XIV 1891-1892
Through September, and the greater part of October, Tchaikovsky remained at Maidanovo, working uninterruptedly upon the opera Iolanthe and the orchestration of The Voyevode. The work went easily, and his health was good. The evenings, which during the last years of his life brought home to him a sense of his loneliness, were enlivened by the presence of Laroche, who was staying in the house. The friends played arrangements for four hands, or Laroche read aloud. Everything seemed so ordered as to leave no room for dissatisfaction with his lot; and yet his former contentment with his surroundings had vanished.
The theft of his clock was still a matter of anxiety. He might have partially forgotten it, had not the police announced the capture of the criminal. “I am living in the atmosphere of one of Gaboriau’s novels,” he wrote to his brother. “The police have caught the criminal, and he has confessed. But nothing will induce him to reveal where he has hidden the clock. To-day he was brought to me in the hopes that I might persuade him to tell the truth.... He said he would confess all, if he was left alone with me. We went into the next room. There he flung himself at my feet and implored forgiveness. Of course I forgave him, and only begged him to say where the clock was. Then he became very quiet and afterwards declared he had never stolen it at all!... You can imagine how all this has upset me, and how it has set me against Maidanovo.”
Another cause of his passing discontent was wounded pride. So far he believed himself to have scored a great success in America; he was convinced that his return was anxiously waited, and that his popularity had greatly increased. One day, however, he received a letter from Morris Reno, who had originally engaged him, offering him a three months’ tour with twenty concerts at a fee of 4,000 dollars. Seeing that on the first occasion he had received 2,400 dollars for four concerts, Tchaikovsky immediately concluded that he had greatly overrated the importance of his previous visit, and was deeply mortified in consequence. He telegraphed in reply to Reno two words only: “Non. Tchaikovsky.” Afterwards he came to recognise that there was nothing offensive in the proposal made to him, and that it in no way denoted any falling off in the appreciation of the Americans. But the desire to return was no longer so keen; only a very substantial pecuniary advantage would have induced him to undertake the voyage.
Finally, he had another reason for feeling somewhat depressed at this moment. The will which he made in the month of September involuntarily caused him to think of that “flat-nosed horror,” which was sometimes his equivalent for death. He had hitherto been under the impression that the law which existed before the accession of Alexander III. was still in force, and that at his death all his rights in his operas would pass into the hands of the Theatrical Direction. The discovery that he had more than a life interest in them was the reason for making a will. It proves how much attention Tchaikovsky must have given to his contracts for Eugene Oniegin, Mazeppa, and the later operas before signing them, since the clause relating to his hereditary rights was prominent in them all. When his brother Modeste called his attention to the fact, he would not believe him until he had inquired from the Direction, when he found himself agreeably mistaken. He was always anxious as to the fate of certain people whom he supported during his lifetime, and was thankful to feel that this assistance would be continued after his death.
The number of those he assisted continually increased. “I was the most expensive pensioner,” says Modeste Tchaikovsky, “for he allowed me about two thousand roubles a year.” But he always met every request for money half-way. Here are a few specimens of his generosity, quoted from letters to Jurgenson and others:—
“Dear Friend,—I want to help X. in some way. You are selling the tickets for his concert. Should they go badly, take fifteen or twenty places on my behalf and give them to whomsoever you please. Of course, X. must know nothing about it.”
“If you are in pecuniary difficulties,” he wrote to Y., “come to your sincere friend (myself), who now earns so much from his operas and will be delighted to help you. I promise not a soul shall hear of it; but it will be a great pleasure to me.”
“Please write at once to K., that he is to send Y. twenty-five roubles a month. He may pay him three months in advance.”
There would be no difficulty in multiplying such instances. Not only his neighbour’s need, but the mere whim of another person, awoke in Tchaikovsky the desire of fulfilment. He always wished to give all and receive nothing. It is not surprising, therefore, that there were occasionally periods—as in September and October, 1891—when he found himself penniless and felt the shortness of funds, chiefly because he was unable to help others.
His correspondence with concert agents, publishers and all kinds of applicants had become a great burden to him in those days.
All these things conduced to that mood of melancholy which is reflected in the letters written at this time.
