Chapter VII: Part III: I (3)

“Karl Klindworth came from London to Moscow in 1868,” says Laroche.
“He was then thirty-eight, and at the zenith of his physical and
artistic powers. He was tall and strongly built, with fair hair and
bright blue eyes. His appearance accorded with our ideas of the
Vikings of old; he was, in fact, of Norwegian descent. He cordially
detested London, where he had lived many years, although he spoke
English fluently. London was at that time quite unprepared for the
Wagnerian propaganda, and, apart from this, life had neither
meaning nor charm for Klindworth. As a pupil of Bülow and Liszt, he
had been devoted to the Wagnerian cult from his youth. He was
invited by Nicholas Rubinstein to come to Moscow as teacher of the
pianoforte; but he was not popular, either as a pianist, or in
society.... It would seem as though there could be no common
meeting-ground between this Wagnerian fanatic and Tchaikovsky. If
one desired to be logical, it would further appear that, as a
composer, Tchaikovsky would not only fail to interest Klindworth,
but must seem to him quite in the wrong, since Wagner has written
that concert and chamber music have long since had their day. But
luckily men are devoid of the sense of logical sequence, and
Klindworth proved a man of far more heart than one would have
thought at first sight. Tchaikovsky charmed him from the first, not
merely as a man, but as a composer. Klindworth was one of the first
to spread Tchaikovsky’s works abroad. It was owing to him that they
became known in London and New York; and it was through him also
that Liszt made acquaintance with some of them. In Klindworth,
Tchaikovsky found a faithful but despotic friend. Speaking
picturesquely, Peter Ilich trembled before him like an aspen-leaf,
did not dare openly to give his real opinions upon the composer of
the _Nibelungen Ring_, and I believe he embellished as far as
possible the views expressed in his articles from Bayreuth in order
not to irritate Klindworth.”

While I am mentioning the important event of Tchaikovsky’s earliest introduction to Western Europe, I must recall the prophetic words of a young critic, then at the outset of his career. Five years before the appearance of the overture _Romeo and Juliet_, in 1866, Laroche had written to his friend:--

“Your creative work will not really begin for another five years;
but these mature and classic works will surpass all that we have
produced since Glinka’s time.”

Being no musical critic, it is not for me to say whether, in truth, in all Russian musical literature nothing so remarkable as _Romeo and Juliet_ had appeared since Glinka. I can only repeat what has been said by many musical authorities--that my brother’s higher significance in the world of art dates from this work. His individuality is here displayed for the first time in its fulness, and all that he had hitherto produced seems--as in Laroche’s prophecy--to have been really preparatory work.

VII

1870-1871

During this period Tchaikovsky’s spirits were, generally speaking, fairly bright. Only occasionally they were damped by anxiety about the twins, of whom the younger had left the School of Jurisprudence and obtained a post in Simbirsk.[23] His lack of experience led him into many blunders and mistakes, which gave trouble to his elder brother Peter. His affection and over-anxiety caused the latter to exaggerate the importance of these small errors of judgment, and he concerned himself greatly about the future of his precious charge.

_To I. A. Klimenko._

“_October_ 26_th_ (_November_ 7_th_), 1870.

“ ... Anton Rubinstein is staying here. He opened the season,
playing the Schumann Concerto at the first concert (not very well),
and also Mendelssohn’s Variations and some Schumann Studies
(splendidly). At the Quartet evening he played in his own Trio,
which I do not much like. At an orchestral rehearsal, held
specially for him, he conducted his new _Don Quixote_ Fantasia.
Very interesting; first-rate in places. Besides this he has
composed a violin concerto and a number of smaller pieces.
Extraordinary fertility! Nicholas Rubinstein lost all his money at
roulette during the summer. At the present moment he is working, as
usual, with unflagging energy.

“I have written three new pieces,[24] and a song,[25] as well as
going on with my opera and revising Romeo and Juliet.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

(_About the beginning of November._)

“ ... My time is very much occupied. I have foolishly undertaken to
write music for a ballet _Cinderella_, at a very small fee. The
ballet has to be performed in December, and I have only just begun
it; but I cannot get out of the work, for the contract is already
signed. _Romeo and Juliet_ will be published in Berlin and
performed in several German towns....”

_To his sister, A. I. Davidov._

“_December_ 20_th_, 1870 (_January_ 1_st_, 1871).

“DEAREST,--Your letter touched me deeply, and at the same time made
me feel ashamed. I wonder that you could doubt, even for an
instant, the constancy of my affection for you! My silence proceeds
partly from idleness, and partly from the fact that I need great
peace of mind to write satisfactorily, and I hardly ever attain it.
Either I am at the Conservatoire, or I am seizing a free hour for
composition in feverish haste, or someone wants me to go out, or I
have visitors at home, or I am so tired out I can only fall
asleep.... I have already told you what an important part you play
in my life--although you do not live near me. In dark hours my
thoughts fly to you. ‘If things go very badly with me, I shall go
to Sasha,’ I say to myself; or, ‘I think I will do this, I am sure
Sasha would advise it’; or, ‘Shall I write to her? What would she
think of this ...?’ What a joy to think that if I could get away
from these surroundings into another atmosphere I should sun myself
in your kindly heart! Next summer I will not fail to come to you. I
shall not go abroad.”

_To his father._

“_February_ 14_th_ (26_th_).

“MY VERY DEAR FATHER,--You say it would not be a bad thing if I
wrote to you at least once a month.

