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Early in September, 1890, Tchaikovsky spent a day or two in Kiev on his way to Tiflis. In the former town he learnt that Prianichnikov, a favourite singer and theatrical impresario, was anxious to produce Dame de Pique. The idea pleased Tchaikovsky, for, thanks to Prianichnikov’s energy, the opera at Kiev almost surpassed that of Moscow as regards ensemble and the excellence of the staging in general.
On October 20th (November 1st) Tchaikovsky conducted a concert given by the Tiflis branch of the Musical Society, the programme of which was drawn exclusively from his own works. The evening was a great success for the composer, who received a perfect ovation and was “almost smothered in flowers,” besides being presented with a bâton.
Tiflis was the first town to welcome Tchaikovsky with cordiality and enthusiasm; it was also the first to accord him a warm and friendly farewell, destined, alas! to be for eternity.
On his return to Frolovskoe he busied himself with the collected edition of his songs, which Jurgenson proposed to issue shortly. The composer stipulated that the songs should be reprinted in their original keys, for, as he writes to Jurgenson: “I have neither strength nor patience to look through all the transpositions, which have been very badly done, and are full of the stupidest mistakes.”
From Frolovskoe Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg, about the middle of November, to attend the rehearsals for his latest opera, Pique Dame. During his stay at the Hôtel Rossiya he arranged an audition of his newly composed sextet. The instrumentalists were: Albrecht, Hildebrandt, Wierzbilowicz, Hille, Kouznietsov and Heine. As audience, he invited Glazounov, Liadov, Laroche, and a few friends and relatives. Neither his hearers, nor the composer himself, were equally pleased with all the movements of the sextet, so that he eventually resolved to rewrite the Scherzo and Finale. Apart from this one disappointment, the rest of his affairs—including the rehearsals—went so well that his prevailing mood at this time was cheerful; although the numerous festivities given in his honour hindered him from keeping up his correspondence during this visit to Petersburg. Not a single letter appears to exist dating from these weeks of his life.
On December 6th (18th) a rehearsal of the opera was given before their Imperial Majesties and many leaders of society in the capital. The success of the work was very evident; yet Tchaikovsky had an idea that the Emperor did not care for it. As we shall see, later on, he was quite mistaken in coming to this conclusion.
The first public representation took place on December 7th (19th), 1890, just a year after the commencement of the work. Not one of Tchaikovsky’s operas had a better caste than Pique Dame. The part of Hermann was taken by the celebrated singer Figner, while the heroine was represented by his wife. The rôles of the old Countess and Paulina were respectively allotted to Slavina and Dolina. Each of these leading singers distinguished themselves in some special quality of their art. Throughout the entire evening artists and audience alike experienced a sense of complete satisfaction, rarely felt during any operatic performance. Napravnik as conductor, and Figner in the part of hero, surpassed themselves, and did most to ensure the success of the opera. The scenery and dresses, by their beauty and historical accuracy, were worthy of the fine musical interpretation.
The applause increased steadily to the end of the work, and composer and singers were frequently recalled. At the same time, no one would have ventured to predict that the opera would even now be holding its own in the repertory, for there was no question of a great ovation.
The critics not only unanimously condemned the libretto, but did not approve of the music. One remarked: “As regards instrumentation, Tchaikovsky is certainly a great poet; but in the actual music he not only repeats himself, but does not shrink from imitating other composers.” Another thought this “the weakest of all his efforts at opera.” A third called the work “a card problem,” and declared that, musically speaking, “the accessories prevailed over the essential ideas, and external brilliance over the inner content.”
A few days after the first performance of Pique Dame in St. Petersburg, Tchaikovsky went through the same experience in Kiev, with this difference, that the reception of the opera in the southern city far surpassed in enthusiasm that which had been accorded to it in the capital.
“It was indescribable,” he wrote to his brother on December 21st (January 2nd, 1891). “I am very tired, however, and in reality I suffer a great deal. My uncertainty as to the immediate future weighs upon me. Shall I give up the idea of wandering abroad or not? Is it wise to accept the offer of the Opera Direction,151 for the sextet seems to point to the fact that I am going down-hill? My brain is empty; I have not the least pleasure in work. Hamlet152 oppresses me terribly.”
To Ippolitov-Ivanov.
“Kamenka, December 24th, 1890 (January 5th, 1891).
