20
Contrasting Relationships: Third Suite
By now it will be clear that Tchaikovsky was neither gregarious nor a recluse. Within his family and with friends, both professional and social (and among the latter we may presume that some relationships had a homosexual element), he could be a good guest, friend and, where necessary, support. There were moments or phases when outside circumstances and tensions drove him to escape into a more solitary existence, but these were almost always temporary withdrawals. His concern for other people and his readiness to step in with financial support where this could solve, or at least mitigate, a problem has already been exemplified many times, but on other occasions his interventions could be unexpected, sometimes seemingly capricious, even bizarre. Yet, again, there may have been no motivation other than to help an individual whom he saw as deserving. Such a one was Leonty Tkachenko, and this bizarre episode illumines one corner of Tchaikovsky’s character as nothing else does. It had all begun back in 1879, and what followed is best told through extracts from Tchaikovsky’s letters to Nadezhda von Meck.
The Strange Case of Leonty Tkachenko
It was back in October 1879 that Tchaikovsky received his first letter from Tkachenko, who was living in Voronezh. In it the latter had declared his passionate wish to study music but, not having the means to finance himself, expressed his readiness to become Tchaikovsky’s servant in return for tuition:
Because the letter was written very correctly and was shot through with sincerity, I replied that, although I could not accept his services as my manservant, I could help him if, from his next letter, I saw he was sufficiently gifted and young enough for study to lead to something. Yesterday I received his reply. He is twenty-two, and his musical knowledge is as weak as his wish to become a professional musician is strong. His letter was so written as to breed in me a great sympathy towards this youth. But what can you do with a person who for twenty-two years has only loved music, and can do nothing except what he has picked up by ear? I had to write in reply my honest opinion was that he had left it too late . I am very sorry for him.
A full year passed before Tchaikovsky picked up the tale:
The day before yesterday I received a letter from him. He is returning my letters to me, lest after his death they should fall into someone else’s hands. He bids me farewell, and says he has decided on suicide. The letter exuded such sincerity, such a deep despair, that I was very shocked. Judging from his letters he is a strange and wild young man – but intelligent, and very honourable and good.
Tchaikovsky admitted that Tkachenko’s letter so affected him that he wept like a child when reading it. Immediately he contacted Anatoly, begging him to request a friend of his who lived in Voronezh to root out the young man. The friend did as asked, discovering Tkachenko in a very sorry state. Immediately Tchaikovsky wrote again:
I certainly must become acquainted with you personally. If I were at this moment a completely free person I would come to Voronezh , but for various reasons I cannot, and it would therefore be more convenient if you came to me here. I am sending you fifty roubles for the journey. I have adequate means, and it costs me nothing to show a friend (such I consider you to be) not only moral but material support. Look more kindly on life and on the future – and most of all, do not doubt that, although I do not yet know you personally, I am already your sincere and firm friend.
However, Tkachenko’s reply, received a fortnight later, dismayed and riled Tchaikovsky:
I had expected him to say thank you to me for the helping hand I had extended to him. Not in the least! He hastens to assure me that it is useless for me to take upon myself to assure him of the existence of virtue (though I never thought to speak of anything of the sort), that I shall not be able to prove to him that it is worth living in this world , that he did not need the money I had sent him – but he promised, all the same, to come to Moscow on 22nd to hear me out. All this is very strange and incomprehensible.
Indeed! But the odd character arrived punctually:
In general as a person he is sympathetic [Tchaikovsky’s favourite adjective for describing someone he could get on with]. His sufferings have stemmed from the disparity between his aspirations and the blasts of stern reality. He is intelligent, developed – but, nevertheless, for the sake of a morsel of bread he has been forced to serve as a guard on the railways. He is very nervous, timid, and abnormally shy. His views are rather queer – but, I repeat, he is far from stupid, and I am resolved to take him into my care. I have now decided to send him for this half-year to the Conservatoire. Because he inspires in me sincere sympathy I shall not find it difficult to cure him and turn him into a being both useful and reconciled with life.
