Chapter XX: Part V: I (6)

“Played Mozart, and enjoyed it immensely. An idea for a Suite from
Mozart.”

“_May_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

“I am working too strenuously, as though I were being driven. This
haste is unhealthy, and will, perhaps, reflect upon the poor Suite.
My work (upon the variations before the finale) has been very
successful....”

“_May_ 21_st_ (_June_ 2_nd_).

“Worked well. Four variations completed.”

“_May_ 23_rd_ (_June_ 4_th_).

“.... The Suite is finished.”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“GRANKINO, _June_ 20_th_ (_July_ 2_nd_), 1884.

“I live here in a very pleasant way, a quiet, countrified
existence, but I work hard. A work of greater genius than the new
Suite never was!!! My opinion of the new-born composition is so
optimistic; God knows what I shall think of it a year hence. At
least it has cost me some pains.”

_To S. I. Taneiev._

“GRANKINO, _June_ 30_th_ (_July_ 12_th_), 1884.

“ ... Although it was interesting to hear your opinion of my songs,
I was rather angry with you for saying nothing whatever about your
own work, plans, etc.

“Your criticisms of the songs--the end of the ‘Legend,” and the
abuse of the minor in the ‘Lied vom Winter’--are very just.... I
should like to say your praise was equally well deserved, but
modesty forbids. So I will not say you are right, but that I am
pleased with your commendations....

“At the present moment I am composing a third Suite. I wanted to
write a Symphony, but it was not a success. However, the title is
of no consequence. I have composed a big symphonic work in four
movements: (1) Andante; (2) another Valse; (3) Scherzo; (4) Theme
and Variations. It will be finished by the end of the summer, for I
am working regularly and with zeal. Besides this, I am planning a
concert-piece for pianoforte in two movements. It would be a fine
thing if the work could be played during the coming season!”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“GRANKINO, _July_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1884.

“I shall not set to work upon the pianoforte Concerto, of which I
wrote to you, before autumn or early winter. Of course, it will be
difficult ever again to find such an ideal interpreter as Nicholas
Rubinstein, but there is a pianist whom I had in my mind when I
thought of a second Concerto. This is a certain young man, called
d’Albert, who was in Moscow last winter, and whom I heard several
times in public and at private houses. To my mind he is a pianist
of _genius_, the legitimate successor of Rubinstein. Taneiev--whom
I value very highly as musician, teacher, and theorist--would also
be a suitable interpreter, if he had just that _vein of virtuosity_
wherein lies the secret of the magic spell which great interpreters
exercise over the public.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“SKABEIEVKA, _July_ 28_th_ (_August_ 9_th_), 1884.

“The coachman will have told you our adventures. All went well as
far as Kochenovka. There I had supper, and read _Sapho_ by the
mingled light of the moon and a lantern, keeping an anxious eye
upon the lightning that was flashing all around. At 11.30 p.m. we
resumed our journey. The storm came nearer and nearer, until it
broke over our heads. Although the constant flashes were mild, and
the rain wetted us through, my nerves were overstrained. I was
convinced we should miss the train.... Fortunately it was late.
Here we had an appalling storm. The sight of it at the hour of
sunset, which still glowed here and there through the clouds, was
so grand that, forgetful of my fears, I stood by the door to watch
it. The rest of the journey was comfortable. I read _Sapho_, which
I do not like.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“SKABEIEVKA, _July_ 25_th_ (_August_ 6_th_), 1884.

