Chapter XXX: Part VII: I (7)

“I must tell you how happy I am about my work. As you know, I
destroyed a Symphony which I had partly composed and orchestrated
in the autumn. I did wisely, for it contained little that was
really fine--an empty pattern of sounds without any inspiration.
Just as I was starting on my journey (the visit to Paris in
December, 1892) the idea came to me for a new Symphony. This time
with a programme; but a programme of a kind which remains an enigma
to all--let them guess it who can. The work will be entitled “A
Programme Symphony” (No. 6). This programme is penetrated by
subjective sentiment. During my journey, while composing it in my
mind, I frequently shed tears. Now I am home again I have settled
down to sketch out the work, and it goes with such ardour that in
less than four days I have completed the first movement, while the
rest of the Symphony is clearly outlined in my head. There will be
much that is novel as regards form in this work. For instance, the
Finale will not be a great Allegro, but an Adagio of considerable
dimensions. You cannot imagine what joy I feel at the conviction
that my day is not yet over, and that I may still accomplish much.
Perhaps I may be mistaken, but it does not seem likely. Do not
speak of this to anyone but Modeste.”

After an interval of three years Tchaikovsky once more conducted a concert of the Moscow Musical Society on February 14th (26th). This was in response to a letter from Safonov begging him to make up their former personal differences and to take part again in the work of Nicholas Rubinstein, of imperishable memory. The Overture-Fantasia _Hamlet_ was played at this concert for the first time in Moscow.

About the end of February Tchaikovsky again returned to Moscow to hear a new Suite _From Childhood’s Days_, by George Konius, which pleased him very much. Through the influence of the Grand Duke Constantine, Tchaikovsky succeeded in getting an annual pension of 1,200 roubles (£120) for the struggling young composer.

At this time he suffered from a terrible attack of headache, which never left him, and threatened to become a chronic ailment. It departed, however, with extraordinary suddenness on the fourteenth day after the first paroxysm.

On March 11th (23rd) he visited Kharkov, where he remained till the 16th (28th), and enjoyed a series of triumphs similar to those he had experienced in Odessa earlier in the year.

By March 18th (30th) Tchaikovsky was back in Klin. Here he received news that Ippolitov-Ivanov was leaving Tiflis to join the Moscow Conservatoire. In his answer, which is hardly a letter of congratulation, Tchaikovsky refers to his last Symphony, which he does not _intend to tear up_, to the sketch of a new Pianoforte Concerto, and to several pieces for piano which he hopes to compose in the near future.

He spent the Easter holidays in the society of his relatives and intimate friends in Petersburg, and, but for the hopeless illness of his oldest friend, the poet Apukhtin, this visit would have been a very quiet and cheerful interlude in his life.

_To Vladimir Davidov._

“KLIN, _April_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1893.

“I am engaged in making musical pancakes.[187] To-day I have tossed
the tenth. It is remarkable; the more I do, the easier and
pleasanter the occupation grows. At first it was uphill work, and
the first two pieces are the outcome of a great effort of will; but
now I can scarcely fix the ideas in my mind, they succeed each
other with such rapidity. If I could spend a whole year in the
country, and my publisher was prepared to take all I composed, I
might--if I chose to work _à la_ Leikin--make about 36,000 roubles
a year!”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“MOSCOW, _April_ 22_nd_ (_May_ 4_th_), 1893.

“Ah, dear Modi, I do not believe I shall get the thirty pieces
written! I have finished eighteen in fifteen days and brought them
with me to Moscow. But now I must stay here four days (the
performance at the Conservatoire, one morning with the Synodal
singers, and my birthday with old friends), then go on to Nijny and
return here in time for the first performance of Rakhmaninov’s
_Aleko_. I shall not be home before the 30th (May 12th), and I
start on the 10th (22nd) of May, ... but perhaps I may knock off a
few songs very quickly.”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“KLIN, _May_ 2_nd_, 1893.

“I intended to ask my old fee--100 roubles for each number. Now, in
consequence of the number of paying propositions made to me (I
swear it is true), I must put up my prices a little. But I will not
forget that you have also published my greater works, from which
you will not derive any profit for a long time to come. So let it
stand at the old fee.... It is a pity I had not more time for
writing.

“Should anything happen to Karl,[188] and the family be in need, do
not hesitate to help them out of my present, or future, funds....”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“PETERSBURG, _May_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1893.

