The Life & Letters of Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky
by Modest Chaikovskii · English · Gutenberg #45259 · 1,620,230 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Life & Letters of Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Life & Letters of Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky
Author: Modest Chaikovskii
Translator: Rosa Newmarch
Release date: March 29, 2014 [eBook #45259]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/45259
Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIFE & LETTERS OF PETER ILICH TCHAIKOVSKY ***
Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
Every attempt has been made to replicate the original as printed. No
attempt has been made to correct or normalize the spelling of
non-English words. Some typographical errors have been corrected; a list
follows the text. The Illustrations have been moved from mid-paragraph
for ease of reading. (etext transcriber's note)
THE LIFE & LETTERS OF PETER ILICH TCHAIKOVSKY
THE LIFE & LETTERS OF
PETER ILICH
TCHAIKOVSKY
BY MODESTE TCHAIKOVSKY
EDITED FROM THE RUSSIAN
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
ROSA NEWMARCH: ILLUSTRATED
LONDON : JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK : JOHN LANE COMPANY : MCMVI
WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LIMITED, PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH
TO
SERGEÏ IVANOVICH TANEIEV
AND TO ALL
WHO STILL CHERISH THE MEMORY OF
PETER ILICH TCHAIKOVSKY
I DEDICATE THIS WORK
INTRODUCTION
In offering to English and American readers this abridged edition of
_The Life and Letters of Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky_, my introduction must
of necessity take the form of some justification of my curtailments and
excisions.
The motives which led to this undertaking, and the reasons for my mode
of procedure, may be stated in a few words.
In 1900 I published a volume dealing with Tchaikovsky,[1] which was, I
believe, the first attempt to embody in book form all the
literature--scattered through the byways of Russian
journalism--concerning the composer of the Pathetic Symphony.
In the course of a year or two--the book having sold out in England and
America--a proposal was made to me to prepare a new edition. Meanwhile,
however, the authorised _Life and Letters_, compiled and edited by the
composer’s brother, Modeste Ilich Tchaikovsky, was being issued in
twenty-five parts by P. I. Jurgenson, of Moscow.[2] This original
Russian edition was followed almost immediately by a German translation,
published in Leipzig by the same firm.[3]
In November, 1901, the late P. I. Jurgenson approached me on the subject
of a translation, but his negotiations with an American firm eventually
fell through. He then requested me to find, if possible, an English
publisher willing to take up the book. Both in England and America the
public interest in Tchaikovsky seemed to be steadily increasing.
Frequent calls for copies of my small book--by this time out of
print--testified that this was actually the case.
An alternative course now lay before me: to revise my own book, with the
help of the material furnished by the authorised _Life and Letters_, or
to take in hand an English translation of the latter. The first would
have been the less arduous and exacting task; on the other hand, there
was no doubt in my mind as to the greater value and importance of
Modeste Tchaikovsky’s work.
The simplest--and in many ways most satisfactory--course seemed at first
to be the translation of the Russian edition in its entirety. Closer
examination, however, revealed the fact that out of the 3,000 letters
included in this book a large proportion were addressed to persons quite
unknown to the English and American publics; while at the same time it
contained a mass of minute and almost _local_ particulars which could
have very little significance for readers unversed in every detail of
Russian musical life.
Another practical question confronted me. What publisher would venture
upon launching this biographical three-decker, with its freight of 3,000
letters, amounting to nearly 2,000 pages of closely printed matter? Such
colossal biographies, however valuable as sources of information to the
specialist, are quite beyond all possibility of purchase or perusal by
the general public. That the author himself realised this, seems evident
from the fact that the German edition was lightened of about a third of
the original contents.
Following the lines of these authorised abridgments, while using my own
judgment as to the retention of some portions of the Russian text
omitted in the German edition, I have condensed the work still further.
It may be true, as Carlyle has said, that mankind takes “an unspeakable
delight in biography”; but it is equally certain that these “headlong
days” which have witnessed the extinction of the three-volume novel are
absolutely unfavourable to the success of the three-volume biography.
While admiring the patient and pious industry which has raised so
colossal a monument to Tchaikovsky’s memory, I cannot but feel that it
would be unreasonable to expect of any nation but his own a hero-worship
so devout that it could assimilate a _Tchaikovskiad_ of such prodigious
dimensions.
The present volume is the result of a careful selection of material. The
leading idea which I have kept in view throughout the fulfilment of my
task has been to preserve as far as possible the _autobiographical_
character of the book. Wherever feasible, I have preferred to let
Tchaikovsky himself tell the story of his life. For this reason the
proportion of letters to the additional biographical matter is even
greater in my version than in the German edition. When two or three
letters of only moderate interest have followed in immediate succession,
I have frequently condensed their contents into a single paragraph,
keeping as closely as possible to the phraseology of the composer
himself.
In one respect the present edition shows a clear improvement upon the
German. In the latter the dates have been given throughout in the Old
Style, thereby frequently causing confusion in the minds of Western
readers. In the English version--with a few unimportant exceptions--the
dates are given according to both calendars.
The most romantic episode of Tchaikovsky’s life--his friendship
extending over thirteen years with a woman to whom he never addressed a
direct personal greeting--is told in a series of intimate letters. In
these I have spared all but the most necessary abridgements.
The account of his tour in America, which takes the form of a diary kept
for the benefit of his near relatives, cannot fail to amuse and interest
all those who remember the favourable impression created by his
appearance at the inauguration of the Carnegie Hall, New York, in May,
1891.
The illustrations are the same as those published in the Russian and
German publications, with two notable additions: the photograph of
Tchaikovsky and Siloti, and the fine portrait by Kouznietsov.
My thanks are due to Mr. Grant Richards for permission to republish the
facsimile from the score of the Overture “_1812_”; also to Mr. W. W.
Manning and Mr. Adolf Brodsky for the kind loan of autographs.
In conclusion, let me say that in planning and carrying out this work it
is not so much the needs of the specialist I have kept most constantly
in view, as those of that large section of the musical public whose
interest in Tchaikovsky has been awakened by the sincerely emotional and
human elements of his music.
ROSA NEWMARCH
CONTENTS
PAGE
PART I. CHAPTERS I.-V. 1840-1861 1
PART II. CHAPTERS I.-VII. 1861-1866 30
PART III. CHAPTERS I.-XIII. 1866-1877 64
PART IV. CHAPTERS I.-VIII. 1877-1878 204
PART V. CHAPTERS I.-XX. 1878-1885 318
PART VI. CHAPTERS I.-XIII. 1885-1888 468
PART VII. CHAPTERS I.-XIX. 1888-1893 539
APPENDICES--A, B, C 726
ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF NAMES 773
ALPHABETICAL INDEX OF MUSICAL WORKS 779
ILLUSTRATIONS
1. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1893, FROM A PORTRAIT BY KOUZNIETSOV _Frontispiece_
TO FACE
PAGE
2. ILIA PETROVICH TCHAIKOVSKY, THE COMPOSER’S FATHER, IN 1860 4
3. THE HOUSE IN WHICH TCHAIKOVSKY WAS BORN, AT VOTINSK 8
4. THE TCHAIKOVSKY FAMILY IN 1848, FROM A DAGUERROTYPE 14
5. ALEXANDRA ANDREIEVNA TCHAIKOVSKY, THE COMPOSER’S MOTHER, IN 1848 20
6. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1859 (VIGNETTE) 26
7. THE COMPOSER’S FATHER, WITH HIS TWIN SONS MODESTE AND ANATOL 34
8. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1859 (CARTE DE VISITE) 42
9. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1863 56
10. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1867, IN WINTER DRESS 78
11. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1868 102
12. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1873 132
13. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1874 150
14. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1877 214
15. FRAGMENT FROM A LETTER, WITH SKETCH FOR A THEME
FOR “THE ENCHANTRESS” 482
16. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1888 540
17. TCHAIKOVSKY AND SILOTI 550
18. TCHAIKOVSKY’S HOUSE AT FROLOVSKOE 560
19. THE HOUSE IN WHICH TCHAIKOVSKY LIVED AT KLIN 680
20. TCHAIKOVSKY’S BEDROOM AT KLIN 694
21. SITTING-ROOM AT KLIN 700
22. TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1893 (TAKEN IN LONDON) 708
“To regret the past, to hope in the future, and never to be
satisfied with the present--this is my life.”--P. TCHAIKOVSKY
(_Extract from a letter_)
THE LIFE & LETTERS OF PETER ILICH TCHAIKOVSKY
PART I
I
One of the most characteristic traits of Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky was his
ironical attitude towards his family’s traditions of noble descent. He
never lost an opportunity of making fun of their armorial bearings,
which he regarded as “imaginary,” and clung obstinately to the plebeian
origin of the Tchaikovskys. This was not merely the outcome of his
democratic convictions, but had its origin, partly in the pride which
lay at the very root of his nature, and partly in his excessive
conscientiousness. He would not consider himself a scion of the
aristocracy, because his nearest ancestors could not boast of one
_boyar_, nor one owner of patrimonial estates. His father was the sole
serf-owner in the family, and _he_ possessed a cook with a numerous
progeny--ten souls in all.
But if he was unconcerned as to family descent, he was far from
indifferent as to nationality. The aristocratic pretensions of his
relatives aroused his mockery, but the mere suggestion of their Polish
origin stirred him to instant wrath. Love of Russia and all things
Russian was so deeply rooted in him that, while he cared nothing for
questions of pedigree, he rejoiced to discover among his earliest
ancestors on his father’s side one orthodox Russian from the district of
Kremenschug.
Tracing back Tchaikovsky’s pedigree, we do not find a single name
connected with music. There is not one instance of a professional
musician, and only three can be considered amateurs--his mother’s
brother, Michael Assier; her sister Catharine, in her day a well-known
amateur in Petersburg society; and the composer’s mother herself, who
sang the fashionable ballads of her youth with feeling and expression.
All the rest of the family--Assiers and Tchaikovskys alike--not only
lacked musical talent, but were indifferent to the art. Thus it is
almost impossible to ascertain from whom Peter Ilich inherited his
genius, if indeed there can be any question of heredity. His one certain
inheritance seems to have been an abnormally neurotic tendency, which
probably came to him through his grandfather Assier, who suffered from
epilepsy. If it is true, as a modern scientist asserts, that “genius” is
merely an abnormal physical condition, then it is possible that
Tchaikovsky may have inherited his musical gift, at the same time as his
“nerves,” from the Assier family.
* * * * *
Little is known of the early life of the composer’s father, Ilia
Petrovich Tchaikovsky. In old age he rarely spoke of his youth, and did
not care to be questioned about it. Not that he had any painful memories
to conceal, but it was his habit to avoid all reference to himself, and
only to speak of his past when he had some amusing anecdote to relate,
or when he was induced by others to recall some glad, or sorrowful,
event of bygone days.
Ilia Petrovich Tchaikovsky was educated at the School of Mining
Engineers, which he left in 1817 at the age of twenty-two, having been
awarded the distinction of a silver medal. In the same year he was
appointed to an inspectorship in the Mining and Geological Department.
His career cannot have been brilliant, since it took him twenty years to
rise to the rank corresponding to a lieutenant-colonel. But the fact
that at thirty he was already a member of the Scientific Committee of
the Institute of Mining Engineers, and lectured on mining law and
statistics, proves him to have been a capable and industrious member of
his profession.
In private life, all who knew him agreed as to his sympathetic, jovial,
and straightforward character. Benevolence--or more correctly speaking,
a universal affection--was one of his chief characteristics. In youth,
manhood, and old age he loved his neighbour, and his faith in him
remained unshaken. His trustfulness knew no limits; and even the loss of
his entire fortune, due to misplaced confidence, did not avail to make
him suspicious of his fellow-men. To the end of his days, everyone he
met was “an excellent, honourable, good fellow.” Disillusionment cut him
to the quick, but had no power to obscure his rosy views of human
nature. It would be difficult to find a man who possessed so many
devoted friends.
Although a capable specialist, as regards general culture and
intelligence Ilia Petrovich had only a mediocre equipment. He had no
great taste for art and science. Music and the drama interested him
most. In his youth he played the flute a little, but gave it up early in
life.
On September 11th (23rd), 1827, Ilia Petrovich married Maria Carlovna
Keiser, by whom he had one daughter. Shortly afterwards he was left a
widower and, in October, 1833, married, for a second time, Alexandra
Andreievna Assier.
Almost as little is known of the childhood and youth of the composer’s
mother as of his father. As early as 1816 she was left motherless, and
was brought up in a Female Orphanage, where she completed her education
in 1829. The instruction in this school appears to have been excellent.
Alexandra Andreievna had a thorough knowledge of French and German. In
addition, she played the piano a little and sang nicely. A satisfactory
education for a girl who had neither means nor position.
Those who knew the composer’s mother describe her as tall and
distinguished-looking; not precisely handsome, but with wonderfully
expressive eyes. All agreed that there was something particularly
attractive in her appearance. Peter Ilich recollected his mother as a
tall woman, inclined to be stout, with wonderful eyes and beautiful
hands, although by no means small. “Such hands do not exist nowadays,
and never will again,” he used to say in after life.
Alexandra Andreievna, unlike her husband, was rather reserved and chary
of endearments. Her kindness, as compared to his universal amiability,
seemed somewhat austere, and showed itself more frequently in act than
in speech. The first child of this marriage was a daughter who died in
infancy.
In 1837 Ilia Tchaikovsky was appointed inspector of the mines at
Kamsko-Votinsk, in the Government of Viatka, where he settled with his
wife. On May 9th (21st), 1838, a son was born to them--Nicholas Ilich;
while on April 28th (May 10th), 1840, a second son came into the
world--Peter Ilich--the subject of this biography.
* * * * *
The position of manager in the case of such important mines as those of
Votinsk closely resembled that of a wealthy landowner living on his
estate. In some respects it was even more advantageous, because he had
every luxury in life provided for him: a fine house, a staff of
servants, and almost unlimited control over a number of human beings.
Ilia Tchaikovsky even had at command a small army of a hundred Cossacks,
and a little court, consisting of such employés in the mines as had any
claim to social position. The fine salary, thanks to the wise economy
of his wife, sufficed not only for every comfort, but even admitted of
something being put by for less prosperous times.
[Illustration: ILIA PETROVICH TCHAIKOVSKY, THE COMPOSER’S FATHER, IN
1860]
The allowance provided for social purposes sufficed for widespread
hospitality, and, owing to the affability of the host, and the
characteristic charm of his wife, the Tchaikovskys’ house was the
favourite resort of all the neighbouring society. This circle had
nothing in common with the uncultured provincial society of those days.
It was composed chiefly of young men from St. Petersburg, holding
various Government appointments in the district, and of one highly
intellectual English family. The proximity of Asia and the remoteness
from civilised centres were scarcely perceptible.
About the period of Peter Ilich’s earliest recollections, two new
members were added to the Tchaikovsky family--a girl, Alexandra, born
December 28th, 1842 (January 9th, 1843), and a son, Hyppolite, born
April 10th (22nd), 1844. The care of the younger children now so
exclusively occupied the mother’s attention that she was obliged to
engage a governess for her eldest son, Nicholas, and a niece, Lydia, who
lived with the family. While on a visit to St. Petersburg she became
acquainted with Fanny Dürbach, and brought her back to Votinsk in
November, 1844.
In view of the lasting influence which her personality exercised upon
Peter Ilich, some account of this lady should be given here.
Fanny Dürbach had been specially trained as a teacher, and had already
had some experience in her work. She knew French and German thoroughly,
and was a strict Protestant. She is still living at Montbeillard, near
Belfort, where she continues to give lessons. The poverty in which she
lived impressed me still more on my visit to her in 1894, because I knew
that two years earlier my brother Peter Ilich had implored her to
accept a regular allowance, which she absolutely refused. “I am content
with what I have,” she told him; “as far as I can be, after the heavy
blows fate has dealt me, I am happy.” The expression of her face,
wonderfully young for a woman of seventy-two, and the light in her large
black eyes, bespoke such true peace of mind and purity of heart that I
felt sure neither her physical ailments, nor the lack of luxury in her
surroundings, had power to darken the light of her declining days.
Although Fanny Dürbach’s connection with the Tchaikovsky family lasted
only four years, her memory lives with them to-day, while all her
successors have long been forgotten. She, too, had retained a vivid
recollection of “the happiest time in her life,” and her account of her
arrival at Votinsk gives an animated picture of the patriarchal life of
the Tchaikovsky family.
“I travelled from Petersburg with Madame Tchaikovsky and her son
Nicholas. The journey took three weeks, during which time we became
so friendly that we were quite intimate on our arrival. All the
same, I felt very shy. Had it only depended upon Madame Tchaikovsky
and her boy, all had been well; but there was still the prospect of
meeting strangers and facing new conditions of life. The nearer we
drew to the journey’s end, the more restless and anxious I became.
On our arrival, a single moment sufficed to dispel all my fears. A
number of people came out to meet us, and in the general greeting
and embracing it was difficult to distinguish relatives from
servants. All fraternised in the sincerity of their joy. The head
of the family kissed me without ceremony, as though I had been his
daughter. It seemed less like a first arrival than a return home.
The next morning I began my work without any misgivings for the
future.”
II.
Peter Ilich was four and a half years old when Fanny came to be
governess to Nicholas and his cousin Lydia, and on the first day his
mother had to yield to his tearful entreaties to share the lessons of
the elder children. Henceforward he always learnt with them, and
resented being excused any task on the grounds of his youth. He was
wonderfully quick in overtaking his fellow-pupils, and at six could read
French and German fluently. He learnt Russian with a tutor.
From the beginning, Fanny was especially attracted by her youngest
pupil; not only because he was more gifted and conscientious than the
others, nor because he was more docile than Nicholas, but because in all
the child’s ways there was something original and uncommon, which
exercised an indefinable charm on everyone who came in contact with him.
In looks he did not compare favourably with Nicholas, and was never so
clean and tidy. His clothes were always in disorder. Either he had
stained them in his absent-mindedness, or buttons were missing, or his
hair was only half-brushed, so that by the side of his spruce and
impeccable brother he did not show to advantage at first sight. But when
the charm of his mind, and still more of his heart, had time to work, it
was impossible not to prefer him to the other children. This sympathetic
charm, this gift of winning all hearts, Tchaikovsky retained to the last
day of his life.
To my inquiry in what way the boy’s charm showed itself most, our old
governess replied:--
“In no one particular thing, but rather in all his ways and
actions. At lessons no child was more industrious or quicker to
understand; in playtime none was so full of fun. When we read
together none listened so attentively as he did, and when on
holidays I gathered my pupils around me in the twilight and let
them tell tales in turn, no one could improvise so well as Peter
Ilich. I shall never forget these precious hours of my life. In
daily intercourse we all loved him, because we felt he loved us in
return. His sensibility was extreme, therefore I had to be very
careful how I treated him. A trifle wounded him deeply. He was
brittle as porcelain. With him there could be no question of
punishment; the least criticism or reproof, that would pass lightly
over other children, would upset him alarmingly.”
The weak and unhappy always found in him a staunch protector. Once he
heard with indignation that someone was intending to drown a cat. When
he discovered the monster who was planning this crime, he pleaded so
eloquently that pussy’s life was saved.
Another proof of his compassion for the suffering was his extraordinary
sympathy for Louis XVII. Even as a grown man his interest in the unhappy
prince survived. In 1868 he bought a picture representing him in the
Temple, and had it framed. This picture, and the portrait of Anton
Rubinstein, remained for a long while the only adornments of his walls.
The boy was also influenced by that enthusiastic patriotism--not without
a touch of Chauvinism--which characterised the reign of Nicholas I. From
this early period dates that exclusive affection for everything Russian
which lasted his whole lifetime. Sometimes his love for his country was
shown in a very droll way. Fanny used to relate the following story:--
[Illustration: THE HOUSE IN WHICH TCHAIKOVSKY WAS BORN, AT VOTINSK]
“Once, during the recreation hour, he was turning over the pages of
his atlas. Coming to the map of Europe, he smothered Russia with
kisses and spat on all the rest of the world. When I told him he
ought to be ashamed of such behaviour, that it was wicked to hate
his fellow-men who said the same ‘Our Father’ as himself, only
because they were not Russians, and reminded him that he was
spitting upon his own Fanny, who was a Frenchwoman, he replied at
once: ‘There is no need to scold me; didn’t you see me cover France
with my hand first?’”
