Chapter IX: Part III: I (5)

The fate of _Vakoula the Smith_ was Tchaikovsky’s chief preoccupation at this time. The jury consisted of A. Kireiev, Asantchevsky, N. Rubinstein, Th. Tolstoi, Rimsky-Korsakov, Napravnik, Laroche, and K. Davidov.

Tchaikovsky’s score, so Laroche relates, was of course copied out in a strange autograph, “but the motto, which was identical with the writing in the parcel, was in Tchaikovsky’s own hand. ‘Ars longa, vita brevis’ ran the motto, and the characteristic features of the writing were well known to us all, so that from the beginning there was not the least room for doubt that Tchaikovsky was the composer of the score. But even if he had not had the _naïveté_ to write this inscription with his own hand, the style of the work would have proclaimed his authorship. As the Grand Duke remarked laughingly, during the sitting of the jury: ‘_Secret de la comédie_.’”

The result of the prize competition was very much talked of in Petersburg. Long before the decision of the jury was publicly announced, everyone knew that their approval of _Vakoula_ was unanimous.

In October Rimsky-Korsakov wrote to Tchaikovsky as follows:--

“I do not doubt for a moment that your opera will carry off the
prize. To my mind, the operas sent in bear witness to a very poor
state of things as regards music here.... Except your work, I do
not consider there is one fit to receive the prize, or to be
performed in public.”

Towards the end of October the individual views of the jury were collected in a general decision, and Tchaikovsky received a letter from the Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich, in his own handwriting, congratulating him as the prize-winner of the competition.

During October Modeste Tchaikovsky retired from the Government service in order to become private tutor to a deaf and dumb boy, Nicholas Konradi. The child’s parents decided to send young Tchaikovsky to Lyons for a year, to study a special system of education for deaf mutes.

The composer and his brother left Russia together towards the end of December. “Even the various difficulties and unpleasant occurrences of this trip could not damp our cheerful spirits,” says Modeste Tchaikovsky. My delight in the journey, and the interest I felt in everything I saw “abroad,” infected my brother. He enjoyed my pleasure, laughed at the innocence of his inexperienced travelling companion, and threw himself energetically into the part of guide to an impressionable tourist.

From Berlin we travelled to Geneva, where we spent ten days with my sister and her family (the Davidovs). Afterwards we went on to Paris. Here my brother experienced one of the strongest musical impressions of his life.

On March 3rd (15th), 1873, Bizet’s opera _Carmen_ was given for the first time. Vladimir Shilovsky, who was in Paris at the time, attended this performance. Captivated by the work, he sent the pianoforte score to his teacher in Moscow. My brother was never so completely carried away by any modern composition as by _Carmen_. Bizet’s death, three months after the production of the work, only served to strengthen his almost unwholesome passion for this opera.

During our visit to Paris _Carmen_ was being played at the Opera Comique. We went to hear it, and I never saw Peter Ilich so excited over any performance. This was not merely due to the music and the piquant orchestration of the score, which he now heard for the first time, but also to the admirable acting of Galli-Marié, who sang the title-rôle. She reproduced the type of Carmen with wonderful realism, and at the same time managed to combine with the display of unbridled passion an element of mystical fatalism which held us spell-bound.

Two days later we parted. My brother returned to Russia, while I remained in France.

On January 25th (February 6th) the Third Symphony was performed in Petersburg under Napravnik’s bâton. Cui criticised it in the following words:--

“The public remained cool during the performance of the work, and
applauded very moderately after each movement. At the end, however,
the composer was enthusiastically recalled. This symphony must be
taken seriously. The first three movements are the best; the only
charm of the fourth being its sonority, for the musical contents
are poor. The fifth movement, a polonaise, is the weakest. On the
whole the new symphony shows talent, but we have a right to expect
more from Tchaikovsky.”

Laroche said:--

“The importance and power of the music, the beauty and variety of
form, the nobility of style, originality and rare perfection of
technique, all contribute to make this symphony one of the most
remarkable musical works produced during the last ten years. Were
it to be played in any musical centre in Germany, it would raise
the name of the Russian musician to a level with those of the most
famous symphonic composers of the day.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“MOSCOW, _February_ 10_th_ (22_nd_).

“I am working might and main to finish a quartet[43] which--you may
remember--I started upon in Paris. Press opinions upon my
symphony--Laroche not excepted--are rather cold. They all consider
I have nothing new to say, and am beginning to repeat myself. Can
this really be the case? After finishing the quartet I will rest
for a time, and only complete my ballet. I shall not embark upon
anything new until I have decided upon an opera. I waver between
two subjects, _Ephraim_ and _Francesca_. I think the latter will
carry the day.”

_Ephraim_ was a libretto written by Constantine Shilovsky upon a love-tale of the court of Pharaoh, at the period of the Hebrew captivity.

_Francesca da Rimini_ was a ready-made libretto by Zvantsiev, which had been suggested to Tchaikovsky by Laroche. It was based upon the fifth canto of Dante’s _Inferno_.

Neither of these books satisfied the composer. After seeing _Carmen_ he only cared for a similar subject: a libretto dealing with real men and women who stood in closer touch with modern life; a drama which was at once simple and realistic.

The new Quartet No. 3 was played for the first time at a concert given by the violinist Grijimal, March 18th. Later on it was repeated at a chamber music evening of the Musical Society. On both occasions its success was decisive.

