II.

“I travelled from Petersburg with Madame Tchaikovsky and her son Nicholas. The journey took three weeks, during which time we became so friendly that we were quite intimate on our arrival. All the same, I felt very shy. Had it only depended upon Madame Tchaikovsky and her boy, all had been well; but there was still the prospect of meeting strangers and facing new conditions of life. The nearer we drew to the journey’s end, the more restless and anxious I became. On our arrival, a single moment sufficed to dispel all my fears. A number of people came out to meet us, and in the general greeting and embracing it was difficult to distinguish relatives from servants. All fraternised in the sincerity of their joy. The head of the family kissed me without ceremony, as though I had been his daughter. It seemed less like a first arrival than a return home. The next morning I began my work without any misgivings for the future.”

Peter Ilich was four and a half years old when Fanny came to be governess to Nicholas and his cousin Lydia, and on the first day his mother had to yield to his tearful entreaties to share the lessons of the elder children. Henceforward he always learnt with them, and resented being excused any task on the grounds of his youth. He was wonderfully quick in overtaking his fellow-pupils, and at six could read French and German fluently. He learnt Russian with a tutor.

From the beginning, Fanny was especially attracted by her youngest pupil; not only because he was more gifted and conscientious than the others, nor because he was more docile than Nicholas, but because in all the child’s ways there was something original and uncommon, which exercised an indefinable charm on everyone who came in contact with him.

In looks he did not compare favourably with Nicholas, and was never so clean and tidy. His clothes were always in disorder. Either he had stained them in his absent-mindedness, or buttons were missing, or his hair was only half-brushed, so that by the side of his spruce and impeccable brother he did not show to advantage at first sight. But when the charm of his mind, and still more of his heart, had time to work, it was impossible not to prefer him to the other children. This sympathetic charm, this gift of winning all hearts, Tchaikovsky retained to the last day of his life.

To my inquiry in what way the boy’s charm showed itself most, our old governess replied:—

“In no one particular thing, but rather in all his ways and actions. At lessons no child was more industrious orquicker to understand; in playtime none was so full of fun. When we read together none listened so attentively as he did, and when on holidays I gathered my pupils around me in the twilight and let them tell tales in turn, no one could improvise so well as Peter Ilich. I shall never forget these precious hours of my life. In daily intercourse we all loved him, because we felt he loved us in return. His sensibility was extreme, therefore I had to be very careful how I treated him. A trifle wounded him deeply. He was brittle as porcelain. With him there could be no question of punishment; the least criticism or reproof, that would pass lightly over other children, would upset him alarmingly.”

The weak and unhappy always found in him a staunch protector. Once he heard with indignation that someone was intending to drown a cat. When he discovered the monster who was planning this crime, he pleaded so eloquently that pussy’s life was saved.

Another proof of his compassion for the suffering was his extraordinary sympathy for Louis XVII. Even as a grown man his interest in the unhappy prince survived. In 1868 he bought a picture representing him in the Temple, and had it framed. This picture, and the portrait of Anton Rubinstein, remained for a long while the only adornments of his walls.

The boy was also influenced by that enthusiastic patriotism—not without a touch of Chauvinism—which characterised the reign of Nicholas I. From this early period dates that exclusive affection for everything Russian which lasted his whole lifetime. Sometimes his love for his country was shown in a very droll way. Fanny used to relate the following story:—

THE HOUSE IN WHICH TCHAIKOVSKY WAS BORN, AT VOTINSKTHE HOUSE IN WHICH TCHAIKOVSKY WAS BORN, AT VOTINSK

“Once, during the recreation hour, he was turning over the pages of his atlas. Coming to the map of Europe, he smothered Russia with kisses and spat on all the rest of the world. When I told him he ought to be ashamed of such behaviour, that it was wicked to hate his fellow-men whosaid the same ‘Our Father’ as himself, only because they were not Russians, and reminded him that he was spitting upon his own Fanny, who was a Frenchwoman, he replied at once: ‘There is no need to scold me; didn’t you see me cover France with my hand first?’”

Continuing her reminiscences, Fanny said:—

“As our leisure hours were few, I insisted on devoting them to physical exercise; but often I met with some opposition from Pierre, who would go straight from his lessons to the piano. Otherwise he was obedient, and generally enjoyed romping with his sisters. Left to himself, he preferred to play the piano, or to read and write poetry.”

In the autumn of 1846 his half-sister Zinaïda left the Catharine Institute, in St. Petersburg, and, her education being finished, returned to live at home. With the arrival of this pretty and lively school-girl the house became even merrier and brighter than before. To the boy’s imagination, the new-comer seemed a visitant from a fairy world.

In February, 1848, Ilia Tchaikovsky retired with the rank of major-general. He was anxious to get an appointment as manager of private mines, and with this object in view left Votinsk, with all his family, for a long visit to Moscow. As it was intended on their arrival to send Lydia and the elder boys to school, Fanny now took leave of her friends for good. Not until forty-four years had elapsed did she renew her acquaintance with the family in the person of Peter Ilich.

Besides Fanny’s reminiscences, which form so valuable an addition to the biography of Tchaikovsky, she also preserved the books in which her favourite pupil set down his thoughts in leisure hours; more often than not in the form of verse. The old lady could not be persuaded to let these relics leave her keeping, but she willingly made extracts from them.