However, within a fortnight, on the eve of his departure from Moscow, Tchaikovsky learned the consequences of this mind-boggling proposal. His protégé appeared, declared he needed to have a serious talk with Tchaikovsky, who listened with mounting amazement – and anger:
He is a very strange person. On the eve of my departure he presented himself to me, and forewarned me that he had to have a serious talk with me. This is the essence of his speech. The thought had entered his head that I had rendered him help and assistance not for his good but for my own, in order to earn the reputation of being a phil anthropist . He compared me to those ladies who occupy themselves with philanthropy because it is fashionable, and so that they will be much talked about. He stated that he did not want to be a victim of my weakness for making myself popular, that he emphatically refused to consider me his benefactor, and forewarned me I should not count upon gratitude on his part.
This was too much for Tchaikovsky, and he forthwith dismissed Tkachenko:
I told him I was leaving Moscow, that I would not see him again, and asked him not to think about me any more, but only of his studies.
And that, Tchaikovsky thought, was that. How mistaken he was!
*
Tchaikovsky would spend the summer of 1881 at Kamenka from where, in late August, he reported a sudden and extraordinary event. His correspondent was now Modest:
This morning I was going to write to you when suddenly Sila [one of the Kamenka peasants] appeared, informing me in confidence that some unknown young man wanted to see me. Because he didn’t say who this was, I refused to go. Then Biryukov appeared; he had seen the strange young man, and had been filled with pity for him. He had come from somewhere on foot, and had spent a full day at the station, had had nothing to eat, had stubbornly refused all offers, and declared the police could have him if they wished. From the description I guessed it was Tkachenko, and ran in great agitation to the station. I thought he was waiting for me so that he could forthwith blow his brains out in front of me. I won’t describe the desperate condition I found the unhappy man in. He was inexpressi bly pleased to see me, and could not restrain his hysterical sobbing. He’s a strange person! I calmed him as best I could, told Sila to pour him some tea, and let him sit alone in order to calm himself. Then I left, and at evening returned and sent him via Kharkov to Moscow, from which it seems he had walked all the way. His object was to come and decline my allowance in view of his lack of ability, will-power, and his general worthlessness. However, he has promised to send me from Kharkov, where he has a sister, his diary for the whole summer, which contains all he wanted to say, but couldn’t de vive voix . I’m very exhausted from the upheavals I have suffered today – but Tkachenko has again become sympathetic to me. He has a good but broken nature à la Dostoyevsky .
The diary duly arrived, a fat volume covering seven months. It was sometimes disconcertingly frank, but by the end Tchaikovsky believed he had discovered the root of Tkachenko’s problems. His youth had been too dominated by sensuality – and Tchaikovsky’s reply hints at a recognition of some parallels with his own experience:
As for the moral side of your excesses , in the first place I have no right to cast a stone at you, for I myself am not blameless – and, secondly, in my opinion a man in this regard finds himself in a fateful dependence upon his temperament. Very often chastity is no more than the lack of an element of sensuality in the temperament. The whole point is to be able to stand above one’s bodily desires, and to be able to control them – and this comes with training. In your case this training was bad. Ah, Leonty Grigoryevich, you are a good, nice person, but morally sick for which, of course, you are not to blame, but circumstances.
By this time Tchaikovsky was forced to conclude that Tkachenko would never make a career in music. But, reading the diary, he decided that his protégé had some literary talent, and this was supported by Modest after he had read something of it. Accordingly, during meetings with Tkachenko towards the year’s end, Tchaikovsky persuaded him to leave the Conservatoire, and during 1882 subsidized him. Tkachenko now applied himself doggedly to learning his literary craft. By June this seemed to be yielding results, and Tchaikovsky continued to scrutinize his work closely, both praising and criticizing it. However, the problem was that, though he believed Tkachenko’s own diary could have been the basis of a novel and that his craft with words was developing, he could find no signs that Tkachenko understood human nature and behaviour sufficiently to be capable of handling it in fiction. Increasingly, Tchaikovsky tried to edge him towards another goal. Finally, in late November, as tactfully as he could, he set out the position and the new objective to which his pupil should strive:
Since it will still be a long while before, through your own efforts, you make up for the inadequacies in your schooling and become a mature writer, you will need to live for several years, despite having a firmly projected aim, without a definite position and, above all, without those responsibilities whose fulfilment completes and adorns our life. What you need is an occupation such as would interest you and make your life useful in the near future before you become a serious writer, while not distracting you from your main aim. And do you know what occupation I find completely suitable for your temperament? The occupation of a village schoolteacher! No, in my view, there is no more honourable, more sacred service to society than service as a village schoolteacher!
