Chapter XXV: Part VII: I (2)

“ ... Fet[135] is quite right in asserting, as you say he does,
that ‘all which has no connection with the leading idea should be
cast aside, even though it is beautiful and melodious.’ But we must
not deduce from this that only what is terse can be highly
artistic; therefore, to my mind, Fet’s rule that an exemplary lyric
must not exceed a certain limit is entirely wrong. All depends upon
the nature of the leading idea and the poet who expresses it. Of
two equally inspired poets, or composers, one, by reason of his
artistic temperament, will show greater breadth of treatment, more
complexity in the development of the leading idea, and a greater
inclination for luxuriant and varied elaboration; while the other
will express himself concisely. All that is good, but superfluous,
we call ‘padding.’ Can we say we find this padding in Beethoven’s
works? I think most decidedly we do not. On the contrary, it is
astonishing how equal, how significant and forceful, this giant
among musicians always remains, and how well he understands the
art of curbing his vast inspiration, and never loses sight of
balanced and traditional form. In his last quartets, which were
long regarded as the productions of an insane and deaf man, there
seems to be some padding, until we have studied them thoroughly.
But ask someone who is well acquainted with these works, a member
of a quartet who plays them frequently, if there is anything
superfluous in the C♯ minor Quartet. Unless he is an
old-fashioned musician, brought up upon Haydn, he would be
horrified at the idea of abbreviating or cutting any portion of it.
In speaking of Beethoven I was not merely thinking of his latest
period. Could anyone show me a bar in the _Eroica_, which is very
lengthy, that could be called superfluous, or any portion that
could really be omitted as padding? So everything that is long is
not _too long_; many words do not necessarily mean empty verbiage,
and terseness is not, as Fet asserts, the essential condition of
beautiful form. Beethoven, who in the first movement of the
_Eroica_ has built up a superb edifice out of an endless series of
varied and ever new architectural beauties upon so simple and
seemingly poor a subject, knows on occasion how to surprise us by
the terseness and exiguity of his forms. Do you remember the
Andante of the Pianoforte Concerto in B flat? I know nothing more
inspired than this short movement; I go cold and pale every time I
hear it.

“Of course, the classical beauty of Beethoven’s predecessors, and
their art of keeping within bounds, is of the greatest value. It
must be owned, however, that Haydn had no occasion to limit
himself, for he had not an inexhaustible wealth of material at
command. As to Mozart, had he lived another twenty years, and seen
the beginning of our century, he would certainly have sought to
express his prodigal inspiration in forms less strictly classical
than those with which he had to content himself.

“While defending Beethoven from the charge of long-windedness, I
confess that the post-Beethoven music offers many examples of
prolixity which is often carried so far as to become mere padding.
That inspired musician who expresses himself with such breadth,
majesty, force, and even brusqueness, has much in common with
Michael Angelo. Just as the Abbé Bernini has flooded Rome with his
statues, in which he strives to imitate the style of Michael
Angelo, without possessing his genius, and makes a caricature of
what is really powerful in his model, so Beethoven’s musical style
has been copied over and over again. Is not Brahms in reality a
caricature of Beethoven? Is not this pretension to profundity and
power detestable, because the content which is poured into the
Beethoven mould is not really of any value? Even in the case of
Wagner (who certainly has genius), wherever he oversteps the limits
it is the spirit of Beethoven which prompts him.

“As regards your humble servant, I have suffered all my life from
my incapacity to grasp form in general. I have fought against this
innate weakness, not--I am proud to say--without good results; yet
I shall go to my grave without having produced anything really
perfect in form. There is frequently _padding_ in my works; to an
experienced eye the stitches show in my seams, but I cannot help
it. As to _Manfred_, I may tell you--without any desire to pose as
being modest--that this is a repulsive work, and I hate it, with
the exception of the first movement. I intend shortly, with the
consent of my publisher, to destroy the remaining three movements
and make a symphonic poem out of this long-winded symphony. I am
sure my _Manfred_ would then please the public. I enjoyed writing
the first movement, whereas the others were the outcome of
strenuous effort, in consequence of which--as far as I remember--I
felt quite ill for a time. I should not think of being offended at
what your Highness says about _Manfred_. You are quite right and
even too indulgent.”

_To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._

“FROLOVSKOE, _October_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1888.

“YOUR IMPERIAL HIGHNESS,--Just returned from Moscow, where I have
seen my poor friend Hubert laid in his grave, and still depressed
by my painful experiences, I hasten to answer your letter.... Your
Highness must bear in mind that although one art stands in close
relationship to the other, at the same time each has its
peculiarities. As such we must regard the “verbal repetitions”
which are only possible to a limited extent in literature, but are
a necessity in music. Beethoven never repeats an entire movement
without a special reason, and, in doing so, rarely fails to
introduce something new; but he has recourse to this characteristic
method in his instrumental music, knowing that his idea will only
be understood after many statements. I cannot understand why your
Highness should object to the constant repetition of the subject in
the Scherzo of the Ninth Symphony. I always want to hear it over
and over again. It is so divinely beautiful, strong, original, and
significant! It is quite another matter with the prolixity and
repetitions of Schubert, who, with all his genius, constantly harps
upon his central idea--as in the Andante of the C major Symphony.
Beethoven develops his first idea fully, in its entirety, before
repeating it; Schubert seems too indolent to elaborate his first
idea, and--perhaps from his unusual wealth of thematic
material--hurries on the beginning to arrive at something else. It
seems as though the stress of his inexhaustible inspiration
hindered him from the careful elaboration of the theme, in all its
depth and delicacy of workmanship.

