Chapter XV: Part V: I (1)

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.

“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:

“If we play this horrible combination in quavers we get the
following:--

“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.