Chapter XXIX: Part VII: I (6)

“ ... I have only time for a few lines. Yesterday my concert took
place in the Opera House, and went off brilliantly in every
respect. The orchestra, which took a great liking to me, played
admirably. Barcewicz played my Concerto with unusual spirit, and
Friede[175] sang beautifully. The day before yesterday
Grossmann[176] arranged a grand soirée in my honour. The Polish
countesses were fascinatingly amiable to me. I have been fêted
everywhere. Gurko[177] is the only person who has not shown me the
least attention.... Three weeks hence I go to Hamburg. I shall
conduct _Oniegin_ there myself; Pollini has made a point of it.”

_To A. Merkling._

“BERLIN, _January_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1892.

“ ... At Grossman’s grand evening I observed that the Polish ladies
(many very aristocratic women were there) are amiable, cultivated,
interesting, and sympathetic. The farewell at the station yesterday
was very magnificent. There is some talk of giving one of my operas
in Polish next season. I am spending a day in Berlin to recover
from the exciting existence in Warsaw. To-morrow I leave for
Hamburg, where I conduct _Oniegin_ on January 7th (19th). On the
29th (February 10th) my concert takes place in Amsterdam, and on
the 30th (February 11th), at the Hague. After that--full steam
homewards. I can only look forward with fearful excitement and
impatience to the blessed day when I shall return to my adored
Mother Russia.”

Tchaikovsky arrived in Hamburg to find _Oniegin_ had been well studied, and the preparations for its staging satisfactory on the whole. “The conductor here,” he wrote to his favourite nephew, “is not merely passable, but actually has genius, and he ardently desires to conduct the first performance. Yesterday I heard a wonderful rendering of _Tannhäuser_ under his direction. The singers, the orchestra, Pollini, the managers, and the conductor--his name is Mahler[178]--are all in love with _Oniegin_; but I am very doubtful whether the Hamburg public will share their enthusiasm.” Tchaikovsky’s doubts as to the success of _Eugene Oniegin_ were well founded. The opera was not much applauded.

_To Vladimir Davidov._

“PARIS, _January_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1892.

“ ... I am in a very awkward position. I have a fortnight in
prospect during which I do not know how to kill time. I thought
this would be easier in Paris than anywhere else--but it was only
on the first day that I did not feel bored. Since yesterday I have
been wondering how I could save myself from idleness and ennui. If
Sapellnikov and Menter would not be offended at my not going to
Holland, how gladly I should start homewards! If the Silotis had
not been here, I do not think I could have stayed. Yesterday I was
at the ‘Folies-Bergères,’ and it bored me terribly. The Russian
clown Durov brings on 250 dressed-up rats. It is most curious in
what forms the Parisians display their Russophile propensities.
Neither at the Opera, nor at any of the more serious theatres, is
anything Russian performed, and while _we_ are giving
_Esclarmonde_, _they_ show their goodwill towards Russian art by
the medium of Durov and his rats! Truly, it enrages me--I say it
frankly--partly on account of my own interests. Why cannot Colonne,
who is now the head of the Opera, give my _Pique Dame_, or my new
Ballet? In autumn he spoke of doing so, and engaged Petipa with a
view to this. But it was all empty talk.... You will say: ‘Are you
not ashamed to be so envious and small-minded?’ I am ashamed.
Having nothing to do, I am reading Zola’s _La bête humaine_. I
cannot understand how people can seriously accept Zola as a great
writer. Could there be anything more false and improbable than the
leading idea of this novel? Of course, there are parts in which the
truth is set forth with realism and vitality. But, in the main, it
is so artificial that one never for a moment feels any sympathy
with the actions or sufferings of the characters. It is simply a
story of crime _à la_ Gaboriau, larded with obscenities.”

His increasing nostalgia and depression of spirits finally caused Tchaikovsky to abandon the concerts in Holland and return to Petersburg about the end of January. There he spent a week with his relatives, and went back to Maidanovo on the 28th (February 9th).

* * * * *

While in Paris, Tchaikovsky completed the revision of his Sextet, and on his return to Russia devoted himself to the orchestration of the _Nut-cracker_ Ballet. He was in haste to finish those numbers from this work, which, in the form of a Suite, were to be played in St. Petersburg on March 7th (19th), instead of the ill-fated ballade, _The Voyevode_.

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“MAIDANOVO, _February_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1892.

“I am living very pleasantly here and enjoying the most beautiful
of all the winter months. I love these clear, rather frosty days,
when the sun sometimes begins to feel quite warm. They bring a
feeling of spring.... Volodya Napravnik is staying with me just
now, and has turned out to be excellent company. He is very
musical, and that is a great pleasure. I often play pianoforte
duets with him in the evening, or simply listen while he plays my
favourite pieces. I have taken a house at Klin which will be my
future home.... Later on I may buy it. Thank God, my financial
position is excellent. _Pique Dame_ was given nineteen times in
Moscow, and the house was always sold out. Besides, there are the
other operas. There is a good deal due to me from Petersburg.”

Late in February Tchaikovsky went to St. Petersburg for a short visit. Here he received news which made a startling impression upon him. He had long believed his old governess Fanny to be dead. Suddenly he was informed that not only was she still alive, but had sent him her greetings. The first effect of these glad tidings came upon him as a kind of shock. In his own words, “he felt as though he had been told that his mother had risen from the dead, that the last forty-three years of existence were nothing but a dream, and that he had awakened to find himself in the upstairs rooms of the house at Votinsk.” He dreaded, too, lest his dear teacher should now be only the shadow of her old self, a feeble and senile creature to whom death would be a boon. Nevertheless, he wrote to her at once, a kindly letter in which he asked if he could serve her in any way, and enclosed his photograph. Her reply, written in a firm handwriting, in which he recognised her old clearness of style, and the absence of all complaint, greatly assured him. Thus, between teacher and pupil the old affectionate relations were again renewed.

