XI
At the end of October Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg, to be present at the first performance of Napravnik’s opera, Harold. But as the performance was constantly postponed, he finally returned to Maidanovo without waiting for it. Nevertheless, the journey was not without results, for Vsievolojsky, Director of the Imperial Opera, commissioned Tchaikovsky for the first time to compose a ballet. Joukovsky’s Undine was chosen as a subject.
Judging from all accounts, this visit to Petersburg must have convinced Tchaikovsky of his great popularity there. Not only did he meet with a very friendly reception from the composers, with Rimsky-Korsakov at their head, but he received from an anonymous well-wisher, through the medium of Stassov, a premium of 500 roubles, usually bestowed on the best musical novelty of the season, judged in this instance to be Manfred. He was also honoured by a brilliant gathering on the occasion of his election as honorary member of the St. Petersburg Chamber Music Society.
To Rimsky-Korsakov.
“October 30th (November 11th), 1886.
“Dear Nicholas Andreievich,—I have a favour to ask. Arensky is now quite recovered, although I find him somewhat depressed and agitated. I like him so much and wish you would sometimes take an interest in him, for, as regards music, he venerates you more than anyone else. The best way of doing this would be to give one of his works at one of your next concerts. There, where all Russian composers find a place, should be a little room for Arensky, who, at any rate, is as good as the rest. But as you would not like to offend anyone, I propose that you should put one of Arensky’s works in the programme of your fourth concert instead of my Romeo overture. He needs stirring up; and such an impulse given by you would count for so much with him, because he loves and respects you. Please think it over and grant my wish. Thereby you will make your deeply devoted pupil (Arensky) very happy.
“In conclusion, I must add that your ‘Spanish Capriccio’ is a colossal masterpiece of instrumentation, and you may regard yourself as the greatest master of the present day.”
To M. Tchaikovsky.
“Moscow, November 19th (December 1st), 1886.
“... I arrived in Moscow early to-day. There has already been a rehearsal. I was ill again after my last letter to you. This time I was so bad that I decided to send for the doctor. It seemed to me that I was about to have a strange illness. Suddenly I received a telegram saying that I must be at the rehearsal.116 I answered that the rehearsal was not to be thought of, for I could not travel. But at the end of half an hour I suddenly felt so well that—in spite of terrible disinclination—I went to Moscow. Every trace of headache, which for ten days had so affected me, vanished. Is not this a curious pathological case?”
To A. S. Arensky.
“November 24th (December 6th), 1886.
“Dear Friend Anton Stepanovich,—I only received your welcome letter yesterday; I knew already from Taneiev that you had composed Marguerite Gautier and dedicated it to me. Thank you cordially for this dedication. The attention and honour you have shown me touch me deeply. Marguerite lies beside me on the table, and—in my free moments, which are not many—I cast a glance at it here and there, with much interest and pleasure. Please do not feel hurt that I did not write you my impressions at once. At the first glance I found the work very interesting, because you have entirely departed from your accustomed style. Marguerite has so little resemblance to the Suite and the Symphony that one could easily suppose it came from the pen of a different man. The elegance of form, harmony, and orchestration are the same, but the character of the theme and its working out are quite different. Naturally the question arises: Is it better than the Symphony and the Suite? At present I cannot answer.”
Although somewhat anticipating my narrative, I will insert here an extract from a later letter of Tchaikovsky’s, in which he gives Arensky his opinion of Marguerite Gautier.
To A. Arensky.
“Maidanovo, April 2nd (14th), 1887.
“Dear Anton Stepanovich,—I wrote to you in August that I would pronounce judgment on Marguerite Gautier as soon as I had heard the work and had leisure to study the score. I held it all the more my duty to wait because, although I value your talent very highly, I do not like your Fantasia. It is very easy to praise a man who is highly esteemed. But to say to him: ‘Not beautiful; I do not like it,’ without basing one’s judgment on a full explanation, is very difficult....
“I must state my opinion briefly. First the choice of subject. It was very painful and mortifying to me, and to all your friends, that you had chosen La Dame aux Camelias as the subject of your Fantasia. How can an educated musician—when there are Homer, Shakespeare, Gogol, Poushkin, Dante, Tolstoi, Lermontov, and others—feel any interest in the production of Dumas fils, which has for its theme the history of a demi-mondaine adventuress which, even if written with French cleverness, is in truth false, sentimental, and vulgar? Such a choice might be intelligible in Verdi, who employed subjects which could excite people’s nerves at a period of artistic decadence; but it is quite incomprehensible in a young and gifted Russian musician, who has enjoyed a good education, and is, moreover, a pupil of Rimsky-Korsakov and a friend of S. Taneiev.
“Now for the music: (1) The Orgies.—If we are to realise in these orgies a supper after a ball at the house of a light woman, in which a crowd of people participate, eat mayonnaise with truffles, and afterwards dance the cancan, the music is not wanting in realism, fire, and brilliancy. It is, moreover, saturated with Liszt, as is the whole Fantasia. Its beauty—if one looks at it closely—is purely on the surface; there are no enthralling passages. Such beauty is not true beauty, but only a forced imitation, which is rather a fault than a merit. We find this superficial beauty in Rossini, Donizetti, Bellini, Mendelssohn, Massenet, Liszt, and others. But they were also masters in their own way, though their chief characteristic was not the Ideal, after which we ought to strive. For neither Beethoven, nor Bach (who is wearisome, but still a genius), nor Glinka, nor Mozart, ever strove after this surface beauty, but rather the ideal, often veiled under a form which at first sight is unattractive.
