Chapter VI: Part III: I (2)

“The Invincible Band” repaid Tchaikovsky in his own coin. They criticised some of his works as pedantic, “behind the times,” and _routinier_, but at the outset of his career they took the greatest interest in him, respected him as a worthy rival, strove to win him over to their views, and continued to consider him “among the elect,” even after the failure of their efforts at conversion.

The relations between Tchaikovsky and “The Band” may be compared to those existing between two friendly neighbouring states, each leading its independent existence, meeting on common grounds, but keeping their individual interests strictly apart.

During the summer of this year Tchaikovsky went abroad with his favourite pupil Vladimir Shilovsky, accompanied by the lad’s guardian, V. Begichev, and a friend named De Lazary. In spite of a lingering wish to spend his holidays with his own people in some quiet spot, the opportunity seemed too good to be lost. His travelling companions were congenial, and his duties of the lightest--merely to give music lessons to young Shilovsky.

From Paris he wrote to his sister on July 20th (August 1st), 1868:--

“Originally we intended to visit the most beautiful places in
Europe, but Shilovsky’s illness, and the need of consulting a
certain great doctor with all possible speed, brought us here, and
has kept us against our will.... The theatres are splendid, not
externally, but as regards the staging of pieces and the skill with
which effects are produced by the simplest means. They know how to
mount and act a play here in such a way that, without any
remarkable display of histrionic talent, it is more effective than
it would be with us, since it would probably lack rehearsal and
_ensemble_.

“As regards music, too, in the operas I have heard I remarked no
singer with an exceptional voice, and yet what a splendid
performance! How carefully everything is studied and thought out!
What earnest attention is given to every detail, no matter how
insignificant, which goes to make up the general effect! We have no
conception of such performances.... The noise and bustle of Paris
is far less suited to a composer than the quiet of such a lake as
the Thuner See, not to mention the stinking, but beloved,
Tiasmin,[17] which is happy in flowing by the house that holds
some of my nearest and dearest. How have they passed this summer?”

Tchaikovsky returned to his duties at Moscow about the end of August.

V

1868-1869

Externally, Tchaikovsky’s life had remained unchanged during this period. His lessons at the Conservatoire slightly increased, and his salary consequently rose to over 1,400 roubles (£140). Under these circumstances he began to think of finding separate quarters, since his life with Nicholas Rubinstein was unfavourable to his creative work. The latter, however, would not consent to this, and Tchaikovsky himself had doubts as to whether his income would suffice for a separate establishment.

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_September_ 3_rd_ (15_th_).

“I have been working like a slave to-day. The day before yesterday
I received an unexpected summons to attend at the theatre. To my
great surprise I found two choral rehearsals of my opera (_The
Voyevode_) had already been given, and the first solo rehearsal was
about to take place. I have undertaken the pianoforte accompaniment
myself. I doubt the possibility of getting up such a difficult work
in a month, and already I shiver with apprehension at all the
hurry-skurry and confusion which lie before me. The rehearsals will
take place almost daily. The singers are all pleased with the
opera....”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_September_ 25_th_ (_October_ 7_th_).

“ ... When I saw that it was impossible to study my opera in so
short a time, I informed the directors that so long as the Italian
company remained in Moscow and absorbed the time of both chorus and
orchestra, I would not send in the score of my work. I wrote to
Gedeonov to this effect. In consequence, the performance is
postponed until the Italians leave Moscow. I have a little more
leisure now. Besides, Menshikova already knows the greater part of
her rôle by heart. I lunched with her to-day, and she sang me
several numbers from the opera, by no means badly. Time, on the
whole, goes quickly and pleasantly.

“I have some good news to give you about my future work. A few days
ago I was lunching with Ostrovsky, and he proposed, entirely of his
own accord, to write a libretto for me. The subject has been in his
mind for the last twenty years, but he has never spoken of it to
anyone before; now his choice has fallen upon me.

“The scene is laid in Babylon and Greece, in the time of Alexander
of Macedon, who is introduced as one of the characters. We have
representatives of two great races of antiquity: the Hebrews and
the Greeks. The hero is a young Hebrew, in love with one of his own
race, who, actuated by ambitious motives, betrays him for the sake
of Alexander. In the end the young Hebrew becomes a prophet. You
have no idea what a fine plot it is! Just now I am writing a
symphonic sketch, _Fatum_.[18] The Italian opera is creating a
furore. Artôt is a splendid creature. She and I are good friends.”

“Early in 1868,” says Laroche, “an Italian opera company visited Moscow for a few weeks, at the head of which was the impresario Merelli. Their performances at the Opera drew crowded houses. The company consisted of fifth-rate singers, who had neither voices nor talent; the one exception was a woman of thirty, not good-looking, but with a passionate and expressive face, who had just reached the climax of her art, and soon afterwards began to go off, both in voice and appearance.