In May Tchaikovsky was out of health and was ordered by the doctors to take a course of waters at Vichy. He reached Lyons on June 27th (July 9th), where he met Modeste, and made the acquaintance of his brother’s pupil, to whom he became much attached.

His first impressions of Vichy were far from favourable, but the local physician persuaded him to remain at least long enough for a “demi-cure,” from which he derived great benefit. He then rejoined Modeste and young Konradi for a short time, and went to Bayreuth at the end of July, where a lodging had been secured for him by Karl Klindworth.

_To M. Tchaikovsky._

“BAYREUTH, _August_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).

“ ... I arrived here on July 31st (August 12th), the day before the
performance. Klindworth met me. I found a number of well-known
people here, and plunged straight-way into the vortex of the
festival, in which I whirl all day long like one possessed. I have
also made the acquaintance of Liszt, who received me most amiably.
I called on Wagner, who no longer sees anyone. Yesterday the
performance of the _Rheingold_ took place. From the scenic point of
view it interested me greatly, and I was also much impressed by the
truly marvellous staging of the work. Musically, it is
inconceivable nonsense, in which here and there occur beautiful,
and even captivating, moments. Among the people here who are known
to you are Rubinstein--with whom I am living--Laroche and Cui.

“Bayreuth is a tiny little town in which, at the present moment,
several thousand people are congregated.... I am not at all bored,
although I cannot say I enjoy my visit here, so that all my
thoughts and efforts are directed to getting away to Russia, _viâ_
Vienna, as soon as possible. I hope to accomplish this by
Thursday.”

In the articles Tchaikovsky sent to the _Russky Viedomosti_, he describes his visit to Bayreuth in detail:--

“I reached Bayreuth on August 12th (new style), the day before the
first performance of the first part of the Trilogy. The town was in
a state of great excitement. Crowds of people, natives and
strangers, gathered together literally from the ends of the earth,
were rushing to the railway-station to see the arrival of the
Emperor. I witnessed the spectacle from the window of a
neighbouring house. First some brilliant uniforms passed by, then
the musicians of the Wagner Theatre, in procession, with Hans
Richter, the conductor, at their head; next followed the
interesting figure of the ‘Abbé’ Liszt, with the fine,
characteristic head I have so often admired in pictures; and,
lastly, in a sumptuous carriage, the serene old man, Richard
Wagner, with his aquiline nose and the delicately ironical smile
which gives such a characteristic expression to the face of the
creator of this cosmopolitan and artistic festival. A rousing
‘Hurrah’ resounded from thousands of throats as the Emperor’s train
entered the station. The old Emperor stepped into the carriage
awaiting him, and drove to the palace. Wagner, who followed
immediately in his wake, was greeted by the crowds with as much
enthusiasm as the Emperor. What pride, what overflowing emotions
must have filled at this moment the heart of that little man who,
by his energetic will and great talent, has defied all obstacles to
the final realisation of his artistic ideals and audacious views!

“I made a little excursion through the streets of the town. They
swarmed with people of all nationalities, who looked very much
preoccupied, and as if in search of something. The reason of this
anxious search I discovered only too soon, as I myself had to share
it. All these restless people, wandering through the town, were
seeking to satisfy the pangs of hunger, which even the fulness of
artistic enjoyment could not entirely assuage. The little town
offers, it is true, sufficient shelter to strangers, but it is not
able to feed all its guests. So it happened that, even on the very
day of my arrival, I learnt what ‘the struggle for existence’ can
mean. There are very few hotels in Bayreuth, and the greater part
of the visitors find accommodation in private houses. The tables
d’hôte prepared in the inns are not sufficient to satisfy all the
hungry people; one can only obtain a piece of bread, or a glass of
beer, with immense difficulty, by dire struggle, or cunning
stratagem, or iron endurance. Even when a modest place at a table
has been stormed, it is necessary to wait an eternity before the
long-desired meal is served. Anarchy reigns at these meals;
everyone is calling and shrieking, and the exhausted waiters pay no
heed to the rightful claims of an individual. Only by the merest
chance does one get a taste of any of the dishes. In the
neighbourhood of the theatre is a restaurant which advertises a
good dinner at two o’clock. But to get inside it and lay hold of
anything in that throng of hungry creatures is a feat worthy of a
hero.

“I have dwelt upon this matter at some length with the design of
calling the attention of my readers to this prominent feature of
the Bayreuth Melomania. As a matter of fact, throughout the whole
duration of the festival, food forms the chief interest of the
public; the artistic representations take a secondary place.
Cutlets, baked potatoes, omelettes, are discussed much more eagerly
than Wagner’s music.

“I have already mentioned that the representatives of all
civilised nations were assembled in Bayreuth. In fact, even on the
day of my arrival, I perceived in the crowd many leaders of the
musical world in Europe and America. But the greatest of them, the
most famous, were conspicuous by their absence. Verdi, Gounod,
Thomas, Brahms, Anton Rubinstein, Raff, Joachim, Bülow had not come
to Bayreuth. Among the noted Russian musicians present were:
Nicholas Rubinstein, Cui, Laroche, Famitsin, Klindworth (who, as is
well known, has made the pianoforte arrangement of the Wagner
Trilogy), Frau Walzeck, the most famous professor of singing in
Moscow, and others.

