“Dear Friend,—To-day I am sending you my Mozart Suite, registered. Three of the borrowed numbers in the Suite are pianoforte pieces (Nos. 1, 2, 4); one (No. 3) is the chorus ‘Ave Verum.’ Of course, I should be glad if the Suite could be played next season. That is all.”
Tchaikovsky’s “heroic act” of friendship consumed more than a month of his time. While paying full tribute to the generosity of his undertaking, we must confess that he failed to grasp the relation between wishing and doing. Tchaikovsky, filled with real and self-denying compassion for the sufferings of his neighbour, was wanting—as in all practical questions of life—in the necessary ability, self-control, and purpose. In the abstract, no one had more sympathy for his neighbour than he; but in reality no one was less able to do much for him. Anyone who could ask the trivial question: “Where wadding, needles, and thread could be bought?” would naturally lose his head at the bedside of a dying man. The consciousness of his helplessness and incapacity to lessen his friend’s suffering in the least, his irresolution in face of the slightest difficulty, rendered Tchaikovsky’s useless visit to Aix all the more painful. He suffered for the dying man and for himself. The result was that he did “too much” for friendship and “too little” for his sick friend; at least, in comparison to the extraordinary sacrifice of strength which his generous action demanded. When, at the end of August, the dying man’s nephew came to relieve him, Tchaikovsky fled from Aix, deeply grieved at parting from his friend “for ever,” humbled at his own mental condition, and angry at his inability “to see the sad business through to the end.” Exhausted, and wrathful with himself, he arrived at Maidanovo on August 30th (September 11th), where the news of Kondratiev’s death reached him a fortnight later.
Diary.
“September 21st (October 3rd), 1887.
“How short is life! How much I have still to do, to think, and to say! We keep putting things off, and meanwhile death lurks round the corner. It is just a year since I touched this book, and so much has changed since then. How strange! Just 365 days ago I was afraid to confess that, in spite of the glow of sympathetic feeling which Christ awoke in me, I dared to doubt His divinity. Since then my religion has become more clearly defined, for during this time I have thought a great deal about God, life, and death. In Aix especially I meditated on the fatal questions: why, how, for what end? I should like to define my religion in detail, if only I might be quite clear, once for all, as to my faith, and as to the boundary which divides it from speculation. But life and its vanities are passing, and I do not know whether I shall succeed in expressing the symbol of that faith which has arisen in me of late. It has very definite forms, but I do not use them when I pray. I pray just as before; as I was taught. Moreover, God can hardly require to know how and why we pray. God has no need of prayers. But we have.”
On October 20th (November 1st) The Enchantress was produced under the bâton of the composer, and the performance was altogether most brilliant and artistic.
On this first night Tchaikovsky does not appear to have observed that the opera was a failure. He thought, on the contrary, that it pleased the public. After the second performance (on October 23rd), which—notwithstanding that it went better than the first—still failed to move the audience to applause, he first felt doubts as to its success. The indifference of the public was clearly apparent after the third and fourth representations, when his appearance in the conductor’s desk was received in chilling silence. It was only then that he realised that The Enchantress was a failure. On the fifth night the house was empty.
Tchaikovsky, as we shall see, ascribed this failure to the ill_will of the critics. After I had read through all the notices—says Modeste—it seemed to me that, in the present instance, my brother had done them too much honour. In none of the eleven criticisms did I trace that tone of contempt and malicious enjoyment with which his other operas had been received. No one called The Enchantress a “still_born nonentity,” as Cui had said of Eugene Oniegin; no one attempted to count up the deliberate thefts in The Enchantress, as Galler had done with Mazeppa. The reason for the failure of The Enchantress must be sought elsewhere: possibly in the defective interpretation of both the chief parts; but more probably in the qualities of the music, which still awaits its just evaluation at the hands of a competent critic.
To N. F. von Meck.
“Moscow, November 13th (25th), 1887.