Chapter XVIII: Part V: I (4)

“You regret having written me the letter in which you gave
expression to your anger against those who have embittered your
life. But I never for an instant believed that you could really
_hate_ and _never forgive_, whatever might happen. It is possible
to be a Christian in life and deed without clinging closely to
dogma, and I am sure that un-Christian feelings could only dwell in
you for a brief moment, as an involuntary protest against human
wickedness. Such really good people as you do not know what _hate_
means in the true sense of the word. What can be more aimless and
unprofitable than hate? According to Christ’s words, our enemies
only injure us from _ignorance_. O, if only men could only be
Christians in truth as well as in form! If only everyone was
penetrated by the simple truths of Christian morality! That can
never be, for then eternal and _perfect_ happiness would reign on
earth; and we are imperfect creations, who only understand goodness
and happiness as the opposites of evil. We are, as it were,
specially created to be eternally reverting to evil, to perpetually
seek the ideal, to aspire to everlasting truth--and never to reach
the goal. At least we should be indulgent to those who, in their
blindness, are attracted to evil by some inborn instinct. Are they
to be blamed because they exist only to bring the chosen people
into stronger relief? No, we can only say with Christ, ‘Lord,
forgive them, they know not what they do.’ I feel I am expressing
_vague_ thoughts _vaguely_--thoughts which are wandering through my
mind, because a man who was good and dear to me has just vanished
from this earth. But if I think and speak vaguely, I _feel_ it all
clearly enough. My brain is obscured to-day. How could it be
otherwise in face of those enigmas--_Death_, _the aim and meaning
of life_, _its finality or immortality_? Therefore the light of
_faith_ penetrates my soul more and more. Yes, dear friend, I feel
myself increasingly drawn towards this, the one and only shield
against every calamity. I am learning to love God, as formerly I
did not know how to do. Now and then doubts come back to me; I
still strive at times to conceive the inconceivable with my feeble
intellect; but the voice of divine truth speaks louder within me. I
sometimes find an indescribable joy in bowing before the
Inscrutable, Omniscient God. I often pray to Him with tears in my
eyes (where He is, what He is, I know not; but I know He exists),
and implore Him to grant me love and peace, to pardon and
enlighten me; and it is sweet to say to Him, ‘Lord, Thy will be
done,’ because I know His will is _holy_. Let me also tell you that
I see clearly the finger of God in my own life, showing me the way
and upholding me in all danger. Why it has been God’s will to
shield me I cannot say. I wish to be _humble_, and not to regard
myself as one of the elect, for God loves all His creatures
equally. I only know He really cares for me, and I shed tears of
gratitude for His eternal goodness. That is not enough. I want to
accustom myself to the thought that all trials are good in the end.
I want to love God always, not only when He sends me good, but when
He proves me; for somewhere there must exist that kingdom of
eternal happiness, which we seek so vainly upon earth. The time
will come when all the questionings of our intellects will be
answered, and we shall know why God sends us these trials. I want
to believe that there is another life. When this desire becomes a
fact, I shall be happy, in so far as happiness is possible in this
world.

“To-day I attended the funeral service in the church, and
afterwards I accompanied the remains to the Gare du Nord, and saw
that the leaden coffin was packed in a wooden case and placed in a
luggage van. It was painful and horrible to think that our poor
Nicholai Grigorievich should return thus to Moscow. Yes, it was
intensely painful. But faith has now taken root in me, and I took
comfort from the thought that it was God’s _inscrutable_ and _holy_
will.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“PARIS, _March_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1881.

“Modi, we shall soon meet again, so I will say nothing now about
the last sad days. My present trip has been altogether unfortunate
and calculated to weaken my love of going abroad. Once more I am
face to face with changes which will affect my whole future life.
First, the death of Nicholas Rubinstein, which is of great
importance to me, and, secondly, the fact that Nadejda von Meck is
on the verge of bankruptcy. I heard this talked about in Moscow,
and begged her to tell me the truth. From her reply I see it is
actually so. She writes that the sum I receive from her is nothing
as compared to the millions that have been lost, and that she
wishes to continue to pay it as before, but begs me not to mention
it to anyone. But you see that this allowance is no longer a
certainty, and therefore sooner or later I must return to my
teaching. All this is far from cheerful.”

