Chapter XXI: Part VI: I (1)

Strong and energetic, fearing neither conflict nor effort, the Tchaikovsky who entered upon this new phase of life in no way resembled the man we knew in 1878.

The duties connected with his public career no longer dismayed him; on the contrary, they proved rather attractive, now he had strength to cope with them. At the same time interests stirred within him such as could not have been satisfied in his former restricted existence. Thanks to the enormous success of _Eugene Oniegin_, his fame had now reached every class in educated Russia, and he was compelled to accept a certain rôle which--at least, in these first days of success--was not unpleasant to him. He was glad to pay attentions to others, to help everyone who came his way, because by this means he could show his gratitude to the public for the enthusiastic reception accorded to his work. He was no longer a misanthropist, rather he sought those to whom he was dear, not only as a man, but as a personage. Amongst these, his old and faithful friends in Moscow took the first place. These intimacies were now renewed, and every fresh meeting with Laroche, Kashkin, Jurgenson, Albrecht, Hubert, and Taneiev gave him the keenest delight. Although death had separated him from Nicholas Rubinstein, he showed his devotion to the memory of his friend by taking the deepest interest in his orphaned children.

In February, 1885, Tchaikovsky was unanimously elected Director of the Moscow branch of the Russian Musical Society.

As the most popular musician in Russia, he no longer avoided intercourse with his fellow-workers. He was ready with advice, assistance and direction, and regarded it as a duty to answer every question addressed to him. His correspondence with his “colleagues” would fill a book in itself.

He received letters not only from professional musicians, but from amateurs, male and female, students, enthusiastic girls, officers, and even occasionally from priests. To all these letters he replied with astonishing conscientiousness and strove, in so far as he could, to fulfil all their requests, which often led to touching, or sometimes grotesque, expressions of gratitude from the recipients of his favours.

As a composer Tchaikovsky no longer stood aloof, leaving the fate of his compositions to chance; nor did he regard it as _infra dig._ to make them known through the medium of influential people. After a convalescence which had lasted seven years, Tchaikovsky returned to all these activities with vigour and enjoyment, although after a time his courage flagged, and all his strength of will had to be requisitioned to enable him “to keep up this sort of existence.” Enthusiasm waned, and there succeeded--in his own words--“a life-weariness, and at times an insane depression; something hopeless, despairing, and final--and (as in every Finale) a sense of triviality.”

The new conditions of his life are reflected in his constantly increasing circle of acquaintances. In every town he visited he made new friends, who were drawn to him with whole-hearted affection. With many of them he entered into brisk correspondence. In some cases this was continued until his death; in other instances the exchange of letters ceased after a year or two, to make way for a fresh correspondence.

The most important and interesting of Tchaikovsky’s correspondents during this time are: Julie Spajinsky, wife of the well-known dramatist (1885-1891); Emilie Pavlovskaya, the famous singer, with whom Tchaikovsky became acquainted during the rehearsal for _Mazeppa_ in 1884, and continued to correspond until 1888; the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich; the composer Ippolitov-Ivanov and his wife, the well-known singer, Zaroudna; Vladimir Napravnik, son of the conductor; the pianists Sapellnikov and Siloti. With Glazounov, Désirée Artôt, Brodsky, Hubert, his cousin Anna Merkling, and many others, there was an occasional exchange of letters.

The greater part of these communications, notwithstanding the intimate style and frankness of the writer’s nature, bear signs of effort, and give the impression of having been written for duty’s sake. Taken as a whole, they are not so important, or so interesting, as the letters to Nadejda von Meck, and to Tchaikovsky’s own family, belonging to the Moscow period.

The same may be said of the majority of new acquaintances made during the later years of his life, of which no epistolary record remains. These were so numerous that it would be impossible to speak of them individually. They included such personalities as Liadov, Altani, Grieg, Sophie Menter, Emil Sauer, Louis Diemer, Colonne, Carl Halir. Besides these, he was in touch with a vast number of people belonging to the most varied strata of social life. Among them was Legoshin, valet to his friend Kondratiev. Tchaikovsky got to know this man by the death-bed of his master, and valued his purity of heart and integrity more and more as years went by. Another unprofessional friend was the celebrated Russian general, Dragomirov. While travelling to France by sea, he made the acquaintance of an extraordinarily gifted boy, the son of Professor Sklifasskovsy. The friendship was brief as it was touching, for the youth died a year later. Tchaikovsky was deeply affected by his loss, and dedicated to his memory the _Chant Elégiaque_, op. 72.

All these new friendships served to surround the composer with that atmosphere of affection and appreciation which was as indispensable to him as his daily bread. But none of them were as deep and lasting as the ties of old days, none so close and intimate; nor did they contribute any new element to his inner life....

One word as to the dearest of all his later affections. His sister, A. Davidov, had three sons. The second of these, Vladimir, had always been Tchaikovsky’s favourite from childhood. Up to the age of eighteen, however, these pleasant relations between uncle and nephew had not assumed any deep significance. But as Vladimir Davidov grew up, Tchaikovsky gradually felt for him a sentiment which can only be compared to his love for the twins, Toly and Modi, in their youth. The difference of age was no hindrance to their relations. Tchaikovsky preferred the companionship of his nephew; was always grieved to part with him; confided to him his inmost thoughts, and finally made him his heir, commending to this young man all those whom he still desired to assist and cherish, even after his death.

II

_To N. F. von Meck._

“MOSCOW, _January_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1885.

