Chapter VIII: Part III: I (4)

“Serioja,[34] if you really seriously intend to come here on
purpose to hear my opera, I implore you to abandon the idea, for
there is _nothing good in it_, and it would be a pity if you
travelled to Petersburg on that account.”

The more the opera was studied, the gloomier grew Tchaikovsky’s mood. One day, unsuspicious of the true reason of his depression, I ventured to criticise _The Oprichnik_ rather severely, and made fun of the scene in which Andrew appears in Jemchoujny’s garden, merely to “draw” him for some money. My brother lost his temper and flew out at me fiercely. I was almost reduced to tears, for at the time I could not guess the real reason for his anger. It was not until long after that I realised my criticism had wounded his artistic feelings in the most sensitive spot.

Against Tchaikovsky’s wish, almost the entire teaching staff of the Moscow Conservatoire, with N. Rubinstein at their head, appeared in Petersburg for the first night of _The Oprichnik_, April 12th (24th), 1874.

Although none of the singers were remarkable, yet no individual artist marred the _ensemble_. The chorus and orchestra were the best part of it. The performance ran smoothly. The scenery and costumes were rather old, for the authorities did not care to risk the expense of a very luxurious setting for a new work by a composer whose name was not as yet a guarantee for a brilliant success.

On the face of it, the work seemed to have a great success. After the second act the composer was unanimously called before the curtain. The public seemed to be in that enthusiastic mood which is the true criterion of the success of a work.

In a box on the second tier sat the composer’s old father with his family. He beamed with happiness. But when I asked him which he thought best for Peter, this artistic success or the Empress Anne’s Order, which he might have gained as an official, he replied: “The decoration would certainly have been better.” This answer shows that in his heart of hearts he still regretted that his son had ceased to be an official. Not that this feeling sprang from petty ambition, or from any other prosaic or egotistical reason, but because he believed that the life of the ordinary man is safer and happier than that of the artist.

After the performance the directors of the Moscow and Petersburg sections of the Russian Musical Society gave a supper in honour of Tchaikovsky at the Restaurant Borcille.

In the course of the evening, Asantchevsky, then principal of the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, delivered an address, in which he informed the composer in flattering terms that the directors of the Petersburg section of the Musical Society had decided to award him the sum of 300 roubles, being a portion of the Kondratiev Bequest for the benefit of Russian composers.

The Press notices of _The Oprichnik_ were as contradictory as they were numerous. The opinions of Cæsar Cui and Laroche represented as usual the two opposite poles of criticism. The former declared that while

“the text might have been the work of a schoolboy, the music is
equally immature and undeveloped. Poor in conception, and feeble
throughout, it is such as might have been expected from a beginner,
but not from a composer who has already covered so many sheets of
paper. Tchaikovsky’s creative talents, which are occasionally
apparent in his symphonic works, are completely lacking in _The
Oprichnik_. The choruses are rather better than the rest, but this
is only because of the folksong element which forms their thematic
material.... Not only will _The Oprichnik_ not bear comparison with
other operas of the Russian school, such as _Boris Godounov_,[35]
for instance, but it is even inferior to examples of Italian
opera.”

In these words Cui apparently believed he had given the death-blow to the composer of _The Oprichnik_.

Laroche’s view (in _The Musical Leaflet_) is quite opposed to that of Cæsar Cui. He says:--

“While our modern composers of opera contend with each other in
their negation of music, Tchaikovsky’s opera does not bear the
stamp of this doubtful progress, but shows the work of a gifted
temperament. The wealth of musical beauties in _The Oprichnik_ is
so great that this opera takes a significant place not only among
Tchaikovsky’s own works, but among all the examples of Russian
dramatic music. When to this rare melodic gift we add a fine
harmonic style, the wonderful, free, and often daring progression
of the parts, the genuinely Russian art of inventing chromatic
harmonies for diatonic melodies, the frequent employment of
pedal-points (which the composer uses almost too freely), the
skilful manner in which he unites the various scenes into an
organic whole, and finally the sonorous and brilliant
orchestration, we have a score which displays many of the best
features of modern operatic music, while at the same time it is
free from most of the worst faults of contemporary composition.”

The most harsh and pitiless of critics, however, was the composer himself, who wrote a fortnight after the first performance as follows:--

“_The Oprichnik_ torments me. This opera is so bad that I always
ran away from the rehearsals (especially of Acts iii. and iv.) to
avoid hearing another note.... It has neither action, style, nor
inspiration. I am sure it will not survive half a dozen
performances, which is mortally vexatious.”

This prediction was not fulfilled, for by March 1st (13th), 1881, _The Oprichnik_ was given fourteen times. This does not amount to a great deal; but when we remember that not a single new opera of the Russian school--_Boris Godounov_,[36] _The Stone Guest_, _William Ratcliff_, _Angelo_--had exceeded sixteen performances, and many had only reached eight, we must admit that _The Oprichnik_ had more than the average success.

The third day after the performance of his opera Tchaikovsky started for Italy. Besides wishing to rest after the excitement of the last few days, he went as correspondent for the _Russky Viedomosti_ to attend the first performance in Italy of Glinka’s _A Life for the Tsar_. The opera was translated into Italian by Madame Santagano-Gortshakov and, thanks to her initiative, was brought out at the Teatro dal Verme in Milan.

_To M. Tchaikovsky._

“VENICE, _April_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1874.