“ ... As regards my fee, I must tell you that Gutheil has never
made me any proposals, because all Russian publishers know that I
am not to be caught by any bait they may offer. But abroad my
relations with you are not understood, therefore I often receive
advances from other countries. Many of them (André of Offenbach)
have offered me far higher fees than I get from you (of course, I
am only speaking of short compositions).... I cannot lose sight of
the fact that many of my symphonies and operas have cost you more
than they bring in. Of course, they will sell better some day, but
at present I do not like to bleed you. You are not as rich as an
Abraham, a Schott, or a Simrock.... If (on your honour) you do not
consider it too much to give me another fifty, I will agree to it.
Naturally I shall be very glad, for this has been a heavy year.

“I want nothing for the Mozart,[189] because I have not put much of
myself into it.”

_To Vladimir Davidov._

“BERLIN, _May_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1893.

“ ... This time I wept and suffered more than ever, perhaps because
I let my thoughts dwell too much on our last year’s journey. It is
purely a psychophysical phenomenon! And how I loathe trains, the
atmosphere of railway carriages, and fellow-travellers!... I travel
too much, that is why I dislike it more and more. It is quite green
here, and flowers blooming everywhere--but it does not give me any
pleasure, and I am only conscious of an incredible and overwhelming
home-sickness.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“LONDON, _May_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1893.

“I arrived here early this morning. I had some difficulty to find a
room--all the hotels are packed. The concert takes place on May
20th (June 1st), after which I must rush around for about a week,
for the Cambridge ceremony does not come off until the 11th or
12th, and on the 13th--our 1st of June--I begin my homeward
journey. I am continually thinking of you all. I never realise all
my affection for you so much as when away from home, and oppressed
with loneliness and nostalgia.”

_To Vladimir Davidov._

“LONDON, _May_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1893.

“Is it not strange that of my own free will I have elected to
undergo this torture? What fiend can have suggested it to me?
Several times during my journey yesterday I resolved to throw up
the whole thing and turn tail. But what a disgrace to turn back for
no good reason! Yesterday I suffered so much that I could neither
sleep nor eat, which is very unusual for me. I suffer not only from
torments which cannot be put into words (there is one place in my
new Symphony--the Sixth--where they seem to me adequately
expressed), but from a dislike to strangers, and an indefinable
terror--though of what the devil only knows. This state makes
itself felt by internal pains and loss of power in my legs.
However, it is for the last time in my life. Only for a heap of
money will I ever go anywhere again, and never for more than three
days at a time. And to think I must kick my heels here for another
fortnight!! It seems like eternity. I arrived early this morning,
_viâ_ Cologne and Ostend. The crossing took three hours, but it was
not rough.... On the steps of my hotel I met the French pianist
Diemer, and to my great astonishment found myself delighted to see
him. He is an old acquaintance, and very well disposed towards me.
In consequence of our meeting I had to go to his ‘Recital.’
Saint-Saëns also takes part in the concert at which I am
conducting.”

Profiting by the presence in England of the composers who were about to receive the honorary degree at Cambridge, the Philharmonic Society gave two concerts in which they took part. At the first of these Tchaikovsky conducted his Fourth Symphony with brilliant success. According to the Press notices, none of his works previously performed had pleased so well, or added so much to his reputation in England.

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“LONDON, _May_ 22_nd_ (_June_ 3_rd_), 1893.

“ ... The concert was brilliant. It was unanimously agreed that I
had a real triumph, so that Saint-Saëns, who followed me, suffered
somewhat from my unusual success. Of course, this is pleasant
enough, but what an infliction London life is during the ‘season’!
Luncheons and dinners which last an interminable time. Yesterday
the directors of the Philharmonic gave a dinner at the Westminster
Club in honour of Saint-Saëns and myself. It was very smart and
luxurious; we sat down to table at seven and rose at 11.30 p.m. (I
am not exaggerating). Besides this I am invited to concerts daily
and cannot refuse to go. To-day, for instance, I went to Sarasate’s
concert. He is most kind and amiable to me. Last time I was here in
the winter and in bad weather, so that I got no idea of what the
town is really like. The devil knows Paris is a mere village
compared to London! Walking in Regent Street and Hyde Park, one
sees so many carriages, so much splendid and luxurious equipment,
that the eye is fairly dazzled. I have been to afternoon tea at the
Embassy. Our secretary at the Embassy here, Sazonov, is a charming
man. What a number of people I see, and how tired I get! In the
morning I suffer a great deal from depression, and later I feel in
a kind of daze. I have but one thought: to get it all over.... At
Cambridge I will keep a full diary. It seems to me it will be a
very droll business. Grieg is ill. All the other recipients will
come....”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“LONDON, _May_ 29_th_ (_June_ 10_th_), 1893.

