THE LIFE & LETTERS OF PETER ILICH TCHAIKOVSKY

LONDON : JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK : JOHN LANE COMPANY : MCMVI


WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LIMITED, PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH

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

{1}

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{2} 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{3} 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{4} 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{5} 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.

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{6} 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.

{7}

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:—

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:—

THE HOUSE IN WHICH TCHAIKOVSKY WAS BORN, AT VOTINSK

Continuing her reminiscences, Fanny said:—

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.{10}

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:

{11}

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:

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:

{12}

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{13} 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.{14}”

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.

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.{15} 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.

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{16} 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,{17} 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):—

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:—

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.{19}

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.

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{20} 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.

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{21} 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{22} years later, in 1856, Peter Ilich refers to this loss in a letter to Fanny:—

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{23} 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.

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.

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.{25}

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{26} 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.{27}

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.{28}

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.{29}

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.{30}

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{31} 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{32} 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{33} 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{34} 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.

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{35} proposed that he should devote himself entirely to music.

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{36} 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:—

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:—

In July Tchaikovsky started with his friend, but not by steamer.{37}

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{38} 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:—

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.{40}

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:—

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{41} 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{42} 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.

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.

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{43} 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{44} 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.

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.

Laroche gives the following account of the years Tchaikovsky spent at the Conservatoire of St. Petersburg:—

With this chapter Laroche’s reminiscences of Tchaikovsky come to an end.{56}

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.{57}

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:—

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.

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.{59}

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.{60}

“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{61} 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.{62}

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{63} 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:—

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:—

{64}

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:—

“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{66} 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{67} 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{68} 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{69} 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.

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.”

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{71} 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.”

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.

{74}

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).

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:—

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.{76}

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.{77}

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.{78}

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 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:—

TCHAIKOVSKY (IN WINTER DRESS), 1867

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{80} 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:—

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{81} 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{82} 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.

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{83} 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.

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:—

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.

Ivan Alexandrovich Klimenko, whose name will often{87} 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:—

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{88} 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:—

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{89} 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:—

{90}

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{91} 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{92} 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.{93}

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:—

Tchaikovsky returned to his duties at Moscow about the end of August.

1868-1869

Externally, Tchaikovsky’s life had remained unchanged during this period. His lessons at the Conservatoire slightly increased, and his salary consequently rose to over 1,400 roubles (£140). Under these circumstances he began to think of finding separate quarters, since his life with Nicholas Rubinstein was unfavourable to his creative work. The latter, however, would not consent to this, and Tchaikovsky himself had doubts as to whether his income would suffice for a separate establishment.

“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,{96} 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.”

Tchaikovsky received the following letter in reply:—

During this month (January) Désirée Artôt, without a word of explanation to her first lover, was married to the baritone singer Padilla at Warsaw.

The news reached Tchaikovsky at a moment when his whole mind, time, and interests were absorbed by the production of his first opera, and, judging from the tone of his letters, it was owing to these circumstances that it affected him less painfully than might have been expected.

In any case, after the first hours of bitterness, Tchaikovsky bore no grudge against the faithless lady. She remained for him the most perfect artist he had ever known. As a woman she was always dear to his memory. A year later he had to meet her again, and wrote of the prospect as follows:—

They met as friends. All intimate relations were at an end.

Twenty years later they met once more. Youthful love and mutual sympathy had then given place to a steady friendship, which lasted the rest of their lives.

On January 30th (February 11th), 1869, The Voyevode was given for the first time for the singer Menshikova’s benefit.

The opera was very well received. The composer was recalled fifteen times and presented with a laurel wreath. The performance, however, was not without mishaps. Rapport, who took the lover’s part, had been kept awake all night by an abscess on his finger, and was nearly fainting. “If Menshikova had not supported him in her arms, the curtain must have been rung down,” wrote Tchaikovsky to his brothers.

Kashkin says the chorus on a folksong, which occurred early in the opera, pleased at once, and the “Nightingale” song became a favourite. The tenor solo, “Glow, O Dawn-light,” based upon the pentatonic scale, and the duet between Olona and Maria, “The moon sails calmly,” and the last quartet all met with great success.

But the stormy ovation at the first performance, the enthusiasm of the composer’s friends, and the appreciation of one or two specialists, could not create a lasting success. The opera was only heard five times, and then disappeared from the repertory for ever.

The first words of disapprobation and harsh criticism came from an unexpected quarter—from Laroche. It was not only his “faint praise” of this work, but the contemptuous attitude which Laroche now assumed towards Tchaikovsky’s talent as a whole, which wounded the composer so deeply that he broke off all connection with his old friend.

TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1868

Soon after the production of The Voyevode Tchaikovsky’s{103} symphonic fantasia Fatum (or Destiny) was given for the first time at the eighth concert of the Musical Society. By way of programme for this work, which he dedicated to Balakirev, Tchaikovsky chose the following lines from Batioushkov:—

To the choice of this motto attaches a history in which a certain Sergius Rachinsky played a part. This gentleman, Professor of Botany at the Moscow University, was one of Tchaikovsky’s earliest and most enthusiastic admirers. Rachinsky was a lover of music and literature, but held the most unusual views upon these, as upon all other subjects. For instance, he saw nothing in Ostrovsky, then at the height of his fame, but discerned in Tchaikovsky, who was hardly known to the world, the making of a “great” composer.

When, in 1871, the musician dedicated to Rachinsky his first quartet, the latter exclaimed with enthusiasm: “C’est un brevet d’immortalité que j’ai reçu.”

Originally Fatum had no definite programme.

The quotation, therefore, has not the significance of a{104} programme, but was merely an epigraph added to the score.

The composer declared that Fatum had a “distinct success” with the public, and added that he “considered it the best work he had written so far,” and “others are of my opinion.” From this we may gather that, with the exception of Laroche, Tchaikovsky’s musical friends were pleased with this composition.

Fatum was given almost simultaneously by the Petersburg section of the Musical Society, under Balakirev’s direction. But here the fantasia fell flat, and pleased neither the public nor the musicians.

Nevertheless, Cui did not handle the young composer so severely as on the occasion of his Diploma Cantata. He found fault with a good deal in Fatum, but described the music as being on the whole “agreeable, but not inspired,” the instrumentation “somewhat rough,” and the harmonies “bold and new, if not invariably beautiful.”

Balakirev—to whom the work was dedicated—did not admire it, and his feelings were shared by the rest of the “Invincible Band.” He wrote to Tchaikovsky as follows:—

Tchaikovsky did not resent Balakirev’s opinion, although it may have wounded him. That he was grateful for the friendly tone of the letter, in which Balakirev’s confidence in his talent was clearly perceptible, is evident from the fact that three months later he appeared in the press as the champion of the leader of the “Invincible Band.” Moreover, after a short time, he shared Balakirev’s opinion of his work, and destroyed the score of Fatum.

