letter
throws some light on the musical life of that town.

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “MOSCOW, _May_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1889.

     “ ... All were glad to see me again. Since my return I have
     attended the committee meetings of the Musical Society every day.
     There is a great accumulation of business. A _coup d’état_ has
     taken place in the Conservatoire. Taneiev has resigned the
     direction, and Safonov is prepared to take his place, on condition
     that Karl Albrecht gives up the post of inspector. I backed Karl
     persistently and energetically, and finally declared that I would
     retire from the Board of Direction if he were allowed to leave
     without any decoration for long service....”

            *       *       *       *       *

     From Moscow Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg for a few days,
     returning to Frolovskoe, where he remained for the next four
     months.

            *       *       *       *       *

     The summer of 1889 passed in peaceful monotony. Tchaikovsky was
     engaged in composing and orchestrating his ballet, _The Sleeping
     Beauty_.... The little parties he occasionally gave--when
     Jurgenson, Mme. A. Hubert, and Siloti were his usual guests--were
     the sole “events” of this period of his life. But no account of
     this summer--uneventful as it was--would be complete without some
     mention of Legoshin’s[141] daughter, a child of three. Tchaikovsky
     was altogether fascinated by her prettiness, her clear, bell-like
     voice, her charming ways, and clever little head. He would spend
     hours romping with the child, listening to her chatter, and even
     acting as nursemaid.

     At this time Tchaikovsky’s correspondence had not decreased, but
     many of his business letters are not forthcoming, and those of a
     more private nature which date from this summer are for the most
     part short and uninteresting.

                         _To Edward Napravnik._

     “KLIN, _July_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1889.

     “ ... You have not forgotten your promise to conduct one of the
     concerts of the Moscow Musical Society, dear friend?...

     “Now for the programme. It rests entirely with you both as regards
     the choice of music and of the soloists.... We beg you to lay aside
     your modesty, and to include at least two important works of your
     own. I implore you _most emphatically_ not to do any of my
     compositions. As I am arranging this concert, it would be most
     unseemly were the conductor I engaged to perform any work of mine.
     I would not on any account have it suspected that I was looking
     after my own interests. But people would be sure to put this
     interpretation upon the matter, if the conductor invited for the
     occasion were to include any of my music in the programme. I think
     Dvořák will only bring forward his own works, so I will
     ask you as a Russo-Bohemian to give us something of Smetana’s,
     _Vishergrad_, or _Moldava_....”

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “FROLOVSKOE, _July_ 25_th_ (_August_ 6_th_), 1889.

     “ ... My ballet will be published in November or December. Siloti
     is making the pianoforte arrangement. I think, dear friend, that it
     will be one of my best works. The subject is so poetical, so
     grateful for musical setting, that I have worked at it with all
     that enthusiasm and goodwill upon which the value of a composition
     so much depends. The instrumentation gives me far more trouble than
     it used to do; consequently the work goes slowly, but perhaps all
     the better. Many of my earlier compositions show traces of hurry
     and lack of due reflection.”




VI

1889-1890


At the close of September, 1889, Tchaikovsky went to Moscow, where very
complicated business in connection with the Russian Musical Society
awaited his attention. For each symphony concert during the forthcoming
season a different conductor was to be engaged.[142] Besides this, he
had to superintend the rehearsals for _Eugene Oniegin_. This opera was
to be newly and sumptuously remounted on September 18th (30th), when the
composer had undertaken to conduct his own work.

From Moscow Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg for a few days, to attend a
meeting of the committee appointed to arrange the Jubilee Festival for
Anton Rubinstein. Tchaikovsky had undertaken to compose two works for
this occasion.

While he was in Petersburg, Alexis prepared the new quarters in Moscow,
which he had taken for the whole winter.

The lack of society in the evening, and the heavy duties which awaited
him in connection with the Musical Society, were Tchaikovsky’s sole
reasons for wintering in Moscow rather than in the neighbourhood of
Klin.

During the summer the idea of trying town life once more seemed to
attract him, and he spoke with enthusiasm of his new apartment, and took
the greatest interest in getting it ready; but, as the day of departure
drew near, he felt less and less inclined to leave his country home.

Two circumstances contributed to make the first days after his arrival
in Moscow depressing: first, he greatly missed the society of Laroche,
who had gone to live in Petersburg; and, secondly, his friend, the
‘cellist Fitzenhagen, was on his death-bed.

His winter quarters were small, but comfortable. The work to which he
looked forward with most apprehension was the direction of the two
festival concerts for Rubinstein’s jubilee. For two and a half years he
had been conducting his own compositions, but had comparatively little
experience of other music. Therefore these long and heavy programmes,
including as they did several of Rubinstein’s own works, filled him with
anxious foreboding.

                          _To N. F. von Meck._

     “MOSCOW, _October_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1889.

     “I am very glad you are at home, and I envy you. By nature I
     incline _very_, _very_ much to the kind of life you lead. I long to
     live completely away from society, as you do, but during recent
     years circumstances have made it impossible for me to live as I
     please. I consider it my duty, while I have strength for it, to
     fight against my destiny and not to desert my fellow-creatures so
     long as they have need of me....

     “But, good God, what I have to get through this winter! It
     frightens me to think of all that lies before me, here and in
     Petersburg. Directly the season is over I shall go to Italy for a
     rest. I have not been there since 1882.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_October_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1889.

     “Just think: I have heard from Tchekov.[143] He wants to dedicate
     his new stories to me. I have been to thank him. I am very proud
     and pleased.”

Tchaikovsky first became acquainted with Tchekov’s works in 1887. His
enthusiasm was such that he felt impelled to write to the author,
expressing his delight at having come across a talent so fresh and
original. His first personal acquaintance with his literary favourite
probably dated from the autumn of the same year. At any rate, they had
known each other previous to 1889.

         _To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._[144]

     “MOSCOW, _October_ 29_th_ (_November_ 10_th_), 1889.

     “YOUR IMPERIAL HIGHNESS,--I feel a certain pride in knowing that
     your admirable poem is partly the outcome of my letter to you last
     year. I cannot think why you should fancy that the idea of your
     poem does not please me. On the contrary, I like it very much. I
     cannot say that I have sufficient love and forbearance in my own
     nature always to love ‘the hand that chastises.’ Very often I want
     to parry the blows, and play the rebellious child in my turn.
     Nevertheless, I cannot but incline before the strength of mind and
     lofty views of such rare natures as Spinoza, or Tolstoi, who make
     no distinction between good and bad men, and take the same attitude
     towards every manifestation of human wickedness that you have
     expressed in your poem. I have never read Spinoza, so I speak of
     him from hearsay; but as regards Tolstoi, I have read and re-read
     him, and consider him the greatest writer in the world, past or
     present. His writings awake in me--apart from any powerful artistic
     impression--a peculiar emotion. I do not feel so deeply touched
     when he describes anything really emotional, such as death,
     suffering, separation, etc., so much as by the most ordinary,
     prosaic events. For instance, I remember that when reading the
     chapter in which Dolokhov plays cards with Rastov and wins, I burst
     into tears. Why should a scene in which two characters are acting
     in an unworthy manner affect me in this degree? The reason is
     simple enough. Tolstoi surveys the people he describes from such a
     height that they seem to him poor, insignificant pigmies who, in
     their blindness, injure each other in an aimless, purposeless
     way--and he pities them. Tolstoi has no malice; he loves and pities
     all his characters equally, and all their actions are the result of
     their own limitations and naïve egotism, their helplessness and
     insignificance. Therefore he never punishes his heroes for their
     ill-doings, as Dickens does (who is a great favourite of mine),
     because he never depicts anyone as absolutely bad, only blind
     people, as it were. His humanity is far above the sentimental
     humanity of Dickens; it almost attains to that view of human
     wickedness which is expressed in the words of Christ: ‘they know
     not what they do.’

     “Is not your Highness’s poem an echo of this lofty feeling of
     humanity which so dominates me, and how can I therefore fail to
     admire the fundamental idea of your verses?

     “The news that the Emperor has deigned to inquire after me gives me
     great pleasure. How am I to understand the Emperor’s question about
     little pieces? If it is an indirect incitement to compose something
     in this style, I will take the first opportunity of doing so. I
     should immensely like to compose a great symphony, which should be,
     as it were, the crown of my creative work, and dedicate it to the
     Tsar. I have long since had a vague plan of such a work in my mind,
     but many favourable circumstances must combine before I can realise
     my idea. I hope I shall not die before I have carried out this
     project. At present I am entirely absorbed in the concerts here and
     the preparations for Rubinstein’s jubilee.”

In the same year in which my brother began to study with Zaremba, in
1861 (or perhaps the previous year--I cannot remember for certain), he
took Anatol and myself to an amateur performance in aid of some charity,
given in the house of Prince Bieloselsky. Anton Rubinstein, already at
the height of his fame, was among the audience. Peter Ilich pointed him
out to me for the first time, and I still remember the excitement,
rapture and reverence with which the future pupil gazed on his future
teacher. He entirely forgot the play, while his eyes followed his
“divinity,” with the rapt gaze of a lover for the unattainable beauty of
his fancy. During the intervals he stood as near to him as possible,
strove to catch the sound of his voice, and envied the fortunate mortals
who ventured to shake hands with him.

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_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 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_ 26_th_ (_January_ 7_th_), 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_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 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_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 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_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 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_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 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_ 21_st_ (_March_ 5_th_), 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_ 24_th_ (_March_ 8_th_), 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_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1890.

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

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “FLORENCE, _March_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 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_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 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_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 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_ 27_th_ (_April_ 8_th_).

     “ ... 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_ 28_th_ (_April_ 9_th_), 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_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 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_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 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_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 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_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 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_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 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_ 30_th_ (_July_ 12_th_), 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_ 30_th_ (_July_ 12_th_), 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_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 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_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 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_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 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_ 22_nd_ (_October_ 4_th_), 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_ 24_th_, 1890 (_January_ 5_th_, 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_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 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_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 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_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 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_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 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_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 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_ 6_th_ (18_st_), 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_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 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_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 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_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 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_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 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_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 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_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 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_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 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_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 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_ 15_th_ (27_th_).

     “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_ 16_th_ (28_th_).

     “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_ 17_th_ (29_th_).

     “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_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 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?”

                                _Diary._

     “_April_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

     “It is becoming more and more difficult to find time for writing.
     Breakfasted with my French friends. Interview with de Sachs. We
     went to see the Brooklyn Bridge. From there we went on to see
     Schirmer, who owns the largest music business in America; the
     warehouse--especially the metallography--resembles Jurgenson’s in
     many respects. Schirmer begged to be allowed to publish some of my
     compositions. On reaching home, I received the journalist, Ivy
     Ross, who asked me for a contribution for her paper. When she had
     gone, I sank on the sofa like a log and enjoyed a little rest and
     solitude. By 8.30 I was already at the Music Hall for the first
     rehearsal. The chorus greeted me with an ovation. They sang
     beautifully. As I was about to leave, I met the builder of the hall
     in the doorway; he presented to me a pleasant, rather stout, man,
     his chief assistant, whose talent and cleverness he could not
     sufficiently praise. This man was--as it turned out--a pure-blooded
     Russian, who had become a naturalised American. The architect told
     me he was an anarchist and socialist. I had a little conversation
     with my fellow-countryman, and promised to visit him. After a light
     supper I took a walk. Read over and over again the letters I had
     received and, naturally, shed a few tears.

     “_April_ 19_th_ (_May_ 1_st_).

     “Awoke late and sat down to write a little article for Miss Ross.
     Reno appeared, with the news that he had engaged a cabin for me on
     board the _Fürst Bismarck_, which sails on May 2nd (14th). Oh God,
     what a long way off it still seems! I called for my good friend
     Mayer and breakfasted with him in an excellent little Italian
     restaurant, after which we went down town. Here I saw for the first
     time what life means at certain hours on Broadway. So far I had
     only been able to judge this street from the neighbourhood of the
     hotel, where there is little traffic. But this is only a very small
     portion of this street, which is seven versts (over four miles)
     long. The houses down town are simply colossal; I cannot understand
     how anyone can live on the thirteenth floor. Mayer and I went out
     on the roof of one such house. The view was splendid, but I felt
     quite giddy when I looked down into Broadway. Then Mayer obtained
     permission for me to visit the cellars of the mint, where hundreds
     of millions of gold and silver coins, as well as paper money, are
     kept. Very good-natured, but fussy and important, officials
     conducted us round these cellars, and opened monumental doors with
     mysterious keys and no less mysterious pressings of various springs
     and knobs. The sacks of gold, which look just like sacks of corn in
     a granary, are kept in clean, tidy rooms lit by electric light. I
     was allowed to hold in my hand a packet of new shining coins worth
     about 10,000,000 dollars.[163] Then I understood why so little gold
     and silver are in circulation. The Americans prefer dirty,
     unpleasant paper notes to metal, because they find them so much
     more practical and useful. Therefore, these paper notes--quite the
     reverse to our country--thanks to the vast amount of metals kept in
     the mint, are valued far more than gold and silver. From the mint
     we visited the scene of activity of good Mr. Hyde. He is a director
     of one of the banks, and took me round his strong-rooms, in which
     mountains of paper money are stored away. We also visited the
     Exchange, which struck me as quieter than the Paris Bourse. Hyde
     treated us to lemonade at a café. On my return home I had to finish
     my newspaper article on Wagner for Miss Ross, and at five o’clock I
     was ready to visit William de Sachs. He lives in a very large
     house, where rooms are let to bachelors only. Ladies are only
     admitted as guests into this curious American monastery. I found a
     small gathering, which gradually grew larger. It was “five o’clock
     tea.” The pianist, Miss Wilson (who called on me yesterday, and is
     a staunch adherent of Russian music), played Borodin’s beautiful
     Serenade. After refusing several invitations I spent the evening
     alone. How pleasant it was! Dined in the Restaurant Hoffmann, as
     usual, without any enjoyment. During my walk further along Broadway
     I came upon a meeting of Socialists in red caps. Next morning I
     learnt from the newspapers that about five thousand men had
     assembled, carrying banners and huge lanterns, on which were
     inscribed these words: ‘Comrades! We are slaves in free America.
     We will no longer work more than eight hours!’ The whole
     demonstration seemed to me a farce; I think the inhabitants also
     look on it as such, for very few people had the curiosity to stand
     and watch; the others walked about as usual. I went to bed bodily
     tired, but mentally refreshed.

     “_April_ 20_th_ (_May_ 2_nd_).

     “By 10.30 a.m. I was at the rehearsal in the Music Hall. It was
     held in the large hall, where several workmen were hammering,
     shouting, and running hither and thither. The orchestra is placed
     across the whole breadth of the huge platform; consequently the
     sound is bad and unequal. This got on my nerves until, in my rage,
     I was several times on the point of making a scene, leaving
     everything in the lurch and running away. I played through the
     Suite and the March very carelessly, and stopped the Pianoforte
     Concerto at the first movement, as the parts were in confusion and
     the musicians exhausted. The pianist, Adèle Aus-der-Ohe, came at
     five o’clock and played over the Concerto, which had gone so badly
     at rehearsal.

     “_April_ 21_st_ (_May_ 3_rd_).

     “Telegram from Jurgenson: ‘Christos vosskresse.’[164] Rain outside.
     Letters from Modi and Jurgenson. ‘Nur wer die Sehnsucht
     kennt’--realises what it means to receive letters in a strange
     country. I have never before experienced similar sensations. Mr. N.
     and his wife came to call upon me. He--a tall, bearded man, with
     iron-grey hair, very elegantly dressed, always bewailing his spinal
     complaint, speaking very good Russian and abusing the Jews
     (although he himself looks very like one); she--a very plain
     Englishwoman (not American), who can speak nothing but English. She
     brought a great pile of newspapers with her, and showed me her
     articles. I cannot make out what these people want. He asked me if
     I had composed a fantasia on the _Red Sarafan_. On my replying in
     the negative, he was very much astonished, and added: ‘I will send
     you Thalberg’s fantasia; pray copy his style.’ I had great trouble
     in politely getting rid of this curious couple. De Sachs came to
     fetch me at twelve o’clock. We walked into the park. Then we went
     up by the lift to the fourth floor of an immense house where
     Schirmer lives. Besides myself and Sachs, there were at table the
     conductor Seidl, a Wagnerian and well known in this country, his
     wife, the pianist Adèle Aus-der-Ohe, who is going to play at my
     concert, her sister, and the Schirmer family. Seidl told me that my
     _Maid of Orleans_ would be produced next season. I had to be at
     rehearsal by four o’clock. De Sachs accompanied me to the Music
     Hall in the Schirmers’ carriage. It was lit up and in order for the
     first time to-day. I sat in Carnegie’s box, while an oratorio, _The
     Shulamite_, by the elder Damrosch, was being rehearsed. Before my
     turn came they sang a wearisome cantata by Schütz, _The Seven
     Words_. My choruses[165] went very well. After it was over, I
     accompanied Sachs very unwillingly to the Schirmers’, as he had
     made me promise to come back. We found a number of people there who
     had come merely to see me. Schirmer took us on the roof of his
     house. This huge, nine-storied house has a roof so arranged that
     one can take quite a delightful walk on it and enjoy a splendid
     view from all sides. The sunset was indescribably beautiful. When
     we went downstairs we found only a few intimate friends left, with
     whom I enjoyed myself most unexpectedly. Aus-der-Ohe played
     beautifully. Among other things, we played my Concerto together. We
     sat down to supper at nine o’clock. About 10.30 we, that is, Sachs,
     Aus-der-Ohe, her sister, and myself, were presented with the most
     splendid roses, conveyed downstairs in the lift and sent home in
     the Schirmers’ carriage. One must do justice to American
     hospitality; there is nothing like it--except, perhaps, in our own
     country.

     “_April_ 22_nd_ (_May_ 4_th_).

     “Received letters. A visit from Mr. Romeike, the proprietor of the
     bureau for newspaper cuttings. Apparently, he, too, is one of our
     Anarchists, like those mysterious Russians who spoke to me
     yesterday at the rehearsal. Wrote letters and my diary. Called for
     Mayer, and went with him to see Hyde, who invited us to breakfast
     at the Down Town Club. After a most excellent breakfast I walked
     down Broadway, alas--still with Mayer. Then we went to the concert
     given by the celebrated English singer Santley. The celebrated
     singer turned out to be an elderly man, who sang arias and songs in
     a fairly rhythmic manner, but without any tone, and with truly
     English stiffness. I was greeted by several critics, among them
     Finck, who had written to me last winter so enthusiastically about
     _Hamlet_. I went home without waiting for the end of the concert,
     as I had to go through my Pianoforte Concerto with Adèle
     Aus-der-Ohe. She came with her sister, and I showed her various
     little nuances and delicate details, which--after yesterday’s
     rehearsal--I considered necessary, in view of her powerful, clean,
     brilliant, but somewhat rough, style of playing. Reno had told me
     some interesting facts about Aus-der-Ohe’s American career. Four
     years ago she obtained an engagement at one of the Symphony
     Concerts to play a Concerto by Liszt (she was one of his pupils),
     and came over without a penny in her pocket. Her playing took with
     the public. She was engaged everywhere, and was a complete success.
     During these four years she has toured all over America, and now
     possesses a capital of over £20,000!!! Such is America! After they
     had left, I hurried into my evening clothes and went to dinner at
     the Renos’. This time it was quite a small family party. Damrosch
     came in after dinner. I played duets with charming Alice Reno. The
     evening passed very pleasantly. Reno saw me to the tramway. It has
     suddenly turned very cold.

     “_April_ 23_rd_ (_May_ 5_th_).

     “The waiter Max, who brings me my tea in the morning, spent all his
     childhood in Nijni-Novogorod and went to school there. Since his
     fifteenth year he has lived partly in Germany, partly in New York.
     He is now twenty-three, and has so completely forgotten his native
     tongue that he can only mangle it, although he still remembers the
     most common words. I find it very pleasant to talk a little Russian
     with him. At eleven a.m. the pianist Rummel (an old acquaintance
     from Berlin) came to ask me again if I would conduct his concert
     on the 17th; he has been once before. Next came a very pleasant and
     friendly journalist, who asked how my wife liked New York. I have
     been asked this question before. One day, shortly after my arrival,
     it was announced in some of the newspapers that I had arrived with
     a young and pretty wife. This arose from the fact that two
     reporters on the pier had seen me get into a carriage with Alice
     Reno. At 7.30 Reno’s brother-in-law came. We drove to the Music
     Hall in a carriage, filled to overflowing. The appearance of the
     hall in the evening, lit up and crowded with people, was very fine
     and effective. The ceremony began with a speech by Reno (this had
     caused the poor fellow much perturbation all the day before). After
     this the National Anthem was sung. Then a clergyman made a very
     long and wearisome speech, in which he eulogised the founders of
     the Hall, especially Carnegie. The Leonore Symphony was then
     beautifully rendered. Interval. I went downstairs. Great
     excitement. I appeared, and was greeted with loud applause. The
     March went splendidly. Great success. I sat in Hyde’s box for the
     rest of the concert. Berlioz’s _Te Deum_ is somewhat wearisome;
     only towards the end I began to enjoy it thoroughly. Reno carried
     me off with him. An improvised supper. Slept like a log.”

     “_April_ 24_th_ (_May_ 6_th_), 1891.

     “‘Tchaikovsky is a man of ample proportions, with rather grey hair,
     well built, of a pleasing appearance, and about sixty years of age
     (!!!). He seemed rather nervous, and answered the applause with a
     number of stiff little bows. But as soon as he had taken up the
     bâton he was quite master of himself.’ I read this to-day in the
     _Herald_.[166] It annoys me that, not content with writing about my
     music, they must also write about my personal appearance. I cannot
     bear to think that my shyness is noticeable, or that my ‘stiff
     little bows’ fill them with astonishment. I went to rehearsal at
     10.30. I had to get a workman to show me the entrance to the Hall.
     The rehearsal went very well. After the Suite the musicians called
     out something which sounded like ‘hoch.’ Simply bathed in
     perspiration, I had to go and talk to Mme. Reno, her eldest
     daughter and two other ladies. Went to see Reno. The steamboat
     ticket. Instructions for the journey to Philadelphia and Boston.
     Then I hurried over to Mayer’s, where Rummel had already been
     waiting half an hour to play me the Second Concerto. But we did not
     play it. I practised my powers of eloquence instead. I tried to
     prove to him that there was no reason why I should accede to his
     proposal--to conduct his concert gratuitously on the 17th.
     Breakfasted with Mayer at the Italian Restaurant. P. Botkin[167]
     from Washington turned up quite unexpectedly about seven o’clock.
     He has come on purpose to be at the concert. Hyde and his wife
     fetched me about 7.30. The second concert. Mendelssohn’s oratorio,
     _Elijah_, was given. A splendid work, but rather too long. During
     the interval, I was dragged the round of the boxes of various local
     magnates.

     “_April_ 25_th_ (_May_ 7_th_).

     “I am fifty-one to-day. I feel very excited. The concert begins at
     two o’clock, with the Suite. This curious fright I suffer from is
     very strange. How many times have I already conducted the Suite,
     and it goes splendidly. Why this anxiety? I suffer horribly, and it
     gets worse and worse. I never remember feeling so anxious before.
     Perhaps it is because over here they pay so much attention to my
     outward appearance, and consequently my shyness is more noticeable.
     However that may be, after getting over some painful hours (the
     last was worst of all, for before my appearance I had to speak to
     several strangers) I stepped into the conductor’s desk, was
     received most enthusiastically, and made a sensation--according to
     to-day’s papers. After the Suite I sat in Reno’s private room, and
     was interviewed by several reporters. (Oh, these reporters!) Among
     others, the well-known journalist, Jackson. I paid my respects to
     Mrs. Reno in her box; she had sent me a quantity of flowers in the
     morning, almost as if she had guessed it was my birthday. I felt I
     must be alone, so refused Reno’s invitation, pushed my way through
     a crowd of ladies, who were standing in the corridor to stare at
     me, and in whose eyes I read with involuntary pleasure signs of
     enthusiastic sympathy--and hastened home. I wrote Botkin a card,
     telling him that I could not keep my promise to dine with him.
     Relieved and--in a measure--happy, I went out to stroll about, to
     eat my dinner, and lounge in a café, to enjoy silence and solitude.

     “_April_ 26_th_ (_May_ 8_th_).

     “I can scarcely find time to keep up my diary and correspondence. I
     am simply overrun with visitors--reporters, composers, and
     librettists. Among the latter was one who brought me the text of an
     opera, _Vlasta_, and touched me very deeply by the account of the
     death of his only son. Moreover, from every part of America I
     receive a heap of letters asking for my autograph; these I answer
     most conscientiously. Went to the rehearsal of the Pianoforte
     Concerto. Damrosch annoyed me very much by taking up the best of
     the time for himself and leaving the rest of the rehearsal to me.
     However, all went well. Went to Knabe’s to thank him for the
     beautiful present (a statue of Freedom) which he sent me yesterday.
     Shall I be allowed to take it into Russia? Then I hastened home.
     Visitors without end, among others two Russian ladies. One of them
     was Mrs. MacMahan, widow of the celebrated war correspondent of
     1877, and herself the correspondent of the _Russky Viedomosti_ and
     the _Severny Vestnik_. This was the first time I had had the
     pleasure of talking to a Russian lady; consequently I made a fool
     of myself. Suddenly the tears came into my eyes, my voice broke,
     and I could not suppress my sobs. I fled into the next room, and
     could not show myself again for a long time. I blush with shame to
     think of this unexpected episode.... Rested a little before the
     concert. The chorus went well, but might have gone better if I had
     not been so upset. Sat in the box with Reno and Hyde during the
     beautiful oratorio, _The Shulamite_. Walked with Reno and Carnegie
     to sup with Damrosch. This archmillionaire is very kind to me, and
     constantly talks of an engagement for next year.... A good deal of
     champagne was drunk. I sat between the host and the conductor,
     Dannreuther. While I was talking to him about his brother he must
     have had the impression, for at least two hours, that I was either
     a madman or an impudent liar. He sat with his mouth open, and
     looked quite astonished. It seems that I had confused the pianist
     Dannreuther with the pianist Hartvigson. My absent-mindedness is
     becoming almost unbearable, and is a sign of advancing age.
     However, everyone was surprised to learn that I was only fifty-one
     yesterday. Carnegie especially was very much astonished. They all
     thought, except those who knew something of my life, that I was
     much older. Probably I have aged very much in the last few years. I
     feel I have lost vitality. I returned in Carnegie’s carriage. This
     talk about my age resulted in dreadful dreams; I thought I slipped
     down a tremendously steep wall into the sea, and then climbed on to
     a little rocky projection. Probably this was the result of our
     conversation yesterday.

     “Every day Romeike sends me a heap of newspaper cuttings about
     myself. All, without exception, are written in terms of the highest
     praise. The Third Suite is praised to the skies, and, what is more,
     my conducting also. Am I really such a good conductor, or do the
     Americans exaggerate?

     “_April_ 27_th_ (_May_ 9_th_).

     “The manager of the Composers’ Club called upon me and wished to
     arrange an evening for my compositions. Mrs. White[168] sent me
     such a quantity of lovely flowers that, owing to lack of room and
     vases, I had to give some to Max, who was highly delighted, as his
     wife is passionately fond of them. Ritzel, the violinist, also
     called upon me. He would like to have my portrait, and told me that
     the members of the orchestra were quite delighted with me. This
     touched me very much. I changed my things, and took Mayer my large
     portrait. From there I went to Schirmer’s, and then hurried to the
     Music Hall, where I was to make my last appearance before the
     public. All these visits made before the concert show how calm I
     was at this time. Why, I do not know. In the artists’ room I made
     the acquaintance of a singer who sang one of my songs yesterday. A
     very fine artist and a charming woman. My Concerto went
     magnificently, thanks to Aus-der-Ohe’s brilliant interpretation.
     The enthusiasm was far greater than anything I have met with, even
     in Russia. I was recalled over and over again; handkerchiefs were
     waved, cheers resounded--in fact, it is easy to see that I have
     taken the Americans by storm. But what I valued most of all was the
     enthusiasm of the orchestra. Owing to the heat and my exertions, I
     was bathed in perspiration, and could not, unfortunately, listen to
     the scenes from _Parsifal_. At the last evening concert of the
     Festival I sat alternately in the boxes of Carnegie, Hyde, and
     Reno. The whole of Handel’s oratorio, _Israel in Egypt_, was given.
     During the course of the evening the architect of the Hall received
     an ovation. Afterwards I had supper with Damrosch at the Sachs’....

     “April 28th (May 10th).

     “This has been a very heavy day. In the morning I was besieged by
     visitors. The interesting Korbay, the young, good-looking composer
     Klein, the pianist F.--with gold-stopped teeth--and others I do not
     remember. I went out at one o’clock to call on the nihilist
     Starck-Stoleshnikov, but he lives so far away, and the heat was so
     oppressive, that I gave it up. I hastened instead to Dr. N.’s, and
     arrived there in good time. Dr. N. is a Russian--at least he was
     brought up in Russia. His wife, as I finally discovered, is
     Countess G. They have lived in America since 1860, and often go to
     Europe, but never visit Russia. I did not like to ask their reason
     for avoiding it. They are both ardent patriots, and have a genuine
     love of Russia. In speaking of our country he seems to think that
     despotism and bureaucracy hinder it from becoming a leading nation.
     It strikes me that he is a freethinker who has at some time brought
     down the wrath of the Government on himself, and fled just at the
     right moment. But his liberalism is not in the least akin to
     Nihilism or Anarchism. Both frequently asserted that they had
     nothing to do with the nihilists in this country. I lunched with
     them about three o’clock, and then rushed off to B. MacMahan’s
     (owing to a lack of cabs one has to walk everywhere). While the
     N.s’ house is almost luxuriously furnished, this Russian
     correspondent lives quite in the student style. Somewhat later the
     celebrated sculptor Kamensky came in; he has lived in America for
     the last twenty years, but I do not know why. He is an old,
     somewhat invalidish-looking man, with a deep scar on his forehead.
     He confused me very much by asking me to tell him _everything_ that
     I knew about the Russia of to-day. I did not quite know how to
     accomplish such a vast undertaking, but Barbara Nikolaevna (Mrs.
     MacMahan) began to talk about my music, and I soon took my
     departure, as I had to go home and dress before dining with
     Carnegie. All the cafés are closed on Sundays. This English
     Puritanism, which shows itself in such senseless trivialities (for
     instance, one can only obtain a glass of whisky or beer on Sunday
     by means of some fraud), irritates me very much. It is said that
     the men who brought this law into force in the State of New York
     were themselves heavy drinkers. I had scarcely time to change and
     drive to Carnegie’s in a carriage, which had to be fetched from
     some distance, and was very expensive. This millionaire really does
     not live so luxuriously as many other people. Mr. and Mrs. Reno,
     Mr. and Mrs. Damrosch, the architect of the Music Hall and his
     wife, an unknown gentleman and a stout friend of Mrs. Damrosch’s
     were at dinner. I sat beside this aristocratic and evidently
     distinguished lady. This singular man, Carnegie, who rapidly rose
     from a telegraph apprentice to be one of the richest men in
     America, while still remaining quite simple, inspires me with
     unusual confidence, perhaps because he shows me so much sympathy.
     During the evening he expressed his liking for me in a very marked
     manner. He took both my hands in his, and declared that, though not
     crowned, I was a genuine king of music. He embraced me (without
     kissing me: men do not kiss over here), got on tiptoe and stretched
     his hand up to indicate my greatness, and finally made the whole
     company laugh by imitating my conducting. This he did so solemnly,
     so well, and so like me, that I myself was quite delighted. His
     wife is also an extremely simple and charming young lady, and
     showed her interest in me in every possible way. All this was very
     pleasant, but still I was glad to get home again at eleven, as I
     felt somewhat bored.

     “_April_ 29_th_ (_May_ 11_th_).

     “Mayer fetched me at a quarter-past eight. How should I have got on
     without Mayer? I got a seat in a saloon carriage.... We reached
     Buffalo at 8.30. I was met by two gentlemen whom Mayer had
     instructed to look after me, as I had to change here, and it is
     very difficult to find one’s way in this labyrinth of lines. I
     reached Niagara fifty minutes after leaving Buffalo, and went to
     the hotel in which a room--also thanks to Mayer--was reserved for
     me. The hotel is quite unpretentious--after the style of the small
     Swiss inns--but very clean and convenient, as German is spoken. I
     went to bed early. The roaring of the waterfall is very audible in
     the stillness of the night.

     “NIAGARA, _April_ 30_th_ (_May_ 12_th_).

     “The carriage was here at nine o’clock. There was no guide, which
     was very pleasant. I will not try to describe the beauties of the
     Falls; it is hard to find words for these things. In the afternoon
     I walked again to the Falls and round the town. During this
     walk--as in the morning--I could not get rid of a curious--probably
     entirely nervous--lassitude, which prevented my full enjoyment of
     this beautiful scenery. I started again at a quarter-past six in a
     special sleeping-carriage.

     “NEW YORK, _May_ 1_st_ (13_th_).

     “At five o’clock I awoke, my mind full of anxious thoughts about
     the approaching week, which I dread so much. I was home by 8 a.m.,
     and very glad to see Max again. The news of the attempt on the
     Tsarevich made me feel very sad. I was also grieved to find that
     there were no letters from home--and I had hoped to find a number.
     Many visitors. I hired a carriage from the hotel, on account of the
     great distances which I had to get over to-day. First I went to
     say good-bye to Damrosch, as he is going to Europe. He asked me to
     take him as a pupil. Of course I refused, but am afraid
     involuntarily I showed far too plainly my horror at the idea of
     Damrosch arriving at my country home to study with me. From there I
     hastened to lunch at the Renos’. The coachman was quite drunk, and
     would not understand where I wanted him to drive. It was lucky I
     knew the way myself. The Renos received me as cordially as ever.
     Afterwards I went to Mayer’s. Then the same drunken coachman drove
     Mayer and myself to the great steam-ferry which conveys carriages,
     horses, and foot-passengers over the East River. Thence we went by
     train to Mayer’s summer residence. I felt so tired, so irritable
     and unhappy, I could hardly restrain my tears. His family is good
     and kind, but all the same I was bored, and longed to get away. In
     the afternoon we walked along the shore; the sea was rather rough.
     The air is so fresh and pure here that my walk really gave me
     pleasure and did me good. I stayed the night at Mayer’s, but slept
     badly.

     “_May_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).

     “I got up at six o’clock. Went down to the sea, and was delighted.
     After breakfast we drove into the town. I should have liked to be
     alone. Miss Ross came to see me. My letter on Wagner has been
     published, and created quite a sensation. Anton Seidl, the
     celebrated conductor and Wagnerian, had published a lengthy reply,
     in which he attacked me, but in quite a friendly tone. Miss Ross
     came to ask me to write an answer to Seidl’s reply. I set to work
     upon it, but was interrupted by X., who stayed an endless time, and
     told me all kinds of uninteresting musical gossip, which I had
     heard a hundred times before. The next to come was the
     correspondent of a Philadelphia newspaper, who is one of my most
     fervent admirers. I had to speak English with him: I have made
     progress, and can say a few phrases very well. Wrote letters.
     Breakfasted alone in my hotel. Wandered through the Central Park.
     According to my promise, I went over to Z.’s to write a testimonial
     for the * * * pianofortes. Was this the object of all Z.’s
     attentions? All these presents, all this time and money spent on
     me, all these unaccountable kindnesses, were these intended as a
     premium for a future puff? I proposed that Z. himself should write
     the testimonial. He sat for a long time, but could not think of
     anything; so we put it off until our next meeting. Then I paid a
     call on Tretbar, Steinway’s representative, for whom I had a letter
     of introduction from Jurgenson. He had waited till now without
     calling upon me because he did not wish to make the first advances.
     I had purposely delayed my visit from similar motives. Home to
     pack. Shortly afterwards a messenger from Z. brought me the
     testimonial to sign. It read as follows: ‘_I consider the_ * * *
     _pianofortes without doubt the best in America_.’ Now as I do _not_
     think so at all, but value some other makers’ far more highly, I
     declined to have my opinion expressed in this form. I told Z., that
     notwithstanding my deep gratitude to him, I could not tell a lie.
     The reporter from the _Herald_ came to see me--a very interesting
     man. Drove to Hyde’s. I wish I could find words to describe all the
     charm and originality of this interesting couple. Hyde greeted me
     with these words: ‘Kak vasche sdorovie? sidite poschaljust.’[169]
     Then he laughed like a lunatic, and his wife and I joined in. He
     had bought a guide to Russian conversation, and learnt a few
     phrases as a surprise to me. Mrs. Hyde immediately invited me to
     smoke a cigarette in her drawing-room--the climax of hospitality in
     America. After the cigarette we went to dinner. The table was most
     exquisitely decorated with flowers; everyone received a bouquet.
     Then, quite unexpectedly, Hyde became very solemn, closed his eyes
     and said the Lord’s Prayer. I did the same as the others: lowered
     my eyes and gazed on the ground. Then began an endlessly long
     dinner.... At ten o’clock I withdrew. At home a messenger from
     Knabe was waiting for me. We drank a glass of beer together, took
     my trunk, and went down town. We went over the Hudson in the
     steam-ferry, and finally reached the station. Knabe’s messenger
     (without whose help I should certainly have been lost) engaged a
     comfortable _coupé_ for me; the friendly negro made the bed, I
     threw myself on it just as I was, for I really had not the
     strength to undress, and sank at once into a deep sleep. I slept
     soundly, but not for long. The negro woke me an hour before my
     arrival at Baltimore.

