Chapter XVII: Part V: I (3)

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:--

instead of this they ought to sing

“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.