XVI 1892-1893
Tchaikovsky never travelled so much as during the foregoing season. It is true he was always fond of moving about. He could not remain long in one spot; but this was chiefly because it always seemed to him that “every place is better than the one in which we are.” Paris, Kamenka, Clarens, Rome, Brailov, Simaki, Tiflis—all in turn were his favourite resorts, which he was delighted to visit and equally pleased to quit. But apart from the ultimate goal, travelling in itself was an enjoyment rather than a dread to Tchaikovsky.
From 1885, when he resolved “no longer to avoid mankind, but to keep myself before the world so long as it needs me,” his journeys became more frequent. When he began to conduct his own compositions in 1887, his journeys were undertaken with a fresh object: the propagation of his works abroad. As his fame increased, so also did the number of those who wished to hear him interpret his own music, and thus it was natural that by 1892 the number of his journeys was far greater than it had been ten years earlier.
When Tchaikovsky started upon his first concert tour he undoubtedly did violence to his “actual self,” and did not look forward with pleasure, but rather with dread, to what lay before him. At the same time he was full of the expectation of happy impressions and brilliant results, and was firmly convinced of the importance of his undertaking, both for his own fame and for the cause of Russian art in general.
The events of his first tour would not have disappointed even a man less modest than Tchaikovsky. He had many consoling experiences, beginning with the discovery that he was better known abroad than he had hitherto suspected. His reception in Prague, with its “moment of absolute happiness,” the sensation in Paris, the attention and respect with which he was received in Germany, all far surpassed his expectations. Nevertheless, he returned disillusioned, not by what had taken place, but by the price he had paid for his happiness.
But no sooner home again, than he forgot all he had gone through, and was planning his second tour with evident enjoyment.
This inexplicable discontent and disenchantment may, he thought, have been the result of a passing mood. The worst of his fears—the appearance before a crowd of foreigners—was over. He believed his second appearance would be far less painful, and expected even happier impressions than on his first tour. He was mistaken. He merely awoke to the “uselessness” of the sacrifice he was making for popularity’s sake, and he asked himself whether it would not be better to stay at home and work. His belief in the importance of the undertaking vanished, and with it the whole reason for doing violence to his nature. In the early part of 1890 he declined all engagements to travel, and devoted himself to composition. But by the end of the year Tchaikovsky seems to have forgotten all the lessons of his two concert tours, for he began once more to conduct in Russia and abroad. Every journey cost him keener pangs of home-sickness, and each time he vowed it should be the last. Yet no sooner had he reached home again, than he began planning yet another tour. It seemed as though he had become the victim of some blind force which drove him hither and thither at will. This power was not merely complaisance to the demands of others, nor his old passion for travelling, nor the fulfilment of a duty, nor yet the pursuit of applause; still less was it the outcome of a desire for material gain. This mysterious force had its source in an inexplicable, restless, despondent condition of mind, which sought appeasement in any kind of distraction. I cannot explain it as a premonition of his approaching death; there are no grounds whatever for such a supposition. Nor will I, in any case, take upon myself to solve the problem of my brother’s last psychological development. I will only call attention to the fact that he passed through a similar phase before every decisive change in his life. As at the beginning of the sixties, when he chose a musical career, and in 1885, when he resolved to “show himself in the eyes of the world,” so also at this juncture, we are conscious of a feeling that things could not have gone on much longer; we feel on the brink of a change, as though something had come to an end, and was giving place to a new and unknown presence.
His death, which came to solve the problem, seemed fortuitous. Yet it is clear to me that it came at a moment when things could not have gone on much longer; nor can I shake off the impression that the years 1892 and 1893 were the dark harbingers of a new and serene epoch.