     “BALTIMORE, _May_ 3_rd_ (15_th_).

     “As usual, I was received at the hotel with cool contempt. Sitting
     alone in my room, I suddenly felt so unhappy, chiefly because
     everyone around me speaks only English. I slept a little. Then I
     went into a restaurant for breakfast, and was quite annoyed because
     the waiter (a negro) would not understand that I wished for tea and
     bread-and-butter only. I had to go to the desk, where they did not
     understand me any better. At last a gentleman knowing a little
     German kindly came to my help. I had hardly sat down when Knabe, a
     stout man, came in. Very shortly after, Adèle Aus-der-Ohe and her
     sister joined us, too. I was very glad to see them, for they seem
     like connections, at least as regards music. We went to the
     rehearsal together. This was held on the stage of the Lyceum
     Theatre. The orchestra was small, only four first violins, but not
     bad. But the Third Suite was not to be thought of. It was decided
     to put the Serenade for strings in its place. The orchestra did not
     know this work. The conductor had not even played it through,
     although Reno had promised that this should be done. The Concerto
     with Adèle Aus-der-Ohe went very smoothly, but the Serenade needs
     many rehearsals. The orchestra was impatient. The young leader
     behaved in rather a tactless way, and made it too clearly evident
     that he thought it time to stop. It is true--this unhappy touring
     orchestra must be wearied by their constant travelling. After the
     rehearsal I went home with Adèle Aus-der-Ohe, dressed, and went
     immediately to the concert. I conducted in my frock-coat. Happily
     everything went very well, but there was little enthusiasm in
     comparison with New York. After the concert we both drove home to
     change. Half an hour later Knabe called for us. His hospitality is
     on the same colossal scale as his figure. This beardless giant had
     arranged a festivity in my honour at his own house. I found a
     number of people there. The dinner was endlessly long, but very
     tasteful and good, as were also the wines with which Knabe kept
     filling up our glasses. During the second half of the dinner I felt
     quite worn out. A terrible hatred of everything seemed to come over
     me, especially of my two neighbours. After dinner I conversed a
     little with everyone, and smoked and drank ceaselessly. At
     half-past twelve Knabe brought me home, and also the sisters
     Aus-der-Ohe.

     “WASHINGTON, 4_th_ (16_th_).

     “I woke early, breakfasted downstairs, wrote my diary, and waited,
     rather in fear and trembling, for Knabe, who wanted to show me the
     sights of the town. At last he came and, together with the sisters
     Aus-der-Ohe, we drove round Baltimore. Weather bad and inclined to
     rain. Baltimore is a pretty, clean town. Then the good-natured
     giant helped me to pack my box, invited Aus-der-Ohe and myself to a
     champagne lunch, and finally put me in the carriage that was to
     take me to my destination. He himself was travelling to
     Philadelphia, while I was going to Washington. The journey lasted
     about three-quarters of an hour. I was met by Botkin, who
     accompanied me to the hotel, where a room was engaged for me. This
     was delightfully comfortable, and at the same time tastefully and
     simply furnished. I declined to receive Rennen, begged Botkin to
     call for me before the dinner, took a bath, and hurried into my
     dress clothes. The dinner was given in the Metropolitan Club, of
     which Botkin and his colleagues are members. The dinner was very
     gay, and I was so delighted to talk Russian once more, although
     this happiness was a little dimmed by the sad fact that my ‘s,’
     ‘sch,’ ‘tsch,’ are beginning to sound rather indistinct from age.
     During the dinner we heard, first by telegram and then through the
     telephone, that the Ambassador Struve had returned from a journey
     to New York solely on my account. At ten o’clock we all repaired to
     the Embassy, where Botkin had arranged a musical evening. About a
     hundred persons were invited. The Ambassador also arrived, an old
     man, very cordial and also interesting. The company at the Embassy
     belonged principally to the diplomatic circle. There were
     ambassadors with their wives and daughters, and personages
     belonging to the highest class of the diplomatic service. Most of
     the ladies spoke French, so things were not so difficult for me.
     The programme consisted of my Trio and a Quartet by Brahms. Hausen,
     the Secretary to our Embassy, was at the piano, and he proved quite
     a respectable pianist. My Trio he played decidedly well. The
     violinist was only middling. I was introduced to everyone. After
     the music there was an excellent cold supper. When most of the
     guests had left, ten of us (the Belgian Ambassador and the
     Secretaries to the Swedish and Austrian Embassies, besides the
     Russians) sat for some time longer at a large round table, before
     an excellent flagon. Struve enjoys a glass of wine. He gave me the
     impression of a broken and unhappy man who finds it a consolation.
     It was three o’clock before I went home, accompanied by Botkin and
     Hausen.

     “_May_ 5_th_ (17_th_).

     “Awoke with pleasant memories of yesterday. I always feel well in
     Russian society when I am not obliged to speak a foreign tongue. At
     twelve o’clock Botkin called for me to lunch with the Ambassador,
     Struve. Afterwards I went with Botkin and Hausen to see the sights
     of Washington.

     “PHILADELPHIA, _May_ 6_th_ (18_th_).

     “I reached Philadelphia at three o’clock. Breakfasted downstairs. A
     very importunate Jew from Odessa called and got some money out of
     me. Went for a walk. The concert at eight p.m. The enormous theatre
     was filled to overflowing. After the concert, according to
     long-standing promise, I went to the club. The return journey to
     New York was very wearisome.

     “_May_ 7_th_ (19_th_).

     “Feel quite stupid from exhaustion and constant travelling. I could
     stand no more, if it were not for the thought of my departure
     to-morrow, which buoys me up. I am inundated with requests for my
     autograph. At 12.30 I went over to Z.’s and wrote the testimonial,
     omitting the phrase which ranks these pianos as the first. Went
     home and waited for the composer Brummklein. He came and played me
     some very pretty things.

     “_May_ 8_th_ (20_th_).

     “The old librettist came. I was very sorry to have to tell him I
     could not compose an opera to his libretto. He seemed very sad.
     Scarcely had he gone before Dannreuther came in to take me to the
     rehearsal of the Quartets and Trios to be played this evening at
     the Composers’ Club. It was rather a long distance. The Quartet was
     indifferently played and the Trio really badly, for the pianist, a
     shy, nervous man, was no good: he could not even count. I had no
     time to make any preparations for the journey. Drove to Renos’.
     They received me with more kindness and cordiality than ever,
     especially Madame Reno and her three daughters. The eldest (Anna,
     who is married) gave me a beautiful cigar-case, M. Reno a quantity
     of scent, and Alice and her sister cakes for the journey. Then I
     hurried to Hyde’s. Mrs. Hyde was already expecting me. Here too I
     was received with great kindness and sincere enthusiasm. At last I
     got home to pack my box. Hateful business, which gave me a dreadful
     pain in my back. Tired out, I went over to Mayer’s, and invited him
     to dinner at Martelli’s. At eight o’clock I was taken to the
     Composers’ Club. This is not a club of composers, as I first
     thought, but a special musical union which arranges, from time to
     time, evenings devoted to the works of one composer. Yesterday was
     devoted to me, and the concert was held in the magnificent
     Metropolitan House. I sat in the first row. They played the Quartet
     (E flat minor) and the Trio; some songs were very well sung, but
     the programme was too long. In the middle of the evening I received
     an address; I answered shortly, in French; of course an ovation.
     One lady threw an exquisite bouquet of roses straight in my face. I
     was introduced to a crowd of people, among others our
     Consul-General. At the conclusion I had to speak to about a hundred
     people and distribute a hundred autographs. I reached home half
     dead with fatigue. As the steamer left at five o’clock in the
     morning, I had to go on board that night, so I dressed with all
     speed, and packed my things while Reno and Mayer waited for me.
     Downstairs we drank two bottles of champagne. I said good-bye to
     the servants of the hotel and drove off to the steamer. The drive
     was very long. The steamer is quite as fine as the _Bretagne_; I
     have an officer’s cabin. On this ship the officers are allowed to
     let their cabins, but they ask an exorbitant price. I had to pay
     300 dollars (1,500 francs) for mine.... But it is really nice and
     very roomy. I said good-bye to my dear American friends and went
     straight to bed. I slept badly and heard all the noise when the
     steamer started at five o’clock. I came out of my cabin as we
     passed the statue of Freedom.”

Altogether Tchaikovsky gave six concerts in America: four in New York,
one in Baltimore, and one in Philadelphia. The following works were
performed: (1) The Coronation March, (2) Third Suite, (3) two Sacred
Choruses: the Lord’s Prayer and the Legend, (4) Pianoforte Concerto No.
1, and (5) Serenade for string instruments.

I have before me sixteen American Press notices of Tchaikovsky, and all
are written in a tone of unqualified praise; the only difference lies in
the degree of enthusiasm expressed. According to some he is “the first
of modern composers after Wagner”; according to others, “one of the
first.” His talent as a conductor is equally praised. Everywhere he had
an unprecedented success, and many spoke of his interesting appearance.
The interviews (especially those in _The New York Herald_) are
reproduced with astonishing fidelity. As we read them we can almost
fancy we can hear the voice of Tchaikovsky himself.




XIII


     “‘PRINCE BISMARCK,’ _May_ 9_th_ (21_st_).

     “On account of the maddening pain in my back, I dressed with great
     difficulty, went below for my morning tea, and then walked about
     the ship to make myself better acquainted with the various
     quarters. A host of passengers, but of totally different appearance
     to those who travelled with me on the _Bretagne_. The most
     perceptible difference lies in the fact that there are no
     emigrants. At eight a.m. I was called to breakfast. My place had
     already been allotted to me. I had a middle-aged man for my
     neighbour, who immediately began to converse. Slept the whole
     morning. The sight of the sea leaves me indifferent. I think with
     horror of the rest of the journey, but also with longing: may it
     soon be over. This is a very fast ship; it is the magnificent new
     _Prince Bismarck_, and is making its first passage. Last week it
     only took six days and fourteen hours from Hamburg to New York. I
     trust we shall get over the horrible distance as quickly. The
     motion is not so smooth as that of the _Bretagne_. The weather is
     splendid just now. At breakfast I became better acquainted with my
     vis-à-vis. It is difficult to say to what nationality he belongs,
     as he speaks all languages wonderfully well; perhaps he is a Jew,
     so I told him on purpose the story of the importunate Jew. He lives
     in Dresden, and is a wholesale tobacco dealer. He has already
     discovered who I am. If he speaks the truth, he heard me conduct in
     New York; anyway, he improves on acquaintance. I have got so
     accustomed to talking in New York that, in spite of my preference
     for silence, I can stand his society without being bored. I am
     astonished to find I sleep so much. In the evening, soon after
     dinner, I was so overcome that I went to bed at ten o’clock and
     slept straight on until seven the next morning. Nothing particular
     happened during the day. A Mr. Aronson and his young wife
     introduced themselves to me. He is the proprietor of the Casino
     Theatre (favoured by Von Bülow), as I discovered by means of an
     autograph album which was sent to me that I might write my name and
     a few lines in it. Schröder, the man who attends to my cabin, is a
     good-natured young German; at table also there are two nice German
     stewards--this is very important for me. I am pleased with the
     ship, the cabin, and the food. As there are no emigrants I can walk
     on the lower deck; this is very pleasant, as I meet no first-class
     passengers there and can be quiet.

     “_May_ 11_th_ (23_rd_).

     “I keep very much to myself and, thanks to my splendid cabin, in
     which there is plenty of room to move about, I feel much freer than
     on the _Bretagne_. I only use the drawing-room in the morning when
     no one is there. There is a nice Steinway grand, and not at all a
     bad musical library, including a few of my own productions. The day
     is divided as follows: Dress, ring my bell, and Schröder brings me
     a cup of tea; first breakfast, eight o’clock; walk on the lower
     deck, work, read. By work I mean the sketches for my next Symphony.
     At twelve o’clock the gong sounds for second breakfast.... I am
     reading a book by Tatistchev, _Alexandre et Napoléon_.

     “_May_ 11_th_ (23_rd_).

     “In New York they so often assured me that the sea was calm at this
     time of year that I believed them. But what a disenchantment! Since
     early morning the weather has been getting worse: rain, wind, and
     towards evening quite a gale. A dreadful night, could not sleep, so
     sat on the sofa. Towards morning dozed a little.

     “_May_ 12_th_ (24_th_).

     “A detestable day. The weather is frightful. Seasickness, could eat
     nothing but an orange.

     “_May_ (13_th_) 25_th_.

     “I feel quite unnerved from exhaustion and sickness. Yesterday
     evening I fell asleep in my clothes on my sofa and slept there the
     whole night. To-day the motion is less, but the weather is still
     dreadful. My nerves are inexpressibly strained and irritated by
     this ceaseless noise and horrible cracking. Shall I ever make up my
     mind to endure such torment again?

     “During the course of the day the motion grew still less and the
     weather improved. I have taken such a dislike to the society of my
     fellow-passengers that the very sight of them annoys and irritates
     me. I constantly sit in my own cabin.

     “_May_ 14_th_ (26_th_).

     “The moon was magnificent to-night. I read in my cabin till I was
     tired, and then went out for a stroll on deck. Everyone, without
     exception, was asleep, and I was the only one of the 300
     first-class passengers who had come out to enjoy the lovely night.
     It was beautiful beyond all words. It was strange to think of the
     terrible night on Sunday, when everything in my cabin, even my
     trunk, was hurled from one side to the other, and the vessel seemed
     to be fighting for life against the storm; when one was racked with
     terror, and, added to all, the electric lamp and bell fell with a
     crash on the floor and was smashed to pieces. That night I vowed
     never to make another sea-voyage. But Schröder, my steward, says he
     resolves to give up his place every time the weather is bad, but no
     sooner is he in harbour than he longs for the sea again. Perhaps it
     may be the same with me. The passengers are getting up a concert,
     and want me to play. Quite the worst part of a sea-voyage is having
     to know all the passengers.

     “_May_ 15_th_ (27_th_).

     “As we neared the Channel it became more lively. Hundreds of little
     ships came in sight. About two o’clock the English coast was
     visible; sometimes rocky and picturesque, sometimes flat and green
     with spring grass.... Soon afterwards we entered Southampton.

     “_May_ 16_th_ (28_th_).

     “After passing Southampton and the Isle of Wight, I went to sleep
     and awoke feeling rather chilly.... Enjoyed the views of the
     English coast and the sight of the many steamers and sailing
     vessels which enliven the Channel. We saw Folkestone and Dover. The
     North Sea is very lively. We passed Heligoland in the night

     “_May_ 17_th_ (29_th_).

     “Arrived early this morning at Cuxhaven.... At 8 a.m. we went on
     board a small steamer that took us to the Custom House. Long wait
     and examination. Arrived at Hamburg by midday.”

Tchaikovsky spent one day in Hamburg and one in Berlin; then travelled
direct to Petersburg.

During his short stay there he was in a cheerful frame of mind. This was
partly the result of his reunion with his friends and relatives, and
partly the delightful impression of the early spring in Petersburg,
which he always enjoyed. This time he was so charmed with the city that
he had a great wish to settle in the neighbourhood, and commissioned us
to look out for a suitable house, or a small country property.

       *       *       *       *       *

Since Frolovskoe was becoming more and more denuded of its forests, and
the demands of the landlord steadily increased, Tchaikovsky decided to
leave. After many vain attempts to find a suitable country house, or to
acquire a small property, he resolved to return to Maidanovo. While he
was abroad, Alexis Safronov had moved all his belongings into the house
he formerly occupied, and arranged it just as in 1886. Although
Tchaikovsky was fond of this house and its surroundings, and looked
forward to working there under the old conditions, his return somewhat
depressed him. There was an air of decay about house and park; the walks
did not please him; and then there was the prospect of an inroad of
summer visitors.

Soon after settling in Maidanovo he was visited by his brother, Modeste
Tchaikovsky, and his nephews, Vladimir Davidov and Count A. Litke. All
four travelled to Moscow together, where he was greatly interested by
the Franco-Russian Exhibition, and enjoyed acting as cicerone to his
favourite nephews.

The chief musical works upon which he was engaged at this time were: the
second act of the Ballet, _The Nut-cracker_; the completion of the
opera, _King René’s Daughter_; the remodelling of the Sextet and the
instrumentation of a symphonic poem, _The Voyevode_, composed the
previous autumn while he was staying at Tiflis.

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “MAIDANOVO, _June_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1891.

     “I have discovered a new instrument in Paris, something between a
     piano and a _glockenspiel_, with a divinely beautiful tone. I want
     to introduce this into the ballet and the symphonic poem. The
     instrument is called the ‘Celesta Mustel,’ and costs 1,200 francs.
     You can only buy it from the inventor, Mustel, in Paris. I want to
     ask you to order one of these instruments. You will not lose by it,
     because you can hire it out to the concerts at which _The Voyevode_
     will be played, and afterwards sell it to the Opera when my ballet
     is put on.... Have it sent direct to Petersburg; but no one there
     must know about it. I am afraid Rimsky-Korsakov and Glazounov might
     hear of it and make use of the new effect before I could. I expect
     the instrument will make a tremendous sensation.”

                            _To J. Konius._

     “_June_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1891.

     “ ... The news that you are engaged (for America) with Brodsky
     rejoices me. Brodsky is one of the most sympathetic men I ever met.
     He is also a fine artist and the best quartet player I ever heard,
     not excepting Laub, who was so great in this line.”

                            _To V. Davidov._

     “_June_ 25_th_ (_July_ 7_th_), 1891.

     “According to my promise, I write to let you know that I finished
     the sketch of the ballet yesterday. You will remember my boasting
     when you were here that I should get it done in about five days.
     But I have taken at least a fortnight. Yes, the old fellow is
     getting worn out. Not only is his hair turning white as snow and
     beginning to fall, not only is he losing his teeth, not only do his
     eyes grow weaker and get tired sooner, not only do his feet begin
     to drag--but he is growing less capable of accomplishing anything.
     This ballet is far weaker than _The Sleeping Beauty_--no doubt
     about it. We shall see how the opera turns out. Once I feel
     convinced that I can only contribute ‘warmed-up’ dishes to the
     musical bill of fare, I shall give up composing.”

The following is quoted from a letter to Arensky, who had been
consulting Tchaikovsky as to the advisability of taking the post of
Director of the Tiflis branch of the Musical Society:--

     “I hardly know how to advise you, dear Anton Stepanovich. I would
     prefer not to do so. If you had some private means, I could only
     rejoice in the prospect of your going to the Caucasus for a time.
     But it saddens me to think of you in the provinces, remote from
     musical centres, overburdened with tiresome work, solitary and
     unable to hear good music. You cannot imagine how it depresses me
     to think of men like Rimsky-Korsakov, Liadov, and yourself being
     obliged to worry with teaching. But how can it be helped? I think
     if you bear it for another two years, and work hard, little by
     little, you may manage to live by composition only. I know in my
     own case this is not impossible. I earn enough now to keep a large
     family, if need were. I may tell you in conclusion, that Tiflis is
     a fascinating town, and life there is pleasant.”

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “MAIDANOVO, _July_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1891.

     “ ... Do not be vexed that I stayed so long in Petersburg without
     coming to see you in Reval.[170] ... From your letter I gather that
     you are pretty comfortable there, although you mention many
     difficulties you have to contend with. I think one must be very
     politic and tactful in these things, then we can get over most
     difficulties. In the diplomatic service we must often _faire bonne
     mine au mauvais jeu_. There is nothing for it! I think you would
     find Valoniev’s diary interesting. He was governor of one of the
     Baltic provinces, and relates a great deal that is interesting. At
     that time Souvarov, the extreme Liberal, ruled in these provinces.
     In the long run the spirit of Pobiedonostsiev is better than the
     spirit of Souvorov.”

Towards the end of July a misfortune befell Tchaikovsky which was the
cause of much subsequent anxiety. While he was taking his afternoon
constitutional, and Alexis was resting in his room, a thief, who
probably entered through the window, carried off the clock which had
been given to him by Nadejda von Meck in 1888. This clock, which was
beautifully decorated with a figure of Joan of Arc on one side, and on
the other with the Apollo of the Grand Opéra, upon a background of black
enamel, had been specially made in Paris, and cost 10,000 francs. For
years Tchaikovsky had hardly consented to be parted from this gift, even
for the necessary cleaning and repairs. It was his chief souvenir of his
relations with his friend and benefactress. The police of Moscow and
Klin were communicated with at once, but to no purpose: the clock was
never recovered.

                            _To V. Davidov._

     “_August_ 1_st_(13_th_), 1891.

     “ ... I am now reading your “Chevrillon on Ceylon,”[171] and
     thinking of you. I do not altogether share your enthusiasm. These
     modern French writers are terribly affected; they have a kind of
     affectation of simplicity which disgusts me almost as much as
     Victor Hugo’s high-sounding phrases, epithets, and antitheses.
     Everything that your favourite recounts in such a clever and lively
     style might be told in very simple and ordinary language, neither
     in such brief and broken sentences, nor yet in long periods with
     the subject and predicate in such forced and unnatural positions.
     It is very easy to parody this gentleman:--

     “Une serviette de table négligemment attachée à son cou, il
     dégustait. Tout autour des mouches, avides, grouillantes, d’un
     noir inquiétant volaient. Nul bruit sinon un claquement de machoirs
     énervant. Une odeur moite, fétide, écœurante, lourde, répandait
     un je ne sais quoi d’animal, de carnacier dans l’air. Point de
     lumière. Un rayon de soleil couchant, pénétrant comme par hasard
     dans la chambre nue et basse, éclairait par-ci, par-là tantôt la
     figure blême du maître engurgitant sa soupe, tantôt celle du valet,
     moustachue, à traits kalmouks, stupide et rampante. On devinait un
     idiot servi par un idiot. 9 heures. Un morne silence régnait. Les
     mouches fatiguées, somnolentes, devenues moins agitées, se
     dispersaient. Et lá-bas, dans le lointain, par la fenêtre, on
     voyait une lune, grimaçante, enorme, rouge, surgir sur l’horizon
     embrasé. Il mangeait, il mangeait toujours. Puis l’estomac bourré,
     la face écarlate, l’œil hagard, il se leva et sortit, etc.,
     etc., etc. I have described my supper this evening. I think Zola
     was the discoverer of this mode of expression.”

                           _To A. Alferaki._

     “_August_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1891.

     “ ... I have received your letter and the songs, and played through
     the latter. I have nothing new to add to what I have already said
     as to your remarkable creative gifts. It is useless to lament that
     circumstances have not enabled you to go through a course of strict
     counterpoint, which you specially needed. This goes without saying.
     Your resolve to confine yourself entirely to song-writing does not
     please me. A true artist, even if he possesses only a limited
     creative capacity, which hinders him from producing great works in
     certain spheres of art, should still keep the highest aim in view.
     Neither age, nor any other obstacle, should check his ambition. Why
     should you suppose one needs less than a complete all-round
     technique in order to compose a perfect song? With an imperfect
     technique you may limit your sphere of work as much as you
     please--you will never get beyond an elegant amateurism.... I
     dislike the system of putting the date of composition on each song.
     What is the use of it? What does it matter to the public when and
     where a work was composed?”

About August 20th Tchaikovsky left home for Kamenka, from whence he went
on to stay with his brother Nicholas. Here he met his favourite poet, A.
Fet, and became very friendly with him. Fet wrote a poem, “To Peter
Ilich Tchaikovsky,” an attention which touched the musician very deeply.
At the end of August he returned to Moscow in a very contented frame of
mind.




XIV

1891-1892


Through September, and the greater part of October, Tchaikovsky remained
at Maidanovo, working uninterruptedly upon the opera _Iolanthe_ and the
orchestration of _The Voyevode_. The work went easily, and his health
was good. The evenings, which during the last years of his life brought
home to him a sense of his loneliness, were enlivened by the presence of
Laroche, who was staying in the house. The friends played arrangements
for four hands, or Laroche read aloud. Everything seemed so ordered as
to leave no room for dissatisfaction with his lot; and yet his former
contentment with his surroundings had vanished.

The theft of his clock was still a matter of anxiety. He might have
partially forgotten it, had not the police announced the capture of the
criminal. “I am living in the atmosphere of one of Gaboriau’s novels,”
he wrote to his brother. “The police have caught the criminal, and he
has confessed. But nothing will induce him to reveal where he has hidden
the clock. To-day he was brought to me in the hopes that I might
persuade him to tell the truth.... He said he would confess all, if he
was left alone with me. We went into the next room. There he flung
himself at my feet and implored forgiveness. Of course I forgave him,
and only begged him to say where the clock was. Then he became very
quiet and afterwards declared he had never stolen it at all!... You can
imagine how all this has upset me, and how it has set me against
Maidanovo.”

Another cause of his passing discontent was wounded pride. So far he
believed himself to have scored a great success in America; he was
convinced that his return was anxiously waited, and that his popularity
had greatly increased. One day, however, he received a letter from
Morris Reno, who had originally engaged him, offering him a three
months’ tour with twenty concerts at a fee of 4,000 dollars. Seeing that
on the first occasion he had received 2,400 dollars for four concerts,
Tchaikovsky immediately concluded that he had greatly overrated the
importance of his previous visit, and was deeply mortified in
consequence. He telegraphed in reply to Reno two words only: “Non.
Tchaikovsky.” Afterwards he came to recognise that there was nothing
offensive in the proposal made to him, and that it in no way denoted any
falling off in the appreciation of the Americans. But the desire to
return was no longer so keen; only a very substantial pecuniary
advantage would have induced him to undertake the voyage.

Finally, he had another reason for feeling somewhat depressed at this
moment. The will which he made in the month of September involuntarily
caused him to think of that “flat-nosed horror,” which was sometimes his
equivalent for death. He had hitherto been under the impression that the
law which existed before the accession of Alexander III. was still in
force, and that at his death all his rights in his operas would pass
into the hands of the Theatrical Direction. The discovery that he had
more than a life interest in them was the reason for making a will. It
proves how much attention Tchaikovsky must have given to his contracts
for _Eugene Oniegin_, _Mazeppa_, and the later operas before signing
them, since the clause relating to his hereditary rights was prominent
in them all. When his brother Modeste called his attention to the fact,
he would not believe him until he had inquired from the Direction, when
he found himself agreeably mistaken. He was always anxious as to the
fate of certain people whom he supported during his lifetime, and was
thankful to feel that this assistance would be continued after his
death.

The number of those he assisted continually increased. “I was the most
expensive pensioner,” says Modeste Tchaikovsky, “for he allowed me about
two thousand roubles a year.” But he always met every request for money
half-way. Here are a few specimens of his generosity, quoted from
letters to Jurgenson and others:--

     “DEAR FRIEND,--I want to help X. in some way. You are selling the
     tickets for his concert. Should they go badly, take fifteen or
     twenty places on my behalf and give them to whomsoever you please.
     Of course, X. must know nothing about it.”

     “If you are in pecuniary difficulties,” he wrote to Y., “come to
     your sincere friend (myself), who now earns so much from his operas
     and will be delighted to help you. I promise not a soul shall hear
     of it; but it will be a great pleasure to me.”

     “Please write at once to K., that he is to send Y. twenty-five
     roubles a month. He may pay him three months in advance.”

There would be no difficulty in multiplying such instances. Not only his
neighbour’s need, but the mere whim of another person, awoke in
Tchaikovsky the desire of fulfilment. He always wished to give all and
receive nothing. It is not surprising, therefore, that there were
occasionally periods--as in September and October, 1891--when he found
himself penniless and felt the shortness of funds, chiefly because he
was unable to help others.

His correspondence with concert agents, publishers and all kinds of
applicants had become a great burden to him in those days.

All these things conduced to that mood of melancholy which is reflected
in the letters written at this time.

At the end of October he went to Moscow, to be present at the first
performance of _Pique Dame_, and to conduct Siloti’s concert, at which
his Symphonic Fantasia, _The Voyevode_, was brought out.

            _To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._

     “MOSCOW, _October_ 31_st_ (_November_ 12_th_), 1891.

     “It is difficult to say how deeply your precious lines touched and
     delighted me. Naturally I felt in my heart of hearts that you had
     not forgotten me--but it is pleasant to have some clear evidence
     that amid all your varied and complicated occupations, and while
     under the impression of a profound family sorrow, you still found
     time to think of me.

     “I was very pleased to make Fet’s acquaintance. From his
     ‘Reminiscences,’ which were published in the _Russky Viestnik_, I
     fancied it would not be very interesting to converse with him. On
     the contrary, he is most agreeable company, full of humour and
     originality. If your Highness only knew how enchanting his summer
     residence is! The house and park--what a cosy retreat for a poet in
     his old age! Unluckily, as his wife complained to me, the poet does
     not enjoy life in these poetical surroundings at all. He sits at
     home all day, dictating verses, or his translation of Martial, to
     his lady secretary. He read me many new poems, and I was surprised
     at the freshness and youthfulness of his inspiration. We both
     regretted your Highness could not devote yourself entirely to
     poetry. If only you could repose in summer in just such a solitary
     spot! But, alas! it is not possible....

     “When I have finished my opera and ballet I shall give up that
     kind of work for a time and devote myself to Symphony.... I often
     think it is time to shut up shop. A composer who has won success
     and recognition stands in the way of younger men who want to be
     heard. Time was when no one wanted to listen to my music, and if
     the Grand Duke, your father, had not been my patron, not one of my
     operas would ever have been performed. Now I am spoilt and
     encouraged in every way. It is very pleasant, but I am often
     tormented by the thought that I ought to make room for others.”

The first performance of _Pique Dame_ in Moscow took place on November
4th (16th), 1891, under Altani’s bâton. It was merely a fair copy of the
Petersburg performance, and presented no “special” qualities as regards
musical rendering or scenery.

The opera met with a warmer and more genuine welcome than in the
northern capital. Nevertheless the Press was not very pleased with the
music. The _Moscow Viedomosti_ thought “Tchaikovsky possessed a
remarkable talent for imitation, sometimes going so far as to borrow
wholesale from the older masters, as in his Suite _Mozartiana_.” Another
newspaper considered the opera “more pleasing than inspired.” The only
serious and intelligent criticism of the work appeared in the _Russky
Viedomosti_, from Kashkin’s pen.

Siloti’s concert, two days later, was marked by one of the most painful
episodes in the composer’s career. Kashkin, in his ‘Reminiscences,’ says
that, even at the rehearsals, Tchaikovsky had shown a kind of careless
indifference in conducting his latest orchestral work, the Symphonic
Ballade, _The Voyevode_. After the rehearsal he asked several people for
their opinion upon the work, among others Taneiev, who seems to have
replied that the chief movement of the Ballade--the love episode--was
not equal to similar episodes in _The Tempest_, _Romeo and Juliet_, or
_Francesca_. Moreover, he considered that Tchaikovsky had treated it
wrongly, and that Poushkin’s words could be _sung_ to this melody, so
that it was more in the style of a vocal than an orchestral work.

At the concert _The Voyevode_ made little impression, notwithstanding
the enthusiastic reception given to the composer. This was due to some
extent to Tchaikovsky’s careless rendering of the work.

Siloti relates that during the interval the composer came into the
artists’ room and tore his score to pieces, exclaiming: “Such rubbish
should never have been written.” To tear a thick score in pieces is not
an easy feat, and possibly Siloti’s memory may have been at fault. It is
more probable that Tchaikovsky _wished_ to destroy the score on the spot
than that he actually did so. Besides, he himself wrote to V. Napravnik:
“_The Voyevode_ turned out such wretched stuff that I tore it up the day
_after_ the concert.”

Siloti carefully concealed the parts of _The Voyevode_, so that after
Tchaikovsky’s death the score was restored from these and published by
M. Belaiev, of Leipzig. When it was given for the first time in
Petersburg, under Nikisch, it made a very different impression upon
Taneiev, and he bitterly regretted his hasty verdict delivered in 1891.

Tchaikovsky remained two days longer in Moscow, in order to be present
at a dinner given in his honour by the artists who had taken part in
_Pique Dame_, and returned to Maidanovo worn out with the excitement he
had experienced.

On December 17th (29th) he started upon his concert tour, which included
not only foreign, but Russian towns. He was pledged to conduct in Kiev
and Warsaw, as well as at the Hague and in Amsterdam,[172] and to attend
the first performance of _Oniegin_ in Hamburg and of _Pique Dame_ in
Prague.

At the time of the first performance of _Pique Dame_ in Kiev,
Tchaikovsky had become intimately acquainted with Prianichnikov, whose
services to art he valued very highly. Not only the attitude of this
artist towards him, but that of the entire opera company, had touched
him very deeply. He was aware that the affairs of this company--one of
the best in Russia--were not very flourishing, and he wanted to show his
sympathy in some substantial form. He proposed, therefore, that the
first performance of his _Iolanthe_ should be transferred from
Petersburg to Kiev, provided the Imperial Direction made no objections
to the plan. Naturally they objected very strongly, and Tchaikovsky, by
way of compensation, offered to conduct a concert for the benefit of
Prianichnikov’s company. The local branch of the Musical Society, which
had made overtures to the composer on several occasions, was offended at
his preference for the artists of the opera, and immediately engaged him
for a concert of their own. In view of his former connection with the
Society, Tchaikovsky could not refuse this offer. Both concerts were a
great success, and evoked immense enthusiasm from the public and the
Press.

From Kiev he went to Kamenka for a few days, but a feeling of sadness
came over him at the sight of his old dwelling-place, so inseparably
connected with the memory of the sister he had lost.

... At Warsaw, where he arrived on December 29th (January 10th), he was
overcome with that terrible, despairing nostalgia, which, towards the
close of his life, accompanied him like some sinister travelling
companion whenever he left Russia. “I am counting--just as last
year--the days, hours, and minutes till my journey is over,” he wrote to
Vladimir Davidov. “You are constantly in my thoughts, for at every
access of agitation and home-sickness, whenever my spiritual horizon
grows dark, the thought that you are there, that I shall see you sooner
or later, flashes like a ray of sunlight across my mind. I am not
exaggerating, upon my honour! Every moment this sun-ray keeps breaking
forth in these or similar words: “Yes, it is bad, but never mind, Bob
lives in the world”; “Far away in ‘Peter’[173] sits Bob, drudging at his
work”; “In a month’s time I shall see Bob again.”

                            _To N. Konradi._

     “WARSAW, _December_ 31_st_ (_January_ 12_th_).

     “I have been three days in Warsaw. I do not find this town as
     agreeable as many others. It is better in summer. The rehearsals
     are in progress, but the orchestra here is worse than second-rate.
     I spend my time with my former pupil, the celebrated violinist
     Barcewicz, and with the Friede[174] family. I shall stay here over
     the New Year. In the evening I generally go to the theatre. The
     opera is not bad here. Yesterday I saw the famous _Cavalleria
     Rusticana_. This opera is really very remarkable, chiefly for its
     successful subject. Perhaps Modi could find a similar libretto. Oh,
     when will the glad day of return be here!”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “WARSAW, _January_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1892.

     “ ... I have only time for a few lines. Yesterday my concert took
     place in the Opera House, and went off brilliantly in every
     respect. The orchestra, which took a great liking to me, played
     admirably. Barcewicz played my Concerto with unusual spirit, and
     Friede[175] sang beautifully. The day before yesterday
     Grossmann[176] arranged a grand soirée in my honour. The Polish
     countesses were fascinatingly amiable to me. I have been fêted
     everywhere. Gurko[177] is the only person who has not shown me the
     least attention.... Three weeks hence I go to Hamburg. I shall
     conduct _Oniegin_ there myself; Pollini has made a point of it.”

                           _To A. Merkling._

     “BERLIN, _January_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1892.

     “ ... At Grossman’s grand evening I observed that the Polish ladies
     (many very aristocratic women were there) are amiable, cultivated,
     interesting, and sympathetic. The farewell at the station yesterday
     was very magnificent. There is some talk of giving one of my operas
     in Polish next season. I am spending a day in Berlin to recover
     from the exciting existence in Warsaw. To-morrow I leave for
     Hamburg, where I conduct _Oniegin_ on January 7th (19th). On the
     29th (February 10th) my concert takes place in Amsterdam, and on
     the 30th (February 11th), at the Hague. After that--full steam
     homewards. I can only look forward with fearful excitement and
     impatience to the blessed day when I shall return to my adored
     Mother Russia.”

Tchaikovsky arrived in Hamburg to find _Oniegin_ had been well studied,
and the preparations for its staging satisfactory on the whole. “The
conductor here,” he wrote to his favourite nephew, “is not merely
passable, but actually has genius, and he ardently desires to conduct
the first performance. Yesterday I heard a wonderful rendering of
_Tannhäuser_ under his direction. The singers, the orchestra, Pollini,
the managers, and the conductor--his name is Mahler[178]--are all in
love with _Oniegin_; but I am very doubtful whether the Hamburg public
will share their enthusiasm.” Tchaikovsky’s doubts as to the success of
_Eugene Oniegin_ were well founded. The opera was not much applauded.

