To N. F. von Meck.“Petersburg,December17th(29th), 1889.“My dear, kind, incomparable Friend,—Where are you now? I do not know. But I have such a yearning to talk to you a little that I am beginning this letter with the intention of posting it to you in Moscow, as soon as I can find your address. For three weeks I have been doing nothing in Petersburg. I say ‘doing nothing’ because my real business is to compose; and all this conducting, attending rehearsals for my ballet, etc., I regard as something purposeless and fortuitous, which only shortens my days, for it needs all my strength of will to endure the kind of life I have to lead in Petersburg.... On January 6th I must be back in Moscow to conduct a concert of the Musical Society, at which Anton Rubinstein will play his new compositions, and on the 14th I have a popular concert here; after that I shall be at the end of my forces. I have made up my mind to refuse all engagements at home and abroad, and perhaps to go to Italy for four months to rest and work at my future opera,Pique Dame. I have chosen this subject from Poushkin. It happened in this way: three years ago my brother Modeste undertook to make a libretto for a certain Klenovsky, and gradually put together a very successful book upon this subject.
To N. F. von Meck.
“Petersburg,December17th(29th), 1889.
“My dear, kind, incomparable Friend,—Where are you now? I do not know. But I have such a yearning to talk to you a little that I am beginning this letter with the intention of posting it to you in Moscow, as soon as I can find your address. For three weeks I have been doing nothing in Petersburg. I say ‘doing nothing’ because my real business is to compose; and all this conducting, attending rehearsals for my ballet, etc., I regard as something purposeless and fortuitous, which only shortens my days, for it needs all my strength of will to endure the kind of life I have to lead in Petersburg.... On January 6th I must be back in Moscow to conduct a concert of the Musical Society, at which Anton Rubinstein will play his new compositions, and on the 14th I have a popular concert here; after that I shall be at the end of my forces. I have made up my mind to refuse all engagements at home and abroad, and perhaps to go to Italy for four months to rest and work at my future opera,Pique Dame. I have chosen this subject from Poushkin. It happened in this way: three years ago my brother Modeste undertook to make a libretto for a certain Klenovsky, and gradually put together a very successful book upon this subject.
“Moscow,December26th(January7th), 1889.“I continue my letter. The libretto ofPique Damewas written by Modeste for Klenovsky, but for some reason he declined to set it to music. Then Vsievolojsky, the Director of the Opera, took it into his head that I should write a work on this subject and have it ready by next season. He communicated his wish to me, and as the business fitted in admirably with my determination to escape from Russia for a time and devote myself to composition, I said ‘yes.’ A committee meeting was improvised, at which my brother read his libretto, its merits and demerits were discussed, the scenery planned, and even the parts distributed.... I feel very much inclined to work. If only I can settle myself comfortably in some corner abroad, I should be equal to my task, and could let the Direction have the pianoforte score in May. In the course of the summer the orchestration would be finished.”
“Moscow,December26th(January7th), 1889.
“I continue my letter. The libretto ofPique Damewas written by Modeste for Klenovsky, but for some reason he declined to set it to music. Then Vsievolojsky, the Director of the Opera, took it into his head that I should write a work on this subject and have it ready by next season. He communicated his wish to me, and as the business fitted in admirably with my determination to escape from Russia for a time and devote myself to composition, I said ‘yes.’ A committee meeting was improvised, at which my brother read his libretto, its merits and demerits were discussed, the scenery planned, and even the parts distributed.... I feel very much inclined to work. If only I can settle myself comfortably in some corner abroad, I should be equal to my task, and could let the Direction have the pianoforte score in May. In the course of the summer the orchestration would be finished.”
On January 1st (13th) Tchaikovsky was back in St. Petersburg, and on the following day attended a gala rehearsal ofThe Sleeping Beauty, at which the Imperial Court was present.
Practically it was the first night, for while theparterrewas reserved for the Imperial party, the boxes on the first tier were crowded with aristocratic spectators. The Imperial family were pleased, but not enthusiastic in their appreciation of the music, although afterwards they grew very fond of this Ballet. “Very nice” was the only expression of opinion Tchaikovsky received from the Emperor’s lips. This scanty praise—judging from the entry in his diary—greatly mortified the composer.
It is interesting to observe that at the first public performance, on the following day, the public seems to have shared the Emperor’s opinion, for the applause, which was lacking in warmth, seemed to pronounce the same lukewarm verdict, “Very nice.” The composer was still further depressed and embittered. “Embittered,” because, duringthe rehearsals, Tchaikovsky had learnt to appreciate the splendour and novelty of the scenery and costumes, and the inexhaustible taste and invention of M. Petipa, and expected that all this talent and taste, combined with his music—which came only second toOnieginin his affections—would arouse a storm of enthusiasm in the public.
This was not the case, because the novelty of the programme and the dazzling wealth of detail blinded the public to the musical beauties of the work. They could not appreciate the Ballet at the first performance, as they afterwards learnt to do. Its success was immense, and was proved in the same way as that ofEugene Oniegin—not by frantic applause during the performance, but by a long series of crowded houses.
On January 4th (16th) Tchaikovsky went to Moscow, where he conducted on the 6th. Convinced that no repose was possible in that town, he decided to start abroad immediately, and to take his brother Modeste’s servant, Nazar, in place of Alexis, who remained by his wife’s death-bed. Tchaikovsky left Petersburg on January 14th (26th) without any plans as to his destination.
Not until he reached Berlin did Tchaikovsky decide in favour of Florence, where he arrived early on January 18th (30th), 1890. Italy did not interest him at the moment. He was actuated only by one motive—to get away. Soon he was at work uponPique Dame. His surroundings were favourable, and he made rapid progress. His condition of mind was not cheerful, however, as may be gathered from the following letter to Glazounov, dated January 30th (February 11th), 1890.
“Dear Alexander Constantinovich,—Your kind letter touched me very much. Just now I am sadly in need of friendly sympathy and intercourse with people who are intimate and dear. I am passing through a very enigmatical stage on my road to the grave. Something strange, which I cannot understand, is going on within me. A kind of life-weariness has come over me. Sometimes I feel an insane anguish, but not that kind of anguish which is the herald of a new tide of love for life; rather something hopeless, final, and—like everyfinale—a little commonplace. Simultaneously a passionate desire to create. The devil knows what it is! In fact, sometimes I feel my song is sung, and then again an unconquerable impulse, either to give it fresh life, or to start a new song.... As I have said, I do not know what has come to me. For instance, there was a time when I loved Italy and Florence. Now I have to make a great effort to emerge from my shell. When I do go out, I feel no pleasure whatever, either in the blue sky of Italy, in the sun that shines from it, in the architectural beauties I see around me, or in the teeming life of the streets. Formerly all this enchanted me, and quickened my imagination. Perhaps my trouble actually lies in those fifty years to which I shall attain two months hence, and my imagination will no longer take colour from its surroundings?“But enough of this! I am working hard. Whether what I am doing is really good, is a question to which only posterity can give the answer.“I feel the greatest sympathy for your misgivings as to the failure of your ‘Oriental Fantasia.’ There is nothing more painful than such doubts. But all evil has its good side. You say your friends did not approve of the work, but did not express their disapproval at the right time—at a moment when you could agree with them. It was wrong of them to oppose the enthusiasm of the author for his work, before it had had time to cool. But it is better that they had the courage to speak frankly, instead of giving you that meaningless, perfunctory praise some friends consider it their duty to bestow, to which we listen, and which we accept, because we are only too glad to believe. You are strong enough to guard your feelingsas composer in those moments when people tell you the truth.... I, too, dear Alexander Constantinovich, have sometimes wished to be quite frank with you about your work. I am a great admirer of your gifts. I value the earnestness of your aims, and your artistic sense of honour. And yet I often think about you. I feel that, as an older friend who loves you, I ought to warn you against certain exclusive tendencies, and a kind of one-sidedness. Yet how to tell you this I do not quite know. In many respects you are a riddle to me. You have genius, but something prevents you from broadening out and penetrating the depths.... In short, during the winter you may expect a letter from me, in which I will talk to you after due reflection. If I fail to say anything apposite, it will be a proof of my incapacity, not the result of any lack of affection and sympathy for you.”