“This letter will not be in time to reach you in ‘Peter.’ ... I
have not had a chance of writing. This is an infernal life. Not a
moment’s peace: perpetual agitation, dread, home-sickness, fatigue.
However, the hour of escape is at hand. Besides which, I must say I
find many excellent folks here, who show me every kind of
attention. All the doctors designate have now arrived except Grieg,
who is too ill. Next to Saint-Saëns, Boïto appeals most to me.
Bruch is an unsympathetic, inflated sort of personage. I go to
Cambridge the day after to-morrow, and do not stay at an hotel, but
in the house of Dr. Maitland, who has written me a very kind letter
of invitation. I shall only be there one night. On the day of our
arrival there will be a concert and dinner, and on the following
day--the ceremony. By four o’clock it will be all over.”

In 1893, in consequence of the fiftieth anniversary of the Cambridge University Musical Society, the list of those who received the Doctor’s degree, _honoris causa_, was distinguished by an unusual number of musicians: Tchaikovsky, Saint-Saëns, Boïto, Max Bruch and Edvard Grieg.

(_From a photograph taken in London_)]

The festivities at Cambridge began on June 12th (new style) with a concert, the programme of which included a work by each of the five recipients of the musical degree, and one by Dr. Stanford,[190] the director of the society.

The programme was as follows: (1) Fragment from _Odysseus_ for soli, chorus, and orchestra (Max Bruch); (2) Fantasia for pianoforte and orchestra, _Africa_, the composer at the piano (Saint-Saëns); (3) Prologue from _Mefistofele_ for solo, chorus, and orchestra (Boïto); (4) Symphonic poem, _Francesco, da Rimini_ (op. 32), (Tchaikovsky); (5) _Peer Gynt_ Suite (op. 46) (Grieg); (6) Ode, _The East to the West_, for chorus and orchestra (op. 52) (Stanford).

The various numbers were conducted by the respective composers, with the exception of Grieg’s Suite and the Fantasia _Africa_, which were given under the bâton of Dr. Stanford.

The singers were Mr. and Mrs. Henschel, Mme. Marie Brema, and Plunket Green.

In his _Portraits et Souvenirs_ Saint-Saëns has given the following description of this concert, and I cannot refrain from interrupting my narrative in order to quote what the French composer says of my brother’s _Francesca_.

“Piquant charms and dazzling fireworks abound in Tchaikovsky’s
_Francesca da Rimini_, which bristles with difficulties, and
shrinks from no violence of effect. The gentlest and kindest of men
has let loose a whirlwind in this work, and shows as little pity
for his interpreters and hearers as Satan for sinners. But the
composer’s talent and astounding technique are so great that the
critic can only feel pleasure in the work. A long melodic phrase,
the love-song of Paola and Francesca, soars above this tempest,
this _bufera infernale_, which attracted Liszt before Tchaikovsky,
and engendered his Dante Symphony. Liszt’s Francesca is more
touching and more Italian in character than that of the great
Slavonic composer; the whole work is so typical that we seem to see
the profile of Dante projected in it. Tchaikovsky’s art is more
subtle, the outlines clearer, the material more attractive; from a
purely musical point of view the work is better. Liszt’s version is
perhaps more to the taste of the poet or painter. On the whole,
they can fitly stand side by side; either of them is worthy of
Dante, and as regards noise, both leave nothing to be
desired.”[191]

The concert was followed by a banquet in the hall of King’s College, at which a hundred guests sat down to table. As it was purely a musical festivity, only those who were to receive the honorary musical degree were invited to this banquet. The place of honour, next to the chairman, was given to Saint-Saëns, the eldest of the guests. Never had Tchaikovsky greater reason to congratulate himself upon his comparative youth, for, together with the honour, the difficult task of replying to a toast on behalf of his colleagues fell to the lot of Saint-Saëns.

After the dinner came a brilliant reception to the composers in the hall of the Museum.

Besides the musicians, there were several other recipients of the honorary degree, including the Maharajah of Bohonager, Lord Herschel, Lord Roberts, Dr. Julius Stupitza, Professor of English Philology in the University of Berlin, and the Irish scholar, Standish O’Grady.

On the morning of June 13th all the future doctors assembled in the Arts School and attired themselves in their splendid doctors’ robes of red and white; after which they took up their positions, and the procession started. Saint-Saëns, in the volume already quoted, says:

“We were attired in ample robes of silk, parti-coloured scarlet and
white, with full sleeves, and on our heads college-caps of black
velvet with gold tassels. Thus decked out, we walked in procession
through the town, under a tropical sun. At the head of the group of
doctors went the King of Bohonager in a turban of cloth of gold,
sparkling with fabulous jewels and a diamond necklace. Dare I
confess that, as the enemy of the commonplace, and of the neuter
tints of our modern garb, I was enchanted with the adventure?

