To Anatol Tchaikovsky.“May2nd(14th), 1867.“All last week I was out of humour; first, because of the bad weather; secondly, from shortness of money; and thirdly, from despair of ever again finding the libretto.... Recently I made the acquaintance of Professor Bougaiev at his house. He is an extraordinarily learned man. He talked until late into the night about astronomy and its latest discoveries. Good God! How ignorant we are when we leave school! I shudder when I chance to come across a really well-read and enlightened man!...”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“May2nd(14th), 1867.
“All last week I was out of humour; first, because of the bad weather; secondly, from shortness of money; and thirdly, from despair of ever again finding the libretto.... Recently I made the acquaintance of Professor Bougaiev at his house. He is an extraordinarily learned man. He talked until late into the night about astronomy and its latest discoveries. Good God! How ignorant we are when we leave school! I shudder when I chance to come across a really well-read and enlightened man!...”
In the summer of 1867 Tchaikovsky decided to visit Finland with one of the twins, his funds not being sufficient to allow of his taking both of them. With his usualnaïvetéas regards money matters, he set off with Anatol, taking about £10 in his pocket, which he believed would suffice for the trip. At the end of a few days in Viborg, finding themselves nearly penniless, they took the firstboat back to Petersburg. There a great disappointment awaited them. Their father, from whom they hoped to obtain some assistance, had already left for a summer holiday in the Ural Mountains. The brothers then spent their last remaining shillings in reaching Hapsal by steamer, where they were certain of finding their faithful friends the Davidovs. They travelled as “between deck” passengers and suffered terribly from the cold. But notwithstanding these misadventures, out of which they derived more amusement than discomfort, Peter Ilich enjoyed the summer holidays. His spirits were excellent, and he worked hard atThe Voyevode, while his leisure was spent in the society of his dear friends. The evenings were devoted to reading, and they were particularly interested in the dramatic works of Alfred de Musset. This kind of life entirely satisfied Tchaikovsky’s simple and steadfast nature, and his happy frame of mind is reflected in theChant sans paroles, which he composed at this time and dedicated—with two additional pieces for piano—to Vera Vassilievna Davidov, under the title ofSouvenir de Hapsal.
On August 15th (27th), Tchaikovsky left Hapsal for Moscow, spending a week in Petersburg on his way.
“Perhaps you may have observed”—writes Tchaikovsky to his sister—“that I long intensely for a quiet, peaceful life, such as one lives in the country. Vera Davidov may have told you how we often spoke in fun of our future farm, where we intended to end our days. As regards myself it is no joke. I am really attracted to this idea because, although I am far from being old, I am already very tiredof life. Do not laugh; if you always lived with me you would see it for yourself. The people around me often wonder at my taciturnity and my apparent ill_temper, while actually I do not lead an unhappy existence. What more can a man want whose prospects are good, who is liked, and whose artistic work meets with appreciation? And yet, in spite of these favourable circumstances, I shrink from every social engagement, do not care to make acquaintances, love solitude and silence. All this is explained by my weariness of life. In those moments when I am not merely too lazy to talk, but too indolent even to think, I dream of a calm, heavenly, serene existence, and only realise this life in your immediate neighbourhood. Be sure of this: you will have to devote some of your maternal devotion to your tired old brother. Perhaps you may think such a frame of mind naturally leads a man to the consideration of matrimony. No, my dear future companion! My weariness has made metoo indolentto form new ties,too indolentto found a family,too indolentto take upon myself the responsibility of wife and children. In short, marriage is to me inconceivable. How I shall come to be united with your family I know not as yet; whether I shall become the owner of a plot of ground in your neighbourhood, or simply your boarder, only the future can decide. One thing is clear: my future happiness is impossible apart from you.”
“Perhaps you may have observed”—writes Tchaikovsky to his sister—“that I long intensely for a quiet, peaceful life, such as one lives in the country. Vera Davidov may have told you how we often spoke in fun of our future farm, where we intended to end our days. As regards myself it is no joke. I am really attracted to this idea because, although I am far from being old, I am already very tiredof life. Do not laugh; if you always lived with me you would see it for yourself. The people around me often wonder at my taciturnity and my apparent ill_temper, while actually I do not lead an unhappy existence. What more can a man want whose prospects are good, who is liked, and whose artistic work meets with appreciation? And yet, in spite of these favourable circumstances, I shrink from every social engagement, do not care to make acquaintances, love solitude and silence. All this is explained by my weariness of life. In those moments when I am not merely too lazy to talk, but too indolent even to think, I dream of a calm, heavenly, serene existence, and only realise this life in your immediate neighbourhood. Be sure of this: you will have to devote some of your maternal devotion to your tired old brother. Perhaps you may think such a frame of mind naturally leads a man to the consideration of matrimony. No, my dear future companion! My weariness has made metoo indolentto form new ties,too indolentto found a family,too indolentto take upon myself the responsibility of wife and children. In short, marriage is to me inconceivable. How I shall come to be united with your family I know not as yet; whether I shall become the owner of a plot of ground in your neighbourhood, or simply your boarder, only the future can decide. One thing is clear: my future happiness is impossible apart from you.”
Tchaikovsky never gives the true reason for his yearning after solitude and a life of “heavenly quiet and serenity,” but it certainly did not proceed from “misanthropy,” “indolence,” or weariness of life.
He was no misanthropist, for, as everyone who knew him must agree, it would be difficult to find any man who gave out more sympathy than he did. Laroche says:—
“The number of people who made a good impression on him, who pleased him, and of whom he spoke in their absence as ‘good’ and ‘sympathetic,’ sometimes astounded me. The power of seeing the best side of people and of things was a gift inherited from his father, and it was precisely this love of his fellow-creatures which made him sobeloved in return. He was no misanthropist, rather a philanthropist in the true sense of the word. Neither is there greater justice in his self-accusation of ‘indolence.’ Those who have followed him through his school-life, his official career, and his student days at the Conservatoire, will be of my opinion. But a glance at the number of his works, which reaches seventy-six, including ten operas and three ballets; at his letters (I possess, in all, four thousand); at his literary work (sixty-one articles); at his translations and arrangements, and his ten years’ teaching, will suffice to convince the most sceptical that his nature knew no moods ofdolce far niente.”
“The number of people who made a good impression on him, who pleased him, and of whom he spoke in their absence as ‘good’ and ‘sympathetic,’ sometimes astounded me. The power of seeing the best side of people and of things was a gift inherited from his father, and it was precisely this love of his fellow-creatures which made him sobeloved in return. He was no misanthropist, rather a philanthropist in the true sense of the word. Neither is there greater justice in his self-accusation of ‘indolence.’ Those who have followed him through his school-life, his official career, and his student days at the Conservatoire, will be of my opinion. But a glance at the number of his works, which reaches seventy-six, including ten operas and three ballets; at his letters (I possess, in all, four thousand); at his literary work (sixty-one articles); at his translations and arrangements, and his ten years’ teaching, will suffice to convince the most sceptical that his nature knew no moods ofdolce far niente.”
