XIX
Tchaikovsky arrived in Petersburg on October 10th (22nd). He was met by his brother Modeste and his favourite nephew. He was delighted with their new abode and his spirits were excellent—so long as his arrival remained unknown and he was master of his time.
One thing only depressed him: at the rehearsals the Sixth Symphony made no impression upon the orchestra. He always set store by the opinion of the musicians. Moreover, he feared lest the interpretation of the Symphony might suffer from their coldness. Tchaikovsky only conducted his works well when he knew they appealed to the players. To obtain delicate nuances and a good balance of tone he needed his surroundings to be sympathetic and appreciative. A look of indifference, a coolness on the part of any of the band, seemed to paralyse him; he lost his head, went through the work perfunctorily, and cut the rehearsal as short as possible, so as to release the musicians from a wearisome task. Whenever he conducted a work of his own for the first time, a kind of uncertainty—almost carelessness—in the execution of details was apparent, and the whole interpretation lacked force and definite expression. The Fifth Symphony and Hamlet were so long making their way merely because the composer had failed to make them effective. The same reason accounts for the failure of the orchestral ballade, The Voyevode.
Tchaikovsky was easily disenchanted with his work by the adverse opinion of others. But on this occasion his judgment remained unshaken, and even the indifference of the orchestra did not alter his opinion that this Symphony was “the best thing I ever composed or ever shall compose.” He did not, however, succeed in convincing the public or the performers. At the concert on the 16th (28th) the work fell rather flat. It was applauded and the composer was recalled; but the enthusiasm did not surpass what was usually shown for one of Tchaikovsky’s new works. The Symphony produced nothing approaching to that powerful and thrilling impression it made shortly afterwards (November 6th (18th), 1893) under Napravnik, which has since been repeated in so many other cities.
The Press did not speak of the new Symphony with as much admiration as Tchaikovsky had expected, but on the whole the notices were appreciative. The St. Petersburg Viedomosti thought “the thematic material of the work was not very original, the leading subjects were neither new nor significant. The last movement, Adagio Lamentoso, was the best.” The Syn Otechestva discovered a phrase in the first movement which recalled Gounod’s Romeo and Juliet, while Grieg was reflected in the Finale. The Novoe Vremya said: “The new Symphony is evidently the outcome of a journey abroad; it contains much that is clever and resourceful as regards orchestral colour, besides grace and delicacy (in the two middle movements), but as far as inspiration is concerned it stands far below Tchaikovsky’s other Symphonies. Only one newspaper, The Birjevya Viedomosti, spoke of the work in terms of unqualified praise, while finding fault with the composer’s conducting of the work.
The morning after the concert I found my brother sitting at the breakfast-table with the score of the Symphony before him. He had agreed to send it to Jurgenson in Moscow that very day, and could not decide upon a title. He did not wish to designate it merely by a number, and had abandoned his original intention of calling it “a programme Symphony.” “Why programme,” he said, “since I do not intend to expound any meaning?” I suggested “tragic Symphony” as an appropriate title. But this did not please him either. I left the room while Peter Ilich was still in a state of indecision. Suddenly the word “pathetic” occurred to me, and I returned to suggest it. I remember, as though it were yesterday, how my brother exclaimed: “Bravo, Modeste, splendid! Pathetic!” Then and there, in my presence, he added to the score the title by which the Symphony has always been known.193
I do not relate this incident in order to connect my name with this work. Probably I should never have mentioned it but for the fact that it serves to illustrate in a simple way how far the conjectures of the most enlightened commentators may wander from the truth.
Hugo Riemann, in his thematic analysis of the Sixth Symphony, sees the solution of this title in “the striking resemblance between the fundamental idea of this work and the chief subject of Beethoven’s Sonata Pathétique,” of which Tchaikovsky never dreamed:
After having despatched the score to Moscow with this title, Tchaikovsky changed his mind, as may be seen from the following letter to Jurgenson:—
“October 18th, 1893.
“Be so kind as to put on the title page what stands below.
To Vladimir Lvovich
Davidov
(No. 6)
Composed by P. T.
“I hope it is not too late.
“It is very strange about this Symphony. It was not exactly a failure, but was received with some hesitation. As far as I am concerned, I am prouder of it than of any of my previous works. However, we can soon talk it over together, for I shall be in Moscow on Saturday.”
At this time he talked a great deal about the remodelling of The Oprichnik and The Maid of Orleans, which he had in view for the immediate future. He did not confide to me his intentions as to the former opera; but as regards The Maid of Orleans, we discussed the alteration of the last scene, and I made a point of his arranging this, like so many other parts of the opera, from Schiller’s poem. The idea seemed to interest him, but it was not permitted to him to come to a definite conclusion on the subject.