“Dear Alexander Constantinovich,—Your kind letter touched me very much. Just now I am sadly in need of friendly sympathy and intercourse with people who are intimate and dear. I am passing through a very enigmatical stage on my road to the grave. Something strange, which I cannot understand, is going on within me. A kind of life-weariness has come over me. Sometimes I feel an insane anguish, but not that kind of anguish which is the herald of a new tide of love for life; rather something hopeless, final, and—like everyfinale—a little commonplace. Simultaneously a passionate desire to create. The devil knows what it is! In fact, sometimes I feel my song is sung, and then again an unconquerable impulse, either to give it fresh life, or to start a new song.... As I have said, I do not know what has come to me. For instance, there was a time when I loved Italy and Florence. Now I have to make a great effort to emerge from my shell. When I do go out, I feel no pleasure whatever, either in the blue sky of Italy, in the sun that shines from it, in the architectural beauties I see around me, or in the teeming life of the streets. Formerly all this enchanted me, and quickened my imagination. Perhaps my trouble actually lies in those fifty years to which I shall attain two months hence, and my imagination will no longer take colour from its surroundings?
“But enough of this! I am working hard. Whether what I am doing is really good, is a question to which only posterity can give the answer.
“I feel the greatest sympathy for your misgivings as to the failure of your ‘Oriental Fantasia.’ There is nothing more painful than such doubts. But all evil has its good side. You say your friends did not approve of the work, but did not express their disapproval at the right time—at a moment when you could agree with them. It was wrong of them to oppose the enthusiasm of the author for his work, before it had had time to cool. But it is better that they had the courage to speak frankly, instead of giving you that meaningless, perfunctory praise some friends consider it their duty to bestow, to which we listen, and which we accept, because we are only too glad to believe. You are strong enough to guard your feelingsas composer in those moments when people tell you the truth.... I, too, dear Alexander Constantinovich, have sometimes wished to be quite frank with you about your work. I am a great admirer of your gifts. I value the earnestness of your aims, and your artistic sense of honour. And yet I often think about you. I feel that, as an older friend who loves you, I ought to warn you against certain exclusive tendencies, and a kind of one-sidedness. Yet how to tell you this I do not quite know. In many respects you are a riddle to me. You have genius, but something prevents you from broadening out and penetrating the depths.... In short, during the winter you may expect a letter from me, in which I will talk to you after due reflection. If I fail to say anything apposite, it will be a proof of my incapacity, not the result of any lack of affection and sympathy for you.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“Florence,February2nd(14th), 1890.“You have arranged the death scene ofThe Queen of Spadesvery well, and suitably for musical setting. I am very pleased with you as a librettist, only keep conciseness in view and avoid prolixity. As to the scene on the bridge, I have thought it over. You and Laroche are quite opposed, and in spite of my wish to have as few scenes as possible, and to be concise, I fear the whole of Act III. will be without any women actors, and that would be dull. Lisa’s part cannot be finished in the fourth scene; the audience must know what becomes of her.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Florence,February2nd(14th), 1890.
“You have arranged the death scene ofThe Queen of Spadesvery well, and suitably for musical setting. I am very pleased with you as a librettist, only keep conciseness in view and avoid prolixity. As to the scene on the bridge, I have thought it over. You and Laroche are quite opposed, and in spite of my wish to have as few scenes as possible, and to be concise, I fear the whole of Act III. will be without any women actors, and that would be dull. Lisa’s part cannot be finished in the fourth scene; the audience must know what becomes of her.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“Florence,February6th(18th), 1890.“ ... To-day, for the first time, I enjoyed my visit to Italy. So far I have felt indifferent—even hostile to it. But to-day the weather was so divine, and it was such a joy to gather a few violets in the Cascine! At Kamenka they only appear in April.“Now to return toPique Dame. How can we manage to make the part lighter for poor Figner? Seven scenes,in which he has to sing without intermission! Do think it over.“I am anxiously awaiting the ball scene. For Heaven’s sake lose no time, Modi, or I shall find myself without any text to set.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Florence,February6th(18th), 1890.
“ ... To-day, for the first time, I enjoyed my visit to Italy. So far I have felt indifferent—even hostile to it. But to-day the weather was so divine, and it was such a joy to gather a few violets in the Cascine! At Kamenka they only appear in April.
“Now to return toPique Dame. How can we manage to make the part lighter for poor Figner? Seven scenes,in which he has to sing without intermission! Do think it over.
“I am anxiously awaiting the ball scene. For Heaven’s sake lose no time, Modi, or I shall find myself without any text to set.”
To A. P. Merkling.“Florence,February7th(19th), 1890.“To-day I wrote the scene in which Hermann goes to the oldQueen of Spades. It was so gruesome that I am still under the horrible spell of it.”
To A. P. Merkling.
“Florence,February7th(19th), 1890.
“To-day I wrote the scene in which Hermann goes to the oldQueen of Spades. It was so gruesome that I am still under the horrible spell of it.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“Florence,February12th(24th), 1890.“If, God willing, I finish the opera, it will be somethingchic. The fourth scene will have an overwhelming effect.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Florence,February12th(24th), 1890.
“If, God willing, I finish the opera, it will be somethingchic. The fourth scene will have an overwhelming effect.”
Meanwhile, on February 4th (16th),The Enchantresshad been produced in Moscow for the first time. Kashkin wrote of it as follows:—
“That the opera had been very superficially studied was evident from the entire performance, which was most unsatisfactory. I will not blame the artists, who did what they could, while some of them were very good; but the ensemble was bad, in consequence of insufficient rehearsal. All went in a more or less disconnected way. The orchestra accompanied very roughly, without light or shade, the brass playingffthroughout and drowning everything else with their monotonous noise. Madame Korovina, who took the chief part, was ill, and should not have been allowed to sing. We see from the repertory published in the newspapers thatThe Enchantresswill not be put on again before Lent. Thank goodness! The repetition of such a performance is most undesirable. An opera should be studied before it is put on the stage.”
“That the opera had been very superficially studied was evident from the entire performance, which was most unsatisfactory. I will not blame the artists, who did what they could, while some of them were very good; but the ensemble was bad, in consequence of insufficient rehearsal. All went in a more or less disconnected way. The orchestra accompanied very roughly, without light or shade, the brass playingffthroughout and drowning everything else with their monotonous noise. Madame Korovina, who took the chief part, was ill, and should not have been allowed to sing. We see from the repertory published in the newspapers thatThe Enchantresswill not be put on again before Lent. Thank goodness! The repetition of such a performance is most undesirable. An opera should be studied before it is put on the stage.”
