Chapter XXIV: Part VII: I (1)

1888

With December, 1887, began a new and last period in the life of
Tchaikovsky, during which he realised his wildest dreams of fame,
and attained to such prosperity and universal honour as rarely fall
to the lot of an artist during his lifetime. Distrustful and modest
(from an excess of pride), he was now in a perpetual state of
wonder and delight to find himself far more appreciated in Russia
and abroad than he had ever hoped in the past. Physically neither
better nor worse than in former years, possessing the unlimited
affections of those whom he loved in return,--he was, to all
appearance, an example of mortal happiness, yet in reality he was
less happy than before.

Those menacing blows of fate--like the opening of Beethoven’s Fifth
Symphony--had sounded, although muffled and distant, even on the
day of Tchaikovsky’s first concert (March 5th); while that
intangible and groundless sense of bitterness--that “touch of
gall,” as he himself calls it--was present even in that triumphant
moment when he found himself master of the orchestra and all its
tempestuous elements, as though prophetic of those sufferings which
overshadowed the last years of his life. At the time he did not
understand this vague warning; afterwards, when it came back to
him, he realised it had been a friendly caution, not to continue
the chase for fame; not to take up occupations that went against
his nature, nor to spend his strength upon the attainment of things
which would come of themselves; finally, to cling to his true
vocation, lest disappointment should await him in the new path he
had elected to follow. In February he wrote to Nadejda von Meck:
“New and powerful impressions continually await me. Probably my
fame will increase, but would it not be better to stay at home and
work? God knows! I can say this: I regret the time when I was left
in peace in the solitude of the country.” And this regret grew
keener, as his weariness grew more intolerable. The more he
accustomed his temperament to unsuitable occupations, the further
he advanced his reputation, the more complete was his
disenchantment with the prize. Radiant and glittering as it had
appeared from afar, seen closer, it proved insignificant and
tarnished. Hence the profound disillusionment, “the insane
depression,” the something “hopeless and final” which make so dark
a background to the picture of his brilliant success at home and
abroad.

Tchaikovsky left Russia on December 15th (27th) and arrived in
Berlin two days later. Here he was to meet Herr N---- who was
acting as his concert agent during this tour. He had no sooner
settled in his hotel than, picking up a newspaper, his eye fell
upon a paragraph to the effect that: “To-day, December 29th, the
Russian composer Tchaikovsky arrives in Berlin. To-morrow his
numerous friends (?) and admirers (?) will meet to celebrate his
arrival by a luncheon at the ---- restaurant, at one o’clock.
Punctual attendance is requested.” “No words could describe my
horror and indignation,” wrote Tchaikovsky. “At that moment I could
cheerfully have murdered Herr N----. I went out to breakfast at a
café in the Passage, and afterwards to the Museum, walking in fear
and trembling lest I should meet Herr N---- or some of my numerous
_friends and admirers_.”

(_From a photograph by Reitlinger, Paris_)]

The following morning the dreaded interview with his agent took place. Tchaikovsky found him not altogether unsympathetic, but during the entire tour he realised that he was dealing with a very peculiar and eccentric man, whom he never really understood.

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“LEIPZIG, _December_ 21_st_, 1887 (_January_ 2_nd_, 1888).

“I have made acquaintance with Scharwenka and a number of other
people. I also met Artôt.[121] Everyone was astonished to see me
with N----, who follows me like my own shadow. At three o’clock I
left for Leipzig, luckily without N---- for once, and was met by
Brodsky, Siloti, and two of my admirers. I had supper with Brodsky.
There was a Christmas-tree. His wife and sister-in-law are
charming--really good Russian women. All the time the tears were in
my eyes. Next day I took a walk (it was New Year’s Day), and went
back to dine with Siloti at Brodsky’s. He was just trying a new
trio by Brahms. The composer himself was at the piano. Brahms is a
handsome man, rather short and stout.[122] He was very friendly to
me. Then we sat down to table. Brahms enjoys a good drink. Grieg,
fascinating and sympathetic, was there too.[123] In the evening I
went to the Gewandhaus, when Joachim and Hausmann played the new
Double Concerto of Brahms for violin and ‘cello, and the composer
himself conducted. I sat in the Directors’ box, and made
acquaintance with such numbers of people that I could not keep pace
with them all. The Directors informed me that my rehearsal was
fixed for the next day. What I suffered during the evening--in fact
the whole time--cannot be described. If Brodsky and Siloti had not
been there, I think I should have died. I spent a terrible night.
The rehearsal took place early this morning. I was formally
introduced to the orchestra by Carl Reinecke. I made a little
speech in German. The rehearsal went well in the end. Brahms was
there, and yesterday and to-day we have been a good deal together.
We are ill at ease, because we do not really like each other, but
he takes great pains to be kind to me. Grieg is charming. Dined
with Siloti. Quartet concert at night. The new trio of Brahms.
Home-sick. Very tired.

“You cannot imagine a finer room than at the Gewandhaus. It is the
best concert-room I ever saw in my life.”

_To P. I. Jurgenson._

“LEIPZIG, _December_ 24_th_, 1887 (_January_ 5_th_, 1888).

