XI 1880-1881
To N. F. von Meck.
“Kamenka, September 4th (16th) 1880.
“I am doing nothing whatever, only wandering through the forests and fields all day long. I want to take a change from my own work, with its eternal proof-correcting, and to play as much as possible of other people’s music; so I have begun to study Mozart’s Zauberflöte. Never was so senselessly stupid a subject set to such captivating music. How thankful I am that the circumstances of my musical career have not changed by a hair’s breadth the charm Mozart exercises for me! You would not believe, dear friend, what wonderful feelings come over me when I give myself up to his music. It is something quite different from the stressful delight awakened in me by Beethoven, Schumann, or Chopin.... My contemporaries were imbued with the spirit of modern music from their childhood, and came to know Mozart in later years, after they had made acquaintance with Chopin, who reflects so clearly the Byronic despair and disillusionment. Fortunately, fate decreed that I should grow up in an unmusical family, so that in childhood I was not nourished on the poisonous food of the post-Beethoven music. The same kind fate brought me early in life in contact with Mozart, and thus opened up to me unsuspected horizons. These early impressions can never be effaced. Do you know that when I play Mozart, I feel brighter and younger, almost a youth again? But enough. I know that we do not agree in our appreciation of Mozart, and that my dithyramb does not interest you in the least.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Kamenka, September 9th (21st), 1880.
“How fleeting were my hopes of a prolonged rest! Scarcely had I begun to enjoy a few days’ leisure than an indefinable mood of boredom, even a sense of not being in health, came over me. To-day I began to occupy my mind with projects for a new symphony, and immediately I felt well and cheerful. It appears as though I could not spend a couple of days in idleness, unless I am travelling. I dread lest I should become a composer of Anton Rubinstein’s type, who considers it his bounden duty to present a new work to the public every day in the week. In this way he has dissipated his great creative talent, and has only small change to offer instead of the sterling gold which he could have given us had he written in moderation. Lately I have been seeking some kind of occupation that would take me completely away from music for a time, and would seriously interest me. Alas, I have not discovered it! There is no guide to the history of music in Russian, and it would be a good thing if I could occupy myself with a book of this kind; I often think of it. But then I should have to give up composing for at least two years, and that would be too much. To start upon a translation—that is not very interesting work. Write a monograph upon some artist? So much has already been written about the great musicians of Western Europe. For Glinka, Dargomijsky, and Serov I cannot feel any enthusiasm, for, highly as I value their works, I cannot admire them as men. I have told you what I think of Glinka. Dargomijsky was even less cultured. As to Serov, he was a clever man of encyclopedic learning, but I knew him personally, and could not admire his moral character. As far as I understood him, he was not good-hearted, and that is sufficient reason why I do not care to devote my leisure to him. It would have been a delight to write the biography of Mozart, but it is impossible to do so after Otto Jahn, who devoted his life to the task.
“So there is no other occupation open to me but composition. I am planning a symphony or a string quartet. I do not know which I shall decide upon.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Kamenka, September 12th (24th), 1880.
“I venture to approach you, dear friend, with the following request. An employé in a counting-house, here in Kamenka, has a son who is remarkably gifted for painting. It seemed to me cruel not to give him the means of studying, so I sent him to Moscow and asked Anatol to take him to the School of Painting and Sculpture. All this was arranged, and then it turned out that the boy’s maintenance would cost far more than I expected. And so I thought I would ask you whether in your house there was any corner in which this lad might live? Not, of course, without some kind of supervision. He would only need a tiny room with a bed, a cupboard, and a table where he could sleep and work. Perhaps your servants would look after him, and give him a little advice? The boy is of irreproachable character: industrious, good, obedient, clean in his person—in short, exemplary. I would undertake his meals....81
“I have also unearthed a musical talent here, in the daughter of the local priest, and have been successful in placing her at the Conservatoire.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Kamenka, September 19th (October 1st), 1880.
“Yesterday I received an official intimation from the Imperial Opera to the effect that my opera has been accepted and will be produced in January. The libretto has been passed by the censor with one or two exceptions: the Archbishop must be called the Wanderer(?); ‘every allusion to the Cross must be omitted, and no cross may be seen upon the stage.’ There is nothing for it but to submit.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Kamenka, September 28th (October 10th), 1880.
“Nicholas Rubinstein has requested me to write an important work for chorus and orchestra, to be produced at the Moscow Exhibition. Nothing is more unpleasant to me than the manufacturing of music for such occasions.... But I have not courage to refuse....”
To N, F. von Meck.
“Kamenka, October 10th (22nd), 1880.
