In any case, however much Tchaikovsky may have been wounded by Rubinstein’s indifference, he remained loyal to his enthusiasm for his former teacher. When the Duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz requested him to take part in organising the celebration of Rubinstein’s jubilee, he expressed himself willing to put himself at the disposal of the committee. It was decided that he should conduct the jubilee concerts and compose a chorus a capella to words by Polonsky. The chorus was to be sung at the festival given in the hall of the Nobles’ Club, November 18th (30th), 1889. In addition he undertook to contribute something to the album which Rubinstein’s former pupils at the Petersburg Conservatoire were going to present him on the same occasion.
The second half of his task was easily fulfilled. In a few days both compositions—the chorus and an Impromptu for pianoforte—were ready. The conducting of the concerts was another matter. The labour it involved, and the difficulties in connection with it, made real demands upon Tchaikovsky’s devotion for his old teacher.
The programme of the first concert consisted entirely of symphonic works, including the Konzertstück (op. 113), with Rubinstein himself at the piano, and the Symphony No. 5 (op. 107). At the second concert, besides the dances from Feramors and the Roussalka songs, the chief item was the Biblical opera, The Tower of Babel.
This programme would have made very heavy demands upon the most experienced conductor; it was a still heavier task for one who—only a month previously—had conducted for the first time any works other than his own.
“There were moments,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck, “when I experienced such a complete loss of strength that I feared for my life. The working up of The Tower of Babel, with its chorus of seven hundred voices, gave me the most trouble. On the evening of November 10th (22nd), just before the oratorio began, I had an attack of nerves, which they feared might prevent my returning to the conductor’s desk. But—perhaps thanks to this crisis—I pulled myself together in time, and all went well to the end. You will learn all details about the festival from the newspapers. I will only add that from the 1st to the 19th of November I endured martyrdom, and I am still marvelling how I lived through it all.”
To the period between the end of October, 1889, to the middle of January, 1890, belong but twelve letters, only two of which have any biographical interest. The rest are merely short notes of no importance. Such a decrease in Tchaikovsky’s correspondence is a symptom of the highly nervous and distracted phase which he was now passing through. For a long time past letter-writing had ceased to be a pleasant duty; still, it remained a duty, which he could only neglect under special circumstances, such as overwhelmed him at the commencement of this season.
He had scarcely got over the jubilee concerts, when he had to return to Moscow to conduct Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony at an extra Symphony Concert, given in aid of the fund for the widows and orphans of musicians.
Only two published notices of this concert are in existence at Klin. Both emanate from staunch admirers of Tchaikovsky: Kashkin and Konius, who, in spite of all their justice, probably show some partisanship in their praise.
On the same occasion Brandoukov played Tchaikovsky’s Pezzo Capriccioso for violoncello with great success.
It was unfortunate that after all this strain and anxiety the composer was not able to return to his country retreat, where the peaceful solitude invariably restored him to health and strength. In spite of all precautions, he was overrun with visitors; and his Moscow quarters were so small that he sighed perpetually for his roomy home at Frolovskoe. Added to which, Alexis Safronov’s wife was dying of consumption. We know Tchaikovsky’s attitude to those who served him. He never regarded them as subordinates, mere machines for carrying out his wishes, but rather as friends, in whose joys and sorrows he felt the keenest sympathy. The illness of his servant’s young wife caused him great sorrow; the more so that he saw no way of saving her life. The knowledge that he was of no use, but rather a hindrance to the care of the invalid—for Alexis was the poor soul’s only nurse—made Tchaikovsky anxious to save his man all the personal services with which he could possibly dispense. For this reason he cut short his stay in Moscow and returned to Petersburg at the end of November, where his ballet, The Sleeping Beauty, was already in rehearsal.