Hanslick’s volumes of collected reviews and essays are many. It is possible that in the days to come he will be remembered only by the fact that he said, apropos of Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto, that it stank in the ear. In spite of Hanslick’s dictum, the concerto still lives, whatever its obvious faults: its endless repetitions, its measures of sheer padding. Why cannot someone arrange Gems from Tchaikovsky’s Concerto after the manner of various anthologies (including Crumbs of Comfort)? Long-winded, tedious at times as it is, the concerto, by reason of melodic charm and demoniacal spirit, is still heard by the people gladly.
The concerto, dedicated at first to Leopold Auer, but afterwards to Adolf Brodsky—and thereby hangs a tale—was performed for the first time at a Philharmonic concert, Vienna, December 4, 1881. Brodsky was the solo violinist. An interesting letter from him to Tchaikovsky after the first performance, is published in Modeste’s Life of his brother (Vol. II, p. 177): “I had the wish to play the concerto in public ever since I first looked it through. That was two years ago. I often took it up and often put it down, because my laziness was stronger than my wish to reach the goal. You have, indeed, crammed too many difficulties into it. I played it last year in Paris to Laroche, but so badly that he could gain no true idea of the work; nevertheless, he was pleased with it. That journey to Paris which turned out unluckily for me—I had to bear many rude things from Colonne and Pasdeloup—fired my energy (misfortune always does this to me, but when I am fortunate then am I weak) so that, back in Russia, I took up the concerto with burning zeal. It is wonderfully beautiful. One can play it again and again and never be bored; and this is a most important circumstance for the conquering of its difficulties. When I felt myself sure of it, I determined to try my luck in Vienna. Now I come to the point where I must say to you that you should not thank me: I should thank you; for it was only the wish to know the new concerto that induced Hans Richter and later the Philharmonic Orchestra to hear me play and grant my participation in one of these concerts. The concerto was not liked at the rehearsal of the new pieces, although I came out successfully on its shoulders. It would have been most unthankful on my part, had I not strained every nerve to pull my benefactor through behind me. Finally we were admitted to the Philharmonic concert. I had to be satisfied with one rehearsal, and much time was lost there in the correction of the parts, that swarmed with errors. The players determined to accompany everything pianissimo, not to go to smash; naturally, the work, which demands many nuances, even in the accompaniment, suffered thereby. Richter wished to make some cuts, but I did not allow it.”
The concerto came immediately after a divertimento by Mozart. According to the account of the Viennese critics and of Brodsky there was a furious mixture of applause and hissing after the performance. The applause prevailed, and Brodsky was thrice recalled, which showed that the hissing was directed against the work, not the interpreter. Out of ten critics only two, and they were the least important, reviewed the concerto favorably. The review by Eduard Hanslick, who was born hating programme music and the Russian school, was extravagant in its bitterness, and caused Tchaikovsky long-continued distress, although Brodsky, Carl Halir, and other violinists soon made his concerto popular. Tchaikovsky wrote from Rome, December 27, 1881, to Jurgenson: “My dear, I saw lately in a café a number of the Neue Freie Presse in which Hanslick speaks so curiously about my violin concerto that I beg you to read it. Besides other reproaches he censures Brodsky for having chosen it. If you know Brodsky’s address, please write to him that I am moved deeply by the courage shown by him in playing so difficult and ungrateful a piece before a most prejudiced audience. If Kotek, my best friend, were so cowardly and pusillanimous as to change his intention of acquainting the St. Petersburg public with this concerto, although it was his pressing duty to play it, for he is responsible in the matter of ease of execution of the piece; if Auer, to whom the work is dedicated, intrigued against me, so am I doubly thankful to dear Brodsky, in that for my sake he must stand the curses of the Viennese journals.”
The review of Hanslick is preserved in the volume of his collected feuilletons entitled, Concerte, Componisten, und Virtuosen der Letzten fünfzehn Jahre, 1870-1885, pp. 295, 296 (Berlin, 1886). The criticism in its fierce extravagance now seems amusing. Here are extracts: “For a while the concerto has proportion, is musical, and is not without genius, but soon savagery gains the upper hand and lords it to the end of the first movement. The violin is no longer played: it is yanked about, it is torn asunder, it is beaten black and blue. I do not know whether it is possible for anyone to conquer these hair-raising difficulties, but I do know that Mr. Brodsky martyrized his hearers as well as himself. The adagio, with its tender national melody, almost conciliates, almost wins us. But it breaks off abruptly to make way for a finale that puts us in the midst of the brutal and wretched jollity of a Russian kermess. We see wild and vulgar faces, we hear curses, we smell bad brandy. Friedrich Vischer once asserted in reference to lascivious painting that there are pictures which ‘stink in the eye.’ Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto brings to us for the first time the horrid idea that there may be music that stinks in the ear.” Modeste Tchaikovsky tells us that this article disquieted Peter till he died; that he knew it by heart, as he did an adverse criticism written by César Cui in 1866.
The concerto was dedicated first to Leopold Auer. Tchaikovsky, in the Diary of his tour in 1888, wrote: “I do not know whether my dedication was flattering to Mr. Auer, but in spite of his genuine friendship he never tried to conquer the difficulties of this concerto. He pronounced it impossible to play, and this verdict, coming from such an authority as the St. Petersburg virtuoso, had the effect of casting this unfortunate child of my imagination for many years to come into the limbo of hopelessly forgotten things.” The composer about seven years before this wrote to Jurgenson from Rome (January 16, 1882) that Auer had been “intriguing against him.” Peter’s brother Modeste explains this by saying: “It had been reported to Peter that Auer had dissuaded Emile Sauret from playing the concerto in St. Petersburg;” but Modeste also adds that Auer changed his opinion many years later, and became one of the most brilliant interpreters of the concerto.
The following orchestration was used by Tchaikovsky in his last three symphonies (with no percussion but timpani in the Fifth): piccolo, two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, bass drum, cymbals, triangle, and strings. In the Romeo and Juliet overture, the English horn and harp were added for color, and the bass drum (with the customary kettledrums) sufficed for percussion. In the piano and violin concertos there was the same scheme of orchestration (without the additional percussion).—EDITOR.
RICHARD
WAGNER
(Born at Leipsic, May 22, 1813; died at Venice, February 13, 1883)
It is not easy for anyone who did not live through the period of the Wagnerian excitement to understand the fierceness of the controversy. The younger generation reads at its ease accounts of protests against compositions by Strauss, Reger, Schönberg; how this or that piece was hissed by some in a concert hall and applauded by others; it reads and is amused, but it regards the discussion as academic. The Wagner question, like the Beecher trial, like the Ibsen controversy in Norway, divided households.