Early in the season Tchaikovsky began to look out for material for a new opera. The chief requisite he asked was that the scene should not be laid in Russia. The discussion with Ostrovsky of a plot from the period of{106} Alexander the Great, mentioned in his letter of September 25th, had come to nothing. Without applying to another librettist, he began to search for a ready-made text. Great was his joy to discover a book among the works of Count Sollogoub, based upon his favourite poem, Joukovsky’s “Undine.”

Without reflection, or closer inspection of the libretto, he began to compose with fervour, even in the midst of the rehearsals for The Voyevode; that is in January, 1869. By February he had already written most of the first act. The two following acts he wrote in April, and began the orchestration in the course of the same month. He hoped to complete the first act in May, and the remainder during the summer, and to send the whole score to the Direction of the Petersburg Opera by November, when Gedeonov had given him a formal promise to produce it.

This feverish work, the many excitements of the winter season, his anxiety about the elder of the twins, who had to pass his final examination at the School of Jurisprudence, and all the trouble and correspondence involved in trying to find him an opening in Moscow, told upon Tchaikovsky’s nerves. His health was so far impaired that he gradually lost strength, until he became quite exhausted, and the doctor ordered him to the seaside, or to an inland watering-place, enjoining absolute repose.

The summer was spent with his sister at Kamenka, where the whole family was gathered together, with the exception of Nicholas. In June they celebrated the wedding of his brother, Hyppolite, to Sophia Nikonov, and Tchaikovsky, having recovered his spirits, took a leading part in all the festivities.

The score of Undine was finished by the end of July, and the composer returned to Moscow earlier than usual—about the beginning of August.{107}

Towards the end of September, 1869, Tchaikovsky set to work upon his overture to Romeo and Juliet, to which he had been incited by Balakirev’s suggestions. Indeed, the latter played so important a part in the genesis of this work that it is necessary to speak of it in detail.

Balakirev not only suggested the subject, but took such{108} a lively interest in the work that he kept up a continuous current of good advice and solicitations. In October he wrote:—

{109}

When Balakirev heard that Tchaikovsky was actually at work, he wrote in November:—

After Tchaikovsky had acceded to Balakirev’s request, and sent him the chief subjects of his overture, he received the following answer, which caused him to make some modifications in the work:—

But even in a somewhat modified form, Balakirev was{111} not quite satisfied with the overture. On January 22nd (February 3rd), 1871, he wrote as follows:—

When this arbitrary treatment of the composer’s intention had been carried through, the indefatigable critic wrote once more:—

Kashkin was one of the friends who dissuaded Tchaikovsky from composing Mandragora. The latter played{113} him a ‘Chorus of Insects’ from the unfinished work, which pleased him very much. But he thought the subject more suitable for a ballet than an opera. A fierce argument took place which lasted a long time. Finally, with tears in his eyes, Tchaikovsky came round to Kashkin’s view, and relinquished his intention of writing this opera. It made him very unhappy and more chary in future of confiding his plans to his friends.

Laroche gives the following account of this unpublished chorus:—

Merten’s concert took place on March 16th (28th). Kashkin says it gave further proof how hardly Tchaikovsky conquered the public sympathy.

Romeo and Juliet, given at the Musical Society’s Concert on March 4th (16th), had no success.

On the previous day the decision in the case of “Schebalsky v. Rubinstein” had been made public, and the Director of the Conservatoire had been ordered to pay 25 roubles, damages for the summary and wrongful dismissal of this female student. Rubinstein refused to pay, and gave notice of appeal, but the master’s admirers immediately collected the small sum, in order to spare him{115} the few hours’ detention which his refusal involved. This event gave rise to a noisy demonstration when he appeared in public. Kashkin says:—

So it came about that the long-desired evening, which he hoped would bring him a great success, brought only another disillusionment for Tchaikovsky. The composer’s melancholy became a shade darker. “I just idle away the time cruelly,” he writes, “and my opera, The Oprichnik, has come to a standstill at the first chorus.”

{117}

Tchaikovsky spent only a few days in St. Petersburg before going abroad. There he heard the final verdict upon his opera Undine. The conference of the Capellmeisters of the Imperial Opera, with Constantine Liadov at their head, did not consider the work worthy of production. How the composer took this decision, what he felt and thought of it, we can only guess from our knowledge of his susceptible artistic amour propre. At the time, he never referred to the matter, either in letters or in conversation. Eight years afterwards he wrote as follows:—

Tchaikovsky travelled from St. Petersburg to Paris without a break, being anxious to reach his friend Shilovsky with all possible speed. He half feared to find him already on his death-bed. The young man was extremely weak, but able to travel to Soden at the end of three days. The atmosphere of ill_health in which Tchaikovsky found himself—Soden is a resort for consumptive patients—was very depressing, but he determined to endure it for his friend’s sake.

But by coming abroad he sacrificed all opportunity of seeing the twins and his sister Alexandra during the summer vacation.{118}

The outbreak of the Franco-Prussian war drove all the visitors at Soden into the neutral territory of Switzerland. It was little less than a stampede, and Tchaikovsky describes their experiences in a letter to his brother Modeste, dated July 12th (24th), 1870:—

Tchaikovsky spent six weeks in Switzerland, and then went on to Munich, where he stayed two days with his old friend Prince Galitsin. From thence he returned to St. Petersburg by Vienna, which delighted him more than any other town in the world. From Petersburg he went direct to Moscow in order to take up his work at the Conservatoire.

During the whole of his trip abroad Tchaikovsky, according to his own account, did no serious work beyond revising his overture Romeo and Juliet. Thanks to the exertions of N. Rubinstein and Professor Klindworth, the overture, in its new form, was published in Berlin the following season, and soon found its way into the programmes of many musical societies in Germany.

While I am mentioning the important event of Tchaikovsky’s earliest introduction to Western Europe, I must recall the prophetic words of a young critic, then at the outset of his career. Five years before the appearance of the overture Romeo and Juliet, in 1866, Laroche had written to his friend:—

Being no musical critic, it is not for me to say whether, in truth, in all Russian musical literature nothing so remarkable as Romeo and Juliet had appeared since Glinka. I can only repeat what has been said by many musical authorities—that my brother’s higher significance in the world of art dates from this work. His individuality is here displayed for the first time in its fulness, and all that he had hitherto produced seems—as in Laroche’s prophecy—to have been really preparatory work.{121}

During this period Tchaikovsky’s spirits were, generally speaking, fairly bright. Only occasionally they were damped by anxiety about the twins, of whom the younger had left the School of Jurisprudence and obtained a post in Simbirsk.[23] His lack of experience led him into many blunders and mistakes, which gave trouble to his elder brother Peter. His affection and over-anxiety caused the latter to exaggerate the importance of these small errors of judgment, and he concerned himself greatly about the future of his precious charge.