“Désirée Artôt, a daughter of the celebrated horn-player Artôt, and a niece of the still more renowned violinist, had been trained by Pauline Viardot-Garcia. Her voice was powerful, and adapted to express intense dramatic pathos, but unfortunately it had no reserve force, and began to deteriorate comparatively early, so that six or seven years after the time of which I am speaking it had completely lost its charm. Besides its dramatic quality, her voice was suitable for florid vocalisation, and her lower notes were so good that she could take many mezzo-soprano parts; consequently her repertory was almost unlimited.... It is not too much to say that in the whole world of music, in the entire range of lyrical emotion, there was not a single idea, or a single form, of which this admirable artist could not give a poetical interpretation. The timbre of her voice was more like the oboe than the flute, and was penetrated by such indescribable beauty, warmth, and passion, that everyone who heard it was fascinated and carried away. I have said that Désirée Artôt was not good-looking. At the same time, without recourse to artificial aids, her charm was so great that she won all hearts and turned all heads, as though she had been the loveliest of women. The delicate texture and pallor of her skin, the plastic grace of her movements, the beauty of her neck and arms, were not her only weapons; under the irregularity of her features lay some wonderful charm of attraction, and of all the many ‘Gretchens’ I have seen in my day, Artôt was by far the most ideal, the most fascinating.

“This was chiefly due to her talent as an actress. I have never seen anyone so perfectly at home on the stage as she was. From the first entrance, to the last cry of triumph or despair, the illusion was perfect. Not a single movement betrayed intention or pre-consideration. She was equally herself in a tragic, comic, or comedy part.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_October_ 21_st_ (_November_ 2_nd_).

“I am very busy writing choruses and recitatives to Auber’s _Domino
Noir_, which is to be given for Artôt’s benefit. Merelli will pay
me for the work. I have become very friendly with Artôt, and am
glad to know something of her remarkable character. I have never
met a kinder, a better, or a cleverer woman.

“Anton Rubinstein has been here. He played divinely, and created an
indescribable sensation. He has not altered, and is as nice as
ever.

“My orchestral fantasia _Fatum_ is finished.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

(_November._)

“Oh, Moding, I long to pour my impressions into your artistic soul.
If only you knew what a singer and actress Artôt is!! I have never
experienced such powerful artistic impressions as just recently.
How delighted you would be with the grace of her movements and
poses!”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

(_December._)

“ ... I have not written to you for a long while, but many things
now make it impossible for me to write letters, for all my leisure
is given to one--of whom you have already heard--whom I love
dearly.

“My musical situation is as follows: Two of my pianoforte pieces
are to be published in a day or two. I have arranged twenty-five
Russian folksongs for four hands, which will be published
immediately, and I have orchestrated my fantasia _Fatum_ for the
fifth concert of the Musical Society.

“Recently a concert was given here for the benefit of poor
students, in which ‘the one being’ sang for the last time before
her departure, and Nicholas Rubinstein played my pianoforte piece
dedicated to Artôt.”

_To his father._

“_December_ 26_th_ (_January_ 7_th_, 1869).

“MY DEAR, KIND DAD!--To my great annoyance, circumstances have
prevented my going to Petersburg. This journey would have cost me
at least a hundred roubles, and just now I do not possess them.
Consequently I must send my New Year’s wishes by letter. I wish
you happiness and all good things. As rumours of my engagement will
doubtless have reached you, and you may feel hurt at my silence
upon the subject, I will tell you the whole story. I made the
acquaintance of Artôt in the spring, but only visited her once,
when I went to a supper given after her benefit performance. After
she returned here in autumn I did not call on her for a whole
month. Then we met by chance at a musical evening. She expressed
surprise that I had not called, and I promised to do so, a promise
I should never have kept (because of my shyness with new friends)
if Anton Rubinstein, in passing through Moscow, had not dragged me
there. Afterwards I received constant invitations, and got into the
way of going to her house daily. Soon we began to experience a
mutual glow of tenderness, and an understanding followed
immediately. Naturally the question of marriage arose at once, and,
if nothing hinders it, our wedding is to take place in the summer.
But the worst is that there are several obstacles. First, there is
her mother, who always lives with her, and has considerable
influence upon her daughter. She is not in favour of the match,
because she considers me too young, and probably fears lest I
should expect her daughter to live permanently in Russia. Secondly,
my friends, especially N. Rubinstein, are trying might and main to
prevent my marriage. They declare that, married to a famous singer,
I should play the pitiable part of ‘husband of my wife’; that I
should live at her expense and accompany her all over Europe;
finally, that I should lose all opportunities of working, and that
when my first love had cooled, I should know nothing but
disenchantment and depression. The risk of such a catastrophe might
perhaps be avoided, if she would consent to leave the stage and
live entirely in Russia. But she declares that in spite of all her
love for me, she cannot make up her mind to give up the profession
which brings her in so much money, and to which she has grown
accustomed. At present she is on her way to Moscow. Meanwhile we
have agreed that I am to visit her in summer at her country house
(near Paris), when our fate will be decided.

“If she will not consent to give up the stage, I, on my part,
hesitate to sacrifice my future; for it is clear that I shall lose
all opportunity of making my own way, if I blindly follow in her
train. You see, Dad, my situation is a very difficult one. On the
one hand, I love her heart and soul, and feel I cannot live any
longer without her; on the other hand, calm reason bids me to
consider more closely all the misfortunes with which my friends
threaten me. I shall wait, my dear, for your views on the subject.

“I am quite well, and my life goes on as usual--only I am unhappy
now she is not here.”

Tchaikovsky received the following letter in reply:--

“_December_ 29_th_, 1868 (_January_ 10_th_, 1869).