As regards his “weariness of life,” he himself disposes of it in the same letter, when he speaks of yearning for a calm and happy existence. Those who are really world-weary have no longing for any kind of existence. Neither misanthropy, indolence, nor weariness were his permanent moods. His indefinite craving for an easier life was caused by his creative impulse, which, waxing ever stronger and stronger, awoke the desire for more leisure to devote to it. This longing for freedom reached a climax in 1877, and brought about a complete change in his life.
For the time being it was useless to think of solitude or freedom. All he could hope for was the comparative liberty of his summer vacation. Town life was a necessity to him from the material and moral point of view, and although he complained of its being oppressive, I believe that had he been compelled by fate to reside in the country—as he did some years later—he would, at this earlier period of his career, have had much more cause for complaint.
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.“August31st, 1867 (September12th).“ ... At present I have nothing to do, and loaf about the town all day.... Ostrovsky still keeps me on the trot. I read in the Petersburg papers that he had completedmy libretto, but it is not so. I had some difficulty in dragging the first half of the lost act out of him. I am wandering about with the intention of buying a large writing-table to make my room more comfortable, so that I can work at my opera at home. I am determined to finish it during the winter. Last night we celebrated Dubuque’s birthday, and I came back rather the worse for liquor.“I have spent two evenings running at the ‘English Club.’ What a delightful club! It would be jolly to belong to it, but it costs too much....”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“August31st, 1867 (September12th).
“ ... At present I have nothing to do, and loaf about the town all day.... Ostrovsky still keeps me on the trot. I read in the Petersburg papers that he had completedmy libretto, but it is not so. I had some difficulty in dragging the first half of the lost act out of him. I am wandering about with the intention of buying a large writing-table to make my room more comfortable, so that I can work at my opera at home. I am determined to finish it during the winter. Last night we celebrated Dubuque’s birthday, and I came back rather the worse for liquor.
“I have spent two evenings running at the ‘English Club.’ What a delightful club! It would be jolly to belong to it, but it costs too much....”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.(About the end of October.)“I am getting along all right. On Saturday our first concert takes place, to which I look forward, for, generally speaking, the people here prefer carnal to spiritual entertainments, and eat and drink an incredible amount. The concert will supply me with a little musical food, of which I am badly in need, for I live like a bear in his cave, upon my own substance, that is to say, upon my compositions, which are always running in my head. Try as I may, it is impossible to lead a quiet life in Moscow, where one must over-eat and drink. This is the fifth day in succession that I have come home late with an overloaded stomach. But you must not imagine I am idle: from breakfast till the midday meal I work without a break.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
(About the end of October.)
“I am getting along all right. On Saturday our first concert takes place, to which I look forward, for, generally speaking, the people here prefer carnal to spiritual entertainments, and eat and drink an incredible amount. The concert will supply me with a little musical food, of which I am badly in need, for I live like a bear in his cave, upon my own substance, that is to say, upon my compositions, which are always running in my head. Try as I may, it is impossible to lead a quiet life in Moscow, where one must over-eat and drink. This is the fifth day in succession that I have come home late with an overloaded stomach. But you must not imagine I am idle: from breakfast till the midday meal I work without a break.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“November25th(December7th).“Our mutual friend Klimenko is in Moscow, and visits us almost daily.“The Opera is progressing fairly well. The whole of the third act is finished, and the dances from it—which I orchestrated at Hapsal—will be given at the next concert.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“November25th(December7th).
“Our mutual friend Klimenko is in Moscow, and visits us almost daily.
“The Opera is progressing fairly well. The whole of the third act is finished, and the dances from it—which I orchestrated at Hapsal—will be given at the next concert.”
Ivan Alexandrovich Klimenko, whose name will oftenoccur in the course of this book, had previously made Laroche’s acquaintance at one of Serov’s “Tuesday evenings.” An architect by profession, Kashkin describes him as a very gifted amateur. He was devotedly attached to Tchaikovsky, and one of the first to prophesy his significance for Russian music.
At the second symphony concert, which took place early in December, “The Dances of the Serving Maids,” fromThe Voyevode, were given. They had an undeniable success, and were twice repeated in Moscow during the season.
On December 12th (24th) Tchaikovsky wrote to his brother Anatol as follows:—
“You ask if I am coming to Petersburg. Wisdom compels me to say no. In the first place I have not money for the journey, and secondly, Berlioz is coming here at Christmas, and will give two concerts—one popular, and another in the place of our fourth symphony evening. I shall put off my visit until the Carnival or Lent....”
“You ask if I am coming to Petersburg. Wisdom compels me to say no. In the first place I have not money for the journey, and secondly, Berlioz is coming here at Christmas, and will give two concerts—one popular, and another in the place of our fourth symphony evening. I shall put off my visit until the Carnival or Lent....”
Berlioz went to Moscow about the end of December, 1867, direct from St. Petersburg, where he had been invited by the directors of the Musical Society—chiefly at the instigation of Dargomijsky and Balakirev—to conduct a series of six concerts.
This was not his first visit to Russia. As early as 1847 he had been welcomed in Petersburg, Moscow and Riga, by the instrumentality of Glinka, who regarded him as “the greatest of contemporary musicians.” He then met with an enthusiastic reception from the leaders of the Russian musical world, Prince Odoevsky and Count Vielgorsky, and not only made a large sum, but was equally fêted by the public. It is interesting to note that not only Berlioz himself, but his Russian admirers seem to have deluded themselves into the belief that he was “understood” and “appreciated” in Russia. PrinceOdoevsky, who published an article extolling Berlioz’s genius the very day before his first concert in Petersburg, exclaims in one of his letters to Glinka:—
“Where are you, friend? Why are you not with us? Why are you not sharing our joy and pleasure? Berlioz has been ‘understood’ in St. Petersburg!! Here, in spite of the scourge of Italian cavatina, which has well-nigh ruined Slavonic taste, we showed that we could still appreciate the most complicated contrapuntal music in the world. There must be a secret sympathy between his music and our intimate Russian sentiment. How else can this public enthusiasm be explained?”
“Where are you, friend? Why are you not with us? Why are you not sharing our joy and pleasure? Berlioz has been ‘understood’ in St. Petersburg!! Here, in spite of the scourge of Italian cavatina, which has well-nigh ruined Slavonic taste, we showed that we could still appreciate the most complicated contrapuntal music in the world. There must be a secret sympathy between his music and our intimate Russian sentiment. How else can this public enthusiasm be explained?”
I am of opinion that it is more easily explicable by the fact that Berlioz was a gifted conductor, and that the public had been prepossessed in his favour by the laudatory articles of Prince Odoevsky himself. Judging from the neglect of this famous composer in the present day (Faustis the only one of his works which is still popular), this is surely the right point of view.
Twenty years later, in 1867, the enthusiastic welcome he received here was chiefly due to his attraction as a conductor, and to the enthusiasm of that small group of Russian musicians to whom he owed his invitation to our country.