These manuscript books naturally contain nothing of real artistic or literary value, but they are not the less interesting on that account. They show the origin and give the explanation of Tchaikovsky’s artistic tendency, and are not merely interesting from a biographical point of view, but as documents in which we may study the evolution of genius. These childish verses prove a precocious desire for expression, before the right medium had been discovered. Here the future musician is knocking at the wrong door.

There are two copy-books and a few loose pages. The handwriting, although not beautiful, is well formed and firm. The pages show traces of carelessness. They would have been very differently written, had they been intended for other eyes than his own. We find here a miscellany of verses, extracts, rough copies of letters, attempts to draw houses, odd words and phrases, all jotted down without any connection.

The first book opens with a translation from a French reading-primer,L’éducation maternelle. It bears the date 1847, with a French signature, and is followed by several poems, of which two are in Russian and the rest in French. They may be divided into three groups: the poems relating to God; those which have a patriotic tendency; and those which display his sympathy for the weak and suffering and his love of animals.

The first poem, dated 1847, is called:

L’ENFANT PARLE À SON ANGE GARDIENTezailes dorées ont volé chez moi(?)Tavoim’aparlerO! que j’étais heureuseQuanttuvenaitchez moiTes ailesson blancetpuraussiViens encore unefoixPour parler de Dieu puissant!

L’ENFANT PARLE À SON ANGE GARDIEN

Tezailes dorées ont volé chez moi(?)Tavoim’aparlerO! que j’étais heureuseQuanttuvenaitchez moiTes ailesson blancetpuraussiViens encore unefoixPour parler de Dieu puissant!

Later on come some notes headed: “La force, l’activité.” “Il avait dans sa vie la force et l’activité!”

When we recollect the ebullient activity of Peter Ilich’s musical career, and his unflagging energy, we cannot help giving to these fortuitous entries, if not a predictive significance, at least that of a conscious homage to the qualities he most admired.

His patriotic ardour found vent in four poems, dated 1847, of which the following is a specimen:

Terre!apresenttuestloin de moiJe ne tevoiplus, o patrie cherie!Je t’embrasse. O! paysadoréeToi, oh RussieaiméVien! vien! auprede moiToi, place où je suis néJe te salut! oh, terre cherieLongtemps quand je suis néJe n’avais ni memoire, ni raisonNi de dons pour parlerOh, je ne savais pas que ma Patrie est Russie!

He also attempted an historical essay in verse on Joan of Arc, whom he had learnt to know from Masson’sLes Enfants célèbres. It is entitled:

THE HEROINE OF FRANCEOn t’aime, on ne t’oublie pasHeroïne si belle!Tu as sauvé la FranceFille d’un berger!Mais qui fait ces actions si belles!Barbare anglais vous ont tuée,Toute la France vous admireTes cheveux blonds jusqu’à tes genouxIls sont très beauTu étais si célèbreQue l’ange Michel t’apparut.Les célèbres on pense à euxLes mechants on les oublie!

THE HEROINE OF FRANCE

On t’aime, on ne t’oublie pasHeroïne si belle!Tu as sauvé la FranceFille d’un berger!Mais qui fait ces actions si belles!

Barbare anglais vous ont tuée,Toute la France vous admireTes cheveux blonds jusqu’à tes genouxIls sont très beauTu étais si célèbreQue l’ange Michel t’apparut.Les célèbres on pense à euxLes mechants on les oublie!

After 1848 there are no more poetical effusions, perhaps because Fanny was no longer there to preserve such documents; but more probably because the boy had just begun to discover in music a new medium for the expression of his sentiments.

At Votinsk there were no musicians, with the exception of a few indifferent amateur pianists. The mother sang a little, but only played the piano for her children to dance to; at least, from the time of her marriage, we never hear of a more seriousrépertoire. No other member of the household could do even as much. Unfortunately Fanny was not at all musical, so that the place of music master to the future composer fell to the lot of an inanimate object—an orchestrion which his father brought home with him after a visit to St. Petersburg.

This orchestrion was a superior one, with a varied programme. Peter Ilich himself considered that he owed his first musical impressions to this instrument, which he was never tired of hearing. A composition by Mozart had a particular fascination for him, and his passionate worship of this master dates from this period of childhood, when Zerlina’s “Aria,” or any melody fromDon Juan, played by the orchestrion, awoke in him “a beatific rapture.” Thanks to this instrument, he first became acquainted with the music of Bellini and Donizetti, so that even the love of Italian opera, which he cherished all his life, may be said to have originated in the same way.

Very early in life he displayed a remarkable ear and quick musical perception. No sooner had he acquired some rudimentary knowledge from his mother, than he could repeat upon the piano all he heard on the orchestrion. He found such delight in playing that it was frequently necessary to drag him by force from the instrument. Afterwards, as the next best substitute, hewould take to drumming tunes upon the window-panes. One day, while thus engaged, he was so entirely carried away by this dumb show that he broke the glass and cut his hand severely. This accident led his parents to reflect upon the child’s incurable tendency and consider the question of his musical education. They decided to engage as pianoforte teacher a young lady called Marie Markovna Palchikov. This was about a year after Fanny’s arrival. Where this teacher came from, and how far she understood her business, we cannot say. We only know she came on purpose to teach Peter Ilich, who kept a pleasant recollection of her. But she cannot entirely have satisfied the requirements of the future composer, because already in 1848 he could read at sight as easily as she did. Nor can her knowledge of musical literature have been extensive, for her pupil could not remember a single item in her repertory.