                         _To Vladimir Davidov._

     “PARIS, _January_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1892.

     “ ... I am in a very awkward position. I have a fortnight in
     prospect during which I do not know how to kill time. I thought
     this would be easier in Paris than anywhere else--but it was only
     on the first day that I did not feel bored. Since yesterday I have
     been wondering how I could save myself from idleness and ennui. If
     Sapellnikov and Menter would not be offended at my not going to
     Holland, how gladly I should start homewards! If the Silotis had
     not been here, I do not think I could have stayed. Yesterday I was
     at the ‘Folies-Bergères,’ and it bored me terribly. The Russian
     clown Durov brings on 250 dressed-up rats. It is most curious in
     what forms the Parisians display their Russophile propensities.
     Neither at the Opera, nor at any of the more serious theatres, is
     anything Russian performed, and while _we_ are giving
     _Esclarmonde_, _they_ show their goodwill towards Russian art by
     the medium of Durov and his rats! Truly, it enrages me--I say it
     frankly--partly on account of my own interests. Why cannot Colonne,
     who is now the head of the Opera, give my _Pique Dame_, or my new
     Ballet? In autumn he spoke of doing so, and engaged Petipa with a
     view to this. But it was all empty talk.... You will say: ‘Are you
     not ashamed to be so envious and small-minded?’ I am ashamed.
     Having nothing to do, I am reading Zola’s _La bête humaine_. I
     cannot understand how people can seriously accept Zola as a great
     writer. Could there be anything more false and improbable than the
     leading idea of this novel? Of course, there are parts in which the
     truth is set forth with realism and vitality. But, in the main, it
     is so artificial that one never for a moment feels any sympathy
     with the actions or sufferings of the characters. It is simply a
     story of crime _à la_ Gaboriau, larded with obscenities.”

His increasing nostalgia and depression of spirits finally caused
Tchaikovsky to abandon the concerts in Holland and return to Petersburg
about the end of January. There he spent a week with his relatives, and
went back to Maidanovo on the 28th (February 9th).

       *       *       *       *       *

While in Paris, Tchaikovsky completed the revision of his Sextet, and on
his return to Russia devoted himself to the orchestration of the
_Nut-cracker_ Ballet. He was in haste to finish those numbers from this
work, which, in the form of a Suite, were to be played in St. Petersburg
on March 7th (19th), instead of the ill-fated ballade, _The Voyevode_.

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “MAIDANOVO, _February_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1892.

     “I am living very pleasantly here and enjoying the most beautiful
     of all the winter months. I love these clear, rather frosty days,
     when the sun sometimes begins to feel quite warm. They bring a
     feeling of spring.... Volodya Napravnik is staying with me just
     now, and has turned out to be excellent company. He is very
     musical, and that is a great pleasure. I often play pianoforte
     duets with him in the evening, or simply listen while he plays my
     favourite pieces. I have taken a house at Klin which will be my
     future home.... Later on I may buy it. Thank God, my financial
     position is excellent. _Pique Dame_ was given nineteen times in
     Moscow, and the house was always sold out. Besides, there are the
     other operas. There is a good deal due to me from Petersburg.”

Late in February Tchaikovsky went to St. Petersburg for a short visit.
Here he received news which made a startling impression upon him. He had
long believed his old governess Fanny to be dead. Suddenly he was
informed that not only was she still alive, but had sent him her
greetings. The first effect of these glad tidings came upon him as a
kind of shock. In his own words, “he felt as though he had been told
that his mother had risen from the dead, that the last forty-three years
of existence were nothing but a dream, and that he had awakened to find
himself in the upstairs rooms of the house at Votinsk.” He dreaded, too,
lest his dear teacher should now be only the shadow of her old self, a
feeble and senile creature to whom death would be a boon. Nevertheless,
he wrote to her at once, a kindly letter in which he asked if he could
serve her in any way, and enclosed his photograph. Her reply, written in
a firm handwriting, in which he recognised her old clearness of style,
and the absence of all complaint, greatly assured him. Thus, between
teacher and pupil the old affectionate relations were again renewed.

At the Symphony Concert of the Musical Society, on March 7th (19th),
Tchaikovsky conducted his _Romeo and Juliet_ Overture and the
_Nut-cracker_ Suite. The new work must have had an unprecedented
success, since five out of the six movements had to be repeated.

At a concert given by the School of Jurisprudence, on March 3rd (15th),
the composer had the honour of being introduced to the Tsarevich, now
the reigning Emperor of Russia.

He returned to Maidanovo on March 9th.

                            _To J. Konius._

     “_March_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1892.

     “In Petersburg I heard a very interesting violinist named (César)
     Thomson. Do you know him? He has a most remarkable technique; for
     instance, he plays passages of octaves with a rapidity to which no
     one has previously attained. I am telling you this on the
     assumption that you, too, will attempt this artistic feat. It makes
     a tremendous effect.”

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “_March_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1892.

     “ ... I have no recollection of having promised you that I would
     never give away any of my manuscripts. I should have been very
     unwilling to make any such promise, because there are cases in
     which I could only be very pleased to present one of my scores to
     the Opera Direction--or in a similar instance.[179] ... Your
     reproach that I give them away ‘right and left’ is without
     foundation. The Opera Direction, to which I owe my prosperity, is
     surely worthy to possess one of my scores in its superb library;
     and the same applies to the Russian Musical Society, from which
     originated the Conservatoire where I studied, and where I was
     invariably treated with kindness and indulgence. If you are really
     going to make it a _sine quâ non_ that all my manuscripts must be
     your property, we must discuss the question ... and should you
     convince me that your interests really suffer through the
     presentation of my scores, I will promise not to do it again. I
     have so rarely deprived you of the priceless joy of possessing my
     autograph scrawls! You have so many to the good! I cannot
     understand why you should be so annoyed!”

At the end of March Tchaikovsky spent a week with his relatives in
Petersburg--now a very reduced circle--and afterwards went to Moscow.
During the month Tchaikovsky spent in this city Alexis moved all his
master’s belongings from Maidanovo to the new house at Klin.

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “MOSCOW, _April_ 23_rd_ (_May_ 5_th_), 1892.

     “Moscow is unbearable, for there is scarcely a human being who does
     not bother me with visits or invitations; or ask me to look at an
     opera or songs, or--most unpleasant of all--try to get money out of
     me in one form or another. I shall look back upon this month spent
     in Moscow as upon a horrid nightmare. So far, I have conducted
     _Faust_ and Rubinstein’s _Demon_; _Oniegin_ has yet to come.[180]
     But what are all these small inconveniences compared to what you
     have to do?[181] I have read your last letter with the greatest
     interest, and felt glad for your sake that you have such a fine
     opportunity of helping your fellow-creatures. I am sure that you
     will always cherish the memory of your mission to the
     famine-stricken Siberians.”




     XV


     After the month’s uncongenial work in Moscow, Tchaikovsky rested a
     few days in Petersburg, until Alexis had everything ready for him
     in the new home--which was destined to be his last. The house at
     Klin stood at the furthest end of the little town, and was
     completely surrounded by fields and woods; two-storied and very
     roomy. It particularly pleased Tchaikovsky, because--quite an
     unusual thing in a small country house in Russia--the upper rooms
     were large, and could be turned into an excellent bedroom and study
     for a guest. This was perhaps the only improvement upon Maidanovo
     and Frolovskoe. A small garden, the usual outlook across the
     country, the neighbourhood of endless kitchen-gardens on the one
     hand, and of the high-road to Moscow on the other, deprived the
     spot of all poetic beauty, and only Tchaikovsky, with his very
     modest demands for comfort or luxury, could have been quite
     satisfied--even enthusiastic--about the place.

     After the composer’s death, this house was purchased by his
     servant, Alexis Safronov, who sold it in 1897 to Modeste
     Tchaikovsky and his nephew, Vladimir Davidov. At the present
     moment--in so far as possible--every relic, and all documents
     connected with the composer, are preserved in the house.

     [Illustration: THE HOUSE IN WHICH TCHAIKOVSKY LIVED AT KLIN

     (HIS LAST HOME)]

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “KLIN, _May_ 20_th_ (_June_ 1_st_), 1892.

     “I have spent so much money lately (of course not upon myself
     alone) that all my hopes of laying aside something for George[182]
     have vanished.”

                           _To Eugen Zabel._

     “KLIN, NEAR MOSCOW, _May_ 24_th_ (_June_ 5_th_), 1892.

     “I have just received your esteemed letter, and feel it a pleasant
     duty to send you an immediate answer, but as I write German very
     badly I must have recourse to French. I doubt if you will find
     anything new, interesting, or of any value for your biography in
     the following lines; but I promise to say quite frankly all that I
     know and feel about Rubinstein.

     “It was in 1858 that I heard the name of Anton Rubinstein for the
     first time. I was then eighteen, and I had just entered the higher
     class of the School of Jurisprudence, and only took up music as an
     amateur. For several years I had taken lessons on Sundays from a
     very distinguished pianist, M. Rodolphe Kündinger. In those days,
     never having heard any other virtuoso than my teacher, I believed
     him, in all sincerity, to be the greatest in the world. One day
     Kündinger came to the lesson in a very absent-minded mood, and paid
     little attention to the scales and exercises I was playing. When I
     asked this admirable man and artist what was the matter, he replied
     that, the day before, he had heard the pianist Rubinstein, just
     come from abroad; this man had impressed him so profoundly that he
     had not yet recovered from the experience, and everything in the
     way of virtuosity now seemed to him so poor that it was as
     unbearable to listen to my scales as to hear himself play the
     piano.

     “I knew what a noble and sincere nature Kündinger possessed. I had
     a very high opinion of his taste and knowledge--and this caused his
     words to excite my imagination and my curiosity in the highest
     degree. In the course of my scholastic year I had the opportunity
     of hearing Rubinstein--and not only of _hearing_ him, but of
     _seeing_ him play and conduct. I lay stress upon this first _visual
     impression_, because it is my profound conviction that Rubinstein’s
     prestige is based not only upon his rare talent, but also upon an
     irresistible charm which emanates from his whole personality; so
     that it is not sufficient to hear him in order to gain a full
     impression--one must see him too. I heard and saw him. Like
     everyone else, I fell under the spell of his charm. All the same, I
     finished my studies, entered the Government service, and continued
     to amuse myself with a little music in my leisure hours. But
     gradually my true vocation made itself felt. I will spare you
     details which have nothing to do with my subject, but I must tell
     you that about the time of the foundation of the St. Petersburg
     Conservatoire, in September, 1862, I was no longer a clerk in the
     Ministry of Justice, but a young man resolved to devote himself to
     music, and ready to face all the difficulties which were predicted
     by my relatives, who were displeased that I should voluntarily
     abandon a career in which I had made a good start. I entered the
     Conservatoire. My professors were: Zaremba for counterpoint and
     fugue, etc., Anton Rubinstein (Director) for form and
     instrumentation. I remained three and a half years at the
     Conservatoire, and during this time I saw Rubinstein daily, and
     sometimes several times a day, except during the vacations. When I
     joined the Conservatoire I was--as I have already told you--an
     enthusiastic worshipper of Rubinstein. But when I knew him better,
     when I became his pupil and we entered into daily relations with
     each other, my enthusiasm for his personality became even greater.
     In him I adored not only a great pianist and composer, but a man of
     rare nobility, frank, loyal, generous, incapable of petty and
     vulgar sentiments, clear and right-minded, of infinite goodness--in
     fact, a man who towered far above the common herd. As a teacher, he
     was of incomparable value. He went to work simply, without grand
     phrases or long dissertations; but always taking his duty
     seriously. He was only once angry with me. After the holidays I
     took him an overture entitled ‘The Storm,’ in which I had been
     guilty of all kinds of whims of form and orchestration. He was
     hurt, and said that it was not for the development of imbeciles
     that he took the trouble to teach the art of composition. I left
     the Conservatoire full of gratitude and admiration for my
     professor.

     “For over three years I saw him daily. But what were our relations?
     He was a great and illustrious musician--I a humble pupil, who only
     saw him fulfilling his duties, and had no idea of his intimate
     life. A great gulf lay between us. When I left the Conservatoire I
     hoped that by working courageously, and gradually making my way, I
     might look forward to the happiness of seeing this gulf bridged
     over. I dared to aspire to the honour of becoming the friend of
     Rubinstein.

     “It was not to be. Nearly thirty years have passed since then, but
     the gulf is deeper and wider than before. Through my professorship
     in Moscow I came to be the intimate friend of Nicholas Rubinstein;
     I had the pleasure of seeing Anton from time to time; I have always
     continued to care for him intensely, and to regard him as the
     greatest of artists and the noblest of men, but I never became, and
     never shall become, his friend. This great luminary revolves always
     in my heaven, but while I see its light I feel its remoteness more
     and more.

     “It would be difficult to explain the reason for this. I think,
     however, that my _amour propre_ as a composer has a great deal to
     do with it. In my youth I was very impatient to make my way, to win
     a name and reputation as a gifted composer, and I hoped that
     Rubinstein--who already enjoyed a high position in the musical
     world--would help me in my chase for fame. But painful as it is, I
     must confess that he did nothing, _absolutely nothing_, to forward
     my plans or assist my projects. Certainly he never injured me--he
     is too noble and generous to put a spoke in the wheel of a
     comrade--but he never departed from his attitude of reserve and
     kindly indifference towards me. This has always been a profound
     regret. The most probable explanation of this mortifying
     luke-warmness is that Rubinstein _does not care for my music, that
     my musical temperament is antipathetic to him_. Now I still see
     him from time to time, and always with pleasure, for this
     extraordinary man has only to hold out his hand and smile for us to
     fall at his feet. At the time of his jubilee I had the happiness of
     going through much trouble and fatigue for him; his attitude to me
     is always exceedingly correct, exceedingly polite and kind--but we
     live very much apart, and I can tell you nothing about his way of
     life, his views and aims--nothing, in fact, that could be of
     interest to the future readers of your book.

     “I have never received letters from Rubinstein, and never wrote to
     him but twice in my life, to thank him for having, in recent years,
     included, among other Russian works in his programmes, one or two
     of my own.

     “I have made a point of fulfilling your wish and telling you all I
     could about Rubinstein. If I have told too little, it is not my
     fault, nor that of Anton, but of fatality.

     “Forgive my blots and smudges. To-morrow I have to leave home, and
     have no time to copy this.

     “Your devoted

“P. T.”


The sole object of the journey mentioned in this letter was to take a
cure at Vichy. The catarrh of the stomach from which he suffered had
been a trouble to Tchaikovsky for the last twenty years. Once, while
staying with Kondratiev at Nizy, the local doctor had recommended him
_natron_ water. From that time he could not exist without it, and took
it in such quantities that he ended by acquiring a kind of taste for it.
But it did not cure his complaint, which grew worse and worse, so that
in 1876 he had to undergo a course of mineral waters. The catarrhal
trouble was not entirely cured, however, but returned at intervals with
more or less intensity. About the end of the eighties his condition grew
worse. Once during the rehearsals for _Pique Dame_, while staying at the
Hôtel Rossiya in St. Petersburg, he sent for his brother Modeste, and
declared he “could not live through the night.” This turned his thoughts
more and more to the “hateful but health-giving Vichy.” But the periods
of rest after his various tours, and of work in his “hermit’s cave” at
Klin, were so dear to him that until 1892 he could not make up his mind
to revisit this watering-place. This year he only decided to go because
the health of Vladimir Davidov equally demanded a cure at Vichy. He
hoped in this congenial company to escape his usual home-sickness, and
that it might even prove a pleasure to take his nephew abroad.

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “VICHY, _June_ 19_th_ (_July_ 1_st_), 1892.

     “We have been here a week. It seems more like seven months, and I
     look forward with horror to the fortnight which remains. I dislike
     Vichy as much as I did sixteen years ago, but I think the waters
     will do me good. In any case I feel sure Bob will benefit by them.”

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “VICHY, _July_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1892.

     “I only possess one short note from Liszt, which is of so little
     importance that it is not worth your while to send it to La Mara.
     Liszt was a good fellow, and ready to respond to everyone who paid
     court to him. But as I never toadied to him, or any other
     celebrity, we never got into correspondence. I think he really
     preferred Messrs. Cui and Co., who went on pilgrimages to Weimar,
     and he was more in sympathy with their music than with mine. As far
     as I know, Liszt was not particularly interested in my works.”

By July 9th (21st) Tchaikovsky and his nephew were back in Petersburg,
from whence he travelled almost immediately to Klin, where he busied
himself with the new Symphony (No. 6) which he wished to have ready in
August.

At the outset of his career Tchaikovsky was somewhat indifferent as to
the manner in which his works were published. He troubled very little
about the quality of the pianoforte arrangements of his operas and
symphonic works, and still less about printers’ errors. About the end of
the seventies, however, he entirely changed his attitude, and henceforth
became more and more particular and insistent in his demands respecting
the pianoforte arrangements and correction of his compositions. Quite
half his correspondence with Jurgenson is taken up with these matters
... His requirements constantly increased. No one could entirely satisfy
him. The cleverest arrangers, such as Klindworth, Taneiev, and Siloti
did not please him, because they made their arrangements too difficult
for amateurs. He was also impatient at the slowness with which they
worked.

Now that for a year and a half Tchaikovsky has been in his grave, it is
easy to attribute to certain events in his life (which passed unnoticed
at the time) a kind of prophetic significance. His special and exclusive
care as to the editing and publishing of his works in 1892 may, however,
be compared to the preparations which a man makes for a long journey,
when he is as much occupied with what lies before him as with what he is
leaving behind. He strives to finish what is unfinished, and to leave
all in such a condition that he can face the unknown with a quiet
conscience.

The words Tchaikovsky addressed to Jurgenson with reference to the Third
Suite--“If all my best works were published in this style I might depart
in peace”--offer some justification for my simile.

In the autumn of 1892 he undertook the entire correction of the
orchestral parts of _Iolanthe_ and the _Nut-cracker_ Ballet; the
improvements and corrections of the pianoforte arrangement (two hands)
of _Iolanthe_; the corrections of the pianoforte score of the Opera and
Ballet, and a simplified pianoforte arrangement of the latter.

Tchaikovsky so often speaks in his letters of his dislike to this kind
of work that he must have needed extraordinary self-abnegation to take
this heavy burden upon his shoulders.

As with the spirits in Dante’s _Inferno_, the dread of their torments by
the will of divine justice “_si volge in disio_,”[183] so the energy
with which Tchaikovsky attacked his task turned to a morbid, passionate
excitement. “Corrections, corrections! More, more! For Heaven’s sake,
corrections!” he cries in his letters to Jurgenson, so that the casual
reader might take for an intense desire that which was, in reality, only
a worry to him, as the following letter shows.

                            _To S. Taneiev._

     “KLIN, _July_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1892.

     “Just now I am busy looking through the pianoforte score of
     _Iolanthe_. It bothers and annoys me indescribably. Before I went
     abroad in May I had sketched the first movement and finale of a
     Symphony. Abroad it did not progress in the least, and now I have
     no time for it.”

                          _To Anna Merkling._

     “KLIN, _July_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1892.

     “DEAREST ANNA,--I have received your letter with the little
     additional note from dear Katy.[184] What extraordinary people you
     are! How can you imagine it would be a great pleasure for you if I
     were to come on a visit? If I were cheerful and pleasant company
     that would be a different matter. But I am no use for
     conversational purposes, and am often out of spirits, nor have I
     any resources in myself. I cannot help thinking that if I came you
     might afterwards say to yourselves: ‘This old fool, we awaited him
     with such impatience, and he is not a bit nice after all!’ Anna, I
     really do want to come to the Oboukhovs’, but I cannot positively
     say ‘yes’ at present.... It will be sad to part from Bob, who is
     dearer to me than ever, since we have been inseparable companions
     for the last six weeks.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “KLIN, _July_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1892.

     “ ... I am sorry your comedy is ineffective and not suitable for
     the stage. Why do you think so? Authors are never good judges of
     their own work. Flaubert’s letters--which I enjoy very much at
     present--are very curious in this respect. I think there is no more
     sympathetic personality in all the world of literature. A hero and
     martyr to his art. And so wise! I have found some astonishing
     answers to my questionings as to God and religion in his book.”

At the end of July Russian art suffered a great loss in the death of the
connoisseur and wealthy patron, S. M. Tretiakov, who had been Nicholas
Rubinstein’s right hand in the founding of the Moscow Conservatoire. To
Tchaikovsky, Tretiakov’s somewhat sudden end came as a severe blow, and
he immediately travelled to Moscow to be present at the funeral of his
friend.

A pleasanter incident during this summer of hard work came in the form
of an invitation to conduct a concert at the Vienna Exhibition. “It is
an advantage,” he wrote to his brother Modeste, “because so far--on
account of Hanslick--Vienna has been hostile to me. I should like to
overcome this unfriendly opinion.”

At last, at the very end of August, the vast accumulation of
proof-correcting was finished, which, as he himself said, would have
almost driven him out of his mind, but for his regular and healthy way
of life. “Even in dreams,” he wrote to Vladimir Davidov, “I see
corrections, and flats and sharps that refuse to do what they are
ordered.... I should like to see you at Verbovka after Vienna, but
Sophie Menter, who is coming to my concert there, has given me a
pressing invitation to her castle. Three times already I have broken my
promise to go to Itter. I am really interested to see this ‘marvel,’ as
everyone calls the castle.”

In the course of this year, at the suggestion of the Grand Duke
Constantine Constantinovich, President of the Academy of Sciences,
Tchaikovsky was invited by the academician Y. K. Grote to contribute to
the new _Dictionary of the Russian Language_, then appearing in a second
edition. Tchaikovsky’s duties were limited to the superintendence of
musical words, but he was flattered by his connection with such an
important scientific work.




XVI

1892-1893


Tchaikovsky never travelled so much as during the foregoing season. It
is true he was always fond of moving about. He could not remain long in
one spot; but this was chiefly because it always seemed to him that
“every place is better than the one in which we are.” Paris, Kamenka,
Clarens, Rome, Brailov, Simaki, Tiflis--all in turn were his favourite
resorts, which he was delighted to visit and equally pleased to quit.
But apart from the ultimate goal, travelling in itself was an enjoyment
rather than a dread to Tchaikovsky.

From 1885, when he resolved “no longer to avoid mankind, but to keep
myself before the world so long as it needs me,” his journeys became
more frequent. When he began to conduct his own compositions in 1887,
his journeys were undertaken with a fresh object: the propagation of his
works abroad. As his fame increased, so also did the number of those who
wished to hear him interpret his own music, and thus it was natural
that by 1892 the number of his journeys was far greater than it had been
ten years earlier.

When Tchaikovsky started upon his first concert tour he undoubtedly did
violence to his “actual self,” and did not look forward with pleasure,
but rather with dread, to what lay before him. At the same time he was
full of the expectation of happy impressions and brilliant results, and
was firmly convinced of the importance of his undertaking, both for his
own fame and for the cause of Russian art in general.

The events of his first tour would not have disappointed even a man less
modest than Tchaikovsky. He had many consoling experiences, beginning
with the discovery that he was better known abroad than he had hitherto
suspected. His reception in Prague, with its “moment of absolute
happiness,” the sensation in Paris, the attention and respect with which
he was received in Germany, all far surpassed his expectations.
Nevertheless, he returned disillusioned, not by what had taken place,
but by the price he had paid for his happiness.

But no sooner home again, than he forgot all he had gone through, and
was planning his second tour with evident enjoyment.

This inexplicable discontent and disenchantment may, he thought, have
been the result of a passing mood. The worst of his fears--the
appearance before a crowd of foreigners--was over. He believed his
second appearance would be far less painful, and expected even happier
impressions than on his first tour. He was mistaken. He merely awoke to
the “uselessness” of the sacrifice he was making for popularity’s sake,
and he asked himself whether it would not be better to stay at home and
work. His belief in the importance of the undertaking vanished, and with
it the whole reason for doing violence to his nature. In the early part
of 1890 he declined all engagements to travel, and devoted himself to
composition. But by the end of the year Tchaikovsky seems to have
forgotten all the lessons of his two concert tours, for he began once
more to conduct in Russia and abroad. Every journey cost him keener
pangs of home-sickness, and each time he vowed it should be the last.
Yet no sooner had he reached home again, than he began planning yet
another tour. It seemed as though he had become the victim of some blind
force which drove him hither and thither at will. This power was not
merely complaisance to the demands of others, nor his old passion for
travelling, nor the fulfilment of a duty, nor yet the pursuit of
applause; still less was it the outcome of a desire for material gain.
This mysterious force had its source in an inexplicable, restless,
despondent condition of mind, which sought appeasement in any kind of
distraction. I cannot explain it as a premonition of his approaching
death; there are no grounds whatever for such a supposition. Nor will I,
in any case, take upon myself to solve the problem of my brother’s last
psychological development. I will only call attention to the fact that
he passed through a similar phase before every decisive change in his
life. As at the beginning of the sixties, when he chose a musical
career, and in 1885, when he resolved to “show himself in the eyes of
the world,” so also at this juncture, we are conscious of a feeling
_that things could not have gone on much longer_; we feel on the brink
of a change, as though something had come to an end, and was giving
place to a new and unknown presence.

His death, which came to solve the problem, seemed fortuitous. Yet it is
clear to me that it came at a moment _when things could not have gone on
much longer_; nor can I shake off the impression that the years 1892 and
1893 were the dark harbingers of a new and serene epoch.

An unpleasant surprise awaited Tchaikovsky in Vienna. The concert, in
connection with the Exhibition, which he had been engaged to conduct
was to be given, so he discovered, in what was practically a large
restaurant, reeking of cookery and the fumes of beer and tobacco. The
composer immediately declined to fulfil his contract, unless the tables
were removed and the room converted into something approaching a
concert-hall. Moreover, the orchestra, though not very bad, was
ridiculously small. Tchaikovsky’s friends--Door, Sophie Menter, and
Sapellnikov--were indignant at the whole proceeding, and realising the
unpleasantness of his position, he decided to disregard his contract,
and started with Mme. Menter for her castle at Itter.

Professor Door has related his reminiscences of Tchaikovsky’s unlucky
visit to Vienna,[185] when he met his old friend again after a long
separation. “I was shocked at his appearance,” he writes, “for he had
aged so much that I only recognised him by his wonderful blue eyes. A
man old at fifty! His delicate constitution had suffered terribly from
his incessant creative work. We spoke of old days, and I asked him how
he now got on in Petersburg. He replied that he was so overwhelmed with
all kinds of attentions that he was perpetually embarrassed by them, and
had but one trouble, which was that he never saw anything of Rubinstein,
whom he had loved and respected from his student days. ‘Do what I will,’
he said, ‘I can get no hold on him; he escapes me like an eel.’ I
laughed and said: ‘Do not take the great man’s ways too much to heart;
he has his weaknesses like other mortals. Rubinstein, a distinctly
lyrical temperament, has never had any great success in dramatic music,
and avoids everyone who has made a name in this sphere of art. Comfort
yourself, dear friend; he cut Richard Wagner and many others besides.’
‘But,’ he broke in with indignation, ‘how can you compare me with Wagner
and many others who have created immortal works?’ ‘Oh, as to
immortality,’ I replied, ‘I will tell you a good story about Brahms. Once
when this question was being discussed, Brahms said to me: ‘Yes,
immortality is a fine thing, if only one knew how long it would last.’
Tchaikovsky laughed heartily over this ‘bull,’ and his cheerfulness
seemed quite restored.... After three hours’ rehearsal he was greatly
exhausted. He descended with great difficulty from the conductor’s desk,
the perspiration stood in beads on his forehead, and he hurried into his
fur-lined coat, although it was as warm as a summer’s day. He rested for
a quarter of an hour, and then left with Sophie Menter and Sapellnikov.”

During this short visit to Vienna, Tchaikovsky stayed in the same hotel
as Pietro Mascagni, and their rooms actually adjoined. The Italian
composer was then the most fêted and popular man in Vienna. As we have
already mentioned, Tchaikovsky admired _Cavalleria Rusticana_. The
libretto appealed to him in the first place, but he recognised much
promising talent in the music. The rapidity with which the young
musician had become the idol of the Western musical world did not in the
least provoke Tchaikovsky’s envy; on the contrary, he was interested in
the Italian composer, and drawn to him. Accident having brought him into
such near neighbourhood, it occurred to him to make the acquaintance of
his young colleague. But when he found himself confronted in the passage
with a whole row of admirers, all awaiting an audience with the
_maestro_, he resolved to spare him at least one superfluous visitor.

The Castle of Itter, which belongs to Madame Sophie Menter, is situated
in Tyrol, a few hours from Munich. Besides its wonderfully picturesque
situation, it has acquired a kind of reflected glory, not only from the
reputation of its owner, but because Liszt often stayed there.

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “ITTER, _September_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1892.

     “ ... Itter deserves its reputation. It is a devilish pretty nest.
     My rooms--I occupy a whole floor--are very fine, but a curious
     mixture of grandeur and bad taste: luxurious furniture, a wonderful
     inlaid bedstead and--some vile oleographs. But this does not affect
     me much. The great thing is the exquisite, picturesque
     neighbourhood. Peace and stillness, and not a trace of any other
     visitors. I am fond of Sapellnikov and Menter, and, altogether, I
     have not felt more comfortable for a long while. I shall stay five
     days longer and return to ‘Peter’ by Salzburg (where I want to see
     the Mozart Museum) and Prague (where I stay for the performance of
     _Pique Dame_). On the 25th (October 7th) I hope to put in an
     appearance upon the Quay Fontanka. The chief drawback here is that
     I get neither letters nor papers and hear nothing about Russia or
     any of you.”

The performance of _Pique Dame_ in Prague did not take place until
October 8th. The opera, judging from the accounts of those present, had
a brilliant success, and the composer was repeatedly recalled. Between
1892-1902 _Pique Dame_ was given on forty-one occasions. When we bear in
mind that opera is only given three times a week at the National Theatre
in Prague, and that the chief object of this enterprise is to forward
the interests of Czechish art, this number of performances points to the
fact that the success of _Pique Dame_ has proved as lasting as it was
enthusiastic.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY’S BEDROOM AT KLIN]

Tchaikovsky returned to Klin about the first week in October (Russian
style), and was soon busy with preparations for the performance of
_Iolanthe_ in St. Petersburg. On the 28th (November 9th) he left home
for the capital, in order to superintend the rehearsals of the new
opera. Soon after his arrival he received two interesting
communications. The first informed him that he had been elected a
Corresponding Member of the French Academy; the second, from the
University of Cambridge, invited him to accept the title of Doctor of
Music, _honoris causa_, on condition that he attended in person to
receive the degree at the hands of the Vice-Chancellor.

Tchaikovsky acknowledged the first honour, and expressed his readiness
to conform to the conditions of the second.

At the same time he had a further cause for congratulation in the
success of his Sextet, _Souvenir de Florence_, which was played for the
first time in public at the St. Petersburg Chamber Music Union, on
November 25th (December 7th). The players were: E. Albrecht, Hille,
Hildebrandt, Heine, Wierzbilowiez, and A. Kouznietsov. This time all
were delighted: the performers, the audience, and the composer himself.
The medal of the Union was presented to Tchaikovsky amid unanimous
applause. During this visit the composer sat to the well-known sculptor,
E. Günsburg, for a statuette which, in spite of its artistic value, is
not successful as a likeness.

                        _To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

     “PETERSBURG, _November_ 24_th_ (_December_ 6_th_), 1892.

     “ ... Modeste’s play was given yesterday.[186] It was a complete
     failure, which does not surprise me in the least, for it is much
     too subtle for the public at the Alexander Theatre. It does not
     matter: may it be a lesson to Modeste. The pursuit of the
     unattainable hinders him from his real business--to write plays in
     the accepted form. The rehearsals for _Iolanthe_ and the Ballet are
     endlessly dragged out. The Emperor will be present on the 5th, and
     the first public performance will take place the following day.”

During this visit to the capital Tchaikovsky did his utmost to forward
the interests of his friends, Taneiev and Arensky, as will be seen from
the following extract from a letter to the former, respecting the
performance of his _Orestes_:--

     “Vsievolojsky (Director of the Opera) took Napravnik aside and
     consulted him as to the advisability of proposing _Orestes_ to the
     Emperor for next season.... I suggested that you should be sent
     for, in order to play over the work in their presence. Vsievolojsky
     was afraid if you were put to this trouble you might feel hurt
     should the matter fall through. I ventured to say that, as a true
     philosopher, you would not lose heart if nothing came of it.... I
     spoke not less eloquently of Arensky, but so far without success.”

On December 5th (17th) _Iolanthe_ and the _Nut-cracker_ Ballet were
given in the presence of the Imperial Court. The opera was conducted by
Napravnik. The Figners distinguished themselves by their admirable
interpretations of the parts of Vaudemont and Iolanthe. The scenery and
costumes were beautiful. Nevertheless the work was only accorded a
_succès d’estime_. The chief reason for this--according to Modeste
Tchaikovsky--was the prolixity of the libretto and its lack of scenic
interest.

The Ballet--admirably conducted by Drigo--was brilliantly staged, and
received with considerable applause; yet the impression left by the
first night was not wholly favourable. The subject, which differed
greatly from the conventional ballet programme, was not entirely to
blame. The illness of the talented ballet-master, Petipa, and the
substitution of a man of far less skill and imagination, probably
accounted for the comparative failure of the work. The delicate beauty
of the music did not appeal to the public on a first hearing, and some
time elapsed before the _Nut-cracker_ became a favourite item in the
repertory.

The attitude of the Press appears from the following letter from the
composer to Anatol, dated Petersburg, December 10th (22nd), 1892:--

     “This is the fourth day on which all the papers have been cutting
     up both my latest creations.... It is not the first time. The abuse
     does not annoy me in the least, and yet--as always under these
     circumstances--I am in a hateful frame of mind. When one has lived
     in expectation of an important event, as soon as it is over there
     comes a kind of apathy and disinclination for work, while the
     emptiness and futility of all our efforts becomes so evident....
     The day after to-morrow I leave for Berlin. There I shall decide
     where to go for a rest (most probably to Nice). On December 29th I
     shall be in Brussels. From thence I shall go to Paris, and
     afterwards to see Mlle. Fanny at Montbeillard. About the 10th
     January I have to conduct the concerts at Odessa. At the end of the
     month I shall be in Petersburg. Later I shall spend some time in
     Klin, and go to you in Lent.”

                         _To Vladimir Davidov._

     “BERLIN, _December_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1892.

     “Here I am, still in Berlin. To-day I have given myself up to
     serious reflections, which will have important results. I have been
     carefully, and as it were objectively, analysing my Symphony, which
     luckily I have not yet orchestrated and given to the world. The
     impression was not flattering: the work is written for the sake of
     writing, and is not interesting or moving. I ought to put it aside
     and forget it.... Am I done for and dried up? Perhaps there is yet
     some subject which could inspire me; but I ought to compose no more
     absolute music, symphony or chamber works. To live without work
     would weary me. What am I to do? Fold my hands as far as
     composition is concerned and try to forget it? It is difficult to
     decide. I think, and think, and do not know how to settle the
     question. In any case, the outlook has not been cheerful the last
     three days.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “BÂLE, _December_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1902.

     “ ... I have nothing to write about but fits of weeping. Really it
     is surprising that this phenomenal, deadly home-sickness does not
     drive me mad. Since this psychological phase grows stronger with
     every journey abroad, in future I shall never travel alone, even
     for a short time. To-morrow this feeling will give place to another
     (scarcely?) less painful emotion. I am going to Montbeillard, and I
     must confess to a morbid fear and horror, as though I were entering
     the kingdom of the dead and the world of those who had long since
     vanished.”

             _To his brother, Nicholas Ilich Tchaikovsky._

     “PARIS, _December_ 22_nd_ (_January_ 3_rd_), 1892.

     “ ... I wrote to Mlle. Fanny from Bâle to let her know the time of
     my arrival, so that she should not be upset by my unexpected
     appearance. I reached Montbeillard at 3 p.m. on January 1st (new
     style), and went straight to her house. She lives in a quiet street
     in this little town, which is so quiet that it might be compared to
     one of our own Russian ‘district’ towns. The house contains but six
     rooms--two on each floor--and belongs to Fanny and her sister. Here
     they were born, and have spent their whole lives. Mlle. Fanny came
     to the door, and I knew her at once. She does not look her seventy
     years, and, curiously enough, has altered very little on the whole.
     The same high-coloured complexion and brown eyes, and her hair is
     not very grey. She has grown much stouter. I had dreaded tears and
     an affecting scene, but there was nothing of the sort. She greeted
     me as though we had not met for a year--joyfully and tenderly, but
     quite simply. It soon became clear to me why our parents, and we
     ourselves, were so fond of her. She is a remarkably clever,
     sympathetic creature, who seems to breathe an atmosphere of
     kindliness and integrity. Naturally we started upon reminiscences,
     and she recalled a number of interesting details from our
     childhood. Then she showed me our copybooks, my exercises, your
     letters and mine, and--what was of the greatest interest to me--a
     few dear, kind letters from our mother. I cannot tell you what a
     strange and wonderful feeling came over me while listening to her
     recollections and looking over these letters and books. The past
     rose up so clearly before me that I seemed to inhale the air of
     Votinsk and hear my mother’s voice distinctly.... When she asked me
     which of my brothers I loved best, I replied evasively that I was
     equally fond of them all. At which she was a little indignant, and
     said that, as my playmate in childhood, I ought to care most for
     you. And truly at that moment I felt I loved you intensely, because
     you had shared all my youthful joys. I stayed with her from three
     until eight o’clock, without noticing how time went. I spent the
     whole of the next day in her society....

