XII 1875-1876
To N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov.
“Moscow, September 10th (22nd), 1875.
“Most Honoured Nicholai Andreievich,—Thanks for your kind letter. You must know how I admire and bow down before your artistic modesty and your great strength of character! These innumerable counterpoints, these sixty fugues, and all the other musical intricacies which you have accomplished—all these things, from a man who had already produced a Sadko eight years previously—are the exploits of a hero. I want to proclaim them to all the world. I am astounded, and do not know how to express all my respect for your artistic temperament. How small, poor, self-satisfied and naïve I feel in comparison with you! I am a mere artisan in composition, but you will be an artist, in the fullest sense of the word. I hope you will not take these remarks as flattery. I am really convinced that with your immense gifts—and the ideal conscientiousness with which you approach your work—you will produce music that must far surpass all which so far has been composed in Russia.
“I await your ten fugues with keen impatience. As it will be almost impossible for me to go to Petersburg for some time to come, I beg you to rejoice my heart by sending them as soon as possible. I will study them thoroughly and give you my opinion in detail.... The Opera Direction has commissioned me to write music for the ballet The Swan Lake. I accepted the work, partly because I want the money, but also because I have long had a wish to try my hand at this kind of music.
“I should very much like to know how the decision upon the merits of the (opera) scores will go. I hope you may be a member of the committee. The fear of being rejected—that is to say, not only losing the prize, but with it all possibility of seeing my Vakoula performed—worries me very much.
“Opinions here as regards Angelo41 are most contradictory. Two years ago I heard Cui play the first act, which produced an unsympathetic impression upon me, especially in comparison with Ratcliff, of which I am extremely fond.”
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 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.
To N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov.
“Moscow, November 12th (24th), 1875.
“Most Honoured Nicholai Andreievich,—To-day for the first time I have a free moment in which to talk to you. Business first.
“1. It goes without saying that Rubinstein will be much obliged if you will send him Antar.42 We shall await the score impatiently, and also the quartet, which interests me very much....
“2. Jurgenson will be glad if you will let him have the quartet. Have I explained your conditions correctly? I told him you expected a fee of fifty roubles, and the pianoforte arrangement was to be made at his expense. I know a young lady here who arranged my second quartet very well. So if your wife will not undertake to do it herself, we might apply to her....
“I went direct from the station to the rehearsal of my symphony. It seems to me the work does not contain any very happy ideas, but, as regards form, it is a step in advance. I am best pleased with the first movement, and also with the two Scherzi, the second of which is very difficult, consequently not nearly so well played as it might have been if we could have had more rehearsals. Our rehearsals never last more than two hours; we have three, it is true, but what can be done in two hours? On the whole, however, I was satisfied with the performance....
“... A few days ago I had a letter from Bülow, enclosing a number of American press notices of my Pianoforte Concerto. The Americans think the first movement suffers from ‘the lack of a central idea around which to assemble such a host of musical fantasies, which make up the breezy and ethereal whole.’ The same critic discovered in the finale ‘syncopation on the trills, spasmodic interruptions of the subject, and thundering octave passages’! Think what appetites these Americans have: after every performance Bülow was obliged to repeat the entire finale! Such a thing could never happen here.”
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:—
“The interest of the Seventh Symphony concert was enhanced by the first appearance of the young pianist Serge Taneiev, who brilliantly fulfilled all the hopes of his teachers on this occasion. Besides purity and strength of touch, grace, and ease of execution, Taneiev astonished everyone by his maturity of intellect, his self-control, and the calm objective style of his interpretation. While possessing all the qualities of his master, Taneiev cannot be regarded as a mere copyist. He has his own artistic individuality, which has won him a place among virtuosi from the very outset of his career....”
Tchaikovsky was delighted with Taneiev’s rendering of his own Concerto, and wrote:—
“The chief feature of his playing lies in his power to grasp the composer’s intention in all its most delicate and minute details, and to realise them precisely as the author heard them himself.”