“God grant I may be in Petersburg to hear the performance of
Mozart’s _Requiem_ in the Marble Palace. I hope your Highness will
permit me to be present at this concert. The _Requiem_ is one of
the most divine creations, and we can but pity those who are unable
to appreciate it.

“As regards Brahms, I cannot at all agree with your Highness. In
the music of this master (it is impossible to deny his mastery)
there is something dry and cold which repulses me. He has very
little melodic invention. He never speaks out his musical ideas to
the end. Scarcely do we hear an enjoyable melody, than it is
engulfed in a whirlpool of unimportant harmonic progressions and
modulations, as though the special aim of the composer was to be
unintelligible. He excites and irritates our musical senses without
wishing to satisfy them, and seems ashamed to speak the language
which goes straight to the heart. His depth is not real: _c’est
voulu_. He has set before himself, once and for all, the aim of
trying to be profound, but he has only attained to an appearance of
profundity. The gulf is void. It is impossible to say that the
music of Brahms is weak and insignificant. His style is invariably
lofty. He does not strive after mere external effects. He is never
trivial. All he does is serious and noble, but he lacks the chief
thing--beauty. Brahms commands our respect. We must bow before the
original purity of his aspirations. We must admire his firm and
proud attitude in the face of triumphant Wagnerism; but to love him
is impossible. I, at least, in spite of much effort, have not
arrived at it. I will own that certain early works (the Sextet in
B♭) please me far more than those of a later period, especially
the symphonies, which seem to me indescribably long and
colourless.... Many Brahms lovers (Bülow, among others) predicted
that some day I should see clearer, and learn to appreciate
beauties which do not as yet appeal to me. This is not unlikely,
for there have been such cases. I do not know the _German Requiem_
well. I will get it and study it. Who knows?--perhaps my views on
Brahms may undergo a complete revolution.”

_To Ippolitov-Ivanov._

“_October_ 27_th_ (_November_ 8_th_), 1888.

“I cannot possibly give you any definite news as to my journey to
Tiflis. It will be two or three weeks, at the earliest, before I
know when I shall have to go abroad.... I only know that _I will
come to Tiflis, even if I am dying_. As to my fee, we will not
speak of it. Before I take anything from you, something must be
there. Let us see how the concert succeeds, and then we can settle
how much you shall give me as ‘a tip.’ If it is not a success, I
shall accept nothing.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“FROLOVSKOE, _October_ 27_th_ (_November_ 8_th_), 1888.

“Now we are having sharp frosts, without snow, and fine, sunny
days. It depresses me to think that I must soon leave my quiet
home, my regular life, and daily constitutionals. Three days hence
I go to Petersburg, where my concert takes place on November 5th
(17th). On the 12th (24th) I take part in the Musical Society’s
concert, and leave for Prague the next day to attend the rehearsals
for _Eugene Oniegin_. I have been working very hard lately. The
orchestration of the _Hamlet_ overture is now finished. I have made
innumerable corrections in the Symphony, and have been preparing
everything I have to conduct at the forthcoming concerts.

“I hope to spend December here, for I have to return direct from
Prague in order to conduct the new Symphony in Moscow, and then I
shall hasten to my harbour of refuge.”

The Philharmonic concert in St. Petersburg was apparently a great success, but the Press notices of the new Symphony (No. 5) were far from satisfactory. On November 12th (24th) Tchaikovsky conducted it once more at the Musical Society, and on this occasion the fantasia-overture _Hamlet_ was heard for the first time. Both works were well received by the public.

V

On this occasion Prague received Tchaikovsky less hospitably than on his first visit. “The rehearsal,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck, “took place the very day I arrived. Last year, if you remember, I conducted two grand patriotic concerts, without a fee. To show their gratitude for my having come to the performance of the opera here, the management of the Prague Theatre organised a concert, of which I was to receive half the profits. But they chose such a bad day, and arranged everything so stupidly, that the concert only realised three hundred florins. After being received like a prince last year, when the enthusiasm which greeted me almost amounted to a frenzy, I felt somewhat hurt at this meagre offering on the part of the Prague public. I therefore declined the money, and made it over to the Musicians’ Pension Fund. This was soon made public, and the Theatre Direction was overwhelmed with reproaches. The whole Press took up the matter, and thanks to this, the performance of _Oniegin_, which I conducted the evening before last, gave rise to a series of enthusiastic ovations. Yesterday I left Prague, crowned with laurels; but, alas! my laurel wreaths were all I carried away. I do not know how to look after my pecuniary interests.”

The success of _Oniegin_ in Prague was extraordinary, and the opera has kept its place in the repertory up to the present time.

Amid the chorus of praise, in which both the public and the Press united, one voice was especially valued by Tchaikovsky--that of his famous colleague, Anton Dvořák.

_A. Dvořák to P. Tchaikovsky._

“PRAGUE, _January_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1889.

“DEAR FRIEND,--When you were lately with us in Prague I promised to
write to you on the subject of your opera _Oniegin_. I am now moved
to do so, not only in answer to your request, but also by my own
impulse to express all I felt on hearing your work. I confess with
joy that your opera made a profound impression on me--the kind of
impression I expect to receive from a genuine work of art, and I do
not hesitate to tell you that not one of your compositions has
given me such pleasure as _Oniegin_.

“It is a wonderful creation, full of glowing emotion and poetry,
and finely elaborated in all its details; in short, this music is
captivating, and penetrates our hearts so deeply that we cannot
forget it. Whenever I go to hear it I feel myself transported into
another world.

“I congratulate both you and ourselves upon this work. God grant
you may give us many another like it.

“I embrace you, and remain your sincerely devoted

“ANTON DVOŘÁK.”