“The performance of the _Rheingold_ took place on August 1st
(13th), at 7 p.m. It lasted without a break two hours and a half.
The other three parts, _Walküre_, _Siegfried_, and
_Götterdämmerung_, will be given with an hour’s interval, and will
last from 4 p.m. to 10 p.m. In consequence of the indisposition of
the singer Betz, _Siegfried_ was postponed from Tuesday to
Wednesday, so that the first cycle lasted fully five days. At three
o’clock we take our way to the theatre, which stands on a little
hill rather distant from the town. That is the most trying part of
the day, even for those who have managed to fortify themselves with
a good meal. The road lies uphill, with absolutely no shade, so
that one is exposed to the scorching rays of the sun. While waiting
for the performance to begin, the motley troop encamps on the grass
near the theatre. Some sit over a glass of beer in the restaurant.
Here acquaintances are made and renewed. From all sides one hears
complaints of hunger and thirst, mingled with comments on present
or past performances. At four o’clock, to the minute, the fanfare
sounds, and the crowd streams into the theatre. Five minutes later
all the seats are occupied. The fanfare sounds again, the buzz of
conversation is stilled, the lights turned down, and darkness
reigns in the auditorium. From depths--invisible to the
audience--in which the orchestra is sunk float the strains of the
beautiful overture; the curtain parts to either side, and the
performance begins. Each act lasts an hour and a half; then comes
an interval, but a very disagreeable one, for the sun is still far
from setting, and it is difficult to find any place in the shade.
The second interval, on the contrary, is the most beautiful part of
the day. The sun is already near the horizon; in the air one feels
the coolness of evening, the wooded hills around and the charming
little town in the distance are lovely. Towards ten o’clock the
performance comes to an end....”

_To M. Tchaikovsky._

“VIENNA, _August_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1876.

“Bayreuth has left me with disagreeable recollections, although my
artistic ambition was flattered more than once. It appears I am by
no means as unknown in Western Europe as I believed. The
disagreeable recollections are raised by the uninterrupted bustle
in which I was obliged to take part. It finally came to an end on
Thursday. After the last notes of the _Götterdämmerung_, I felt as
though I had been let out of prison. The _Nibelungen_ may be
actually a magnificent work, but it is certain that there never was
anything so endlessly and wearisomely spun out.

“From Bayreuth I went first to Nuremberg, where I spent a whole day
and wrote the notice for the _Russky Viedomosti_. Nuremberg is
charming! I arrived in Vienna to-day and leave to-morrow for
Verbovka.”

Laroche contributes the following account of Tchaikovsky’s visit to the Bayreuth festival:--

“The effort of listening and gazing during the immensely long acts
of the Wagner Trilogy (especially of _Rheingold_ and the first part
of _Götterdämmerung_, which both last without interval for two
hours), the sitting in a close, dark amphitheatre in tropical heat,
the sincere endeavour to understand the language and style of the
book of the words--which is so clumsy and difficult in its
composition that even to Germans themselves it is almost
inaccessible--all produced in Tchaikovsky a feeling of great
depression, from which he only recovered when it came to an end and
he found himself at a comfortable supper with a glass of beer....”

Such was the impression produced upon Tchaikovsky by the _Nibelungen_. He himself recorded the following observations upon Wagner’s colossal work:--

“I brought away the impression that the Trilogy contains many
passages of extraordinary beauty, especially symphonic beauty,
which is remarkable, as Wagner has certainly no intention of
writing an opera in the style of a symphony. I feel a respectful
admiration for the immense talents of the composer and his wealth
of technique, such as has never been heard before. And yet I have
grave doubts as to the truth of Wagner’s principles of opera. I
will, however, continue the study of this music--the most
complicated which has hitherto been composed.

“Yet if the ‘Ring’ bores one in places, if much in it is at first
incomprehensible and vague, if Wagner’s harmonies are at times open
to objection, as being too complicated and artificial, and his
theories are false, even if the results of his immense work should
eventually fall into oblivion, and the Bayreuth Theatre drop into
an eternal slumber, yet the _Nibelungen Ring_ is an event of the
greatest importance to the world, an epoch-making work of art.”

Morally and physically exhausted, pondering uninterruptedly on his own future, and imbued with the firm conviction that “things could not go on as they were,” Tchaikovsky returned from foreign countries, travelling through Vienna to Verbovka.

There a hearty welcome from his relations awaited him, and all the idyllic enjoyments of the country. The happy family life of the Davidovs was the best thing to calm and comfort Tchaikovsky, but, at the same time, it strengthened a certain intention in which his morbid imagination discerned the one means of “salvation,” but which actually became the starting-point of still greater troubles and worries. On August 19th (31st) he wrote to me from Verbovka:--

“I have now to pass through a critical moment in my life. By-and-by
I will write to you about it more fully; meanwhile I must just
tell you that I _have decided to get married_. This is
irrevocable....”

XIII

1876-1877

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“MOSCOW, _September_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1876.

“ ... Nearly two months have passed since we parted from each
other, but they seem to me centuries. During this time I have
thought much about you, and also about myself and my future. My
reflections have resulted in the firm determination to marry some
one or other.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“MOSCOW, _September_ 17_th_ (29_th_).

“Time passes uneventfully. In this colourless existence, however,
lies a certain charm. I can hardly express in words how sweet is
this feeling of quiet. What comfort--I might almost say
happiness--it is to return to my pleasant rooms and sit down with a
book in my hand! At this moment I hate, probably not less than you
do, that beautiful, unknown being who will force me to change my
way of living. Do not be afraid, I shall not hurry in this matter;
you may be sure I will approach it with great caution, and only
after much deliberation.”