     “She gave me a beautiful letter from my mother, in which she writes
     of you with special tenderness. I will show it to you. The two
     sisters do not live luxuriously--but comfortably. Fanny’s sister
     also lived a long time in Russia, and does not speak the language
     badly. Both of them still teach. They are known to the whole town,
     for they have taught all the educated people there, and are
     universally loved and respected. In the evening I embraced Fanny
     when I took leave of her, and promised to return some day....”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “PARIS, _January_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1892.

     “ ... After my brilliant concert in Brussels I returned here
     yesterday. The orchestra was very good, but not highly disciplined.
     I was very cordially received, but this did not make things any
     easier for me. I suffered equally from agitation and the anguish of
     home-sickness. During the interval Gevaert, as President of the
     Artists’ Benevolent Association, made a speech before the assembled
     orchestra, in which he thanked me on behalf of this society. As the
     concert was given in aid of a charity, I declined to accept any
     fee, which touched the artists very deeply.”

The programme of the Brussels concert included, among other compositions
by Tchaikovsky, the Pianoforte Concerto, op. 23 (Rummel as soloist), the
_Nut-cracker_ Suite, and the Overture “_1812_.”

On January 12th (24th), 1893, Tchaikovsky arrived in Odessa, where for
nearly a fortnight he was fêted with such enthusiasm that even the
Prague festivities of 1888 dwindled into insignificance compared with
these experiences.

The ovations began the day after his arrival, when, on his appearance at
the rehearsal of _Pique Dame_, he was welcomed by the theatrical
direction and the entire opera company. Not contented with vociferous
cheering, he was “chaired” and borne around in triumph, much to his
discomfort. On the 16th he conducted the following works at the concert
of the Musical Society: _The Tempest_, the Andante cantabile from the
Quartet, op. 11, and the _Nut-cracker_ Suite. The local section of the
Musical Society presented him with a bâton, and the musicians gave him a
laurel wreath. Some numbers on the programme had to be repeated three
times in response to the vociferous applause.

This triumph was followed by a series of others: the first performance
of _Pique Dame_, a soirée in his honour at the English Club, a charity
concert, given by the Slavonic Association, and a second concert of the
Musical Society, at which the Overture “_1812_” had to be repeated _da
capo_.

Tchaikovsky left Odessa on January 25th (February 6th), and returned to
Klin to recover from the strain and fatigue of his visit.

[Illustration: SITTING-ROOM AT KLIN]

Among the many occupations which overwhelmed him there, he found time to
sit to Kouznietsov for his portrait. “Although the artist knew nothing
of Tchaikovsky’s inner life,” says Modeste, “he has succeeded, thanks to
the promptings of inspiration, in divining all the tragedy of that
mental and spiritual phase through which the composer was passing at
that time, and has rendered it with profound actuality. Knowing my
brother as I do, I can affirm that no truer, more living likeness of him
exists. There are a few slight deviations from strict truth in the
delineation of the features; but they do not detract from the
portrait as a whole, and I would not on any account have them corrected.
Perhaps the vitality which breathes from the picture has been purchased
at the price of these small defects.”

Kouznietsov presented the portrait to Tchaikovsky, who, however,
declined to accept it, partly because he could not endure a picture of
himself upon his own walls, but chiefly because he did not consider
himself justified in preventing the artist from making something out of
his work. The portrait is now in the Tretiakov Gallery, Moscow.

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “KLIN, _February_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1893.

     “ ... My journey from Kamenka here was not very propitious. I was
     taken so ill in the carriage that I frightened my fellow-passengers
     by becoming delirious, and had to stop at Kharkov. After taking my
     usual remedies, and a long sleep, I awoke quite well in the
     morning....

     “Next week I must pay a visit to Vladimir Shilovsky. The prospect
     fills me with fear and agitation. Tell me, has he greatly changed?
     How is the dropsy? I am afraid of a scene, and altogether dread our
     meeting. Is there really no hope for him? Answer these questions.”

Vladimir Shilovsky, who had played an important part in my brother’s
life some twenty years earlier, had very rarely come in contact with his
old teacher since his marriage with the only remaining child of Count
Vassiliev. There had been no breach between them, but their lives had
run in opposite directions. In January, 1893, I heard that Vladimir
Shilovsky was seriously ill. I informed Peter Ilich, who visited his old
pupil in Moscow, and was touched by the joy he showed at their reunion,
and by the calm self-control with which he spoke of his hopeless
condition. The old intimacy was renewed, and only ended with the Count’s
death in June, 1893.




XVII


Tchaikovsky’s life moved in spiral convolutions. At every turn his way
seemed to lie through the same spiritual phases. The alternations of
light and shade succeeded each other with a corresponding regularity.
When speaking of the depression which darkened his last years, I
emphasised the fact that he had gone through a similar condition of mind
before every decisive change in his existence. The acute moral tension
which preceded his retirement from the Ministry of Justice was followed
by the calm and happy summer of 1862. To his glad and hopeful mood at
the beginning of 1877 succeeded the crisis which compelled him to go
abroad for rest and change. So, too, this year, 1893, opened with a
period of serene content, for which the creation of his Sixth, or
so-called “Pathetic,” Symphony was mainly accountable. The composition
of this work seems to have been an act of exorcism, whereby he cast out
all the dark spirits which had possessed him in the preceding years.

The first mention of this Symphony occurs in a letter to his brother
Anatol, dated February 10th (22nd), 1893, in which he speaks of being
completely absorbed in his new project. The following day, writing to
Vladimir Davidov, he enters into fuller particulars:--

     “I must tell you how happy I am about my work. As you know, I
     destroyed a Symphony which I had partly composed and orchestrated
     in the autumn. I did wisely, for it contained little that was
     really fine--an empty pattern of sounds without any inspiration.
     Just as I was starting on my journey (the visit to Paris in
     December, 1892) the idea came to me for a new Symphony. This time
     with a programme; but a programme of a kind which remains an enigma
     to all--let them guess it who can. The work will be entitled “A
     Programme Symphony” (No. 6). This programme is penetrated by
     subjective sentiment. During my journey, while composing it in my
     mind, I frequently shed tears. Now I am home again I have settled
     down to sketch out the work, and it goes with such ardour that in
     less than four days I have completed the first movement, while the
     rest of the Symphony is clearly outlined in my head. There will be
     much that is novel as regards form in this work. For instance, the
     Finale will not be a great Allegro, but an Adagio of considerable
     dimensions. You cannot imagine what joy I feel at the conviction
     that my day is not yet over, and that I may still accomplish much.
     Perhaps I may be mistaken, but it does not seem likely. Do not
     speak of this to anyone but Modeste.”

After an interval of three years Tchaikovsky once more conducted a
concert of the Moscow Musical Society on February 14th (26th). This was
in response to a letter from Safonov begging him to make up their former
personal differences and to take part again in the work of Nicholas
Rubinstein, of imperishable memory. The Overture-Fantasia _Hamlet_ was
played at this concert for the first time in Moscow.

About the end of February Tchaikovsky again returned to Moscow to hear a
new Suite _From Childhood’s Days_, by George Konius, which pleased him
very much. Through the influence of the Grand Duke Constantine,
Tchaikovsky succeeded in getting an annual pension of 1,200 roubles
(£120) for the struggling young composer.

At this time he suffered from a terrible attack of headache, which never
left him, and threatened to become a chronic ailment. It departed,
however, with extraordinary suddenness on the fourteenth day after the
first paroxysm.

On March 11th (23rd) he visited Kharkov, where he remained till the 16th
(28th), and enjoyed a series of triumphs similar to those he had
experienced in Odessa earlier in the year.

By March 18th (30th) Tchaikovsky was back in Klin. Here he received news
that Ippolitov-Ivanov was leaving Tiflis to join the Moscow
Conservatoire. In his answer, which is hardly a letter of
congratulation, Tchaikovsky refers to his last Symphony, which he does
not _intend to tear up_, to the sketch of a new Pianoforte Concerto, and
to several pieces for piano which he hopes to compose in the near
future.

He spent the Easter holidays in the society of his relatives and
intimate friends in Petersburg, and, but for the hopeless illness of his
oldest friend, the poet Apukhtin, this visit would have been a very
quiet and cheerful interlude in his life.

                         _To Vladimir Davidov._

     “KLIN, _April_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1893.

     “I am engaged in making musical pancakes.[187] To-day I have tossed
     the tenth. It is remarkable; the more I do, the easier and
     pleasanter the occupation grows. At first it was uphill work, and
     the first two pieces are the outcome of a great effort of will; but
     now I can scarcely fix the ideas in my mind, they succeed each
     other with such rapidity. If I could spend a whole year in the
     country, and my publisher was prepared to take all I composed, I
     might--if I chose to work _à la_ Leikin--make about 36,000 roubles
     a year!”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “MOSCOW, _April_ 22_nd_ (_May_ 4_th_), 1893.

     “Ah, dear Modi, I do not believe I shall get the thirty pieces
     written! I have finished eighteen in fifteen days and brought them
     with me to Moscow. But now I must stay here four days (the
     performance at the Conservatoire, one morning with the Synodal
     singers, and my birthday with old friends), then go on to Nijny and
     return here in time for the first performance of Rakhmaninov’s
     _Aleko_. I shall not be home before the 30th (May 12th), and I
     start on the 10th (22nd) of May, ... but perhaps I may knock off a
     few songs very quickly.”

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “KLIN, _May_ 2_nd_, 1893.

     “I intended to ask my old fee--100 roubles for each number. Now, in
     consequence of the number of paying propositions made to me (I
     swear it is true), I must put up my prices a little. But I will not
     forget that you have also published my greater works, from which
     you will not derive any profit for a long time to come. So let it
     stand at the old fee.... It is a pity I had not more time for
     writing.

     “Should anything happen to Karl,[188] and the family be in need, do
     not hesitate to help them out of my present, or future, funds....”

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “PETERSBURG, _May_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1893.

     “ ... As regards my fee, I must tell you that Gutheil has never
     made me any proposals, because all Russian publishers know that I
     am not to be caught by any bait they may offer. But abroad my
     relations with you are not understood, therefore I often receive
     advances from other countries. Many of them (André of Offenbach)
     have offered me far higher fees than I get from you (of course, I
     am only speaking of short compositions).... I cannot lose sight of
     the fact that many of my symphonies and operas have cost you more
     than they bring in. Of course, they will sell better some day, but
     at present I do not like to bleed you. You are not as rich as an
     Abraham, a Schott, or a Simrock.... If (on your honour) you do not
     consider it too much to give me another fifty, I will agree to it.
     Naturally I shall be very glad, for this has been a heavy year.

     “I want nothing for the Mozart,[189] because I have not put much of
     myself into it.”

                         _To Vladimir Davidov._

     “BERLIN, _May_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1893.

     “ ... This time I wept and suffered more than ever, perhaps because
     I let my thoughts dwell too much on our last year’s journey. It is
     purely a psychophysical phenomenon! And how I loathe trains, the
     atmosphere of railway carriages, and fellow-travellers!... I travel
     too much, that is why I dislike it more and more. It is quite green
     here, and flowers blooming everywhere--but it does not give me any
     pleasure, and I am only conscious of an incredible and overwhelming
     home-sickness.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “LONDON, _May_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1893.

     “I arrived here early this morning. I had some difficulty to find a
     room--all the hotels are packed. The concert takes place on May
     20th (June 1st), after which I must rush around for about a week,
     for the Cambridge ceremony does not come off until the 11th or
     12th, and on the 13th--our 1st of June--I begin my homeward
     journey. I am continually thinking of you all. I never realise all
     my affection for you so much as when away from home, and oppressed
     with loneliness and nostalgia.”

                         _To Vladimir Davidov._

     “LONDON, _May_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1893.

     “Is it not strange that of my own free will I have elected to
     undergo this torture? What fiend can have suggested it to me?
     Several times during my journey yesterday I resolved to throw up
     the whole thing and turn tail. But what a disgrace to turn back for
     no good reason! Yesterday I suffered so much that I could neither
     sleep nor eat, which is very unusual for me. I suffer not only from
     torments which cannot be put into words (there is one place in my
     new Symphony--the Sixth--where they seem to me adequately
     expressed), but from a dislike to strangers, and an indefinable
     terror--though of what the devil only knows. This state makes
     itself felt by internal pains and loss of power in my legs.
     However, it is for the last time in my life. Only for a heap of
     money will I ever go anywhere again, and never for more than three
     days at a time. And to think I must kick my heels here for another
     fortnight!! It seems like eternity. I arrived early this morning,
     _viâ_ Cologne and Ostend. The crossing took three hours, but it was
     not rough.... On the steps of my hotel I met the French pianist
     Diemer, and to my great astonishment found myself delighted to see
     him. He is an old acquaintance, and very well disposed towards me.
     In consequence of our meeting I had to go to his ‘Recital.’
     Saint-Saëns also takes part in the concert at which I am
     conducting.”

Profiting by the presence in England of the composers who were about to
receive the honorary degree at Cambridge, the Philharmonic Society gave
two concerts in which they took part. At the first of these Tchaikovsky
conducted his Fourth Symphony with brilliant success. According to the
Press notices, none of his works previously performed had pleased so
well, or added so much to his reputation in England.

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “LONDON, _May_ 22_nd_ (_June_ 3_rd_), 1893.

     “ ... The concert was brilliant. It was unanimously agreed that I
     had a real triumph, so that Saint-Saëns, who followed me, suffered
     somewhat from my unusual success. Of course, this is pleasant
     enough, but what an infliction London life is during the ‘season’!
     Luncheons and dinners which last an interminable time. Yesterday
     the directors of the Philharmonic gave a dinner at the Westminster
     Club in honour of Saint-Saëns and myself. It was very smart and
     luxurious; we sat down to table at seven and rose at 11.30 p.m. (I
     am not exaggerating). Besides this I am invited to concerts daily
     and cannot refuse to go. To-day, for instance, I went to Sarasate’s
     concert. He is most kind and amiable to me. Last time I was here in
     the winter and in bad weather, so that I got no idea of what the
     town is really like. The devil knows Paris is a mere village
     compared to London! Walking in Regent Street and Hyde Park, one
     sees so many carriages, so much splendid and luxurious equipment,
     that the eye is fairly dazzled. I have been to afternoon tea at the
     Embassy. Our secretary at the Embassy here, Sazonov, is a charming
     man. What a number of people I see, and how tired I get! In the
     morning I suffer a great deal from depression, and later I feel in
     a kind of daze. I have but one thought: to get it all over.... At
     Cambridge I will keep a full diary. It seems to me it will be a
     very droll business. Grieg is ill. All the other recipients will
     come....”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “LONDON, _May_ 29_th_ (_June_ 10_th_), 1893.

     “This letter will not be in time to reach you in ‘Peter.’ ... I
     have not had a chance of writing. This is an infernal life. Not a
     moment’s peace: perpetual agitation, dread, home-sickness, fatigue.
     However, the hour of escape is at hand. Besides which, I must say I
     find many excellent folks here, who show me every kind of
     attention. All the doctors designate have now arrived except Grieg,
     who is too ill. Next to Saint-Saëns, Boïto appeals most to me.
     Bruch is an unsympathetic, inflated sort of personage. I go to
     Cambridge the day after to-morrow, and do not stay at an hotel, but
     in the house of Dr. Maitland, who has written me a very kind letter
     of invitation. I shall only be there one night. On the day of our
     arrival there will be a concert and dinner, and on the following
     day--the ceremony. By four o’clock it will be all over.”

In 1893, in consequence of the fiftieth anniversary of the Cambridge
University Musical Society, the list of those who received the Doctor’s
degree, _honoris causa_, was distinguished by an unusual number of
musicians: Tchaikovsky, Saint-Saëns, Boïto, Max Bruch and Edvard Grieg.

[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1893

(_From a photograph taken in London_)]

The festivities at Cambridge began on June 12th (new style) with a
concert, the programme of which included a work by each of the five
recipients of the musical degree, and one by Dr. Stanford,[190] the
director of the society.

The programme was as follows: (1) Fragment from _Odysseus_ for soli,
chorus, and orchestra (Max Bruch); (2) Fantasia for pianoforte and
orchestra, _Africa_, the composer at the piano (Saint-Saëns); (3)
Prologue from _Mefistofele_ for solo, chorus, and orchestra (Boïto); (4)
Symphonic poem, _Francesco, da Rimini_ (op. 32), (Tchaikovsky); (5)
_Peer Gynt_ Suite (op. 46) (Grieg); (6) Ode, _The East to the West_, for
chorus and orchestra (op. 52) (Stanford).

The various numbers were conducted by the respective composers, with the
exception of Grieg’s Suite and the Fantasia _Africa_, which were given
under the bâton of Dr. Stanford.

The singers were Mr. and Mrs. Henschel, Mme. Marie Brema, and Plunket
Green.

In his _Portraits et Souvenirs_ Saint-Saëns has given the following
description of this concert, and I cannot refrain from interrupting my
narrative in order to quote what the French composer says of my
brother’s _Francesca_.

     “Piquant charms and dazzling fireworks abound in Tchaikovsky’s
     _Francesca da Rimini_, which bristles with difficulties, and
     shrinks from no violence of effect. The gentlest and kindest of men
     has let loose a whirlwind in this work, and shows as little pity
     for his interpreters and hearers as Satan for sinners. But the
     composer’s talent and astounding technique are so great that the
     critic can only feel pleasure in the work. A long melodic phrase,
     the love-song of Paola and Francesca, soars above this tempest,
     this _bufera infernale_, which attracted Liszt before Tchaikovsky,
     and engendered his Dante Symphony. Liszt’s Francesca is more
     touching and more Italian in character than that of the great
     Slavonic composer; the whole work is so typical that we seem to see
     the profile of Dante projected in it. Tchaikovsky’s art is more
     subtle, the outlines clearer, the material more attractive; from a
     purely musical point of view the work is better. Liszt’s version is
     perhaps more to the taste of the poet or painter. On the whole,
     they can fitly stand side by side; either of them is worthy of
     Dante, and as regards noise, both leave nothing to be
     desired.”[191]

The concert was followed by a banquet in the hall of King’s College, at
which a hundred guests sat down to table. As it was purely a musical
festivity, only those who were to receive the honorary musical degree
were invited to this banquet. The place of honour, next to the chairman,
was given to Saint-Saëns, the eldest of the guests. Never had
Tchaikovsky greater reason to congratulate himself upon his comparative
youth, for, together with the honour, the difficult task of replying to
a toast on behalf of his colleagues fell to the lot of Saint-Saëns.

After the dinner came a brilliant reception to the composers in the hall
of the Museum.

Besides the musicians, there were several other recipients of the
honorary degree, including the Maharajah of Bohonager, Lord Herschel,
Lord Roberts, Dr. Julius Stupitza, Professor of English Philology in the
University of Berlin, and the Irish scholar, Standish O’Grady.

On the morning of June 13th all the future doctors assembled in the Arts
School and attired themselves in their splendid doctors’ robes of red
and white; after which they took up their positions, and the procession
started. Saint-Saëns, in the volume already quoted, says:

     “We were attired in ample robes of silk, parti-coloured scarlet and
     white, with full sleeves, and on our heads college-caps of black
     velvet with gold tassels. Thus decked out, we walked in procession
     through the town, under a tropical sun. At the head of the group of
     doctors went the King of Bohonager in a turban of cloth of gold,
     sparkling with fabulous jewels and a diamond necklace. Dare I
     confess that, as the enemy of the commonplace, and of the neuter
     tints of our modern garb, I was enchanted with the adventure?

     “The people stood on each side of the railings, and cheered us with
     some enthusiasm, especially Lord Roberts.”

     “Meanwhile the Senate House, in which the degrees were conferred,
     had become crowded with undergraduates and guests. The former were
     not merely spectators, but--as we afterwards
     discovered--participated in the event. When the Vice-Chancellor and
     other members of the Senate had taken their places, the ceremony
     began. Each recipient rises in turn from his seat, while the public
     orator recounts his claims to recognition in a Latin oration. Here
     the undergraduates begin to play their part. According to ancient
     tradition, they are allowed to hiss, cheer, and make jokes at the
     expense of the new doctors. At every joke the orator waits until
     the noise and laughter has subsided, then continues to read aloud.
     When this is done, the recipient is led up to the Vice-Chancellor,
     who greets him as doctor in _nomine Patri, Filii et Spiritus
     Sancti_. This formula was not used in the case of the Maharajah.”

The oration delivered in honour of Tchaikovsky ran as follows:--

     “Russorum ex imperio immenso hodie ad nos delatus est viri
     illustris, Rubinsteinii, discipulus insignis, qui neque Italiam
     neque Helvetiam inexploratam reliquit, sed patriae carmina
     popularia ante omnia dilexit. Ingenii Slavonici et ardorem fervidum
     et languorem subtristem quam feliciter interpretatur! Musicorum
     modorum in argumentis animo concipiendis quam amplus est! in
     numeris modulandis quam distinctus! in flexionibus variandis quam
     subtilis! in orchestrae (ut aiunt) partibus inter se diversis una
     componendis quam splendidus! Talium virorum animo grato admiramur
     ingenium illud facile et promptum, quod, velut ipsa rerum natura,
     nulla, necessitate coactum sed quasi sua sponte pulcherrimum
     quidque in luminis oras quotannis submittit.

     “Audiamus Propertium:

    “‘aspice quot submittit humus formosa colores;
     et veniunt hederae sponte sua melius.’

     “Etiam nosmet ipsi hodie fronti tam felici hederae nostrae corollam
     sponte imponimus.

     “Duco ad vos Petrum Tchaikovsky.”

After the ceremony there was a breakfast given by the Vice-Chancellor,
at which all attended in their robes. At the end of the meal, in
obedience to the tradition of centuries, a loving-cup was passed round.

The breakfast was followed by a garden-party, the hostess being the wife
of the Vice-Chancellor.

By evening Tchaikovsky was back in London, where he gave a farewell
dinner to some of his new friends. Among these I must mention the fine
baritone, Eugene Oudin. Tchaikovsky was soon very sincerely attached to
him, both as a man and an artist. Upon his initiative Oudin was invited
to sing at the Symphony Concerts in Moscow and Petersburg.

The following day Tchaikovsky left for Paris.

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “PARIS, _June_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1893.

     “Cambridge, with its peculiar customs which retain much that is
     medieval, with its colleges that resemble monasteries, and its
     buildings recalling a remote past, made a very agreeable impression
     upon me.”

                            _To N. Konradi._

     “PARIS, _June_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1893.

     “At Cambridge I stayed with Professor Maitland. This would have
     been dreadfully embarrassing for me, if he and his wife had not
     proved to be some of the most charming people I ever met; and
     Russophiles into the bargain, which is the greatest rarity in
     England. Now all is over, it is pleasant to look back upon my
     visit to England, and to remember the extraordinary cordiality
     shown to me everywhere, although, in consequence of my peculiar
     temperament, while there, I tormented and worried myself to
     fiddle-strings.”




     XVIII


     Tchaikovsky’s home-coming was by no means joyful. The shadow of
     death was all around him. Hardly had he heard of the death of his
     old friend Karl Albrecht than a letter from the Countess
     Vassiliev-Shilovsky informed him that her husband had passed away.
     Besides this, Apukhtin lay dying in Petersburg, and in Moscow
     another valued friend, Zvierev, was in an equally hopeless
     condition.

     A few years earlier one such grief would have affected Tchaikovsky
     more keenly than all of them taken together seemed to do at this
     juncture. Now death appeared to him less enigmatical and fearful.
     Whether his feelings were less acute, or whether the mental
     sufferings of later years had taught him that death was often a
     deliverance, I cannot say. I merely lay emphasis on the fact that,
     in spite of the discomforting news which met him in all directions,
     from the time of his return from England to the end of his life,
     Tchaikovsky was as serene and cheerful as at any period in his
     existence.

     He looked forward with joy to meeting his nephew Vladimir Davidov
     at Grankino, in the government of Poltava. He always felt well in
     the glorious air of the steppes.

     From Grankino he went to stay with his brother Nicholas at
     Oukolovo.

                         _To Vladimir Davidov._

     “_July_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1893.

     “I spent two very pleasant days in Moscow. Tell Modi I was very ill
     the day after he left. They said it was from drinking too much cold
     water at dinner and supper.... The day after to-morrow I start upon
     the Symphony again. I must write letters for the next two days.”

                       _To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

     “_July_ 22_nd_ (_August_ 3_rd_), 1893.

     “I am up to my eyes in the Symphony. The further I go, the more
     difficult the orchestration becomes. Twenty years ago I should have
     rushed it through without a second thought, and it would have
     turned out all right. Now I am turning coward, and have lost my
     self-confidence. I have been sitting all day over two pages, yet
     they will not come out as I wish. In spite of this, the work makes
     progress, and I should not have done so much anywhere else but at
     home.

     “Thanks to Alexis’ exertions, my house has a very coquettish
     appearance. All is in order; a mass of flowers in the garden, good
     paths, and a new fence with gates. I am well cared for. And yet I
     get terribly bored unless I am working....”

                         _To Vladimir Davidov._

     “_August_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1893.

     “The Symphony which I intended to dedicate to you--although I have
     now changed my mind[192]--is progressing. I am very well pleased
     with its contents, but not quite so satisfied with the
     orchestration. It does not realise my dreams. To me, it will seem
     quite natural, and not in the least astonishing, if this Symphony
     meets with abuse, or scant appreciation at first. I certainly
     regard it as quite the best--and especially the ‘most sincere’--of
     all my works. I love it as I never loved any one of my musical
     offspring before.”

                           _To P. Jurgenson._

     “KLIN, _August_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1893.

     “DEAR FRIEND,--I have finished the orchestration of the new
     Symphony.... I have made the arrangement for four hands myself, and
     must play it through, so I have asked the youngest Konius to come
     here, that we may try it together. As regards the score and parts,
     I cannot put them in order before the first performance, which
     takes place in Petersburg on October 16th (28th).... On my word of
     honour, I have never felt such self-satisfaction, such pride, such
     happiness, as in the consciousness that I am really the creator of
     this beautiful work.”

                             _To the same._

     “KLIN, _August_ 20_th_ (_September_ 1_st_), 1893.

     “I shall take the Symphony with me to Petersburg to-day. I promise
     not to give away the score. The arrangement for four hands needs a
     thorough revision. I have entrusted this to Leo Konius. I wished
     him to receive a fee of at least 100 roubles, but he refused....”

Tchaikovsky spent two days with Laroche in Petersburg. Even the prospect
of his journey to Hamburg did not suffice to damp his cheerful frame of
mind. He does not appear to have written any letters during his absence
from Russia, which was of very brief duration.

     “On his return from Hamburg he met me in St. Petersburg,” says
     Modeste, “and stayed with me a day or two. I had not seen him so
     bright for a long time past. He was keenly interested in the
     forthcoming season of the Musical Society, and was preparing the
     programme of the fourth concert, which he was to conduct.

     “At this time there was a change in the circumstances of my own
     life. Having finished the education of N. Konradi, I decided to set
     up housekeeping with my nephew Vladimir Davidov, who had completed
     his course at the School of Jurisprudence and was now an
     independent man. My brother was naturally very much interested in
     all the arrangements of our new home.

     “At this time we discussed subjects for a new opera. Peter Ilich’s
     favourite author in later life was George Eliot. Once during his
     travels abroad he had come across her finest book, _The Mill on the
     Floss_, and from that time he considered she had no rival but
     Tolstoi as a writer of fiction. _Adam Bede_, _Silas Marner_, and
     _Middlemarch_ stirred him to the greatest enthusiasm, and he read
     them over and over again. He cared less for _Romola_, but was
     particularly fond of _Scenes from Clerical Life_. For a time he
     seriously contemplated founding the libretto of his next opera upon
     _The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton_. He wished me to read
     the tale and give him my opinion: I must confess that, from his own
     account of it, I persuaded him to give up the idea.

     “I do not know if I actually convinced him, or whether he lost
     interest in it himself, but he never referred to this tale again
     when he spoke of other subjects for a libretto.

     “We separated early in September, and he went to our brother
     Anatol, who was spending the summer and autumn with his family at
     Mikhailovskoe.”

Here he enjoyed a very happy visit. “It is indescribably beautiful,” he
wrote to Modeste. “It is altogether pleasant and successful. The weather
is wonderful. All day long I wander in the forest and bring home
quantities of mushrooms.”

His high opinion of the new Symphony was still unchanged, for he wrote
to the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich on September 21st (October
3rd), “Without exaggeration I have put my whole soul into this work.”
Yet in spite of his cheerful attitude, a momentary cloud of depression
passed over him at this time. Writing to Modeste from Moscow, a few days
later, he says: “Just lately I have been dreadfully bored and
misanthropical. 1 do not know why. I sit in my room and see no one but
the waiter. I long for home, work, and my normal existence.”

On September 25th he returned to Klin for the last time.

                          _To Anna Merkling._

     “_September_ 29_th_ (_October_ 11_th_), 1893.

     “I am now very busy with the orchestration of the Pianoforte
     Concerto. I shall soon appear on the banks of the Neva. You will
     see me about the 10th.”

On October 7th (19th) Tchaikovsky left Klin never to return. The
following day he intended to be present at the memorial service for his
friend Zvierev and then to go on to Petersburg. As the train passed the
village of Frolovskoe, he pointed to the churchyard, remarking to his
fellow-travellers: “I shall be buried there, and people will point out
my grave as they go by.” He repeated this wish to be buried at
Frolovskoe while talking to Taneiev at the memorial service for Zvierev.
Beyond these two references to his death, prompted no doubt by the sad
ceremony with which he was preoccupied, Tchaikovsky does not appear to
have shown any symptoms of depression or foreboding.

Kashkin has given the following account of his friend’s last visit to
Moscow:--

     “We met at the memorial service in the church, and afterwards Peter
     Ilich went to Zvierev’s grave. On October 9th (21st) he had
     promised to go to the Conservatoire to hear the vocal quartet
     (‘Night’) which he had arranged from Mozart’s pianoforte Fantasia.
     The master’s music had not been altered, Tchaikovsky had only
     written words to it.... Madame Lavrovsky had promised that her
     pupils should learn the work. We assembled in the concert hall of
     the Conservatoire, and I sat with Tchaikovsky. The quartet was
     beautifully sung ... Tchaikovsky afterwards told me this music had
     the most indescribable charm for him, but he could not explain,
     even to himself, why this simple melody gave him such pleasure....

     “At that time Pollini, the Director of the Hamburg Opera, was
     staying in Moscow. He was an ardent admirer of Tchaikovsky, and had
     given some of his operas in Hamburg. When--as invited--I went to
     supper with Tchaikovsky at the Moscow Restaurant, I met Pollini,
     Safonov, and two foreign guests. We talked over Pollini’s idea of
     making a great concert tour through Russia, with a German orchestra
     under a Russian conductor ... Tchaikovsky was to conduct his own
     works and Safonov the rest of the programme.... After the others
     had gone, and Peter Ilich and I were left to ourselves, he told me
     all about Cambridge, and spoke very warmly of the Professor in
     whose house he had stayed, and of one of the other recipients of
     the honorary degree--Arrigo Boïto, who had charmed him with his
     intellect and culture.... Unconsciously the talk turned to our
     recent losses: to the death of Albrecht and Zvierev. We thought of
     the gaps time had made in our circle of old friends and how few now
     remained. Involuntarily the question arose: Who will be the next to
     take the road from which there is no return? With complete
     assurance of its truth, I declared that Tchaikovsky would outlive
     us all. He disputed the probability, but ended by saying he had
     never felt better or happier in his life. He had to catch the night
     mail to Petersburg, where he was going to conduct his Sixth
     Symphony, which was still unknown to me. He said he had no doubt as
     to the first three movements, but the last was still a problem, and
     perhaps after the performance in Petersburg he should destroy the
     Finale and replace it by another. The concert of the Musical
     Society in Moscow was fixed for October 23rd (November 4th). We
     arranged, if we should not see each other there, to meet at the
     Moscow Restaurant, for Tchaikovsky was anxious to introduce the
     singer Eugene Oudin to the musical circle in Moscow. Here our
     conversation ended. Tchaikovsky went to the station. It never
     occurred to me to see him off, for neither of us cared for that
     kind of thing; besides, we should meet again in a fortnight. We
     parted without the least presentiment that it was for the last
     time.”




XIX


Tchaikovsky arrived in Petersburg on October 10th (22nd). He was met by
his brother Modeste and his favourite nephew. He was delighted with
their new abode and his spirits were excellent--so long as his arrival
remained unknown and he was master of his time.

One thing only depressed him: at the rehearsals the Sixth Symphony made
no impression upon the orchestra. He always set store by the opinion of
the musicians. Moreover, he feared lest the interpretation of the
Symphony might suffer from their coldness. Tchaikovsky only conducted
his works well when he knew they appealed to the players. To obtain
delicate _nuances_ and a good balance of tone he needed his surroundings
to be sympathetic and appreciative. A look of indifference, a coolness
on the part of any of the band, seemed to paralyse him; he lost his
head, went through the work perfunctorily, and cut the rehearsal as
short as possible, so as to release the musicians from a wearisome task.
Whenever he conducted a work of his own for the first time, a kind of
uncertainty--almost carelessness--in the execution of details was
apparent, and the whole interpretation lacked force and definite
expression. The Fifth Symphony and _Hamlet_ were so long making their
way merely because the composer had failed to make them effective. The
same reason accounts for the failure of the orchestral ballade, _The
Voyevode_.

Tchaikovsky was easily disenchanted with his work by the adverse opinion
of others. But on this occasion his judgment remained unshaken, and even
the indifference of the orchestra did not alter his opinion that this
Symphony was “the best thing I ever composed or ever shall compose.” He
did not, however, succeed in convincing the public or the performers. At
the concert on the 16th (28th) the work fell rather flat. It was
applauded and the composer was recalled; but the enthusiasm did not
surpass what was usually shown for one of Tchaikovsky’s new works. The
Symphony produced nothing approaching to that powerful and thrilling
impression it made shortly afterwards (November 6th (18th), 1893) under
Napravnik, which has since been repeated in so many other cities.

The Press did not speak of the new Symphony with as much admiration as
Tchaikovsky had expected, but on the whole the notices were
appreciative. The _St. Petersburg Viedomosti_ thought “the thematic
material of the work was not very original, the leading subjects were
neither new nor significant. The last movement, Adagio Lamentoso, was
the best.” The _Syn Otechestva_ discovered a phrase in the first
movement which recalled Gounod’s _Romeo and Juliet_, while Grieg was
reflected in the Finale. The _Novoe Vremya_ said: “The new Symphony is
evidently the outcome of a journey abroad; it contains much that is
clever and resourceful as regards orchestral colour, besides grace and
delicacy (in the two middle movements), but _as far as inspiration is
concerned it stands far below Tchaikovsky’s other Symphonies_. Only one
newspaper, _The Birjevya Viedomosti_, spoke of the work in terms of
unqualified praise, while finding fault with the composer’s conducting
of the work.

The morning after the concert I found my brother sitting at the
breakfast-table with the score of the Symphony before him. He had agreed
to send it to Jurgenson in Moscow that very day, and could not decide
upon a title. He did not wish to designate it merely by a number, and
had abandoned his original intention of calling it “a programme
Symphony.” “Why programme,” he said, “since I do not intend to expound
any meaning?” I suggested “tragic Symphony” as an appropriate title. But
this did not please him either. I left the room while Peter Ilich was
still in a state of indecision. Suddenly the word “pathetic” occurred
to me, and I returned to suggest it. I remember, as though it were
yesterday, how my brother exclaimed: “Bravo, Modeste, splendid!
_Pathetic!_” Then and there, in my presence, he added to the score the
title by which the Symphony has always been known.[193]

I do not relate this incident in order to connect my name with this
work. Probably I should never have mentioned it but for the fact that it
serves to illustrate in a simple way how far the conjectures of the most
enlightened commentators may wander from the truth.

Hugo Riemann, in his thematic analysis of the Sixth Symphony, sees the
solution of this title in “the striking resemblance between the
fundamental idea of this work and the chief subject of Beethoven’s
_Sonata Pathétique_,” of which Tchaikovsky never dreamed:

[Music:

_Tchaikovsky._

_Beethoven._]

[Illustration: musical notation]

After having despatched the score to Moscow with this title, Tchaikovsky
changed his mind, as may be seen from the following letter to
Jurgenson:--

     “_October_ 18_th_, 1893.

     “Be so kind as to put on the title page what stands below.

                          _To Vladimir Lvovich

Davidov_

(No. 6)

_Composed by_ P. T.

     “I hope it is not too late.

     “It is very strange about this Symphony. It was not exactly a
     failure, but was received with some hesitation. As far as I am
     concerned, I am prouder of it than of any of my previous works.
     However, we can soon talk it over together, for I shall be in
     Moscow on Saturday.”