“No, not once a month, but at least once a week I ought to send
you news of all I am doing, and I wonder you have not given me a
good scolding before this! But I will never again leave you so long
without a letter. The news of the death of uncle Peter
Petrovich[26] came to me several days ago. God give him everlasting
peace, for his honest and pure soul deserved it! I hope, dear, you
are bearing this trouble bravely. Remember that poor uncle, with
his indifferent health and his many old wounds, had enjoyed a
fairly long life.”

This letter closes Tchaikovsky’s correspondence for the year 1870-1. It is very probable that some of his letters may have been lost, but undoubtedly after February, 1871, he corresponded less frequently than before.

Being very short of funds, he decided to act upon Rubinstein’s advice to give a concert. To add to the interest of the programme he thought it well to include some new and important work of his own. He could not expect to fill the room, and an expensive orchestral concert was therefore out of the question. This led to the composition of the first String Quartet (D major). Tchaikovsky was engaged upon this work during the whole of February.

The concert took place on March 16th (28th) in the small hall of the Nobles’ Assembly Rooms. Thanks to the services of the Musical Society’s quartet, with F. Laub as leader, Nicholas Rubinstein at the piano, and Madame Lavrovsky--then at the height of her popularity--as vocalist, Tchaikovsky had a good, although not a crowded, house.

In his reminiscences Kashkin says that among those who attended this concert was the celebrated novelist, I. S. Tourgeniev, who was staying in Moscow at the time, and was interested in the young composer, about whom he had heard abroad. This attention on the part of the great writer did not pass unnoticed, and was decidedly advantageous for the musician. Tourgeniev expressed great appreciation of Tchaikovsky’s works, although he arrived too late to hear the chief item on the programme, the Quartet in D major.

At the end of May Tchaikovsky went to Konotop, where his eldest brother Nicholas Ilich was residing, and from thence to visit Anatol in Kiev. Afterwards the two brothers travelled to Kamenka, where they spent most of the summer. Tchaikovsky, however, devoted part of his holidays to his intimate friends Kondratiev and Shilovsky.

Kondratiev’s property (the village of Nizy, in the Government of Kharkov) was beautifully situated on the prettiest river of Little Russia, the Psiol, and united all the natural charms of South Russia with the light green colouring of the northern landscape so dear to Tchaikovsky. Here in the hottest weather, instead of the oppressive and parched surroundings of Kamenka, he looked upon luxuriant pastures, enclosed and shaded by ancient oaks. But what delighted him most was the river Psiol with its refreshing crystal waters.

The place pleased Tchaikovsky, but his friend’s style of living was not to his taste. It was too much like town life, with its guests and festivities, and he preferred Shilovsky’s home at Ussovo, which was not so beautifully situated, but possessed the greater charms of simplicity, solitude, and quiet. Here he spent the last days of his vacation very happily, and for many years to come Ussovo was his ideal of a summer residence, for which he longed as soon as the trees and fields began to show the first signs of green.

VIII

1871-1872

As I have already remarked, it was not Tchaikovsky’s nature to force the circumstances of life to his own will. He could wait long and patiently--and hope still longer. As in his early youth he had kept his yearning for music hidden in his heart, until the strength of his desire was such that nothing could shake his firm hold upon his chosen vocation, so now, from the beginning of his musical career, he was possessed by an intense longing to break away from all ties which withheld him from the chief aim of his existence--to compose.

Just as a few years earlier he continued his work in the Ministry of Justice in spite of its monotony, and kept up his social ties as though he were waiting until a complete disgust for his empty and aimless life should bring about a revulsion, so it was with him now. Although his duties at the Conservatoire were repugnant to him, and he often complained of the drawbacks of town life, which interfered with his creative work, he went on in his usual course, as though afraid that his need of excitement and pleasure was not quite satisfied, and might break out anew.

The time for the realisation of his dream of complete freedom was not yet come. Moscow was still necessary to his everyday life, and was not altogether unpleasant to him. He was still dependent on his surroundings. To break with them involved many considerations. Above all, he must have emancipated himself, although in a friendly way, from the influence of Nicholas Rubinstein. This was the first step to take in the direction of liberty. With all his affection and gratitude, with all his respect for Rubinstein as a man and an artist, he suffered a good deal under the despotism of this truest and kindest of friends. From morning till night he had to conform to his will in all the trifling details of daily existence, and this was the more unbearable because their ideas with regard to hours and occupations differed in most respects.

Tchaikovsky had already made two attempts to leave Rubinstein and take rooms of his own. But only now was he able to carry out his wish. Nicholas Rubinstein absolutely stood in need of companionship, and Tchaikovsky was fortunate in finding someone, in the person of N. A. Hubert, ready and willing to take his place.

So it chanced that Tchaikovsky reached his thirty-second year before he began to lead an entirely independent existence. His delight at finding himself the sole master of his little flat of three rooms was indescribable. He took the greatest pains to make his new home as comfortable as possible with the small means at his disposal. His decorations were not sumptuous: a portrait of Anton Rubinstein, given to him by the painter Madame Bonné in 1865; a picture of Louis XVII. in the house of the shoemaker Simon, given to him by Begichev in Paris; a large sofa and a few cheap chairs, comprised the composer’s entire worldly goods.

He now engaged a servant, named Michael Sofronov. Tchaikovsky never lost sight of this man, although he was afterwards replaced by his brother Alexis, who played rather an important part in his master’s life.

At this time the composer’s income was slightly increased. His salary at the Conservatoire rose to 1,500 roubles a year (£150), while from the sale of his works, and from the Russian Musical Society,[27] he received about 500 roubles more.