At the end of October he went to Moscow, to be present at the first performance of Pique Dame, and to conduct Siloti’s concert, at which his Symphonic Fantasia, The Voyevode, was brought out.
To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich.
“Moscow, October 31st (November 12th), 1891.
“It is difficult to say how deeply your precious lines touched and delighted me. Naturally I felt in my heart of hearts that you had not forgotten me—but it is pleasant to have some clear evidence that amid all your varied and complicated occupations, and while under the impression of a profound family sorrow, you still found time to think of me.
“I was very pleased to make Fet’s acquaintance. From his ‘Reminiscences,’ which were published in the Russky Viestnik, I fancied it would not be very interesting to converse with him. On the contrary, he is most agreeable company, full of humour and originality. If your Highness only knew how enchanting his summer residence is! The house and park—what a cosy retreat for a poet in his old age! Unluckily, as his wife complained to me, the poet does not enjoy life in these poetical surroundings at all. He sits at home all day, dictating verses, or his translation of Martial, to his lady secretary. He read me many new poems, and I was surprised at the freshness and youthfulness of his inspiration. We both regretted your Highness could not devote yourself entirely to poetry. If only you could repose in summer in just such a solitary spot! But, alas! it is not possible....
“When I have finished my opera and ballet I shall give up that kind of work for a time and devote myself to Symphony.... I often think it is time to shut up shop. A composer who has won success and recognition stands in the way of younger men who want to be heard. Time was when no one wanted to listen to my music, and if the Grand Duke, your father, had not been my patron, not one of my operas would ever have been performed. Now I am spoilt and encouraged in every way. It is very pleasant, but I am often tormented by the thought that I ought to make room for others.”
The first performance of Pique Dame in Moscow took place on November 4th (16th), 1891, under Altani’s bâton. It was merely a fair copy of the Petersburg performance, and presented no “special” qualities as regards musical rendering or scenery.
The opera met with a warmer and more genuine welcome than in the northern capital. Nevertheless the Press was not very pleased with the music. The Moscow Viedomosti thought “Tchaikovsky possessed a remarkable talent for imitation, sometimes going so far as to borrow wholesale from the older masters, as in his Suite Mozartiana.” Another newspaper considered the opera “more pleasing than inspired.” The only serious and intelligent criticism of the work appeared in the Russky Viedomosti, from Kashkin’s pen.
Siloti’s concert, two days later, was marked by one of the most painful episodes in the composer’s career. Kashkin, in his ‘Reminiscences,’ says that, even at the rehearsals, Tchaikovsky had shown a kind of careless indifference in conducting his latest orchestral work, the Symphonic Ballade, The Voyevode. After the rehearsal he asked several people for their opinion upon the work, among others Taneiev, who seems to have replied that the chief movement of the Ballade—the love episode—was not equal to similar episodes in The Tempest, Romeo and Juliet, or Francesca. Moreover, he considered that Tchaikovsky had treated it wrongly, and that Poushkin’s words could be sung to this melody, so that it was more in the style of a vocal than an orchestral work.
At the concert The Voyevode made little impression, notwithstanding the enthusiastic reception given to the composer. This was due to some extent to Tchaikovsky’s careless rendering of the work.
Siloti relates that during the interval the composer came into the artists’ room and tore his score to pieces, exclaiming: “Such rubbish should never have been written.” To tear a thick score in pieces is not an easy feat, and possibly Siloti’s memory may have been at fault. It is more probable that Tchaikovsky wished to destroy the score on the spot than that he actually did so. Besides, he himself wrote to V. Napravnik: “The Voyevode turned out such wretched stuff that I tore it up the day after the concert.”
Siloti carefully concealed the parts of The Voyevode, so that after Tchaikovsky’s death the score was restored from these and published by M. Belaiev, of Leipzig. When it was given for the first time in Petersburg, under Nikisch, it made a very different impression upon Taneiev, and he bitterly regretted his hasty verdict delivered in 1891.
Tchaikovsky remained two days longer in Moscow, in order to be present at a dinner given in his honour by the artists who had taken part in Pique Dame, and returned to Maidanovo worn out with the excitement he had experienced.