This letter closes Tchaikovsky’s correspondence for the year 1870-1. It is very probable that some of his letters may have been lost, but undoubtedly after February, 1871, he corresponded less frequently than before.

Being very short of funds, he decided to act upon Rubinstein’s advice to give a concert. To add to the interest of the programme he thought it well to include some new and important work of his own. He could not expect to fill the room, and an expensive orchestral concert was therefore out of the question. This led to the composition of the first String Quartet (D major). Tchaikovsky was engaged upon this work during the whole of February.

The concert took place on March 16th (28th) in the small hall of the Nobles’ Assembly Rooms. Thanks to the services of the Musical Society’s quartet, with F. Laub as leader, Nicholas Rubinstein at the piano, and Madame Lavrovsky—then at the height of her popularity—as vocalist, Tchaikovsky had a good, although not a crowded, house.

In his reminiscences Kashkin says that among those who attended this concert was the celebrated novelist, I. S. Tourgeniev, who was staying in Moscow at the time, and was interested in the young composer, about whom he had heard abroad. This attention on the part of the great writer did not pass unnoticed, and was decidedly advantageous{124} for the musician. Tourgeniev expressed great appreciation of Tchaikovsky’s works, although he arrived too late to hear the chief item on the programme, the Quartet in D major.

At the end of May Tchaikovsky went to Konotop, where his eldest brother Nicholas Ilich was residing, and from thence to visit Anatol in Kiev. Afterwards the two brothers travelled to Kamenka, where they spent most of the summer. Tchaikovsky, however, devoted part of his holidays to his intimate friends Kondratiev and Shilovsky.

Kondratiev’s property (the village of Nizy, in the Government of Kharkov) was beautifully situated on the prettiest river of Little Russia, the Psiol, and united all the natural charms of South Russia with the light green colouring of the northern landscape so dear to Tchaikovsky. Here in the hottest weather, instead of the oppressive and parched surroundings of Kamenka, he looked upon luxuriant pastures, enclosed and shaded by ancient oaks. But what delighted him most was the river Psiol with its refreshing crystal waters.

The place pleased Tchaikovsky, but his friend’s style of living was not to his taste. It was too much like town life, with its guests and festivities, and he preferred Shilovsky’s home at Ussovo, which was not so beautifully situated, but possessed the greater charms of simplicity, solitude, and quiet. Here he spent the last days of his vacation very happily, and for many years to come Ussovo was his ideal of a summer residence, for which he longed as soon as the trees and fields began to show the first signs of green.{125}

As I have already remarked, it was not Tchaikovsky’s nature to force the circumstances of life to his own will. He could wait long and patiently—and hope still longer. As in his early youth he had kept his yearning for music hidden in his heart, until the strength of his desire was such that nothing could shake his firm hold upon his chosen vocation, so now, from the beginning of his musical career, he was possessed by an intense longing to break away from all ties which withheld him from the chief aim of his existence—to compose.

Just as a few years earlier he continued his work in the Ministry of Justice in spite of its monotony, and kept up his social ties as though he were waiting until a complete disgust for his empty and aimless life should bring about a revulsion, so it was with him now. Although his duties at the Conservatoire were repugnant to him, and he often complained of the drawbacks of town life, which interfered with his creative work, he went on in his usual course, as though afraid that his need of excitement and pleasure was not quite satisfied, and might break out anew.

The time for the realisation of his dream of complete freedom was not yet come. Moscow was still necessary to his everyday life, and was not altogether unpleasant to him. He was still dependent on his surroundings. To break with them involved many considerations. Above all, he must have emancipated himself, although in a friendly way, from the influence of Nicholas Rubinstein. This was the first step to take in the direction of liberty. With all his affection and gratitude, with all his respect{126} for Rubinstein as a man and an artist, he suffered a good deal under the despotism of this truest and kindest of friends. From morning till night he had to conform to his will in all the trifling details of daily existence, and this was the more unbearable because their ideas with regard to hours and occupations differed in most respects.

Tchaikovsky had already made two attempts to leave Rubinstein and take rooms of his own. But only now was he able to carry out his wish. Nicholas Rubinstein absolutely stood in need of companionship, and Tchaikovsky was fortunate in finding someone, in the person of N. A. Hubert, ready and willing to take his place.

So it chanced that Tchaikovsky reached his thirty-second year before he began to lead an entirely independent existence. His delight at finding himself the sole master of his little flat of three rooms was indescribable. He took the greatest pains to make his new home as comfortable as possible with the small means at his disposal. His decorations were not sumptuous: a portrait of Anton Rubinstein, given to him by the painter Madame Bonné in 1865; a picture of Louis XVII. in the house of the shoemaker Simon, given to him by Begichev in Paris; a large sofa and a few cheap chairs, comprised the composer’s entire worldly goods.

He now engaged a servant, named Michael Sofronov. Tchaikovsky never lost sight of this man, although he was afterwards replaced by his brother Alexis, who played rather an important part in his master’s life.

At this time the composer’s income was slightly increased. His salary at the Conservatoire rose to 1,500 roubles a year (£150), while from the sale of his works, and from the Russian Musical Society,[27] he received about 500 roubles more.

Besides these 2,000 roubles, Tchaikovsky had another{127} small source of income, namely, his earnings as a musical critic. His employment in this capacity came about thus. In 1871, Laroche, who wrote for the Moscow Viedomosti, was offered a post at the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, and passed on his journalistic work to N. A. Hubert, who, partly from ill_health and partly from indolence, neglected the duties he had undertaken. Fearing that Katkov, who edited the paper, might appoint some amateur as critic, and so undo the progress in musical matters which had been made during the past years, Tchaikovsky and Kashkin came to Hubert’s aid and “devilled” for him as long as he remained on the staff. Tchaikovsky continued to write for the Viedomosti until the winter of 1876.

{128}

By the end of January Tchaikovsky was back in Moscow.