“Yesterday the public rehearsal took place. I was very nervous, but
my success was unusually flattering.... To-night, however, all may
be reversed, for it is by no means certain that I shall not make a
fool of myself. I have seen a good deal of Brahms. He is by no
means a total abstainer, but he is very pleasant, and not so vain
as I expected. But it is Grieg who has altogether won my heart. He
is most taking and sympathetic, and his wife equally so. Reinecke
is very amiable. At the first rehearsal he introduced me to the
band, and I made the following speech: ‘Gentlemen, I cannot speak
German, but I am proud to have to do with such a ... such a ...
that is to say ... I am proud ... I cannot.’ The band is splendid;
I could not have believed that our musicians--good as they
are--were still so far behind a first-rate German orchestra.”

“_December_ 25_th_ (_January_ 6_th_).

“The concert has gone off well. The reception of the Suite was
good, but not to be compared with that at the public rehearsal,
when the audience consisted almost entirely of students and
musicians. After the concert I went to a banquet arranged in my
honour by Reinecke. He related much that was interesting about
Schumann and, generally speaking, I felt very much at ease with
him. Afterwards I had to go on to a fête given by the Russian
students, and I did not get home until very late. Now I am just off
to a Tchaikovsky Festival held by the Liszt-Verein. It begins at 11
a.m.”

The Press notices upon Tchaikovsky’s début in Leipzig as conductor and composer were numerous and lengthy. Keeping in view the importance of this occasion, and the influence it exercised on his future career, it has been thought well to give some extracts from the most interesting of these criticisms, which will be found in the Appendix.[124]

At the Tchaikovsky Festival given by the Liszt-Verein, his Quartet, op. 11, Trio, and some of his smaller compositions were included in the programme. The following day the composer returned to Berlin, where he arranged with the Directors of the Philharmonic Society to give a concert of his works on February 8th. He then left for Hamburg in the company of Adolf Brodsky, where the latter was to take part in a concert conducted by Hans von Bülow. As Tchaikovsky had the prospect of a few days’ leisure, he decided to spend them in Lübeck, whence he wrote to his brother Modeste on December 30th, 1887 (January 11th 1888):--

“What joy! I do so enjoy finding myself in a strange town, in a
capital hotel, with the prospect of five peaceful days before me! I
arrived in Hamburg with Brodsky at 6 a.m. The rehearsal for Bülow’s
concert began at ten o’clock. Bülow was delighted to see me. He has
altered and aged. He seems, too, calmer, more subdued, and softer
in manner.... I went to the concert in the evening. Bülow conducted
with inspiration, especially the ‘Eroica.’ I came on here to-day.
It is very pleasant. What a blessing to be silent! To feel that no
one will be coming, that I shall not be dragged out anywhere!”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_January_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1888.

“ ... At last January (old style) has come. Now at any rate I can
reckon four months to my return to Russia. I went to the theatre
yesterday. Barnay was the star in _Othello_. He is sometimes
astounding, quite a genius, but what an agonising play! Iago is too
revolting--such beings do not exist.”

On January 1st, 1888, a piece of good fortune fell to Tchaikovsky’s lot. Thanks to the efforts of Vsievolojsky, Director of the Imperial Opera, the Emperor bestowed upon him a life pension of 3,000 roubles (£300) per annum.

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“HAMBURG, _January_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1888.

“On my appearance I was enthusiastically received by the orchestra,
and their applause was supported by the public, which was not the
case in Leipzig. I conducted without agitation, but towards the end
I grew so tired I was afraid I could not hold out. Sapellnikov[125]
played splendidly. After the concert there was a large party at
the house of Bernuth, the Director of the Philharmonic. About a
hundred guests were present, all in full-dress. After a long speech
from Bernuth, I replied in German, which created a _furore_. Then
we began to eat and drink. Yesterday was terrible; I cannot
describe how I was torn to pieces, nor how exhausted I felt
afterwards. In the evening there was a gala in my honour, at which
my compositions were exclusively performed. The Press was very
favourable.

“After the _soirée_ followed a fearful night of it, in company with
many musicians, critics, and amateurs, admirers of my music. I feel
befogged. To-day I start for Berlin. Bülow is very amiable.”

The programme of the concert at which Tchaikovsky made his first appearance in Hamburg was as follows: Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for strings, Pianoforte Concerto in B♭ minor (Sapellnikov), the Theme and Variations from his Third Suite, and Haydn’s “Oxford” Symphony.[126]

Between the Hamburg and Berlin concerts Tchaikovsky was anxious for a little repose, and decided to spend a few days at Magdeburg. On the one day spent in Berlin _en passant_ he heard, for the first time, a work by Richard Strauss. “Bülow has taken him up just now,” he wrote to his brother, “as formerly he took up Brahms and others. To my mind such an astounding lack of talent, united to such pretentiousness, never before existed.”

Tchaikovsky now began to receive invitations from many musical centres to conduct his own works. Colonne had engaged him for two concerts in Paris on March 11th and 18th. Several other offers, including Weimar and the Dresden Philharmonic, had to be refused because the dates did not fit in with his plans.

On the advice of Bülow, Wolf, and other friends he decided to alter the programme of the forthcoming concert at Berlin, for which he had put down his _Francesca da Rimini_. “Perhaps they are right,” he says in a letter to his brother. “The taste of the German public is quite different to ours. Now I understand why Brahms is idolised here, although my opinion of him has not changed. Had I known this sooner, perhaps I, too, might have learnt to compose in a different way. Remind me later to tell you about my acquaintance with the venerable Ave-Lallemant,[127] which touched me profoundly.

“Sapellnikov made quite a sensation in Hamburg. He really has a great talent. He is also a charming and good-hearted young man.”

_To V. Napravnik._

“MAGDEBURG, _January_, 12_th_ (24_th_), 1888.