_To Nadejda von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _April_ 29_th_ (_May_ 11_th_), 1881.

“I only stayed a few days in Moscow, where I was forced to collect
all my strength in order to decline most emphatically the
directorship of the Conservatoire. I arrived here to-day.”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“KAMENKA, _May_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1881.

“As my sister is ill and has gone away with her husband, I am
playing the part of the head of the family and spend most of my
time with the children. This would be a nuisance if I did not care
for them as though they were my own.... I have no inclination to
compose. I wish you would commission something. Is there really
nothing you want? Some external impulse might perhaps reawaken my
suspended activity. Perhaps I am getting old and all my songs are
sung.”

_To Nadejda von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _May_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1881.

“I think I have now found a temporary occupation. In my present
religious frame of mind it will do me good to dip into Russian
church music. At present I am studying the ‘rites,’ that is to say,
the root of our church tunes, and I want to try to harmonise them.

“Every day I pray that God may preserve and uphold you for the sake
of so many people.”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“KAMENKA, _May_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1881.

“I beg you to send me the following:--

“(1) I want to write a Vesper service and require the words in
full. If there is a book on sale, a kind of ‘short guide to the
Liturgy for laymen,’ please send it to me.

“(2) I have begun to study the rites and ceremonials of the Church,
but to acquire sufficient information on the subject I need
Razoumovsky’s _History of Church Music_.

I send thanks in anticipation.”

Tchaikovsky describes his condition at this time as “grey, without inspiration or joy,” but “physically sound.” He often felt that the spring of inspiration had run dry, but consoled himself with the remembrance that he had passed through other periods “equally devoid of creative impulse.”

_To E. Napravnik._

“KAMENKA, _June_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1881.

“Last winter, at N. Rubinstein’s request, I wrote a Festival
Overture for the concerts of the Exhibition, entitled _The Year
1812_. Could you possibly manage to have this played? If you like I
will send the score for you to see. It is not of any great value,
and I shall not be at all surprised or hurt if you consider the
style of the music unsuitable to a symphony concert.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“KAMENKA, _June_ 21_st_ (_July_ 3_rd_), 1881.

“My Vesper music compels me to look into many service books, with
and without music. If you only knew how difficult it is to
understand it all! Every service contains some chants that may be
modified and others that may not. The latter--such as _Khvalitey_
and _Velikoe slavoslovie_--do not present any great difficulties;
but those that change--such as the canonical verses to _Gospodi
vozzvakh_--are a science in themselves, for which a lifetime of
study would hardly suffice. I should like at least to succeed in
one Canon, the one relating to the Virgin. Imagine that, in spite
of all assistance, I can arrive neither at the words nor the music.
I went to ask our priest to explain it to me, but he assured me
that he himself did not know anything about it and went through the
routine of his office without referring to the Typikon. I am
swallowed up in this sea of Graduals, Hymns, Canticles, Tropaires,
Exapostelaires, etc., etc. I asked our priest how his assistant
managed, and how he knew how, when, and where, to sing or read (for
the Church prescribes to the smallest detail on what days, with
what voice, and how many times things have to be read). He replied:
‘I do not know; before every service he has to look out something
for himself.’ If the initiated do not know, what can a poor sinner
like myself expect?”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“KAMENKA, _June_ 21_st_ (_July_ 3_rd_), 1881.

“I have received Bortniansky’s works and looked them through. To
edit them would be a somewhat finicking and wearisome task, because
the greater number of his compositions are dull and worthless. Why
do you want to issue a ‘Complete Edition’? Let me advise you to
give up this plan and only bring out a ‘Selection from the works of
Bortniansky.’ ... ‘Complete Edition’? An imposing word, but out of
place in connection with a man of no great talent, who has written
a mass of rubbish, and only about a dozen good things. I am
doubtful whether I should lend my name to such a publication ... on
the other hand I am a musician, and live by my work; consequently
there is nothing derogatory in my editing this rubbish for the sake
of what I can earn. My pride, however, suffers from it. Think it
over and send me a reply.”