Besides these 2,000 roubles, Tchaikovsky had another small source of income, namely, his earnings as a musical critic. His employment in this capacity came about thus. In 1871, Laroche, who wrote for the _Moscow Viedomosti_, was offered a post at the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, and passed on his journalistic work to N. A. Hubert, who, partly from ill-health and partly from indolence, neglected the duties he had undertaken. Fearing that Katkov, who edited the paper, might appoint some amateur as critic, and so undo the progress in musical matters which had been made during the past years, Tchaikovsky and Kashkin came to Hubert’s aid and “devilled” for him as long as he remained on the staff. Tchaikovsky continued to write for the _Viedomosti_ until the winter of 1876.

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_December_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).

“I must tell you that at Shilovsky’s urgent desire I am going
abroad for a month. I shall start in about ten days’ time, but no
one--except Rubinstein--is to know anything about it; everyone is
to think I have gone to see our sister.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“NICE, _January_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1872.

“I have been a week at Nice. It is most curious to come straight
from the depths of a Russian winter to a climate where one can walk
out without an overcoat, where orange trees, roses, and syringas
are in full bloom, and the trees are in leaf. Nice is lovely. But
the gay life is killing.... However, I have many pleasant hours;
those, for instance, in the early morning, when I sit alone by the
sea in the glowing--but not scorching--sunshine. But even these
moments are not without a shade of melancholy. What comes of it
all? I am old, and can enjoy nothing more. I live on my memories
and my hopes. But what is there to hope for?

“Yet without hope in the future life is impossible. So I dream of
coming to Kiev at Easter, and of spending part of the summer with
you at Kamenka.”

By the end of January Tchaikovsky was back in Moscow.

In 1871 a great Polytechnic Exhibition was organised in this town in celebration of the two hundredth anniversary of the birth of Peter the Great. The direction of the musical section was confided to Nicholas Rubinstein, but when he resigned, because his scheme was too costly to be sanctioned by the committee, the celebrated ‘cellist, K. Davidov, was invited to take his place. He accepted, and named Laroche and Balakirev as his coadjutors. Balakirev was not immediately disposed to undertake these duties, saying that he would first like to hear the opinion of Nicholas Rubinstein as to the part which the Petersburg musicians were to take in the matter. After two months of uncertainty, the committee decided to dispense with his reply, and invited Rimsky-Korsakov to take his place. At the same time Asantchevsky (then Director of the Petersburg Conservatoire), Wurm, and Leschetitzky were added to the musical committee.

This originally Muscovite committee, which ended in being made up of Petersburgers, decided among other projects to commission from Tchaikovsky a Festival Cantata, the text of which was to be specially written for the occasion by the poet Polonsky.

By the end of December, or the beginning of January, the libretto was finished. When Tchaikovsky undertook to do any work within a fixed limit of time, he always tried to complete it before the date of contract expired. On this occasion he was well beforehand with the work, and sent in the cantata to the committee by the 1st of April. As he had only received the words towards the end of January, after his return from Nice, he could not have had more than two months in which to complete this lengthy and complicated score.

In April he was at work again upon _The Oprichnik_, and must have finished it early in May.

This, however, is a matter of conjecture, as between January 31st (February 12th) and May 4th (16th), there does not exist a single one of his letters.

On May 4th (16th), 1872, the score of _The Oprichnik_ was sent to Napravnik in Petersburg.

The Festival Cantata was performed on May 31st (June 12th) at the opening of the Polytechnic Exhibition, and shortly afterwards Tchaikovsky left Moscow for Kamenka, where he spent the whole of June. Here he began his Second Symphony in C minor. Early in July he went to Kiev, and from thence to Kondratiev at Nizy, accompanied by his brother Modeste. A part of this journey had to be accomplished by diligence. On the return journey the two brothers were to travel together as far as Voroshba, where Peter Ilich branched off for Shilovsky’s house at Ussovo, and Modeste went on to Kiev. Between Sumy and Voroshba was a post-house, at which the horses were generally changed.

We were in the best of spirits--it is Modeste who recounts the adventure--and partook of a luxurious lunch, with wine and liqueurs. These stimulants had a considerable effect upon our empty stomachs, so that when we were informed of the fact that there were no fresh post-horses at our disposal, we lost our tempers and gave the overseer a good talking to. Peter Ilich quite lost his head, and could not avoid using the customary phrase: “Are you aware to whom you are talking?” The post-master was not in the least impressed by this worn-out phraseology, and Peter Ilich, beside himself with wrath, demanded the report-book. It was brought, and thinking that the unknown name of Tchaikovsky would carry no weight, Peter Ilich signed his complaint: “Prince Volkonsky, Page-in-Waiting.” The result was brilliant. In less than a quarter of an hour the horses were harnessed, and the head-ostler had been severely reprimanded for not having told the post-master that a pair had unexpectedly returned from a journey.

Arrived at Voroshba, Peter Ilich hurried to the ticket-office and discovered with horror that he had left his pocket-book, containing all his money and papers, at the post-station. What was to be done? He could not catch the train, and must therefore wait till the next day. This was tiresome; but far worse was the thought that the post-master had only to look inside the pocket-book to see Peter Ilich’s real name on his passport and visiting-cards. While we sat there, feeling crushed, and debating what was to be done, my train came in. I was forced to steam off to Kiev, after bestowing the greater part of my available cash--some five or six roubles--upon the unhappy pseudo-Prince.

Poor Peter Ilich spent a terrible night at the inn. Mice and rats--of which he had a mortal terror--left him no peace. He waged war all night with these pests, which ran over his bed and made a hideous noise. The next morning came the news that the post-master would not entrust the pocket-book to the driver of the post-waggon; Peter Ilich must go back for it himself. This was a worse ordeal than even the rats and the sleepless night.... As soon as he arrived he saw at once that the post-master had never opened the pocket-book, for his manner was as respectful and apologetic as before. Peter Ilich was so pleased with this man’s strict sense of honour that before leaving he inquired his name. Great was his astonishment when the post-master replied, “_Tchaikovsky_”! At first he thought he was the victim of a joke, but afterwards he heard from his friend Kondratiev that the man’s name was actually the same as his own.