We know from Fanny’s own testimony that the boy spent every spare moment at the piano, and that she did her utmost to prevent it. A musician’s life did not offer to her mind a radiant prospect. She took more pleasure in her pupil’s literary efforts, and called him in fun “the juvenile Poushkin.” She also observed that music had a great effect upon his nervous system. After his music lesson, or after having improvised for any length of time, he was invariably overwrought and excited. One evening the Tchaikovskys gave a musical party at which the children were allowed to be present. At first Peter Ilich was very happy, but before the end of the evening he grew so tired that he went to bed before the others. When Fanny visited his room she found him wide awake, sitting up in bed with bright, feverish eyes, and crying to himself. Asked what was the matter, he replied, although there was no music going on at the time: “Oh, this music, this music! Save me from it! It is here, here,” pointing to his head, “and will not give me any peace.”

Occasionally a Polish officer visited Votinsk. He was an excellent amateur and played Chopin’s “Mazurkas” particularly well. His coming was a red-letter day for Peter Ilich. Once he learnt two mazurkas all by himself, and played them so charmingly that the officer kissed him when he had done. “I never saw Pierre so radiantly happy as that day,” says Fanny.

This is all I have been able to glean with regard to Peter Ilich’s musical development at this period of his life.

The Tchaikovsky family arrived in Moscow early in October, 1848. Here they were predestined to misfortune and disappointment. The father had confided to one of his friends at Votinsk that he had received the offer of a fine appointment. On arriving in Moscow, he discovered that the treacherous friend had betrayed his confidence and made use of the information to secure the tempting berth for himself. Added to this, an epidemic of cholera had just broken out in the town, and the children’s maid nearly fell a victim to the disease. The uncertainty of their position, the absence of their father—who, on hearing of the trick which had been played him, hastened to Petersburg—the grim spectre of the cholera, all combined to make their sojourn in Moscow anything but a happy one. These things cut deep into the sensitive disposition of Peter Ilich. Just at this moment he stood in the greatest need of loving and careful supervision, and yet at no time did he suffer more from neglect, for his mother was too preoccupied, and too anxious about the future of the family, to spare time and consideration for the moods of its individual members. The children were left to her stepdaughter, herself still half a child, and devoid of all experience.Zinaïda was the only one who did not make a pet of Peter, and it seems more than probable that the young poet found her anything but a just and patient teacher. Under these circumstances his recollections of the happy past became more and more idealised, and his retrospective yearnings more intense.

THE TCHAIKOVSKY FAMILY IN 1848 PETER ILICH TCHAIKOVSKY. ALEXANDRA ANDREIEVNA (THE MOTHER). ZINAIDA ILYINICHA. NICHOLAS ILICH. HYPPOLITE ILICH. ILIA PETROVICH (THE FATHER). 7. ALEXANDRA ILYINICHA. (CENTRE) (From an old Daguerrotype)THE TCHAIKOVSKY FAMILY IN 1848PETER ILICH TCHAIKOVSKY. ALEXANDRA ANDREIEVNA (THE MOTHER). ZINAIDA ILYINICHA. NICHOLAS ILICH. HYPPOLITE ILICH. ILIA PETROVICH (THE FATHER).7. ALEXANDRA ILYINICHA. (CENTRE)(From an old Daguerrotype)

Early in November the family removed to Petersburg and took up their abode on the Vassily Ostrov, near the Exchange.

Here their first impressions were more favourable than in Moscow. The modern capital was the mother’s native place, and almost like home to the father. Both had many friends and relatives residing there. No unexpected disagreeables awaited them in St. Petersburg, and they settled down once again to a peaceful home life.

But now the real trials of life began for Peter Ilich. Immediately after their arrival, he and his brother Nicholas were sent to a boarding-school. From Fanny’s tender care they passed straight into the hands of an unsympathetic teacher, and found themselves among a host of boys, who received the new-comers with the customary greeting of whacks and thumps. The work, too, was very hard. They left home at eight in the morning and did not return till five in the afternoon. The home preparation was so severe that sometimes the boys sat over their books till midnight. Besides all this, Peter had regular music lessons with the pianist Philipov. Judging from the rapid progress he made in a short time, this teacher must have been thoroughly competent. Such hard work was very fatiguing, especially as the boys were drinking in new æsthetic impressions at the same time. The Tchaikovskys frequently took the children to the opera and theatre.

If the singing and playing of mediocre amateurs had excited the future composer to such an extent that their music haunted him for hours; if a mechanical organ could completely enchant him—how infinitely more intense musthave been the first impression made by a full orchestra! What an agitation, and at the same time what an unhealthy stimulus to his over-sensibility!

This nervous tension began to be apparent, not only in his pallor and emaciation, but in frequent ailments that kept him from school. There was also a moral reaction, and the boy became capricious, irritable, and unlike his former self.

In December both brothers had measles; but while in Nicholas the ailment ran its usual course, Peter’s nervous irritability was much increased by the illness, and the doctors believed he was suffering from some spinal trouble. All work was forbidden, and the invalid rested until June, 1849. After a time, quiet and freedom from lessons improved the boy’s physical health, but his moral character did not entirely regain its former cheerful serenity. The wound was healed, but the scar remained.

Early in 1849 Ilia Tchaikovsky was appointed manager of works on the Yakovliev property at Alapaiev and Nijny-Neviansk.

Having left his eldest son at a boarding-school, to be prepared for the School of Mining Engineers, he quitted Petersburg with the rest of his family, and settled in the little town of Alapaiev.

The position was not so brilliant as the one he had held under the Government, but the house was roomy and comfortable, and the Tchaikovskys soon made themselves at home and endeavoured to revive the patriarchal style in which they had lived at Votinsk.