On his way home from Prague to Vienna, Tchaikovsky heard of the death of his niece, Vera Rimsky-Korsakov, _née_ Davidov. Although he had long since given up all hope of her recovery, this news affected him deeply.

From Prague he returned to Frolovskoe for a short time. On December 10th (22nd) he conducted his new works at a Symphony Concert in Moscow. These included the new Symphony (No. 5, E minor) and the second Pianoforte Concerto, with Sapellnikov as soloist; both works achieved great success.

December 17th (29th) found him again in Petersburg, where, at the fourth of Belaiev’s “Russian Symphony Concerts,” he conducted his _Tempest_ overture, and on the following day was present at a performance of the _Oprichnik_ given by the pupils of the Petersburg Conservatoire. Tchaikovsky was interested to renew his impressions of this work, and to prove whether his prejudice against it was well founded. In spite of a very good performance, his opinion of the opera remained unaltered.

The next work which Tchaikovsky took in hand after his return from Prague was the music of the ballet, _The Sleeping Beauty_, the programme of which had been prepared by Vsievolojsky, Director of the Imperial Opera. Tchaikovsky was charmed with the subject and the proposed mounting of the work, and retired to Frolovskoe late in December, in order to devote himself to the task.

In view of the great popularity to which his Fifth Symphony has since attained, it is interesting to read the composer’s own judgment of the work, recorded within a few weeks of its first performance. Writing to Nadejda von Meck, in December, 1888, he says:--

“ ... After two performances of my new Symphony in Petersburg, and
one in Prague, I have come to the conclusion that it is a failure.
There is something repellent, something superfluous, patchy, and
insincere, which the public instinctively recognises. It was
obvious to me that the ovations I received were prompted more by my
earlier work, and that the Symphony itself did not really please
the audience. The consciousness of this brings me a sharp twinge of
self-dissatisfaction. Am I really played out, as they say? Can I
merely repeat and ring the changes on my earlier idiom? Last night
I looked through _our_ Symphony (No. 4). What a difference! How
immeasurably superior it is! It is very, very sad!”

Such attacks of pessimism as to his creative powers were often, as we have already seen, the forerunner of a new tide of inspiration. This was now the case. Since _Eugene Oniegin_ Tchaikovsky had never worked at anything with the ease and enthusiasm which inspired him in the first four tableaux of this ballet, _The Sleeping Beauty_, the sketch of which was completely finished by January 18th (30th).

The monotony of these six weeks’ work was relieved by news of the success of the Fifth Symphony in Moscow, and also by the kindness of his friend, Peter Jurgenson, who surprised him at Christmas with a beautiful and valuable gift--the complete edition of Mozart’s works. These he commissioned Alexis to present to his master, together with a tiny Christmas-tree.

On January 24th (February 5th), 1889, Tchaikovsky started on his second concert tour abroad. He experienced “the usual feelings of home-sickness,” and began to anticipate the joy of his return. He remained three days in Berlin, and arrived in Cologne on January 29th (February 10th), where he was to make his first appearance as composer and conductor, with his Third Suite (in G), at a so-called “Gürzenich” concert.

_To M. Tchaikovsky._

“COLOGNE, _January_ 30_th_ (_February_ 11_th_), 1889.

“ ... To-day was my first rehearsal. It went very well, and the
orchestra is excellent, so that the three hours passed very
pleasantly, excepting for the agitation at the start. Hardly had I
got back to my hotel before I was seized with home-sickness and a
wild longing for April 8th....”

Tchaikovsky made his début at Cologne on January 31st (February 12th). He thus describes his impressions to Glazounov:--

“I arrived shortly before the first of the three rehearsals. One
hardly expects to find a first-class orchestra in a town of
secondary importance, and I was convinced it would only be a very
poor one. The local conductor, Wüllner, has, however, worked with
such care and energy that he has succeeded in organising a
magnificent orchestra, which filled me with astonishment and
admiration from the very opening of my Third Suite. Twenty first
violins! And such violins! The wind, too, is admirable. They read
the Scherzo, which is particularly difficult, as if they were
playing it for the tenth time. With such an orchestra and three
rehearsals, it was easy to achieve an admirable performance. The
concert-hall is also excellent; the audience equally so, and not so
stupidly conservative as in many German towns. The success was
great, and when I was recalled the musicians greeted me with a
fanfare.

“Early on February 1st (13th),” the letter continues, “I started
for Frankfort. Here the orchestra is equally large and excellent.
The violins did not seem to me quite as good as those in Cologne,
although they consist mostly of leaders from the neighbouring
towns--so I was told--who come here to play at the great concerts.
There are twelve ‘cellos. One of them, Kossmann, the celebrated
virtuoso, was once professor at Moscow. My Overture “_1812_” was in
the programme. At the first rehearsal, however, the managers of the
concert took fright at the noisy Finale, and timidly requested me
to choose another piece. Since, however, I had no other piece at
hand, they decided to confine themselves to the Suite. The success
here was as great as it was unexpected, for the Frankfort public is
very classical, and I am regarded in Germany as a notorious
revolutionary.”

Of those in Frankfort whose society Tchaikovsky most enjoyed, he mentions in his diary the family of the celebrated music publisher, pianist, and composer, Otto Neitzel, and Ivan Knorr, Professor at the Frankfort Conservatoire, besides the ‘cellist Kossmann.