An unpleasant surprise awaited Tchaikovsky in Vienna. The concert, in connection with the Exhibition, which he had been engaged to conduct was to be given, so he discovered, in what was practically a large restaurant, reeking of cookery and the fumes of beer and tobacco. The composer immediately declined to fulfil his contract, unless the tables were removed and the room converted into something approaching a concert-hall. Moreover, the orchestra, though not very bad, was ridiculously small. Tchaikovsky’s friends—Door, Sophie Menter, and Sapellnikov—were indignant at the whole proceeding, and realising the unpleasantness of his position, he decided to disregard his contract, and started with Mme. Menter for her castle at Itter.
Professor Door has related his reminiscences of Tchaikovsky’s unlucky visit to Vienna,185 when he met his old friend again after a long separation. “I was shocked at his appearance,” he writes, “for he had aged so much that I only recognised him by his wonderful blue eyes. A man old at fifty! His delicate constitution had suffered terribly from his incessant creative work. We spoke of old days, and I asked him how he now got on in Petersburg. He replied that he was so overwhelmed with all kinds of attentions that he was perpetually embarrassed by them, and had but one trouble, which was that he never saw anything of Rubinstein, whom he had loved and respected from his student days. ‘Do what I will,’ he said, ‘I can get no hold on him; he escapes me like an eel.’ I laughed and said: ‘Do not take the great man’s ways too much to heart; he has his weaknesses like other mortals. Rubinstein, a distinctly lyrical temperament, has never had any great success in dramatic music, and avoids everyone who has made a name in this sphere of art. Comfort yourself, dear friend; he cut Richard Wagner and many others besides.’ ‘But,’ he broke in with indignation, ‘how can you compare me with Wagner and many others who have created immortal works?’ ‘Oh, as to immortality,’ I replied, ‘I will tell you a good story about Brahms. Once when this question was being discussed, Brahms said to me: ‘Yes, immortality is a fine thing, if only one knew how long it would last.’ Tchaikovsky laughed heartily over this ’bull,’ and his cheerfulness seemed quite restored.... After three hours’ rehearsal he was greatly exhausted. He descended with great difficulty from the conductor’s desk, the perspiration stood in beads on his forehead, and he hurried into his fur-lined coat, although it was as warm as a summer’s day. He rested for a quarter of an hour, and then left with Sophie Menter and Sapellnikov.”
During this short visit to Vienna, Tchaikovsky stayed in the same hotel as Pietro Mascagni, and their rooms actually adjoined. The Italian composer was then the most fêted and popular man in Vienna. As we have already mentioned, Tchaikovsky admired Cavalleria Rusticana. The libretto appealed to him in the first place, but he recognised much promising talent in the music. The rapidity with which the young musician had become the idol of the Western musical world did not in the least provoke Tchaikovsky’s envy; on the contrary, he was interested in the Italian composer, and drawn to him. Accident having brought him into such near neighbourhood, it occurred to him to make the acquaintance of his young colleague. But when he found himself confronted in the passage with a whole row of admirers, all awaiting an audience with the maestro, he resolved to spare him at least one superfluous visitor.
The Castle of Itter, which belongs to Madame Sophie Menter, is situated in Tyrol, a few hours from Munich. Besides its wonderfully picturesque situation, it has acquired a kind of reflected glory, not only from the reputation of its owner, but because Liszt often stayed there.
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Itter, September 15th (27th), 1892.
“... Itter deserves its reputation. It is a devilish pretty nest. My rooms—I occupy a whole floor—are very fine, but a curious mixture of grandeur and bad taste: luxurious furniture, a wonderful inlaid bedstead and—some vile oleographs. But this does not affect me much. The great thing is the exquisite, picturesque neighbourhood. Peace and stillness, and not a trace of any other visitors. I am fond of Sapellnikov and Menter, and, altogether, I have not felt more comfortable for a long while. I shall stay five days longer and return to ‘Peter’ by Salzburg (where I want to see the Mozart Museum) and Prague (where I stay for the performance of Pique Dame). On the 25th (October 7th) I hope to put in an appearance upon the Quay Fontanka. The chief drawback here is that I get neither letters nor papers and hear nothing about Russia or any of you.”