“In Petersburg I frequently saw the Intendant of the Opera, and tried to throw out a bait with regard to your Asra. I shall be able to go more closely into the matter in January, but I can tell you already there is little hope for next year. Rimsky-Korsakov’s Mlada is being considered, and I am commissioned to write a one-act opera and a ballet.... In this way I am involuntarily a hindrance to the younger composers, who would be glad to see their works performed at the Imperial Opera. This troubles me, but the temptation is too great, and I am not yet convinced that the time has come for me to make room for the younger generation.... As I have also asked Kondratiev—at Arensky’s request—to persuade the Direction into giving a performance of his Dream on the Volga, I must warn you that you will meet with great difficulties in gaining your end.... No one knows better than I do how important it is for a young composer to get his works performed at a great theatre, therefore I would be willing to make some sacrifice, if I were sure it would be of any use. But supposing I were to relinquish my commission to compose an opera and a ballet. What would be the result? They would rather put on three foreign operas than risk a new Russian one by a young composer.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Kamenka, January 1st (13th), 1890.
“Do you sometimes give a thought to King René’s Daughter?153 It is very probable that I shall end by going to work in Italy. In that case the libretto ought to be in my hands by the end of January. And the ballet? I shall spend a fortnight at Frolovskoe.”
The time Tchaikovsky now spent at Frolovskoe was devoted to the Hamlet music, which he had promised Guitry should be ready in February.
Not one of his works inspired him with less enthusiasm than this. As a rule he rather enjoyed working to order, but he took up this task with great repugnance, because he had to begin by arranging the existing Hamlet overture, originally written for full orchestra, for the small band of the Michael Theatre. At his request the orchestra of twenty-nine was increased by seven musicians, but there was no room to accommodate a larger number. In spite of his disinclination for the work, Tchaikovsky succeeded in composing several numbers which delighted the public; while one movement (The Funeral March) became exceedingly popular.
Tchaikovsky arrived at Frolovskoe on January 6th (18th), and immediately telegraphed to the concert agent, Wolf, that he would be unable to fulfil the engagements made for him at Mainz, Buda-Pesth, and Frankfort.
It was not merely the composition of the Hamlet music which caused him to relinquish these engagements; at this time he was suffering from a nervous affection of the right hand, which made conducting a matter of considerable difficulty.
To S. I. Taneiev.
“January 14th (26th), 1891.
“The question: How should opera be written? is one I answer, have answered, and always shall answer, in the simplest way. Operas, like everything else, should be written just as they come to us. I always try to express in the music as truthfully and sincerely as possible all there is in the text. But truth and sincerity are not the result of a process of reasoning, but the inevitable outcome of our inmost feelings. In order that these feelings should have warmth and vitality, I always choose subjects in which I have to deal with real men and women, who share the same emotions as myself. That is why I cannot bear the Wagnerian subjects, in which there is so little human interest. Neither would I have chosen your subject, with its supernatural agencies, its inevitable crimes, its Eumenides and Fates as dramatis personæ. As soon as I have found a subject, and decided to compose an opera, I give free rein to my feelings, neither trying to carry out Wagner’s principles, nor striving after originality. At the same time I make no conscious effort to go against the spirit of my time. If Wagner had not existed, probably my compositions would have been different to what they are. I may add that even the ‘Invincible Band’ has had some influence on my operas. Italian music, which I loved passionately from my childhood, and Glinka, whom I idolised in my youth, have both influenced me deeply, to say nothing of Mozart. But I never invoked any one of these musical deities and bade him dispose of my musical conscience as he pleased. Consequently I do not think any of my operas can be said to belong to a particular school. Perhaps one of these influences may occasionally have gained the upper hand and I have fallen into imitation; but whatever happened came of itself, and I am sure I appear in my works just as God made me, and such as I have become through the action of time, nationality, and education. I have never been untrue to myself. What I am, whether good or bad, others must judge for me....
“Arensky’s opera154 did not please me much when he played me fragments of it in Petersburg after his illness. I liked it a little better when he played it to you at Altani’s; far more when I went through it myself this summer; and now, having seen it actually performed, I think it one of the best of Russian operas. It is very elegant and equal throughout; only the end lacks something of inspiration. It has one defect: a certain monotony of method which reminds me of Korsakov.... Arensky is extraordinarily clever in music; everything is so subtly and truly thought out. He is a very interesting musical personality.”
To P. Jurgenson.
“January 15th (27th), 1891.
“Dear Friend,—Wolf has sent me the letter from that American gentleman who has arranged for my engagement. It is so easy and profitable that it would be foolish to lose this opportunity of an American tour, which has long been one of my dreams. This explains my telegram to you yesterday. In America, the news that I could not go, because my right hand was disabled, reached them by cable, and they were very much upset. Now they are awaiting an answer—yes or no.”
To the same.
“January 17th (29th), 1891.
“Dear Soul,—Send me immediately my Legend for chorus, and the Liturgy and other church works, with the exception of the Vespers. I must make a selection for the American festival.155 Have you the Children’s Songs in Rahter’s edition? I want the German text for the Legend.”
