XIX
The official command to appear before their Imperial Majesties was due to the fact that on February 23rd (March 6th), 1884, the order of St. Vladimir of the Fourth Class had been conferred upon Tchaikovsky. The presentation took place on March 7th (19th), at Gatchina. Tchaikovsky was so agitated beforehand that he had to take several strong doses of bromide in order to regain his self-possession. The last dose was actually swallowed on the threshold of the room where the Empress was awaiting him, in agony lest he should lose consciousness from sheer nervous breakdown.
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“Petersburg, March 10th (22nd), 1884.
“I will give you a brief account of what took place. Last Saturday I was taken with a severe chill. By morning I felt better, but I was terribly nervous at the idea of being presented to the Emperor and Empress. On Monday at ten o’clock I went to Gatchina. I had only permission to appear before His Majesty, but Prince Vladimir Obolensky had also arranged an audience with the Empress, who had frequently expressed a wish to see me. I was first presented to the Emperor and then to the Empress. Both were most friendly and kind. I think it is only necessary to look once into the Emperor’s eyes, in order to remain for ever his most loyal adherent, for it is difficult to express in words all the charm and sympathy of his manner. She is also bewitching. Afterwards I had to visit the Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich, and yesterday I sat with him in the Imperial box during the whole of the rehearsal at the Conservatoire.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Petersburg, March 13th (25th), 1884.
“What a madman I am! How easily I am affected by the least shadow of ill_luck! Now I am ashamed of the depression which came over me in Paris, simply because I gathered from the newspapers that the performance of Mazeppa in Petersburg had not really had the success I anticipated! Now I see that in spite of the ill_feeling of many local musicians, in spite of the wretched performance, the opera really pleased, and there is no question of reproach, as I feared while I was so far away. There is no doubt that the critics, who unanimously strove to drag my poor opera through the mire, were not expressing the universal opinion, and that many people here are well disposed towards me. What pleases me most is the fact that the Emperor himself stands at the head of this friendly section. It turns out that I have no right to complain; on the contrary, I ought rather to thank God, who has shown me such favour.
“Have you seen Count Leo Tolstoi’s Confessions, which were to have come out recently in the Russkaya Myssl (‘Russian Thought’), but were withdrawn by order of the Censor? They have been privately circulated in manuscript, and I have just succeeded in reading them. They made a profound impression upon me, because I, too, know the torments of doubt and the tragic perplexity which Tolstoi has experienced and described so wonderfully in the Confessions. But enlightenment came to me earlier than Tolstoi; perhaps because my brain is more simply organised than his; and perhaps it has been due to the continual necessity of work that I have suffered less than Tolstoi. Every day, every hour, I thank God for having given me this faith in Him. What would have become of me, with my cowardice, my capacity for depression, and—at the least failure of courage—my desire for non-existence, unless I had been able to believe in God and submit to His will?”
About the end of the seventies Tchaikovsky kept an accurate diary. Ten years later he relaxed the habit, and only made entries in his day-book while abroad, or on important occasions. Two years before his death the composer burnt most of these volumes, including all those which covered the years between his journeys abroad in 1873 and April, 1884.
The following are a few entries from the later diaries:—
“April 13th (25th), 1884.
“... After tea I went to Leo’s,101 who soon went out, while I remained to strum and think of something new. I hit upon an idea for a pianoforte Concerto [afterwards the Fantasia for pianoforte, op. 56], but it is poor and not new.... Played Massenet’s Hérodiade... read some of Otto Jahn’s Life of Mozart.”
On April 16th (28th) Tchaikovsky began his third orchestral Suite, and we can follow the evolution of this work, as noted from day to day in his diary.
“April 16th (28th), 1884.
“In the forest and indoors I have been trying to lay the foundation of a new symphony... but I am not at all satisfied.... Walked in the garden and found the germ, not of a symphony, but of a future Suite.”
“April 17th (29th).
“... Jotted down a few ideas.”
“April 19th (May 1st).
“Annoyed with my failures. Very dissatisfied because everything that comes into my head is so commonplace. Am I played out?”
April 24th (May 6th).