At this time he talked a great deal about the remodelling of _The
Oprichnik_ and _The Maid of Orleans_, which he had in view for the
immediate future. He did not confide to me his intentions as to the
former opera; but as regards _The Maid of Orleans_, we discussed the
alteration of the last scene, and I made a point of his arranging this,
like so many other parts of the opera, from Schiller’s poem. The idea
seemed to interest him, but it was not permitted to him to come to a
definite conclusion on the subject.

During these last days he was neither very cheerful, nor yet depressed.
In the circle of his intimate friends he was contented and jovial; among
strangers he was, as usual, nervous and excited and, as time went on,
tired out and dull. But nothing gave the smallest hint of his
approaching end.

On Tuesday, October 19th (31st), he went to a private performance of
Rubinstein’s _The Maccabees_. On the 20th (November 1st) he was still in
good health and dined with his old friend Vera Boutakov (_née_ Davidov).
Afterwards he went to see Ostrovsky’s play, _A Warm Heart_, at the
Alexander Theatre. During the interval he went with me to see the actor
Varlamov in his dressing-room. The conversation turned upon
spiritualism. Varlamov described in his own humorous style--which cannot
be transferred to paper--his loathing for “all those abominations” which
reminded one of death. Peter Ilich laughed at Varlamov’s quaint way of
expressing himself.

“There is plenty of time,” said Tchaikovsky, “before we need reckon with
this snub-nosed horror; it will not come to snatch us off just yet! I
feel I shall live a long time.” From the theatre, Tchaikovsky went with
his nephews, Count Litke and Baron Buxhövden, to the Restaurant Leiner.
I joined them an hour later, and found one or two other visitors--of
whom Glazounov was one. They had already had their supper, and I was
afterwards told my brother had eaten macaroni and drunk, as usual, white
wine and soda water. We went home about two a.m. Peter Ilich was
perfectly well and serene.

On the morning of Thursday, October 21st (November 2nd), Tchaikovsky did
not appear as usual at the early breakfast-table. His brother went to
his room and found him slightly indisposed. He complained of his
digestion being upset and of a bad night. About eleven a.m. he dressed
and went out to see Napravnik. Half an hour later he returned, still
feeling unwell. He absolutely declined to send for a doctor. His
condition gave no anxiety to Modeste, who had often seen him suffer from
similar derangements.

He joined his brother and nephew at lunch, although he ate nothing. But
this was probably the fatal moment in his indisposition for, while
talking, he poured out a glass of water and drank a long draught. The
water had not been boiled, and they were dismayed at his imprudence. But
he was not in the least alarmed, and tried to calm their fears. He
dreaded cholera less than any other illness. After this his condition
grew worse; but he attributed all his discomfort to a copious dose of
Hunyadi which he had taken earlier in the day, and still declined to
send for his favourite doctor, Bertenson. Towards evening Modeste grew
so anxious that he sent for the doctor on his own account. Meanwhile
Tchaikovsky was tended by his brother’s servant Nazar, who had once
travelled with him to Italy.

About eight p.m. Bertenson arrived. He saw at once that the illness was
serious, and sent for his brother in consultation. The sufferer had
grown very weak, and complained of terrible oppression on his chest.
More than once he said, “I believe this is death.”

After a short consultation the brothers Bertenson, the two leading
physicians in Petersburg, pronounced it to be a case of cholera.

All night long those who nursed him in turn fought against the cramps;
towards morning with some hope of success. His courage was wonderful,
and in the intervals between the paroxysms of pain he made little jokes
with those around him. He constantly begged his nurses to take some
rest, and was grateful for the smallest service.

On Friday his condition seemed more hopeful, and he himself believed he
had been “snatched from the jaws of death.” But on the following day his
mental depression returned. “Leave me,” he said to his doctors, “you can
do no good. I shall never recover.”

Gradually he passed into the second stage of the cholera, with its most
dangerous symptom--complete inactivity of the kidneys. He slept more,
but his sleep was restless, and sometimes he wandered in his mind. At
these times he continually repeated the name of Nadejda Filaretovna von
Meck in an indignant, or reproachful, tone. Consciousness returned at
longer intervals, and when his servant Alexis arrived from Klin he was
no longer able to recognise him. A warm bath was tried as a last
resource, but without avail, and soon afterwards his pulse grew so weak
that the end seemed imminent. At the desire of his brother Nicholas, a
priest was sent for from the Isaac Cathedral. He did not administer the
sacrament, as Tchaikovsky was now quite unconscious, but prayed in clear
and distinct tones, which, however, did not seem to reach the ears of
the dying man.

At three o’clock on the morning of October 25th (November 6th)
Tchaikovsky passed away in the presence of his brothers Nicholas and
Modeste, his nephews Litke, Buxhövden, and Vladimir Davidov, the three
doctors, and his faithful servant Alexis Safronov. At the last moment
an indescribable look of clear recognition lit up his face--a gleam
which only died away with his last breath.

       *       *       *       *       *

My work is finished. With this account of Tchaikovsky’s last moments my
task, which was to express the man, is accomplished.

To characterise the artist in every phase of his development, and to
determine his position in the history of music, is beyond my powers. If
all the documental and authentic evidence I have collected in this book
should serve as fundamental material for another writer capable of
fulfilling such a task, the most cherished aim of all my efforts will
have been attained.

     MODESTE TCHAIKOVSKY

ROME, 1902




APPENDIX A

CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF TCHAIKOVSKY’S COMPOSITIONS FROM 1866-1893


                        FIRST SEASON, 1866-1867

1. Op. 15. Festival Overture upon the Danish National Hymn; completed
October, 1866. Published by Jurgenson.

2. Op. 13. Symphony in G minor, No. 1, “Winter Dreams.” Begun in March,
completed in November, 1866. Jurgenson.

3. Op. 1. Russian Scherzo and Impromptu. Composed early in 1867. The
first of these compositions was originally entitled “Capriccio.” It is
based on the first theme of the Andante in the quartet in B major, which
Tchaikovsky composed while still at the Conservatoire in 1865. The theme
itself is a Malo-Russian folksong, heard at Kamenka. The Impromptu--a
still earlier work--was never intended for publication. It chanced to be
in the same manuscript-book as the Capriccio, which was given to
Jurgenson by Rubinstein, without any intimation that the Impromptu was
not to be published. The Russian Scherzo was performed at Rubinstein’s
concert in 1867. Both these works--like the _First Symphony_--were
dedicated to Nicholas Rubinstein, and published by Jurgenson.

4. Op. 2. _Souvenir de Hapsal_--three pianoforte pieces: (_a_) “The
Ruin,” (_b_) “Scherzo,” (_c_) “Chant sans Paroles.” June and July, 1867.
Hapsal. Only the first and third of these pieces were composed at
Hapsal; the second dates back to the days of the Conservatoire. This
_opus_ number is dedicated to Vera Davidov. Jurgenson. Besides these
works, Tchaikovsky was engaged from the beginning of 1867 upon his
opera, _The Voyevode_.

                               1867-1868

_The Voyevode_ was the sole work of this season.

In a letter dated November 25th (December 7th) Tchaikovsky speaks of
having completed the third act, which is as good as saying that he had
finished the whole opera, because he rarely broke through his custom of
working straight through a composition. The instrumentation remained,
and this was finished in Paris during the summer.

_The Voyevode_, or _A Dream on the Volga_, is a play in five acts, with
a prologue, by A. N. Ostrovsky. The opera libretto is condensed into
three acts, the prologue being omitted.

The chief beauty of the play, the scenes from national life, so
charmingly depicted by Ostrovsky, had been ruthlessly cut out of the
libretto, and only an insipid and uninteresting story left. The charm of
national colour, the characteristic details of the secondary _dramatis
personæ_, such as Nedviga, the apparition of the Domovoi, or “house
spirit,” the gloomy figure of Mizgir--of all these things the libretto
had been completely denuded.

But it was not so much Ostrovsky as Tchaikovsky who was to blame, for it
is evident from the manuscript which the latter used while composing the
music that he eliminated every episode which did not bear directly upon
the tale. A few years later Tchaikovsky would not have missed so many
good opportunities of effective musical illustration.

Ostrovsky’s collaboration was practically limited to Act I., which is
also the best, and to a portion of Act II. The remainder is almost
entirely of Tchaikovsky’s own writing.

Of this opera only the “Dances of the Serving Maids” and the “Entr’acte”
were published as Op. 3. Jurgenson. The rest of the score was destroyed
by the composer during the seventies. The orchestral and choral parts
and some of the solos--unfortunately not the principal ones--are still
preserved in the library of the Imperial Opera House in Moscow.

                               1868-1869

1. Op. 77. Symphonic Poem, _Fatum_. Begun about the middle of September,
1868. Sketch completed on October 21st. (November 2nd). Orchestrated in
November and December. Produced for the first time by the Musical
Society in Moscow, February 25th (March 9th), 1869, conducted by N.
Rubinstein. This work is dedicated to M. A. Balakirev. During the
seventies Tchaikovsky destroyed the score, but the orchestral parts
remained intact, and the work was reconstructed from these, and
published in 1896, by Belaiev, in Leipzig.

2. Op. 4. Valse Caprice for pianoforte. Composed in October, 1868.
Dedicated to Anton Door. Jurgenson.

3. Op. 5. Romance for pianoforte. November, 1868. Dedicated to Désirée
Artôt. Jurgenson.

4. Twenty-five Russian folksongs, arranged for pianoforte, four hands.
These were probably finished during the autumn months, and printed in
November, 1868.

5. Recitatives and choruses for _Le Domino Noir_, by Auber. This work
has entirely disappeared; it cannot be found in the library of the
Petersburg or Moscow Opera.

6. _Undine_, an opera in three acts, begun in January and completed in
July, 1869. The text by Count Sollogoub.

The libretto of _Undine_ contained scenes more interesting and grateful
for musical treatment than _The Voyevode_, but was so unskilfully put
together and so lacking in logical sequence that it is even inferior to
the dry, uninteresting, but literary verse of the latter. The
music--judging from the fragments that have been preserved--seems to
have possessed a certain vitality.

The composer destroyed the score of _Undine_ in 1873. All that remains
of the music is Undine’s aria, “The spring is my brother,” which was
afterwards utilised in _Sniegourochka_, and the Wedding March in the
last act, which Tchaikovsky employed in the Andantino Marziale of his
Second Symphony. Besides these two fragments, Kashkin says an Adagio in
the ballet, “The Swan Lake,” was originally the love-duet between
Gulbrand and Undine.

Part of this opera was produced at a concert given by the Capellmeister
Merten, March 16th (28th), 1870. Laroche wrote:--

     “Unfortunately, I was not able to attend the concert itself, but I
     had heard these fragments from _Undine_ at the rehearsals, and
     observed not only the careful and delicate orchestration for which
     Tchaikovsky’s music is remarkable, but picturesque suggestions of
     the fantastic realms of the water sprites. Other parts--notably the
     finale--appeared to me lacking in spontaneity. On the whole,
     however, the new score is worthy of attention.”

                               1869-1870

1. Twenty-five Russian folksongs, arranged for pianoforte, four hands.
Completed September 25th, 1869. Published, together with the twenty-five
of the previous year, by Jurgenson, Moscow.

2. _Romeo and Juliet._ Overture-Fantasia for orchestra, founded on
Shakespeare’s tragedy. Begun September 25th (October 7th); sketch
completed by October 7th (19th), and orchestrated by November 15th
(27th), 1869. During the summer of 1870 the work was completely revised.
According to Kashkin, the Introduction was entirely new; the funeral
march at the close of the work was omitted and a fresh ending
substituted for it, while many alterations were made in the
orchestration as a whole. The overture is dedicated to Mily
Alexandrovich Balakirev, and was performed for the first time at Moscow,
under the bâton of N. Rubinstein, March 4th (16th), 1870. Published by
Bote and Bock, Berlin, 1871.

3. Pianoforte arrangement for four hands of the overture _Ivan the
Terrible_, by Anton Rubinstein. Bessel, St. Petersburg.

4. Op. 6. Six songs.[194] Written between November 15th (27th) and
December 19th (31st), 1869. (1) “Glaub’ nicht mein Freund,” words by
Count A. Tolstoi, dedicated to A. G. Menshikov. (2) “Nicht Worte,” words
by Plestcheiev, dedicated to N. Kashkin. (3) “Wie wehe, wie süss,” words
by Countess Rostopchin, dedicated to A. D. Kochetov. (4) “Die Thräne
bebt,” words by Count A. Tolstoi, dedicated to P. Jurgenson. (5)
“Warum,” words by Mey, dedicated to I. Klimenko. (6) “Nur wer die
Sehnsucht kennt,” words by Mey (from Goethe), dedicated to Madame
Khvostova. P. Jurgenson, Moscow.

5. “Chorus of Insects,” from the unfinished opera _Mandragora_, January
13th (25th), 1870. The score of this work has been entirely lost. The
pianoforte arrangement is preserved by Jurgenson. In 1898 Glazounov
orchestrated it.

6. Op. 7. Valse Scherzo (A major) for pianoforte, dedicated to Alexandra
Ilinichna Davidov. P. Jurgenson.

7. Op. 8. Capriccio (G flat) for piano, dedicated to K. Klindworth. P.
Jurgenson. Both these pieces were completed about February 3rd (15th),
1870.

Besides the above, Tchaikovsky began his opera, _The Oprichnik_, about
the end of January, 1870.

                               1870-1871

1. Op. 9. Three pianoforte pieces, (1) “Rêverie,” dedicated to N.
Murometz. (2) “Polka de Salon,” dedicated to A. Zograf. (3) “Mazurka de
Salon,” dedicated to A. L. Dubuque.

2. Song, “So schnell vergessen,” words by Apukhtin. This and the above
works were composed before October 26th (November 7th), 1870, and
published by Jurgenson, Moscow.

3. “Nature and Love.” Trio for two sopranos and one contralto, with
chorus and pianoforte accompaniment; dedicated to Madame Valzek. It was
composed in December expressly for this lady’s pupils, and performed for
the first time at Tchaikovsky’s concert on March 16th (28th), 1871. It
was published by Jurgenson after the composer’s death.

4. Op. 11. Quartet No. 1 (D major), for two violins, viola, and
violoncello. Dedicated to Serge Rachinsky. Composed during February,
1871, and first performed at the composer’s concert, March 16th (28th),
1871. The Andante of this quartet is based on a Russian folksong which
Tchaikovsky wrote down at Kamenka in the summer of 1869. It was sung in
Great Russian by a man who was working outside the room in which he was
engaged in orchestrating his _Undine_.

5. A Course of Harmony, completed during the summer at Nizy. Jurgenson.

Besides the above, Tchaikovsky was working during the whole of this
period on his opera, _The Oprichnik_.

                               1871-1872

1. Op. 10. Two pianoforte pieces: “Nocturne” and “Humoresque.” Probably
composed in December, 1871, during his stay at Nice. Part of the second
piece consists of a French popular song. These pieces are both dedicated
to Vladimir Shilovsky.

2. Cantata for chorus, orchestra, and tenor solo. Text by Polonsky.
Composed during February and March, 1872. Performed May 31st (June
12th), 1872, under the conductorship of K. Davidov. The manuscript of
the score is in the library of the Imperial Opera House, Moscow.

3. _The Oprichnik_, an opera in four acts. Begun at the end of January,
1870, completed in April, 1872. Dedicated to His Imperial Highness the
Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich. Published by Bessel, St.
Petersburg.

Without entering into a detailed criticism of Lajetnikov’s tragedy, I
must call attention to some of its features which are calculated to make
it an easy subject for the librettist to handle; these special features
lie in its admirable plot. The interest of the love-intrigue, which is
well sustained, a whole series of effective situations, the dark yet
poetic colouring of its sinister period (Ivan the Terrible), the variety
of episodes well suited to musical illustration (such as the love-duet
in the first act, the scenes with the populace, the picturesque figures
of the Oprichniks, the pathos of the oath scene, “The Terrible” himself,
and the death of Andrew), all contribute to make an effective and moving
opera.

But it did not fulfil these expectations. The most serious hindrance
came from the Censor. The striking figure of Ivan the Terrible, which
seemed so well adapted to musical representation, was not permitted to
appear. For an outline of the plot of this opera, see Appendix B.

                               1872-1873

1. Op. 17. Symphony No. 2 (C minor), composed during June, July, and
August, 1872. Orchestrated in September and October of the same year,
and completed early in November. Dedicated to the Moscow section of the
Imperial Russian Musical Society. First performed, under N. Rubinstein,
in Moscow, January 26th (February 7th), 1873. Published by V. Bessel,
St. Petersburg. The second movement, Andantino Marziale, is taken from
the opera _Undine_. Speaking of this work, Kashkin says, “It may be
called ‘The Little Russian’ Symphony, because its chief themes are
Little Russian folksongs.”[195] Later on the composer made considerable
alterations, and entirely rewrote the first movement.

2. Op. 16. Six songs, (1) “Wiegenlied,” words by Maikov, dedicated to
Frau N. N. Rimsky-Korsakov. (2) “Warte noch,” words by Grekov, dedicated
to N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov. (3) “Erfass nur einmal,” words by Maikov,
dedicated to G. A. Laroche. (4) “Oh, möchtest du einmal noch singen,”
words by Plestcheiev, dedicated to N. A. Hubert. (5) “Was nun?” Words by
the composer, dedicated to N. Rubinstein. (6) “Neugrie-chisches Lied,”
words by Maikov, dedicated to K. Albrecht. The precise date of these
songs is not known. Probably they were written in December, 1872.
Published by V. Bessel, St. Petersburg.

3. Op. 12. Music to _Sniegourochka, a Legend of Springtide_, by A. N.
Ostrovsky. Composed during March and April, 1873. First performed at the
Opera, Moscow, May 11th (23rd), 1873. Jurgenson, Moscow. One or two
numbers of this work are transferred from _Undine_.

4. “Perpetuum mobile,” from a sonata by Weber, arranged for the left
hand only. Dedicated to Madame Zograf. Published 1873, by Jurgenson.

Besides the above, Tchaikovsky worked at the symphonic fantasia, _The
Tempest_, between August 7th-17th (19th-29th), 1873.

His literary work comprised seventeen articles, in which he reviewed the
chief musical events of the season in Moscow.

                               1873-1874

1. Op. 18. _The Tempest_, symphonic fantasia for full orchestra upon a
Shakespearean programme. Composed between 7th (19th) and 17th (29th)
August, 1873; orchestrated by October 10th (22nd). Dedicated to Vladimir
Vassilievich Stassov. First performed December 7th (19th), 1873, under
N. Rubinstein. Jurgenson.

2. Op. 21. Six pianoforte pieces upon a theme. (1) Prelude, (2) Fugue,
(3) Impromptu, (4) Funeral March, (5) Mazurka, (6) Scherzo. Dedicated to
Anton Rubinstein. Composed before October 30th (November 11th), 1873.
Bessel.

3. Op. 22. Quartet No. 2 (F major), for two violins, viola, and
violoncello. Dedicated to the Grand Duke Constantine. Commenced at the
end of December, 1873, or early in January, 1874, and finished by the
26th of that month. Shortly afterwards it was played at a musical
evening at N. Rubinstein’s, and probably Tchaikovsky afterwards made
some changes in it, as he was still engaged upon the work in the middle
of February. First public performance March 10th (22nd), 1874.
Jurgenson.

4. Op. 14. _Vakoula the Smith_ (Kouznetz Vakoula, known also as
_Cherevichek_ and _Les Caprices d’Oxane_), opera in three acts and seven
scenes. The libretto is taken from a tale by Gogol and set to verse by
J. Polonsky. Dedicated to the memory of the Grand Duchess Helena.
Composed and orchestrated during the summer of 1874. Partially
remodelled about 1885. Published by Jurgenson.

                               1874-1875

1. Op. 25. Six songs: (1) “Herz, o lass dich von Schlummer umfangen,”
words by Scherbin, dedicated to A. P. Kroutikov. (2) “Wie hier die
Schrift in Aschengluth,” words by Tioutchev, dedicated to D. Orlov. (3)
“Mignon’s Lied,” words by Goethe, dedicated to M. Kamenskaya. (4) “Der
Kanarienvogel,” words by Mey, dedicated to V. Raab. (5) “Mit ihr ein
Wort gesprochen hab’ ich nie,” words by Mey, dedicated to I. Melnikov.
(6) “Einst zum Narren Jemand spricht,” words by Mey. These songs were
probably composed in September, 1874. Published by V. Bessel.

2. Op. 19. Six pianoforte pieces: (1) “Rêverie,” dedicated to N. D.
Kondratiev. (2) “Scherzo-humoristique,” dedicated to Vera Timanov. (3)
“Feuillet d’album,” dedicated to A. Abramov, (4) “Nocturne,” dedicated
to Frau Terminsky. (5) “Capriccio”, dedicated to E. Langer. (6) “Thème
avec Variations,” dedicated to H. Laroche. The manuscript is dated
October 27th (November 8th), 1873. Jurgenson.

3. Op. 23. Concerto for pianoforte and orchestra (in B♭ minor).
Composed in November and December, 1874. The orchestration was
completed, according to a note on the score, February 9th (21st), 1875.
Dedicated to Hans von Bülow. Published by Jurgenson. In a letter to Frau
von Meck, Tchaikovsky says he took as the principal subject of the first
movement a phrase sung by Malo-Russian blind beggars at a village fair
at Kamenka.

[Illustration: musical notation]

Besides the example just quoted, he also borrowed another air, the
chansonette, “IL faut s’amuser, danser, et rire,” which the twins used
to hum early in the seventies, in remembrance of a certain charming
singer.

4. Op. 26. Serenade for violin, with orchestral accompaniment (B minor).
Composed January, 1875. Dedicated to L. Auer. Jurgenson.

5. Op. 27. Six songs: (1) “An den Schlaf,” words by Ogariev. (2) “Ob
sich die Wolke dort,” words by Grekov. (3) “Geh’ nicht von mir,” words
by Fet. (4) “Abend,” words by Chevchenko. (5) “Klage,” words by
Mickiewicz. (6) “Dem Vöglein gleich,” words by Mickiewicz. All six
dedicated to Madame Lavrovskaya. The date of composition not precisely
known. Jurgenson.

6. Op. 28. Six songs: (1) “Nein, wenn ich liebe,” words from de Musset,
dedicated to A. Nikholaev. (2) “Die rothe Perlenschnur,” words by
Syrokomli, dedicated to D. Dodonov. (3) “Warum im Traume,” words by Mey,
dedicated to Frau Ilina. (4) “Er liebte mich so sehr,” words by
Apukhtin, dedicated to E. Marsini. (5) “Kein Wort von Dir,” words by
Alexis Tolstoi, dedicated to B. Korsov. (6) “Ein einzig Wortchen,” text
by P. Tchaikovsky, dedicated to Frau E. Kadmina. The date of completion
is given on the manuscript as April 11th (23rd), 1875, in Moscow.
Jurgenson.

7. Op. 29. Symphony No. 3 (in D major) in five movements. The score
bears the following note in the composer’s own writing: “Commenced June
5th (17th) at Ussovo, completed August 1st (13th), 1875, at Verbovka.”
Published by Jurgenson. Played for the first time in Moscow, November
7th (19th), 1875.

       *       *       *       *       *

Besides the above works, Tchaikovsky was engaged during part of August,
1875, upon the Ballet, _The Swan Lake_.

His literary activity was very considerable. Between September, 1874,
and April, 1875, he wrote not less than fifteen articles.

                               1875-1876

1. Op. 30. Quartet No. 3 in E flat major, for two violins, viola, and
‘cello, dedicated to the memory of F. Laub. The first sketch dates from
the beginning of January, 1876, in Paris. Finished, according to date
upon the manuscript, February 18th (March 1st), 1876. Performed for the
first time March 18th (30th) of the same year at Grijimaly’s concert.
Published by Jurgenson.

2. Op. 20. _The Swan Lake._ Ballet in four acts. Begun August, 1875,
finished at the end of March, 1876. Published by Jurgenson. First
performance at the Opera House, Moscow, February 20th (March 4th), 1877.

3. Op. 37. _The Seasons_, twelve pieces for piano. These were written in
the course of the year, one piece each month, and were commissioned by
the publisher of a St. Petersburg musical journal. Kashkin tells us that
Tchaikovsky did not consider this a very important work, but in order
not to miss sending each number at the right time, he ordered his
servant to remind him when a certain date came round in each month. The
man carried out his master’s order, coming at the right day with the
reminder: “Peter Ilich, is it not time to send to St. Petersburg?” upon
which Tchaikovsky would sit down at once and write the required piece
without a pause. Later the pieces were collected and republished by
Jurgenson.

4 The translation of the libretto and arrangement of the recitatives of
Mozart’s _Figaro_, which Tchaikovsky undertook (at the desire of N.
Rubinstein) for a performance of this opera by the students of the
Conservatoire.

This season Peter Ilich brought his literary work to an end. His last
criticisms dealt with Wagner’s Trilogy, and remained unfinished.

                               1876-1877

1. Op. 31. Slavonic March for full orchestra. First performance in
November, 1877, under N. Rubinstein’s bâton, at a symphony concert in
Moscow. Jurgenson.

2. Op. 32. _Francesca da Rimini_ (after Dante), symphonic fantasia for
full orchestra. Dedicated to S. I. Taneiev. Tchaikovsky sketched the
plan of this work during his visit to Paris in the summer of 1876. He
did not actually work at the composition until the end of September. The
sketch was finished October 14th (26th), the orchestration November 5th
(17th). First performance, under N. Rubinstein, at a symphony concert,
Moscow, February 26th (March 10th), 1877. Jurgenson.

3. Op. 33. _Variations on a Rococo Theme_, for violoncello and
orchestra. Dedicated to G. Fitzenhagen. Composed December, 1876.
Jurgenson.

4. Op. 34. Valse Scherzo, for violin and orchestra. Dedicated to Joseph
Kotek. Composed early in January, 1877. Jurgenson.

During this season Tchaikovsky sketched out his Fourth Symphony and
two-thirds of his opera, _Eugene Oniegin_.

                               1877-1878

1. Op. 36, Symphony No. 4 (F minor), in four movements. Dedicated to “My
best friend.” The first sketch was finished in May, 1877. On August
11th (23rd) Tchaikovsky began the instrumentation of the work, and
completed the first movement on September 12th (24th). After an interval
of two months he returned to the Symphony, about the end of November.
The Andante was finished on December 15th (27th), the Scherzo on the
20th (January 1st) 1878, and the Finale on the 26th (January 7th, 1878).
The first performance of the Symphony took place February 10th (22nd),
1878, at a concert of the Russian Musical Society, conducted by N.
Rubinstein.

2. Op. 24, _Eugene Oniegin_, lyric scenes, in three acts and seven
scenes. The libretto is freely arranged from Poushkin by the composer
himself and K. S. Shilovsky. The idea of this opera originated with the
celebrated singer, Madame E. A. Lavrovsky.

On May 18th (30th), 1877, Tchaikovsky sketched the plan for a libretto.

On June 6th (18th) the second scene of the first act (the Letter Scene)
was finished, and by June 15th (27th) the entire act was complete. By
June 23rd (July 5th), two-thirds of the opera were ready. After a
month’s respite, Tchaikovsky returned to the work at Kamenka, in August,
and completed the opera. Here he also began the instrumentation. During
September and the first half of October he did not work upon it at all;
afterwards he continued the instrumentation, finishing the whole of the
first act and despatching it to Moscow by the 23rd (November 4th). In
November Tchaikovsky orchestrated the first scene of the second act. The
whole of December, was devoted to the Fourth Symphony. On January 2nd
(14th) he took up the opera once more, at San Remo, and, completed it by
the 20th (February 1st) of this month. In the summer of 1880, at the
request of the Director of the Imperial Opera, Tchaikovsky added an
_écossaise_ to the first scene of Act II. and made some slight changes
in the Finale.

The first performance of the opera took place on March 17th (29th),
1879, by the students of the Moscow Conservatoire, in the Small Theatre.
For an account of the plot, see Appendix B.

3. Op. 38. Six songs, dedicated to A. Tchaikovsky. (1) “Don Juan’s
Serenade,” words by Count A. Tolstoi; (2) “Das war im ersten
Lenzesstrahl” (A. Tolstoi); (3) “Im erregenden Tanze” (A. Tolstoi); (4)
“Ach wenn du könntest” (A. Tolstoi); (5) “Aus dem Jenseits” (Lermontov);
(6) “Pimpinella” (Florentine song). Published by P. I. Jurgenson,
Moscow.

4. Op. 40. Twelve pieces for pianoforte (medium difficulty), dedicated
to M. Tchaikovsky, (1) “Etude,” (2) “Chanson triste,” (3) “Marche
funèbre,” (4) “Mazurka in C major,” (5) “Mazurka in D major,” (6) “Chant
sans paroles,” (7) “Au village,” (8) “Valse in A major,” (9) “Valse in A
major,” (10) “Danse russe,” (11) “Scherzo in F major,” (12) “Rêverie
interrompue.” Of these pieces, No. 12 was composed first. The middle
section of this piece is a Venetian song, which was sung almost every
evening under his window in Venice. The other pieces date from various
times, the “Danse russe” from 1876, having been originally intended as a
number for the Ballet, _The Swan Lake_. Jurgenson, Moscow.

5. Op. 37. Sonata for pianoforte (G major), in four movements. Dedicated
to Carl Klindworth. Commenced early in March, 1878, at Clarens, and
completed on April 30th (May 12th). First performed in public by
Nicholas Rubinstein, in Moscow, October 21st (November 2nd), 1879.

6. Op. 35. Concerto for violin and orchestra. Originally dedicated to L.
Auer. Tchaikovsky afterwards substituted the name of A. Brodsky. Begun
early in March, 1878, at Clarens, and the sketch finished by the 16th
(28th) of the same month. The original Andante did not satisfy the
composer, who wrote a new one. The instrumentation was completed by the
end of April. First performance by A. Brodsky, in Vienna (1879).
Jurgenson.

7. Op. 42. “Souvenir d’un lieu cher,” three pieces for violin and
pianoforte accompaniment. No. 1 is the original Andante of the Violin
Concerto. The other two pieces were composed at Brailov about the end of
May. Jurgenson.

8. Op. 41. The Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom, for four-part mixed
chorus. Commenced May, 1878, at Kamenka, and finished on the 27th (June
8th) at Brailov. Jurgenson.

9. Op. 39. Kinderalbum, twenty-four easy pieces for pianoforte (_à la_
Schumann). Dedicated to Volodya Davidov. P. I. Jurgenson.

10. “Skobeliev March,” composed by “Sinopov.” Tchaikovsky concealed the
authorship of this piece, because he considered it of no value. It was
commissioned by Jurgenson at the end of April, and composed at Kamenka.

Besides these works, Tchaikovsky translated in December, 1877, the
Italian words of six songs by Glinka, and wrote the text of a vocal
quartet, also by Glinka.

The greater part of his First Suite was also completed during August,
1878.

                               1878-1879

1. Op. 43. First Suite, for full orchestra, in six movements.

The first sketches were made at Verbovka between August 15th and 25th,
1878. Originally the Suite was intended to have five movements only:
Introduction and Fugue, Scherzo, Andante, Intermezzo (“Echo du bal”),
and Rondo. Of these, three movements were completed, the fourth sketched
out, and the fifth projected, when Tchaikovsky laid it aside, only to
return to it in November while in Florence. On the 13th (25th) of this
month it was finished. The last two movements, however, received
different titles, “March Miniature” (4th) and “Giants’ Dance” (5th). In
August, 1879, the composer added a sixth movement, Divertimento. The
work was first performed in Moscow, under Nicholas Rubinstein. Published
by Jurgenson.

2. The _Maid of Orleans_, an opera in four acts and six scenes,
dedicated to E. Napravnik.

The libretto of this work was written by Tchaikovsky himself. It is
chiefly based upon Joukovsky’s translation of Schiller’s _Maid of
Orleans_, but some ideas were also derived from Wallon, Barbier’s play,
and the libretto of Mermet’s opera on the same subject. It is a pity the
composer did not confine himself to Schiller’s work, and more especially
as regards the uninteresting and gloomy ending. Shortly before his death
Tchaikovsky frequently spoke of altering the last scene and substituting
Schiller’s close. With this intention, he purchased the works of the
German poet, but unfortunately he was not destined to read the tragedy
again. For the plot of _The Maid of Orleans_, see Appendix B.

                               1879-1880

1. Op. 44. Second Concerto, for pianoforte and orchestra, in three
movements. Dedicated to N. Rubinstein. Played for the first time in
public on May 22nd (June 3rd), 1882, by S. I. Taneiev. Jurgenson.

2. The revised edition of the Second Symphony. Published by Bessel.

3. The “Italian Capriccio,” for full orchestra. Dedicated to K. Davidov.
The opening fanfare in this work is a bugle call of the Italian cavalry,
which Tchaikovsky heard every evening while living in the Hôtel
Constanzi, next to the barracks of the Royal Cuirassiers. Jurgenson.

4. Music for a _tableau vivant_: “Montenegro at the moment of receiving
the news of war between Russia and Turkey. A village elder reading out
the manifesto.” This music was never performed, as the projected
entertainment fell through. The manuscript has entirely disappeared.

5. Six vocal duets, with pianoforte accompaniment. Dedicated to Tatiana
Davidov: (_a_) “Der Abend,” (_b_) “Ballade,” (_c_) “Thränen,” (_d_) “Im
Garten,” (_e_) “Leidenschaft,” (_f_) “Dämmerung.” Jurgenson.

6. Op. 47. Seven songs, with pianoforte accompaniment. Dedicated to A.
V. Panaiev: (_a_) “Wenn ich das gewusst,” (_b_) “Durch die Gefilde des
Himmels,” (_c_) “Der Dämmerung Schleier sank,” (_d_) “Schlaf ein,
betrübtes Lieb,” (_e_) “Gesegnet sei mir Wald und Au,” (_f_) “Ob Heller
Tag,” (_g_) “War ich nicht ein Halm.” Jurgenson.

Besides the above, Tchaikovsky revised the overture, _Romeo and Juliet_.

                               1880-1881

1. Serenade for string orchestra, in four movements. Dedicated to Carl
Albrecht. First performance January 16th (28th), under the direction of
Erdmannsdörfer. Published by Jurgenson.

2. Op. 49. _The Year 1812_, festival overture for full orchestra.
Composed for the consecration of the Cathedral of the Saviour, Moscow.
Jurgenson.

Besides the above, an attempt to harmonise the Vesper Service and the
first sketch of the opera, _Mazeppa_.

                               1881-1882

1. Op. 50. Trio for pianoforte, violin, and violoncello. Dedicated to
the memory of a great artist (N. G. Rubinstein). The variation theme of
the second movement is a reminiscence of an excursion made in company
with Nicholas Rubinstein, and other colleagues from the Moscow
Conservatoire, shortly after the first performance of _Sniegourochka_
(_The Snow Maiden_), in the spring of 1873. The Trio was played for the
first time in public on October 18th (30th), 1882, by Taneiev,
Grijimaly, and Fitzenhagen. Published by Jurgenson.

2. An attempt to harmonise Divine Service. Setting for mixed chorus.
Seventeen numbers. Jurgenson.

From June to October Tchaikovsky was occupied in editing the works of
Bortniansky.

During this year he began the sketch of the opera, _Mazeppa_. By the
middle of July two acts were completed.

                               1882-1883

1. Op. 51. Six pieces for pianoforte: (1) “Valse de Salon,” (2) “Polka
peu dansante,” (3) “Menuetto scherzoso,” (4) “Natha--Valse,” (5)
“Romance,” (6) “Valse sentimentale.”

These pieces were commissioned by the brothers Jurgenson and composed at
Kamenka about the end of August.

2. Verses upon the theme of the “Slavsia,” from Glinka’s _A Life for the
Tsar_, winding up with the Russian National Anthem, for chorus and
orchestra.

This chorus was sung by 7,500 students in Moscow, May 10th (22nd), 1883,
at the moment when the Emperor Alexander III appeared at the Red
Staircase upon his solemn entry to the Kremlin. (Manuscript only.)

3. Festal Coronation March for orchestra. Commissioned by the city of
Moscow, first performed at Sokolinky, on May 23rd (June 4th), at a fête
in honour of the Coronation. Jurgenson.

4. _Mazeppa_, an opera, in three acts and six scenes. The subject is
taken from Poushkin’s poem, _Poltava_, arranged by Bourenin and the
composer himself.

The opera was first performed at the Imperial Opera, Moscow, February
3rd (15th), 1884. Jurgenson. For the plot, see Appendix B.

Besides the above, Tchaikovsky began his Second Suite for orchestra
during the summer of 1883.

                         1883 TO JANUARY, 1885

1. Op. 53. Suite No. 2, in four movements, for full orchestra. Dedicated
to Madame P. W. Tchaikovsky. First performed at an extra concert of the
Russian Musical Society, February 4th (16th), 1884, in Moscow, under the
direction of Max Erdmannsdörfer. Published by Jurgenson.

