Chapter V: Part III: I (1)

Tchaikovsky’s first impressions of Moscow practically resolve themselves into his association with a few Muscovites, with whom he was destined to be linked to the end of his days. His subsequent life is so inseparably connected with the narrow circle of his friends in the old capital, that the reader needs to be introduced to some of them individually, before I pass on to my brother’s career as a teacher and composer.

At the head of these musical friends stands Nicholas Rubinstein, of whom it is no exaggeration to say that he was the greatest influence throughout Tchaikovsky’s after career. No one, artist or friend, did so much for the advancement of his fame, gave him greater support and appreciation, or helped him more to conquer his first nervousness and timidity, than the Director of the Moscow Conservatoire. Nicholas Rubinstein is intimately associated with every event in Tchaikovsky’s private and public life. Everywhere we shall come upon traces of his helpful influence. It is not too much to assert that, during the first years of Tchaikovsky’s life there, all Moscow was personified in Nicholas Rubinstein.

* * * * *

Laroche, in his _Reminiscences_, gives the following sketch of the director:--

“Nicholas Rubinstein was born June 2nd (14th), 1835. Like his
celebrated brother, he showed a remarkable and precocious talent
for music. It is said he learnt quicker, and was considered to have
more genius than Anton. But while the latter devoted himself
entirely to music and studied in Berlin, Nicholas elected for a
university education.... As a student at the Moscow University, and
even later--until the establishment of the Russian Musical
Society--he earned his living by teaching the pianoforte. He had a
number of pupils, and, as he himself told me, earned at one time as
much as 7,000 roubles (over £700) a year. On his marriage he was
compelled to give up playing in public, on account of the
objections raised by his wife’s relations. His domestic life was
not happy, and the differences of opinion between himself and his
wife’s family led to a rupture two years later. His unusual powers
were first recognised when he succeeded in founding the Moscow
Conservatoire. Besides being a most gifted pianist, he had great
talent as a conductor, and organiser of many schemes. He could
represent all branches of musical society in his own person.
Although he spent all his nights at the ‘English Club,’ playing
cards for high stakes, he managed to take part in every social
event, and was acquainted with all circles of Moscow society,
commercial, official, artistic, scientific, and aristocratic.”

“As regards art,” says Kashkin, “Nicholas Rubinstein was purely an idealist; he admitted no compromise, and was entirely above personal likes or dislikes. He was always ready to help a fellow-artist, especially a Russian, and, without stopping to consider his means, simply gave whatever he had by him at the moment.

“Externally he differed greatly from his brother Anton. Nicholas Rubinstein was short and stoutly built; fair-complexioned, with curly hair. He had a dreamy expression, a languor of speech, and an air of aristocratic weariness, which was contradicted by the indefatigable energy of his temperament. Probably this languor proceeded from the fact that he scarcely ever slept.

“He was Tchaikovsky’s senior by five years only; but in these early days of their intercourse the difference between their ages seemed much greater. This was partly accounted for by the fact that Tchaikovsky came to Moscow in a somewhat subordinate position, whereas the name of Rubinstein was one of the most popular in the town; but the difference in character was also very great. Rubinstein belonged to the class of dominating and ruling personalities; his was a forceful character which impressed all who came in contact with him. Tchaikovsky, on the contrary, was yielding and submissive in matters of daily existence, although inwardly he protested against all attempts to influence and coerce him, and generally preserved his freedom of opinion, at least as regards music. This self-assertion did not, however, come naturally to him, and for that reason he loved solitude. He avoided his fellow-men, because he did not know how to hold his own among them; while at the same time he disliked submitting to the will of others, but this was not his attitude in 1866. At this time he was grateful for Nicholas Rubinstein’s almost paternal care, and bowed to his decision, even in the matter of dress.

“Their friendly relations were sometimes strained, but never broken, although Peter Ilich was occasionally irritated by Rubinstein’s masterful guidance, and was scolded in return for not being sufficiently docile.”

* * * * *

“Rubinstein’s right hand,” says Laroche, “was Constantine Albrecht, the Inspector of the Conservatoire. He was about five years older than Tchaikovsky, and had held the post of ‘cellist at the Opera House since the age of fifteen. Albrecht was a very capable and, in many respects, a very interesting man, although he was not popular with the public. Tchaikovsky was strongly attracted to him, and soon after his arrival in Moscow arranged to take his meals daily at his house. Albrecht’s views, or rather convictions, were extraordinarily paradoxical.

“In politics he took the Conservative side, but as regards music he was probably the most advanced radical in Moscow. Wagner, Liszt, Beethoven in his last period, and certain things of Schumann, were all he would acknowledge. I must add, by way of an eccentricity, his admiration for Dargomijsky’s _Roussalka_. He was an admirable choral conductor, and did good work in this branch of his art, for many of the pupils trained by him turned out excellent teachers. Besides music, Albrecht took great interest in natural science and mathematics. In summer he was an enthusiastic hunter of beetles and butterflies. But for the subjects in which a musician should be interested--history, poetry, _belles-lettres_ he showed the most complete indifference. I doubt if he had ever read a novel....”

* * * * *

Tchaikovsky had a very high opinion of Albrecht as a composer, and often regretted that so much talent should be wasted. But it was his kindliness of heart, and above all his innate sense of humour, which appealed most to Peter Ilich.

Very different, and far more important, were Tchaikovsky’s relations with P. I. Jurgenson, the first--and always the chief--publisher of his works.