_To A. Tchaikovsky._

“_September_ 20_th_ (_October_ 2_nd_).

“Toly, I long for you again. I am worried with the thought that
while you were staying in Moscow I did not treat you kindly enough.
If such a thought should come to you too, know (you know it
already) that my lack of tenderness by no means implies a lack of
love and attachment. I was only vexed with myself, and vexed
assuredly, because I deceived you when I said I had arrived at an
important turning-point in my existence. That is not true; I have
not arrived at it, but I think of it and wait for _something_ to
spur me on to action. In the meantime, however, the quiet evening
hours in my dear little home, the rest and solitude--I must confess
to this--have great charms for me. I shudder when I think I must
give it all up. And yet it will come to pass....”

_To Rimsky-Korsakov._

“MOSCOW, _September_ 29_th_ (_October_ 11_th_), 1876.

“DEAR FRIEND,--As soon as I had read your letter I went to
Jurgenson and asked him about the quartet. I must tell you
something which clearly explains Jurgenson’s delay. When you sent
the parts of your quartet to Rubinstein last year, it was played
through by our Quartet Society, Jurgenson being present. Now your
quartet by no means pleased these gentlemen, and they expressed
some surprise that Jurgenson should dream of publishing a work
which appeared destined to fall into oblivion. This may have cooled
the ardour of our publisher. In the approaching series of Chamber
Concerts the quartet will probably be performed, and I fancy the
members of the Society will retract their opinion when they get to
know your work better. I am convinced of this, because I know how
your quartet improves on acquaintance. The first movement is simply
delicious, and ideal as to form. It might serve as a pattern of
purity of style. The andante is a little dry, but just on that
account very characteristic--as reminiscent of the days of powder
and patches. The scherzo is very lively, piquant, and must sound
well. As to the finale, I freely confess that it in no wise pleases
me, although I acknowledge that it may do so when I hear it, and
then I may find the obtrusive rhythm of the chief theme less
frightfully unbearable. I consider you are at present in a
transition period; in a state of fermentation; and no one knows
what you are capable of doing. With your talents and your
_character_ you may achieve immense results. As I have said, the
first movement is a pattern of virginal purity of style. It has
something of Mozart’s beauty and unaffectedness.

“You ask whether I have really written a third quartet. Yes, it is
so. I produced it last winter, after my return from abroad. It
contains an “Andante funèbre,” which has had so great a success
that the quartet was played three times in public in the course of
a fortnight.”

_To A. Davidov._

“_October_ 6_th_ (18_th_).

“ ... Do not worry yourself about my marriage, my angel. The event
is not yet imminent, and will certainly not come off before next
year. In the course of next month I shall begin to look around and
prepare myself a little for matrimony, which for various reasons I
consider necessary.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_October_ 14_th_ (26_th_).

“I have only just finished the composition of a new work, the
symphonic fantasia, _Francesca da Rimini_. I have worked at it _con
amore_, and believe my love has been successful. With regard to the
_Whirlwind_, perhaps it might correspond better to Doré’s picture;
it has not turned out quite what I wanted. However, an accurate
estimate of the work is impossible, so long as it is neither
orchestrated nor played.”

_To E. Napravnik._

“_October_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

“I have just read in a Petersburg paper that you intend to give the
dances from my opera _Vakoula_ at one of the forthcoming symphony
concerts. Would it be possible to perform my new symphonic poem,
_Francesca da Rimini_, instead? I am actually working at the
orchestration of this work, and could have the score ready in two
or three weeks. It would never have occurred to me to trouble you
with my new work, had I not seen that my name was already included
in your programmes. As you have been so kind as to grant me a
little room at your concerts, I hope you will agree to my present
proposal. I must frankly confess that I am somewhat troubled about
the fate of my opera. So far, I have not even heard whether the
choral rehearsals have begun. Perhaps you will be so kind as to
send me word about the performance of _Vakoula_.”

_To A. Davidov._

“_November_ 8_th_ (20_th_).

“Probably you were not quite well, my little dove,[44] when you
wrote to me, for a note of real melancholy pervaded your letter. I
recognised in it a nature closely akin to my own. I know the
feeling only too well. In my life, too, there are days, hours,
weeks, aye, and months, in which everything looks black, when I am
tormented by the thought that I am forsaken, that no one cares for
me. Indeed, my life is of little worth to anyone. Were I to vanish
from the face of the earth to-day, it would be no great loss to
Russian music, and would certainly cause no one great unhappiness.
In short, I live a selfish bachelor’s life. I work for myself
alone, and care only for myself. This is certainly very
comfortable, although dull, narrow, and lifeless. But that _you_,
who are indispensable to so many whose happiness you make, that
_you_ can give way to depression, is more than I can believe. How
can you doubt for a moment the love and esteem of those who
surround you? How could it be possible not to love you? No, there
is no one in the world more dearly loved than you are. As for me,
it would be absurd to speak of my love for you. If I care for
anyone, it is for you, for your family, for my brothers and our old
Dad. I love you all, not because you are my relations, but because
you are the best people in the world....”