_From the MS. in the possession of P. Jurgenson, Moscow_]

_To N. F. von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _July_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1881.

“I am very glad, my dear, you like my songs and duets. I will take
this opportunity of telling you which of these vocal compositions I
care for most. Among the duets I prefer ‘Thränen’ (‘Tears’), and
among the songs: (1) the one to Tolstoi’s words, (2) the verses of
Mickievicz, and (3) ‘War ich nicht der Halm.’ The ‘Schottische
Ballade’ is also one of my favourites, but I am convinced it will
never be so popular as I fancied it would. It should not be so much
sung, as declaimed, but with the most impassioned feeling.

_To P. Jurgenson._

“KAMENKA, _July_ 31_st_ (_August_ 12_th_), 1881.

“I am working intensely hard at Bortniansky to get this dreadful
work done as soon as possible. His works as a rule are quite
antipathetic to me. I shall finish the job, for I always complete
anything I have begun. But some day I shall actually burst with
rage....”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _August_ 24_th_ (_September_ 5_th_), 1881.

“I wish with all my heart you could hear my Serenade properly
performed. It loses so much on the piano, and I think the middle
movements--played by the violins--would win your sympathy. As
regards the first and last movements you are right. They are merely
a play of sounds, and do not touch the heart. The first movement is
my homage to Mozart; it is intended to be an imitation of his
style, and I should be delighted if I thought I had in any way
approached my model. Do not laugh, dear, at my zeal in standing up
for my latest creation. Perhaps my paternal feelings are so warm
because it is the youngest child of my fancy....

“As regards Balakirev’s songs, I am quite of your opinion. They are
actually little masterpieces, and I am passionately fond of some of
them. There was a time when I could not listen to ‘Selim’s Song’
without tears in my eyes, and now I rank ‘The Song of the Golden
Fish’ very highly.”

_To S. I. Taneiev._

“_August_ 25_th_ (_September_ 6_th_), 1881.

“I am almost certain my Vespers will not please you. I see nothing
in them which would win your approval. Do you know, Sergei
Ivanovich, I believe I shall never write anything good again, I am
no longer in a condition to compose. What form should I
choose?--none of them appeal to me. Always the same indispensable
_remplissage_, the same routine, the same revolting methods, the
same conventions and shams. If I were young, this aversion from
composition might be explained by the fact that I was gathering my
forces, and would suddenly strike out some new path of my own
making. But, alas! the years are beginning to tell. To write in a
naïve way, as the bird sings, is no longer possible, and I lack
energy to invent something new. I do not tell you this because I
hope for your encouraging denial, but simply as a fact. I do not
regret it. I have worked much in my time, in a desultory way, and
now I am tired. It is time to rest....

“Do not speak to me of coming back to the Conservatoire; at present
this is impossible. I cannot answer for the future. You, on the
contrary, seem made to carry on Rubinstein’s work.”

XIII

1881-1882

In one of his letters to Nadejda von Meck, written in 1876, Tchaikovsky says: “I no longer compose anything--a sure indication of an agitated mind.”

From November, 1880, until September, 1881, Tchaikovsky wrote nothing--from which we may conclude that during this time he again underwent a period of spiritual and mental disturbance.

It is not surprising that during the time he spent in Moscow and Petersburg (November to February) he should not have written a note. We know that town life--to which was added at this time the anxieties attendant upon the production of two operas--stifled all his inclination for composing. His visit to Rome, with its many social obligations, was also unfavourable to creative work.

That Tchaikovsky continued to be silent even after his return to Kamenka cannot, however, be attributed to unsuitable surroundings or external hindrances. It points rather to a restless and unhappy frame of mind.

There were numerous reasons to account for this condition.