In 1871 a great Polytechnic Exhibition was organised in this town in celebration of the two hundredth anniversary of the birth of Peter the Great. The direction of the musical section was confided to Nicholas Rubinstein, but when he resigned, because his scheme was too costly to be sanctioned by the committee, the celebrated ‘cellist, K. Davidov, was invited to take his place. He accepted, and named Laroche and Balakirev as his coadjutors. Balakirev was not immediately disposed to undertake these duties, saying that he would first like to hear the opinion of Nicholas Rubinstein as to the part which the Petersburg musicians were to take in the matter. After two months of uncertainty, the committee decided to dispense with his reply, and invited Rimsky-Korsakov to take his place. At the same time Asantchevsky (then Director of the Petersburg Conservatoire), Wurm, and Leschetitzky were added to the musical committee.

This originally Muscovite committee, which ended in being made up of Petersburgers, decided among other projects to commission from Tchaikovsky a Festival Cantata, the text of which was to be specially written for the occasion by the poet Polonsky.

By the end of December, or the beginning of January, the libretto was finished. When Tchaikovsky undertook to do any work within a fixed limit of time, he always tried to complete it before the date of contract expired. On this occasion he was well beforehand with the work, and sent in the cantata to the committee by the 1st of April. As he had only received the words towards the end of January, after his return from Nice, he could not have had more than two months in which to complete this lengthy and complicated score.

In April he was at work again upon The Oprichnik, and must have finished it early in May.

This, however, is a matter of conjecture, as between{129} January 31st (February 12th) and May 4th (16th), there does not exist a single one of his letters.

On May 4th (16th), 1872, the score of The Oprichnik was sent to Napravnik in Petersburg.

The Festival Cantata was performed on May 31st (June 12th) at the opening of the Polytechnic Exhibition, and shortly afterwards Tchaikovsky left Moscow for Kamenka, where he spent the whole of June. Here he began his Second Symphony in C minor. Early in July he went to Kiev, and from thence to Kondratiev at Nizy, accompanied by his brother Modeste. A part of this journey had to be accomplished by diligence. On the return journey the two brothers were to travel together as far as Voroshba, where Peter Ilich branched off for Shilovsky’s house at Ussovo, and Modeste went on to Kiev. Between Sumy and Voroshba was a post-house, at which the horses were generally changed.

We were in the best of spirits—it is Modeste who recounts the adventure—and partook of a luxurious lunch, with wine and liqueurs. These stimulants had a considerable effect upon our empty stomachs, so that when we were informed of the fact that there were no fresh post-horses at our disposal, we lost our tempers and gave the overseer a good talking to. Peter Ilich quite lost his head, and could not avoid using the customary phrase: “Are you aware to whom you are talking?” The post-master was not in the least impressed by this worn-out phraseology, and Peter Ilich, beside himself with wrath, demanded the report-book. It was brought, and thinking that the unknown name of Tchaikovsky would carry no weight, Peter Ilich signed his complaint: “Prince Volkonsky, Page-in-Waiting.” The result was brilliant. In less than a quarter of an hour the horses were harnessed, and the head-ostler had been severely reprimanded for not having told the post-master that a pair had unexpectedly returned from a journey.{130}

Arrived at Voroshba, Peter Ilich hurried to the ticket-office and discovered with horror that he had left his pocket-book, containing all his money and papers, at the post-station. What was to be done? He could not catch the train, and must therefore wait till the next day. This was tiresome; but far worse was the thought that the post-master had only to look inside the pocket-book to see Peter Ilich’s real name on his passport and visiting-cards. While we sat there, feeling crushed, and debating what was to be done, my train came in. I was forced to steam off to Kiev, after bestowing the greater part of my available cash—some five or six roubles—upon the unhappy pseudo-Prince.

Poor Peter Ilich spent a terrible night at the inn. Mice and rats—of which he had a mortal terror—left him no peace. He waged war all night with these pests, which ran over his bed and made a hideous noise. The next morning came the news that the post-master would not entrust the pocket-book to the driver of the post-waggon; Peter Ilich must go back for it himself. This was a worse ordeal than even the rats and the sleepless night.... As soon as he arrived he saw at once that the post-master had never opened the pocket-book, for his manner was as respectful and apologetic as before. Peter Ilich was so pleased with this man’s strict sense of honour that before leaving he inquired his name. Great was his astonishment when the post-master replied, “Tchaikovsky”! At first he thought he was the victim of a joke, but afterwards he heard from his friend Kondratiev that the man’s name was actually the same as his own.

Tchaikovsky spent the rest of the summer at Ussovo, where he completed the symphony commenced at Kamenka.{131}

Immediately after his return to Moscow, Tchaikovsky moved into new quarters, which were far more comfortable than his first habitation.

We have already seen the motives which first induced him to take up journalism. Now he felt it not only a matter of honour and duty towards the interests of the Conservatoire to continue this work, but found it also a welcome means of adding to his income, seeing that he lived entirely upon his own resources. His literary efforts had been very successful during the past year, and had attracted the attention of all who were interested in music. Nevertheless his journalistic work, like his lessons at the Conservatoire, was burdensome. He told himself “it must be done,” and did it with the capability that was characteristic of him, but without a gleam of enthusiasm or liking for the work. His writing was interesting and showed considerable literary style; the general character of his articles bespoke the cultivated and serious musician, who is disinterested and just, and has a complete insight into his art—but nothing more. We cannot describe him as a preacher of profound convictions, who has power to carry home his ideas; or as a critic capable of describing a work, or a composer, in a few delicate or striking words. Reading his articles, we seem to be conversing with a clever and gifted man, who knows how to express himself clearly; we sympathise with him, earnestly wish him success in his campaign against ignorance and charlatanism, and share his desire for the victory of wholesome art over the public taste for “the Italians,” “American valses,” and the rest. In these respects we may say that Tchaikovsky’s labours were not lost.{132}

{133}

TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1873

{134}

During the Christmas holidays Tchaikovsky was called unexpectedly to St. Petersburg to hear the verdict of the committee upon his opera, The Oprichnik. The committee consisted of the various Capellmeisters of the Imperial Theatre and Opera: Napravnik (Russian opera), Bevignani (Italian opera), Rybassov (Russian plays), Silvain Mangen (French plays), Ed. Betz (German plays), and Babkov (ballet). With the exception of Napravnik, Tchaikovsky had no great opinion of these men, and considered them much inferior to himself as judges of music. It seemed to him particularly derogatory to have to appear before this Areopagus in person. He did his best to avoid this formality, but in vain.

The meeting which he dreaded so much passed off quite satisfactorily. The Oprichnik was unanimously accepted.