Continuing her reminiscences, Fanny said:--
“As our leisure hours were few, I insisted on devoting them to
physical exercise; but often I met with some opposition from
Pierre, who would go straight from his lessons to the piano.
Otherwise he was obedient, and generally enjoyed romping with his
sisters. Left to himself, he preferred to play the piano, or to
read and write poetry.”
In the autumn of 1846 his half-sister Zinaïda left the Catharine
Institute, in St. Petersburg, and, her education being finished,
returned to live at home. With the arrival of this pretty and lively
school-girl the house became even merrier and brighter than before. To
the boy’s imagination, the new-comer seemed a visitant from a fairy
world.
In February, 1848, Ilia Tchaikovsky retired with the rank of
major-general. He was anxious to get an appointment as manager of
private mines, and with this object in view left Votinsk, with all his
family, for a long visit to Moscow. As it was intended on their arrival
to send Lydia and the elder boys to school, Fanny now took leave of her
friends for good. Not until forty-four years had elapsed did she renew
her acquaintance with the family in the person of Peter Ilich.
* * * * *
Besides Fanny’s reminiscences, which form so valuable an addition to the
biography of Tchaikovsky, she also preserved the books in which her
favourite pupil set down his thoughts in leisure hours; more often than
not in the form of verse. The old lady could not be persuaded to let
these relics leave her keeping, but she willingly made extracts from
them.
These manuscript books naturally contain nothing of real artistic or
literary value, but they are not the less interesting on that account.
They show the origin and give the explanation of Tchaikovsky’s artistic
tendency, and are not merely interesting from a biographical point of
view, but as documents in which we may study the evolution of genius.
These childish verses prove a precocious desire for expression, before
the right medium had been discovered. Here the future musician is
knocking at the wrong door.
There are two copy-books and a few loose pages. The handwriting,
although not beautiful, is well formed and firm. The pages show traces
of carelessness. They would have been very differently written, had they
been intended for other eyes than his own. We find here a miscellany of
verses, extracts, rough copies of letters, attempts to draw houses, odd
words and phrases, all jotted down without any connection.
The first book opens with a translation from a French reading-primer,
_L’éducation maternelle_. It bears the date 1847, with a French
signature, and is followed by several poems, of which two are in Russian
and the rest in French. They may be divided into three groups: the poems
relating to God; those which have a patriotic tendency; and those which
display his sympathy for the weak and suffering and his love of animals.
The first poem, dated 1847, is called:
L’ENFANT PARLE À SON ANGE GARDIEN
_Tez_ ailes dorées ont volé chez moi(?)
Ta _voi_ m’a _parler_
O! que j’étais heureuse
_Quant_ tu _venait_ chez moi
Tes ailes _son blanc_ et _pur_ aussi
Viens encore une _foix_
Pour parler de Dieu puissant!
Later on come some notes headed: “La force, l’activité.” “Il avait dans
sa vie la force et l’activité!”
When we recollect the ebullient activity of Peter Ilich’s musical
career, and his unflagging energy, we cannot help giving to these
fortuitous entries, if not a predictive significance, at least that of a
conscious homage to the qualities he most admired.
His patriotic ardour found vent in four poems, dated 1847, of which the
following is a specimen:
Terre! _apresent_ tu _est_ loin de moi
Je ne te _voi_ plus, o patrie cherie!
Je t’embrasse. O! pays _adorée_
Toi, oh Russie _aimé_
_Vien! vien! aupre_ de moi
Toi, place où je suis né
Je te salut! oh, terre cherie
Longtemps quand je suis né
Je n’avais ni memoire, ni raison
Ni de dons pour parler
Oh, je ne savais pas que ma Patrie est Russie!
He also attempted an historical essay in verse on Joan of Arc, whom he
had learnt to know from Masson’s _Les Enfants célèbres_. It is entitled:
THE HEROINE OF FRANCE
On t’aime, on ne t’oublie pas
Heroïne si belle!
Tu as sauvé la France
Fille d’un berger!
Mais qui fait ces actions si belles!
Barbare anglais vous ont tuée,
Toute la France vous admire
Tes cheveux blonds jusqu’à tes genoux
Ils sont très beau
Tu étais si célèbre
Que l’ange Michel t’apparut.
Les célèbres on pense à eux
Les mechants on les oublie!
After 1848 there are no more poetical effusions, perhaps because Fanny
was no longer there to preserve such documents; but more probably
because the boy had just begun to discover in music a new medium for the
expression of his sentiments.
* * * * *
At Votinsk there were no musicians, with the exception of a few
indifferent amateur pianists. The mother sang a little, but only played
the piano for her children to dance to; at least, from the time of her
marriage, we never hear of a more serious _répertoire_. No other member
of the household could do even as much. Unfortunately Fanny was not at
all musical, so that the place of music master to the future composer
fell to the lot of an inanimate object--an orchestrion which his father
brought home with him after a visit to St. Petersburg.
This orchestrion was a superior one, with a varied programme. Peter
Ilich himself considered that he owed his first musical impressions to
this instrument, which he was never tired of hearing. A composition by
Mozart had a particular fascination for him, and his passionate worship
of this master dates from this period of childhood, when Zerlina’s
“Aria,” or any melody from _Don Juan_, played by the orchestrion, awoke
in him “a beatific rapture.” Thanks to this instrument, he first became
acquainted with the music of Bellini and Donizetti, so that even the
love of Italian opera, which he cherished all his life, may be said to
have originated in the same way.
Very early in life he displayed a remarkable ear and quick musical
perception. No sooner had he acquired some rudimentary knowledge from
his mother, than he could repeat upon the piano all he heard on the
orchestrion. He found such delight in playing that it was frequently
necessary to drag him by force from the instrument. Afterwards, as the
next best substitute, he would take to drumming tunes upon the
window-panes. One day, while thus engaged, he was so entirely carried
away by this dumb show that he broke the glass and cut his hand
severely. This accident led his parents to reflect upon the child’s
incurable tendency and consider the question of his musical education.
They decided to engage as pianoforte teacher a young lady called Marie
Markovna Palchikov. This was about a year after Fanny’s arrival. Where
this teacher came from, and how far she understood her business, we
cannot say. We only know she came on purpose to teach Peter Ilich, who
kept a pleasant recollection of her. But she cannot entirely have
satisfied the requirements of the future composer, because already in
1848 he could read at sight as easily as she did. Nor can her knowledge
of musical literature have been extensive, for her pupil could not
remember a single item in her repertory.
We know from Fanny’s own testimony that the boy spent every spare moment
at the piano, and that she did her utmost to prevent it. A musician’s
life did not offer to her mind a radiant prospect. She took more
pleasure in her pupil’s literary efforts, and called him in fun “the
juvenile Poushkin.” She also observed that music had a great effect upon
his nervous system. After his music lesson, or after having improvised
for any length of time, he was invariably overwrought and excited. One
evening the Tchaikovskys gave a musical party at which the children were
allowed to be present. At first Peter Ilich was very happy, but before
the end of the evening he grew so tired that he went to bed before the
others. When Fanny visited his room she found him wide awake, sitting up
in bed with bright, feverish eyes, and crying to himself. Asked what was
the matter, he replied, although there was no music going on at the
time: “Oh, this music, this music! Save me from it! It is here, here,”
pointing to his head, “and will not give me any peace.”
Occasionally a Polish officer visited Votinsk. He was an excellent
amateur and played Chopin’s “Mazurkas” particularly well. His coming was
a red-letter day for Peter Ilich. Once he learnt two mazurkas all by
himself, and played them so charmingly that the officer kissed him when
he had done. “I never saw Pierre so radiantly happy as that day,” says
Fanny.
This is all I have been able to glean with regard to Peter Ilich’s
musical development at this period of his life.
III
The Tchaikovsky family arrived in Moscow early in October, 1848. Here
they were predestined to misfortune and disappointment. The father had
confided to one of his friends at Votinsk that he had received the offer
of a fine appointment. On arriving in Moscow, he discovered that the
treacherous friend had betrayed his confidence and made use of the
information to secure the tempting berth for himself. Added to this, an
epidemic of cholera had just broken out in the town, and the children’s
maid nearly fell a victim to the disease. The uncertainty of their
position, the absence of their father--who, on hearing of the trick
which had been played him, hastened to Petersburg--the grim spectre of
the cholera, all combined to make their sojourn in Moscow anything but a
happy one. These things cut deep into the sensitive disposition of Peter
Ilich. Just at this moment he stood in the greatest need of loving and
careful supervision, and yet at no time did he suffer more from neglect,
for his mother was too preoccupied, and too anxious about the future of
the family, to spare time and consideration for the moods of its
individual members. The children were left to her stepdaughter, herself
still half a child, and devoid of all experience. Zinaïda was the
only one who did not make a pet of Peter, and it seems more than
probable that the young poet found her anything but a just and patient
teacher. Under these circumstances his recollections of the happy past
became more and more idealised, and his retrospective yearnings more
intense.
[Illustration: THE TCHAIKOVSKY FAMILY IN 1848
PETER ILICH TCHAIKOVSKY. ALEXANDRA ANDREIEVNA (THE MOTHER). ZINAIDA
ILYINICHA. NICHOLAS ILICH. HYPPOLITE ILICH. ILIA PETROVICH (THE FATHER).
7. ALEXANDRA ILYINICHA. (CENTRE)
(_From an old Daguerrotype_)]
Early in November the family removed to Petersburg and took up their
abode on the Vassily Ostrov, near the Exchange.
Here their first impressions were more favourable than in Moscow. The
modern capital was the mother’s native place, and almost like home to
the father. Both had many friends and relatives residing there. No
unexpected disagreeables awaited them in St. Petersburg, and they
settled down once again to a peaceful home life.
But now the real trials of life began for Peter Ilich. Immediately after
their arrival, he and his brother Nicholas were sent to a
boarding-school. From Fanny’s tender care they passed straight into the
hands of an unsympathetic teacher, and found themselves among a host of
boys, who received the new-comers with the customary greeting of whacks
and thumps. The work, too, was very hard. They left home at eight in the
morning and did not return till five in the afternoon. The home
preparation was so severe that sometimes the boys sat over their books
till midnight. Besides all this, Peter had regular music lessons with
the pianist Philipov. Judging from the rapid progress he made in a short
time, this teacher must have been thoroughly competent. Such hard work
was very fatiguing, especially as the boys were drinking in new æsthetic
impressions at the same time. The Tchaikovskys frequently took the
children to the opera and theatre.
If the singing and playing of mediocre amateurs had excited the future
composer to such an extent that their music haunted him for hours; if a
mechanical organ could completely enchant him--how infinitely more
intense must have been the first impression made by a full orchestra!
What an agitation, and at the same time what an unhealthy stimulus to
his over-sensibility!
This nervous tension began to be apparent, not only in his pallor and
emaciation, but in frequent ailments that kept him from school. There
was also a moral reaction, and the boy became capricious, irritable, and
unlike his former self.
In December both brothers had measles; but while in Nicholas the ailment
ran its usual course, Peter’s nervous irritability was much increased by
the illness, and the doctors believed he was suffering from some spinal
trouble. All work was forbidden, and the invalid rested until June,
1849. After a time, quiet and freedom from lessons improved the boy’s
physical health, but his moral character did not entirely regain its
former cheerful serenity. The wound was healed, but the scar remained.
* * * * *
Early in 1849 Ilia Tchaikovsky was appointed manager of works on the
Yakovliev property at Alapaiev and Nijny-Neviansk.
Having left his eldest son at a boarding-school, to be prepared for the
School of Mining Engineers, he quitted Petersburg with the rest of his
family, and settled in the little town of Alapaiev.
The position was not so brilliant as the one he had held under the
Government, but the house was roomy and comfortable, and the
Tchaikovskys soon made themselves at home and endeavoured to revive the
patriarchal style in which they had lived at Votinsk.
The change from St. Petersburg, while it proved beneficial to Peter’s
health, did not cure his indolence, capriciousness, and irritability. On
the contrary, they seemed to increase, because his present surroundings
suggested comparisons with his ideal life at Votinsk, which were
unfavourable to Alapaiev. He was lonely, for he missed Nicholas;
although at the same time he was jealous of the continual
congratulations over each letter which came from Petersburg, announcing
his brother’s progress and success. The family were delighted, and
compared him with Peter, whose studies did not progress rapidly under
such an indifferent teacher as Zinaïda. “Pierre is not himself,” wrote
his mother at this time. “He has grown idle, learns nothing, and often
makes me cry with vexation.”
Even Peter himself confesses his indolence in a letter dated July 7th
(19th):--
“MA CHÈRE M-ELLE FANNY,--Je vous prie beaucoup de me pardonner que
je ne vous ai ecrit si longtemps. Mais comme vous savez que je ne
ment pas, c’est _ma paresse_ qui en est cause, mais ce n’est pas
_l’oublie_, parceque je Vous aime toujours comme je vous aimez
avant. Nicholas apprend très bien.”[4]
Receiving no reply to this, he wrote again at the end of June. At last
an answer came, in which, apparently, Fanny scolded her old pupil, for
one of his cousins wrote at this time: “When your letter came, Aunty
read it aloud, and Peterkin cried bitterly. He loves you so.”
A real improvement in the boy’s character dated from the arrival of a
new governess, Nastasia Petrov. His mother was soon able to report to
Fanny that “Pierre is behaving better and learns willingly with his new
teacher.”
On May 1st (13th), 1850, twin boys were added to the Tchaikovsky
family--Anatol and Modeste. Peter Ilich informed Fanny of the event in
the following letter:--
“[ALAPAIEV, _May_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1850.]
“CHÈRE ET BONNE MELLE FANNY,--C’est avec une grande joie que j’ai
appris la nouvelle que vous avez un élève _siban_ et si diligent.
Je veux aussi Vous apprendre, ma chère Fanny, une nouvelle qui
peutêtre Vous rejouira un peu; c’est la naissance de mes frères qui
sont jumeaux (la nuit du premier Mai). Je les ai déjà vus plusieurs
fois, mais chaque fois que je les vois je crois que ce sont des
Anges qui ont descendu sur la terre.”[5]
Meanwhile he had made great progress in music. No doubt he had profited
greatly by Philipov’s instruction, as well as by the other musical
impressions he had received in Petersburg. Now, he not only played the
pieces he was learning, but would often improvise, “just for myself
alone when I feel sad,” as he says in one of his letters. His musical
idiom was growing richer, and music had become to him what poetry had
been at Votinsk. Henceforth we hear no more about verses. He had found
the right medium of expression for all that was in his soul. About this
time he began to compose, although his attempts were merely
improvisations. Musical sounds, according to his own account, followed
him everywhere, whatever he was doing. His parents did nothing, however,
to further his musical education, partly because they were afraid of a
return of his nervous disorder, and partly because they had no intention
of making their son a professional musician. No one at Alapaiev took any
interest in his musical talent, and he kept his thoughts to himself;
either from pride, or because as yet he had no great confidence in his
own gifts. The fact that his character was changing may also have had
something to do with his reserve. He felt he possessed something that
none of his associates could share, and, inwardly conscious of his
power, he was mortified that it should pass unobserved, and that no one
should be interested in his artistic aspirations.
When he went to St. Petersburg for the second time, he was no longer a
child. His natural qualities were unchanged, but experience had somewhat
hardened him. He was better fitted for the battle of life, but his
susceptibilities and his enthusiasms were a trifle blunted.
His young life had already a past, for he had learnt to suffer. Nor did
the future appear any more in a rainbow glory, since he realised that it
would bring renunciation as well as joy. But he carried a treasure in
his heart, a light hidden from all eyes but his own, which was to bring
him comfort and courage in the hour of trial.
IV
Early in August, 1850, Madame Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg,
accompanied by her daughter, her stepdaughter, and Peter Ilich.
The parents had originally intended to place both their sons at the
School of Mining Engineers. Their reason for altering this plan and
sending Peter to the School of Jurisprudence has not transpired.
Probably it was highly recommended to them by an old friend of Ilia
Tchaikovsky’s, M. A. Vakar, who had already the charge of Nicholas. This
gentleman’s brother, Plato Vakar, who was to play an important part in
the life of Peter Ilich, was a lawyer, a fine man with a brilliant
career in prospect. It is not at all improbable that the Tchaikovskys
resolved to send their son to the school of which he was such an
admirable example.
Peter Ilich was too young to pass straight into the School of
Jurisprudence. It was necessary that for two years he should attend the
preparatory classes. At first, all his Sundays and half-holidays were
spent with his mother, who also visited him on every opportunity; so
that in the beginning he did not feel the transition from home to school
life so severely. But his mother could not remain in Petersburg after
the middle of October, and then came one of the most terrible memories
of Peter’s life--the day of her departure.
When the actual moment of parting came, he completely lost his
self-control and, clinging wildly to his mother, refused to let her go.
Neither kisses, nor words of comfort, nor the promise to return soon,
were of any avail. He saw nothing, heard nothing, but hung upon her as
though he was part and parcel of the beloved presence. It became
necessary to carry off the poor child by force, and hold him fast until
his mother had driven away. Even then he broke loose, and with a cry of
despair, ran after the carriage, and clung to one of the wheels, as
though he would bring the vehicle to a standstill.
[Illustration: ALEXANDRA ANDREIEVNA TCHAIKOVSKY, THE COMPOSER’S MOTHER,
IN 1848]
To his life’s end Tchaikovsky could never recall this hour without a
shiver of horror. This first great trouble of his life was only partly
obliterated by a still greater grief--the death of his mother. Although
in after life he passed through many sad experiences, and knew
disappointment and renunciation, he could never forget the sense of
resentment and despair which possessed him as the carriage containing
his beloved mother passed out of sight. The shadow of this parting
darkened the first year of his school life. Home-sickness and yearning
effaced all other impressions, and destroyed all his earlier tendencies,
desires, and thoughts. For two whole years it is evident from his
letters that he lived only in the hope of seeing his parents again. He
knew no other preoccupations or distractions.
* * * * *
Hardly had the boy’s mother left St. Petersburg, when an epidemic of
scarlet fever broke out in the school. The Vakars hastened to take Peter
into their own house, but unhappily the boy, although he escaped
illness himself, carried the infection with him. The eldest son, the
pride of the home, developed the complaint and died of it. Not a word of
reproach was breathed to Peter Ilich, the unhappy cause of the disaster;
but the boy could not rid himself of the sense that the parents must
regard him with secret bitterness. It is not surprising that just at
this time life seemed to him cold and cheerless, and that he longed more
than ever for his own people.
The Vakars left Petersburg in April, 1851, and a new home was found for
the two brothers in the family of M. Weiss. This change does not appear
to have had much effect on Peter Ilich. The tone of his letters remains
as homesick as before. But in the following May, Plato Vakar and his
wife took the boys into their own house, where they remained until their
parents returned to settle in St. Petersburg. In these surroundings
Peter’s spirits brightened perceptibly.
In September his father came alone and spent three weeks with his boys.
His departure was not so tragic an event as had been the mother’s a year
earlier. Peter was now older, and had learnt to do without his parents.
Henceforth his letters are calmer; his entreaties to his mother to come
occur less frequently, and are sometimes put in a playful manner.
* * * * *
In May, 1852, the Tchaikovsky family returned to St. Petersburg. His
modest savings and the pension he drew from the Government enabled Ilia
Tchaikovsky to retire from work and live reunited with his children.
This period of the composer’s life offers few interesting events. The
monotony of his schooldays was only broken by his Sunday _exeat_ which
was spent at home.
In 1854 his half-sister, Zinaïda, was married; and in the course of the
same year a tragic event took place, which cast a gloom over the family
for long days to come. Two years later, in 1856, Peter Ilich refers to
this loss in a letter to Fanny:--
“First I must give you some very sad news. A terrible grief befell
us more than two years since. Four months after Zinaïda’s marriage
my mother was taken ill with cholera. Thanks to the care of her
doctor, she rallied, but not for long. Three days later she was
taken from us without even time to bid us good-bye.”
This occurred in July, 1854, and the troubles of the bereaved family did
not end here. On the day of his wife’s funeral Ilia Tchaikovsky was also
seized with cholera; but although for several days he was in great
danger, his life was eventually spared to his family. In his bereaved
condition he now found it impossible to keep house. Consequently the
younger children were sent to various schools and institutions, while he
himself made a home in the household of his brother, Peter Petrovich
Tchaikovsky, who was then residing in Petersburg.