“I shall soon be forty-four. How much I have been through, and—without false modesty—how little I have accomplished! In my actual vocation I must say—hand on heart—I have achieved nothing perfect, nothing which can serve as a model. I am still seeking, vacillating. And in other matters? I read nothing, I know nothing.... The period of quiet, undisturbed existence is over for me. There remain agitation, conflict, much that I, such as I am, find hard to endure. No, the time has come to live by oneself and in one’s own way!”
“April 26th (May 8th).
“This morning I worked with all my powers at the Scherzo of the Suite. Shall work again after tea.”
“April 30th (May 12th), 1884.
“Worked all day at the Valse (Suite), but without any conviction of success.”
Extracts from a Letter to Anna Merkling.
“Kamenka, April 27th (May 9th), 1884.
“Many thanks, dear Anna, for your thought of me on the 25th (May 7th).... Without bitterness, I receive congratulations upon the fact that I am a year older. I have no wish to die, and I desire to attain a ripe old age; but I would not willingly have my youth back and go through life again. Once is enough! The past, of which you speak with regret, I too regret it, for no one likes better to be lost in memories of old days, no one feels more keenly the emptiness and brevity of life—but I do not wish to be young again.... I cannot but feel that the sum total of good which I enjoy at present is far greater than that which stood to my credit in youth: therefore I do not in the least regret my forty-and-four years. Nor sixty, nor seventy, provided I am still sound mentally and physically! At the same time one ought not to fear death. In this respect I cannot boast. I am not sufficiently penetrated by religion to regard death as the beginning of a new life, nor am I sufficiently philosophical to be satisfied with the prospect of annihilation. I envy no one so much as the religious man....”
Diary.
“May 2nd (14th).
“The Valse gives me infinite trouble. I am growing old....”
“May 6th (18th Sunday).
“Went to church. I was very susceptible to religious impressions, and felt the tears in my eyes. The simple, healthy, religious spirit of the poorer classes always touches me profoundly. The worn-out old man, the little lad of four, who goes to the holy water of his own accord.”
“May 8th (20th), 1884.
“Worked all morning. Not without fatigue, but my Andante progresses, and seems likely to turn out quite nice... finished the Andante. I am very pleased with it.”
At this time Tchaikovsky resolved to take a small country house on his own account. “I want no land,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck, “only a little house, with a pretty garden, not too new. A stream is most desirable. The neighbourhood of a forest (which belonged to someone else) would be an attraction. The house must stand alone, not in a row of country villas, and, most important of all, be within easy reach of a station, so that I can get to Moscow at any time. I cannot afford more than two to three thousand roubles.”
Diary.
“May 11th (23rd), 1884.
“The first movement of the Suite, which is labelled ‘Contrasts,’ and the theme:
has grown so hateful since I tormented myself about it all day long that I resolved to set it aside and invent something else. After dinner I squeezed the unsuccessful movement out of my head. What does it mean? I now work with such difficulty! Am I really growing old?”
“May 12th (24th).
“After tea I took up the hateful ‘Contrasts’ once more. Suddenly a new idea flashed across me, and the whole thing began to flow.”
“May 17th (29th).
“Played Mozart, and enjoyed it immensely. An idea for a Suite from Mozart.”
“May 18th (30th).
“I am working too strenuously, as though I were being driven. This haste is unhealthy, and will, perhaps, reflect upon the poor Suite. My work (upon the variations before the finale) has been very successful....”
“May 21st (June 2nd).
“Worked well. Four variations completed.”
“May 23rd (June 4th).
“.... The Suite is finished.”
To P. Jurgenson.
“Grankino, June 20th (July 2nd), 1884.
“I live here in a very pleasant way, a quiet, countrified existence, but I work hard. A work of greater genius than the new Suite never was!!! My opinion of the new-born composition is so optimistic; God knows what I shall think of it a year hence. At least it has cost me some pains.”
To S. I. Taneiev.
“Grankino, June 30th (July 12th), 1884.
“... Although it was interesting to hear your opinion of my songs, I was rather angry with you for saying nothing whatever about your own work, plans, etc.