During this visit to St. Petersburg Tchaikovsky was frequently in the society of his friends of the “Invincible Band”; and it was evidently under their influence that he took a Little Russian folksong as the subject of the Finale of the Second Symphony. “At an evening at the Rimsky-Korsakovs the whole party nearly tore me to pieces,” he wrote, “and Madame Korsakov implored me to arrange the Finale for four hands.” On this same occasion Tchaikovsky begged Vladimir Stassov to suggest a subject for a symphonic fantasia. A week had hardly passed before Stassov wrote the following letter:—

Besides The Tempest Stassov suggested two alternative subjects—Scott’s Ivanhoe and Gogol’s Tarass Boulba. Tchaikovsky, however, decided upon the Shakespearean subject, and after informing Stassov of his decision, received the following letter:—

The Second Symphony appeared in the programme of the Musical Society’s concert of January 6th (18th), 1873, and was very well received. Laroche spoke very appreciatively of the new work.{138}

The symphony was repeated at the tenth concert, when the composer was recalled after each movement and presented with a laurel-wreath and a silver goblet.

{139}

I have already said that life was precious to Tchaikovsky. This was noticeable in many ways, among others his passion for keeping a diary. Every day had its great value for him, and the thought that he must bid eternal farewell to it, and lose all trace of its experiences, depressed him exceedingly. It was a consolation to save something from the limbo of forgetfulness, so that in time to come he might recall to mind the events through which he had lived. In old age he believed it would be a great pleasure to reconstruct the joys of the past from these short sketches and fragmentary jottings which no one else would be able to understand. He preferred the system of brief and imperfect notes, because in reading through the diaries of his childhood and youth, in which he had gone more fully into his thoughts and emotions, he had felt somewhat ashamed. The sentiments and ideas which he found so interesting, and which once seemed to him so great and important, now appeared empty, unmeaning and ridiculous, and he resolved in future only to commit facts to paper, without any commentary.[32] Disillusioned by their contents, he destroyed all his early diaries. About the close of the seventies Tchaikovsky started a new diary, which he kept for about ten years. He never showed it to anyone, and I had to give him my word of honour to burn it after his death. After all, he did so himself, and only spared what might be seen by strangers.

His first attempt at a diary dates from 1873. He began it in expectation of many impressions during his tour abroad, the very day he left Nizy.{140}

{142}

Throughout the whole of his tour through Switzerland we find similar brief entries, recording very little beyond the state of the weather, the names of the hotels at which they stayed, and the quality of the meals provided.

At Cadenabbia (Como) the diary comes to an end with the following entry:—

After Tchaikovsky’s return to Russia, early in August, he went straight to his favourite summer resort Ussovo. The fortnight which he spent there in complete solitude{143} seemed to Tchaikovsky, in after days, one of the happiest periods in his existence. Life abroad, under similar circumstances, he found painful and unbearable, whereas in his own country the presence even of a servant sufficed to spoil his solitude, and the sense of increased energy and strength, which always came to him in the lonely life of the country, was unknown in the bustle and stress of the city. In a letter written in 1878 he recalls this visit to Ussovo in the following words:—

Tchaikovsky went to Ussovo about the 5th or 6th of August, and by the 7th (19th) had already set to work{144} upon The Tempest. By August 17th (29th) this symphonic poem was completely sketched out in all its details, so that the composer could go straight on with the orchestration on his return to Moscow. The Countess Vassilieva-Shilovsky made me a present of this manuscript, upon which are inscribed the dates I have just mentioned. At the present time the manuscript is in the Imperial Public Library, St. Petersburg.

As soon as Tchaikovsky returned to Moscow, on September 1st, he set to work upon the orchestration of The Tempest.

In the second half of the month he moved into new quarters in the Nikitskaya (House Vishnevsky).

Nothing particularly eventful had happened since last year, either in his career as professor or musical critic. His daily life ran in the same grooves as before, with this difference only: the things which once seemed to him new and interesting now appeared more and more wearisome and unprofitable, and his moods of depression became more frequent, more intense, and of longer duration.

At the third concert of the Moscow Musical Society The Tempest was given with great success, and repeated during the same season at an extra concert.{147}

{148}

The new quartet mentioned in this letter was begun about the end of December, or beginning of January. In his reminiscences, Kashkin gives the following account of its first performance at N. Rubinstein’s:—

On March 10th (22nd) the Quartet was played at one of the Musical Society’s chamber concerts, and according to The Musical Leaflet, had a well-deserved success.

On February 25th (March 9th), the Second Symphony was performed for the first time in Petersburg, under Napravnik’s direction. It was greatly applauded, especially the finale; but, in the absence of the composer, its success was not so remarkable, nor so brilliant, as it had been a year earlier in Moscow. The symphony won the approval of the “Invincible Band,” with the exception of Cæsar Cui, who expressed himself in the St. Petersburg Viedomosti as follows:—

{149}

Towards the end of March, Tchaikovsky went to St. Petersburg to attend the rehearsals of The Oprichnik, and took up his abode with his father. During his first interviews with Napravnik his pride suffered many blows to which he was not accustomed. Somewhat spoilt by Nicholas Rubinstein’s flattering attitude towards every note of his recent orchestral works, he was rather hurt by the number of cuts Napravnik considered it necessary to make in the score of his opera. Afterwards he approved of them all, but at the moment he felt affronted.

From the very first rehearsal Tchaikovsky was dissatisfied with his work. On March 25th he wrote to Albrecht:—

To his pupil, Serge Taneiev, he writes in the same strain:—

The more the opera was studied, the gloomier grew Tchaikovsky’s mood. One day, unsuspicious of the true reason of his depression, I ventured to criticise The Oprichnik rather severely, and made fun of the scene in which Andrew appears in Jemchoujny’s garden, merely to “draw” him for some money. My brother lost his temper and flew out at me fiercely. I was almost reduced to tears, for at the time I could not guess the real reason for his anger.{150} It was not until long after that I realised my criticism had wounded his artistic feelings in the most sensitive spot.

Against Tchaikovsky’s wish, almost the entire teaching staff of the Moscow Conservatoire, with N. Rubinstein at their head, appeared in Petersburg for the first night of The Oprichnik, April 12th (24th), 1874.

Although none of the singers were remarkable, yet no individual artist marred the ensemble. The chorus and orchestra were the best part of it. The performance ran smoothly. The scenery and costumes were rather old, for the authorities did not care to risk the expense of a very luxurious setting for a new work by a composer whose name was not as yet a guarantee for a brilliant success.

On the face of it, the work seemed to have a great success. After the second act the composer was unanimously called before the curtain. The public seemed to be in that enthusiastic mood which is the true criterion of the success of a work.

