V
1868-1869
Externally, Tchaikovsky’s life had remained unchanged during this period. His lessons at the Conservatoire slightly increased, and his salary consequently rose to over 1,400 roubles (£140). Under these circumstances he began to think of finding separate quarters, since his life with Nicholas Rubinstein was unfavourable to his creative work. The latter, however, would not consent to this, and Tchaikovsky himself had doubts as to whether his income would suffice for a separate establishment.
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“September 3rd (15th).
“I have been working like a slave to-day. The day before yesterday I received an unexpected summons to attend at the theatre. To my great surprise I found two choral rehearsals of my opera (The Voyevode) had already been given, and the first solo rehearsal was about to take place. I have undertaken the pianoforte accompaniment myself. I doubt the possibility of getting up such a difficult work in a month, and already I shiver with apprehension at all the hurry-skurry and confusion which lie before me. The rehearsals will take place almost daily. The singers are all pleased with the opera....”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“September 25th (October 7th).
“... When I saw that it was impossible to study my opera in so short a time, I informed the directors that so long as the Italian company remained in Moscow and absorbed the time of both chorus and orchestra, I would not send in the score of my work. I wrote to Gedeonov to this effect. In consequence, the performance is postponed until the Italians leave Moscow. I have a little more leisure now. Besides, Menshikova already knows the greater part of her rôle by heart. I lunched with her to-day, and she sang me several numbers from the opera, by no means badly. Time, on the whole, goes quickly and pleasantly.
“I have some good news to give you about my future work. A few days ago I was lunching with Ostrovsky, and he proposed, entirely of his own accord, to write a libretto for me. The subject has been in his mind for the last twenty years, but he has never spoken of it to anyone before; now his choice has fallen upon me.
“The scene is laid in Babylon and Greece, in the time of Alexander of Macedon, who is introduced as one of the characters. We have representatives of two great races of antiquity: the Hebrews and the Greeks. The hero is a young Hebrew, in love with one of his own race, who, actuated by ambitious motives, betrays him for the sake of Alexander. In the end the young Hebrew becomes a prophet. You have no idea what a fine plot it is! Just now I am writing a symphonic sketch, Fatum.18 The Italian opera is creating a furore. Artôt is a splendid creature. She and I are good friends.”
“Early in 1868,” says Laroche, “an Italian opera company visited Moscow for a few weeks, at the head of which was the impresario Merelli. Their performances at the Opera drew crowded houses. The company consisted of fifth-rate singers, who had neither voices nor talent; the one exception was a woman of thirty, not good-looking, but with a passionate and expressive face, who had just reached the climax of her art, and soon afterwards began to go off, both in voice and appearance.
“Désirée Artôt, a daughter of the celebrated horn-player Artôt, and a niece of the still more renowned violinist, had been trained by Pauline Viardot-Garcia. Her voice was powerful, and adapted to express intense dramatic pathos, but unfortunately it had no reserve force, and began to deteriorate comparatively early, so that six or seven years after the time of which I am speaking it had completely lost its charm. Besides its dramatic quality, her voice was suitable for florid vocalisation, and her lower notes were so good that she could take many mezzo-soprano parts; consequently her repertory was almost unlimited.... It is not too much to say that in the whole world of music, in the entire range of lyrical emotion, there was not a single idea, or a single form, of which this admirable artist could not give a poetical interpretation. The timbre of her voice was more like the oboe than the flute, and was penetrated by such indescribable beauty, warmth, and passion, that everyone who heard it was fascinated and carried away. I have said that Désirée Artôt was not good-looking. At the same time, without recourse to artificial aids, her charm was so great that she won all hearts and turned all heads, as though she had been the loveliest of women. The delicate texture and pallor of her skin, the plastic grace of her movements, the beauty of her neck and arms, were not her only weapons; under the irregularity of her features lay some wonderful charm of attraction, and of all the many ‘Gretchens’ I have seen in my day, Artôt was by far the most ideal, the most fascinating.
“This was chiefly due to her talent as an actress. I have never seen anyone so perfectly at home on the stage as she was. From the first entrance, to the last cry of triumph or despair, the illusion was perfect. Not a single movement betrayed intention or pre-consideration. She was equally herself in a tragic, comic, or comedy part.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“October 21st (November 2nd).
“I am very busy writing choruses and recitatives to Auber’s Domino Noir, which is to be given for Artôt’s benefit. Merelli will pay me for the work. I have become very friendly with Artôt, and am glad to know something of her remarkable character. I have never met a kinder, a better, or a cleverer woman.
“Anton Rubinstein has been here. He played divinely, and created an indescribable sensation. He has not altered, and is as nice as ever.
“My orchestral fantasia Fatum is finished.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
(November.)