Tchaikovsky reached Dresden on February 4th (16th). Here disappointment awaited him. The orchestra proved to be only “third-rate,” to use his own words, and the work he had to rehearse made even greater technical demands than the Third Suite; it was his favourite composition--the Fourth Symphony. The _Dresdner Zeitung_ spoke of “a very poor rendering of several passages, the result of insufficient rehearsal.” The concert took place on February 8th (20th). The first Pianoforte Concerto (Emil Sauer) was included in the programme. According to Tchaikovsky’s account, “the first movement pleased the audience a little, the Andante pleased better, the Scherzo still more, while the Finale had a real success. The musicians honoured me with a fanfare. Sauer played incomparably.”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“DRESDEN, _February_ 5_th_ (17_th_) 1889.

“DEAR FRIEND,--I had forgotten to answer you about Paris. Please
remember that it is impossible to give a concert there unless
support is guaranteed by the French. I hear that Slaviansky,
Bessel, and others want to have a finger in the pie. I have not the
least wish to associate myself with them. You can simply say that,
without a guarantee, we are not in a position to undertake
anything.[136] Heavens, how tired I am, and how bored by all this!

“ ... I expect soon to hear decisively from Klindworth and
Dvořák. A letter to hand from Massenet. He accepts with
enthusiasm, but begs to keep the date open for the present, as it
depends on the fate of his new opera.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“BERLIN, _February_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1889.

“After an exhausting tour I arrived here yesterday. In one week I
had three concerts and nine rehearsals. I cannot conceive whence I
draw strength for all this. Either these fresh exertions will prove
injurious, or this feverish activity will be an antidote to my
troubles, which are chiefly the result of the constant sitting my
work entails. There is no medium; I must return to Russia ‘_either
with my shield or upon it_.’ I am inclined to think that, in spite
of hard moments and the continual self-conflict, all this is good
for me.”

_To A. Glazounov._

“BERLIN, _February_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1889.

“ ... If my whole tour consisted only of concerts and rehearsals,
it would be very pleasant. Unhappily, however, I am overwhelmed
with invitations to dinners and suppers.... I much regret that the
Russian papers have said nothing as to my victorious campaign. What
can I do? I have no friends on the Russian Press. Even if I had, I
should never manage to advertise myself. My Press notices abroad
are curious: some find fault, others flatter; but all testify to
the fact that Germans know very little about Russian music. There
are exceptions, of course. In Cologne and in other towns I came
across people who took great interest in Russian music and were
well acquainted with it. In most instances Borodin’s E flat
Symphony is well known. Borodin seems to be a special favourite in
Germany (although they only care for this symphony). Many people
ask for information about you. They know you are still very young,
but are amazed when I tell them you were only fifteen when you
wrote your Symphony in E flat, which has become very well known
since its performance at the festival. Klindworth intends to
produce a Russian work at his concert in Berlin. I recommended him
Rimsky-Korsakov’s _Caprice Espagnol_ and your _Stenka Razin_.”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“LEIPZIG, _February_ 17_th_ (_March_ 1_st_), 1889.

“Klindworth says that I am an ‘excellent conductor.’ First-rate,
isn’t it?

“Klindworth is prepared to appear next season at our concerts for
anything we like to offer. He will give a Wagner programme.
Dvořák promises to conduct a whole concert; but he cannot travel
alone, and brings his wife, so he asks a higher fee. Never mind. In
the spring it would be well to get out an advertisement with such
names as Massenet, Dvořák, Klindworth. I shall make an attempt
to invite Brahms. That would be grand!

“When in Berlin, Artôt and dear Hugo Bock were my great comfort.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“GENEVA, _February_ 21_st_ (_March_ 5_th_), 1889.

“I am engaged to give a concert of my own compositions here. It
takes place on Saturday, March 9th. The orchestra is very small,
only third-rate. Had I known, I never would have come, but the
theatrical Director (he is no musician) probably believes that the
quality and number of an orchestra are of no importance to a
wandering musician. How I shall get through with this small
provincial band, I really do not know. However, I must confess that
they showed great zeal at yesterday’s rehearsal....”

After all, this concert was a success. The room was crowded, and the Russian colony presented Tchaikovsky with a gilt laurel-wreath.

On February 27th (March 11th) Tchaikovsky arrived in Hamburg. Brahms was at his hotel, occupying the room next his own. Peter Ilich felt greatly flattered on learning that the famous German composer was staying a day longer on purpose to hear the rehearsal of his Fifth Symphony. Tchaikovsky was very well received by the orchestra. Brahms remained in the room until the end of the rehearsal. Afterwards, at luncheon, he gave his opinion of the work “very frankly and simply.” It had pleased him on the whole, with the exception of the Finale. Not unnaturally, the composer of this movement felt “deeply hurt” for the moment; but happily the injury was not incurable, as we shall see. Tchaikovsky took this opportunity to invite Brahms to conduct one of the Symphony Concerts in Moscow, but the latter declined. Nevertheless Tchaikovsky’s personal liking for the composer of the _German Requiem_ was increased, although his opinion of his compositions was not changed. Tchaikovsky played no part in the conflict between Brahms and Wagner, which divided all musical Germany into two hostile camps. Brahms’s personality as man and artist, his purity and loftiness of aim, and his earnestness of purpose won his sympathy. Wagner’s personality and tendencies were antipathetic to him; but while the inspired music of the latter found an echo in his heart, the works of Brahms left him cold.

At the second rehearsal all went “excellently,” and at the third Tchaikovsky observed that the Symphony pleased the musicians. At the public rehearsal “there was real enthusiasm,” and although the demonstration at the concert on March 3rd (15th) was less noisy, the success of the Symphony was no less assured.

The pleasant impressions of the evening were slightly marred by the absence--on account of illness--of Ave-Lallemant, to whom the Symphony is dedicated.

_To V. Davidov._

“HANOVER _March_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1889.