The change from St. Petersburg, while it proved beneficial to Peter’s health, did not cure his indolence, capriciousness, and irritability. On the contrary, they seemed to increase, because his present surroundings suggested comparisons with his ideal life at Votinsk, which were unfavourable to Alapaiev. He was lonely,for he missed Nicholas; although at the same time he was jealous of the continual congratulations over each letter which came from Petersburg, announcing his brother’s progress and success. The family were delighted, and compared him with Peter, whose studies did not progress rapidly under such an indifferent teacher as Zinaïda. “Pierre is not himself,” wrote his mother at this time. “He has grown idle, learns nothing, and often makes me cry with vexation.”

Even Peter himself confesses his indolence in a letter dated July 7th (19th):—

“Ma chère M-elle Fanny,—Je vous prie beaucoup de me pardonner que je ne vous ai ecrit si longtemps. Mais comme vous savez que je ne ment pas, c’estma paressequi en est cause, mais ce n’est pasl’oublie, parceque je Vous aime toujours comme je vous aimez avant. Nicholas apprend très bien.”[4]

Receiving no reply to this, he wrote again at the end of June. At last an answer came, in which, apparently, Fanny scolded her old pupil, for one of his cousins wrote at this time: “When your letter came, Aunty read it aloud, and Peterkin cried bitterly. He loves you so.”

A real improvement in the boy’s character dated from the arrival of a new governess, Nastasia Petrov. His mother was soon able to report to Fanny that “Pierre is behaving better and learns willingly with his new teacher.”

On May 1st (13th), 1850, twin boys were added to the Tchaikovsky family—Anatol and Modeste. Peter Ilich informed Fanny of the event in the following letter:—

“[Alapaiev,May2nd(14th), 1850.]“Chère et Bonne Melle Fanny,—C’est avec une grande joie que j’ai appris la nouvelle que vous avez unélèvesibanet si diligent. Je veux aussi Vous apprendre, ma chère Fanny, une nouvelle qui peutêtre Vous rejouira un peu; c’est la naissance de mes frères qui sont jumeaux (la nuit du premier Mai). Je les ai déjà vus plusieurs fois, mais chaque fois que je les vois je crois que ce sont des Anges qui ont descendu sur la terre.”[5]

“[Alapaiev,May2nd(14th), 1850.]

“Chère et Bonne Melle Fanny,—C’est avec une grande joie que j’ai appris la nouvelle que vous avez unélèvesibanet si diligent. Je veux aussi Vous apprendre, ma chère Fanny, une nouvelle qui peutêtre Vous rejouira un peu; c’est la naissance de mes frères qui sont jumeaux (la nuit du premier Mai). Je les ai déjà vus plusieurs fois, mais chaque fois que je les vois je crois que ce sont des Anges qui ont descendu sur la terre.”[5]

Meanwhile he had made great progress in music. No doubt he had profited greatly by Philipov’s instruction, as well as by the other musical impressions he had received in Petersburg. Now, he not only played the pieces he was learning, but would often improvise, “just for myself alone when I feel sad,” as he says in one of his letters. His musical idiom was growing richer, and music had become to him what poetry had been at Votinsk. Henceforth we hear no more about verses. He had found the right medium of expression for all that was in his soul. About this time he began to compose, although his attempts were merely improvisations. Musical sounds, according to his own account, followed him everywhere, whatever he was doing. His parents did nothing, however, to further his musical education, partly because they were afraid of a return of his nervous disorder, and partly because they had no intention of making their son a professional musician. No one at Alapaiev took any interest in his musical talent, and he kept his thoughts to himself; either from pride, or because as yet he had no great confidence in his own gifts. The fact that his character was changing may also have had something to do with his reserve. He felt he possessed something that none of his associates could share, and, inwardly conscious of his power, he was mortified that it should pass unobserved, and that no one should be interested in his artistic aspirations.

When he went to St. Petersburg for the second time, he was no longer a child. His natural qualities were unchanged, but experience had somewhat hardened him. He was better fitted for the battle of life, but his susceptibilities and his enthusiasms were a trifle blunted.

His young life had already a past, for he had learnt to suffer. Nor did the future appear any more in a rainbow glory, since he realised that it would bring renunciation as well as joy. But he carried a treasure in his heart, a light hidden from all eyes but his own, which was to bring him comfort and courage in the hour of trial.

Early in August, 1850, Madame Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg, accompanied by her daughter, her stepdaughter, and Peter Ilich.

The parents had originally intended to place both their sons at the School of Mining Engineers. Their reason for altering this plan and sending Peter to the School of Jurisprudence has not transpired. Probably it was highly recommended to them by an old friend of Ilia Tchaikovsky’s, M. A. Vakar, who had already the charge of Nicholas. This gentleman’s brother, Plato Vakar, who was to play an important part in the life of Peter Ilich, was a lawyer, a fine man with a brilliant career in prospect. It is not at all improbable that the Tchaikovskys resolved to send their son to the school of which he was such an admirable example.

Peter Ilich was too young to pass straight into the School of Jurisprudence. It was necessary that for two years he should attend the preparatory classes. At first, all his Sundays and half-holidays were spent with his mother, whoalso visited him on every opportunity; so that in the beginning he did not feel the transition from home to school life so severely. But his mother could not remain in Petersburg after the middle of October, and then came one of the most terrible memories of Peter’s life—the day of her departure.