“All day long I have been walking up and down the Piazza San
Marco.... My soul was very downcast. Why? For many reasons, one of
which is that I am ashamed of myself. Instead of going abroad and
spending money, I ought really to have paid your debts and
Anatol’s--and yet I am hurrying off to enjoy the beautiful South.
The thought of my wrong-doing and selfishness has so tormented me
that only now, in putting my feelings on paper, does my conscience
begin to feel somewhat lighter. So forgive me, dear Modi, for
loving myself better than you and the rest of mankind.

“Perhaps you will think I am posing as a benefactor. Not in the
least. I know my egotism is limitless, or I should not have gone
off on my trip while you had to remain at home.... Now I will tell
you about Venice. It is a place in which--had I to remain for
long--I should hang myself on the fifth day from sheer despair. The
entire life of the place centres in the Piazza San Marco. To
venture further in any direction is to find yourself in a labyrinth
of stinking corridors which end in some _cul-de-sac_, so that you
have no idea where you are, or where to go, unless you are in a
gondola. A trip through the Canale Grande is well worth making, for
one passes marble palaces, each one more beautiful and more
dilapidated than the last. In fact, you might suppose yourself to
be gazing upon the ruined scenery in the first act of _Lucrezia_.
But the Doge’s Palace is beauty and elegance itself; and then the
romantic atmosphere of the Council of Ten, the Inquisition, the
torture chambers, and other fascinating things. I have thoroughly
‘done’ this palace within and without, and dutifully visited two
others, and also three churches, in which were many pictures by
Titian and Tintoretto, statues by Canova, and other treasures.
Venice, however--I repeat it--is very gloomy, and like a dead city.
There are no horses here, and I have not even come across a dog.

“I have just received a telegram from Milan. _A Life for the Tsar_
will not be performed before May 12th (new style), so I have
decided to leave to-morrow for Rome, and afterwards go on to
Naples, where I shall expect to find a letter from you.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“ROME, _April_ 20_th_ (_May_ 2_nd_), 1874.

“DEAR TOLY,-- ... Solitude is a very good thing, and I like it--in
moderation. To-day is the eighth day since I left Russia, and
during the whole of this time I have not exchanged a friendly word
with anyone. Except the hotel servants and railway officials, no
human being has heard a word from my lips. I saunter through the
city all the morning and have certainly seen most glorious things:
the Colosseum, the Capitol, the Vatican, the Pantheon, and,
finally--the loftiest triumph of human genius--St. Peter’s. Since
the midday meal I have been to the Corso, but here I was overcome
by such ‘spleen’ that I am striving to shake it off by writing
letters and drinking tea.... Except for certain historical and
artistic sights, Rome itself, with its narrow streets, is not
interesting, and I cannot understand spending one’s whole life
here, as many Russians do. I have sufficient funds to travel all
over Italy. As regards money, from the moment I left Russia I have
not ceased to reproach myself for my unfeeling egotism. If you only
knew how my conscience has pricked me! But I had made up my mind to
travel through Italy. It is too foolish; if I had wanted
distraction I might just as well have gone to Kiev or the
Crimea--it would have been cheap and as good. Dear Toly, I embrace
you heartily. What would I give to see you suddenly appear on the
scene!”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“FLORENCE, _April_ 27_th_ (_May_ 9_th_), 1874.

“You are thinking: ‘Lucky fellow, first he writes from Venice and
then from Florence.’ Yet all the while, Modi, you cannot imagine
anyone who suffers more than I do. At Naples it came to such a pass
that every day I shed tears from sheer home-sickness and longing
for my dear folk.... But the chief ground of all my misery is _The
Oprichnik_. Finally, the same terrible weather has followed me
here. The Italians cannot remember a similar spring. At Naples,
where I spent six days, I saw nothing, because in bad weather the
town is impassable. The last two days it was impossible to go out.
I fled post-haste, and shall go straight to Sasha[37] without
stopping at Milan. I have very good grounds for avoiding Milan, for
I hear from a certain Stchurovsky that the performance of _A Life
for the Tsar_ will be bungled.... In Florence I only had time to go
through the principal streets, which pleased me very much. I hate
Rome, and Naples too; the devil take them both! There is only one
town in the world for me--Moscow, and perhaps I might add Paris.”

Without waiting for the performance of _A Life for the Tsar_ at Milan, which did not take place until May 8th (20th), Tchaikovsky returned to Moscow early in this month.

For a short time his dissatisfaction with _The Oprichnik_ filled him with such doubt of his powers that his spirits flagged. But his energy quickly recovered itself. No sooner had he returned to Moscow, than he was possessed by an intense desire to prove to himself and others that he was equal to better things than _The Oprichnik_. The score of this work seemed like a sin, for which he must make reparation at all costs. There was but one way of atonement--to compose a new opera which should have no resemblance to _The Oprichnik_, and should wipe out the memory of that unhappy work.

In the course of this season, the Russian Musical Society organised a prize competition for the best setting of the opera, _Vakoula the Smith_.

While Serov was still engaged upon his opera, _The Power of the Evil One_, he was suddenly seized with a desire to compose a Russian comic opera, and chose a fantastic poem by Gogol. When he informed his patroness, the Grand Duchess Helena Pavlovna, of his project, she declared herself willing to have a libretto prepared by the poet Polonsky at her own cost. Serov died before he had time to begin the opera, and the Grand Duchess resolved to honour his memory by offering two prizes for the best setting of the libretto he had been unable to use. In January, 1873, the Grand Duchess Helena died, and the directors of the Imperial Musical Society proceeded to carry out her wishes with regard to the libretto of _Vakoula the Smith_.

The latest date at which the competitors might send in their scores to the jury was fixed for August 1st (13th) 1875. The successful opera was afterwards to be performed at the Imperial Opera House in Petersburg.