“The people stood on each side of the railings, and cheered us with
some enthusiasm, especially Lord Roberts.”

“Meanwhile the Senate House, in which the degrees were conferred,
had become crowded with undergraduates and guests. The former were
not merely spectators, but--as we afterwards
discovered--participated in the event. When the Vice-Chancellor and
other members of the Senate had taken their places, the ceremony
began. Each recipient rises in turn from his seat, while the public
orator recounts his claims to recognition in a Latin oration. Here
the undergraduates begin to play their part. According to ancient
tradition, they are allowed to hiss, cheer, and make jokes at the
expense of the new doctors. At every joke the orator waits until
the noise and laughter has subsided, then continues to read aloud.
When this is done, the recipient is led up to the Vice-Chancellor,
who greets him as doctor in _nomine Patri, Filii et Spiritus
Sancti_. This formula was not used in the case of the Maharajah.”

The oration delivered in honour of Tchaikovsky ran as follows:--

“Russorum ex imperio immenso hodie ad nos delatus est viri
illustris, Rubinsteinii, discipulus insignis, qui neque Italiam
neque Helvetiam inexploratam reliquit, sed patriae carmina
popularia ante omnia dilexit. Ingenii Slavonici et ardorem fervidum
et languorem subtristem quam feliciter interpretatur! Musicorum
modorum in argumentis animo concipiendis quam amplus est! in
numeris modulandis quam distinctus! in flexionibus variandis quam
subtilis! in orchestrae (ut aiunt) partibus inter se diversis una
componendis quam splendidus! Talium virorum animo grato admiramur
ingenium illud facile et promptum, quod, velut ipsa rerum natura,
nulla, necessitate coactum sed quasi sua sponte pulcherrimum
quidque in luminis oras quotannis submittit.

“Audiamus Propertium:

“‘aspice quot submittit humus formosa colores;
et veniunt hederae sponte sua melius.’

“Etiam nosmet ipsi hodie fronti tam felici hederae nostrae corollam
sponte imponimus.

“Duco ad vos Petrum Tchaikovsky.”

After the ceremony there was a breakfast given by the Vice-Chancellor, at which all attended in their robes. At the end of the meal, in obedience to the tradition of centuries, a loving-cup was passed round.

The breakfast was followed by a garden-party, the hostess being the wife of the Vice-Chancellor.

By evening Tchaikovsky was back in London, where he gave a farewell dinner to some of his new friends. Among these I must mention the fine baritone, Eugene Oudin. Tchaikovsky was soon very sincerely attached to him, both as a man and an artist. Upon his initiative Oudin was invited to sing at the Symphony Concerts in Moscow and Petersburg.

The following day Tchaikovsky left for Paris.

_To P. Jurgenson._

“PARIS, _June_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1893.

“Cambridge, with its peculiar customs which retain much that is
medieval, with its colleges that resemble monasteries, and its
buildings recalling a remote past, made a very agreeable impression
upon me.”

_To N. Konradi._

“PARIS, _June_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1893.

“At Cambridge I stayed with Professor Maitland. This would have
been dreadfully embarrassing for me, if he and his wife had not
proved to be some of the most charming people I ever met; and
Russophiles into the bargain, which is the greatest rarity in
England. Now all is over, it is pleasant to look back upon my
visit to England, and to remember the extraordinary cordiality
shown to me everywhere, although, in consequence of my peculiar
temperament, while there, I tormented and worried myself to
fiddle-strings.”

XVIII

Tchaikovsky’s home-coming was by no means joyful. The shadow of
death was all around him. Hardly had he heard of the death of his
old friend Karl Albrecht than a letter from the Countess
Vassiliev-Shilovsky informed him that her husband had passed away.
Besides this, Apukhtin lay dying in Petersburg, and in Moscow
another valued friend, Zvierev, was in an equally hopeless
condition.

A few years earlier one such grief would have affected Tchaikovsky
more keenly than all of them taken together seemed to do at this
juncture. Now death appeared to him less enigmatical and fearful.
Whether his feelings were less acute, or whether the mental
sufferings of later years had taught him that death was often a
deliverance, I cannot say. I merely lay emphasis on the fact that,
in spite of the discomforting news which met him in all directions,
from the time of his return from England to the end of his life,
Tchaikovsky was as serene and cheerful as at any period in his
existence.