At the end of October Tchaikovsky came to Petersburg to be present at the first performance of his _Vakoula the Smith_. This time the composer had not been disenchanted by his work; on the contrary, every rehearsal gave him more and more pleasure, and the hope of success increased. The appreciation shown him by the singers engaged in the work; the enthusiastic verdict of the connoisseurs who had become acquainted with the pianoforte arrangement, and of those who were able to attend the rehearsals; finally, the lavish expenditure with which the Direction was mounting the piece--everything encouraged Tchaikovsky to feel assured of great success.

Since the first production of _The Oprichnik_ the popularity of Tchaikovsky’s name had considerably increased. Not only musicians, and those who attended the symphony concerts, but also the public--in the widest sense of the word--expected something quite out of the common. Long before November 24th (December 6th), the day fixed for the first performance of _Vakoula_, the tickets were already sold out.

The production had been very carefully prepared; the principals endeavoured to do their best. The overture was well received, as also the first scene. Then the enthusiasm of the audience cooled, and the succeeding numbers--with the exception of the “Gopak”[45]--obtained but scant applause. The opera failed to please; people had come to be amused, expecting something brilliant, humorous, and lively, in the style of _The Barber of Seville_, or _Domino Noir_, consequently they were disappointed. Nevertheless, the composer was recalled several times, although not without some opposition on the part of a small, but energetic, party.

Tchaikovsky himself, in a letter to Taneiev, writes as follows:--

“_Vakoula_ was a brilliant failure. The first two acts left the
audience cold. During the scene between the Golova and the Dyak
there was some laughter, but no applause. After the third and
fourth acts I had several calls, but also a few hisses from a
section of the public. The second performance was somewhat better,
but one cannot say that the opera pleased, or is likely to live
through six performances.

“It is worth notice that at the dress rehearsal even Cui prophesied
a brilliant success for the work. This made the blow all the harder
and more bitter to bear. I must freely confess that I am much
discouraged. I have nothing to complain of with regard to the
mounting of the work. Everything, to the smallest details, had been
well studied and prepared ... in short, I alone am in fault. The
opera is too full of unnecessary incidents and details, too heavily
orchestrated, and not sufficiently vocal. Now I understand your
cool attitude when I played it over to you at Rubinstein’s. The
style of _Vakoula_ is not good opera style--it lacks movement and
breadth.”

The opinions of the Press on the new work were very similar. No one “praised it to the skies,” but no one damned it. All expressed more or less esteem for the composer, but none were quite contented with his work.

_To S. I. Taneiev._

“MOSCOW, _December_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1876.

“ ... I have just heard that my _Romeo_ was hissed in Vienna. Do
not say anything about it, or Pasdeloup may take fright; I hear he
thinks of doing it.

“Yes, indeed, dear friend, there are trying times in life!

“_Francesca_ has long been finished, and will now be copied out.”

Hans Richter, who conducted the Vienna performance of _Romeo_, declared that the comparative failure of the work did not amount to a fiasco. Certainly at the concert itself a few hisses were heard, and Hanslick wrote an abusive criticism of it in the _Neue Freie Presse_, but at the same time much interest, even enthusiasm, was shown for the new Russian work.

Hardly had Tchaikovsky swallowed the bitter Viennese pill, than he received equally disagreeable news from Taneiev in Paris.

_Taneiev to Tchaikovsky._

“PARIS, _November_ 28_th_ (_December_ 10_th_), 1876.

“I have just come from Pasdeloup’s concert, where your _Romeo_
overture was shamefully bungled. The tempi were all too fast, so
that one could scarcely distinguish the three notes one from the other. The second subject was played
by the wind as if they had only to support the harmony, and did not
realise they had the subject.

“The following was especially bad:--

not a single crescendo, not a single diminuendo. At the repetition
of the accessory theme in D major

the bassoons played their fifth in the bass so energetically that
they drowned the other parts. There were no absolutely false notes,
but the piece produced a poor effect. Pasdeloup obviously
understood nothing about it, and does not know how such a piece
should be played. No wonder the Overture did not please the public
and was but coolly received. It was as painful to me as if I had
been taking part in the concert myself. Pasdeloup alone, however,
was to blame, not the public. The Overture is by no means
incomprehensible; it only needs to be well interpreted.

“I played your concerto to Saint-Saëns; everyone was much pleased
with it. All musicians here are greatly interested in your
compositions.”

_To S. Taneiev._

“MOSCOW, _December_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1876.

“DEAR SERGIUS,--I have just received your letter. Good luck and bad
always come together; it is proverbial, and I am not surprised to
hear of the non-success of my _Francesca_, as just now all my
compositions are failures. But your letter suggested an idea to me.
Last year Saint-Saëns advised me to give a concert of my own
compositions in Paris. He said such a concert would be best given
with Colonne’s orchestra at the Châtelet, and would not cost very
much.”

_S. Taneiev to Tchaikovsky._

“PARIS, _December_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1876.

“Saint-Saëns advises you more strongly than ever to give a concert,
in order to produce your _Romeo and Juliet_.... ‘_Cela l’a posé,
cette overture_,’ was his remark. You must give your concert in the
Salle Herz, with Colonne’s orchestra. All expenses, including two
rehearsals, will come to 1,500 francs. Two rehearsals will not be
sufficient; we should need at least three. Even then, 2,000 francs
would be the maximum expenditure. The orchestra are paid five
francs for each rehearsal, and ten for the concert. The most
favourable time would be February or March.”

_To S. Taneiev._

“MOSCOW, _January_ 29_th_ (_February_ 10_th_), 1877.