2. Op. 54. Sixteen Children’s Songs, with pianoforte accompaniment.
Published by Jurgenson.

3. Op. 55. Suite No. 3, in four movements, for full orchestra. Dedicated
to M. Erdmannsdörfer. First performance in Petersburg, in January, 1885,
under the direction of Hans von Bülow. Published by Jurgenson.

4. Op. 56. Fantasia Concerto, in two movements, for pianoforte, with
orchestral accompaniment. Originally dedicated to Madame A. Essipoff;
afterwards to Madame Sophie Menter. Played for the first time by S.
Taneiev, February 22nd (March 6th), 1885, in Moscow. Published by
Jurgenson.

5. Impromptu Capriccio for pianoforte. Dedicated to Madame S. Jurgenson.
Originally published in the “Subscribers’ Album” of Paris _Gaulois_. Was
taken over later by Jurgenson.

6. Elegy for string orchestra. Composed in memory of the actor, I.
Samarin. Published by Jurgenson.

7. Three church anthems. Published by Jurgenson.

8. Op. 57. Six songs, with pianoforte accompaniment, (1) “O, sprich,
wovon die Nachtigall,” (2) “Auf’s bleiche Herbstgefild,” (3) “O, frage
nicht,” (4) “Schlaf’ ein,” (5) “Der Tod,” (6) “Nur du allein.” Published
by Jurgenson. Besides the above, Tchaikovsky had been working, in
November, 1884, at the reconstruction of his opera, _Vakoula the
Smith_.

                FROM JANUARY 1ST TO SEPTEMBER 12TH, 1885

1. Remodelling the opera _Vakoula the Smith_ as _Les Caprices d’Oxane_.
Besides simplifying the orchestration and harmony and cutting down the
work, as he first proposed, Tchaikovsky also introduced some entirely
new numbers: (1) the duet between Vakoula and Oxane and the Finale of
the second scene in first act, (2) the Schoolmaster’s song, (3) the
quintet in the first scene of the second act, (4) the couplets in third
act. Published by Jurgenson.

2. Hymn in honour of Saints Cyril and Methodius. This hymn is an old
Slavonic melody arranged for a choir:--

[Illustration musical notation: Vá[)z]n[)e] ale ne zdlouha.

Published by Jurgenson.]

3. Five church hymns. Published by Jurgenson.

4. “Ecossaise,” for the sixth scene in the opera _Eugene Oniegin_.
Tchaikovsky composed and orchestrated this piece in Maidanovo and sent
it to St. Petersburg all in one day.

5. Op. 58. _Manfred_. A Symphony in four scenes for full orchestra, from
a dramatic poem by Lord Byron. Dedicated to Mily Balakirev. The first
sketches for this work were made in April, 1885. According to the note
on the score, it was finished December 12th (24th), 1885, and played for
the first time March 11th (23rd), 1886, under the direction of
Erdmannsdörfer, in Moscow. Published by Jurgenson.

                               1885-1886

1. Text and music of a chorus for the fiftieth anniversary of the
foundation of the Imperial School of Jurisprudence. Composed at
Maidanovo, September, 1885. Manuscript.

2. “Jurists’ March,” for full orchestra. Composed at Kamenka, October,
1885. Published by Jurgenson.

3. The “Domovoi” (“House Spirit”), from a scene in Ostrovsky’s play,
_The Voyevode_. Composed January, 1886. Manuscript.

4. Op. 59. “Dumka.” Russian village scene for the pianoforte. Dedicated
to the Principal of the Paris Conservatoire, A. Marmontel. Composed at
Maidanovo end of February. Published by Jurgenson. Besides these
unimportant works, Tchaikovsky was engaged during the whole season upon
his opera, _The Enchantress_.

                               1886-1887
(FROM SEPTEMBER 1ST, 1886, TO JANUARY 1ST, 1888)

1. Op. 60. Twelve songs, with pianoforte accompaniment. Dedicated to Her
Majesty the Empress Maria Feodorovna. (1) “Die gestrige Nacht,” (2)
“Verschwiegenheit,” (3) “O, wüsstest Du,” (4) “Die Nachtigall,” (5)
“Schlichte Worte,” (6) “Die Schlaflose Nächte,” (7) “Lied der
Zigeunerin,” (8) “Lebewohl,” (9) “Die Nacht,” (10) “Lockung,” (11)
“Heldenmut,” (12) “Sternennacht.” Published by Jurgenson.

2. _The Enchantress_, opera in four acts. The libretto by I. V.
Shpajinsky, author of the drama of the same name. First performed on
October 20th (November 1st), 1887, at the Maryinsky Theatre, St.
Petersburg, and conducted by the composer. Jurgenson. For plot, see
Appendix B.

3. Op. 61. _Mozartiana._ Suite No. 4, in four movements, arranged from
various works of Mozart and orchestrated for full orchestra. In his
short preface to the score Tchaikovsky gives the following reasons which
prompted this work: “A large number of the most beautiful of Mozart’s
smaller works are, for some reason, little known, not only to the
public, but to musicians. The composer’s object in arranging this Suite
was to bring more frequently before the public works which, however
modest in form, are gems of musical literature.” First performed at
Moscow, November 14th (26th), 1887, under the direction of the composer.
Jurgenson.

4. Op. 62. “Pezzo Capriccioso,” for violoncello, with orchestral
accompaniment. Dedicated to A. Brandonkov. Played by him for the first
time, November 25th (December 7th), 1889. Jurgenson.

5. Op. 63. Six songs. Dedicated to the Grand Duke Constantine
Constantinovich. (1) “Nicht sogleich,” (2) “Am offenen Fenster,” (3)
“Fahrt hin, ihr Träume,” (4) Wiedersehen,” (5) “Kein Lichtlein glänzt,”
(6) “Serenade.” Jurgenson.

6. A chorus for men’s voices _a capella_. Dedicated to the Students’
Choir of the Moscow University. Published by Jurgenson.

                1888 (FROM JANUARY 1ST TO SEPTEMBER 1ST)

1. Op. 64. Symphony No. 5 (E minor), in four movements, for full
orchestra. Dedicated to Herr Theodor Ave-Lallemant of Hamburg. First
performance in Petersburg, November, 1888, conducted by the composer.
Published by Jurgenson.

2. Op. 65. Six songs to French words, with pianoforte accompaniment.
Dedicated to Désirée Artôt. (1) “Où vas-tu souffle d’aurore?” (2)
“Déception,” (3) “Sérénade,” (4) “Qu’importe que l’hiver,” (5) “Les
larmes,” (6) “Rondel.” Composed in the course of the summer. Jurgenson.

3. “Die Nachtigall,” chorus _a capella_. Dedicated to the mixed choir
of the Petersburg Imperial Opera House. Exact date of composition
unknown. Jurgenson.

Besides the above, Tchaikovsky completed the sketches for the
overture-fantasia, _Hamlet_.

                               1888-1889

1. Orchestration of an overture by Laroche. Manuscript.

2. Op. 67. _Hamlet_, overture-fantasia for full orchestra. Dedicated to
Edvard Grieg. Jurgenson.

3. Valse Scherzo, for pianoforte. Jurgenson.

4. Op. 66. _Dornröschen_ (Sleeping Beauty). Ballet in three acts, with a
prologue. Dedicated to I. A. Vsievolojsky. The subject is taken from
Perrault’s fairy tale of the same name.

The first performance of the Ballet took place January 3rd (15th), 1890,
in the Maryinsky Theatre, Petersburg. Jurgenson.

                               1889-1890

1. Impromptu for pianoforte. Dedicated to A. Rubinstein. Jurgenson.

2. “Greeting to A. G. Rubinstein,” chorus _a capella_. Jurgenson.

3. _Pique Dame._ Opera in three acts and seven scenes. Libretto by
Modeste Tchaikovsky. The subject is taken from Poushkin’s novel of the
same name. The first performance took place in the Maryinsky Theatre, in
Petersburg, December 7th (19th), 1890. Published by Jurgenson. For plot,
see Appendix B.

Besides the above, on June 13th Tchaikovsky began to compose a Sextet
for Strings, of which the sketches were finished by June 30th.

                               1890-1891

1. Op. 67_a_. Music to Shakespeare’s _Hamlet_. Overture, melodramas,
fanfares, marches, and entr’actes for small orchestra. Seventeen numbers
in all, of which, however, some are transferred from earlier works.
Jurgenson.

2. Three choruses _a capella_. Composed at Frolovskoe, and dedicated to
I. A. Melnikov’s “Gratuitous Choral Class.” Published in Melnikov’s
_Collection of Russian Choruses_.

Besides the above, Tchaikovsky finished the sketches of the
_Nut-cracker_ Ballet and of the opera of _Iolanthe_.

                               1891-1892

1. Op. 78. _The Voyevode_, symphonic ballad, for full orchestra (after
Poushkin). First performance under the direction of the composer, at a
concert given by Siloti, November 6th (18th), 1891. The following day
Tchaikovsky himself destroyed the score of this work, the band parts
remaining in Siloti’s keeping. After the composer’s death the score was
restored from the parts and published by Belaiev.

2. Op. 69. _Iolanthe._ Lyrical opera in one act. The subject founded on
the drama, _King René’s Daughter_, by the Danish poet, Henrik Herz. The
libretto by Modeste Tchaikovsky. First performed in Petersburg in the
Maryinsky Theatre, December 6th (18th), 1892. Published by Jurgenson.
See Appendix B.

3. Op. 70. “Souvenir de Florence.” Sextet for two violins, two violas,
and two violoncellos, in four movements. Dedicated to the Petersburg
Chamber Music Society. First performance by this society November 25th
(December 7th), 1892. Published by Jurgenson.

4. Op. 71. _The Nut-cracker._ Fairy Ballet in two acts and three scenes.
The subject is borrowed from A. Dumas’ version of Hoffman’s fairy tale.
The following programme was suggested to Tchaikovsky by the gifted
ballet-master, Petipa:--

No. 1. Soft music. Sixty-four bars.

No. 2. The tree is lit up. Sparkling music. Eight bars.

No. 3. Enter the children. Animated and joyous music. Twenty-four bars.

No. 4. A moment of surprise and admiration. A few bars of tremolo.

No. 5. A march. Sixty-four bars.

No. 6. Entrée des Incroyables. Sixteen bars, rococo (tempo menuet).

No. 7. Galop.

No. 8. Enter Drosselmeyer. Awe-inspiring but comic music. A broad
movement, sixteen to twenty-four bars.

The music gradually changes character--twenty-four bars. It becomes less
serious, lighter, and finally gay in tone.

Grave music for eight bars, then pause.

Repeat the eight bars--pause.

Four bars which express astonishment.

No. 9. Eight bars in mazurka rhythm. Eight more. Sixteen still in
mazurka rhythm.

No. 10. A piquant, spicy valse, strongly rhythmic. Forty-eight bars.

                               1892-1893

1. Military march. Dedicated to the 98th Infantry Regiment.

Tchaikovsky’s cousin, Andrew Petrovich Tchaikovsky, colonel of this
regiment, asked him in February, 1893, to compose this march.

2. Op. 72. Eighteen pieces for pianoforte. (1) “Impromptu,” (2)
“Berceuse,” (3) “Tendres reproches,” (4) “Danse caractéristique,” (5)
“Méditation,” (6) “Mazurque pour danser,” (7) “Polacca de Concert,” (8)
“Dialogue,” (9) “Un poco di Schumann,” (10) “Scherzo-Fantaisie,” (11)
“Valse-Bluette,” (12) “L’Espiègle,” (13) “Echo rustique,” (14) “Chant
élégiaque,” (15) “Un poco di Chopin,” (16) “Valse à cinq temps,” (17)
“Passé lointain,” (18) “Scène dansante. Invitation au trépak” Published
by Jurgenson.

3. Op. 73. Six songs, with pianoforte accompaniment. Words by D.
Rathaus. Dedicated to N. Figner. (1) “An den schlummernden Strom,” (2)
“Nachts,” (3) “O, du mondhelle Nacht,” (4) “Sonne ging zur Ruhe,” (5)
“In Trüber Stunde,” (6) “Weil ich wie einstmals.” Published by
Jurgenson.

4. “Night.” Quartet for soprano, alto, tenor, and bass, with pianoforte
accompaniment. Words by P. Tchaikovsky. The music is founded on Mozart’s
Pianoforte Fantasia No. 4.

In 1892 Vladimir Napravnik, who was staying with Tchaikovsky at
Maidanovo, played to him very frequently. This pleased his host, and on
one occasion Napravnik’s clever rendering of Mozart’s fantasia roused
him to so much enthusiasm that he resolved to make a quartet from the
middle movement. He carried out this intention in May, 1893. Jurgenson.

5. Op. 74. Symphony No. 6, in four movements, for full orchestra.
Dedicated to V. Davidov. Performed for the first time in Petersburg,
October, 16th (28th), 1893. Conducted by the composer. Jurgenson.

6. Op. 75. Concerto No. 3, for pianoforte and orchestra. Dedicated to
Louis Diemer. This Concerto was taken from a Symphony which Tchaikovsky
began in May, 1892, and all but completed. He afterwards destroyed the
Symphony. The Concerto was first played in Petersburg by Taneiev.
Published by Jurgenson.

Besides the above, the following works were found at Klin after
Tchaikovsky’s death:--

1. _Momento lirico._ A piece, nearly completed, for the pianoforte.
Taneiev only pieced together the separate sketches. Published by
Jurgenson.

2. Duet, “Romeo and Juliet.” In this work Taneiev had more to amplify,
as he had to supply the entire accompaniments of the solo parts. He
borrowed these from Tchaikovsky’s orchestral fantasia on the same
subject.

3. Andante and Finale, for pianoforte and orchestra. Both movements were
arranged by Tchaikovsky himself from sketches for the Symphony planned
in 1892. The orchestration is by Taneiev, who was the first to play the
work in public at Belaiev’s first Russian Symphony Concert, February 8th
(20th), 1896. Thus Taneiev accomplished his rôle as the original
interpreter of all Tchaikovsky’s pianoforte works (excepting the
Concerto in B flat minor, which was played for the first time by Kross).
Published by Belaiev.




APPENDIX B

THE PLOTS OF TCHAIKOVSKY’S CHIEF OPERAS


1. _The Oprichnik._ The Oprichniks were a band of dissolute young
noblemen, the chosen body-guard of Ivan the Terrible, who swore by
fearful and unnatural oaths to carry out every command of the despot
they served. Sometimes they masqueraded as monks and celebrated “black
mass.” In reality they were robbers and murderers, hated and feared by
the people whom they oppressed. Andrew Morozov, the descendant of a
noble, but impoverished, house, and the only son of the widowed Lady
Morozova, is in love with the beautiful Natalia, daughter of Prince
Jemchoujny. His poverty disqualifies him as a suitor. Natalia’s father
promises her hand to the elderly boyard Mitkov. While desperately in
need of money, Andrew falls in with Basmanov, a young Oprichnik, who
persuades him to join their community, telling him that an Oprichnik can
always fill his own pockets. Andrew consents, believing it to be his
only chance of revenging himself upon Prince Jemchoujny. The Lady
Morozova is a high-minded, religious woman. Andrew, anxious to relieve
her poverty, takes her money which he has borrowed from Basmanov. His
mother refuses to touch what she knows to be the fruit of robbery and
murder, and implores her son not to associate with the hated Oprichniks.
Andrew, who is devoted to his mother, promises to respect her wishes.
Afterwards the desire for power and vengeance prevails, and he consents
to take the oath of the Oprichnik band. The first sacrifice demanded of
him is the complete renunciation of his mother and Natalia. Lady
Morozova is now heart-broken, deserted by her son and hated by the
populace, who insult her in the public square as the “mother of an
Oprichnik.” She is about to take refuge in the church, when Natalia
flies to her for protection. She has escaped from her father and her
middle-aged suitor Mitkov. Prince Jemchoujny appears on the scene and
orders his rebellious daughter to return to her home. His chidings are
interrupted by the arrival of the Oprichniks, awakening terror and
hatred among the people. Andrew catches sight of his mother, whom he has
not seen for many days, and rushes to embrace her, when the sinister
theme of the Oprichniks is heard in the orchestra, reminding him of his
vows. Lady Morozova turns from her son, disowns him, and solemnly curses
him as an Oprichnik. In the last act Andrew, unable to abandon Natalia
to her fate, resolves to marry her in spite of his vows. But Prince
Viazminsky, the leader of the Oprichniks, cherishes an old grudge
against the family of Morozov, and works for Andrew’s downfall. He
breaks in upon the wedding-feast with a message from the Tsar. Ivan the
Terrible has heard of the bride’s beauty, and desires her attendance at
the royal apartments. Andrew, with gloomy forebodings in his heart,
prepares to escort his bride, when Viazminsky, with a meaning smile,
explains that the invitation is for the bride _alone_. Andrew refuses to
let his wife go into the royal presence without his protection.
Viazminsky proclaims him a traitor to his vows. Natalia is carried off
by force, and the Oprichniks lead Andrew into the market-place to suffer
the death penalty at their hands. Meanwhile Lady Morozova, who has
relented, comes to bless her son on his wedding-day. She enters the
deserted hall, where Viazminsky, alone, is gloating over the success of
his intrigue. She inquires unsuspectingly for Andrew, and he leads her
to the window. Horror-stricken, she witnesses the execution of her son,
and falls dead at the feet of her triumphant enemy.

2. _Vakoula the Smith_, afterwards known as _Cherevichek_ (“The Little
Shoes”), and finally republished as _Les Caprices d’Oxane_. Christmas
Eve. A moonlight night, in the village of Dikanka. Solokha, the witch,
comes out of one of the huts, and is joined by the devil. They decide to
fly off together. The witch goes to fetch a broomstick, and the devil in
his monologue sings of his hatred of Vakoula the Smith, because the
latter has drawn a caricature of him upon the church wall. He invokes a
snowstorm. Solokha reappears, and they elope together, stealing the moon
and stars as they go, and leaving the village plunged in darkness.
Vakoula is making love to the beautiful daughter of Choub the Cossack.
To-night Choub is going to supper with the sacristan, and Vakoula will
take the opportunity of visiting his sweetheart, who, however, remains
deaf to all his entreaties. Meanwhile Choub loses his way in the
darkness, and after wandering round in a circle finds himself at his own
hut. Vakoula mistakes him for a rival lover, and drives him away from
his own threshold.

The second act shows the interior of the witch’s hut, where Solokha is
making herself smart after her ride through space on a broomstick. The
devil comes out of the stove and makes love to her. They dance the
_Gopak_, while little imps emerge from every nook and cranny in the form
of crickets and beetles. A knock is heard, and the devil hides himself
in an empty sack. Enter the Headman of the village. Another knock, and
the Headman, who does not want to be caught with Solokha, disposes of
himself in another sack. This time the sacristan comes in, and the same
ruse is enacted; and, finally, Choub appears on the scene and, at a
fourth knock, he too takes refuge in a sack. The last comer is the
witch’s son Vakoula. He is so wrapped up in his love troubles, that he
picks up the sacks in an absent-minded way and carries them off to the
smithy. In the scene that follows the villagers are singing Christmas
carols in the village street. The moon has returned to its place. Oxana,
who is among the singers, catches sight of Vakoula and cannot refrain
from teazing him a little more. She tells him she will marry him if he
will bring her the Tsaritsa’s own shoes. Vakoula goes off in a temper,
taking the sack containing the devil and leaving the others in the road.
The children peep inside and discover the Headman, the sacristan, and
Choub.

In the third act Vakoula goes to drown himself in the forest pool. He
puts the sack containing the devil at the edge of the water. The evil
spirit offers to give Oxana to the smith in exchange for his soul.
Vakoula consents, and will sign the contract in his blood. The devil
lets him go for a moment, and Vakoula overpowers him in turn. He makes
the devil promise to take him to the Tsaritsa, and they take flight for
St. Petersburg. A room in the Palace: the herald announces a victory of
the Russian army. The Zaparogue Cossacks are summoned before the Tsar.
The Cossacks dance a _Gopak_. Vakoula takes the opportunity of begging
for the Tsaritsa’s shoes, which are granted to him. The devil takes him
back to his native village. Christmas morning: Vakoula finds Oxana
bewailing his supposed loss. He consoles her with the shoes, and she
consents to become his wife.

3. _Eugene Oniegin._ Madame Lerin and the old nurse are making preserves
in the garden of a Russian country house. From indoors a duet is heard.
Tatiana and her sister Olga are singing to the accompaniment of a harp.
The peasants appear on the scene, carrying the last sheaf from the
harvest fields. National songs and dances. The announcement of guests
creates a considerable commotion in the quiet country household. They
prove to be Lensky, a young neighbour, fresh from a German university,
and Oniegin, a dandy from the capital, on a visit to his friend. Madame
Lerin and the nurse retire to prepare supper. The young people saunter
in the garden, Lensky with Olga, Tatiana with Oniegin. Tatiana is shy at
first, then falls in love with the stranger. In the second scene Tatiana
is sitting in her room by moonlight. The old nurse comes to scold her
for not being asleep. There follows a long, confidential talk between
them (recitative with soft accompaniment based on Tatiana’s theme). When
her nurse has gone, Tatiana sits dreaming of her love for Oniegin. How
will he guess her secret, unless she reveals it herself? In her
innocence of the world she resolves to write him a love letter. She begs
the nurse to convey it to Oniegin. The old woman hesitates, but cannot
refuse anything to the child of her heart. Reluctantly she departs on
her errand. The third scene takes us back to the garden. Oniegin meets
Tatiana. He cannot appreciate the directness and sweetness of the girl’s
nature. Jaded and world-worn, Tatiana seems to him insipid and
provincial, while at the same time he finds her forward. He thanks her
coldly for her letter, assures her he is not a marrying man, and gives
her some cynical advice as to the wisdom of acting with more maidenly
reserve in future. Then he leaves her, crushed with shame and
disappointment.

The second act opens upon a ballroom scene. It is Tatiana’s birthday.
Oniegin, whom Lensky has dragged to the dance against his will, amuses
himself by flirting with Olga. The complimentary couplets sung to
Tatiana by the elderly Frenchman Triquet are a favourite number in this
scene. As the ball progresses Lensky, mad with jealousy, loses his
self-control and insults Oniegin. The latter now feels some qualms of
conscience, but the hot-headed youth forces a challenge upon him, and he
consents to fight. The party breaks up in consternation. The second
scene is devoted to the duel in which Oniegin kills Vladimir Lensky.

Some years are supposed to elapse between the second and third acts. A
reception at a fashionable house in Petersburg. Oniegin is seen standing
apart from the guests, in gloomy reflection. He has returned home after
a self-imposed exile. Remorse for Lensky’s death haunts him, and he can
find no satisfaction in love or folly. All the guests are impatient for
the arrival of the acknowledged belle of society, Princess Gremin. When
she comes on the scene, Oniegin recognises Tatiana, transformed into a
stately, gracious woman of the world. Her husband is elderly, but
distinguished, handsome, and devoted to his beautiful young wife.
Oniegin’s chilly egotism is thawed, and he falls passionately in love
with the woman he once despised. The last scene takes place in the
boudoir of the Princess Gremin. She is reading a letter from Oniegin, in
which he declares his love. This communication throws her into a state
of agitation, and, before she can recover herself, Oniegin breaks in
upon her in person. In a long, impassioned duet he implores her to have
pity and to fly with him. With some of the rake’s vanity still left in
his nature, he cannot at first realise that she can resist him. Tatiana
respects and honours her husband. At first she tries to punish Oniegin
for the past. Then she struggles between duty and reawakened love.
Finally, with a supreme effort, she breaks away from him at the very
moment when she has confessed her true feelings. When the curtain falls,
Oniegin, baffled and despairing, is left alone on the stage.

4. _The Maid of Orleans._ A village festival at Domrémy. Thibaut, Joan’s
father, and Raimond, her lover, appear upon the scene. Thibaut says it
is no time for dancing and singing; a maid needs a man to protect her,
and therefore he wishes Joan to marry Raimond. She is silent, but
finally confesses that she has chosen another destiny. Her father is
angry and reproachful. A fire is seen on the horizon, and the tocsin is
heard. Old Bertrand comes in. He speaks of the desperate state of the
country and the approach of the English army. Suddenly Joan rises up and
speaks with prophetic inspiration. She feels the hour for action has
come, and bids farewell to her birthplace. The angels appear to Joan and
incite her to heroic deeds.

Third act. A field near Rheims. The meeting of Joan and Lionel. They
fight. Joan overcomes him, and stands above him with her drawn sword. At
this moment she catches sight of his face, and falls in love with him.
He returns her passion. Dunois comes upon the scene, and Lionel tells
him that he wishes to join the French army. Dunois is delighted that
such a great leader should come over to France. He leads him away in the
King’s name. Joan collapses, and discovers she is wounded. Second scene.
The coronation of Charles VII. The King announces to the people that
Joan has saved the country. Her father declares that she has been
supported by the powers of hell, rather than the angels of heaven. No
one believes him. Lionel and Dunois are ready to do combat on her
behalf. The Archbishop of Rheims asks her if she is “pure.” She believes
herself a sinner in intention, and will not reply. All leave her. Lionel
comes to console her in her abandonment. She turns from him in
indignation, as from “her worst enemy.”

Fourth act. The forest. Lionel pursues Joan. At first she flees from
him, then suddenly yields to their mutual passion. They hear the English
trumpets in the distance. Joan refuses to escape. She is taken prisoner,
and Lionel is slain. Second scene. Rouen. Joan is led to the stake. For
a moment she loses courage, but is sustained by a chorus of angels. She
is bound to the stake. A priest offers her a wooden crucifix. The
faggots are lighted.

5. _Mazeppa._--First act. First scene. Kochoubey’s garden, where his
daughter Maria, after parting with her girl friends, sings of her love
for her father’s guest, Mazeppa. Enter Andrew, a young Cossack, who has
loved Maria from childhood. He knows her secret passion for Mazeppa.
Kochoubey and his wife come into the garden with their guests, including
Mazeppa and Iskra. The former asks Kochoubey’s consent to his marriage
with Maria. Songs and dances take place during the discussion. Mazeppa
insinuates that Maria cannot marry anyone but himself, and her father
indignantly orders him to leave the house. He does so, but first wrings
from Maria the confession that she cares for him more than for her
parents. Second scene. Kochoubey’s house. Maria has fled with Mazeppa.
His wife bemoans the loss of her child, and instigates her husband to
vengeance. He promises to denounce Mazeppa to the Tsar. Andrew
undertakes to lay his complaint at the foot of the throne.

Second act. A dungeon in the castle of Bielotserkovsky. Kochoubey is
imprisoned there, because Mazeppa has treacherously impeached him at
Court before he had time to lay his own grievances before the Tsar. This
scene contains a dramatic moment, in which Kochoubey is confronted with
Mazeppa’s tool--Orlik. In the second scene Mazeppa gives orders to Orlik
for the execution of Kochoubey on the following day. Then Maria appears.
Love scene with Mazeppa. She does not know the full extent of his
cruelty and treachery, and still cares for him, in spite of her vague
forebodings. Her mother appears on the scene, and reveals the terrible
destiny which awaits Maria’s father. Mother and daughter hurry away to
try if they can save Kochoubey. Third scene. The place of execution. The
populace are waiting to see the death of Kochoubey and Iskra. Dance of a
drunken Cossack. Procession to the scaffold. Maria and her mother arrive
at the moment when the axe falls, and the former loses consciousness
when she realises that it is too late to effect a rescue.

Third act. Symphonic sketch, “The Battle of Poltava.” The deserted
garden and homestead of the Kochoubeys. Andrew appears. All day in the
battle he has striven to meet Mazeppa, and slay him in single combat,
but in vain. Now he has come to take a last leave of the spot where he
and Maria spent their happy childhood. Enter Mazeppa and Orlik. Andrew
reproaches the former for all the misery he has brought upon Maria, and
challenges him to fight. Andrew is mortally wounded. Then Maria wanders
in. Her misfortunes have upset her reason. Mazeppa tells her to follow
him, but she refuses, and he abandons her to her fate. She sees Andrew,
but does not fully recognise him. She takes the dying Cossack in her
arms, and sings him to his last sleep with a childish lullaby. The
peasantry, attracted by the noise of the fight between Mazeppa and
Andrew, now arrive upon the scene. Maria starts up suddenly, and, with a
mad laugh, throws herself into the stream.

6. _The Enchantress_ (“Charodeika”). First act. The banks of the Oka,
near Nijny-Novgorod. National customs. Kouma Nastasia appears outside
her inn and welcomes her customers. A boat comes down the river. The
Prince--son of the Governor of Nijny--is returning from the chase. He
drifts by, and Kouma remains pensive at the river’s edge. She is in love
with the Prince. The Governor and his Counsellor, Prince Mamirov,
suddenly appear on the scene. The latter, who is the representative of
respectability and decency, detests Kouma. He has compelled the Governor
to come and see for himself what a gang of disorderly characters meet in
Nastasia’s inn. The people are very agitated at this arrival, and wish
to remain near Kouma in order to protect her from violence. But she begs
them to retire. Then she puts on her best attire and goes out to meet
the unexpected guests. The Prince immediately falls a victim to her
charms. He accepts a cup of wine from the beautiful innkeeper, and gives
her his ring in return. Kouma, not contented with her victory over the
two men, is seized with a desire to humiliate Mamirov, and asks him to
join in the mummers’ dance. He refuses, but the Governor--now completely
under the spell of Kouma Nastasia’s beauty--orders him to do so. Mamirov
dances amid the laughter of the spectators.

Second act. The garden of the Governor’s house. His wife is discovered,
deep in thought. Her maid Nenila is near at hand. The Governor’s wife is
jealous, because her husband now spends all his days with Kouma. She
vows to revenge herself. Mamirov fans her smouldering wrath. Enter the
Prince, who perceives that his mother is in trouble and tries to
console her. They enter the house together. The Wanderer comes upon the
scene, and Mamirov orders him to report upon everything that takes place
in Kouma’s inn. Then the Governor himself arrives. He is full of his
passion for Kouma Nastasia. There follows a stormy scene between husband
and wife. The Governor returns to Kouma. The Wanderer reveals to the
Prince the real reason of the quarrel between the Governor and his wife,
the son swears to avenge his mother’s wrongs and to kill Kouma, whom he
has never seen.

Third act. Kouma’s house. Evening. The Governor tells Kouma he loves
her, but she does not respond. He threatens her, but she declares she
would sooner lose her life than yield to him. He goes away in anger.
Kouma’s uncle warns her that the young Prince has sworn to avenge his
mother, and is coming to kill her that very night. She sends all her
friends away and remains alone. She would rather die by the Prince’s
hand than accept the Governor as her lover. She puts out the light, lies
down on her bed, and awaits the end. The Prince comes, creeps to the
bedside, draws the curtain aside, and drops his dagger, spell-bound by
the beauty of the woman. A lengthy duet. The Prince becomes wholly
entranced by Kouma’s charms.

Fourth act. A dark forest on the banks of the Oka. The cave of Koudma
the Wizard. The Prince comes on the scene, attired as for hunting. He
inquires of Koudma whether all is now ready for his flight with Kouma.
He departs with his huntsmen. Enter the Wanderer, bringing the
Governor’s wife, disguised as a beggar-woman. She has come to ask the
wizard for some fatal spell to destroy Kouma. The Wanderer flees in
terror, and the Governor’s wife enters the cave alone. A boat arrives
containing Kouma and her friends. They land, leaving her alone to wait
for the Prince. The revengeful wife approaches Kouma and offers her a
refreshing drink, into which she drops the fatal poison. Kouma drinks.
The Prince returns and rushes to embrace her. All is ready for their
flight, but the poison has already done its work--Kouma dies in her
lover’s arms. The Governor’s wife confesses her guilt, and the Prince in
despair repulses her. Enter the Governor in search of the fugitives. He
cannot see Kouma, and believes she is being hidden from him. Maddened
with jealousy, he hurls himself upon his son and kills him. His wife
curses him as a murderer. The body of the Prince is borne away and the
Governor remains alone. A terrible storms breaks over his head. Overcome
with remorse and terror, he falls down in a mortal swoon.

7. _Pique Dame._ First act. First scene. The Summer Garden in
Petersburg. Spring. Chorus of nurses and governesses. Some of the
“golden youth” of the capital appear on the scene. They speak of
Hermann’s extraordinary passion for gambling. Enter Hermann and Tomsky.
The former talks of his love for a distinguished girl with whose name he
is not acquainted, although he often meets her in the street,
accompanied by an old lady of forbidding appearance. Enter Prince
Yeletsky, who announces his engagement to the very girl in whom Hermann
is interested. Hermann is depressed because his poverty is a hindrance
to his suit. While the sight of Liza always awakens his best feelings,
that of her grandmother fills him with a vague horror. Tomsky tells him
a tale to the effect that the old Countess possesses the secret
combination of three cards, which accounts for her extraordinary luck at
the gaming tables. Hermann, in his morbid mental condition, believes
himself destined to acquire this secret at any price. A terrible
thunderstorm still further upsets his mind, and he begins to realise
with horror that he is capable of committing a murder. He resolves to
put an end to himself, but not until he has declared his love to Liza.

Second scene. Liza and her young friends are amusing themselves with
singing and dancing. The governess appears on the scene, and the merry
party is broken up. Liza is left alone. She is not in love with her
fiancé, for her imagination is entirely occupied with the mysterious
young man whom she so often meets out of doors. Suddenly Hermann appears
before her. He threatens to kill himself on the spot if she will not
listen to him. Just as she has gathered courage to drive him away, the
old Countess comes in, alarmed by the commotion in her grand-daughter’s
apartment. Liza conceals Hermann. The sight of the old Countess brings
back his _idée fixe_ of the three cards. When Liza has succeeded in
calming her grandmother, and has induced her to return to her room, she
goes back to Hermann with the intention of dismissing him; but in the
end his passion prevails over her scruples.

Second act. Third scene. A fancy-dress ball. Prince Yeletsky pays his
addresses to Liza, who does not respond. Hermann is among the guests. At
the sight of the Countess the insane longing to possess the secret of
her luck comes over him again. In a _tête-à-tête_ with Liza he implores
her to let him visit her that night. She tells him how he may gain
access to her room unperceived.

Fourth scene. The Countess’s bedroom. Hermann appears through the secret
door. He hears steps, and hides himself again. The old Countess returns
from the ball. She goes into her boudoir, and presently reappears in her
night attire. She is tired and cross, and complains that in her youth
parties were more amusing than they are now. She dismisses her maid, and
falls asleep humming to herself an air from an old-fashioned opera.
Hermann awakes her. She is so terrified that she dies suddenly, without
having revealed her secret. Liza appears, and can no longer conceal from
herself that Hermann only made love to her in order to carry out his mad
scheme.

Third act. Fifth scene. Evening. The barracks. Hermann alone in his
quarters is haunted by remorse. In his terror he rushes from the room,
but is met on the threshold by the apparition of the Countess showing
him the three cards. Sixth scene. Liza is waiting for Hermann near the
Winter Canal. Midnight strikes, and Liza in despair is about to do away
with herself when he appears on the scene. At the sight of her his
madness subsides, and he thinks only of his love for her. But he soon
begins to rave about the three cards, and no longer recognises Liza. In
despair she throws herself into the Neva. Seventh scene. Hermann at the
gambling tables. He wins on the first two cards shown him by the ghost
of the Countess. When it comes to the third card no one will venture to
stake against him except Prince Yeletsky. Instead of the expected ace,
Hermann turns up the queen of spades, and loses all his winnings. The
apparition of the Countess appears to him once more, and he stabs
himself in a fit of madness.

8. _Iolanthe._ The blind daughter of King René of Provence lives among
the Vosges Mountains under the care of her nurse Martha and her husband
Bertrand. In order that she may not realise her blindness, the King has
forbidden the word “light” to be used in her presence. The girl is sad
without knowing why. Her friends bring her flowers and try to amuse her,
but in vain. She falls asleep in the garden, and is carried into the
castle by her nurse. The King arrives, accompanied by the famous Moorish
physician, Ebn-Khakya. The latter says he must see Iolanthe, even in her
sleep, before he can pronounce an opinion as to her sight. After a time
he informs the King that she can only be cured by a great desire to see;
therefore she must be made conscious of her condition. The King refuses
to follow this advice. Robert, Duke of Burgundy, and the Knight, de
Vaudemont, come by accident to the castle. The former has been betrothed
from childhood to Iolanthe, and is now on his way to King René’s court
in order to woo his future bride. He has never seen her, and is in no
hurry to wed. They see the notice which warns them that it is death to
enter the castle grounds. But Vaudemont catches a glimpse of the maiden
asleep on the terrace, and is spell-bound. Robert tries to make him
leave these haunts of witchcraft, but he refuses, and the Duke goes to
summon his men in order that he may carry off his friend by force. A
duet between Vaudemont and Iolanthe. He does not realise her blindness
until she asks him, “What is light?” He breaks through the atmosphere of
secrecy in which she lives. She knows she is blind and longs for light.
King René is horror-stricken, but Ebn-Khakya reminds him that now her
sight may be restored. To stimulate her desire, René declares Vaudemont
must be put to death unless her blindness is cured. Iolanthe is prepared
to undergo any pain to save Vaudemont, whom she loves. The physician
leads her away. Robert of Burgundy returns with his men. He recognises
King René, and begs to be freed from his obligation to marry his
daughter. The King consents, and promises Iolanthe’s hand to Vaudemont.
Her girl friends arrive on the scene and announce that the cure is
successful. Iolanthe appears with bandaged eyes. Ebn-Khakya takes off
the handkerchief, and her sight is restored. The opera concludes with a
hymn of thanksgiving.