* * * * *
The period between 1852 and 1854 had a twofold influence upon
Tchaikovsky’s character. The tears he had shed, the suffering he had
experienced during the two years spent away from home, had reformed his
nature, and brought back, in all his old candour and charm, the boy we
knew at Votinsk. The irritability, idleness, insincerity, and
dissatisfaction with his surroundings had now given place to his old
frankness of character, which had formerly fascinated all who came in
contact with him.
On the other hand, the former freedom in which his mind and soul
developed was now greatly restricted by his way of life, which, although
wholesome in some respects, was a direct hindrance to his artistic
development. His musical progress, which had made such strides between
1848 and 1849, now came to a standstill that lasted ten years.
Of the thirty-nine letters written during his first two years of
school-life, only two have any reference to music. Once he speaks of
having played a polka for his comrades, and adds that he had been
practising a piece learnt three years previously. Another time he writes
to his parents that some day he will relate them the story of _Der
Freischütz_, and recalls having heard _A Life for the Tsar_ on his first
visit to Petersburg.
It would, however, be incorrect to conclude from this that he lived
without musical impressions. He had strong predilections, and, as he
himself says, Weber’s inspired creation, together with _A Life for the
Tsar_ and certain airs from _Don Giovanni_--learnt by means of the
orchestrion at Votinsk--occupied the highest niches in the temple of his
gods. But he had no one to share his musical enthusiasms. At that period
there was not a single amateur among his acquaintances. Everyone with
whom he came in contact regarded music merely as a pastime, without
serious significance in life. Meeting with little sympathy from his
relatives or teachers, and even less from his schoolmates, he kept his
secret aspirations to himself. He showed a certain reticence in all that
concerned his music. When asked to play, he did so unwillingly, and
hurried to get the performance over. But when he sat down to the piano,
believing himself to be alone, he seemed quite absorbed in his
improvisations.
The only person with whom he could discuss his musical taste was his
aunt, Mme. E. A. Alexeiev. Her knowledge of instrumental music was
limited, but she could advance her nephew’s acquaintance with
vocal--especially operatic--music. Thanks to her, he learnt to know the
whole of _Don Giovanni_, and was never tired of reading the pianoforte
score.
“The music of _Don Juan_,” he wrote in 1878, “was the first to make
a deep impression upon me. It awoke a spiritual ecstasy which was
afterwards to bear fruit. By its help I penetrated into that world
of artistic beauty where only great genius abides. It is due to
Mozart that I devoted my life to music. He gave the first impulse
to my efforts, and made me love it above all else in the world.”
But although Tchaikovsky shrank from sharing his deeper musical emotions
with anyone, he was quite willing to take part with those who regarded
music as a mere recreation. He sang bravura airs with a facility of
vocalisation any _prima donna_ might have envied. Once he learnt, with
his aunt, the exceedingly florid duet in _Semiramide_, and sang the
soprano part admirably. He was very proud of his wonderful natural
shake.
About this time one of his most characteristic peculiarities first
showed itself: his docility and compliance to the opinions of others on
all questions save those concerned with music. Here he would brook no
interference. In spite of any attempts to influence his judgment in this
respect, he adhered to his own views and followed only his own inward
promptings. In all other matters he was malleable as wax.
V
Tchaikovsky’s school life had little or no effect upon his subsequent
career. The period between 1852-1859 reveals to us not so much the
evolution of an artist, as that of an amiable, but mediocre, official,
of whom scarcely a trace was to be found some five years later.
The biographical material of this period is necessarily very scanty,
being limited to the somewhat hazy reminiscences of his relatives and
school friends. Naturally enough it did not occur to anyone to take
notes of the comings and goings of a very ordinary young man.
Among the masters and pupils at the School of Jurisprudence no one seems
to have exercised any lasting influence, moral or intellectual, upon
Tchaikovsky.
He was studious and capable. Many of his studies interested him, but
neither he, nor any of his schoolmates, could recall one particular
subject in which he had won distinction. On the other hand, mathematics
alone seem to have offered any serious difficulty to him.
* * * * *
The scholars of the School of Jurisprudence were drawn chiefly from the
upper middle classes, consequently Tchaikovsky found himself from the
first among his social equals. His final year was not especially
brilliant, but, besides the composer himself, it included the poet
Apukhtin and the famous lawyer Gerard.
According to the latter’s account, the scholars of that year aimed high.
All took a keen interest in literature. Even the lower forms possessed a
school magazine, to which Apukhtin, Maslov, Aertel, Gerard, and
Tchaikovsky were contributors. A “History of the Literature of our
Form,” very smartly written, emanated--so Maslov says--from
Tchaikovsky’s pen.
* * * * *
Among the composer’s schoolfellows Vladimir Stepanovich Adamov takes the
first place. Although they spent but a few months in the same class, the
mutual attraction was so strong that they remained intimate friends
until death severed the connection. Adamov was a typical scholar of the
hard-working kind, yet at the same time he had æsthetic aspirations and
tastes. He was a passionate lover of nature and very fond of music,
although he never became more than an indifferent amateur singer. The
friends often went together to the Italian Opera. Adamov left the school
with a gold medal and rose rapidly to a high place in the Ministry of
Justice. His premature death in 1877 was a severe blow to Tchaikovsky,
for Adamov was one of the few intimate friends to whom he cared to
confide his artistic aspirations.
Apukhtin, who came to school in 1853, at thirteen, was a youthful
prodigy. His poetical gifts were already the admiration not only of his
comrades, but of the outer world. He possessed the same personal charm
as Tchaikovsky, but was far more sophisticated and self-conscious. The
universal admiration to which he was accustomed, the interest of such
writers as Tourgeniev and Fet, tended to encourage his vanity. The path
to fame lay clearly before him.
Apukhtin’s tendencies were decidedly sceptical. He was the exact
opposite of Tchaikovsky. Their temperaments were radically different.
But both loved poetry, and shared that delicate “flair” for all that is
choice--that mysterious “something” which draws artists together, no
matter when or where they chance to meet. The contrast in all other
respects only served to open new horizons to both and draw the bonds of
friendship closer.
As a friend and schoolmate, Tchaikovsky displayed the same qualities
which distinguished him as a child at Votinsk. Now, as subsequently in
the Ministry of Justice, at the Conservatoires of Petersburg and Moscow,
throughout Europe and across the Atlantic, we watch him drawing all
hearts towards himself, while the circle of his friendships was
constantly widening.
By the time he passed out of the preparatory classes, his ideal faith in
the order of things was shaken. He no longer worked with a kind of
religious fervour for work’s sake. Henceforward he did just what was
necessary to avoid punishment and to enable him to qualify for an
official post, without any real interest in the work. As to music,
neither he, nor any of his circle, had any confidence in an artistic
career. He scarcely realised in what direction he was drifting; yet with
the change from youth to manhood came also the desire to taste the
pleasures and excitements of life. The future appeared to him as an
endless festival, and as nothing had come, so far, to mar his happiness,
he gave himself up to this delightful illusion.
[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1859]
With an impulsive temperament, he took life easily: a good-natured,
careless young man, unencumbered by serious aspirations or intentions.
* * * * *
In 1855, in consequence of the mother’s death, the family life of the
Tchaikovskys underwent great changes.
Ilia Tchaikovsky was a good father, but he did not understand the
education of the younger children. Realising this fact--and partly
because he found his loneliness unbearable--he now resolved to share the
home of his brother, Peter Petrovich Tchaikovsky.
Peter Petrovich was a white-haired man of seventy, every inch a soldier,
who had seen many campaigns, and bore many honourable scars. He was
exceedingly religious, and up to the time of his marriage had led a life
devoted to prayer, fasting, and warfare. He might have belonged to some
mediæval order of knighthood. Stern towards himself, he demanded blind
obedience from his wife and children; when he found that they did not
respond to his influence, he shut himself apart in grim disapproval and
wrote endless tracts on mystical subjects.
Madame Peter Tchaikovsky, although a little in awe of her husband,
permitted her children to enjoy all the amusements natural to their
age--balls, concerts, and other worldly dissipations. The young people
of both families led a merry, careless existence until the spring of
1858, when Ilia Tchaikovsky, thanks to his over-confidence in humanity,
suddenly lost his entire fortune and was obliged in his declining days
to seek a new appointment. Fortunately this was forthcoming and, as the
Director of the Technological Institute, he found himself once more in
comfortable circumstances. A married sister-in-law Elizabeth Schobert,
and her family, now joined the Tchaikovsky household, established in the
official residence that went with the new appointment.
On May 13th (25th), 1859, Peter Ilich left the School of Jurisprudence
and entered the Ministry of Justice as a first-class clerk. This event,
which would have meant so much to any other young man, signified little
to Tchaikovsky. He did not take his new work seriously, although he had
no presentiment of his future destiny. How little his official
occupations really interested him is evident from the fact that a few
months after he had changed his vocation he could not remember the
nature of his work in the Ministry of Justice. He only recollected one
of his colleagues, because of “something rather unusual that seemed to
flash from his eyes.” Twenty-five years later Tchaikovsky met this man
again in the person of the celebrated landscape painter Volkov.
One “traditional” anecdote, and the brief history of Peter Ilich as an
official is complete. He had been entrusted with a signed document from
the chief of his department, but on his way to deliver it he stopped to
talk with someone, and in his absence of mind never noticed that, while
talking, he kept tearing off scraps of the paper and chewing them--a
trick he always had with theatre tickets or programmes. There was
nothing for it but to re-copy the document and, however unpleasant, to
face his chief for a fresh signature.
Tchaikovsky delighted in nature and the freedom of the country. In
winter the theatre was his chief amusement, especially the French play,
the ballet, and the Italian opera. He was particularly fascinated by
ballets of the fantastic or fairy order, and gradually came to value
more and more the art of dancing.
The acting of Adelaide Ristori made a profound impression upon
Tchaikovsky. His greatest admiration, however, was for the singer
Lagroua. She was not a beautiful woman, but, in the part of Norma, she
displayed such tragic pathos, such plastic art, that she was worthy to
be compared with the greatest actresses.
In 1860 Tchaikovsky’s youngest sister and constant companion, Alexandra
Ilinichna, was married to Leo Vassilievich Davidov, and went to live in
the Government of Kiev. During the following year several other members
of the family went out into the world, so that the cheerful family life
came to an end, and a shade of melancholy crept over the remainder of
the household.
At this period Tchaikovsky’s attitude to his father and his aunts was
slightly egotistical and contemptuous. This was only a passing phase. He
was not actually wanting in affection for his own people, but was simply
bored in their society. At this age he could not endure a quiet life at
home.
Under such auspices dawned the year 1861, destined to inaugurate a new
epoch in the life of Tchaikovsky.
PART II
I
At this time there were two music masters at the School of
Jurisprudence. Karel, who taught the piano, until he was succeeded by
Bekker, and Lomakin, the professor of singing.
It is not known whether Tchaikovsky ever took lessons with Karel. With
Bekker he did learn for a time, but the lessons made no impression upon
his memory.
The singing lessons he received from Lomakin amounted to little more
than choral practices. Lomakin was a very competent man, who brought the
school choir to a pitch of perfection; but he had not time to train
individual voices, consequently he exercised no direct influence on
Tchaikovsky, although he observed his beautiful soprano voice and his
great talent for music.
Besides these masters, Tchaikovsky took piano lessons at home from
Rudolf Kündinger.
Kündinger had come to Russia at eighteen, and delighted the public of
St. Petersburg by his brilliant virtuosity. Having attracted many
pupils, he settled in Petersburg. In 1855 the elder Tchaikovsky engaged
him to teach his son. Kündinger afterwards regretted that he kept no
record of these lessons. The boy struck him as talented, but nothing
made him suspect the germ of a great composer. One thing which impressed
Kündinger was his remarkable power of improvisation. Another was his
fine feeling for harmony. Kündinger would often show his pupil his own
compositions, and accept his suggestions as regards harmony, finding
them invariably to the point, although at that time Tchaikovsky knew
nothing of the theory of music.
His father consulted Kündinger as to the wisdom of allowing his son to
devote himself entirely to music. The teacher’s advice was directly to
the contrary. “I had to take into consideration the wretched status of a
professional musician in Russia at that time,” said Kündinger
afterwards; “besides I had no real faith in Peter Ilich’s gift for
music.”
If such specialists as Lomakin and Kündinger saw nothing phenomenal in
Tchaikovsky, it is hardly surprising that others should have failed to
do so. His school friends valued his musical talents, but were far from
suspecting him to be a future celebrity. His relations, especially his
sisters and cousins, thought his improvisation of dance music a pleasant
accomplishment, but otherwise regarded his music as “useless trifling.”
His father, alone, took the matter at all seriously. He engaged a good
teacher, and encouraged his son to study steadily. In a word, he did all
that a man could do, who knew absolutely nothing of music and musicians.
Tchaikovsky had only one morning and two evenings in the week in which
he was free to devote himself to music. Consequently he had no
opportunity of grounding himself in the art. When and how could he
become acquainted with the symphonic masterpieces of the great German
composers? Symphony concerts were then rare in St. Petersburg. The
future composer had no alternative but to study these works in
pianoforte arrangements. But such music was expensive and beyond his
slender means. This explains why his musical knowledge was so limited at
that time. We cannot say how many of the works of Beethoven, Mozart, and
Schubert he knew prior to 1861; it is certain that his knowledge was not
half so extensive as that of any good amateur of the present day. For
instance, he knew nothing of Schumann, nor the number and keys of
Beethoven’s symphonies. He frequented the Italian Opera, which was his
sole opportunity of hearing a good orchestra, chorus, and first-rate
soloists. Russian opera was then at a low ebb, and he only went to hear
his favourite work, _A Life for the Tsar_. All the other operas he heard
were sung by Italians. To these artists he owed not only his passion for
_Don Juan_ and _Freischütz_, but also his acquaintance with Meyerbeer,
Rossini, Donizetti, and Verdi, for whom he had a genuine enthusiasm.
During the fifties the celebrated singing master Piccioli was living in
Petersburg. He was a Neapolitan by birth, who had come to the Russian
capital some ten years earlier and settled there. His wife was a friend
of Alexandra Schobert, and in this way he became acquainted with the
Tchaikovskys. Although nearly fifty, he was very intimate with Peter,
who was but seventeen. But as to Piccioli’s real age, no one knew the
truth, for he kept it dark. He certainly dyed his hair and painted his
face, and cruel tongues did not hesitate to assert that he would never
see seventy again, and that he kept at the back of his head a small
apparatus for smoothing out his wrinkles. I remember how, as children,
my brother Anatol and I took great pains to discover this apparatus, and
how we finally decided it must be concealed somewhere under his collar.
As regards music, Piccioli gave utterance to such violently fanatical
views and convictions, and knew so well how to defend them with
persuasive eloquence, that he could have won over even a less pliant
nature than that of Tchaikovsky. He acknowledged only Rossini, Bellini,
Donizetti, and Verdi. He scorned and hated with equal thoroughness the
symphonies of Beethoven, the works of Bach, _A Life for the Tsar_, and
all the rest. Outside the creations of the great Italian melodists he
admitted no music whatever. In spite of his eloquence, the Italian
could not win over Tchaikovsky heart and soul to his way of thinking,
because the latter was not given to partiality, and also because his own
musical tastes were already firmly implanted, and could not be so easily
modified. He carried within him an Olympia of his own, to the deities of
which he did homage with all his soul. Nevertheless, the friendship
between himself and Piccioli remained unbroken, and to this he owed, in
a great measure, his thorough acquaintance with the music of the Italian
operatic school.
Since 1850 Tchaikovsky’s talent as a composer had only found expression
in improvisations for the piano. Although he had composed a good many
valses, polkas, and “Rêveries de Salon,” which were probably no worse
than similar pieces invented by his “composer” friends, he could not
bring himself to put his thoughts on paper--perhaps from excessive
modesty, perhaps from pride. Once only did he write out a song, composed
to words by the poet Fet: “My genius, my angel, my friend,” a mere empty
amateur effusion. Yet, as time passed, his musical consciousness, his
realisation of his true vocation, undoubtedly increased. Later in life
he said, that even at school, the thought of becoming a composer haunted
him incessantly, but, feeling that no one in his circle had any faith in
his talents, he seldom mentioned the subject. Occasionally he made a
prophetic utterance. Once, about the close of 1862, soon after he had
joined the classes at the Conservatoire, he was talking to his brother
Nicholas. Nicholas, who was one of those who did not approve of his
brother’s wish to study music, held forth on the subject, assuring him
he had not the genius of a Glinka, and that the wretched lot of a
mediocre musician was not an enviable one. At first Peter Ilich made no
reply, but as they were parting he said: “Perhaps I shall not turn out a
Glinka, but one thing I can assure you--you will be proud some day to
own me as a brother.” The look in his eyes, and the tone in which he
spoke these words, were never forgotten by Nicholas Tchaikovsky.
The slowness and unproductiveness of Tchaikovsky’s musical development
in the fifties was closely connected with his frivolous mode of life.
His nature--in reality lovable and accessible to all--and his fertile
genius seemed both hushed in a profound slumber; but at the moment of
his awakening, his musical gifts as well as all his other good qualities
simultaneously reappeared. With the superficial amateur vanished also
the mere society man; with the strenuous, zealous inquirer returned also
the tender, grateful son, the kind and thoughtful brother.
The change took place quite unobserved. It is difficult to give the
exact moment of its commencement, for it was not preceded by any
important events. Undoubtedly, it may be observed as early as 1861, when
Peter Ilich began once more to think of an artistic career and entered
into closer relationship with his family, striving to find at home that
satisfaction for his higher spiritual needs, which he had failed to
discover in his previous way of living. He had grown weary of an
easy-going life, and the desire to start afresh made itself increasingly
felt. He began to be afraid lest he might be overwhelmed in this slough
of a petty, useless, and vicious existence. In the midst of this
feverish pursuit of pleasure there came over him--so he said--moments of
agonising despair. Whether satiety came to him from some unknown event
in his life, or whether it gradually crept into his soul, no one can
tell, for he passed through these heavy hours alone. Those around him
only observed the change when it had already taken place, and the dawn
of a new life had gladdened his spiritual vision.
[Illustration: THE COMPOSER’S FATHER WITH HIS TWIN SONS MODESTE AND
ANATOL, 1855]
In a letter to his newly-married sister Alexandra, written in March,
1861, he speaks of an incident which may be regarded as the first step
towards his musical career. His father, on his own initiative, had
actually proposed that he should devote himself entirely to music.
“At supper they were talking of my musical talent,” writes Peter
Ilich, “and father declared it was not yet too late for me to
become an artist. If it were only true! But the matter stands thus:
that my talent, supposing I really have any, would hardly develop
now. They have made me an official, although a poor one; I try as
hard as I can to improve and to fulfil my duties more
conscientiously, and at the same time I am to be studying
thorough-bass!”
Another incident, as ordinary as the one just related, marks the change
in Tchaikovsky’s relations with his family, and throws a clearer light
upon this revolution in his spiritual life.
After the marriage of our sister Alexandra, the twins, Anatol and
myself, then about ten years old, were often very lonely. From three
o’clock in the afternoon--when we returned from school--until bedtime,
we were left to our own resources. One long and wearisome evening, as we
sat on the drawing-room window-sill kicking our heels, Peter came in and
found us. From our earliest infancy he inspired us, not so much with
love as with respect and adoration. A word from him was like a sacred
treasure. He, on the contrary, took no notice of us; we had no existence
for him.
The mere fact that he was in the house, and that we could see him,
sufficed to distract our dullness and cheer us up; but great indeed was
our astonishment when, instead of passing us by unobserved as usual, he
stopped to say: “Are you dull, boys? Would you like to spend the evening
with me?” To this day I cannot forget that memorable evening; memorable
indeed for us, since it was the beginning of a new existence.
The wisest and most experienced of teachers, the dearest and tenderest
of mothers, could not have replaced Peter Ilich in our life from that
hour; for he was all this, and our friend and comrade besides. All we
thought and felt we could tell him without any fear lest it would fail
to interest him. His influence upon us was unbounded. We, on our side,
became the first care and aim of his life. We three formed, as it were,
a family within the family. A year later Peter wrote to his sister:--
“My attachment to these little folk grows from day to day. I am
very proud of this feeling, perhaps the best which my heart has
known. When I am unhappy I have only to think of them, and my life
seems better worth living. I try as far as possible to give them a
mother’s love and care....”