“ ... The concert at Hamburg has taken place, and I may
congratulate myself on a great success. The Fifth Symphony was
magnificently played, and I like it far better now, after having
held a bad opinion of it for some time. Unfortunately the Russian
Press continues to ignore me. With the exception of my nearest and
dearest, no one will ever hear of my successes. In the daily papers
here one reads long telegrams about the Wagner performances in
Russia. Certainly I am not a second Wagner, but it would be
desirable for Russia to learn how I have been received in Germany.”

_To M. Tchaikovsky._

“ ... Success is very pleasant at the time, but when there is
neither rehearsal nor concert, I immediately relapse into my usual
state of depression and boredom. Only one concert remains, the one
in London, but not for another month. How on earth shall I kill
time till then? Possibly I may go straight to Paris. Rushing about
there ought to drive away _ennui_. How one wastes time!”

The three days’ visit to Hanover only differed from Tchaikovsky’s sojourn in other towns in that he missed the only thing that could help him to conquer his chronic home-sickness--concerts and rehearsals.

“Curious fact,” he remarks in his diary, “I seek solitude, and suffer when I have found it.” In this state of fluctuation between _bad_ and _worse_ Tchaikovsky had spent his time since he left Russia; but the _worst_ was reserved for Hanover, where he experienced “extreme loneliness.”

On March 8th (20th) he arrived in Paris, and remained there until the 30th (April 11th).

As his present visit to the French capital was not undertaken in a public capacity, it was neither so brilliant, nor so fatiguing, as that of the previous year. At the same time he came in contact with many people and received a number of invitations. On March 19th (31st) he was present at one of Colonne’s concerts, when three numbers from his Third Suite were played.

During this holiday in Paris Tchaikovsky had only two aims in view: to secure Massenet for one of the Moscow Symphony Concerts and to use his influence in favour of Sapellnikov, whose gifts as a pianist he valued very highly.

_To P. Jurgenson._

“_March_ 21_st_ (_April_ 2_nd_), 1889.

“I have seen Massenet several times; he is very much flattered and
prepared to come. The spring will suit him best. I have engaged
Paderewski, who has had a colossal success in Paris. He is not
inferior to D’Albert, and one of the very first pianists of the
day.

“The Third Suite had a splendid success at Colonne’s concert.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“PARIS, _April_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1889.

“MODI,--Vassia[137] played to Colonne yesterday evening. After the
Chopin Polonaise Colonne was astonished, and said he would engage
him next year and do ‘_les choses en grand_.’ ... Vassia has made a
_furore_.”

_To V. Davidov._

“LONDON, 1889.

“ ... The evening before I left Paris I went to Madame Viardot’s. I
heard an opera which she composed twenty years ago to a libretto by
Tourgeniev.[138] The singers were her two daughters and her pupils,
among whom was a Russian, who danced a national dance to the
delight of all the spectators. I have seen the celebrated Eiffel
Tower quite near. It is very fine.... I very much enjoyed hearing
the finest of Berlioz’s works, _La Damnation de Faust_. I am very
fond of this masterpiece, and wish you knew it. Lalo’s opera, _Le
Roi d’Ys_, also pleased me very much. It has been decided that I
shall compose an opera to a French book, _La Courtisane_.[139] I
have made acquaintance with a number of the younger French
composers;[140] they are all the most rabid Wagnerites. But
Wagnerism sits so badly on the French! With them it takes the form
of a childishness which they pursue in order to appear earnest.”

_To the same._

“LONDON, _March_ 30_th_ (_April_ 11_th_), 1889.

“ ... Before all else, let me inform you that I have made
acquaintance with London fog. Last year I enjoyed the fog daily,
but I never dreamt of anything like the one we had to-day. When I
went to rehearsal this morning it was rather foggy, as it often is
in Petersburg. But when at midday I left St. James’s Hall with
Sapellnikov and went into the street, it was actually night--as
dark as a moonless, autumn night at home. It made a great
impression upon us both. I felt as though I were sitting in a
subterranean dungeon. Now at 4 p.m. it is rather lighter, but still
gloomy. It is extraordinary that this should happen half-way
through April. Even the Londoners are astonished and annoyed.

“Ah, Bob, how glad I shall be to get back to Frolovskoe! I think I
shall never leave it again.

“The rehearsal went off very well to-day; the orchestra here is
very fine. Sapellnikov has not played yet. To-morrow he will
certainly make a sensation among the musicians....”

At the London Philharmonic Tchaikovsky conducted his first Pianoforte Concerto (with Sapellnikov as soloist) and the Suite No. 1. Both works had a brilliant success. This was evident from the opinions of the Press, although the lion’s share of praise fell to the lot of Sapellnikov. _The Musical Times_ regretted that one of Tchaikovsky’s symphonies had not been given instead of the Suite, and considered this work was not sufficiently characteristic to give a just idea of the composer’s talent.

* * * * *

Tchaikovsky left London very early on the morning of March 31st (April 12th), and arrived at Marseilles on the following day, where he embarked for Batoum by the Messageries Maritimes.

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“CONSTANTINOPLE, _April_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1889.

“ ... We left Marseilles a week ago. The ship is a good one, the
food excellent. It was sometimes very rough. Between Syra and
Smyrna there was quite a storm, to which I cannot look back without
horror. Both these places pleased me very much. I got to know two
Russians on board: a lad of fourteen, Volodya Sklifassovsky (son of
the celebrated surgeon), and Hermanovich, a student at the Moscow
University, who was travelling with him. Both were charming beings,
with whom I made fast friends. They were going to Odessa--I to
Batoum. We spent the whole of the evening together in the town, but
slept on board. I shall miss them very much....”