Peter Ivanovich Jurgenson was born at Reval in 1836, and his childhood was spent in very poor and depressing circumstances. At nineteen he entered a music warehouse in Petersburg, where he soon won his employer’s confidence, and rose to be manager to the firm of Schildbach, in Moscow. Two years later, in 1861, he made a daring venture and set up business on his own account. In Nicholas Rubinstein he found a powerful friend and ally, who supported his enterprise for twenty years with unfailing energy. By 1866 Jurgenson had passed through his worst experiences, and began to play a prominent part in the musical life of Moscow. Courageous and enterprising, he was one of the most active adherents of Nicholas Rubinstein, that “Peter the Great” of musical Moscow, to whom he rendered valuable assistance in founding the Conservatoire. Jurgenson was the first Russian publisher to bring out the works of the classical school in cheap editions, and also the compositions of young native composers, including those of Tchaikovsky.

Although he came from the Baltic provinces, Jurgenson was an ardent Russian patriot, and soon won the affection of Peter Ilich, who was always a welcome guest in his house.

At the present moment the firm of Jurgenson is almost the sole possessor of Tchaikovsky’s compositions. Among the 200,000 engraving-plates which are preserved in their fireproof safes more than 70,000 belong to the works of this composer.

The fourth of Tchaikovsky’s intimate friends, Nicholas Kashkin, received him on his arrival with the cordiality of an old comrade, for he already knew him from Laroche’s enthusiastic description.

“ ... Nicholas Dmitrievich Kashkin was the son of a well-known and respected bookseller in the town of Voronejh,” says Laroche in his reminiscences. From childhood he displayed great aptitude for the piano, and by dint of self-teaching, made such progress that he could execute difficult music, and was highly thought of in his native place. Yet he was conscious that he lacked proper training, and at twenty-two went to study with Dubuque, in Moscow.

Although Kashkin had no influence on Tchaikovsky’s development, their relations were very friendly. When the latter came to Moscow, Kashkin was already married and a professor at the Conservatoire. He and his young wife took a great liking to the lonely composer, and the intimacy ripened very quickly. All the teachers at the Conservatoire, including Nicholas Rubinstein, valued Kashkin’s advice. All his friends regarded him as a critic _par excellence_. Many years later he gave up teaching at the Conservatoire, and became a professional critic. But even in this difficult calling, which so often leads to misunderstanding and bitter enmities, he managed to keep all his old friends, and even to make new ones.

If I add to the names of N. Rubinstein, Albrecht, Jurgenson, and Kashkin, two fellow-students already mentioned--Laroche and Hubert--the list of Tchaikovsky’s intimate friends is complete. This little circle was destined to give unfailing support to the growing reputation of the composer, and to remain in the closest personal relations with him to the end of his life. Amid these friends he found encouragement and sympathy at the time when he stood most in need of them.

II

Tchaikovsky left St. Petersburg early in January, 1866.

At this time his letters show his depth of tenderness for his own people, his first feelings of loneliness in the strange city, his indifference to his surroundings, and finally his gradual attachment to Moscow, which ended in being “the dearest town in the world.”

_To Anatol and Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“3.30 _p.m._, _January_ 6_th_ (18_th_).

“MY DEAR BROTHERS,--My journey, although sad, is safely over. I
thought about you the whole way, and it grieved me to think that
lately I had overshadowed you with my own depression, although I
fought hard against it. Do not, however, doubt my affection, even
if I do not always show it outwardly. I am staying at the Hotel
Kokorev. I have already seen Rubinstein and been introduced to two
directors of the Musical Society. Rubinstein was so pressing in his
invitation to me to live with him that I could not refuse, and
shall go there to-morrow.... I hug you both. Do not cease to love
me. Give my remembrances to everyone. Write! I will write again
soon. I have just written to Dad. You must also do so.”

_To the same._

“MOSCOW, _January_ 10_th_ (22_nd_).

“DEAR BROTHERS,--I am now living with Nicholas Rubinstein. He is a
very kind and sympathetic man. He has none of his brother’s
unapproachable manner, but in other respects he is not to be
compared with Anton--as an artist. I have a little room next to his
bedroom, and, truth to tell, I am afraid the scratching of my pen
must disturb him after he goes to bed, for our rooms are only
divided by a thin partition. I am very busy (upon the orchestration
of the C minor overture composed during the summer). I sit at home
nearly all day, and Rubinstein, who leads rather an excitable life,
cannot sufficiently marvel at my industry. I have been to both
theatres. The opera was very bad, so for once I did not get as much
artistic enjoyment from it as from the play.... I have hardly made
any new acquaintances except Kashkin, a friend of Laroche’s and a
first-rate musician, whom I have got to know very well indeed.

“Sometimes I feel rather melancholy, but as a rule I am possessed
by an insatiable craving for work, which is my greatest
consolation.... I have promised Rubinstein my overture shall be
performed here before I send it to Petersburg. Yesterday at bedtime
I thought a great deal about you both. I pictured to myself all the
horrors of the first night after the holidays, and fancied how Modi
would hide his nose under the bed-clothes and cry bitterly. How I
wish I could have comforted him! It is not a meaningless phrase,
Modi, when I tell you to grind and grind and grind, and to make
friends with your respectable companions, but not with that crazy
fellow X.... I am afraid you will be left behind in your class and
be one of those who get into the master’s black books. I have no
fears for Toly, so I send him no advice. Toly, my dear, conquer
your indolence as a correspondent and write to me. Hearty kisses!”

The overture in C minor, referred to in this letter, was submitted to Nicholas Rubinstein a few days later. His opinion, however, was unfavourable, and he declared the work unsuitable for performance by the Musical Society. Tchaikovsky then sent the work to Petersburg, in order that Laroche might ask Anton Rubinstein to perform it there. “I have left your overture with Rubinstein,” Laroche wrote in reply, “and repeated your request _verbatim_. He replied by a low, ironical bow. But this is just his way.” The overture was not approved by Anton Rubinstein, nor did it meet with a happier fate when Laroche tried to persuade Liadov to give it a place at one of the opera concerts. Long afterwards Tchaikovsky himself shared this adverse opinion of the work, and wrote upon the cover of the manuscript, “Awful rubbish.”

