XIII
“‘Prince Bismarck,’ May 9th (21st).
“On account of the maddening pain in my back, I dressed with great difficulty, went below for my morning tea, and then walked about the ship to make myself better acquainted with the various quarters. A host of passengers, but of totally different appearance to those who travelled with me on the Bretagne. The most perceptible difference lies in the fact that there are no emigrants. At eight a.m. I was called to breakfast. My place had already been allotted to me. I had a middle-aged man for my neighbour, who immediately began to converse. Slept the whole morning. The sight of the sea leaves me indifferent. I think with horror of the rest of the journey, but also with longing: may it soon be over. This is a very fast ship; it is the magnificent new Prince Bismarck, and is making its first passage. Last week it only took six days and fourteen hours from Hamburg to New York. I trust we shall get over the horrible distance as quickly. The motion is not so smooth as that of the Bretagne. The weather is splendid just now. At breakfast I became better acquainted with my vis-à-vis. It is difficult to say to what nationality he belongs, as he speaks all languages wonderfully well; perhaps he is a Jew, so I told him on purpose the story of the importunate Jew. He lives in Dresden, and is a wholesale tobacco dealer. He has already discovered who I am. If he speaks the truth, he heard me conduct in New York; anyway, he improves on acquaintance. I have got so accustomed to talking in New York that, in spite of my preference for silence, I can stand his society without being bored. I am astonished to find I sleep so much. In the evening, soon after dinner, I was so overcome that I went to bed at ten o’clock and slept straight on until seven the next morning. Nothing particular happened during the day. A Mr. Aronson and his young wife introduced themselves to me. He is the proprietor of the Casino Theatre (favoured by Von Bülow), as I discovered by means of an autograph album which was sent to me that I might write my name and a few lines in it. Schröder, the man who attends to my cabin, is a good-natured young German; at table also there are two nice German stewards—this is very important for me. I am pleased with the ship, the cabin, and the food. As there are no emigrants I can walk on the lower deck; this is very pleasant, as I meet no first-class passengers there and can be quiet.
“May 11th (23rd).
“I keep very much to myself and, thanks to my splendid cabin, in which there is plenty of room to move about, I feel much freer than on the Bretagne. I only use the drawing-room in the morning when no one is there. There is a nice Steinway grand, and not at all a bad musical library, including a few of my own productions. The day is divided as follows: Dress, ring my bell, and Schröder brings me a cup of tea; first breakfast, eight o’clock; walk on the lower deck, work, read. By work I mean the sketches for my next Symphony. At twelve o’clock the gong sounds for second breakfast.... I am reading a book by Tatistchev, Alexandre et Napoléon.
“May 11th (23rd).
“In New York they so often assured me that the sea was calm at this time of year that I believed them. But what a disenchantment! Since early morning the weather has been getting worse: rain, wind, and towards evening quite a gale. A dreadful night, could not sleep, so sat on the sofa. Towards morning dozed a little.
“May 12th (24th).
“A detestable day. The weather is frightful. Seasickness, could eat nothing but an orange.
“May (13th) 25th.
“I feel quite unnerved from exhaustion and sickness. Yesterday evening I fell asleep in my clothes on my sofa and slept there the whole night. To-day the motion is less, but the weather is still dreadful. My nerves are inexpressibly strained and irritated by this ceaseless noise and horrible cracking. Shall I ever make up my mind to endure such torment again?
“During the course of the day the motion grew still less and the weather improved. I have taken such a dislike to the society of my fellow-passengers that the very sight of them annoys and irritates me. I constantly sit in my own cabin.
“May 14th (26th).
“The moon was magnificent to-night. I read in my cabin till I was tired, and then went out for a stroll on deck. Everyone, without exception, was asleep, and I was the only one of the 300 first-class passengers who had come out to enjoy the lovely night. It was beautiful beyond all words. It was strange to think of the terrible night on Sunday, when everything in my cabin, even my trunk, was hurled from one side to the other, and the vessel seemed to be fighting for life against the storm; when one was racked with terror, and, added to all, the electric lamp and bell fell with a crash on the floor and was smashed to pieces. That night I vowed never to make another sea-voyage. But Schröder, my steward, says he resolves to give up his place every time the weather is bad, but no sooner is he in harbour than he longs for the sea again. Perhaps it may be the same with me. The passengers are getting up a concert, and want me to play. Quite the worst part of a sea-voyage is having to know all the passengers.
“May 15th (27th).
