VII
Not until he reached Berlin did Tchaikovsky decide in favour of Florence, where he arrived early on January 18th (30th), 1890. Italy did not interest him at the moment. He was actuated only by one motive—to get away. Soon he was at work upon Pique Dame. His surroundings were favourable, and he made rapid progress. His condition of mind was not cheerful, however, as may be gathered from the following letter to Glazounov, dated January 30th (February 11th), 1890.
“Dear Alexander Constantinovich,—Your kind letter touched me very much. Just now I am sadly in need of friendly sympathy and intercourse with people who are intimate and dear. I am passing through a very enigmatical stage on my road to the grave. Something strange, which I cannot understand, is going on within me. A kind of life-weariness has come over me. Sometimes I feel an insane anguish, but not that kind of anguish which is the herald of a new tide of love for life; rather something hopeless, final, and—like every finale—a little commonplace. Simultaneously a passionate desire to create. The devil knows what it is! In fact, sometimes I feel my song is sung, and then again an unconquerable impulse, either to give it fresh life, or to start a new song.... As I have said, I do not know what has come to me. For instance, there was a time when I loved Italy and Florence. Now I have to make a great effort to emerge from my shell. When I do go out, I feel no pleasure whatever, either in the blue sky of Italy, in the sun that shines from it, in the architectural beauties I see around me, or in the teeming life of the streets. Formerly all this enchanted me, and quickened my imagination. Perhaps my trouble actually lies in those fifty years to which I shall attain two months hence, and my imagination will no longer take colour from its surroundings?
“But enough of this! I am working hard. Whether what I am doing is really good, is a question to which only posterity can give the answer.
“I feel the greatest sympathy for your misgivings as to the failure of your ‘Oriental Fantasia.’ There is nothing more painful than such doubts. But all evil has its good side. You say your friends did not approve of the work, but did not express their disapproval at the right time—at a moment when you could agree with them. It was wrong of them to oppose the enthusiasm of the author for his work, before it had had time to cool. But it is better that they had the courage to speak frankly, instead of giving you that meaningless, perfunctory praise some friends consider it their duty to bestow, to which we listen, and which we accept, because we are only too glad to believe. You are strong enough to guard your feelings as composer in those moments when people tell you the truth.... I, too, dear Alexander Constantinovich, have sometimes wished to be quite frank with you about your work. I am a great admirer of your gifts. I value the earnestness of your aims, and your artistic sense of honour. And yet I often think about you. I feel that, as an older friend who loves you, I ought to warn you against certain exclusive tendencies, and a kind of one-sidedness. Yet how to tell you this I do not quite know. In many respects you are a riddle to me. You have genius, but something prevents you from broadening out and penetrating the depths.... In short, during the winter you may expect a letter from me, in which I will talk to you after due reflection. If I fail to say anything apposite, it will be a proof of my incapacity, not the result of any lack of affection and sympathy for you.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Florence, February 2nd (14th), 1890.
“You have arranged the death scene of The Queen of Spades very well, and suitably for musical setting. I am very pleased with you as a librettist, only keep conciseness in view and avoid prolixity. As to the scene on the bridge, I have thought it over. You and Laroche are quite opposed, and in spite of my wish to have as few scenes as possible, and to be concise, I fear the whole of Act III. will be without any women actors, and that would be dull. Lisa’s part cannot be finished in the fourth scene; the audience must know what becomes of her.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Florence, February 6th (18th), 1890.
“... To-day, for the first time, I enjoyed my visit to Italy. So far I have felt indifferent—even hostile to it. But to-day the weather was so divine, and it was such a joy to gather a few violets in the Cascine! At Kamenka they only appear in April.
“Now to return to Pique Dame. How can we manage to make the part lighter for poor Figner? Seven scenes, in which he has to sing without intermission! Do think it over.
“I am anxiously awaiting the ball scene. For Heaven’s sake lose no time, Modi, or I shall find myself without any text to set.”
To A. P. Merkling.
“Florence, February 7th (19th), 1890.
“To-day I wrote the scene in which Hermann goes to the old Queen of Spades. It was so gruesome that I am still under the horrible spell of it.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Florence, February 12th (24th), 1890.
“If, God willing, I finish the opera, it will be something chic. The fourth scene will have an overwhelming effect.”
Meanwhile, on February 4th (16th), The Enchantress had been produced in Moscow for the first time. Kashkin wrote of it as follows:—
“That the opera had been very superficially studied was evident from the entire performance, which was most unsatisfactory. I will not blame the artists, who did what they could, while some of them were very good; but the ensemble was bad, in consequence of insufficient rehearsal. All went in a more or less disconnected way. The orchestra accompanied very roughly, without light or shade, the brass playing ff throughout and drowning everything else with their monotonous noise. Madame Korovina, who took the chief part, was ill, and should not have been allowed to sing. We see from the repertory published in the newspapers that The Enchantress will not be put on again before Lent. Thank goodness! The repetition of such a performance is most undesirable. An opera should be studied before it is put on the stage.”
The Enchantress, however, was not repeated, even after Lent. With this solitary performance its career came to an end as regards the Imperial Opera House.
Diary.
“February 21st (March 5th), 1890.
“This morning I had a letter from Alexis. He says Theklousha (his wife) prays God to take her soon. Poor, poor sufferer!
“Began the fifth scene, and in imagination I finished it yesterday, but in reality only got through it early to-day.”
“February 24th (March 8th), 1890.
“Heard from Alexis. Theklousha is dead. I wept. Altogether a sad morning.... In the evening an act from Puritani. With all his glaring defects, Bellini is fascinating!”
“March 3rd (15th), 1890.