Tchaikovsky, whose views were entirely opposed to those of this circle, held “his own opinions” in this, as in other matters. Although he fully appreciated the important place which Berlioz filled in modern music, and recognised him as a great reformer of the orchestra, he felt no enthusiasm for his music. On the other hand, he had the warmest admiration for the man, in whom he saw “the personification of disinterested industry, of ardent love for art, of a noble and energetic combatant against ignorance, stupidity, vulgarity, and routine....” He also regarded him as “an old and broken man, persecuted alike by fate and his fellow-creatures,” whom he cordiallydesired to console and cheer—if only for the moment—by the expression of an ungrudging sympathy.
On February 3rd (15th) Tchaikovsky’s G minor symphony was given at the Musical Society, when its success surpassed all expectations. “The adagio pleased best,” Tchaikovsky wrote to his brothers. The composer was vociferously recalled, and, according to Countess Kapnist, appeared upon the platform in rather untidy clothes, hat in hand, and bowed awkwardly.
On February 19th (March 2nd) a charity concert was given in the Opera House in aid of the Famine Fund. This was an event in Tchaikovsky’s life, for he made his first public appearance as a conductor, the “Dances” fromThe Voyevode, being played under his bâton. On this occasion, too, he first became acquainted with the work of Rimsky-Korsakov, whose “Serbian Fantasia” was included in the programme.
Tchaikovsky’s opinion of himself as a conductor we have learnt already from Laroche. Kashkin gives the following account of this concert:—
“When I went behind the scenes to see how thedébutantwas feeling, he told me that to his great surprise he was not in the least nervous. Before it came to his turn I returned to my place. When Tchaikovsky actually appeared on the platform, I noticed that he was quite distracted; he came on timidly, as though he would have been glad to hide, or run away, and, on mounting to the conductor’s desk, looked like a man who finds himself in some desperate situation. Apparently his composition was blotted out from his mind; he did not see the score before him, and gave all the leads at the wrong moment, or to the wrong instruments. Fortunately the band knew the music so well that they paid no attention whatever to Tchaikovsky’s beat, but laughing in their sleeves, got through the dances very creditably in spite of him. Afterwards Peter Ilich told me that in his terror he had a feeling that his head would fall off his shoulders unless he held it tightly in position.”
“When I went behind the scenes to see how thedébutantwas feeling, he told me that to his great surprise he was not in the least nervous. Before it came to his turn I returned to my place. When Tchaikovsky actually appeared on the platform, I noticed that he was quite distracted; he came on timidly, as though he would have been glad to hide, or run away, and, on mounting to the conductor’s desk, looked like a man who finds himself in some desperate situation. Apparently his composition was blotted out from his mind; he did not see the score before him, and gave all the leads at the wrong moment, or to the wrong instruments. Fortunately the band knew the music so well that they paid no attention whatever to Tchaikovsky’s beat, but laughing in their sleeves, got through the dances very creditably in spite of him. Afterwards Peter Ilich told me that in his terror he had a feeling that his head would fall off his shoulders unless he held it tightly in position.”
That he had no faith in his powers of conducting is evident from the fact that ten years elapsed before he ventured to take up the bâton again.
In a notice of the concert, which appeared inThe Entr’acte, Tchaikovsky was spoken of as a “mature” musician, whose work was remarkable for “loftiness of aim and masterly thematic treatment”; while Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Serbian Fantasia” was dismissed as “colourless and inanimate.”
Had such a judgment been pronounced a few months earlier, at a time when Tchaikovsky knew nothing of the composer, and regarded the entire Petersburg School as his enemies, who knows whether he would not have felt a certain satisfaction—a kind of “Schadenfreude”—at its appearance? Now, however, circumstances were altered. Not only had he become well acquainted with the “Serbian Fantasia” at rehearsal, and learnt to regard both the work and its composer with respect, but during the last two or three months he had been more closely associated with the leader of the New School, Mily Balakirev, and had become convinced that, far from being his enemies, the Petersburg set were all interested in his career.
The result of this pleasing discovery was a burning desire to show his sympathy for a gifted colleague, and he wrote an article in direct contradiction to the criticism of theEntr’acte. This was the beginning of his literary activity. The article aroused considerable attention in Moscow, and was warmly approved. Nor did it escape observation in St. Petersburg. Consequently, when Tchaikovsky visited his father at Easter, he was received in a very friendly spirit by “The Invincible Band.”[16]
The rallying-point of “The Band” was Dargomijsky’s house. The composer, although confined to his bed by a mortal illness, was working with fire and inspiration at hisopera,The Stone Guest. His young friends regarded this work as the foundation-stone of the great temple of “The Music of the Future,” and frequently assembled at the “Master’s” to note the progress of the new creation and show him their own works. Even Tchaikovsky, who had already met Dargomijsky at Begichev’s in Moscow, found himself more than once among the guests, and made many new acquaintances on these occasions.
At Balakirev’s, too, he met many musicians who held the views of the New Russian School. Although Tchaikovsky entered into friendly relations with the members of “The Invincibles,” he could not accept their tenets, and with great tact and skill remained entirely independent of them. While he made friends individually with Balakirev, Rimsky-Korsakov, Cui and Vladimir Stassov, he still regarded their union with some hostility.
He laughed at their ultra-progressive tendencies and regarded with contempt the naïve and crude efforts of some members of “The Band” (especially Moussorgsky). But while making fun of these “unheard-of works of genius,” which “throw all others into the shade,” and indignant at their daring attacks upon his idol Mozart, Tchaikovsky was also impressed by the force and vitality displayed in some of their compositions, as well as by their freshness of inspiration and honourable intentions, so that far from being repulsed, he learnt to feel a certain degree of sympathy and a very great respect for this school.
This dual relationship reacted in two different ways. Tchaikovsky never hesitated to express quite openly his antipathy to the tendencies of these innovators, while he refused to recognise the dilettante extravagances of Moussorgsky as masterpieces, and always made it evident that it would be distasteful to him to win the praise of Stassov and Cui, and with it the title of “genius,” by seeking originality at the expense of artistic beauty. At the same time he acted as the propagandist of “TheBand” in Moscow, was their intermediary with the Moscow section of the Musical Society, and busied himself with the performance or publication of their works. When in 1869 the Grand Duchess Helena Paulovna desired to carry out a change in the management of the symphony concerts, and Balakirev retired from the conductorship, Tchaikovsky appeared for the second time as the champion of “The Band,” and protested against the proceedings of the Grand Duchess in an energetic article, in which he displayed also his sympathy with the leader of the New Russian School. During the period when he was engaged in musical criticism, he lost no opportunity of giving public expression to his respect and enthusiasm for the works of Balakirev and Rimsky-Korsakov.
But the most obvious sign of his sympathy with “The Band” is the fact that he dedicated three of his best works to individual members—FatumandRomeo and Julietto Balakirev andThe Tempestto Vladimir Stassov. Here undoubtedly we may see the indirect influence which the New School exercised upon Tchaikovsky. He would not amalgamate with them; nor would he adopt their principles. But to win their sympathy, without actually having recourse to a compromise; to accept their advice (Romeo and Julietwas suggested by Balakirev andThe Tempestby Stassov); to triumph over the tasks they set him and to show his solidarity with “The Band,” only in so far as they both aimed at being earnest in matters of art—all this seemed to him not only interesting, but worthy of his vocation.