At the Symphony Concert of the Musical Society, on March 7th (19th), Tchaikovsky conducted his _Romeo and Juliet_ Overture and the _Nut-cracker_ Suite. The new work must have had an unprecedented success, since five out of the six movements had to be repeated.

At a concert given by the School of Jurisprudence, on March 3rd (15th), the composer had the honour of being introduced to the Tsarevich, now the reigning Emperor of Russia.

He returned to Maidanovo on March 9th.

_To J. Konius._

“_March_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1892.

“In Petersburg I heard a very interesting violinist named (César)
Thomson. Do you know him? He has a most remarkable technique; for
instance, he plays passages of octaves with a rapidity to which no
one has previously attained. I am telling you this on the
assumption that you, too, will attempt this artistic feat. It makes
a tremendous effect.”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“_March_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1892.

“ ... I have no recollection of having promised you that I would
never give away any of my manuscripts. I should have been very
unwilling to make any such promise, because there are cases in
which I could only be very pleased to present one of my scores to
the Opera Direction--or in a similar instance.[179] ... Your
reproach that I give them away ‘right and left’ is without
foundation. The Opera Direction, to which I owe my prosperity, is
surely worthy to possess one of my scores in its superb library;
and the same applies to the Russian Musical Society, from which
originated the Conservatoire where I studied, and where I was
invariably treated with kindness and indulgence. If you are really
going to make it a _sine quâ non_ that all my manuscripts must be
your property, we must discuss the question ... and should you
convince me that your interests really suffer through the
presentation of my scores, I will promise not to do it again. I
have so rarely deprived you of the priceless joy of possessing my
autograph scrawls! You have so many to the good! I cannot
understand why you should be so annoyed!”

At the end of March Tchaikovsky spent a week with his relatives in Petersburg--now a very reduced circle--and afterwards went to Moscow. During the month Tchaikovsky spent in this city Alexis moved all his master’s belongings from Maidanovo to the new house at Klin.

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“MOSCOW, _April_ 23_rd_ (_May_ 5_th_), 1892.

“Moscow is unbearable, for there is scarcely a human being who does
not bother me with visits or invitations; or ask me to look at an
opera or songs, or--most unpleasant of all--try to get money out of
me in one form or another. I shall look back upon this month spent
in Moscow as upon a horrid nightmare. So far, I have conducted
_Faust_ and Rubinstein’s _Demon_; _Oniegin_ has yet to come.[180]
But what are all these small inconveniences compared to what you
have to do?[181] I have read your last letter with the greatest
interest, and felt glad for your sake that you have such a fine
opportunity of helping your fellow-creatures. I am sure that you
will always cherish the memory of your mission to the
famine-stricken Siberians.”

XV

After the month’s uncongenial work in Moscow, Tchaikovsky rested a
few days in Petersburg, until Alexis had everything ready for him
in the new home--which was destined to be his last. The house at
Klin stood at the furthest end of the little town, and was
completely surrounded by fields and woods; two-storied and very
roomy. It particularly pleased Tchaikovsky, because--quite an
unusual thing in a small country house in Russia--the upper rooms
were large, and could be turned into an excellent bedroom and study
for a guest. This was perhaps the only improvement upon Maidanovo
and Frolovskoe. A small garden, the usual outlook across the
country, the neighbourhood of endless kitchen-gardens on the one
hand, and of the high-road to Moscow on the other, deprived the
spot of all poetic beauty, and only Tchaikovsky, with his very
modest demands for comfort or luxury, could have been quite
satisfied--even enthusiastic--about the place.

After the composer’s death, this house was purchased by his
servant, Alexis Safronov, who sold it in 1897 to Modeste
Tchaikovsky and his nephew, Vladimir Davidov. At the present
moment--in so far as possible--every relic, and all documents
connected with the composer, are preserved in the house.

(HIS LAST HOME)]

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“KLIN, _May_ 20_th_ (_June_ 1_st_), 1892.

“I have spent so much money lately (of course not upon myself
alone) that all my hopes of laying aside something for George[182]
have vanished.”

_To Eugen Zabel._

“KLIN, NEAR MOSCOW, _May_ 24_th_ (_June_ 5_th_), 1892.

“I have just received your esteemed letter, and feel it a pleasant
duty to send you an immediate answer, but as I write German very
badly I must have recourse to French. I doubt if you will find
anything new, interesting, or of any value for your biography in
the following lines; but I promise to say quite frankly all that I
know and feel about Rubinstein.

“It was in 1858 that I heard the name of Anton Rubinstein for the
first time. I was then eighteen, and I had just entered the higher
class of the School of Jurisprudence, and only took up music as an
amateur. For several years I had taken lessons on Sundays from a
very distinguished pianist, M. Rodolphe Kündinger. In those days,
never having heard any other virtuoso than my teacher, I believed
him, in all sincerity, to be the greatest in the world. One day
Kündinger came to the lesson in a very absent-minded mood, and paid
little attention to the scales and exercises I was playing. When I
asked this admirable man and artist what was the matter, he replied
that, the day before, he had heard the pianist Rubinstein, just
come from abroad; this man had impressed him so profoundly that he
had not yet recovered from the experience, and everything in the
way of virtuosity now seemed to him so poor that it was as
unbearable to listen to my scales as to hear himself play the
piano.