“It is so long since I wrote, dear friend! Two events have
interrupted my correspondence with you: on Christmas Eve I received
a telegram announcing the death of Kotek. Not only was I much upset
by this intelligence, but the sad duty of breaking the news to his
parents devolved upon me.... I have also had to make the difficult
corrections in my new Suite myself. Hans von Bülow is shortly to
conduct in Petersburg, and all must be ready four or five days
hence. While I was away nothing was done here. I was furious, rated
Jurgenson and the engravers, and worked till I was worn out;
therefore I have had no time to lament for poor Kotek.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“MOSCOW, _January_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1885.

“All my thoughts are now directed towards taking up my abode in
some village near Moscow. I am no longer satisfied with a nomadic
existence, and am determined to have a _home of my own_ somewhere.
As I am sure I am not in a position to buy a country house, I have
decided to rent one.”

The first performance of the Third Suite, which took place at a symphony concert in Petersburg, on January 12th (24th), 1885, under Von Bülow’s direction, was a veritable triumph for Tchaikovsky. Never before had any of his works been received with such unanimous enthusiasm. Doubtless this was partly owing to the accessible and attractive character of the music, but far more to the admirable way in which it was interpreted.

Hans von Bülow was a great pianist, yet in this sphere he had rivals who almost overshadowed his fame. As a conductor, however, he ranked, after Richard Wagner, as the first man of his day. In spite of his years he was as enthusiastic as a youth, highly strung, receptive, and a fine all-round musician. He knew how to bring out every detail in a work, and thus infused his own virtuoso-inspiration into each individual player. Under him--in spite of his mannerisms and ungraceful movements--the orchestra performed wonders, and threw new light upon the most hackneyed works (such as the overture to _Freischütz_), holding the attention of the audience from the opening phrase to the last chord.

Quick, restless, and continually under the influence of some inspiration, he was as extreme and pitiless in his dislikes as he was sentimental and enthusiastic in his sympathies. He could not merely like or dislike. He hated or adored.

After having been in turn a passionate partisan of the classical masters, of Wagner and of Brahms, he became in the seventies a great admirer of Russian music, and was devoted to Tchaikovsky’s works. His devotion was then at its zenith, consequently he put into his interpretation of the Third Suite not merely his accustomed experience, but all the fire of his passing enthusiasm. I say “passing,” because some ten years later this enthusiasm had somewhat cooled, and he had begun to rave over the works of Richard Strauss, who at that time had scarcely entered upon his career as a composer.

_To N. F. von Meck._

“MOSCOW, _January_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1885.

“DEAR, KIND FRIEND,--Forgive me my indolence, and for so seldom
writing. To-day I returned from Petersburg, where I spent a week of
feverish excitement. The first few days were taken up by the
rehearsals for the concert at which my new Suite was to be
performed. I had a secret presentiment that it would please the
public. I experienced both pleasure and fear. But the reality far
surpassed my expectations. I have never had such a triumph; I could
see that the greater part of the audience was touched and grateful.
Such moments are the best in an artist’s life.... On the 15th
(27th) _Oniegin_ was performed in the presence of the Emperor and
Empress, and other members of the Tsar’s family. The Emperor
desired to see me. We had a long and friendly conversation, in the
course of which he asked all about my life and musical work, and
then took me to the Empress, who paid me the most touching
attention. The following evening I returned to Moscow.”

On January 16th (28th), the new Suite was given in Moscow, under Erdmannsdörfer. It met with considerable success, but not with such appreciation as in Petersburg. Erdmannsdörfer’s interpretation was fine, but lacked the inspiration by means of which Hans von Bülow had electrified his audience. At this time Tchaikovsky was in search of an operatic subject. Just then, says his brother Modeste, “I was in Moscow, and remarked one day that certain scenes from Shpajinsky’s play, _The Enchantress_, would make an effective opera without using the whole drama as a libretto.” The following day Tchaikovsky wrote to the author, asking permission to use the play for musical setting. Shpajinsky replied that he would be pleased to co-operate with the composer.

When the time came for Tchaikovsky to find a residence in his native land, or to go abroad according to his usual custom, he was seized with an inexplicable fear of the journey, and sent his servant Alexis to take a furnished house, in the village of Maidanovo, near Klin. “The house,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck, “contains many beautifully furnished rooms, and has a fine view. Apparently it is a pleasant place to live in, but the number of rooms gives me some anxiety, because they must be heated in winter.” Finally he decided to take it for a year, and should it prove beyond his means, to look out for something more suitable in the meanwhile.

The village of Maidanovo lies close to the town of Klin. The manor house stands upon a high bank, overlooking the river Sestra, and is surrounded by a large park. Once it belonged to an aristocratic Russian family, but had gradually fallen into decay. Nevertheless, it bore many traces of its former splendour: the remains of a rosary in front of the façade, arbours, lakes, little bridges, rare trees, an orangery and a marble vase, placed in a shady spot in the park. In 1885 this property was already spoilt by the numerous country houses built by rich owners in the immediate neighbourhood. But Tchaikovsky was so enamoured of the scenery of Great Russia that he was quite satisfied with a birch or pine wood, a marshy field, the dome of a village church and, in the far distance, the dark line of some great forest. The chief motive, however, for his choice of this neighbourhood, where he lived to the end of his days, was not so much the charm of scenery as its situation between the two capitals. Klin lies near Moscow, and is also easily accessible from Petersburg, so that Tchaikovsky was within convenient distance from either city; while at the same time he was beyond the reach of accidental visitors, who now frequently molested him.