At the close of January Tchaikovsky went to St. Petersburg. Early in February he had to conduct at a concert in aid of the school founded by the Women’s Patriotic League. This annual concert drew a fashionable audience, who only cared for the singing of such stars as Melba and the De Reszkes. Consequently Tchaikovsky’s Third Suite merely served to try their patience.
His reception on the 9th, at the performance of Hamlet (at the Michael Theatre), was equally poor. But he was agreeably surprised at the individual criticisms of his music which reached his ears. “I am not averse from your idea of publishing “the Hamlet music,” he wrote to Jurgenson, “for it pleased, and everyone is delighted with the March.”
Meanwhile the Direction of the Imperial Opera were discussing the opera and ballet which Tchaikovsky had been commissioned to compose. For the former, Herz’s play, King René’s Daughter—translated into Russian by Zvanstiev—was chosen; and for the ballet, Casse-Noisette (“The Nut-cracker”). Neither of these subjects awoke in Tchaikovsky that joy of creation he had experienced while composing The Sleeping Beauty and Pique Dame. There were several reasons for this. The Casse-Noisette subject did not at all please him. He had chosen King René’s Daughter himself, but he did not know as yet how the libretto would suit him. He was also annoyed with the Direction because they had engaged foreign singers, and were permitting them to sing in French and Italian at the Russian Opera. Thirdly, in view of the American tour, he did not feel master of his time, and really had no idea how he should get through so much music by December, 1891. Finally, he was very deeply mortified.
The source of his vexation lay in the fact that after its thirteenth performance Pique Dame was unexpectedly withdrawn until the autumn, although almost all the tickets had been secured beforehand for at least another ten performances. No definite reason was assigned for this action, which was the outcome of mere caprice on the part of some unknown person. Tchaikovsky’s anxiety was aggravated by the fear that his favourite work might disappear altogether from the repertory. He suspected that its withdrawal was ordered at the desire of the Emperor, who—so he fancied—did not like the opera. Anyone else would have discovered the real reason by the medium of inquiry, but Tchaikovsky was prevented from speaking of it in Petersburg “by pride and fear,” as he wrote to Jurgenson, “lest people should think I was regretting the royalty; and, on their part, the members of the operatic Direction carefully avoided mentioning the subject to me.” After a while he poured out his heart in a letter to Vsievolojsky, who, in reply, entirely reassured him as to his fears. The Emperor, he said, was very pleased with Pique Dame, and all that Tchaikovsky composed for the opera in Petersburg awakened a lively interest in the Imperial box. “Personally, I need not ‘lay floral tributes’ before you,” he concludes, “for you know how greatly I admire your talents.... In Pique Dame your dramatic power stands out with startling effect in two scenes: the death of the Countess and Hermann’s madness. I think you should keep to intimate drama and avoid grandiose subjects. Jamais, au grand jamais, vous ne m’avez impressioné comme dans ces deux tableaux d’un réalisme saissisant.”
Comforted by this letter, Tchaikovsky set to work upon his new ballet, Casse-Noisette. “I am working with all my might,” he wrote to his brother from Frolovskoe, “and I am growing more reconciled to the subject. I hope to finish a considerable part of the first act before I go abroad.”
Early in March he left Frolovskoe and travelled to Paris, viâ St. Petersburg.
To Vladimir Davidov.
“Berlin, March 8th (20th), 1891.
“Against this form of home-sickness, that you have hardly experienced as yet, which is more agonising than anything in this world, there is but one remedy—to get drunk. Between Eydkuhnen and Berlin I consumed an incredible amount of wine and brandy; consequently I slept, though badly.... To-day I am less home-sick, yet all the while I feel as though some vampire were sucking at my heart. I have a headache, and feel weak, so I shall spend the night in Berlin.... After the midday meal I shall take a long walk through the town and go to a concert where my ‘1812’ overture is being played.
“It is great fun to sit incognito among a strange audience and listen to one’s own works. I leave to-morrow, and my next letter will be written from Paris. Bob, I idolise you! Do you remember how I once told you that the happiness your presence gave me was nothing compared to all I suffered in your absence? Away from home, with the prospect of long weeks and months apart, I feel the full meaning of my affection for you.”
“I had already been in Paris a month when my brother arrived on March 10th (22nd),” says Modeste Tchaikovsky. “This was the first time I had seen him abroad, except in a very intimate circle. Now I saw him as the artist on tour. This period has left an unpleasant impression on my memory. He had not told me the hour of his arrival, and I only knew of it when I returned one evening to my hotel. He was already asleep, and the servants told me he did not wish to be aroused. This, in itself, was a symptom of an abnormal frame of mind. As a rule he was eager for the first hour of meeting. We met the next morning, and he evinced no sign of pleasure, only wondered how I—who was under no obligation—could care to stay so long away from Russia. A chilling and gloomy look, his cheeks flushed with excitement, a bitter laugh upon his lips—this is how I always remember Peter Ilich during that visit to Paris. We saw very little of each other; he was continually occupied either with Colonne, or Mackar, or somebody. Or he sat in his room surrounded by visitors of all kinds. The real Peter Ilich only reappeared in the evening when, in the society of Sophie Menter, Sapellnikov, and Konius—a young violinist in Colonne’s orchestra, formerly his pupil in Moscow—he rested after the rush and bustle of the day.”