In the first place he was touched to the quick by the loss of Nicholas Rubinstein. In spite of their many differences he had loved him with all his heart, and valued him as “one of the greatest virtuosi of his day.” He had also grown to regard him as one of the chief props of his artistic life. Nicholas Rubinstein was always the first, and best, interpreter of his works for pianoforte and orchestra. Whenever Tchaikovsky wrote a symphonic work, he already heard it in imagination as it would sound in the concert-room in Moscow, and knew beforehand that under Rubinstein’s direction he would experience no disappointment. The great artist had the gift of discovering in Tchaikovsky’s works beauties of which the composer himself was hardly conscious. There was the sonata, for instance, which Tchaikovsky “did not recognise” when he heard it played by N. Rubinstein. And now this sure and subtle interpreter of all his new works was gone for ever.

Apart from personal relations, Rubinstein’s intimate connection with the Conservatoire had its influence upon Tchaikovsky. Although the latter had resigned his position there, he had not ceased to take an interest in the musical life of Moscow. After his friend’s death Tchaikovsky was aware that everyone was waiting for him to decide whether he would take over Rubinstein’s work. To accept this duty meant to abandon his career as a composer. There was no mental conflict, because he never hesitated for a moment in deciding that nothing in the world would make him give up his creative work. At the same time he felt so keenly the helpless position of the Conservatoire that he could not avoid some self-reproach; and thus the calm so needful for composition was constantly disturbed.

Another reason for his sadness was of a more intimate character. After many years of unclouded happiness, a time of severe trial had come to the numerous Davidov family, which was not without its influence upon Tchaikovsky. Kamenka, formerly his refuge from all the tempests of life, was no longer so peaceful a harbour, because his ever-increasing attachment to his sister’s family made him more sensible of their joys and sorrows. At this time the shadows prevailed, for Alexandra Ilinichna was confined to bed by a long and painful illness, which eventually ended in her death.

Finally, Tchaikovsky suffered much at this time from the loss of his faithful servant Alexis Safronov, who had been in his service from 1873 to 1880, when he was called upon to serve his time in the army.

Tchaikovsky spent most of September, 1881, in Moscow, in the society of his brother Anatol. This visit was comparatively agreeable to him, because the greater part of Moscow society had not yet returned from their summer holidays, and he felt free.

He left Moscow on October 1st (13th).

_To P. Jurgenson._

“KAMENKA, _October_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1881.

“I inhabit the large house where my sister’s family used to live,
but at present there are no other human beings but myself and the
woman who looks after me. I have laid myself out to complete the
arrangements of Bortniansky’s works for double chorus in a month.
Good Lord, how I loathe Bortniansky! Not himself, poor wretch, but
his wishy-washy music! Yet if I had not undertaken this work I
should find myself in a bad way financially. Were I to tell you how
much money I got through in Moscow, without knowing why or
wherefore, you would be horrified and give me a good scolding....”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“KAMENKA, _October_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1881.

“DEAR FRIEND,--I know you will laugh at me when you read this
letter.... There is a young man here of eighteen or nineteen who is
very clever and capable, but dislikes his present occupation
because his domestic circumstances are miserable, and he longs for
a wider sphere and experience of life. He has the reputation of
being honest and industrious, and knows something of the
book-trade.... Could you make him useful in your publishing house,
or in the country? Dear friend, do look after him! What can I do
for him? This is ‘my fate’ over again. In any case I shall not
abandon him, for I am sure he would come to grief here.

“Laugh if you like, but have compassion and answer me.”[86]

_To Nadejda von Meck._

“KIEV, _November_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1881.

