“April16th(28th), 1884.“In the forest and indoors I have been trying to lay the foundation of a new symphony ... but I am not at all satisfied.... Walked in the garden and found the germ, not of a symphony, but of a future Suite.”
“April16th(28th), 1884.
“In the forest and indoors I have been trying to lay the foundation of a new symphony ... but I am not at all satisfied.... Walked in the garden and found the germ, not of a symphony, but of a future Suite.”
“April17th(29th).“ ... Jotted down a few ideas.”
“April17th(29th).
“ ... Jotted down a few ideas.”
“April19th(May1st).“Annoyed with my failures. Very dissatisfied because everything that comes into my head is so commonplace. Am I played out?”
“April19th(May1st).
“Annoyed with my failures. Very dissatisfied because everything that comes into my head is so commonplace. Am I played out?”
April24th(May6th).“I shall soon be forty-four. How much I have been through, and—without false modesty—how little I have accomplished! In my actual vocation I must say—hand on heart—I have achieved nothing perfect, nothing which can serve as a model. I am still seeking, vacillating.And in other matters? I read nothing, I know nothing.... The period of quiet, undisturbed existence is over for me. There remain agitation, conflict, much that I, such as I am, find hard to endure. No, the time has come to live byoneselfand inone’s own way!”
April24th(May6th).
“I shall soon be forty-four. How much I have been through, and—without false modesty—how little I have accomplished! In my actual vocation I must say—hand on heart—I have achieved nothing perfect, nothing which can serve as a model. I am still seeking, vacillating.And in other matters? I read nothing, I know nothing.... The period of quiet, undisturbed existence is over for me. There remain agitation, conflict, much that I, such as I am, find hard to endure. No, the time has come to live byoneselfand inone’s own way!”
“April26th(May8th).“This morning I worked with all my powers at the Scherzo of the Suite. Shall work again after tea.”
“April26th(May8th).
“This morning I worked with all my powers at the Scherzo of the Suite. Shall work again after tea.”
“April30th(May12th), 1884.“Worked all day at the Valse (Suite), but without any conviction of success.”
“April30th(May12th), 1884.
“Worked all day at the Valse (Suite), but without any conviction of success.”
Extracts from a Letter to Anna Merkling.“Kamenka,April27th(May9th), 1884.“Many thanks, dear Anna, for your thought of me on the 25th (May 7th).... Without bitterness, I receive congratulations upon the fact that I am a year older. I have no wish to die, and I desire to attain a ripe old age; but I would not willingly have my youth back and go through life again. Once is enough! The past, of which you speak with regret, I too regret it, for no one likes better to be lost in memories of old days, no one feels more keenly the emptiness and brevity of life—but I do not wish to be young again.... I cannot but feel that the sum total of good which I enjoy at present is far greater than that which stood to my credit in youth: therefore I do not in the least regret my forty-and-four years. Nor sixty, nor seventy, provided I am still sound mentally and physically! At the same time one ought not to fear death. In this respect I cannot boast. I am not sufficiently penetrated by religion to regard death as the beginning of a new life, nor am I sufficiently philosophical to be satisfied with the prospect ofannihilation. I envy no one so much as the religious man....”
Extracts from a Letter to Anna Merkling.
“Kamenka,April27th(May9th), 1884.
“Many thanks, dear Anna, for your thought of me on the 25th (May 7th).... Without bitterness, I receive congratulations upon the fact that I am a year older. I have no wish to die, and I desire to attain a ripe old age; but I would not willingly have my youth back and go through life again. Once is enough! The past, of which you speak with regret, I too regret it, for no one likes better to be lost in memories of old days, no one feels more keenly the emptiness and brevity of life—but I do not wish to be young again.... I cannot but feel that the sum total of good which I enjoy at present is far greater than that which stood to my credit in youth: therefore I do not in the least regret my forty-and-four years. Nor sixty, nor seventy, provided I am still sound mentally and physically! At the same time one ought not to fear death. In this respect I cannot boast. I am not sufficiently penetrated by religion to regard death as the beginning of a new life, nor am I sufficiently philosophical to be satisfied with the prospect ofannihilation. I envy no one so much as the religious man....”
Diary.“May2nd(14th).“The Valse gives me infinite trouble. I am growing old....”
Diary.
“May2nd(14th).
“The Valse gives me infinite trouble. I am growing old....”
“May6th(18th Sunday).“Went to church. I was very susceptible to religious impressions, and felt the tears in my eyes. The simple, healthy, religious spirit of the poorer classes always touches me profoundly. The worn-out old man, the little lad of four, who goes to the holy water of his own accord.”
“May6th(18th Sunday).
“Went to church. I was very susceptible to religious impressions, and felt the tears in my eyes. The simple, healthy, religious spirit of the poorer classes always touches me profoundly. The worn-out old man, the little lad of four, who goes to the holy water of his own accord.”
“May8th(20th), 1884.“Worked all morning. Not without fatigue, but my Andante progresses, and seems likely to turn out quite nice ... finished the Andante. I am very pleased with it.”
“May8th(20th), 1884.
“Worked all morning. Not without fatigue, but my Andante progresses, and seems likely to turn out quite nice ... finished the Andante. I am very pleased with it.”
At this time Tchaikovsky resolved to take a small country house on his own account. “I want no land,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck, “only a little house, with a pretty garden,not too new. Astreamis most desirable. The neighbourhood of a forest (which belonged to someone else) would be an attraction. The house must stand alone, not in a row of country villas, and, most important of all, be within easy reach of a station, so that I can get to Moscow at any time. I cannot afford more than two to three thousand roubles.”
Diary.“May11th(23rd), 1884.“The first movement of the Suite, which is labelled ‘Contrasts,’ and the theme:musical notationhas grown so hateful since I tormented myself about it all day long that I resolved to set it aside and invent something else. After dinner I squeezed the unsuccessful movement out of my head. What does it mean? I now work with such difficulty! Am I really growing old?”
Diary.
“May11th(23rd), 1884.
“The first movement of the Suite, which is labelled ‘Contrasts,’ and the theme:
musical notation
has grown so hateful since I tormented myself about it all day long that I resolved to set it aside and invent something else. After dinner I squeezed the unsuccessful movement out of my head. What does it mean? I now work with such difficulty! Am I really growing old?”
“May12th(24th).“After tea I took up the hateful ‘Contrasts’ once more. Suddenly a new idea flashed across me, and the whole thing began to flow.”
“May12th(24th).
