Chapter XXIII: Part VI: I (3)

“MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--I have been enjoying your hospitality for a
week.[117] I live in your house as if under the wing of Christ.
Your servants are so careful of my welfare that I cannot praise
them enough. I only regret that I can be so little at home. Daily
rehearsals. I take a walk every morning, and by eleven o’clock I am
waiting in the conductor’s desk. The rehearsal is not over till
four o’clock, and then I am so tired that when I return home I have
to lie down for a while. Towards evening I feel better and take
some food.

“The conducting gives me great anxiety and exhausts my whole
nervous system. But I must say it also affords me great
satisfaction. First of all, I am very glad to have conquered my
innate, morbid shyness; secondly, it is a good thing for a composer
to conduct his own work, instead of having constantly to interrupt
the conductor to draw his attention to this, or that, mistake;
thirdly, all my colleagues have shown me such genuine sympathy that
I am quite touched by it, and very pleased. Do you know I feel much
less agitation than when I sit at the rehearsal doing nothing. If
all goes well, I believe that not only will my nerves be none the
worse, but it will have a beneficial effect on them.”

The first performance of _Les Caprices d’Oxane_ took place at Moscow on January 19th (31st), 1887, and had a far-reaching influence on Tchaikovsky’s future, because he then made his first successful attempt at conducting. The great interest which the production of a new opera always awakens was thereby doubled, and all the places were taken before the opening night. The singers did their work conscientiously; there was no fault to be found, but no one made a memorable “creation” of any part. The mounting and costumes were irreproachable.

The public greeted the composer-conductor with great enthusiasm. Gifts of all kinds showed plainly that it was Tchaikovsky himself who was honoured, not the new conductor and composer of _Les Caprices d’Oxane_. The opera was a success; four numbers had to be repeated _da capo_.

The Press criticisms on this occasion were all favourable, even the _Sovremenny Izvesty_, in which Krouglikov, as we know, generally criticised Tchaikovsky’s works so severely. In short, the opera really had a brilliant success; far greater than that achieved by _Eugene Oniegin_ in Petersburg. Nevertheless this opera only remained in the repertory for two seasons.

But little can be said about that which interests us most--the impression made by Tchaikovsky’s conducting. The severest judge and critic, Tchaikovsky himself, was satisfied. We know in what an objective spirit he criticised the success of his works, so we can safely believe him when he says he fulfilled his task satisfactorily. He describes this memorable evening as follows:--

_To E. K. Pavlovskaya._

“MOSCOW, _January_ 20_th_ (_February_ 1_st_), 1887.

“I did not expect to be very excited on the day of the performance,
but when I awoke, quite early, I felt really ill, and could only
think of the approaching ordeal as of a horrible nightmare. I
cannot describe what mental agonies I suffered during the course
of the day. Consequently, at the appointed hour, I appeared half
dead at the theatre. Altani accompanied me to the orchestra.
Immediately the curtain went up and, amid great applause, I was
presented with many wreaths from the chorus, orchestra, etc. While
this took place, I somewhat recovered my composure, began the
Overture well, and by the end felt quite master of myself. There
was great applause after the Overture. The first Act went
successfully, and afterwards I was presented with more wreaths,
among them yours, for which many thanks. I was now quite calm, and
conducted the rest of the opera with undivided attention. It is
difficult to say if the work really pleased. The theatre was at
least half-full of my friends. Time and future performances will
show if the applause was for me personally (for the sake of past
services), or for my work. Now the question is, how did I conduct?
I feel some constraint in speaking about it. Everyone praised me;
they said they had no idea I possessed such a gift for conducting.
But is it true? Or is it only flattery? I shall conduct twice more,
and after the third time I ought to know for certain how much truth
there is in all this.”

I have seldom seen Tchaikovsky in such a cheerful frame of mind as on that evening. We did not reach home till after five o’clock in the morning, and he immediately sank into a deep sleep. After so many days of anxiety and excitement he really needed rest! No one was more unprepared than he for the sad news which reached us next morning.

About seven o’clock I was aroused by a telegram which announced the death of our niece Tatiana, the eldest daughter of Alexandra Davidov. She had died quite suddenly at a masked ball in Petersburg. Not only was she a near relative, but also a highly gifted girl of great beauty. It required considerable resolution on my part to break the sad news to my brother when he awoke at eleven o’clock, happy and contented, and still under the pleasant impressions of the previous evening.