“You can imagine, dear friend, that recently my Muse has been very benevolent, when I tell you that I have written two long works very rapidly: a Festival Overture for the Exhibition and a Serenade in four movements for string orchestra. The overture82 will be very noisy. I wrote it without much warmth of enthusiasm; therefore it has no great artistic value. The Serenade, on the contrary, I wrote from an inward impulse; I felt it, and venture to hope that this work is not without artistic qualities.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Kamenka, October 14th (26th), 1880.
“... How glad I am that my opera pleases you! I am delighted you find no ‘Russianisms’ in it, for I dreaded this and had striven in this work to be as objective as possible.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Kamenka, October 14th (26th), 1880.
“Of course I am no judge of my own works, but I can truthfully say that—with very few exceptions—they have all been felt and lived by me, and have come straight from my heart. It is the greatest happiness to know that there is another kindred soul in the world who has such a true and delicate appreciation of my music. The thought that she will discern all that I have felt, while writing this or that work, invariably warms and inspires me. There are few such souls; among those who surround me I can only point to my brothers. Modeste is very near to me in mind and sentiment. Among professional musicians I have met with the least congenial sympathy....
“You ask why I have never written a trio. Forgive me, dear friend, I would do anything to give you pleasure—but this is beyond me! My acoustic apparatus is so ordered that I simply cannot endure the combination of pianoforte with violin or violoncello. To my mind the timbre of these instruments will not blend, and I assure you it is a torture to me to have to listen to a trio or sonata of any kind for piano and strings. I cannot explain this physiological peculiarity; I simply state it as a fact. Piano and orchestra—that is quite another matter. Here again there is no blending of tone; the piano by its elastic tone differs from all other instruments in timbre; but we are now dealing with two equal opponents: the orchestra, with its power and inexhaustible variety of colour, opposed by the small, unimposing, but high-mettled pianoforte, which often comes off victorious in the hands of a gifted executant. Much poetry is contained in this conflict, and endless seductive combinations for the composer. On the other hand, how unnatural is the union of three such individualities as the pianoforte, the violin and the violoncello! Each loses something of its value. The warm and singing tone of the violin and the ’cello sounds limited beside that king of instruments, the pianoforte; while the latter strives in vain to prove that it can sing like its rivals. I consider the piano should only be employed under these conditions: (1) As a solo instrument; (2) opposed to the orchestra; (3) for accompaniment, as the background to a picture. But a trio implies equality and relationship, and do these exist between stringed solo instruments and the piano? They do not; and this is the reason why there is always something artificial about a pianoforte trio, each of the three instruments being continually called upon to express what the composer imposes upon it, rather than what lies within its characteristic utterance; while the musician meets with perpetual difficulties in the distribution of the voices and grouping of the parts. I do full justice to the inspired art with which Beethoven, Schumann, and Mendelssohn have conquered these difficulties. I know there exist many trios containing music of admirable quality; but personally I do not care for the trio as a form, therefore I shall never produce anything sincerely inspired through the medium of this combination of sounds. I know, dear friend, that we disagree on this point, and that you, on the contrary, are fond of a trio; but in spite of all the similarity between our artistic temperaments, we remain two separate individualities; therefore it is not surprising that we should not agree in every particular.”
During the autumn of 1880 Tchaikovsky suffered greatly from neuralgic headaches. He remained at Kamenka until early in November, when he returned to Moscow for a short time, in order to correct proofs and settle other business matters. Towards the end of the month he wrote to Nadejda von Meck from St. Petersburg:—
“November 27th (December 9th), 1880.
“The directors of the Moscow Musical Society are greatly interested in my Liturgy (St. John Chrysostom). One of their number, named Alexeiev, gave a good fee to have it studied by one of the best choirs. This resulted in a performance of the work in the concert-room of the Moscow Conservatoire. The choir sang wonderfully well, and it was altogether one of the happiest moments in my musical career. It was decided to give the Liturgy at an extra concert of the Musical Society. On the same evening my Serenade for strings was played, in order to give me an agreeable surprise. For the moment I regard it as my best work....
“Have I told you already that Eugene Oniegin is to be splendidly mounted at the Opera in Moscow? I am very pleased, because it will decide the important question whether the work will become part of the repertory or not, that is to say, whether it will keep its place on the stage. As I never intended it for this purpose, I did nothing on my own initiative to get it produced.”
While in St. Petersburg, Tchaikovsky undertook to make some changes in his new opera, The Maid of Orleans. This was in order that the part of Joan of Arc herself might be taken by Madame Kamensky, a mezzo-soprano of unusual range and quality.
To N. F. von Meck.
“Moscow, December 14th (26th), 1880.