“The newspapers have published long articles about me. They ‘slate’
me a good deal, but pay me far more attention than our own Press.
Their views are sometimes funny. A critic, speaking of the
variations in the Third Suite, says that one describes a sitting of
the Holy Synod and another a dynamite explosion.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“LEIPZIG, _January_ 20_th_ (_February_ 1_st_), 1888.

“ ... How shall I describe all I am experiencing just now?
Continual home-sickness, some well-nigh intolerable hours, and a
few very pleasant moments. I intended to spend a few quiet days
here, instead of which I am whirled along in a stream of gaiety:
dinners, visits, concerts, suppers, the theatre, etc. My sole
comfort is the society of Siloti, Brodsky (I am quite in love with
his wife and sister-in-law), and Grieg and his wife. But besides
these, every day I make new and sympathetic acquaintances. I take
Sapellnikov with me wherever I go, and have introduced him to many
people in the musical world. Wherever he plays he creates a
sensation. I am more and more convinced of his superb talent.... I
went to a Quartet Concert, at which I heard a quartet by an
exceedingly gifted Italian, Busoni. I quickly made friends with
him. At an evening given by Brodsky I was charmed with a new sonata
by Grieg. Grieg and his wife are so quaint, sympathetic,
interesting, and original that I could not describe them in a
letter. I regard Grieg as very highly gifted. To-day I dine with
him at Brodsky’s. To-night is the extra concert in aid of the funds
for the Mendelssohn Memorial, and to-morrow the public rehearsal of
the Gewandhaus Concert, at which Rubinstein’s symphony will be
given. Afterwards I am giving a dinner to my friends at a
restaurant, and start for Berlin at five o’clock. How tired I am!”

“_January_ 23_rd_ (_February_ 4_th_).

“ ... to-day I got rid of N----. We parted in peace, but my purse
was lighter by five hundred marks in consequence. I do not regret
it in the least; I would have given a good deal more to see the
last of this gentleman.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“BERLIN, _January_ 23_rd_ (_February_ 4_th_).

“ ... I have made great progress in my conducting.... Wolf gave a
large dinner-party at my desire, in order that all the great
lights here might hear Sapellnikov. All the critics were there.
Sapellnikov created a _furore_. For the last three weeks we have
been inseparable. I have grown so fond of him, and he so attached
and good to me--just as though he were a near relation. Since
Kotek’s days I have never cared for anyone so much. It is
impossible to imagine anyone more sympathetic, gentle, kindly; more
delicate-minded and distinguished. On his return I beg you not only
to be friendly to him, but to introduce him to all our relatives. I
consider him--and I am not alone in my opinion--a future genius as
regards the piano. Yesterday Bock had a party. Artôt was there. I
was inexpressibly glad to see her again; we made friends at once,
without a word as to the past. Her husband, Padilla, embraced me
heartily. To-morrow she gives a dinner. As an elderly woman she is
just as fascinating as twenty years ago.”

_To N. F. von Meck_.

“LEIPZIG, _January_ 30_th_ (_February_ 11_th_), 1888.

“MY DEAR FRIEND,--My concert in Berlin was a great success.[128] I
had a splendid orchestra to deal with and musicians who were in
sympathy with me from the very first rehearsal. The programme was
as follows:--

“(1) Overture, _Romeo and Juliet_; (2) Pianoforte Concerto, played
by Siloti; (3) Introduction and Fugue from the First Suite; (4)
Andante from the First Quartet; (5) Songs, sung by Fräulein Friede;
(6) Overture, “_1812_.”

“The public gave me a most enthusiastic reception. Of course, all
this is very pleasant, but at the same time I feel so worn out I
hardly know how I am to get through all that lies before me.... Can
you recognise in this Russian musician, touring all over Europe,
the man who, a few years ago, fled from life and society, and lived
in solitude abroad, or in the country?

“A real triumphal festival awaits me in Prague. The programme of my
week’s visit there is already arranged, and has been sent to me. It
includes any number of ovations and receptions. The idea is to give
my concert there a certain patriotic and anti-German character.
This puts me in an awkward position, because I have been received
in a very friendly way in Germany.”

In spite of the applause of the public and the flattering notices in the Press, Tchaikovsky’s visit made less impression in Berlin than in Leipzig and Hamburg. Whereas in the latter towns his concerts were the great events of the day, in the capital the début of a Russian composer passed comparatively unnoticed amid a thousand other interests. A brief entry in his diary on January 28th about “a bucket of cold water” seems to point to a certain disillusionment as to the character of his reception in Berlin. Possibly he had heard rumours that the concert-room had been liberally “papered,” and in this way a certain amount of artificial enthusiasm spread through the audience.

In any case, it was Leipzig, rather than Berlin, that showed the greater interest in Tchaikovsky during this tour, and he was glad to return there for a few days before leaving Germany. “I have come back to Leipzig,” he wrote to a relative on January 30th (February 11th), 1888, “as I had promised to be present at the concert given in my honour by the Liszt-Verein. The concert could not come off, so yesterday, at my request, Wagner’s _Meistersinger_ was performed at the theatre instead. I had never heard this opera. Early this morning I was awakened by the strains of the Russian hymn. An orchestra was serenading me. They played for nearly an hour under my windows, and the whole hotel ran out to see and hear.”

The marvellous performance of _Meistersinger_ under Nikisch, and the touching ovation in the form of a serenade, were the closing events of Tchaikovsky’s first concert tour in Germany. In Bohemia and France far more brilliant receptions awaited him, but these were of quite a different nature.