In spite of this heavy blow, Tchaikovsky did not alter his decision to conduct _Les Caprices d’Oxane_ for two nights longer. The constant activity, and anxiety of a different nature, helped to assuage the violence of his grief.

XII

_To N. F. von Meck._

“MAIDANOVO, _February_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1887.

“I have now been at home five days, yet there is no question of
rest; on the contrary, I am working with such feverish haste at
_The Enchantress_ that I feel quite exhausted. I cannot live
without work, but why do circumstances always compel me to be in a
hurry, to have to overtax my strength? I see such an endless pile
of work before me to which I am pledged that I dare not look into
the future. How short life is! Now that I have probably reached
that last step which means the full maturity of my talent, I look
back involuntarily and, seeing so many years behind me, glance
timidly at the path ahead and ask: Shall I succeed? Is it worth
while? And yet it is only now that I begin to be able to compose
without self-doubt, and to believe in my own powers and knowledge.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“MAIDANOVO, _February_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1887.

“I am already dreaming of a time when I shall give concerts abroad.
But of what does one not dream? If only I were twenty years
younger!!! One thing is certain: my nerves are much stronger, and
things which formerly were not to be thought of are now quite
possible. Undoubtedly I owe this to my free life, relieved from all
anxiety of earning my daily bread. And who but you, dear friend, is
the author of all the good things fate has brought me?

“The concert will take place in Petersburg on March 5th.”

On February 23rd (March 7th) Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg to attend the rehearsals for the Philharmonic Concert, at which the St. Petersburg public was to make his acquaintance as a conductor, from which dated the commencement of a whole series of similar concerts which made his name known in Russia, Europe and America.

On February 28th (March 12th) the first rehearsal took place, and Tchaikovsky writes in his diary in his customary laconic style: “Excitement and dread.” Henceforth, to the very end of his life, it was not the concert itself so much as the first rehearsal which alarmed him. By the second rehearsal he had usually recovered himself. Abroad, he found it particularly painful to stand up for the first time before an unknown orchestra.

All the important musical circles in Petersburg showed a lively interest in Tchaikovsky’s début as a concert conductor. The three rehearsals attracted a number of the first musicians, who encouraged him by their warm words of sympathy. No début could have been made under more favourable conditions.

The concert itself, which took place on March 5th (17th), in the hall of the Nobles’ Club, went off admirably. The programme consisted of: (1) Suite No. 2 (first performance in St. Petersburg), (2) Aria from the opera _The Enchantress_, (3) the “Mummers’ Dance” from the same opera, (4) Andante and Valse from the Serenade for strings, (5) _Francesca da Rimini_, (6) Pianoforte solos, (7) Overture “_1812_.”

The hall was full to overflowing, and the ovations endless. The Press criticisms of the music, as well as of Tchaikovsky’s conducting, proved colourless and commonplace, but on the whole laudatory. Even Cui expressed some approbation for Tchaikovsky as a conductor, although he again found fault with him as a composer.

Tchaikovsky’s diary contains the following brief account of the concert: “My concert. Complete success. Great enjoyment--but still, why this drop of gall in my honeypot?”

In this question lie the germs of that weariness and suffering which had their growth in Tchaikovsky’s soul simultaneously with his pursuit of fame, and reached their greatest intensity in the moment of the composer’s greatest triumphs.

_To N. F. von Meck._

“MAIDANOVO, _March_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1887.

“The Empress has sent me her autograph picture in a beautiful
frame.[118] This attention has touched me deeply, especially at a
time when she and the Emperor have so many other things to think
about.”

_Diary._

“Ippolitov-Ivanov and his wife came very late, about ten o’clock. I
met them out walking. At first I felt annoyed to see them, and
vexed at my work being interrupted; but afterwards these good
people (she is extremely sympathetic) made me forget everything,
except that it is the greatest pleasure to be in the society of
congenial friends. Ivanov played, and she sang beautiful fragments
from his opera _Ruth_ (the duet especially charmed me). They left
at six. Worked before and after supper.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“MAIDANOVO, _March_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1887.

“_Ruth_ pleases me more and more. I believe Ippolitov-Ivanov will
come to the front, if only because he has something original about
him, and this ‘something’ is also very attractive.”

_Diary._

“_March_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1887.

“I will not conceal it: all the poetry of country life and solitude
has vanished. I do not know why. _Nowhere do I feel so miserable as
at home._ If I do not work, I torment myself, am afraid of the
future, etc. Is solitude really necessary to me? When I am in town,
country life seems a paradise; when I am here, I feel no delight
whatever. To-day, in particular, I am quite out of tune.”

