To Anatol Tchaikovsky.“August11th(23rd), 1869.“ ... We have taken new quarters; my room is upstairs, and there is a place for you too. I made every possible pretext for living alone, but I could not manage it. However, now I shall pay my own expenses and keep my own servant.... Begichev has taken my opera to Petersburg. Whether it is produced or not, I have finished with it and can turn to something else. Balakirev is staying here. We often meet, and I always come to the conclusion that—in spite of his worthiness—his society weighs upon me like a stone. I particularly dislike the narrowness of his views, and the persistence with which he upholds them. At the same time his short visit has been of benefit to me in many respects.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“August11th(23rd), 1869.
“ ... We have taken new quarters; my room is upstairs, and there is a place for you too. I made every possible pretext for living alone, but I could not manage it. However, now I shall pay my own expenses and keep my own servant.... Begichev has taken my opera to Petersburg. Whether it is produced or not, I have finished with it and can turn to something else. Balakirev is staying here. We often meet, and I always come to the conclusion that—in spite of his worthiness—his society weighs upon me like a stone. I particularly dislike the narrowness of his views, and the persistence with which he upholds them. At the same time his short visit has been of benefit to me in many respects.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.“August18th(30th).“I have no news to give. Balakirev leaves to-day. Although he has sometimes bored me, I must in justice say that he is a good, honourable man, and immeasurably above the average as an artist. We have just taken a touching farewell of each other....“I gave an evening party not long since. Balakirev, Borodin, Kashkin, Klimenko, Arnold and Plestcheiev were among the guests.“I met Laroche in The Hermitage and said ‘Good-day,’ but I have no intention of making it up with him.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“August18th(30th).
“I have no news to give. Balakirev leaves to-day. Although he has sometimes bored me, I must in justice say that he is a good, honourable man, and immeasurably above the average as an artist. We have just taken a touching farewell of each other....
“I gave an evening party not long since. Balakirev, Borodin, Kashkin, Klimenko, Arnold and Plestcheiev were among the guests.
“I met Laroche in The Hermitage and said ‘Good-day,’ but I have no intention of making it up with him.”
Towards the end of September, 1869, Tchaikovsky set to work upon his overture toRomeo and Juliet, to which he had been incited by Balakirev’s suggestions. Indeed, the latter played so important a part in the genesis of this work that it is necessary to speak of it in detail.
Balakirev not only suggested the subject, but took sucha lively interest in the work that he kept up a continuous current of good advice and solicitations. In October he wrote:—
“It strikes me that your inactivity proceeds from your lack of concentration, in spite of your ‘snug workshop.’ I do not know your method of composing, mine is as follows: when I wrote myKing Lear, having first read the play, I felt inspired to compose an overture (which Stassov had already suggested to me). At first I had no actual material, I only warmed to the project. An Introduction, ‘maestoso,’ followed by something mystical (Kent’s Prediction). The Introduction dies away and gives place to a stormy allegro. This is Lear himself, the discrowned, but still mighty, lion. By way of episodes the characteristic themes of Regan and Goneril, and then—a second subject—Cordelia, calm and tender. The middle section (storm, Lear and the Fool on the heath) and repetition of the allegro: Regan and Goneril finally crush their father, and the overture dies away softly (Lear over Cordelia’s corpse), then the prediction of Kent is heard once more, and finally the peaceful and solemn note of death. You must understand that, so far, I had no definite musical ideas. These came later and took their place within my framework. I believe you will feel the same, if once you are inspired by the project. Then arm yourself with goloshes and a walking-stick and go for a constitutional on the Boulevards, starting with the Nikitsky; let yourself be saturated with your plan, and I am convinced by the time you reach the Sretensky Boulevard some theme or episode will have come to you. Just at this moment, thinking of your overture, an idea has come to me involuntarily, and I seem to see that it should open with a fierce ‘allegro with the clash of swords.’ Something like this:
“It strikes me that your inactivity proceeds from your lack of concentration, in spite of your ‘snug workshop.’ I do not know your method of composing, mine is as follows: when I wrote myKing Lear, having first read the play, I felt inspired to compose an overture (which Stassov had already suggested to me). At first I had no actual material, I only warmed to the project. An Introduction, ‘maestoso,’ followed by something mystical (Kent’s Prediction). The Introduction dies away and gives place to a stormy allegro. This is Lear himself, the discrowned, but still mighty, lion. By way of episodes the characteristic themes of Regan and Goneril, and then—a second subject—Cordelia, calm and tender. The middle section (storm, Lear and the Fool on the heath) and repetition of the allegro: Regan and Goneril finally crush their father, and the overture dies away softly (Lear over Cordelia’s corpse), then the prediction of Kent is heard once more, and finally the peaceful and solemn note of death. You must understand that, so far, I had no definite musical ideas. These came later and took their place within my framework. I believe you will feel the same, if once you are inspired by the project. Then arm yourself with goloshes and a walking-stick and go for a constitutional on the Boulevards, starting with the Nikitsky; let yourself be saturated with your plan, and I am convinced by the time you reach the Sretensky Boulevard some theme or episode will have come to you. Just at this moment, thinking of your overture, an idea has come to me involuntarily, and I seem to see that it should open with a fierce ‘allegro with the clash of swords.’ Something like this:
“I should begin in this style. If I were going to write the overture I should become enthusiastic over this germ, and I should brood over it, or rather turn it over in my mind until something vital came of it.“If these lines have a good effect upon you I shall be very pleased. I have a certain right to hope for this, because your letters do me good. Your last, for instance, made me so unusually light-hearted that I rushed out into the Nevsky Prospect; I did not walk, I danced along, and composed part of myTamaraas I went.”
“I should begin in this style. If I were going to write the overture I should become enthusiastic over this germ, and I should brood over it, or rather turn it over in my mind until something vital came of it.
“If these lines have a good effect upon you I shall be very pleased. I have a certain right to hope for this, because your letters do me good. Your last, for instance, made me so unusually light-hearted that I rushed out into the Nevsky Prospect; I did not walk, I danced along, and composed part of myTamaraas I went.”
When Balakirev heard that Tchaikovsky was actually at work, he wrote in November:—
“I am delighted to hear that the child of your fancy has quickened. God grant it comes to a happy birth. I am very curious to know what you have put into the overture. Do send me what you have done so far, and I promise not to make any remarks—good or bad—until the thing is finished.”
“I am delighted to hear that the child of your fancy has quickened. God grant it comes to a happy birth. I am very curious to know what you have put into the overture. Do send me what you have done so far, and I promise not to make any remarks—good or bad—until the thing is finished.”