APPENDIX C

EXTRACTS FROM GERMAN PRESS NOTICES DURING TCHAIKOVSKY’S TOURS ABROAD IN
1888 AND 1889


                           LEIPZIG “SIGNALE”

     “_January_, 1888.

“So far we have only become acquainted with three or four works by Peter
Tchaikovsky, a follower of the Neo, or young, Russian school of ‘storm
and stress’ composers, and these works, to speak frankly, have not won
our sympathies; not because the composer is lacking in talent and skill,
but because the manner in which he employs his gifts is repellent to us.
Equally frankly we are ready to confess that we went to hear the Suite
(op. 43) included in this programme, somewhat in fear and trembling,
being prepared for all kinds of monstrosities, distortions, and
repulsiveness. But it turned out otherwise.... The Fugue and
Introduction at the beginning of the Suite bore honourable witness to
the composer’s contrapuntal science; of the other movements--the
Divertimento, Intermezzo, Marche miniature, and Gavotte--the march seems
least worthy of praise, for it merely recalls the tea-caddy-decoration
style of art applied to music, and rather spoils than enhances the work.

“The composer, who conducted his Suite, must have been equally pleased
with the way in which it was played and the reception accorded by the
public. For the Gewandhaus audience, in recalling him _twice_, paid Herr
Tchaikovsky a compliment rarely bestowed on any but a few of the most
prominent composers of the day. He will carry away the impression that
there is no question of Russophobia among _musical_ people in Leipzig.

     “E. BERNSDORF.”

            “MUSIKALISCHES WOCHENBLATT,” NO. 3, JAHRGANG XIX

     “_January_ 12_th_, 1888.

“_Leipzig._ The first week of the New Year was really rich in
interesting musical events. At the twelfth Subscription Concert Herr
Tchaikovsky conducted his orchestral Suite (op. 43).... Undoubtedly the
choice of this work was not calculated to display the composer to the
Gewandhaus audience in his full creative strength. The Suite opens with
a very promising Fugue, cleverly and effectively worked out, and
continues very passably well with a Divertimento and an Intermezzo, two
movements which are not profound, but possess much charm of sonority.
The last two movements--Marche miniature and Gavotte--deteriorate so
distinctly into a mere pattern of sounds, that it is impossible to
derive from them any real artistic enjoyment. The sister work, of which
Siloti gave several movements last season, is far stronger and more
original. Still less can op. 43 be compared with the two chamber works
played at the concert of the Liszt-Verein: the deeply reflective Trio
dedicated to the memory of Nicholas Rubinstein, and the Quartet,
delightful in every movement, but wonderful as regards the Andante....
The Liszt-Verein presented Herr Tchaikovsky with a splendid
laurel-wreath.”

                   “NEUE ZEITSCRIFT FUR MUSIK,” NO. 2

     “LEIPZIG, _January_ 11_th_, 1888.

“Besides the exhaustively developed Fugue, which displays great
contrapuntal skill and sureness, all the rest is of second-rate musical
interest. We feel this the more strongly because the composer has been
impolitic enough to pad out his fleeting ideas into pretentious
movements of a quarter of an hour’s duration. What is the use of a
monotonous _fugato_ which comes into the Introduction _before_ the Fugue
itself? In the remaining movements we are conscious that the music has a
‘society tone,’ which finds expression in a pleasant conversational
style: it has an aroma of Bizet, Délibes, and Co., and is sometimes
reminiscent of the heroes of French Grand Opera and sometimes of Wagner.
Naturally such methods only produce a frivolous eclecticism that can
lead to no lasting results. Besides its aimless length--forty-five
minutes--this Suite impresses us most by its evidences of submission to
the shallow tastes of the hour. Here Tchaikovsky is posing too much in
the part of Proteus; consequently he is not all that he _can be_.

“A far happier and more sympathetic view of Tchaikovsky is presented by
his great Trio in A minor (op. 50)--also of extraordinary length--and
the String Quartet (op. 11).... These works are of far superior quality
and finer material; they have intellect, temperament, and imagination;
here the composer never descends to the commonplace. The
Trio--especially the _Pezzo elegiaco_--bears the imprint of a profound
seriousness, impregnated with sorrow and lamentation. The Quartet, which
was composed much earlier, shows chiefly a pleasing _naïveté_. The
Andante is our favourite movement; we might compare it to a slumbering
lily of the valley.

     “BERNHARD VOGEL.”

                         “LEIPZIGER TAGEBLATT”

     “LEIPZIG, _January_ 6_th_, 1888.

“We give decided preference to the first movement of the Suite (op. 43),
especially as regards the Fugue, the subject of which, being full of
energy and easily grasped, offers material for sustained and interesting
development, in which, one after another, all the instruments take part,
until the movement is steadily worked up to a brilliant and effective
close. The Introduction pleased us less, partly on account of its being
spun out, but also because its contents are only of mediocre quality.
The Divertimento treats a folk melody, which is interesting in itself,
and is also very effective, thanks to variety of instrumentation. The
same may be said of the Intermezzo, in which the ‘cellos have a
pleasing, but in no way remarkable, melody. This movement suffers
equally from its prolixity. The little March, given to the wood wind and
violins, is in the national style, and owes its effect chiefly to the
orchestration. Here the flageolet tones of the violins produce a most
original effect. The Gavotte, which forms the last movement, cannot lay
claim to great appreciation; its effect is rather superficial. The
hearty applause after each movement was intended rather for the composer
than for his work.”

                        “HAMBURG CORRESPONDENT”

“SIXTH PHILHARMONIC CONCERT

     “HAMBURG, _January_ 20_th_, 1888.

“We cannot deny to Tchaikovsky originality, temperament, or a bold
flight of fancy, although when he is possessed by the spirit of his
race he overthrows every limitation. All logic is then thrown to the
winds, and there begins a Witches’ Sabbath of sound which offends our
sight and hearing, especially the latter. Flashes of genius mingle with
musical banalities; delicate and intellectual touches with effects which
are often ugly. There is something uncompromising, restless, and jerky
about his work. In spite of all his originality, and the unrestrained
passion of his emotions, Tchaikovsky is too eclectic in his tendencies
ever to attain to independence in the highest meaning of the word. An
artist’s originality does not lie in the fact that he brings us what is
strange and unusual. What deludes the senses is far from sufficient to
satisfy the intellect. Tchaikovsky is a gifted, highly cultured,
interesting artist. An artist who knows how to excite us by his ideas,
but whom we should not venture to describe as a creative force in the
highest sense. His music is too deeply rooted in a one-sided national
tendency; but when he passes these limits the eclectic becomes
prominent, who uses all the influences he has assimilated, although in
his own original way. It is not what Tchaikovsky says that is new, but
his manner of saying it. He likes to take wild and sudden leaps, allows
himself to be carried away by the mood of the moment, and spins these
moods out as much as possible, padding them largely with pathos and
concealing the lack of really great thoughts by means of dazzling
colour, unusual harmonic combinations, and lively, exotic rhythms.

     “SITTARD.”

                             “FREMDENBLATT”

“SIXTH PHILHARMONIC CONCERT

     “HAMBURG, _January_ 20_th_, 1888.

“The Serenade was given to the public about 1883. The first and third
movements are the most important, yet, even at its weightiest, it is not
worthy to be placed beside the works of our latest German composers.
This movement shows some similarity in form to the old French overture,
as appears from its division into three parts and the Introduction in
slow time. The second movement, a Valse Tempo in the dominant, is as out
of keeping with the leading emotion of the opening movement as is the
Finale--which is not always very lofty in conception. Undoubtedly the
highest recognition would be accorded to the Elégie (third movement) if
it, too, had more in common with the first movement. This sense of unity
is lacking, in spite of the admirable development of the parts, while
the key of D major, and the second sequence of dominants leading to C,
is not calculated to give coherence to the whole. From the point of
view of instrumentation the Serenade is admirably worked out, and the
means selected are so well handled that it is worthy to rank with
numerous other serenades for strings which have been turned out by
skilled artists in recent years. If in the Serenade many fundamental
principles of form have been violated, this method of procedure, which
might be attributed to an effort after novelty, stands in no approximate
relationship to the music of the Pianoforte Concerto (op. 23), a work
which will hardly please German musicians in its entirety. This music
bears so essentially the Russian stamp that we must be able to view it
entirely from a national standpoint in order to find it interesting. The
Concerto, in three extended movements, consists of an endless chain of
phrases, and offers only a superficial development of the themes. Each
phrase stands by itself, and has no connection with the next. It is not
lacking in noisy passages, which cost the pianist enormous efforts, but
none of these are the outcome of logical necessity. It is true that the
work is not lacking in cleverness, but how regrettable that such an
eminent talent should go so far astray!... The Theme and Variations from
the Third Suite for orchestra brought the Tchaikovsky performance to a
close. Here the composer gives us something clever and skilful, at least
as regards the first half of the work; but our pleasure in these
welcome, solid tone-structures only lasts until the violin solo in B
minor. After this number the work runs a superficial course, culminating
in a very commonplace _Tempo di Polacca_. If this is really Russian, and
justified as such, Tchaikovsky’s music may have its special qualities
for Russian artists. German composers, however, are not likely to derive
from it any satisfactory results which could forward the development of
their art....

     “EMIL KRAUSE.”

                        “HAMBURGER NACHRICHTEN”

     “_January_ 20_th_, 1888.

“Yesterday Tchaikovsky’s Serenade (op. 48), his Pianoforte Concerto op.
23, and Theme and Variations from op. 55 were given at the Philharmonic
Concert. In all these works we observed the same half-popular
(_volkstümlich_), half-trivial element as regards the melodic invention.
We need not, however, lay stress upon this in referring to the
individual movements, since the absence of what seems indispensable to a
German audience is not a fault in the composer. The Concerto is least
calculated to convince the hearer of Tchaikovsky’s power of logical
development and perfection of form. The first movement conceals its very
primitive formal structure under an overpowering rush of harmonic
effects, of dazzling kaleidoscopic passages, of intricate treatment of
the subjects and of orchestral colour.... The Serenade is more lucid in
design and far clearer in expression. Its sonority is full and
satisfying, and it displays much variety of colouring. By the divisions
of the violins, the skilful employment of violas and ‘cellos, and the
judicious combination and alternation of bowed and pizzicato passages,
the composer succeeds in producing many picturesque effects. Interrupted
cadences and frequent changes of rhythm break the flow of the work as a
whole, but it leaves a general impression of freshness, animation, and
attractiveness. The subjects of the fluently handled first Allegro have
a piquant quality. The second movement is a slow Valse. Far more
distinctive is the first subject of the third movement--with its
old-world colouring--which resembles the introduction to the Finale, and
is treated, moreover, in the genuine Russian folk-style, being heard
first in C major and E flat major. In the Variations from the Third
Suite the composer gives us a convincing proof of his musical science
and fruitful imagination. The theme itself is only of mediocre quality,
musically speaking, but, as the movement proceeds, it increases in
importance, in depth, and complexity of the parts, until in the Finale
it is worked up to a somewhat obtrusive apotheosis of elemental
strength, the outcome of the mere rhythm. This was regarded as a signal
for departure by a large section of the audience, who were too much
concerned in safeguarding their own tympanums to feel compunction for
the disturbance they caused to the more strong-minded, who sat it out to
the end.”

                       “VOSSICHE ZEITUNG,” NO. 68

     “BERLIN, _February_ _9th_, 1888.

“Not only among the new school of his compatriots, but among all
contemporary composers Tchaikovsky is now reckoned as one of the most
gifted. He possesses intellect, originality, and invention, and is
master alike of the old and the more modern forms. Compared with his
fellow-countryman Rubinstein, through whose nature runs a vein of
greater amplitude and warmth--Tchaikovsky has more charm and judgment.
Both have in common--what we find in every Russian composer with whom we
are acquainted--a tendency to exaggeration of form and expression; but
here again, Tchaikovsky seems to possess the most artistic refinement.
The songs which Frl. Friede sang yesterday, and the String Quartet, are
remarkable for delicacy of invention and beauty of form. The overture to
_Romeo and Juliet_, and the Pianoforte Concerto, played by Herr Siloti,
are full of characteristic animation and originality of rhythm, harmony,
and instrumentation. But here also the defects to which we have alluded
are clearly perceptible. The overture becomes wearisome by the spinning
out of the same idea; while, according to our conception of the play
which inspired this work, the use of the big drum seems rather a coarse
effect.

“In the first movement of the Concerto we cannot reconcile ourselves to
the noisy, somewhat common-place, principal subject, nor to the frequent
and violent interruptions of the musical flow of the work. On the other
hand, the Andante, which is a delightful combination of poetry and
humour, and the ebullient Finale, in the national style, offer only
fresh and undisturbed enjoyment. A clever and animated Fugue from one of
the Suites bore witness, by its admirable technical treatment, to the
composer’s mastery of polyphonic forms.”

                    “BERLINER BÖRSEN-COURIER,” NO. 5

     “_February_ 9_th_, 1888.

“The concert--long awaited with great excitement--at which Tchaikovsky,
the leading representative of the modern Russian school, was to conduct
a series of his own works, took place yesterday.... Among the orchestral
works the Solemn Overture, “_1812_,” was given for the first time. The
_Romeo and Juliet_ overture is already known here; it is a symphonic
poem which describes more or less the tragic fate of the two lovers. The
Introduction shows deep emotion, while the Fugue displays great
contrapuntal skill (of which the modern Russian composers give
astonishing evidence) and force of ideas. The Andante from op. 11, a
charming cabinet picture, most tenderly elaborated, appeals directly to
the heart, and is beautiful in its sonority.... The overture “_1812_” is
a characteristic tone-picture of strife and victory, more ideally than
realistically depicted, especially the former. But by far the most
weighty and lasting impression was made by the Pianoforte Concerto,
which Alexander Siloti played with taste and brilliant virtuosity upon a
fine full-toned Blüthner. It is one of Tchaikovsky’s best works, fresh
in invention, glowing with passion, beautiful as regards its themes and
admirable in its development....”

     “O. E.”

                      “KÖLNISCHE ZEITUNG,” NO. 45

“THE EIGHTH GÜRZENICH CONCERT.

     “_February_ 14_th_, 1889.

“Tchaikovsky’s Third Suite made a striking impression upon all who heard
it. Although the German public do not possess the key to many incidents
in this work--because we know so little of Russia and its people, and
what we know is not founded upon accurate observation--yet the music is
so inspired, masterly and original, that it cannot fail to make a
lasting impression upon any educated and progressive audience....

“It is a question whether Tchaikovsky would not have done well to
further elucidate the titles of the various movements--Elégie, Valse
mélancolique, Scherzo, etc.--by the addition of a programme. But however
desirable this may sometimes seem to listeners who are not Russians, it
is doubtful whether the pleasant and stirring character of this work,
which we may best define as a play of moods, would not have suffered in
being tied down by any precise definition....

“This music is of the kind which is pre-eminently calculated to stir our
feelings by its richness of colour, its peculiarities of tonality--in
one variation the Phrygian mode is successfully employed--and by its
clever workmanship, which betokens an unusual skill in the working out
of the parts. If an ingenious development of a theme, or an unusual
effect of orchestration, occasionally predominates over the rest, on the
whole it is the voice of the heart which is heard throughout the work,
lending even an undertone to the glitter and hum of the Scherzo. The
composer attains to this highest of all qualities by means of the wealth
and charm of his melodic inspiration, the simplicity of his musical
idiom, and the freshness of his invention.... Tchaikovsky not only
possesses the gift of melodic invention, he pays due honour to Melody
itself, and makes all the other elements of music hold their breath when
Melody is speaking.... Simplicity is still the sign of profound truth,
and of the promptings of inspiration. Tchaikovsky’s creative power
prevents this quality from degenerating into superficiality.”

                           “GENERAL-ANZEIGER”

     “FRANKFORT, _February_ 16_th_, 1889.

“A novelty headed the programme: the Third Suite, op. 55, by Peter
Tchaikovsky, who is generally spoken of as the head of the young Russian
school of musicians.... As the last notes of the Suite died away, there
followed a burst of applause so hearty and so continuous, that nothing
equal to it has been accorded to any novelty during recent years, except
perhaps when Richard Strauss conducted his First Symphony.... The
impression made by Tchaikovsky’s work was dazzling rather than profound;
strictly speaking, it was not so much the Suite as a whole that won this
recognition, as the bright, fresh, brilliantly orchestrated Polonaise
with which it comes to an end. The second and third movements, Valse
mélancolique and Scherzo, only evoked moderate applause: both numbers
are in the minor, and seem to be stamped with a peculiar, national,
Sarmatian character, they are so strange and gloomy. After the Valse
mélancolique, which is quite in keeping with its title, a real Scherzo
would have followed better; a Scherzo in the sense of the classical
symphonists, rather than a number of this kind, which is rich in
rhythmic devices, but poor in that true gaiety which we expect to find
in a piece entitled Scherzo. In this number the combination of 6/8 and
2/4 has an unfortunate effect, for the wind instruments always seem to
come in a little too late. The variations are most of them very
interesting, and one or two appeal direct to the heart. The Fugue is
strong, effective, and most skilfully worked out.”

                         “DRESDNER NACHRICHTEN”

     “_February_ 22_nd_, 1889.

“ ... The first number on the programme--Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony
in F minor--acted like some magic spell upon the audience, somewhat
disappointed at the non-appearance of the singer Frl. Leisinger. The
Russian master--now undoubtedly the first composer of his nation--not
only impressed us as a personality, but proved himself to be such in his
Symphony, then given for the first time in Dresden. The work is planned
upon large and bold lines and carried out in the same spirit. The ideas
are clear-cut and concise; the melody and harmony distinctive and
strikingly characteristic. Occasionally, as in the first and last
movements, the composer indulges in an orgy of sound, for which he
evokes all the resources of the modern orchestra. At these moments he
produces with true orchestral virtuosity the most piquant and unusual
effects, while always remaining master of the situation; saying
precisely what he has to say, and avoiding all empty phrases and
rambling statements. What he expresses, however, is spirited, and full
of elemental strength and weight. With all this, Tchaikovsky knows how
to strike a note of tenderness. The third movement of his Symphony--the
Scherzo ‘pizzicato ostinato’--is a masterly invention, which stands
alone in musical literature. The vein of national feeling which runs
throughout the work accords admirably with its style and beauty. Here
and there it echoes the melancholy and sadness of some solemn, wailing
folksong, but so inspired and perfect is the treatment that both heart
and intellect are completely satisfied.

“An equally fine impression was made by his Pianoforte Concerto (op.
23). This impression would have been still more profound if the Symphony
had not come first; it was a case in which _le mieux est l’ennemi du
bien_. The Concerto is symphonic in structure, and the piano part is
indissolubly welded with the orchestration. Nor for a moment can we fail
to recognise great mastery of form, inspiration, and emotion; but these
qualities do not impress the hearer so strongly as in the Fourth
Symphony....

                          “DRESDNER-ANZEIGER”

     “_February_ 22_nd_, 1889.

“Tchaikovsky may congratulate himself upon the complete success of his
Fourth Symphony (F minor), which opened the programme of the Fifth
Philharmonic Concert. This Symphony proved to be irreproachable as
regards form: a virtue not to be underrated in a modern production. This
original work is not lacking in vital and stirring material which
corresponds to its nobility of form, although it is so saturated with
national colour that it affects us strangely at first. These melodies,
harmonies, and rhythms, derived from the spirit of the Russian folksongs
and dances, unlike other attempts of the kind, possess sufficient weight
and character to be used as symphonic material.... Equally good and
artistic is his Pianoforte Concerto in B♭ minor, which is more of the
new German school. This Concerto is a gigantic work of its kind, which
demands for its execution the most perfect technique and extraordinary
physical strength....

     “FERDINAND GLEICH.”

                           “VOSSICHE ZEITUNG”

     “_February_ 27_th_, 1889.

“The interest of yesterday’s Popular Concert given by the Philharmonic
Orchestra was enhanced by the presence of Herr Tchaikovsky, who
conducted two of his own works: a Serenade for strings and the symphonic
poem, _Francesco da Rimini_. The Serenade is a cheerful composition,
fluent, pleasing, and not without a touch of humour. It is not
remarkable for originality, so much as for a skilful and artistic
treatment of the thematic material, particularly noticeable in the last
movement of the work. The valse section, which is especially full of
charm and graceful in the elaboration of the melodies, had to be
repeated. We had already heard the symphonic poem at Bilse’s concerts.
This time the work did not impress us more favourably. Sometimes it
repels by its violence; sometimes it wearies by the constant repetition
of an insignificant subject. A few clever episodes and occasional
moments in which it keeps within the limits of the beautiful make the
general effect of this work not too intolerable....”

                          “BERLINER TAGEBLATT”

     “_February_ 27, 1889.

“ ... Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for strings consists of a series of
charming little pieces, in the subjects of which we seem to recognise
now and again a well-known face from some operetta. But these
reminiscences are so delightfully decked out that we are very pleased to
meet them again.... Musically speaking, the last movement is the most
important. Here the composer has evolved a number of clever variations
from a Russian theme. The symphonic poem, _Francesca da Rimini_,
displays much interesting, but glaring, tone-colour. What Dante has
described in ten lines is reproduced with effort in innumerable bars of
music; we are endlessly wallowing in the harshest discords, until the
attentive hearer undergoes a martyrdom scarcely less painful than the
poor souls who are blown hither and thither in Dante’s Whirlwind.
Tchaikovsky is a gifted tone-poet, whom we have often recognised as
such; but this symphonic poem exceeds all limits of what is
acceptable....”




ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF NAMES


 Adamov, 25

 Aertel, 25

 Albert D’, 459

 Albrecht, Karl (Constantine), 6, 258, 260, 564, 705, 713

 Alferaki, Achilles, 666

 Alexandrov, Elizabeth M., 58

 Alexis. _See_ Safronov

 Alexciev, E. A., 23

 Alexeiev, Nich., 392, 433

 Altani, 449, 470, 608

 Ambrose, 397, 412

 Apukhtin, Alex, 25, 26, 713

 Arensky, Anton S., 496, 520, 521-3, 609, 610, 620, 622, 664

 Artôt, Desirée, 95-101, 470, 548, 579

 Asantchevsky, M., 128, 150

 Assier, Alexandra. _See_ Tchaikovsky

 Assier, Michael, 2

 Auer, Leopold, 413, 415

 Aus-der-Ohe, Adèle, 642-4, 649, 654, 655

 Ave-Lallemant, 546, 580


 Bach, J. S., 518

 Bachmetiev, N., 347

 Balakirev, Mily A., 81, 104-5, 107-11, 252, 407, 484

 Barcewicz (Bartzevich), 318, 674

 Bartsal, 395, 435

 Beethoven, 311, 517, 567-9, 570

 Begichev, 79, 93

 Bellini, 421

 Berezovsky, 298

 Berger, Francesco, 558

 Berlioz, Hector, 87, 88, 296, 330, 335

 Bernadaky, 555

 Bernhardt, Sarah, 432

 Bernuth, 545

 Bertenson (the brothers), 723

 Bessel, V., 145-6, 360, 437

 Bevignani, 134

 Bilse, 319, 334, 373, 385

 Bizet, 253, 329, 382

 Boïto, Arrigo, 708

 Borodin, 81, 252, 578

 Bortniansky, 298, 406-7, 410

 Botkin, P. S., 638, 646, 655

 Brahms, Joh., 240-1, 319, 372, 499, 519, 541-2, 569, 570, 571, 580

 Brandoukov, A., 513

 Breitner, 368

 Brema, Marie, 709

 Brodsky, Adolf, 413-15, 470, 541, 547, 663

 Bruch, Max, 287, 320, 708

 Bülow, Hans von, 157, 167, 175, 291, 320, 334, 347, 368, 471-3, 544,
 545

 Busoni, 547


 Carnegie, Andrew, 636, 639, 643, 645-9, 650

 Carnegie, Mrs., 650

 Chopin, 296

 Colonne, 193, 335, 340, 347, 354, 367, 372, 470, 513, 545

 Constantine, Constantinovich, Grand Duke, 374, 470, 519, 560, 562,
 567-71, 589, 590, 607, 610, 670

 Constantine, Nicholaevich, Grand Duke, 145, 159, 177, 352, 374, 435,
 479

 Cui, Cæsar, 81, 148, 151, 173, 251-2, 358, 443, 463, 479, 557


 Damrosch, Leo, 368, 643

 Damrosch, Mrs., 639

 Damrosch, Walter, 635, 636, 637, 651

 Dannreuther, 648

 Dargomijsky, 81, 388, 565-6

 Daudet, A., 434, 460

 Davidov, Alexandra I. (_b._ Tchaikovsky), 29, 40, 71, 72, 74, 83, 113,
 122, 172, 189, 201, 367, 410, 672

 Davidov, A. I., 56

 Davidov, Elizabeth, 56, 76

 Davidov, Karl, 128

 Davidov, Leo V., 29, 56

 Davidov, Nich., 58, 59

 Davidov, Tatiana, 526

 Davidov, Vera (_m._ Boutakov), 76, 83

 Davidov, Vera (_m._ Rimsky-Korsakov), 567, 574

 Davidov, Vladimir (Bob), 471, 581, 582, 583, 625, 662-3, 665, 673,
 674, 676, 685, 688, 697, 702-4, 713, 714-15, 721, 724

 Délibes, 241, 253, 375, 434, 513

 Dickens, Charles, 384, 422, 590

 Diemer, Louis, 470, 513, 707

 Door, Anton, 78, 692

 Dostoievsky, 55

 Dubuque, 78

 Dürbach, Fanny, 5-9, 17, 677, 698

 Dütsch, 45

 Dvořák, Anton, 550, 573, 579


 Eliot, George, 715

 Erdmannsdörfer, Max, 430, 431, 450, 473


 Fet, 567, 667, 670

 Figner, Medea, 618

 Figner, N., 600, 602, 618

 Finck, H. T., 644

 Fitzenhagen, 347, 588

 Flaubert, 493

 Friede, 548, 674

 Friedenthal, 368


 Galitsin, Alexis, Prince, 57

 Gerhard, V., 25

 Gerke, A., 48

 Gevaert, 59

 Glazounov, Alex., 443, 470, 576, 578, 599, 723

 Glinka, 54, 308, 311, 377-8, 388, 530, 563-4, 576, 607

 Glück, 518

 Gogol, 72, 493

 Goldmark, 287, 333

 Gounod, 556

 Green, Plunket, 709

 Grieg, Edward, 470, 541-2, 547, 708

 Grijimal, 148, 180


 Halir, Carl, 470

 Hanslick, 191, 414-15

 Hausen, 656

 Haydn, 518

 Helena Pavlovna, Grand Duchess, 155, 156

 Henschel, Mr. and Mrs., 709

 Hubert, Nich. A., 55, 165-6, 323, 470, 483, 567, 569

 Hugo, Victor, 383

 Hyde, Mr. and Mrs., 636-8, 641, 643, 645, 646, 649, 653


 Ippolitov-Ivanov, M. M., 470, 500, 508, 529, 571, 606, 608, 620

 “Invincible Band, The,” 90-3, 104, 105, 134, 358, 622

 Issakov, V., 375

 Ivanov, 479

 Jahn, Otto, 388

 Joachim, 320

 Joukovsky, 299, 331

 Jurgenson, Peter I., 67, 68, 265, 286, 313, 325, 332, 334, 335, 344,
 351, 357, 361, 370, 376, 384, 404-7, 410, 411, 417, 419, 420, 425,
 428, 435, 437, 458, 483, 498, 501, 514, 534, 537, 542, 557, 564, 575,
 577, 579, 582, 604, 610, 617, 622, 623, 663, 678, 685, 687, 705, 712,
 715, 721


 Kadmina, E., 145

 Kamensky (Kamenskaya), E., 393, 398-9, 428

 Kashkin, Nich., 68, 127, 201, 493, 601, 671, 717-8

 Katkov, M., 127, 416

 Klein, 649

 Klimenko, I. A., 86, 116, 121, 132, 202

 Klimenko, P., 420

 Klindworth, Karl, 119, 120, 319, 579, 686

 Knabe (_see_ Mayer), 654-5

 Knorr, Ivan, 577

 Kondratiev, G., 146, 159, 620

 Kondratiev, Nich., 124, 168-9, 243-4, 531, 533

 Konius, Julius, 626, 663

 Konius, George, 703

 Konius, Leo, 715

 Konradi, G. K., 245

 Konradi, Nich., 177, 164, 712-13

 Korbay, 649

 Korganov, 508

 Kossman, 78, 576

 Kotek, Joseph, 204, 205, 240-1, 356, 415, 464, 471

 Kross, Gustave, 55, 174

 Kündinger, Rudolf, 30, 31, 681


 Lagroua, 28

 Lalo, 280, 326-9, 434, 513

 Lamara, Mme., 514, 685

 Lamoureux, 513

 Laroche, Hermann, 42, 43, 62, 63, 102, 127, 151, 163, 330, 448, 493,
 514, 564, 588, 667

 Laub, Ferd., 78, 148, 168, 288

 Lavrovsky (Lavrovskaya) Eliz., 123, 202, 717

 Lefèbre, G., 513

 Legoshin, 333, 470, 585

 Lermontov, 268

 Leschetizky, T., 45, 48, 128

 Limnander, 436

 Liszt, 52, 181, 241, 356, 412, 685

 Litolff, H., 52

 Liadov, 470

 Löwenson, 438

 Lomakin, 30, 45

 Litke, A., Count, 662, 723


 Mackar, Félix, 494, 501, 512

 MacMahan, Mrs., 647, 650

 Mahler, Gustave, 675

 Maitland, Professor, 708, 712

 Maleziomov, Sophia, 160

 Marcel, 300, 345, 380

 Maslov, T., 25

 Massenet, 326, 333, 385, 515, 556, 582

 Mayer (Knabe and Mayer), 635, 637-8, 640, 651, 657

 Meck, Nadejda Filaretovna von, 143, 165, 204-16, 217, 219, 221-3,
 225-54, 260, 261, 263, 266-92, 295-9, 301-4, 305-13, 314-16, 322, 323,
 325, 326-31, 333, 334, 335, 338, 340, 341, 342, 344, 345-8, 349, 350,
 352, 353, 357, 363, 367-72, 374, 377-99, 401-4, 406, 407, 411-13,
 415-18, 420-5, 427, 429-36, 439, 448, 452, 454, 459-63, 471-3, 476-9,
 483, 486, 487, 497-500, 502-4, 505, 507, 513, 515, 519, 524, 527, 529,
 530-2, 536, 548, 558, 561, 562, 564, 566, 571, 572, 574, 578, 579,
 584, 586, 588, 596, 597, 605, 608, 609, 611-17, 724

 Melnikov, 422

 Menter, Sophie, 470, 626

 Merkling, Anna (_b._ Tchaikovsky), 432, 456, 470, 495, 601, 603, 675,
 687, 717

 Merten, 114

 Metzdorf, Richard, 55

 Michael Angelo, 237, 368, 371, 568

 Milioukov, A. I. (Tchaikovsky), 217, 219

 Mozart, W. A., 287-9, 296, 378, 387, 432, 518, 552, 622, 717

 Musset, A. de, 315-16, 432

 Moussorgsky, 252, 358, 461


 Napravnik, Edward, 134, 147, 148, 159, 188, 352, 375, 393, 405, 463,
 486, 520, 586, 618

 Napravnik, V., 470, 546, 677

 Neitzel, Otto, 577

 Nikisch, Arthur, 549

 Nikonov, Sophia, 106

 Nilsson, 133


 Obolensky, Prince, 453

 Odoevsky, Prince, 78, 87, 88

 Osberg, 71

 Ostrovsky, 79, 85

 Oudin, Eugene, 712


 Paderewski, 556

 Padilla, 101, 548

 Palchikov, Marie, 13

 Panaev, 375

 Pasdeloup, 191-2

 Pavlovsky (Pavlovskaya), Emilie, 450, 470, 475, 478, 481, 486, 495, 525

 Philipov, 15

 Piccioli, 32, 33

 Plestcheiev, A., 72

 Pollini, 675

 Polonsky, 155, 479

 Poushkin, 424, 445, 596

 Prianichnikov, 399, 617, 673


 Rachinsky, S., 103, 112, 113

 Razoumovsky, D., 405

 Reinecke, Carl, 542-43

 Reno, Alice, 644-45, 657

 Reno, Morris, 634, 635, 636-37, 638-40, 645-50, 652, 657, 668

 Richter, Hans, 191, 290, 414

 Rieger, 550

 Riemann, Hugo, 721

 Rimsky-Korsakov, Nat. N. (_b._ Pourgold), 111, 134, 137

 Rimsky-Korsakov, Nich. A., 81, 89, 172, 175, 177, 187, 251, 480, 520

 Ristori, Adelaide, 28

 Ritzel, 648

 Rioumin, C., 115

 Romeike, 643, 648

 Ross, Ivy, 640, 641, 652

 Rousseau, J. J., 340

 Rubinstein, Anton G., 45, 47, 48, 49, 62, 81, 291, 342-3, 375, 385,
 388, 437, 439, 503, 587, 591-5, 681-4

 Rubinstein, Nicholas G., 61, 64, 67, 165-8, 225-6, 231, 254, 262, 342,
 335, 397, 401, 403, 419

 Rummel, 368, 644, 646


 Sachs, William de, 368, 640, 641, 642, 643, 649

 Sadovsky, 79

 Safonov, V., 604, 608

 Safronov, Alexis, 162, 324, 394, 410, 488, 490, 595, 602, 662, 680,
 714, 728

 Saint-Saëns, C., 176, 193, 434, 435, 707-10

 Sand, George, 314

 Sapellnikov, 470, 544, 546-8, 582-3, 626

 Sarasate, 707

 Sardou, 432

 Sauer, Emil, 470, 577

 Sauret, 415

 Schobert, Eliz., 27

 Schirmer, 640, 643

 Schopenhauer, 266, 269, 270, 273

 Schubert, Franz, 570

 Schumann, Robert, 412

 Seidl, Anton, 643, 652

 Serov, 54, 55, 155, 282-4, 388

 Sgambati, 412, 605

 Shilovsky, C., 79, 180

 Shilovsky, Count Vassiliev-, 79, 93, 117, 713

 Shpajinsky, 474, 478, 482

 Stanford, Charles Villiers, 709

 Siloti, Alex., 470, 499, 541, 547, 550, 564, 670, 686

 Sklifasskovsky, 470

 Skobeliev, 425

 Slaviansky, 55

 Smetana, 586

 Soloviev, V., 354

 Spinoza, 589

 Stassov, V. V., 81, 134-7, 161, 194, 465, 520

 Strakaty, Dr., 550

 Strauss, Richard, 473, 545


 Taneiev, Serge, 149, 175-6, 191, 192, 193, 255-8, 292-5, 323, 363,
 366, 408, 429, 458, 476, 483, 484, 501, 537, 621, 671, 687

 Tarnovsky, Eliz., 73

 Tchaikovsky, Alexandra A., 3-4, 19, 20, 22

 Tchaikovsky, Alexandra I. (_see_ Davidov), 5

 Tchaikovsky, Anatol, 17, 35, 69-75, 85, 86, 94, 96, 100, 107, 112,
 114, 115, 121, 122, 147, 154, 162, 164, 168, 186, 216, 223, 224, 351,
 352, 354, 356, 410, 419, 453, 507, 509, 554, 664, 677, 679, 696, 702

 Tchaikovsky, Anna P. _See_ Merkling

 Tchaikovsky, George, 679

 Tchaikovsky, Hyppolite, 5, 506, 559

 Tchaikovsky, Ilia Petrovich, 2-3, 4, 9, 27, 95-9, 122, 133, 138, 150,
 217, 220, 367

 Tchaikovsky, Modeste, 17, 35, 69-75, 86, 94, 97, 112, 114, 115, 118,
 132, 133, 146, 154, 160, 163, 168, 177-181, 184, 186, 200, 203, 245,
 299-301, 304, 317, 330, 337, 338-9, 348, 351, 373, 380, 383, 384, 400,
 401, 403, 405, 422, 426, 427, 438, 441, 443, 444, 451, 459, 466, 482,
 493, 498, 500, 506-8, 510, 512, 516, 521, 524, 529, 533, 541, 544,
 547, 560, 576, 581, 582, 584, 589, 600-6, 609, 626-8, 629-35, 662,
 674, 681, 685, 688, 694, 697, 701, 704, 706, 707, 708, 714, 716

 Tchaikovsky, Nich., 4, 15, 33, 124, 698, 724

 Tchaikovsky, Peter P., 27, 123

 Tchaikovsky, P. V. (Anatol’s wife), 512

 Tchaikovsky, Zinaïda, 3, 9, 15, 21

 Tchekov, 589

 Thackeray, W. M., 244

 Thomas, Ambroise, 512

 Thomé, 556

 Thomson, César, 678

 Tkachenko, 393-94, 395-97, 444

 Tolstoi, A. Count, 284, 504

 Tolstoi, Leo, Count, 194, 200, 336, 444, 454, 517, 589

 Tourgeniev, I. S., 123, 375, 512

 Tretiakov, Helen, 401

 Tretiakov, P. M., 430, 688


 Vakar, Plato, 19, 21

 Viardot, Pauline, 512, 582

 Vietinghov-Scheel, 516

 Volkmann, R., 303

 Vsievolojsky, I., 442, 482, 520, 544, 574, 624


 Wagner, Richard, 181-5, 238-39, 344-5, 431-2, 436, 438, 452, 461-2,
 581, 622

 Weber, 464

 White, Mrs., 648

 Wieniawsky, Henry, 45, 374

 Wieniawsky, Joseph, 78, 357

 Würst, Richard, 319


 Zabel, Eugen, 592, 681-4

 Zaremba, 40, 41, 45-9

 Zet, Julius, 564

 Zola, 383, 498, 676

 Zvantsiev, 180, 623

 Zveriev, 713





ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF TCHAIKOVSKY’S WORKS


 _Andante_ from _Quartet_ in D, Op. 11 (1872), arranged for String
 Orchestra, 626, 700

 _Articles_ on _Music_ (1871-6), 90, 127, 131, 138, 181


 _Barcarole_ for pianoforte, Op. 37ª, No. 6 (1876), 289


 _Cantata_, Schiller’s “Ode to Joy,” for chorus and orchestra (1866), 62

 _Cantata_, written for the opening of the Polytechnic Exhibition
 (1872), 128, 129, 390

 _Cantata_, Coronation, “Moscow” (1883), 435, 436, 440, 442

 _Caprices d’Oxane, Les_, Opera (1885). _See also_ “Vakoula the Smith”
 and “Cherevichek,” 155-8, 162, 171, 177, 188-91, 193, 194, 247, 306,
 323, 355, 359, 475, 478, 482, 499, 500, 502, 521, 525, 526, 610

 _Casse-Noisette Suite_, Op. 71^a, taken from the Ballet, _The
 Nut-cracker_, 677, 678, 699, 700

 _Chant sans Paroles._ _See_ “Souvenir de Hapsal”

 _Chant Elégiaque_, Op. 72, 471

 _Cherevichek_ (The Little Shoes). _See_ “Les Caprices d’Oxane”

 _Children’s Album_, twenty-four easy pieces for pianoforte, Op. 39
 (1878), 298

 _Children’s Songs_, sixteen, Op. 54 (1883), 447, 623

 _Chorus of Insects_, from unfinished opera _Mandragora_ (1870), 112,
 113

 _Cinderella_, Ballet, 122

 _Concerto for pianoforte_, No. 1, B flat minor, Op. 23 (1875), 162,
 165-7, 171, 174-6, 313, 318, 347, 368, 545, 548, 551, 577, 583, 642-4,
 649, 654, 699

 _Concerto for pianoforte_, No. 2, Op. 44 (1880), 360, 424, 574, 626,
 646

 _Concerto for pianoforte_, No. 3, Op. 75, 717

 _Concerto for violin_, Op. 35 (1878), 282, 286, 413, 415, 425, 426, 557

 _Concert-Fantasia._ _See_ “Fantasia”


 _Dance of Serving-Maids_, from the opera _Voyevode_, 54, 58, 61, 86,
 87, 89

 _Domino Noir._ _See_ “Recitatives”

 _Duets_, six, Op. 46 (1881), 407


 _Enchantress, The_, Opera (1887), 478, 481, 482, 495, 497, 500, 516,
 527, 528, 530, 536-8, 601, 603

 _Eugene Oniegin_, Opera, Op. 24 (1878), 202, 203, 217, 225, 231, 255,
 257, 260, 293, 295, 304, 312, 334, 355, 381, 392, 395, 396, 417, 424,
 439, 445, 452, 463, 464, 468, 490, 502, 572, 573, 587, 598, 603, 672,
 675, 679


 _Fantasia_, _Concert_--for pianoforte and orchestra, Op. 56 (1884),
 459, 476, 537, 556

 _Fatum_ (Destiny), Symphonic Poem, Op. 77 (1868), 79, 92, 97, 103-5,
 329.

