“My dear Friend,—Please forgive me for so seldom writing. I am passing through a very stirring period of my life, and am always in such a state of agitation that it is impossible to speak to you from my heart as I should wish. After conducting my opera four times, I returned here, about five days ago, in a very melancholy frame of mind. In spite of the ovation I received on the opening night, my opera has not taken with the public, and practically met with no success. From the Press I have encountered such hatred and hostility that, even now, I cannot account for it. On no other opera have I expended so much labour and sacrifice; yet never before have I been so persecuted by the critics. I have given up the journey to Tiflis, for I shall scarcely have time to get sufficient rest in Maidanovo before I have to start on my concert tour abroad. I conduct first in Leipzig, and afterwards in Dresden, Hamburg, Copenhagen, Berlin, and Prague. In March I give my own concert in Paris, and from there I go to London, as I have received an invitation from the Philharmonic Society. In short, a whole crowd of new and strong impressions are awaiting me.”
The Symphony Concert of the Russian Musical Society, November 14th (26th), was the first concert ever conducted by Tchaikovsky in Moscow. The programme consisted exclusively of his own works, including “Mozartiana” (first time), Francesca da Rimini, the Fantasia for pianoforte, op. 56 (Taneiev as soloist), and the Arioso from The Enchantress. On the following day the same programme was repeated by the Russian Musical Society at a popular concert. The “Mozartiana” Suite was a great success (the “Ave Verum” was encored), and the Press—in contradistinction to that of St. Petersburg—spoke with great warmth and cordiality of the composer and conductor.
To P. Jurgenson.
“November 24th (December 6th) 1887.
“In to-day’s paper I accidentally saw that the eighth performance of The Enchantress was given before a half-empty house. It is an undoubted fiasco. This failure has wounded me in my inmost soul, for I never worked with greater ardour than at The Enchantress. Besides, I feel ashamed when I think of you, for you must have sustained a terrible loss. I know well enough that some day the opera will be reinstated, but when? Meanwhile it makes me very bitter. So far I have always maintained that the Press could not influence one’s success or failure; but now I am inclined to think that it is only the united attack of these hounds of critics which has ruined my opera. The devil take them! Why this spite? Just now, for example, in to-day’s number of the Novosti, see how they rail at our Musical Society and at me, because of this Popular Concert! Incomprehensible!”
Part VII
I
1888
WITH December, 1887, began a new and last period in the life of Tchaikovsky, during which he realised his wildest dreams of fame, and attained to such prosperity and universal honour as rarely fall to the lot of an artist during his lifetime. Distrustful and modest (from an excess of pride), he was now in a perpetual state of wonder and delight to find himself far more appreciated in Russia and abroad than he had ever hoped in the past. Physically neither better nor worse than in former years, possessing the unlimited affections of those whom he loved in return,—he was, to all appearance, an example of mortal happiness, yet in reality he was less happy than before.
Those menacing blows of fate—like the opening of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony—had sounded, although muffled and distant, even on the day of Tchaikovsky’s first concert (March 5th); while that intangible and groundless sense of bitterness—that “touch of gall,” as he himself calls it—was present even in that triumphant moment when he found himself master of the orchestra and all its tempestuous elements, as though prophetic of those sufferings which overshadowed the last years of his life. At the time he did not understand this vague warning; afterwards, when it came back to him, he realised it had been a friendly caution, not to continue the chase for fame; not to take up occupations that went against his nature, nor to spend his strength upon the attainment of things which would come of themselves; finally, to cling to his true vocation, lest disappointment should await him in the new path he had elected to follow. In February he wrote to Nadejda von Meck: “New and powerful impressions continually await me. Probably my fame will increase, but would it not be better to stay at home and work? God knows! I can say this: I regret the time when I was left in peace in the solitude of the country.” And this regret grew keener, as his weariness grew more intolerable. The more he accustomed his temperament to unsuitable occupations, the further he advanced his reputation, the more complete was his disenchantment with the prize. Radiant and glittering as it had appeared from afar, seen closer, it proved insignificant and tarnished. Hence the profound disillusionment, “the insane depression,” the something “hopeless and final” which make so dark a background to the picture of his brilliant success at home and abroad.
Tchaikovsky left Russia on December 15th (27th) and arrived in Berlin two days later. Here he was to meet Herr N—— who was acting as his concert agent during this tour. He had no sooner settled in his hotel than, picking up a newspaper, his eye fell upon a paragraph to the effect that: “To-day, December 29th, the Russian composer Tchaikovsky arrives in Berlin. To-morrow his numerous friends (?) and admirers (?) will meet to celebrate his arrival by a luncheon at the —— restaurant, at one o’clock. Punctual attendance is requested.” “No words could describe my horror and indignation,” wrote Tchaikovsky. “At that moment I could cheerfully have murdered Herr N——. I went out to breakfast at a café in the Passage, and afterwards to the Museum, walking in fear and trembling lest I should meet Herr N—— or some of my numerous friends and admirers.”