“MY DEAR PETER,--You ask my advice upon the most momentous event in
your life.... You are both artists, both make capital out of your
talents; but while she has made both money and fame, you have
hardly begun to make your way, and God knows whether you will ever
attain to what she has acquired. Your friends know your gifts, and
fear they may suffer by your marriage--I think otherwise. You, who
gave up your official appointment for the sake of your talent, are
not likely to forsake your art, even if you are not altogether
happy at first, as is the fate of nearly all musicians. You are
proud, and therefore you find it unpleasant not to be earning
sufficient to keep a wife and be independent of her purse. Yes,
dear fellow, I understand you well enough. It is bitter and
unpleasant. But if you are both working and earning together there
can be no question of reproach; go your way, let her go hers, and
help each other side by side. It would not be wise for either of
you to give up your chosen vocations until you have saved enough to
say: ‘This is _ours_, we have earned it in common.’

“Let us analyse these words: ‘In marrying a famous singer you will
be playing the pitiable part of attendant upon her journeys; you
will live on her money and lose your own chances of work.’ If your
love is not a fleeting, but solid sentiment, as it ought to be in
people of your age; if your vows are sincere and unalterable, then
all these misgivings are nonsense. Married happiness is based upon
mutual respect, and you would no more permit your wife to be a kind
of servant, than she would ask you to be her lackey. The travelling
is not a matter of any importance, so long as it does not prevent
your composing--it will even give you opportunities of getting your
operas or symphonies performed in various places. A devoted friend
will help to inspire you. When all is set down in black and white,
with such a companion as your chosen one, your talent is more
likely to progress than to deteriorate. (2) Even if your first
passion for her does cool somewhat, will ‘nothing remain but
disenchantment and depression’? But why should love grow cold? I
lived twenty-one years with your mother, and during all that time I
loved her just the same, with the ardour of a young man, and
respected and worshipped her as a saint.... There is only one
question I would ask you; have you proved each other? Do you love
each other truly, and for all time? I know your character, my dear
son, and I have confidence in you, but I have not as yet the
happiness of knowing the dear woman of your choice. I only know her
lovely heart and soul through you. It would be no bad thing if you
proved each other, not by jealousy--God forbid--but by time....

“Describe her character to me in full, my dear. Does she translate
that tender word ‘Désirée’? A mother’s wish counts for nothing in
love affairs, but give it your consideration.”

_Tchaikovsky to his brother Anatol._

(_January._)

“Just now I am very much excited. _The Voyevode_ is about to be
performed. Everyone is taking the greatest pains, so I can hope for
a good performance. Menshikova will do very well; she sings the
‘Nightingale’ song in the second act beautifully. The tenor is not
amiss, but the bass is bad. If the work goes well I shall try to
arrange for you both to come here in the Carnival Week, so that you
may hear it.

“I have already begun upon a second opera, but I must not tell you
about the subject, because I want to keep it a secret that I have
anything in hand. How astonished they will be to find in summer
that half the opera is already put together! (I hope in summer I
shall have some chance of working)....

“With regard to the love affair I had early in the winter, I may
tell you that it is very doubtful whether I shall enter Hymen’s
bonds or not. Things are beginning to go rather awry. I will tell
you more about it later on. I have not time now.”

During this month (January) Désirée Artôt, without a word of explanation to her first lover, was married to the baritone singer Padilla at Warsaw.

The news reached Tchaikovsky at a moment when his whole mind, time, and interests were absorbed by the production of his first opera, and, judging from the tone of his letters, it was owing to these circumstances that it affected him less painfully than might have been expected.

In any case, after the first hours of bitterness, Tchaikovsky bore no grudge against the faithless lady. She remained for him the most perfect artist he had ever known. As a woman she was always dear to his memory. A year later he had to meet her again, and wrote of the prospect as follows:--

“I shall have very shortly to meet Artôt. She is coming here, and I
cannot avoid a meeting, because immediately after her arrival we
begin the rehearsals for _Le Domino Noir_ (for which I have written
recitatives and choruses), which I shall be compelled to attend.
This woman has caused me to experience many bitter hours, and yet I
am drawn to her by such an inexplicable sympathy that I begin to
look forward to her coming with feverish impatience.”

They met as friends. All intimate relations were at an end.

“When, in 1869, Artôt reappeared at the Moscow Opera,” says
Kashkin, “I sat in the stalls next to Tchaikovsky, who was greatly
moved. When the singer came on, he held his opera glasses to his
eyes and never lowered them during the entire performance; but he
must have seen very little, for tear after tear rolled down his
cheeks.”

Twenty years later they met once more. Youthful love and mutual sympathy had then given place to a steady friendship, which lasted the rest of their lives.

On January 30th (February 11th), 1869, _The Voyevode_ was given for the first time for the singer Menshikova’s benefit.

The opera was very well received. The composer was recalled fifteen times and presented with a laurel wreath. The performance, however, was not without mishaps. Rapport, who took the lover’s part, had been kept awake all night by an abscess on his finger, and was nearly fainting. “If Menshikova had not supported him in her arms, the curtain must have been rung down,” wrote Tchaikovsky to his brothers.

Kashkin says the chorus on a folksong, which occurred early in the opera, pleased at once, and the “Nightingale” song became a favourite. The tenor solo, “Glow, O Dawn-light,” based upon the pentatonic scale, and the duet between Olona and Maria, “The moon sails calmly,” and the last quartet all met with great success.