When the actual moment of parting came, he completely lost his self-control and, clinging wildly to his mother, refused to let her go. Neither kisses, nor words of comfort, nor the promise to return soon, were of any avail. He saw nothing, heard nothing, but hung upon her as though he was part and parcel of the beloved presence. It became necessary to carry off the poor child by force, and hold him fast until his mother had driven away. Even then he broke loose, and with a cry of despair, ran after the carriage, and clung to one of the wheels, as though he would bring the vehicle to a standstill.

ALEXANDRA ANDREIEVNA TCHAIKOVSKY, THE COMPOSER’S MOTHER, IN 1848ALEXANDRA ANDREIEVNA TCHAIKOVSKY, THE COMPOSER’S MOTHER, IN 1848

To his life’s end Tchaikovsky could never recall this hour without a shiver of horror. This first great trouble of his life was only partly obliterated by a still greater grief—the death of his mother. Although in after life he passed through many sad experiences, and knew disappointment and renunciation, he could never forget the sense of resentment and despair which possessed him as the carriage containing his beloved mother passed out of sight. The shadow of this parting darkened the first year of his school life. Home-sickness and yearning effaced all other impressions, and destroyed all his earlier tendencies, desires, and thoughts. For two whole years it is evident from his letters that he lived only in the hope of seeing his parents again. He knew no other preoccupations or distractions.

Hardly had the boy’s mother left St. Petersburg, when an epidemic of scarlet fever broke out in the school. The Vakars hastened to take Peter into their own house, butunhappily the boy, although he escaped illness himself, carried the infection with him. The eldest son, the pride of the home, developed the complaint and died of it. Not a word of reproach was breathed to Peter Ilich, the unhappy cause of the disaster; but the boy could not rid himself of the sense that the parents must regard him with secret bitterness. It is not surprising that just at this time life seemed to him cold and cheerless, and that he longed more than ever for his own people.

The Vakars left Petersburg in April, 1851, and a new home was found for the two brothers in the family of M. Weiss. This change does not appear to have had much effect on Peter Ilich. The tone of his letters remains as homesick as before. But in the following May, Plato Vakar and his wife took the boys into their own house, where they remained until their parents returned to settle in St. Petersburg. In these surroundings Peter’s spirits brightened perceptibly.

In September his father came alone and spent three weeks with his boys. His departure was not so tragic an event as had been the mother’s a year earlier. Peter was now older, and had learnt to do without his parents. Henceforth his letters are calmer; his entreaties to his mother to come occur less frequently, and are sometimes put in a playful manner.

In May, 1852, the Tchaikovsky family returned to St. Petersburg. His modest savings and the pension he drew from the Government enabled Ilia Tchaikovsky to retire from work and live reunited with his children.

This period of the composer’s life offers few interesting events. The monotony of his schooldays was only broken by his Sundayexeatwhich was spent at home.

In 1854 his half-sister, Zinaïda, was married; and in the course of the same year a tragic event took place, which cast a gloom over the family for long days to come. Twoyears later, in 1856, Peter Ilich refers to this loss in a letter to Fanny:—

“First I must give you some very sad news. A terrible grief befell us more than two years since. Four months after Zinaïda’s marriage my mother was taken ill with cholera. Thanks to the care of her doctor, she rallied, but not for long. Three days later she was taken from us without even time to bid us good-bye.”

This occurred in July, 1854, and the troubles of the bereaved family did not end here. On the day of his wife’s funeral Ilia Tchaikovsky was also seized with cholera; but although for several days he was in great danger, his life was eventually spared to his family. In his bereaved condition he now found it impossible to keep house. Consequently the younger children were sent to various schools and institutions, while he himself made a home in the household of his brother, Peter Petrovich Tchaikovsky, who was then residing in Petersburg.

The period between 1852 and 1854 had a twofold influence upon Tchaikovsky’s character. The tears he had shed, the suffering he had experienced during the two years spent away from home, had reformed his nature, and brought back, in all his old candour and charm, the boy we knew at Votinsk. The irritability, idleness, insincerity, and dissatisfaction with his surroundings had now given place to his old frankness of character, which had formerly fascinated all who came in contact with him.

On the other hand, the former freedom in which his mind and soul developed was now greatly restricted by his way of life, which, although wholesome in some respects, was a direct hindrance to his artistic development. His musical progress, which had made such strides between 1848 and 1849, now came to a standstill that lasted ten years.

Of the thirty-nine letters written during his first twoyears of school-life, only two have any reference to music. Once he speaks of having played a polka for his comrades, and adds that he had been practising a piece learnt three years previously. Another time he writes to his parents that some day he will relate them the story ofDer Freischütz, and recalls having heardA Life for the Tsaron his first visit to Petersburg.

It would, however, be incorrect to conclude from this that he lived without musical impressions. He had strong predilections, and, as he himself says, Weber’s inspired creation, together withA Life for the Tsarand certain airs fromDon Giovanni—learnt by means of the orchestrion at Votinsk—occupied the highest niches in the temple of his gods. But he had no one to share his musical enthusiasms. At that period there was not a single amateur among his acquaintances. Everyone with whom he came in contact regarded music merely as a pastime, without serious significance in life. Meeting with little sympathy from his relatives or teachers, and even less from his schoolmates, he kept his secret aspirations to himself. He showed a certain reticence in all that concerned his music. When asked to play, he did so unwillingly, and hurried to get the performance over. But when he sat down to the piano, believing himself to be alone, he seemed quite absorbed in his improvisations.