“After tea I took up the hateful ‘Contrasts’ once more. Suddenly a new idea flashed across me, and the whole thing began to flow.”
“May17th(29th).“Played Mozart, and enjoyed it immensely. An idea for a Suite from Mozart.”
“May17th(29th).
“Played Mozart, and enjoyed it immensely. An idea for a Suite from Mozart.”
“May18th(30th).“I am working too strenuously, as though I were being driven. This haste is unhealthy, and will, perhaps, reflect upon the poor Suite. My work (upon the variations before the finale) has been very successful....”
“May18th(30th).
“I am working too strenuously, as though I were being driven. This haste is unhealthy, and will, perhaps, reflect upon the poor Suite. My work (upon the variations before the finale) has been very successful....”
“May21st(June2nd).“Worked well. Four variations completed.”
“May21st(June2nd).
“Worked well. Four variations completed.”
“May23rd(June4th).“.... The Suite is finished.”
“May23rd(June4th).
“.... The Suite is finished.”
To P. Jurgenson.“Grankino,June20th(July2nd), 1884.“I live here in a very pleasant way, a quiet, countrified existence, but I work hard. A work of greater genius than the new Suite never was!!! My opinion of the new-born composition is so optimistic; God knows what I shall think of it a year hence. At least it has cost me some pains.”
To P. Jurgenson.
“Grankino,June20th(July2nd), 1884.
“I live here in a very pleasant way, a quiet, countrified existence, but I work hard. A work of greater genius than the new Suite never was!!! My opinion of the new-born composition is so optimistic; God knows what I shall think of it a year hence. At least it has cost me some pains.”
To S. I. Taneiev.“Grankino,June30th(July12th), 1884.“ ... Although it was interesting to hear your opinion of my songs, I was rather angry with you for saying nothing whatever about your own work, plans, etc.“Your criticisms of the songs—the end of the ‘Legend,” and the abuse of the minor in the ‘Lied vom Winter’—are very just.... I should like to say your praise was equally well deserved, but modesty forbids. So I will not say you are right, but that I am pleased with your commendations....“At the present moment I am composing a third Suite. I wanted to write a Symphony, but it was not a success. However, the title is of no consequence. I have composed a big symphonic work in four movements: (1) Andante; (2) another Valse; (3) Scherzo; (4) Theme and Variations. It will be finished by the end of the summer, for I am working regularly and with zeal. Besides this, I am planning a concert-piece for pianoforte in two movements. It would be a fine thing if the work could be played during the coming season!”
To S. I. Taneiev.
“Grankino,June30th(July12th), 1884.
“ ... Although it was interesting to hear your opinion of my songs, I was rather angry with you for saying nothing whatever about your own work, plans, etc.
“Your criticisms of the songs—the end of the ‘Legend,” and the abuse of the minor in the ‘Lied vom Winter’—are very just.... I should like to say your praise was equally well deserved, but modesty forbids. So I will not say you are right, but that I am pleased with your commendations....
“At the present moment I am composing a third Suite. I wanted to write a Symphony, but it was not a success. However, the title is of no consequence. I have composed a big symphonic work in four movements: (1) Andante; (2) another Valse; (3) Scherzo; (4) Theme and Variations. It will be finished by the end of the summer, for I am working regularly and with zeal. Besides this, I am planning a concert-piece for pianoforte in two movements. It would be a fine thing if the work could be played during the coming season!”
To N. F. von Meck.“Grankino,July14th(26th), 1884.“I shall not set to work upon the pianoforte Concerto, of which I wrote to you, before autumn or early winter. Of course, it will be difficult ever again to find such an ideal interpreter as Nicholas Rubinstein, but there is a pianist whom I had in my mind when I thought of a second Concerto. This is a certain young man, called d’Albert, who was in Moscow last winter, and whom I heard several times in public and at private houses. To my mind he is a pianist ofgenius, the legitimate successor of Rubinstein. Taneiev—whom I value very highly as musician, teacher, and theorist—would also be a suitable interpreter, if he had just thatvein of virtuositywherein lies the secret of the magic spell which great interpreters exercise over the public.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Grankino,July14th(26th), 1884.
“I shall not set to work upon the pianoforte Concerto, of which I wrote to you, before autumn or early winter. Of course, it will be difficult ever again to find such an ideal interpreter as Nicholas Rubinstein, but there is a pianist whom I had in my mind when I thought of a second Concerto. This is a certain young man, called d’Albert, who was in Moscow last winter, and whom I heard several times in public and at private houses. To my mind he is a pianist ofgenius, the legitimate successor of Rubinstein. Taneiev—whom I value very highly as musician, teacher, and theorist—would also be a suitable interpreter, if he had just thatvein of virtuositywherein lies the secret of the magic spell which great interpreters exercise over the public.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“Skabeievka,July28th(August9th), 1884.“The coachman will have told you our adventures. All went well as far as Kochenovka. There I had supper, and readSaphoby the mingled light of the moon and a lantern, keeping an anxious eye upon the lightning that was flashing all around. At 11.30 p.m. we resumed our journey. The storm came nearer and nearer, until it broke over our heads. Although the constant flashes were mild, and the rain wetted us through, my nerves were overstrained. I was convinced we should miss the train.... Fortunately it was late. Here we had an appalling storm. The sightof it at the hour of sunset, which still glowed here and there through the clouds, was so grand that, forgetful of my fears, I stood by the door to watch it. The rest of the journey was comfortable. I readSapho, which I do not like.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Skabeievka,July28th(August9th), 1884.
“The coachman will have told you our adventures. All went well as far as Kochenovka. There I had supper, and readSaphoby the mingled light of the moon and a lantern, keeping an anxious eye upon the lightning that was flashing all around. At 11.30 p.m. we resumed our journey. The storm came nearer and nearer, until it broke over our heads. Although the constant flashes were mild, and the rain wetted us through, my nerves were overstrained. I was convinced we should miss the train.... Fortunately it was late. Here we had an appalling storm. The sightof it at the hour of sunset, which still glowed here and there through the clouds, was so grand that, forgetful of my fears, I stood by the door to watch it. The rest of the journey was comfortable. I readSapho, which I do not like.”