But the stormy ovation at the first performance, the enthusiasm of the composer’s friends, and the appreciation of one or two specialists, could not create a lasting success. The opera was only heard five times, and then disappeared from the repertory for ever.

The first words of disapprobation and harsh criticism came from an unexpected quarter--from Laroche. It was not only his “faint praise” of this work, but the contemptuous attitude which Laroche now assumed towards Tchaikovsky’s talent as a whole, which wounded the composer so deeply that he broke off all connection with his old friend.

Soon after the production of _The Voyevode_ Tchaikovsky’s symphonic fantasia _Fatum_ (or _Destiny_) was given for the first time at the eighth concert of the Musical Society. By way of programme for this work, which he dedicated to Balakirev, Tchaikovsky chose the following lines from Batioushkov:--

“Thou knowest what the white-haired Melchisedek
Said when he left this life: Man is born a slave,
A slave he dies. Will even Death reveal to him
Why thus he laboured in this vale of tears,
Why thus he suffered, wept, endured--then vanished?”

To the choice of this motto attaches a history in which a certain Sergius Rachinsky played a part. This gentleman, Professor of Botany at the Moscow University, was one of Tchaikovsky’s earliest and most enthusiastic admirers. Rachinsky was a lover of music and literature, but held the most unusual views upon these, as upon all other subjects. For instance, he saw nothing in Ostrovsky, then at the height of his fame, but discerned in Tchaikovsky, who was hardly known to the world, the making of a “great” composer.

When, in 1871, the musician dedicated to Rachinsky his first quartet, the latter exclaimed with enthusiasm: “C’est un brevet d’immortalité que j’ai reçu.”

Originally _Fatum_ had no definite programme.

“When the books for the concert were about to be printed,” relates
Rachinsky, “Rubinstein, who was always very careful about such
details, considered the bare title _Fatum_ insufficient, and
suggested that an appropriate verse should be added. It chanced
that I, who had not heard a note of the new work, had dropped in
upon Rubinstein, and the verses of Batioushkov flashed across my
mind. Rubinstein asked me to write them down at once, and added
them to the programme-book with the composer’s consent.”

The quotation, therefore, has not the significance of a programme, but was merely an epigraph added to the score.

The composer declared that _Fatum_ had a “distinct success” with the public, and added that he “considered it the best work he had written so far,” and “others are of my opinion.” From this we may gather that, with the exception of Laroche, Tchaikovsky’s musical friends were pleased with this composition.

_Fatum_ was given almost simultaneously by the Petersburg section of the Musical Society, under Balakirev’s direction. But here the fantasia fell flat, and pleased neither the public nor the musicians.

Nevertheless, Cui did not handle the young composer so severely as on the occasion of his Diploma Cantata. He found fault with a good deal in _Fatum_, but described the music as being on the whole “agreeable, but not inspired,” the instrumentation “somewhat rough,” and the harmonies “bold and new, if not invariably beautiful.”

Balakirev--to whom the work was dedicated--did not admire it, and his feelings were shared by the rest of the “Invincible Band.” He wrote to Tchaikovsky as follows:--

“Your _Fatum_ has been played, and I venture to hope the
performance was not bad--at least everyone seemed satisfied with
it. There was not much applause, which I ascribe to the hideous
crash at the end. The work itself does not please me; it is not
sufficiently thought out, and shows signs of having been written
hastily. In many places the joins and tacking-threads are too
perceptible. Laroche says it is because you do not study the
classics sufficiently. I put it down to another cause: you are too
little acquainted with modern music. You will never learn freedom
of form from the classical composers. You will find nothing new
there. They can only give you what you knew already, when you sat
on the students’ benches and listened respectfully to Zaremba’s
learned discourses upon ‘The Connection between Rondo-form and
Man’s First Fall.’

“At the same concert _Les Préludes_ of Liszt was performed. Observe
the wonderful form of this work; how one thing follows another
quite naturally. This is no mere motley, haphazard affair. Or take
Glinka’s _Night in Madrid_; in what a masterly fashion the various
sections of this overture are fused together! It is just this
organic coherence and connection that are lacking in _Fatum_. I
have chosen Glinka as an example because I believe you have studied
him a great deal, and I could see all through _Fatum_ you were
under the influence of one of his choruses.

“The verse you chose as an epigraph is altogether beneath
criticism. It is a frightful specimen of manufactured rhyme. If you
are really so attracted to Byronism, why not have chosen a suitable
quotation from Lermontov? With the object of making the verse run
smoother I left out the first two lines (Melchisedek seemed really
too absurd!), but apparently I perpetrated a blunder. Our entire
circle dropped upon me and assured me that the whole of the
introduction to _Fatum_ was intended to express the awful utterance
of Melchisedek himself. Perhaps they are right. If so, you must
forgive my excellent intention.... I write to you quite frankly,
and feel sure you will not on this account abandon your intention
of dedicating _Fatum_ to me. This dedication is very precious, as
indicating your regard for me, and on my part I reciprocate your
feeling.”

Tchaikovsky did not resent Balakirev’s opinion, although it may have wounded him. That he was grateful for the friendly tone of the letter, in which Balakirev’s confidence in his talent was clearly perceptible, is evident from the fact that three months later he appeared in the press as the champion of the leader of the “Invincible Band.” Moreover, after a short time, he shared Balakirev’s opinion of his work, and destroyed the score of _Fatum_.