* * * * *

When Tchaikovsky parted from his new friends he returned to his
cabin and “cried bitterly,” as though he had some premonition that
he should never again see this lovable and highly gifted boy on
earth. Volodya Sklifassovsky died in January, 1890.

_To N. F. von Meck._

“TIFLIS, _April_ 20_th_ (_May_ 2_nd_), 1889.

“ ... A glorious land, the Caucasus! How indescribably beautiful is
the valley of the Rion, for instance, with its rich vegetation,
through which runs the railway from Batoum to this place! Imagine,
my dear, a wide valley, shut in on either side by rocks and
mountains of fantastic form, in which flourish rhododendrons and
other spring flowers, besides an abundance of trees, putting forth
their fresh green foliage; and, added to this, the noisy, winding,
brimming waters of the Rion.... In Tiflis, too, it is wonderful
just now; all the fruit trees are in blossom. The weather is so
clear that all the distant snow-peaks are visible, and the air is
full of the feeling of spring, fragrant and life-giving. After the
London fog it seems so beautiful, I can find no words to express
it....”

By May 7th (19th) Tchaikovsky was back in Moscow. The following letter throws some light on the musical life of that town.

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“MOSCOW, _May_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1889.

“ ... All were glad to see me again. Since my return I have
attended the committee meetings of the Musical Society every day.
There is a great accumulation of business. A _coup d’état_ has
taken place in the Conservatoire. Taneiev has resigned the
direction, and Safonov is prepared to take his place, on condition
that Karl Albrecht gives up the post of inspector. I backed Karl
persistently and energetically, and finally declared that I would
retire from the Board of Direction if he were allowed to leave
without any decoration for long service....”

* * * * *

From Moscow Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg for a few days,
returning to Frolovskoe, where he remained for the next four
months.

* * * * *

The summer of 1889 passed in peaceful monotony. Tchaikovsky was
engaged in composing and orchestrating his ballet, _The Sleeping
Beauty_.... The little parties he occasionally gave--when
Jurgenson, Mme. A. Hubert, and Siloti were his usual guests--were
the sole “events” of this period of his life. But no account of
this summer--uneventful as it was--would be complete without some
mention of Legoshin’s[141] daughter, a child of three. Tchaikovsky
was altogether fascinated by her prettiness, her clear, bell-like
voice, her charming ways, and clever little head. He would spend
hours romping with the child, listening to her chatter, and even
acting as nursemaid.

At this time Tchaikovsky’s correspondence had not decreased, but
many of his business letters are not forthcoming, and those of a
more private nature which date from this summer are for the most
part short and uninteresting.

_To Edward Napravnik._

“KLIN, _July_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1889.

“ ... You have not forgotten your promise to conduct one of the
concerts of the Moscow Musical Society, dear friend?...

“Now for the programme. It rests entirely with you both as regards
the choice of music and of the soloists.... We beg you to lay aside
your modesty, and to include at least two important works of your
own. I implore you _most emphatically_ not to do any of my
compositions. As I am arranging this concert, it would be most
unseemly were the conductor I engaged to perform any work of mine.
I would not on any account have it suspected that I was looking
after my own interests. But people would be sure to put this
interpretation upon the matter, if the conductor invited for the
occasion were to include any of my music in the programme. I think
Dvořák will only bring forward his own works, so I will
ask you as a Russo-Bohemian to give us something of Smetana’s,
_Vishergrad_, or _Moldava_....”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“FROLOVSKOE, _July_ 25_th_ (_August_ 6_th_), 1889.

“ ... My ballet will be published in November or December. Siloti
is making the pianoforte arrangement. I think, dear friend, that it
will be one of my best works. The subject is so poetical, so
grateful for musical setting, that I have worked at it with all
that enthusiasm and goodwill upon which the value of a composition
so much depends. The instrumentation gives me far more trouble than
it used to do; consequently the work goes slowly, but perhaps all
the better. Many of my earlier compositions show traces of hurry
and lack of due reflection.”

VI

1889-1890

At the close of September, 1889, Tchaikovsky went to Moscow, where very complicated business in connection with the Russian Musical Society awaited his attention. For each symphony concert during the forthcoming season a different conductor was to be engaged.[142] Besides this, he had to superintend the rehearsals for _Eugene Oniegin_. This opera was to be newly and sumptuously remounted on September 18th (30th), when the composer had undertaken to conduct his own work.

From Moscow Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg for a few days, to attend a meeting of the committee appointed to arrange the Jubilee Festival for Anton Rubinstein. Tchaikovsky had undertaken to compose two works for this occasion.

While he was in Petersburg, Alexis prepared the new quarters in Moscow, which he had taken for the whole winter.

The lack of society in the evening, and the heavy duties which awaited him in connection with the Musical Society, were Tchaikovsky’s sole reasons for wintering in Moscow rather than in the neighbourhood of Klin.

During the summer the idea of trying town life once more seemed to attract him, and he spoke with enthusiasm of his new apartment, and took the greatest interest in getting it ready; but, as the day of departure drew near, he felt less and less inclined to leave his country home.

Two circumstances contributed to make the first days after his arrival in Moscow depressing: first, he greatly missed the society of Laroche, who had gone to live in Petersburg; and, secondly, his friend, the ‘cellist Fitzenhagen, was on his death-bed.

His winter quarters were small, but comfortable. The work to which he looked forward with most apprehension was the direction of the two festival concerts for Rubinstein’s jubilee. For two and a half years he had been conducting his own compositions, but had comparatively little experience of other music. Therefore these long and heavy programmes, including as they did several of Rubinstein’s own works, filled him with anxious foreboding.

_To N. F. von Meck._

“MOSCOW, _October_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1889.