_To his sister, Alexandra Davidov._

“_January_ 15_th_ (27_th_).

“ ... I have nothing particular to tell you about my life and work.
I am to teach the theory of music, and yesterday I held the
preliminary examination. Many pretty girls presented themselves....
I like Moscow very well, but I doubt if I shall ever get accustomed
to it; I have been too long rooted in Petersburg.”

_To A. and M. Tchaikovsky._

“_January_ 15_th_ (27_th_).

“MY DEAR BROTHERS,--Do not waste your money on stamps. It would be
better to write only once a week, a long letter in the form of a
diary....

“I get on very well with everyone, especially with Rubinstein,
Kashkin, Albrecht, and Osberg.[12] I have also made friends with a
family of the name Tchaikovsky.[13] I have eaten a great deal at
their house, but I did not take part in the dancing, although I was
attired in Rubinstein’s dress-coat. The latter looks after me like
a nurse, and insists upon doing so. To-day he forced me to accept
half a dozen new shirts (you need not mention this to the Davidovs
or anyone else), and to-morrow he will carry me off to his tailor
to order me a frock-coat. He is a wonderfully kind man, but I
cannot understand how he has won his great reputation as a
musician. He is rather ordinary in this respect, not to be compared
to his brother.[14]

“In mentioning my friends here, I must not omit Rubinstein’s
servant Alexander. He is a worthy old man, and possesses a splendid
white cat which is now sitting on my lap, while I stroke it gently.
My pleasantest pastime is to think of the summer. Lately I have
felt drawn to Sasha, Leo, and their children, and have now decided
to spend the summer with you at their house.”

_To A. and M. Tchaikovsky._

“_Sunday, January_ 30_th_ (_February_ 11_th_).

“ ... I laugh heartily over Dickens’s _Pickwick Papers_, with no
one to share my mirth; but sometimes this thought incites me to
even wilder hilarity. I recommend you to read this book; when one
wants to read fiction it is best to begin with such an author as
Dickens. He has much in common with Gogol; the same inimitable and
innate humour and the same masterly power of depicting an entire
character in a few strokes. But he has not Gogol’s depth....

“The idea of an opera begins to occupy my attention. All the
libretti Rubinstein has given me are utterly bad. I have found a
subject, and intend to write words myself. It will simply be the
adaptation of a tragedy. The poet Plestcheiev is living here, and
has promised to help me.”

_To his sister, Alexandra Davidov._

“_February_ 7_th_ (19_th_).

“I am gradually becoming accustomed to Moscow, although sometimes I
feel very lonely. My classes are very successful, to my great
astonishment; my nervousness is vanishing completely, and I am
gradually assuming the airs of a professor. My home-sickness is
also wearing off, but still Moscow is a strange place, and it will
be long before I can contemplate without horror the thought of
remaining here for years--perhaps for ever....”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

(_The middle of February._)

“MY DEAR FRIEND MODI,--I have been very busy lately, and therefore
have not written for a long while. Rubinstein has entrusted me with
some important work which has to be finished by the third week in
Lent....

“Life glides on quietly and monotonously, so that I have hardly
anything to tell you. I often visit the Tarnovskys, whose niece is
the loveliest girl I ever saw in my life. I am very much taken with
her, which causes Rubinstein to be a perfect nuisance. The moment
we arrive at the house the others begin to tease us and leave us
together. At home she is called ‘Mufka,’ and just now I am
wondering whether I dare use this name for her too. I only need to
know her a little better. Rubinstein has also been in love with
her, but his sentiments have now grown cooler.

“My nerves are in good condition; I am very calm and even cheerful.
I often console myself with thoughts of Easter, spring, and the
summer holidays.”

The work to which Tchaikovsky refers at the beginning of this letter was the instrumentation of his overture in F major, which had been originally scored for the small orchestra of the Petersburg Conservatoire. In later years the composer must have destroyed the fuller arrangement of the work, although at this time he seems to have been satisfied with the result.

_To A. and M. Tchaikovsky._

“_March_ 6_th_ (18_th_).

“ ... My overture was performed on Friday, and had a good success.
I was unanimously recalled, and--to be grandiloquent--received with
applause that made the welkin ring. More flattering still was the
ovation I met with at the supper which Rubinstein gave after the
concert.... After supper he proposed my health amid renewed
applause. I go into these details because it is my first public
success, and consequently very gratifying.”

At the end of March Tchaikovsky, eager as a schoolboy at the beginning of his holidays, left Moscow for Petersburg, where he stayed until April 4th (16th).

_To A. and M. Tchaikovsky._

“MOSCOW, _April_ 7_th_ (19_th_).

“Brothers! Forgive me for not having written before. The journey
was safely accomplished. The news of the attempt upon the Emperor’s
life reached us at the station where we stopped for tea, but only
in a very vague form.[15] We pictured to ourselves that he was
actually dead, and one lady wept bitterly, while another began to
extol all the virtues of the new sovereign. Only at Moscow I learnt
the true account. The rejoicings here were beyond belief; yesterday
at the Opera, where I went to hear _A Life for the Tsar_, when the
Poles appeared on the stage the entire public began to shout, ‘Down
with the Poles!’ In the last scene of the fourth act, in which the
Poles put Sousanin to death, the singer who was taking this part
resisted with such realistic violence that he knocked down several
of the ‘Polish’ chorus-singers. When the rest of the ‘Poles’ saw
that this outrage to art and to the truth delighted the public,
they promptly fell down of their own accord, and the triumphant
Sousanin walked away, shaking his fists at them, amid the
vociferous applause of the Muscovites. At the end of the opera the
Emperor’s portrait was brought on the stage, and an indescribable
tumult followed.”