Early in the season Tchaikovsky began to look out for material for a new opera. The chief requisite he asked was that the scene should not be laid in Russia. The discussion with Ostrovsky of a plot from the period of Alexander the Great, mentioned in his letter of September 25th, had come to nothing. Without applying to another librettist, he began to search for a ready-made text. Great was his joy to discover a book among the works of Count Sollogoub, based upon his favourite poem, Joukovsky’s “Undine.”

Without reflection, or closer inspection of the libretto, he began to compose with fervour, even in the midst of the rehearsals for _The Voyevode_; that is in January, 1869. By February he had already written most of the first act. The two following acts he wrote in April, and began the orchestration in the course of the same month. He hoped to complete the first act in May, and the remainder during the summer, and to send the whole score to the Direction of the Petersburg Opera by November, when Gedeonov had given him a formal promise to produce it.

This feverish work, the many excitements of the winter season, his anxiety about the elder of the twins, who had to pass his final examination at the School of Jurisprudence, and all the trouble and correspondence involved in trying to find him an opening in Moscow, told upon Tchaikovsky’s nerves. His health was so far impaired that he gradually lost strength, until he became quite exhausted, and the doctor ordered him to the seaside, or to an inland watering-place, enjoining absolute repose.

The summer was spent with his sister at Kamenka, where the whole family was gathered together, with the exception of Nicholas. In June they celebrated the wedding of his brother, Hyppolite, to Sophia Nikonov, and Tchaikovsky, having recovered his spirits, took a leading part in all the festivities.

The score of _Undine_ was finished by the end of July, and the composer returned to Moscow earlier than usual--about the beginning of August.

VI

1869-1870

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_August_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1869.

“ ... We have taken new quarters; my room is upstairs, and there is
a place for you too. I made every possible pretext for living
alone, but I could not manage it. However, now I shall pay my own
expenses and keep my own servant.... Begichev has taken my opera to
Petersburg. Whether it is produced or not, I have finished with it
and can turn to something else. Balakirev is staying here. We often
meet, and I always come to the conclusion that--in spite of his
worthiness--his society weighs upon me like a stone. I particularly
dislike the narrowness of his views, and the persistence with which
he upholds them. At the same time his short visit has been of
benefit to me in many respects.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_August_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

“I have no news to give. Balakirev leaves to-day. Although he has
sometimes bored me, I must in justice say that he is a good,
honourable man, and immeasurably above the average as an artist. We
have just taken a touching farewell of each other....

“I gave an evening party not long since. Balakirev, Borodin,
Kashkin, Klimenko, Arnold and Plestcheiev were among the guests.

“I met Laroche in The Hermitage and said ‘Good-day,’ but I have no
intention of making it up with him.”

Towards the end of September, 1869, Tchaikovsky set to work upon his overture to _Romeo and Juliet_, to which he had been incited by Balakirev’s suggestions. Indeed, the latter played so important a part in the genesis of this work that it is necessary to speak of it in detail.

Balakirev not only suggested the subject, but took such a lively interest in the work that he kept up a continuous current of good advice and solicitations. In October he wrote:--

“It strikes me that your inactivity proceeds from your lack of
concentration, in spite of your ‘snug workshop.’ I do not know your
method of composing, mine is as follows: when I wrote my _King
Lear_, having first read the play, I felt inspired to compose an
overture (which Stassov had already suggested to me). At first I
had no actual material, I only warmed to the project. An
Introduction, ‘maestoso,’ followed by something mystical (Kent’s
Prediction). The Introduction dies away and gives place to a stormy
allegro. This is Lear himself, the discrowned, but still mighty,
lion. By way of episodes the characteristic themes of Regan and
Goneril, and then--a second subject--Cordelia, calm and tender. The
middle section (storm, Lear and the Fool on the heath) and
repetition of the allegro: Regan and Goneril finally crush their
father, and the overture dies away softly (Lear over Cordelia’s
corpse), then the prediction of Kent is heard once more, and
finally the peaceful and solemn note of death. You must understand
that, so far, I had no definite musical ideas. These came later and
took their place within my framework. I believe you will feel the
same, if once you are inspired by the project. Then arm yourself
with goloshes and a walking-stick and go for a constitutional on
the Boulevards, starting with the Nikitsky; let yourself be
saturated with your plan, and I am convinced by the time you reach
the Sretensky Boulevard some theme or episode will have come to
you. Just at this moment, thinking of your overture, an idea has
come to me involuntarily, and I seem to see that it should open
with a fierce ‘allegro with the clash of swords.’ Something like
this:

“I should begin in this style. If I were going to write the
overture I should become enthusiastic over this germ, and I should
brood over it, or rather turn it over in my mind until something
vital came of it.

“If these lines have a good effect upon you I shall be very
pleased. I have a certain right to hope for this, because your
letters do me good. Your last, for instance, made me so unusually
light-hearted that I rushed out into the Nevsky Prospect; I did not
walk, I danced along, and composed part of my _Tamara_ as I went.”