The Enchantress, however, was not repeated, even after Lent. With this solitary performance its career came to an end as regards the Imperial Opera House.
Diary.“February21st(March5th), 1890.“This morning I had a letter from Alexis. He says Theklousha (his wife) prays God to take her soon. Poor, poor sufferer!“Began the fifth scene, and in imagination I finished it yesterday, but in reality only got through it early to-day.”
Diary.
“February21st(March5th), 1890.
“This morning I had a letter from Alexis. He says Theklousha (his wife) prays God to take her soon. Poor, poor sufferer!
“Began the fifth scene, and in imagination I finished it yesterday, but in reality only got through it early to-day.”
“February24th(March8th), 1890.“Heard from Alexis. Theklousha is dead. I wept. Altogether a sad morning.... In the evening an act fromPuritani. With all his glaring defects, Bellini is fascinating!”
“February24th(March8th), 1890.
“Heard from Alexis. Theklousha is dead. I wept. Altogether a sad morning.... In the evening an act fromPuritani. With all his glaring defects, Bellini is fascinating!”
“March3rd(15th), 1890.“Finished everythingthis morning. God be praised, Who has let me bring my work to an end.”
“March3rd(15th), 1890.
“Finished everythingthis morning. God be praised, Who has let me bring my work to an end.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“Florence,March3rd(15th), 1890.“Yesterday I set your own closing scene to music. When I came to Hermann’s death and the final chorus, I was suddenly overcome by such intense pity for Hermann that I burst out crying. Afterwards I discovered the reason for my tears (for I was never before so deeply moved by the sorrows of my hero, and I tried to explain to myself why it should be so now). I came to the conclusion that Hermann was to me not merely a pretext for writing this or that kind of music, but had been all the while an actual, living, sympathetic human being. Because I am very fond of Figner, and I always see Hermann in the form of Figner, therefore I have felt an intimate realisation of his fate.[145]Now I hope my warm and lively feeling for the hero of my opera may be happily reflected in my music. In any case, I thinkPique Dameby no means a bad opera. We shall see....“Laroche writes that he and Napravnik do not approve of my having composed an opera in so short a time. Theywill not realise that to rush through my work is an essential feature of my character. I only work quickly. I took my time overThe Enchantressand the Fifth Symphony, and they were failures, whereas I finished the Ballet in three weeks, andOnieginwas written in an incredibly short time. The chief thing is to love the work. I have certainly written with love. How I cried yesterday when they sang over my poor Hermann!”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Florence,March3rd(15th), 1890.
“Yesterday I set your own closing scene to music. When I came to Hermann’s death and the final chorus, I was suddenly overcome by such intense pity for Hermann that I burst out crying. Afterwards I discovered the reason for my tears (for I was never before so deeply moved by the sorrows of my hero, and I tried to explain to myself why it should be so now). I came to the conclusion that Hermann was to me not merely a pretext for writing this or that kind of music, but had been all the while an actual, living, sympathetic human being. Because I am very fond of Figner, and I always see Hermann in the form of Figner, therefore I have felt an intimate realisation of his fate.[145]Now I hope my warm and lively feeling for the hero of my opera may be happily reflected in my music. In any case, I thinkPique Dameby no means a bad opera. We shall see....
“Laroche writes that he and Napravnik do not approve of my having composed an opera in so short a time. Theywill not realise that to rush through my work is an essential feature of my character. I only work quickly. I took my time overThe Enchantressand the Fifth Symphony, and they were failures, whereas I finished the Ballet in three weeks, andOnieginwas written in an incredibly short time. The chief thing is to love the work. I have certainly written with love. How I cried yesterday when they sang over my poor Hermann!”
Tchaikovsky had decided to leave Florence early in March for Rome. But failing to find rooms in any of the hotels, he stayed on in Florence for two or three weeks longer.
To Anna Merkling.“Florence,March5th(17th), 1890.“ ... Heavens, what charming creatures children are! But little dogs are even more beautiful. They are simply the pearls of creation!... There is a breed here, almost unknown with us, called ‘Lupetto.’ You can often buy puppies of this kind on the Lungarno. If my Alexis did not hate dogs (they have a wretched life when the servants dislike them), I could not resist buying one of them.”
To Anna Merkling.
“Florence,March5th(17th), 1890.
“ ... Heavens, what charming creatures children are! But little dogs are even more beautiful. They are simply the pearls of creation!... There is a breed here, almost unknown with us, called ‘Lupetto.’ You can often buy puppies of this kind on the Lungarno. If my Alexis did not hate dogs (they have a wretched life when the servants dislike them), I could not resist buying one of them.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“Florence,March19th(31st), 1890.“Just two months ago I began the composition of the opera. To-day I finished the pianoforte score of the second act. This is to me the most dreadful and nerve-exasperating occupation. I composed the opera with pleasure and self-oblivion; I shall orchestrate with delight; but to make an arrangement! All the time one has to keep undoing what is intended for orchestra. I believe my ill_health is simply the result of this confounded work. Nazar says I have very much altered the last week or two, and have been in a dreadful state of mind. Whether it is that the worst and most wearisome part of my work is nearing an end, or that the weather is finer, I cannot say, but since yesterday I feel much better.... Modi, either I am greatly mistaken orPique Dameis a masterpiece.At one place in the fourth scene, which I was arranging to-day, I felt such horror, such gruesome thrills, that surely the listeners cannot escape the same impressions.“Understand, that I shall certainly spend my fiftieth birthday in Petersburg. Besides yourself, Anatol, and Jurgenson, I shall write to no one.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Florence,March19th(31st), 1890.
“Just two months ago I began the composition of the opera. To-day I finished the pianoforte score of the second act. This is to me the most dreadful and nerve-exasperating occupation. I composed the opera with pleasure and self-oblivion; I shall orchestrate with delight; but to make an arrangement! All the time one has to keep undoing what is intended for orchestra. I believe my ill_health is simply the result of this confounded work. Nazar says I have very much altered the last week or two, and have been in a dreadful state of mind. Whether it is that the worst and most wearisome part of my work is nearing an end, or that the weather is finer, I cannot say, but since yesterday I feel much better.... Modi, either I am greatly mistaken orPique Dameis a masterpiece.At one place in the fourth scene, which I was arranging to-day, I felt such horror, such gruesome thrills, that surely the listeners cannot escape the same impressions.
“Understand, that I shall certainly spend my fiftieth birthday in Petersburg. Besides yourself, Anatol, and Jurgenson, I shall write to no one.”
On March 27th (April 8th), Tchaikovsky completed the pianoforte arrangement ofPique Dame, and resolved to move on to Rome. “I am going there chiefly for Nazar’s sake,” he writes, “I want him to see the place.” For the first time, after nine weeks of continuous work, the composer enjoyed a little leisure, and spent one of his last days in the Uffizi and Pitti galleries. “In spite of my efforts,” he says, “I cannot acquire any appreciation of painting, especially of the older masters—they leave me cold.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“Rome,March27th(April8th).“ ... The cheerful feelings that came over me to-day as soon as I stepped into the streets, breathed the well-known air of Rome, and saw the old familiar places, made me realise how foolish I had been not to come here first of all. However, I must not blame poor Florence, which for no particular reason grew so detestable to me, since I was able to compose my opera there unmolested. Rome is much changed. Parts of it are unrecognisable. Yet, in spite of these alterations, it is a joy to be back in the dear place. I think of the years that have dropped into eternity, of the two Kondratievs, gone to their rest. It is very sad and yet it has a melancholy pleasure.... Nazar is enchanted with Rome. I seem to see you and Kolya at every turn. I shall stay here three weeks.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Rome,March27th(April8th).