_To Alexandra Davidov._

“_April_ 18_th_ (20_th_).

“I am going to act as advocate for two mortals who are just crazy
about Kamenka. You write that Toly and Modi might be left in
Petersburg, but I am determined not to tell them your point of
view. They would utterly lose heart--especially Toly. One of my
chief reasons for caring to spend the summer at Kamenka is to be
with them, and your house is the only place where we can be
together for a time. If you only knew how these little fellows
cling to me (and I return their love a hundredfold), you would not
find it in your heart to separate us. Arrange, my dear, for this
visit to come off. Very likely I shall be able to take part of the
expense off your hands.”

Before the summer holidays came, Tchaikovsky’s health was in an unsatisfactory condition. He complains in his letters of insomnia, nervousness, and the throbbing sensations in his head, to which he often refers as “my apoplectic symptoms.” At the end of April his depression became very apparent, and he wrote to his brother Anatol:--

“My nerves are altogether shaken. The causes are: (1) the symphony,
which does not sound satisfactory; (2) Rubinstein and Tarnovsky
have discovered that I am easily startled, and amuse themselves by
giving me all manner of shocks all day long; (3) I cannot shake off
the conviction that I shall not live long, and shall leave my
symphony unfinished. I long for the summer and for Kamenka as for
the Promised Land, and hope to find rest and peace, and to forget
all my troubles there. Yesterday I determined to touch no more
wine, spirits, or strong tea.

“I hate mankind in the mass, and I should be delighted to retire
into some wilderness with very few inhabitants. I have already
secured my ticket in the _diligence_ for May 10th (22nd).”

The visit to Kamenka, to which he had looked forward through the winter and spring, did not actually come to pass. In consequence of the state of the high-roads, the diligence was unable to run beyond Dovsk; the remainder of the journey had to be undertaken, at the traveller’s own risk and expense, in a private post-chaise. Tchaikovsky’s funds did not permit of this extra strain, and the visit to his sister was abandoned. With the assistance of his father, Anatol was sent to Kamenka, while Peter Ilich, with Modeste, went for a time to his sister’s mother-in-law at Miatlev, near Petersburg.

In spite of the beauty of scenery and his pleasure in being with his excellent friends, Elizabeth and Vera Davidov, in spite of being near his father and the poetical impression derived from a trip to Lake Ladoga, Tchaikovsky did not altogether enjoy his holiday at Miatlev. The cause of this was his G minor symphony, afterwards known as _Winter Day Dreams_. Not one of his compositions gave him so much trouble as this symphony.

He began this work in Moscow during the spring, and it was the cause of his nervous disorders and numerous sleepless nights. These difficulties were partly caused by his want of experience in composition, and partly by his habit of working by night as well as by day. At the end of June he had a terrible nervous breakdown, and the doctor who was called in to see him declared he had narrowly escaped madness, and that his condition was very serious. The most alarming symptoms of the illness were his hallucinations and a constant feeling of dread. That he suffered intensely is evident from the fact that he never again attempted to work through the night.

In consequence of his illness, Tchaikovsky was unable to finish the symphony during the summer. Nevertheless, before his return to Moscow he resolved to submit it to his former masters, Anton Rubinstein and Zaremba, hoping they might offer to let it be heard at the Musical Society.

Once more he was doomed to disappointment. His symphony was severely criticised, rejected, and pronounced unworthy of performance. It was the first completely independent work which he had composed after leaving the Petersburg Conservatoire. The only other work upon which he was engaged at this time was the orchestration of his F major and C minor overtures, which still remain unpublished.

III

1866-1867

At the end of August Tchaikovsky returned to Moscow without any trace of the hostile feeling with which he had gone there in the previous January. In this change of attitude his artistic sensibility unquestionably played a part. After the severe judgment of the authorities in Petersburg upon his symphony, he could not fail to contrast this reception unfavourably with the acknowledgments of the Moscow musical world. He had learnt, too, the value of his colleagues, N. Rubinstein, Albrecht and Kashkin, and looked forward to meeting them again. Finally, he had the pleasant prospect of an increased salary, commencing from September. He must have rejoiced to feel his extreme poverty had touched its limits, and an income of over £120 a year seemed almost wealth to him. “I have money enough and to spare,” he wrote to his brothers in November.

The ties which bound him to Petersburg were slackening. His attachment to his father remained unchanged, but he was growing accustomed to his separation; moreover, the twins stood less in need of his tender solicitude, since they were once more living at home with their father.

And yet he still hankered after the recognition of St. Petersburg; Moscow was still “a strange city”; a provincial town, the appreciation of which was hardly worth the conquest.

In 1866 the Conservatoire outgrew its quarters in Rubinstein’s house, and it became necessary to locate it in a larger building. Rubinstein now moved into quarters nearer the new Conservatoire, and Tchaikovsky continued to live with him.

The opening of the buildings took place on September 1st (13th), and was attended by most of the leaders of Moscow society. The consecration service was followed by a banquet at which many toasts were given, and even Tchaikovsky himself drank to the health of Rubinstein, after making a cordial and eloquent speech in his honour. Kashkin, the only witness of the event now living, writes:--

“The banquet was followed by music, and Tchaikovsky, who was
determined that the first music to be heard in the hall of the
Conservatoire should be Glinka’s, opened the impromptu concert by
playing the overture to _Russlan and Lieudmilla_ from memory.”