“The Invincible Band” repaid Tchaikovsky in his own coin. They criticised some of his works as pedantic, “behind the times,” androutinier, but at the outset of his career they took the greatest interest in him, respected him as a worthy rival, strove to win him over to their views, and continued to consider him “among the elect,” even after the failure of their efforts at conversion.
The relations between Tchaikovsky and “The Band” may be compared to those existing between two friendly neighbouring states, each leading its independent existence, meeting on common grounds, but keeping their individual interests strictly apart.
During the summer of this year Tchaikovsky went abroad with his favourite pupil Vladimir Shilovsky, accompanied by the lad’s guardian, V. Begichev, and a friend named De Lazary. In spite of a lingering wish to spend his holidays with his own people in some quiet spot, the opportunity seemed too good to be lost. His travelling companions were congenial, and his duties of the lightest—merely to give music lessons to young Shilovsky.
From Paris he wrote to his sister on July 20th (August 1st), 1868:—
“Originally we intended to visit the most beautiful places in Europe, but Shilovsky’s illness, and the need of consulting a certain great doctor with all possible speed, brought us here, and has kept us against our will.... The theatres are splendid, not externally, but as regards the staging of pieces and the skill with which effects are produced by the simplest means. They know how to mount and act a play here in such a way that, without any remarkable display of histrionic talent, it is more effective than it would be with us, since it would probably lack rehearsal andensemble.“As regards music, too, in the operas I have heard I remarked no singer with an exceptional voice, and yet what a splendid performance! How carefully everything is studied and thought out! What earnest attention is given to every detail, no matter how insignificant, which goes to make up the general effect! We have no conception of such performances.... The noise and bustle of Paris is far less suited to a composer than the quiet of such a lake as the Thuner See, not to mention the stinking, but beloved, Tiasmin,[17]which is happy in flowing by the housethat holds some of my nearest and dearest. How have they passed this summer?”
“Originally we intended to visit the most beautiful places in Europe, but Shilovsky’s illness, and the need of consulting a certain great doctor with all possible speed, brought us here, and has kept us against our will.... The theatres are splendid, not externally, but as regards the staging of pieces and the skill with which effects are produced by the simplest means. They know how to mount and act a play here in such a way that, without any remarkable display of histrionic talent, it is more effective than it would be with us, since it would probably lack rehearsal andensemble.
“As regards music, too, in the operas I have heard I remarked no singer with an exceptional voice, and yet what a splendid performance! How carefully everything is studied and thought out! What earnest attention is given to every detail, no matter how insignificant, which goes to make up the general effect! We have no conception of such performances.... The noise and bustle of Paris is far less suited to a composer than the quiet of such a lake as the Thuner See, not to mention the stinking, but beloved, Tiasmin,[17]which is happy in flowing by the housethat holds some of my nearest and dearest. How have they passed this summer?”
Tchaikovsky returned to his duties at Moscow about the end of August.
1868-1869
Externally, Tchaikovsky’s life had remained unchanged during this period. His lessons at the Conservatoire slightly increased, and his salary consequently rose to over 1,400 roubles (£140). Under these circumstances he began to think of finding separate quarters, since his life with Nicholas Rubinstein was unfavourable to his creative work. The latter, however, would not consent to this, and Tchaikovsky himself had doubts as to whether his income would suffice for a separate establishment.
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“September3rd(15th).“I have been working like a slave to-day. The day before yesterday I received an unexpected summons to attend at the theatre. To my great surprise I found two choral rehearsals of my opera (The Voyevode) had already been given, and the first solo rehearsal was about to take place. I have undertaken the pianoforte accompaniment myself. I doubt the possibility of getting up such a difficult work in a month, and already I shiver with apprehension at all the hurry-skurry and confusion which lie before me. The rehearsals will take place almost daily. The singers are all pleased with the opera....”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“September3rd(15th).
“I have been working like a slave to-day. The day before yesterday I received an unexpected summons to attend at the theatre. To my great surprise I found two choral rehearsals of my opera (The Voyevode) had already been given, and the first solo rehearsal was about to take place. I have undertaken the pianoforte accompaniment myself. I doubt the possibility of getting up such a difficult work in a month, and already I shiver with apprehension at all the hurry-skurry and confusion which lie before me. The rehearsals will take place almost daily. The singers are all pleased with the opera....”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.“September25th(October7th).“ ... When I saw that it was impossible to study my opera in so short a time, I informed the directors that solong as the Italian company remained in Moscow and absorbed the time of both chorus and orchestra, I would not send in the score of my work. I wrote to Gedeonov to this effect. In consequence, the performance is postponed until the Italians leave Moscow. I have a little more leisure now. Besides, Menshikova already knows the greater part of her rôle by heart. I lunched with her to-day, and she sang me several numbers from the opera, by no means badly. Time, on the whole, goes quickly and pleasantly.“I have some good news to give you about my future work. A few days ago I was lunching with Ostrovsky, and he proposed, entirely of his own accord, to write a libretto for me. The subject has been in his mind for the last twenty years, but he has never spoken of it to anyone before; now his choice has fallen upon me.“The scene is laid in Babylon and Greece, in the time of Alexander of Macedon, who is introduced as one of the characters. We have representatives of two great races of antiquity: the Hebrews and the Greeks. The hero is a young Hebrew, in love with one of his own race, who, actuated by ambitious motives, betrays him for the sake of Alexander. In the end the young Hebrew becomes a prophet. You have no idea what a fine plot it is! Just now I am writing a symphonic sketch,Fatum.[18]The Italian opera is creating a furore. Artôt is a splendid creature. She and I are good friends.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“September25th(October7th).
“ ... When I saw that it was impossible to study my opera in so short a time, I informed the directors that solong as the Italian company remained in Moscow and absorbed the time of both chorus and orchestra, I would not send in the score of my work. I wrote to Gedeonov to this effect. In consequence, the performance is postponed until the Italians leave Moscow. I have a little more leisure now. Besides, Menshikova already knows the greater part of her rôle by heart. I lunched with her to-day, and she sang me several numbers from the opera, by no means badly. Time, on the whole, goes quickly and pleasantly.
“I have some good news to give you about my future work. A few days ago I was lunching with Ostrovsky, and he proposed, entirely of his own accord, to write a libretto for me. The subject has been in his mind for the last twenty years, but he has never spoken of it to anyone before; now his choice has fallen upon me.
“The scene is laid in Babylon and Greece, in the time of Alexander of Macedon, who is introduced as one of the characters. We have representatives of two great races of antiquity: the Hebrews and the Greeks. The hero is a young Hebrew, in love with one of his own race, who, actuated by ambitious motives, betrays him for the sake of Alexander. In the end the young Hebrew becomes a prophet. You have no idea what a fine plot it is! Just now I am writing a symphonic sketch,Fatum.[18]The Italian opera is creating a furore. Artôt is a splendid creature. She and I are good friends.”