“ ... The cheerful feelings that came over me to-day as soon as I stepped into the streets, breathed the well-known air of Rome, and saw the old familiar places, made me realise how foolish I had been not to come here first of all. However, I must not blame poor Florence, which for no particular reason grew so detestable to me, since I was able to compose my opera there unmolested. Rome is much changed. Parts of it are unrecognisable. Yet, in spite of these alterations, it is a joy to be back in the dear place. I think of the years that have dropped into eternity, of the two Kondratievs, gone to their rest. It is very sad and yet it has a melancholy pleasure.... Nazar is enchanted with Rome. I seem to see you and Kolya at every turn. I shall stay here three weeks.”
To P. Jurgenson.“Rome,March28th(April9th), 1890.“All I hear about Safonov[146]does not surprise me in the least. But in any case it must be confessed that he maybe useful at this critical juncture. A man of such childlike guilelessness and rectitude as Taneiev can hardly uphold the prestige of the Conservatoire. A Safonov is useful when there is no longer a Rubinstein. Such a man as Nicholas Rubinstein, who had furious energy, and at the same time could quite forget himself in the work he loved, is rare indeed.”
To P. Jurgenson.
“Rome,March28th(April9th), 1890.
“All I hear about Safonov[146]does not surprise me in the least. But in any case it must be confessed that he maybe useful at this critical juncture. A man of such childlike guilelessness and rectitude as Taneiev can hardly uphold the prestige of the Conservatoire. A Safonov is useful when there is no longer a Rubinstein. Such a man as Nicholas Rubinstein, who had furious energy, and at the same time could quite forget himself in the work he loved, is rare indeed.”
To N. F. von Meck.“Rome,April7th(19th), 1890.“Dear Friend,—I am forced to flee from Rome. I could not preserve my incognito. A few Russians have already called to ask me to dinners, soirées, etc. I have refused every invitation, but my liberty is done for, and all pleasure in my visit at an end. Sgambati, the leading musician here, having heard from the Russians that I was in Rome, put my First Quartet into the programme of his chamber concert, and came to request my attendance. I could not possibly be ungracious, so I had to sacrifice one of my working hours in order to sit in a stuffy room and listen to a second-rate performance of my work; while all the time I was an object of curiosity to the audience, whom Sgambati had informed of my presence, and who seemed very curious to see what a Russian musician could be like. It was most unpleasant. As these occurrences are certain to be repeated, I have decided to return to Russia in two or three days by way of Venice and Vienna.“You cannot imagine how I long for Russia, and with what joy I look forward to my rural solitude. Just now something wrong is going on in Russia. But nothing hinders my passionate love of my own land. I cannot imagine how formerly I was contented to stay so long away from it, and even to take some pleasure in being abroad.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Rome,April7th(19th), 1890.
“Dear Friend,—I am forced to flee from Rome. I could not preserve my incognito. A few Russians have already called to ask me to dinners, soirées, etc. I have refused every invitation, but my liberty is done for, and all pleasure in my visit at an end. Sgambati, the leading musician here, having heard from the Russians that I was in Rome, put my First Quartet into the programme of his chamber concert, and came to request my attendance. I could not possibly be ungracious, so I had to sacrifice one of my working hours in order to sit in a stuffy room and listen to a second-rate performance of my work; while all the time I was an object of curiosity to the audience, whom Sgambati had informed of my presence, and who seemed very curious to see what a Russian musician could be like. It was most unpleasant. As these occurrences are certain to be repeated, I have decided to return to Russia in two or three days by way of Venice and Vienna.
“You cannot imagine how I long for Russia, and with what joy I look forward to my rural solitude. Just now something wrong is going on in Russia. But nothing hinders my passionate love of my own land. I cannot imagine how formerly I was contented to stay so long away from it, and even to take some pleasure in being abroad.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“Rome,April7th(19th), 1890.“.... The Quartet had a tremendous success; the papers praise it to the skies. But the papers here praise everything. Home, quick, quick, home!”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Rome,April7th(19th), 1890.
“.... The Quartet had a tremendous success; the papers praise it to the skies. But the papers here praise everything. Home, quick, quick, home!”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“Frolovskoe,May5th(17th), 1890.“I have been back four days. The house is almost unrecognisable: the parlour (it is also the dining-room) has become a beautiful apartment, thanks to the addition of Siloti’s furniture to mine.[147]... But outside the house, O horror!The whole—literally every stick—of the forest has been cut down!Only the little thicket behind the church is left. Where is one to walk? Heavens, how entirely the disappearance of a wood changes the character of a place, and what a pity it is! All those dear, shady spots that were there last year are now a bare wilderness. Now we are sowing our flowering seeds. I am doing double work, that is to say, out of working hours I am correcting proofs....”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Frolovskoe,May5th(17th), 1890.
“I have been back four days. The house is almost unrecognisable: the parlour (it is also the dining-room) has become a beautiful apartment, thanks to the addition of Siloti’s furniture to mine.[147]... But outside the house, O horror!The whole—literally every stick—of the forest has been cut down!Only the little thicket behind the church is left. Where is one to walk? Heavens, how entirely the disappearance of a wood changes the character of a place, and what a pity it is! All those dear, shady spots that were there last year are now a bare wilderness. Now we are sowing our flowering seeds. I am doing double work, that is to say, out of working hours I am correcting proofs....”
To Ippolitov-Ivanov.“Frolovskoe,May5th(17th), 1890.“My visit abroad brought forth good fruit. I composed an opera,Pique Dame, which seems to me a success, that is why I speak of ‘good fruit’.... My plans for the future are as follows: to finish the orchestration of the opera, to sketch out a string sextet, to go to my sister at Kamenka for the end of the summer, and to spend the whole autumn with you at Tiflis. Is your operaAsrafinished? I saw none of the musical world in Moscow, and know nothing of what is going on. Safonov is a capable director, but—— However, we will talk this over when we meet.”
To Ippolitov-Ivanov.
“Frolovskoe,May5th(17th), 1890.
“My visit abroad brought forth good fruit. I composed an opera,Pique Dame, which seems to me a success, that is why I speak of ‘good fruit’.... My plans for the future are as follows: to finish the orchestration of the opera, to sketch out a string sextet, to go to my sister at Kamenka for the end of the summer, and to spend the whole autumn with you at Tiflis. Is your operaAsrafinished? I saw none of the musical world in Moscow, and know nothing of what is going on. Safonov is a capable director, but—— However, we will talk this over when we meet.”