On December 17th (29th) he started upon his concert tour, which included not only foreign, but Russian towns. He was pledged to conduct in Kiev and Warsaw, as well as at the Hague and in Amsterdam,172 and to attend the first performance of Oniegin in Hamburg and of Pique Dame in Prague.
At the time of the first performance of Pique Dame in Kiev, Tchaikovsky had become intimately acquainted with Prianichnikov, whose services to art he valued very highly. Not only the attitude of this artist towards him, but that of the entire opera company, had touched him very deeply. He was aware that the affairs of this company—one of the best in Russia—were not very flourishing, and he wanted to show his sympathy in some substantial form. He proposed, therefore, that the first performance of his Iolanthe should be transferred from Petersburg to Kiev, provided the Imperial Direction made no objections to the plan. Naturally they objected very strongly, and Tchaikovsky, by way of compensation, offered to conduct a concert for the benefit of Prianichnikov’s company. The local branch of the Musical Society, which had made overtures to the composer on several occasions, was offended at his preference for the artists of the opera, and immediately engaged him for a concert of their own. In view of his former connection with the Society, Tchaikovsky could not refuse this offer. Both concerts were a great success, and evoked immense enthusiasm from the public and the Press.
From Kiev he went to Kamenka for a few days, but a feeling of sadness came over him at the sight of his old dwelling-place, so inseparably connected with the memory of the sister he had lost.
... At Warsaw, where he arrived on December 29th (January 10th), he was overcome with that terrible, despairing nostalgia, which, towards the close of his life, accompanied him like some sinister travelling companion whenever he left Russia. “I am counting—just as last year—the days, hours, and minutes till my journey is over,” he wrote to Vladimir Davidov. “You are constantly in my thoughts, for at every access of agitation and home-sickness, whenever my spiritual horizon grows dark, the thought that you are there, that I shall see you sooner or later, flashes like a ray of sunlight across my mind. I am not exaggerating, upon my honour! Every moment this sun-ray keeps breaking forth in these or similar words: “Yes, it is bad, but never mind, Bob lives in the world”; “Far away in ‘Peter’173 sits Bob, drudging at his work”; “In a month’s time I shall see Bob again.”
To N. Konradi.
“Warsaw, December 31st (January 12th).
“I have been three days in Warsaw. I do not find this town as agreeable as many others. It is better in summer. The rehearsals are in progress, but the orchestra here is worse than second-rate. I spend my time with my former pupil, the celebrated violinist Barcewicz, and with the Friede174 family. I shall stay here over the New Year. In the evening I generally go to the theatre. The opera is not bad here. Yesterday I saw the famous Cavalleria Rusticana. This opera is really very remarkable, chiefly for its successful subject. Perhaps Modi could find a similar libretto. Oh, when will the glad day of return be here!”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Warsaw, January 3rd (15th), 1892.
“... I have only time for a few lines. Yesterday my concert took place in the Opera House, and went off brilliantly in every respect. The orchestra, which took a great liking to me, played admirably. Barcewicz played my Concerto with unusual spirit, and Friede175 sang beautifully. The day before yesterday Grossmann176 arranged a grand soirée in my honour. The Polish countesses were fascinatingly amiable to me. I have been fêted everywhere. Gurko177 is the only person who has not shown me the least attention.... Three weeks hence I go to Hamburg. I shall conduct Oniegin there myself; Pollini has made a point of it.”
To A. Merkling.
“Berlin, January 4th (16th), 1892.
“... At Grossman’s grand evening I observed that the Polish ladies (many very aristocratic women were there) are amiable, cultivated, interesting, and sympathetic. The farewell at the station yesterday was very magnificent. There is some talk of giving one of my operas in Polish next season. I am spending a day in Berlin to recover from the exciting existence in Warsaw. To-morrow I leave for Hamburg, where I conduct Oniegin on January 7th (19th). On the 29th (February 10th) my concert takes place in Amsterdam, and on the 30th (February 11th), at the Hague. After that—full steam homewards. I can only look forward with fearful excitement and impatience to the blessed day when I shall return to my adored Mother Russia.”