The first glimpse of Maidanovo disappointed Tchaikovsky. All that seemed splendid and luxurious to his man Alexis appeared in his eyes tasteless and incongruous. Nevertheless, he felt it would be pleasant as a temporary residence. The view from the windows, the quiet and sense of being _at home_, delighted him. The cook was good and inexpensive. The only other servants he employed were a moujik and a washerwoman. “In spite of my disappointment,” he writes to his brother, “I am contented, cheerful, and quiet.... I am now receiving the newspapers, which makes life pleasanter. I read a great deal, and am getting on with English, which I enjoy. I eat, walk, and sleep when--and as much as--I please--in fact I live.”

III

_To E. Pavlovskaya._

“MAIDANOVO, _February_ 20_th_ (March 4_th_), 1888.

“DEAR EMILIE KARLOVNA,--I rather long for news of you. Where are
you now? I have settled down in a village. My health is not good
... in Carnival week I suffered from the most peculiar nervous
headaches.... As I felt sure my accursed and shattered nerves were
to blame, and I only wanted rest, I hurried into the country.... My
_Vakoula_ will be quite a respectable opera, you can feel sure of
that. I always see you as Oxana, and so you dwell in my company
without suspecting it. I have made every possible alteration which
could retrieve the work from its unmerited oblivion. I hope it will
be quite ready by Easter. I intend to begin a new opera in spring,
so I shall once more have an opportunity of spending all my time
with my ‘benefactress.’”[103]

In February Taneiev played the new Fantasia for pianoforte in Moscow. Its immediate success was very great, but probably the applause was as much for the favourite pianist as for the work itself, for neither in Moscow nor yet in Petersburg--where Taneiev played it a year later--did this composition take any lasting hold upon the public.

_To N. F. von Meck._

“MAIDANOVO, _March_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1885.

“DEAR FRIEND,--Your letter gave me food for reflection. You are
quite right: property is a burden, and only he who owns nothing is
quite free. But, on the other hand, one must have a _home_. If I
could live in Moscow, I should rent a house there. But it is not
sufficient to _rent_ a place in the country if one wants to feel at
home. Here in Maidanovo, for instance, I have already found it very
unpleasant to have my landlady living close by. I cannot plant the
flowers I like, nor cut down a tree that obstructs my view. I
cannot prevent people from walking in front of my windows, because
there are other houses let in the park. I think, with my reserved
character and nature, it would be better to have a little house and
garden of my own....

“The Russian solitudes of which you speak do not frighten me. One
can always take a great store of books and newspapers from town,
and, moreover, I am very simple in my tastes.

“I do not at all agree with your idea that in our country it must
always be _horrid_, _dark_, _marshy_, etc. Even as the Esquimaux,
or the Samoyede, loves his icy northern land, I love our Russian
scenery more than any other, and a Russian landscape in winter has
an incomparable charm for me. This does not hinder me in the least
from liking Switzerland or Italy, in a different way. To-day I find
it particularly difficult to agree with you about the poverty of
our Russian scenery: it is a bright, sunny day, and the snow
glistens like millions of diamonds. A wide vista lies before my
window.... No! it is beautiful here in this land of ours, and one
breathes so easily under this boundless horizon.

“It seems to me you think too gloomily, too despairingly, of
Russia. Undoubtedly there is much to be wished for here, and all
kinds of deceit and disorder do still exist. But where will you
find perfection? Can you point out any country in Europe where
everyone is perfectly contented? There was a time when I was
convinced that for the abolishment of autocracy and the
introduction of law and order, political institutions, such as
parliaments, chambers of deputies, etc., were indispensable, and
that it was only necessary to introduce these reforms with great
caution, then all would turn out well, and everyone would be quite
happy. But now, although I have not yet gone over to the camp of
the ultra-conservatives, I am very doubtful as to the actual
utility of these reforms. When I observe what goes on in other
countries, I see everywhere discontent, party conflict and hatred;
everywhere--in a greater or less degree--the same disorder and
tyranny prevails. Therefore I am driven to the conclusion that
there is no ideal government, and, until the end of the world, men
will have to endure in patience many disappointments with regard to
these things. From time to time great men--benefactors of
mankind--appear, who rule justly and care more for the common
welfare than for their own. But these are very exceptional.
Therefore I am firmly convinced that the welfare of the great
majority is not dependent upon _principles_ and _theories_, but
upon those individuals who, by the accident of their birth, or for
some other reason, stand at the head of affairs. In a word, mankind
serves man, not a personified principle. Now arises the question:
Have we a _man_ upon whom we can stake our hopes? I answer, Yes,
and this man is the Emperor. His personality fascinates me; but,
apart from personal impressions, I am inclined to think that the
Emperor is a good man. I am pleased with the caution with which he
introduces the new and does away with the old order. It pleases me,
too, that he does not seek popularity; and I take pleasure also in
his blameless life, and in the fact that he is an honourable and
good man. But perhaps my politics are only the _naïveté_ of a man
who stands aloof from everyday life and is unable to see beyond his
own profession.”

_To E. K. Pavlovskaya._

“MAIDANOVO, _March_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1885.

“I am now arranging the revised score of _Vakoula_, orchestrating
the new numbers and correcting the old. I hope to have finished in
a few weeks. The opera will be called _Cherevichek_,[104] to
distinguish it from the numerous other _Vakoulas_: Soloviev’s and
Stchourovsky’s for instance. The authorities have promised to
produce the opera in Moscow; it will hardly be possible in
Petersburg, as they have already accepted two new operas there.