To N. F. von Meck.“Skabeievka,July25th(August6th), 1884.“ ... You ask my opinion upon Daudet’sSapho... in spite of his great talent, this author has long since dropped out of favour with me. If Daudet had not dedicated the book to his sons in order to display the fact that it contained a lesson and a warning, I should say that he had described the sensuality and depravity of the hero and heroine very simply and picturesquely, with considerable sympathy. But in view of this dedication I feel indignant at the Pharisaism and false virtuousness of the author. In reality he wants to tickle the depraved taste of his public, and describes with cynical frankness the immorality of Parisian life, while pretending to deliver a sermon to his sons. He would have us believe him to be pursuing a moral aim, actuated by the noble aspiration of saving the young from evil ways. In reality his only aim was to produce a book which would please the immoral Parisian public, and to make money by it. One must own that he has attained his object. The book will have a great success, like Zola’sPot-Bouille, the novels of Guy de Maupassant, and similar works of the new French school. When we reflect upon the group of people, and their way of life, as depicted by the author, we come to the conclusion that under the cloak of verisimilitude and realism the novel is fundamentally false. Sapho is an impossible being; at least I never came across a similar combination of honourable feeling and baseness, of nobility and infamy. Yet the author always sympathises with his heroine, and although, judging from the dedication, she is intended to inspire his sons with horror and repulsion, she must really seem very attractive to them. On the other hand, the virtuous characters in the book could not appeal sympathetically either to Daudet’s sons, or to anyone else; the tiresome Divonne, the hero’s impossible sister, and the rest ofthem—all these people are quite artificial. Sapho is an overdrawn type of a Parisian cocotte, but there is something true to nature in her. The others are not alive. Most insipid of all is Irène. Any young man reading the book must realise why Sapho succeeded in supplanting her in the heart of her husband Jean. It is here that Daudet’s hypocrisy is so evident, for while we ought to sympathise with Irène as greatly as we despise Sapho, in reality we involuntarily take the part of the depraved heroine. At the same time we cannot deny the great talent and mastery displayed in the book. Two or three dozen pages are wonderfully written.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Skabeievka,July25th(August6th), 1884.
“ ... You ask my opinion upon Daudet’sSapho... in spite of his great talent, this author has long since dropped out of favour with me. If Daudet had not dedicated the book to his sons in order to display the fact that it contained a lesson and a warning, I should say that he had described the sensuality and depravity of the hero and heroine very simply and picturesquely, with considerable sympathy. But in view of this dedication I feel indignant at the Pharisaism and false virtuousness of the author. In reality he wants to tickle the depraved taste of his public, and describes with cynical frankness the immorality of Parisian life, while pretending to deliver a sermon to his sons. He would have us believe him to be pursuing a moral aim, actuated by the noble aspiration of saving the young from evil ways. In reality his only aim was to produce a book which would please the immoral Parisian public, and to make money by it. One must own that he has attained his object. The book will have a great success, like Zola’sPot-Bouille, the novels of Guy de Maupassant, and similar works of the new French school. When we reflect upon the group of people, and their way of life, as depicted by the author, we come to the conclusion that under the cloak of verisimilitude and realism the novel is fundamentally false. Sapho is an impossible being; at least I never came across a similar combination of honourable feeling and baseness, of nobility and infamy. Yet the author always sympathises with his heroine, and although, judging from the dedication, she is intended to inspire his sons with horror and repulsion, she must really seem very attractive to them. On the other hand, the virtuous characters in the book could not appeal sympathetically either to Daudet’s sons, or to anyone else; the tiresome Divonne, the hero’s impossible sister, and the rest ofthem—all these people are quite artificial. Sapho is an overdrawn type of a Parisian cocotte, but there is something true to nature in her. The others are not alive. Most insipid of all is Irène. Any young man reading the book must realise why Sapho succeeded in supplanting her in the heart of her husband Jean. It is here that Daudet’s hypocrisy is so evident, for while we ought to sympathise with Irène as greatly as we despise Sapho, in reality we involuntarily take the part of the depraved heroine. At the same time we cannot deny the great talent and mastery displayed in the book. Two or three dozen pages are wonderfully written.”
Early in September, 1884, Tchaikovsky went to stay at Plestcheievo, a country property which Nadejda von Meck had purchased after circumstances compelled her to sell Brailov. Here he led the kind of life which suited him best—reading, composing, and studying the works of other musicians, in undisturbed quiet and freedom from social duties.
To N. F. von Meck.“Plestcheievo,September8th(20th), 1884.“I have realised two intentions since I came here—the study of two works hitherto unknown to me—Moussorgsky’sKhovanstchinaand Wagner’sParsifal. In the first I discovered what I expected: pretensions to realism, original conceptions and methods, wretched technique, poverty of invention, occasionally clever episodes, amid an ocean of harmonic absurdities and affectations....Parsifalleaves an entirely opposite impression. Here we are dealing with a great master, a genius, even if he has gone somewhat astray. His wealth of harmony is so luxuriant, so vast, that at length it becomes fatiguing, even to a specialist. What then must be the feelings of an ordinary mortal who has wrestled for three hours with thisflow of complicated harmonic combinations? To my mind Wagner has killed his colossal creative genius withtheories. Every preconceived theory chills his incontestable creative impulse. How could Wagner abandon himself to inspiration, while he believed he was grasping some particular theory of music-drama, or musical truth, and, for the sake of this, turned from all that, according to his predecessors, constituted the strength and beauty of music? If the singer may notsing, but—amid the deafening clamour of the orchestra—is expected to declaim a series of set and colourless phrases, to the accompaniment of a gorgeous, but disconnected and formless symphony, is that opera?“What really astounds me, however, is the seriousness with which this philosophising German sets the most inane subjects to music. Who can be touched, for instance, byParsifal, in which, instead of having to deal with men and women similar in temperament and feeling to ourselves, we find legendary beings, suitable perhaps for a ballet, but not for a music drama? I cannot understand how anyone can listen without laughter, or without being bored, to those endless monologues in which Parsifal, or Kundry, and the rest bewail their misfortunes. Can we sympathise with them? Can we love or hate them? Certainly not; we remain aloof from their passions, sentiments, triumphs, and misfortunes. But that which is unfamiliar to the human heart should never be the source of musical inspiration....”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Plestcheievo,September8th(20th), 1884.