The performance of Pique Dame in Prague did not take place until October 8th. The opera, judging from the accounts of those present, had a brilliant success, and the composer was repeatedly recalled. Between 1892-1902 Pique Dame was given on forty-one occasions. When we bear in mind that opera is only given three times a week at the National Theatre in Prague, and that the chief object of this enterprise is to forward the interests of Czechish art, this number of performances points to the fact that the success of Pique Dame has proved as lasting as it was enthusiastic.
Tchaikovsky returned to Klin about the first week in October (Russian style), and was soon busy with preparations for the performance of Iolanthe in St. Petersburg. On the 28th (November 9th) he left home for the capital, in order to superintend the rehearsals of the new opera. Soon after his arrival he received two interesting communications. The first informed him that he had been elected a Corresponding Member of the French Academy; the second, from the University of Cambridge, invited him to accept the title of Doctor of Music, honoris causa, on condition that he attended in person to receive the degree at the hands of the Vice-Chancellor.
Tchaikovsky acknowledged the first honour, and expressed his readiness to conform to the conditions of the second.
At the same time he had a further cause for congratulation in the success of his Sextet, Souvenir de Florence, which was played for the first time in public at the St. Petersburg Chamber Music Union, on November 25th (December 7th). The players were: E. Albrecht, Hille, Hildebrandt, Heine, Wierzbilowiez, and A. Kouznietsov. This time all were delighted: the performers, the audience, and the composer himself. The medal of the Union was presented to Tchaikovsky amid unanimous applause. During this visit the composer sat to the well-known sculptor, E. Günsburg, for a statuette which, in spite of its artistic value, is not successful as a likeness.
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“Petersburg, November 24th (December 6th), 1892.
“... Modeste’s play was given yesterday.186 It was a complete failure, which does not surprise me in the least, for it is much too subtle for the public at the Alexander Theatre. It does not matter: may it be a lesson to Modeste. The pursuit of the unattainable hinders him from his real business—to write plays in the accepted form. The rehearsals for Iolanthe and the Ballet are endlessly dragged out. The Emperor will be present on the 5th, and the first public performance will take place the following day.”
During this visit to the capital Tchaikovsky did his utmost to forward the interests of his friends, Taneiev and Arensky, as will be seen from the following extract from a letter to the former, respecting the performance of his Orestes:—
“Vsievolojsky (Director of the Opera) took Napravnik aside and consulted him as to the advisability of proposing Orestes to the Emperor for next season.... I suggested that you should be sent for, in order to play over the work in their presence. Vsievolojsky was afraid if you were put to this trouble you might feel hurt should the matter fall through. I ventured to say that, as a true philosopher, you would not lose heart if nothing came of it.... I spoke not less eloquently of Arensky, but so far without success.”
On December 5th (17th) Iolanthe and the Nut-cracker Ballet were given in the presence of the Imperial Court. The opera was conducted by Napravnik. The Figners distinguished themselves by their admirable interpretations of the parts of Vaudemont and Iolanthe. The scenery and costumes were beautiful. Nevertheless the work was only accorded a succès d’estime. The chief reason for this—according to Modeste Tchaikovsky—was the prolixity of the libretto and its lack of scenic interest.
The Ballet—admirably conducted by Drigo—was brilliantly staged, and received with considerable applause; yet the impression left by the first night was not wholly favourable. The subject, which differed greatly from the conventional ballet programme, was not entirely to blame. The illness of the talented ballet-master, Petipa, and the substitution of a man of far less skill and imagination, probably accounted for the comparative failure of the work. The delicate beauty of the music did not appeal to the public on a first hearing, and some time elapsed before the Nut-cracker became a favourite item in the repertory.