“DEAR SERGIUS,--My concert will not come off. In spite of gigantic
efforts on my part, I cannot raise the necessary funds.

“I am in despair.

“I can write no more to-day. Forgive me for the trouble I have
given you over my unlucky plans. Thank you for your letter.”

In spite of the bitterness left by the comparative failure of _Vakoula_, and the many other blows which his artistic ambitions had to suffer, Tchaikovsky, after his return to Moscow, did not lose his self-confidence, nor let his energy flag for a moment. On the contrary, although grieved at the fate of his “favourite offspring, _Vakoula_,” and at his unlucky _début_ as a composer in Vienna and Paris, although suffering from a form of dyspepsia, he was not only interested in the propaganda of his works abroad, but composed his _Variations on a Rococo Theme_ for violoncello, and corresponded with Stassov about an operatic libretto. The choice of the subject--_Othello_--emanated from Tchaikovsky himself. When Stassov tried to persuade him that this subject was not suitable to his temperament, he refused to listen to arguments, and would only consider this particular play. About the middle of September Stassov sent him the rough sketch which he began to study zealously. But it went no further. On January 30th Stassov wrote to him: “Do as you will, but I have not finished _Othello_ yet. Hang me if you please--but it is not my fault.” Tchaikovsky himself had also begun to feel less eager, for he remarks in a letter to Stassov that he is not to trouble about a new subject.

At this time the composer was in such good health, and so active-minded, that he gave up his original intention of spending Christmas at Kamenka, and stayed on in Moscow.

In December Tchaikovsky wrote to his sister, A. Davidov:--

“A short time ago Count Leo Tolstoi was here. He called upon me,
and I am proud to have awakened his interest. On my part, I am full
of enthusiasm for his ideal personality.”

For a long time past--since the first appearance of Tolstoi’s works--Tchaikovsky had been one of his most ardent admirers, and this admiration had gradually become a veritable cult for the name of Tolstoi. It was characteristic of the composer that everything he cared for, but did not actually know face to face, assumed abnormal proportions in his imagination. The author of _Peace and War_ seemed to him, in his own words, “not so much an ordinary mortal as a demi-god.” At that time the personality and private life--even the portrait--of Tolstoi were almost unknown to the great public, and this was a further reason why Tchaikovsky pictured him as a sage and a magician. And lo, this Olympian being, this unfathomable man, descended from his cloud-capped heights and held out his hand to Tchaikovsky.

Ten years later we find in Tchaikovsky’s “diary” the following record of this meeting:--

“When first I met Tolstoi I was possessed by terror and felt uneasy
in his presence. It seemed that this great searcher of human hearts
must be able to read at a glance the inmost secrets of my own. I
was convinced that not the smallest evil or weakness could escape
his eye; therefore it would avail nothing to show him only my best
side. If he be generous (and that is a matter of course), I
reflected, he will probe the diseased area as kindly and delicately
as a surgeon who knows the tender spots and avoids irritating them.
If he is not so compassionate, he will lay his finger on the wound
without more ado. In either case the prospect alarmed me. In
reality nothing of the sort took place. The great analyst of human
nature proved in his intercourse with his fellow-men to be a
simple, sincere, whole-hearted being, who made no display of that
omniscience I so dreaded. Evidently he did not regard me as a
subject for dissection, but simply wanted to chat about music, in
which at that time he was greatly interested. Among other things,
he seemed to enjoy depreciating Beethoven, and even directly
denying his genius. This is an unworthy trait in a great man. The
desire to lower a genius to the level of one’s own
_misunderstanding_ of him is generally a characteristic of
narrow-minded people.”

Tolstoi not only wished to talk about music in general, but also to express his interest in Tchaikovsky’s own compositions. The latter was so much flattered that he asked Nicholas Rubinstein to arrange a musical evening at the Conservatoire in honour of the great writer. On this occasion the programme included the Andante from Tchaikovsky’s string quartet in D major, during the performance of which Tolstoi burst into tears.

“Never in the whole course of my life,” wrote the composer in his
diary, “did I feel so flattered, never so proud of my creative
power, as when Leo Tolstoi, sitting by my side, listened to my
Andante while the tears streamed down his face.”

Shortly after this memorable evening Tolstoi left Moscow, and wrote the following letter to Tchaikovsky from his country estate Yasnaya Polyana:--

“DEAR PETER ILICH,--I am sending you the songs, having looked them
through once more. In your hands they will become wonderful gems;
but, for God’s sake, treat them in the Mozarto-Haydn style, and not
after the Beethoven-Schumann-Berlioz school, which strives only for
the sensational. How much more I had to tell you! But there was no
time, because I was simply enjoying myself. My visit to Moscow will
always remain a most pleasant memory. I have never received a more
precious reward for all my literary labours than on that last
evening. How charming is (Nicholas) Rubinstein! Thank him for me
once more. Aye, and all the other priests of the highest of all
arts, who made so pure and profound an impression upon me! I can
never forget all that was done for my benefit in that round hall.
To which of them shall I send my works? That is to say, who does
not possess them?

“I have not looked at your things yet. As soon as I have done so, I
shall write you my opinion--whether you want it or not--because I
admire your talent. Good-bye, with a friendly hand-shake.

“Yours,
“L. TOLSTOI.”

To this Tchaikovsky replied:--

“MOSCOW, _December_ 24_th_, 1876 (_January_ 5_th_, 1877).