Tchaikovsky spent the rest of the summer at Ussovo, where he completed the symphony commenced at Kamenka.

IX

1872-1873

Immediately after his return to Moscow, Tchaikovsky moved into new quarters, which were far more comfortable than his first habitation.

We have already seen the motives which first induced him to take up journalism. Now he felt it not only a matter of honour and duty towards the interests of the Conservatoire to continue this work, but found it also a welcome means of adding to his income, seeing that he lived entirely upon his own resources. His literary efforts had been very successful during the past year, and had attracted the attention of all who were interested in music. Nevertheless his journalistic work, like his lessons at the Conservatoire, was burdensome. He told himself “it must be done,” and did it with the capability that was characteristic of him, but without a gleam of enthusiasm or liking for the work. His writing was interesting and showed considerable literary style; the general character of his articles bespoke the cultivated and serious musician, who is disinterested and just, and has a complete insight into his art--but nothing more. We cannot describe him as a preacher of profound convictions, who has power to carry home his ideas; or as a critic capable of describing a work, or a composer, in a few delicate or striking words. Reading his articles, we seem to be conversing with a clever and gifted man, who knows how to express himself clearly; we sympathise with him, earnestly wish him success in his campaign against ignorance and charlatanism, and share his desire for the victory of wholesome art over the public taste for “the Italians,” “American valses,” and the rest. In these respects we may say that Tchaikovsky’s labours were not lost.

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“MOSCOW, _November_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).

“Modi, my conscience pricks me. This is the punishment for not
having written to you for so long. What can I do when the symphony,
which is nearing completion, occupies me so entirely that I can
think of nothing else? This _work of genius_ (as Kondratiev calls
it) will be performed as soon as I can get the parts copied. It
seems to me to be my best work, at least as regards correctness of
form, a quality for which I have not so far distinguished
myself.... My quartet has created a sensation in Petersburg.”

_To I. A. Klimenko._

“MOSCOW, _November_ 15_th_ (27_th_).

“ ... Since last year nothing particular has happened in our lives
here. We go to the Conservatoire as formerly, and occasionally meet
for a general ‘boose,’ and are just as much bored as last year.
Boredom consumes us all, and the reason is that we are growing old.
Yes, it is useless to conceal that every moment brings us nearer to
the grave....

“As regards myself, I must honestly confess that I have but one
interest in life: my success as a composer. But it is impossible to
say that I am much spoilt in this respect. For instance, two
composers, Famitzin and myself, send in our works at the same time.
Famitzin is universally regarded as devoid of talent, while I, on
the contrary, am said to be highly gifted. Nevertheless,
_Sardanapalus_ is to be given almost immediately, whereas so far
nothing has been settled as to the fate of _The Oprichnik_. This
looks as though it were going to fall ‘into the water’[28] like
_Undine_. For an Undine to fall into the water is not so
disastrous; it is her element. But imagine a drowning Oprichnik,
how he would battle with the waves! He would certainly perish. But
if I went to his rescue I should be drowned too; therefore I have
taken my oath never to dip pen in ink again if my _Oprichnik_ is
refused.”

_To Ilia Petrovich Tchaikovsky._

“_November_ 22_nd_ (_December_ 4_th_).

“MY DEAR, GOOD FATHER,-- ... As regards marriage, I must confess
that I have often thought of finding myself a suitable wife, but I
am afraid I might afterwards regret doing so. I earn almost enough
(3,000 roubles a year), but I know so little about the management
of money that I am always in debt and dilemma. So long as a man is
alone, this does not much signify. But how would it be if I had to
keep a wife and family?

“My health is good: only one thing troubles me a little--my
eyesight, which is tried by my work. It is so much weaker than
formerly that I have been obliged to get a pair of eyeglasses,
which I am told are very becoming to me. My nerves are poor, but
this cannot be helped, and is not of much consequence. Whose nerves
are not disordered in our generation--especially among artists?”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_December_ 10_th_ (22_nd_).

“You say that Anatol has told you about my depression. It is not a
question of depression, only now and then a kind of misanthropical
feeling comes over me which has often happened before. It comes
partly from my nerves, which sometimes get out of gear for no
particular reason, and partly from the rather uncertain fate of my
compositions. The symphony, on which I build great hopes, will not
be performed apparently before the middle of January, at the
earliest.

“Christine Nilsson is having a great triumph here. I have seen her
twice, and I must own she has made great progress as an actress
since I heard her for the first time in Paris. As regards singing,
Nilsson stands alone. When she opens her mouth one does not hear
anything remarkable at first; then suddenly she takes a high C, or
holds a sustained note pianissimo, and the whole house thunders its
applause. But with all her good qualities she does not please me
nearly so well as Artôt. If the latter would only return to Moscow
I should jump for joy.”

During the Christmas holidays Tchaikovsky was called unexpectedly to St. Petersburg to hear the verdict of the committee upon his opera, _The Oprichnik_. The committee consisted of the various Capellmeisters of the Imperial Theatre and Opera: Napravnik (Russian opera), Bevignani (Italian opera), Rybassov (Russian plays), Silvain Mangen (French plays), Ed. Betz (German plays), and Babkov (ballet). With the exception of Napravnik, Tchaikovsky had no great opinion of these men, and considered them much inferior to himself as judges of music. It seemed to him particularly derogatory to have to appear before this Areopagus in person. He did his best to avoid this formality, but in vain.