“Because I am deeply interested in Church music just now, I go to
the churches here very frequently, especially to the ‘Lavra.’[87]
On Sunday the bishop celebrated services in the monasteries of
Michael and the Brotherhood. The singing in these churches is
celebrated, but I thought it very poor, and pretentious, with a
repertory of commonplace concert pieces. It is quite different in
the ‘Lavra,’ where they sing in their own old style, following the
traditions of a thousand years, without notes and without any
attempts at concert-music. Nevertheless it is an original and
grand style of sacred singing. The public think the music of the
‘Lavra’ is bad, and are delighted with the sickly-sweet singing of
other churches. This vexes and enrages me. It is difficult to be
indifferent to the matter. My efforts to help our church music have
been misunderstood. My Liturgy is forbidden. Two months ago the
ecclesiastical authorities in Moscow refused to let it be sung at
the memorial service for Nicholas Rubinstein. The Archbishop
Ambrose pronounced it to be a _Catholic_ service.... The
authorities are pig-headed enough to keep every ray of light out of
this sphere of darkness and ignorance.

“To-morrow I hope to leave for Rome, where I expect to meet my
brother Modeste.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“ROME, _November_ 26_th_ (_December_ 8_th_), 1881.

“The day before yesterday I was at the concert in honour of Liszt’s
seventieth birthday. The programme consisted exclusively of his
works. The performance was worse than mediocre. Liszt himself was
present. It was touching to witness the ovation which the
enthusiastic Italians accorded to the venerable genius, but Liszt’s
works leave me cold. They have more poetical intention than actual
creative power, more colour than form--in short, in spite of being
externally effective, they are lacking in the deeper qualities.
Liszt is just the opposite of Schumann, whose vast creative force
is not in harmony with his colourless style of expression. At this
concert an Italian celebrity played; Sgambati is a very good
pianist, but exceedingly cold.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“ROME, _November_ 27_th_ (_December_ 9_th_), 1881.

“I cannot take your advice to publish my opera with a French
title-page. Such advances to foreign nations are repugnant to me.
Do not let us go to them, let them rather come to us. If they want
our operas then--not the title-page only, but the full text can be
translated, as in the case of the proposed performance at Prague.
So long as an opera has not crossed the Russian frontier, it is not
necessary--to my mind--that it should be translated into the
language of those who take no interest in it.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“ROME, _December_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1881.

“Yesterday I received sad news from Kamenka. In the neighbourhood
lies a little wood, the goal of my daily walk. In the heart of the
wood lives a forester with a large and lovable family. I never saw
more beautiful children. I was particularly devoted to a little
girl of four, who was very shy at first, but afterwards grew so
friendly that she would caress me prettily, and chatter delightful
nonsense, which was a great pleasure to me. Now my brother-in-law
writes that this child and one of the others have died of
diphtheria. The remaining children were removed to the village by
his orders, but, he adds, ‘I fear it is too late.’ Poor Russia!
Everything there is so depressing, and then this terrible scourge
which carries off children by the thousand.”

The violin concerto was the only one of Tchaikovsky’s works which received its first performance outside Russia. This exceptional occurrence took place in Vienna. The originality and difficulty of this composition prevented Leopold Auer, to whom it was originally dedicated, from appreciating its true worth, and he declined to produce it in St. Petersburg.[88] Two years passed after its publication, and still no one ventured to play it in public. The first to recognise its importance, and to conquer its difficulties, was Adolf Brodsky. A pupil of Hellmesberger’s, he held a post at the Moscow Conservatoire for a time, but relinquished it in the seventies in order to tour in Europe. For two years he considered the concerto without, as he himself says, being able to summon courage to learn it. Finally, he threw himself into the work with fiery energy, and resolved to try his luck with it in Vienna. Hans Richter expressed a wish to make acquaintance with the new concerto, and finally it was included in the programme of one of the Philharmonic Concerts, December 4th, 1881. According to the critics, and Brodsky’s own account, there was a noisy demonstration at the close of the performance, in which energetic applause mingled with equally forcible protest. The former sentiment prevailed, and Brodsky was recalled three times. From this it is evident that the ill-feeling was not directed against the executant, but against the work. The Press notices were very hostile. Out of ten criticisms, two only spoke quite sympathetically of the concerto. The rest, which emanated from the pens of the best-known musical critics, were extremely slashing. Hanslick, the author of the well-known book, _On the Beautiful in Music_, passed the following judgment upon this work:--