“_March_ 19_th_ (31_st_).

“Have just read through my diary for the last two years. Good
heavens! how could my imagination have been so deceived by the
melancholy bareness of Maidanovo? How everything used to please
me!”

“_March_ 26_th_ (_April_ 7_th_).

“Read through Korsakov’s ‘Snow-Maiden,’ and was astonished at his
mastery. I envy him and ought to be ashamed of it.”

“_March_ 30_th_ (_April_ 11_th_).

“After supper I read the score of _A Life for the Tsar_. What a
master! How did Glinka manage to do it? It is incomprehensible how
such a colossal work could have been created by an amateur
and--judging by his diary--a rather limited and trivial nature.”

“_April_ 16_th_ (28_th_).

“Played through _The Power of the Evil One_.[119] An almost
repulsive musical monstrosity; yet, at the same time, talent,
intuition, and imagination.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“MAIDANOVO, _April_ 24_th_ (_May_ 6_th_), 1887.

“MY VERY DEAR FRIEND,--I wished to leave Maidanovo a month ago, and
yet I am still here. My work (the orchestration of the opera)
detains me. This work is not really difficult, but it takes time. I
notice that the older I grow, the more trouble my orchestration
gives me. I judge myself more severely, am more careful, more
critical with regard to light and shade. In such a case the country
is a real boon. Saint-Saëns has invited me to be present at both
his concerts at Moscow, but I have courteously refused. Poor
Saint-Saëns had to play to an empty room. I knew it would be so,
and that the poor Frenchman would take it deeply to heart, so I did
not wish to be a witness of his disappointment. But also I did not
want to interrupt my work.”

Tchaikovsky stayed at Maidanovo to complete the instrumentation of the whole score of _The Enchantress_, and left on May 9th to visit his sick friend, Kondratiev, before starting on his journey to the Caucasus.

XIII

_To N. F. von Meck._

“THE CASPIAN SEA, _May_ 28_th_ (_June_ 9_th_), 1887.

“I left Moscow on the 20th. At Nijni-Novogorod I had great trouble
in securing a second-class ticket for the steamer, _Alexander II_.
This steamer is considered the best, and is therefore always full.
My quarters were very small and uncomfortable, but I enjoyed the
journey down the Volga. It was almost high tide, and therefore the
banks were so far away that one could almost imagine oneself at
sea. Mother Volga is sublimely poetical. The right bank is hilly,
and there are many beautiful bits of scenery, but in this respect
the Volga cannot compare with the Rhine, nor even with the Danube
and Rhône. Its beauty does not lie in its banks, but in its
unbounded width and in the extraordinary volume of its waters,
which roll down to the sea without any motion. We stopped at the
towns on the way just long enough to get an idea of them. Samara
and the little town of Volsk pleased me best, the latter having the
most beautiful gardens I have ever seen. We reached Astrakhan on
the fifth day. Here we boarded a little steamer, which brought us
to the spot where the mouth of the Volga debouches into the open
sea, where we embarked on a schooner, on board which we have been
for the last two days. The Caspian Sea has been very treacherous.
It was so stormy during the night that I was quite frightened.
Every moment it seemed as if the trembling ship must break up
beneath the force of the waves; so much so that I could not close
an eye all night. But in spite of this I was not sea-sick. We
reached Baku to-day. The storm has abated. I shall not be able to
start for Tiflis until to-morrow morning, for we cannot catch the
train to-day.”

On the journey between Tsaritsin and Astrakhan, Tchaikovsky had a very droll experience. He had managed so cleverly that no one on board knew who he was. One day a little musical entertainment was got up, and Tchaikovsky offered to undertake the accompanying. It so happened that a lady amateur placed one of his own songs before him and explained to him the manner in which he was to accompany it. On his timidly objecting, the lady answered that she must know best, as Tchaikovsky himself had gone through the song in question with her music mistress. The same evening a passenger related how Tchaikovsky had been so delighted with the tenor Lody in the rôle of Orlik in _Mazeppa_[120] that after the performance “he fell on Lody’s neck and wept tears of emotion.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“TIFLIS, _May_ 30_th_ (_June_ 11_th_), 1887.

“Baku, in the most unexpected fashion, has turned out to be an
altogether beautiful place, well planned and well built, clean and
very characteristic. The Oriental (especially the Persian)
character is very prevalent, so that one could almost imagine
oneself to be on the other side of the Caspian Sea. It has but one
drawback: the complete lack of verdure....