After Tchaikovsky had acceded to Balakirev’s request, and sent him the chief subjects of his overture, he received the following answer, which caused him to make some modifications in the work:—
“ ... As your overture is all but finished, and will soon be played, I will tell you what I think of it quite frankly (I do not use this word in Zaremba’s sense). The first subject does not please me at all. Perhaps it improves in the working out—I cannot say—but in the crude state in which it lies before me it has neither strength nor beauty, and does not sufficiently suggest the character of Father Lawrence. Here something like one of Liszt’s chorales—in the old Catholic Church style—would be very appropriate (The Night Procession,Hunnenschlacht, andSt. Elizabeth); your motive is of quite a different order, in the style of a quartet by Haydn, that genius of “burgher” music which induces a fierce thirst for beer. There is nothing of old-world Catholicism about it; it recalls ratherthe type of Gogol’sComrade Kunz, who wanted to cut off his nose to save the money he spent on snuff. But possibly in its development your motive may turn out quite differently, in which case I will eat my own words.“As to the B minor theme, it seems to me less a theme than a lovely introduction to one, and after the agitated movement in C major, something very forcible and energetic should follow. I take it for granted that it will really be so, and that you were too lazy to write out the context.“The first theme in D flat major is very pretty, although rather colourless. The second, in the same key, is simply fascinating. I often play it, and would like to hug you for it. It has the sweetness of love, its tenderness, its longing, in a word, so much that must appeal to the heart of that immoral German, Albrecht. I have only one thing to say against this theme: it does not sufficiently express a mystic, inward, spiritual love, but rather a fantastic passionate glow which has hardly any nuance of Italian sentiment. Romeo and Juliet were not Persian lovers, but Europeans. I do not know if you will understand what I am driving at—I always feel the lack of appropriate words when I speak of music, and I am obliged to have recourse to comparison in order to explain myself. One subject in which spiritual love is well expressed—according to my ideas—is the second theme in Schumann’s overture,The Bride of Messina. The subject has its weak side too; it is morbid and somewhat sentimental at the end, but the fundamental emotion is sincere.“I am impatient to receive the entire score, so that I may get a just impression of your clever overture, which is—so far—your best work; the fact that you have dedicated it to me affords me the greatest pleasure. It is the first of your compositions which contains so many beautiful things that one does not hesitate to pronounce it good as a whole. It cannot be compared with that old Melchisedek, who was so drunk with sorrow that he must needs dance his disgustingtrepakin the Arbatsky Square. Send me the score soon; I am longing to see it.”
“ ... As your overture is all but finished, and will soon be played, I will tell you what I think of it quite frankly (I do not use this word in Zaremba’s sense). The first subject does not please me at all. Perhaps it improves in the working out—I cannot say—but in the crude state in which it lies before me it has neither strength nor beauty, and does not sufficiently suggest the character of Father Lawrence. Here something like one of Liszt’s chorales—in the old Catholic Church style—would be very appropriate (The Night Procession,Hunnenschlacht, andSt. Elizabeth); your motive is of quite a different order, in the style of a quartet by Haydn, that genius of “burgher” music which induces a fierce thirst for beer. There is nothing of old-world Catholicism about it; it recalls ratherthe type of Gogol’sComrade Kunz, who wanted to cut off his nose to save the money he spent on snuff. But possibly in its development your motive may turn out quite differently, in which case I will eat my own words.
“As to the B minor theme, it seems to me less a theme than a lovely introduction to one, and after the agitated movement in C major, something very forcible and energetic should follow. I take it for granted that it will really be so, and that you were too lazy to write out the context.
“The first theme in D flat major is very pretty, although rather colourless. The second, in the same key, is simply fascinating. I often play it, and would like to hug you for it. It has the sweetness of love, its tenderness, its longing, in a word, so much that must appeal to the heart of that immoral German, Albrecht. I have only one thing to say against this theme: it does not sufficiently express a mystic, inward, spiritual love, but rather a fantastic passionate glow which has hardly any nuance of Italian sentiment. Romeo and Juliet were not Persian lovers, but Europeans. I do not know if you will understand what I am driving at—I always feel the lack of appropriate words when I speak of music, and I am obliged to have recourse to comparison in order to explain myself. One subject in which spiritual love is well expressed—according to my ideas—is the second theme in Schumann’s overture,The Bride of Messina. The subject has its weak side too; it is morbid and somewhat sentimental at the end, but the fundamental emotion is sincere.
“I am impatient to receive the entire score, so that I may get a just impression of your clever overture, which is—so far—your best work; the fact that you have dedicated it to me affords me the greatest pleasure. It is the first of your compositions which contains so many beautiful things that one does not hesitate to pronounce it good as a whole. It cannot be compared with that old Melchisedek, who was so drunk with sorrow that he must needs dance his disgustingtrepakin the Arbatsky Square. Send me the score soon; I am longing to see it.”
But even in a somewhat modified form, Balakirev wasnot quite satisfied with the overture. On January 22nd (February 3rd), 1871, he wrote as follows:—
“I am very pleased with the introduction, but the end is not at all to my taste. It is impossible to write of it in detail. It would be better if you came here, so that I could tell you what I think of it. In the middle section you have done something new and good; the alternating chords above the pedal-point, ratherà la Russlan. The close becomes very commonplace, and the whole of the section after the end of the second subject (D major) seems to have been dragged from your brain by main force. The actual ending is not bad, but why those accentuated chords in the very last bars? This seems to contradict the meaning of the play, and is inartistic. Nadejda Nicholaevna[19]has scratched out these chords with her own fair hands, and wants to make the pianoforte arrangement end pianissimo. I do not know whether you will consent to this alteration.”
“I am very pleased with the introduction, but the end is not at all to my taste. It is impossible to write of it in detail. It would be better if you came here, so that I could tell you what I think of it. In the middle section you have done something new and good; the alternating chords above the pedal-point, ratherà la Russlan. The close becomes very commonplace, and the whole of the section after the end of the second subject (D major) seems to have been dragged from your brain by main force. The actual ending is not bad, but why those accentuated chords in the very last bars? This seems to contradict the meaning of the play, and is inartistic. Nadejda Nicholaevna[19]has scratched out these chords with her own fair hands, and wants to make the pianoforte arrangement end pianissimo. I do not know whether you will consent to this alteration.”
When this arbitrary treatment of the composer’s intention had been carried through, the indefatigable critic wrote once more:—
“It is a pity that you, or rather Rubinstein, should have hurried the publication of the overture. Although the new introduction is a decided improvement, yet I had still a great desire to see some other alterations made in the work, and hoped it might remain longer in your hands for the sake of your future compositions. However, I hope Jurgenson will not refuse to print a revised and improved version of the overture at some future time.”
“It is a pity that you, or rather Rubinstein, should have hurried the publication of the overture. Although the new introduction is a decided improvement, yet I had still a great desire to see some other alterations made in the work, and hoped it might remain longer in your hands for the sake of your future compositions. However, I hope Jurgenson will not refuse to print a revised and improved version of the overture at some future time.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.“October7th(19th).“The Conservatoire begins already to be repugnant to me, and the lessons I am obliged to give fatigue me asthey did last year. Just now I am not working at all.Romeo and Julietis finished. Yesterday I received a commission from Bessel. He asked me to arrange Rubinstein’s overture toIvan the Terrible. I have had a letter from Balakirev scolding me because I am doing nothing. I hear nothing definite about my opera: they say it will be performed, but the date is uncertain. I often go to the opera. The sisters Marchisio are good, especially inSemiramide. Yet when I hear them I am more and more convinced that Artôt is the greatest artist in the world.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“October7th(19th).