To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich.“Frolovskoe,May18th(30th), 1890.“Your Imperial Highness,— ... I should be delighted to meet Maikov[148]at your house to discuss the relations between art and craftsmanship. Ever since I began to compose I have endeavoured to be in my work just what the great masters of music—Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert—were in theirs; not necessarily to be as great as they were, but to work as they did—as the cobbler works at his trade; not in a gentlemanly way, like Glinka, whose genius, however, I by no means deny. Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann, composed their immortal works just as a cobbler makes a pair of boots—by daily work; and more often than not because they were ordered. The result was something colossal. Had Glinka been a cobbler, rather than a gentleman, besides his two (very beautiful) operas, he would have given us perhaps fifteen others, and ten fine symphonies into the bargain. I could cry with vexation when I think what Glinka might have left us, if he had not been born into an aristocratic family before the days of the Emancipation. He showed us what he could have done, but he never actually accomplished a twentieth part of what it was in him to do. For instance, in symphonic music (Kamarinskaya, and the two Spanish overtures) he simply played about like an amateur—and yet we are astonished at the force and originality of his gifts. What would he not have accomplished had he worked in the same way as the great masters of Western Europe?“Although I am convinced that if a musician desires to attain to the greatest heights to which his inspiration will carry him he must develop himself as a craftsman, I will not assert that the same thing applies to the other arts. For instance, in the sphere you have chosen I do not think a man can force himself to create. For a lyrical poem, not only the mood, but the idea, must be there. But the idea will be evoked by some fortuitous phenomenon.In music it is only necessary to evoke a certain general mood or emotion. For example, to compose an elegy I must tune myself to a melancholy key. But in a poet this melancholy must take some concrete expression so to speak; therefore in his case an external impulse is indispensable. But in all these things the difference between the various creative temperaments plays a great part, and what is right for one would not be permissible for another. The majority of my fellow-workers, for instance, do not like working to order; I, on the other hand, never feel more inspired than when I am requested to compose something, when a term is fixed and I know that my work is being impatiently awaited.”
To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich.
“Frolovskoe,May18th(30th), 1890.
“Your Imperial Highness,— ... I should be delighted to meet Maikov[148]at your house to discuss the relations between art and craftsmanship. Ever since I began to compose I have endeavoured to be in my work just what the great masters of music—Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert—were in theirs; not necessarily to be as great as they were, but to work as they did—as the cobbler works at his trade; not in a gentlemanly way, like Glinka, whose genius, however, I by no means deny. Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann, composed their immortal works just as a cobbler makes a pair of boots—by daily work; and more often than not because they were ordered. The result was something colossal. Had Glinka been a cobbler, rather than a gentleman, besides his two (very beautiful) operas, he would have given us perhaps fifteen others, and ten fine symphonies into the bargain. I could cry with vexation when I think what Glinka might have left us, if he had not been born into an aristocratic family before the days of the Emancipation. He showed us what he could have done, but he never actually accomplished a twentieth part of what it was in him to do. For instance, in symphonic music (Kamarinskaya, and the two Spanish overtures) he simply played about like an amateur—and yet we are astonished at the force and originality of his gifts. What would he not have accomplished had he worked in the same way as the great masters of Western Europe?
“Although I am convinced that if a musician desires to attain to the greatest heights to which his inspiration will carry him he must develop himself as a craftsman, I will not assert that the same thing applies to the other arts. For instance, in the sphere you have chosen I do not think a man can force himself to create. For a lyrical poem, not only the mood, but the idea, must be there. But the idea will be evoked by some fortuitous phenomenon.In music it is only necessary to evoke a certain general mood or emotion. For example, to compose an elegy I must tune myself to a melancholy key. But in a poet this melancholy must take some concrete expression so to speak; therefore in his case an external impulse is indispensable. But in all these things the difference between the various creative temperaments plays a great part, and what is right for one would not be permissible for another. The majority of my fellow-workers, for instance, do not like working to order; I, on the other hand, never feel more inspired than when I am requested to compose something, when a term is fixed and I know that my work is being impatiently awaited.”
At the beginning of June, Ippolitov-Ivanov wrote to Tchaikovsky that the usual opera season would take place at Tiflis, and that, besides works by Tchaikovsky, his own operaAsrawould be performed there. At the same time, he seems to have sounded his friend as to his prospects of succeeding to Altani’s post in Moscow.
“The rumours of Altani’s resignation were false,” replied Tchaikovsky, “and the work of his enemies.... But you have no notion of all the disagreeables and annoyances you would have to endure. A more suitable position for you would be a professorship at the Moscow Conservatoire. But Safonov, it appears, makes no propositions. Write to me: yes or no.”
To N. F. von Meck.“Frolovskoe,June30th(July12th), 1890.“ ... I find more and more delight in the cultivation of flowers, and comfort myself with the thought of devoting myself entirely to this occupation when my powers of composition begin to decay. Meanwhile I cannot complain. Scarcely was the opera finished before I took up a new work, the sketch of which is already completed. I hope you will be pleased to hear I have composed a sextet for strings. I know your love of chamber music,and I am glad you will be able to hear my sextet; that will not necessitate your going to a concert, you can easily arrange a performance of it at home. I hope the work will please you: I wrote it with the greatest enthusiasm and without the least exertion.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Frolovskoe,June30th(July12th), 1890.
“ ... I find more and more delight in the cultivation of flowers, and comfort myself with the thought of devoting myself entirely to this occupation when my powers of composition begin to decay. Meanwhile I cannot complain. Scarcely was the opera finished before I took up a new work, the sketch of which is already completed. I hope you will be pleased to hear I have composed a sextet for strings. I know your love of chamber music,and I am glad you will be able to hear my sextet; that will not necessitate your going to a concert, you can easily arrange a performance of it at home. I hope the work will please you: I wrote it with the greatest enthusiasm and without the least exertion.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“Frolovskoe,June30th(July12th), 1890.“Yesterday was my name-day. I had eleven guests to dinner, which was served in the garden. The peasants came again to get their money, and brought cracknels, etc. The summer is wonderful. My flowers have never been so luxuriant. Quantities of everything. Yesterday morning I had hardly left the house before I came upon two splendid white mushrooms.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Frolovskoe,June30th(July12th), 1890.
“Yesterday was my name-day. I had eleven guests to dinner, which was served in the garden. The peasants came again to get their money, and brought cracknels, etc. The summer is wonderful. My flowers have never been so luxuriant. Quantities of everything. Yesterday morning I had hardly left the house before I came upon two splendid white mushrooms.”
To N. F. von Meck.“Frolovskoe,July2nd(14th), 1890.“Dear, kind Friend,—At the same time as your letter yesterday, the composer Arensky came to see me, which delayed my immediate reply. I am afraid I did not fully express my thanks. But then, words are wanting to tell you of my eternal gratitude, and to say how deeply touched I am by your care and attention. Acting upon your advice, I have paid two-thirds of the sum to my current account. I have firmly resolved to begin to put by this year, so that in time I may buy a small landed property—perhaps Frolovskoe itself, since I am very fond of it, in spite of the demolition of the woods.“Arensky has written an opera,[149]which Jurgenson has published. I had gone through it carefully and felt I must tell him exactly what I thought of this fine work. My letter touched him so deeply that he came here to thank me in person. Arensky is a man of remarkable gifts, but morbidly nervous and lacking in firmness—altogether a strange man.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Frolovskoe,July2nd(14th), 1890.
“Dear, kind Friend,—At the same time as your letter yesterday, the composer Arensky came to see me, which delayed my immediate reply. I am afraid I did not fully express my thanks. But then, words are wanting to tell you of my eternal gratitude, and to say how deeply touched I am by your care and attention. Acting upon your advice, I have paid two-thirds of the sum to my current account. I have firmly resolved to begin to put by this year, so that in time I may buy a small landed property—perhaps Frolovskoe itself, since I am very fond of it, in spite of the demolition of the woods.