“I am very glad you are at home, and I envy you. By nature I
incline _very_, _very_ much to the kind of life you lead. I long to
live completely away from society, as you do, but during recent
years circumstances have made it impossible for me to live as I
please. I consider it my duty, while I have strength for it, to
fight against my destiny and not to desert my fellow-creatures so
long as they have need of me....

“But, good God, what I have to get through this winter! It
frightens me to think of all that lies before me, here and in
Petersburg. Directly the season is over I shall go to Italy for a
rest. I have not been there since 1882.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_October_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1889.

“Just think: I have heard from Tchekov.[143] He wants to dedicate
his new stories to me. I have been to thank him. I am very proud
and pleased.”

Tchaikovsky first became acquainted with Tchekov’s works in 1887. His enthusiasm was such that he felt impelled to write to the author, expressing his delight at having come across a talent so fresh and original. His first personal acquaintance with his literary favourite probably dated from the autumn of the same year. At any rate, they had known each other previous to 1889.

_To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._[144]

“MOSCOW, _October_ 29_th_ (_November_ 10_th_), 1889.

“YOUR IMPERIAL HIGHNESS,--I feel a certain pride in knowing that
your admirable poem is partly the outcome of my letter to you last
year. I cannot think why you should fancy that the idea of your
poem does not please me. On the contrary, I like it very much. I
cannot say that I have sufficient love and forbearance in my own
nature always to love ‘the hand that chastises.’ Very often I want
to parry the blows, and play the rebellious child in my turn.
Nevertheless, I cannot but incline before the strength of mind and
lofty views of such rare natures as Spinoza, or Tolstoi, who make
no distinction between good and bad men, and take the same attitude
towards every manifestation of human wickedness that you have
expressed in your poem. I have never read Spinoza, so I speak of
him from hearsay; but as regards Tolstoi, I have read and re-read
him, and consider him the greatest writer in the world, past or
present. His writings awake in me--apart from any powerful artistic
impression--a peculiar emotion. I do not feel so deeply touched
when he describes anything really emotional, such as death,
suffering, separation, etc., so much as by the most ordinary,
prosaic events. For instance, I remember that when reading the
chapter in which Dolokhov plays cards with Rastov and wins, I burst
into tears. Why should a scene in which two characters are acting
in an unworthy manner affect me in this degree? The reason is
simple enough. Tolstoi surveys the people he describes from such a
height that they seem to him poor, insignificant pigmies who, in
their blindness, injure each other in an aimless, purposeless
way--and he pities them. Tolstoi has no malice; he loves and pities
all his characters equally, and all their actions are the result of
their own limitations and naïve egotism, their helplessness and
insignificance. Therefore he never punishes his heroes for their
ill-doings, as Dickens does (who is a great favourite of mine),
because he never depicts anyone as absolutely bad, only blind
people, as it were. His humanity is far above the sentimental
humanity of Dickens; it almost attains to that view of human
wickedness which is expressed in the words of Christ: ‘they know
not what they do.’

“Is not your Highness’s poem an echo of this lofty feeling of
humanity which so dominates me, and how can I therefore fail to
admire the fundamental idea of your verses?

“The news that the Emperor has deigned to inquire after me gives me
great pleasure. How am I to understand the Emperor’s question about
little pieces? If it is an indirect incitement to compose something
in this style, I will take the first opportunity of doing so. I
should immensely like to compose a great symphony, which should be,
as it were, the crown of my creative work, and dedicate it to the
Tsar. I have long since had a vague plan of such a work in my mind,
but many favourable circumstances must combine before I can realise
my idea. I hope I shall not die before I have carried out this
project. At present I am entirely absorbed in the concerts here and
the preparations for Rubinstein’s jubilee.”

In the same year in which my brother began to study with Zaremba, in 1861 (or perhaps the previous year--I cannot remember for certain), he took Anatol and myself to an amateur performance in aid of some charity, given in the house of Prince Bieloselsky. Anton Rubinstein, already at the height of his fame, was among the audience. Peter Ilich pointed him out to me for the first time, and I still remember the excitement, rapture and reverence with which the future pupil gazed on his future teacher. He entirely forgot the play, while his eyes followed his “divinity,” with the rapt gaze of a lover for the unattainable beauty of his fancy. During the intervals he stood as near to him as possible, strove to catch the sound of his voice, and envied the fortunate mortals who ventured to shake hands with him.

This feeling (I might say “infatuation” had it not been based upon a full appreciation of Rubinstein’s value as a man and artist) practically lasted to the end of Tchaikovsky’s life. Externally he was always “in love” with Rubinstein, although--as is always the case in love affairs--there were periods of coolness, jealousy, and irritation, which invariably gave place in turn to a fresh access of that sentiment which set me wondering in Prince Bieloselsky’s reception-room. In Rubinstein’s presence Tchaikovsky became quite diffident, lost his head, and seemed to regard him as a superior being. When at a supper, given during the pianist’s jubilee, someone, in an indelicate and unseemly way, requested Rubinstein and Tchaikovsky to drink to each other “as brothers,” the latter was not only confused and indignant, but, in his reply to the toast, protested warmly, saying that his tongue would never consent to address the great artist in the second person singular--it would be entirely against the spirit of their relations. He would be happy if Rubinstein addressed him by the familiar “thou,” but for his own part, the more ceremonious form better expressed a sense of reverence from the pupil to his teacher, from the man to the embodiment of his ideal. These were no empty words. Rubinstein had been the first to give the novice in his art an example of the untiring devotion and disinterested spirit which animates the life of the true artist. In this sense Tchaikovsky was far more the pupil of Rubinstein than in questions of orchestration and composition. With his innate gifts and thirst for knowledge, any other teacher could have given him the same instruction. It was in his character as an energetic, irreproachably clean-minded and inspired artist, as a man who never compromised with his conscience, who had all his life detested every kind of humbug and the successes of vulgarity, as an indefatigable worker, that Rubinstein left really deep traces upon Tchaikovsky’s artistic career. The latter, writing to the well-known German journalist, Eugen Zabel, said: “Rubinstein’s personality shines before me like a clear, guiding star.”