During these last days he was neither very cheerful, nor yet depressed. In the circle of his intimate friends he was contented and jovial; among strangers he was, as usual, nervous and excited and, as time went on, tired out and dull. But nothing gave the smallest hint of his approaching end.
On Tuesday, October 19th (31st), he went to a private performance of Rubinstein’s The Maccabees. On the 20th (November 1st) he was still in good health and dined with his old friend Vera Boutakov (née Davidov). Afterwards he went to see Ostrovsky’s play, A Warm Heart, at the Alexander Theatre. During the interval he went with me to see the actor Varlamov in his dressing-room. The conversation turned upon spiritualism. Varlamov described in his own humorous style—which cannot be transferred to paper—his loathing for “all those abominations” which reminded one of death. Peter Ilich laughed at Varlamov’s quaint way of expressing himself.
“There is plenty of time,” said Tchaikovsky, “before we need reckon with this snub-nosed horror; it will not come to snatch us off just yet! I feel I shall live a long time.” From the theatre, Tchaikovsky went with his nephews, Count Litke and Baron Buxhövden, to the Restaurant Leiner. I joined them an hour later, and found one or two other visitors—of whom Glazounov was one. They had already had their supper, and I was afterwards told my brother had eaten macaroni and drunk, as usual, white wine and soda water. We went home about two a.m. Peter Ilich was perfectly well and serene.
On the morning of Thursday, October 21st (November 2nd), Tchaikovsky did not appear as usual at the early breakfast-table. His brother went to his room and found him slightly indisposed. He complained of his digestion being upset and of a bad night. About eleven a.m. he dressed and went out to see Napravnik. Half an hour later he returned, still feeling unwell. He absolutely declined to send for a doctor. His condition gave no anxiety to Modeste, who had often seen him suffer from similar derangements.
He joined his brother and nephew at lunch, although he ate nothing. But this was probably the fatal moment in his indisposition for, while talking, he poured out a glass of water and drank a long draught. The water had not been boiled, and they were dismayed at his imprudence. But he was not in the least alarmed, and tried to calm their fears. He dreaded cholera less than any other illness. After this his condition grew worse; but he attributed all his discomfort to a copious dose of Hunyadi which he had taken earlier in the day, and still declined to send for his favourite doctor, Bertenson. Towards evening Modeste grew so anxious that he sent for the doctor on his own account. Meanwhile Tchaikovsky was tended by his brother’s servant Nazar, who had once travelled with him to Italy.
About eight p.m. Bertenson arrived. He saw at once that the illness was serious, and sent for his brother in consultation. The sufferer had grown very weak, and complained of terrible oppression on his chest. More than once he said, “I believe this is death.”
After a short consultation the brothers Bertenson, the two leading physicians in Petersburg, pronounced it to be a case of cholera.
All night long those who nursed him in turn fought against the cramps; towards morning with some hope of success. His courage was wonderful, and in the intervals between the paroxysms of pain he made little jokes with those around him. He constantly begged his nurses to take some rest, and was grateful for the smallest service.
On Friday his condition seemed more hopeful, and he himself believed he had been “snatched from the jaws of death.” But on the following day his mental depression returned. “Leave me,” he said to his doctors, “you can do no good. I shall never recover.”
Gradually he passed into the second stage of the cholera, with its most dangerous symptom—complete inactivity of the kidneys. He slept more, but his sleep was restless, and sometimes he wandered in his mind. At these times he continually repeated the name of Nadejda Filaretovna von Meck in an indignant, or reproachful, tone. Consciousness returned at longer intervals, and when his servant Alexis arrived from Klin he was no longer able to recognise him. A warm bath was tried as a last resource, but without avail, and soon afterwards his pulse grew so weak that the end seemed imminent. At the desire of his brother Nicholas, a priest was sent for from the Isaac Cathedral. He did not administer the sacrament, as Tchaikovsky was now quite unconscious, but prayed in clear and distinct tones, which, however, did not seem to reach the ears of the dying man.
At three o’clock on the morning of October 25th (November 6th) Tchaikovsky passed away in the presence of his brothers Nicholas and Modeste, his nephews Litke, Buxhövden, and Vladimir Davidov, the three doctors, and his faithful servant Alexis Safronov. At the last moment an indescribable look of clear recognition lit up his face—a gleam which only died away with his last breath.
My work is finished. With this account of Tchaikovsky’s last moments my task, which was to express the man, is accomplished.
To characterise the artist in every phase of his development, and to determine his position in the history of music, is beyond my powers. If all the documental and authentic evidence I have collected in this book should serve as fundamental material for another writer capable of fulfilling such a task, the most cherished aim of all my efforts will have been attained.
MODESTE TCHAIKOVSKY
Rome, 1902