“The Conservatoire begins already to be repugnant to me, and the lessons I am obliged to give fatigue me asthey did last year. Just now I am not working at all.Romeo and Julietis finished. Yesterday I received a commission from Bessel. He asked me to arrange Rubinstein’s overture toIvan the Terrible. I have had a letter from Balakirev scolding me because I am doing nothing. I hear nothing definite about my opera: they say it will be performed, but the date is uncertain. I often go to the opera. The sisters Marchisio are good, especially inSemiramide. Yet when I hear them I am more and more convinced that Artôt is the greatest artist in the world.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“November18th(30th).“Yesterday I received very sad news from Petersburg. My opera is to wait until next season, because there is not sufficient time to study the two operas which stand before mine in the repertory: Moniuszko’sHalkaand Dütsch’sCroat. I am not likely therefore to come to Petersburg. From the pecuniary point of view the postponement of my opera is undesirable. Morally, too, it is bad for me; that is to say, I shall be incapable of any work for two or three weeks to come.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“November18th(30th).
“Yesterday I received very sad news from Petersburg. My opera is to wait until next season, because there is not sufficient time to study the two operas which stand before mine in the repertory: Moniuszko’sHalkaand Dütsch’sCroat. I am not likely therefore to come to Petersburg. From the pecuniary point of view the postponement of my opera is undesirable. Morally, too, it is bad for me; that is to say, I shall be incapable of any work for two or three weeks to come.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“January13th(25th), 1870.“Balakirev and Rimsky-Korsakov have been here. We saw each other every day. Balakirev begins to respect me more and more. Korsakov has dedicated a charming song to me. My overture pleased them both, and I like it myself. Besides the overture, I have recently composed a chorus from the operaMandragora, the text of which, by Rachinsky, is already known to you. I intended to write music to this libretto, but my friends dissuaded me, because they considered the opera gave too little scope for stage effects. Now Rachinsky is writing another book for me, calledRaymond Lully.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“January13th(25th), 1870.
“Balakirev and Rimsky-Korsakov have been here. We saw each other every day. Balakirev begins to respect me more and more. Korsakov has dedicated a charming song to me. My overture pleased them both, and I like it myself. Besides the overture, I have recently composed a chorus from the operaMandragora, the text of which, by Rachinsky, is already known to you. I intended to write music to this libretto, but my friends dissuaded me, because they considered the opera gave too little scope for stage effects. Now Rachinsky is writing another book for me, calledRaymond Lully.”
Kashkin was one of the friends who dissuaded Tchaikovsky from composingMandragora. The latter playedhim a ‘Chorus of Insects’ from the unfinished work, which pleased him very much. But he thought the subject more suitable for a ballet than an opera. A fierce argument took place which lasted a long time. Finally, with tears in his eyes, Tchaikovsky came round to Kashkin’s view, and relinquished his intention of writing this opera. It made him very unhappy and more chary in future of confiding his plans to his friends.
Laroche gives the following account of this unpublished chorus:—
“‘The Elves’ Chorus’ is intended for boys’ voices in unison, with accompaniment for mixed chorus and orchestra. The atmosphere of a calm moonlight night (described in the text) and the fantastic character of the scene are admirably reproduced. In this chorus we find not only that silky texture, that softness, distinction, and delicacy which Tchaikovsky shows in all his best work, but far more marked indications of maturity than in any of his earlier compositions. The orchestration is very rich, and on the whole original, although the influence of Berlioz is sometimes noticeable.”
“‘The Elves’ Chorus’ is intended for boys’ voices in unison, with accompaniment for mixed chorus and orchestra. The atmosphere of a calm moonlight night (described in the text) and the fantastic character of the scene are admirably reproduced. In this chorus we find not only that silky texture, that softness, distinction, and delicacy which Tchaikovsky shows in all his best work, but far more marked indications of maturity than in any of his earlier compositions. The orchestration is very rich, and on the whole original, although the influence of Berlioz is sometimes noticeable.”
To his sister, A. Davidov.“February5th(17th).“One thing troubles me: there is no one in Moscow with whom I can enter into really intimate, familiar, and homely relations. I often think how happy I should be if you, or someone like you, lived here. I have a great longing for the sound of children’s voices, and for a share in all the trifling interests of a home—in a word, for family life.“I intend to begin a third opera; this time on a subject borrowed from Lajetnikov’s tragedy,The Oprichnik. MyUndineis to be produced at the beginning of next season, if they do not fail me. Although the spring is still far off and the frosts are hardly over yet, I have already begun to think of the summer, and to long for the early spring sunshine, which always has such a good effect upon me.”
To his sister, A. Davidov.
“February5th(17th).
“One thing troubles me: there is no one in Moscow with whom I can enter into really intimate, familiar, and homely relations. I often think how happy I should be if you, or someone like you, lived here. I have a great longing for the sound of children’s voices, and for a share in all the trifling interests of a home—in a word, for family life.
“I intend to begin a third opera; this time on a subject borrowed from Lajetnikov’s tragedy,The Oprichnik. MyUndineis to be produced at the beginning of next season, if they do not fail me. Although the spring is still far off and the frosts are hardly over yet, I have already begun to think of the summer, and to long for the early spring sunshine, which always has such a good effect upon me.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“March3rd(15th), 1870.“ ... The day after to-morrow my overtureRomeo and Julietwill be performed. There has been a rehearsal already: the work does not seem detestable. But the Lord only knows!...“In the third week of Lent excerpts from my operaUndinewill be played at Merten’s[20]concert. I am very curious to hear them. Sietov writes that there is every reason to believe the opera will be given early next season.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“March3rd(15th), 1870.
“ ... The day after to-morrow my overtureRomeo and Julietwill be performed. There has been a rehearsal already: the work does not seem detestable. But the Lord only knows!...
“In the third week of Lent excerpts from my operaUndinewill be played at Merten’s[20]concert. I am very curious to hear them. Sietov writes that there is every reason to believe the opera will be given early next season.”
Merten’s concert took place on March 16th (28th). Kashkin says it gave further proof how hardly Tchaikovsky conquered the public sympathy.
“In the orchestration of the aria fromUndine,” he says, “the pianoforte plays an important and really beautiful part. Nicholas Rubinstein undertook to play it; yet, in spite of the wonderful rendering of the piece, it had very little success. After the adagio from theFirst Symphony—also included in the programme—even a slight hissing was heard. The Italian craze was still predominant at the Opera House, so that it was very difficult for a Russian work to find recognition.”
“In the orchestration of the aria fromUndine,” he says, “the pianoforte plays an important and really beautiful part. Nicholas Rubinstein undertook to play it; yet, in spite of the wonderful rendering of the piece, it had very little success. After the adagio from theFirst Symphony—also included in the programme—even a slight hissing was heard. The Italian craze was still predominant at the Opera House, so that it was very difficult for a Russian work to find recognition.”