“As to _The Captain’s Daughter_,[105] if only I could find a clever
librettist, capable of carrying out such a difficult task, I would
begin the work with pleasure. Meanwhile I have made a note of _The
Enchantress_, by Shpajinsky. The latter has already started upon
the libretto. He will make many alterations and, if I am not
mistaken, it will make a splendid background for the music. You
will find it your most suitable rôle. If _Les Caprices d’Oxane_
should be produced, you will continue to play the part of my
‘benefactress,’ for you give me incredibly more than I give you.
But if, with God’s help, I achieve _The Enchantress_, I hope I may
become your benefactor in some degree. Here you shall have a fine
opportunity to display your art.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“MAIDANOVO, _April_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1885.

“MY DEAREST FRIEND,--I am once more back in Maidanovo, after a week
and a half of travelling hither and thither. I worked almost
without a break through the whole week before Palm Sunday and the
whole of Passion Week, in order to be ready for the Easter
festival. By Saturday everything was finished, and (although not
well) I arrived in Moscow in time for the early service. I did not
pass my holidays very pleasantly, and at the end of Easter Week I
went to Petersburg, where I had to see Polonsky, author of the
libretto of _Vakoula_, about the printing of the opera in its new
form. I stayed four days in Petersburg, and spent them with my
relations in the usual running about, which I found as wearisome as
it was fatiguing. On Monday I travelled to Moscow in order to
attend the reception of the Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich,
who was to be present at the performance of the opera at the
Conservatoire. As a member of the Musical Committee, I could not
avoid taking part in the official reception to the Grand Duke,
which I found a great bore. The performance went very well. Many
thanks for sending me the articles in the _Novoe Vremya_. I had
already seen them, and was very pleased with their warmth of tone.
I am never offended at frank criticism, for I am well aware of my
faults, but I feel very bitterly the cold and inimical note which
pervades Cui’s criticisms. It is not very long since the Russian
Press (principally the Petersburg organs) began to notice me in a
friendly spirit. Ivanov, the author of the articles in the _Novoe
Vremya_, had formerly no good opinion of me, and used to write in a
cold and hostile manner, although in Moscow I taught him theory for
three years, and did not in the least deserve his enmity, as
everyone knows. I can never forget how deeply his criticism of
_Vakoula_ wounded me ten years ago.”

_To Rimsky-Korsakov._

“MAIDANOVO, _April_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1885.

“DEAR NICHOLAS ANDREIEVICH,--Since I saw you last I have had so
much to get through in a hurry that I could not spare time for a
thorough revision of your primer. But now and again I cast a glance
at it, and jotted down my remarks on some loose sheets. To-day,
having finished my revision of the first chapter, I wanted to send
you these notes, and read them through again. Then I hesitated:
should I send them or not? All through my criticism of your
book[106] ran a vein of irritation, a grudging spirit, even an
unintentional suspicion of hostility towards you. I was afraid the
mordant bitterness of my observations might hurt your feelings.
Whence this virulence? I cannot say. I think my old hatred of
teaching harmony crops up here; a hatred which partly springs from
a consciousness that our present theories are untenable, while at
the same time it is impossible to build up new ones; and partly
from the peculiarity of my musical temperament, which lacks the
power of imparting conscientious instruction. For ten years I
taught harmony, and during that time I loathed my classes, my
pupils, my text-book, and myself as teacher. The reading of your
book reawakened my loathing, and it was this which stirred up all
my acrimony and rancour.... Now I am going to lay a serious
question before you, which you need not answer at once, only after
due consideration and discussion with your wife.

“Dare I hope that you would accept the position of Director of the
Moscow Conservatoire should it be offered you? I can promise you
beforehand so to arrange matters that you would have sufficient
time for composing, and be spared all the drudgery with which N.
Rubinstein was overwhelmed. You would only have the supervision of
the musical affairs.

“Your upright and ideally honourable character, your distinguished
gifts, both as artist and as teacher, warrant my conviction that in
you we should find a splendid Director. I should consider myself
very fortunate could I realise this ideal.

“So far, I have not ventured to speak of it to anyone, and beg you
to keep the matter quiet for the present.

“Think it over, dear friend, and send me your answer....”[107]

_To E. K. Pavlovskaya._

“MAIDANOVA, _April_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1885.