The meeting which he dreaded so much passed off quite satisfactorily. _The Oprichnik_ was unanimously accepted.

During this visit to St. Petersburg Tchaikovsky was frequently in the society of his friends of the “Invincible Band”; and it was evidently under their influence that he took a Little Russian folksong as the subject of the Finale of the Second Symphony. “At an evening at the Rimsky-Korsakovs the whole party nearly tore me to pieces,” he wrote, “and Madame Korsakov implored me to arrange the Finale for four hands.” On this same occasion Tchaikovsky begged Vladimir Stassov to suggest a subject for a symphonic fantasia. A week had hardly passed before Stassov wrote the following letter:--

“ST. PETERSBURG,
“_December_ 30_th_, 1872 (_January_ 11_th_, 1873).

“DEAR PETER ILICH,--An hour after we had parted at the
Rimsky-Korsakovs’--that is to say, the moment I was alone and could
collect my thoughts--I hit upon the right subject for you. I have
not written the last three days because I had not absolutely made
up my mind. Now listen, please, to my suggestion. I have not only
thought of one suitable subject--I have three. I began by looking
at Shakespeare, because you said you would prefer a Shakesperean
theme. Here I came at once upon the poetical _Tempest_, so well
adapted for musical illustration, upon which Berlioz has already
drawn for his fine choruses in _Lelio_. To my mind you might write
a splendid overture on this subject. Every element of it is so full
of poetry, so grateful. First the Ocean, the Desert Island, the
striking and rugged figure of the enchanter Prospero, and, in
contrast, the incarnation of womanly grace--Miranda, like an Eve
who has not as yet looked upon any man (save Prospero), and who is
charmed and fascinated by the first glimpse of the handsome youth
Ferdinand, thrown ashore during the tempest. They fall in love with
each other; and here I think you have the material for a
wonderfully poetical picture. In the first half of the overture
Miranda awakens gradually from her childish innocence to a maidenly
love; in the second half, both she and Ferdinand have passed
through ‘the fires of passion’--it is a fine subject. Around these
leading characters others might be grouped (in the middle section
of the work): the monstrous Caliban, the sprite Ariel, with his
elfin chorus. The close of the overture should describe how
Prospero renounces his spells, blesses the lovers, and returns to
his country.”

Besides _The Tempest_ Stassov suggested two alternative subjects--Scott’s _Ivanhoe_ and Gogol’s _Tarass Boulba_. Tchaikovsky, however, decided upon the Shakespearean subject, and after informing Stassov of his decision, received the following letter:--

“ST. PETERSBURG,
“_January_ 21_st_ (_February_ 2_nd_), 1873.

“I now hasten to go into further details, and rejoice in the
prospect of your work, which should prove a worthy _pendant_ to
your _Romeo and Juliet_. You ask whether it is necessary to
introduce the tempest itself. Most certainly. Undoubtedly, most
undoubtedly. Without it the overture would cease to be an overture;
without it the entire programme would fall through.

“I have carefully weighed every incident, with all their pros and
cons, and it would be a pity to upset the whole business. I think
the sea should be depicted twice--at the opening and close of the
work. In the introduction I picture it to myself as calm, until
Prospero works his spell and the storm begins. But I think this
storm should be different from all others, in that it breaks out
_at once_ in all its fury, and does not, as generally happens, work
itself up to a climax by degrees. I suggest this original treatment
because this particular tempest is brought about by enchantment and
not, as in most operas, oratorios, and symphonies, by natural
agencies. When the storm has abated, when its roaring, screeching,
booming and raging have subsided, the Enchanted Island appears in
all its beauty and, still more lovely, the maiden Miranda, who
flits like a sunbeam over the island. Her conversation with
Prospero, and immediately afterwards with Ferdinand, who fascinates
her, and with whom she falls in love. The love theme (crescendo)
must resemble the expanding and blooming of a flower; Shakespeare
has thus depicted her at the close of the first act, and I think
this would be something well suited to your muse. Then I would
suggest the appearance of Caliban, the half-animal slave; and then
Ariel, whose motto you may find in Shakespeare’s lyric (at the end
of the first act), ‘Come unto these yellow sands.’ After Ariel,
Ferdinand and Miranda should reappear; this time in a phase of
glowing passion. Then the imposing figure of Prospero, who
relinquishes his magic arts and takes farewell of his past; and
finally the sea, calm and peaceful, which washes the shores of the
desert island, while the happy inhabitants are borne away in a ship
to distant Italy.

“As I have planned all this in the order described, it seems to me
impossible to leave out the sea in the opening and close of the
work, and to call the overture “Miranda.” In your first overture
you have unfortunately omitted all reference to Juliet’s nurse,
that inspired Shakespearean creation, and also the picture of dawn,
on which the love-scene is built up. Your overture is beautiful,
but it might have been still more so. And now, please note that I
want your new work to be wider, deeper, more mature. That it will
have beauty and passion, I think I am safe in predicting. So I wish
you all luck and--_vogue la galère!_”

_To V. Stassov._

“_January_ 27_th_ (_February_ 8_th_), 1873.

“HONOURED VLADIMIR VASSILIEVICH,--I scarcely know how to thank you
for your excellent, and at the same time most attractive,
programme. Whether I shall be successful I cannot say, but in any
case I intend to carry out every detail of your plan. I must warn
you, however, that my overture will not see the light for some time
to come: at least, I have no intention of hurrying over it. A
number of tiresome, prosaic occupations, among them the pianoforte
arrangement of my opera, will, in the immediate future, take up the
quiet time I should need for so delicate a work. The subject of
_The Tempest_ is so poetical, its programme demands such perfection
and beauty of workmanship, that I am resolved to suppress my
impatience and await a more favourable moment for its commencement.