Romeo and Juliet, given at the Musical Society’s Concert on March 4th (16th), had no success.
On the previous day the decision in the case of “Schebalskyv.Rubinstein” had been made public, and the Director of the Conservatoire had been ordered to pay 25 roubles, damages for the summary and wrongful dismissal of this female student. Rubinstein refused to pay, and gave notice of appeal, but the master’s admirers immediately collected the small sum, in order to spare himthe few hours’ detention which his refusal involved. This event gave rise to a noisy demonstration when he appeared in public. Kashkin says:—
“From the moment Nicholas Rubinstein came on the platform, until the end of the concert, he was made the subject of an extraordinary ovation. No one thought of the concert or the music, and I felt indignant that the first performance ofRomeo and Julietshould have taken place under such conditions.”
“From the moment Nicholas Rubinstein came on the platform, until the end of the concert, he was made the subject of an extraordinary ovation. No one thought of the concert or the music, and I felt indignant that the first performance ofRomeo and Julietshould have taken place under such conditions.”
So it came about that the long-desired evening, which he hoped would bring him a great success, brought only another disillusionment for Tchaikovsky. The composer’s melancholy became a shade darker. “I just idle away the time cruelly,” he writes, “and my opera,The Oprichnik, has come to a standstill at the first chorus.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“March25th(April6th).“I congratulate you on leaving school. Looking back over the years that have passed since I left the School of Jurisprudence, I observe with some satisfaction that the time has not been lost. I wish the same for you....”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“March25th(April6th).
“I congratulate you on leaving school. Looking back over the years that have passed since I left the School of Jurisprudence, I observe with some satisfaction that the time has not been lost. I wish the same for you....”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.“April23rd(May 5th).“Rioumin[21]wants to convert me at any price. He has given me a number of religious books, and I have promised to read them all. In any case, I now walk in ways of godliness. In Passion week I fasted with Rubinstein.“About the middle of May I shall probably go abroad. I am partly pleased at the prospect and partly sorry, because I shall not see you.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“April23rd(May 5th).
“Rioumin[21]wants to convert me at any price. He has given me a number of religious books, and I have promised to read them all. In any case, I now walk in ways of godliness. In Passion week I fasted with Rubinstein.
“About the middle of May I shall probably go abroad. I am partly pleased at the prospect and partly sorry, because I shall not see you.”
To I. A. Klimenko.“May1st(13th), 1870.“ ... First I must tell you that I am sitting at the open window (at four a.m.) and breathing the lovely air of a spring morning. It is remarkable that in my present amiable mood I am suddenly seized with a desire to talk to you—to you of all people, you ungrateful creature! I want to tell you that life is still good, and that it is worth living on a May morning; and so, at four o’clock in the morning, I am pouring out my heart to you, while you, O empoisoned and lifeless being, will only laugh at me. Well, laugh away; all the same, I assert that life is beautiful in spite of everything! This ‘everything’ includes the following items: 1. Illness; I am getting much too stout, and my nerves are all to pieces. 2. The Conservatoire oppresses me to extinction; I am more and more convinced that I am absolutely unfitted to teach the theory of music. 3. My pecuniary situation is very bad. 4. I am very doubtful ifUndinewill be performed. I have heard that they are likely to throw me over. In a word, there are many thorns, but the roses are there too....“As regards ambition, I must tell you that I have certainly not been flattered of late. My songs were praised by Laroche, although Cui has ‘slated’ them, and Balakirev thinks them so bad that he persuaded Khvostova—who wanted to sing the one I had dedicated to her—not to ruin with its presence a programme graced by the names of Moussorgsky & Co.“My overture,Romeo and Juliet, had hardly any success here, and has remained quite unnoticed. I thought a great deal about you that night. After the concert we supped, a large party, at Gourin’s (a famous restaurant). No one said a single word about the overture during the evening. And yet I yearned so for appreciation and kindness! Yes, I thought a great deal about you, and of your encouraging sympathy. I do not know whether the slow progress of my opera,The Oprichnikis due to the fact that no one takes any interest in what I write; I am very doubtful if I shall get it finished for at least two years.”
To I. A. Klimenko.
“May1st(13th), 1870.
“ ... First I must tell you that I am sitting at the open window (at four a.m.) and breathing the lovely air of a spring morning. It is remarkable that in my present amiable mood I am suddenly seized with a desire to talk to you—to you of all people, you ungrateful creature! I want to tell you that life is still good, and that it is worth living on a May morning; and so, at four o’clock in the morning, I am pouring out my heart to you, while you, O empoisoned and lifeless being, will only laugh at me. Well, laugh away; all the same, I assert that life is beautiful in spite of everything! This ‘everything’ includes the following items: 1. Illness; I am getting much too stout, and my nerves are all to pieces. 2. The Conservatoire oppresses me to extinction; I am more and more convinced that I am absolutely unfitted to teach the theory of music. 3. My pecuniary situation is very bad. 4. I am very doubtful ifUndinewill be performed. I have heard that they are likely to throw me over. In a word, there are many thorns, but the roses are there too....
“As regards ambition, I must tell you that I have certainly not been flattered of late. My songs were praised by Laroche, although Cui has ‘slated’ them, and Balakirev thinks them so bad that he persuaded Khvostova—who wanted to sing the one I had dedicated to her—not to ruin with its presence a programme graced by the names of Moussorgsky & Co.
“My overture,Romeo and Juliet, had hardly any success here, and has remained quite unnoticed. I thought a great deal about you that night. After the concert we supped, a large party, at Gourin’s (a famous restaurant). No one said a single word about the overture during the evening. And yet I yearned so for appreciation and kindness! Yes, I thought a great deal about you, and of your encouraging sympathy. I do not know whether the slow progress of my opera,The Oprichnikis due to the fact that no one takes any interest in what I write; I am very doubtful if I shall get it finished for at least two years.”
Tchaikovsky spent only a few days in St. Petersburg before going abroad. There he heard the final verdict upon his operaUndine. The conference of the Capellmeisters of the Imperial Opera, with Constantine Liadov at their head, did not consider the work worthy of production. How the composer took this decision, what he felt and thought of it, we can only guess from our knowledge of his susceptible artisticamour propre. At the time, he never referred to the matter, either in letters or in conversation. Eight years afterwards he wrote as follows:—
“The Direction put aside myUndinein 1870. At the time I felt much embittered, and it seemed to me an injustice; but in the end I was not pleased with the work myself, and I burnt the score about three years ago.”
“The Direction put aside myUndinein 1870. At the time I felt much embittered, and it seemed to me an injustice; but in the end I was not pleased with the work myself, and I burnt the score about three years ago.”
Tchaikovsky travelled from St. Petersburg to Paris without a break, being anxious to reach his friend Shilovsky with all possible speed. He half feared to find him already on his death-bed. The young man was extremely weak, but able to travel to Soden at the end of three days. The atmosphere of ill_health in which Tchaikovsky found himself—Soden is a resort for consumptive patients—was very depressing, but he determined to endure it for his friend’s sake.