“I knew what a noble and sincere nature Kündinger possessed. I had
a very high opinion of his taste and knowledge--and this caused his
words to excite my imagination and my curiosity in the highest
degree. In the course of my scholastic year I had the opportunity
of hearing Rubinstein--and not only of _hearing_ him, but of
_seeing_ him play and conduct. I lay stress upon this first _visual
impression_, because it is my profound conviction that Rubinstein’s
prestige is based not only upon his rare talent, but also upon an
irresistible charm which emanates from his whole personality; so
that it is not sufficient to hear him in order to gain a full
impression--one must see him too. I heard and saw him. Like
everyone else, I fell under the spell of his charm. All the same, I
finished my studies, entered the Government service, and continued
to amuse myself with a little music in my leisure hours. But
gradually my true vocation made itself felt. I will spare you
details which have nothing to do with my subject, but I must tell
you that about the time of the foundation of the St. Petersburg
Conservatoire, in September, 1862, I was no longer a clerk in the
Ministry of Justice, but a young man resolved to devote himself to
music, and ready to face all the difficulties which were predicted
by my relatives, who were displeased that I should voluntarily
abandon a career in which I had made a good start. I entered the
Conservatoire. My professors were: Zaremba for counterpoint and
fugue, etc., Anton Rubinstein (Director) for form and
instrumentation. I remained three and a half years at the
Conservatoire, and during this time I saw Rubinstein daily, and
sometimes several times a day, except during the vacations. When I
joined the Conservatoire I was--as I have already told you--an
enthusiastic worshipper of Rubinstein. But when I knew him better,
when I became his pupil and we entered into daily relations with
each other, my enthusiasm for his personality became even greater.
In him I adored not only a great pianist and composer, but a man of
rare nobility, frank, loyal, generous, incapable of petty and
vulgar sentiments, clear and right-minded, of infinite goodness--in
fact, a man who towered far above the common herd. As a teacher, he
was of incomparable value. He went to work simply, without grand
phrases or long dissertations; but always taking his duty
seriously. He was only once angry with me. After the holidays I
took him an overture entitled ‘The Storm,’ in which I had been
guilty of all kinds of whims of form and orchestration. He was
hurt, and said that it was not for the development of imbeciles
that he took the trouble to teach the art of composition. I left
the Conservatoire full of gratitude and admiration for my
professor.

“For over three years I saw him daily. But what were our relations?
He was a great and illustrious musician--I a humble pupil, who only
saw him fulfilling his duties, and had no idea of his intimate
life. A great gulf lay between us. When I left the Conservatoire I
hoped that by working courageously, and gradually making my way, I
might look forward to the happiness of seeing this gulf bridged
over. I dared to aspire to the honour of becoming the friend of
Rubinstein.

“It was not to be. Nearly thirty years have passed since then, but
the gulf is deeper and wider than before. Through my professorship
in Moscow I came to be the intimate friend of Nicholas Rubinstein;
I had the pleasure of seeing Anton from time to time; I have always
continued to care for him intensely, and to regard him as the
greatest of artists and the noblest of men, but I never became, and
never shall become, his friend. This great luminary revolves always
in my heaven, but while I see its light I feel its remoteness more
and more.

“It would be difficult to explain the reason for this. I think,
however, that my _amour propre_ as a composer has a great deal to
do with it. In my youth I was very impatient to make my way, to win
a name and reputation as a gifted composer, and I hoped that
Rubinstein--who already enjoyed a high position in the musical
world--would help me in my chase for fame. But painful as it is, I
must confess that he did nothing, _absolutely nothing_, to forward
my plans or assist my projects. Certainly he never injured me--he
is too noble and generous to put a spoke in the wheel of a
comrade--but he never departed from his attitude of reserve and
kindly indifference towards me. This has always been a profound
regret. The most probable explanation of this mortifying
luke-warmness is that Rubinstein _does not care for my music, that
my musical temperament is antipathetic to him_. Now I still see
him from time to time, and always with pleasure, for this
extraordinary man has only to hold out his hand and smile for us to
fall at his feet. At the time of his jubilee I had the happiness of
going through much trouble and fatigue for him; his attitude to me
is always exceedingly correct, exceedingly polite and kind--but we
live very much apart, and I can tell you nothing about his way of
life, his views and aims--nothing, in fact, that could be of
interest to the future readers of your book.

“I have never received letters from Rubinstein, and never wrote to
him but twice in my life, to thank him for having, in recent years,
included, among other Russian works in his programmes, one or two
of my own.

“I have made a point of fulfilling your wish and telling you all I
could about Rubinstein. If I have told too little, it is not my
fault, nor that of Anton, but of fatality.

“Forgive my blots and smudges. To-morrow I have to leave home, and
have no time to copy this.

“Your devoted

“P. T.”

The sole object of the journey mentioned in this letter was to take a cure at Vichy. The catarrh of the stomach from which he suffered had been a trouble to Tchaikovsky for the last twenty years. Once, while staying with Kondratiev at Nizy, the local doctor had recommended him _natron_ water. From that time he could not exist without it, and took it in such quantities that he ended by acquiring a kind of taste for it. But it did not cure his complaint, which grew worse and worse, so that in 1876 he had to undergo a course of mineral waters. The catarrhal trouble was not entirely cured, however, but returned at intervals with more or less intensity. About the end of the eighties his condition grew worse. Once during the rehearsals for _Pique Dame_, while staying at the Hôtel Rossiya in St. Petersburg, he sent for his brother Modeste, and declared he “could not live through the night.” This turned his thoughts more and more to the “hateful but health-giving Vichy.” But the periods of rest after his various tours, and of work in his “hermit’s cave” at Klin, were so dear to him that until 1892 he could not make up his mind to revisit this watering-place. This year he only decided to go because the health of Vladimir Davidov equally demanded a cure at Vichy. He hoped in this congenial company to escape his usual home-sickness, and that it might even prove a pleasure to take his nephew abroad.