He looked forward with joy to meeting his nephew Vladimir Davidov
at Grankino, in the government of Poltava. He always felt well in
the glorious air of the steppes.

From Grankino he went to stay with his brother Nicholas at
Oukolovo.

_To Vladimir Davidov._

“_July_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1893.

“I spent two very pleasant days in Moscow. Tell Modi I was very ill
the day after he left. They said it was from drinking too much cold
water at dinner and supper.... The day after to-morrow I start upon
the Symphony again. I must write letters for the next two days.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_July_ 22_nd_ (_August_ 3_rd_), 1893.

“I am up to my eyes in the Symphony. The further I go, the more
difficult the orchestration becomes. Twenty years ago I should have
rushed it through without a second thought, and it would have
turned out all right. Now I am turning coward, and have lost my
self-confidence. I have been sitting all day over two pages, yet
they will not come out as I wish. In spite of this, the work makes
progress, and I should not have done so much anywhere else but at
home.

“Thanks to Alexis’ exertions, my house has a very coquettish
appearance. All is in order; a mass of flowers in the garden, good
paths, and a new fence with gates. I am well cared for. And yet I
get terribly bored unless I am working....”

_To Vladimir Davidov._

“_August_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1893.

“The Symphony which I intended to dedicate to you--although I have
now changed my mind[192]--is progressing. I am very well pleased
with its contents, but not quite so satisfied with the
orchestration. It does not realise my dreams. To me, it will seem
quite natural, and not in the least astonishing, if this Symphony
meets with abuse, or scant appreciation at first. I certainly
regard it as quite the best--and especially the ‘most sincere’--of
all my works. I love it as I never loved any one of my musical
offspring before.”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“KLIN, _August_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1893.

“DEAR FRIEND,--I have finished the orchestration of the new
Symphony.... I have made the arrangement for four hands myself, and
must play it through, so I have asked the youngest Konius to come
here, that we may try it together. As regards the score and parts,
I cannot put them in order before the first performance, which
takes place in Petersburg on October 16th (28th).... On my word of
honour, I have never felt such self-satisfaction, such pride, such
happiness, as in the consciousness that I am really the creator of
this beautiful work.”

_To the same._

“KLIN, _August_ 20_th_ (_September_ 1_st_), 1893.

“I shall take the Symphony with me to Petersburg to-day. I promise
not to give away the score. The arrangement for four hands needs a
thorough revision. I have entrusted this to Leo Konius. I wished
him to receive a fee of at least 100 roubles, but he refused....”

Tchaikovsky spent two days with Laroche in Petersburg. Even the prospect of his journey to Hamburg did not suffice to damp his cheerful frame of mind. He does not appear to have written any letters during his absence from Russia, which was of very brief duration.

“On his return from Hamburg he met me in St. Petersburg,” says
Modeste, “and stayed with me a day or two. I had not seen him so
bright for a long time past. He was keenly interested in the
forthcoming season of the Musical Society, and was preparing the
programme of the fourth concert, which he was to conduct.

“At this time there was a change in the circumstances of my own
life. Having finished the education of N. Konradi, I decided to set
up housekeeping with my nephew Vladimir Davidov, who had completed
his course at the School of Jurisprudence and was now an
independent man. My brother was naturally very much interested in
all the arrangements of our new home.

“At this time we discussed subjects for a new opera. Peter Ilich’s
favourite author in later life was George Eliot. Once during his
travels abroad he had come across her finest book, _The Mill on the
Floss_, and from that time he considered she had no rival but
Tolstoi as a writer of fiction. _Adam Bede_, _Silas Marner_, and
_Middlemarch_ stirred him to the greatest enthusiasm, and he read
them over and over again. He cared less for _Romola_, but was
particularly fond of _Scenes from Clerical Life_. For a time he
seriously contemplated founding the libretto of his next opera upon
_The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton_. He wished me to read
the tale and give him my opinion: I must confess that, from his own
account of it, I persuaded him to give up the idea.

“I do not know if I actually convinced him, or whether he lost
interest in it himself, but he never referred to this tale again
when he spoke of other subjects for a libretto.

“We separated early in September, and he went to our brother
Anatol, who was spending the summer and autumn with his family at
Mikhailovskoe.”

Here he enjoyed a very happy visit. “It is indescribably beautiful,” he wrote to Modeste. “It is altogether pleasant and successful. The weather is wonderful. All day long I wander in the forest and bring home quantities of mushrooms.”