“On the day after my arrival I visited the neighbourhood of the
naphtha wells, where some hundred boring-towers throw up a hundred
thousand _pouds_ of naphtha every minute. The picture is grand but
gloomy....

“The road between Baku and Tiflis runs through a stony, desolate
country.”

The end of this journey was Borjom, where he intended to pass the
whole summer in the family of his brother Anatol. He reached there
on June 11th. He only learnt to appreciate by degrees the
enchanting beauty of the neighbourhood. The horizon, shut in by
lofty mountains, the sombre flora, their luxuriance, and the depth
of the shadows, made an unpleasant impression upon him at first.
Only after he had learnt to know the inexhaustible number and
variety of the walks did he begin to like this country more and
more. When, ten days later, his brother Modeste arrived at Borjom
he was already full of enthusiasm and ready to initiate him into
all the beauties of the place.

Tchaikovsky worked very little while at Borjom, only spending an
hour a day at the instrumentation of the “Mozartiana” Suite.

At the commencement of July Tchaikovsky left Borjom in response to
a telegram from his friend Kondratiev, who had been removed to
Aix-la-Chapelle, in the hopes that the baths might prolong his life
for a few months. Kondratiev’s condition was so critical that
Tchaikovsky could not do less than interrupt his own cure and join
his friend as soon as possible.

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“AIX-LA-CHAPELLE, _July_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1887.

“I do not dislike Aix--that is all I can say. What is really bad
here is the atmosphere, saturated as it is with smells of cooking,
cinnamon, and other spices. I think sorrowfully of the air in
Borjom, but I try to dwell upon it as little as possible. However,
I feel more cheerful here than I did on the journey. I see that my
arrival has given much pleasure to Kondratiev and Legoshin, and
that I shall be of use to them.”

_Diary._

“AIX, _July_ 22_nd_ (_August_ 3_rd_), 1887.

“I sit at home full of remorse. The cause of my remorse is this:
life is passing away and draws near to its end, and yet I have not
fathomed it. Rather do I drive away those disquieting questions of
our destiny when they intrude themselves upon me, and try to hide
from them. Do I live truly? Do I act rightly? For example, I am now
sitting here, and everyone admires my _sacrifice_. Now there is no
question of sacrifice. I lead a life of ease, gormandise at the
_table d’hôte_, do nothing, and spend my money on luxuries, while
others want it for absolute necessities. Is not that the veriest
egoism? I do not act towards my neighbours as I ought.”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“AIX, _July_ 29_th_ (_August_ 10_th_), 1887.

“DEAR FRIEND,--To-day I am sending you my Mozart Suite, registered.
Three of the borrowed numbers in the Suite are pianoforte pieces
(Nos. 1, 2, 4); one (No. 3) is the chorus ‘Ave Verum.’ Of course, I
should be glad if the Suite could be played next season. That is
all.”

Tchaikovsky’s “heroic act” of friendship consumed more than a month of his time. While paying full tribute to the generosity of his undertaking, we must confess that he failed to grasp the relation between wishing and doing. Tchaikovsky, filled with real and self-denying compassion for the sufferings of his neighbour, was wanting--as in all practical questions of life--in the necessary ability, self-control, and purpose. In the abstract, no one had more sympathy for his neighbour than he; but in reality no one was less able to do much for him. Anyone who could ask the trivial question: “Where wadding, needles, and thread could be bought?” would naturally lose his head at the bedside of a dying man. The consciousness of his helplessness and incapacity to lessen his friend’s suffering in the least, his irresolution in face of the slightest difficulty, rendered Tchaikovsky’s useless visit to Aix all the more painful. He suffered for the dying man and for himself. The result was that he did “too much” for friendship and “too little” for his sick friend; at least, in comparison to the extraordinary sacrifice of strength which his generous action demanded. When, at the end of August, the dying man’s nephew came to relieve him, Tchaikovsky fled from Aix, deeply grieved at parting from his friend “for ever,” humbled at his own mental condition, and angry at his inability “to see the sad business through to the end.” Exhausted, and wrathful with himself, he arrived at Maidanovo on August 30th (September 11th), where the news of Kondratiev’s death reached him a fortnight later.

_Diary._

“_September_ 21_st_ (_October_ 3_rd_), 1887.