 _Festival-Overture on the Danish National Hymn_, Op. 15 (1866), 79,
 80, 329

 _Festival-Overture “1812,”_ Op. 49 (1880), 390, 405, 426, 528, 551,
 576, 699

 _Folksongs, Russian_, twenty-five for pianoforte, four hands, 97

 _Francesca da Rimini_, Fantasia on Dante’s poem, Op. 32 (1876), 180,
 188, 193, 201, 212, 313, 319, 320, 366, 465, 528, 537, 709


 _Gevaert_, Translation of his “Course of Instrumentation,” 59


 _Hamlet_, Overture-Fantasia, Op. 67ª (1885), 572, 621, 644, 703, 719

 _Hamlet_ (Incidental music to the Tragedy), Op. 67b (1891), 619,
 620, 621, 623


 _Iolanthe_ (King René’s Daughter), Opera, Op. 69 (1891), 623, 624,
 662, 667, 673, 686, 687, 694-6

 _Italian Capriccio_, Op. 45 (1880), 376, 385, 394, 396, 426

 _Ivan the Terrible._ Arrangement of A. G. Rubinstein’s overture for
 pianoforte, four hands (1869), 112


 _Legend._ _See_ “Children’s Songs”

 _Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom_, Op. 41 (1878), 299, 313, 347, 348,
 392, 394, 412, 623


 _Maid of Orleans, The_, Opera (1879), 325, 331, 332, 334, 346, 348,
 355, 359, 370, 377, 381, 383, 389, 393, 396, 398, 399, 412, 417, 425,
 428, 430, 722

 _Mandragora._ _See_ “Chorus of Insects”

 _Manfred_, Symphony, Op. 58 (1885), 484-7, 490, 495, 497, 498, 520

 _March_, Coronation, 436, 658

 _March_, Slav or Russo-Serbian, Op. 31 (1876), 201, 626

 _March_, Funeral, from “Hamlet,” Op. 67b (1891), 621, 623

 _Mazeppa_, Opera (1883), 423, 424-9, 441-3, 447-52, 454, 470, 499,
 500-2, 505

 _Mozartiana_, Suite No. 4, Op. 61 (1817), 533, 534, 537


 _Night_, vocal quartet from Mozart’s Fantasia, No. 4, 717

 _Nut-cracker, The_, Ballet, Op. 71 (1892), 623-5, 662-4, 686, 696

 _Nut-cracker_, Suite. _See_ “Casse-Noisette”


 _Oprichnik, The_, Opera (1872), 113, 115, 116, 128, 129, 132, 134,
 138, 145-52, 154, 158, 162, 163, 171-4, 212, 359, 371, 505, 574, 722

 _Overture_, C minor (1866), 70, 76

 _Overture_, F major (1865), 61, 73, 76

 _Overture, Romeo and Juliet._ _See_ “Romeo and Juliet”

 _Overture, Hamlet._ _See_ “Hamlet”


 _Pezzo Capriccioso_, for violoncello, Op. 62 (1887), 556, 595

 _Pianoforte Pieces_, three, Op. 9 (1871), 121

 _Pianoforte Pieces_, twelve, Op. 40 (1878), 298, 305

 _Pianoforte Pieces_, eighteen, Op. 72 (1893), 704

 _Pique Dame_ (The Queen of Spades), Opera, Op. 68 (1890), 598, 600,
 601-4, 611, 613, 615, 617-19, 624, 625, 670-3, 677, 694, 700


 _Quartet_, No. 1, D major, Op. 11 (1871), 123, 124, 196, 201, 289,
 319, 543, 548, 605

 _Quartet_, No. 2, F major, Op. 22 (1874), 147, 148, 160, 355

 _Quartet_, No. 3, E flat major, Op. 30 (1876), 179, 180, 188, 289,
 368, 465, 657

 _Quartet_, No. 4, B flat major (1865), 61


 _Recitatives and Choruses_ for Auber’s Opera, “Le Domino Noir,” 96, 101

 _Romeo and Juliet_, Overture-Fantasia (1870), 92, 107, 114-16, 119-22,
 135, 157, 174, 191-3, 241, 289, 316, 320, 375, 465, 548, 551, 678

 _Russian Scherzo_ and _Impromptu_, Op. 61 (1867), 59


 _Serenade_, for strings, Op. 48 (1880), 390, 508, 528, 545, 551,
 555-8, 634

 _Sérénade Mélancolique_, for violin and orchestra, B flat minor, Op.
 26 (1875), 626

 _Sextet_, “Souvenir de Florence,” 606, 609, 618, 662, 677

 _Sleeping Beauty, The_, Ballet, Op. 66 (1889), 574, 585, 586, 596,
 597, 624

 _Sniegourotchka_ (The Snow-Maiden), Incidental music to Ostrovsky’s
 “Legend of the Spring,” 138, 426

 _Sonata_, G major, for pianoforte, Op. 37 (1879), 298, 313, 355

 _Song_, “So schnell vergessen,” 121

 _Songs_, seven, Op. 47 (1881), 407

 _Songs_, six, Op. 73 (1893), 704

 _Souvenir de Florence._ _See_ “Sextet”

 _Souvenir de Hapsal_, three pianoforte pieces, Op. 2 (1867), 83, 318

 _Storm, The_, Overture to Ostrovsky’s play of same name, Op. 76
 (1865), 50, 57

 _Suite_, No. 1, in D, for orchestra, Op. 43 (1879), 316, 324, 356,
 361, 363-6, 368, 371, 375, 543, 546, 583, 635, 642, 645

 _Suite_, No. 2 in C, for orchestra, Op. 53 (1883), 441, 444, 446, 450,
 528

 _Suite_, No. 3 in G, for orchestra, Op. 55 (1884), 455-9, 471-3, 545,
 551, 556, 557, 558, 575, 576, 582, 626, 645, 646

 _Suite_, No. 4 (“Mozartiana”). _See_ “Mozartiana.”

 _Swan Lake, The_, Ballet, Op. 20 (1876), 172-3, 201, 241

 _Symphony_, No. 1, G minor, “Winter Dreams,” Op. 13 (1868), 76, 80,
 89, 114, 447

 _Symphony_, No. 2, C minor, “Little-Russian,” Op. 17 (1873), 132, 134,
 137, 146, 148, 360, 397

 _Symphony_, No. 3, D major, Op. 29 (1875), 172, 174, 179, 289, 290

 _Symphony_, No. 4, F minor, Op. 36 (1877), 202, 215, 222, 244, 255,
 258, 265, 272, 275-7, 292-5, 326, 355, 367, 368

 _Symphony_, No. 5, E minor, Op. 64 (1888), 561, 566, 574, 575, 580,
 581, 719

 _Symphony_, No. 6, in B minor (The Pathetic), Op. 74 (1893), 702, 703,
 714-16, 718-22


 _Trio_, in A minor, for piano, violin, and ‘cello, Op. 50 (1882)

 _The Tempest_, Fantasia for orchestra from Shakespeare’s play, Op. 18
 (1873), 92, 135-7, 140, 144-7, 159, 161-3, 211, 313, 318, 337-9, 340,
 347, 465, 574, 626, 700


 _Undine_, Opera (1869), 106, 113, 114, 116, 117, 132, 299, 316, 329,
 359

 _Undine_, Ballet (1886), 520


 _Vakoula the Smith._ _See_ “Les Caprices d’Oxane” and “Cherevichek”

 _Valse-Scherzo_, for violin and orchestra, Op. 34 (1877), 318

 _Variations on a Rococo Theme_, for ‘cello and orchestra, Op. 33
 (1876), 194, 347

 _Vesper Service, The_, Op. 52, 405, 408, 421, 437

 _Voyevode, The_, Opera, Op. 3 (1868), 58, 82, 83, 94, 100, 102, 105,
 329, 358

 _Voyevode, The_, Symphonic Ballade on Poushkin’s Poems, Op. 78, 662,
 663, 667, 670-672, 719


 _Winter Dreams._ _See_ “Symphony No. 1”


 _Year, The, “1812.”_ _See_ “Festival-Overture”

       *       *       *       *       *

     LIVING MASTERS OF MUSIC

     An Illustrated Series of Monographs dealing with contemporary Musical
     Life and including Representatives of all Branches of the Art

     EDITED BY ROSA NEWMARCH

     Crown 8vo. Price 2s. 6d. net per Vol.


     HENRY J. WOOD. By ROSA NEWMARCH. With numerous Illustrations

     _Morning Post._--“Apart from its biographical interest, the volume
     is remarkable on account of the author’s knowledge and critical
     acumen, as well as the excellence of its literary style.”

     _Music._--“Charmingly written.”

     _Musical News._--“Perfect tact and an excellent temper ... a
     practised and brilliant writer.... The most important and
     successful of all her prose writings.”


     SIR EDWARD ELGAR. By R. J. BUCKLEY. With numerous Illustrations

     _Daily Chronicle._--“The biographer writes lightly and pleasantly.
     He has the intimate personal knowledge of his subject which is so
     necessary.”

     _Pall Mall Gazette._--“ ... A vivid and personal study, for which
     the composer’s admirers, and the world outside of music, will be
     grateful in nearly equal measure.... He is happy in his biographer.
     There is not a dull line in this vivid little book.”

     _Music._--“It is a marvellous little book. Get it.”


     JOSEPH JOACHIM. By J. A. FULLER MAITLAND. With Illustrations

     _Morning Post._--“Mr. Fuller Maitland has approached his task in a
     duly sympathetic spirit, and written an extremely interesting and
     valuable book.”

     _Daily Telegraph._--“Will be read with appreciation by Joachim’s
     countless admirers in this country.”

     _Spectator._--“The difficult task of writing a biography of a
     living man has been accomplished by Mr. Fuller Maitland with
     perfect tact and taste.”


        _The following volumes are in preparation_:--

        EDWARD A. MACDOWELL. By LAWRENCE GILMAN
        THEODOR LESCHETIZKY. By ANNETTE HULLAH
        EDVARD GRIEG. By H. T. FINCK
        IGNAZ PADEREWSKI. By EDWARD A. BAUGHAN
        ALFRED BRUNEAU. By ARTHUR HERVEY
        RICHARD STRAUSS. By ALBERT KALISCH

JOHN LANE, Publisher, Vigo Street, London, W.


NEW MUSICAL BOOKS


     THE SINGING OF THE FUTURE. By D. FFRANGCON-DAVIES. With an
     Introduction by SIR EDWARD ELGAR and a Photogravure Portrait of the
     Author. Demy 8vo. 7s. 6d. net

*** _The cultivation of the voice is a subject about which a great
variety of opinions exist. Each “voice producer,” as many name
themselves, has his or her own pet method. Mr. Ffrangcon-Davies, as one
of our leading singers, must be listened to as an authority, for his own
popularity is the best guarantee as to the efficiency of his precepts._


     MUSICAL STUDIES: Essays. By ERNEST NEWMAN. Crown 8vo. 5s. net

*** _Included among these essays are a lengthy study of Berlioz and the
Romantic Movement, a full analysis of Programme Music in the past and in
the present, Faust in Music, Herbert Spencer and the Origin of Music,
Maeterlinck and Music, Richard Strauss and the Music of the Future, &c._


     PHASES OF MODERN MUSIC. By LAWRENCE GILMAN. 4s. 6d. net


JOHN LANE, Publisher, Vigo Street, London, W.

       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES:

 [1] _Tchaikovsky, his Life and Works_: with extracts from his writings
 and the diary of his tour abroad in 1888. Grant Richards, London, 1900.

 [2] _Zijn Piotra Ilicha Tchaikovskavo._ P. Jurgenson, Moscow. Three
 volumes.

 [3] _Das Leben Peter Iljitsch Tschaikowsky’s_, translated by Paul
 Juon. P. Jurgenson, Leipzig. Two volumes.

 [4] MY DEAR MISS FANNY,--I beg you to forgive me for not
 having written all this time. But as you know I do not tell lies, it
 is _my laziness_ that is the cause, not _forgetfulness_, because I
 love you the same as before. Nicholas works very well, etc.

 [5] DEAR, GOOD MISS FANNY,--It is with great joy I hear the
 news of your having so good and industrious a pupil. I want also to
 give you some news, my dear Fanny, which may please you a little; it
 is of the birth of my twin brothers (on the night of May 1st). I have
 already seen them several times, but each time I think they are angels
 descended to earth.

 [6] Diminutives of Anatol and Modeste.

 [7] The greatest Russian dramatist. His most celebrated plays are:
 _The Storm_, _The Forest_, _The Poor Bride_, _Snow White_, _The Wolf
 and the Sheep_.

 [8] Alexis Nicholaevich Verstovsky, the composer of a popular opera,
 _Askold’s Grave_.

 [9] Of this quartet only the first movement remains intact. The others
 must have been destroyed by the composer at a later date.

 [10] Tchaikovsky afterwards arranged this overture for full orchestra,
 in which form it was given several times in Moscow and Petersburg.

 [11] The manuscript of this cantata is in the archives of the St.
 Petersburg Conservatoire.

 [12] Professor of singing at the Conservatoire.

 [13] All traces of this family appear to be lost, but it is evident
 they were not relatives of the composer.

 [14] Later on Tchaikovsky completely altered his opinion.

 [15] Karakovich’s attempt upon Alexander II., April 4th (16th), 1866.

 [16] Under this sobriquet were grouped the followers of the New
 Russian School: Dargomijsky, Cui, Balakirev, Rimsky-Korsakov, and
 others.

 [17] The river at Kamenka.

 [18] In my volume upon Tchaikovsky I have called this work
 _Destiny_.--R. N.

 [19] Madame Rimsky-Korsakov, _née_ Pourgold. In his final arrangement
 Tchaikovsky omitted these chords himself.

 [20] Conductor at the Opera House.

 [21] Constantine Ivanovich Rioumin, the guardian of Vladimir Shilovsky.

 [22] Short for Vladimir.

 [23] Modeste.

 [24] Op. 9. Three pieces for piano--“Reverie,” “Polka de Salon,”
 “Mazurka.”

 [25] “So schnell vergessen.”

 [26] The uncle whose establishment the Tchaikovskys shared in 1855.

 [27] At the instigation of Nicholas Rubinstein, the Musical Society
 paid the composers about 200 to 300 roubles for new works performed at
 their Symphony Concerts.

 [28] Russian equivalent for “falling through.”

 [29] A Little Russian folksong.

 [30] Madame Rimsky-Korsakov, who was going to make the pianoforte
 arrangement of the symphony for four hands.

 [31] Only the opening chapters of this work appeared.

 [32] Many of the entries in Tchaikovsky’s diaries are so devoid of
 characteristic interest that I have thought fit to curtail the number
 of quotations in this volume, selecting only those which had some
 reference to his work or his views of life.--R. N.

 [33] G. Kondratiev, baritone singer, and afterwards manager of the
 Maryinsky Theatre.

 [34] Diminutive of Serge.

 [35] By Moussorgsky.

 [36] _Boris Godounov_, Moussorgsky; _The Stone Guest_, Dargomijsky;
 _Ratcliff_ and _Angelo_, Cæsar Cui.

 [37] His sister, Madame Davidov.

 [38] _Allgemeine Zeitung_, No. 148 (1874), “Musikalisches aus Italien.”

 [39] A fellow-student of Tchaikovsky’s, _dame de compagnie_ of Anton
 Rubinstein’s class and the intimate friend of the master. Afterwards
 teacher of pianoforte at the St. Petersburg Conservatoire.

 [40] Tchaikovsky had to visit Kiev for the first performance of _The
 Oprichnik_ in that city.

 [41] An opera by Cæsar Cui.

 [42] Rimsky-Korsakov’s Second Symphony, or “Eastern Suite,” Op 9.

 [43] No. 3, Op. 30.

 [44] There is no real English equivalent for the term “_goloubouska_.”

 [45] A characteristic Russian dance.

 [46] E. A. Lavrovsky, a famous singer and a teacher at the
 Conservatoire.

 [47] Her parents’ name was Frolovsky.

 [48] She carried her seclusion to such lengths that Tchaikovsky’s
 sister and brother-in-law, Alexandra and Leo Davidov, never saw
 Nadejda von Meck, although their daughter married one of her sons.
 Their friendly intercourse was carried on entirely by correspondence.
 Nicholas Rubinstein was almost the only visitor from the outside world
 whom she cared to receive.

 [49] J. Kotek.

 [50] No. 4 in F minor.

 [51] _Eugene Oniegin._

 [52] Of _Eugene Oniegin_.

 [53] The condition of Tchaikovsky’s health is probably accountable for
 many errors in this letter. In 1877 the pictures of which he speaks
 were not in the _Villa_, but in the _Palazzo_ Borghese. Domenicchino’s
 picture was in the Vatican. The portraits of Cæsar Borgia and Sixtus
 V. were not by Raphael. The latter was not made Pope until sixty-five
 years after the death of the celebrated painter.

 [54] The Basilica.

 [55] Kotek, who was then studying with Joachim in Berlin, joined
 Tchaikovsky for a few days in Vienna.

 [56] The Shipka Pass.

 [57] Unfortunately this letter has been lost.

 [58] Nicholas Konradi, pupil of Modeste Tchaikovsky.

 [59] _The World as Will and Idea._

 [60] Serov’s first opera.

 [61] _Prima ballerina_ of the Moscow Opera.

 [62] The country property of Nadejda von Meck.

 [63] The rouble is here and elsewhere roughly calculated at 2_s_.

 [64] See the _Berliner Fremdenblatt_, September 17th, 1878.

 [65] A famous restaurant in Moscow.

 [66] The initials under which Tchaikovsky translated the German words
 of Rubinstein’s songs.

 [67] Tchaikovsky’s signature to his articles in the _Russky
 Viedomosti_.

 [68] In later years Tchaikovsky was less particular, and his scores
 became less neat.

 [69] A smaller country house belonging to Nadejda von Meck in the
 vicinity of Brailov.

 [70] Frau von Meck’s youngest daughter.

 [71] This form of occupation, like sport, only amused Tchaikovsky for
 a very short time.

 [72] “Paraphrases,” twenty-four variations and fourteen pieces for
 piano on a popular theme, by Borodin, Cui, Liadov, and Rimsky-Korsakov.

 [73] No. 4, dedicated to N. F. von Meck.

 [74] Removed to the Villa Borghese in 1891.

 [75] _Eugene Oniegin._

 [76] The violin Concerto, Op. 77.

 [77] N. F. von Meck had given the gifted artist the wherewithal to
 spend his last days in comfort. Ten days after this letter was written
 Wieniawsky died.

 [78] “Slavsia,” the great national chorus in _A Life for the Tsar_.

 [79] “Lord, have mercy” (_Kyrie eleison_).

 [80] P. I. Jurgenson informed me that Tchaikovsky did succeed
 in acquiring sufficient English to read _Pickwick_ and _David
 Copperfield_ in the original. When he took to conducting, he had no
 time for the study of languages.

 [81] Unfortunately the boy did not turn out an artist of the first
 rank. But his education was not wasted, for he is now drawing-master
 in a public school in South Russia.

 [82] The overture entitled _The Year 1812_, op. 49, for the
 consecration of the Cathedral of the Saviour, Moscow. It was one of
 the three commissions suggested by N. Rubinstein, referred to in the
 previous letter.

 [83] Alexander II., who was assassinated on the bank of the Catharine
 Canal.

 [84] Wife of S. Tretiakov, the wealthy art patron, afterwards chief
 burgomaster of Moscow.

 [85] These details, in the form of a long letter, were communicated by
 Tchaikovsky to the _Moscow Viedomosti_.

 [86] P. Jurgenson took this young man into his business, where he
 remained some time. Like Tkachenko, he was nervous and peculiar, and
 gave Tchaikovsky much trouble and anxiety.

 [87] Monasteries of the first rank.

 [88] Some years later Auer changed his opinion and became one of the
 most brilliant interpreters of this work.

 [89] Nadejda von Meck had sold Brailov.

 [90] This portrait was one of the least successful of Makovsky’s
 efforts. A far better portrait of the composer was made some years
 later by Kouznietsov. See frontispiece.

 [91] It is interesting to know that this opinion was in direct
 opposition to that of Tourgeniev, who made some harsh criticisms upon
 the celebrated French actress.--R. N.

 [92] A. I. Bartsal, chief manager of the Imperial Opera, in Moscow.

 [93] Six pianoforte pieces, Op. 21.

 [94] The letter appeared on May 23rd (June 4th), 1883.

 [95] From Petersburg Tchaikovsky went on a visit to his brother
 Anatol, who had taken summer quarters at Podoushkino, near Moscow.

 [96] This agreeable change in the attitude of the authorities towards
 Tchaikovsky was due to the influence of I. Vsievolojsky, who had
 recently been appointed Director of the Opera House.

 [97] This was the end of all relations between Tchaikovsky and
 Tkatchenko.

 [98] The singer who created the part of Maria in the Moscow
 performance of _Mazeppa_.

 [99] On account of Tchaikovsky’s nervous condition the account of the
 success of _Mazeppa_ was slightly overdrawn.

 [100] Nicholas and Anna von Meck, _née_ Davidov (Tchaikovsky’s niece),
 who were on their wedding tour.

 [101] His brother-in-law, Leo Davidov.

 [102] At the Imperial Opera.

 [103] Tchaikovsky addressed Emilie Pavlovskaya by this term in
 gratitude for her splendid interpretation of the heroine in _Mazeppa_.

 [104] This means _The Little Shoes_, but the opera has since been
 republished as _Les Caprices d’Oxane_.

 [105] A tale by Poushkin.

 [106] A course of harmony.

 [107] Rimsky-Korsakov courteously, but decidedly, declined the offer.

 [108] Anna Petrovna kept her promise, and made the curtains which
 ornament the dining-room at Klin till this day.

 [109] A series of five bars of 3/4 is evidently meant.

 [110] The present Professor of Composition at the Moscow Conservatoire
 and Director of the Private Opera in Moscow.

 [111] Caucasian villages.

 [112] The celebrated Russian dramatist.

 [113] Anatol’s wife.

 [114] Anatol’s wife.

 [115] The authoress of the well-known works, _Musikalische
 Studienkopfe_ and _Musik Briefe aus fünf Jahrhunderten_. Tchaikovsky’s
 letter appears in the second volume of the latter.

 [116] Of _Cherevichek_, “The Little Shoes.”

 [117] Tchaikovsky was staying in N. F. von Meck’s house at this time.

 [118] In return for the dedication of the twelve songs.

 [119] Opera by Serov.

 [120] Orlik’s part is written for a bass, and Lody has a tenor voice.

 [121] Their first meeting since 1869.

 [122] In an account of his visit to Leipzig, which Tchaikovsky
 afterwards published as the _Diary of My Tour in 1888_, he
 characterises the German composer more fully: “Brahms is rather
 a short man, suggests a sort of amplitude, and possesses a very
 sympathetic appearance. His fine head--almost that of an old
 man--recalls the type of a handsome, benign, elderly Russian priest.
 His features are certainly not characteristic of German good looks,
 and I cannot conceive why some learned ethnographer (Brahms himself
 told me this after I had spoken of the impression his appearance made
 upon me) chose to reproduce his head on the first page of his books as
 being highly characteristic of German features. A certain softness of
 outline, pleasing curves, rather long and slightly grizzled hair, kind
 grey eyes, and a thick beard, freely sprinkled with white--all this
 recalled at once the type of pure-bred Great Russian so frequently
 met with among our clergy. Brahms’s manner is very simple, free from
 vanity, his humour jovial, and the few hours spent in his society left
 me with a very agreeable recollection.”

 [123] In the same series of articles appeared the following sketch
 of Grieg: “There entered the room a very short, middle-aged man,
 exceedingly fragile in appearance, with shoulders of unequal height,
 fair hair brushed back from his forehead, and a very slight, almost
 boyish, beard and moustache. There was nothing very striking about the
 features of this man, whose exterior at once attracted my sympathy,
 for it would be impossible to call them handsome or regular; but he
 had an uncommon charm, and blue eyes, not very large, but irresistibly
 fascinating, recalling the glance of a charming and candid child. I
 rejoiced in the depths of my heart when we were mutually introduced
 to each other, and it turned out that this personality, which was so
 inexplicably sympathetic to me, belonged to a musician whose warmly
 emotional music had long ago won my heart. It was Edvard Grieg.”

 [124] See Appendix C, p. 762.

 [125] Pupil of Brassin and Madame Sophie Menter at the St. Petersburg
 Conservatoire, and, later on, an intimate friend of Tchaikovsky.

 [126] For Press notices see Appendix C, p. 764.

 [127] Chairman of the Committee of the Philharmonic Society. In the
 _Diary of My Tour_ Tchaikovsky says: “This venerable old man of
 over eighty paid me great attention.... In spite of his age and his
 infirmity, he attended two rehearsals, the concert, and the party at
 Dr. Bernuth’s. Herr Lallemant candidly confessed that many of my works
 which had been performed in Hamburg were not at all to his mind; that
 he could not endure my noisy instrumentation and disliked my use of
 the instruments of percussion. For all that he thought I had in me
 the making of a really good German composer. Almost with tears in his
 eyes he besought me to leave Russia and settle permanently in Germany,
 where classical conventions and traditions of high culture could not
 fail to correct my faults, which were easily explicable by the fact
 of my having been born and educated in a country so unenlightened and
 so far behind Germany.... I strove my best to overcome his prejudice
 against our national sentiments, of which, moreover, he was quite
 ignorant, or only knew them through the speeches of the Russophobist
 section. We parted good friends.”

 [128] For Press notices see Appendix C, p. 767.

 [129] The Artists’ Club.

 [130] In a later letter to Jurgenson he says: “One has to choose
 between never travelling, or coming home with empty pockets. I
 had hardly decided to throw up everything and fly home, when paid
 engagements were offered me on all sides; at Angers, with a fee of
 £40; the same at Geneva, in London (at the Crystal Palace) for a
 sum not stated; but I gave them all up. You are mistaken in your
 calculations as to the result of my journey. For London I received
 £25 instead of £20 (thanks to my great success, the Directors of the
 Philharmonic were moved to add an extra £5), and you omitted the £25
 from Hamburg. My journey was certainly not a financial success; but I
 did not undertake it for the sake of the money.”

 [131] The Grand Duke Constantine had sent Tchaikovsky a volume of his
 verses.

 [132] Julius Zet had been secretary to Sophie Menter, and so became
 acquainted with Tchaikovsky. Their friendship lasted until the
 latter’s death, but their business relations were of brief duration.
 Zet was not sufficiently calculating. Rather an enthusiast than a man
 of business, he was unpractical and inaccurate.

 [133] Unfortunately it will always remain unknown in what way this
 sympathy was shown to Tchaikovsky.

 [134] A favourite game of cards in Russia.

 [135] A well-known Russian poet.

 [136] Thus ended the plan for sending Tchaikovsky as musical
 representative of Russia to the Paris Exhibition of 1889.

 [137] Vassily Sapellnikov.

 [138] The opera is entitled _Le Dernier Sorcier_.

 [139] This work, the libretto of which was by Galée and Detroyat, was
 never actually begun.

 [140] In his diary Tchaikovsky only mentions V. d’Indy and Chaminade.

 [141] The servant of his friend Kondratiev.

 [142] Massenet and Brahms having declined their invitations, the
 following conductors were engaged for 1889-90:--Rimsky-Korsakov,
 Tchaikovsky, Siloti, Arensky, Klindworth, A. Rubinstein, Slatin,
 Dvořák, Altani, Ippolitov-Ivanov, Napravnik, and Colonne.

 [143] A celebrated Russian novelist and writer of short stories.

 [144] The Grand Duke had dedicated his last volume of verse to
 Tchaikovsky.

 [145] For the story of _Pique Dame_ see Appendix B, p. 759.

 [146] He had succeeded Taneiev as Director of the Moscow Conservatoire.

 [147] Siloti had taken a smaller house, and made over part of his
 furniture to Tchaikovsky, thinking it would be a kindness to him, for
 the composer’s household lacked many comforts. Siloti did not reclaim
 the furniture after Tchaikovsky’s death, and it stands at present in
 the house at Klin.

 [148] One of the most eminent of Russian poets.

 [149] _A Dream on the Volga._

 [150] “Do not forget, and think of me sometimes.”

 [151] To compose an opera in one act and a ballet for the season
 1891-2.

 [152] Incidental music to the tragedy _Hamlet_, for Guitry’s benefit.

 [153] An opera in one act, afterwards known as _Iolanthe_.

 [154] _A Dream on the Volga_ (the Voyevode).

 [155] The opening ceremony of the new Carnegie Hall in New York.

 [156] President of the Music Hall Company of New York, upon whose
 initiative Tchaikovsky had been engaged in America.

 [157] The head of the Knabe Pianoforte Manufactory.

 [158] This hall was built principally with the help of Mr. Carnegie.
 Tchaikovsky was invited to the opening festivities.

 [159] Walter Damrosch, son of the founder of the “Symphony Society” in
 New York, one of the directors of the Music Hall Company of New York,
 and conductor of the Symphony Concerts and of the opera.

 [160] A. Carnegie, the greatest ironmaster in America, perhaps in the
 world; orator, author, politician; a most generous benefactor and
 founder of many schools, libraries and museums.

 [161] Francis Hyde, Director of the Trust Company, and President of
 the New York Philharmonic Society.

 [162] A representative from the firm of Knabe.

 [163] This would have been an impossible athletic feat, probably the
 equivalent in notes is intended.--R. N.

 [164] “Christ is risen”--a Russian Easter greeting.

 [165] “Legend” and “Our Father.”

 [166] _The New York Herald_, 6th May, 1891.

 [167] Son of the celebrated scientist, S. Botkin, and Secretary to the
 Russian Embassy in Washington.

 [168] Schirmer’s married daughter.

 [169] Broken Russian. “How are you? Please sit down.”

 [170] Anatol was then Vice-Governor of Estland.

 [171] In the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, 1891.

 [172] In July of this year he had been made a corresponding member of
 the “Maatschappij tot Bevorderung van Toonkunst.”

 [173] Diminutive of Petersburg.

 [174] A. Friede, General of Infantry.

 [175] Daughter of General A. Friede and a prima donna at the Maryinsky
 Theatre, St. Petersburg.

 [176] The representative of the firm of Bechstein.

 [177] The celebrated general.

 [178] Gustav Mahler, afterwards conductor at the Vienna Opera, also
 produced _Eugene Oniegin_ and _Iolanthe_ in the Austrian capital.

 [179] Tchaikovsky presented several autograph scores to the Imperial
 Public Library, Petersburg.

 [180] Tchaikovsky was conducting for the benefit of Prianichnikov and
 the Kiev Opera Company, then in Moscow.

 [181] Anatol was one of the nine commissioners chosen by the Tsarevich
 to inquire into the failure of the crops and the sufferings of the
 starving peasants in Siberia.

 [182] George, the son of Nicholas Tchaikovsky, to whom the composer
 left his real estate and a life annuity of 1,200 roubles per annum.

 [183] “Is changed to desire.”

 [184] Katharine Oboukhov, a second cousin of Tchaikovsky.

 [185] _Neue Freie Presse_, March 30th, 1901. The above is quoted from
 the German edition of _The Life and Letters of Tchaikovsky_.

 [186] _A Day in St. Petersburg._

 [187] Jurgenson had commissioned Tchaikovsky to send him as many songs
 and pianoforte pieces as he liked, and while awaiting at Klin the day
 of his departure for London, the composer determined to write one
 number every day.

 [188] Karl Albrecht, who was on his death-bed.

 [189] The Quartet _Night_.

 [190] This was before Sir Charles Villiers Stanford was knighted.

 [191] _Portraits et Souvenirs_, Saint-Saëns, p. 141.

 [192] This was merely a playful threat because his nephew had
 neglected to answer his letters.

 [193] There was no other witness of this incident but myself. But it
 is clear from the programme of the concert of October 16th (28th) that
 this title had not then been given to the work. Moreover, anyone can
 see by a glance at the title-page that this name was written later
 than the rest.

 [194] As several English versions exist of many of Tchaikovsky’s
 songs, and some of these so-called translations have not even titles
 in common with the original texts, it is less misleading to keep to
 the German titles.--R. N.

 [195] The Introduction is the Malo-Russian variant of “Down by
 Mother Volga,” the Finale is based upon a popular tune called “The
 Crane.”--R. N.

       *       *       *       *       *

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

contemptuous epiphet=> contemptuous epithet {pg 293}

Zemsky Sabor=> Zemsky Sobor {pg 416}

Rimksy-Korsakov’s=> Rimsky-Korsakov’s {pg 417}

Neverthess=> Nevertheless {pg 525}

Francesa da Rimini=> Francesca da Rimini {pg 5245}

fortuitious=> fortuitous {pg 596}

To Modeste Tchaikvosky=> To Modeste Tchaikovsky {pg 605}

Philadephia=> Philadelphia {pg 646}

assists my projects=> assist my projects {pg 683}

Tchaikovky=> Tchaikovsky {pg 709}

Nein, wen ich liebe=> Nein, wenn ich liebe {pg 734}

Beresovsky, 298=> Berezovsky, 298 {pg index}







End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Life & Letters of Peter Ilich
Tchaikovsky, by Modeste Tchaikovsky

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 45259 ***