“MY DEAR EMILIE KARLOVNA,--Your exceedingly malicious criticism of
_The Enchantress_ not only failed to annoy me, but awoke my
gratitude, for I wanted to know your opinion. I had even thought of
asking you if you would go to see the play itself and give me your
impressions. My conception and vision of the type of Natasha
differs entirely from yours. Of course, she is a licentious woman;
but her spell does not consist merely in the fact that she can win
people with her fine speeches. This spell might suffice to draw
customers to her inn--but would it have power to change her sworn
enemy, the Prince, into a lover? Deep hidden in the soul of this
light woman lies a certain moral force and beauty which has never
had any chance of development. _This power is love._ Natasha is a
strong and womanly nature, who can only love once, and she is
capable of sacrificing all and everything to her love. So long as
her love has not yet ripened, Natasha dissipates her forces, so to
speak, in current coin; it amuses her to make everyone fall in love
with her with whom she comes in contact. She is merely a
sympathetic, attractive, undisciplined woman; she knows she is
captivating, and is quite contented. Lacking the enlightenment of
religion and culture--for she is a friendless orphan--she has but
one object in life--to live gaily. Then appears _the_ man destined
to touch the latent chords of her better nature, and she is
transfigured. Life loses all worth for her, so long as she cannot
reach her goal; her beauty, which, so far, had only possessed an
instinctive and elementary power of attraction, now becomes a
strong weapon in her hand, by which, in a single moment, she
shatters the opposing forces of the Prince--his hatred. Afterwards
they surrender themselves to the mad passion which envelops them
and leads to the inevitable catastrophe of their death; but this
death leaves in the spectator a sense of peace and reconciliation.
I speak of what is going to be in my opera; in the play everything
is quite different. Shpajinsky quite understands my requirements,
and will carry out my intentions in delineating the principal
characters. He will soften down the hardness of Natasha’s _manières
d’être_, and will give prominence to the power of her moral beauty.
_He and I_--_you_ too, later, if only you will be reconciled to
this rôle--will so arrange things that in the last act there shall
not be a dry eye in the audience. This is my own conception of this
part, and I am sure it _must_ please you, and that you will not
fail to play it splendidly. My enthusiasm for _The Enchantress_ has
not made me unfaithful to the desire, so deeply rooted in my soul,
to illustrate in music those words of Goethe’s: ‘The eternal
feminine draws us onward.’ The fact that the womanly power and
beauty of Natasha’s character remain so long hidden under a cloak
of licentiousness, only augments the dramatic interest. Why do you
like the part of Traviata or of Carmen? Because power and beauty
shine out of these two characters, although in a somewhat coarser
form. I assure you, you will also learn to like _The Enchantress_.”

_To M. Tchaikovsky._

“MAIDANOVO, _April_ 26_th_ (_May_ 8_th_), 1885.

“The business connected with _Cherevichek_ has ended very well.
Vsievolojsky put an end to the irresolution of the so-called
management and ordered the opera to be produced in the most
sumptuous style. I was present at a committee at which he presided,
when the mounting was discussed. They will send Valetz, the
scene-painter, to Tsarskoe-Selo, so that he may faithfully
reproduce some of the rooms in the palace. I am very pleased.”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“MAIDANOVO, _April_ 26_th_ (_May_ 8_th_), 1885.

“The position of my budget is as follows: I possess (together with
the Moscow royalty which I have not yet received) 6,000 roubles.
From Petersburg and Moscow there must still be about 800 or 1,000
roubles to come in; the honorarium from the church music, 300
roubles; the honorarium from the Moscow Musical Society, 300
roubles.

“Total: 6000 + 800 + 300 + 300 = 7,500 (_sic!_).

“Up to the present I have not received more than 3,000 roubles from
you.

“Consequently the capital which you have in hand amounts to
4,500-5000 roubles. A nice little sum.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“MOSCOW, _May_ 26_th_ (_June_ 7_th_), 1885.

“ ... I am completely absorbed in the affairs of the Conservatoire,
and have decided that the position of Director shall be offered to
Taneiev. If I do not succeed in this, I shall retire from the
Committee. Finally, I can tell you what, so far, I have said to no
one here: I hate every public office more than ever. Oh, God! how
many disappointments have I experienced and how many bitter truths
I have learnt! No! next year I must get right away.”

Tchaikovsky actually succeeded in getting Taneiev chosen as Director of the Conservatoire. Through him Hubert, who had long been absent from the Conservatoire, was once more reinstated as a teacher. To support Taneiev’s authority Tchaikovsky determined to resume his place upon the teaching staff, and undertook the gratuitous class for composition. This only necessitated his attendance once a month to supervise the work of the few (two to three) students of which the class was composed.

_To S. I. Taneiev._

“MAIDANOVO, _June_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1885.

“Alexeiev has told me that according to the rules of the
Conservatoire it is not permissible for me to be both teacher and
member of Committee. Of course, I will not go back on my word, and
I leave it to you to decide which would be the most useful--to
remain on the Committee, or undertake the somewhat honorary post of
professor. I think it would be best to remain on the Committee, but
just as you like. In any case I will do my duty conscientiously, on
the condition that my freedom is not curtailed and that I may
travel whenever I please....

“So, my dear chief, my fate lies in your hands.

“After some hesitation I have made up my mind to compose _Manfred_,
because I shall find no rest until I have redeemed my promise, so
rashly given to Balakirev in the winter. I do not know how it will
turn out, but meantime I am very discontented. No! it is a thousand
times pleasanter to compose without any programme. When I write a
programme symphony I always feel I am not paying in sterling coin,
but in worthless paper money.”

IV

Tchaikovsky began the composition of _Manfred_ in June. The following letter from Balakirev, dated 1882, led him to choose this subject for a symphonic work.

_M. Balakirev to P. Tchaikovsky._

“PETERSBURG, _October_ 28_th_ (_November_ 9_th_), 1882.

“Forgive me for having left your last letter so long unanswered. I
wanted to write to you in perfect peace and quiet, but many things
hindered me. You are more fortunate than we are, for you do not
need to give lessons, and can devote your whole time to art. I
first offered the subject about which I spoke to you to Berlioz,
who declined my suggestion on account of age and ill-health. Your
_Francesca_ gave me the idea that you were capable of treating this
subject most brilliantly, provided you took great pains, subjected
your work to stringent self-criticism, let your imagination fully
ripen, and did not hurry. This fine subject--Byron’s _Manfred_--is
no use to me, for it does not harmonise with my intimate moods.