In a box on the second tier sat the composer’s old father with his family. He beamed with happiness. But when I asked him which he thought best for Peter, this artistic success or the Empress Anne’s Order, which he might have gained as an official, he replied: “The decoration would certainly have been better.” This answer shows that in his heart of hearts he still regretted that his son had ceased to be an official. Not that this feeling sprang from petty ambition, or from any other prosaic or egotistical reason, but because he believed that the life of the ordinary man is safer and happier than that of the artist.

After the performance the directors of the Moscow and Petersburg sections of the Russian Musical Society gave a supper in honour of Tchaikovsky at the Restaurant Borcille.

TCHAIKOVSKY IN 1874

In the course of the evening, Asantchevsky, then principal of the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, delivered{151} an address, in which he informed the composer in flattering terms that the directors of the Petersburg section of the Musical Society had decided to award him the sum of 300 roubles, being a portion of the Kondratiev Bequest for the benefit of Russian composers.

The Press notices of The Oprichnik were as contradictory as they were numerous. The opinions of Cæsar Cui and Laroche represented as usual the two opposite poles of criticism. The former declared that while

In these words Cui apparently believed he had given the death-blow to the composer of The Oprichnik.

Laroche’s view (in The Musical Leaflet) is quite opposed to that of Cæsar Cui. He says:—

The most harsh and pitiless of critics, however, was the composer himself, who wrote a fortnight after the first performance as follows:—

This prediction was not fulfilled, for by March 1st (13th), 1881, The Oprichnik was given fourteen times. This does not amount to a great deal; but when we remember that not a single new opera of the Russian school—Boris Godounov,[36] The Stone Guest, William Ratcliff, Angelo—had exceeded sixteen performances, and many had only reached eight, we must admit that The Oprichnik had more than the average success.

The third day after the performance of his opera Tchaikovsky started for Italy. Besides wishing to rest after the excitement of the last few days, he went as correspondent for the Russky Viedomosti to attend the first performance in Italy of Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar. The opera was translated into Italian by Madame Santagano-Gortshakov and, thanks to her initiative, was brought out at the Teatro dal Verme in Milan.{153}

Without waiting for the performance of A Life for the Tsar at Milan, which did not take place until May 8th (20th), Tchaikovsky returned to Moscow early in this month.

For a short time his dissatisfaction with The Oprichnik filled him with such doubt of his powers that his spirits flagged. But his energy quickly recovered itself. No sooner had he returned to Moscow, than he was possessed by an intense desire to prove to himself and others that he was equal to better things than The Oprichnik. The score of this work seemed like a sin, for which he must make reparation at all costs. There was but one way of atonement—to compose a new opera which should have no resemblance to The Oprichnik, and should wipe out the memory of that unhappy work.

In the course of this season, the Russian Musical Society organised a prize competition for the best setting of the opera, Vakoula the Smith.

While Serov was still engaged upon his opera, The Power of the Evil One, he was suddenly seized with a desire to compose a Russian comic opera, and chose a fantastic poem by Gogol. When he informed his patroness, the Grand Duchess Helena Pavlovna, of his project, she declared herself{156} willing to have a libretto prepared by the poet Polonsky at her own cost. Serov died before he had time to begin the opera, and the Grand Duchess resolved to honour his memory by offering two prizes for the best setting of the libretto he had been unable to use. In January, 1873, the Grand Duchess Helena died, and the directors of the Imperial Musical Society proceeded to carry out her wishes with regard to the libretto of Vakoula the Smith.

The latest date at which the competitors might send in their scores to the jury was fixed for August 1st (13th) 1875. The successful opera was afterwards to be performed at the Imperial Opera House in Petersburg.

At first Tchaikovsky hesitated to take part in the competition, lest he should be unsuccessful. But having read Polonsky’s libretto, he was fascinated. The originality and captivating local colour, as well as the really poetical lyrics with which the book is interspersed, commended it to Tchaikovsky’s imagination, so that he could no longer resist the impulse to set it to music. At the same time he feared the competition, not so much because he desired the prize, as because, in the event of failure, he could not hope to see his version of the libretto produced at the Imperial Opera. This was his actual motive in trying to discover, before finally deciding the matter, whether Anton Rubinstein, Balakirev, or Rimsky-Korsakov were intending to compete. As soon as he had ascertained that these rivals were not going to meet him in the field, he threw himself into the task with ardour.

At the beginning of the summer vacation Tchaikovsky went to stay with Kondratiev at Nizy, and set to work without loss of time. He was under the misapprehension that the score had to be ready by August 1st of that year (1874), besides which he felt a burning desire to wipe out the memory of The Oprichnik as soon as possible. By the middle of July, when he left Nizy for Ussovo, he had all but finished the sketch of the opera, and was ready to{157} begin the orchestration. At Ussovo he redoubled his efforts, and the work was actually completed by the end of August. The entire opera had occupied him barely three months. He wrote no other dramatic work under such a long and unbroken spell of inspiration. To the end of his days Tchaikovsky had a great weakness for this particular opera. In 1885 he made some not very important changes in the score. It has been twice renamed; once as Cherevichek (“The Little Shoes”), and later as Les Caprices d’Oxane, under which title it now appears in foreign editions.

During this season Tchaikovsky’s reputation greatly increased. The success of his Second Symphony, and the performance of The Oprichnik, made his name as well known in Petersburg as it had now become in Moscow.

In his account of the first performance of A Life for the Tsar, at Milan, Hans von Bülow, referring to Tchaikovsky, says:—[38]

{158}

It was not until his return to Moscow that Tchaikovsky found out his mistake as to the date of the competition. This discovery annoyed him exceedingly. Like all composers, he burned with impatience to hear his work performed as soon as possible. In his case such impatience was all the greater, because he was not accustomed to delay; hitherto Nicholas Rubinstein had brought out his works almost before the ink was dry on the paper. Besides which Tchaikovsky had never before been so pleased with any offspring of his genius as with this new opera. The desire to see Vakoula mounted, and thus to wipe out the bad impression left by The Oprichnik, became almost a fixed idea, and led him to a course of action which in calmer moments would have seemed to him reprehensible.

Tchaikovsky never had the art of keeping a secret, especially when it was a question of the rehabilitation of his artistic reputation, such as it seemed to him at present, for he believed it to have been damaged by “the detestable Oprichnik.” Consequently he never took the least trouble to conceal the fact that he was taking part in this competition. For a man of his age he showed an inconceivable degree of naïveté, and went so far as to try to induce the directors of the Opera in Petersburg to have Vakoula performed before the result of the competition was decided. From the letter which I give below, it is easy to see how little he thought at the moment of the injustice he was inflicting upon the other competitors, and how imperfectly he realised the importance of silence in such an affair as a competition, in which anonymity is the first condition of impartial judgment.{159}

I cannot understand how my brother can have inferred from my letter that the quartet had no success. It must{161} have pleased, since it was repeated at least once during the season. Cui spoke of it as a “beautiful, talented, fluent work, which showed originality and invention.” Laroche considered it “more serious and important than the first quartet”; and Famitzin thought it showed “marked progress. The first movement displayed as much style as Beethoven’s A minor quartet.”