“I have realised two intentions since I came here—the study of two works hitherto unknown to me—Moussorgsky’sKhovanstchinaand Wagner’sParsifal. In the first I discovered what I expected: pretensions to realism, original conceptions and methods, wretched technique, poverty of invention, occasionally clever episodes, amid an ocean of harmonic absurdities and affectations....Parsifalleaves an entirely opposite impression. Here we are dealing with a great master, a genius, even if he has gone somewhat astray. His wealth of harmony is so luxuriant, so vast, that at length it becomes fatiguing, even to a specialist. What then must be the feelings of an ordinary mortal who has wrestled for three hours with thisflow of complicated harmonic combinations? To my mind Wagner has killed his colossal creative genius withtheories. Every preconceived theory chills his incontestable creative impulse. How could Wagner abandon himself to inspiration, while he believed he was grasping some particular theory of music-drama, or musical truth, and, for the sake of this, turned from all that, according to his predecessors, constituted the strength and beauty of music? If the singer may notsing, but—amid the deafening clamour of the orchestra—is expected to declaim a series of set and colourless phrases, to the accompaniment of a gorgeous, but disconnected and formless symphony, is that opera?
“What really astounds me, however, is the seriousness with which this philosophising German sets the most inane subjects to music. Who can be touched, for instance, byParsifal, in which, instead of having to deal with men and women similar in temperament and feeling to ourselves, we find legendary beings, suitable perhaps for a ballet, but not for a music drama? I cannot understand how anyone can listen without laughter, or without being bored, to those endless monologues in which Parsifal, or Kundry, and the rest bewail their misfortunes. Can we sympathise with them? Can we love or hate them? Certainly not; we remain aloof from their passions, sentiments, triumphs, and misfortunes. But that which is unfamiliar to the human heart should never be the source of musical inspiration....”
To N. F. von Meck.“Plestcheievo,October3rd(15th), 1884.“This is my last evening here, and I feel both sadness and dread. After a month of complete solitude it is not easy to return to the vortex of Petersburg life. To-day I put all the bookshelves and music-cases in order. My conscience is clear as to all your belongings. But I must confess to one mishap: one night I wound the big clock in my bedroom with such energy that the weights fell off, and it now wants repairing. Dear and incomparable friend, accept my warmest thanks for your hospitality. I shall keep the most agreeable memories of Plestcheievo.How often, when I am in Petersburg, will my thoughts stray back to this dear, quiet house! Thank you again and again.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Plestcheievo,October3rd(15th), 1884.
“This is my last evening here, and I feel both sadness and dread. After a month of complete solitude it is not easy to return to the vortex of Petersburg life. To-day I put all the bookshelves and music-cases in order. My conscience is clear as to all your belongings. But I must confess to one mishap: one night I wound the big clock in my bedroom with such energy that the weights fell off, and it now wants repairing. Dear and incomparable friend, accept my warmest thanks for your hospitality. I shall keep the most agreeable memories of Plestcheievo.How often, when I am in Petersburg, will my thoughts stray back to this dear, quiet house! Thank you again and again.”
To N. F. von Meck.“Petersburg,October12th(24th), 1884.“Dear Friend,—When a whole week passes without my finding time to write to you, you may conclude what a busy life I am leading.... The first night[102]ofEugene Onieginis fixed for Friday, October 19th (31st).”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Petersburg,October12th(24th), 1884.
“Dear Friend,—When a whole week passes without my finding time to write to you, you may conclude what a busy life I am leading.... The first night[102]ofEugene Onieginis fixed for Friday, October 19th (31st).”
Thanks to Napravnik, this was by far the finest performance ofEugene Onieginthat had hitherto been seen. Never had this complicated score received so perfect an interpretation, both as a whole and as regards detail, because never before had a man so gifted, so capable and sympathetic, stood at the head of affairs. Yet even this first performance was by no means irreproachable. Since then, the St. Petersburg public has heard finer interpretations of the parts of Tatiana, Eugene, and others, and has seen more careful staging of the work. The soloists gave a thoughtful rendering of their parts, but nothing more. Not one of them can be said to have “created” his or her part, or left a traditional reading of it.
The success of the opera was great, but not phenomenal. There was no hissing, but between the acts, mingled with expressions of praise and appreciation, many criticisms and ironical remarks were audible.
These unfavourable views came to light in the Press. Cui thought the mere choice of the libretto ofEugene Onieginproved that Tchaikovsky was lacking in “discriminating taste,” and was not capable of self-criticism. The chief characteristic of the opera was its “wearisome monotony.” Tchaikovsky, he considered, was too fond of airing his troubles in his music. Finally, he pronounced the work to be “still_born, absolutely valueless and weak.”
Most of the other critics agreed with this view.
Tchaikovsky himself was “satisfied.” He had not realised, any more than the critics, that the crowded theatre signified the first great success of a Russian opera since Glinka’sA Life for the Tsar. In spite of the Press notices, it was not merely a success, but a triumph; a fact which became more and more evident. Dating from the second performance,Eugene Oniegindrew a long series of packed audiences, and has remained the favourite opera of the Russian public to this day.
This success did not merely mark an important event in the history of Russian opera, it proved the beginning of a new era in the life of Tchaikovsky himself. Henceforward his name, hitherto known and respected among musicians and a fairly wide circle of musical amateurs, was now recognised by the great public, and he acquired a popularity to which no Russian composer had ever yet attained in his own land. Together with his increase of fame, his material prospects improved.Eugene Oniegintransformed him from a needy into a prosperous man, and brought him that complete independence which was so necessary to his creative work.
It is instructive to observe that all this was the outcome of an opera which was never intended to appeal to the masses; but written only to satisfy the composer’s enthusiasm for Poushkin’s poem, without any hope—almost without any desire—of seeing it performed on a large stage.
In spite of its success, this performance ofEugene Onieginwas a great strain upon the composer’s nerves. He felt bound to stay for the second performance, after which he left St. Petersburg for Davos, having in view a twofold object: to take a short rest, and to visit his friend Kotek, of whose condition he had just received disquieting intelligence. Tchaikovsky broke his journey in Berlin, where he saw Weber’sOberonat the Opera. Instead of being bored by this work, as he expected, he enjoyed it very much. “The music is often enchanting,” he wrote to his brother, “but the subject is absurd, in the style ofZauberflöte. However, it is amusing, and I roared with laughter in one place, where at the sound of the magic horn the entirecorps de balletfall flat on the stage and writhe in convulsions.... I also went to Bilse’s and heard the Andante from my own quartet. This everlasting Andante; they want to hear no other work of mine!”