“Let me tell you first of all that your Symphony--like the Second
Symphony of Berlioz--must have an _idée fixe_ (the _Manfred_
theme), which must be carried through all the movements. Now for
the programme:--

“_First Movement._ Manfred wandering in the Alps. His life is
ruined. Many burning questions remain unanswered; nothing is left
to him but remembrance. The form of the ideal Astarte floats before
his imagination; he calls to her in vain: the echo of the rocks
alone repeats her name. Thoughts and memories burn in his brain and
prey upon him; he implores the forgetfulness that none can give him
(F♯ minor, second theme D major and F♯ minor).

“_Second Movement._ In complete contrast to the first. Programme:
The customs of the Alpine hunters: patriarchal, full of simplicity
and good humour. Adagio Pastorale (A major). Manfred drops into
this simple life and stands out in strong contrast to it. Naturally
at the beginning a little hunting theme must be introduced, but in
doing this _you must take the greatest care not to descend to the
commonplace_. For God’s sake avoid copying the common German
fanfares and hunting music.

“_Third Movement._ Scherzo fantastique (D major). Manfred sees an
Alpine fairy in the rainbow above a waterfall.

“_Fourth Movement._ Finale (F♯ minor). A wild Allegro
representing the caves of Ariman, whither Manfred has come to try
and see Astarte once more. The appearance of Astarte’s wraith will
form the contrast to these infernal orgies (the same theme which
was employed in the first movement in D major now reappears in D♭
major; in the former it dies away like a fleeting memory, and is
immediately lost in Manfred’s phase of suffering--but now it can be
developed to its fullest extent). The music must be light,
transparent as air, and ideally virginal. Then comes the repetition
of Pandemonium, and finally the sunset and Manfred’s death.

“Is it not a splendid programme? I am quite convinced that if you
summon up all your powers it will be your _chef-d’œuvre_.

“The subject is not only very deep, but in accordance with
contemporary feeling; for all the troubles of the modern man arise
from the fact that he does not know how to preserve his ideals.
They crumble away and leave nothing but bitterness in the soul.
Hence all the sufferings of our times.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“MAIDANOVO, _June_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1885.

“DEAR FRIEND.--I can at last congratulate you on the beautiful
weather. I should enjoy it twice as much if Maidanovo were more
congenial to me. But alas! the lovely park, the beautiful views,
and the splendid bath, are all alike spoiled by the _summer
visitors_. I cannot take a step in the park without coming across
some neighbour. It was beautiful in the winter, but I ought to have
thought of the summer and the summer tourist.

“I am deep in the composition of a new symphonic work. Shpajinsky
could not send me the first act of _The Enchantress_ at the date
agreed upon, so without losing any time, in April I set to work
upon the sketches for a programme Symphony, upon the subject of
Byron’s _Manfred_. I am now so deep in the composition of this work
that the opera will probably have to be laid aside for some time.
The Symphony gives me great trouble. It is a very complicated and
serious work. There are times when it seems to me it would be wise
to cease from composing for a while; to travel and rest. But an
unconquerable desire for work gains the upper hand and chains me to
my desk and piano.”

_To E. K. Pavlovskya._

“MAIDANOVO, _July_ 20_th_ (_August_ 1_st_), 1885.

“ ... I have been playing through some numbers from _Harold_. A
very interesting work and a clever one, well thought out and full
of talent. But are you not surprised that Napravnik, who is so
against Wagner, should have written a genuine Wagnerian opera? I
was filled with astonishment.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“MAIDANOVO, _August_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1885.

“The horizon has been shrouded for days in thick mist, caused, they
say, by forest fires and smouldering peat-mosses. This mist gets
thicker and thicker, and I begin to fear we shall be suffocated. It
has a very depressing effect. In any case my mental condition has
been very gloomy of late. The composition of the _Manfred_
Symphony--a work highly tragic in character--is so difficult and
complicated that at times I myself become a Manfred. All the same,
I am consumed with the desire to finish it as soon as possible, and
am straining every nerve: result--extreme exhaustion. This is the
eternal _cercle vicieux_ in which I am for ever turning without
finding an issue. If I have no work, I worry and bore myself; when
I have it, I work far beyond my strength.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“MAIDANOVO, _August_ 31_st_ (_September_ 12_th_), 1885.

“ ... My fate, that is to say the question of my future home, is at
last decided. After a long and unsuccessful search I have agreed to
my landlady’s proposal to remain at Maidanovo. I shall not stay in
the uncomfortable and unsuitable house in which I have been living,
but in one which she herself has occupied. This house stands
somewhat apart from the others, and a large piece of the garden is
to be fenced in and kept for my especial use; the house itself was
thoroughly done up last summer. Although the neighbourhood is not
what I could wish, yet, taking into consideration the proximity of
a large town with station, shops, post, telegraph office, doctor
and chemist--and also my dislike for searching further--I have
decided to take this place for two years. It is pleasant and
comfortable, and I think I shall feel happy there. I am now
starting to furnish, and shall enter on my tenancy on September
15th. If during the next two years I feel comfortably settled, I
shall not search any more, but remain there to the end of my days.
It is indeed time that I had a settled home.”