Tchaikovsky arrived in Hamburg to find Oniegin had been well studied, and the preparations for its staging satisfactory on the whole. “The conductor here,” he wrote to his favourite nephew, “is not merely passable, but actually has genius, and he ardently desires to conduct the first performance. Yesterday I heard a wonderful rendering of Tannhäuser under his direction. The singers, the orchestra, Pollini, the managers, and the conductor—his name is Mahler178—are all in love with Oniegin; but I am very doubtful whether the Hamburg public will share their enthusiasm.” Tchaikovsky’s doubts as to the success of Eugene Oniegin were well founded. The opera was not much applauded.
To Vladimir Davidov.
“Paris, January 12th (24th), 1892.
“... I am in a very awkward position. I have a fortnight in prospect during which I do not know how to kill time. I thought this would be easier in Paris than anywhere else—but it was only on the first day that I did not feel bored. Since yesterday I have been wondering how I could save myself from idleness and ennui. If Sapellnikov and Menter would not be offended at my not going to Holland, how gladly I should start homewards! If the Silotis had not been here, I do not think I could have stayed. Yesterday I was at the ‘Folies-Bergères,’ and it bored me terribly. The Russian clown Durov brings on 250 dressed-up rats. It is most curious in what forms the Parisians display their Russophile propensities. Neither at the Opera, nor at any of the more serious theatres, is anything Russian performed, and while we are giving Esclarmonde, they show their goodwill towards Russian art by the medium of Durov and his rats! Truly, it enrages me—I say it frankly—partly on account of my own interests. Why cannot Colonne, who is now the head of the Opera, give my Pique Dame, or my new Ballet? In autumn he spoke of doing so, and engaged Petipa with a view to this. But it was all empty talk.... You will say: ‘Are you not ashamed to be so envious and small-minded?’ I am ashamed. Having nothing to do, I am reading Zola’s La bête humaine. I cannot understand how people can seriously accept Zola as a great writer. Could there be anything more false and improbable than the leading idea of this novel? Of course, there are parts in which the truth is set forth with realism and vitality. But, in the main, it is so artificial that one never for a moment feels any sympathy with the actions or sufferings of the characters. It is simply a story of crime à la Gaboriau, larded with obscenities.”
His increasing nostalgia and depression of spirits finally caused Tchaikovsky to abandon the concerts in Holland and return to Petersburg about the end of January. There he spent a week with his relatives, and went back to Maidanovo on the 28th (February 9th).
While in Paris, Tchaikovsky completed the revision of his Sextet, and on his return to Russia devoted himself to the orchestration of the Nut-cracker Ballet. He was in haste to finish those numbers from this work, which, in the form of a Suite, were to be played in St. Petersburg on March 7th (19th), instead of the ill_fated ballade, The Voyevode.
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“Maidanovo, February 9th (21st), 1892.
“I am living very pleasantly here and enjoying the most beautiful of all the winter months. I love these clear, rather frosty days, when the sun sometimes begins to feel quite warm. They bring a feeling of spring.... Volodya Napravnik is staying with me just now, and has turned out to be excellent company. He is very musical, and that is a great pleasure. I often play pianoforte duets with him in the evening, or simply listen while he plays my favourite pieces. I have taken a house at Klin which will be my future home.... Later on I may buy it. Thank God, my financial position is excellent. Pique Dame was given nineteen times in Moscow, and the house was always sold out. Besides, there are the other operas. There is a good deal due to me from Petersburg.”
Late in February Tchaikovsky went to St. Petersburg for a short visit. Here he received news which made a startling impression upon him. He had long believed his old governess Fanny to be dead. Suddenly he was informed that not only was she still alive, but had sent him her greetings. The first effect of these glad tidings came upon him as a kind of shock. In his own words, “he felt as though he had been told that his mother had risen from the dead, that the last forty-three years of existence were nothing but a dream, and that he had awakened to find himself in the upstairs rooms of the house at Votinsk.” He dreaded, too, lest his dear teacher should now be only the shadow of her old self, a feeble and senile creature to whom death would be a boon. Nevertheless, he wrote to her at once, a kindly letter in which he asked if he could serve her in any way, and enclosed his photograph. Her reply, written in a firm handwriting, in which he recognised her old clearness of style, and the absence of all complaint, greatly assured him. Thus, between teacher and pupil the old affectionate relations were again renewed.