“The care of Volodya,”[22]he wrote, “is a matter of conscience with me, for his life hangs by a thread ... his affection for me, and his delight on my arrival, touched me so deeply that I am glad to take upon myself the rôle of an Argus, and be the saviour of his life.”
“The care of Volodya,”[22]he wrote, “is a matter of conscience with me, for his life hangs by a thread ... his affection for me, and his delight on my arrival, touched me so deeply that I am glad to take upon myself the rôle of an Argus, and be the saviour of his life.”
But by coming abroad he sacrificed all opportunity of seeing the twins and his sister Alexandra during the summer vacation.
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“Soden,June24th(July6th).“We lead a monotonous existence, and are dreadfully bored, but for this very reason my health is first-rate. The saline baths do me a great deal of good, and, apart from them, the way of living is excellent. I am very lazy, and have not the least desire to work. A few days ago a great festival took place at Mannheim, on the occasion of the hundredth anniversary of Beethoven’s birth. This festival, to which we went, lasted three days. The programme was very interesting, and the performance superb. The orchestra consisted of various bands from the different Rhenish towns. The chorus numbered 400. I have never heard such a fine and powerful choir in my life. The well-known composer, Lachner, conducted. Among other things I heard for the first time the difficultMissa Solennis. It is one of the most inspired musical creations.“I have been to Wiesbaden to see Nicholas Rubinstein. I found him in the act of losing his last rouble at roulette, which did not prevent our spending a very pleasant day together. He is quite convinced he will break the bank before he leaves Wiesbaden. I long to be with you all.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Soden,June24th(July6th).
“We lead a monotonous existence, and are dreadfully bored, but for this very reason my health is first-rate. The saline baths do me a great deal of good, and, apart from them, the way of living is excellent. I am very lazy, and have not the least desire to work. A few days ago a great festival took place at Mannheim, on the occasion of the hundredth anniversary of Beethoven’s birth. This festival, to which we went, lasted three days. The programme was very interesting, and the performance superb. The orchestra consisted of various bands from the different Rhenish towns. The chorus numbered 400. I have never heard such a fine and powerful choir in my life. The well-known composer, Lachner, conducted. Among other things I heard for the first time the difficultMissa Solennis. It is one of the most inspired musical creations.
“I have been to Wiesbaden to see Nicholas Rubinstein. I found him in the act of losing his last rouble at roulette, which did not prevent our spending a very pleasant day together. He is quite convinced he will break the bank before he leaves Wiesbaden. I long to be with you all.”
The outbreak of the Franco-Prussian war drove all the visitors at Soden into the neutral territory of Switzerland. It was little less than a stampede, and Tchaikovsky describes their experiences in a letter to his brother Modeste, dated July 12th (24th), 1870:—
“Interlaken.“We have been here three days, and shall probably remain a whole month.... The crush in the railway carriages was indescribable, and it was very difficult to get anything to eat and drink. Thank God, however, here we are in Switzerland, where everything goes on in its normal course. Dear Modi, I cannot tell you what I feel in the presence of these sublime beauties of Nature, which no one can imagine without beholding them. My astonishment, my admiration, pass all bounds. I rushabout like one possessed, and never feel tired. Volodi, who takes no delight in Nature, and is only interested in the Swiss cheeses, laughs heartily at me. What will it be like a few days hence, when I shall scramble through the passes and over glaciers by myself! I return to Russia at the end of August.”
“Interlaken.
“We have been here three days, and shall probably remain a whole month.... The crush in the railway carriages was indescribable, and it was very difficult to get anything to eat and drink. Thank God, however, here we are in Switzerland, where everything goes on in its normal course. Dear Modi, I cannot tell you what I feel in the presence of these sublime beauties of Nature, which no one can imagine without beholding them. My astonishment, my admiration, pass all bounds. I rushabout like one possessed, and never feel tired. Volodi, who takes no delight in Nature, and is only interested in the Swiss cheeses, laughs heartily at me. What will it be like a few days hence, when I shall scramble through the passes and over glaciers by myself! I return to Russia at the end of August.”
Tchaikovsky spent six weeks in Switzerland, and then went on to Munich, where he stayed two days with his old friend Prince Galitsin. From thence he returned to St. Petersburg by Vienna, which delighted him more than any other town in the world. From Petersburg he went direct to Moscow in order to take up his work at the Conservatoire.
During the whole of his trip abroad Tchaikovsky, according to his own account, did no serious work beyond revising his overtureRomeo and Juliet. Thanks to the exertions of N. Rubinstein and Professor Klindworth, the overture, in its new form, was published in Berlin the following season, and soon found its way into the programmes of many musical societies in Germany.
“Karl Klindworth came from London to Moscow in 1868,” says Laroche. “He was then thirty-eight, and at the zenith of his physical and artistic powers. He was tall and strongly built, with fair hair and bright blue eyes. His appearance accorded with our ideas of the Vikings of old; he was, in fact, of Norwegian descent. He cordially detested London, where he had lived many years, although he spoke English fluently. London was at that time quite unprepared for the Wagnerian propaganda, and, apart from this, life had neither meaning nor charm for Klindworth. As a pupil of Bülow and Liszt, he had been devoted to the Wagnerian cult from his youth. He was invited by Nicholas Rubinstein to come to Moscow as teacher of the pianoforte; but he was not popular, either as a pianist, or in society.... It would seem as though there could be no common meeting-ground between this Wagnerian fanatic and Tchaikovsky. If one desired to belogical, it would further appear that, as a composer, Tchaikovsky would not only fail to interest Klindworth, but must seem to him quite in the wrong, since Wagner has written that concert and chamber music have long since had their day. But luckily men are devoid of the sense of logical sequence, and Klindworth proved a man of far more heart than one would have thought at first sight. Tchaikovsky charmed him from the first, not merely as a man, but as a composer. Klindworth was one of the first to spread Tchaikovsky’s works abroad. It was owing to him that they became known in London and New York; and it was through him also that Liszt made acquaintance with some of them. In Klindworth, Tchaikovsky found a faithful but despotic friend. Speaking picturesquely, Peter Ilich trembled before him like an aspen-leaf, did not dare openly to give his real opinions upon the composer of theNibelungen Ring, and I believe he embellished as far as possible the views expressed in his articles from Bayreuth in order not to irritate Klindworth.”