How Tkachenko reacted to this sudden proposal we do not know. Only a brief acknowledgement came, and then total silence, and it seems the relationship was over. As for the final act, this was recorded in a letter to Modest in October 1883 from Verbovka:
When I arrived here I found awaiting me a parcel from Tkachenko , who is in Poltava. It proved to be all my letters to him. Because the first time he wanted to kill himself he’d sent me back my two letters, I understood this time that he was, as it were, informing me of his impending suicide. Nevertheless, it was only for the first instant that I was a little worried; afterwards I somehow decided my Tkachenko was almost certainly still alive. And, indeed, today I received a request from him to send money, with no mention of my letters. His letter is, as always, ironical in tone. A pathetic, but rather un sympathetic person!
As we have already noted, Tchaikovsky had a natural ability to relate to children and participate fully in their world: it had been within the family world at Kamenka that, for instance, he had conceived the embryo of that most famous of all ballets, Swan Lake . But that had been a dozen years earlier; all these children had now grown up, and he had witnessed, and sometimes endured, the wilfulness of his now adolescent nieces (not to mention the extended and very personal distractions caused by Tanya’s pregnancy). Yet even as this generation was passing into adulthood, a new one was being born. Brother Anatoly now had a baby daughter, and already Tchaikovsky had a greatnephew and a great-niece, for besides Tanya’s Georges-Léon, there was Vera’s year-old Irina, whom Tchaikovsky had at first thought unattractive (‘she reminds me very much of a widow, and such children are not to my taste’), but whom he soon admitted he came to adore. Meanwhile a third niece, Anna, was about to marry Nikolay von Meck, so there was hope in that quarter. Tchaikovsky had for a while been minded to compile a set of songs for children, and now, only a week after finishing the Second Suite, he composed the first of his Sixteen Songs for Children, ** completing the lot within a fortnight. The verses, almost all sentimental, were by a minor poet, Alexey Pleshcheyev, and were about spring, snow, gardens, birds, paupers, orphans and the poor, cosy domesticity, and so on. As a body they need not detain us here, though readers who are drawn to music that relates to the young and their world – those who, say, take pleasure (as I do) in Schumann’s set of piano pieces, Scenes from Childhood – may find much to enjoy in some at least of these pieces, though they are far less sophisticated than Schumann’s. They are a varied bunch, and two particularly stand out for me: ‘The Cuckoo’, in which the eponymous bird becomes so enraged because other birds are getting all the attention that he determines to command notice by remorseless repetitions of the only two notes in his repertoire (Tchaikovsky’s sense of humour here is much engaged). The other piece will already be well known to some readers, though in the four-voice arrangement Tchaikovsky made some years later (usually known under the title, ‘The Crown of Roses’, with a first line ‘When Jesus Christ was yet a child’). It is a sentimental piece, perhaps, but so simple and unaffected that it is both touching and quietly dignified.
Kamenka remained Tchaikovsky’s base until the end of November. Meanwhile Tanya continued to be something of a preoccupation. She had arrived in Kamenka with news of having received a marriage proposal from a certain Ferré, a French doctor who had attended her during her confinement; now she intended to return to Paris where the matter might be resolved. Tchaikovsky had counselled her not to rush into any decision, even though he was still supporting her, and marriage would bring an end to such payments. He might reasonably have been expected by now to feel little love for Tanya, but at her departure his own reactions surprised him: ‘My heart was wrung when she said goodbye,’ he confessed to Anatoly.
Somehow she has become pitiful and, above all, so distanced from her family that she’s like a stranger, and everyone breathed more freely on being released from such a difficult guest. Even her parents, however much they love her, cannot hide that things are better and more carefree when she’s away.