“How short is life! How much I have still to do, to think, and to
say! We keep putting things off, and meanwhile death lurks round
the corner. It is just a year since I touched this book, and so
much has changed since then. How strange! Just 365 days ago I was
afraid to confess that, in spite of the glow of sympathetic feeling
which Christ awoke in me, I dared to doubt His divinity. Since then
my _religion_ has become more clearly defined, for during this time
I have thought a great deal about God, life, and death. In Aix
especially I meditated on the fatal questions: why, how, for what
end? I should like to define my religion in detail, if only I might
be quite clear, once for all, as to my faith, and as to the
boundary which divides it from speculation. But life and its
vanities are passing, and I do not know whether I shall succeed in
expressing the _symbol_ of that faith which has arisen in me of
late. It has very definite forms, but I do not use them when I
pray. I pray just as before; as I was taught. Moreover, God can
hardly require to know how and why we pray. God has no need of
prayers. _But we have._”

On October 20th (November 1st) _The Enchantress_ was produced under the bâton of the composer, and the performance was altogether most brilliant and artistic.

On this first night Tchaikovsky does not appear to have observed that the opera was a failure. He thought, on the contrary, that it pleased the public. After the second performance (on October 23rd), which--notwithstanding that it went better than the first--still failed to move the audience to applause, he first felt doubts as to its success. The indifference of the public was clearly apparent after the third and fourth representations, when his appearance in the conductor’s desk was received in chilling silence. It was only then that he realised that _The Enchantress_ was a failure. On the fifth night the house was empty.

Tchaikovsky, as we shall see, ascribed this failure to the ill-will of the critics. After I had read through all the notices--says Modeste--it seemed to me that, in the present instance, my brother had done them too much honour. In none of the eleven criticisms did I trace that tone of contempt and malicious enjoyment with which his other operas had been received. No one called _The Enchantress_ a “still-born nonentity,” as Cui had said of _Eugene Oniegin_; no one attempted to count up the deliberate thefts in _The Enchantress_, as Galler had done with _Mazeppa_. The reason for the failure of _The Enchantress_ must be sought elsewhere: possibly in the defective interpretation of both the chief parts; but more probably in the qualities of the music, which still awaits its just evaluation at the hands of a competent critic.

_To N. F. von Meck._

“MOSCOW, _November_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1887.

“MY DEAR FRIEND,--Please forgive me for so seldom writing. I am
passing through a very stirring period of my life, and am always in
such a state of agitation that it is impossible to speak to you
from my heart as I should wish. After conducting my opera four
times, I returned here, about five days ago, in a very melancholy
frame of mind. In spite of the ovation I received on the opening
night, my opera has not taken with the public, and practically met
with no success. From the Press I have encountered such hatred and
hostility that, even now, I cannot account for it. On no other
opera have I expended so much labour and sacrifice; yet never
before have I been so persecuted by the critics. I have given up
the journey to Tiflis, for I shall scarcely have time to get
sufficient rest in Maidanovo before I have to start on my concert
tour abroad. I conduct first in Leipzig, and afterwards in Dresden,
Hamburg, Copenhagen, Berlin, and Prague. In March I give my own
concert in Paris, and from there I go to London, as I have received
an invitation from the Philharmonic Society. In short, a whole
crowd of new and strong impressions are awaiting me.”

The Symphony Concert of the Russian Musical Society, November 14th (26th), was the first concert ever conducted by Tchaikovsky in Moscow. The programme consisted exclusively of his own works, including “Mozartiana” (first time), _Francesca da Rimini_, the Fantasia for pianoforte, op. 56 (Taneiev as soloist), and the Arioso from _The Enchantress_. On the following day the same programme was repeated by the Russian Musical Society at a popular concert. The “Mozartiana” Suite was a great success (the “Ave Verum” was encored), and the Press--in contradistinction to that of St. Petersburg--spoke with great warmth and cordiality of the composer and conductor.

_To P. Jurgenson._

“_November_ 24_th_ (_December_ 6_th_) 1887.

“In to-day’s paper I accidentally saw that the eighth performance
of _The Enchantress_ was given before a half-empty house. It is an
undoubted _fiasco_. This failure has wounded me in my inmost soul,
for I never worked with greater ardour than at _The Enchantress_.
Besides, I feel ashamed when I think of you, for you must have
sustained a terrible loss. I know well enough that some day the
opera will be reinstated, but when? Meanwhile it makes me very
bitter. So far I have always maintained that the Press could not
influence one’s success or failure; but now I am inclined to think
that it is only the united attack of these hounds of critics which
has ruined my opera. The devil take them! Why this spite? Just now,
for example, in to-day’s number of the _Novosti_, see how they rail
at our Musical Society and at me, because of this Popular Concert!
Incomprehensible!”