His high opinion of the new Symphony was still unchanged, for he wrote to the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich on September 21st (October 3rd), “Without exaggeration I have put my whole soul into this work.” Yet in spite of his cheerful attitude, a momentary cloud of depression passed over him at this time. Writing to Modeste from Moscow, a few days later, he says: “Just lately I have been dreadfully bored and misanthropical. 1 do not know why. I sit in my room and see no one but the waiter. I long for home, work, and my normal existence.”

On September 25th he returned to Klin for the last time.

_To Anna Merkling._

“_September_ 29_th_ (_October_ 11_th_), 1893.

“I am now very busy with the orchestration of the Pianoforte
Concerto. I shall soon appear on the banks of the Neva. You will
see me about the 10th.”

On October 7th (19th) Tchaikovsky left Klin never to return. The following day he intended to be present at the memorial service for his friend Zvierev and then to go on to Petersburg. As the train passed the village of Frolovskoe, he pointed to the churchyard, remarking to his fellow-travellers: “I shall be buried there, and people will point out my grave as they go by.” He repeated this wish to be buried at Frolovskoe while talking to Taneiev at the memorial service for Zvierev. Beyond these two references to his death, prompted no doubt by the sad ceremony with which he was preoccupied, Tchaikovsky does not appear to have shown any symptoms of depression or foreboding.

Kashkin has given the following account of his friend’s last visit to Moscow:--

“We met at the memorial service in the church, and afterwards Peter
Ilich went to Zvierev’s grave. On October 9th (21st) he had
promised to go to the Conservatoire to hear the vocal quartet
(‘Night’) which he had arranged from Mozart’s pianoforte Fantasia.
The master’s music had not been altered, Tchaikovsky had only
written words to it.... Madame Lavrovsky had promised that her
pupils should learn the work. We assembled in the concert hall of
the Conservatoire, and I sat with Tchaikovsky. The quartet was
beautifully sung ... Tchaikovsky afterwards told me this music had
the most indescribable charm for him, but he could not explain,
even to himself, why this simple melody gave him such pleasure....

“At that time Pollini, the Director of the Hamburg Opera, was
staying in Moscow. He was an ardent admirer of Tchaikovsky, and had
given some of his operas in Hamburg. When--as invited--I went to
supper with Tchaikovsky at the Moscow Restaurant, I met Pollini,
Safonov, and two foreign guests. We talked over Pollini’s idea of
making a great concert tour through Russia, with a German orchestra
under a Russian conductor ... Tchaikovsky was to conduct his own
works and Safonov the rest of the programme.... After the others
had gone, and Peter Ilich and I were left to ourselves, he told me
all about Cambridge, and spoke very warmly of the Professor in
whose house he had stayed, and of one of the other recipients of
the honorary degree--Arrigo Boïto, who had charmed him with his
intellect and culture.... Unconsciously the talk turned to our
recent losses: to the death of Albrecht and Zvierev. We thought of
the gaps time had made in our circle of old friends and how few now
remained. Involuntarily the question arose: Who will be the next to
take the road from which there is no return? With complete
assurance of its truth, I declared that Tchaikovsky would outlive
us all. He disputed the probability, but ended by saying he had
never felt better or happier in his life. He had to catch the night
mail to Petersburg, where he was going to conduct his Sixth
Symphony, which was still unknown to me. He said he had no doubt as
to the first three movements, but the last was still a problem, and
perhaps after the performance in Petersburg he should destroy the
Finale and replace it by another. The concert of the Musical
Society in Moscow was fixed for October 23rd (November 4th). We
arranged, if we should not see each other there, to meet at the
Moscow Restaurant, for Tchaikovsky was anxious to introduce the
singer Eugene Oudin to the musical circle in Moscow. Here our
conversation ended. Tchaikovsky went to the station. It never
occurred to me to see him off, for neither of us cared for that
kind of thing; besides, we should meet again in a fortnight. We
parted without the least presentiment that it was for the last
time.”

XIX

Tchaikovsky arrived in Petersburg on October 10th (22nd). He was met by his brother Modeste and his favourite nephew. He was delighted with their new abode and his spirits were excellent--so long as his arrival remained unknown and he was master of his time.