On November 12th (24th) he arrived at Davos. He expected to find a wilderness, in which neither cigarettes nor cigars were to be had, and the civilised aspect of the place, the luxurious hotels, the shops, and the theatre made upon him the fantastic impression of a dream. He had dreaded the meeting with Kotek, lest his friend should be changed beyond recognition by the ravages of consumption. He was agreeably surprised to find him looking comparatively well. But this was only a first impression; he soon realised that Kotek’s condition was serious. He remained a few days at Davos, rejoiced his friend’s heart by his presence, had a confidential interview with the doctor, and left for Paris on November 17th (29th), after having provided liberally for the welfare of the invalid.
To P. Jurgenson.“Zurich,November18th(30th), 1884.“ ... I have received a letter from Stassov urging me to present the following manuscripts to the Imperial Public Library:(1) ‘Romeo and Juliet,’(2) ‘The Tempest,’(3) ‘Francesca,’(4) ‘The String Quartet, No. 3,’and any others I like to send. Of the above works you do not possess the first two (‘The Tempest’ was lost long ago!), but please send him the others.... Be so good as to reply personally, or simply to send such scores as you can spare.”
To P. Jurgenson.
“Zurich,November18th(30th), 1884.
“ ... I have received a letter from Stassov urging me to present the following manuscripts to the Imperial Public Library:
(1) ‘Romeo and Juliet,’(2) ‘The Tempest,’(3) ‘Francesca,’(4) ‘The String Quartet, No. 3,’
and any others I like to send. Of the above works you do not possess the first two (‘The Tempest’ was lost long ago!), but please send him the others.... Be so good as to reply personally, or simply to send such scores as you can spare.”
To M. Tchaikovsky.“Paris,December3rd(15th), 1884.“I can scarcely tell you, dear Modi, how wearisome the last few days have been—although I cannot say why. It proceeds chiefly from home-sickness, the desire for a place of my own; and even the knowledge that I start for Russia to-morrow brings no satisfaction,because I have no home anywhere. Life abroad no longer pleases me.... I must have ahome, be it in Kamenka, or in Moscow. I cannot go on living the life of a wandering star.... Where will myhomebe?”
To M. Tchaikovsky.
“Paris,December3rd(15th), 1884.
“I can scarcely tell you, dear Modi, how wearisome the last few days have been—although I cannot say why. It proceeds chiefly from home-sickness, the desire for a place of my own; and even the knowledge that I start for Russia to-morrow brings no satisfaction,because I have no home anywhere. Life abroad no longer pleases me.... I must have ahome, be it in Kamenka, or in Moscow. I cannot go on living the life of a wandering star.... Where will myhomebe?”
With the year 1884 closes the second period in Tchaikovsky’s artistic career. To distinguish it from the “Moscow period,” which was inseparably connected with his teaching at the Conservatoire, it might be described as the “Kamenka period.” Not only because from 1878-84 Kamenka was his chief place of residence, but still more because the life there answered to the whole sum of his requirements, to all which characterised his spiritual condition during these years. After the terrible illness in 1877 he found in Kamenka, far more than in San Remo, Clarens, or France, all he needed for his recovery; during these seven years, it was at Kamenka that he gathered force and recuperated for the life which was becoming infinitely more strenuous and many-sided.
Those who have been at death’s door often speak of their return to health as the happiest time in their lives. Tchaikovsky could say the same of the first years of the Kamenka period. Happy in the friendship of Nadejda von Meck and surrounded by his sister’s family, who loved him, and whom he loved, his whole life shows no gladder days than these.
But with a gradual return to a normal state of mind Tchaikovsky’s relations to his environment underwent a change. As the years went on, Kamenka became toonarrow a circle for him; he felt the want of “social intercourse”; the sympathy of his relations ceased to be the one thing indispensable; the conditions of the family life palled, and sometimes he grumbled at them. By the middle of the eighties, he was so much stronger that he was possessed by a desire for complete independence and liberty of action. He no longer dreaded eitherabsolute solitude, or the society of those whose interests were identical with his own. Byabsolute solitudewe do not mean that solitary leisure which he enjoyed during his visits to Brailov and Simaki, during which he was cared for, as in a fairy tale, by the invisible hand of the truest of friends, but rather that independence and freedom in every detail of existence which constitutes the solitude of the typical bachelor’s life.
In 1878 Tchaikovsky’s dread of this kind of solitary existence, like his fear of social intercourse, was a symptom of his terrible mental suffering. Now his desire for both independence and society must be regarded as a sign of complete recovery. Hence his increasing disposition in his letters to grumble at Kamenka, and his final decision to leave it. This resolve—like so many important decisions in Tchaikovsky’s life—was not the result of mature reflection. As usual, he allowed himself to be guided by negative conclusions.... He knew well enough that he must and would change his manner of life; he knew the kind of life that would suit him for the time being—that it must be in the country; he observed with surprise his increasing need of social intercourse—but he had no definite idea how he should reconcile these contradictory requirements and, on the very eve of his new departure in life, he asks the question: “Where will my home be made?”
The answer to this question is contained in the following period of his life and work.
STRONG and energetic, fearing neither conflict nor effort, the Tchaikovsky who entered upon this new phase of life in no way resembled the man we knew in 1878.
The duties connected with his public career no longer dismayed him; on the contrary, they proved rather attractive, now he had strength to cope with them. At the same time interests stirred within him such as could not have been satisfied in his former restricted existence. Thanks to the enormous success ofEugene Oniegin, his fame had now reached every class in educated Russia, and he was compelled to accept a certain rôle which—at least, in these first days of success—was not unpleasant to him. He was glad to pay attentions to others, to help everyone who came his way, because by this means he could show his gratitude to the public for the enthusiastic reception accorded to his work. He was no longer a misanthropist, rather he sought those to whom he was dear, not only as a man, but as a personage. Amongst these, his old and faithful friends in Moscow took the first place. These intimacies were now renewed, and every fresh meeting with Laroche, Kashkin, Jurgenson, Albrecht, Hubert, and Taneiev gave him the keenest delight. Although death had separated him from Nicholas Rubinstein, he showed his devotion to the memory of his friend by taking the deepest interest in his orphaned children.
In February, 1885, Tchaikovsky was unanimously elected Director of the Moscow branch of the Russian Musical Society.
As the most popular musician in Russia, he no longer avoided intercourse with his fellow-workers. He was ready with advice, assistance and direction, and regarded it as a duty to answer every question addressed to him. His correspondence with his “colleagues” would fill a book in itself.
He received letters not only from professional musicians, but from amateurs, male and female, students, enthusiastic girls, officers, and even occasionally from priests. To all these letters he replied with astonishing conscientiousness and strove, in so far as he could, to fulfil all their requests, which often led to touching, or sometimes grotesque, expressions of gratitude from the recipients of his favours.