When Balakirev heard that Tchaikovsky was actually at work, he wrote in November:--

“I am delighted to hear that the child of your fancy has quickened.
God grant it comes to a happy birth. I am very curious to know what
you have put into the overture. Do send me what you have done so
far, and I promise not to make any remarks--good or bad--until the
thing is finished.”

After Tchaikovsky had acceded to Balakirev’s request, and sent him the chief subjects of his overture, he received the following answer, which caused him to make some modifications in the work:--

“ ... As your overture is all but finished, and will soon be
played, I will tell you what I think of it quite frankly (I do not
use this word in Zaremba’s sense). The first subject does not
please me at all. Perhaps it improves in the working out--I cannot
say--but in the crude state in which it lies before me it has
neither strength nor beauty, and does not sufficiently suggest the
character of Father Lawrence. Here something like one of Liszt’s
chorales--in the old Catholic Church style--would be very
appropriate (_The Night Procession_, _Hunnenschlacht_, and _St.
Elizabeth_); your motive is of quite a different order, in the
style of a quartet by Haydn, that genius of “burgher” music which
induces a fierce thirst for beer. There is nothing of old-world
Catholicism about it; it recalls rather the type of Gogol’s
_Comrade Kunz_, who wanted to cut off his nose to save the money he
spent on snuff. But possibly in its development your motive may
turn out quite differently, in which case I will eat my own words.

“As to the B minor theme, it seems to me less a theme than a lovely
introduction to one, and after the agitated movement in C major,
something very forcible and energetic should follow. I take it for
granted that it will really be so, and that you were too lazy to
write out the context.

“The first theme in D flat major is very pretty, although rather
colourless. The second, in the same key, is simply fascinating. I
often play it, and would like to hug you for it. It has the
sweetness of love, its tenderness, its longing, in a word, so much
that must appeal to the heart of that immoral German, Albrecht. I
have only one thing to say against this theme: it does not
sufficiently express a mystic, inward, spiritual love, but rather a
fantastic passionate glow which has hardly any nuance of Italian
sentiment. Romeo and Juliet were not Persian lovers, but Europeans.
I do not know if you will understand what I am driving at--I always
feel the lack of appropriate words when I speak of music, and I am
obliged to have recourse to comparison in order to explain myself.
One subject in which spiritual love is well expressed--according to
my ideas--is the second theme in Schumann’s overture, _The Bride of
Messina_. The subject has its weak side too; it is morbid and
somewhat sentimental at the end, but the fundamental emotion is
sincere.

“I am impatient to receive the entire score, so that I may get a
just impression of your clever overture, which is--so far--your
best work; the fact that you have dedicated it to me affords me the
greatest pleasure. It is the first of your compositions which
contains so many beautiful things that one does not hesitate to
pronounce it good as a whole. It cannot be compared with that old
Melchisedek, who was so drunk with sorrow that he must needs dance
his disgusting _trepak_ in the Arbatsky Square. Send me the score
soon; I am longing to see it.”

But even in a somewhat modified form, Balakirev was not quite satisfied with the overture. On January 22nd (February 3rd), 1871, he wrote as follows:--

“I am very pleased with the introduction, but the end is not at all
to my taste. It is impossible to write of it in detail. It would be
better if you came here, so that I could tell you what I think of
it. In the middle section you have done something new and good; the
alternating chords above the pedal-point, rather _à la Russlan_.
The close becomes very commonplace, and the whole of the section
after the end of the second subject (D major) seems to have been
dragged from your brain by main force. The actual ending is not
bad, but why those accentuated chords in the very last bars? This
seems to contradict the meaning of the play, and is inartistic.
Nadejda Nicholaevna[19] has scratched out these chords with her own
fair hands, and wants to make the pianoforte arrangement end
pianissimo. I do not know whether you will consent to this
alteration.”

When this arbitrary treatment of the composer’s intention had been carried through, the indefatigable critic wrote once more:--

“It is a pity that you, or rather Rubinstein, should have hurried
the publication of the overture. Although the new introduction is a
decided improvement, yet I had still a great desire to see some
other alterations made in the work, and hoped it might remain
longer in your hands for the sake of your future compositions.
However, I hope Jurgenson will not refuse to print a revised and
improved version of the overture at some future time.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_October_ 7_th_ (19_th_).

“The Conservatoire begins already to be repugnant to me, and the
lessons I am obliged to give fatigue me as they did last year.
Just now I am not working at all. _Romeo and Juliet_ is finished.
Yesterday I received a commission from Bessel. He asked me to
arrange Rubinstein’s overture to _Ivan the Terrible_. I have had a
letter from Balakirev scolding me because I am doing nothing. I
hear nothing definite about my opera: they say it will be
performed, but the date is uncertain. I often go to the opera. The
sisters Marchisio are good, especially in _Semiramide_. Yet when I
hear them I am more and more convinced that Artôt is the greatest
artist in the world.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_November_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

“Yesterday I received very sad news from Petersburg. My opera is to
wait until next season, because there is not sufficient time to
study the two operas which stand before mine in the repertory:
Moniuszko’s _Halka_ and Dütsch’s _Croat_. I am not likely therefore
to come to Petersburg. From the pecuniary point of view the
postponement of my opera is undesirable. Morally, too, it is bad
for me; that is to say, I shall be incapable of any work for two or
three weeks to come.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_January_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1870.