“Early in 1868,” says Laroche, “an Italian opera company visited Moscow for a few weeks, at the head of which was the impresario Merelli. Their performances at the Opera drew crowded houses. The company consisted of fifth-rate singers, who had neither voices nor talent; the one exception was a woman of thirty, not good-looking, but with a passionate and expressive face, who had just reached the climax of her art, and soon afterwards began to go off, both in voice and appearance.
“Désirée Artôt, a daughter of the celebrated horn-player Artôt, and a niece of the still more renowned violinist,had been trained by Pauline Viardot-Garcia. Her voice was powerful, and adapted to express intense dramatic pathos, but unfortunately it had no reserve force, and began to deteriorate comparatively early, so that six or seven years after the time of which I am speaking it had completely lost its charm. Besides its dramatic quality, her voice was suitable for florid vocalisation, and her lower notes were so good that she could take many mezzo-soprano parts; consequently her repertory was almost unlimited.... It is not too much to say that in the whole world of music, in the entire range of lyrical emotion, there was not a single idea, or a single form, of which this admirable artist could not give a poetical interpretation. The timbre of her voice was more like the oboe than the flute, and was penetrated by such indescribable beauty, warmth, and passion, that everyone who heard it was fascinated and carried away. I have said that Désirée Artôt was not good-looking. At the same time, without recourse to artificial aids, her charm was so great that she won all hearts and turned all heads, as though she had been the loveliest of women. The delicate texture and pallor of her skin, the plastic grace of her movements, the beauty of her neck and arms, were not her only weapons; under the irregularity of her features lay some wonderful charm of attraction, and of all the many ‘Gretchens’ I have seen in my day, Artôt was by far the most ideal, the most fascinating.
“This was chiefly due to her talent as an actress. I have never seen anyone so perfectly at home on the stage as she was. From the first entrance, to the last cry of triumph or despair, the illusion was perfect. Not a single movement betrayed intention or pre-consideration. She was equally herself in a tragic, comic, or comedy part.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.“October21st(November2nd).“I am very busy writing choruses and recitatives to Auber’sDomino Noir, which is to be given for Artôt’s benefit. Merelli will pay me for the work. I have become very friendly with Artôt, and am glad to know somethingof her remarkable character. I have never met a kinder, a better, or a cleverer woman.“Anton Rubinstein has been here. He played divinely, and created an indescribable sensation. He has not altered, and is as nice as ever.“My orchestral fantasiaFatumis finished.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“October21st(November2nd).
“I am very busy writing choruses and recitatives to Auber’sDomino Noir, which is to be given for Artôt’s benefit. Merelli will pay me for the work. I have become very friendly with Artôt, and am glad to know somethingof her remarkable character. I have never met a kinder, a better, or a cleverer woman.
“Anton Rubinstein has been here. He played divinely, and created an indescribable sensation. He has not altered, and is as nice as ever.
“My orchestral fantasiaFatumis finished.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.(November.)“Oh, Moding, I long to pour my impressions into your artistic soul. If only you knew what a singer and actress Artôt is!! I have never experienced such powerful artistic impressions as just recently. How delighted you would be with the grace of her movements and poses!”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
(November.)
“Oh, Moding, I long to pour my impressions into your artistic soul. If only you knew what a singer and actress Artôt is!! I have never experienced such powerful artistic impressions as just recently. How delighted you would be with the grace of her movements and poses!”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.(December.)“ ... I have not written to you for a long while, but many things now make it impossible for me to write letters, for all my leisure is given to one—of whom you have already heard—whom I love dearly.“My musical situation is as follows: Two of my pianoforte pieces are to be published in a day or two. I have arranged twenty-five Russian folksongs for four hands, which will be published immediately, and I have orchestrated my fantasiaFatumfor the fifth concert of the Musical Society.“Recently a concert was given here for the benefit of poor students, in which ‘the one being’ sang for the last time before her departure, and Nicholas Rubinstein played my pianoforte piece dedicated to Artôt.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
(December.)
“ ... I have not written to you for a long while, but many things now make it impossible for me to write letters, for all my leisure is given to one—of whom you have already heard—whom I love dearly.
“My musical situation is as follows: Two of my pianoforte pieces are to be published in a day or two. I have arranged twenty-five Russian folksongs for four hands, which will be published immediately, and I have orchestrated my fantasiaFatumfor the fifth concert of the Musical Society.
“Recently a concert was given here for the benefit of poor students, in which ‘the one being’ sang for the last time before her departure, and Nicholas Rubinstein played my pianoforte piece dedicated to Artôt.”
To his father.“December26th(January7th, 1869).“My Dear, Kind Dad!—To my great annoyance, circumstances have prevented my going to Petersburg. This journey would have cost me at least a hundred roubles, and just now I do not possess them. Consequently I mustsend my New Year’s wishes by letter. I wish you happiness and all good things. As rumours of my engagement will doubtless have reached you, and you may feel hurt at my silence upon the subject, I will tell you the whole story. I made the acquaintance of Artôt in the spring, but only visited her once, when I went to a supper given after her benefit performance. After she returned here in autumn I did not call on her for a whole month. Then we met by chance at a musical evening. She expressed surprise that I had not called, and I promised to do so, a promise I should never have kept (because of my shyness with new friends) if Anton Rubinstein, in passing through Moscow, had not dragged me there. Afterwards I received constant invitations, and got into the way of going to her house daily. Soon we began to experience a mutual glow of tenderness, and an understanding followed immediately. Naturally the question of marriage arose at once, and, if nothing hinders it, our wedding is to take place in the summer. But the worst is that there are several obstacles. First, there is her mother, who always lives with her, and has considerable influence upon her daughter. She is not in favour of the match, because she considers me too young, and probably fears lest I should expect her daughter to live permanently in Russia. Secondly, my friends, especially N. Rubinstein, are trying might and main to prevent my marriage. They declare that, married to a famous singer, I should play the pitiable part of ‘husband of my wife’; that I should live at her expense and accompany her all over Europe; finally, that I should lose all opportunities of working, and that when my first love had cooled, I should know nothing but disenchantment and depression. The risk of such a catastrophe might perhaps be avoided, if she would consent to leave the stage and live entirely in Russia. But she declares that in spite of all her love for me, she cannot make up her mind to give up the profession which brings her in so much money, and to which she has grown accustomed. At present she is on her way to Moscow. Meanwhile we have agreed that I am to visit her in summer at her country house (near Paris), when our fate will be decided.“If she will not consent to give up the stage, I, on mypart, hesitate to sacrifice my future; for it is clear that I shall lose all opportunity of making my own way, if I blindly follow in her train. You see, Dad, my situation is a very difficult one. On the one hand, I love her heart and soul, and feel I cannot live any longer without her; on the other hand, calm reason bids me to consider more closely all the misfortunes with which my friends threaten me. I shall wait, my dear, for your views on the subject.“I am quite well, and my life goes on as usual—only I am unhappy now she is not here.”