At first Tchaikovsky hesitated to take part in the competition, lest he should be unsuccessful. But having read Polonsky’s libretto, he was fascinated. The originality and captivating local colour, as well as the really poetical lyrics with which the book is interspersed, commended it to Tchaikovsky’s imagination, so that he could no longer resist the impulse to set it to music. At the same time he feared the competition, not so much because he desired the prize, as because, in the event of failure, he could not hope to see his version of the libretto produced at the Imperial Opera. This was his actual motive in trying to discover, before finally deciding the matter, whether Anton Rubinstein, Balakirev, or Rimsky-Korsakov were intending to compete. As soon as he had ascertained that these rivals were not going to meet him in the field, he threw himself into the task with ardour.

At the beginning of the summer vacation Tchaikovsky went to stay with Kondratiev at Nizy, and set to work without loss of time. He was under the misapprehension that the score had to be ready by August 1st of that year (1874), besides which he felt a burning desire to wipe out the memory of _The Oprichnik_ as soon as possible. By the middle of July, when he left Nizy for Ussovo, he had all but finished the sketch of the opera, and was ready to begin the orchestration. At Ussovo he redoubled his efforts, and the work was actually completed by the end of August. The entire opera had occupied him barely three months. He wrote no other dramatic work under such a long and unbroken spell of inspiration. To the end of his days Tchaikovsky had a great weakness for this particular opera. In 1885 he made some not very important changes in the score. It has been twice renamed; once as _Cherevichek_ (“The Little Shoes”), and later as _Les Caprices d’Oxane_, under which title it now appears in foreign editions.

During this season Tchaikovsky’s reputation greatly increased. The success of his Second Symphony, and the performance of _The Oprichnik_, made his name as well known in Petersburg as it had now become in Moscow.

In his account of the first performance of _A Life for the Tsar_, at Milan, Hans von Bülow, referring to Tchaikovsky, says:--[38]

“At the present moment we know but one other who, like Glinka,
strives and aspires, and whose works--although they have not yet
attained to full maturity--give the complete assurance that such
maturity will not fail to come. I refer to the young professor of
composition at the Moscow Conservatoire--Tchaikovsky. A beautiful
string quartet by him has won its way in many German towns. Many of
his works deserve equal recognition--his pianoforte compositions,
two symphonies, and an uncommonly interesting overture to _Romeo
and Juliet_, which commends itself by its originality and luxuriant
flow of melody. Thanks to his many-sidedness, this composer will
not run the danger of being neglected abroad, as was the case with
Glinka.”

XI

1874-1875

It was not until his return to Moscow that Tchaikovsky found out his mistake as to the date of the competition. This discovery annoyed him exceedingly. Like all composers, he burned with impatience to hear his work performed as soon as possible. In his case such impatience was all the greater, because he was not accustomed to delay; hitherto Nicholas Rubinstein had brought out his works almost before the ink was dry on the paper. Besides which Tchaikovsky had never before been so pleased with any offspring of his genius as with this new opera. The desire to see _Vakoula_ mounted, and thus to wipe out the bad impression left by _The Oprichnik_, became almost a fixed idea, and led him to a course of action which in calmer moments would have seemed to him reprehensible.

Tchaikovsky never had the art of keeping a secret, especially when it was a question of the rehabilitation of his artistic reputation, such as it seemed to him at present, for he believed it to have been damaged by “the detestable _Oprichnik_.” Consequently he never took the least trouble to conceal the fact that he was taking part in this competition. For a man of his age he showed an inconceivable degree of _naïveté_, and went so far as to try to induce the directors of the Opera in Petersburg to have _Vakoula_ performed before the result of the competition was decided. From the letter which I give below, it is easy to see how little he thought at the moment of the injustice he was inflicting upon the other competitors, and how imperfectly he realised the importance of silence in such an affair as a competition, in which anonymity is the first condition of impartial judgment.

_To E. Napravnik._

“_October_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1874.

“I have learnt to-day that you and the Grand Duke are much
displeased at my efforts to get my opera performed independently of
the decision of the jury. I very much regret that my strictly
private communication to you and Kondratiev should have been
brought before the notice of the Grand Duke, who may now think I am
unwilling to submit to the terms of the competition. The matter can
be very simply explained. I had erroneously supposed that August
1st (13th), 1874, was the last day upon which the compositions
could be sent in to the jury, and I hurried over the completion of
my work. Only on my return to Moscow did I discover my mistake, and
that I must wait more than a year for the decision of the judges.
In my impatience to have my work performed (which is far more to me
than any money) I inquired, in reply to a letter of
Kondratiev’s--whether it might not be possible to get my work
brought out independently of the prize competition. I asked him to
talk it over with you and give me a reply. Now I see that I have
made a stupid mistake, because I have no rights over the libretto
of the opera. You need only have told Kondratiev to write and say I
was a fool, instead of imputing to me some ulterior motive which I
have never had. I beg you to put aside all such suspicions, and to
reassure the Grand Duke, who is very much annoyed, so Rubinstein
tells me.

“Let me express my thanks for having included _The Tempest_ in your
repertory. I must take this opportunity of setting right a little
mistake in the instrumentation. I noticed in the introduction,
where all the strings are divided into three, and each part has its
own rhythm, that the first violins sounded too loud--first, because
they are more powerful than the others, and secondly, because they
are playing higher notes. As it is desirable that no distinct
rhythm should be heard in these particular passages, please be so
kind as to make the first violins play _ppp_ and the others simply
_p_.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_October_ 29_th_ (_November_ 10_th_).