At the Symphony Concert of the Musical Society, on March 7th (19th), Tchaikovsky conducted his Romeo and Juliet Overture and the Nut-cracker Suite. The new work must have had an unprecedented success, since five out of the six movements had to be repeated.
At a concert given by the School of Jurisprudence, on March 3rd (15th), the composer had the honour of being introduced to the Tsarevich, now the reigning Emperor of Russia.
He returned to Maidanovo on March 9th.
To J. Konius.
“March 9th (21st), 1892.
“In Petersburg I heard a very interesting violinist named (César) Thomson. Do you know him? He has a most remarkable technique; for instance, he plays passages of octaves with a rapidity to which no one has previously attained. I am telling you this on the assumption that you, too, will attempt this artistic feat. It makes a tremendous effect.”
To P. Jurgenson.
“March 18th (30th), 1892.
“... I have no recollection of having promised you that I would never give away any of my manuscripts. I should have been very unwilling to make any such promise, because there are cases in which I could only be very pleased to present one of my scores to the Opera Direction—or in a similar instance.179... Your reproach that I give them away ’right and left’ is without foundation. The Opera Direction, to which I owe my prosperity, is surely worthy to possess one of my scores in its superb library; and the same applies to the Russian Musical Society, from which originated the Conservatoire where I studied, and where I was invariably treated with kindness and indulgence. If you are really going to make it a sine quâ non that all my manuscripts must be your property, we must discuss the question... and should you convince me that your interests really suffer through the presentation of my scores, I will promise not to do it again. I have so rarely deprived you of the priceless joy of possessing my autograph scrawls! You have so many to the good! I cannot understand why you should be so annoyed!”
At the end of March Tchaikovsky spent a week with his relatives in Petersburg—now a very reduced circle—and afterwards went to Moscow. During the month Tchaikovsky spent in this city Alexis moved all his master’s belongings from Maidanovo to the new house at Klin.
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“Moscow, April 23rd (May 5th), 1892.
“Moscow is unbearable, for there is scarcely a human being who does not bother me with visits or invitations; or ask me to look at an opera or songs, or—most unpleasant of all—try to get money out of me in one form or another. I shall look back upon this month spent in Moscow as upon a horrid nightmare. So far, I have conducted Faust and Rubinstein’s Demon; Oniegin has yet to come.180 But what are all these small inconveniences compared to what you have to do?181 I have read your last letter with the greatest interest, and felt glad for your sake that you have such a fine opportunity of helping your fellow-creatures. I am sure that you will always cherish the memory of your mission to the famine-stricken Siberians.”
After the month’s uncongenial work in Moscow, Tchaikovsky rested a few days in Petersburg, until Alexis had everything ready for him in the new home—which was destined to be his last. The house at Klin stood at the furthest end of the little town, and was completely surrounded by fields and woods; two-storied and very roomy. It particularly pleased Tchaikovsky, because—quite an unusual thing in a small country house in Russia—the upper rooms were large, and could be turned into an excellent bedroom and study for a guest. This was perhaps the only improvement upon Maidanovo and Frolovskoe. A small garden, the usual outlook across the country, the neighbourhood of endless kitchen-gardens on the one hand, and of the high-road to Moscow on the other, deprived the spot of all poetic beauty, and only Tchaikovsky, with his very modest demands for comfort or luxury, could have been quite satisfied—even enthusiastic—about the place.
After the composer’s death, this house was purchased by his servant, Alexis Safronov, who sold it in 1897 to Modeste Tchaikovsky and his nephew, Vladimir Davidov. At the present moment—in so far as possible—every relic, and all documents connected with the composer, are preserved in the house.
“Klin, May 20th (June 1st), 1892.
“I have spent so much money lately (of course not upon myself alone) that all my hopes of laying aside something for George182 have vanished.”
To Eugen Zabel.
“Klin, near Moscow, May 24th (June 5th), 1892.
“I have just received your esteemed letter, and feel it a pleasant duty to send you an immediate answer, but as I write German very badly I must have recourse to French. I doubt if you will find anything new, interesting, or of any value for your biography in the following lines; but I promise to say quite frankly all that I know and feel about Rubinstein.