II

On January 31st (February 12th) Tchaikovsky, accompanied by Siloti, arrived at the frontiers of Bohemia. The triumphal character of the reception which awaited him was soon made apparent by the extraordinary attentions of the railway officials. At one of the last stations before Prague, a deputation of members of various societies had assembled to welcome him. At Prague a representative of the “Russian Club” awaited him on the platform, having come expressly from Vienna to pay him this compliment. He presented Tchaikovsky with an address in Russian. This was followed by a speech in Czech, delivered by Dr. Strakaty, the representative of the “Umclecká Beseda,”[129] after which children presented him with flowers, and he was hailed with prolonged cries of “Slava!” (Hurrah!). The carriage which awaited him, and the suite of rooms at the Hotel de Saxe, were provided for him at the expense of the Artists’ Club.

In the evening he was invited to hear Verdi’s _Otello_, and a box was reserved for him at the Opera House. Rieger, “the leader of the Czech people,” was the first to greet the guest, after which followed many of the most prominent men in Bohemia.

The following day Tchaikovsky received a visit from Dvořák, and the two composers quickly made friends with each other.

It is impossible to give in detail the programme drawn up for each day of the composer’s visit to Prague. He made an almost royal progress to all the chief places of interest. On one occasion, entering the “Rathaus” while a session was being held, the entire body of members rose to greet him. One evening he was serenaded by the famous Choral Union “Hlahol.” He listened to the songs from his balcony, and afterwards came down to thank the singers in person. An offer, made in the course of his speech, to compose something expressly for the Society was received with loud cheering. On February 6th (18th) he was invited to the Students’ Union and presented to the students. In his diary he speaks of this as “a very solemn and touching ceremony.” Accompanied by cries of “Slava!” and “Na Sdrava!” he was next led off to the public rehearsal of the concert. The evening wound up with a brilliant _soirée_ at the Town Club (Meschtschanska Beseda).

The first concert itself took place on February 7th (19th), in the “Rudolfinum.” The programme consisted entirely of Tchaikovsky’s music, and included: (1) Overture, _Romeo and Juliet_; (2) Concerto for Pianoforte (B♭ minor), played by Siloti; (3) Elégie from the Third Suite; (4) Violin Concerto, played by Halir; (5), Overture, “_1812_.” Of all these works the last-named excited the greatest applause. Tchaikovsky sums up his impressions as follows: “Undoubtedly it was the most eventful day of my life. I have become so attached to these good Bohemians ... and with good reason! Heavens, what enthusiasm! Such as I have never known, but in my own dear Russia!”

Two days later, on February 9th (21st), the second concert was given in the _foyer_ of the Opera House. This time the programme comprised: (1) Serenade for strings; (2) Variations from the Third Suite; (3) Pianoforte Solos (Siloti); (4) Overture, “_1812_.” The ovations were even more hearty, and the gifts more costly, than at the first concert. “An overwhelming success,” says Tchaikovsky in his diary. “A moment of absolute bliss. But only one moment.”

On the evening of February 10th (22nd), sped by farewell addresses, and smothered in flowers, the composer took leave of the festive city of Prague.

Although the chief object of Tchaikovsky’s tour was to make his works more widely known in Europe, and to carry them beyond the confines of his native land, he combined with this aim--although in a lesser degree--the desire to see for himself the extent of his reputation and to reap some profit by it. Distrustful and modest as he was, he made no great demands in this respect, and even the appreciation he received in Germany quite surpassed his expectations. The honour done him in Prague far outstripped his wildest dreams. These ten days were the culminating point of Tchaikovsky’s fame during his lifetime. Allowing that nine-tenths of the ovations lavished on him were really intended for Russia, even then, he could not fail to be flattered that he was the chosen recipient of the sympathy of the Czechs for the Russians, since it proved that he was already famous as a composer. It was flattering, too, to feel that he was honoured by a nation which could be regarded as one of the most musical in the world. It pleased him that Prague--the first place to recognise the genius of Mozart--should pay him honour, thus uniting his fate with that of the illustrious German. It touched Tchaikovsky deeply to feel that those who gave him one “moment of absolute happiness” were descendants of the same race which, long ago, had given a portion of joy to him who was his teacher and model, both as man and as musician. This strange coincidence was the most flattering event of his life--the highest honour to which he had ever ventured to aspire.

Simultaneously with this climax of his renown, came one of the bitterest experiences of his life. The Russian Press did not give a line to this triumph of a native composer in Prague. He felt this to be a profound injury, which surprised and mortified him the more, because all these triumphs in his life were regarded as important events even by the Czechs themselves. It was most painful to realise that Russia, for whom the greater part of these honours were intended, knew nothing whatever about them; that on account of the attitude of the Press towards him, personally, this warm sympathy, meant for his countrymen as a whole, would never be known to them, nor evoke any response.