“Karl Klindworth came from London to Moscow in 1868,” says Laroche. “He was then thirty-eight, and at the zenith of his physical and artistic powers. He was tall and strongly built, with fair hair and bright blue eyes. His appearance accorded with our ideas of the Vikings of old; he was, in fact, of Norwegian descent. He cordially detested London, where he had lived many years, although he spoke English fluently. London was at that time quite unprepared for the Wagnerian propaganda, and, apart from this, life had neither meaning nor charm for Klindworth. As a pupil of Bülow and Liszt, he had been devoted to the Wagnerian cult from his youth. He was invited by Nicholas Rubinstein to come to Moscow as teacher of the pianoforte; but he was not popular, either as a pianist, or in society.... It would seem as though there could be no common meeting-ground between this Wagnerian fanatic and Tchaikovsky. If one desired to belogical, it would further appear that, as a composer, Tchaikovsky would not only fail to interest Klindworth, but must seem to him quite in the wrong, since Wagner has written that concert and chamber music have long since had their day. But luckily men are devoid of the sense of logical sequence, and Klindworth proved a man of far more heart than one would have thought at first sight. Tchaikovsky charmed him from the first, not merely as a man, but as a composer. Klindworth was one of the first to spread Tchaikovsky’s works abroad. It was owing to him that they became known in London and New York; and it was through him also that Liszt made acquaintance with some of them. In Klindworth, Tchaikovsky found a faithful but despotic friend. Speaking picturesquely, Peter Ilich trembled before him like an aspen-leaf, did not dare openly to give his real opinions upon the composer of theNibelungen Ring, and I believe he embellished as far as possible the views expressed in his articles from Bayreuth in order not to irritate Klindworth.”
While I am mentioning the important event of Tchaikovsky’s earliest introduction to Western Europe, I must recall the prophetic words of a young critic, then at the outset of his career. Five years before the appearance of the overtureRomeo and Juliet, in 1866, Laroche had written to his friend:—
“Your creative work will not really begin for another five years; but these mature and classic works will surpass all that we have produced since Glinka’s time.”
“Your creative work will not really begin for another five years; but these mature and classic works will surpass all that we have produced since Glinka’s time.”
Being no musical critic, it is not for me to say whether, in truth, in all Russian musical literature nothing so remarkable asRomeo and Juliethad appeared since Glinka. I can only repeat what has been said by many musical authorities—that my brother’s higher significance in the world of art dates from this work. His individuality is here displayed for the first time in its fulness, and all that he had hitherto produced seems—as in Laroche’s prophecy—to have been really preparatory work.
During this period Tchaikovsky’s spirits were, generally speaking, fairly bright. Only occasionally they were damped by anxiety about the twins, of whom the younger had left the School of Jurisprudence and obtained a post in Simbirsk.[23]His lack of experience led him into many blunders and mistakes, which gave trouble to his elder brother Peter. His affection and over-anxiety caused the latter to exaggerate the importance of these small errors of judgment, and he concerned himself greatly about the future of his precious charge.
To I. A. Klimenko.“October26th(November7th), 1870.“ ... Anton Rubinstein is staying here. He opened the season, playing the Schumann Concerto at the first concert (not very well), and also Mendelssohn’s Variations and some Schumann Studies (splendidly). At the Quartet evening he played in his own Trio, which I do not much like. At an orchestral rehearsal, held specially for him, he conducted his newDon QuixoteFantasia. Very interesting; first-rate in places. Besides this he has composed a violin concerto and a number of smaller pieces. Extraordinary fertility! Nicholas Rubinstein lost all his money at roulette during the summer. At the present moment he is working, as usual, with unflagging energy.“I have written three new pieces,[24]and a song,[25]as well as going on with my opera and revising Romeo and Juliet.”
To I. A. Klimenko.
“October26th(November7th), 1870.
“ ... Anton Rubinstein is staying here. He opened the season, playing the Schumann Concerto at the first concert (not very well), and also Mendelssohn’s Variations and some Schumann Studies (splendidly). At the Quartet evening he played in his own Trio, which I do not much like. At an orchestral rehearsal, held specially for him, he conducted his newDon QuixoteFantasia. Very interesting; first-rate in places. Besides this he has composed a violin concerto and a number of smaller pieces. Extraordinary fertility! Nicholas Rubinstein lost all his money at roulette during the summer. At the present moment he is working, as usual, with unflagging energy.
“I have written three new pieces,[24]and a song,[25]as well as going on with my opera and revising Romeo and Juliet.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.(About the beginning of November.)“ ... My time is very much occupied. I have foolishly undertaken to write music for a balletCinderella, at a very small fee. The ballet has to be performed in December, and I have only just begun it; but I cannot get out of the work, for the contract is already signed.Romeo and Julietwill be published in Berlin and performed in several German towns....”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
(About the beginning of November.)
“ ... My time is very much occupied. I have foolishly undertaken to write music for a balletCinderella, at a very small fee. The ballet has to be performed in December, and I have only just begun it; but I cannot get out of the work, for the contract is already signed.Romeo and Julietwill be published in Berlin and performed in several German towns....”
To his sister, A. I. Davidov.“December20th, 1870 (January1st, 1871).“Dearest,—Your letter touched me deeply, and at the same time made me feel ashamed. I wonder that you could doubt, even for an instant, the constancy of my affection for you! My silence proceeds partly from idleness, and partly from the fact that I need great peace of mind to write satisfactorily, and I hardly ever attain it. Either I am at the Conservatoire, or I am seizing a free hour for composition in feverish haste, or someone wants me to go out, or I have visitors at home, or I am so tired out I can only fall asleep.... I have already told you what an important part you play in my life—although you do not live near me. In dark hours my thoughts fly to you. ‘If things go very badly with me, I shall go to Sasha,’ I say to myself; or, ‘I think I will do this, I am sure Sasha would advise it’; or, ‘Shall I write to her? What would she think of this ...?’ What a joy to think that if I could get away from these surroundings into another atmosphere I should sun myself in your kindly heart! Next summer I will not fail to come to you. I shall not go abroad.”
To his sister, A. I. Davidov.
“December20th, 1870 (January1st, 1871).
“Dearest,—Your letter touched me deeply, and at the same time made me feel ashamed. I wonder that you could doubt, even for an instant, the constancy of my affection for you! My silence proceeds partly from idleness, and partly from the fact that I need great peace of mind to write satisfactorily, and I hardly ever attain it. Either I am at the Conservatoire, or I am seizing a free hour for composition in feverish haste, or someone wants me to go out, or I have visitors at home, or I am so tired out I can only fall asleep.... I have already told you what an important part you play in my life—although you do not live near me. In dark hours my thoughts fly to you. ‘If things go very badly with me, I shall go to Sasha,’ I say to myself; or, ‘I think I will do this, I am sure Sasha would advise it’; or, ‘Shall I write to her? What would she think of this ...?’ What a joy to think that if I could get away from these surroundings into another atmosphere I should sun myself in your kindly heart! Next summer I will not fail to come to you. I shall not go abroad.”
To his father.“February14th(26th).“My Very Dear Father,—You say it would not be a bad thing if I wrote to you at least once a month.“No, not once a month, but at least once a week Iought to send you news of all I am doing, and I wonder you have not given me a good scolding before this! But I will never again leave you so long without a letter. The news of the death of uncle Peter Petrovich[26]came to me several days ago. God give him everlasting peace, for his honest and pure soul deserved it! I hope, dear, you are bearing this trouble bravely. Remember that poor uncle, with his indifferent health and his many old wounds, had enjoyed a fairly long life.”
To his father.
“February14th(26th).
