To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Klin, May 20th (June 1st), 1892.
“I have spent so much money lately (of course not upon myself alone) that all my hopes of laying aside something for George[182] have vanished.”
To Eugen Zabel.
“Klin, near Moscow, May 24th (June 5th), 1892.
“I have just received your esteemed letter, and feel it a pleasant duty to send you an immediate answer, but as I write German very badly I must have recourse to French. I doubt if you will find anything new, interesting, or of any value for your biography in the following lines; but I promise to say quite frankly all that I know and feel about Rubinstein.
“It was in 1858 that I heard the name of Anton Rubinstein for the first time. I was then eighteen, and I had just entered the higher class of the School of Jurisprudence, and only took up music as an amateur. For several years I had taken lessons on Sundays from a very distinguished pianist, M. Rodolphe Kündinger. In those days, never having heard any other virtuoso than my teacher, I believed him, in all sincerity, to be the greatest in the world. One day Kündinger came to the lesson in a very absent-minded mood, and paid little attention to the scales and exercises I was playing. When I asked this admirable man and artist what was the matter, he replied that, the day before, he had heard the pianist Rubinstein, just come from abroad; this man had impressed him so profoundly that he had not yet recovered from the experience, and everything in the way of virtuosity now seemed to him so poor that it was as unbearable to listen to my scales as to hear himself play the piano.
“I knew what a noble and sincere nature Kündinger possessed. I had a very high opinion of his taste and knowledge—and this caused his words to excite my imagination and my curiosity in the highest degree. In the course of my scholastic year I had the opportunity of hearing Rubinstein—and not only of hearing him, but of seeing him play and conduct. I lay stress upon this first visual impression, because it is my profound conviction that Rubinstein’s prestige is based not only upon his rare talent, but also upon an irresistible charm which emanates from his whole personality; so that it is not sufficient to hear him in order to gain a full impression—one must see him too. I heard and saw him. Like everyone else, I fell under the spell of his charm. All the same, I finished my studies, entered the Government service, and continued to amuse myself with a little music in my leisure hours. But gradually my true vocation made itself felt. I will spare you details which have nothing to do with my subject, but I must tell you that about the time of the foundation of the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, in September, 1862, I was no longer a clerk in the Ministry of Justice, but a young man resolved to devote himself to music, and ready to face all the difficulties which were predicted by my relatives, who were displeased that I should voluntarily abandon a career in which I had made a good start. I entered the Conservatoire. My professors were: Zaremba for counterpoint and fugue, etc., Anton Rubinstein (Director) for form and instrumentation. I remained three and a half years at the Conservatoire, and during this time I saw Rubinstein daily, and sometimes several times a day, except during the vacations. When I joined the Conservatoire I was—as I have already told you—an enthusiastic worshipper of Rubinstein. But when I knew him better, when I became his pupil and we entered into daily relations with each other, my enthusiasm for his personality became even greater. In him I adored not only a great pianist and composer, but a man of rare nobility, frank, loyal, generous, incapable of petty and vulgar sentiments, clear and right-minded, of infinite goodness—in fact, a man who towered far above the common herd. As a teacher, he was of incomparable value. He went to work simply, without grand phrases or long dissertations; but always taking his duty seriously. He was only once angry with me. After the holidays I took him an overture entitled ‘The Storm,’ in which I had been guilty of all kinds of whims of form and orchestration. He was hurt, and said that it was not for the development of imbeciles that he took the trouble to teach the art of composition. I left the Conservatoire full of gratitude and admiration for my professor.