Quite another kind of ovation awaited Tchaikovsky in Paris. Here, too, his success surpassed his expectations; but the sympathy of the French capital differed as widely in character from that which was shown him in Prague as the Czechs differ from the French in their musical tastes and their relations towards the Russians. There is no country in which music is better loved, or more widely understood, than in Bohemia. Nor is there any other nation which feels such appreciation for all that is Russian; not merely as a matter of passing fashion, but on account of actual kinship between the Eastern and Western Slav. In Bohemia, therefore, both as a musician and a native of Russia, Tchaikovsky had been received with a warmth and sincerity hardly to be expected from France. It is true a little political feeling influenced his reception in Paris; it was just the beginning of the Franco-Russian _rapprochement_, so that everything Russian was the fashion of the hour. Many French people, who were not in the least musical, regarded it as their duty to express some appreciation of Tchaikovsky--simply because he was a Russian. All this, like the French sympathy itself, had no solid foundation of national affinity, but merely sprang from an ephemeral political combination. The enthusiastic, explosive, but fleeting, craze of the French for all that was Russian showed itself in hats _à la_ Kronstadt, in shouting the Russian national anthem simultaneously with the “Marseillaise,” in ovations to the clown Durov, and in a “patronising” interest for our art and literature--as species of curiosities--rather than in the hearty relations of two countries drawn together by true affinity of aims and sympathies. Naturally the festivities of Kronstadt, Toulon, and Paris led to no real appreciation of Poushkin, Gogol, Ostrovsky, Glinka, Dargomijsky, or Serov, only, at the utmost, to a phase of fashion, thanks to which Tolstoi and Dostoievsky found a certain superficial vogue, without being understood in their fullest value. Tchaikovsky was also a modern, and this lent a kind of brilliance to his reception in Paris; but it was purely external.... It may truly be said that all Prague welcomed the composer; whereas in Paris only the musicians and amateurs, a few newspapers in favour of the Franco-Russian alliance, and that crowd which is always in pursuit of novelty, were interested in Tchaikovsky’s visit.

Time has proved the respective value of these ovations. Although it is now fifteen years since Tchaikovsky visited Prague, his operas still hold their own in the repertory of the theatre, and his symphonic music is still as well known there and as much loved as in Russia. In Paris, on the contrary, not only are his works rarely given, either on the stage or in the concert-room, but his name--although it has gained in renown all over Europe--is not considered worthy of inclusion among those which adorn the programmes of the Conservatoire concerts. And yet those who are at the head of this institution are the same men who honoured him in 1888. Is not this a proof of that hidden but smouldering antipathy which the French really feel for the Russian spirit--that spirit which Tchaikovsky shares in common with his great predecessors in music, and with the representatives of all that Russia has produced of lofty and imperishable worth?

Tchaikovsky arrived in Paris on February 12th (24th), and went almost straight from the station to the rehearsal of his Serenade for strings, which--conducted by the composer--was to be played by Colonne’s orchestra at a _soirée_ given by M. N. Benardaky.

N. Benardaky had married one of the three sisters Leibrock, operatic artists well known to the Russian public. He had a fine house in Paris, frequented by the _élite_ of the artistic world. As a wealthy patron of art--and as a fellow-countryman--he inaugurated the festivities in Tchaikovsky’s honour by this musical evening.

Over three hundred guests were present, and, besides his Serenade for strings, Tchaikovsky conducted the Andante from his Quartet and presided at the piano. The composer was grateful to his kindly host for the unexpected and--according to Parisian custom--absolutely indispensable _réclame_ which this entertainment conferred upon him. To ensure the success of the evening, and in return for the service done him, Tchaikovsky felt himself obliged to run from rehearsal to rehearsal, from musician to musician. To appear as a conductor before this assemblage of amateurs--more distinguished for vanity than for love of art--and to earn their languid approval, seemed to him flattering and important. But when we reflect what far greater trouble and fatigue this entailed upon him than his appearance before the Gewandhaus audience--whose opinion was really of weight and value--we cannot but regret the waste of energy and the lowering of the artist’s dignity. When we think of him, exhausted and out of humour, amid this crowd of fashionably attired strangers, who to-morrow would be “consecrating” the success of the latest chansonette singer, or the newest dance of a Loie Fuller--we cannot but rebel against fate, who took him from his rural quiet, from the surroundings to which he was attached, in which--sound in body and mind--it was his pleasure to plan some new composition in undisturbed solitude. Thank God, my brother comforted himself with the belief that it was necessary to suffer this martyrdom cheerfully, and that he did not live to realise that it was indeed useless, for nowhere did he make a greater sacrifice for popularity’s sake with smaller results than in Paris.

Those musicians who had been absent during Tchaikovsky’s visit to Paris in 1886 now made his acquaintance for the first time. All of them, including Gounod, Massenet, Thomé and others, received him with great cordiality and consideration. The sole exception was Reyer, the composer of _Salammbô_, whose indifference was the less hurtful to Tchaikovsky because he did not esteem him greatly as a musician. Of the _virtuosi_ with whom he now became acquainted, Paderewski made the most impression upon him.

Among the brilliant Parisian gatherings held in Tchaikovsky’s honour must be mentioned the memorable evening at Colonne’s; the _soirée_ given by the aristocratic amateur, Baroness Tresderne, at whose house in the Place Vendôme Wagner’s Trilogy had been heard for the first time in Paris (“Marchionesses, duchesses--bored,” is Tchaikovsky’s laconic entry in his diary the day after this entertainment); the fête at the Russian Embassy; a reception at Madame Pauline Viardot’s; and an entertainment arranged by the _Figaro_.

Tchaikovsky made two public appearances in the double capacity of composer and conductor; both these were at the Châtelet concerts. At the first, half the programme was devoted to his works, including the Serenade for strings, Fantasia for pianoforte (Louis Diemer), Songs (Madame Conneau), pieces for violoncello (Brandoukov), and Theme and Variations from the Third Suite.

On ascending to the conductor’s desk he was received with a storm of applause, intended as much for his nationality as for his personality. Of his orchestral works, the Valse from the Serenade won most success, and had to be repeated in order to satisfy the audience.