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.
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:—
“I do not doubt for a moment that your opera will carry off the prize. To my mind, the operas sent in bear witness to a very poor state of things as regards music here.... Except your work, I do not consider there is one fit to receive the prize, or to be performed in public.”
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 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.
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:—
“The public remained cool during the performance of the work, and applauded very moderately after each movement. At the end, however, the composer was enthusiastically recalled. This symphony must be taken seriously. The first three movements are the best; the only charm of the fourth being its sonority, for the musical contents are poor. The fifth movement, a polonaise, is the weakest. On the whole the new symphony shows talent, but we have a right to expect more from Tchaikovsky.”
Laroche said:—
“The importance and power of the music, the beauty and variety of form, the nobility of style, originality and rare perfection of technique, all contribute to make this symphony one of the most remarkable musical works produced during the last ten years. Were it to be played in any musical centre in Germany, it would raise the name of the Russian musician to a level with those of the most famous symphonic composers of the day.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Moscow, February 10th (22nd).
“I am working might and main to finish a quartet43 which—you may remember—I started upon in Paris. Press opinions upon my symphony—Laroche not excepted—are rather cold. They all consider I have nothing new to say, and am beginning to repeat myself. Can this really be the case? After finishing the quartet I will rest for a time, and only complete my ballet. I shall not embark upon anything new until I have decided upon an opera. I waver between two subjects, Ephraim and Francesca. I think the latter will carry the day.”
Ephraim was a libretto written by Constantine Shilovsky upon a love-tale of the court of Pharaoh, at the period of the Hebrew captivity.
Francesca da Rimini was a ready-made libretto by Zvantsiev, which had been suggested to Tchaikovsky by Laroche. It was based upon the fifth canto of Dante’s Inferno.
Neither of these books satisfied the composer. After seeing Carmen he only cared for a similar subject: a libretto dealing with real men and women who stood in closer touch with modern life; a drama which was at once simple and realistic.
The new Quartet No. 3 was played for the first time at a concert given by the violinist Grijimal, March 18th. Later on it was repeated at a chamber music evening of the Musical Society. On both occasions its success was decisive.
In May Tchaikovsky was out of health and was ordered by the doctors to take a course of waters at Vichy. He reached Lyons on June 27th (July 9th), where he met Modeste, and made the acquaintance of his brother’s pupil, to whom he became much attached.
His first impressions of Vichy were far from favourable, but the local physician persuaded him to remain at least long enough for a “demi-cure,” from which he derived great benefit. He then rejoined Modeste and young Konradi for a short time, and went to Bayreuth at the end of July, where a lodging had been secured for him by Karl Klindworth.
To M. Tchaikovsky.
“Bayreuth, August 2nd (14th).
“... I arrived here on July 31st (August 12th), the day before the performance. Klindworth met me. I found a number of well-known people here, and plunged straight-way into the vortex of the festival, in which I whirl all day long like one possessed. I have also made the acquaintance of Liszt, who received me most amiably. I called on Wagner, who no longer sees anyone. Yesterday the performance of the Rheingold took place. From the scenic point of view it interested me greatly, and I was also much impressed by the truly marvellous staging of the work. Musically, it is inconceivable nonsense, in which here and there occur beautiful, and even captivating, moments. Among the people here who are known to you are Rubinstein—with whom I am living—Laroche and Cui.
“Bayreuth is a tiny little town in which, at the present moment, several thousand people are congregated.... I am not at all bored, although I cannot say I enjoy my visit here, so that all my thoughts and efforts are directed to getting away to Russia, viâ Vienna, as soon as possible. I hope to accomplish this by Thursday.”