“My symphony was performed yesterday, and met with great success;
so great in fact that N. Rubinstein is repeating it at the tenth
concert ‘by general request.’ To confess the truth, I am not
altogether satisfied with the first two movements, but the finale
on _The Crane_[29] theme has turned out admirably. I will speak to
Rubinstein about sending the score; I must find out the date of the
tenth concert. I should like to make a few improvements in the
orchestration, and I must consider how long this will take, and
whether it will be better to send the score to Nadejda
Nicholaevna,[30] or to wait until after the concert.

“Laroche paid me the compliment of coming to Moscow on purpose to
hear my symphony. He left to-day.”

The Second Symphony appeared in the programme of the Musical Society’s concert of January 6th (18th), 1873, and was very well received. Laroche spoke very appreciatively of the new work.

The symphony was repeated at the tenth concert, when the composer was recalled after each movement and presented with a laurel-wreath and a silver goblet.

_To his father, I. P. Tchaikovsky._

“_February_ 5_th_ (17_th_).

“Time flies, for I am very busy. I am working at the pianoforte
arrangement of my opera (_The Oprichnik_), writing musical
articles, and contributing a biography of Beethoven to _The
Grajdanin_.[31] I spend all my evenings at home, and lead the life
of a peaceable and well-disposed citizen of Moscow. At last a very
cold winter has set in. To-day the frost is so intense that the
noses of the Muscovites risk becoming swollen and frost-bitten. But
as I keep indoors, I am very snug and warm in my rooms.”

_To the same._

“_April_ 7_th_ (19_th_).

“For nearly a whole month have I been sitting diligently at work. I
am writing music to Ostrovsky’s fairy tale, _Sniegourotchka_
(‘Little Snow White’), and consequently my correspondence has been
somewhat neglected. In addition to this, I cut my hand so severely
the day before yesterday that it was two hours before the doctor
could stop the bleeding and apply a bandage. Consequently I can
only write with difficulty, so do not be surprised, my angel, at my
writing so seldom.”

_To the same._

“_May_ 24_th_ (_June_ 5_th_).

“I have been feverishly busy lately with the preparations for the
first performance of _Sniegourotchka_, the pianoforte arrangement
of my symphony, the examinations at the Conservatoire, the
reception of the Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich, etc. The
latter was enthusiastic over my symphony, and paid me many
compliments.”

I have already said that life was precious to Tchaikovsky. This was noticeable in many ways, among others his passion for keeping a diary. Every day had its great value for him, and the thought that he must bid eternal farewell to it, and lose all trace of its experiences, depressed him exceedingly. It was a consolation to save something from the limbo of forgetfulness, so that in time to come he might recall to mind the events through which he had lived. In old age he believed it would be a great pleasure to reconstruct the joys of the past from these short sketches and fragmentary jottings which no one else would be able to understand. He preferred the system of brief and imperfect notes, because in reading through the diaries of his childhood and youth, in which he had gone more fully into his thoughts and emotions, he had felt somewhat ashamed. The sentiments and ideas which he found so interesting, and which once seemed to him so great and important, now appeared empty, unmeaning and ridiculous, and he resolved in future only to commit facts to paper, without any commentary.[32] Disillusioned by their contents, he destroyed all his early diaries. About the close of the seventies Tchaikovsky started a new diary, which he kept for about ten years. He never showed it to anyone, and I had to give him my word of honour to burn it after his death. After all, he did so himself, and only spared what might be seen by strangers.

His first attempt at a diary dates from 1873. He began it in expectation of many impressions during his tour abroad, the very day he left Nizy.

_Extracts from the diary kept during the summer
of 1873._

“KIEV, _June_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1873.

“Yesterday, on the road from Voroshba to Kiev, music came singing
and echoing through my head after a long interval of silence. A
theme in embryo, in B major, took possession of my mind and almost
led me on to attempt a symphony. Suddenly the thought came over me
to cast aside Stassov’s not too successful _Tempest_ and devote the
summer to composing a symphony which should throw all my previous
works into the shade. Here is the embryo:--

“_On the road to ..._

“What is more wearisome than a railway journey and tiresome
companions? An Italian, an indescribable fool, has tacked himself
on to me, and I hardly know how to get rid of him. He does not even
know where he is going, nor where to change his money. I changed
mine at a Jew’s in Cracow. What a bore it all is! Sometimes I think
of Sasha and Modi, and my heart is fit to break. At Volochisk great
agitation, and my nerves upset. With the exception of the Italian,
my fellow-travellers are bearable. I scarcely slept all night. The
old man is a retired officer with the old, original whiskers. At
the present moment the Italian is boring a lady. Lord, what an ass!
I must get rid of him by some kind of dodge.”

“_June_ 29_th_ (_July_ 11_th_).

“I had four long hours to wait in Myslovitz; at last I am on the
road to Breslau. The Italian is enchanted to think I shall travel
with him to Liggia. He bores me to extinction. Oh, what an idiot!
At Myslovitz I had an indifferent meal, and afterwards went for a
walk through the pretty town. I can imagine my Italian’s face, and
what he will say, when I suddenly vanish at Breslau! He will be
left sitting there! My money goes like water!”

“JEAN PROSCO, CONSTANTINOPLE,
“BRESLAU.

“After all I had not the heart to deceive my Italian. I told him
beforehand I intended to stop in Breslau. He almost dissolved into
tears, and gave me his name, which I have put down above.”

“3 _a.m._

“How I love solitude sometimes! I must confess I am only staying
here in order to put off my arrival in Dresden and the society of
the Jurgensons. To sit like this--alone, to be silent, and to
think!...”