II
In spite of the important conversation at the supper-table, in spite of
the spiritual regeneration of Peter Ilich and the change in his
relations towards his family, his life remained externally the same. He
kept his official berth, and continued to go into society, frequenting
dances and theatres. Of all the pleasures he pursued, of all the desires
he cherished, only one remained unfulfilled--a tour abroad.
But now even this wish was to be satisfied.
An old friend of his father’s had to go abroad on business. As he was no
linguist, it was necessary to take a companion who would act as
interpreter, and he proposed that Peter Ilich should accompany him in
this capacity. Accordingly in June, 1861, the former writes to his
sister:--
“As you probably have heard already, I am to go abroad. You can
imagine my delight.... This journey seems to me at times an
alluring, unrealisable dream. I shall not believe in it until I am
actually on the steamer. I--in Paris! In Switzerland! It seems
ridiculous to think of it!”
In July Tchaikovsky started with his friend, but not by steamer.
Their first halting-place was Berlin. In those days every Russian
considered it his duty to run down this city. To this duty--or rather
custom--Peter Ilich contributed his due. After he had visited Kroll’s,
and a dancing saloon, and seen Offenbach’s _Orphée aux Enfers_, he
writes with youthful _naïveté_: “Now we know our Berlin thoroughly, and
have had enough of it!”
After Berlin came Hamburg, which Tchaikovsky found “a considerable
improvement.” Brussels and Antwerp did not please him at all. At Ostend
they stayed three days. “It is beautiful here,” he wrote. “I love the
sea, especially when it foams and roars, and these last days it has been
furious.”
Next they went on to London. “Our visit would be very pleasant were it
not for the anxiety about your health,” he wrote to his father. “Your
letters are awaiting me in Paris, and my heart yearns for them, but we
must remain here a few days longer. London is very interesting, but
makes a gloomy impression. The sun is seldom visible, and it rains all
the time.” Here Tchaikovsky heard Patti for the first time, and although
later in life she fascinated him, now he could see “nothing particular”
in her.
As might be expected, Paris pleased him best of all the towns he
visited. Life in the French capital he found delightful. The six weeks
which he spent in Paris were the culmination of his pleasure trip. But
in the midst of his enjoyment he experienced a complete disenchantment
with his travelling companion. After a series of painful
misunderstandings they separated, and Peter Ilich returned to Russia
alone about the end of September.
Intellectually and artistically, Tchaikovsky profited little by this
journey. Indeed, it is astonishing how little sensitive he seems to have
been at that time to all such impressions. In the three months he was
abroad he only acquired one positive piece of information--where one
could derive the greatest pleasure. And yet his journey was not
altogether wasted. In the first place, it brought home to him the
strength of his attachment to his own people. He missed the twins most
of all. “Take care, father, that Toly and Modi[6] are not idle.” “Are
Toly and Modi working well?” “Don’t forget to tell the examiner that
Toly and Modi are prepared for the upper division,” so runs the gist of
his letters.
Secondly, on this journey he learnt to realise the inevitable end of an
idle and pleasure-seeking life, and to recognise that it led to nothing,
and that existence held other and nobler aims than the pursuit of
enjoyment. The various distractions of Parisian life brought about a
wholesome reaction, and on the threshold of a new career he could look
quietly on the termination of his former life, conscious only of an
ardent desire to step from the shadow into God’s daylight.
Soon after his return he wrote the following letter to his sister:--
“_October_ 23_rd_ (_November_ 4_th_), 1861.
“What shall I tell you about my journey? It is better to say
nothing. If ever I started upon a colossal piece of folly, it was
this same trip abroad. You remember my companion? Well, under the
mask of _bonhomie_, which made me believe him to be a worthy man,
was concealed the most commonplace nature. You can imagine if it
was pleasant to spend three months with such a fellow-traveller.
Added to which I ran through more money than I could afford and got
nothing for it. Do you see what a fool I have been? But do not
scold me. I have behaved like a child--nothing more.... You know I
have a weakness: as soon as I have any money I squander it in
pleasure. It is vulgar, wanting in good sense--I know it--but it
seems in my nature. Where will it all lead? What can I hope from
the future? It is terrible to think of. I know there will come a
time when I shall no longer be able to fight against the
difficulties of life. Until then I will do all I can to enjoy it.
For the last fortnight all has gone badly with me; my official work
has been very bad. Money vanishes like smoke. In love--no luck. But
a better time will come soon.
“P.S.--I have begun to study thorough-bass, and am making good
progress. Who knows, perhaps in three years’ time you will be
hearing my opera and singing my arias.”
III
The most remarkable feature in the process of Tchaikovsky’s
transformation from a smart Government official and society dandy into a
musical student lies in the fact that, with all its apparent suddenness
and irrevocableness, there was nothing hasty or emotional about the
proceeding. Not once, by word or deed, can we discern that he cherished
any idea of future renown. He scaled no rugged heights, he put forth no
great powers; but every move in his new career was carefully considered,
steadily resolved upon, and, in spite of a certain degree of caution,
firmly established. His peace of mind and confidence were so great that
they seemed part of his environment, and all hindrances and difficulties
vanished of their own accord and left the way open to him.
The psychological aspect of this transformation, the pathetic side of
the conflict which he sustained for over two years, must always remain
unrevealed; not because his correspondence at this time was scanty, but
because Peter Ilich maintained a jealous guard over the secrets of his
inner and spiritual life in which no stranger was permitted to
intermeddle. He chose to go through the dark hours alone, and remained
outwardly the same serene and cheerful young man as before. But if this
reincarnation was quite ordinary in its process, it was the more radical
and decisive.
Tchaikovsky’s situation is very clearly shown in four letters written to
his sister about this period, each letter corresponding with one of the
four phases of his evolution. These letters throw a clear light upon the
chief psychological moments of these two eventful years of his life.
The first, dated October 23rd (November 4th), 1861, has been already
quoted. Tchaikovsky just mentions in the postscript that he has begun
his musical studies as a matter of no importance whatever--and that in
itself is very enlightening. At that moment his harmony lessons with
Zaremba were only a detail in the life of a man of the world, as were
the Italian conversation lessons he was taking at the same time. His
chief interest was still his official career, and most of his leisure
was still given up to social enjoyment. The second letter shows matters
from a somewhat different point of view. Although only written a few
weeks later, it puts his musical studies in a new light. On December 4th
(16th), 1861, Tchaikovsky writes:--
“I am getting on well. I hope soon to get a rise, and be appointed
‘clerk for special duty.’ I shall get an additional twenty roubles
to my salary and less work. God grant it may come to pass!... I
think I have already told you that I have begun to study the theory
of music with success. You will agree that, with my rather
exceptional talents (I hope you will not mistake this for
bragging), it seems foolish not to try my chances in this
direction. I only dread my own easy-going nature. In the end my
indolence will conquer: but if not, I promise you that I shall do
something. Luckily it is not yet too late.”
Between the second and third letters eight months elapsed. During this
period Peter Ilich had to refute his self-condemnation as regards
indolence, and to prove that it actually “was not yet too late” to
accomplish something.
I recollect having made two discoveries at this time which filled me
with astonishment. The first was that the two ideas “brother Peter” and
“work” were not necessarily opposed; the second, that besides pleasant
and interesting music, there existed another kind, exceedingly
unpleasant and wearisome, which appeared nevertheless to be the more
important of the two. I still remember with what persistency Peter Ilich
would sit at the piano for hours together playing the most “abominable”
and “incomprehensible” preludes and fugues.... My astonishment knew no
bounds when he informed me he was writing exercises. It passed my
understanding that so charming a pastime as music should have anything
in common with the mathematical problems we loathed. Outwardly Peter
Ilich’s life underwent one remarkable change. Of all his friends and
acquaintances he now only kept up with Apukhtin and Adamov.
Besides his work for Zaremba’s classes, Tchaikovsky devoted many hours
to the study of the classical composers. Yet, in spite of all this, his
official work still remained the chief aim of his existence. During the
summer of 1862 he was more attentive to his official duties than before,
because in the autumn a desirable vacancy was expected to occur, to
which he had every claim, so that it was important to prove to his
chief, by extra zeal and diligence, that he was worthy of the post. His
labour was wasted; the place was not bestowed upon him. His indignation
at being “passed over” knew no bounds, and there is little doubt that
this incident had a great deal to do with his resolution to devote
himself entirely to music. The last ties which bound him to the
bureaucratic world snapped under the strain of this act of “injustice.”
Meanwhile several changes had taken place in the family life of the
Tchaikovskys. Their aunt Madame Schobert had left them. Nicholas had
received an appointment in the provinces. Hyppolite was in the navy and
had been sent on a long voyage. The family was now reduced to four
members--the father, Peter Ilich, and the twins. The latter, deprived
of their aunt’s care, found in their brother more than ever both a tutor
and a guardian.
Tchaikovsky’s third letter to his sister, dated September 10th (22nd),
1862, brings us to a still more advanced phase of his transformation.
His official work has now taken quite a subordinate position, while
music is regarded as his speciality and life-work, not only by himself,
but by all his relatives.
“I have entered the newly-opened Conservatoire,” he says, “and the
course begins in a few days. As you know, I have worked hard at the
theory of music during the past year, and have come to the
conclusion that sooner or later I shall give up my present
occupation for music. Do not imagine I dream of being a great
artist.... I only feel I must do the work for which I have a
vocation. Whether I become a celebrated composer, or only a
struggling teacher--’tis all the same. In any case my conscience
will be clear, and I shall no longer have any right to grumble at
my lot. Of course, I shall not resign my present position until I
am sure that I am no longer a clerk, but a musician.”
He had relinquished social gaiety. “I always have my midday meal at
home,” he wrote at this time, “and in the evening I often go to the
theatre with father, or play cards with him.” Soon he had not even
leisure for such distractions. His musical studies were not restricted
to two classes in the week, but began to absorb almost all his time.
Besides which he began to make new friends at the Conservatoire--mostly
professional musicians--with whom he spent the rest of his leisure.
Among these, Laroche plays so important a part in Tchaikovsky’s artistic
and intimate life that it is necessary to say something of his
personality before proceeding further.
[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1859]
Hermann Laroche, the well-known musical writer and critic, was born in
St. Petersburg, May 13th (25th), 1845. His father, a Hanoverian by
birth, was established in that city as a French teacher. His mother
was a highly educated woman, and was careful to make her son an
accomplished linguist. His musical talent was displayed at an early age.
At ten he had already composed a march and an overture. He began his
systematic musical education in 1860, at Moscow, under the guidance of
Dubuque. At first he wished to be a virtuoso, but his teachers persuaded
him to relinquish the idea, because his hands were not suited to the
piano, and they laid more stress on his talent for composing.
When he entered the Conservatoire in the autumn of 1862, Laroche
surpassed all his fellow-students in musical knowledge, and was also a
highly educated and well-read young man.
Tchaikovsky and Laroche met for the first time in October, 1862, at the
class of the professor of pianoforte, Gerke. Hermann Laroche was then
seventeen years of age. The important results of this friendship in
Tchaikovsky’s after-life will be seen as this book proceeds; at the
outset its importance was threefold. In the first place, he found in
this fellow-student, who was far better versed in musical literature
than himself, an unofficial guide and mentor; secondly, Laroche was the
first critic of Tchaikovsky’s school compositions--the first and also
the most influential, for, from the beginning, Peter Ilich placed the
greatest confidence in his judgment; and thirdly, Laroche supplanted all
former intimacies in Tchaikovsky’s life, and became his dearest
companion and friend. The variety of his interests, the keenness of his
critical judgments, his unfailing liveliness and wit, made the hours of
leisure which Tchaikovsky now spent with him both pleasant and
profitable; while Laroche’s inexperience of the practical side of life,
and his helplessness in his relations with others, amused Tchaikovsky
and gave him an opportunity of helping and advising his friend in
return.
Early in 1863 Tchaikovsky resigned his place in the Ministry of
Justice, and resolved to give himself up entirely to music. His material
prospects were not bright. His father could give him board and lodging;
the rest he must earn for himself. But his will was firm, for by this
time his self-confidence and love of his art had taken firm root.
The fourth and last letter to his sister, which sets forth the reasons
which induced him to give up his official appointment, reveals
altogether a new man.
“_April_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1863.
“DEAR SASHA,--From your letter which reached father to-day, I
perceive that you take a lively interest in my situation and regard
with some mistrust the step I have decided to take. I will now
explain to you more fully what my hopes and intentions really are.
My musical talent--you cannot deny it--is my only one. This being
so, it stands to reason that I ought not to leave this God-sent
gift uncultivated and undeveloped. For this reason I began to study
music seriously. So far my official duties did not clash with this
work, and I could remain in the Ministry of Justice. Now, however,
my studies grow more severe and take up more time, so I find myself
compelled to give up one or the other.... In a word, after long
consideration, I have resolved to sacrifice the salary and resign
my post. But it does not follow that I intend to get into debt, or
ask for money from father, whose circumstances are not very
flourishing just now. Certainly I am not gaining any material
advantage. But first I hope to obtain a small post in the
Conservatoire next season (as assistant professor); secondly, I
have a few private lessons in view; and thirdly--what is most
important of all--I have entirely renounced all amusements and
luxuries, so that my expenditure has very much decreased. Now you
will want to know what will become of me when I have finished my
course. One thing I know for certain. I shall be a good musician
and shall be able to earn my daily bread. The professors are
satisfied with me, and say that with the necessary zeal I shall do
well. I do not tell you all this in a boastful spirit (it is not
my nature), only in order to speak openly to you without any false
modesty. I cherish a dream; to come to you for a whole year after
my studies are finished to compose a great work in your quiet
surroundings. After that--out into the world.”
In the autumn of 1863, after a visit to Apukhtin, Tchaikovsky returned
to Petersburg, externally and inwardly a changed man. His hair had grown
long, and he wore a somewhat shabby, but once fashionable coat, a relic
of his “foppish days”; so that in the new Tchaikovsky the former Peter
Ilich was hardly recognisable. His circumstances at this time were not
brilliant. His father had taken a very modest lodging in Petersburg, and
could give his son nothing but bare board and lodging. To supply his
further needs, Peter Ilich took some private teaching which Anton
Rubinstein found for him. These lessons brought in about fifty roubles a
month (£5).
The sacrifice of all the pleasures of life did not in the least embitter
or disturb him. On the contrary, he made light of his poverty, and at no
time of his life was he so cheerful and serene as now. In a small room,
which only held a bed and a writing-table, he started bravely on his
new, laborious existence, and there he spent many a night in arduous
work.
IV
Laroche gives the following account of the years Tchaikovsky spent at
the Conservatoire of St. Petersburg:--
“At the Conservatoire, founded by Anton Rubinstein in 1861, under
the patronage of the Grand-Duchess Helen, the curriculum consisted
of the following subjects: Choral Singing (Lomakin and Dütsch),
Solo Singing (Frau Nissen-Soloman), Pianoforte (Leschetitzky and
Beggrov), Violin (Wieniawsky), Violoncello (Schuberth), and
Composition (Zaremba). Of all these subjects Tchaikovsky studied
the last only.
“Nicholas Ivanovich Zaremba was then forty years of age. A Pole by
birth, he had studied law at the University of St. Petersburg, and
had been a clerk in one of the Government offices....
Music--especially composition--he had studied in Berlin under the
celebrated theorist Marx, whom he almost worshipped. As a composer,
Zaremba is not known to me. Never once, either in class or during
his private lessons, did he say so much as a word about his own
compositions. Only on one occasion he invited Peter Ilich to his
house and, when they were alone together, showed him the manuscript
of a string quartet of his own. The following day Peter Ilich told
me the work was ‘very nice, in the style of Haydn.’
“Zaremba had many of the qualities of an ideal teacher. Although,
if I am not mistaken, teaching was somewhat new to him, he appeared
fully equipped, with a course mapped out to the smallest details,
firm in his æsthetic views, and inventive in illustrating his
subject.... As became an out-and-out follower of Marx, Zaremba was
a progressive liberal as regards music, believed in Beethoven
(particularly in his latest period), detested the bondage of the
schools, and was more disposed to leave his pupils to themselves
than to restrict and hamper them with excessive severity. He taught
on Marx’s method, with one deviation: he followed up his harmony
course by one on strict counterpoint, using a text book of Heinrich
Bellermann’s. I do not think, however, that he taught this on his
own initiative, but possibly at Rubinstein’s expressed wish.
“I have spoken of Zaremba as progressive. He was actually an
enthusiastic admirer of Beethoven’s later period; but he stopped
short at Beethoven, or rather at Mendelssohn. The later development
of German music, which started from Schumann, was unknown to him.
He knew nothing of Berlioz and ignored Glinka. With regard to the
latter he showed very plainly his alienation from Russian soil.
Tchaikovsky, who was more disposed towards empiricism, and by
nature antagonistic to all abstractions, did not admire Zaremba’s
showy eloquence, nor yet that structure of superficial logic, from
the shelter of which he thundered forth his violent and arbitrary
views. The misunderstanding between pupil and teacher was
aggravated by the fact that Zaremba most frequently cited the
authority of Beethoven, while, following the example of his master,
Marx, he secretly--and sometimes openly--despised Mozart.
Tchaikovsky, on the contrary, had more respect than enthusiasm for
Beethoven, and never aimed at following in his footsteps. His
judgment was always somewhat sceptical; his need of independence
remarkable. During all the years I knew him, he never once
submitted blindly to any influence, nor swore by anyone in _verba
magistri_. His personal feelings sometimes coloured his views.
Zaremba, however, exercised no such fascination for him. Neither in
Tchaikovsky the composer, nor in Tchaikovsky the professor, do we
find any subsequent traces of Zaremba’s teaching. This is the more
remarkable, because the composer went to him as a beginner to be
grounded in the rudiments of musical theory, so that he had every
opportunity of making a deep and lasting impression. I must,
however, relate one occurrence which partially contradicts my
statement that Zaremba had no influence whatever upon his pupil.
When in 1862, or the following year, I expressed my admiration for
the energy and industry with which Tchaikovsky was working, he
replied that when he first attended Zaremba’s classes he had not
been so zealous, but had worked in ‘a very superficial way, like a
true amateur,’ until on one occasion Zaremba had drawn him aside
and impressed upon him the necessity of being more earnest and
industrious, because he possessed a fine talent. Deeply touched,
Peter Ilich resolved to conquer his indolence, and from that moment
worked with untiring zeal and energy.
“From 1861-2 Tchaikovsky learnt harmony, and from 1862-3 studied
strict counterpoint and the church modes under Zaremba, with whom,
in September, 1863, he began also to study form; while about the
same time he passed into Rubinstein’s class for instrumentation.
“The great personality of the Director of the Conservatoire
inspired us students with unbounded affection, mingled with not a
little awe. In reality no teacher was more considerate and kindly,
but his forbidding appearance, his hot temper and roughness, added
to the glamour of his European fame, impressed us profoundly.
“Besides the direction of the Conservatoire, he taught the piano,
and his class was the desired goal of every young pianist in the
school, for although the other professors (Gerke, Dreyschock, and
Leschetitzky) had excellent reputations, they were overshadowed by
Rubinstein’s fame and by his wonderful playing. In his class, which
then consisted of three male students and a host of women,
Rubinstein would often set the most comical tasks. On one occasion,
for instance, he made his pupils play Czerny’s “Daily Studies” in
every key, keeping precisely the same fingering throughout. His
pupils were very proud of the ordeals they were made to undergo,
and their narrations aroused the envy of all the other classes. As
a teacher of theory Anton Rubinstein was just the opposite of
Zaremba. While the latter was remarkably eloquent, the former was
taciturn to the last degree. Rubinstein spoke a number of
languages, but none quite correctly. In Russian he often expressed
himself fluently and appropriately, but his grammar was sometimes
faulty, which was very noticeable in his exposition of a
theoretical problem, demanding logical sequence. Yet it was
remarkable that this deficiency in no way spoilt his lectures. With
Zaremba, all was systematic, each word had its own place. With
Rubinstein, reigned a fascinating disorder. I believe that ten
minutes before the lesson he did not know what he was going to talk
about, and left all to the inspiration of the moment. Although the
literary form of his lectures suffered in consequence, and defied
all criticism, they impressed us deeply, and we attended them with
great interest. Rubinstein’s extraordinary practical knowledge, his
breadth of view, his experience as a composer--almost incredible
for a man of thirty--invested his words with an authority of which
we could not fail to be sensible. Even the paradoxes he indulged
in, which sometimes irritated and sometimes amused us, bore the
stamp of genius and thought. As I have said, Rubinstein had no
system whatever. If he observed in the course of a lesson that he
was not in touch with his pupils, he was not discouraged, and
always discovered some new way--as also in his pianoforte class--by
which to impart some of his original ideas. On one occasion he set
Tchaikovsky the task of orchestrating Beethoven’s D minor sonata
in four different ways. Peter Ilich elaborated one of these
arrangements, introducing the English horn and all manner of
unusual accessories, for which the master reprimanded him severely.