The influx of new colleagues which followed the enlargement of the Conservatoire made very little difference to Tchaikovsky’s intimate circle. He admired Laub’s incomparable playing without entering into closer relations with him. He had more in common with Kossmann, an excellent musician and a man of culture. His acquaintance with the violinist Wieniawsky was of short duration, since at the end of six months the latter resigned his post as teacher, and they never met again. He often spent the evening with Dubuque, a most hospitable man, and a famous pianist, who was considered the finest interpreter of Field’s Nocturnes and other works which were accounted modern in those days. To these acquaintances we may add Anton Door, the well-known pianist, now residing in Vienna.

Among such of Tchaikovsky’s friends as did not belong to the musical profession, the generous art patron Prince Vladimir Odoevsky takes the first place. Peter Ilich was grateful for the interest which this enlightened man took in him and his work. In 1878 he says in one of his letters:--

“He was the personification of kindness, and combined the most
all-embracing knowledge, including the art of music.... Four days
before his death he came to the concert to hear my orchestral
fantasia, _Fatum_. How jovial he was when during the interval he
came to give me his opinion! The cymbals which he unearthed and
presented to me are still kept at the Conservatoire. He did not
like the instruments himself, but thought I had a talent for
introducing them at the right moment. So the charming old fellow
searched all Moscow until he discovered a pair of good ‘piatti,’
and sent them to me with a precious letter.”

In the literary and dramatic world Tchaikovsky had two good friends--the dramatist Ostrovsky and Sadovsky. He won the sympathy of these distinguished men entirely by his own personality, since neither of them cared greatly for music.

During the season 1866-7 the composer made another friendship which was of great importance to his future career. Vladimir Petrovich Begichev, Intendant of the Imperial Opera, Moscow, enjoyed a considerable reputation--first as an elderly Adonis, secondly as the hero of many romantic episodes in the past, and thirdly as the husband of his wife, a lady once renowned for her singing and for her somewhat sensational past. By her first husband Madame Begichev had two sons--Constantine and Vladimir Shilovsky. These young men were strongly attracted to art and literature, and played a considerable part in Tchaikovsky’s subsequent career.

Soon after his arrival in Moscow Tchaikovsky began to compose an overture on the Danish National Hymn, which N. Rubinstein had requested him to have ready for the approaching marriage of the Tsarevitch with the Princess Dagmar, to be played in the presence of the royal pair during their visit to Moscow.

As with all his commissioned works, Tchaikovsky had completed this overture before the appointed day, although he had to compose under the most unfavourable conditions. Rubinstein’s house was beset all day long by professors from the Conservatoire and other visitors, who did not hesitate to intrude into Tchaikovsky’s room, so that he found no peace at home, and had to take refuge in a neighbouring inn, “The Great Britain,” which was very little frequented during the daytime. When finished, he dedicated the overture to the Tsarevitch, and received in return a pair of jewelled sleeve-links, which he immediately sold to Dubuque. Tchaikovsky, who generally judged his early works very severely, kept a favourable recollection of this overture, and wrote to Jurgenson, in 1892:--

“My Danish Overture may become a popular concert work, for, as far
as I can remember, it is effective and, from a musical standpoint,
far superior to ‘1812.’”

After making some alterations in his symphony--undertaken at the desire of Anton Rubinstein and Zaremba--Tchaikovsky, setting aside N. Rubinstein, desired to hear the judgments of his old teachers, so greatly was he still under the influence of Petersburg opinion. He only permitted the least important movement to be heard at a Moscow Symphony Concert in December--the scherzo, which had very little success. In Petersburg the work was once more refused, but afterwards the two middle movements (adagio and scherzo) were performed in February, 1867. The reception was not encouraging, only one anonymous critic speaking warmly in praise of the music.

In Tchaikovsky’s nature, side by side with his gentle and benevolent attitude towards his fellow-men, there existed an extraordinary memory for any injury; not in the ordinary sense of a desire for revenge, but in the more literal meaning of unforgetfulness. He hardly ever forgot a slight to his artistic pride. If it was offered by one whom he had hitherto loved, he grew suddenly cold to him--and for ever. Not only for months or years, but for decades, he would bear such a wound unhealed in his heart, and it took a great deal to make him forget an inconsiderate word, or an unfriendly action. It was no doubt the result of having been spoilt as a child. From his earliest infancy he had been kept from all unpleasantness, or even indifference, so that what would have appeared a pin-prick to many seemed to him a mortal blow.

Not only the episode of the symphony--which afterwards won a fair measure of success in St. Petersburg--but many other events contributed to estrange Tchaikovsky from the city of his first affections. Gradually the circle of his friends there decreased, and the most intimate of them all, Laroche, was appointed Professor at the Moscow Conservatoire in December, 1867. Besides which that little school of gifted “young Russians,” under the leadership of Balakirev, and the protection of Dargomijsky, which included Moussorgsky, Cui, Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov, were gaining more and more acknowledgment and weight in Petersburg. This circle, supported by the pens of Cui and Stassov, who held extremely modern views and were opposed to the Conservatoire and Anton Rubinstein, made a very unsympathetic impression upon Tchaikovsky.

The hostility with which he regarded this group of composers had its origin in his distrustful attitude towards society generally. He met all strangers with dislike, but at the first friendly advance, or kind word, he forgave them, and even thought them sympathetic.

So it was with his intercourse with the members of the New School in St. Petersburg. Until 1868 none of them were known to him personally, but all the same he was hostile to them. This was sufficient to awaken in him the notion that they were all disposed to be his enemies, and when in 1867 Anton Rubinstein resigned the conductorship of the Symphony Concerts, and it passed into the hands of this school, he decided that Petersburg was now a hostile camp, whereas in reality they were simply neutral, or indifferent, to him.