“Just imagine, Modi, that up to the present moment I am still
slaving at the pianoforte arrangement of my opera.... I have no
time for answering all my letters. Many thanks for both yours; I am
delighted to find that you write with the elegance of a Sévigné.
Joking apart, you have a literary vein, and I should be very glad
if it proved strong enough to make an author of you. Then, at last,
I might obtain a good libretto, for it seems a hopeless business;
one seeks and seeks, and finds nothing suitable. Berg, the poet,
(editor of the _Grajdanin_, the _Niva_, and other Russian
publications), suggested to me a subject from the period of the
Hussites and Taborites. I inquired if he had any decided plan. Not
in the least; he liked the idea of their singing hymns!!! I would
give anything just now to get a good historical libretto--not
Russian.

“ ... I sit at home a good deal, but unfortunately I do not get
much time for reading. I work or play. I have studied _Boris
Godounov_ and _The Demon_ thoroughly. As to Moussorgsky’s music, it
may go to the devil for all I care: it is the commonest, lowest
parody of music. In _The Demon_ I have found some beautiful things,
but a good deal of padding, too. On Sunday the Russian Quartet,
that has brought out my quartet in D, is playing here.

“I am glad my second quartet finds favour with you and Mademoiselle
Maloziomov.[39] It is my best work; not one of them has come to me
so easily and fluently as this. I completed it as it were at one
sitting. I am surprised the public do not care for it, for I have
always thought, among this class of works, it had the best chance
of success.”

I cannot understand how my brother can have inferred from my letter that the quartet had no success. It must have pleased, since it was repeated at least once during the season. Cui spoke of it as a “beautiful, talented, fluent work, which showed originality and invention.” Laroche considered it “more serious and important than the first quartet”; and Famitzin thought it showed “marked progress. The first movement displayed as much style as Beethoven’s A minor quartet.”

On November 1st (13th) Napravnik conducted the first performance of _The Tempest_ in St. Petersburg.

_From V. V. Stassov to Tchaikovsky._

“_November_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 10 _a.m._

“I have just come from the rehearsal for Saturday’s concert. Your
_Tempest_ was played for the first time. Rimsky-Korsakov and I sat
alone in the empty hall and overflowed with delight.

“Your _Tempest_ is fascinating! Unlike any other work! The tempest
itself is not remarkable, or new; Prospero, too, is nothing out of
the way, and at the close you have made a very commonplace cadenza,
such as one might find in the finale of an Italian opera--these are
three blemishes. But all the rest is a marvel of marvels! Caliban,
Ariel, the love-scene--all belong to the highest creations of art.
In both love-scenes, what passion, what languor, what beauty! I
know nothing to compare with it. The wild, uncouth Caliban, the
wonderful flights of Ariel--these are creations of the first order.

“In this scene the orchestration is enchanting.

“Rimsky and I send you our homage and heartiest congratulations
upon the completion of such a fine piece of workmanship. The day
after to-morrow (Friday) we shall attend the rehearsal again. We
could not keep away....”

_The Tempest_ not only pleased Stassov and “The Band,” but won recognition even in the hostile camp. Laroche alone was dissatisfied. He considered that in his programme music Tchaikovsky approached Litolff as regards form and instrumentation, and Schumann and Glinka as regards harmony. _The Tempest_ would not bear criticism as an organic whole. “Beautiful, very beautiful, are the details,” he continues, “but even these are not all on a level; for instance, the tempest itself is not nearly so impressive as in Berlioz’s fantasia on the same subject. Tchaikovsky’s storm is chiefly remarkable for noisy orchestration, which is, indeed, of so deafening a character that the specialist becomes curious to discover by what technical means the composer has succeeded in concocting such a pandemonium.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_November_ 21_st_ (_December_ 3_rd_).

“Toly, your general silence makes me uneasy. I begin to think
something serious has happened, or one of you is ill. I am
particularly puzzled about Modeste. I am aware that my _Tempest_
was performed a few days ago. Why does no one write a word about
it? After my quartet, Modeste wrote at considerable length, and
also Mademoiselle Maloziomov. Now--not a soul, except Stassov. Most
strange!

“I am now completely absorbed in the composition of a pianoforte
concerto. I am very anxious Rubinstein should play it at his
concert. The work progresses very slowly, and does not turn out
well. However, I stick to my intentions, and hammer pianoforte
passages out of my brain: the result is nervous irritability. For
this reason I should like to take a trip to Kiev for the sake of
the rest, although this city has lost nine-tenths of its charms for
me now Toly does not live there. For this reason, too, I hate _The
Oprichnik_ with all my heart....[40]

“To-morrow the overture to my ‘unfinished opera’ will be given
here.”

The “unfinished opera” is none other than _Vakoula the Smith_. The overture had no success, but Tchaikovsky received the customary fee of 300 roubles from the Musical Society.

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_November_ 26_th_ (_December_ 8_th_).

“ ... You do not write a word (about _The Tempest_), and
Maloziomova is silent too. Laroche’s criticism has enraged me. With
what _schadenfreude_ he points out that I imitate Litolff,
Schumann, Berlioz, Glinka, and God knows whom besides. As though I
could do nothing but compile! I am not hurt that he does not like
_The Tempest_. I expected as much, and I am quite contented that he
should merely praise the details of the work. It is the general
tone of his remarks that annoys me; the insinuation that I have
borrowed everything from other composers and have nothing of my
own....”