The only person with whom he could discuss his musical taste was his aunt, Mme. E. A. Alexeiev. Her knowledge of instrumental music was limited, but she could advance her nephew’s acquaintance with vocal—especially operatic—music. Thanks to her, he learnt to know the whole ofDon Giovanni, and was never tired of reading the pianoforte score.

“The music ofDon Juan,” he wrote in 1878, “was the first to make a deep impression upon me. It awoke a spiritual ecstasy which was afterwards to bear fruit. By its help I penetrated into that world of artistic beauty whereonly great genius abides. It is due to Mozart that I devoted my life to music. He gave the first impulse to my efforts, and made me love it above all else in the world.”

But although Tchaikovsky shrank from sharing his deeper musical emotions with anyone, he was quite willing to take part with those who regarded music as a mere recreation. He sang bravura airs with a facility of vocalisation anyprima donnamight have envied. Once he learnt, with his aunt, the exceedingly florid duet inSemiramide, and sang the soprano part admirably. He was very proud of his wonderful natural shake.

About this time one of his most characteristic peculiarities first showed itself: his docility and compliance to the opinions of others on all questions save those concerned with music. Here he would brook no interference. In spite of any attempts to influence his judgment in this respect, he adhered to his own views and followed only his own inward promptings. In all other matters he was malleable as wax.

Tchaikovsky’s school life had little or no effect upon his subsequent career. The period between 1852-1859 reveals to us not so much the evolution of an artist, as that of an amiable, but mediocre, official, of whom scarcely a trace was to be found some five years later.

The biographical material of this period is necessarily very scanty, being limited to the somewhat hazy reminiscences of his relatives and school friends. Naturally enough it did not occur to anyone to take notes of the comings and goings of a very ordinary young man.

Among the masters and pupils at the School of Jurisprudence no one seems to have exercised any lasting influence, moral or intellectual, upon Tchaikovsky.

He was studious and capable. Many of his studies interested him, but neither he, nor any of his schoolmates, could recall one particular subject in which he had won distinction. On the other hand, mathematics alone seem to have offered any serious difficulty to him.

The scholars of the School of Jurisprudence were drawn chiefly from the upper middle classes, consequently Tchaikovsky found himself from the first among his social equals. His final year was not especially brilliant, but, besides the composer himself, it included the poet Apukhtin and the famous lawyer Gerard.

According to the latter’s account, the scholars of that year aimed high. All took a keen interest in literature. Even the lower forms possessed a school magazine, to which Apukhtin, Maslov, Aertel, Gerard, and Tchaikovsky were contributors. A “History of the Literature of our Form,” very smartly written, emanated—so Maslov says—from Tchaikovsky’s pen.

Among the composer’s schoolfellows Vladimir Stepanovich Adamov takes the first place. Although they spent but a few months in the same class, the mutual attraction was so strong that they remained intimate friends until death severed the connection. Adamov was a typical scholar of the hard-working kind, yet at the same time he had æsthetic aspirations and tastes. He was a passionate lover of nature and very fond of music, although he never became more than an indifferent amateur singer. The friends often went together to the Italian Opera. Adamov left the school with a gold medal and rose rapidly to a high place in the Ministry of Justice. His premature death in 1877 was a severe blow to Tchaikovsky, for Adamov was one of the few intimate friends to whom he cared to confide his artistic aspirations.

Apukhtin, who came to school in 1853, at thirteen, was ayouthful prodigy. His poetical gifts were already the admiration not only of his comrades, but of the outer world. He possessed the same personal charm as Tchaikovsky, but was far more sophisticated and self-conscious. The universal admiration to which he was accustomed, the interest of such writers as Tourgeniev and Fet, tended to encourage his vanity. The path to fame lay clearly before him.

Apukhtin’s tendencies were decidedly sceptical. He was the exact opposite of Tchaikovsky. Their temperaments were radically different. But both loved poetry, and shared that delicate “flair” for all that is choice—that mysterious “something” which draws artists together, no matter when or where they chance to meet. The contrast in all other respects only served to open new horizons to both and draw the bonds of friendship closer.

As a friend and schoolmate, Tchaikovsky displayed the same qualities which distinguished him as a child at Votinsk. Now, as subsequently in the Ministry of Justice, at the Conservatoires of Petersburg and Moscow, throughout Europe and across the Atlantic, we watch him drawing all hearts towards himself, while the circle of his friendships was constantly widening.

By the time he passed out of the preparatory classes, his ideal faith in the order of things was shaken. He no longer worked with a kind of religious fervour for work’s sake. Henceforward he did just what was necessary to avoid punishment and to enable him to qualify for an official post, without any real interest in the work. As to music, neither he, nor any of his circle, had any confidence in an artistic career. He scarcely realised in what direction he was drifting; yet with the change from youth to manhood came also the desire to taste the pleasures and excitements of life. The future appeared to him as an endless festival, and as nothing had come, so far, to mar his happiness, he gave himself up to this delightful illusion.

TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1859TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1859

With an impulsive temperament, he took life easily: a good-natured, careless young man, unencumbered by serious aspirations or intentions.

In 1855, in consequence of the mother’s death, the family life of the Tchaikovskys underwent great changes.

Ilia Tchaikovsky was a good father, but he did not understand the education of the younger children. Realising this fact—and partly because he found his loneliness unbearable—he now resolved to share the home of his brother, Peter Petrovich Tchaikovsky.