I must add that Rubinstein was sincerely attached to Tchaikovsky,
although he never valued his genius at its true worth. It is not
difficult to understand this, because Tchaikovsky’s artistic growth
was perfectly normal and equal, and quite devoid of any startling
developments. His work, which was generally of level excellence,
lacked that brilliancy which rejoices the astonished teacher.
“Rubinstein, on the contrary, cast a magic spell over Tchaikovsky.
The pupil, who kept his complete independence of judgment, and even
made fun of his master’s lack of logic and grammar in his lectures,
contemplated, not without bitterness, his mass of colourless and
insipid compositions. But neither the peculiarities of the teacher,
nor the ever-increasing weakness of his works, could undermine
Tchaikovsky’s regard for him as a man. This sentiment remained with
him to the last, although his relations with Anton were never so
intimate as with his brother, Nicholas Rubinstein. At this period
of our lives Tchaikovsky’s personal respect for his master was of
the greatest service to him. It made his work easier and gave
impulse to his powers. Rubinstein observed his pupil’s zeal, and
made increasing demands upon his capacity for work. But the harder
the tasks set him, the more energetic Tchaikovsky became. Sometimes
he spent the whole night upon some score he wished to lay before
his insatiable teacher on the following day. This extraordinary
industry does not appear to have injured his health.
“The silent protest Tchaikovsky raised against Zaremba’s methods
affected in a lesser degree his relations with Rubinstein. The
latter had grown up in the period of Schubert, Mendelssohn and
Schumann, and recognised only their orchestra, that is, the
orchestra of Beethoven, with the addition of three
trombones--natural horns and trumpets being replaced by chromatic
ones. We young folk, however, were enthusiasts for the most modern
of orchestras. Tchaikovsky was familiar with this style of
orchestration from the operas of Meyerbeer and Glinka. He also
heard it at the rehearsals of the Musical Society (to which, as
students, we had free access), where Rubinstein conducted works by
Meyerbeer, Berlioz, Liszt and Wagner. Finally, in 1862, Wagner
himself visited Petersburg, and made us acquainted in a series of
concerts, not only with the most famous excerpts from his earlier
operas, but also with portions of the _Nibelungen Ring_. It was not
so much Wagner’s music as his instrumentation which impressed
Tchaikovsky. It is remarkable that, with all his love for Mozart,
he never once attempted, even as a _tour de force_, to write for
the classical orchestra. His medium of expression was the full
modern orchestra, which came after Meyerbeer. He did not easily
acquire the mastery of this orchestra, but his preference for it
was already established. Rubinstein understood it admirably, and
explained its resources scientifically to his pupils, in the hope
that having once learnt its secrets, they would lay it aside for
ever. In this respect he experienced a bitter disappointment in
Tchaikovsky.
“In spring the students were generally set an important task to be
completed during the summer holidays. In the summer of 1864
Tchaikovsky was expected to write a long overture on the subject of
Ostrovsky’s[7] drama, _The Storm_. This work he scored for the most
‘heretical’ orchestra: tuba, English horn, harp, tremolo for
violins _divisi_, etc. When the work was finished he sent it to me
by post, with the request that I would take it to Rubinstein (I
cannot remember why he could not attend in person). I carried out
his wish, and Rubinstein told me to return in a few days to hear
his opinion. Never in the course of my life have I had to listen to
such a homily on my own sins as I then endured vicariously (it was
Sunday morning too!). With unconscious humour, Rubinstein asked:
‘How dared you bring me such a specimen of your own composition,’
and proceeded to pour such vials of wrath upon my head that
apparently he had nothing left for the real culprit, for when Peter
Ilich himself appeared a few days later, the Director received him
amiably, and only made a few remarks upon the overture....
“One of Rubinstein’s most urgent desires was the organisation of a
school orchestra. In the early days of the Conservatoire, however,
there was no immediate hope of realising this wish. Apart from the
numerous violinists, attracted by the name of Wieniawsky, there
were few, during the first year, who could play any other
orchestral instrument even tolerably well. Rubinstein, who at that
time had no great income, spent at least 1,500 roubles in the
gratuitous tuition of those instruments he needed for his
orchestra. There was an immediate response among those who were
enterprising. Tchaikovsky expressed a wish to learn the flute. He
studied for two years, and became a satisfactory second flute in
this orchestra. On one occasion he took part in a flute quartet of
Kuhlau’s at a musical evening in honour of Madame Clara Schumann’s
visit to Petersburg. Afterwards, finding no special use for this
accomplishment, he gave it up entirely.
“Of even less importance were the organ lessons he took for a time
from the famous Heinrich Stiehl. The majestic tone of this
instrument, heard in the mystic twilight of the empty Lutheran
church in Petersburg, made a profound impression upon Tchaikovsky’s
poetic temperament. But the impression was fleeting; his
imagination was attracted in other directions, and he grew more and
more remote from the works of Bach. He never composed a single
piece for this instrument.”
V
“In the biography of an artist,” continues Laroche, “side by side
with his individual evolution, the close observation of all
external influences with which he comes in contact plays an
important part. In Tchaikovsky’s case, I place among these
influences, the musical repertory which was familiar to him, and
such compositions as he specially studied or cared for. During the
whole of his time at the Conservatoire, especially during the
first two years, I was constantly with him, and am therefore a fair
judge of the works which more or less left their impress upon his
mind. I can enumerate almost all the compositions we played
together during his first year: Beethoven’s _Ninth Symphony_,
Schumann’s _Third Symphony_, his _Paradise and the Peri_, and
_Lohengrin_. Tchaikovsky grumbled when I made him play long vocal
works with endless recitatives, which became very wearisome on the
piano, but the beauty of the more connected parts soon re-awakened
his enthusiasm. Wagner gave him the least pleasure. He simply made
light of _Lohengrin_, and only became reconciled to the whole opera
much later in life.
“One day he remarked fearlessly: ‘I am sure of this--Serov has more
talent for composition than Wagner.’ Schumann’s _Third Symphony_
and Rubinstein’s _‘Ocean’ Symphony_ made the greatest impression
upon him. Later on, under the bâton of the composer, our enthusiasm
for the latter continually increased. Many readers will be
surprised to hear that one of Tchaikovsky’s earliest crazes was for
Henri Litolff--but only for the two overtures, _Robespierre_ and
_Les Girondistes_. I can say without exaggeration that, after
hearing these two overtures and Meyerbeer’s _Struensee_,
Tchaikovsky was always an impassioned lover of programme music. In
his early overtures, including _Romeo and Juliet_, the influence of
Litolff is easily perceptible, while he approached Liszt--who did
far more to inspire the young generation--with hesitation and
mistrust. During his student years, _Orpheus_ was the only one of
Liszt’s symphonic poems which attracted him. The _Faust Symphony_
he only valued long afterwards. It is but fair to state that
Liszt’s symphonic poems, which enslaved a whole generation of
Russian composers, only exercised an insignificant and ephemeral
influence upon Tchaikovsky.
“It is important to observe that, at this early period, he showed
many curious and morbid musical antipathies which he entirely
outgrew. These dislikes were not for particular composers, but for
certain styles of composition, or, more strictly speaking, for
their quality of sound. For instance, he did not like the
combination of piano and orchestra, nor the timbre of a string
quartet or quintet, and least of all the effect of the piano with
one or more stringed instruments. Although, for the sake of
experience, he had studied the general repertory of chamber music
and pianoforte concertos, and now and then was charmed by a work of
this nature, he afterwards took the first opportunity of condemning
its ‘detestable’ quality of tone. Not once, but hundreds of times,
he has vowed in my presence never to compose a pianoforte concerto,
nor a violin and piano sonata, nor any work of this class. As
regards the violin and pianoforte sonata, he has kept his word. Not
less strange was his determination, at this time, never to write
any small pieces for piano, or songs. He spoke of the latter with
the greatest dislike. But this hatred must have been quite
Platonic, for the next minute he was growing enthusiastic with me
over the songs of Glinka, Schumann, or Schubert.
“At this period in his life it was a kind of mania to declare
himself quite incapable in certain branches of his art. For
instance, he often declared he was absolutely unable to conduct.
The art of conducting goes frequently with that of accompanying,
and he was an excellent accompanist. This fact alone should have
sufficed to prove the groundlessness of his assertions. At the
Conservatoire the advanced students in the composition class were
expected to conduct the school orchestra in turn. Tchaikovsky stood
first on the list. I cannot remember whether he distinguished
himself on this occasion, but I know that nothing particularly
dreadful happened, and that he made no evident fiasco. Nevertheless
he made this first experience the confirmation of his opinion. He
declared that having to stand at the raised desk in front of the
orchestra produced such nervous sensations that all the time he
felt his head must fall off his shoulders; in order to prevent this
catastrophe, he kept his left hand under his chin and only
conducted with his right. This fixed idea lasted for years.
“In 1868 Tchaikovsky was invited to conduct the dances from his
opera _The Voyevode_ at a charity concert given in Moscow. I still
see him before me, the bâton in his right hand, while his left
firmly supported his fair beard!
“Tchaikovsky’s ardent admiration for Glinka, especially for the
opera _A Life for the Tsar_, included also this composer’s
incidental music to the tragedy _Prince Kholmsky_. As regards
_Russlan and Lioudmilla_, his views varied at first. Early in the
sixties he knew only a few numbers from Glinka’s second opera,
which pleased him unreservedly. He was equally delighted with the
music and libretto of Serov’s opera _Judith_, which he heard in
1863. It is remarkable that while a few masterpieces, such as _Don
Juan_, _A Life for the Tsar_, and Schubert’s _Symphony in C_, took
their places once and for ever in his appreciation, his judgment of
other musical works was subject to considerable fluctuation. One
year he was carried away by Beethoven’s _Eighth Symphony_, the next
he pronounced it ‘very nice, but nothing more.’ For years he
declared the music to _Faust_ by Pugni (a well-known composer of
ballets) was infinitely superior to Gounod’s opera, and afterwards
he described the French composer’s work as ‘a masterpiece.’
Therefore it is all the more remarkable that he remained faithful
to Serov’s opera _Judith_ to the end of his days.
“His attitude to Serov’s literary work was exceedingly sceptical.
We both attended the popular lectures given by this critic in 1864,
and were amused at his desperate efforts to overthrow the authority
of the Conservatoire, to abase Glinka and to exalt Verstovsky.[8]
Serov’s attack upon Rubinstein would in itself have lowered him in
the eyes of so devoted an adherent as Tchaikovsky, but he disliked
him still more for such expressions as ‘the spiritual contents of
music,’ ‘the organic unity of the music drama,’ and similar
phrases, under which Serov concealed his vacillation and
extraordinary lack of principle.
“Tchaikovsky’s personal relations with the composer of _Judith_ are
only known to me in part. They met, if I am not mistaken, in the
autumn of 1864, and I was the means of their becoming acquainted.
One of our fellow-students named Slavinsky, who visited Serov,
invited me to go with him to one of his ‘composer’s Tuesdays.’
About a year later I introduced Tchaikovsky to Serov. I recollect
how on that particular evening Dostoievsky talked a great deal--and
very foolishly--about music, as literary men do, who know nothing
whatever about it. Serov’s personality did not please Tchaikovsky,
and I do not think he ever went again, although he received a
pressing invitation to do so.
“Besides N. A. Hubert and myself, I cannot recall a single student
at the Conservatoire with whom Tchaikovsky kept up a lasting
intimacy. He was pleasant to all, and addressed a few in the
familiar second person singular. Among these passing friends I may
mention Gustav Kross, afterwards the first to play Tchaikovsky’s
pianoforte concerto in public; Richard Metzdorf, who settled in
Germany as a composer and Capellmeister; Karl van Ark, who became a
professor at the Petersburg Conservatoire; Slavinsky and Joseph
Lödscher. Of these fellow-students, the name of Nicholas Hubert
occurs most frequently in subsequent pages. In spite of his foreign
name, Hubert was really of Russian descent. From his childhood he
lived only in and for music, and very early in life had to earn his
living by teaching. The number of lessons he gave, combined with
his weak and uncertain health, prevented him from working very hard
at the Conservatoire, but he impressed us as talented and clever.
He was fond of assembling his friends round the tea-table in his
large, but scantily-furnished room, when the evening would be spent
in music and discussion. Tchaikovsky, Lödscher and myself were the
most regular guests at these evenings. The real intimacy, however,
between Tchaikovsky and Hubert did not actually begin until many
years later--about the middle of the eighties.”
With this chapter Laroche’s reminiscences of Tchaikovsky come to an
end.
VI.
In the autumn of 1863 the mother of Leo Davidov, who had married
Tchaikovsky’s sister, came to settle in St. Petersburg.
Alexandra Ivanovna, widow of the famous Decembrist, Vassily Davidov, was
a vigorous, kindly clever old lady, who had seen and suffered much in
her day. Of her very numerous family, four daughters and her youngest
son had accompanied her to Petersburg. Two of these daughters, Elizabeth
and Vera, became very friendly with Tchaikovsky, thanks to their common
love of music.
Peter Ilich never felt more at home than at the Davidovs. Apart from the
pleasure of acting as a guide to Vera in musical matters--introducing
her to the works of Schumann, Berlioz, and Glinka, whose charm he had
only just discovered for himself--he thoroughly enjoyed talking to her
mother and sister.
Tchaikovsky was always deeply interested in his country’s past,
especially in the period of Catherine II. and Alexander I. Alexandra
Davidov was, so to speak, a living chapter of history from the last
years of Alexander’s reign, and had known personally many famous men of
the time, among them the poet Poushkin, who often visited the Davidovs
at Kamenka. Consequently Tchaikovsky delighted in hearing her recall the
joys and sorrows of those far-off days.
Her daughter Elizabeth, an elderly spinster, also excited his interest.
She had been entrusted by her mother, when the latter had voluntarily
followed her husband into exile, to the care of Countess
Tchernischov-Kruglikov, and grew up in a house frequented by all the
notabilities of the early years of Nicholas I.’s reign.
[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1863]
She knew Gogol and Poushkin, and had made many journeys to Europe and
Siberia. Besides which she was deeply interested in art and literature,
and had a decided talent for drawing.
Among the few acquaintances who continued to show a friendly attitude to
Tchaikovsky, in spite of his becoming a musician, was Prince Alexis
Galitsin. He helped the struggling student and teacher by recommending
him to private pupils, and invited him to spend the summer on his
estate, Trostinetz, in the Government of Kharkov.
Life at the Prince’s country-seat seemed to Tchaikovsky like a fairy
tale. One event will suffice to show the attention with which he was
treated by his host. On his name-day, June 29th (July 11th), the Prince
gave an entertainment in his honour. After early service there was a
breakfast, and in the evening, after dark, a walk through the forest,
the paths being illuminated by torches, which made a grand effect. In
the heart of the woods a tent had been raised, in which a banquet was
prepared; while, on the open green around it, all kinds of national
amusements were organised in honour of the musician.
During this visit, Tchaikovsky composed and orchestrated his first
independent musical work, the overture to his favourite Russian play,
_The Storm_, by Ostrovsky. He had already hankered to write an opera on
this play, consequently when Rubinstein set him to compose an overture
by way of a holiday task, he naturally selected the subject which had
interested him for so long. On page 30 of his instrumentation
sketch-book for 1863-4 he made a pencil note of the programme of this
overture:--
“Introduction; adagio (Catharine’s childhood and life before
marriage); allegro (the threatening of the storm); her longing for
a truer love and happiness; allegro appassionato (her spiritual
conflict). Sudden change to evening on the banks of the Volga: the
same conflict, but with traces of feverish joy. The coming of the
storm (repetition of the theme which follows the adagio and the
further development of it). The Storm: the climax of her desperate
conflict--Death.”
The next important composition, which was not lost, like so many of
Tchaikovsky’s early works, was the “Dances of the Serving Girls,”
afterwards employed as a ballet in his opera, _The Voyevode_. It is
impossible to fix the precise date at which these dances were composed,
but early in 1865 they were already finished and orchestrated.
VII.
In 1865 Tchaikovsky’s father married--for the third time--a widow,
Elizabeth Alexandrov. This event made no difference to the life of Peter
Ilich, for he was attached to his stepmother, whom he had known for
several years, and to whom he often went for advice in moments of doubt
and difficulty. The summer of this year was spent with his sister at
Kamenka.
Kamenka, of which we hear so much in the life of Peter Ilich, is a rural
spot on the banks of the Tiasmin, in the Government of Kiev, and forms
part of the great estate which Tchaikovsky’s brother-in-law had
inherited from the exiled Decembrist Vassily Davidov. The place has
historical associations, having been the centre of the revolutionary
movement which disturbed the last years of Alexander I. Here, too, the
poet Poushkin came as a visitor, and his famous poem, “The Prisoner in
the Caucasus,” is said to have been written at Kamenka. The property
actually belonged to an elder brother, Nicholas Davidov, who practically
resigned it to the management of Tchaikovsky’s brother-in-law,
preferring the pleasures of his library and garden to the
responsibilities of a great landowner.
Kamenka did not boast great natural charms, nevertheless Tchaikovsky
enjoyed his visit there, and soon forgot the luxuries of Trostinetz.
Nicholas Davidov, although a kindly and sympathetic nature, held decided
opinions of his own, which were not altogether in keeping with the
liberalism then in vogue. This strong-minded man, who thought things out
for himself, impressed Tchaikovsky, and changed his political outlook.
Throughout life the composer took no very strong political views; his
tendencies leaned now one way, now another; but from the time of his
acquaintance with Nicholas Davidov his views were more disposed towards
conservativism. It was, however, the happy household at Kamenka that
exercised the greatest influence upon Tchaikovsky. Henceforth his
sister’s family became his favourite refuge, whither, in days to come,
he went to rest from the cares and excitements of life, and where,
twelve years later, he made a temporary home.
Perhaps these pleasant impressions were also strengthened by the
consciousness of work well accomplished. Anton Rubinstein had set him a
second task--the translation of Gevaert’s treatise on _Instrumentation_.
This he carried out admirably, besides the composition of the overture.
At Kamenka he had one disappointing experience. He had heard so much of
the beauty of the Little Russian folk-songs, and hoped to amass material
for his future compositions. This was not to be. The songs he heard
seemed to him artificial and retouched, and by no means equal in beauty
or originality to the folk melodies of Great Russia. He only wrote down
one song while at Kamenka--a tune sung daily by the women who worked in
the garden. He first used this melody in a string quartet, which he
began to compose in the autumn, but afterwards changed it into the
_Scherzo à la russe_ for pianoforte, Op. 1. No. 1. Towards the end of
August, Tchaikovsky returned to Petersburg with his brothers.
“Petersburg welcomed us with a deluge of rain,” he wrote to his sister
on his return. But in many other respects also the town made an
unfavourable impression upon Tchaikovsky. In the first place, the
question of a lodging gave him considerable trouble. The room which he
had engaged for eight roubles a month was small and uncomfortable. The
longer he stayed, the more he disliked it. He tried various quarters
without finding the quiet which was the first essential, and, in
November, finally took possession of a room lent him by his friend,
Apukhtin, who was going away for a time.
Another unpleasant experience took the form of an obstinate affection of
the eyes, which hindered him from working regularly. Lastly, he began to
feel some anxiety as to his future livelihood when his course at the
Conservatoire should have come to an end. To continue in his present
course of existence seemed to him terrible. The small income, which
hitherto only had to serve him for his lesser needs, had now to cover
board and lodging--in fact, his entire expenses.