“Mozart’s youthful work (the _Divertimento_) would have had a more
favourable position had it been played after, instead of before,
Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto; a drink of cold water is welcome to
those who have just swallowed brandy. The violinist, A. Brodsky,
was ill-advised to make his first appearance before the Viennese
public with this work. The Russian composer, Tchaikovsky, certainly
possesses no commonplace talent, but rather one which is forced,
and which, labouring after genius, produces results which are
tasteless and lacking in discrimination. Such examples as we have
heard of his music (with the exception of the flowing and piquant
Quartet in D) offer a curious combination of originality and
crudeness, of happy ideas and wretched affectations. This is also
the case as regards his latest long and pretentious Violin
Concerto. For a time it proceeds in a regular fashion, it is
musical and not without inspiration, then crudeness gains the upper
hand and reigns to the end of the first movement. The violin is no
longer played, but rent asunder, beaten black and blue. Whether it
is actually possible to give clear effect to these hair-raising
difficulties I do not know, but I am sure Herr Brodsky in trying to
do so made us suffer martyrdom as well as himself. The Adagio, with
its tender Slavonic sadness, calmed and charmed us once more, but
it breaks off suddenly, only to be followed by a finale which
plunges us into the brutal, deplorable merriment of a Russian
holiday carousal. We see savages, vulgar faces, hear coarse oaths
and smell fusel-oil. Friedrich Fischer, describing lascivious
paintings, once said there were pictures ‘one could see stink.’
Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto brings us face to face for the first
time with the revolting idea: May there not also be musical
compositions which we can hear stink?”

Hanslick’s criticism hurt Tchaikovsky’s feelings very deeply. To his life’s end he never forgot it, and knew it by heart, just as he remembered word for word one of Cui’s criticisms dating from 1866. All the deeper and more intense therefore was his gratitude to Brodsky. This sentiment he expressed in a letter to the artist, and in the dedication of the Concerto he replaced Auer’s name by that of Brodsky.

While Tchaikovsky was touched by Brodsky’s courage in bringing forward the Concerto, he was unable to suppress his sense of injury at the attitude of his intimate friend Kotek, who weakly relinquished his original intention of introducing the work in St. Petersburg. Still more did he resent the conduct of Auer, who, he had reason to believe, not only declined to produce the Concerto himself, but advised Sauret not to play it in the Russian capital.

_To N. F. von Meck._

ROME, 1881.

“Do you know what I am writing just now? You will be very much
astonished. Do you remember how you once advised me to compose a
trio for pianoforte, violin, and violoncello, and my reply, in
which I frankly told you that I disliked this combination?
Suddenly, in spite of this antipathy, I made up my mind to
experiment in this form, which so far I have never attempted. The
beginning of the trio is finished. Whether I shall carry it
through, whether it will sound well, I do not know, but I should
like to bring it to a happy termination. I hope you will believe
me, when I say that I have only reconciled myself to the
combination of piano and strings in the hope of giving you pleasure
by this work. I will not conceal from you that I have had to do
some violence to my feelings before I could bring myself to express
my musical ideas in a new and unaccustomed form. I wish to conquer
all difficulties, however; and the thought of pleasing you impels
me and encourages my efforts.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“ROME, _December_ 22_nd_, 1881 (_January_ 3_rd_, 1882).

“Things are well with me in the fullest sense of the word.... If
everything were well in Russia, and I received good news from home,
it would be impossible to conceive a better mode of life. But
unhappily it is not so. Our dear, but pitiable, country is passing
through a dark hour. A vague sense of unrest and dissatisfaction
prevails throughout the land; all seem to be walking at the edge of
a volcanic crater, which may break forth at any moment....