“Arensky has written an opera,[149]which Jurgenson has published. I had gone through it carefully and felt I must tell him exactly what I thought of this fine work. My letter touched him so deeply that he came here to thank me in person. Arensky is a man of remarkable gifts, but morbidly nervous and lacking in firmness—altogether a strange man.”
To P. Jurgenson.“July2nd(14th), 1890.“Dear Friend,—The manuscript of the cantata is in the Petersburg Conservatoire. I cannot consent to its publication, because it is an immature work, for which there is no future. Besides, it is written to Schiller’sOde to Joy. It is not seemly to enter into competition with Beethoven.“As to the fate ofThe Little Shoes(Les Caprices d’Oxane), I fully believe it will come to have a place in the repertory, and regard it, musically speaking, as my best operatic work.“Arensky was here yesterday, and showed me a book of theory. It is admirably put together, and would be very useful for teaching purposes. I strongly recommend you to buy it.”
To P. Jurgenson.
“July2nd(14th), 1890.
“Dear Friend,—The manuscript of the cantata is in the Petersburg Conservatoire. I cannot consent to its publication, because it is an immature work, for which there is no future. Besides, it is written to Schiller’sOde to Joy. It is not seemly to enter into competition with Beethoven.
“As to the fate ofThe Little Shoes(Les Caprices d’Oxane), I fully believe it will come to have a place in the repertory, and regard it, musically speaking, as my best operatic work.
“Arensky was here yesterday, and showed me a book of theory. It is admirably put together, and would be very useful for teaching purposes. I strongly recommend you to buy it.”
To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich.“Frolovskoe,August3rd(15th), 1890.“Your Imperial Highness,—Your kind and charming letter has reached me on the eve of my departure for a long journey, so forgive me if I do not answer it as fully as I ought. But I have much to say in answer to your remarks aboutPique Dame.... Your criticisms of my sins as regards declamation are too lenient. In this respect I am past redemption. I do not think I have perpetrated many blunders of this kind in recitative and dialogue, but in the lyrical parts, where my mood has carried me away from all just equivalents, I am simply unconscious of my mistakes—you must get someone to point them out to me....“As regards the repetition of words and phrases, I must say that my views differ entirely from those of your Imperial Highness. There are cases in which such repetitions are quite natural and in accordance with truth of expression.... But even were it not so, I should not hesitate for an instant to sacrifice the literal to the artistic truth. These truths differ fundamentally, and I could not forget the second in pursuit of the first, for, if we aimed atpushing realism in opera to its extreme limits, we should finally have to abandon opera itself. To sing instead of speaking—that is the climax of falsehood in the accepted sense of the word. Of course, I am the child of my generation, and I have no wish to return to the worn-out traditions of opera; at the same time I am not disposed to submit to the despotic requirements of realistic theories. I should be most grieved to think that any portions ofPique Damewere repellent to you—for I hoped the work might please you—and I have made a few changes in the scene where the governess scolds the girls, so that all the repetitions have some good reason....”
To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich.
“Frolovskoe,August3rd(15th), 1890.
“Your Imperial Highness,—Your kind and charming letter has reached me on the eve of my departure for a long journey, so forgive me if I do not answer it as fully as I ought. But I have much to say in answer to your remarks aboutPique Dame.... Your criticisms of my sins as regards declamation are too lenient. In this respect I am past redemption. I do not think I have perpetrated many blunders of this kind in recitative and dialogue, but in the lyrical parts, where my mood has carried me away from all just equivalents, I am simply unconscious of my mistakes—you must get someone to point them out to me....
“As regards the repetition of words and phrases, I must say that my views differ entirely from those of your Imperial Highness. There are cases in which such repetitions are quite natural and in accordance with truth of expression.... But even were it not so, I should not hesitate for an instant to sacrifice the literal to the artistic truth. These truths differ fundamentally, and I could not forget the second in pursuit of the first, for, if we aimed atpushing realism in opera to its extreme limits, we should finally have to abandon opera itself. To sing instead of speaking—that is the climax of falsehood in the accepted sense of the word. Of course, I am the child of my generation, and I have no wish to return to the worn-out traditions of opera; at the same time I am not disposed to submit to the despotic requirements of realistic theories. I should be most grieved to think that any portions ofPique Damewere repellent to you—for I hoped the work might please you—and I have made a few changes in the scene where the governess scolds the girls, so that all the repetitions have some good reason....”
On December 13th (25th), 1890, Tchaikovsky received a letter from Nadejda von Meck, informing him that in consequence of the complicated state of her affairs she was on the brink of ruin, and therefore no longer able to continue his allowance.
In the course of their correspondence, which extended over thirteen years, Nadejda Filaretovna had referred more than once to her pecuniary embarrassments and to her fears of becoming bankrupt. But each time she had added that the allowance made to Tchaikovsky could be in no way affected, since she had assured it to him for life, and that the sum of 6,000 roubles a year was of no consequence to her one way or the other. In November, 1889, she had spoken again of her business anxieties, but, as usual, without any reference to Tchaikovsky’s pension. On the contrary, in the summer of 1890 she showed her willingness to help him still further by advancing him a considerable sum. Consequently this news fell upon the composer like a bolt from the blue, and provoked the following reply:—
To N. F. von Meck.“Tiflis,September22nd(October4th), 1890.“Dearest Friend,—The news you communicated to me in your last letter caused me great anxiety; not on my account, however, but on your own. It would, of course, be untrue were I to say that such a radical change in my budget did not in any way affect my financial position. But it ought not to affect me so seriously as you apparently fear. In recent years my earnings have considerably increased, and there are indications that they will continue to do so. Therefore, if I am accountable for any fraction of your endless cares and anxieties, I beg you, for God’s sake, to be assured that I can think of this pecuniary loss without any bitterness. Believe me, this is the simple truth; I am no master of empty phraseology. That I shall have to economise a little is of no importance. What really matters is that you, with your requirements and large ways of life, should have to retrench. This is terribly hard and vexatious. I feel as though I wanted to lay the blame on someone (you yourself are certainly above reproach), but I do not know who is the real culprit. Besides, not only is my indignation quite useless, but I have no right to interfere in your family affairs. I would rather ask Ladislaw Pakhulsky to tell me what you intend to do, where you will live, and how far you will be straitened as to means. I cannot think of you except as a wealthy woman. The last words of your letter have hurt me a little,[150]but I do not think you meant them seriously. Do you really think me incapable of remembering you when I no longer receive your money? How could I forget for a moment all you have done for me, and all for which I owe you gratitude? I may say without exaggeration that you saved me. I should certainly have gone out of my mind and come to an untimely end but for your friendship and sympathy, as well as for the material assistance (then my safety anchor), which enabled me to rally my forces and take up once more my chosen vocation. No, dear friend, I shall always remember and bless you with my lastbreath. I am glad you can now no longer spend your means upon me, so that I may show my unbounded and passionate gratitude, which passes all words. Perhaps you yourself hardly suspect how immeasurable has been your generosity. If you did, you would never have said that, now you are poor, I am to think of you ‘sometimes.’ I can truly say that I have never forgotten you, and never shall forget you for a moment, for whenever I think of myself my thoughts turn directly to you.“I kiss your hands, with all my heart’s warmth, and implore you to believe, once and for all, that no one feels more keenly for your troubles than I do.“I will write another time about myself and all I am doing. Forgive my hasty, badly written letter: I am too much upset to write well.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Tiflis,September22nd(October4th), 1890.
