“Honoured Count,—Accept my sincere thanks for the songs. I must tell you frankly that they have been taken down by an unskilful hand and, in consequence, nearly all their original beauty is lost. The chief mistake is that they have been forced artificially into a regular rhythm. Only the Russian choral-dances have a regularly accentuated measure; the legends (Bylini) have nothing in common with the dances. Besides, most of these songs have been written down in the lively key of D major, and this is quite out of keeping with the tonality of the genuine Russian folksongs, which are always in some indefinite key, such as can only be compared with the old Church modes. Therefore the songs you have sent are unsuitable for systematic treatment. I could not use them for an album of folksongs, because for this purpose the tunes must be taken down exactly as the people sing them. This is a difficult task, demanding the most delicate musical perception, as well as a great knowledge of musical history. With the exception of Balakirev—and to a certain extent Prokounin—I do not know anyone who really understands this work. But your songs can be used as symphonic material—and excellent material too—of which I shall certainly avail myself at some future time. I am glad you keep a pleasant recollection of your evening at the Conservatoire. Our quartet played as they have never done before. From which you must infer that one pair of ears, if they belong to such a great artist as yourself, has more incentive power with musicians than a hundred ordinary pairs. You are one of those authors of whom it may be said that their personality is as much beloved as their works. It was evident that, well as they generally play, our artists exerted themselves to the utmost for one they honoured so greatly. What I feel I must express: I cannot tell you how proud and happy it made me that my music could so touch you and carry you away.
“Except Fitzenhagen, who cannot read Russian, your books are known to all the other members of the quartet. But I am sure they would be grateful if you gave them each one volume of your works. For myself, I am going to ask you to give me The Cossacks; if not immediately, then later on, when next you come to Moscow—an event to which I look forward with impatience. If you send your portrait to Rubinstein, do not forget me.”
With this letter personal intercourse between Tchaikovsky and Count Tolstoi came to an end. It is remarkable that this was not against the composer’s wishes, even if he did nothing actually to cause the rupture. The attentive reader will not fail to have gathered from the last words quoted from his diary that his acquaintance with Tolstoi had been something of a disappointment. It vexed him that “the lord of his intellect” should care to talk of “commonplace subjects unworthy of a great man.” It hurt him to see all the little faults and failings of this divinity brought out by closer proximity. He feared to lose faith in him, and consequently to spoil his enjoyment of his works. This delight was at one time somewhat disturbed by his hyper-sensitiveness. In a letter to his brother, Tchaikovsky criticises Anna Karenina, which had then just begun to make its appearance in the Russky Vestnik.
“After your departure,” he writes, “I read Anna Karenina once more. Are you not ashamed to extol this revolting and commonplace stuff, which aspires to be psychologically profound? The devil take your psychological truth when it leaves nothing but an endless waste behind it.”
Afterwards, having read the whole novel, Tchaikovsky repented his judgment, and acknowledged it to be one of Tolstoi’s finest creations.
In the presence of Tolstoi, Tchaikovsky felt ill at ease, in spite of the writer’s kind and simple attitude towards his fellow-men. From a fear of wounding or displeasing him in any way, and also in consequence of his efforts not to betray his admiration and delight, the musician never quite knew how to behave to Tolstoi, and was always conscious of being somewhat unnatural—of playing a part. This consciousness was intolerable to Tchaikovsky, consequently he avoided future intercourse with the great man.
Greatly as Tchaikovsky admired Tolstoi the writer, he was never in sympathy with Tolstoi the philosopher. In his diary for 1886, writing of What I Believe, he says:—
“When we read the autobiographies or memoirs of great men, we frequently find that their thoughts and impressions—and more especially their artistic sentiments—are such as we ourselves have experienced and can therefore fully understand. There is only one who is incomprehensible, who stands alone and aloof in his greatness—Leo Tolstoi. Yet often I feel angry with him: I almost hate him. Why, I ask myself, should this man, who more than all his predecessors has power to depict the human soul with such wonderful harmony, who can fathom our poor intellect and follow the most secret and tortuous windings of our moral nature—why must he needs appear as a preacher, and set up to be our teacher and guardian? Hitherto he has succeeded in making a profound impression by the recital of simple, everyday events. We might read between the lines his noble love of mankind, his compassion for our helplessness, our mortality and pettiness. How often have I wept over his words without knowing why!... Perhaps because for a moment I was brought into contact—through his medium—with the Ideal, with absolute happiness, and with humanity. Now he appears as a commentator of texts, who claims a monopoly in the solution of all questions of faith and ethics. But through all his recent writings blows a chilling wind. We feel a tremor of fear at the consciousness that he, too, is a mere man; a creature as much puffed up as ourselves about ‘The End and Aim of Life,’ ‘The Destiny of Man,’ ‘God,’ and ‘Religion’; and as madly presumptuous, as ineffectual as some ephemera born on a summer’s day to perish at eventide. Once Tolstoi was a Demigod. Now he is only a Priest.... Tolstoi says that formerly, knowing nothing, he was mad enough to aspire to teach men out of his ignorance. He regrets this. Yet here he is beginning to teach us again. Then we must conclude he is no longer ignorant. Whence this self-confidence? Is it not foolish presumption? The true sage knows only that he knows nothing.”
It is said that in nature peace often precedes a violent storm. This is twice observable in the life of Tchaikovsky. Let us look back to the period of his Government service, to the strenuous industry and zeal he displayed in his official duties in 1862—just before he took up the musical profession. Never was he more contented with his lot, or calmer in mind, than a few months before he entered the Conservatoire. It was the same at the present juncture. Shortly before that rash act, which cut him off for ever from Moscow, which changed all his habits and social relations, and was destined to be the beginning of a new life; just at the moment, in fact, when we might look for some dissatisfaction with fate as a reason for this desperate resolve, Tchaikovsky was by no means out of spirits. On the contrary, in January and February 1877, he gave the impression of a man whose mind was at rest, who had no desires, and displayed more purpose and cheerfulness than before. This mood is very evident in a playful letter dated January 2nd (14th), 1877:—
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.