“According to my ideas, now or never is the time to turn to the
people for counsel and support; to summon us all together and to
let us consider in common such ways and means as may strengthen our
hands. The Zemsky Sobor--this is what Russia needs. From us the
Tsar could learn the truth of things; we could help him to suppress
rebellion and make Russia a happy and united country. Perhaps I am
a poor politician, and my remarks are very naïve and
inconsequential, but whenever I think the matter over, I see no
other issue, and cannot understand why the same thought does not
occur to him, in whose hands our salvation lies. Katkov, who
describes all parliamentary discussions as talkee-talkee, and hates
the words _popular representation_ and _constitution_, confuses the
idea of the Zemsky Sobor, which was frequently summoned in old
days when the Tsar stood in need of counsel, with the Parliaments
and Chambers of Western Europe. A Zemsky Sobor is probably quite
opposed to a constitution in the European sense; it is not so much
a question of giving us at once a responsible Ministry, and the
whole routine of English parliamentary procedure, as of revealing
the true state of things, giving the Government the confidence of
the people, and showing us some indication of where and how we are
being led.

“I had no intention of turning a letter to you into a political
dissertation. Forgive me, dear friend, if I have bored you with it.
I only meant to tell you the Italian sun is beautiful, and I am
enjoying the glory of the South; but I live the life of my country,
and cannot be completely at rest here so long as things are not
right with us. Nor is the news I receive from my family in Russia
very cheerful just now.”

_To P Jurgenson._

“_Rome_, _January_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1882.

“This season I have no luck. _The Maid of Orleans_ will not be
given again; _Oniegin_ ditto; Auer intrigues against the Violin
Concerto; no one plays the Pianoforte Concerto (the second); in
short, things are bad. But what makes me furious, and hurts and
mortifies me most, is the fact that the Direction, which would not
spend a penny upon _The Maid of Orleans_, has granted 30,000
roubles for the mounting of Rimsky-Korsakov’s _Sniegourochka_. Is
it not equally unpleasant to you to feel that ‘our subject’ has
been taken from us, and that Lel will now sing new music to the old
words? It is as though someone had forcibly torn away a piece of
myself and offered it to the public in a new and brilliant setting.
I could cry with mortification.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“ROME, _January_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1882.

“The trio is finished.... Now I can say with some conviction that
the work is not bad. But I am afraid, having written all my life
for the orchestra, and only taken late in life to chamber music, I
may have failed to adapt the instrumental combinations to my
musical thoughts. In short, I fear I may have arranged music of a
symphonic character as a trio, instead of writing directly for my
instruments. I have tried to avoid this, but I am not sure whether
I have been successful.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“ROME, _January_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1882.

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

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

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

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

_To P. Jurgenson._

“ROME, _February_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1882.

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

_To A. Tchaikovsky._

“ROME, _February_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1882.

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

_To P. Jurgenson._

“NAPLES, _February_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1882.

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

_To N. F. von Meck._

“NAPLES, _February_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1882.

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

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

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

_To N. F. von Meck._

“NAPLES, _March_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1882.

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

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

10 _p.m._

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

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

XIV

_To M. Tchaikovsky._

“KAMENKA, _May_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1882.

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

_“Subject for a Story._

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

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

_To N. F. von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _May_ 29_th_ (_June_ 10_th_), 1882.

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

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

_To N. F. von Meck._

“GRANKINO, _June_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1882.

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

_To N. F. von Meck._

“GRANKINO, _July_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1882.

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

_To P. Jurgenson._

“KAMENKA, _July_ 26_th_ (_August_ 7_th_), 1882.

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

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

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

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“MOSCOW, _August_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1882.

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

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

_To N. F. von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _August_ 23_rd_ (_September_ 4_th_), 1882.

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

XV

1882-1883

_To N. F. von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _September_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1882.

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

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“KAMENKA, _September_ 20_th_ (_October_ 2_nd_), 1882.

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

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

_To E. Napravnik._

“KAMENKA, _September_ 21_st_ (_October_ 3_rd_), 1882.

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

_To P. Jurgenson._

“KAMENKA, _October_ 20_th_ (_November_ 1_st_), 1882.

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

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

In a letter to the composer Taneiev says:--

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

_To S. I. Taneiev._

“KAMENKA, _October_ 29_th_ (_November_ 10_th_) 1882.

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