Peter Petrovich was a white-haired man of seventy, every inch a soldier, who had seen many campaigns, and bore many honourable scars. He was exceedingly religious, and up to the time of his marriage had led a life devoted to prayer, fasting, and warfare. He might have belonged to some mediæval order of knighthood. Stern towards himself, he demanded blind obedience from his wife and children; when he found that they did not respond to his influence, he shut himself apart in grim disapproval and wrote endless tracts on mystical subjects.

Madame Peter Tchaikovsky, although a little in awe of her husband, permitted her children to enjoy all the amusements natural to their age—balls, concerts, and other worldly dissipations. The young people of both families led a merry, careless existence until the spring of 1858, when Ilia Tchaikovsky, thanks to his over-confidence in humanity, suddenly lost his entire fortune and was obliged in his declining days to seek a new appointment. Fortunately this was forthcoming and, as the Director of the Technological Institute, he found himself once more in comfortable circumstances. A married sister-in-law Elizabeth Schobert, and her family, now joined the Tchaikovsky household, established in the official residence that went with the new appointment.

On May 13th (25th), 1859, Peter Ilich left the School of Jurisprudence and entered the Ministry of Justice as a first-class clerk. This event, which would have meant so much to any other young man, signified little to Tchaikovsky. He did not take his new work seriously, although he had no presentiment of his future destiny. How little his official occupations really interested him is evident from the fact that a few months after he had changed his vocation he could not remember the nature of his work in the Ministry of Justice. He only recollected one of his colleagues, because of “something rather unusual that seemed to flash from his eyes.” Twenty-five years later Tchaikovsky met this man again in the person of the celebrated landscape painter Volkov.

One “traditional” anecdote, and the brief history of Peter Ilich as an official is complete. He had been entrusted with a signed document from the chief of his department, but on his way to deliver it he stopped to talk with someone, and in his absence of mind never noticed that, while talking, he kept tearing off scraps of the paper and chewing them—a trick he always had with theatre tickets or programmes. There was nothing for it but to re-copy the document and, however unpleasant, to face his chief for a fresh signature.

Tchaikovsky delighted in nature and the freedom of the country. In winter the theatre was his chief amusement, especially the French play, the ballet, and the Italian opera. He was particularly fascinated by ballets of the fantastic or fairy order, and gradually came to value more and more the art of dancing.

The acting of Adelaide Ristori made a profound impression upon Tchaikovsky. His greatest admiration, however, was for the singer Lagroua. She was not a beautiful woman, but, in the part of Norma, she displayed such tragic pathos, such plastic art, that she was worthy to be compared with the greatest actresses.

In 1860 Tchaikovsky’s youngest sister and constant companion, Alexandra Ilinichna, was married to Leo Vassilievich Davidov, and went to live in the Government of Kiev. During the following year several other members of the family went out into the world, so that the cheerful family life came to an end, and a shade of melancholy crept over the remainder of the household.

At this period Tchaikovsky’s attitude to his father and his aunts was slightly egotistical and contemptuous. This was only a passing phase. He was not actually wanting in affection for his own people, but was simply bored in their society. At this age he could not endure a quiet life at home.

Under such auspices dawned the year 1861, destined to inaugurate a new epoch in the life of Tchaikovsky.

AT this time there were two music masters at the School of Jurisprudence. Karel, who taught the piano, until he was succeeded by Bekker, and Lomakin, the professor of singing.

It is not known whether Tchaikovsky ever took lessons with Karel. With Bekker he did learn for a time, but the lessons made no impression upon his memory.

The singing lessons he received from Lomakin amounted to little more than choral practices. Lomakin was a very competent man, who brought the school choir to a pitch of perfection; but he had not time to train individual voices, consequently he exercised no direct influence on Tchaikovsky, although he observed his beautiful soprano voice and his great talent for music.

Besides these masters, Tchaikovsky took piano lessons at home from Rudolf Kündinger.

Kündinger had come to Russia at eighteen, and delighted the public of St. Petersburg by his brilliant virtuosity. Having attracted many pupils, he settled in Petersburg. In 1855 the elder Tchaikovsky engaged him to teach his son. Kündinger afterwards regretted that he kept no record of these lessons. The boy struck him as talented, but nothing made him suspect the germ of a great composer. One thing which impressed Kündinger was his remarkable power of improvisation. Another was his fine feeling for harmony. Kündinger would often showhis pupil his own compositions, and accept his suggestions as regards harmony, finding them invariably to the point, although at that time Tchaikovsky knew nothing of the theory of music.

His father consulted Kündinger as to the wisdom of allowing his son to devote himself entirely to music. The teacher’s advice was directly to the contrary. “I had to take into consideration the wretched status of a professional musician in Russia at that time,” said Kündinger afterwards; “besides I had no real faith in Peter Ilich’s gift for music.”

If such specialists as Lomakin and Kündinger saw nothing phenomenal in Tchaikovsky, it is hardly surprising that others should have failed to do so. His school friends valued his musical talents, but were far from suspecting him to be a future celebrity. His relations, especially his sisters and cousins, thought his improvisation of dance music a pleasant accomplishment, but otherwise regarded his music as “useless trifling.” His father, alone, took the matter at all seriously. He engaged a good teacher, and encouraged his son to study steadily. In a word, he did all that a man could do, who knew absolutely nothing of music and musicians.

