Читать книгу The Life & Letters of Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky - Chaikovskii Modest - Страница 19

“In the biography of an artist,” continues Laroche, “side by side with his individual evolution, the close observation of all external influences with which he comes in contact plays an important part. In Tchaikovsky’s case, I place among these influences, the musical repertory which was familiar to him, and such compositions as he specially studied or cared for. During the whole of his time at the Conservatoire, especially during the first two years, I was constantly with him, and am therefore a fair judge of the works which more or less left their impress upon his mind. I can enumerate almost all the compositions we played together during his first year: Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, Schumann’s Third Symphony, his Paradise and the Peri, and Lohengrin. Tchaikovsky grumbled when I made him play long vocal works with endless recitatives, which became very wearisome on the piano, but the beauty of the more connected parts soon re-awakened his enthusiasm. Wagner gave him the least pleasure. He simply made light of Lohengrin, and only became reconciled to the whole opera much later in life.

“One day he remarked fearlessly: ‘I am sure of this—Serov has more talent for composition than Wagner.’ Schumann’s Third Symphony and Rubinstein’s ‘Ocean’ Symphony made the greatest impression upon him. Later on, under the bâton of the composer, our enthusiasm for the latter continually increased. Many readers will be surprised to hear that one of Tchaikovsky’s earliest crazes was for Henri Litolff—but only for the two overtures, Robespierre and Les Girondistes. I can say without exaggeration that, after hearing these two overtures and Meyerbeer’s Struensee, Tchaikovsky was always an impassioned lover of programme music. In his early overtures, including Romeo and Juliet, the influence of Litolff is easily perceptible, while he approached Liszt—who did far more to inspire the young generation—with hesitation and mistrust. During his student years, Orpheus was the only one of Liszt’s symphonic poems which attracted him. The Faust Symphony he only valued long afterwards. It is but fair to state that Liszt’s symphonic poems, which enslaved a whole generation of Russian composers, only exercised an insignificant and ephemeral influence upon Tchaikovsky.

“It is important to observe that, at this early period, he showed many curious and morbid musical antipathies which he entirely outgrew. These dislikes were not for particular composers, but for certain styles of composition, or, more strictly speaking, for their quality of sound. For instance, he did not like the combination of piano and orchestra, nor the timbre of a string quartet or quintet, and least of all the effect of the piano with one or more stringed instruments. Although, for the sake of experience, he had studied the general repertory of chamber music and pianoforte concertos, and now and then was charmed by a work of this nature, he afterwards took the first opportunity of condemning its ‘detestable’ quality of tone. Not once, but hundreds of times, he has vowed in my presence never to compose a pianoforte concerto, nor a violin and piano sonata, nor any work of this class. As regards the violin and pianoforte sonata, he has kept his word. Not less strange was his determination, at this time, never to write any small pieces for piano, or songs. He spoke of the latter with the greatest dislike. But this hatred must have been quite Platonic, for the next minute he was growing enthusiastic with me over the songs of Glinka, Schumann, or Schubert.

“At this period in his life it was a kind of mania to declare himself quite incapable in certain branches of his art. For instance, he often declared he was absolutely unable to conduct. The art of conducting goes frequently with that of accompanying, and he was an excellent accompanist. This fact alone should have sufficed to prove the groundlessness of his assertions. At the Conservatoire the advanced students in the composition class were expected to conduct the school orchestra in turn. Tchaikovsky stood first on the list. I cannot remember whether he distinguished himself on this occasion, but I know that nothing particularly dreadful happened, and that he made no evident fiasco. Nevertheless he made this first experience the confirmation of his opinion. He declared that having to stand at the raised desk in front of the orchestra produced such nervous sensations that all the time he felt his head must fall off his shoulders; in order to prevent this catastrophe, he kept his left hand under his chin and only conducted with his right. This fixed idea lasted for years.

“In 1868 Tchaikovsky was invited to conduct the dances from his opera The Voyevode at a charity concert given in Moscow. I still see him before me, the bâton in his right hand, while his left firmly supported his fair beard!

“Tchaikovsky’s ardent admiration for Glinka, especially for the opera A Life for the Tsar, included also this composer’s incidental music to the tragedy Prince Kholmsky. As regards Russlan and Lioudmilla, his views varied at first. Early in the sixties he knew only a few numbers from Glinka’s second opera, which pleased him unreservedly. He was equally delighted with the music and libretto of Serov’s opera Judith, which he heard in 1863. It is remarkable that while a few masterpieces, such as Don Juan, A Life for the Tsar, and Schubert’s Symphony in C, took their places once and for ever in his appreciation, his judgment of other musical works was subject to considerable fluctuation. One year he was carried away by Beethoven’s Eighth Symphony, the next he pronounced it ‘very nice, but nothing more.’ For years he declared the music to Faust by Pugni (a well-known composer of ballets) was infinitely superior to Gounod’s opera, and afterwards he described the French composer’s work as ‘a masterpiece.’ Therefore it is all the more remarkable that he remained faithful to Serov’s opera Judith to the end of his days.

“His attitude to Serov’s literary work was exceedingly sceptical. We both attended the popular lectures given by this critic in 1864, and were amused at his desperate efforts to overthrow the authority of the Conservatoire, to abase Glinka and to exalt Verstovsky.[8] Serov’s attack upon Rubinstein would in itself have lowered him in the eyes of so devoted an adherent as Tchaikovsky, but he disliked him still more for such expressions as ‘the spiritual contents of music,’ ‘the organic unity of the music drama,’ and similar phrases, under which Serov concealed his vacillation and extraordinary lack of principle.

“Tchaikovsky’s personal relations with the composer of Judith are only known to me in part. They met, if I am not mistaken, in the autumn of 1864, and I was the means of their becoming acquainted. One of our fellow-students named Slavinsky, who visited Serov, invited me to go with him to one of his ‘composer’s Tuesdays.’ About a year later I introduced Tchaikovsky to Serov. I recollect how on that particular evening Dostoievsky talked a great deal—and very foolishly—about music, as literary men do, who know nothing whatever about it. Serov’s personality did not please Tchaikovsky, and I do not think he ever went again, although he received a pressing invitation to do so.

“Besides N. A. Hubert and myself, I cannot recall a single student at the Conservatoire with whom Tchaikovsky kept up a lasting intimacy. He was pleasant to all, and addressed a few in the familiar second person singular. Among these passing friends I may mention Gustav Kross, afterwards the first to play Tchaikovsky’s pianoforte concerto in public; Richard Metzdorf, who settled in Germany as a composer and Capellmeister; Karl van Ark, who became a professor at the Petersburg Conservatoire; Slavinsky and Joseph Lödscher. Of these fellow-students, the name of Nicholas Hubert occurs most frequently in subsequent pages. In spite of his foreign name, Hubert was really of Russian descent. From his childhood he lived only in and for music, and very early in life had to earn his living by teaching. The number of lessons he gave, combined with his weak and uncertain health, prevented him from working very hard at the Conservatoire, but he impressed us as talented and clever. He was fond of assembling his friends round the tea-table in his large, but scantily-furnished room, when the evening would be spent in music and discussion. Tchaikovsky, Lödscher and myself were the most regular guests at these evenings. The real intimacy, however, between Tchaikovsky and Hubert did not actually begin until many years later—about the middle of the eighties.”

With this chapter Laroche’s reminiscences of Tchaikovsky come to an end.