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“VICHY, _June_ 19_th_ (_July_ 1_st_), 1892.

“We have been here a week. It seems more like seven months, and I
look forward with horror to the fortnight which remains. I dislike
Vichy as much as I did sixteen years ago, but I think the waters
will do me good. In any case I feel sure Bob will benefit by them.”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“VICHY, _July_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1892.

“I only possess one short note from Liszt, which is of so little
importance that it is not worth your while to send it to La Mara.
Liszt was a good fellow, and ready to respond to everyone who paid
court to him. But as I never toadied to him, or any other
celebrity, we never got into correspondence. I think he really
preferred Messrs. Cui and Co., who went on pilgrimages to Weimar,
and he was more in sympathy with their music than with mine. As far
as I know, Liszt was not particularly interested in my works.”

By July 9th (21st) Tchaikovsky and his nephew were back in Petersburg, from whence he travelled almost immediately to Klin, where he busied himself with the new Symphony (No. 6) which he wished to have ready in August.

At the outset of his career Tchaikovsky was somewhat indifferent as to the manner in which his works were published. He troubled very little about the quality of the pianoforte arrangements of his operas and symphonic works, and still less about printers’ errors. About the end of the seventies, however, he entirely changed his attitude, and henceforth became more and more particular and insistent in his demands respecting the pianoforte arrangements and correction of his compositions. Quite half his correspondence with Jurgenson is taken up with these matters ... His requirements constantly increased. No one could entirely satisfy him. The cleverest arrangers, such as Klindworth, Taneiev, and Siloti did not please him, because they made their arrangements too difficult for amateurs. He was also impatient at the slowness with which they worked.

Now that for a year and a half Tchaikovsky has been in his grave, it is easy to attribute to certain events in his life (which passed unnoticed at the time) a kind of prophetic significance. His special and exclusive care as to the editing and publishing of his works in 1892 may, however, be compared to the preparations which a man makes for a long journey, when he is as much occupied with what lies before him as with what he is leaving behind. He strives to finish what is unfinished, and to leave all in such a condition that he can face the unknown with a quiet conscience.

The words Tchaikovsky addressed to Jurgenson with reference to the Third Suite--“If all my best works were published in this style I might depart in peace”--offer some justification for my simile.

In the autumn of 1892 he undertook the entire correction of the orchestral parts of _Iolanthe_ and the _Nut-cracker_ Ballet; the improvements and corrections of the pianoforte arrangement (two hands) of _Iolanthe_; the corrections of the pianoforte score of the Opera and Ballet, and a simplified pianoforte arrangement of the latter.

Tchaikovsky so often speaks in his letters of his dislike to this kind of work that he must have needed extraordinary self-abnegation to take this heavy burden upon his shoulders.

As with the spirits in Dante’s _Inferno_, the dread of their torments by the will of divine justice “_si volge in disio_,”[183] so the energy with which Tchaikovsky attacked his task turned to a morbid, passionate excitement. “Corrections, corrections! More, more! For Heaven’s sake, corrections!” he cries in his letters to Jurgenson, so that the casual reader might take for an intense desire that which was, in reality, only a worry to him, as the following letter shows.

_To S. Taneiev._

“KLIN, _July_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1892.

“Just now I am busy looking through the pianoforte score of
_Iolanthe_. It bothers and annoys me indescribably. Before I went
abroad in May I had sketched the first movement and finale of a
Symphony. Abroad it did not progress in the least, and now I have
no time for it.”

_To Anna Merkling._

“KLIN, _July_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1892.

“DEAREST ANNA,--I have received your letter with the little
additional note from dear Katy.[184] What extraordinary people you
are! How can you imagine it would be a great pleasure for you if I
were to come on a visit? If I were cheerful and pleasant company
that would be a different matter. But I am no use for
conversational purposes, and am often out of spirits, nor have I
any resources in myself. I cannot help thinking that if I came you
might afterwards say to yourselves: ‘This old fool, we awaited him
with such impatience, and he is not a bit nice after all!’ Anna, I
really do want to come to the Oboukhovs’, but I cannot positively
say ‘yes’ at present.... It will be sad to part from Bob, who is
dearer to me than ever, since we have been inseparable companions
for the last six weeks.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“KLIN, _July_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1892.

“ ... I am sorry your comedy is ineffective and not suitable for
the stage. Why do you think so? Authors are never good judges of
their own work. Flaubert’s letters--which I enjoy very much at
present--are very curious in this respect. I think there is no more
sympathetic personality in all the world of literature. A hero and
martyr to his art. And so wise! I have found some astonishing
answers to my questionings as to God and religion in his book.”

At the end of July Russian art suffered a great loss in the death of the connoisseur and wealthy patron, S. M. Tretiakov, who had been Nicholas Rubinstein’s right hand in the founding of the Moscow Conservatoire. To Tchaikovsky, Tretiakov’s somewhat sudden end came as a severe blow, and he immediately travelled to Moscow to be present at the funeral of his friend.