Once again humanity had shown itself more powerful than reflex. And though another relationship that was developing brought unadulterated joy, it also stirred a feeling of private regret. Nikolay von Meck was visiting Kamenka, and while Tchaikovsky took pleasure in seeing how he and Anna, who were about to be married, ‘sit all day in the corner, and endlessly kiss each other’, this also produced an ache. As he wrote to Modest, ‘I look at them with envy, and think all the time that this indeed is real happiness, and that I shall never experience it.’ He knew this brother would understand. As for the news that soon arrived from Paris, this proved negative. Even before Ferré had entered her life, Tanya had been courted by a rich merchant, Otto Kern, and this earlier suitor was still not completely out of the picture. Now Tanya discovered that, during her absence, Ferré had become engaged to a French girl, and that Kern had faded away. Worse still for her uncle was to discover that news of her child had reached the Kamenka servants, and for some days he was in terror of it coming to her parents’ ears. But on penetrating the fringes of the family it was instantly dismissed as too monstrous to be credible, and for the moment the secret remained safe.
What drew Tchaikovsky to Moscow on 1 December was the performance of his First Symphony, which had never been repeated since its premiere in 1868. It was very warmly received. But the following two months were taken up with personal and business matters, and in due course by preparations for the production of Mazeppa . As recorded earlier, Tchaikovsky had fled abroad the day after the first performance, not even staying for the premiere of his Second Suite the very next day. On 21 February he arrived in Paris, where loneliness engulfed him, and he even felt gratitude for the presence of Tanya, who had relapsed into her customary idleness, now that all her marital plans had collapsed. He twice visited Georges-Léon, giving no warning of his arrival, and leaving well satisfied that the boy was being properly cared for. He had hoped to proceed to Rome where Anna and Nikolay von Meck were on honeymoon, but lack of funds and a decline in Tanya’s health forced him to remain in the French capital. By now he had made many acquaintances in the city, and the pressure to make visits again reawakened dreams of a home of his own: ‘Whether this home will be somewhere on the outskirts of Moscow or somewhere a little more isolated I do not yet know. Thousands of plans crowd into my head – but, one way or another, I must finally have a place of my own.’ He had intended to return to Kamenka, but Nápravník reported the Tsar’s surprise at Tchaikovsky’s absence from the opening of Mazeppa in St Petersburg, adding that his sovereign wished to see him. Thus there could be no question of further delay, and on 12 March Tchaikovsky left Paris for St Petersburg.
The importance for Tchaikovsky of his meeting with the Tsar a week later can hardly be exaggerated, for what he did not know when he left Paris was that His Majesty was to confer an honour, the Order of St Vladimir (fourth class), upon him. For nearly seven years Tchaikovsky had lived painfully aware of the public knowledge of his marital disaster, and with a consequent gnawing sense of humiliation. Could there be a more visible sign of rehabilitation than this honour conferred by the Tsar himself? The public might never forget what had happened, but at least they would now forgive. His spirits high, on 31 March he moved to Moscow. Here he again acted as amanuensis to Laroche, whose indolence had become such that Tchaikovsky had already in January taken his friend in hand. ‘I proposed that I should come each day for a couple of hours so that he could dictate to me an article for the Russian Messenger ,’ he had written to his patroness. ‘This so flattered and touched him that half a big article is already prepared and has gone to the printers. He needs a nurse, and I’ve taken this role upon myself.’ Now, with Tchaikovsky again as scribe, the article was resumed and brought to completion. Tchaikovsky also enjoyed some time with Anatoly and his family, and benefited from the numerous, and often splendid, Eastertide services being celebrated in Moscow churches. But all such activity only fortified his determination to have a home of his own, and for the first time he began inspecting possible properties. This proving unsuccessful, he left Anatoly with instructions to inform him of anything suitable that might emerge near Moscow. On 24 April he was in Kamenka for a two-month stay. That same day he began a new diary.