“_Not far from Dresden._

“Theme for the first allegro, introduction from the same, but in
4/4 time.”

“DRESDEN, _July_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).

“I arrived here yesterday at six o’clock. As soon as I had secured
a room I hurried to the theatre. _Die Jüdin (The Jewess)_ was being
played--very fine. My nerves are terrible. Without waiting for the
end, I went to find the Jurgensons at the hotel. Supper. Took tea
with the Jurgensons. To-day I took a bath. Sauntered about the town
with Jurgenson. Midday dinner at the table d’hôte. Very shortly we
start for Saxon Switzerland. My frame of mind is not unbearable.”

“DRESDEN.

“The weather has broken up, and we have decided to turn back from
our trip. We made the descent from the Bastei by another road
between colossal rocks. We halted at a restaurant in the midst of
the most sublime scenery. Breakfasted on the banks of the Elbe
(_omelette aux confitures_) and returned to Dresden by boat. Our
rooms were no longer to be had, and they have given me a wretched
one.”

Throughout the whole of his tour through Switzerland we find similar brief entries, recording very little beyond the state of the weather, the names of the hotels at which they stayed, and the quality of the meals provided.

At Cadenabbia (Como) the diary comes to an end with the following entry:--

“The journey (from Milan) was not long, and it was very pleasant on
the steamer. We are staying at the lovely Hotel Bellevue.”

After Tchaikovsky’s return to Russia, early in August, he went straight to his favourite summer resort Ussovo. The fortnight which he spent there in complete solitude seemed to Tchaikovsky, in after days, one of the happiest periods in his existence. Life abroad, under similar circumstances, he found painful and unbearable, whereas in his own country the presence even of a servant sufficed to spoil his solitude, and the sense of increased energy and strength, which always came to him in the lonely life of the country, was unknown in the bustle and stress of the city. In a letter written in 1878 he recalls this visit to Ussovo in the following words:--

_To N. F. M. (von Meck)._

“_April_ 22_nd_ (_March_ 4_th_), 1878.

“I know no greater happiness than to spend a few days quite alone
in the country. I have only experienced this delight once in my
life. This was in 1873. I came straight from Paris--it was early in
August--to stay with a bachelor friend in the country, in the
Government of Tambov. My friend, however, was obliged to go to
Moscow for a few days, so I was left all alone in that lovely oasis
amid the steppes of South Russia. I was in a highly strung,
emotional mood; wandered for whole days together in the forest,
spent the evenings on the low-lying steppe, and at night, sitting
at my open window, I listened to the solemn stillness, which was
only broken at rare intervals by some vague, indefinable sound.
During this fortnight, without the least effort--just as though I
were under the influence of some supernatural force--I sketched out
the whole of _The Tempest_ overture. What an unpleasant and
tiresome awakening from my dreams I experienced on my friend’s
return! All the delights of direct intercourse with the sublimities
and indescribable beauties of nature vanished in a trice! My corner
of Paradise was transformed into the prosaic house of a well-to-do
country gentleman. After two or three days of boredom I went back
to Moscow.”

Tchaikovsky went to Ussovo about the 5th or 6th of August, and by the 7th (19th) had already set to work upon _The Tempest_. By August 17th (29th) this symphonic poem was completely sketched out in all its details, so that the composer could go straight on with the orchestration on his return to Moscow. The Countess Vassilieva-Shilovsky made me a present of this manuscript, upon which are inscribed the dates I have just mentioned. At the present time the manuscript is in the Imperial Public Library, St. Petersburg.

X

1873-1874

As soon as Tchaikovsky returned to Moscow, on September 1st, he set to work upon the orchestration of _The Tempest_.

In the second half of the month he moved into new quarters in the Nikitskaya (House Vishnevsky).

Nothing particularly eventful had happened since last year, either in his career as professor or musical critic. His daily life ran in the same grooves as before, with this difference only: the things which once seemed to him new and interesting now appeared more and more wearisome and unprofitable, and his moods of depression became more frequent, more intense, and of longer duration.

_To V. Bessel._

“_September_, 1873.

“Be so kind as to do something for _The Oprichnik_. Yesterday they
told me at the Opera House that the Direction had quite decided to
produce it in Moscow during the spring. Although, with the
exception of Kadmina, I have no strong forces to reckon upon here,
yet I think we had better not raise any objections. Let them do it
if they like. The _repétiteur_ has assured me that no expense shall
be spared in mounting the opera brilliantly. The rehearsals will be
carried on throughout the season. As regards _The Oprichnik_, I
think it would be best to dedicate it to the Grand Duke Constantine
Nicholaevich.”

_To the same._

“_October_ 10_th_ (22_nd_).

“DEAR FRIEND,--I have written to Gedeonov and told him that you are
my representative as regards everything pertaining to the
production of _The Oprichnik_. As to the pianoforte arrangement,
you must wait patiently for a little while. When you meet Stassov,
please tell him I have quite finished _The Tempest_, according to
his programme, but I shall not send him the work until I have heard
it performed in Moscow.”

_To the same._

“_October_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

“DEAR FRIEND,--Although I expected your bad news, I cannot conceal
the fact that I am very much annoyed by it. It seems to be a
foregone conclusion that I shall never hear a good performance of
one of my operas. It is useless for you to hope that _The
Oprichnik_ will be mounted next year. It will never be given at
all, for the simple reason that I am not personally known to any of
the ‘great people’ of the world in general, or to those of the
Petersburg Opera in particular. Is it not ridiculous that
Moussorgsky’s _Boris Godounov_, although refused by the Committee,
should have been chosen by Kondratiev[33] for his benefit? Madame
Platonova, too, interests herself in this work, while no one wants
to hear anything about mine, which has been accepted by the
authorities. It goes without saying that I will not consent to have
the opera performed in Moscow unless it is produced in Petersburg
too. My conscience pricks me that the work will involve you in
some expense, but I hope I may have some opportunity of
compensating you.

