The success of the opera was great, but not phenomenal. There was no hissing, but between the acts, mingled with expressions of praise and appreciation, many criticisms and ironical remarks were audible.
These unfavourable views came to light in the Press. Cui thought the mere choice of the libretto of Eugene Oniegin proved that Tchaikovsky was lacking in “discriminating taste,” and was not capable of self-criticism. The chief characteristic of the opera was its “wearisome monotony.” Tchaikovsky, he considered, was too fond of airing his troubles in his music. Finally, he pronounced the work to be “still_born, absolutely valueless and weak.”
Most of the other critics agreed with this view.
Tchaikovsky himself was “satisfied.” He had not realised, any more than the critics, that the crowded theatre signified the first great success of a Russian opera since Glinka’s A Life for the Tsar. In spite of the Press notices, it was not merely a success, but a triumph; a fact which became more and more evident. Dating from the second performance, Eugene Oniegin drew a long series of packed audiences, and has remained the favourite opera of the Russian public to this day.
This success did not merely mark an important event in the history of Russian opera, it proved the beginning of a new era in the life of Tchaikovsky himself. Henceforward his name, hitherto known and respected among musicians and a fairly wide circle of musical amateurs, was now recognised by the great public, and he acquired a popularity to which no Russian composer had ever yet attained in his own land. Together with his increase of fame, his material prospects improved. Eugene Oniegin transformed him from a needy into a prosperous man, and brought him that complete independence which was so necessary to his creative work.
It is instructive to observe that all this was the outcome of an opera which was never intended to appeal to the masses; but written only to satisfy the composer’s enthusiasm for Poushkin’s poem, without any hope—almost without any desire—of seeing it performed on a large stage.
In spite of its success, this performance of Eugene Oniegin was a great strain upon the composer’s nerves. He felt bound to stay for the second performance, after which he left St. Petersburg for Davos, having in view a twofold object: to take a short rest, and to visit his friend Kotek, of whose condition he had just received disquieting intelligence. Tchaikovsky broke his journey in Berlin, where he saw Weber’s Oberon at the Opera. Instead of being bored by this work, as he expected, he enjoyed it very much. “The music is often enchanting,” he wrote to his brother, “but the subject is absurd, in the style of Zauberflöte. However, it is amusing, and I roared with laughter in one place, where at the sound of the magic horn the entire corps de ballet fall flat on the stage and writhe in convulsions.... I also went to Bilse’s and heard the Andante from my own quartet. This everlasting Andante; they want to hear no other work of mine!”
On November 12th (24th) he arrived at Davos. He expected to find a wilderness, in which neither cigarettes nor cigars were to be had, and the civilised aspect of the place, the luxurious hotels, the shops, and the theatre made upon him the fantastic impression of a dream. He had dreaded the meeting with Kotek, lest his friend should be changed beyond recognition by the ravages of consumption. He was agreeably surprised to find him looking comparatively well. But this was only a first impression; he soon realised that Kotek’s condition was serious. He remained a few days at Davos, rejoiced his friend’s heart by his presence, had a confidential interview with the doctor, and left for Paris on November 17th (29th), after having provided liberally for the welfare of the invalid.
To P. Jurgenson.
“Zurich, November 18th (30th), 1884.