“Dearest Friend,—The news you communicated to me in your last letter caused me great anxiety; not on my account, however, but on your own. It would, of course, be untrue were I to say that such a radical change in my budget did not in any way affect my financial position. But it ought not to affect me so seriously as you apparently fear. In recent years my earnings have considerably increased, and there are indications that they will continue to do so. Therefore, if I am accountable for any fraction of your endless cares and anxieties, I beg you, for God’s sake, to be assured that I can think of this pecuniary loss without any bitterness. Believe me, this is the simple truth; I am no master of empty phraseology. That I shall have to economise a little is of no importance. What really matters is that you, with your requirements and large ways of life, should have to retrench. This is terribly hard and vexatious. I feel as though I wanted to lay the blame on someone (you yourself are certainly above reproach), but I do not know who is the real culprit. Besides, not only is my indignation quite useless, but I have no right to interfere in your family affairs. I would rather ask Ladislaw Pakhulsky to tell me what you intend to do, where you will live, and how far you will be straitened as to means. I cannot think of you except as a wealthy woman. The last words of your letter have hurt me a little,[150]but I do not think you meant them seriously. Do you really think me incapable of remembering you when I no longer receive your money? How could I forget for a moment all you have done for me, and all for which I owe you gratitude? I may say without exaggeration that you saved me. I should certainly have gone out of my mind and come to an untimely end but for your friendship and sympathy, as well as for the material assistance (then my safety anchor), which enabled me to rally my forces and take up once more my chosen vocation. No, dear friend, I shall always remember and bless you with my lastbreath. I am glad you can now no longer spend your means upon me, so that I may show my unbounded and passionate gratitude, which passes all words. Perhaps you yourself hardly suspect how immeasurable has been your generosity. If you did, you would never have said that, now you are poor, I am to think of you ‘sometimes.’ I can truly say that I have never forgotten you, and never shall forget you for a moment, for whenever I think of myself my thoughts turn directly to you.
“I kiss your hands, with all my heart’s warmth, and implore you to believe, once and for all, that no one feels more keenly for your troubles than I do.
“I will write another time about myself and all I am doing. Forgive my hasty, badly written letter: I am too much upset to write well.”
To the above letter we need only add that Tchaikovsky, with his usual lack of confidence, greatly exaggerated to himself the consequences of this loss. A few days later he wrote to Jurgenson:—
“Now I must start quite a fresh life, on a totally different scale of expenditure. In all probability I shall be compelled to seek some occupation in Petersburg which will bring me in a good salary. This is very, very humiliating—yes, humiliating is the word!”
“Now I must start quite a fresh life, on a totally different scale of expenditure. In all probability I shall be compelled to seek some occupation in Petersburg which will bring me in a good salary. This is very, very humiliating—yes, humiliating is the word!”
But this “humiliation” soon passed away. About this time his pecuniary situation greatly improved, and the success ofPique Damemore than covered the loss of his pension.
Soon, too, he was relieved as to the fate of Nadejda Filaretovna, for he learnt that her fears of ruin had been unfounded, and her financial difficulties had almost completely blown over. But with this relief—strange as it may appear—came also a sense of injury which Tchaikovsky carried to the grave. No sooner was he assured that his friend was as well off as before, than he began to persuade himself that her last letter had been nothing“but an excuse to get rid of him on the first opportunity”; that he had been mistaken in idealising his relations with his “best friend”; that the allowance had long since ceased to be the outcome of a generous impulse, and that Nadejda Filaretovna was no longer as grateful to him for his ready acceptance of her help, as he was to receive it.
“Such were my relations with her,” he wrote to Jurgenson, “that I never felt oppressed by her generous gifts; but now they weigh upon me in retrospect. My pride is hurt; my faith in her unfailing readiness to help me, and to make any sacrifice for my sake is betrayed.”
In his agony of wounded pride Tchaikovsky was driven to wish that his friend had really been ruined, so that he “might help her, even as she had helped him.” To these painful feelings was added all the bitterness involved in seeing their ideal connection shattered and dissolved. He felt as though he had been roughly awakened from some beautiful dream, and found in its stead “a commonplace, silly joke, which fills me with disgust and shame.”
But the worst blow was yet to come. Shortly after receiving Nadejda von Meck’s letter, Tchaikovsky’s circumstances—as we have already said—improved so greatly that it would not have been difficult for him to have returned her the sum she had allowed him. He believed, however, that this would have hurt her feelings, and he could not bring himself to mortify in the smallest degree the woman who had actually been his saviour at the most critical moment of his life. The only way out of this painful situation seemed the continuance of his correspondence with her, as though nothing had happened. His advances, however, met with nothing but silent opposition on the part of Nadejda Filaretovna, and this proved the unkindest cut of all. Her indifference to his fate, her lack of interest in his work, convinced him that things had never been what they seemed, and all the old ideal friendship now appeared to him as the whim ofa wealthy woman—the commonplace ending to a fairy tale; while her last letter remained like a blot upon the charm and beauty of their former intercourse. Neither the great success ofPique Dame, nor the profound sorrow caused by the death of his beloved sister, in April, 1891, nor even his triumphs in America, served to soften the blow she had inflicted.
On June 6th (18th), 1891, he wrote from Moscow to Ladislaw Pakhulsky:—
“I have just received your letter. It is true Nadejda Filaretovna is ill, weak, and her nerves are upset, so that she can no longer write to me as before. Not for the world would I add to her sufferings. I am grieved, bewildered, and—I say it frankly—deeply hurt that she has ceased to feel any interest in me. Even if she no longer desired me to go on corresponding directly with her, it could have been easily arranged for you and Julia Karlovna to have acted as links between us. But she has never once inquired through either of you how I am living, or what I am doing. I have endeavoured, through you, to re-establish my correspondence with Nadejda Filaretovna, but not one of your letters has contained the least courteous reference to my efforts. No doubt you are aware that in September last she informed me that she could no longer pay my pension. You must also know how I replied to her. Iwishedandhopedthat our relations might remain unchanged. But unhappily this seemed impossible, because of her complete estrangement from me. The result has been that all our intercourse was brought to an enddirectly I ceased to receive her money. This situation lowers me in my own estimation; makes the remembrance of the money I accepted from her well-nigh intolerable; worries and weighs upon me more than I can say. When I was in the country last autumn I re-read all her letters to me. No illness, no misfortune, no pecuniary anxieties could ever—so it seemed to me—change the sentiments which were expressed in these letters. And yet they have changed. Perhaps I idealised Nadejda Filaretovna because I did not know her personally.I could not conceive change in anyone sohalf-divine. I would sooner have believed that the earth could fail beneath me than that our relations could suffer change. But the inconceivable has happened, and all my ideas of human nature, all my faith in the best of mankind, have been turned upside down. My peace is broken, and the share of happiness fate has allotted me is embittered and spoilt.“No doubt Nadejda Filaretovna has dealt me this cruel blow unconsciously and unintentionally. Never in my life have I felt so lowered, or my pride so profoundly injured as in this matter. The worst is that, on account of her shattered health, I dare not show her all the troubles of my heart, lest I should grieve or upset her.“I may not speak out, which would be my sole relief. However, let this suffice. Even as it is, I may regret having said all this—but I felt the need of giving vent to some of my bitterness. Of course, I do not wish a word to be said to her.“Should she ever inquire about me, say I returned safely from America and have settled down to work in Maidanovo. You may add that I am well.“Do not answer this letter.”