“As we neared the Channel it became more lively. Hundreds of little ships came in sight. About two o’clock the English coast was visible; sometimes rocky and picturesque, sometimes flat and green with spring grass.... Soon afterwards we entered Southampton.
“May 16th (28th).
“After passing Southampton and the Isle of Wight, I went to sleep and awoke feeling rather chilly.... Enjoyed the views of the English coast and the sight of the many steamers and sailing vessels which enliven the Channel. We saw Folkestone and Dover. The North Sea is very lively. We passed Heligoland in the night
“May 17th (29th).
“Arrived early this morning at Cuxhaven.... At 8 a.m. we went on board a small steamer that took us to the Custom House. Long wait and examination. Arrived at Hamburg by midday.”
Tchaikovsky spent one day in Hamburg and one in Berlin; then travelled direct to Petersburg.
During his short stay there he was in a cheerful frame of mind. This was partly the result of his reunion with his friends and relatives, and partly the delightful impression of the early spring in Petersburg, which he always enjoyed. This time he was so charmed with the city that he had a great wish to settle in the neighbourhood, and commissioned us to look out for a suitable house, or a small country property.
Since Frolovskoe was becoming more and more denuded of its forests, and the demands of the landlord steadily increased, Tchaikovsky decided to leave. After many vain attempts to find a suitable country house, or to acquire a small property, he resolved to return to Maidanovo. While he was abroad, Alexis Safronov had moved all his belongings into the house he formerly occupied, and arranged it just as in 1886. Although Tchaikovsky was fond of this house and its surroundings, and looked forward to working there under the old conditions, his return somewhat depressed him. There was an air of decay about house and park; the walks did not please him; and then there was the prospect of an inroad of summer visitors.
Soon after settling in Maidanovo he was visited by his brother, Modeste Tchaikovsky, and his nephews, Vladimir Davidov and Count A. Litke. All four travelled to Moscow together, where he was greatly interested by the Franco-Russian Exhibition, and enjoyed acting as cicerone to his favourite nephews.
The chief musical works upon which he was engaged at this time were: the second act of the Ballet, The Nut-cracker; the completion of the opera, King René’s Daughter; the remodelling of the Sextet and the instrumentation of a symphonic poem, The Voyevode, composed the previous autumn while he was staying at Tiflis.
To P. Jurgenson.
“Maidanovo, June 3rd (15th), 1891.
“I have discovered a new instrument in Paris, something between a piano and a glockenspiel, with a divinely beautiful tone. I want to introduce this into the ballet and the symphonic poem. The instrument is called the ‘Celesta Mustel,’ and costs 1,200 francs. You can only buy it from the inventor, Mustel, in Paris. I want to ask you to order one of these instruments. You will not lose by it, because you can hire it out to the concerts at which The Voyevode will be played, and afterwards sell it to the Opera when my ballet is put on.... Have it sent direct to Petersburg; but no one there must know about it. I am afraid Rimsky-Korsakov and Glazounov might hear of it and make use of the new effect before I could. I expect the instrument will make a tremendous sensation.”
To J. Konius.
“June 15th (27th), 1891.
“... The news that you are engaged (for America) with Brodsky rejoices me. Brodsky is one of the most sympathetic men I ever met. He is also a fine artist and the best quartet player I ever heard, not excepting Laub, who was so great in this line.”
To V. Davidov.
“June 25th (July 7th), 1891.
“According to my promise, I write to let you know that I finished the sketch of the ballet yesterday. You will remember my boasting when you were here that I should get it done in about five days. But I have taken at least a fortnight. Yes, the old fellow is getting worn out. Not only is his hair turning white as snow and beginning to fall, not only is he losing his teeth, not only do his eyes grow weaker and get tired sooner, not only do his feet begin to drag—but he is growing less capable of accomplishing anything. This ballet is far weaker than The Sleeping Beauty—no doubt about it. We shall see how the opera turns out. Once I feel convinced that I can only contribute ‘warmed-up’ dishes to the musical bill of fare, I shall give up composing.”
The following is quoted from a letter to Arensky, who had been consulting Tchaikovsky as to the advisability of taking the post of Director of the Tiflis branch of the Musical Society:—
“I hardly know how to advise you, dear Anton Stepanovich. I would prefer not to do so. If you had some private means, I could only rejoice in the prospect of your going to the Caucasus for a time. But it saddens me to think of you in the provinces, remote from musical centres, overburdened with tiresome work, solitary and unable to hear good music. You cannot imagine how it depresses me to think of men like Rimsky-Korsakov, Liadov, and yourself being obliged to worry with teaching. But how can it be helped? I think if you bear it for another two years, and work hard, little by little, you may manage to live by composition only. I know in my own case this is not impossible. I earn enough now to keep a large family, if need were. I may tell you in conclusion, that Tiflis is a fascinating town, and life there is pleasant.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“Maidanovo, July 8th (20th), 1891.