One thing only depressed him: at the rehearsals the Sixth Symphony made no impression upon the orchestra. He always set store by the opinion of the musicians. Moreover, he feared lest the interpretation of the Symphony might suffer from their coldness. Tchaikovsky only conducted his works well when he knew they appealed to the players. To obtain delicate _nuances_ and a good balance of tone he needed his surroundings to be sympathetic and appreciative. A look of indifference, a coolness on the part of any of the band, seemed to paralyse him; he lost his head, went through the work perfunctorily, and cut the rehearsal as short as possible, so as to release the musicians from a wearisome task. Whenever he conducted a work of his own for the first time, a kind of uncertainty--almost carelessness--in the execution of details was apparent, and the whole interpretation lacked force and definite expression. The Fifth Symphony and _Hamlet_ were so long making their way merely because the composer had failed to make them effective. The same reason accounts for the failure of the orchestral ballade, _The Voyevode_.

Tchaikovsky was easily disenchanted with his work by the adverse opinion of others. But on this occasion his judgment remained unshaken, and even the indifference of the orchestra did not alter his opinion that this Symphony was “the best thing I ever composed or ever shall compose.” He did not, however, succeed in convincing the public or the performers. At the concert on the 16th (28th) the work fell rather flat. It was applauded and the composer was recalled; but the enthusiasm did not surpass what was usually shown for one of Tchaikovsky’s new works. The Symphony produced nothing approaching to that powerful and thrilling impression it made shortly afterwards (November 6th (18th), 1893) under Napravnik, which has since been repeated in so many other cities.

The Press did not speak of the new Symphony with as much admiration as Tchaikovsky had expected, but on the whole the notices were appreciative. The _St. Petersburg Viedomosti_ thought “the thematic material of the work was not very original, the leading subjects were neither new nor significant. The last movement, Adagio Lamentoso, was the best.” The _Syn Otechestva_ discovered a phrase in the first movement which recalled Gounod’s _Romeo and Juliet_, while Grieg was reflected in the Finale. The _Novoe Vremya_ said: “The new Symphony is evidently the outcome of a journey abroad; it contains much that is clever and resourceful as regards orchestral colour, besides grace and delicacy (in the two middle movements), but _as far as inspiration is concerned it stands far below Tchaikovsky’s other Symphonies_. Only one newspaper, _The Birjevya Viedomosti_, spoke of the work in terms of unqualified praise, while finding fault with the composer’s conducting of the work.

The morning after the concert I found my brother sitting at the breakfast-table with the score of the Symphony before him. He had agreed to send it to Jurgenson in Moscow that very day, and could not decide upon a title. He did not wish to designate it merely by a number, and had abandoned his original intention of calling it “a programme Symphony.” “Why programme,” he said, “since I do not intend to expound any meaning?” I suggested “tragic Symphony” as an appropriate title. But this did not please him either. I left the room while Peter Ilich was still in a state of indecision. Suddenly the word “pathetic” occurred to me, and I returned to suggest it. I remember, as though it were yesterday, how my brother exclaimed: “Bravo, Modeste, splendid! _Pathetic!_” Then and there, in my presence, he added to the score the title by which the Symphony has always been known.[193]

I do not relate this incident in order to connect my name with this work. Probably I should never have mentioned it but for the fact that it serves to illustrate in a simple way how far the conjectures of the most enlightened commentators may wander from the truth.

Hugo Riemann, in his thematic analysis of the Sixth Symphony, sees the solution of this title in “the striking resemblance between the fundamental idea of this work and the chief subject of Beethoven’s _Sonata Pathétique_,” of which Tchaikovsky never dreamed:

[Music:

_Tchaikovsky._

_Beethoven._]

After having despatched the score to Moscow with this title, Tchaikovsky changed his mind, as may be seen from the following letter to Jurgenson:--

“_October_ 18_th_, 1893.

“Be so kind as to put on the title page what stands below.

_To Vladimir Lvovich

Davidov_

(No. 6)

_Composed by_ P. T.

“I hope it is not too late.

“It is very strange about this Symphony. It was not exactly a
failure, but was received with some hesitation. As far as I am
concerned, I am prouder of it than of any of my previous works.
However, we can soon talk it over together, for I shall be in
Moscow on Saturday.”

At this time he talked a great deal about the remodelling of _The Oprichnik_ and _The Maid of Orleans_, which he had in view for the immediate future. He did not confide to me his intentions as to the former opera; but as regards _The Maid of Orleans_, we discussed the alteration of the last scene, and I made a point of his arranging this, like so many other parts of the opera, from Schiller’s poem. The idea seemed to interest him, but it was not permitted to him to come to a definite conclusion on the subject.

During these last days he was neither very cheerful, nor yet depressed. In the circle of his intimate friends he was contented and jovial; among strangers he was, as usual, nervous and excited and, as time went on, tired out and dull. But nothing gave the smallest hint of his approaching end.