“It was in 1858 that I heard the name of Anton Rubinstein for the first time. I was then eighteen, and I had just entered the higher class of the School of Jurisprudence, and only took up music as an amateur. For several years I had taken lessons on Sundays from a very distinguished pianist, M. Rodolphe Kündinger. In those days, never having heard any other virtuoso than my teacher, I believed him, in all sincerity, to be the greatest in the world. One day Kündinger came to the lesson in a very absent-minded mood, and paid little attention to the scales and exercises I was playing. When I asked this admirable man and artist what was the matter, he replied that, the day before, he had heard the pianist Rubinstein, just come from abroad; this man had impressed him so profoundly that he had not yet recovered from the experience, and everything in the way of virtuosity now seemed to him so poor that it was as unbearable to listen to my scales as to hear himself play the piano.
“I knew what a noble and sincere nature Kündinger possessed. I had a very high opinion of his taste and knowledge—and this caused his words to excite my imagination and my curiosity in the highest degree. In the course of my scholastic year I had the opportunity of hearing Rubinstein—and not only of hearing him, but of seeing him play and conduct. I lay stress upon this first visual impression, because it is my profound conviction that Rubinstein’s prestige is based not only upon his rare talent, but also upon an irresistible charm which emanates from his whole personality; so that it is not sufficient to hear him in order to gain a full impression—one must see him too. I heard and saw him. Like everyone else, I fell under the spell of his charm. All the same, I finished my studies, entered the Government service, and continued to amuse myself with a little music in my leisure hours. But gradually my true vocation made itself felt. I will spare you details which have nothing to do with my subject, but I must tell you that about the time of the foundation of the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, in September, 1862, I was no longer a clerk in the Ministry of Justice, but a young man resolved to devote himself to music, and ready to face all the difficulties which were predicted by my relatives, who were displeased that I should voluntarily abandon a career in which I had made a good start. I entered the Conservatoire. My professors were: Zaremba for counterpoint and fugue, etc., Anton Rubinstein (Director) for form and instrumentation. I remained three and a half years at the Conservatoire, and during this time I saw Rubinstein daily, and sometimes several times a day, except during the vacations. When I joined the Conservatoire I was—as I have already told you—an enthusiastic worshipper of Rubinstein. But when I knew him better, when I became his pupil and we entered into daily relations with each other, my enthusiasm for his personality became even greater. In him I adored not only a great pianist and composer, but a man of rare nobility, frank, loyal, generous, incapable of petty and vulgar sentiments, clear and right-minded, of infinite goodness—in fact, a man who towered far above the common herd. As a teacher, he was of incomparable value. He went to work simply, without grand phrases or long dissertations; but always taking his duty seriously. He was only once angry with me. After the holidays I took him an overture entitled ‘The Storm,’ in which I had been guilty of all kinds of whims of form and orchestration. He was hurt, and said that it was not for the development of imbeciles that he took the trouble to teach the art of composition. I left the Conservatoire full of gratitude and admiration for my professor.
“For over three years I saw him daily. But what were our relations? He was a great and illustrious musician—I a humble pupil, who only saw him fulfilling his duties, and had no idea of his intimate life. A great gulf lay between us. When I left the Conservatoire I hoped that by working courageously, and gradually making my way, I might look forward to the happiness of seeing this gulf bridged over. I dared to aspire to the honour of becoming the friend of Rubinstein.
“It was not to be. Nearly thirty years have passed since then, but the gulf is deeper and wider than before. Through my professorship in Moscow I came to be the intimate friend of Nicholas Rubinstein; I had the pleasure of seeing Anton from time to time; I have always continued to care for him intensely, and to regard him as the greatest of artists and the noblest of men, but I never became, and never shall become, his friend. This great luminary revolves always in my heaven, but while I see its light I feel its remoteness more and more.