“ ... You ask my opinion upon Daudet’s _Sapho_ ... in spite of his
great talent, this author has long since dropped out of favour with
me. If Daudet had not dedicated the book to his sons in order to
display the fact that it contained a lesson and a warning, I should
say that he had described the sensuality and depravity of the hero
and heroine very simply and picturesquely, with considerable
sympathy. But in view of this dedication I feel indignant at the
Pharisaism and false virtuousness of the author. In reality he
wants to tickle the depraved taste of his public, and describes
with cynical frankness the immorality of Parisian life, while
pretending to deliver a sermon to his sons. He would have us
believe him to be pursuing a moral aim, actuated by the noble
aspiration of saving the young from evil ways. In reality his only
aim was to produce a book which would please the immoral Parisian
public, and to make money by it. One must own that he has attained
his object. The book will have a great success, like Zola’s
_Pot-Bouille_, the novels of Guy de Maupassant, and similar works
of the new French school. When we reflect upon the group of people,
and their way of life, as depicted by the author, we come to the
conclusion that under the cloak of verisimilitude and realism the
novel is fundamentally false. Sapho is an impossible being; at
least I never came across a similar combination of honourable
feeling and baseness, of nobility and infamy. Yet the author always
sympathises with his heroine, and although, judging from the
dedication, she is intended to inspire his sons with horror and
repulsion, she must really seem very attractive to them. On the
other hand, the virtuous characters in the book could not appeal
sympathetically either to Daudet’s sons, or to anyone else; the
tiresome Divonne, the hero’s impossible sister, and the rest of
them--all these people are quite artificial. Sapho is an overdrawn
type of a Parisian cocotte, but there is something true to nature
in her. The others are not alive. Most insipid of all is Irène. Any
young man reading the book must realise why Sapho succeeded in
supplanting her in the heart of her husband Jean. It is here that
Daudet’s hypocrisy is so evident, for while we ought to sympathise
with Irène as greatly as we despise Sapho, in reality we
involuntarily take the part of the depraved heroine. At the same
time we cannot deny the great talent and mastery displayed in the
book. Two or three dozen pages are wonderfully written.”

XX

Early in September, 1884, Tchaikovsky went to stay at Plestcheievo, a country property which Nadejda von Meck had purchased after circumstances compelled her to sell Brailov. Here he led the kind of life which suited him best--reading, composing, and studying the works of other musicians, in undisturbed quiet and freedom from social duties.

_To N. F. von Meck._

“PLESTCHEIEVO, _September_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1884.

“I have realised two intentions since I came here--the study of two
works hitherto unknown to me--Moussorgsky’s _Khovanstchina_ and
Wagner’s _Parsifal_. In the first I discovered what I expected:
pretensions to realism, original conceptions and methods, wretched
technique, poverty of invention, occasionally clever episodes, amid
an ocean of harmonic absurdities and affectations.... _Parsifal_
leaves an entirely opposite impression. Here we are dealing with a
great master, a genius, even if he has gone somewhat astray. His
wealth of harmony is so luxuriant, so vast, that at length it
becomes fatiguing, even to a specialist. What then must be the
feelings of an ordinary mortal who has wrestled for three hours
with this flow of complicated harmonic combinations? To my mind
Wagner has killed his colossal creative genius with _theories_.
Every preconceived theory chills his incontestable creative
impulse. How could Wagner abandon himself to inspiration, while he
believed he was grasping some particular theory of music-drama, or
musical truth, and, for the sake of this, turned from all that,
according to his predecessors, constituted the strength and beauty
of music? If the singer may not _sing_, but--amid the deafening
clamour of the orchestra--is expected to declaim a series of set
and colourless phrases, to the accompaniment of a gorgeous, but
disconnected and formless symphony, is that opera?

“What really astounds me, however, is the seriousness with which
this philosophising German sets the most inane subjects to music.
Who can be touched, for instance, by _Parsifal_, in which, instead
of having to deal with men and women similar in temperament and
feeling to ourselves, we find legendary beings, suitable perhaps
for a ballet, but not for a music drama? I cannot understand how
anyone can listen without laughter, or without being bored, to
those endless monologues in which Parsifal, or Kundry, and the rest
bewail their misfortunes. Can we sympathise with them? Can we love
or hate them? Certainly not; we remain aloof from their passions,
sentiments, triumphs, and misfortunes. But that which is unfamiliar
to the human heart should never be the source of musical
inspiration....”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“PLESTCHEIEVO, _October_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1884.