“I have just received your letter. It is true Nadejda Filaretovna is ill, weak, and her nerves are upset, so that she can no longer write to me as before. Not for the world would I add to her sufferings. I am grieved, bewildered, and—I say it frankly—deeply hurt that she has ceased to feel any interest in me. Even if she no longer desired me to go on corresponding directly with her, it could have been easily arranged for you and Julia Karlovna to have acted as links between us. But she has never once inquired through either of you how I am living, or what I am doing. I have endeavoured, through you, to re-establish my correspondence with Nadejda Filaretovna, but not one of your letters has contained the least courteous reference to my efforts. No doubt you are aware that in September last she informed me that she could no longer pay my pension. You must also know how I replied to her. Iwishedandhopedthat our relations might remain unchanged. But unhappily this seemed impossible, because of her complete estrangement from me. The result has been that all our intercourse was brought to an enddirectly I ceased to receive her money. This situation lowers me in my own estimation; makes the remembrance of the money I accepted from her well-nigh intolerable; worries and weighs upon me more than I can say. When I was in the country last autumn I re-read all her letters to me. No illness, no misfortune, no pecuniary anxieties could ever—so it seemed to me—change the sentiments which were expressed in these letters. And yet they have changed. Perhaps I idealised Nadejda Filaretovna because I did not know her personally.I could not conceive change in anyone sohalf-divine. I would sooner have believed that the earth could fail beneath me than that our relations could suffer change. But the inconceivable has happened, and all my ideas of human nature, all my faith in the best of mankind, have been turned upside down. My peace is broken, and the share of happiness fate has allotted me is embittered and spoilt.
“No doubt Nadejda Filaretovna has dealt me this cruel blow unconsciously and unintentionally. Never in my life have I felt so lowered, or my pride so profoundly injured as in this matter. The worst is that, on account of her shattered health, I dare not show her all the troubles of my heart, lest I should grieve or upset her.
“I may not speak out, which would be my sole relief. However, let this suffice. Even as it is, I may regret having said all this—but I felt the need of giving vent to some of my bitterness. Of course, I do not wish a word to be said to her.
“Should she ever inquire about me, say I returned safely from America and have settled down to work in Maidanovo. You may add that I am well.
“Do not answer this letter.”
Nadejda Filaretovna made no response to this communication. Pakhulsky assured Tchaikovsky that her apparent indifference was the result of a serious nervous illness, but that in her heart of hearts she still cared for her old friend. He returned the above letter to Tchaikovsky, because he dare not give it to Nadejda Filaretovna during her illness, and did not consider himself justified in keeping it.
This was Tchaikovsky’s last effort to win back the affection of his “best friend.” But the wound remained unhealed, a cause of secret anguish which darkened his life to the end. Even on his death-bed the name of Nadejda Filaretovna was constantly on his lips, and in the broken phrases of his last delirium these words alone were intelligible to those around him.
Before taking leave of this personality who played sobenevolent a part in Tchaikovsky’s existence, let it be said, in extenuation of her undeserved cruelty, that from 1890 Nadejda von Meck’s life was a slow decline, brought about by a terrible nervous disease, which changed her relations not only to him, but to others. The news of his end reached her on her death-bed, and two months later she, too, passed away, on January 13th (25th), 1894.
Early in September, 1890, Tchaikovsky spent a day or two in Kiev on his way to Tiflis. In the former town he learnt that Prianichnikov, a favourite singer and theatrical impresario, was anxious to produceDame de Pique. The idea pleased Tchaikovsky, for, thanks to Prianichnikov’s energy, the opera at Kiev almost surpassed that of Moscow as regardsensembleand the excellence of the staging in general.
On October 20th (November 1st) Tchaikovsky conducted a concert given by the Tiflis branch of the Musical Society, the programme of which was drawn exclusively from his own works. The evening was a great success for the composer, who received a perfect ovation and was “almost smothered in flowers,” besides being presented with a bâton.
Tiflis was the first town to welcome Tchaikovsky with cordiality and enthusiasm; it was also the first to accord him a warm and friendly farewell, destined, alas! to be for eternity.
On his return to Frolovskoe he busied himself with the collected edition of his songs, which Jurgenson proposed to issue shortly. The composer stipulated that the songs should be reprinted in their original keys, for, as he writes to Jurgenson: “I have neither strength nor patience to look through all the transpositions, which have been very badly done, and are full of the stupidest mistakes.”
From Frolovskoe Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg, about the middle of November, to attend the rehearsals for his latest opera,Pique Dame. During his stay at the Hôtel Rossiya he arranged anauditionof his newly composed sextet. The instrumentalists were: Albrecht, Hildebrandt, Wierzbilowicz, Hille, Kouznietsov and Heine. As audience, he invited Glazounov, Liadov, Laroche, and a few friends and relatives. Neither his hearers, nor the composer himself, were equally pleased with all the movements of the sextet, so that he eventually resolved to rewrite the Scherzo and Finale. Apart from this one disappointment, the rest of his affairs—including the rehearsals—went so well that his prevailing mood at this time was cheerful; although the numerous festivities given in his honour hindered him from keeping up his correspondence during this visit to Petersburg. Not a single letter appears to exist dating from these weeks of his life.
On December 6th (18th) a rehearsal of the opera was given before their Imperial Majesties and many leaders of society in the capital. The success of the work was very evident; yet Tchaikovsky had an idea that the Emperor did not care for it. As we shall see, later on, he was quite mistaken in coming to this conclusion.
The first public representation took place on December 7th (19th), 1890, just a year after the commencement of the work. Not one of Tchaikovsky’s operas had a better caste thanPique Dame. The part of Hermann was taken by the celebrated singer Figner, while the heroine was represented by his wife. The rôles of the old Countess and Paulina were respectively allotted to Slavina and Dolina. Each of these leading singers distinguished themselves in some special quality of their art. Throughout the entire evening artists and audience alike experienced a sense of complete satisfaction, rarely felt during any operatic performance. Napravnik as conductor, and Figner in the part of hero, surpassed themselves, and didmost to ensure the success of the opera. The scenery and dresses, by their beauty and historical accuracy, were worthy of the fine musical interpretation.
The applause increased steadily to the end of the work, and composer and singers were frequently recalled. At the same time, no one would have ventured to predict that the opera would even now be holding its own in the repertory, for there was no question of a great ovation.
The critics not only unanimously condemned the libretto, but did not approve of the music. One remarked: “As regards instrumentation, Tchaikovsky is certainly a great poet; but in the actual musiche not only repeats himself, but does not shrink from imitating other composers.” Another thought this “the weakest of all his efforts at opera.” A third called the work “a card problem,” and declared that, musically speaking, “the accessories prevailed over the essential ideas, and external brilliance over the inner content.”
A few days after the first performance ofPique Damein St. Petersburg, Tchaikovsky went through the same experience in Kiev, with this difference, that the reception of the opera in the southern city far surpassed in enthusiasm that which had been accorded to it in the capital.
“It was indescribable,” he wrote to his brother on December 21st (January 2nd, 1891). “I am very tired, however, and in reality I suffer a great deal. My uncertainty as to the immediate future weighs upon me. Shall I give up the idea of wandering abroad or not? Is it wise to accept the offer of the Opera Direction,[151]for the sextet seems to point to the fact that I am going down-hill? My brain is empty; I have not the least pleasure in work.Hamlet[152]oppresses me terribly.”