We may guess how hard was his struggle with poverty, when we find him
once more assailed by doubts as to his wisdom in having chosen the
musical profession, and even contemplating the idea of returning to the
service of the State. Some of his friends echoed his momentary cry of
weakness. One seriously proposed that he should accept the fairly good
pay of an inspector of meat. To the great advantage of all consumers,
and to the glory of Russian music, the proposal came to nothing.
Simultaneously with Tchaikovsky’s hardest struggle for existence, came
also the first hopes of artistic success. These triumphs were very
modest as compared to those which lay in store for him; but at that
period of his life the praise of his masters, the applause of his
fellow-students, and the first public performance of his works, sufficed
to fill him with happiness and self-confidence. The performance of his
“Dances of the Serving Maids,” at one of the summer concerts at
Pavlovsk, conducted by the “Valse King,” Johann Strauss, greatly cheered
the young composer.
His satisfaction was still further increased when Nicholas Rubinstein,
following the example of his illustrious brother, resolved to open a
Conservatoire in Moscow, and engaged Tchaikovsky as Professor of
Harmony.
Nicholas Rubinstein had first approached Serov, who was not unwilling to
accept the post. But the extraordinary success of his opera _Rogneda_ in
St. Petersburg, and the failure of _Judith_ in Moscow, caused him to
change his mind and wish to remain in that capital where he was best
appreciated. This took place in 1865. Nicholas Rubinstein, seeing no
other way out of the difficulty, decided to offer the professorship to
one of the students of the Petersburg Conservatoire, and his brother put
forward the claims of Tchaikovsky. Although the honour was great, the
emolument was not attractive, for it amounted only to fifty roubles (£5)
a month; that is to say, to something less than the modest income he had
hitherto managed to earn in Petersburg. Nevertheless, in November, he
decided to accept the post.
The remaining successes of this period relate to his compositions.
In spite of his eyes being affected, and his constant change of
quarters, the time had not been barren. He had composed a string quartet
in B♭ major,[9] and an overture in F major.[10] The quartet was
played at one of the pupils’ concerts at the Conservatoire, October 30th
(November 11th), 1865, and a fortnight later the overture was performed
by the school orchestra, under the bâton of the composer.
In November of this year, Tchaikovsky set to work upon a cantata for
chorus and orchestra, a setting of Schiller’s _Ode to Joy_.[11]
This task had been set him by Anton Rubinstein, and was intended for
performance at the prize distribution, which took place at the end of
the school year. On December 31st, 1865 (January 12th, 1866), the
cantata was performed by the pupils of the Conservatoire in the presence
of the Directors of the Russian Musical Society, the Board of Examiners,
the Director of the Court Chapel, Bachmetiev, and the Capellmeisters of
the Imperial Opera, Kajinsky, Liadov and Ricci.
The composer himself was not present, as he wished to avoid the _vivâ
voce_ examination, which ought to have preceded the performance of the
cantata. Anton Rubinstein was exceedingly displeased, and threatened to
withhold Tchaikovsky’s diploma until he submitted to this public test.
Matters were not carried so far. Apparently the young composer had given
sufficient proof of his knowledge in the cantata itself, and he received
not only his diploma, but a silver medal in addition.
In spite of this official success, the cantata did not win the approval
of the musical authorities.
Evidently Rubinstein was not satisfied with it, since he put off
Tchaikovsky’s request that the cantata might be performed by the Russian
Musical Society, by saying that he could only agree on condition that
“great alterations” were made in the score, for in its original form it
was not good enough to place beside the works of other Russian
composers--Sokalsky, Christianovich, Rimsky-Korsakov, and Balakirev.
Serov’s opinion of this composition was not more favourable.
In the opposite camp to Serov--among that young Russian school which
flocked round Dargomijsky, and included Balakirev, Rimsky-Korsakov, and
Cæsar Cui, the cantata met with even less approval. Three months after
its performance Cui, then critic of the St. Petersburg _Viedomosti_,
wound up his notice of the work as follows:--
“In a word, I will only say that composers of the calibre of
Reinthaler and Volkmann will probably rejoice over Mr.
Tchaikovsky’s cantata, and exclaim, ‘Our number is increased.’”
Such were the judgments passed upon his first work by the musical lights
and the Press.
Laroche, however, was of a different opinion. He sent the following
letter to Tchaikovsky in Moscow:--
“PETERSBURG (MIDNIGHT),
“_January_ 11_th_(23_rd_), 1866.
“ ... I will tell you frankly that I consider yours is the greatest
musical talent to which Russia can look in the future. Stronger and
more original than Balakirev, loftier and more creative than Serov,
far more refined than Rimsky-Korsakov. _In you I see the
greatest--or rather the sole--hope of our musical future. Your own
original creations will probably not make their appearance for
another five years. But these ripe and classic works will surpass
everything we have heard since Glinka._ To sum up: I do not honour
you so much for what you _have_ done, as for what the force and
vitality of your genius _will_ one day accomplish. The proofs you
have given so far are but solemn pledges to outdo all your
contemporaries.”
PART III
I
Tchaikovsky’s first impressions of Moscow practically resolve themselves
into his association with a few Muscovites, with whom he was destined to
be linked to the end of his days. His subsequent life is so inseparably
connected with the narrow circle of his friends in the old capital, that
the reader needs to be introduced to some of them individually, before I
pass on to my brother’s career as a teacher and composer.
At the head of these musical friends stands Nicholas Rubinstein, of whom
it is no exaggeration to say that he was the greatest influence
throughout Tchaikovsky’s after career. No one, artist or friend, did so
much for the advancement of his fame, gave him greater support and
appreciation, or helped him more to conquer his first nervousness and
timidity, than the Director of the Moscow Conservatoire. Nicholas
Rubinstein is intimately associated with every event in Tchaikovsky’s
private and public life. Everywhere we shall come upon traces of his
helpful influence. It is not too much to assert that, during the first
years of Tchaikovsky’s life there, all Moscow was personified in
Nicholas Rubinstein.
* * * * *
Laroche, in his _Reminiscences_, gives the following sketch of the
director:--
“Nicholas Rubinstein was born June 2nd (14th), 1835. Like his
celebrated brother, he showed a remarkable and precocious talent
for music. It is said he learnt quicker, and was considered to have
more genius than Anton. But while the latter devoted himself
entirely to music and studied in Berlin, Nicholas elected for a
university education.... As a student at the Moscow University, and
even later--until the establishment of the Russian Musical
Society--he earned his living by teaching the pianoforte. He had a
number of pupils, and, as he himself told me, earned at one time as
much as 7,000 roubles (over £700) a year. On his marriage he was
compelled to give up playing in public, on account of the
objections raised by his wife’s relations. His domestic life was
not happy, and the differences of opinion between himself and his
wife’s family led to a rupture two years later. His unusual powers
were first recognised when he succeeded in founding the Moscow
Conservatoire. Besides being a most gifted pianist, he had great
talent as a conductor, and organiser of many schemes. He could
represent all branches of musical society in his own person.
Although he spent all his nights at the ‘English Club,’ playing
cards for high stakes, he managed to take part in every social
event, and was acquainted with all circles of Moscow society,
commercial, official, artistic, scientific, and aristocratic.”
“As regards art,” says Kashkin, “Nicholas Rubinstein was purely an
idealist; he admitted no compromise, and was entirely above personal
likes or dislikes. He was always ready to help a fellow-artist,
especially a Russian, and, without stopping to consider his means,
simply gave whatever he had by him at the moment.
“Externally he differed greatly from his brother Anton. Nicholas
Rubinstein was short and stoutly built; fair-complexioned, with curly
hair. He had a dreamy expression, a languor of speech, and an air of
aristocratic weariness, which was contradicted by the indefatigable
energy of his temperament. Probably this languor proceeded from the fact
that he scarcely ever slept.
“He was Tchaikovsky’s senior by five years only; but in these early days
of their intercourse the difference between their ages seemed much
greater. This was partly accounted for by the fact that Tchaikovsky came
to Moscow in a somewhat subordinate position, whereas the name of
Rubinstein was one of the most popular in the town; but the difference
in character was also very great. Rubinstein belonged to the class of
dominating and ruling personalities; his was a forceful character which
impressed all who came in contact with him. Tchaikovsky, on the
contrary, was yielding and submissive in matters of daily existence,
although inwardly he protested against all attempts to influence and
coerce him, and generally preserved his freedom of opinion, at least as
regards music. This self-assertion did not, however, come naturally to
him, and for that reason he loved solitude. He avoided his fellow-men,
because he did not know how to hold his own among them; while at the
same time he disliked submitting to the will of others, but this was not
his attitude in 1866. At this time he was grateful for Nicholas
Rubinstein’s almost paternal care, and bowed to his decision, even in
the matter of dress.
“Their friendly relations were sometimes strained, but never broken,
although Peter Ilich was occasionally irritated by Rubinstein’s
masterful guidance, and was scolded in return for not being sufficiently
docile.”
* * * * *
“Rubinstein’s right hand,” says Laroche, “was Constantine Albrecht, the
Inspector of the Conservatoire. He was about five years older than
Tchaikovsky, and had held the post of ‘cellist at the Opera House since
the age of fifteen. Albrecht was a very capable and, in many respects, a
very interesting man, although he was not popular with the public.
Tchaikovsky was strongly attracted to him, and soon after his arrival in
Moscow arranged to take his meals daily at his house. Albrecht’s views,
or rather convictions, were extraordinarily paradoxical.
“In politics he took the Conservative side, but as regards music he was
probably the most advanced radical in Moscow. Wagner, Liszt, Beethoven
in his last period, and certain things of Schumann, were all he would
acknowledge. I must add, by way of an eccentricity, his admiration for
Dargomijsky’s _Roussalka_. He was an admirable choral conductor, and did
good work in this branch of his art, for many of the pupils trained by
him turned out excellent teachers. Besides music, Albrecht took great
interest in natural science and mathematics. In summer he was an
enthusiastic hunter of beetles and butterflies. But for the subjects in
which a musician should be interested--history, poetry, _belles-lettres_
he showed the most complete indifference. I doubt if he had ever read a
novel....”
* * * * *
Tchaikovsky had a very high opinion of Albrecht as a composer, and often
regretted that so much talent should be wasted. But it was his
kindliness of heart, and above all his innate sense of humour, which
appealed most to Peter Ilich.
Very different, and far more important, were Tchaikovsky’s relations
with P. I. Jurgenson, the first--and always the chief--publisher of his
works.
Peter Ivanovich Jurgenson was born at Reval in 1836, and his childhood
was spent in very poor and depressing circumstances. At nineteen he
entered a music warehouse in Petersburg, where he soon won his
employer’s confidence, and rose to be manager to the firm of Schildbach,
in Moscow. Two years later, in 1861, he made a daring venture and set up
business on his own account. In Nicholas Rubinstein he found a powerful
friend and ally, who supported his enterprise for twenty years with
unfailing energy. By 1866 Jurgenson had passed through his worst
experiences, and began to play a prominent part in the musical life of
Moscow. Courageous and enterprising, he was one of the most active
adherents of Nicholas Rubinstein, that “Peter the Great” of musical
Moscow, to whom he rendered valuable assistance in founding the
Conservatoire. Jurgenson was the first Russian publisher to bring out
the works of the classical school in cheap editions, and also the
compositions of young native composers, including those of Tchaikovsky.
Although he came from the Baltic provinces, Jurgenson was an ardent
Russian patriot, and soon won the affection of Peter Ilich, who was
always a welcome guest in his house.
At the present moment the firm of Jurgenson is almost the sole possessor
of Tchaikovsky’s compositions. Among the 200,000 engraving-plates which
are preserved in their fireproof safes more than 70,000 belong to the
works of this composer.
The fourth of Tchaikovsky’s intimate friends, Nicholas Kashkin, received
him on his arrival with the cordiality of an old comrade, for he already
knew him from Laroche’s enthusiastic description.
“ ... Nicholas Dmitrievich Kashkin was the son of a well-known and
respected bookseller in the town of Voronejh,” says Laroche in his
reminiscences. From childhood he displayed great aptitude for the piano,
and by dint of self-teaching, made such progress that he could execute
difficult music, and was highly thought of in his native place. Yet he
was conscious that he lacked proper training, and at twenty-two went to
study with Dubuque, in Moscow.
Although Kashkin had no influence on Tchaikovsky’s development, their
relations were very friendly. When the latter came to Moscow, Kashkin
was already married and a professor at the Conservatoire. He and his
young wife took a great liking to the lonely composer, and the intimacy
ripened very quickly. All the teachers at the Conservatoire, including
Nicholas Rubinstein, valued Kashkin’s advice. All his friends regarded
him as a critic _par excellence_. Many years later he gave up teaching
at the Conservatoire, and became a professional critic. But even in this
difficult calling, which so often leads to misunderstanding and bitter
enmities, he managed to keep all his old friends, and even to make new
ones.
If I add to the names of N. Rubinstein, Albrecht, Jurgenson, and
Kashkin, two fellow-students already mentioned--Laroche and Hubert--the
list of Tchaikovsky’s intimate friends is complete. This little circle
was destined to give unfailing support to the growing reputation of the
composer, and to remain in the closest personal relations with him to
the end of his life. Amid these friends he found encouragement and
sympathy at the time when he stood most in need of them.
II
Tchaikovsky left St. Petersburg early in January, 1866.
At this time his letters show his depth of tenderness for his own
people, his first feelings of loneliness in the strange city, his
indifference to his surroundings, and finally his gradual attachment to
Moscow, which ended in being “the dearest town in the world.”
_To Anatol and Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“3.30 _p.m._, _January_ 6_th_ (18_th_).
“MY DEAR BROTHERS,--My journey, although sad, is safely over. I
thought about you the whole way, and it grieved me to think that
lately I had overshadowed you with my own depression, although I
fought hard against it. Do not, however, doubt my affection, even
if I do not always show it outwardly. I am staying at the Hotel
Kokorev. I have already seen Rubinstein and been introduced to two
directors of the Musical Society. Rubinstein was so pressing in his
invitation to me to live with him that I could not refuse, and
shall go there to-morrow.... I hug you both. Do not cease to love
me. Give my remembrances to everyone. Write! I will write again
soon. I have just written to Dad. You must also do so.”
_To the same._
“MOSCOW, _January_ 10_th_ (22_nd_).
“DEAR BROTHERS,--I am now living with Nicholas Rubinstein. He is a
very kind and sympathetic man. He has none of his brother’s
unapproachable manner, but in other respects he is not to be
compared with Anton--as an artist. I have a little room next to his
bedroom, and, truth to tell, I am afraid the scratching of my pen
must disturb him after he goes to bed, for our rooms are only
divided by a thin partition. I am very busy (upon the orchestration
of the C minor overture composed during the summer). I sit at home
nearly all day, and Rubinstein, who leads rather an excitable life,
cannot sufficiently marvel at my industry. I have been to both
theatres. The opera was very bad, so for once I did not get as much
artistic enjoyment from it as from the play.... I have hardly made
any new acquaintances except Kashkin, a friend of Laroche’s and a
first-rate musician, whom I have got to know very well indeed.
“Sometimes I feel rather melancholy, but as a rule I am possessed
by an insatiable craving for work, which is my greatest
consolation.... I have promised Rubinstein my overture shall be
performed here before I send it to Petersburg. Yesterday at bedtime
I thought a great deal about you both. I pictured to myself all the
horrors of the first night after the holidays, and fancied how Modi
would hide his nose under the bed-clothes and cry bitterly. How I
wish I could have comforted him! It is not a meaningless phrase,
Modi, when I tell you to grind and grind and grind, and to make
friends with your respectable companions, but not with that crazy
fellow X.... I am afraid you will be left behind in your class and
be one of those who get into the master’s black books. I have no
fears for Toly, so I send him no advice. Toly, my dear, conquer
your indolence as a correspondent and write to me. Hearty kisses!”
The overture in C minor, referred to in this letter, was submitted to
Nicholas Rubinstein a few days later. His opinion, however, was
unfavourable, and he declared the work unsuitable for performance by the
Musical Society. Tchaikovsky then sent the work to Petersburg, in order
that Laroche might ask Anton Rubinstein to perform it there. “I have
left your overture with Rubinstein,” Laroche wrote in reply, “and
repeated your request _verbatim_. He replied by a low, ironical bow. But
this is just his way.” The overture was not approved by Anton
Rubinstein, nor did it meet with a happier fate when Laroche tried to
persuade Liadov to give it a place at one of the opera concerts. Long
afterwards Tchaikovsky himself shared this adverse opinion of the work,
and wrote upon the cover of the manuscript, “Awful rubbish.”
_To his sister, Alexandra Davidov._
“_January_ 15_th_ (27_th_).
“ ... I have nothing particular to tell you about my life and work.
I am to teach the theory of music, and yesterday I held the
preliminary examination. Many pretty girls presented themselves....
I like Moscow very well, but I doubt if I shall ever get accustomed
to it; I have been too long rooted in Petersburg.”
_To A. and M. Tchaikovsky._
“_January_ 15_th_ (27_th_).
“MY DEAR BROTHERS,--Do not waste your money on stamps. It would be
better to write only once a week, a long letter in the form of a
diary....
“I get on very well with everyone, especially with Rubinstein,
Kashkin, Albrecht, and Osberg.[12] I have also made friends with a
family of the name Tchaikovsky.[13] I have eaten a great deal at
their house, but I did not take part in the dancing, although I was
attired in Rubinstein’s dress-coat. The latter looks after me like
a nurse, and insists upon doing so. To-day he forced me to accept
half a dozen new shirts (you need not mention this to the Davidovs
or anyone else), and to-morrow he will carry me off to his tailor
to order me a frock-coat. He is a wonderfully kind man, but I
cannot understand how he has won his great reputation as a
musician. He is rather ordinary in this respect, not to be compared
to his brother.[14]
“In mentioning my friends here, I must not omit Rubinstein’s
servant Alexander. He is a worthy old man, and possesses a splendid
white cat which is now sitting on my lap, while I stroke it gently.
My pleasantest pastime is to think of the summer. Lately I have
felt drawn to Sasha, Leo, and their children, and have now decided
to spend the summer with you at their house.”
_To A. and M. Tchaikovsky._
“_Sunday, January_ 30_th_ (_February_ 11_th_).
“ ... I laugh heartily over Dickens’s _Pickwick Papers_, with no
one to share my mirth; but sometimes this thought incites me to
even wilder hilarity. I recommend you to read this book; when one
wants to read fiction it is best to begin with such an author as
Dickens. He has much in common with Gogol; the same inimitable and
innate humour and the same masterly power of depicting an entire
character in a few strokes. But he has not Gogol’s depth....
“The idea of an opera begins to occupy my attention. All the
libretti Rubinstein has given me are utterly bad. I have found a
subject, and intend to write words myself. It will simply be the
adaptation of a tragedy. The poet Plestcheiev is living here, and
has promised to help me.”
_To his sister, Alexandra Davidov._
“_February_ 7_th_ (19_th_).
“I am gradually becoming accustomed to Moscow, although sometimes I
feel very lonely. My classes are very successful, to my great
astonishment; my nervousness is vanishing completely, and I am
gradually assuming the airs of a professor. My home-sickness is
also wearing off, but still Moscow is a strange place, and it will
be long before I can contemplate without horror the thought of
remaining here for years--perhaps for ever....”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
(_The middle of February._)
“MY DEAR FRIEND MODI,--I have been very busy lately, and therefore
have not written for a long while. Rubinstein has entrusted me with
some important work which has to be finished by the third week in
Lent....
“Life glides on quietly and monotonously, so that I have hardly
anything to tell you. I often visit the Tarnovskys, whose niece is
the loveliest girl I ever saw in my life. I am very much taken with
her, which causes Rubinstein to be a perfect nuisance. The moment
we arrive at the house the others begin to tease us and leave us
together. At home she is called ‘Mufka,’ and just now I am
wondering whether I dare use this name for her too. I only need to
know her a little better. Rubinstein has also been in love with
her, but his sentiments have now grown cooler.
“My nerves are in good condition; I am very calm and even cheerful.
I often console myself with thoughts of Easter, spring, and the
summer holidays.”
The work to which Tchaikovsky refers at the beginning of this letter was
the instrumentation of his overture in F major, which had been
originally scored for the small orchestra of the Petersburg
Conservatoire. In later years the composer must have destroyed the
fuller arrangement of the work, although at this time he seems to have
been satisfied with the result.