“Finished everything this morning. God be praised, Who has let me bring my work to an end.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Florence, March 3rd (15th), 1890.
“Yesterday I set your own closing scene to music. When I came to Hermann’s death and the final chorus, I was suddenly overcome by such intense pity for Hermann that I burst out crying. Afterwards I discovered the reason for my tears (for I was never before so deeply moved by the sorrows of my hero, and I tried to explain to myself why it should be so now). I came to the conclusion that Hermann was to me not merely a pretext for writing this or that kind of music, but had been all the while an actual, living, sympathetic human being. Because I am very fond of Figner, and I always see Hermann in the form of Figner, therefore I have felt an intimate realisation of his fate.145 Now I hope my warm and lively feeling for the hero of my opera may be happily reflected in my music. In any case, I think Pique Dame by no means a bad opera. We shall see....
“Laroche writes that he and Napravnik do not approve of my having composed an opera in so short a time. They will not realise that to rush through my work is an essential feature of my character. I only work quickly. I took my time over The Enchantress and the Fifth Symphony, and they were failures, whereas I finished the Ballet in three weeks, and Oniegin was written in an incredibly short time. The chief thing is to love the work. I have certainly written with love. How I cried yesterday when they sang over my poor Hermann!”
Tchaikovsky had decided to leave Florence early in March for Rome. But failing to find rooms in any of the hotels, he stayed on in Florence for two or three weeks longer.
To Anna Merkling.
“Florence, March 5th (17th), 1890.
“... Heavens, what charming creatures children are! But little dogs are even more beautiful. They are simply the pearls of creation!... There is a breed here, almost unknown with us, called ‘Lupetto.’ You can often buy puppies of this kind on the Lungarno. If my Alexis did not hate dogs (they have a wretched life when the servants dislike them), I could not resist buying one of them.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Florence, March 19th (31st), 1890.
“Just two months ago I began the composition of the opera. To-day I finished the pianoforte score of the second act. This is to me the most dreadful and nerve-exasperating occupation. I composed the opera with pleasure and self-oblivion; I shall orchestrate with delight; but to make an arrangement! All the time one has to keep undoing what is intended for orchestra. I believe my ill_health is simply the result of this confounded work. Nazar says I have very much altered the last week or two, and have been in a dreadful state of mind. Whether it is that the worst and most wearisome part of my work is nearing an end, or that the weather is finer, I cannot say, but since yesterday I feel much better.... Modi, either I am greatly mistaken or Pique Dame is a masterpiece. At one place in the fourth scene, which I was arranging to-day, I felt such horror, such gruesome thrills, that surely the listeners cannot escape the same impressions.
“Understand, that I shall certainly spend my fiftieth birthday in Petersburg. Besides yourself, Anatol, and Jurgenson, I shall write to no one.”
On March 27th (April 8th), Tchaikovsky completed the pianoforte arrangement of Pique Dame, and resolved to move on to Rome. “I am going there chiefly for Nazar’s sake,” he writes, “I want him to see the place.” For the first time, after nine weeks of continuous work, the composer enjoyed a little leisure, and spent one of his last days in the Uffizi and Pitti galleries. “In spite of my efforts,” he says, “I cannot acquire any appreciation of painting, especially of the older masters—they leave me cold.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Rome, March 27th (April 8th).
“... The cheerful feelings that came over me to-day as soon as I stepped into the streets, breathed the well-known air of Rome, and saw the old familiar places, made me realise how foolish I had been not to come here first of all. However, I must not blame poor Florence, which for no particular reason grew so detestable to me, since I was able to compose my opera there unmolested. Rome is much changed. Parts of it are unrecognisable. Yet, in spite of these alterations, it is a joy to be back in the dear place. I think of the years that have dropped into eternity, of the two Kondratievs, gone to their rest. It is very sad and yet it has a melancholy pleasure.... Nazar is enchanted with Rome. I seem to see you and Kolya at every turn. I shall stay here three weeks.”
To P. Jurgenson.
“Rome, March 28th (April 9th), 1890.
“All I hear about Safonov146 does not surprise me in the least. But in any case it must be confessed that he may be useful at this critical juncture. A man of such childlike guilelessness and rectitude as Taneiev can hardly uphold the prestige of the Conservatoire. A Safonov is useful when there is no longer a Rubinstein. Such a man as Nicholas Rubinstein, who had furious energy, and at the same time could quite forget himself in the work he loved, is rare indeed.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Rome, April 7th (19th), 1890.
“Dear Friend,—I am forced to flee from Rome. I could not preserve my incognito. A few Russians have already called to ask me to dinners, soirées, etc. I have refused every invitation, but my liberty is done for, and all pleasure in my visit at an end. Sgambati, the leading musician here, having heard from the Russians that I was in Rome, put my First Quartet into the programme of his chamber concert, and came to request my attendance. I could not possibly be ungracious, so I had to sacrifice one of my working hours in order to sit in a stuffy room and listen to a second-rate performance of my work; while all the time I was an object of curiosity to the audience, whom Sgambati had informed of my presence, and who seemed very curious to see what a Russian musician could be like. It was most unpleasant. As these occurrences are certain to be repeated, I have decided to return to Russia in two or three days by way of Venice and Vienna.
“You cannot imagine how I long for Russia, and with what joy I look forward to my rural solitude. Just now something wrong is going on in Russia. But nothing hinders my passionate love of my own land. I cannot imagine how formerly I was contented to stay so long away from it, and even to take some pleasure in being abroad.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Rome, April 7th (19th), 1890.
“.... The Quartet had a tremendous success; the papers praise it to the skies. But the papers here praise everything. Home, quick, quick, home!”