Meanwhile, by closer acquaintance with Nicholas Rubinstein, Tchaikovsky had begun to recognise his worth as an executant, a conductor, and an indefatigable worker; while the presence of such musicians as Laub and Kossmann, and such intimate friends as Kashkin, Albrecht and Laroche, reconciled him to Moscow as a musical centre where it was worth while to be appreciated.

The earliest of Tchaikovsky’s letters in 1867 is dated May 2nd (14th); therefore it is difficult to fix the precise date at which he began to compose his opera, _The Voyevode_. In any case he received the first part of the libretto from Ostrovsky in March or April. I remember that in the summer the first act was not even finished. At the very outset he was delayed in his work because he lost the manuscript, and Ostrovsky had to rewrite it from memory.

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_May_ 2_nd_(14_th_), 1867.

“All last week I was out of humour; first, because of the bad
weather; secondly, from shortness of money; and thirdly, from
despair of ever again finding the libretto.... Recently I made the
acquaintance of Professor Bougaiev at his house. He is an
extraordinarily learned man. He talked until late into the night
about astronomy and its latest discoveries. Good God! How ignorant
we are when we leave school! I shudder when I chance to come across
a really well-read and enlightened man!...”

In the summer of 1867 Tchaikovsky decided to visit Finland with one of the twins, his funds not being sufficient to allow of his taking both of them. With his usual _naïveté_ as regards money matters, he set off with Anatol, taking about £10 in his pocket, which he believed would suffice for the trip. At the end of a few days in Viborg, finding themselves nearly penniless, they took the first boat back to Petersburg. There a great disappointment awaited them. Their father, from whom they hoped to obtain some assistance, had already left for a summer holiday in the Ural Mountains. The brothers then spent their last remaining shillings in reaching Hapsal by steamer, where they were certain of finding their faithful friends the Davidovs. They travelled as “between deck” passengers and suffered terribly from the cold. But notwithstanding these misadventures, out of which they derived more amusement than discomfort, Peter Ilich enjoyed the summer holidays. His spirits were excellent, and he worked hard at _The Voyevode_, while his leisure was spent in the society of his dear friends. The evenings were devoted to reading, and they were particularly interested in the dramatic works of Alfred de Musset. This kind of life entirely satisfied Tchaikovsky’s simple and steadfast nature, and his happy frame of mind is reflected in the _Chant sans paroles_, which he composed at this time and dedicated--with two additional pieces for piano--to Vera Vassilievna Davidov, under the title of _Souvenir de Hapsal_.

On August 15th (27th), Tchaikovsky left Hapsal for Moscow, spending a week in Petersburg on his way.

IV

1867-1868

“Perhaps you may have observed”--writes Tchaikovsky to his
sister--“that I long intensely for a quiet, peaceful life, such as
one lives in the country. Vera Davidov may have told you how we
often spoke in fun of our future farm, where we intended to end our
days. As regards myself it is no joke. I am really attracted to
this idea because, although I am far from being old, I am already
very tired of life. Do not laugh; if you always lived with me you
would see it for yourself. The people around me often wonder at my
taciturnity and my apparent ill-temper, while actually I do not
lead an unhappy existence. What more can a man want whose prospects
are good, who is liked, and whose artistic work meets with
appreciation? And yet, in spite of these favourable circumstances,
I shrink from every social engagement, do not care to make
acquaintances, love solitude and silence. All this is explained by
my weariness of life. In those moments when I am not merely too
lazy to talk, but too indolent even to think, I dream of a calm,
heavenly, serene existence, and only realise this life in your
immediate neighbourhood. Be sure of this: you will have to devote
some of your maternal devotion to your tired old brother. Perhaps
you may think such a frame of mind naturally leads a man to the
consideration of matrimony. No, my dear future companion! My
weariness has made me _too indolent_ to form new ties, _too
indolent_ to found a family, _too indolent_ to take upon myself the
responsibility of wife and children. In short, marriage is to me
inconceivable. How I shall come to be united with your family I
know not as yet; whether I shall become the owner of a plot of
ground in your neighbourhood, or simply your boarder, only the
future can decide. One thing is clear: my future happiness is
impossible apart from you.”

Tchaikovsky never gives the true reason for his yearning after solitude and a life of “heavenly quiet and serenity,” but it certainly did not proceed from “misanthropy,” “indolence,” or weariness of life.

He was no misanthropist, for, as everyone who knew him must agree, it would be difficult to find any man who gave out more sympathy than he did. Laroche says:--

“The number of people who made a good impression on him, who
pleased him, and of whom he spoke in their absence as ‘good’ and
‘sympathetic,’ sometimes astounded me. The power of seeing the best
side of people and of things was a gift inherited from his father,
and it was precisely this love of his fellow-creatures which made
him so beloved in return. He was no misanthropist, rather a
philanthropist in the true sense of the word. Neither is there
greater justice in his self-accusation of ‘indolence.’ Those who
have followed him through his school-life, his official career, and
his student days at the Conservatoire, will be of my opinion. But a
glance at the number of his works, which reaches seventy-six,
including ten operas and three ballets; at his letters (I possess,
in all, four thousand); at his literary work (sixty-one articles);
at his translations and arrangements, and his ten years’ teaching,
will suffice to convince the most sceptical that his nature knew no
moods of _dolce far niente_.”

As regards his “weariness of life,” he himself disposes of it in the same letter, when he speaks of yearning for a calm and happy existence. Those who are really world-weary have no longing for any kind of existence. Neither misanthropy, indolence, nor weariness were his permanent moods. His indefinite craving for an easier life was caused by his creative impulse, which, waxing ever stronger and stronger, awoke the desire for more leisure to devote to it. This longing for freedom reached a climax in 1877, and brought about a complete change in his life.