_To A. and M. Tchaikovsky._
“_March_ 6_th_ (18_th_).
“ ... My overture was performed on Friday, and had a good success.
I was unanimously recalled, and--to be grandiloquent--received with
applause that made the welkin ring. More flattering still was the
ovation I met with at the supper which Rubinstein gave after the
concert.... After supper he proposed my health amid renewed
applause. I go into these details because it is my first public
success, and consequently very gratifying.”
At the end of March Tchaikovsky, eager as a schoolboy at the beginning
of his holidays, left Moscow for Petersburg, where he stayed until April
4th (16th).
_To A. and M. Tchaikovsky._
“MOSCOW, _April_ 7_th_ (19_th_).
“Brothers! Forgive me for not having written before. The journey
was safely accomplished. The news of the attempt upon the Emperor’s
life reached us at the station where we stopped for tea, but only
in a very vague form.[15] We pictured to ourselves that he was
actually dead, and one lady wept bitterly, while another began to
extol all the virtues of the new sovereign. Only at Moscow I learnt
the true account. The rejoicings here were beyond belief; yesterday
at the Opera, where I went to hear _A Life for the Tsar_, when the
Poles appeared on the stage the entire public began to shout, ‘Down
with the Poles!’ In the last scene of the fourth act, in which the
Poles put Sousanin to death, the singer who was taking this part
resisted with such realistic violence that he knocked down several
of the ‘Polish’ chorus-singers. When the rest of the ‘Poles’ saw
that this outrage to art and to the truth delighted the public,
they promptly fell down of their own accord, and the triumphant
Sousanin walked away, shaking his fists at them, amid the
vociferous applause of the Muscovites. At the end of the opera the
Emperor’s portrait was brought on the stage, and an indescribable
tumult followed.”
_To Alexandra Davidov._
“_April_ 18_th_ (20_th_).
“I am going to act as advocate for two mortals who are just crazy
about Kamenka. You write that Toly and Modi might be left in
Petersburg, but I am determined not to tell them your point of
view. They would utterly lose heart--especially Toly. One of my
chief reasons for caring to spend the summer at Kamenka is to be
with them, and your house is the only place where we can be
together for a time. If you only knew how these little fellows
cling to me (and I return their love a hundredfold), you would not
find it in your heart to separate us. Arrange, my dear, for this
visit to come off. Very likely I shall be able to take part of the
expense off your hands.”
Before the summer holidays came, Tchaikovsky’s health was in an
unsatisfactory condition. He complains in his letters of insomnia,
nervousness, and the throbbing sensations in his head, to which he often
refers as “my apoplectic symptoms.” At the end of April his depression
became very apparent, and he wrote to his brother Anatol:--
“My nerves are altogether shaken. The causes are: (1) the symphony,
which does not sound satisfactory; (2) Rubinstein and Tarnovsky
have discovered that I am easily startled, and amuse themselves by
giving me all manner of shocks all day long; (3) I cannot shake off
the conviction that I shall not live long, and shall leave my
symphony unfinished. I long for the summer and for Kamenka as for
the Promised Land, and hope to find rest and peace, and to forget
all my troubles there. Yesterday I determined to touch no more
wine, spirits, or strong tea.
“I hate mankind in the mass, and I should be delighted to retire
into some wilderness with very few inhabitants. I have already
secured my ticket in the _diligence_ for May 10th (22nd).”
The visit to Kamenka, to which he had looked forward through the winter
and spring, did not actually come to pass. In consequence of the state
of the high-roads, the diligence was unable to run beyond Dovsk; the
remainder of the journey had to be undertaken, at the traveller’s own
risk and expense, in a private post-chaise. Tchaikovsky’s funds did not
permit of this extra strain, and the visit to his sister was abandoned.
With the assistance of his father, Anatol was sent to Kamenka, while
Peter Ilich, with Modeste, went for a time to his sister’s mother-in-law
at Miatlev, near Petersburg.
In spite of the beauty of scenery and his pleasure in being with his
excellent friends, Elizabeth and Vera Davidov, in spite of being near
his father and the poetical impression derived from a trip to Lake
Ladoga, Tchaikovsky did not altogether enjoy his holiday at Miatlev. The
cause of this was his G minor symphony, afterwards known as _Winter Day
Dreams_. Not one of his compositions gave him so much trouble as this
symphony.
He began this work in Moscow during the spring, and it was the cause of
his nervous disorders and numerous sleepless nights. These difficulties
were partly caused by his want of experience in composition, and partly
by his habit of working by night as well as by day. At the end of June
he had a terrible nervous breakdown, and the doctor who was called in to
see him declared he had narrowly escaped madness, and that his condition
was very serious. The most alarming symptoms of the illness were his
hallucinations and a constant feeling of dread. That he suffered
intensely is evident from the fact that he never again attempted to work
through the night.
In consequence of his illness, Tchaikovsky was unable to finish the
symphony during the summer. Nevertheless, before his return to Moscow he
resolved to submit it to his former masters, Anton Rubinstein and
Zaremba, hoping they might offer to let it be heard at the Musical
Society.
Once more he was doomed to disappointment. His symphony was severely
criticised, rejected, and pronounced unworthy of performance. It was the
first completely independent work which he had composed after leaving
the Petersburg Conservatoire. The only other work upon which he was
engaged at this time was the orchestration of his F major and C minor
overtures, which still remain unpublished.
III
1866-1867
At the end of August Tchaikovsky returned to Moscow without any trace of
the hostile feeling with which he had gone there in the previous
January. In this change of attitude his artistic sensibility
unquestionably played a part. After the severe judgment of the
authorities in Petersburg upon his symphony, he could not fail to
contrast this reception unfavourably with the acknowledgments of the
Moscow musical world. He had learnt, too, the value of his colleagues,
N. Rubinstein, Albrecht and Kashkin, and looked forward to meeting them
again. Finally, he had the pleasant prospect of an increased salary,
commencing from September. He must have rejoiced to feel his extreme
poverty had touched its limits, and an income of over £120 a year seemed
almost wealth to him. “I have money enough and to spare,” he wrote to
his brothers in November.
The ties which bound him to Petersburg were slackening. His attachment
to his father remained unchanged, but he was growing accustomed to his
separation; moreover, the twins stood less in need of his tender
solicitude, since they were once more living at home with their father.
And yet he still hankered after the recognition of St. Petersburg;
Moscow was still “a strange city”; a provincial town, the appreciation
of which was hardly worth the conquest.
In 1866 the Conservatoire outgrew its quarters in Rubinstein’s house,
and it became necessary to locate it in a larger building. Rubinstein
now moved into quarters nearer the new Conservatoire, and Tchaikovsky
continued to live with him.
The opening of the buildings took place on September 1st (13th), and was
attended by most of the leaders of Moscow society. The consecration
service was followed by a banquet at which many toasts were given, and
even Tchaikovsky himself drank to the health of Rubinstein, after making
a cordial and eloquent speech in his honour. Kashkin, the only witness
of the event now living, writes:--
“The banquet was followed by music, and Tchaikovsky, who was
determined that the first music to be heard in the hall of the
Conservatoire should be Glinka’s, opened the impromptu concert by
playing the overture to _Russlan and Lieudmilla_ from memory.”
The influx of new colleagues which followed the enlargement of the
Conservatoire made very little difference to Tchaikovsky’s intimate
circle. He admired Laub’s incomparable playing without entering into
closer relations with him. He had more in common with Kossmann, an
excellent musician and a man of culture. His acquaintance with the
violinist Wieniawsky was of short duration, since at the end of six
months the latter resigned his post as teacher, and they never met
again. He often spent the evening with Dubuque, a most hospitable man,
and a famous pianist, who was considered the finest interpreter of
Field’s Nocturnes and other works which were accounted modern in those
days. To these acquaintances we may add Anton Door, the well-known
pianist, now residing in Vienna.
Among such of Tchaikovsky’s friends as did not belong to the musical
profession, the generous art patron Prince Vladimir Odoevsky takes the
first place. Peter Ilich was grateful for the interest which this
enlightened man took in him and his work. In 1878 he says in one of his
letters:--
[Illustration: TCHAIKOVSKY (IN WINTER DRESS), 1867]
“He was the personification of kindness, and combined the most
all-embracing knowledge, including the art of music.... Four days
before his death he came to the concert to hear my orchestral
fantasia, _Fatum_. How jovial he was when during the interval he
came to give me his opinion! The cymbals which he unearthed and
presented to me are still kept at the Conservatoire. He did not
like the instruments himself, but thought I had a talent for
introducing them at the right moment. So the charming old fellow
searched all Moscow until he discovered a pair of good ‘piatti,’
and sent them to me with a precious letter.”
In the literary and dramatic world Tchaikovsky had two good friends--the
dramatist Ostrovsky and Sadovsky. He won the sympathy of these
distinguished men entirely by his own personality, since neither of them
cared greatly for music.
During the season 1866-7 the composer made another friendship which was
of great importance to his future career. Vladimir Petrovich Begichev,
Intendant of the Imperial Opera, Moscow, enjoyed a considerable
reputation--first as an elderly Adonis, secondly as the hero of many
romantic episodes in the past, and thirdly as the husband of his wife, a
lady once renowned for her singing and for her somewhat sensational
past. By her first husband Madame Begichev had two sons--Constantine and
Vladimir Shilovsky. These young men were strongly attracted to art and
literature, and played a considerable part in Tchaikovsky’s subsequent
career.
Soon after his arrival in Moscow Tchaikovsky began to compose an
overture on the Danish National Hymn, which N. Rubinstein had requested
him to have ready for the approaching marriage of the Tsarevitch with
the Princess Dagmar, to be played in the presence of the royal pair
during their visit to Moscow.
As with all his commissioned works, Tchaikovsky had completed this
overture before the appointed day, although he had to compose under the
most unfavourable conditions. Rubinstein’s house was beset all day long
by professors from the Conservatoire and other visitors, who did not
hesitate to intrude into Tchaikovsky’s room, so that he found no peace
at home, and had to take refuge in a neighbouring inn, “The Great
Britain,” which was very little frequented during the daytime. When
finished, he dedicated the overture to the Tsarevitch, and received in
return a pair of jewelled sleeve-links, which he immediately sold to
Dubuque. Tchaikovsky, who generally judged his early works very
severely, kept a favourable recollection of this overture, and wrote to
Jurgenson, in 1892:--
“My Danish Overture may become a popular concert work, for, as far
as I can remember, it is effective and, from a musical standpoint,
far superior to ‘1812.’”
After making some alterations in his symphony--undertaken at the desire
of Anton Rubinstein and Zaremba--Tchaikovsky, setting aside N.
Rubinstein, desired to hear the judgments of his old teachers, so
greatly was he still under the influence of Petersburg opinion. He only
permitted the least important movement to be heard at a Moscow Symphony
Concert in December--the scherzo, which had very little success. In
Petersburg the work was once more refused, but afterwards the two middle
movements (adagio and scherzo) were performed in February, 1867. The
reception was not encouraging, only one anonymous critic speaking warmly
in praise of the music.
In Tchaikovsky’s nature, side by side with his gentle and benevolent
attitude towards his fellow-men, there existed an extraordinary memory
for any injury; not in the ordinary sense of a desire for revenge, but
in the more literal meaning of unforgetfulness. He hardly ever forgot a
slight to his artistic pride. If it was offered by one whom he had
hitherto loved, he grew suddenly cold to him--and for ever. Not only for
months or years, but for decades, he would bear such a wound unhealed
in his heart, and it took a great deal to make him forget an
inconsiderate word, or an unfriendly action. It was no doubt the result
of having been spoilt as a child. From his earliest infancy he had been
kept from all unpleasantness, or even indifference, so that what would
have appeared a pin-prick to many seemed to him a mortal blow.
Not only the episode of the symphony--which afterwards won a fair
measure of success in St. Petersburg--but many other events contributed
to estrange Tchaikovsky from the city of his first affections. Gradually
the circle of his friends there decreased, and the most intimate of them
all, Laroche, was appointed Professor at the Moscow Conservatoire in
December, 1867. Besides which that little school of gifted “young
Russians,” under the leadership of Balakirev, and the protection of
Dargomijsky, which included Moussorgsky, Cui, Borodin and
Rimsky-Korsakov, were gaining more and more acknowledgment and weight in
Petersburg. This circle, supported by the pens of Cui and Stassov, who
held extremely modern views and were opposed to the Conservatoire and
Anton Rubinstein, made a very unsympathetic impression upon Tchaikovsky.
The hostility with which he regarded this group of composers had its
origin in his distrustful attitude towards society generally. He met all
strangers with dislike, but at the first friendly advance, or kind word,
he forgave them, and even thought them sympathetic.
So it was with his intercourse with the members of the New School in St.
Petersburg. Until 1868 none of them were known to him personally, but
all the same he was hostile to them. This was sufficient to awaken in
him the notion that they were all disposed to be his enemies, and when
in 1867 Anton Rubinstein resigned the conductorship of the Symphony
Concerts, and it passed into the hands of this school, he decided that
Petersburg was now a hostile camp, whereas in reality they were simply
neutral, or indifferent, to him.
Meanwhile, by closer acquaintance with Nicholas Rubinstein, Tchaikovsky
had begun to recognise his worth as an executant, a conductor, and an
indefatigable worker; while the presence of such musicians as Laub and
Kossmann, and such intimate friends as Kashkin, Albrecht and Laroche,
reconciled him to Moscow as a musical centre where it was worth while to
be appreciated.
The earliest of Tchaikovsky’s letters in 1867 is dated May 2nd (14th);
therefore it is difficult to fix the precise date at which he began to
compose his opera, _The Voyevode_. In any case he received the first
part of the libretto from Ostrovsky in March or April. I remember that
in the summer the first act was not even finished. At the very outset he
was delayed in his work because he lost the manuscript, and Ostrovsky
had to rewrite it from memory.
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
“_May_ 2_nd_(14_th_), 1867.
“All last week I was out of humour; first, because of the bad
weather; secondly, from shortness of money; and thirdly, from
despair of ever again finding the libretto.... Recently I made the
acquaintance of Professor Bougaiev at his house. He is an
extraordinarily learned man. He talked until late into the night
about astronomy and its latest discoveries. Good God! How ignorant
we are when we leave school! I shudder when I chance to come across
a really well-read and enlightened man!...”
In the summer of 1867 Tchaikovsky decided to visit Finland with one of
the twins, his funds not being sufficient to allow of his taking both of
them. With his usual _naïveté_ as regards money matters, he set off with
Anatol, taking about £10 in his pocket, which he believed would suffice
for the trip. At the end of a few days in Viborg, finding themselves
nearly penniless, they took the first boat back to Petersburg. There a
great disappointment awaited them. Their father, from whom they hoped to
obtain some assistance, had already left for a summer holiday in the
Ural Mountains. The brothers then spent their last remaining shillings
in reaching Hapsal by steamer, where they were certain of finding their
faithful friends the Davidovs. They travelled as “between deck”
passengers and suffered terribly from the cold. But notwithstanding
these misadventures, out of which they derived more amusement than
discomfort, Peter Ilich enjoyed the summer holidays. His spirits were
excellent, and he worked hard at _The Voyevode_, while his leisure was
spent in the society of his dear friends. The evenings were devoted to
reading, and they were particularly interested in the dramatic works of
Alfred de Musset. This kind of life entirely satisfied Tchaikovsky’s
simple and steadfast nature, and his happy frame of mind is reflected in
the _Chant sans paroles_, which he composed at this time and
dedicated--with two additional pieces for piano--to Vera Vassilievna
Davidov, under the title of _Souvenir de Hapsal_.
On August 15th (27th), Tchaikovsky left Hapsal for Moscow, spending a
week in Petersburg on his way.
IV
1867-1868
“Perhaps you may have observed”--writes Tchaikovsky to his
sister--“that I long intensely for a quiet, peaceful life, such as
one lives in the country. Vera Davidov may have told you how we
often spoke in fun of our future farm, where we intended to end our
days. As regards myself it is no joke. I am really attracted to
this idea because, although I am far from being old, I am already
very tired of life. Do not laugh; if you always lived with me you
would see it for yourself. The people around me often wonder at my
taciturnity and my apparent ill-temper, while actually I do not
lead an unhappy existence. What more can a man want whose prospects
are good, who is liked, and whose artistic work meets with
appreciation? And yet, in spite of these favourable circumstances,
I shrink from every social engagement, do not care to make
acquaintances, love solitude and silence. All this is explained by
my weariness of life. In those moments when I am not merely too
lazy to talk, but too indolent even to think, I dream of a calm,
heavenly, serene existence, and only realise this life in your
immediate neighbourhood. Be sure of this: you will have to devote
some of your maternal devotion to your tired old brother. Perhaps
you may think such a frame of mind naturally leads a man to the
consideration of matrimony. No, my dear future companion! My
weariness has made me _too indolent_ to form new ties, _too
indolent_ to found a family, _too indolent_ to take upon myself the
responsibility of wife and children. In short, marriage is to me
inconceivable. How I shall come to be united with your family I
know not as yet; whether I shall become the owner of a plot of
ground in your neighbourhood, or simply your boarder, only the
future can decide. One thing is clear: my future happiness is
impossible apart from you.”
Tchaikovsky never gives the true reason for his yearning after solitude
and a life of “heavenly quiet and serenity,” but it certainly did not
proceed from “misanthropy,” “indolence,” or weariness of life.
He was no misanthropist, for, as everyone who knew him must agree, it
would be difficult to find any man who gave out more sympathy than he
did. Laroche says:--
“The number of people who made a good impression on him, who
pleased him, and of whom he spoke in their absence as ‘good’ and
‘sympathetic,’ sometimes astounded me. The power of seeing the best
side of people and of things was a gift inherited from his father,
and it was precisely this love of his fellow-creatures which made
him so beloved in return. He was no misanthropist, rather a
philanthropist in the true sense of the word. Neither is there
greater justice in his self-accusation of ‘indolence.’ Those who
have followed him through his school-life, his official career, and
his student days at the Conservatoire, will be of my opinion. But a
glance at the number of his works, which reaches seventy-six,
including ten operas and three ballets; at his letters (I possess,
in all, four thousand); at his literary work (sixty-one articles);
at his translations and arrangements, and his ten years’ teaching,
will suffice to convince the most sceptical that his nature knew no
moods of _dolce far niente_.”
As regards his “weariness of life,” he himself disposes of it in the
same letter, when he speaks of yearning for a calm and happy existence.
Those who are really world-weary have no longing for any kind of
existence. Neither misanthropy, indolence, nor weariness were his
permanent moods. His indefinite craving for an easier life was caused by
his creative impulse, which, waxing ever stronger and stronger, awoke
the desire for more leisure to devote to it. This longing for freedom
reached a climax in 1877, and brought about a complete change in his
life.
For the time being it was useless to think of solitude or freedom. All
he could hope for was the comparative liberty of his summer vacation.
Town life was a necessity to him from the material and moral point of
view, and although he complained of its being oppressive, I believe that
had he been compelled by fate to reside in the country--as he did some
years later--he would, at this earlier period of his career, have had
much more cause for complaint.
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
“_August_ 31_st_, 1867 (_September_ 12_th_).
“ ... At present I have nothing to do, and loaf about the town all
day.... Ostrovsky still keeps me on the trot. I read in the
Petersburg papers that he had completed my libretto, but it is not
so. I had some difficulty in dragging the first half of the lost
act out of him. I am wandering about with the intention of buying a
large writing-table to make my room more comfortable, so that I can
work at my opera at home. I am determined to finish it during the
winter. Last night we celebrated Dubuque’s birthday, and I came
back rather the worse for liquor.
“I have spent two evenings running at the ‘English Club.’ What a
delightful club! It would be jolly to belong to it, but it costs
too much....”
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
(_About the end of October._)
“I am getting along all right. On Saturday our first concert takes
place, to which I look forward, for, generally speaking, the people
here prefer carnal to spiritual entertainments, and eat and drink
an incredible amount. The concert will supply me with a little
musical food, of which I am badly in need, for I live like a bear
in his cave, upon my own substance, that is to say, upon my
compositions, which are always running in my head. Try as I may, it
is impossible to lead a quiet life in Moscow, where one must
over-eat and drink. This is the fifth day in succession that I have
come home late with an overloaded stomach. But you must not imagine
I am idle: from breakfast till the midday meal I work without a
break.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“_November_ 25_th_ (_December_ 7_th_).