“... Do not be vexed that I stayed so long in Petersburg without coming to see you in Reval.170... From your letter I gather that you are pretty comfortable there, although you mention many difficulties you have to contend with. I think one must be very politic and tactful in these things, then we can get over most difficulties. In the diplomatic service we must often faire bonne mine au mauvais jeu. There is nothing for it! I think you would find Valoniev’s diary interesting. He was governor of one of the Baltic provinces, and relates a great deal that is interesting. At that time Souvarov, the extreme Liberal, ruled in these provinces. In the long run the spirit of Pobiedonostsiev is better than the spirit of Souvorov.”
Towards the end of July a misfortune befell Tchaikovsky which was the cause of much subsequent anxiety. While he was taking his afternoon constitutional, and Alexis was resting in his room, a thief, who probably entered through the window, carried off the clock which had been given to him by Nadejda von Meck in 1888. This clock, which was beautifully decorated with a figure of Joan of Arc on one side, and on the other with the Apollo of the Grand Opéra, upon a background of black enamel, had been specially made in Paris, and cost 10,000 francs. For years Tchaikovsky had hardly consented to be parted from this gift, even for the necessary cleaning and repairs. It was his chief souvenir of his relations with his friend and benefactress. The police of Moscow and Klin were communicated with at once, but to no purpose: the clock was never recovered.
To V. Davidov.
“August 1st(13th), 1891.
“... I am now reading your “Chevrillon on Ceylon,”171 and thinking of you. I do not altogether share your enthusiasm. These modern French writers are terribly affected; they have a kind of affectation of simplicity which disgusts me almost as much as Victor Hugo’s high-sounding phrases, epithets, and antitheses. Everything that your favourite recounts in such a clever and lively style might be told in very simple and ordinary language, neither in such brief and broken sentences, nor yet in long periods with the subject and predicate in such forced and unnatural positions. It is very easy to parody this gentleman:—
“Une serviette de table négligemment attachée à son cou, il dégustait. Tout autour des mouches, avides, grouillantes, d’un noir inquiétant volaient. Nul bruit sinon un claquement de machoirs énervant. Une odeur moite, fétide, écœurante, lourde, répandait un je ne sais quoi d’animal, de carnacier dans l’air. Point de lumière. Un rayon de soleil couchant, pénétrant comme par hasard dans la chambre nue et basse, éclairait par-ci, par-là tantôt la figure blême du maître engurgitant sa soupe, tantôt celle du valet, moustachue, à traits kalmouks, stupide et rampante. On devinait un idiot servi par un idiot. 9 heures. Un morne silence régnait. Les mouches fatiguées, somnolentes, devenues moins agitées, se dispersaient. Et lá-bas, dans le lointain, par la fenêtre, on voyait une lune, grimaçante, enorme, rouge, surgir sur l’horizon embrasé. Il mangeait, il mangeait toujours. Puis l’estomac bourré, la face écarlate, l’œil hagard, il se leva et sortit, etc., etc., etc. I have described my supper this evening. I think Zola was the discoverer of this mode of expression.”
To A. Alferaki.
“August 1st (13th), 1891.
“... I have received your letter and the songs, and played through the latter. I have nothing new to add to what I have already said as to your remarkable creative gifts. It is useless to lament that circumstances have not enabled you to go through a course of strict counterpoint, which you specially needed. This goes without saying. Your resolve to confine yourself entirely to song-writing does not please me. A true artist, even if he possesses only a limited creative capacity, which hinders him from producing great works in certain spheres of art, should still keep the highest aim in view. Neither age, nor any other obstacle, should check his ambition. Why should you suppose one needs less than a complete all-round technique in order to compose a perfect song? With an imperfect technique you may limit your sphere of work as much as you please—you will never get beyond an elegant amateurism.... I dislike the system of putting the date of composition on each song. What is the use of it? What does it matter to the public when and where a work was composed?”
About August 20th Tchaikovsky left home for Kamenka, from whence he went on to stay with his brother Nicholas. Here he met his favourite poet, A. Fet, and became very friendly with him. Fet wrote a poem, “To Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky,” an attention which touched the musician very deeply. At the end of August he returned to Moscow in a very contented frame of mind.