The attitude of the Press appears from the following letter from the composer to Anatol, dated Petersburg, December 10th (22nd), 1892:—
“This is the fourth day on which all the papers have been cutting up both my latest creations.... It is not the first time. The abuse does not annoy me in the least, and yet—as always under these circumstances—I am in a hateful frame of mind. When one has lived in expectation of an important event, as soon as it is over there comes a kind of apathy and disinclination for work, while the emptiness and futility of all our efforts becomes so evident.... The day after to-morrow I leave for Berlin. There I shall decide where to go for a rest (most probably to Nice). On December 29th I shall be in Brussels. From thence I shall go to Paris, and afterwards to see Mlle. Fanny at Montbeillard. About the 10th January I have to conduct the concerts at Odessa. At the end of the month I shall be in Petersburg. Later I shall spend some time in Klin, and go to you in Lent.”
To Vladimir Davidov.
“Berlin, December 16th (28th), 1892.
“Here I am, still in Berlin. To-day I have given myself up to serious reflections, which will have important results. I have been carefully, and as it were objectively, analysing my Symphony, which luckily I have not yet orchestrated and given to the world. The impression was not flattering: the work is written for the sake of writing, and is not interesting or moving. I ought to put it aside and forget it.... Am I done for and dried up? Perhaps there is yet some subject which could inspire me; but I ought to compose no more absolute music, symphony or chamber works. To live without work would weary me. What am I to do? Fold my hands as far as composition is concerned and try to forget it? It is difficult to decide. I think, and think, and do not know how to settle the question. In any case, the outlook has not been cheerful the last three days.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Bâle, December 19th (31st), 1902.
“... I have nothing to write about but fits of weeping. Really it is surprising that this phenomenal, deadly home-sickness does not drive me mad. Since this psychological phase grows stronger with every journey abroad, in future I shall never travel alone, even for a short time. To-morrow this feeling will give place to another (scarcely?) less painful emotion. I am going to Montbeillard, and I must confess to a morbid fear and horror, as though I were entering the kingdom of the dead and the world of those who had long since vanished.”
To his brother, Nicholas Ilich Tchaikovsky.
“Paris, December 22nd (January 3rd), 1892.
“... I wrote to Mlle. Fanny from Bâle to let her know the time of my arrival, so that she should not be upset by my unexpected appearance. I reached Montbeillard at 3 p.m. on January 1st (new style), and went straight to her house. She lives in a quiet street in this little town, which is so quiet that it might be compared to one of our own Russian ’district’ towns. The house contains but six rooms—two on each floor—and belongs to Fanny and her sister. Here they were born, and have spent their whole lives. Mlle. Fanny came to the door, and I knew her at once. She does not look her seventy years, and, curiously enough, has altered very little on the whole. The same high-coloured complexion and brown eyes, and her hair is not very grey. She has grown much stouter. I had dreaded tears and an affecting scene, but there was nothing of the sort. She greeted me as though we had not met for a year—joyfully and tenderly, but quite simply. It soon became clear to me why our parents, and we ourselves, were so fond of her. She is a remarkably clever, sympathetic creature, who seems to breathe an atmosphere of kindliness and integrity. Naturally we started upon reminiscences, and she recalled a number of interesting details from our childhood. Then she showed me our copybooks, my exercises, your letters and mine, and—what was of the greatest interest to me—a few dear, kind letters from our mother. I cannot tell you what a strange and wonderful feeling came over me while listening to her recollections and looking over these letters and books. The past rose up so clearly before me that I seemed to inhale the air of Votinsk and hear my mother’s voice distinctly.... When she asked me which of my brothers I loved best, I replied evasively that I was equally fond of them all. At which she was a little indignant, and said that, as my playmate in childhood, I ought to care most for you. And truly at that moment I felt I loved you intensely, because you had shared all my youthful joys. I stayed with her from three until eight o’clock, without noticing how time went. I spent the whole of the next day in her society....
“She gave me a beautiful letter from my mother, in which she writes of you with special tenderness. I will show it to you. The two sisters do not live luxuriously—but comfortably. Fanny’s sister also lived a long time in Russia, and does not speak the language badly. Both of them still teach. They are known to the whole town, for they have taught all the educated people there, and are universally loved and respected. In the evening I embraced Fanny when I took leave of her, and promised to return some day....”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Paris, January 4th (16th), 1892.