The concert which Tchaikovsky was to conduct in Paris on March 24th (April 5th) was the twenty-third of Colonne’s series, and the French conductor had relinquished his place for the occasion because he himself was engaged in Moscow. The colossal programme included: (1) the Third Suite, (2) Pianoforte Concerto No. 2 (Sapellnikov), (3) Sérénade Mélancolique (Johann Wolf), (4) Songs, (5) Andante from the First Quartet (arranged for string orchestra), (6) Symphonic Fantasia, The Tempest, (7) Slavonic March. The room was crowded, and all the works met with notable success. The Press was also unanimous in its favourable verdict.
But nothing could appease Tchaikovsky’s home-sickness. There still remained twelve days before he sailed from Havre for America. Partly to work at his opera and ballet, partly to have a little rest and freedom, he decided to spend ten days at Rouen. On April 4th Sophie Menter, Sapellnikov, and myself were to meet him there, and see him off the following day from Havre.
This plan was not carried out, however, for on March 29th I received a telegram informing me of the death of our sister Alexandra Davidov.
For some years past, in consequence of a serious illness, which gradually cut her off from her relations with others, this sister had not played so important a part in the life of Peter Ilich. Continually fighting against her malady, sorely tried by the death of her two elder daughters, she could not keep up the same interest as of old in her brother’s existence. Yet he loved her dearly, and she was as essential to his happiness as ever. She, who had been to him a haven and a refuge from all the troubles of life, was still the holiest reliquary of his childhood, his youth, and the Kamenka period of his life; for, together with Nadejda von Meck, she had been his chief support, making him welcome, and bestowing upon him the most affectionate attention.
I was aware that the news of her death would come as a crushing blow to my brother, and felt it imperative to break it to him in person. The same day I set out for Rouen. Peter Ilich was as delighted to see me as though we had not met for ages. It was not difficult to guess at the overwhelming loneliness which he had experienced during his voluntary exile. Apart from the fact that I found it hard to damp his cheerful mood, I became more and more preoccupied with the idea: was it wise to tell him of our loss under the present circumstances? I knew it was too late for him to give up his journey to America. He had already taken his ticket to New York. What would he have done during the long voyage alone, which he already dreaded, had he been overweighted with this grief? In America, distracted by the anxieties of his concerts, the sad news would not come as so great a shock. Therefore, in answer to his question, why had I come, I did not reveal the truth, but simply said that I, too, felt home-sick, and had come to say good-bye before starting for Russia the next day. He seemed almost pleased at my news.... Incomprehensible to others, I understood his satisfaction. He had often said: “Modeste is too closely akin to myself.” In Paris, it vexed him to realise that I did not yearn for our native land. Now that he believed I was content to cut short my stay abroad, he forgave me, and our meeting was as hearty as though we had come together after a long separation. This made it all the more difficult to tell him what had happened, and I returned to Paris after a touching farewell, without having broken the news to him. I had warned our friends in Paris, and there were no Russian newspapers to be had in Rouen. All letters from home were to be addressed to the Hôtel Richepanse, whence I requested that they should be forwarded straight to America.
Firmly convinced that my brother would not receive the melancholy news until he reached New York, I started for St. Petersburg.
But no sooner had his brother left Rouen than Tchaikovsky’s depression reached a climax. First of all he wrote to Vsievolojsky that he could not possibly have the ballet and opera ready before the season of 1892-3; and then he resolved to return to Paris for a couple of days, to distract his anxiety as to the approaching journey.
On his arrival the truth became known to him, and he wrote the following letter to his brother:—
“Modi, yesterday I went to Paris. There I visited the reading-room in the Passage de l’Opéra, took up the Novoe Vremya and read the announcement of Sasha’s death. I started up as though a snake had stung me. Later on I went to Sophie Menter’s and Sapellnikov’s. What a fortunate thing they were here! I spent the night with them. To-day I start, viâ Rouen and Le Havre. At first I thought it was my duty to give up America and go to Petersburg, but afterwards I reflected that this would be useless. I should have had to return the 5,000 francs I had received, to relinquish the rest, and lose my ticket. No, I must go to America. Mentally I am suffering much. I am very anxious about Bob, although I know from my own experience that at his age we easily recover from such blows.
“.... For God’s sake write all details to New York. To-day, even more than yesterday, I feel the absolute impossibility of depicting in music the ‘Sugar-plum Fairy.’”