To his father.
“December26th(January7th, 1869).
“My Dear, Kind Dad!—To my great annoyance, circumstances have prevented my going to Petersburg. This journey would have cost me at least a hundred roubles, and just now I do not possess them. Consequently I mustsend my New Year’s wishes by letter. I wish you happiness and all good things. As rumours of my engagement will doubtless have reached you, and you may feel hurt at my silence upon the subject, I will tell you the whole story. I made the acquaintance of Artôt in the spring, but only visited her once, when I went to a supper given after her benefit performance. After she returned here in autumn I did not call on her for a whole month. Then we met by chance at a musical evening. She expressed surprise that I had not called, and I promised to do so, a promise I should never have kept (because of my shyness with new friends) if Anton Rubinstein, in passing through Moscow, had not dragged me there. Afterwards I received constant invitations, and got into the way of going to her house daily. Soon we began to experience a mutual glow of tenderness, and an understanding followed immediately. Naturally the question of marriage arose at once, and, if nothing hinders it, our wedding is to take place in the summer. But the worst is that there are several obstacles. First, there is her mother, who always lives with her, and has considerable influence upon her daughter. She is not in favour of the match, because she considers me too young, and probably fears lest I should expect her daughter to live permanently in Russia. Secondly, my friends, especially N. Rubinstein, are trying might and main to prevent my marriage. They declare that, married to a famous singer, I should play the pitiable part of ‘husband of my wife’; that I should live at her expense and accompany her all over Europe; finally, that I should lose all opportunities of working, and that when my first love had cooled, I should know nothing but disenchantment and depression. The risk of such a catastrophe might perhaps be avoided, if she would consent to leave the stage and live entirely in Russia. But she declares that in spite of all her love for me, she cannot make up her mind to give up the profession which brings her in so much money, and to which she has grown accustomed. At present she is on her way to Moscow. Meanwhile we have agreed that I am to visit her in summer at her country house (near Paris), when our fate will be decided.
“If she will not consent to give up the stage, I, on mypart, hesitate to sacrifice my future; for it is clear that I shall lose all opportunity of making my own way, if I blindly follow in her train. You see, Dad, my situation is a very difficult one. On the one hand, I love her heart and soul, and feel I cannot live any longer without her; on the other hand, calm reason bids me to consider more closely all the misfortunes with which my friends threaten me. I shall wait, my dear, for your views on the subject.
“I am quite well, and my life goes on as usual—only I am unhappy now she is not here.”
Tchaikovsky received the following letter in reply:—
“December29th, 1868 (January10th, 1869).“My Dear Peter,—You ask my advice upon the most momentous event in your life.... You are both artists, both make capital out of your talents; but while she has made both money and fame, you have hardly begun to make your way, and God knows whether you will ever attain to what she has acquired. Your friends know your gifts, and fear they may suffer by your marriage—I think otherwise. You, who gave up your official appointment for the sake of your talent, are not likely to forsake your art, even if you are not altogether happy at first, as is the fate of nearly all musicians. You are proud, and therefore you find it unpleasant not to be earning sufficient to keep a wife and be independent of her purse. Yes, dear fellow, I understand you well enough. It is bitter and unpleasant. But if you are both working and earning together there can be no question of reproach; go your way, let her go hers, and help each other side by side. It would not be wise for either of you to give up your chosen vocations until you have saved enough to say: ‘This isours, we have earned it in common.’“Let us analyse these words: ‘In marrying a famous singer you will be playing the pitiable part of attendant upon her journeys; you will live on her money and lose your own chances of work.’ If your love is not a fleeting, but solid sentiment, as it ought to be in people of your age; if your vows are sincere and unalterable, then all these misgivings are nonsense. Married happiness is basedupon mutual respect, and you would no more permit your wife to be a kind of servant, than she would ask you to be her lackey. The travelling is not a matter of any importance, so long as it does not prevent your composing—it will even give you opportunities of getting your operas or symphonies performed in various places. A devoted friend will help to inspire you. When all is set down in black and white, with such a companion as your chosen one, your talent is more likely to progress than to deteriorate. (2) Even if your first passion for her does cool somewhat, will ‘nothing remain but disenchantment and depression’? But why should love grow cold? I lived twenty-one years with your mother, and during all that time I loved her just the same, with the ardour of a young man, and respected and worshipped her as a saint.... There is only one question I would ask you; have you proved each other? Do you love each other truly, and for all time? I know your character, my dear son, and I have confidence in you, but I have not as yet the happiness of knowing the dear woman of your choice. I only know her lovely heart and soul through you. It would be no bad thing if you proved each other, not by jealousy—God forbid—but by time....“Describe her character to me in full, my dear. Does she translate that tender word ‘Désirée’? A mother’s wish counts for nothing in love affairs, but give it your consideration.”
“December29th, 1868 (January10th, 1869).
“My Dear Peter,—You ask my advice upon the most momentous event in your life.... You are both artists, both make capital out of your talents; but while she has made both money and fame, you have hardly begun to make your way, and God knows whether you will ever attain to what she has acquired. Your friends know your gifts, and fear they may suffer by your marriage—I think otherwise. You, who gave up your official appointment for the sake of your talent, are not likely to forsake your art, even if you are not altogether happy at first, as is the fate of nearly all musicians. You are proud, and therefore you find it unpleasant not to be earning sufficient to keep a wife and be independent of her purse. Yes, dear fellow, I understand you well enough. It is bitter and unpleasant. But if you are both working and earning together there can be no question of reproach; go your way, let her go hers, and help each other side by side. It would not be wise for either of you to give up your chosen vocations until you have saved enough to say: ‘This isours, we have earned it in common.’
“Let us analyse these words: ‘In marrying a famous singer you will be playing the pitiable part of attendant upon her journeys; you will live on her money and lose your own chances of work.’ If your love is not a fleeting, but solid sentiment, as it ought to be in people of your age; if your vows are sincere and unalterable, then all these misgivings are nonsense. Married happiness is basedupon mutual respect, and you would no more permit your wife to be a kind of servant, than she would ask you to be her lackey. The travelling is not a matter of any importance, so long as it does not prevent your composing—it will even give you opportunities of getting your operas or symphonies performed in various places. A devoted friend will help to inspire you. When all is set down in black and white, with such a companion as your chosen one, your talent is more likely to progress than to deteriorate. (2) Even if your first passion for her does cool somewhat, will ‘nothing remain but disenchantment and depression’? But why should love grow cold? I lived twenty-one years with your mother, and during all that time I loved her just the same, with the ardour of a young man, and respected and worshipped her as a saint.... There is only one question I would ask you; have you proved each other? Do you love each other truly, and for all time? I know your character, my dear son, and I have confidence in you, but I have not as yet the happiness of knowing the dear woman of your choice. I only know her lovely heart and soul through you. It would be no bad thing if you proved each other, not by jealousy—God forbid—but by time....