On November 1st (13th) Napravnik conducted the first performance of The Tempest in St. Petersburg.

The Tempest not only pleased Stassov and “The Band,” but won recognition even in the hostile camp. Laroche alone was dissatisfied. He considered that in his programme music Tchaikovsky approached Litolff as regards form and instrumentation, and Schumann and Glinka as regards{162} harmony. The Tempest would not bear criticism as an organic whole. “Beautiful, very beautiful, are the details,” he continues, “but even these are not all on a level; for instance, the tempest itself is not nearly so impressive as in Berlioz’s fantasia on the same subject. Tchaikovsky’s storm is chiefly remarkable for noisy orchestration, which is, indeed, of so deafening a character that the specialist becomes curious to discover by what technical means the composer has succeeded in concocting such a pandemonium.”

The “unfinished opera” is none other than Vakoula the Smith. The overture had no success, but Tchaikovsky received the customary fee of 300 roubles from the Musical Society.{163}

The hyper-sensitiveness which Tchaikovsky shows in this letter is a symptom of that morbid condition of mind, of which more will be said as the book advances.

On December 9th Tchaikovsky attended the first performance of The Oprichnik at Kiev, and wrote an account of the event for the Russky Viedomosti. The opera had a great success, and remained in the repertory of the Kiev Opera House throughout the entire season.

{165}

Tchaikovsky has told so well the tale of Rubinstein’s injury to his self-esteem in one of his subsequent letters to Frau von Meck, that I think it advisable to publish the entire letter in this particular chapter of the book.

Not only did Tchaikovsky publish the concerto in its original form, but he scratched out Rubinstein’s name from the dedication and replaced it by that of Hans von Bülow. Personally, Bülow was unknown to him, but he had heard from Klindworth that the famous pianist took a lively interest in his compositions, and had helped to make them known in Germany.

Bülow was flattered by the dedication, and, in a long and grateful letter, praised the concerto very highly—in direct opposition to Rubinstein—saying, that of all Tchaikovsky’s works with which he was acquainted this was “the most perfect.”

I have already mentioned that Tchaikovsky, in spite of a nature fundamentally noble and generous, was not altogether free from rancour. The episode of the pianoforte concerto proves this. It was long before he could forgive Rubinstein’s cruel criticism, and this influenced their friendly relations. It is evident from the style of his letter{168} to Nadejda von Meck, from the lively narration of every episode and detail of the affair, that the wound still smarted as severely as when it had been inflicted three years earlier.

In 1878 Nicholas Rubinstein entirely healed the breach, and removed all grounds of ill_feeling when, with true nobility and simplicity, recognising the injustice he had done to the concerto in the first instance, he studied and played it, abroad and in Russia, with all the genius and artistic insight of which he was capable.

Following upon these letters, it becomes necessary to give some account of the mental and moral disorder which attacked Tchaikovsky during the course of this season, and gradually took firmer hold upon him, until in 1877 it reached a terrible crisis which nearly proved fatal to his existence.

The desire for liberty, the longing to cast off all the fetters which were a hindrance to his creative work, now began to assume the character of an undeclared, but chronic, disease, which only showed itself now and again in complaints against destiny, in poetical dreams of “a calm, quiet home,” of “a peaceful and happy existence.” Such aspirations came and went, according to the impressions{170} and interests which filled his mind and imagination. If we read the letters of this period carefully, we cannot fail to observe how every fluctuation in his circumstances influenced his spiritual condition. We see it when he separated from Rubinstein and started a home of his own. His independence, his new friendships, once more reconciled him to existence, and his affection for Moscow—or at least for the life it afforded—then reached its climax. For a little while his longings for something better were stifled. But as early as 1872 his dissatisfaction and desire to escape from his surroundings make themselves felt; although only infrequently and lightly expressed.

In November 1873, we find him speaking frankly of his disenchantment with his Moscow friends, and complaining of his isolation and the lack of anyone who understood him. So far, these were only recurrent symptoms of a chronic malady.

We see that in the spring of 1874, when he was away from Moscow and from the friends of whom he had complained, he wished for their society again, wrote to them in affectionate terms, and, during the whole of his visit to Petersburg, as later on to Italy, he was always looking forward to his return to “dear Moscow, where alone I can be happy.”

By 1875 the chronic malady had made considerable progress. It did not return at intervals as heretofore, but had become a constant trouble. According to his own account, he was depressed all the winter, sometimes to the verge of despair. He felt he had reached a turning-point in his existence, similar to that in the sixties. But then the desired goal had been his musical career, whereas now, it was “to live as he pleased.”

Tchaikovsky now resembled those invalids who do not recognise the true cause of their sufferings, and therefore have recourse to the wrong treatment. He believed the reason for his state lay in the absence of intimate friends, and that his one chance of a cure was to be found among{171} “those who were dear to him” and “who alone could save him from the torments of solitude” from which he suffered. I lay stress upon this error of Tchaikovsky’s, because, becoming more and more of a fixed idea, it finally led the composer to take an insane step which almost proved his undoing.

One symptom of Tchaikovsky’s condition was the morbid sensibility of his artistic temperament. Even before the episode of the B♭ minor concerto, he chanced one day to play part of Vakoula the Smith before some of his friends.

At any other time such criticism would have been a momentary annoyance, soon forgotten. But just then, following upon his keen disappointment in The Oprichnik and the exaggerated hopes he had set upon Vakoula, he was much mortified at this reception of his “favourite child.” Not only was he annoyed, but he considered himself affronted by what seemed to him an unjust criticism. Hence the bitterness with which, at that period, he spoke of his Moscow friends. They, however, kept the same warmth of feeling for him, as was amply proved during the crisis of 1877.

With the coming of spring Tchaikovsky’s depression passed away, and he spent the Easter holidays very happily in the society of the twins, who came to visit him in Moscow.

On May 4th (16th) The Oprichnik was performed for the first time in Moscow. But all the composer’s thoughts were now concentrated on his “favourite child, Vakoula the{172} Smith.” “You cannot imagine,” he wrote to his brother Anatol, “how much I reckon upon this work. I think I might go mad if it failed to bring me luck. I do not want the prize—I despise it, although money is no bad thing—but I want my opera to be performed.”