But there were times when clouds obscured this “guiding star.” While recognising Rubinstein’s great gifts as a composer, and valuing some of his works very highly--such as the “Ocean Symphony,” _The Tower of Babel_, the Pianoforte Concerto, _Ivan the Terrible_, the violoncello sonatas, and many of the pieces for pianoforte--Tchaikovsky grew angry and impatient over the vast majority of the virtuoso’s mediocre and empty creations. He frequently expressed himself so sarcastically on this subject that I have cut out certain passages in his letters, lest they might give the reader a false impression of his attitude towards Rubinstein. But he soon forgot and forgave these momentary eclipses of “his star,” and always returned to his old spirit of veneration.

The deepest, keenest, and most painful aspect of their relations--and here artistic self-esteem doubtless played a part--was the knowledge of Rubinstein’s antipathy to him as a composer, which he never conquered to the end of his life. The virtuoso never cared for Tchaikovsky’s music. Many of Rubinstein’s intimate friends, and also his wife, maintained the reverse. But in that case it was the love of Wotan for the Wälsungs. Secretly rejoicing in the success of Tchaikovsky-Siegmund, and sympathising in his heart with Tchaikovsky-Siegfried, Wotan-Rubinstein never did anything to forward the performance of his works, nor held out a helping hand.... From the earliest exercises at the Conservatoire, to the “Pathetic Symphony,” he never praised--and seldom condemned--a single work of Tchaikovsky’s. All of them, without exception, were silently ignored--together with all the music which came after Schumann--as unworthy of serious attention.

The legend of Rubinstein’s envy, which had absolutely no foundation in fact, always annoyed Tchaikovsky and aroused his wrath. Even if it might be to a certain extent true as regards the eighties, when my brother was recognised and famous, it could not apply to the attitude of a teacher towards a pupil who--although undoubtedly gifted--had a doubtful future before him. To the composer of the “Ocean Symphony” Tchaikovsky’s earliest essays in composition were as antipathetic as _Eugene Oniegin_ and the Fifth Symphony. Envy can only exist between two equally matched rivals, and could not have influenced a giant--as Rubinstein was in the sixties--in his relations with anyone so insignificant as the Tchaikovsky of those days.

The feeling was simply the same which Tchaikovsky himself cherished for the works of Chopin and Brahms; a sentiment of instinctive and unconquerable antipathy. Rubinstein felt like this, not only towards Tchaikovsky’s music, but to all musical works which came after Chopin and Schumann.

In any case, however much Tchaikovsky may have been wounded by Rubinstein’s indifference, he remained loyal to his enthusiasm for his former teacher. When the Duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz requested him to take part in organising the celebration of Rubinstein’s jubilee, he expressed himself willing to put himself at the disposal of the committee. It was decided that he should conduct the jubilee concerts and compose a chorus _a capella_ to words by Polonsky. The chorus was to be sung at the festival given in the hall of the Nobles’ Club, November 18th (30th), 1889. In addition he undertook to contribute something to the album which Rubinstein’s former pupils at the Petersburg Conservatoire were going to present him on the same occasion.

The second half of his task was easily fulfilled. In a few days both compositions--the chorus and an Impromptu for pianoforte--were ready. The conducting of the concerts was another matter. The labour it involved, and the difficulties in connection with it, made real demands upon Tchaikovsky’s devotion for his old teacher.

The programme of the first concert consisted entirely of symphonic works, including the Konzertstück (op. 113), with Rubinstein himself at the piano, and the Symphony No. 5 (op. 107). At the second concert, besides the dances from _Feramors_ and the _Roussalka_ songs, the chief item was the Biblical opera, _The Tower of Babel_.

This programme would have made very heavy demands upon the most experienced conductor; it was a still heavier task for one who--only a month previously--had conducted for the first time any works other than his own.

“There were moments,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck, “when I experienced such a complete loss of strength that I feared for my life. The working up of _The Tower of Babel_, with its chorus of seven hundred voices, gave me the most trouble. On the evening of November 10th (22nd), just before the oratorio began, I had an attack of nerves, which they feared might prevent my returning to the conductor’s desk. But--perhaps thanks to this crisis--I pulled myself together in time, and all went well to the end. You will learn all details about the festival from the newspapers. I will only add that from the 1st to the 19th of November I endured martyrdom, and I am still marvelling how I lived through it all.”

* * * * *

To the period between the end of October, 1889, to the middle of January, 1890, belong but twelve letters, only two of which have any biographical interest. The rest are merely short notes of no importance. Such a decrease in Tchaikovsky’s correspondence is a symptom of the highly nervous and distracted phase which he was now passing through. For a long time past letter-writing had ceased to be a pleasant duty; still, it remained a _duty_, which he could only neglect under special circumstances, such as overwhelmed him at the commencement of this season.

He had scarcely got over the jubilee concerts, when he had to return to Moscow to conduct Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony at an extra Symphony Concert, given in aid of the fund for the widows and orphans of musicians.

Only two published notices of this concert are in existence at Klin. Both emanate from staunch admirers of Tchaikovsky: Kashkin and Konius, who, in spite of all their justice, probably show some partisanship in their praise.

On the same occasion Brandoukov played Tchaikovsky’s Pezzo Capriccioso for violoncello with great success.