“This is my last evening here, and I feel both sadness and dread.
After a month of complete solitude it is not easy to return to the
vortex of Petersburg life. To-day I put all the bookshelves and
music-cases in order. My conscience is clear as to all your
belongings. But I must confess to one mishap: one night I wound the
big clock in my bedroom with such energy that the weights fell off,
and it now wants repairing. Dear and incomparable friend, accept my
warmest thanks for your hospitality. I shall keep the most
agreeable memories of Plestcheievo. How often, when I am in
Petersburg, will my thoughts stray back to this dear, quiet house!
Thank you again and again.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“PETERSBURG, _October_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1884.

“DEAR FRIEND,--When a whole week passes without my finding time to
write to you, you may conclude what a busy life I am leading....
The first night[102] of _Eugene Oniegin_ is fixed for Friday,
October 19th (31st).”

Thanks to Napravnik, this was by far the finest performance of _Eugene Oniegin_ that had hitherto been seen. Never had this complicated score received so perfect an interpretation, both as a whole and as regards detail, because never before had a man so gifted, so capable and sympathetic, stood at the head of affairs. Yet even this first performance was by no means irreproachable. Since then, the St. Petersburg public has heard finer interpretations of the parts of Tatiana, Eugene, and others, and has seen more careful staging of the work. The soloists gave a thoughtful rendering of their parts, but nothing more. Not one of them can be said to have “created” his or her part, or left a traditional reading of it.

The success of the opera was great, but not phenomenal. There was no hissing, but between the acts, mingled with expressions of praise and appreciation, many criticisms and ironical remarks were audible.

These unfavourable views came to light in the Press. Cui thought the mere choice of the libretto of _Eugene Oniegin_ proved that Tchaikovsky was lacking in “discriminating taste,” and was not capable of self-criticism. The chief characteristic of the opera was its “wearisome monotony.” Tchaikovsky, he considered, was too fond of airing his troubles in his music. Finally, he pronounced the work to be “still-born, absolutely valueless and weak.”

Most of the other critics agreed with this view.

Tchaikovsky himself was “satisfied.” He had not realised, any more than the critics, that the crowded theatre signified the first great success of a Russian opera since Glinka’s _A Life for the Tsar_. In spite of the Press notices, it was not merely a success, but a triumph; a fact which became more and more evident. Dating from the second performance, _Eugene Oniegin_ drew a long series of packed audiences, and has remained the favourite opera of the Russian public to this day.

This success did not merely mark an important event in the history of Russian opera, it proved the beginning of a new era in the life of Tchaikovsky himself. Henceforward his name, hitherto known and respected among musicians and a fairly wide circle of musical amateurs, was now recognised by the great public, and he acquired a popularity to which no Russian composer had ever yet attained in his own land. Together with his increase of fame, his material prospects improved. _Eugene Oniegin_ transformed him from a needy into a prosperous man, and brought him that complete independence which was so necessary to his creative work.

It is instructive to observe that all this was the outcome of an opera which was never intended to appeal to the masses; but written only to satisfy the composer’s enthusiasm for Poushkin’s poem, without any hope--almost without any desire--of seeing it performed on a large stage.

In spite of its success, this performance of _Eugene Oniegin_ was a great strain upon the composer’s nerves. He felt bound to stay for the second performance, after which he left St. Petersburg for Davos, having in view a twofold object: to take a short rest, and to visit his friend Kotek, of whose condition he had just received disquieting intelligence. Tchaikovsky broke his journey in Berlin, where he saw Weber’s _Oberon_ at the Opera. Instead of being bored by this work, as he expected, he enjoyed it very much. “The music is often enchanting,” he wrote to his brother, “but the subject is absurd, in the style of _Zauberflöte_. However, it is amusing, and I roared with laughter in one place, where at the sound of the magic horn the entire _corps de ballet_ fall flat on the stage and writhe in convulsions.... I also went to Bilse’s and heard the Andante from my own quartet. This everlasting Andante; they want to hear no other work of mine!”