A pleasanter incident during this summer of hard work came in the form of an invitation to conduct a concert at the Vienna Exhibition. “It is an advantage,” he wrote to his brother Modeste, “because so far--on account of Hanslick--Vienna has been hostile to me. I should like to overcome this unfriendly opinion.”

At last, at the very end of August, the vast accumulation of proof-correcting was finished, which, as he himself said, would have almost driven him out of his mind, but for his regular and healthy way of life. “Even in dreams,” he wrote to Vladimir Davidov, “I see corrections, and flats and sharps that refuse to do what they are ordered.... I should like to see you at Verbovka after Vienna, but Sophie Menter, who is coming to my concert there, has given me a pressing invitation to her castle. Three times already I have broken my promise to go to Itter. I am really interested to see this ‘marvel,’ as everyone calls the castle.”

In the course of this year, at the suggestion of the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich, President of the Academy of Sciences, Tchaikovsky was invited by the academician Y. K. Grote to contribute to the new _Dictionary of the Russian Language_, then appearing in a second edition. Tchaikovsky’s duties were limited to the superintendence of musical words, but he was flattered by his connection with such an important scientific work.

XVI

1892-1893

Tchaikovsky never travelled so much as during the foregoing season. It is true he was always fond of moving about. He could not remain long in one spot; but this was chiefly because it always seemed to him that “every place is better than the one in which we are.” Paris, Kamenka, Clarens, Rome, Brailov, Simaki, Tiflis--all in turn were his favourite resorts, which he was delighted to visit and equally pleased to quit. But apart from the ultimate goal, travelling in itself was an enjoyment rather than a dread to Tchaikovsky.

From 1885, when he resolved “no longer to avoid mankind, but to keep myself before the world so long as it needs me,” his journeys became more frequent. When he began to conduct his own compositions in 1887, his journeys were undertaken with a fresh object: the propagation of his works abroad. As his fame increased, so also did the number of those who wished to hear him interpret his own music, and thus it was natural that by 1892 the number of his journeys was far greater than it had been ten years earlier.

When Tchaikovsky started upon his first concert tour he undoubtedly did violence to his “actual self,” and did not look forward with pleasure, but rather with dread, to what lay before him. At the same time he was full of the expectation of happy impressions and brilliant results, and was firmly convinced of the importance of his undertaking, both for his own fame and for the cause of Russian art in general.

The events of his first tour would not have disappointed even a man less modest than Tchaikovsky. He had many consoling experiences, beginning with the discovery that he was better known abroad than he had hitherto suspected. His reception in Prague, with its “moment of absolute happiness,” the sensation in Paris, the attention and respect with which he was received in Germany, all far surpassed his expectations. Nevertheless, he returned disillusioned, not by what had taken place, but by the price he had paid for his happiness.

But no sooner home again, than he forgot all he had gone through, and was planning his second tour with evident enjoyment.

This inexplicable discontent and disenchantment may, he thought, have been the result of a passing mood. The worst of his fears--the appearance before a crowd of foreigners--was over. He believed his second appearance would be far less painful, and expected even happier impressions than on his first tour. He was mistaken. He merely awoke to the “uselessness” of the sacrifice he was making for popularity’s sake, and he asked himself whether it would not be better to stay at home and work. His belief in the importance of the undertaking vanished, and with it the whole reason for doing violence to his nature. In the early part of 1890 he declined all engagements to travel, and devoted himself to composition. But by the end of the year Tchaikovsky seems to have forgotten all the lessons of his two concert tours, for he began once more to conduct in Russia and abroad. Every journey cost him keener pangs of home-sickness, and each time he vowed it should be the last. Yet no sooner had he reached home again, than he began planning yet another tour. It seemed as though he had become the victim of some blind force which drove him hither and thither at will. This power was not merely complaisance to the demands of others, nor his old passion for travelling, nor the fulfilment of a duty, nor yet the pursuit of applause; still less was it the outcome of a desire for material gain. This mysterious force had its source in an inexplicable, restless, despondent condition of mind, which sought appeasement in any kind of distraction. I cannot explain it as a premonition of his approaching death; there are no grounds whatever for such a supposition. Nor will I, in any case, take upon myself to solve the problem of my brother’s last psychological development. I will only call attention to the fact that he passed through a similar phase before every decisive change in his life. As at the beginning of the sixties, when he chose a musical career, and in 1885, when he resolved to “show himself in the eyes of the world,” so also at this juncture, we are conscious of a feeling _that things could not have gone on much longer_; we feel on the brink of a change, as though something had come to an end, and was giving place to a new and unknown presence.

His death, which came to solve the problem, seemed fortuitous. Yet it is clear to me that it came at a moment _when things could not have gone on much longer_; nor can I shake off the impression that the years 1892 and 1893 were the dark harbingers of a new and serene epoch.

An unpleasant surprise awaited Tchaikovsky in Vienna. The concert, in connection with the Exhibition, which he had been engaged to conduct was to be given, so he discovered, in what was practically a large restaurant, reeking of cookery and the fumes of beer and tobacco. The composer immediately declined to fulfil his contract, unless the tables were removed and the room converted into something approaching a concert-hall. Moreover, the orchestra, though not very bad, was ridiculously small. Tchaikovsky’s friends--Door, Sophie Menter, and Sapellnikov--were indignant at the whole proceeding, and realising the unpleasantness of his position, he decided to disregard his contract, and started with Mme. Menter for her castle at Itter.