“Balakirev and Rimsky-Korsakov have been here. We saw each other
every day. Balakirev begins to respect me more and more. Korsakov
has dedicated a charming song to me. My overture pleased them both,
and I like it myself. Besides the overture, I have recently
composed a chorus from the opera _Mandragora_, the text of which,
by Rachinsky, is already known to you. I intended to write music to
this libretto, but my friends dissuaded me, because they considered
the opera gave too little scope for stage effects. Now Rachinsky is
writing another book for me, called _Raymond Lully_.”

Kashkin was one of the friends who dissuaded Tchaikovsky from composing _Mandragora_. The latter played him a ‘Chorus of Insects’ from the unfinished work, which pleased him very much. But he thought the subject more suitable for a ballet than an opera. A fierce argument took place which lasted a long time. Finally, with tears in his eyes, Tchaikovsky came round to Kashkin’s view, and relinquished his intention of writing this opera. It made him very unhappy and more chary in future of confiding his plans to his friends.

Laroche gives the following account of this unpublished chorus:--

“‘The Elves’ Chorus’ is intended for boys’ voices in unison, with
accompaniment for mixed chorus and orchestra. The atmosphere of a
calm moonlight night (described in the text) and the fantastic
character of the scene are admirably reproduced. In this chorus we
find not only that silky texture, that softness, distinction, and
delicacy which Tchaikovsky shows in all his best work, but far more
marked indications of maturity than in any of his earlier
compositions. The orchestration is very rich, and on the whole
original, although the influence of Berlioz is sometimes
noticeable.”

_To his sister, A. Davidov._

“_February_ 5_th_ (17_th_).

“One thing troubles me: there is no one in Moscow with whom I can
enter into really intimate, familiar, and homely relations. I often
think how happy I should be if you, or someone like you, lived
here. I have a great longing for the sound of children’s voices,
and for a share in all the trifling interests of a home--in a word,
for family life.

“I intend to begin a third opera; this time on a subject borrowed
from Lajetnikov’s tragedy, _The Oprichnik_. My _Undine_ is to be
produced at the beginning of next season, if they do not fail me.
Although the spring is still far off and the frosts are hardly over
yet, I have already begun to think of the summer, and to long for
the early spring sunshine, which always has such a good effect upon
me.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_March_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1870.

“ ... The day after to-morrow my overture _Romeo and Juliet_ will
be performed. There has been a rehearsal already: the work does not
seem detestable. But the Lord only knows!...

“In the third week of Lent excerpts from my opera _Undine_ will be
played at Merten’s[20] concert. I am very curious to hear them.
Sietov writes that there is every reason to believe the opera will
be given early next season.”

Merten’s concert took place on March 16th (28th). Kashkin says it gave further proof how hardly Tchaikovsky conquered the public sympathy.

“In the orchestration of the aria from _Undine_,” he says, “the
pianoforte plays an important and really beautiful part. Nicholas
Rubinstein undertook to play it; yet, in spite of the wonderful
rendering of the piece, it had very little success. After the
adagio from the _First Symphony_--also included in the
programme--even a slight hissing was heard. The Italian craze was
still predominant at the Opera House, so that it was very difficult
for a Russian work to find recognition.”

_Romeo and Juliet_, given at the Musical Society’s Concert on March 4th (16th), had no success.

On the previous day the decision in the case of “Schebalsky _v._ Rubinstein” had been made public, and the Director of the Conservatoire had been ordered to pay 25 roubles, damages for the summary and wrongful dismissal of this female student. Rubinstein refused to pay, and gave notice of appeal, but the master’s admirers immediately collected the small sum, in order to spare him the few hours’ detention which his refusal involved. This event gave rise to a noisy demonstration when he appeared in public. Kashkin says:--

“From the moment Nicholas Rubinstein came on the platform, until
the end of the concert, he was made the subject of an extraordinary
ovation. No one thought of the concert or the music, and I felt
indignant that the first performance of _Romeo and Juliet_ should
have taken place under such conditions.”

So it came about that the long-desired evening, which he hoped would bring him a great success, brought only another disillusionment for Tchaikovsky. The composer’s melancholy became a shade darker. “I just idle away the time cruelly,” he writes, “and my opera, _The Oprichnik_, has come to a standstill at the first chorus.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_March_ 25_th_ (_April_ 6_th_).

“I congratulate you on leaving school. Looking back over the years
that have passed since I left the School of Jurisprudence, I
observe with some satisfaction that the time has not been lost. I
wish the same for you....”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_April_ 23_rd_ (May 5_th_).

“Rioumin[21] wants to convert me at any price. He has given me a
number of religious books, and I have promised to read them all. In
any case, I now walk in ways of godliness. In Passion week I fasted
with Rubinstein.

“About the middle of May I shall probably go abroad. I am partly
pleased at the prospect and partly sorry, because I shall not see
you.”

_To I. A. Klimenko._

“_May_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1870.

“ ... First I must tell you that I am sitting at the open window
(at four a.m.) and breathing the lovely air of a spring morning. It
is remarkable that in my present amiable mood I am suddenly seized
with a desire to talk to you--to you of all people, you ungrateful
creature! I want to tell you that life is still good, and that it
is worth living on a May morning; and so, at four o’clock in the
morning, I am pouring out my heart to you, while you, O empoisoned
and lifeless being, will only laugh at me. Well, laugh away; all
the same, I assert that life is beautiful in spite of everything!
This ‘everything’ includes the following items: 1. Illness; I am
getting much too stout, and my nerves are all to pieces. 2. The
Conservatoire oppresses me to extinction; I am more and more
convinced that I am absolutely unfitted to teach the theory of
music. 3. My pecuniary situation is very bad. 4. I am very doubtful
if _Undine_ will be performed. I have heard that they are likely to
throw me over. In a word, there are many thorns, but the roses are
there too....