V

1885-1886

All the important epochs in Tchaikovsky’s life were preceded by a transition period in which he tried, as it were, whether the proposed change would be feasible or not. From 1861-2, before he became a student at the Conservatoire, he was half-musician, half-official; in 1866, before he became a professor at the Conservatoire, and entirely a Muscovite, he was for eight months half-Petersburger and half-Muscovite; in 1877, before he gave up his professorship and started on what he called “the nomadic life” of the last seven years, he was half-professor and half-tourist; now, from February to September, 1885, he was rather a summer visitor than an inhabitant of the village of Maidanovo, but he had proved the firmness of his decision to remain there. It was only in the beginning of September that he became the true “hermit of Klin,” who, alas, was often compelled to leave his hermitage. As he had now decided to settle down in a home of his own, he proceeded to make it comfortable.... With a school-girl’s _naïveté_ in all practical questions of life, Tchaikovsky could not do much himself towards furnishing his little home, and handed over the task to his servant Alexis. He himself only helped by purchasing the most unnecessary things (for example, he bought two horses, which he sold again with great difficulty, also an old English clock, which proved quite useless), or by furnishing his library with books and music. He was as pleased as a child, and was never tired of talking of “my cook,” “my washerwoman,” “my silver,” “my tablecloths,” and “my dog.” He considered all these to be of the very best, and praised them to the skies. With the exception of some portraits and ikons, all the remainder of Tchaikovsky’s movable property dates its existence from this time.

In comparison with the luxurious houses of other men in his position, painters, writers, and artists, Tchaikovsky’s home was very modest. It contained only what was absolutely necessary. He did not possess beautiful or luxurious things, because his means were decidedly smaller than those of his colleagues in Western Europe, and also because he paid but little attention to outward appearances. If tables, cupboards, or curtains fulfilled their purpose fairly well, he was quite content. Workmanship and material were matters of indifference to him. He also troubled very little about “style” (he could not distinguish one style from another); even if a table was shaky, or the door of a cupboard refused to close, he took it all quite calmly. He would not surround himself with luxury, because his money belonged less to himself than to others, and because, even at the close of his life, when his income was 20,000 roubles a year, he remained free from all pretentious notions.

Little as Tchaikovsky troubled about buying furniture, he cared still less about the placing of it. He entrusted the matter entirely to the will of his servant, who, knowing and taking into consideration his little fancies and habits, arranged everything just as “his master liked it,” without paying any heed to beauty or tastefulness. Tchaikovsky preferred that nothing should be altered in his surroundings; he found it most disagreeable to have to accustom himself to anything new, still more to miss any of his old friends. Henceforth a certain tradition which surrounded every piece of furniture was always considered, if possible, at each removal, so that wherever Tchaikovsky might be, the appearance of his room remained the same. The division of his time in Klin was never changed to the end of his life.

Tchaikovsky rose between seven and eight a.m. Took tea (generally without anything to eat) between eight and nine, and then read the Bible. After which he occupied himself with the study of the English language, or with reading such books as provided not only recreation, but instruction. In this way he read Otto Jahn’s _Life of Mozart_ in the original, the philosophical writings of Spinoza, Schopenhauer, and many others. He next took a walk for about three-quarters of an hour. If Tchaikovsky talked while taking his morning tea, or took his walk in company with a visitor, it signified that he did not intend to compose that day, but would be scoring, writing letters, or making corrections. During his life at Klin, when engaged on a new work, he could not endure company, not only in the morning, but also during the day. In earlier days in Moscow, abroad, or in Kamenka, he had to content himself with the solitude of his room during his hours of active work. The presence of his servant Alexis did not in any way disturb him. The latter, the sole witness of the creative process of the majority of his master’s works, did not even appear to hear them, and only once unexpectedly gave expression to his enthusiasm for the Chorus of Maidens in the third scene of _Eugene Oniegin_, to the great astonishment and perturbation of his master. To his “perturbation,” because he feared in future to be continually overheard and criticised. But this was fortunately the only flash of enlightenment which penetrated Safronov’s musical darkness.

_Manfred_ was the last work Tchaikovsky composed in anything but complete isolation, and this is probably the reason why the task proved so difficult, and cost him such moments of depression. The principal advantage of his new surroundings was the enjoyment of complete solitude during his hours of work.

We may mention that his reserve as to his compositions dates from this time. In the earlier days of his musical life Tchaikovsky had been very communicative about his work; even before his compositions were finished he was ready to discuss them. In the evening he would ask the opinion of those with whom he lived upon what he had composed in the morning, and was always willing to let them hear his work. In course of time, however, the circle of those to whom he communicated the fruits of his inspiration became ever smaller, and when he played any of his compositions he begged his hearers to keep their opinions to themselves. From 1885 he ceased to show his works to anyone. The first to make acquaintance with them was the engraver at Jurgenson’s publishing house.

Tchaikovsky never wasted time between 9.30 and 1 p.m., but busied himself in composing, orchestrating, making corrections, or writing letters. Before he began a pleasant task he always hastened to get rid of the unpleasant ones. On returning from a journey he invariably began with his correspondence, which, next to proof-correcting, he found the most unpleasant work. In the nineties his correspondence had attained such volume that Tchaikovsky was frequently engaged upon it from morning till night, and often answered thirty letters a day.

Tchaikovsky dined punctually at 1 p.m., and, thanks to his excellent appetite, always enjoyed any fare that was set before him, invariably sending a message of thanks to the cook by Safronov. As he was always very abstemious and plain in his meals, it often happened that his guests, instead of complimenting the cook, felt inclined to do just the contrary. Wet or fine, Tchaikovsky always went for a walk after dinner. He had read somewhere that, in order to keep in health, a man ought to walk for two hours daily. He observed this rule with as much conscientiousness and superstition as though some terrible catastrophe would follow should he return five minutes too soon. Solitude was as necessary to him during this walk as during his work. Not only a human being, but even a favourite dog was a bother.