Professor Door has related his reminiscences of Tchaikovsky’s unlucky visit to Vienna,[185] when he met his old friend again after a long separation. “I was shocked at his appearance,” he writes, “for he had aged so much that I only recognised him by his wonderful blue eyes. A man old at fifty! His delicate constitution had suffered terribly from his incessant creative work. We spoke of old days, and I asked him how he now got on in Petersburg. He replied that he was so overwhelmed with all kinds of attentions that he was perpetually embarrassed by them, and had but one trouble, which was that he never saw anything of Rubinstein, whom he had loved and respected from his student days. ‘Do what I will,’ he said, ‘I can get no hold on him; he escapes me like an eel.’ I laughed and said: ‘Do not take the great man’s ways too much to heart; he has his weaknesses like other mortals. Rubinstein, a distinctly lyrical temperament, has never had any great success in dramatic music, and avoids everyone who has made a name in this sphere of art. Comfort yourself, dear friend; he cut Richard Wagner and many others besides.’ ‘But,’ he broke in with indignation, ‘how can you compare me with Wagner and many others who have created immortal works?’ ‘Oh, as to immortality,’ I replied, ‘I will tell you a good story about Brahms. Once when this question was being discussed, Brahms said to me: ‘Yes, immortality is a fine thing, if only one knew how long it would last.’ Tchaikovsky laughed heartily over this ‘bull,’ and his cheerfulness seemed quite restored.... After three hours’ rehearsal he was greatly exhausted. He descended with great difficulty from the conductor’s desk, the perspiration stood in beads on his forehead, and he hurried into his fur-lined coat, although it was as warm as a summer’s day. He rested for a quarter of an hour, and then left with Sophie Menter and Sapellnikov.”

During this short visit to Vienna, Tchaikovsky stayed in the same hotel as Pietro Mascagni, and their rooms actually adjoined. The Italian composer was then the most fêted and popular man in Vienna. As we have already mentioned, Tchaikovsky admired _Cavalleria Rusticana_. The libretto appealed to him in the first place, but he recognised much promising talent in the music. The rapidity with which the young musician had become the idol of the Western musical world did not in the least provoke Tchaikovsky’s envy; on the contrary, he was interested in the Italian composer, and drawn to him. Accident having brought him into such near neighbourhood, it occurred to him to make the acquaintance of his young colleague. But when he found himself confronted in the passage with a whole row of admirers, all awaiting an audience with the _maestro_, he resolved to spare him at least one superfluous visitor.

The Castle of Itter, which belongs to Madame Sophie Menter, is situated in Tyrol, a few hours from Munich. Besides its wonderfully picturesque situation, it has acquired a kind of reflected glory, not only from the reputation of its owner, but because Liszt often stayed there.

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“ITTER, _September_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1892.

“ ... Itter deserves its reputation. It is a devilish pretty nest.
My rooms--I occupy a whole floor--are very fine, but a curious
mixture of grandeur and bad taste: luxurious furniture, a wonderful
inlaid bedstead and--some vile oleographs. But this does not affect
me much. The great thing is the exquisite, picturesque
neighbourhood. Peace and stillness, and not a trace of any other
visitors. I am fond of Sapellnikov and Menter, and, altogether, I
have not felt more comfortable for a long while. I shall stay five
days longer and return to ‘Peter’ by Salzburg (where I want to see
the Mozart Museum) and Prague (where I stay for the performance of
_Pique Dame_). On the 25th (October 7th) I hope to put in an
appearance upon the Quay Fontanka. The chief drawback here is that
I get neither letters nor papers and hear nothing about Russia or
any of you.”

The performance of _Pique Dame_ in Prague did not take place until October 8th. The opera, judging from the accounts of those present, had a brilliant success, and the composer was repeatedly recalled. Between 1892-1902 _Pique Dame_ was given on forty-one occasions. When we bear in mind that opera is only given three times a week at the National Theatre in Prague, and that the chief object of this enterprise is to forward the interests of Czechish art, this number of performances points to the fact that the success of _Pique Dame_ has proved as lasting as it was enthusiastic.

* * * * *

Tchaikovsky returned to Klin about the first week in October (Russian style), and was soon busy with preparations for the performance of _Iolanthe_ in St. Petersburg. On the 28th (November 9th) he left home for the capital, in order to superintend the rehearsals of the new opera. Soon after his arrival he received two interesting communications. The first informed him that he had been elected a Corresponding Member of the French Academy; the second, from the University of Cambridge, invited him to accept the title of Doctor of Music, _honoris causa_, on condition that he attended in person to receive the degree at the hands of the Vice-Chancellor.

Tchaikovsky acknowledged the first honour, and expressed his readiness to conform to the conditions of the second.

At the same time he had a further cause for congratulation in the success of his Sextet, _Souvenir de Florence_, which was played for the first time in public at the St. Petersburg Chamber Music Union, on November 25th (December 7th). The players were: E. Albrecht, Hille, Hildebrandt, Heine, Wierzbilowiez, and A. Kouznietsov. This time all were delighted: the performers, the audience, and the composer himself. The medal of the Union was presented to Tchaikovsky amid unanimous applause. During this visit the composer sat to the well-known sculptor, E. Günsburg, for a statuette which, in spite of its artistic value, is not successful as a likeness.

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“PETERSBURG, _November_ 24_th_ (_December_ 6_th_), 1892.

“ ... Modeste’s play was given yesterday.[186] It was a complete
failure, which does not surprise me in the least, for it is much
too subtle for the public at the Alexander Theatre. It does not
matter: may it be a lesson to Modeste. The pursuit of the
unattainable hinders him from his real business--to write plays in
the accepted form. The rehearsals for _Iolanthe_ and the Ballet are
endlessly dragged out. The Emperor will be present on the 5th, and
the first public performance will take place the following day.”