The second concert, which took place a week later, consisted almost exclusively of Tchaikovsky’s works. The Variations from the Third Suite, the Elégie, and Valse from the Serenade, and the pieces for violoncello were repeated; to which were added the Violin Concerto (Marsick) and _Francesca da Rimini_. The applause was as vociferous as on the first occasion, although comparatively little of it fell to the lot of _Francesca_.

As long as they dealt with the private performances in the houses of Benardaky, Colonne, Madame Tresderne, or at the _Figaro_, the representatives of the Paris Press spoke with enthusiasm of the composer, of his works, and his nationality. After the public concerts, however, there was a sudden change of tone, and their fervour waned. It seemed they had most of them studied Cui’s book, _La Musique en Russie_, to good purpose, for, without quoting their source of information, they discovered that Tchaikovsky “was not so Russian as people imagined,” that he did not display “much audacity or a strong originality,” wherein lay the chief charm of the great Slavs: Borodin, Cui, Rimsky-Korsakov, Liadov, etc.

The Western cosmopolitanism of Tchaikovsky’s works was made a subject of reproach. “The German dominates and absorbs the Slav,” says one critic, who had looked for “impressions exotiques” at the Châtelet--perhaps for something in the style of the music of Dahomey, which had created such a sensation at the Jardin d’Acclimatation.

The remaining critics, who had not read Cui’s book, disapproved of the length of Tchaikovsky’s works, and held up to him as models, Saint-Saëns and other modern French composers. His own sense of disappointment appears in a letter addressed to P. Jurgenson towards the end of his visit:--

“I have expended a great deal of money, and even more health and
strength,” he writes.[130] “In return I have gained some
celebrity, but every hour I ask myself--Why? Is it worth while? And
I come to the conclusion it is far better to live quietly without
fame.”

From Paris Tchaikovsky crossed to England.

“The journey to London was terrible,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck.
“Our train was brought to a standstill in the open country in
consequence of a snowstorm. On the steamer it was alarming, for the
storm was so severe that every moment we dreaded some catastrophe.”

Tchaikovsky only spent four days in London. No one welcomed him, no one paid him special attention, or worried him with invitations. Except for a complimentary dinner given to him by Berger, the Secretary of the Philharmonic Society, he spent his time alone, or in the society of the violinist Ondricek and his wife. Yet, in spite of appearances, his visit to London had brilliant results for his future reputation. Next to Russia and America his music at present is nowhere more popular than in England.

He conducted the Serenade for strings and the Variations from the Third Suite. “The success was great,” he wrote, in the letter quoted above. “The Serenade pleased most, and I was recalled three times, which means a good deal from the reserved London public. The Variations were not so much liked, but all the same they elicited hearty applause.”

The leading London papers mostly gave Tchaikovsky the credit of a signal success. The _Musical Times_ only regretted that he had not chosen some more serious work for his début before the London public. “The Russian composer was received with signs of unanimous approbation,” said the _Times_, while the _Daily Chronicle_ felt convinced that Tchaikovsky must have been fully satisfied with the extraordinarily warm welcome accorded him by the Londoners.

“Thus ended the torments, fears, agitations, and--to speak the truth--the joys of my first concert tour abroad.” In these words Tchaikovsky concludes his letter to N. F. von Meck, from which the above extracts have been quoted.

III

After a long journey--six nights in the train--Tchaikovsky reached Tiflis on March 26th (April 7th), 1888. Here he stayed with his brother Hyppolite, whom he had not seen for two years. About the end of April he travelled north to take possession of the country house at Frolovskoe, which had been prepared for him during his absence by his servant Alexis. He describes it as a highly picturesque spot, lying on a wooded hill on the way from Moscow to Klin. It was simpler and not so well furnished as Maidanovo. There was no park planted with lime trees, there were no marble vases; but its unpretentiousness was an added recommendation in Tchaikovsky’s eyes. Here he could be alone, free from summer excursionists, to enjoy the little garden (with its charming pool and tiny islet) fringed by the forest, behind which the view opened out upon a distant stretch of country--upon that homely, unassuming landscape of Central Russia which Tchaikovsky preferred to all the sublimities of Switzerland, the Caucasus, and Italy. Had not the forest been gradually exterminated, he would never have quitted Frolovskoe, for although he only lived there for three years, he became greatly attached to the place. A month before his death, travelling from Klin to Moscow, he said, looking out at the churchyard of Frolovskoe: “I should like to be buried there.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“KLIN, _May_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1888.

“I am in love with Frolovskoe. The neighbourhood is a paradise
after Maidanovo. It is, indeed, so beautiful that when I go out for
half an hour’s walk in the morning, I feel compelled to extend it
to two hours.... I have not yet begun to work, excepting at some
corrections. To speak frankly, I feel as yet no impulse for
creative work. What does this mean? Have I written myself out? No
ideas, no inclination? Still I am hoping gradually to collect
material for a symphony.

“To-day we were to have sown seeds and planted flowers in the beds
in front of the house. I was looking forward to it with such
pleasure, but the rain has hindered us. By the time you arrive all
our seeds will be in.”

_To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._

“FROLOVSKOE, _May_ 30_th_ (_June_ 11_th_), 1888.