The hyper-sensitiveness which Tchaikovsky shows in this letter is a symptom of that morbid condition of mind, of which more will be said as the book advances.

On December 9th Tchaikovsky attended the first performance of _The Oprichnik_ at Kiev, and wrote an account of the event for the _Russky Viedomosti_. The opera had a great success, and remained in the repertory of the Kiev Opera House throughout the entire season.

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_January_ 6_th_ (18_th_) 1875.

“I am very pleased with your newspaper article. You complain that
writing comes to you with difficulty, and that you have to search
for every phrase. But do you really suppose anything can be
accomplished without trouble and discipline? I often sit for hours
pen in hand, and have no idea how to begin my articles. I think I
shall never hammer anything out; and afterwards people praise the
fluency and ease of the writing! Remember what pains Zaremba’s
exercises cost me. Do you forget how in the summer of ‘66 I worked
my nerves to pieces over my First Symphony? And even now I often
gnaw my nails to the quick, smoke any number of cigarettes, and
pace up and down my room for long, before I can evolve a particular
motive or theme. At other times writing comes easily, thoughts seem
to flow and chase each other as they go. All depends upon one’s
mood and condition of mind. But even when we are not disposed for
it we must force ourselves to work. Otherwise nothing can be
accomplished.

“You write of being out of spirits. Believe me, I am the same.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_January_ 9_th_ (21_st_).

“I cannot endure holidays. On ordinary days I work at fixed hours,
and everything goes on like a machine. On holidays the pen falls
from my hand of its own accord--I want to be with those who are
dear to me, to pour out my heart to them; and then I am overcome by
a sense of loneliness, of desolation.... It is not merely that
there is no one here I can really call my friend (like Laroche or
Kondratiev), but also during these holidays I cannot shake off the
effects of a cruel blow to my self-esteem--which comes from none
others than Nicholas Rubinstein and Hubert. When you consider that
these two are my best friends, and in all Moscow no one should feel
more interest in my compositions than they, you will understand how
I have suffered. A remarkable fact! Messrs. Cui, Stassov, and Co.
have shown, on many occasions, that they take far more interest in
me than my so-called friends! Cui wrote me a very nice letter a few
days ago. From Korsakov, too, I have received a letter which
touched me deeply.... Yes, I feel very desolate here, and if it
were not for my work, I should become altogether depressed. In my
character lurk such timidity of other people, so much shyness and
distrust--in short, so many characteristics which make me more and
more misanthropical. Imagine, nowadays, I am often drawn towards
the monastic life, or something similar. Do not fancy I am
physically out of health. I am quite well, sleep well, eat even
better; I am only in rather a sentimental frame of mind--nothing
more.”

Tchaikovsky has told so well the tale of Rubinstein’s injury to his self-esteem in one of his subsequent letters to Frau von Meck, that I think it advisable to publish the entire letter in this particular chapter of the book.

_To N. F. von Meck._

“SAN REMO, _January_ 21_st_ (_February_ 2_nd_), 1878.

“ ... In December, 1874, I had written a pianoforte concerto. As I
am not a pianist, it was necessary to consult some virtuoso as to
what might be ineffective, impracticable, and ungrateful in my
technique. I needed a severe, but at the same time friendly, critic
to point out in my work these external blemishes only. Without
going into details, I must mention the fact that some inward voice
warned me against the choice of Nicholas Rubinstein as a judge of
the technical side of my composition. However, as he was not only
the best pianist in Moscow, but also a first-rate all-round
musician, and, knowing that he would be deeply offended if he heard
I had taken my concerto to anyone else, I decided to ask him to
hear the work and give me his opinion upon the solo parts. It was
on Christmas Eve, 1874. We were invited to Albrecht’s house, and,
before we went, Nicholas Rubinstein proposed I should meet him in
one of the class-rooms at the Conservatoire to go through the
concerto. I arrived with my manuscript, and Rubinstein and Hubert
soon appeared. The latter is a very worthy, clever man, but without
the least self-assertion. Moreover, he is exceedingly garrulous,
and needs a string of words to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ He is incapable
of giving his opinion in any decisive form, and generally lets
himself be pulled over to the strongest side. I must add, however,
that this is not from cowardice, but merely from lack of character.

“I played the first movement. Never a word, never a single remark.
Do you know the awkward and ridiculous sensation of putting before
a friend a meal which you have cooked yourself, which he eats--and
holds his tongue? Oh, for a single word, for friendly abuse, for
_anything_ to break the silence! For God’s sake say _something_!
But Rubinstein never opened his lips. He was preparing his
thunderbolt, and Hubert was waiting to see which way the wind would
blow. I did not require a judgment of my work from the artistic
side; simply from the technical point of view. Rubinstein’s silence
was eloquent. ‘My dear friend,’ he seemed to be saying to himself,
‘how can I speak of the details, when the work itself goes entirely
against the grain?” I gathered patience, and played the concerto
straight through to the end. Still silence.