During this visit to the capital Tchaikovsky did his utmost to forward the interests of his friends, Taneiev and Arensky, as will be seen from the following extract from a letter to the former, respecting the performance of his _Orestes_:--

“Vsievolojsky (Director of the Opera) took Napravnik aside and
consulted him as to the advisability of proposing _Orestes_ to the
Emperor for next season.... I suggested that you should be sent
for, in order to play over the work in their presence. Vsievolojsky
was afraid if you were put to this trouble you might feel hurt
should the matter fall through. I ventured to say that, as a true
philosopher, you would not lose heart if nothing came of it.... I
spoke not less eloquently of Arensky, but so far without success.”

On December 5th (17th) _Iolanthe_ and the _Nut-cracker_ Ballet were given in the presence of the Imperial Court. The opera was conducted by Napravnik. The Figners distinguished themselves by their admirable interpretations of the parts of Vaudemont and Iolanthe. The scenery and costumes were beautiful. Nevertheless the work was only accorded a _succès d’estime_. The chief reason for this--according to Modeste Tchaikovsky--was the prolixity of the libretto and its lack of scenic interest.

The Ballet--admirably conducted by Drigo--was brilliantly staged, and received with considerable applause; yet the impression left by the first night was not wholly favourable. The subject, which differed greatly from the conventional ballet programme, was not entirely to blame. The illness of the talented ballet-master, Petipa, and the substitution of a man of far less skill and imagination, probably accounted for the comparative failure of the work. The delicate beauty of the music did not appeal to the public on a first hearing, and some time elapsed before the _Nut-cracker_ became a favourite item in the repertory.

The attitude of the Press appears from the following letter from the composer to Anatol, dated Petersburg, December 10th (22nd), 1892:--

“This is the fourth day on which all the papers have been cutting
up both my latest creations.... It is not the first time. The abuse
does not annoy me in the least, and yet--as always under these
circumstances--I am in a hateful frame of mind. When one has lived
in expectation of an important event, as soon as it is over there
comes a kind of apathy and disinclination for work, while the
emptiness and futility of all our efforts becomes so evident....
The day after to-morrow I leave for Berlin. There I shall decide
where to go for a rest (most probably to Nice). On December 29th I
shall be in Brussels. From thence I shall go to Paris, and
afterwards to see Mlle. Fanny at Montbeillard. About the 10th
January I have to conduct the concerts at Odessa. At the end of the
month I shall be in Petersburg. Later I shall spend some time in
Klin, and go to you in Lent.”

_To Vladimir Davidov._

“BERLIN, _December_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1892.

“Here I am, still in Berlin. To-day I have given myself up to
serious reflections, which will have important results. I have been
carefully, and as it were objectively, analysing my Symphony, which
luckily I have not yet orchestrated and given to the world. The
impression was not flattering: the work is written for the sake of
writing, and is not interesting or moving. I ought to put it aside
and forget it.... Am I done for and dried up? Perhaps there is yet
some subject which could inspire me; but I ought to compose no more
absolute music, symphony or chamber works. To live without work
would weary me. What am I to do? Fold my hands as far as
composition is concerned and try to forget it? It is difficult to
decide. I think, and think, and do not know how to settle the
question. In any case, the outlook has not been cheerful the last
three days.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“BÂLE, _December_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1902.

“ ... I have nothing to write about but fits of weeping. Really it
is surprising that this phenomenal, deadly home-sickness does not
drive me mad. Since this psychological phase grows stronger with
every journey abroad, in future I shall never travel alone, even
for a short time. To-morrow this feeling will give place to another
(scarcely?) less painful emotion. I am going to Montbeillard, and I
must confess to a morbid fear and horror, as though I were entering
the kingdom of the dead and the world of those who had long since
vanished.”

_To his brother, Nicholas Ilich Tchaikovsky._

“PARIS, _December_ 22_nd_ (_January_ 3_rd_), 1892.

“ ... I wrote to Mlle. Fanny from Bâle to let her know the time of
my arrival, so that she should not be upset by my unexpected
appearance. I reached Montbeillard at 3 p.m. on January 1st (new
style), and went straight to her house. She lives in a quiet street
in this little town, which is so quiet that it might be compared to
one of our own Russian ‘district’ towns. The house contains but six
rooms--two on each floor--and belongs to Fanny and her sister. Here
they were born, and have spent their whole lives. Mlle. Fanny came
to the door, and I knew her at once. She does not look her seventy
years, and, curiously enough, has altered very little on the whole.
The same high-coloured complexion and brown eyes, and her hair is
not very grey. She has grown much stouter. I had dreaded tears and
an affecting scene, but there was nothing of the sort. She greeted
me as though we had not met for a year--joyfully and tenderly, but
quite simply. It soon became clear to me why our parents, and we
ourselves, were so fond of her. She is a remarkably clever,
sympathetic creature, who seems to breathe an atmosphere of
kindliness and integrity. Naturally we started upon reminiscences,
and she recalled a number of interesting details from our
childhood. Then she showed me our copybooks, my exercises, your
letters and mine, and--what was of the greatest interest to me--a
few dear, kind letters from our mother. I cannot tell you what a
strange and wonderful feeling came over me while listening to her
recollections and looking over these letters and books. The past
rose up so clearly before me that I seemed to inhale the air of
Votinsk and hear my mother’s voice distinctly.... When she asked me
which of my brothers I loved best, I replied evasively that I was
equally fond of them all. At which she was a little indignant, and
said that, as my playmate in childhood, I ought to care most for
you. And truly at that moment I felt I loved you intensely, because
you had shared all my youthful joys. I stayed with her from three
until eight o’clock, without noticing how time went. I spent the
whole of the next day in her society....