In the articles Tchaikovsky sent to the Russky Viedomosti, he describes his visit to Bayreuth in detail:—
“I reached Bayreuth on August 12th (new style), the day before the first performance of the first part of the Trilogy. The town was in a state of great excitement. Crowds of people, natives and strangers, gathered together literally from the ends of the earth, were rushing to the railway-station to see the arrival of the Emperor. I witnessed the spectacle from the window of a neighbouring house. First some brilliant uniforms passed by, then the musicians of the Wagner Theatre, in procession, with Hans Richter, the conductor, at their head; next followed the interesting figure of the ‘Abbé’ Liszt, with the fine, characteristic head I have so often admired in pictures; and, lastly, in a sumptuous carriage, the serene old man, Richard Wagner, with his aquiline nose and the delicately ironical smile which gives such a characteristic expression to the face of the creator of this cosmopolitan and artistic festival. A rousing ‘Hurrah’ resounded from thousands of throats as the Emperor’s train entered the station. The old Emperor stepped into the carriage awaiting him, and drove to the palace. Wagner, who followed immediately in his wake, was greeted by the crowds with as much enthusiasm as the Emperor. What pride, what overflowing emotions must have filled at this moment the heart of that little man who, by his energetic will and great talent, has defied all obstacles to the final realisation of his artistic ideals and audacious views!
“I made a little excursion through the streets of the town. They swarmed with people of all nationalities, who looked very much preoccupied, and as if in search of something. The reason of this anxious search I discovered only too soon, as I myself had to share it. All these restless people, wandering through the town, were seeking to satisfy the pangs of hunger, which even the fulness of artistic enjoyment could not entirely assuage. The little town offers, it is true, sufficient shelter to strangers, but it is not able to feed all its guests. So it happened that, even on the very day of my arrival, I learnt what ‘the struggle for existence’ can mean. There are very few hotels in Bayreuth, and the greater part of the visitors find accommodation in private houses. The tables d’hôte prepared in the inns are not sufficient to satisfy all the hungry people; one can only obtain a piece of bread, or a glass of beer, with immense difficulty, by dire struggle, or cunning stratagem, or iron endurance. Even when a modest place at a table has been stormed, it is necessary to wait an eternity before the long-desired meal is served. Anarchy reigns at these meals; everyone is calling and shrieking, and the exhausted waiters pay no heed to the rightful claims of an individual. Only by the merest chance does one get a taste of any of the dishes. In the neighbourhood of the theatre is a restaurant which advertises a good dinner at two o’clock. But to get inside it and lay hold of anything in that throng of hungry creatures is a feat worthy of a hero.
“I have dwelt upon this matter at some length with the design of calling the attention of my readers to this prominent feature of the Bayreuth Melomania. As a matter of fact, throughout the whole duration of the festival, food forms the chief interest of the public; the artistic representations take a secondary place. Cutlets, baked potatoes, omelettes, are discussed much more eagerly than Wagner’s music.
“I have already mentioned that the representatives of all civilised nations were assembled in Bayreuth. In fact, even on the day of my arrival, I perceived in the crowd many leaders of the musical world in Europe and America. But the greatest of them, the most famous, were conspicuous by their absence. Verdi, Gounod, Thomas, Brahms, Anton Rubinstein, Raff, Joachim, Bülow had not come to Bayreuth. Among the noted Russian musicians present were: Nicholas Rubinstein, Cui, Laroche, Famitsin, Klindworth (who, as is well known, has made the pianoforte arrangement of the Wagner Trilogy), Frau Walzeck, the most famous professor of singing in Moscow, and others.