On November 12th (24th) he arrived at Davos. He expected to find a wilderness, in which neither cigarettes nor cigars were to be had, and the civilised aspect of the place, the luxurious hotels, the shops, and the theatre made upon him the fantastic impression of a dream. He had dreaded the meeting with Kotek, lest his friend should be changed beyond recognition by the ravages of consumption. He was agreeably surprised to find him looking comparatively well. But this was only a first impression; he soon realised that Kotek’s condition was serious. He remained a few days at Davos, rejoiced his friend’s heart by his presence, had a confidential interview with the doctor, and left for Paris on November 17th (29th), after having provided liberally for the welfare of the invalid.

_To P. Jurgenson._

“ZURICH, _November_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1884.

“ ... I have received a letter from Stassov urging me to present
the following manuscripts to the Imperial Public Library:

(1) ‘Romeo and Juliet,’
(2) ‘The Tempest,’
(3) ‘Francesca,’
(4) ‘The String Quartet, No. 3,’

and any others I like to send. Of the above works you do not
possess the first two (‘The Tempest’ was lost long ago!), but
please send him the others.... Be so good as to reply personally,
or simply to send such scores as you can spare.”

_To M. Tchaikovsky._

“PARIS, _December_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1884.

“I can scarcely tell you, dear Modi, how wearisome the last few
days have been--although I cannot say why. It proceeds chiefly from
home-sickness, the desire for a place of my own; and even the
knowledge that I start for Russia to-morrow brings no satisfaction,
_because I have no home anywhere_. Life abroad no longer pleases
me.... I must have a _home_, be it in Kamenka, or in Moscow. I
cannot go on living the life of a wandering star.... Where will my
_home_ be?”

With the year 1884 closes the second period in Tchaikovsky’s artistic career. To distinguish it from the “Moscow period,” which was inseparably connected with his teaching at the Conservatoire, it might be described as the “Kamenka period.” Not only because from 1878-84 Kamenka was his chief place of residence, but still more because the life there answered to the whole sum of his requirements, to all which characterised his spiritual condition during these years. After the terrible illness in 1877 he found in Kamenka, far more than in San Remo, Clarens, or France, all he needed for his recovery; during these seven years, it was at Kamenka that he gathered force and recuperated for the life which was becoming infinitely more strenuous and many-sided.

Those who have been at death’s door often speak of their return to health as the happiest time in their lives. Tchaikovsky could say the same of the first years of the Kamenka period. Happy in the friendship of Nadejda von Meck and surrounded by his sister’s family, who loved him, and whom he loved, his whole life shows no gladder days than these.

But with a gradual return to a normal state of mind Tchaikovsky’s relations to his environment underwent a change. As the years went on, Kamenka became too narrow a circle for him; he felt the want of “social intercourse”; the sympathy of his relations ceased to be the one thing indispensable; the conditions of the family life palled, and sometimes he grumbled at them. By the middle of the eighties, he was so much stronger that he was possessed by a desire for complete independence and liberty of action. He no longer dreaded either _absolute solitude, or the society of those whose interests were identical with his own_. By _absolute solitude_ we do not mean that solitary leisure which he enjoyed during his visits to Brailov and Simaki, during which he was cared for, as in a fairy tale, by the invisible hand of the truest of friends, but rather that independence and freedom in every detail of existence which constitutes the solitude of the typical bachelor’s life.

In 1878 Tchaikovsky’s dread of this kind of solitary existence, like his fear of social intercourse, was a symptom of his terrible mental suffering. Now his desire for both independence and society must be regarded as a sign of complete recovery. Hence his increasing disposition in his letters to grumble at Kamenka, and his final decision to leave it. This resolve--like so many important decisions in Tchaikovsky’s life--was not the result of mature reflection. As usual, he allowed himself to be guided by negative conclusions.... He knew well enough that he must and would change his manner of life; he knew the kind of life that would suit him for the time being--that it must be in the country; he observed with surprise his increasing need of social intercourse--but he had no definite idea how he should reconcile these contradictory requirements and, on the very eve of his new departure in life, he asks the question: “Where will my home be made?”

The answer to this question is contained in the following period of his life and work.