“Describe her character to me in full, my dear. Does she translate that tender word ‘Désirée’? A mother’s wish counts for nothing in love affairs, but give it your consideration.”
Tchaikovsky to his brother Anatol.(January.)“Just now I am very much excited.The Voyevodeis about to be performed. Everyone is taking the greatest pains, so I can hope for a good performance. Menshikova will do very well; she sings the ‘Nightingale’ song in the second act beautifully. The tenor is not amiss, but the bass is bad. If the work goes well I shall try to arrange for you both to come here in the Carnival Week, so that you may hear it.“I have already begun upon a second opera, but I must not tell you about the subject, because I want to keep it a secret that I have anything in hand. How astonishedthey will be to find in summer that half the opera is already put together! (I hope in summer I shall have some chance of working)....“With regard to the love affair I had early in the winter, I may tell you that it is very doubtful whether I shall enter Hymen’s bonds or not. Things are beginning to go rather awry. I will tell you more about it later on. I have not time now.”
Tchaikovsky to his brother Anatol.
(January.)
“Just now I am very much excited.The Voyevodeis about to be performed. Everyone is taking the greatest pains, so I can hope for a good performance. Menshikova will do very well; she sings the ‘Nightingale’ song in the second act beautifully. The tenor is not amiss, but the bass is bad. If the work goes well I shall try to arrange for you both to come here in the Carnival Week, so that you may hear it.
“I have already begun upon a second opera, but I must not tell you about the subject, because I want to keep it a secret that I have anything in hand. How astonishedthey will be to find in summer that half the opera is already put together! (I hope in summer I shall have some chance of working)....
“With regard to the love affair I had early in the winter, I may tell you that it is very doubtful whether I shall enter Hymen’s bonds or not. Things are beginning to go rather awry. I will tell you more about it later on. I have not time now.”
During this month (January) Désirée Artôt, without a word of explanation to her first lover, was married to the baritone singer Padilla at Warsaw.
The news reached Tchaikovsky at a moment when his whole mind, time, and interests were absorbed by the production of his first opera, and, judging from the tone of his letters, it was owing to these circumstances that it affected him less painfully than might have been expected.
In any case, after the first hours of bitterness, Tchaikovsky bore no grudge against the faithless lady. She remained for him the most perfect artist he had ever known. As a woman she was always dear to his memory. A year later he had to meet her again, and wrote of the prospect as follows:—
“I shall have very shortly to meet Artôt. She is coming here, and I cannot avoid a meeting, because immediately after her arrival we begin the rehearsals forLe Domino Noir(for which I have written recitatives and choruses), which I shall be compelled to attend. This woman has caused me to experience many bitter hours, and yet I am drawn to her by such an inexplicable sympathy that I begin to look forward to her coming with feverish impatience.”
“I shall have very shortly to meet Artôt. She is coming here, and I cannot avoid a meeting, because immediately after her arrival we begin the rehearsals forLe Domino Noir(for which I have written recitatives and choruses), which I shall be compelled to attend. This woman has caused me to experience many bitter hours, and yet I am drawn to her by such an inexplicable sympathy that I begin to look forward to her coming with feverish impatience.”
They met as friends. All intimate relations were at an end.
“When, in 1869, Artôt reappeared at the Moscow Opera,” says Kashkin, “I sat in the stalls next to Tchaikovsky, who was greatly moved. When the singer came on, he heldhis opera glasses to his eyes and never lowered them during the entire performance; but he must have seen very little, for tear after tear rolled down his cheeks.”
“When, in 1869, Artôt reappeared at the Moscow Opera,” says Kashkin, “I sat in the stalls next to Tchaikovsky, who was greatly moved. When the singer came on, he heldhis opera glasses to his eyes and never lowered them during the entire performance; but he must have seen very little, for tear after tear rolled down his cheeks.”
Twenty years later they met once more. Youthful love and mutual sympathy had then given place to a steady friendship, which lasted the rest of their lives.
On January 30th (February 11th), 1869,The Voyevodewas given for the first time for the singer Menshikova’s benefit.
The opera was very well received. The composer was recalled fifteen times and presented with a laurel wreath. The performance, however, was not without mishaps. Rapport, who took the lover’s part, had been kept awake all night by an abscess on his finger, and was nearly fainting. “If Menshikova had not supported him in her arms, the curtain must have been rung down,” wrote Tchaikovsky to his brothers.
Kashkin says the chorus on a folksong, which occurred early in the opera, pleased at once, and the “Nightingale” song became a favourite. The tenor solo, “Glow, O Dawn-light,” based upon the pentatonic scale, and the duet between Olona and Maria, “The moon sails calmly,” and the last quartet all met with great success.
But the stormy ovation at the first performance, the enthusiasm of the composer’s friends, and the appreciation of one or two specialists, could not create a lasting success. The opera was only heard five times, and then disappeared from the repertory for ever.
The first words of disapprobation and harsh criticism came from an unexpected quarter—from Laroche. It was not only his “faint praise” of this work, but the contemptuous attitude which Laroche now assumed towards Tchaikovsky’s talent as a whole, which wounded the composer so deeply that he broke off all connection with his old friend.
TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1868TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1868
Soon after the production ofThe VoyevodeTchaikovsky’ssymphonic fantasiaFatum(orDestiny) was given for the first time at the eighth concert of the Musical Society. By way of programme for this work, which he dedicated to Balakirev, Tchaikovsky chose the following lines from Batioushkov:—
“Thou knowest what the white-haired MelchisedekSaid when he left this life: Man is born a slave,A slave he dies. Will even Death reveal to himWhy thus he laboured in this vale of tears,Why thus he suffered, wept, endured—then vanished?”
“Thou knowest what the white-haired MelchisedekSaid when he left this life: Man is born a slave,A slave he dies. Will even Death reveal to himWhy thus he laboured in this vale of tears,Why thus he suffered, wept, endured—then vanished?”
“Thou knowest what the white-haired MelchisedekSaid when he left this life: Man is born a slave,A slave he dies. Will even Death reveal to himWhy thus he laboured in this vale of tears,Why thus he suffered, wept, endured—then vanished?”
To the choice of this motto attaches a history in which a certain Sergius Rachinsky played a part. This gentleman, Professor of Botany at the Moscow University, was one of Tchaikovsky’s earliest and most enthusiastic admirers. Rachinsky was a lover of music and literature, but held the most unusual views upon these, as upon all other subjects. For instance, he saw nothing in Ostrovsky, then at the height of his fame, but discerned in Tchaikovsky, who was hardly known to the world, the making of a “great” composer.
When, in 1871, the musician dedicated to Rachinsky his first quartet, the latter exclaimed with enthusiasm: “C’est un brevet d’immortalité que j’ai reçu.”
OriginallyFatumhad no definite programme.
“When the books for the concert were about to be printed,” relates Rachinsky, “Rubinstein, who was always very careful about such details, considered the bare titleFatuminsufficient, and suggested that an appropriate verse should be added. It chanced that I, who had not heard a note of the new work, had dropped in upon Rubinstein, and the verses of Batioushkov flashed across my mind. Rubinstein asked me to write them down at once, and added them to the programme-book with the composer’s consent.”