“Your criticisms of the songs—the end of the ‘Legend,” and the abuse of the minor in the ‘Lied vom Winter’—are very just.... I should like to say your praise was equally well deserved, but modesty forbids. So I will not say you are right, but that I am pleased with your commendations....
“At the present moment I am composing a third Suite. I wanted to write a Symphony, but it was not a success. However, the title is of no consequence. I have composed a big symphonic work in four movements: (1) Andante; (2) another Valse; (3) Scherzo; (4) Theme and Variations. It will be finished by the end of the summer, for I am working regularly and with zeal. Besides this, I am planning a concert-piece for pianoforte in two movements. It would be a fine thing if the work could be played during the coming season!”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Grankino, July 14th (26th), 1884.
“I shall not set to work upon the pianoforte Concerto, of which I wrote to you, before autumn or early winter. Of course, it will be difficult ever again to find such an ideal interpreter as Nicholas Rubinstein, but there is a pianist whom I had in my mind when I thought of a second Concerto. This is a certain young man, called d’Albert, who was in Moscow last winter, and whom I heard several times in public and at private houses. To my mind he is a pianist of genius, the legitimate successor of Rubinstein. Taneiev—whom I value very highly as musician, teacher, and theorist—would also be a suitable interpreter, if he had just that vein of virtuosity wherein lies the secret of the magic spell which great interpreters exercise over the public.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Skabeievka, July 28th (August 9th), 1884.
“The coachman will have told you our adventures. All went well as far as Kochenovka. There I had supper, and read Sapho by the mingled light of the moon and a lantern, keeping an anxious eye upon the lightning that was flashing all around. At 11.30 p.m. we resumed our journey. The storm came nearer and nearer, until it broke over our heads. Although the constant flashes were mild, and the rain wetted us through, my nerves were overstrained. I was convinced we should miss the train.... Fortunately it was late. Here we had an appalling storm. The sight of it at the hour of sunset, which still glowed here and there through the clouds, was so grand that, forgetful of my fears, I stood by the door to watch it. The rest of the journey was comfortable. I read Sapho, which I do not like.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Skabeievka, July 25th (August 6th), 1884.
“... You ask my opinion upon Daudet’s Sapho... in spite of his great talent, this author has long since dropped out of favour with me. If Daudet had not dedicated the book to his sons in order to display the fact that it contained a lesson and a warning, I should say that he had described the sensuality and depravity of the hero and heroine very simply and picturesquely, with considerable sympathy. But in view of this dedication I feel indignant at the Pharisaism and false virtuousness of the author. In reality he wants to tickle the depraved taste of his public, and describes with cynical frankness the immorality of Parisian life, while pretending to deliver a sermon to his sons. He would have us believe him to be pursuing a moral aim, actuated by the noble aspiration of saving the young from evil ways. In reality his only aim was to produce a book which would please the immoral Parisian public, and to make money by it. One must own that he has attained his object. The book will have a great success, like Zola’s Pot-Bouille, the novels of Guy de Maupassant, and similar works of the new French school. When we reflect upon the group of people, and their way of life, as depicted by the author, we come to the conclusion that under the cloak of verisimilitude and realism the novel is fundamentally false. Sapho is an impossible being; at least I never came across a similar combination of honourable feeling and baseness, of nobility and infamy. Yet the author always sympathises with his heroine, and although, judging from the dedication, she is intended to inspire his sons with horror and repulsion, she must really seem very attractive to them. On the other hand, the virtuous characters in the book could not appeal sympathetically either to Daudet’s sons, or to anyone else; the tiresome Divonne, the hero’s impossible sister, and the rest of them—all these people are quite artificial. Sapho is an overdrawn type of a Parisian cocotte, but there is something true to nature in her. The others are not alive. Most insipid of all is Irène. Any young man reading the book must realise why Sapho succeeded in supplanting her in the heart of her husband Jean. It is here that Daudet’s hypocrisy is so evident, for while we ought to sympathise with Irène as greatly as we despise Sapho, in reality we involuntarily take the part of the depraved heroine. At the same time we cannot deny the great talent and mastery displayed in the book. Two or three dozen pages are wonderfully written.”