“As regards ambition, I must tell you that I have certainly not
been flattered of late. My songs were praised by Laroche, although
Cui has ‘slated’ them, and Balakirev thinks them so bad that he
persuaded Khvostova--who wanted to sing the one I had dedicated to
her--not to ruin with its presence a programme graced by the names
of Moussorgsky & Co.

“My overture, _Romeo and Juliet_, had hardly any success here, and
has remained quite unnoticed. I thought a great deal about you that
night. After the concert we supped, a large party, at Gourin’s (a
famous restaurant). No one said a single word about the overture
during the evening. And yet I yearned so for appreciation and
kindness! Yes, I thought a great deal about you, and of your
encouraging sympathy. I do not know whether the slow progress of my
opera, _The Oprichnik_ is due to the fact that no one takes any
interest in what I write; I am very doubtful if I shall get it
finished for at least two years.”

Tchaikovsky spent only a few days in St. Petersburg before going abroad. There he heard the final verdict upon his opera _Undine_. The conference of the Capellmeisters of the Imperial Opera, with Constantine Liadov at their head, did not consider the work worthy of production. How the composer took this decision, what he felt and thought of it, we can only guess from our knowledge of his susceptible artistic _amour propre_. At the time, he never referred to the matter, either in letters or in conversation. Eight years afterwards he wrote as follows:--

“The Direction put aside my _Undine_ in 1870. At the time I felt
much embittered, and it seemed to me an injustice; but in the end I
was not pleased with the work myself, and I burnt the score about
three years ago.”

Tchaikovsky travelled from St. Petersburg to Paris without a break, being anxious to reach his friend Shilovsky with all possible speed. He half feared to find him already on his death-bed. The young man was extremely weak, but able to travel to Soden at the end of three days. The atmosphere of ill-health in which Tchaikovsky found himself--Soden is a resort for consumptive patients--was very depressing, but he determined to endure it for his friend’s sake.

“The care of Volodya,”[22] he wrote, “is a matter of conscience
with me, for his life hangs by a thread ... his affection for me,
and his delight on my arrival, touched me so deeply that I am glad
to take upon myself the rôle of an Argus, and be the saviour of his
life.”

But by coming abroad he sacrificed all opportunity of seeing the twins and his sister Alexandra during the summer vacation.

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“SODEN, _June_ 24_th_ (_July_ 6_th_).

“We lead a monotonous existence, and are dreadfully bored, but for
this very reason my health is first-rate. The saline baths do me a
great deal of good, and, apart from them, the way of living is
excellent. I am very lazy, and have not the least desire to work. A
few days ago a great festival took place at Mannheim, on the
occasion of the hundredth anniversary of Beethoven’s birth. This
festival, to which we went, lasted three days. The programme was
very interesting, and the performance superb. The orchestra
consisted of various bands from the different Rhenish towns. The
chorus numbered 400. I have never heard such a fine and powerful
choir in my life. The well-known composer, Lachner, conducted.
Among other things I heard for the first time the difficult _Missa
Solennis_. It is one of the most inspired musical creations.

“I have been to Wiesbaden to see Nicholas Rubinstein. I found him
in the act of losing his last rouble at roulette, which did not
prevent our spending a very pleasant day together. He is quite
convinced he will break the bank before he leaves Wiesbaden. I long
to be with you all.”

The outbreak of the Franco-Prussian war drove all the visitors at Soden into the neutral territory of Switzerland. It was little less than a stampede, and Tchaikovsky describes their experiences in a letter to his brother Modeste, dated July 12th (24th), 1870:--

“INTERLAKEN.

“We have been here three days, and shall probably remain a whole
month.... The crush in the railway carriages was indescribable, and
it was very difficult to get anything to eat and drink. Thank God,
however, here we are in Switzerland, where everything goes on in
its normal course. Dear Modi, I cannot tell you what I feel in the
presence of these sublime beauties of Nature, which no one can
imagine without beholding them. My astonishment, my admiration,
pass all bounds. I rush about like one possessed, and never feel
tired. Volodi, who takes no delight in Nature, and is only
interested in the Swiss cheeses, laughs heartily at me. What will
it be like a few days hence, when I shall scramble through the
passes and over glaciers by myself! I return to Russia at the end
of August.”

Tchaikovsky spent six weeks in Switzerland, and then went on to Munich, where he stayed two days with his old friend Prince Galitsin. From thence he returned to St. Petersburg by Vienna, which delighted him more than any other town in the world. From Petersburg he went direct to Moscow in order to take up his work at the Conservatoire.

During the whole of his trip abroad Tchaikovsky, according to his own account, did no serious work beyond revising his overture _Romeo and Juliet_. Thanks to the exertions of N. Rubinstein and Professor Klindworth, the overture, in its new form, was published in Berlin the following season, and soon found its way into the programmes of many musical societies in Germany.