“‘Well?’ I asked, and rose from the piano. Then a torrent broke
from Rubinstein’s lips. Gentle at first, gathering volume as it
proceeded, and finally bursting into the fury of a Jupiter-Tonans.
My concerto was worthless, absolutely unplayable; the passages so
broken, so disconnected, so unskilfully written, that they could
not even be improved; the work itself was bad, trivial, common;
here and there I had stolen from other people; only one or two
pages were worth anything; all the rest had better be destroyed, or
entirely rewritten. ‘For instance, _that_?’ ‘And what meaning is
there in _this_?’ Here the passages were caricatured on the piano.
‘And look there! Is it possible that anyone could?’ etc., etc.,
etc. But the chief thing I cannot reproduce: the _tone_ in which
all this was said. An independent witness of this scene must have
concluded I was a talentless maniac, a scribbler with no notion of
composing, who had ventured to lay his rubbish before a famous man.
Hubert was quite overcome by my silence, and was surprised, no
doubt, that a man who had already written so many works, and was
professor of composition at the Conservatoire, could listen calmly
and without contradiction to such a jobation, such as one would
hardly venture to address to a student before having gone through
his work very carefully. Then he began to comment upon Rubinstein’s
criticism, and to agree with it, although he made some attempt to
soften the harshness of his judgment. I was not only astounded, but
deeply mortified, by the whole scene. I require friendly counsel
and criticism; I shall always be glad of it, but there was no trace
of friendliness in the whole proceedings. It was a censure
delivered in such a form that it cut me to the quick. I left the
room without a word and went upstairs. I could not have spoken for
anger and agitation. Presently Rubinstein came to me and, seeing
how upset I was, called me into another room. There he repeated
that my concerto was impossible, pointed out many places where it
needed to be completely revised, and said if I would suit the
concerto to his requirements, he would bring it out at his concert.
‘I shall not alter a single note,’ I replied, ‘I shall publish the
work precisely as it stands.’ This intention I actually carried
out.”

Not only did Tchaikovsky publish the concerto in its original form, but he scratched out Rubinstein’s name from the dedication and replaced it by that of Hans von Bülow. Personally, Bülow was unknown to him, but he had heard from Klindworth that the famous pianist took a lively interest in his compositions, and had helped to make them known in Germany.

Bülow was flattered by the dedication, and, in a long and grateful letter, praised the concerto very highly--in direct opposition to Rubinstein--saying, that of all Tchaikovsky’s works with which he was acquainted this was “the most perfect.”

“The ideas,” he wrote, “are so lofty, strong, and original. The
details, which although profuse, in no way obscure the work as a
whole, are so interesting. The form is so perfect, mature, and full
of style--in the sense that the intention and craftsmanship are
everywhere concealed. I should grow weary if I attempted to
enumerate all the qualities of your work--qualities which compel me
to congratulate, not only the composer, but all those who will
enjoy the work in future, either actively or passively
(_réceptivement_).”

I have already mentioned that Tchaikovsky, in spite of a nature fundamentally noble and generous, was not altogether free from rancour. The episode of the pianoforte concerto proves this. It was long before he could forgive Rubinstein’s cruel criticism, and this influenced their friendly relations. It is evident from the style of his letter to Nadejda von Meck, from the lively narration of every episode and detail of the affair, that the wound still smarted as severely as when it had been inflicted three years earlier.

In 1878 Nicholas Rubinstein entirely healed the breach, and removed all grounds of ill-feeling when, with true nobility and simplicity, recognising the injustice he had done to the concerto in the first instance, he studied and played it, abroad and in Russia, with all the genius and artistic insight of which he was capable.

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“_March_ 9_th_ (21_st_).

“The jester Fate has willed that for the last ten years I should
live apart from all who are dear to me.... If you have any powers
of observation, you will have noticed that my friendship with
Rubinstein and the other gentlemen of the Conservatoire is simply
based on the circumstance of our being colleagues, and that none of
them give me the tenderness and affection of which I constantly
stand in need. Perhaps I am to blame for this; I am very slow in
forming new ties. However this may be, I suffer much for lack of
someone I care for during these periods of hypochondria. All this
winter I have been depressed to the verge of despair, and often
wished myself dead. Now the spring is here the melancholy has
vanished, but I know it will return in greater intensity with each
winter to come, and so I have made up mind to live away from Moscow
all next year. Where I shall go I cannot say, but I must have
entire change of scene and surroundings.... Probably you will have
read of Laub’s death in the papers.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_March_ 12_th_ (24_th_).

“I see that Kondratiev has been giving you an over-coloured account
of my hypochondriacal state. I have suffered all the winter, but my
physical health is not in the least impaired.... Probably I wrote
to Kondratiev in a fit of depression, and should find my account
very much exaggerated if I were to read the letter now. You seem
inclined to reproach me for being more frank with Kondratiev than
with you. That is because I love you and Anatol ten times more than
I love him; not that he does not like me, but only in so far as I
do not interfere with his comfort, which is the most precious thing
in the world to him. If I had confided my state to you, or Anatol,
you would have taken my troubles too much to heart; whereas
Kondratiev would certainly not let them cause him any anxiety. As
to what you say about my antipathy towards you, I pass it by as a
joke. Upon what do you found your supposition? It makes me angry to
see that you are not free from any of my own faults--that much is
certainly true. I wish I could find any of my idiosyncrasies
missing in you--but I cannot. You are too like me: when I am vexed
with you, I am vexed with myself, for you are my mirror, in which I
see reflected the true image of all my own weaknesses. From this
you can conclude that if you are antipathetic to me, this antipathy
proceeds fundamentally from myself. Ergo--you are a fool, which no
one ever doubted. Anatol wrote me a letter very like yours. Both
letters were like a healing ointment to my suffering spirit.... The
death of Laub has been a terrible grief to me....”

Following upon these letters, it becomes necessary to give some account of the mental and moral disorder which attacked Tchaikovsky during the course of this season, and gradually took firmer hold upon him, until in 1877 it reached a terrible crisis which nearly proved fatal to his existence.