“One newspaper blames me for having dedicated my opera, The Maid of Orleans, to Napravnik, and considers it an unworthy action on my part to win his good graces in this way. Napravnik—one of the few thoroughly honest musicians in Petersburg—will be very much upset. They also find fault with me because my opera is not on sale.
“All this is very galling and vexatious, but I do not let it trouble me much.
“I have sworn to myself to avoid Moscow and Petersburg in future.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Moscow, December 17th (29th), 1880.
“I have been very much upset the last few days. Last year I received a letter from a young man, unknown to me, of the name of Tkachenko, containing the curious proposal that I should take him as my servant and give him music lessons in return. The letter was so clever and original, and showed such a real love of music, that it affected me very sympathetically. A correspondence between us followed, from which I learnt that he was already twenty-three, and had no musical knowledge. I wrote frankly to him that at his age it was too late to begin to study music. After this, I heard no more of him for nine months. The day before yesterday I received another letter from him, returning all my previous correspondence, in order that it might not fall into strange hands after his death. He took leave of me and said he had resolved to commit suicide. The letter was evidently written in a moment of great despair, and touched me profoundly. I saw from the postmark that it was written from Voronezh, and decided to telegraph to someone there, asking them to seek Tkachenko with the help of the police and tell him—if it were not already too late—he might expect a letter from me. Fortunately, Anatol had a friend at Voronezh, to whom we telegraphed at once. Last night I heard from him that Tkachenko had been discovered in time. He was in a terrible condition.
“I immediately sent him some money and invited him to come to Moscow. How it will end I do not know, but I am glad to have saved him from self-destruction.”
At this time Tchaikovsky’s valet, Alexis, was compelled to fulfil his military service, and master and servant were equally affected at the moment of separation.
On December 6th (18th) the Italian Capriccio was performed for the first time under the conductorship of Nicholas Rubinstein. Its success was incontestable, although criticism varied greatly as to its merits, and the least favourable described it as being marred by “coarse and cheap” effects. In St. Petersburg, where it was given a few weeks later by Napravnik, it met with scant appreciation; Cui pronounced it to be “no work of art, but a valuable gift to the programmes of open-air concerts.”
The performance of the Liturgy took place in Moscow on December 18th (30th). Thanks to the stir which had been made by the confiscation of Tchaikovsky’s first sacred work, the concert was unusually crowded. At the close the composer was frequently recalled. Nevertheless, there was considerable difference of opinion as to the success of the work.
Tchaikovsky was not much affected by the views of the professional critics; but he was deeply hurt by a letter emanating from the venerable Ambrose, vicar of Moscow, which appeared in the Rouss. This letter complained that the Liturgy was the most sacred possession of the people, and should only be heard in church; that to use the service as a libretto was a profanation of the holy words. It concluded by congratulating the orthodox that the text had at least been treated by a worthy musician, but what would happen if some day a “Rosenthal” or a “Rosenbluhm” should lay hands upon it? Inevitably then “our most sacred words would be mocked at and hissed.”
Fatigued by the excitement of these weeks, Tchaikovsky returned to Kamenka to spend Christmas in the restful quiet of the country.
The first performance of Eugene Oniegin at the Opera House in Moscow took place on January 11th (23rd), 1881. The scenery was not new and left much to be desired. The singers, with the exception of Madame Kroutikov, who took the part of Madame Larina, and Bartsal, who appeared as the Frenchman Triquet, were lacking in experience. The costumes, however, were perfectly true to history. The performance evoked much applause, but more for the composer than for the opera itself. The great public allowed the best situations in the work to pass unnoticed, but the opera found an echo in the hearts of the minority, so that gradually the work gained the appreciation of the crowd and won a lasting success.
To N. F. von Meck.
“Moscow, January 12th (24th), 1881.
“Yesterday was the first night of Eugene Oniegin. I was oppressed by varied emotions, both at the rehearsals and on the night itself. At first the public was very reserved; by degrees, however, the applause grew and at the last all went well. The performance and mounting of the opera were satisfactory....
“Tkachenko (the young man who wanted to commit suicide) has arrived. I have seen him. On the whole he made a sympathetic impression upon me. His sufferings are the outcome of the internal conflict which exists between his aspirations and stern reality. He is intelligent and cultivated, yet in order to earn his bread he has had to be a railway guard. He is very anxious to become a musician. He is nervous, and morbidly modest, and seems to be broken in spirit. Poverty and solitude have made him misanthropical. His views are rather strange, but he is by no means stupid. I am sorry for him and have agreed to look after him. I have decided that he shall go to the Conservatoire, and then it will be seen whether he can take up music, or some other career. It will not be difficult to make a useful and contented man of him.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Moscow, January 19th (31st), 1881.