“HONOURED COUNT,--Accept my sincere thanks for the songs. I must
tell you frankly that they have been taken down by an unskilful
hand and, in consequence, nearly all their original beauty is lost.
The chief mistake is that they have been forced artificially into a
regular rhythm. Only the Russian choral-dances have a regularly
accentuated measure; the legends (Bylini) have nothing in common
with the dances. Besides, most of these songs have been written
down in the lively key of D major, and this is quite out of keeping
with the tonality of the genuine Russian folksongs, which are
always in some indefinite key, such as can only be compared with
the old Church modes. Therefore the songs you have sent are
unsuitable for systematic treatment. I could not use them for an
album of folksongs, because for this purpose the tunes must be
taken down exactly as the people sing them. This is a difficult
task, demanding the most delicate musical perception, as well as a
great knowledge of musical history. With the exception of
Balakirev--and to a certain extent Prokounin--I do not know anyone
who really understands this work. But your songs can be used as
symphonic material--and excellent material too--of which I shall
certainly avail myself at some future time. I am glad you keep a
pleasant recollection of your evening at the Conservatoire. Our
quartet played as they have never done before. From which you must
infer that one pair of ears, if they belong to such a great artist
as yourself, has more incentive power with musicians than a hundred
ordinary pairs. You are one of those authors of whom it may be said
that their personality is as much beloved as their works. It was
evident that, well as they generally play, our artists exerted
themselves to the utmost for one they honoured so greatly. What I
feel I must express: I cannot tell you how proud and happy it made
me that my music could so touch you and carry you away.

“Except Fitzenhagen, who cannot read Russian, your books are known
to all the other members of the quartet. But I am sure they would
be grateful if you gave them each one volume of your works. For
myself, I am going to ask you to give me _The Cossacks_; if not
immediately, then later on, when next you come to Moscow--an event
to which I look forward with impatience. If you send your portrait
to Rubinstein, do not forget me.”

With this letter personal intercourse between Tchaikovsky and Count Tolstoi came to an end. It is remarkable that this was not against the composer’s wishes, even if he did nothing actually to cause the rupture. The attentive reader will not fail to have gathered from the last words quoted from his diary that his acquaintance with Tolstoi had been something of a disappointment. It vexed him that “the lord of his intellect” should care to talk of “commonplace subjects unworthy of a great man.” It hurt him to see all the little faults and failings of this divinity brought out by closer proximity. He feared to lose faith in him, and consequently to spoil his enjoyment of his works. This delight was at one time somewhat disturbed by his hyper-sensitiveness. In a letter to his brother, Tchaikovsky criticises _Anna Karenina_, which had then just begun to make its appearance in the _Russky Vestnik_.

“After your departure,” he writes, “I read _Anna Karenina_ once
more. Are you not ashamed to extol this revolting and commonplace
stuff, which aspires to be psychologically profound? The devil take
your psychological truth when it leaves nothing but an endless
waste behind it.”

Afterwards, having read the whole novel, Tchaikovsky repented his judgment, and acknowledged it to be one of Tolstoi’s finest creations.

In the presence of Tolstoi, Tchaikovsky felt ill at ease, in spite of the writer’s kind and simple attitude towards his fellow-men. From a fear of wounding or displeasing him in any way, and also in consequence of his efforts not to betray his admiration and delight, the musician never quite knew how to behave to Tolstoi, and was always conscious of being somewhat unnatural--of playing a part. This consciousness was intolerable to Tchaikovsky, consequently he avoided future intercourse with the great man.

Greatly as Tchaikovsky admired Tolstoi the writer, he was never in sympathy with Tolstoi the philosopher. In his diary for 1886, writing of _What I Believe_, he says:--

“When we read the autobiographies or memoirs of great men, we
frequently find that their thoughts and impressions--and more
especially their artistic sentiments--are such as we ourselves have
experienced and can therefore fully understand. There is only one
who is incomprehensible, who stands alone and aloof in his
greatness--Leo Tolstoi. Yet often I feel angry with him: I almost
hate him. Why, I ask myself, should this man, who more than all his
predecessors has power to depict the human soul with such wonderful
harmony, who can fathom our poor intellect and follow the most
secret and tortuous windings of our moral nature--why must he needs
appear as a preacher, and set up to be our teacher and guardian?
Hitherto he has succeeded in making a profound impression by the
recital of simple, everyday events. We might read between the lines
his noble love of mankind, his compassion for our helplessness, our
mortality and pettiness. How often have I wept over his words
without knowing why!... Perhaps because for a moment I was brought
into contact--through his medium--with the Ideal, with absolute
happiness, and with humanity. Now he appears as a commentator of
texts, who claims a monopoly in the solution of all questions of
faith and ethics. But through all his recent writings blows a
chilling wind. We feel a tremor of fear at the consciousness that
he, too, is a mere man; a creature as much puffed up as ourselves
about ‘The End and Aim of Life,’ ‘The Destiny of Man,’ ‘God,’ and
‘Religion’; and as madly presumptuous, as ineffectual as some
ephemera born on a summer’s day to perish at eventide. Once
Tolstoi was a Demigod. Now he is only a Priest.... Tolstoi says
that formerly, knowing nothing, he was mad enough to aspire to
teach men out of his ignorance. He regrets this. Yet here he is
beginning to teach us again. Then we must conclude he is no longer
ignorant. Whence this self-confidence? Is it not foolish
presumption? The true sage knows only that he knows nothing.”