“As to the dedication to the Grand Duke, would it not look strange
to dedicate it to him now that the fate of the work is so
uncertain? An unperformed opera seems to me like a book in
manuscript. Would it not be better to wait? I am impatiently
expecting the corrections of the symphony.”

_To the same._

“_October_ 30_th_ (_November_ 11_th_).

“DEAR FRIEND,--Hubert has given me the good news that luck has
turned for the opera. I am so glad! Keep it a complete secret that
I want to be in Petersburg for the first symphony concert, in order
to hear my symphony.... Let me know the date and secure me a ticket
for the gallery. But not a word, for Heaven’s sake, or my little
joke will be turned into something quite unpleasant.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_November_ 28_th_ (_December_ 10_th_).

“ ... My pecuniary situation will shortly be improved. _The
Tempest_ is to be performed next week, when I shall receive the
customary 300 roubles from the Musical Society. This sum will put
me in good heart again. I am very curious to hear my new work, from
which I hope so much. It is a pity you cannot hear it too, for I
think a great deal of your wise opinion.

“This year, for the first time, I have begun to realise that I am
rather lonely here, in spite of many friends. There is no one to
whom I can open my heart--like Kondratiev, for instance.”

At the third concert of the Moscow Musical Society _The Tempest_ was given with great success, and repeated during the same season at an extra concert.

_From E. Napravnik to Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky._

“_December_ 16_th_ (28_th_).

“Although we shall probably not begin the rehearsals of your opera
before the second week in Lent, may I ask you to lighten the work
somewhat for the soloists and chorus by making a few cuts, _i.e._
all those repetitions in words and music which are not essential to
the development of the drama? I assure you the work will only gain
by it. Besides this, I advise you to alter the orchestration, which
is too heavy, and over-brilliant in places; it overwhelms the
singers and puts them completely in the shade. I hope you will take
my remarks in good part, as coming from one who for eleven years
has been exclusively occupied with operatic art.”

_To E. Napravnik._

“_December_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

“HONOURED SIR,--Your remarks have not hurt my feelings: on the
contrary, I am much obliged to you. Above all I am glad that your
letter has given me the opportunity of making your acquaintance,
and talking things over personally with you. I will do everything
you think necessary as regards the distribution of the parts, the
shortening of the scenes, and the changes in the orchestration. In
order to discuss things in detail, I will go to Petersburg next
Sunday and call upon you.... Pray do not mention my coming to
anyone, as my visit will be short, and I do not want to see anyone
but yourself.”

_To A. Tchaikovsky._

“_January_ 26_th_ (_February_ 7_th_), 1874.

“The difficulties with the Censor are happily settled; in fact, I
am at peace as regards the opera, and convinced that Napravnik will
take the greatest pains with it. I have written a new quartet, and
it is to be played at a _soirée_ given by Nicholas Rubinstein.”

The new quartet mentioned in this letter was begun about the end of December, or beginning of January. In his reminiscences, Kashkin gives the following account of its first performance at N. Rubinstein’s:--

“Early in 1874 the Second Quartet (F major) was played at a musical
evening at Nicholas Rubinstein’s. I believe the host himself was
not present, but his brother Anton was there. The executants were
Laub, Grijimal, and Gerber. All the time the music was going on
Rubinstein listened with a lowering, discontented expression, and,
at the end, declared with his customary brutal frankness that it
was not at all in the style of chamber music; that he himself could
not understand the work, etc. The rest of the audience, as well as
the players, were charmed with it.”

On March 10th (22nd) the Quartet was played at one of the Musical Society’s chamber concerts, and according to _The Musical Leaflet_, had a well-deserved success.

On February 25th (March 9th), the Second Symphony was performed for the first time in Petersburg, under Napravnik’s direction. It was greatly applauded, especially the finale; but, in the absence of the composer, its success was not so remarkable, nor so brilliant, as it had been a year earlier in Moscow. The symphony won the approval of the “Invincible Band,” with the exception of Cæsar Cui, who expressed himself in the St. Petersburg _Viedomosti_ as follows:--

“The Introduction and first Allegro are very weak; the poverty of
Tchaikovsky’s invention displays itself every moment. The March in
the second movement is rough and commonplace. The Scherzo is
neither good nor bad; the trio is so innocent that it would be
almost too infantile for a ‘Sniegourotchka.’ The best movement is
the Finale, and even then the opening is as pompously trivial as
the introduction to a _pas de deux_, and the end is beneath all
criticism.”

Towards the end of March, Tchaikovsky went to St. Petersburg to attend the rehearsals of _The Oprichnik_, and took up his abode with his father. During his first interviews with Napravnik his pride suffered many blows to which he was not accustomed. Somewhat spoilt by Nicholas Rubinstein’s flattering attitude towards every note of his recent orchestral works, he was rather hurt by the number of cuts Napravnik considered it necessary to make in the score of his opera. Afterwards he approved of them all, but at the moment he felt affronted.

From the very first rehearsal Tchaikovsky was dissatisfied with his work. On March 25th he wrote to Albrecht:--

“Kindly inform all my friends that the first performance takes
place on Friday in Easter week, and let me know in good time
whether they intend to come and hear it, so that I may secure
tickets for them. Frankly speaking, I would rather none of you
came. _There is nothing really fine in the work._”

To his pupil, Serge Taneiev, he writes in the same strain:--