For the time being it was useless to think of solitude or freedom. All he could hope for was the comparative liberty of his summer vacation. Town life was a necessity to him from the material and moral point of view, and although he complained of its being oppressive, I believe that had he been compelled by fate to reside in the country--as he did some years later--he would, at this earlier period of his career, have had much more cause for complaint.

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_August_ 31_st_, 1867 (_September_ 12_th_).

“ ... At present I have nothing to do, and loaf about the town all
day.... Ostrovsky still keeps me on the trot. I read in the
Petersburg papers that he had completed my libretto, but it is not
so. I had some difficulty in dragging the first half of the lost
act out of him. I am wandering about with the intention of buying a
large writing-table to make my room more comfortable, so that I can
work at my opera at home. I am determined to finish it during the
winter. Last night we celebrated Dubuque’s birthday, and I came
back rather the worse for liquor.

“I have spent two evenings running at the ‘English Club.’ What a
delightful club! It would be jolly to belong to it, but it costs
too much....”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

(_About the end of October._)

“I am getting along all right. On Saturday our first concert takes
place, to which I look forward, for, generally speaking, the people
here prefer carnal to spiritual entertainments, and eat and drink
an incredible amount. The concert will supply me with a little
musical food, of which I am badly in need, for I live like a bear
in his cave, upon my own substance, that is to say, upon my
compositions, which are always running in my head. Try as I may, it
is impossible to lead a quiet life in Moscow, where one must
over-eat and drink. This is the fifth day in succession that I have
come home late with an overloaded stomach. But you must not imagine
I am idle: from breakfast till the midday meal I work without a
break.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_November_ 25_th_ (_December_ 7_th_).

“Our mutual friend Klimenko is in Moscow, and visits us almost
daily.

“The Opera is progressing fairly well. The whole of the third act
is finished, and the dances from it--which I orchestrated at
Hapsal--will be given at the next concert.”

Ivan Alexandrovich Klimenko, whose name will often occur in the course of this book, had previously made Laroche’s acquaintance at one of Serov’s “Tuesday evenings.” An architect by profession, Kashkin describes him as a very gifted amateur. He was devotedly attached to Tchaikovsky, and one of the first to prophesy his significance for Russian music.

At the second symphony concert, which took place early in December, “The Dances of the Serving Maids,” from _The Voyevode_, were given. They had an undeniable success, and were twice repeated in Moscow during the season.

On December 12th (24th) Tchaikovsky wrote to his brother Anatol as follows:--

“You ask if I am coming to Petersburg. Wisdom compels me to say no.
In the first place I have not money for the journey, and secondly,
Berlioz is coming here at Christmas, and will give two
concerts--one popular, and another in the place of our fourth
symphony evening. I shall put off my visit until the Carnival or
Lent....”

Berlioz went to Moscow about the end of December, 1867, direct from St. Petersburg, where he had been invited by the directors of the Musical Society--chiefly at the instigation of Dargomijsky and Balakirev--to conduct a series of six concerts.

This was not his first visit to Russia. As early as 1847 he had been welcomed in Petersburg, Moscow and Riga, by the instrumentality of Glinka, who regarded him as “the greatest of contemporary musicians.” He then met with an enthusiastic reception from the leaders of the Russian musical world, Prince Odoevsky and Count Vielgorsky, and not only made a large sum, but was equally fêted by the public. It is interesting to note that not only Berlioz himself, but his Russian admirers seem to have deluded themselves into the belief that he was “understood” and “appreciated” in Russia. Prince Odoevsky, who published an article extolling Berlioz’s genius the very day before his first concert in Petersburg, exclaims in one of his letters to Glinka:--

“Where are you, friend? Why are you not with us? Why are you not
sharing our joy and pleasure? Berlioz has been ‘understood’ in St.
Petersburg!! Here, in spite of the scourge of Italian cavatina,
which has well-nigh ruined Slavonic taste, we showed that we could
still appreciate the most complicated contrapuntal music in the
world. There must be a secret sympathy between his music and our
intimate Russian sentiment. How else can this public enthusiasm be
explained?”

I am of opinion that it is more easily explicable by the fact that Berlioz was a gifted conductor, and that the public had been prepossessed in his favour by the laudatory articles of Prince Odoevsky himself. Judging from the neglect of this famous composer in the present day (_Faust_ is the only one of his works which is still popular), this is surely the right point of view.

Twenty years later, in 1867, the enthusiastic welcome he received here was chiefly due to his attraction as a conductor, and to the enthusiasm of that small group of Russian musicians to whom he owed his invitation to our country.

Tchaikovsky, whose views were entirely opposed to those of this circle, held “his own opinions” in this, as in other matters. Although he fully appreciated the important place which Berlioz filled in modern music, and recognised him as a great reformer of the orchestra, he felt no enthusiasm for his music. On the other hand, he had the warmest admiration for the man, in whom he saw “the personification of disinterested industry, of ardent love for art, of a noble and energetic combatant against ignorance, stupidity, vulgarity, and routine....” He also regarded him as “an old and broken man, persecuted alike by fate and his fellow-creatures,” whom he cordially desired to console and cheer--if only for the moment--by the expression of an ungrudging sympathy.

On February 3rd (15th) Tchaikovsky’s G minor symphony was given at the Musical Society, when its success surpassed all expectations. “The adagio pleased best,” Tchaikovsky wrote to his brothers. The composer was vociferously recalled, and, according to Countess Kapnist, appeared upon the platform in rather untidy clothes, hat in hand, and bowed awkwardly.