Shortly before leaving Moscow for the summer, he was commissioned by the Imperial Opera to write a musical ballet entitled The Swan Lake. He did not immediately set to work upon this music, but went to Ussovo at the end of May, where he began his Third Symphony in D major. Late in June he visited his friend Kondratiev at Nizy, where he was exclusively occupied with the orchestration of this symphony until July 14th (26th), when he went to stay with his sister Madame Davidov at Verbovka. By August 1st the symphony was finished, and Tchaikovsky took up the ballet music, for which he was to receive a fee of 800 roubles (about £80). The first two acts were ready in a fortnight.

Verbovka, the Davidovs’ estate, was in the neighbourhood of Kamenka, and Tchaikovsky was so fond of this spot that it became his favourite holiday resort, and cast the charms of Ussovo entirely in the shade. The summer of 1875 was spent not only in the society of his sister and her family, but also in that of his father and his brother Anatol.

Contrary to custom, Petersburg, not Moscow, enjoyed the first hearing of Tchaikovsky’s latest work. At the first Symphony Concert of the Musical Society, on December{174} 1st, Professor Kross played the Pianoforte Concerto. Both composer and player were recalled, but at the same time the work was only a partial success with the public. The Press, with one exception, was unfavourably disposed towards it. Famitzin spoke of the Concerto as “brilliant and grateful, but difficult for virtuosi.” All the other critics, including Laroche, were dissatisfied. The latter praised the Introduction for its “clearness, triumphal solemnity, and splendour,” and thought the other movements did not display the melodic charm to be expected from the composer of The Oprichnik and Romeo and Juliet. “The Concerto,” he continued, “was ungrateful for pianists, and would have no future.”

At the first Symphony Concert in Moscow, November 7th (19th), Tchaikovsky’s Third Symphony was produced for the first time with marked success.

The first performance of the Concerto in Moscow took place on November 21st (December 3rd), 1875, when it was played by the young pianist Serge Taneiev, the favourite pupil of N. Rubinstein and Tchaikovsky. Taneiev had made his first appearance in public in January of the same year. On this occasion he played the ungrateful Concerto of Brahms, and won not only the sympathy of the public, but the admiration of connoisseurs. Tchaikovsky’s account of Taneiev’s début is not quite free from affectionate partiality, but it is so characteristic that it deserves quotation:—

Tchaikovsky was delighted with Taneiev’s rendering of his own Concerto, and wrote:—

In November, 1875, Camille Saint-Saëns came to conduct and play some of his works in Moscow. The short, lively man, with his Jewish type of features, attracted Tchaikovsky and fascinated him not only by his wit and original ideas, but also by his masterly knowledge of his art. Tchaikovsky used to say that Saint-Saëns knew how to combine the grace and charm of the French school with the depth and earnestness of the great German masters. Tchaikovsky became very friendly with him, and hoped this friendship would prove very useful in the future. It had no results, however. Long afterwards they met again as comparative strangers, and always remained so.

During Saint-Saëns’ short visit to Moscow a very amusing episode took place. One day the friends discovered they had a great many likes and dislikes in common, not merely in the world of music, but in other respects. In their youth both had been enthusiastic admirers of the ballet, and had often tried to imitate the art of the dancers. This suggested the idea of dancing together, and they brought out a little ballet, Pygmalion and Galatea, on the stage of the Conservatoire. Saint-Saëns, aged forty, played the part of Galatea most conscientiously, while Tchaikovsky, aged thirty-five, appeared as Pygmalion. N. Rubinstein formed the orchestra. Unfortunately, besides the three performers, no spectators witnessed this singular entertainment.{177}

The fate of Vakoula the Smith was Tchaikovsky’s chief preoccupation at this time. The jury consisted of A. Kireiev, Asantchevsky, N. Rubinstein, Th. Tolstoi, Rimsky-Korsakov, Napravnik, Laroche, and K. Davidov.

Tchaikovsky’s score, so Laroche relates, was of course copied out in a strange autograph, “but the motto, which was identical with the writing in the parcel, was in Tchaikovsky’s own hand. ‘Ars longa, vita brevis’ ran the motto, and the characteristic features of the writing were well known to us all, so that from the beginning there was not the least room for doubt that Tchaikovsky was the composer of the score. But even if he had not had the naïveté to write this inscription with his own hand, the style of the work would have proclaimed his authorship. As the Grand Duke remarked laughingly, during the sitting of the jury: ‘Secret de la comédie.’”

The result of the prize competition was very much talked of in Petersburg. Long before the decision of the jury was publicly announced, everyone knew that their approval of Vakoula was unanimous.

In October Rimsky-Korsakov wrote to Tchaikovsky as follows:—

Towards the end of October the individual views of the jury were collected in a general decision, and Tchaikovsky received a letter from the Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich, in his own handwriting, congratulating him as the prize-winner of the competition.

During October Modeste Tchaikovsky retired from the Government service in order to become private tutor to a deaf and dumb boy, Nicholas Konradi. The child’s{178} parents decided to send young Tchaikovsky to Lyons for a year, to study a special system of education for deaf mutes.

The composer and his brother left Russia together towards the end of December. “Even the various difficulties and unpleasant occurrences of this trip could not damp our cheerful spirits,” says Modeste Tchaikovsky. My delight in the journey, and the interest I felt in everything I saw “abroad,” infected my brother. He enjoyed my pleasure, laughed at the innocence of his inexperienced travelling companion, and threw himself energetically into the part of guide to an impressionable tourist.

From Berlin we travelled to Geneva, where we spent ten days with my sister and her family (the Davidovs). Afterwards we went on to Paris. Here my brother experienced one of the strongest musical impressions of his life.

On March 3rd (15th), 1873, Bizet’s opera Carmen was given for the first time. Vladimir Shilovsky, who was in Paris at the time, attended this performance. Captivated by the work, he sent the pianoforte score to his teacher in Moscow. My brother was never so completely carried away by any modern composition as by Carmen. Bizet’s death, three months after the production of the work, only served to strengthen his almost unwholesome passion for this opera.

During our visit to Paris Carmen was being played at the Opera Comique. We went to hear it, and I never saw Peter Ilich so excited over any performance. This was not merely due to the music and the piquant orchestration of the score, which he now heard for the first time, but also to the admirable acting of Galli-Marié, who sang the title-rôle. She reproduced the type of Carmen with wonderful realism, and at the same time managed to combine with the display of unbridled passion an element of mystical fatalism which held us spell-bound.{179}

Two days later we parted. My brother returned to Russia, while I remained in France.

On January 25th (February 6th) the Third Symphony was performed in Petersburg under Napravnik’s bâton. Cui criticised it in the following words:—

Laroche said:—