“YOUR HIGHNESS,--I am very glad you were not offended by my
remarks, and thank you most heartily for your explanations in
reference to them.[131] In matters of versification I am only an
amateur, but have long wished to become thoroughly acquainted with
the subject. So far, I have only reached the stage of inquiry. Many
questions interest me to which no one seems able to give a clear
and decided reply. For instance, when I read Joukovsky’s
translation of the _Odyssey_, or his _Undine_, or Gniedich’s
version of the _Iliad_, I suffer under the intolerable monotony of
the Russian hexameter as compared with the Latin (I do not know the
Greek), which has strength, beauty, and variety. I know that the
fault lies in the fact that we do not use the spondee, but I
cannot understand why this should be. To my mind we ought to
employ it. Another question that greatly occupies me is why, as
compared with Russian poetry, German verse should be less severe in
the matter of regular rhythm and metre. When I read Goethe I am
astonished at his audacity as regards metrical feet, the cæsura,
etc., which he carries so far that, to an unpractised ear, many of
his verses scarcely seem like verse. At the same time, the ear is
only taken by surprise--not offended. Were a Russian poet to do the
same, one would be conscious of a certain lameness. Is it in
consequence of the peculiar qualities of our language, or because
tradition allows greater freedom to the Germans than to us? I do
not know if I express myself correctly; I only state that, as
regards regularity, refinement, and euphony, much more is expected
from the Russian than from the German poet. I should be glad to
find some explanation of this....”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“FROLOVSKOE, _June_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1888.

“.... Just now I am busy with flowers and flower-growing. I should
like to have as many flowers as possible in my garden, but I have
very little knowledge or experience. I am not lacking in zeal, and
have indeed taken cold from pottering about in the damp. Now, thank
goodness, it is warmer weather; I am glad of it, for you, for
myself, and for my dear flowers, for I have sown a quantity, and
the cold nights made me anxious for them....”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“FROLOVSKOE, _June_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1888.

“.... Now I shall work my hardest. I am dreadfully anxious to prove
not only to others, but also to myself, that I am not yet _played
out_ as a composer.... Have I already told you that I intend to
write a symphony? The beginning was difficult; now, however,
inspiration seems to have come. We shall see!”

_To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._

“FROLOVSKOE, _June_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1888.

“YOUR IMPERIAL HIGHNESS,--I am the more glad to hear your
favourable verdict upon my songs, because I was afraid you would
think them weak.... I composed them at a time when my state of mind
was anything but promising for good work. At the same time, I did
not wish to postpone the setting of your words, as I had informed
you long ago of my intention with regard to them....

“I am not at all astonished that you should write beautiful verses
without being an adept in the science of versification. Several of
our poets--Plestcheiev for one--have told me the same. All the
same, I think it would be better if some of our gifted Russian
poets were more interested in the technique of their art. ‘I am
sick of four iambic feet,’ said Poushkin, and I would add that
sometimes his readers get weary of it too. To discover new metres
and rare rhythmic combinations must be very interesting. Were I a
poet, I should certainly try to write in varied rhythms like the
Germans....”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“FROLOVSKOE, _June_ 22_nd_ (_July_ 4_th_), 1888.

“ ... Lately I have been in frequent correspondence with the Grand
Duke Constantine Constantinovich, who sent me his poem, ‘St.
Sebastian,’ with the request that I would say what I thought of it.
On the whole I liked it, but I criticised a few details very
freely. He was pleased with this, but defended himself, and thus a
brisk exchange of letters has taken place. He is not only gifted,
but surprisingly modest, devoted to art, and ambitious to excel in
it rather than in _the service_. He is also an excellent
musician--in fact, a rare and sympathetic nature.

“It is well that the political horizon is clearer, and if it be
true that the German Emperor is to visit Russia, we may say with
some certainty that the horrors of war will not break out for many
years to come....”

_Diary._

“_June_ 27_th_ (_July_ 9_th_), 1888.

“It seems to me letters are not perfectly sincere--I am judging by
myself. No matter to whom I am writing, I am always conscious of
the effect of my letter, not only upon the person to whom it is
addressed, but upon any chance reader. Consequently I embroider. I
often take pains to make the tone of a letter simple and
sincere--at least to make it _appear_ so. But apart from letters
written at the moment when I am worked upon, I am never quite
myself in my correspondence. These letters are to me a source of
repentance, and often of agonising regret. When I read the
correspondence of great men, published after their death, I am
always disturbed by a vague sense of insincerity and falsehood.

“I will go on with the record of my musical predilections which I
began some time ago. What are my feelings towards the Russian
composers?

GLINKA.

“An unheard-of and astonishing apparition in the world of art. A
dilettante who played the violin and the piano a little; who
concocted a few insipid quadrilles and fantasias upon Italian airs;
who tried his hand at more serious musical forms (songs, quartets,
sextets, etc.), but accomplished nothing which rose superior to the
jejune taste of the thirties; suddenly, in his thirty-fourth year,
creates an opera, which for inspiration, originality, and
irreproachable technique, is worthy to stand beside all that is
loftiest and most profound in musical art! We are still more
astonished when we reflect that the composer of this work is the
author of the _Memoirs_ published some twenty years later. The
latter give one the impression of a nice, kind, commonplace man,
with not much to say for himself. Like a nightmare, the questions
continually haunt me: How could such colossal artistic force be
united to such emptiness? and how came this average amateur to
catch up in a single stride such men as Mozart and Beethoven? Yes,
for he _has_ overtaken them. One may say this without exaggeration
of the composer of the ‘Slavsia.’ This question may be answered by
those who are better fitted than myself to penetrate the mysteries
of the artistic spirit which makes its habitation in such fragile
and apparently unpromising shrines. I can only say no one loves and
appreciates Glinka more than I do. I am no indiscriminate
worshipper of _Russlan_; on the contrary, I am disposed to prefer
_A Life for the Tsar_, although _Russlan_ may perhaps be of greater
musical worth. But the elemental force is more perceptible in his
earlier opera; the ‘Slavsia’ is overwhelming and gigantic. For this
he employed no model. Neither Glück nor Mozart composed anything
similar. Astounding, inconceivable! _Kamarinskaya_ is also a work
of remarkable inspiration. Without intending to compose anything
beyond a simple, humorous trifle, he has left us a little
masterpiece, every bar of which is the outcome of enormous creative
power. Half a century has passed since then, and many Russian
symphonic works have been composed; we may even speak of a
symphonic school. Well? The germ of all this lies in
_Kamarinskaya_, as the oak tree lies in the acorn. For long years
to come Russian composers will drink at this source, for it will
need much time and much strength to exhaust its wealth of
inspiration. Yes! Glinka was a true creative genius!”