“It would be difficult to explain the reason for this. I think, however, that my amour propre as a composer has a great deal to do with it. In my youth I was very impatient to make my way, to win a name and reputation as a gifted composer, and I hoped that Rubinstein—who already enjoyed a high position in the musical world—would help me in my chase for fame. But painful as it is, I must confess that he did nothing, absolutely nothing, to forward my plans or assist my projects. Certainly he never injured me—he is too noble and generous to put a spoke in the wheel of a comrade—but he never departed from his attitude of reserve and kindly indifference towards me. This has always been a profound regret. The most probable explanation of this mortifying luke-warmness is that Rubinstein does not care for my music, that my musical temperament is antipathetic to him. Now I still see him from time to time, and always with pleasure, for this extraordinary man has only to hold out his hand and smile for us to fall at his feet. At the time of his jubilee I had the happiness of going through much trouble and fatigue for him; his attitude to me is always exceedingly correct, exceedingly polite and kind—but we live very much apart, and I can tell you nothing about his way of life, his views and aims—nothing, in fact, that could be of interest to the future readers of your book.
“I have never received letters from Rubinstein, and never wrote to him but twice in my life, to thank him for having, in recent years, included, among other Russian works in his programmes, one or two of my own.
“I have made a point of fulfilling your wish and telling you all I could about Rubinstein. If I have told too little, it is not my fault, nor that of Anton, but of fatality.
“Forgive my blots and smudges. To-morrow I have to leave home, and have no time to copy this.
“Your devoted
“P. T.”
The sole object of the journey mentioned in this letter was to take a cure at Vichy. The catarrh of the stomach from which he suffered had been a trouble to Tchaikovsky for the last twenty years. Once, while staying with Kondratiev at Nizy, the local doctor had recommended him natron water. From that time he could not exist without it, and took it in such quantities that he ended by acquiring a kind of taste for it. But it did not cure his complaint, which grew worse and worse, so that in 1876 he had to undergo a course of mineral waters. The catarrhal trouble was not entirely cured, however, but returned at intervals with more or less intensity. About the end of the eighties his condition grew worse. Once during the rehearsals for Pique Dame, while staying at the Hôtel Rossiya in St. Petersburg, he sent for his brother Modeste, and declared he “could not live through the night.” This turned his thoughts more and more to the “hateful but health-giving Vichy.” But the periods of rest after his various tours, and of work in his “hermit’s cave” at Klin, were so dear to him that until 1892 he could not make up his mind to revisit this watering-place. This year he only decided to go because the health of Vladimir Davidov equally demanded a cure at Vichy. He hoped in this congenial company to escape his usual home-sickness, and that it might even prove a pleasure to take his nephew abroad.
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Vichy, June 19th (July 1st), 1892.
“We have been here a week. It seems more like seven months, and I look forward with horror to the fortnight which remains. I dislike Vichy as much as I did sixteen years ago, but I think the waters will do me good. In any case I feel sure Bob will benefit by them.”
To P. Jurgenson.
“Vichy, July 1st (13th), 1892.
“I only possess one short note from Liszt, which is of so little importance that it is not worth your while to send it to La Mara. Liszt was a good fellow, and ready to respond to everyone who paid court to him. But as I never toadied to him, or any other celebrity, we never got into correspondence. I think he really preferred Messrs. Cui and Co., who went on pilgrimages to Weimar, and he was more in sympathy with their music than with mine. As far as I know, Liszt was not particularly interested in my works.”
By July 9th (21st) Tchaikovsky and his nephew were back in Petersburg, from whence he travelled almost immediately to Klin, where he busied himself with the new Symphony (No. 6) which he wished to have ready in August.
At the outset of his career Tchaikovsky was somewhat indifferent as to the manner in which his works were published. He troubled very little about the quality of the pianoforte arrangements of his operas and symphonic works, and still less about printers’ errors. About the end of the seventies, however, he entirely changed his attitude, and henceforth became more and more particular and insistent in his demands respecting the pianoforte arrangements and correction of his compositions. Quite half his correspondence with Jurgenson is taken up with these matters... His requirements constantly increased. No one could entirely satisfy him. The cleverest arrangers, such as Klindworth, Taneiev, and Siloti did not please him, because they made their arrangements too difficult for amateurs. He was also impatient at the slowness with which they worked.
Now that for a year and a half Tchaikovsky has been in his grave, it is easy to attribute to certain events in his life (which passed unnoticed at the time) a kind of prophetic significance. His special and exclusive care as to the editing and publishing of his works in 1892 may, however, be compared to the preparations which a man makes for a long journey, when he is as much occupied with what lies before him as with what he is leaving behind. He strives to finish what is unfinished, and to leave all in such a condition that he can face the unknown with a quiet conscience.