“My Very Dear Father,—You say it would not be a bad thing if I wrote to you at least once a month.
“No, not once a month, but at least once a week Iought to send you news of all I am doing, and I wonder you have not given me a good scolding before this! But I will never again leave you so long without a letter. The news of the death of uncle Peter Petrovich[26]came to me several days ago. God give him everlasting peace, for his honest and pure soul deserved it! I hope, dear, you are bearing this trouble bravely. Remember that poor uncle, with his indifferent health and his many old wounds, had enjoyed a fairly long life.”
This letter closes Tchaikovsky’s correspondence for the year 1870-1. It is very probable that some of his letters may have been lost, but undoubtedly after February, 1871, he corresponded less frequently than before.
Being very short of funds, he decided to act upon Rubinstein’s advice to give a concert. To add to the interest of the programme he thought it well to include some new and important work of his own. He could not expect to fill the room, and an expensive orchestral concert was therefore out of the question. This led to the composition of the first String Quartet (D major). Tchaikovsky was engaged upon this work during the whole of February.
The concert took place on March 16th (28th) in the small hall of the Nobles’ Assembly Rooms. Thanks to the services of the Musical Society’s quartet, with F. Laub as leader, Nicholas Rubinstein at the piano, and Madame Lavrovsky—then at the height of her popularity—as vocalist, Tchaikovsky had a good, although not a crowded, house.
In his reminiscences Kashkin says that among those who attended this concert was the celebrated novelist, I. S. Tourgeniev, who was staying in Moscow at the time, and was interested in the young composer, about whom he had heard abroad. This attention on the part of the great writer did not pass unnoticed, and was decidedly advantageousfor the musician. Tourgeniev expressed great appreciation of Tchaikovsky’s works, although he arrived too late to hear the chief item on the programme, the Quartet in D major.
At the end of May Tchaikovsky went to Konotop, where his eldest brother Nicholas Ilich was residing, and from thence to visit Anatol in Kiev. Afterwards the two brothers travelled to Kamenka, where they spent most of the summer. Tchaikovsky, however, devoted part of his holidays to his intimate friends Kondratiev and Shilovsky.
Kondratiev’s property (the village of Nizy, in the Government of Kharkov) was beautifully situated on the prettiest river of Little Russia, the Psiol, and united all the natural charms of South Russia with the light green colouring of the northern landscape so dear to Tchaikovsky. Here in the hottest weather, instead of the oppressive and parched surroundings of Kamenka, he looked upon luxuriant pastures, enclosed and shaded by ancient oaks. But what delighted him most was the river Psiol with its refreshing crystal waters.
The place pleased Tchaikovsky, but his friend’s style of living was not to his taste. It was too much like town life, with its guests and festivities, and he preferred Shilovsky’s home at Ussovo, which was not so beautifully situated, but possessed the greater charms of simplicity, solitude, and quiet. Here he spent the last days of his vacation very happily, and for many years to come Ussovo was his ideal of a summer residence, for which he longed as soon as the trees and fields began to show the first signs of green.
As I have already remarked, it was not Tchaikovsky’s nature to force the circumstances of life to his own will. He could wait long and patiently—and hope still longer. As in his early youth he had kept his yearning for music hidden in his heart, until the strength of his desire was such that nothing could shake his firm hold upon his chosen vocation, so now, from the beginning of his musical career, he was possessed by an intense longing to break away from all ties which withheld him from the chief aim of his existence—to compose.
Just as a few years earlier he continued his work in the Ministry of Justice in spite of its monotony, and kept up his social ties as though he were waiting until a complete disgust for his empty and aimless life should bring about a revulsion, so it was with him now. Although his duties at the Conservatoire were repugnant to him, and he often complained of the drawbacks of town life, which interfered with his creative work, he went on in his usual course, as though afraid that his need of excitement and pleasure was not quite satisfied, and might break out anew.
The time for the realisation of his dream of complete freedom was not yet come. Moscow was still necessary to his everyday life, and was not altogether unpleasant to him. He was still dependent on his surroundings. To break with them involved many considerations. Above all, he must have emancipated himself, although in a friendly way, from the influence of Nicholas Rubinstein. This was the first step to take in the direction of liberty. With all his affection and gratitude, with all his respectfor Rubinstein as a man and an artist, he suffered a good deal under the despotism of this truest and kindest of friends. From morning till night he had to conform to his will in all the trifling details of daily existence, and this was the more unbearable because their ideas with regard to hours and occupations differed in most respects.
Tchaikovsky had already made two attempts to leave Rubinstein and take rooms of his own. But only now was he able to carry out his wish. Nicholas Rubinstein absolutely stood in need of companionship, and Tchaikovsky was fortunate in finding someone, in the person of N. A. Hubert, ready and willing to take his place.
So it chanced that Tchaikovsky reached his thirty-second year before he began to lead an entirely independent existence. His delight at finding himself the sole master of his little flat of three rooms was indescribable. He took the greatest pains to make his new home as comfortable as possible with the small means at his disposal. His decorations were not sumptuous: a portrait of Anton Rubinstein, given to him by the painter Madame Bonné in 1865; a picture of Louis XVII. in the house of the shoemaker Simon, given to him by Begichev in Paris; a large sofa and a few cheap chairs, comprised the composer’s entire worldly goods.
He now engaged a servant, named Michael Sofronov. Tchaikovsky never lost sight of this man, although he was afterwards replaced by his brother Alexis, who played rather an important part in his master’s life.
At this time the composer’s income was slightly increased. His salary at the Conservatoire rose to 1,500 roubles a year (£150), while from the sale of his works, and from the Russian Musical Society,[27]he received about 500 roubles more.
Besides these 2,000 roubles, Tchaikovsky had anothersmall source of income, namely, his earnings as a musical critic. His employment in this capacity came about thus. In 1871, Laroche, who wrote for theMoscow Viedomosti, was offered a post at the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, and passed on his journalistic work to N. A. Hubert, who, partly from ill_health and partly from indolence, neglected the duties he had undertaken. Fearing that Katkov, who edited the paper, might appoint some amateur as critic, and so undo the progress in musical matters which had been made during the past years, Tchaikovsky and Kashkin came to Hubert’s aid and “devilled” for him as long as he remained on the staff. Tchaikovsky continued to write for theViedomostiuntil the winter of 1876.
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.“December2nd(14th).“I must tell you that at Shilovsky’s urgent desire I am going abroad for a month. I shall start in about ten days’ time, but no one—except Rubinstein—is to know anything about it; everyone is to think I have gone to see our sister.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“December2nd(14th).
“I must tell you that at Shilovsky’s urgent desire I am going abroad for a month. I shall start in about ten days’ time, but no one—except Rubinstein—is to know anything about it; everyone is to think I have gone to see our sister.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.“Nice,January1st(13th), 1872.“I have been a week at Nice. It is most curious to come straight from the depths of a Russian winter to a climate where one can walk out without an overcoat, where orange trees, roses, and syringas are in full bloom, and the trees are in leaf. Nice is lovely. But the gay life is killing.... However, I have many pleasant hours; those, for instance, in the early morning, when I sit alone by the sea in the glowing—but not scorching—sunshine. But even these moments are not without a shade of melancholy. What comes of it all? I am old, and can enjoy nothing more. I live on my memories and my hopes. But what is there to hope for?“Yet without hope in the future life is impossible. So I dream of coming to Kiev at Easter, and of spending part of the summer with you at Kamenka.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“Nice,January1st(13th), 1872.