“... After my brilliant concert in Brussels I returned here yesterday. The orchestra was very good, but not highly disciplined. I was very cordially received, but this did not make things any easier for me. I suffered equally from agitation and the anguish of home-sickness. During the interval Gevaert, as President of the Artists’ Benevolent Association, made a speech before the assembled orchestra, in which he thanked me on behalf of this society. As the concert was given in aid of a charity, I declined to accept any fee, which touched the artists very deeply.”
The programme of the Brussels concert included, among other compositions by Tchaikovsky, the Pianoforte Concerto, op. 23 (Rummel as soloist), the Nut-cracker Suite, and the Overture “1812.”
On January 12th (24th), 1893, Tchaikovsky arrived in Odessa, where for nearly a fortnight he was fêted with such enthusiasm that even the Prague festivities of 1888 dwindled into insignificance compared with these experiences.
The ovations began the day after his arrival, when, on his appearance at the rehearsal of Pique Dame, he was welcomed by the theatrical direction and the entire opera company. Not contented with vociferous cheering, he was “chaired” and borne around in triumph, much to his discomfort. On the 16th he conducted the following works at the concert of the Musical Society: The Tempest, the Andante cantabile from the Quartet, op. 11, and the Nut-cracker Suite. The local section of the Musical Society presented him with a bâton, and the musicians gave him a laurel wreath. Some numbers on the programme had to be repeated three times in response to the vociferous applause.
This triumph was followed by a series of others: the first performance of Pique Dame, a soirée in his honour at the English Club, a charity concert, given by the Slavonic Association, and a second concert of the Musical Society, at which the Overture “1812” had to be repeated da capo.
Tchaikovsky left Odessa on January 25th (February 6th), and returned to Klin to recover from the strain and fatigue of his visit.
Among the many occupations which overwhelmed him there, he found time to sit to Kouznietsov for his portrait. “Although the artist knew nothing of Tchaikovsky’s inner life,” says Modeste, “he has succeeded, thanks to the promptings of inspiration, in divining all the tragedy of that mental and spiritual phase through which the composer was passing at that time, and has rendered it with profound actuality. Knowing my brother as I do, I can affirm that no truer, more living likeness of him exists. There are a few slight deviations from strict truth in the delineation of the features; but they do not detract from the portrait as a whole, and I would not on any account have them corrected. Perhaps the vitality which breathes from the picture has been purchased at the price of these small defects.”
Kouznietsov presented the portrait to Tchaikovsky, who, however, declined to accept it, partly because he could not endure a picture of himself upon his own walls, but chiefly because he did not consider himself justified in preventing the artist from making something out of his work. The portrait is now in the Tretiakov Gallery, Moscow.
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Klin, February 5th (17th), 1893.
“... My journey from Kamenka here was not very propitious. I was taken so ill in the carriage that I frightened my fellow-passengers by becoming delirious, and had to stop at Kharkov. After taking my usual remedies, and a long sleep, I awoke quite well in the morning....
“Next week I must pay a visit to Vladimir Shilovsky. The prospect fills me with fear and agitation. Tell me, has he greatly changed? How is the dropsy? I am afraid of a scene, and altogether dread our meeting. Is there really no hope for him? Answer these questions.”
Vladimir Shilovsky, who had played an important part in my brother’s life some twenty years earlier, had very rarely come in contact with his old teacher since his marriage with the only remaining child of Count Vassiliev. There had been no breach between them, but their lives had run in opposite directions. In January, 1893, I heard that Vladimir Shilovsky was seriously ill. I informed Peter Ilich, who visited his old pupil in Moscow, and was touched by the joy he showed at their reunion, and by the calm self-control with which he spoke of his hopeless condition. The old intimacy was renewed, and only ended with the Count’s death in June, 1893.