The words Tchaikovsky addressed to Jurgenson with reference to the Third Suite—“If all my best works were published in this style I might depart in peace”—offer some justification for my simile.
In the autumn of 1892 he undertook the entire correction of the orchestral parts of Iolanthe and the Nut-cracker Ballet; the improvements and corrections of the pianoforte arrangement (two hands) of Iolanthe; the corrections of the pianoforte score of the Opera and Ballet, and a simplified pianoforte arrangement of the latter.
Tchaikovsky so often speaks in his letters of his dislike to this kind of work that he must have needed extraordinary self-abnegation to take this heavy burden upon his shoulders.
As with the spirits in Dante’s Inferno, the dread of their torments by the will of divine justice “si volge in disio,”183 so the energy with which Tchaikovsky attacked his task turned to a morbid, passionate excitement. “Corrections, corrections! More, more! For Heaven’s sake, corrections!” he cries in his letters to Jurgenson, so that the casual reader might take for an intense desire that which was, in reality, only a worry to him, as the following letter shows.
To S. Taneiev.
“Klin, July 13th (25th), 1892.
“Just now I am busy looking through the pianoforte score of Iolanthe. It bothers and annoys me indescribably. Before I went abroad in May I had sketched the first movement and finale of a Symphony. Abroad it did not progress in the least, and now I have no time for it.”
To Anna Merkling.
“Klin, July 17th (29th), 1892.
“Dearest Anna,—I have received your letter with the little additional note from dear Katy.184 What extraordinary people you are! How can you imagine it would be a great pleasure for you if I were to come on a visit? If I were cheerful and pleasant company that would be a different matter. But I am no use for conversational purposes, and am often out of spirits, nor have I any resources in myself. I cannot help thinking that if I came you might afterwards say to yourselves: ‘This old fool, we awaited him with such impatience, and he is not a bit nice after all!’ Anna, I really do want to come to the Oboukhovs’, but I cannot positively say ‘yes’ at present.... It will be sad to part from Bob, who is dearer to me than ever, since we have been inseparable companions for the last six weeks.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Klin, July 17th (29th), 1892.
“... I am sorry your comedy is ineffective and not suitable for the stage. Why do you think so? Authors are never good judges of their own work. Flaubert’s letters—which I enjoy very much at present—are very curious in this respect. I think there is no more sympathetic personality in all the world of literature. A hero and martyr to his art. And so wise! I have found some astonishing answers to my questionings as to God and religion in his book.”
At the end of July Russian art suffered a great loss in the death of the connoisseur and wealthy patron, S. M. Tretiakov, who had been Nicholas Rubinstein’s right hand in the founding of the Moscow Conservatoire. To Tchaikovsky, Tretiakov’s somewhat sudden end came as a severe blow, and he immediately travelled to Moscow to be present at the funeral of his friend.
A pleasanter incident during this summer of hard work came in the form of an invitation to conduct a concert at the Vienna Exhibition. “It is an advantage,” he wrote to his brother Modeste, “because so far—on account of Hanslick—Vienna has been hostile to me. I should like to overcome this unfriendly opinion.”
At last, at the very end of August, the vast accumulation of proof-correcting was finished, which, as he himself said, would have almost driven him out of his mind, but for his regular and healthy way of life. “Even in dreams,” he wrote to Vladimir Davidov, “I see corrections, and flats and sharps that refuse to do what they are ordered.... I should like to see you at Verbovka after Vienna, but Sophie Menter, who is coming to my concert there, has given me a pressing invitation to her castle. Three times already I have broken my promise to go to Itter. I am really interested to see this ‘marvel,’ as everyone calls the castle.”
In the course of this year, at the suggestion of the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich, President of the Academy of Sciences, Tchaikovsky was invited by the academician Y. K. Grote to contribute to the new Dictionary of the Russian Language, then appearing in a second edition. Tchaikovsky’s duties were limited to the superintendence of musical words, but he was flattered by his connection with such an important scientific work.