On February 19th (March 2nd) a charity concert was given in the Opera House in aid of the Famine Fund. This was an event in Tchaikovsky’s life, for he made his first public appearance as a conductor, the “Dances” from _The Voyevode_, being played under his bâton. On this occasion, too, he first became acquainted with the work of Rimsky-Korsakov, whose “Serbian Fantasia” was included in the programme.

Tchaikovsky’s opinion of himself as a conductor we have learnt already from Laroche. Kashkin gives the following account of this concert:--

“When I went behind the scenes to see how the _débutant_ was
feeling, he told me that to his great surprise he was not in the
least nervous. Before it came to his turn I returned to my place.
When Tchaikovsky actually appeared on the platform, I noticed that
he was quite distracted; he came on timidly, as though he would
have been glad to hide, or run away, and, on mounting to the
conductor’s desk, looked like a man who finds himself in some
desperate situation. Apparently his composition was blotted out
from his mind; he did not see the score before him, and gave all
the leads at the wrong moment, or to the wrong instruments.
Fortunately the band knew the music so well that they paid no
attention whatever to Tchaikovsky’s beat, but laughing in their
sleeves, got through the dances very creditably in spite of him.
Afterwards Peter Ilich told me that in his terror he had a feeling
that his head would fall off his shoulders unless he held it
tightly in position.”

That he had no faith in his powers of conducting is evident from the fact that ten years elapsed before he ventured to take up the bâton again.

In a notice of the concert, which appeared in _The Entr’acte_, Tchaikovsky was spoken of as a “mature” musician, whose work was remarkable for “loftiness of aim and masterly thematic treatment”; while Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Serbian Fantasia” was dismissed as “colourless and inanimate.”

Had such a judgment been pronounced a few months earlier, at a time when Tchaikovsky knew nothing of the composer, and regarded the entire Petersburg School as his enemies, who knows whether he would not have felt a certain satisfaction--a kind of “Schadenfreude”--at its appearance? Now, however, circumstances were altered. Not only had he become well acquainted with the “Serbian Fantasia” at rehearsal, and learnt to regard both the work and its composer with respect, but during the last two or three months he had been more closely associated with the leader of the New School, Mily Balakirev, and had become convinced that, far from being his enemies, the Petersburg set were all interested in his career.

The result of this pleasing discovery was a burning desire to show his sympathy for a gifted colleague, and he wrote an article in direct contradiction to the criticism of the _Entr’acte_. This was the beginning of his literary activity. The article aroused considerable attention in Moscow, and was warmly approved. Nor did it escape observation in St. Petersburg. Consequently, when Tchaikovsky visited his father at Easter, he was received in a very friendly spirit by “The Invincible Band.”[16]

The rallying-point of “The Band” was Dargomijsky’s house. The composer, although confined to his bed by a mortal illness, was working with fire and inspiration at his opera, _The Stone Guest_. His young friends regarded this work as the foundation-stone of the great temple of “The Music of the Future,” and frequently assembled at the “Master’s” to note the progress of the new creation and show him their own works. Even Tchaikovsky, who had already met Dargomijsky at Begichev’s in Moscow, found himself more than once among the guests, and made many new acquaintances on these occasions.

At Balakirev’s, too, he met many musicians who held the views of the New Russian School. Although Tchaikovsky entered into friendly relations with the members of “The Invincibles,” he could not accept their tenets, and with great tact and skill remained entirely independent of them. While he made friends individually with Balakirev, Rimsky-Korsakov, Cui and Vladimir Stassov, he still regarded their union with some hostility.

He laughed at their ultra-progressive tendencies and regarded with contempt the naïve and crude efforts of some members of “The Band” (especially Moussorgsky). But while making fun of these “unheard-of works of genius,” which “throw all others into the shade,” and indignant at their daring attacks upon his idol Mozart, Tchaikovsky was also impressed by the force and vitality displayed in some of their compositions, as well as by their freshness of inspiration and honourable intentions, so that far from being repulsed, he learnt to feel a certain degree of sympathy and a very great respect for this school.

This dual relationship reacted in two different ways. Tchaikovsky never hesitated to express quite openly his antipathy to the tendencies of these innovators, while he refused to recognise the dilettante extravagances of Moussorgsky as masterpieces, and always made it evident that it would be distasteful to him to win the praise of Stassov and Cui, and with it the title of “genius,” by seeking originality at the expense of artistic beauty. At the same time he acted as the propagandist of “The Band” in Moscow, was their intermediary with the Moscow section of the Musical Society, and busied himself with the performance or publication of their works. When in 1869 the Grand Duchess Helena Paulovna desired to carry out a change in the management of the symphony concerts, and Balakirev retired from the conductorship, Tchaikovsky appeared for the second time as the champion of “The Band,” and protested against the proceedings of the Grand Duchess in an energetic article, in which he displayed also his sympathy with the leader of the New Russian School. During the period when he was engaged in musical criticism, he lost no opportunity of giving public expression to his respect and enthusiasm for the works of Balakirev and Rimsky-Korsakov.

But the most obvious sign of his sympathy with “The Band” is the fact that he dedicated three of his best works to individual members--_Fatum_ and _Romeo and Juliet_ to Balakirev and _The Tempest_ to Vladimir Stassov. Here undoubtedly we may see the indirect influence which the New School exercised upon Tchaikovsky. He would not amalgamate with them; nor would he adopt their principles. But to win their sympathy, without actually having recourse to a compromise; to accept their advice (_Romeo and Juliet_ was suggested by Balakirev and _The Tempest_ by Stassov); to triumph over the tasks they set him and to show his solidarity with “The Band,” only in so far as they both aimed at being earnest in matters of art--all this seemed to him not only interesting, but worthy of his vocation.