As a composer Tchaikovsky no longer stood aloof, leaving the fate of his compositions to chance; nor did he regard it asinfra dig.to make them known through the medium of influential people. After a convalescence which had lasted seven years, Tchaikovsky returned to all these activities with vigour and enjoyment, although after a time his courage flagged, and all his strength of will had to be requisitioned to enable him “to keep up this sort of existence.” Enthusiasm waned, and there succeeded—in his own words—“a life-weariness, and at times an insane depression; something hopeless, despairing, and final—and (as in every Finale) a sense of triviality.”
The new conditions of his life are reflected in his constantly increasing circle of acquaintances. In every town he visited he made new friends, who were drawn to him with whole-hearted affection. With many of them he entered into brisk correspondence. In some cases this was continued until his death; in other instances the exchange of letters ceased after a year or two, to make way for a fresh correspondence.
The most important and interesting of Tchaikovsky’s correspondents during this time are: Julie Spajinsky, wife of the well-known dramatist (1885-1891); Emilie Pavlovskaya, the famous singer, with whom Tchaikovsky became acquainted during the rehearsal forMazeppain 1884, and continued to correspond until 1888; the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich; the composer Ippolitov-Ivanov and his wife, the well-known singer, Zaroudna; Vladimir Napravnik, son of the conductor; the pianists Sapellnikov and Siloti. With Glazounov, Désirée Artôt, Brodsky, Hubert, his cousin Anna Merkling, and many others, there was an occasional exchange of letters.
The greater part of these communications, notwithstanding the intimate style and frankness of the writer’s nature, bear signs of effort, and give the impression of having been written for duty’s sake. Taken as a whole, they are not so important, or so interesting, as the letters to Nadejda von Meck, and to Tchaikovsky’s own family, belonging to the Moscow period.
The same may be said of the majority of new acquaintances made during the later years of his life, of which no epistolary record remains. These were so numerous that it would be impossible to speak of them individually. They included such personalities as Liadov, Altani, Grieg, Sophie Menter, Emil Sauer, Louis Diemer, Colonne, Carl Halir. Besides these, he was in touch with a vast number of people belonging to the most varied strata of social life. Among them was Legoshin, valet to his friend Kondratiev. Tchaikovsky got to know this man by the death-bed of his master, and valued his purity of heart and integrity more and more as years went by. Another unprofessional friend was the celebrated Russian general, Dragomirov. While travelling to France by sea, he made the acquaintance of an extraordinarily gifted boy, the son of Professor Sklifasskovsy. The friendship was brief as it was touching, for the youth died a year later. Tchaikovsky was deeplyaffected by his loss, and dedicated to his memory theChant Elégiaque, op. 72.
All these new friendships served to surround the composer with that atmosphere of affection and appreciation which was as indispensable to him as his daily bread. But none of them were as deep and lasting as the ties of old days, none so close and intimate; nor did they contribute any new element to his inner life....
One word as to the dearest of all his later affections. His sister, A. Davidov, had three sons. The second of these, Vladimir, had always been Tchaikovsky’s favourite from childhood. Up to the age of eighteen, however, these pleasant relations between uncle and nephew had not assumed any deep significance. But as Vladimir Davidov grew up, Tchaikovsky gradually felt for him a sentiment which can only be compared to his love for the twins, Toly and Modi, in their youth. The difference of age was no hindrance to their relations. Tchaikovsky preferred the companionship of his nephew; was always grieved to part with him; confided to him his inmost thoughts, and finally made him his heir, commending to this young man all those whom he still desired to assist and cherish, even after his death.
To N. F. von Meck.“Moscow,January1st(13th), 1885.“It is so long since I wrote, dear friend! Two events have interrupted my correspondence with you: on Christmas Eve I received a telegram announcing the death of Kotek. Not only was I much upset by this intelligence, but the sad duty of breaking the news to his parents devolved upon me.... I have also had to make the difficult corrections in my new Suite myself. Hans von Bülow is shortly to conduct in Petersburg, and all mustbe ready four or five days hence. While I was away nothing was done here. I was furious, rated Jurgenson and the engravers, and worked till I was worn out; therefore I have had no time to lament for poor Kotek.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Moscow,January1st(13th), 1885.
“It is so long since I wrote, dear friend! Two events have interrupted my correspondence with you: on Christmas Eve I received a telegram announcing the death of Kotek. Not only was I much upset by this intelligence, but the sad duty of breaking the news to his parents devolved upon me.... I have also had to make the difficult corrections in my new Suite myself. Hans von Bülow is shortly to conduct in Petersburg, and all mustbe ready four or five days hence. While I was away nothing was done here. I was furious, rated Jurgenson and the engravers, and worked till I was worn out; therefore I have had no time to lament for poor Kotek.”
To N. F. von Meck.“Moscow,January5th(17th), 1885.“All my thoughts are now directed towards taking up my abode in some village near Moscow. I am no longer satisfied with a nomadic existence, and am determined to have ahome of my ownsomewhere. As I am sure I am not in a position to buy a country house, I have decided to rent one.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Moscow,January5th(17th), 1885.
“All my thoughts are now directed towards taking up my abode in some village near Moscow. I am no longer satisfied with a nomadic existence, and am determined to have ahome of my ownsomewhere. As I am sure I am not in a position to buy a country house, I have decided to rent one.”
The first performance of the Third Suite, which took place at a symphony concert in Petersburg, on January 12th (24th), 1885, under Von Bülow’s direction, was a veritable triumph for Tchaikovsky. Never before had any of his works been received with such unanimous enthusiasm. Doubtless this was partly owing to the accessible and attractive character of the music, but far more to the admirable way in which it was interpreted.
Hans von Bülow was a great pianist, yet in this sphere he had rivals who almost overshadowed his fame. As a conductor, however, he ranked, after Richard Wagner, as the first man of his day. In spite of his years he was as enthusiastic as a youth, highly strung, receptive, and a fine all-round musician. He knew how to bring out every detail in a work, and thus infused his own virtuoso-inspiration into each individual player. Under him—in spite of his mannerisms and ungraceful movements—the orchestra performed wonders, and threw new light upon the most hackneyed works (such as the overture toFreischütz), holding the attention of the audience from the opening phrase to the last chord.
Quick, restless, and continually under the influence of some inspiration, he was as extreme and pitiless in hisdislikes as he was sentimental and enthusiastic in his sympathies. He could not merely like or dislike. He hated or adored.