The desire for liberty, the longing to cast off all the fetters which were a hindrance to his creative work, now began to assume the character of an undeclared, but chronic, disease, which only showed itself now and again in complaints against destiny, in poetical dreams of “a calm, quiet home,” of “a peaceful and happy existence.” Such aspirations came and went, according to the impressions and interests which filled his mind and imagination. If we read the letters of this period carefully, we cannot fail to observe how every fluctuation in his circumstances influenced his spiritual condition. We see it when he separated from Rubinstein and started a home of his own. His independence, his new friendships, once more reconciled him to existence, and his affection for Moscow--or at least for the life it afforded--then reached its climax. For a little while his longings for something better were stifled. But as early as 1872 his dissatisfaction and desire to escape from his surroundings make themselves felt; although only infrequently and lightly expressed.

In November 1873, we find him speaking frankly of his disenchantment with his Moscow friends, and complaining of his isolation and the lack of anyone who understood him. So far, these were only recurrent symptoms of a chronic malady.

We see that in the spring of 1874, when he was away from Moscow and from the friends of whom he had complained, he wished for their society again, wrote to them in affectionate terms, and, during the whole of his visit to Petersburg, as later on to Italy, he was always looking forward to his return to “dear Moscow, where alone I can be happy.”

By 1875 the chronic malady had made considerable progress. It did not return at intervals as heretofore, but had become a constant trouble. According to his own account, he was depressed all the winter, sometimes to the verge of despair. He felt he had reached a turning-point in his existence, similar to that in the sixties. But then the desired goal had been his musical career, whereas now, it was “to live as he pleased.”

Tchaikovsky now resembled those invalids who do not recognise the true cause of their sufferings, and therefore have recourse to the wrong treatment. He believed the reason for his state lay in the absence of intimate friends, and that his one chance of a cure was to be found among “those who were dear to him” and “who alone could save him from the torments of solitude” from which he suffered. I lay stress upon this error of Tchaikovsky’s, because, becoming more and more of a fixed idea, it finally led the composer to take an insane step which almost proved his undoing.

One symptom of Tchaikovsky’s condition was the morbid sensibility of his artistic temperament. Even before the episode of the B♭ minor concerto, he chanced one day to play part of _Vakoula the Smith_ before some of his friends.

“He was too nervous to do justice to the work,” says Kashkin, “and
rendered the music in a pointless and spiritless fashion, which
produced an unfavourable impression upon his little audience.
Tchaikovsky, observing the cool attitude of his hearers, played the
opera hurriedly through to the end and left the piano, annoyed by
our lack of appreciation.”

At any other time such criticism would have been a momentary annoyance, soon forgotten. But just then, following upon his keen disappointment in _The Oprichnik_ and the exaggerated hopes he had set upon _Vakoula_, he was much mortified at this reception of his “favourite child.” Not only was he annoyed, but he considered himself affronted by what seemed to him an unjust criticism. Hence the bitterness with which, at that period, he spoke of his Moscow friends. They, however, kept the same warmth of feeling for him, as was amply proved during the crisis of 1877.

With the coming of spring Tchaikovsky’s depression passed away, and he spent the Easter holidays very happily in the society of the twins, who came to visit him in Moscow.

On May 4th (16th) _The Oprichnik_ was performed for the first time in Moscow. But all the composer’s thoughts were now concentrated on his “favourite child, _Vakoula the Smith_.” “You cannot imagine,” he wrote to his brother Anatol, “how much I reckon upon this work. I think I might go mad if it failed to bring me luck. I do not want the prize--I despise it, although money is no bad thing--but I want my opera to be performed.”

Shortly before leaving Moscow for the summer, he was commissioned by the Imperial Opera to write a musical ballet entitled _The Swan Lake_. He did not immediately set to work upon this music, but went to Ussovo at the end of May, where he began his Third Symphony in D major. Late in June he visited his friend Kondratiev at Nizy, where he was exclusively occupied with the orchestration of this symphony until July 14th (26th), when he went to stay with his sister Madame Davidov at Verbovka. By August 1st the symphony was finished, and Tchaikovsky took up the ballet music, for which he was to receive a fee of 800 roubles (about £80). The first two acts were ready in a fortnight.

Verbovka, the Davidovs’ estate, was in the neighbourhood of Kamenka, and Tchaikovsky was so fond of this spot that it became his favourite holiday resort, and cast the charms of Ussovo entirely in the shade. The summer of 1875 was spent not only in the society of his sister and her family, but also in that of his father and his brother Anatol.

XII

1875-1876

_To N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov._

“MOSCOW, _September_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1875.

“MOST HONOURED NICHOLAI ANDREIEVICH,--Thanks for your kind letter.
You must know how I admire and bow down before your artistic
modesty and your great strength of character! These innumerable
counterpoints, these sixty fugues, and all the other musical
intricacies which you have accomplished--all these things, from a
man who had already produced a _Sadko_ eight years previously--are
the exploits of a hero. I want to proclaim them to all the world. I
am astounded, and do not know how to express all my respect for
your artistic temperament. How small, poor, self-satisfied and
naïve I feel in comparison with you! I am a mere _artisan_ in
composition, but you will be an _artist_, in the fullest sense of
the word. I hope you will not take these remarks as flattery. I am
really convinced that with your immense gifts--and the ideal
conscientiousness with which you approach your work--you will
produce music that must far surpass all which so far has been
composed in Russia.

“I await your ten fugues with keen impatience. As it will be almost
impossible for me to go to Petersburg for some time to come, I beg
you to rejoice my heart by sending them as soon as possible. I will
study them thoroughly and give you my opinion in detail.... The
Opera Direction has commissioned me to write music for the ballet
_The Swan Lake_. I accepted the work, partly because I want the
money, but also because I have long had a wish to try my hand at
this kind of music.