“Oh, Moding, I long to pour my impressions into your artistic soul. If only you knew what a singer and actress Artôt is!! I have never experienced such powerful artistic impressions as just recently. How delighted you would be with the grace of her movements and poses!”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
(December.)
“... I have not written to you for a long while, but many things now make it impossible for me to write letters, for all my leisure is given to one—of whom you have already heard—whom I love dearly.
“My musical situation is as follows: Two of my pianoforte pieces are to be published in a day or two. I have arranged twenty-five Russian folksongs for four hands, which will be published immediately, and I have orchestrated my fantasia Fatum for the fifth concert of the Musical Society.
“Recently a concert was given here for the benefit of poor students, in which ‘the one being’ sang for the last time before her departure, and Nicholas Rubinstein played my pianoforte piece dedicated to Artôt.”
To his father.
“December 26th (January 7th, 1869).
“My Dear, Kind Dad!—To my great annoyance, circumstances have prevented my going to Petersburg. This journey would have cost me at least a hundred roubles, and just now I do not possess them. Consequently I must send my New Year’s wishes by letter. I wish you happiness and all good things. As rumours of my engagement will doubtless have reached you, and you may feel hurt at my silence upon the subject, I will tell you the whole story. I made the acquaintance of Artôt in the spring, but only visited her once, when I went to a supper given after her benefit performance. After she returned here in autumn I did not call on her for a whole month. Then we met by chance at a musical evening. She expressed surprise that I had not called, and I promised to do so, a promise I should never have kept (because of my shyness with new friends) if Anton Rubinstein, in passing through Moscow, had not dragged me there. Afterwards I received constant invitations, and got into the way of going to her house daily. Soon we began to experience a mutual glow of tenderness, and an understanding followed immediately. Naturally the question of marriage arose at once, and, if nothing hinders it, our wedding is to take place in the summer. But the worst is that there are several obstacles. First, there is her mother, who always lives with her, and has considerable influence upon her daughter. She is not in favour of the match, because she considers me too young, and probably fears lest I should expect her daughter to live permanently in Russia. Secondly, my friends, especially N. Rubinstein, are trying might and main to prevent my marriage. They declare that, married to a famous singer, I should play the pitiable part of ‘husband of my wife’; that I should live at her expense and accompany her all over Europe; finally, that I should lose all opportunities of working, and that when my first love had cooled, I should know nothing but disenchantment and depression. The risk of such a catastrophe might perhaps be avoided, if she would consent to leave the stage and live entirely in Russia. But she declares that in spite of all her love for me, she cannot make up her mind to give up the profession which brings her in so much money, and to which she has grown accustomed. At present she is on her way to Moscow. Meanwhile we have agreed that I am to visit her in summer at her country house (near Paris), when our fate will be decided.
“If she will not consent to give up the stage, I, on my part, hesitate to sacrifice my future; for it is clear that I shall lose all opportunity of making my own way, if I blindly follow in her train. You see, Dad, my situation is a very difficult one. On the one hand, I love her heart and soul, and feel I cannot live any longer without her; on the other hand, calm reason bids me to consider more closely all the misfortunes with which my friends threaten me. I shall wait, my dear, for your views on the subject.
“I am quite well, and my life goes on as usual—only I am unhappy now she is not here.”
Tchaikovsky received the following letter in reply:—
“December 29th, 1868 (January 10th, 1869).
“My Dear Peter,—You ask my advice upon the most momentous event in your life.... You are both artists, both make capital out of your talents; but while she has made both money and fame, you have hardly begun to make your way, and God knows whether you will ever attain to what she has acquired. Your friends know your gifts, and fear they may suffer by your marriage—I think otherwise. You, who gave up your official appointment for the sake of your talent, are not likely to forsake your art, even if you are not altogether happy at first, as is the fate of nearly all musicians. You are proud, and therefore you find it unpleasant not to be earning sufficient to keep a wife and be independent of her purse. Yes, dear fellow, I understand you well enough. It is bitter and unpleasant. But if you are both working and earning together there can be no question of reproach; go your way, let her go hers, and help each other side by side. It would not be wise for either of you to give up your chosen vocations until you have saved enough to say: ‘This is ours, we have earned it in common.’
“Let us analyse these words: ‘In marrying a famous singer you will be playing the pitiable part of attendant upon her journeys; you will live on her money and lose your own chances of work.’ If your love is not a fleeting, but solid sentiment, as it ought to be in people of your age; if your vows are sincere and unalterable, then all these misgivings are nonsense. Married happiness is based upon mutual respect, and you would no more permit your wife to be a kind of servant, than she would ask you to be her lackey. The travelling is not a matter of any importance, so long as it does not prevent your composing—it will even give you opportunities of getting your operas or symphonies performed in various places. A devoted friend will help to inspire you. When all is set down in black and white, with such a companion as your chosen one, your talent is more likely to progress than to deteriorate. (2) Even if your first passion for her does cool somewhat, will ‘nothing remain but disenchantment and depression’? But why should love grow cold? I lived twenty-one years with your mother, and during all that time I loved her just the same, with the ardour of a young man, and respected and worshipped her as a saint.... There is only one question I would ask you; have you proved each other? Do you love each other truly, and for all time? I know your character, my dear son, and I have confidence in you, but I have not as yet the happiness of knowing the dear woman of your choice. I only know her lovely heart and soul through you. It would be no bad thing if you proved each other, not by jealousy—God forbid—but by time....