Tchaikovsky had only one morning and two evenings in the week in which he was free to devote himself to music. Consequently he had no opportunity of grounding himself in the art. When and how could he become acquainted with the symphonic masterpieces of the great German composers? Symphony concerts were then rare in St. Petersburg. The future composer had no alternative but to study these works in pianoforte arrangements. But such music was expensive and beyond his slender means. This explains why his musical knowledge was so limited at that time. We cannot say how many of the works of Beethoven, Mozart, and Schubert he knew prior to 1861; it is certain that his knowledge was not half so extensiveas that of any good amateur of the present day. For instance, he knew nothing of Schumann, nor the number and keys of Beethoven’s symphonies. He frequented the Italian Opera, which was his sole opportunity of hearing a good orchestra, chorus, and first-rate soloists. Russian opera was then at a low ebb, and he only went to hear his favourite work,A Life for the Tsar. All the other operas he heard were sung by Italians. To these artists he owed not only his passion forDon JuanandFreischütz, but also his acquaintance with Meyerbeer, Rossini, Donizetti, and Verdi, for whom he had a genuine enthusiasm.

During the fifties the celebrated singing master Piccioli was living in Petersburg. He was a Neapolitan by birth, who had come to the Russian capital some ten years earlier and settled there. His wife was a friend of Alexandra Schobert, and in this way he became acquainted with the Tchaikovskys. Although nearly fifty, he was very intimate with Peter, who was but seventeen. But as to Piccioli’s real age, no one knew the truth, for he kept it dark. He certainly dyed his hair and painted his face, and cruel tongues did not hesitate to assert that he would never see seventy again, and that he kept at the back of his head a small apparatus for smoothing out his wrinkles. I remember how, as children, my brother Anatol and I took great pains to discover this apparatus, and how we finally decided it must be concealed somewhere under his collar. As regards music, Piccioli gave utterance to such violently fanatical views and convictions, and knew so well how to defend them with persuasive eloquence, that he could have won over even a less pliant nature than that of Tchaikovsky. He acknowledged only Rossini, Bellini, Donizetti, and Verdi. He scorned and hated with equal thoroughness the symphonies of Beethoven, the works of Bach,A Life for the Tsar, and all the rest. Outside the creations of the great Italian melodists he admitted no music whatever. In spite of his eloquence, the Italiancould not win over Tchaikovsky heart and soul to his way of thinking, because the latter was not given to partiality, and also because his own musical tastes were already firmly implanted, and could not be so easily modified. He carried within him an Olympia of his own, to the deities of which he did homage with all his soul. Nevertheless, the friendship between himself and Piccioli remained unbroken, and to this he owed, in a great measure, his thorough acquaintance with the music of the Italian operatic school.

Since 1850 Tchaikovsky’s talent as a composer had only found expression in improvisations for the piano. Although he had composed a good many valses, polkas, and “Rêveries de Salon,” which were probably no worse than similar pieces invented by his “composer” friends, he could not bring himself to put his thoughts on paper—perhaps from excessive modesty, perhaps from pride. Once only did he write out a song, composed to words by the poet Fet: “My genius, my angel, my friend,” a mere empty amateur effusion. Yet, as time passed, his musical consciousness, his realisation of his true vocation, undoubtedly increased. Later in life he said, that even at school, the thought of becoming a composer haunted him incessantly, but, feeling that no one in his circle had any faith in his talents, he seldom mentioned the subject. Occasionally he made a prophetic utterance. Once, about the close of 1862, soon after he had joined the classes at the Conservatoire, he was talking to his brother Nicholas. Nicholas, who was one of those who did not approve of his brother’s wish to study music, held forth on the subject, assuring him he had not the genius of a Glinka, and that the wretched lot of a mediocre musician was not an enviable one. At first Peter Ilich made no reply, but as they were parting he said: “Perhaps I shall not turn out a Glinka, but one thing I can assure you—you will be proud some day to own me as a brother.” The look in his eyes, and the tone in whichhe spoke these words, were never forgotten by Nicholas Tchaikovsky.

The slowness and unproductiveness of Tchaikovsky’s musical development in the fifties was closely connected with his frivolous mode of life. His nature—in reality lovable and accessible to all—and his fertile genius seemed both hushed in a profound slumber; but at the moment of his awakening, his musical gifts as well as all his other good qualities simultaneously reappeared. With the superficial amateur vanished also the mere society man; with the strenuous, zealous inquirer returned also the tender, grateful son, the kind and thoughtful brother.

The change took place quite unobserved. It is difficult to give the exact moment of its commencement, for it was not preceded by any important events. Undoubtedly, it may be observed as early as 1861, when Peter Ilich began once more to think of an artistic career and entered into closer relationship with his family, striving to find at home that satisfaction for his higher spiritual needs, which he had failed to discover in his previous way of living. He had grown weary of an easy-going life, and the desire to start afresh made itself increasingly felt. He began to be afraid lest he might be overwhelmed in this slough of a petty, useless, and vicious existence. In the midst of this feverish pursuit of pleasure there came over him—so he said—moments of agonising despair. Whether satiety came to him from some unknown event in his life, or whether it gradually crept into his soul, no one can tell, for he passed through these heavy hours alone. Those around him only observed the change when it had already taken place, and the dawn of a new life had gladdened his spiritual vision.

THE COMPOSER’S FATHER WITH HIS TWIN SONS MODESTE AND ANATOL, 1855THE COMPOSER’S FATHER WITH HIS TWIN SONS MODESTE AND ANATOL, 1855

In a letter to his newly-married sister Alexandra, written in March, 1861, he speaks of an incident which may be regarded as the first step towards his musical career. His father, on his own initiative, had actuallyproposed that he should devote himself entirely to music.

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