“I should very much like to know how the decision upon the merits
of the (opera) scores will go. I hope you may be a member of the
committee. The fear of being rejected--that is to say, not only
losing the prize, but with it all possibility of seeing my
_Vakoula_ performed--worries me very much.

“Opinions here as regards _Angelo_[41] are most contradictory. Two
years ago I heard Cui play the first act, which produced an
unsympathetic impression upon me, especially in comparison with
_Ratcliff_, of which I am extremely fond.”

Contrary to custom, Petersburg, not Moscow, enjoyed the first hearing of Tchaikovsky’s latest work. At the first Symphony Concert of the Musical Society, on December 1st, Professor Kross played the Pianoforte Concerto. Both composer and player were recalled, but at the same time the work was only a partial success with the public. The Press, with one exception, was unfavourably disposed towards it. Famitzin spoke of the Concerto as “brilliant and grateful, but difficult for virtuosi.” All the other critics, including Laroche, were dissatisfied. The latter praised the Introduction for its “clearness, triumphal solemnity, and splendour,” and thought the other movements did not display the melodic charm to be expected from the composer of _The Oprichnik_ and _Romeo and Juliet_. “The Concerto,” he continued, “was ungrateful for pianists, and would have no future.”

At the first Symphony Concert in Moscow, November 7th (19th), Tchaikovsky’s Third Symphony was produced for the first time with marked success.

_To N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov._

“MOSCOW, _November_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1875.

“MOST HONOURED NICHOLAI ANDREIEVICH,--To-day for the first time I
have a free moment in which to talk to you. Business first.

“1. It goes without saying that Rubinstein will be much obliged if
you will send him _Antar_.[42] We shall await the score
impatiently, and also the quartet, which interests me very much....

“2. Jurgenson will be glad if you will let him have the quartet.
Have I explained your conditions correctly? I told him you expected
a fee of fifty roubles, and the pianoforte arrangement was to be
made at his expense. I know a young lady here who arranged my
second quartet very well. So if your wife will not undertake to do
it herself, we might apply to her....

“I went direct from the station to the rehearsal of my symphony. It
seems to me the work does not contain any very happy ideas, but, as
regards form, it is a step in advance. I am best pleased with the
first movement, and also with the two Scherzi, the second of which
is very difficult, consequently not nearly so well played as it
might have been if we could have had more rehearsals. Our
rehearsals never last more than two hours; we have three, it is
true, but what can be done in two hours? On the whole, however, I
was satisfied with the performance....

“ ... A few days ago I had a letter from Bülow, enclosing a number
of American press notices of my Pianoforte Concerto. The Americans
think the first movement suffers from ‘the lack of a central idea
around which to assemble such a host of musical fantasies, which
make up the breezy and ethereal whole.’ The same critic discovered
in the finale ‘syncopation on the trills, spasmodic interruptions
of the subject, and thundering octave passages’! Think what
appetites these Americans have: after every performance Bülow was
obliged to repeat _the entire finale_! Such a thing could never
happen here.”

The first performance of the Concerto in Moscow took place on November 21st (December 3rd), 1875, when it was played by the young pianist Serge Taneiev, the favourite pupil of N. Rubinstein and Tchaikovsky. Taneiev had made his first appearance in public in January of the same year. On this occasion he played the ungrateful Concerto of Brahms, and won not only the sympathy of the public, but the admiration of connoisseurs. Tchaikovsky’s account of Taneiev’s _début_ is not quite free from affectionate partiality, but it is so characteristic that it deserves quotation:--

“The interest of the Seventh Symphony concert was enhanced by the
first appearance of the young pianist Serge Taneiev, who
brilliantly fulfilled all the hopes of his teachers on this
occasion. Besides purity and strength of touch, grace, and ease of
execution, Taneiev astonished everyone by his maturity of
intellect, his self-control, and the calm objective style of his
interpretation. While possessing all the qualities of his master,
Taneiev cannot be regarded as a mere copyist. He has his own
artistic individuality, which has won him a place among virtuosi
from the very outset of his career....”

Tchaikovsky was delighted with Taneiev’s rendering of his own Concerto, and wrote:--

“The chief feature of his playing lies in his power to grasp the
composer’s intention in all its most delicate and minute details,
and to realise them precisely as the author heard them himself.”

In November, 1875, Camille Saint-Saëns came to conduct and play some of his works in Moscow. The short, lively man, with his Jewish type of features, attracted Tchaikovsky and fascinated him not only by his wit and original ideas, but also by his masterly knowledge of his art. Tchaikovsky used to say that Saint-Saëns knew how to combine the grace and charm of the French school with the depth and earnestness of the great German masters. Tchaikovsky became very friendly with him, and hoped this friendship would prove very useful in the future. It had no results, however. Long afterwards they met again as comparative strangers, and always remained so.

During Saint-Saëns’ short visit to Moscow a very amusing episode took place. One day the friends discovered they had a great many likes and dislikes in common, not merely in the world of music, but in other respects. In their youth both had been enthusiastic admirers of the ballet, and had often tried to imitate the art of the dancers. This suggested the idea of dancing together, and they brought out a little ballet, _Pygmalion and Galatea_, on the stage of the Conservatoire. Saint-Saëns, aged forty, played the part of Galatea most conscientiously, while Tchaikovsky, aged thirty-five, appeared as Pygmalion. N. Rubinstein formed the orchestra. Unfortunately, besides the three performers, no spectators witnessed this singular entertainment.