“The performance of the Rheingold took place on August 1st (13th), at 7 p.m. It lasted without a break two hours and a half. The other three parts, Walküre, Siegfried, and Götterdämmerung, will be given with an hour’s interval, and will last from 4 p.m. to 10 p.m. In consequence of the indisposition of the singer Betz, Siegfried was postponed from Tuesday to Wednesday, so that the first cycle lasted fully five days. At three o’clock we take our way to the theatre, which stands on a little hill rather distant from the town. That is the most trying part of the day, even for those who have managed to fortify themselves with a good meal. The road lies uphill, with absolutely no shade, so that one is exposed to the scorching rays of the sun. While waiting for the performance to begin, the motley troop encamps on the grass near the theatre. Some sit over a glass of beer in the restaurant. Here acquaintances are made and renewed. From all sides one hears complaints of hunger and thirst, mingled with comments on present or past performances. At four o’clock, to the minute, the fanfare sounds, and the crowd streams into the theatre. Five minutes later all the seats are occupied. The fanfare sounds again, the buzz of conversation is stilled, the lights turned down, and darkness reigns in the auditorium. From depths—invisible to the audience—in which the orchestra is sunk float the strains of the beautiful overture; the curtain parts to either side, and the performance begins. Each act lasts an hour and a half; then comes an interval, but a very disagreeable one, for the sun is still far from setting, and it is difficult to find any place in the shade. The second interval, on the contrary, is the most beautiful part of the day. The sun is already near the horizon; in the air one feels the coolness of evening, the wooded hills around and the charming little town in the distance are lovely. Towards ten o’clock the performance comes to an end....”
To M. Tchaikovsky.
“Vienna, August 8th (20th), 1876.
“Bayreuth has left me with disagreeable recollections, although my artistic ambition was flattered more than once. It appears I am by no means as unknown in Western Europe as I believed. The disagreeable recollections are raised by the uninterrupted bustle in which I was obliged to take part. It finally came to an end on Thursday. After the last notes of the Götterdämmerung, I felt as though I had been let out of prison. The Nibelungen may be actually a magnificent work, but it is certain that there never was anything so endlessly and wearisomely spun out.
“From Bayreuth I went first to Nuremberg, where I spent a whole day and wrote the notice for the Russky Viedomosti. Nuremberg is charming! I arrived in Vienna to-day and leave to-morrow for Verbovka.”
Laroche contributes the following account of Tchaikovsky’s visit to the Bayreuth festival:—
“The effort of listening and gazing during the immensely long acts of the Wagner Trilogy (especially of Rheingold and the first part of Götterdämmerung, which both last without interval for two hours), the sitting in a close, dark amphitheatre in tropical heat, the sincere endeavour to understand the language and style of the book of the words—which is so clumsy and difficult in its composition that even to Germans themselves it is almost inaccessible—all produced in Tchaikovsky a feeling of great depression, from which he only recovered when it came to an end and he found himself at a comfortable supper with a glass of beer....”
Such was the impression produced upon Tchaikovsky by the Nibelungen. He himself recorded the following observations upon Wagner’s colossal work:—
“I brought away the impression that the Trilogy contains many passages of extraordinary beauty, especially symphonic beauty, which is remarkable, as Wagner has certainly no intention of writing an opera in the style of a symphony. I feel a respectful admiration for the immense talents of the composer and his wealth of technique, such as has never been heard before. And yet I have grave doubts as to the truth of Wagner’s principles of opera. I will, however, continue the study of this music—the most complicated which has hitherto been composed.
“Yet if the ‘Ring’ bores one in places, if much in it is at first incomprehensible and vague, if Wagner’s harmonies are at times open to objection, as being too complicated and artificial, and his theories are false, even if the results of his immense work should eventually fall into oblivion, and the Bayreuth Theatre drop into an eternal slumber, yet the Nibelungen Ring is an event of the greatest importance to the world, an epoch-making work of art.”
Morally and physically exhausted, pondering uninterruptedly on his own future, and imbued with the firm conviction that “things could not go on as they were,” Tchaikovsky returned from foreign countries, travelling through Vienna to Verbovka.
There a hearty welcome from his relations awaited him, and all the idyllic enjoyments of the country. The happy family life of the Davidovs was the best thing to calm and comfort Tchaikovsky, but, at the same time, it strengthened a certain intention in which his morbid imagination discerned the one means of “salvation,” but which actually became the starting-point of still greater troubles and worries. On August 19th (31st) he wrote to me from Verbovka:—
“I have now to pass through a critical moment in my life. By-and-by I will write to you about it more fully; meanwhile I must just tell you that I have decided to get married. This is irrevocable....”