_To N. F. Von Meck._

“FROLOVSKOE, _July_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1888.

“.... My name-day was a great interruption to my work, for my
visitors arrived the day before and only left yesterday evening. My
guests were Laroche and his wife, Jurgenson, Albrecht, Siloti, and
Zet,[132] who arrived quite unexpectedly from Petersburg. The last
named (who has been highly recommended to me) has been my concert
agent since May.... He is a great admirer of my work, and cares
less to make money out of his position than to forward my interests
in Europe and America....”

At this time Tchaikovsky received an offer from an American impresario offering him a three months’ concert tour at a fee of 25,000 dollars. The sum appeared to the Russian composer fabulous in its amount. “Should this really come off,” he says, “I could realise my long-cherished wish to become a landowner.”

_Diary._

“_July_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1888.

“Dargomijsky? Certainly he was a gifted man. But never was the type
of amateur musician more strikingly realised than in him. Glinka,
too, was a dilettante, but his immense inspiration served him as a
defence from amateurishness. Except for his fatal _Memoirs_, we
should not have realised his dilettantism. It is another matter
with Dargomijsky: his amateurishness lies in his creative work, in
his very forms themselves. To possess an average talent, to be weak
in technique and yet to pose as an _innovator_--is pure
amateurishness. When, at the close of his life, Dargomijsky
composed _The Stone Guest_, he seriously believed he had overturned
the old foundations and erected something new and colossal in their
place. A piteous error; I saw him in this last period of his life,
and in view of his suffering condition (he had a heart disease)
there could be no question of a discussion. But I have never come
in contact with anything more antipathetic and false than this
unsuccessful attempt to drag _truth_ into this sphere of art, in
which everything is based upon falsehood, and “truth,” in the
everyday sense of the word, is not required at all. Dargomijsky was
no _master_ (he had not a tenth part of Glinka’s mastership). He
possessed a certain originality and piquancy. He was most
successful in _curiosities_. But artistic beauty does not lie in
this direction, as so many of us think.

“I might speak personally of Dargomijsky (I frequently saw him in
Moscow at the time of his success there), but I prefer not to
recall my acquaintance. He was very cutting and unjust in his
judgments (when he raged against the brothers Rubinstein, for
instance), but was pleased to talk of himself in a tone of
self-laudation. During his fatal illness he became far more kindly
disposed, and showed much cordial feeling to his younger
colleagues. I will only keep this memory of him. Unexpectedly he
showed me great sympathy (in respect of my opera _The
Voyevode_).[133] Apparently he did not believe the report that I
had hissed at the first performance of his _Esmeralda_ in Moscow.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“FROLOVSKOE, _July_ 25_th_ (_August_ 6_th_), 1888.

“ ... The real summer weather has not lasted long, but how I
enjoyed it! My flowers, which I feared would die, have nearly all
recovered, and some have blossomed luxuriantly. I cannot tell you
what a pleasure it has been to watch them grow and to see
daily--even hourly--new blossoms coming out. Now I have as many as
I want. When I am quite old, and past composing, I shall devote
myself to growing flowers. I have been working with good results,
and half the symphony is orchestrated. My age--although not very
advanced--begins to tell. I get very tired now, and can no longer
play or read at night as I used. Lately I miss the chance of a game
of _vint_[134] in the evenings; it is the one thing that rests and
distracts me.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“FROLOVSKOE, _August_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1888.

“Again I am not feeling well ... but I am so glad to have finished
the Symphony (No. 5) that I can forget all physical ailments. I
have made no settled plans for the winter. There is a prospect of a
tour in Scandinavia and also in America. But nothing is decided as
to the first, and the second seems so fantastic that I can hardly
give it a serious thought. I have promised to conduct at Dresden,
Berlin, and Prague.... In November I am to conduct a whole series
of my works in Petersburg (at the Philharmonic), including the new
Symphony. They also want me in Tiflis, but I do not know if it will
come off.”

IV

1888-1889

The winter season 1888-1889 opened with much arduous work and
personal anxiety. Tchaikovsky’s niece, Vera, the second daughter of
his sister Alexandra Davidov, was in a dying condition, and his old
friend Hubert was suffering from a terrible form of intermittent
fever. One gleam of joy shone through the darkness. His Moscow
friends, Taneiev in particular, were delighted with the Fifth
Symphony, a work which had filled Tchaikovsky himself with gloomy
misgivings. At this time he was engaged in an active correspondence
upon music and poetry with the Grand Duke Constantine.

_To the Grand Duke Constantinovich._

“FROLOVSKOE, _September_ 21_st_(_October_ 3_rd_), 1888.