On Tuesday, October 19th (31st), he went to a private performance of Rubinstein’s _The Maccabees_. On the 20th (November 1st) he was still in good health and dined with his old friend Vera Boutakov (_née_ Davidov). Afterwards he went to see Ostrovsky’s play, _A Warm Heart_, at the Alexander Theatre. During the interval he went with me to see the actor Varlamov in his dressing-room. The conversation turned upon spiritualism. Varlamov described in his own humorous style--which cannot be transferred to paper--his loathing for “all those abominations” which reminded one of death. Peter Ilich laughed at Varlamov’s quaint way of expressing himself.

“There is plenty of time,” said Tchaikovsky, “before we need reckon with this snub-nosed horror; it will not come to snatch us off just yet! I feel I shall live a long time.” From the theatre, Tchaikovsky went with his nephews, Count Litke and Baron Buxhövden, to the Restaurant Leiner. I joined them an hour later, and found one or two other visitors--of whom Glazounov was one. They had already had their supper, and I was afterwards told my brother had eaten macaroni and drunk, as usual, white wine and soda water. We went home about two a.m. Peter Ilich was perfectly well and serene.

On the morning of Thursday, October 21st (November 2nd), Tchaikovsky did not appear as usual at the early breakfast-table. His brother went to his room and found him slightly indisposed. He complained of his digestion being upset and of a bad night. About eleven a.m. he dressed and went out to see Napravnik. Half an hour later he returned, still feeling unwell. He absolutely declined to send for a doctor. His condition gave no anxiety to Modeste, who had often seen him suffer from similar derangements.

He joined his brother and nephew at lunch, although he ate nothing. But this was probably the fatal moment in his indisposition for, while talking, he poured out a glass of water and drank a long draught. The water had not been boiled, and they were dismayed at his imprudence. But he was not in the least alarmed, and tried to calm their fears. He dreaded cholera less than any other illness. After this his condition grew worse; but he attributed all his discomfort to a copious dose of Hunyadi which he had taken earlier in the day, and still declined to send for his favourite doctor, Bertenson. Towards evening Modeste grew so anxious that he sent for the doctor on his own account. Meanwhile Tchaikovsky was tended by his brother’s servant Nazar, who had once travelled with him to Italy.

About eight p.m. Bertenson arrived. He saw at once that the illness was serious, and sent for his brother in consultation. The sufferer had grown very weak, and complained of terrible oppression on his chest. More than once he said, “I believe this is death.”

After a short consultation the brothers Bertenson, the two leading physicians in Petersburg, pronounced it to be a case of cholera.

All night long those who nursed him in turn fought against the cramps; towards morning with some hope of success. His courage was wonderful, and in the intervals between the paroxysms of pain he made little jokes with those around him. He constantly begged his nurses to take some rest, and was grateful for the smallest service.

On Friday his condition seemed more hopeful, and he himself believed he had been “snatched from the jaws of death.” But on the following day his mental depression returned. “Leave me,” he said to his doctors, “you can do no good. I shall never recover.”

Gradually he passed into the second stage of the cholera, with its most dangerous symptom--complete inactivity of the kidneys. He slept more, but his sleep was restless, and sometimes he wandered in his mind. At these times he continually repeated the name of Nadejda Filaretovna von Meck in an indignant, or reproachful, tone. Consciousness returned at longer intervals, and when his servant Alexis arrived from Klin he was no longer able to recognise him. A warm bath was tried as a last resource, but without avail, and soon afterwards his pulse grew so weak that the end seemed imminent. At the desire of his brother Nicholas, a priest was sent for from the Isaac Cathedral. He did not administer the sacrament, as Tchaikovsky was now quite unconscious, but prayed in clear and distinct tones, which, however, did not seem to reach the ears of the dying man.

At three o’clock on the morning of October 25th (November 6th) Tchaikovsky passed away in the presence of his brothers Nicholas and Modeste, his nephews Litke, Buxhövden, and Vladimir Davidov, the three doctors, and his faithful servant Alexis Safronov. At the last moment an indescribable look of clear recognition lit up his face--a gleam which only died away with his last breath.

* * * * *

My work is finished. With this account of Tchaikovsky’s last moments my task, which was to express the man, is accomplished.

To characterise the artist in every phase of his development, and to determine his position in the history of music, is beyond my powers. If all the documental and authentic evidence I have collected in this book should serve as fundamental material for another writer capable of fulfilling such a task, the most cherished aim of all my efforts will have been attained.

MODESTE TCHAIKOVSKY

ROME, 1902