Every witness of his delight in nature spoilt his enjoyment; every expression of rapture destroyed the rapture itself, and in the very moment when he said to his companion, “How beautiful it is here!” it ceased to be beautiful in his eyes.

Most of the time during these walks was spent in composition. He thought out the leading ideas, pondered over the construction of the work, and jotted down fundamental themes. In Klin there are carefully preserved many little exercise books, which he had used for this purpose. If in absence of mind Tchaikovsky had left his note-book at home, he noted down his passing thoughts on any scrap of paper, letter, envelope, or even bill, which he chanced to have with him. The next morning he looked over these notes, and worked them out at the piano. With the exception of two scenes in _Eugene Oniegin_, some piano pieces, and songs, he always worked out his sketches at the piano, so that he should not trust entirely to his indifferent memory. He always wrote out everything very exactly, and here and there indicated the instrumentation. In these sketches the greater part of a work was generally quite finished. When it came to the orchestration he only copied it out clearly, without essentially altering the first drafts. When he was not busy with music during his walks, he recited aloud or improvised dramatic scenes (almost always in French). Sometimes he occupied himself by observing insects. In the garden at Grankino was an ant-hill, to which he played the part of benefactor, providing it with insects from the steppe.

During the first year of his life at Maidanovo Tchaikovsky himself ruined the charm of these walks. Like every good-hearted summer visitor he had given tips lavishly to the village children. At first it was a pleasure, but afterwards turned into a veritable nuisance. The children waited for him at every corner, and when they noticed that he began to avoid them, they surprised him in the most unexpected places in the forest. This quest of pennies spread from the children to the young people of the village, nay, even to the men and women, so that at last he could hardly take a step without being waylaid by beggars. There was nothing left for Tchaikovsky but to keep within the precincts of his park.

About 4 p.m. Tchaikovsky went home to tea, read the papers if he was alone, but was very pleased to talk if he had visitors. At five he retired once more and worked till seven. Before supper, which was served at 8 p.m., Tchaikovsky always took another constitutional. This time he liked to have company, and generally went into the open fields to watch the sunset. In the autumn and winter he enjoyed playing the piano either alone, or arrangements for four hands if Laroche or Kashkin were there. After supper he sat with his guests till 11 p.m., playing cards or listening while one of them read aloud. Laroche was his favourite reader, not because he showed any particular talent that way, but because at every phrase his face expressed his enjoyment, especially if the author of the book happened to be Gogol or Flaubert. When there were no visitors, Tchaikovsky read a number of historical books dealing with the end of the eighteenth or beginning of the nineteenth century, or played patience--and was a little bored. At 11 p.m. he went to his room, wrote up his diary, and read for a short time. He never composed in the evening after the summer of 1866.

Unexpected guests were treated most inhospitably, but to invited guests he was amiability itself, and often gave himself the pleasure of gathering together his Moscow friends--Kashkin, Hubert, Albrecht, Jurgenson, and Taneiev. But those who stayed with him longest and most frequently were Laroche, Kashkin, and myself.

VI

In the beginning of the eighties Tchaikovsky’s fame greatly increased in Europe and America, not only without any co-operation on his part, but even without his being aware of it. More and more frequently came news of the success of one or other of his works, and letters from various celebrated artists who had played his compositions, or wished to do so. The Committees of the Paris “Sebastian Bach Society” and the Association for the National Edition of Cherubini’s works both elected him an honorary member. Nevertheless it surprised him greatly to learn that a Paris publisher (Félix Mackar) had proposed to P. Jurgenson to buy the right of bringing out his works in France. The sum which Jurgenson received was not indeed excessive, but it testified to the fact that Tchaikovsky’s fame had matured and reached the point when it might bring him some material advantage. Incidentally it may be mentioned that P. Jurgenson, without any legal obligation, handed over to Tchaikovsky half the money he received from F. Mackar, so that the former became quite suddenly and unexpectedly a capitalist, although at the end of the year he was not a single kopek to the good. After F. Mackar had become the representative of Tchaikovsky’s interests in Paris he pushed his works with great zeal. First of all he induced him to become a member of the Society of Composers and Publishers, the aim of which was to enforce a certain fee for every work by one of its members performed in public. The yearly sum which Tchaikovsky now began to draw from France can be taken as an authentic proof of the growth of his popularity in that country. This sum increased every year until 1893. After Tchaikovsky’s death it suddenly decreased in a very marked manner. Elsewhere I will give some explanation of this curious fact.

Mackar also started his gratuitous _Auditions_ of Tchaikovsky’s works. These _Auditions_, in spite of the free admission, were not very well patronised by the Paris public, who were satiated with music. But they produced one very important result. The best artists (Marsick, Diemer, and others) willingly took part in them, and henceforth Tchaikovsky’s name appeared more often in the programmes of the Paris concerts.

_To E. K. Pavlovskaya._

“MAIDANOVO, _September_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1885.

“ ... _Manfred_ is finished, and I have set to work upon the opera
without losing an hour.... The first act (the only one in hand) is
splendid: life and action in plenty. If nothing prevents me I hope
to have the sketch ready by the spring: so that I may devote next
year to the instrumentation and working out. The opera can then be
produced in the season 1887-8. Dear E. K., do please say a good
word on every possible occasion for _The Enchantress_.”

_To A. P. Merkling._

“MAIDANOVO, _September_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1885.