“Dear, kind friend, it has come to this: I take up my pen to write to you unwillingly, because I feel the immediate need to pour out all the suffering and bitterness which is heaped up in me. You will wonder how a man who is successful in his work can still complain and rail at fate? But my successes are not so important as they seem; besides they do not compensate me for the intolerable sufferings I undergo when I mix in the society of my fellow-creatures; when I have to be constantly posing before them; when I cannot live as I wish, and as I am accustomed to do, but am tossed to and fro like a ball in the round of city life....
“Eugene Oniegin does not progress. The prima donna is seriously ill, so that the opera cannot be performed again for some time.... The criticisms upon it are peculiar. Some critics find the ‘couplets’ for Triquet the best thing in the work and think Tatiana’s part dry and colourless. Others think I have no inspiration, but great cleverness. The Petersburg papers write in chorus to rend my Italian Capriccio, declaring it to be vulgar; and Cui prophesies that The Maid of Orleans will turn out a commonplace affair.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Petersburg, January 27th (February 8th), 1881.
“I will tell you something about Tkachenko. He is an extraordinary being! I had looked after him in every respect, and he began his studies with great zeal. The day before I left Moscow he came to ‘talk to me on serious business,’ and the longer he talked, the more convinced I became that he is mentally and morally deranged. He has taken it into his head that I am not keeping him for his own sake, but in order to acquire the reputation of a benefactor. He added that he was not disposed to be the victim of my desire for popularity, and absolutely refused to recognise me as his benefactor, so I was not to reckon upon his gratitude.
“I replied coldly, and advised him to devote himself to his work, without troubling himself as to my motives for assisting him. I assured him I was quite indifferent as to his gratitude, that I was just leaving the town, and begged him not to waste his thoughts on me, but to fix them exclusively upon his work.
“I have entrusted him to the supervision of Albrecht, the Inspector of the Conservatoire.
“Have you heard of Nicholas Rubinstein’s illness? His condition is serious, but in spite of it he goes about and does his work. The doctors insist upon his going away and taking rest; but he declares he could not live without the work he is used to....”
On January 21st (February 2nd) Tchaikovsky’s Second Symphony was given in its revised form at the Musical Society in St. Petersburg, and, according to the newspapers, met with a great success. Not a single critic, however, observed the changes in the work, nor that the first movement was entirely new.
To N. F. von Meck.
“Petersburg, February 1st (13th), 1881.
“... The mounting of The Maid of Orleans will be very beggarly. The Direction, which has spent 10,000 (roubles) upon a new ballet, refuses to sacrifice a kopeck for the opera.”
To the same.
“Petersburg, February 7th (19th), 1881.
“The opera has been postponed until February 13th. I shall set off the very next day. The plan of my journey is: Vienna, Venice, Rome. The rehearsals are in progress. Most of the artists show great sympathy for my music, of which I am very proud. But the officials are doing all in their power to spoil the success of the opera. A certain Loukashevich is trying by every kind of intrigue to prevent Madame Kamensky from taking the part of Joan of Arc. When at yesterday’s rehearsal—for scenic and vocal reasons—I transferred a melody from Joan’s part to that of Agnes Sorel, he declared I had no right to do such a thing without permission. Sometimes I feel inclined to withdraw the score and leave the theatre.”
The production of The Maid of Orleans at the Maryinsky Theatre left a very unpleasant memory in Tchaikovsky’s mind. The intrigues between the prima donnas, the hostile attitude of the Direction, his dissatisfaction with some of the singers—all embittered the composer in the highest degree. His artistic vanity was exceedingly sensitive, even when his best friends told him “the plain truth.” He submitted to the criticisms of Napravnik, and followed his advice regarding many details, because he was convinced of this musician’s goodwill and great experience. If he got through this trying time fairly well, it was thanks to the fact that he himself, as well as the artists who were taking part in the work, did not doubt that the opera would eventually have a great success.
On the day following the performance, Tchaikovsky wrote:—
“The success of the opera was certain, even after the first act... the second scene of the third act was least applauded, but the fourth act was very well received. Altogether I was recalled twenty-four times. Kamenskaya was admirable; she even acted well, which she seldom does. Prianichnikov was the best among the other singers.”
Tchaikovsky started for Italy under this favourable impression, and first became aware through a telegram from Petersburg in the Neue Freie Presse that, in spite of an ovation from the public, The Maid of Orleans was “poor in inspiration, wearisome, and monotonous.” This was his first intimation of the attacks upon the opera which were made by the Press, and which caused the opera to be hastily withdrawn from the repertory of the Maryinsky Theatre.
Cui, as usual, led the chorus of unfavourable opinion, but all the other critics were more or less in agreement with his views.