After having been in turn a passionate partisan of the classical masters, of Wagner and of Brahms, he became in the seventies a great admirer of Russian music, and was devoted to Tchaikovsky’s works. His devotion was then at its zenith, consequently he put into his interpretation of the Third Suite not merely his accustomed experience, but all the fire of his passing enthusiasm. I say “passing,” because some ten years later this enthusiasm had somewhat cooled, and he had begun to rave over the works of Richard Strauss, who at that time had scarcely entered upon his career as a composer.
To N. F. von Meck.“Moscow,January18th(30th), 1885.“Dear, kind Friend,—Forgive me my indolence, and for so seldom writing. To-day I returned from Petersburg, where I spent a week of feverish excitement. The first few days were taken up by the rehearsals for the concert at which my new Suite was to be performed. I had a secret presentiment that it would please the public. I experienced both pleasure and fear. But the reality far surpassed my expectations. I have never had such a triumph; I could see that the greater part of the audience was touched and grateful. Such moments are the best in an artist’s life.... On the 15th (27th)Onieginwas performed in the presence of the Emperor and Empress, and other members of the Tsar’s family. The Emperor desired to see me. We had a long and friendly conversation, in the course of which he asked all about my life and musical work, and then took me to the Empress, who paid me the most touching attention. The following evening I returned to Moscow.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Moscow,January18th(30th), 1885.
“Dear, kind Friend,—Forgive me my indolence, and for so seldom writing. To-day I returned from Petersburg, where I spent a week of feverish excitement. The first few days were taken up by the rehearsals for the concert at which my new Suite was to be performed. I had a secret presentiment that it would please the public. I experienced both pleasure and fear. But the reality far surpassed my expectations. I have never had such a triumph; I could see that the greater part of the audience was touched and grateful. Such moments are the best in an artist’s life.... On the 15th (27th)Onieginwas performed in the presence of the Emperor and Empress, and other members of the Tsar’s family. The Emperor desired to see me. We had a long and friendly conversation, in the course of which he asked all about my life and musical work, and then took me to the Empress, who paid me the most touching attention. The following evening I returned to Moscow.”
On January 16th (28th), the new Suite was given in Moscow, under Erdmannsdörfer. It met with considerablesuccess, but not with such appreciation as in Petersburg. Erdmannsdörfer’s interpretation was fine, but lacked the inspiration by means of which Hans von Bülow had electrified his audience. At this time Tchaikovsky was in search of an operatic subject. Just then, says his brother Modeste, “I was in Moscow, and remarked one day that certain scenes from Shpajinsky’s play,The Enchantress, would make an effective opera without using the whole drama as a libretto.” The following day Tchaikovsky wrote to the author, asking permission to use the play for musical setting. Shpajinsky replied that he would be pleased to co-operate with the composer.
When the time came for Tchaikovsky to find a residence in his native land, or to go abroad according to his usual custom, he was seized with an inexplicable fear of the journey, and sent his servant Alexis to take a furnished house, in the village of Maidanovo, near Klin. “The house,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck, “contains many beautifully furnished rooms, and has a fine view. Apparently it is a pleasant place to live in, but the number of rooms gives me some anxiety, because they must be heated in winter.” Finally he decided to take it for a year, and should it prove beyond his means, to look out for something more suitable in the meanwhile.
The village of Maidanovo lies close to the town of Klin. The manor house stands upon a high bank, overlooking the river Sestra, and is surrounded by a large park. Once it belonged to an aristocratic Russian family, but had gradually fallen into decay. Nevertheless, it bore many traces of its former splendour: the remains of a rosary in front of the façade, arbours, lakes, little bridges, rare trees, an orangery and a marble vase, placed in a shady spot in the park. In 1885 this property was already spoilt by the numerous country houses built by rich owners in the immediate neighbourhood. But Tchaikovsky was so enamoured of the scenery of Great Russia that he was quitesatisfied with a birch or pine wood, a marshy field, the dome of a village church and, in the far distance, the dark line of some great forest. The chief motive, however, for his choice of this neighbourhood, where he lived to the end of his days, was not so much the charm of scenery as its situation between the two capitals. Klin lies near Moscow, and is also easily accessible from Petersburg, so that Tchaikovsky was within convenient distance from either city; while at the same time he was beyond the reach of accidental visitors, who now frequently molested him.
The first glimpse of Maidanovo disappointed Tchaikovsky. All that seemed splendid and luxurious to his man Alexis appeared in his eyes tasteless and incongruous. Nevertheless, he felt it would be pleasant as a temporary residence. The view from the windows, the quiet and sense of beingat home, delighted him. The cook was good and inexpensive. The only other servants he employed were a moujik and a washerwoman. “In spite of my disappointment,” he writes to his brother, “I am contented, cheerful, and quiet.... I am now receiving the newspapers, which makes life pleasanter. I read a great deal, and am getting on with English, which I enjoy. I eat, walk, and sleep when—and as much as—I please—in fact I live.”
To E. Pavlovskaya.“Maidanovo,February20th(March 4th), 1888.“Dear Emilie Karlovna,—I rather long for news of you. Where are you now? I have settled down in a village. My health is not good ... in Carnival week I suffered from the most peculiar nervous headaches.... As I felt sure my accursed and shattered nerves were to blame, and I only wanted rest, I hurried into the country.... MyVakoulawill be quite a respectableopera, you can feel sure of that. I always see you as Oxana, and so you dwell in my company without suspecting it. I have made every possible alteration which could retrieve the work from its unmerited oblivion. I hope it will be quite ready by Easter. I intend to begin a new opera in spring, so I shall once more have an opportunity of spending all my time with my ‘benefactress.’”[103]
To E. Pavlovskaya.
“Maidanovo,February20th(March 4th), 1888.
“Dear Emilie Karlovna,—I rather long for news of you. Where are you now? I have settled down in a village. My health is not good ... in Carnival week I suffered from the most peculiar nervous headaches.... As I felt sure my accursed and shattered nerves were to blame, and I only wanted rest, I hurried into the country.... MyVakoulawill be quite a respectableopera, you can feel sure of that. I always see you as Oxana, and so you dwell in my company without suspecting it. I have made every possible alteration which could retrieve the work from its unmerited oblivion. I hope it will be quite ready by Easter. I intend to begin a new opera in spring, so I shall once more have an opportunity of spending all my time with my ‘benefactress.’”[103]
In February Taneiev played the new Fantasia for pianoforte in Moscow. Its immediate success was very great, but probably the applause was as much for the favourite pianist as for the work itself, for neither in Moscow nor yet in Petersburg—where Taneiev played it a year later—did this composition take any lasting hold upon the public.