“When the books for the concert were about to be printed,” relates Rachinsky, “Rubinstein, who was always very careful about such details, considered the bare titleFatuminsufficient, and suggested that an appropriate verse should be added. It chanced that I, who had not heard a note of the new work, had dropped in upon Rubinstein, and the verses of Batioushkov flashed across my mind. Rubinstein asked me to write them down at once, and added them to the programme-book with the composer’s consent.”
The quotation, therefore, has not the significance of aprogramme, but was merely an epigraph added to the score.
The composer declared thatFatumhad a “distinct success” with the public, and added that he “considered it the best work he had written so far,” and “others are of my opinion.” From this we may gather that, with the exception of Laroche, Tchaikovsky’s musical friends were pleased with this composition.
Fatumwas given almost simultaneously by the Petersburg section of the Musical Society, under Balakirev’s direction. But here the fantasia fell flat, and pleased neither the public nor the musicians.
Nevertheless, Cui did not handle the young composer so severely as on the occasion of his Diploma Cantata. He found fault with a good deal inFatum, but described the music as being on the whole “agreeable, but not inspired,” the instrumentation “somewhat rough,” and the harmonies “bold and new, if not invariably beautiful.”
Balakirev—to whom the work was dedicated—did not admire it, and his feelings were shared by the rest of the “Invincible Band.” He wrote to Tchaikovsky as follows:—
“YourFatumhas been played, and I venture to hope the performance was not bad—at least everyone seemed satisfied with it. There was not much applause, which I ascribe to the hideous crash at the end. The work itself does not please me; it is not sufficiently thought out, and shows signs of having been written hastily. In many places the joins and tacking-threads are too perceptible. Laroche says it is because you do not study the classics sufficiently. I put it down to another cause: you are too little acquainted with modern music. You will never learn freedom of form from the classical composers. You will find nothing new there. They can only give you what you knew already, when you sat on the students’ benches and listened respectfully to Zaremba’s learned discourses upon ‘The Connection between Rondo-form and Man’s First Fall.’“At the same concertLes Préludesof Liszt was performed. Observe the wonderful form of this work; how one thing follows another quite naturally. This is no mere motley, haphazard affair. Or take Glinka’sNight in Madrid; in what a masterly fashion the various sections of this overture are fused together! It is just this organic coherence and connection that are lacking inFatum. I have chosen Glinka as an example because I believe you have studied him a great deal, and I could see all throughFatumyou were under the influence of one of his choruses.“The verse you chose as an epigraph is altogether beneath criticism. It is a frightful specimen of manufactured rhyme. If you are really so attracted to Byronism, why not have chosen a suitable quotation from Lermontov? With the object of making the verse run smoother I left out the first two lines (Melchisedek seemed really too absurd!), but apparently I perpetrated a blunder. Our entire circle dropped upon me and assured me that the whole of the introduction toFatumwas intended to express the awful utterance of Melchisedek himself. Perhaps they are right. If so, you must forgive my excellent intention.... I write to you quite frankly, and feel sure you will not on this account abandon your intention of dedicatingFatumto me. This dedication is very precious, as indicating your regard for me, and on my part I reciprocate your feeling.”
“YourFatumhas been played, and I venture to hope the performance was not bad—at least everyone seemed satisfied with it. There was not much applause, which I ascribe to the hideous crash at the end. The work itself does not please me; it is not sufficiently thought out, and shows signs of having been written hastily. In many places the joins and tacking-threads are too perceptible. Laroche says it is because you do not study the classics sufficiently. I put it down to another cause: you are too little acquainted with modern music. You will never learn freedom of form from the classical composers. You will find nothing new there. They can only give you what you knew already, when you sat on the students’ benches and listened respectfully to Zaremba’s learned discourses upon ‘The Connection between Rondo-form and Man’s First Fall.’
“At the same concertLes Préludesof Liszt was performed. Observe the wonderful form of this work; how one thing follows another quite naturally. This is no mere motley, haphazard affair. Or take Glinka’sNight in Madrid; in what a masterly fashion the various sections of this overture are fused together! It is just this organic coherence and connection that are lacking inFatum. I have chosen Glinka as an example because I believe you have studied him a great deal, and I could see all throughFatumyou were under the influence of one of his choruses.
“The verse you chose as an epigraph is altogether beneath criticism. It is a frightful specimen of manufactured rhyme. If you are really so attracted to Byronism, why not have chosen a suitable quotation from Lermontov? With the object of making the verse run smoother I left out the first two lines (Melchisedek seemed really too absurd!), but apparently I perpetrated a blunder. Our entire circle dropped upon me and assured me that the whole of the introduction toFatumwas intended to express the awful utterance of Melchisedek himself. Perhaps they are right. If so, you must forgive my excellent intention.... I write to you quite frankly, and feel sure you will not on this account abandon your intention of dedicatingFatumto me. This dedication is very precious, as indicating your regard for me, and on my part I reciprocate your feeling.”
Tchaikovsky did not resent Balakirev’s opinion, although it may have wounded him. That he was grateful for the friendly tone of the letter, in which Balakirev’s confidence in his talent was clearly perceptible, is evident from the fact that three months later he appeared in the press as the champion of the leader of the “Invincible Band.” Moreover, after a short time, he shared Balakirev’s opinion of his work, and destroyed the score ofFatum.
Early in the season Tchaikovsky began to look out for material for a new opera. The chief requisite he asked was that the scene should not be laid in Russia. The discussion with Ostrovsky of a plot from the period ofAlexander the Great, mentioned in his letter of September 25th, had come to nothing. Without applying to another librettist, he began to search for a ready-made text. Great was his joy to discover a book among the works of Count Sollogoub, based upon his favourite poem, Joukovsky’s “Undine.”
Without reflection, or closer inspection of the libretto, he began to compose with fervour, even in the midst of the rehearsals forThe Voyevode; that is in January, 1869. By February he had already written most of the first act. The two following acts he wrote in April, and began the orchestration in the course of the same month. He hoped to complete the first act in May, and the remainder during the summer, and to send the whole score to the Direction of the Petersburg Opera by November, when Gedeonov had given him a formal promise to produce it.
This feverish work, the many excitements of the winter season, his anxiety about the elder of the twins, who had to pass his final examination at the School of Jurisprudence, and all the trouble and correspondence involved in trying to find him an opening in Moscow, told upon Tchaikovsky’s nerves. His health was so far impaired that he gradually lost strength, until he became quite exhausted, and the doctor ordered him to the seaside, or to an inland watering-place, enjoining absolute repose.
The summer was spent with his sister at Kamenka, where the whole family was gathered together, with the exception of Nicholas. In June they celebrated the wedding of his brother, Hyppolite, to Sophia Nikonov, and Tchaikovsky, having recovered his spirits, took a leading part in all the festivities.
The score ofUndinewas finished by the end of July, and the composer returned to Moscow earlier than usual—about the beginning of August.