It is said that in nature peace often precedes a violent storm. This is twice observable in the life of Tchaikovsky. Let us look back to the period of his Government service, to the strenuous industry and zeal he displayed in his official duties in 1862--just before he took up the musical profession. Never was he more contented with his lot, or calmer in mind, than a few months before he entered the Conservatoire. It was the same at the present juncture. Shortly before that rash act, which cut him off for ever from Moscow, which changed all his habits and social relations, and was destined to be the beginning of a new life; just at the moment, in fact, when we might look for some dissatisfaction with fate as a reason for this desperate resolve, Tchaikovsky was by no means out of spirits. On the contrary, in January and February 1877, he gave the impression of a man whose mind was at rest, who had no desires, and displayed more purpose and cheerfulness than before. This mood is very evident in a playful letter dated January 2nd (14th), 1877:--

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“HONOURED MR. MODESTE ILICH,--I do not know if you still remember
me. I am your brother and a professor at the Moscow Conservatoire.
I have also composed a few things: operas, symphonies, overtures,
etc. Once upon a time you honoured me by your personal
acquaintance. Last year we were abroad together and spent a time
which I shall never forget. You used frequently to write me long
and interesting letters. Now all this seems like a beautiful
dream....

“Just before the holidays, my dear brotherkin, I made the
acquaintance of Count Tolstoi. This pleased me very much. I have
also received a kind and precious letter from his Grace. When he
heard the ‘Andante’ from my first quartet he shed tears of emotion.
I am very proud of this, my dear brotherkin, and you really should
not forget me, my dear brotherkin, because I have now become a
great swell. Farewell, my brotherkin.

“Your brother,
“PETER.”

On February 20th (March 4th) the first performance of Tchaikovsky’s ballet, _The Swan Lake_, took place. The composer was not to be blamed for the very moderate success of this work. The scenery and costumes were poor, while the orchestra was conducted by a semi-amateur, who had never before been confronted with so complicated a score.

_To his sister, A. Davidov._

“_February_ 22_nd_ (_March_ 6_th_).

“I have lately found courage to appear as a conductor. I was very
unskilful and nervous, but still I managed to conduct, with
considerable success, my ‘Russo-Serbian March’ in the Opera House.
Henceforward I shall take every opportunity of conducting, for if
my plan of a concert tour abroad comes off, I shall have to be my
own conductor.”

On February 25th (March 9th) the symphonic fantasia _Francesca da Rimini_ was performed for the first time at the tenth symphony concert in Moscow. It had a splendid reception, and was twice repeated during the month of March. In his notice of the concert Kashkin praises not only the music itself, but its inspired interpretation by Nicholas Rubinstein.

In the course of this season Tchaikovsky began his Fourth Symphony. Probably the real reason why he lost his interest in the libretto of _Othello_ is to be found in his entire devotion to this work.

In March and April he began to suffer again from mental depression. This is evident from many of his letters written at this time.

_To I. A. Klimenko._

“_May_ 8_th_ (20_th_).

“I am very much changed--especially mentally--since we last met.
There is no trace of gaiety and love of fun left in me. Life is
terribly empty, wearisome and trivial. I am seriously considering
matrimony as a lasting tie. The one thing that remains unaltered is
my love of composing. If things were only different, if I were not
condemned to run against obstacles at every step--my work at the
Conservatoire, for instance, which restricts me more each year--I
might accomplish something of value. But alas, I am chained to the
Conservatoire!”

In the early spring of 1877 Modeste Tchaikovsky sent his brother a libretto based upon Nodier’s novel, _Ines de Las-Sierras_. The musician was not attracted by it; he had already another plan in view. In May he wrote to his brother:--

“Recently I was at Madame Lavrovsky’s.[46] The conversation fell
upon opera libretti. X. talked a lot of rubbish, and made the most
appalling suggestions. Madame Lavrovsky said nothing and only
laughed. Suddenly, however, she remarked: ‘What about _Eugene
Oniegin_?’ The idea struck me as curious, and I made no reply.
Afterwards, while dining alone at a restaurant, her words came back
to me, and, on consideration, the idea did not seem at all
ridiculous. I soon made up my mind, and set off at once in search
of Poushkin’s works. I had some trouble in finding them. I was
enchanted when I read the work. I spent a sleepless night; the
result--a sketch of a delicious opera based upon Poushkin’s text.
The next day I went to Shilovsky, who is now working post-haste at
my sketch.

“You have no notion how crazy I am upon this subject. How
delightful to avoid the commonplace Pharaohs, Ethiopian princesses,
poisoned cups, and all the rest of these dolls’ tales! _Eugene
Oniegin_ is full of poetry. I am not blind to its defects. I know
well enough the work gives little scope for treatment, and will be
deficient in stage effects; but the wealth of poetry, the human
quality and simplicity of the subject, joined to Poushkin’s
inspired verses, will compensate for what it lacks in other
respects.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“_May_ 27_th_ (_June_ 8_th_).

“ ... The plan of my symphony is complete. I shall begin upon the
orchestration at the end of the summer.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“GLIEBOVO, _June_ 6_th_ (18_th_).

“At first I was annoyed by your criticism of Oniegin, but it did
not last long. Let it lack scenic effect, let it be wanting in
action! I am in love with the image of Tatiana, I am under the
spell of Poushkin’s verse, and I am drawn to compose the music as
it were by some irresistible attraction. I am lost in the
composition of the opera.”