“Our mutual friend Klimenko is in Moscow, and visits us almost
daily.
“The Opera is progressing fairly well. The whole of the third act
is finished, and the dances from it--which I orchestrated at
Hapsal--will be given at the next concert.”
Ivan Alexandrovich Klimenko, whose name will often occur in the course
of this book, had previously made Laroche’s acquaintance at one of
Serov’s “Tuesday evenings.” An architect by profession, Kashkin
describes him as a very gifted amateur. He was devotedly attached to
Tchaikovsky, and one of the first to prophesy his significance for
Russian music.
At the second symphony concert, which took place early in December, “The
Dances of the Serving Maids,” from _The Voyevode_, were given. They had
an undeniable success, and were twice repeated in Moscow during the
season.
On December 12th (24th) Tchaikovsky wrote to his brother Anatol as
follows:--
“You ask if I am coming to Petersburg. Wisdom compels me to say no.
In the first place I have not money for the journey, and secondly,
Berlioz is coming here at Christmas, and will give two
concerts--one popular, and another in the place of our fourth
symphony evening. I shall put off my visit until the Carnival or
Lent....”
Berlioz went to Moscow about the end of December, 1867, direct from St.
Petersburg, where he had been invited by the directors of the Musical
Society--chiefly at the instigation of Dargomijsky and Balakirev--to
conduct a series of six concerts.
This was not his first visit to Russia. As early as 1847 he had been
welcomed in Petersburg, Moscow and Riga, by the instrumentality of
Glinka, who regarded him as “the greatest of contemporary musicians.” He
then met with an enthusiastic reception from the leaders of the Russian
musical world, Prince Odoevsky and Count Vielgorsky, and not only made a
large sum, but was equally fêted by the public. It is interesting to
note that not only Berlioz himself, but his Russian admirers seem to
have deluded themselves into the belief that he was “understood” and
“appreciated” in Russia. Prince Odoevsky, who published an article
extolling Berlioz’s genius the very day before his first concert in
Petersburg, exclaims in one of his letters to Glinka:--
“Where are you, friend? Why are you not with us? Why are you not
sharing our joy and pleasure? Berlioz has been ‘understood’ in St.
Petersburg!! Here, in spite of the scourge of Italian cavatina,
which has well-nigh ruined Slavonic taste, we showed that we could
still appreciate the most complicated contrapuntal music in the
world. There must be a secret sympathy between his music and our
intimate Russian sentiment. How else can this public enthusiasm be
explained?”
I am of opinion that it is more easily explicable by the fact that
Berlioz was a gifted conductor, and that the public had been
prepossessed in his favour by the laudatory articles of Prince Odoevsky
himself. Judging from the neglect of this famous composer in the present
day (_Faust_ is the only one of his works which is still popular), this
is surely the right point of view.
Twenty years later, in 1867, the enthusiastic welcome he received here
was chiefly due to his attraction as a conductor, and to the enthusiasm
of that small group of Russian musicians to whom he owed his invitation
to our country.
Tchaikovsky, whose views were entirely opposed to those of this circle,
held “his own opinions” in this, as in other matters. Although he fully
appreciated the important place which Berlioz filled in modern music,
and recognised him as a great reformer of the orchestra, he felt no
enthusiasm for his music. On the other hand, he had the warmest
admiration for the man, in whom he saw “the personification of
disinterested industry, of ardent love for art, of a noble and energetic
combatant against ignorance, stupidity, vulgarity, and routine....” He
also regarded him as “an old and broken man, persecuted alike by fate
and his fellow-creatures,” whom he cordially desired to console and
cheer--if only for the moment--by the expression of an ungrudging
sympathy.
On February 3rd (15th) Tchaikovsky’s G minor symphony was given at the
Musical Society, when its success surpassed all expectations. “The
adagio pleased best,” Tchaikovsky wrote to his brothers. The composer
was vociferously recalled, and, according to Countess Kapnist, appeared
upon the platform in rather untidy clothes, hat in hand, and bowed
awkwardly.
On February 19th (March 2nd) a charity concert was given in the Opera
House in aid of the Famine Fund. This was an event in Tchaikovsky’s
life, for he made his first public appearance as a conductor, the
“Dances” from _The Voyevode_, being played under his bâton. On this
occasion, too, he first became acquainted with the work of
Rimsky-Korsakov, whose “Serbian Fantasia” was included in the programme.
Tchaikovsky’s opinion of himself as a conductor we have learnt already
from Laroche. Kashkin gives the following account of this concert:--
“When I went behind the scenes to see how the _débutant_ was
feeling, he told me that to his great surprise he was not in the
least nervous. Before it came to his turn I returned to my place.
When Tchaikovsky actually appeared on the platform, I noticed that
he was quite distracted; he came on timidly, as though he would
have been glad to hide, or run away, and, on mounting to the
conductor’s desk, looked like a man who finds himself in some
desperate situation. Apparently his composition was blotted out
from his mind; he did not see the score before him, and gave all
the leads at the wrong moment, or to the wrong instruments.
Fortunately the band knew the music so well that they paid no
attention whatever to Tchaikovsky’s beat, but laughing in their
sleeves, got through the dances very creditably in spite of him.
Afterwards Peter Ilich told me that in his terror he had a feeling
that his head would fall off his shoulders unless he held it
tightly in position.”
That he had no faith in his powers of conducting is evident from the
fact that ten years elapsed before he ventured to take up the bâton
again.
In a notice of the concert, which appeared in _The Entr’acte_,
Tchaikovsky was spoken of as a “mature” musician, whose work was
remarkable for “loftiness of aim and masterly thematic treatment”; while
Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Serbian Fantasia” was dismissed as “colourless and
inanimate.”
Had such a judgment been pronounced a few months earlier, at a time when
Tchaikovsky knew nothing of the composer, and regarded the entire
Petersburg School as his enemies, who knows whether he would not have
felt a certain satisfaction--a kind of “Schadenfreude”--at its
appearance? Now, however, circumstances were altered. Not only had he
become well acquainted with the “Serbian Fantasia” at rehearsal, and
learnt to regard both the work and its composer with respect, but during
the last two or three months he had been more closely associated with
the leader of the New School, Mily Balakirev, and had become convinced
that, far from being his enemies, the Petersburg set were all interested
in his career.
The result of this pleasing discovery was a burning desire to show his
sympathy for a gifted colleague, and he wrote an article in direct
contradiction to the criticism of the _Entr’acte_. This was the
beginning of his literary activity. The article aroused considerable
attention in Moscow, and was warmly approved. Nor did it escape
observation in St. Petersburg. Consequently, when Tchaikovsky visited
his father at Easter, he was received in a very friendly spirit by “The
Invincible Band.”[16]
The rallying-point of “The Band” was Dargomijsky’s house. The composer,
although confined to his bed by a mortal illness, was working with fire
and inspiration at his opera, _The Stone Guest_. His young friends
regarded this work as the foundation-stone of the great temple of “The
Music of the Future,” and frequently assembled at the “Master’s” to note
the progress of the new creation and show him their own works. Even
Tchaikovsky, who had already met Dargomijsky at Begichev’s in Moscow,
found himself more than once among the guests, and made many new
acquaintances on these occasions.
At Balakirev’s, too, he met many musicians who held the views of the New
Russian School. Although Tchaikovsky entered into friendly relations
with the members of “The Invincibles,” he could not accept their tenets,
and with great tact and skill remained entirely independent of them.
While he made friends individually with Balakirev, Rimsky-Korsakov, Cui
and Vladimir Stassov, he still regarded their union with some hostility.
He laughed at their ultra-progressive tendencies and regarded with
contempt the naïve and crude efforts of some members of “The Band”
(especially Moussorgsky). But while making fun of these “unheard-of
works of genius,” which “throw all others into the shade,” and indignant
at their daring attacks upon his idol Mozart, Tchaikovsky was also
impressed by the force and vitality displayed in some of their
compositions, as well as by their freshness of inspiration and
honourable intentions, so that far from being repulsed, he learnt to
feel a certain degree of sympathy and a very great respect for this
school.
This dual relationship reacted in two different ways. Tchaikovsky never
hesitated to express quite openly his antipathy to the tendencies of
these innovators, while he refused to recognise the dilettante
extravagances of Moussorgsky as masterpieces, and always made it evident
that it would be distasteful to him to win the praise of Stassov and
Cui, and with it the title of “genius,” by seeking originality at the
expense of artistic beauty. At the same time he acted as the
propagandist of “The Band” in Moscow, was their intermediary with the
Moscow section of the Musical Society, and busied himself with the
performance or publication of their works. When in 1869 the Grand
Duchess Helena Paulovna desired to carry out a change in the management
of the symphony concerts, and Balakirev retired from the conductorship,
Tchaikovsky appeared for the second time as the champion of “The Band,”
and protested against the proceedings of the Grand Duchess in an
energetic article, in which he displayed also his sympathy with the
leader of the New Russian School. During the period when he was engaged
in musical criticism, he lost no opportunity of giving public expression
to his respect and enthusiasm for the works of Balakirev and
Rimsky-Korsakov.
But the most obvious sign of his sympathy with “The Band” is the fact
that he dedicated three of his best works to individual members--_Fatum_
and _Romeo and Juliet_ to Balakirev and _The Tempest_ to Vladimir
Stassov. Here undoubtedly we may see the indirect influence which the
New School exercised upon Tchaikovsky. He would not amalgamate with
them; nor would he adopt their principles. But to win their sympathy,
without actually having recourse to a compromise; to accept their advice
(_Romeo and Juliet_ was suggested by Balakirev and _The Tempest_ by
Stassov); to triumph over the tasks they set him and to show his
solidarity with “The Band,” only in so far as they both aimed at being
earnest in matters of art--all this seemed to him not only interesting,
but worthy of his vocation.
“The Invincible Band” repaid Tchaikovsky in his own coin. They
criticised some of his works as pedantic, “behind the times,” and
_routinier_, but at the outset of his career they took the greatest
interest in him, respected him as a worthy rival, strove to win him over
to their views, and continued to consider him “among the elect,” even
after the failure of their efforts at conversion.
The relations between Tchaikovsky and “The Band” may be compared to
those existing between two friendly neighbouring states, each leading
its independent existence, meeting on common grounds, but keeping their
individual interests strictly apart.
During the summer of this year Tchaikovsky went abroad with his
favourite pupil Vladimir Shilovsky, accompanied by the lad’s guardian,
V. Begichev, and a friend named De Lazary. In spite of a lingering wish
to spend his holidays with his own people in some quiet spot, the
opportunity seemed too good to be lost. His travelling companions were
congenial, and his duties of the lightest--merely to give music lessons
to young Shilovsky.
From Paris he wrote to his sister on July 20th (August 1st), 1868:--
“Originally we intended to visit the most beautiful places in
Europe, but Shilovsky’s illness, and the need of consulting a
certain great doctor with all possible speed, brought us here, and
has kept us against our will.... The theatres are splendid, not
externally, but as regards the staging of pieces and the skill with
which effects are produced by the simplest means. They know how to
mount and act a play here in such a way that, without any
remarkable display of histrionic talent, it is more effective than
it would be with us, since it would probably lack rehearsal and
_ensemble_.
“As regards music, too, in the operas I have heard I remarked no
singer with an exceptional voice, and yet what a splendid
performance! How carefully everything is studied and thought out!
What earnest attention is given to every detail, no matter how
insignificant, which goes to make up the general effect! We have no
conception of such performances.... The noise and bustle of Paris
is far less suited to a composer than the quiet of such a lake as
the Thuner See, not to mention the stinking, but beloved,
Tiasmin,[17] which is happy in flowing by the house that holds
some of my nearest and dearest. How have they passed this summer?”
Tchaikovsky returned to his duties at Moscow about the end of August.
V
1868-1869
Externally, Tchaikovsky’s life had remained unchanged during this
period. His lessons at the Conservatoire slightly increased, and his
salary consequently rose to over 1,400 roubles (£140). Under these
circumstances he began to think of finding separate quarters, since his
life with Nicholas Rubinstein was unfavourable to his creative work. The
latter, however, would not consent to this, and Tchaikovsky himself had
doubts as to whether his income would suffice for a separate
establishment.
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
“_September_ 3_rd_ (15_th_).
“I have been working like a slave to-day. The day before yesterday
I received an unexpected summons to attend at the theatre. To my
great surprise I found two choral rehearsals of my opera (_The
Voyevode_) had already been given, and the first solo rehearsal was
about to take place. I have undertaken the pianoforte accompaniment
myself. I doubt the possibility of getting up such a difficult work
in a month, and already I shiver with apprehension at all the
hurry-skurry and confusion which lie before me. The rehearsals will
take place almost daily. The singers are all pleased with the
opera....”
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
“_September_ 25_th_ (_October_ 7_th_).
“ ... When I saw that it was impossible to study my opera in so
short a time, I informed the directors that so long as the Italian
company remained in Moscow and absorbed the time of both chorus and
orchestra, I would not send in the score of my work. I wrote to
Gedeonov to this effect. In consequence, the performance is
postponed until the Italians leave Moscow. I have a little more
leisure now. Besides, Menshikova already knows the greater part of
her rôle by heart. I lunched with her to-day, and she sang me
several numbers from the opera, by no means badly. Time, on the
whole, goes quickly and pleasantly.
“I have some good news to give you about my future work. A few days
ago I was lunching with Ostrovsky, and he proposed, entirely of his
own accord, to write a libretto for me. The subject has been in his
mind for the last twenty years, but he has never spoken of it to
anyone before; now his choice has fallen upon me.
“The scene is laid in Babylon and Greece, in the time of Alexander
of Macedon, who is introduced as one of the characters. We have
representatives of two great races of antiquity: the Hebrews and
the Greeks. The hero is a young Hebrew, in love with one of his own
race, who, actuated by ambitious motives, betrays him for the sake
of Alexander. In the end the young Hebrew becomes a prophet. You
have no idea what a fine plot it is! Just now I am writing a
symphonic sketch, _Fatum_.[18] The Italian opera is creating a
furore. Artôt is a splendid creature. She and I are good friends.”
“Early in 1868,” says Laroche, “an Italian opera company visited Moscow
for a few weeks, at the head of which was the impresario Merelli. Their
performances at the Opera drew crowded houses. The company consisted of
fifth-rate singers, who had neither voices nor talent; the one exception
was a woman of thirty, not good-looking, but with a passionate and
expressive face, who had just reached the climax of her art, and soon
afterwards began to go off, both in voice and appearance.
“Désirée Artôt, a daughter of the celebrated horn-player Artôt, and a
niece of the still more renowned violinist, had been trained by Pauline
Viardot-Garcia. Her voice was powerful, and adapted to express intense
dramatic pathos, but unfortunately it had no reserve force, and began to
deteriorate comparatively early, so that six or seven years after the
time of which I am speaking it had completely lost its charm. Besides
its dramatic quality, her voice was suitable for florid vocalisation,
and her lower notes were so good that she could take many mezzo-soprano
parts; consequently her repertory was almost unlimited.... It is not too
much to say that in the whole world of music, in the entire range of
lyrical emotion, there was not a single idea, or a single form, of which
this admirable artist could not give a poetical interpretation. The
timbre of her voice was more like the oboe than the flute, and was
penetrated by such indescribable beauty, warmth, and passion, that
everyone who heard it was fascinated and carried away. I have said that
Désirée Artôt was not good-looking. At the same time, without recourse
to artificial aids, her charm was so great that she won all hearts and
turned all heads, as though she had been the loveliest of women. The
delicate texture and pallor of her skin, the plastic grace of her
movements, the beauty of her neck and arms, were not her only weapons;
under the irregularity of her features lay some wonderful charm of
attraction, and of all the many ‘Gretchens’ I have seen in my day, Artôt
was by far the most ideal, the most fascinating.
“This was chiefly due to her talent as an actress. I have never seen
anyone so perfectly at home on the stage as she was. From the first
entrance, to the last cry of triumph or despair, the illusion was
perfect. Not a single movement betrayed intention or pre-consideration.
She was equally herself in a tragic, comic, or comedy part.”
_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._
“_October_ 21_st_ (_November_ 2_nd_).
“I am very busy writing choruses and recitatives to Auber’s _Domino
Noir_, which is to be given for Artôt’s benefit. Merelli will pay
me for the work. I have become very friendly with Artôt, and am
glad to know something of her remarkable character. I have never
met a kinder, a better, or a cleverer woman.
“Anton Rubinstein has been here. He played divinely, and created an
indescribable sensation. He has not altered, and is as nice as
ever.
“My orchestral fantasia _Fatum_ is finished.”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
(_November._)
“Oh, Moding, I long to pour my impressions into your artistic soul.
If only you knew what a singer and actress Artôt is!! I have never
experienced such powerful artistic impressions as just recently.
How delighted you would be with the grace of her movements and
poses!”
_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._
(_December._)
“ ... I have not written to you for a long while, but many things
now make it impossible for me to write letters, for all my leisure
is given to one--of whom you have already heard--whom I love
dearly.
“My musical situation is as follows: Two of my pianoforte pieces
are to be published in a day or two. I have arranged twenty-five
Russian folksongs for four hands, which will be published
immediately, and I have orchestrated my fantasia _Fatum_ for the
fifth concert of the Musical Society.
“Recently a concert was given here for the benefit of poor
students, in which ‘the one being’ sang for the last time before
her departure, and Nicholas Rubinstein played my pianoforte piece
dedicated to Artôt.”
_To his father._
“_December_ 26_th_ (_January_ 7_th_, 1869).
“MY DEAR, KIND DAD!--To my great annoyance, circumstances have
prevented my going to Petersburg. This journey would have cost me
at least a hundred roubles, and just now I do not possess them.
Consequently I must send my New Year’s wishes by letter. I wish
you happiness and all good things. As rumours of my engagement will
doubtless have reached you, and you may feel hurt at my silence
upon the subject, I will tell you the whole story. I made the
acquaintance of Artôt in the spring, but only visited her once,
when I went to a supper given after her benefit performance. After
she returned here in autumn I did not call on her for a whole
month. Then we met by chance at a musical evening. She expressed
surprise that I had not called, and I promised to do so, a promise
I should never have kept (because of my shyness with new friends)
if Anton Rubinstein, in passing through Moscow, had not dragged me
there. Afterwards I received constant invitations, and got into the
way of going to her house daily. Soon we began to experience a
mutual glow of tenderness, and an understanding followed
immediately. Naturally the question of marriage arose at once, and,
if nothing hinders it, our wedding is to take place in the summer.
But the worst is that there are several obstacles. First, there is
her mother, who always lives with her, and has considerable
influence upon her daughter. She is not in favour of the match,
because she considers me too young, and probably fears lest I
should expect her daughter to live permanently in Russia. Secondly,
my friends, especially N. Rubinstein, are trying might and main to
prevent my marriage. They declare that, married to a famous singer,
I should play the pitiable part of ‘husband of my wife’; that I
should live at her expense and accompany her all over Europe;
finally, that I should lose all opportunities of working, and that
when my first love had cooled, I should know nothing but
disenchantment and depression. The risk of such a catastrophe might
perhaps be avoided, if she would consent to leave the stage and
live entirely in Russia. But she declares that in spite of all her
love for me, she cannot make up her mind to give up the profession
which brings her in so much money, and to which she has grown
accustomed. At present she is on her way to Moscow. Meanwhile we
have agreed that I am to visit her in summer at her country house
(near Paris), when our fate will be decided.
“If she will not consent to give up the stage, I, on my part,
hesitate to sacrifice my future; for it is clear that I shall lose
all opportunity of making my own way, if I blindly follow in her
train. You see, Dad, my situation is a very difficult one. On the
one hand, I love her heart and soul, and feel I cannot live any
longer without her; on the other hand, calm reason bids me to
consider more closely all the misfortunes with which my friends
threaten me. I shall wait, my dear, for your views on the subject.
“I am quite well, and my life goes on as usual--only I am unhappy
now she is not here.”
Tchaikovsky received the following letter in reply:--
“_December_ 29_th_, 1868 (_January_ 10_th_, 1869).
“MY DEAR PETER,--You ask my advice upon the most momentous event in
your life.... You are both artists, both make capital out of your
talents; but while she has made both money and fame, you have
hardly begun to make your way, and God knows whether you will ever
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/45259