“I have been a week at Nice. It is most curious to come straight from the depths of a Russian winter to a climate where one can walk out without an overcoat, where orange trees, roses, and syringas are in full bloom, and the trees are in leaf. Nice is lovely. But the gay life is killing.... However, I have many pleasant hours; those, for instance, in the early morning, when I sit alone by the sea in the glowing—but not scorching—sunshine. But even these moments are not without a shade of melancholy. What comes of it all? I am old, and can enjoy nothing more. I live on my memories and my hopes. But what is there to hope for?
“Yet without hope in the future life is impossible. So I dream of coming to Kiev at Easter, and of spending part of the summer with you at Kamenka.”
By the end of January Tchaikovsky was back in Moscow.
In 1871 a great Polytechnic Exhibition was organised in this town in celebration of the two hundredth anniversary of the birth of Peter the Great. The direction of the musical section was confided to Nicholas Rubinstein, but when he resigned, because his scheme was too costly to be sanctioned by the committee, the celebrated ‘cellist, K. Davidov, was invited to take his place. He accepted, and named Laroche and Balakirev as his coadjutors. Balakirev was not immediately disposed to undertake these duties, saying that he would first like to hear the opinion of Nicholas Rubinstein as to the part which the Petersburg musicians were to take in the matter. After two months of uncertainty, the committee decided to dispense with his reply, and invited Rimsky-Korsakov to take his place. At the same time Asantchevsky (then Director of the Petersburg Conservatoire), Wurm, and Leschetitzky were added to the musical committee.
This originally Muscovite committee, which ended in being made up of Petersburgers, decided among other projects to commission from Tchaikovsky a Festival Cantata, the text of which was to be specially written for the occasion by the poet Polonsky.
By the end of December, or the beginning of January, the libretto was finished. When Tchaikovsky undertook to do any work within a fixed limit of time, he always tried to complete it before the date of contract expired. On this occasion he was well beforehand with the work, and sent in the cantata to the committee by the 1st of April. As he had only received the words towards the end of January, after his return from Nice, he could not have had more than two months in which to complete this lengthy and complicated score.
In April he was at work again uponThe Oprichnik, and must have finished it early in May.
This, however, is a matter of conjecture, as betweenJanuary 31st (February 12th) and May 4th (16th), there does not exist a single one of his letters.
On May 4th (16th), 1872, the score ofThe Oprichnikwas sent to Napravnik in Petersburg.
The Festival Cantata was performed on May 31st (June 12th) at the opening of the Polytechnic Exhibition, and shortly afterwards Tchaikovsky left Moscow for Kamenka, where he spent the whole of June. Here he began his Second Symphony in C minor. Early in July he went to Kiev, and from thence to Kondratiev at Nizy, accompanied by his brother Modeste. A part of this journey had to be accomplished by diligence. On the return journey the two brothers were to travel together as far as Voroshba, where Peter Ilich branched off for Shilovsky’s house at Ussovo, and Modeste went on to Kiev. Between Sumy and Voroshba was a post-house, at which the horses were generally changed.
We were in the best of spirits—it is Modeste who recounts the adventure—and partook of a luxurious lunch, with wine and liqueurs. These stimulants had a considerable effect upon our empty stomachs, so that when we were informed of the fact that there were no fresh post-horses at our disposal, we lost our tempers and gave the overseer a good talking to. Peter Ilich quite lost his head, and could not avoid using the customary phrase: “Are you aware to whom you are talking?” The post-master was not in the least impressed by this worn-out phraseology, and Peter Ilich, beside himself with wrath, demanded the report-book. It was brought, and thinking that the unknown name of Tchaikovsky would carry no weight, Peter Ilich signed his complaint: “Prince Volkonsky, Page-in-Waiting.” The result was brilliant. In less than a quarter of an hour the horses were harnessed, and the head-ostler had been severely reprimanded for not having told the post-master that a pair had unexpectedly returned from a journey.
Arrived at Voroshba, Peter Ilich hurried to the ticket-office and discovered with horror that he had left his pocket-book, containing all his money and papers, at the post-station. What was to be done? He could not catch the train, and must therefore wait till the next day. This was tiresome; but far worse was the thought that the post-master had only to look inside the pocket-book to see Peter Ilich’s real name on his passport and visiting-cards. While we sat there, feeling crushed, and debating what was to be done, my train came in. I was forced to steam off to Kiev, after bestowing the greater part of my available cash—some five or six roubles—upon the unhappy pseudo-Prince.
Poor Peter Ilich spent a terrible night at the inn. Mice and rats—of which he had a mortal terror—left him no peace. He waged war all night with these pests, which ran over his bed and made a hideous noise. The next morning came the news that the post-master would not entrust the pocket-book to the driver of the post-waggon; Peter Ilich must go back for it himself. This was a worse ordeal than even the rats and the sleepless night.... As soon as he arrived he saw at once that the post-master had never opened the pocket-book, for his manner was as respectful and apologetic as before. Peter Ilich was so pleased with this man’s strict sense of honour that before leaving he inquired his name. Great was his astonishment when the post-master replied, “Tchaikovsky”! At first he thought he was the victim of a joke, but afterwards he heard from his friend Kondratiev that the man’s name was actually the same as his own.
Tchaikovsky spent the rest of the summer at Ussovo, where he completed the symphony commenced at Kamenka.
Immediately after his return to Moscow, Tchaikovsky moved into new quarters, which were far more comfortable than his first habitation.
We have already seen the motives which first induced him to take up journalism. Now he felt it not only a matter of honour and duty towards the interests of the Conservatoire to continue this work, but found it also a welcome means of adding to his income, seeing that he lived entirely upon his own resources. His literary efforts had been very successful during the past year, and had attracted the attention of all who were interested in music. Nevertheless his journalistic work, like his lessons at the Conservatoire, was burdensome. He told himself “it must be done,” and did it with the capability that was characteristic of him, but without a gleam of enthusiasm or liking for the work. His writing was interesting and showed considerable literary style; the general character of his articles bespoke the cultivated and serious musician, who is disinterested and just, and has a complete insight into his art—but nothing more. We cannot describe him as a preacher of profound convictions, who has power to carry home his ideas; or as a critic capable of describing a work, or a composer, in a few delicate or striking words. Reading his articles, we seem to be conversing with a clever and gifted man, who knows how to express himself clearly; we sympathise with him, earnestly wish him success in his campaign against ignorance and charlatanism, and share his desire for the victory of wholesome art over the public taste for “the Italians,” “American valses,” and the rest. In these respects we may say that Tchaikovsky’s labours were not lost.