“(2) Pastorale in Bougival.—Oh God! If you could only understand how unpoetical and unpastoral this Bougival is, with its boats, its inns, and its cancans! This movement is as good as most conventional pastoral ballets that are composed by musicians of some talent.
“(3) The Love Melody
is altogether beautiful. It reminds me of Liszt. Not of any particular melody, but it is in his style, after the manner of his semi-Italian melodies, which are wanting in the plasticity and simplicity of the true Italian folk airs. Moreover, the continuation of your theme:
is not only beautiful, but wonderful; it captivates both the ear and the heart.
“No one can ever reproach you with regard to the technical part of your work, which deserves unqualified praise.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Moscow, December 4th (16th), 1886.
“My dear Modi,—Something very important happened to-day. I conducted the first orchestral rehearsal in such style that all were astonished (unless it were mere flattery), for they had expected I should make a fool of myself. The nearer came the terrible day, the more unbearable was my nervousness. I was often on the point of giving up the idea of conducting. In the end I mastered myself, was enthusiastically received by the orchestra, found courage to make a little speech, and raised the bâton. Now I know I can conduct, I shall not be nervous at the performance.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Moscow, January 14th (26th), 1887.
“My very dear Friend,—I have been enjoying your hospitality for a week.117 I live in your house as if under the wing of Christ. Your servants are so careful of my welfare that I cannot praise them enough. I only regret that I can be so little at home. Daily rehearsals. I take a walk every morning, and by eleven o’clock I am waiting in the conductor’s desk. The rehearsal is not over till four o’clock, and then I am so tired that when I return home I have to lie down for a while. Towards evening I feel better and take some food.
“The conducting gives me great anxiety and exhausts my whole nervous system. But I must say it also affords me great satisfaction. First of all, I am very glad to have conquered my innate, morbid shyness; secondly, it is a good thing for a composer to conduct his own work, instead of having constantly to interrupt the conductor to draw his attention to this, or that, mistake; thirdly, all my colleagues have shown me such genuine sympathy that I am quite touched by it, and very pleased. Do you know I feel much less agitation than when I sit at the rehearsal doing nothing. If all goes well, I believe that not only will my nerves be none the worse, but it will have a beneficial effect on them.”
The first performance of Les Caprices d’Oxane took place at Moscow on January 19th (31st), 1887, and had a far-reaching influence on Tchaikovsky’s future, because he then made his first successful attempt at conducting. The great interest which the production of a new opera always awakens was thereby doubled, and all the places were taken before the opening night. The singers did their work conscientiously; there was no fault to be found, but no one made a memorable “creation” of any part. The mounting and costumes were irreproachable.
The public greeted the composer-conductor with great enthusiasm. Gifts of all kinds showed plainly that it was Tchaikovsky himself who was honoured, not the new conductor and composer of Les Caprices d’Oxane. The opera was a success; four numbers had to be repeated da capo.
The Press criticisms on this occasion were all favourable, even the Sovremenny Izvesty, in which Krouglikov, as we know, generally criticised Tchaikovsky’s works so severely. In short, the opera really had a brilliant success; far greater than that achieved by Eugene Oniegin in Petersburg. Nevertheless this opera only remained in the repertory for two seasons.
But little can be said about that which interests us most—the impression made by Tchaikovsky’s conducting. The severest judge and critic, Tchaikovsky himself, was satisfied. We know in what an objective spirit he criticised the success of his works, so we can safely believe him when he says he fulfilled his task satisfactorily. He describes this memorable evening as follows:—
To E. K. Pavlovskaya.
“Moscow, January 20th (February 1st), 1887.
“I did not expect to be very excited on the day of the performance, but when I awoke, quite early, I felt really ill, and could only think of the approaching ordeal as of a horrible nightmare. I cannot describe what mental agonies I suffered during the course of the day. Consequently, at the appointed hour, I appeared half dead at the theatre. Altani accompanied me to the orchestra. Immediately the curtain went up and, amid great applause, I was presented with many wreaths from the chorus, orchestra, etc. While this took place, I somewhat recovered my composure, began the Overture well, and by the end felt quite master of myself. There was great applause after the Overture. The first Act went successfully, and afterwards I was presented with more wreaths, among them yours, for which many thanks. I was now quite calm, and conducted the rest of the opera with undivided attention. It is difficult to say if the work really pleased. The theatre was at least half-full of my friends. Time and future performances will show if the applause was for me personally (for the sake of past services), or for my work. Now the question is, how did I conduct? I feel some constraint in speaking about it. Everyone praised me; they said they had no idea I possessed such a gift for conducting. But is it true? Or is it only flattery? I shall conduct twice more, and after the third time I ought to know for certain how much truth there is in all this.”
I have seldom seen Tchaikovsky in such a cheerful frame of mind as on that evening. We did not reach home till after five o’clock in the morning, and he immediately sank into a deep sleep. After so many days of anxiety and excitement he really needed rest! No one was more unprepared than he for the sad news which reached us next morning.
About seven o’clock I was aroused by a telegram which announced the death of our niece Tatiana, the eldest daughter of Alexandra Davidov. She had died quite suddenly at a masked ball in Petersburg. Not only was she a near relative, but also a highly gifted girl of great beauty. It required considerable resolution on my part to break the sad news to my brother when he awoke at eleven o’clock, happy and contented, and still under the pleasant impressions of the previous evening.
In spite of this heavy blow, Tchaikovsky did not alter his decision to conduct Les Caprices d’Oxane for two nights longer. The constant activity, and anxiety of a different nature, helped to assuage the violence of his grief.