“Describe her character to me in full, my dear. Does she translate that tender word ‘Désirée’? A mother’s wish counts for nothing in love affairs, but give it your consideration.”
Tchaikovsky to his brother Anatol.
(January.)
“Just now I am very much excited. The Voyevode is about to be performed. Everyone is taking the greatest pains, so I can hope for a good performance. Menshikova will do very well; she sings the ‘Nightingale’ song in the second act beautifully. The tenor is not amiss, but the bass is bad. If the work goes well I shall try to arrange for you both to come here in the Carnival Week, so that you may hear it.
“I have already begun upon a second opera, but I must not tell you about the subject, because I want to keep it a secret that I have anything in hand. How astonished they will be to find in summer that half the opera is already put together! (I hope in summer I shall have some chance of working)....
“With regard to the love affair I had early in the winter, I may tell you that it is very doubtful whether I shall enter Hymen’s bonds or not. Things are beginning to go rather awry. I will tell you more about it later on. I have not time now.”
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:—
“I shall have very shortly to meet Artôt. She is coming here, and I cannot avoid a meeting, because immediately after her arrival we begin the rehearsals for Le Domino Noir (for which I have written recitatives and choruses), which I shall be compelled to attend. This woman has caused me to experience many bitter hours, and yet I am drawn to her by such an inexplicable sympathy that I begin to look forward to her coming with feverish impatience.”
They met as friends. All intimate relations were at an end.
“When, in 1869, Artôt reappeared at the Moscow Opera,” says Kashkin, “I sat in the stalls next to Tchaikovsky, who was greatly moved. When the singer came on, he held his opera glasses to his eyes and never lowered them during the entire performance; but he must have seen very little, for tear after tear rolled down his cheeks.”
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.
Soon after the production of The Voyevode Tchaikovsky’s 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:—
“Thou knowest what the white-haired Melchisedek
Said when he left this life: Man is born a slave,
A slave he dies. Will even Death reveal to him
Why thus he laboured in this vale of tears,
Why thus he suffered, wept, endured—then vanished?”
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.
“When the books for the concert were about to be printed,” relates Rachinsky, “Rubinstein, who was always very careful about such details, considered the bare title Fatum insufficient, and suggested that an appropriate verse should be added. It chanced that I, who had not heard a note of the new work, had dropped in upon Rubinstein, and the verses of Batioushkov flashed across my mind. Rubinstein asked me to write them down at once, and added them to the programme-book with the composer’s consent.”
The quotation, therefore, has not the significance of a 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:—
“Your Fatum has been played, and I venture to hope the performance was not bad—at least everyone seemed satisfied with it. There was not much applause, which I ascribe to the hideous crash at the end. The work itself does not please me; it is not sufficiently thought out, and shows signs of having been written hastily. In many places the joins and tacking-threads are too perceptible. Laroche says it is because you do not study the classics sufficiently. I put it down to another cause: you are too little acquainted with modern music. You will never learn freedom of form from the classical composers. You will find nothing new there. They can only give you what you knew already, when you sat on the students’ benches and listened respectfully to Zaremba’s learned discourses upon ‘The Connection between Rondo-form and Man’s First Fall.’
“At the same concert Les Préludes of Liszt was performed. Observe the wonderful form of this work; how one thing follows another quite naturally. This is no mere motley, haphazard affair. Or take Glinka’s Night in Madrid; in what a masterly fashion the various sections of this overture are fused together! It is just this organic coherence and connection that are lacking in Fatum. I have chosen Glinka as an example because I believe you have studied him a great deal, and I could see all through Fatum you were under the influence of one of his choruses.
“The verse you chose as an epigraph is altogether beneath criticism. It is a frightful specimen of manufactured rhyme. If you are really so attracted to Byronism, why not have chosen a suitable quotation from Lermontov? With the object of making the verse run smoother I left out the first two lines (Melchisedek seemed really too absurd!), but apparently I perpetrated a blunder. Our entire circle dropped upon me and assured me that the whole of the introduction to Fatum was intended to express the awful utterance of Melchisedek himself. Perhaps they are right. If so, you must forgive my excellent intention.... I write to you quite frankly, and feel sure you will not on this account abandon your intention of dedicating Fatum to me. This dedication is very precious, as indicating your regard for me, and on my part I reciprocate your feeling.”
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 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.