“She gave me a beautiful letter from my mother, in which she writes
of you with special tenderness. I will show it to you. The two
sisters do not live luxuriously--but comfortably. Fanny’s sister
also lived a long time in Russia, and does not speak the language
badly. Both of them still teach. They are known to the whole town,
for they have taught all the educated people there, and are
universally loved and respected. In the evening I embraced Fanny
when I took leave of her, and promised to return some day....”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“PARIS, _January_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1892.

“ ... After my brilliant concert in Brussels I returned here
yesterday. The orchestra was very good, but not highly disciplined.
I was very cordially received, but this did not make things any
easier for me. I suffered equally from agitation and the anguish of
home-sickness. During the interval Gevaert, as President of the
Artists’ Benevolent Association, made a speech before the assembled
orchestra, in which he thanked me on behalf of this society. As the
concert was given in aid of a charity, I declined to accept any
fee, which touched the artists very deeply.”

The programme of the Brussels concert included, among other compositions by Tchaikovsky, the Pianoforte Concerto, op. 23 (Rummel as soloist), the _Nut-cracker_ Suite, and the Overture “_1812_.”

On January 12th (24th), 1893, Tchaikovsky arrived in Odessa, where for nearly a fortnight he was fêted with such enthusiasm that even the Prague festivities of 1888 dwindled into insignificance compared with these experiences.

The ovations began the day after his arrival, when, on his appearance at the rehearsal of _Pique Dame_, he was welcomed by the theatrical direction and the entire opera company. Not contented with vociferous cheering, he was “chaired” and borne around in triumph, much to his discomfort. On the 16th he conducted the following works at the concert of the Musical Society: _The Tempest_, the Andante cantabile from the Quartet, op. 11, and the _Nut-cracker_ Suite. The local section of the Musical Society presented him with a bâton, and the musicians gave him a laurel wreath. Some numbers on the programme had to be repeated three times in response to the vociferous applause.

This triumph was followed by a series of others: the first performance of _Pique Dame_, a soirée in his honour at the English Club, a charity concert, given by the Slavonic Association, and a second concert of the Musical Society, at which the Overture “_1812_” had to be repeated _da capo_.

Tchaikovsky left Odessa on January 25th (February 6th), and returned to Klin to recover from the strain and fatigue of his visit.

Among the many occupations which overwhelmed him there, he found time to sit to Kouznietsov for his portrait. “Although the artist knew nothing of Tchaikovsky’s inner life,” says Modeste, “he has succeeded, thanks to the promptings of inspiration, in divining all the tragedy of that mental and spiritual phase through which the composer was passing at that time, and has rendered it with profound actuality. Knowing my brother as I do, I can affirm that no truer, more living likeness of him exists. There are a few slight deviations from strict truth in the delineation of the features; but they do not detract from the portrait as a whole, and I would not on any account have them corrected. Perhaps the vitality which breathes from the picture has been purchased at the price of these small defects.”

Kouznietsov presented the portrait to Tchaikovsky, who, however, declined to accept it, partly because he could not endure a picture of himself upon his own walls, but chiefly because he did not consider himself justified in preventing the artist from making something out of his work. The portrait is now in the Tretiakov Gallery, Moscow.

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“KLIN, _February_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1893.

“ ... My journey from Kamenka here was not very propitious. I was
taken so ill in the carriage that I frightened my fellow-passengers
by becoming delirious, and had to stop at Kharkov. After taking my
usual remedies, and a long sleep, I awoke quite well in the
morning....

“Next week I must pay a visit to Vladimir Shilovsky. The prospect
fills me with fear and agitation. Tell me, has he greatly changed?
How is the dropsy? I am afraid of a scene, and altogether dread our
meeting. Is there really no hope for him? Answer these questions.”

Vladimir Shilovsky, who had played an important part in my brother’s life some twenty years earlier, had very rarely come in contact with his old teacher since his marriage with the only remaining child of Count Vassiliev. There had been no breach between them, but their lives had run in opposite directions. In January, 1893, I heard that Vladimir Shilovsky was seriously ill. I informed Peter Ilich, who visited his old pupil in Moscow, and was touched by the joy he showed at their reunion, and by the calm self-control with which he spoke of his hopeless condition. The old intimacy was renewed, and only ended with the Count’s death in June, 1893.

XVII

Tchaikovsky’s life moved in spiral convolutions. At every turn his way seemed to lie through the same spiritual phases. The alternations of light and shade succeeded each other with a corresponding regularity. When speaking of the depression which darkened his last years, I emphasised the fact that he had gone through a similar condition of mind before every decisive change in his existence. The acute moral tension which preceded his retirement from the Ministry of Justice was followed by the calm and happy summer of 1862. To his glad and hopeful mood at the beginning of 1877 succeeded the crisis which compelled him to go abroad for rest and change. So, too, this year, 1893, opened with a period of serene content, for which the creation of his Sixth, or so-called “Pathetic,” Symphony was mainly accountable. The composition of this work seems to have been an act of exorcism, whereby he cast out all the dark spirits which had possessed him in the preceding years.

The first mention of this Symphony occurs in a letter to his brother Anatol, dated February 10th (22nd), 1893, in which he speaks of being completely absorbed in his new project. The following day, writing to Vladimir Davidov, he enters into fuller particulars:--