To N. F. von Meck.“Maidanovo,March5th(17th), 1885.“Dear Friend,—Your letter gave me food for reflection. You are quite right: property is a burden, and only he who owns nothing is quite free. But, on the other hand, one must have ahome. If I could live in Moscow, I should rent a house there. But it is not sufficient torenta place in the country if one wants to feel at home. Here in Maidanovo, for instance, I have already found it very unpleasant to have my landlady living close by. I cannot plant the flowers I like, nor cut down a tree that obstructs my view. I cannot prevent people from walking in front of my windows, because there are other houses let in the park. I think, with my reserved character and nature, it would be better to have a little house and garden of my own....“The Russian solitudes of which you speak do not frighten me. One can always take a great store of books and newspapers from town, and, moreover, I am very simple in my tastes.“I do not at all agree with your idea that in our countryit must always behorrid,dark,marshy, etc. Even as the Esquimaux, or the Samoyede, loves his icy northern land, I love our Russian scenery more than any other, and a Russian landscape in winter has an incomparable charm for me. This does not hinder me in the least from liking Switzerland or Italy, in a different way. To-day I find it particularly difficult to agree with you about the poverty of our Russian scenery: it is a bright, sunny day, and the snow glistens like millions of diamonds. A wide vista lies before my window.... No! it is beautiful here in this land of ours, and one breathes so easily under this boundless horizon.“It seems to me you think too gloomily, too despairingly, of Russia. Undoubtedly there is much to be wished for here, and all kinds of deceit and disorder do still exist. But where will you find perfection? Can you point out any country in Europe where everyone is perfectly contented? There was a time when I was convinced that for the abolishment of autocracy and the introduction of law and order, political institutions, such as parliaments, chambers of deputies, etc., were indispensable, and that it was only necessary to introduce these reforms with great caution, then all would turn out well, and everyone would be quite happy. But now, although I have not yet gone over to the camp of the ultra-conservatives, I am very doubtful as to the actual utility of these reforms. When I observe what goes on in other countries, I see everywhere discontent, party conflict and hatred; everywhere—in a greater or less degree—the same disorder and tyranny prevails. Therefore I am driven to the conclusion that there is no ideal government, and, until the end of the world, men will have to endure in patience many disappointments with regard to these things. From time to time great men—benefactors of mankind—appear, who rule justly and care more for the common welfare than for their own. But these are very exceptional. Therefore I am firmly convinced that the welfare of the great majority is not dependent uponprinciplesandtheories, but upon those individuals who, by the accident of their birth, or for some other reason, stand at the head of affairs. In a word, mankind serves man,not a personified principle. Now arises the question: Have we amanupon whom we can stake our hopes? I answer, Yes, and this man is the Emperor. His personality fascinates me; but, apart from personal impressions, I am inclined to think that the Emperor is a good man. I am pleased with the caution with which he introduces the new and does away with the old order. It pleases me, too, that he does not seek popularity; and I take pleasure also in his blameless life, and in the fact that he is an honourable and good man. But perhaps my politics are only thenaïvetéof a man who stands aloof from everyday life and is unable to see beyond his own profession.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Maidanovo,March5th(17th), 1885.
“Dear Friend,—Your letter gave me food for reflection. You are quite right: property is a burden, and only he who owns nothing is quite free. But, on the other hand, one must have ahome. If I could live in Moscow, I should rent a house there. But it is not sufficient torenta place in the country if one wants to feel at home. Here in Maidanovo, for instance, I have already found it very unpleasant to have my landlady living close by. I cannot plant the flowers I like, nor cut down a tree that obstructs my view. I cannot prevent people from walking in front of my windows, because there are other houses let in the park. I think, with my reserved character and nature, it would be better to have a little house and garden of my own....
“The Russian solitudes of which you speak do not frighten me. One can always take a great store of books and newspapers from town, and, moreover, I am very simple in my tastes.
“I do not at all agree with your idea that in our countryit must always behorrid,dark,marshy, etc. Even as the Esquimaux, or the Samoyede, loves his icy northern land, I love our Russian scenery more than any other, and a Russian landscape in winter has an incomparable charm for me. This does not hinder me in the least from liking Switzerland or Italy, in a different way. To-day I find it particularly difficult to agree with you about the poverty of our Russian scenery: it is a bright, sunny day, and the snow glistens like millions of diamonds. A wide vista lies before my window.... No! it is beautiful here in this land of ours, and one breathes so easily under this boundless horizon.
“It seems to me you think too gloomily, too despairingly, of Russia. Undoubtedly there is much to be wished for here, and all kinds of deceit and disorder do still exist. But where will you find perfection? Can you point out any country in Europe where everyone is perfectly contented? There was a time when I was convinced that for the abolishment of autocracy and the introduction of law and order, political institutions, such as parliaments, chambers of deputies, etc., were indispensable, and that it was only necessary to introduce these reforms with great caution, then all would turn out well, and everyone would be quite happy. But now, although I have not yet gone over to the camp of the ultra-conservatives, I am very doubtful as to the actual utility of these reforms. When I observe what goes on in other countries, I see everywhere discontent, party conflict and hatred; everywhere—in a greater or less degree—the same disorder and tyranny prevails. Therefore I am driven to the conclusion that there is no ideal government, and, until the end of the world, men will have to endure in patience many disappointments with regard to these things. From time to time great men—benefactors of mankind—appear, who rule justly and care more for the common welfare than for their own. But these are very exceptional. Therefore I am firmly convinced that the welfare of the great majority is not dependent uponprinciplesandtheories, but upon those individuals who, by the accident of their birth, or for some other reason, stand at the head of affairs. In a word, mankind serves man,not a personified principle. Now arises the question: Have we amanupon whom we can stake our hopes? I answer, Yes, and this man is the Emperor. His personality fascinates me; but, apart from personal impressions, I am inclined to think that the Emperor is a good man. I am pleased with the caution with which he introduces the new and does away with the old order. It pleases me, too, that he does not seek popularity; and I take pleasure also in his blameless life, and in the fact that he is an honourable and good man. But perhaps my politics are only thenaïvetéof a man who stands aloof from everyday life and is unable to see beyond his own profession.”