Kamenka Diary
Throughout the greater part of his adult life Tchaikovsky kept diaries, though two years before his death he destroyed a number of these, recognizing that his fame had become such that their contents would be posthumously trawled and would uncover personal matters he would not wish to become public knowledge. The fact that a diary survived suggests, therefore, that Tchaikovsky would have had no objection to later generations knowing its contents. Such a diary is the one he compiled between 24 April and 21 June 1884 when he was based at Kamenka, and it provides the most vivid of all insights into Tchaikovsky within the informal environment of his family, detailing his activities, his views of his companions, and sometimes uncovering his inner world; often they seem like documents of private confession. For the present purpose they are invaluable in recording his day-to-day progress when composing his Third Suite, and also the beginning of the close relationship with his youngest nephew, Vladimir (‘Bob’), now twelve years old. Nine years on Tchaikovsky would dedicate his Sixth Symphony (Pathétique ) to Bob, and his uncle’s infatuation with him clearly became increasingly difficult for the lad as he grew to manhood. But Bob himself had problems, and in 1906, thirteen years after his uncle’s death, he would commit suicide. One wonders whether, in 1884, he already felt oppressed by his uncle. No matter: it is only Tchaikovsky’s attitude that is of interest to us here – and I am convinced of one thing: whatever his feelings for his nephew, Tchaikovsky never acted improperly with him.
Because of the insights this diary affords I have quoted at length from it. Nevertheless, except for a very few entries that are presented almost complete because they provide especially vivid cameos, the following extracts are very much edited down, focusing almost exclusively on the creation of the Third Suite, and on the joint activities of uncle and nephew. Not every day is recorded here. Vint, which is frequently mentioned, is a card game resembling both whist and bridge, and was very popular in Russia.
25 April . Got up late. Still cold. After drinking tea, went to Lev who soon left, and I stayed to strum the piano and think up something new. I hit on an idea for a Concerto for piano , but it turned out too wretched, and wasn’t new. Walked a bit in the garden. Dinner for two: Sister [Anna Popova, the cousin who had moved in to run the Tchaikovsky household in 1854 on the death of Tchaikovsky’s mother] is ill. Played Massenet’s Hérodiade . Strolled for a bit. Drank tea at home. Read Otto Jahn on Mozart. After supper real vint for two with Flegont [a tutor at Kamenka].26 April . Again got up late. Visit to Father Alexander [the Kamenka priest] … Continue to do nothing, and haven’t the slightest inspiration.28 April . Spent all the time until dinner in the Trostyanka woods, gathering violets and deriving deep enjoyment. Tried to lay the foundations of a new symphony both in the Trostyanka woods and at home after dinner, but I’m dissatisfied with everything. Walked in the garden and conceived the seed not of a future symphony, but of a suite. Vint for three: my bad luck was colossal.29 April . In the morning, despite the cruelly cold wind, I went to the Trostyanka woods. Noted down some ideas.30 April . Trostyanka woods again and noting down some wretched ideas.1 May . Woke up off colour. Completed a walk … Very dissatisfied with myself because of the banality of everything that comes into my head. Am I played out?4 May . Went to the station to meet our people. A joyful meeting. Bob. Read for a long time. Collected signatures at home to send to Modya for his birthday. Vint for five. My luck was bad and I got terribly cross. Have just read the First Book of Kings [from the Bible].6 May . Soon I’ll be forty-four. How long have I lived and, in truth and without false modesty, how little have I done! Even in my regular occupation – for, putting my hand to my heart, there is nothing perfect, exemplary . Still I’m searching, wavering, unsteady. And for the rest? I read nothing significant, I know nothing. Only on vint do I spend an abundance of precious time. But I believe my health will come to no good . Today I was so cross, so irritated, that I believe another moment, and I would have thrown an ugly scene of anger and hatred. My temper today is generally bad, and my period of calm, quiet life, untroubled by anything, has passed. There’s a lot of fuss, a lot of jars, a lot which a madman of my years cannot bear with indifference. No! It is time to live in my own home and in my own way .The whole morning was spent on a pleasant walk. I’d hardly managed to get in my evening walk than I was summoned to supper – this is a new arrangement. I suffered from hunger and from lack of attention towards me. Then vint, and endless anger.8 May . I’m a sort of walking malice! Because Sasha enjoyed getting me into difficulties at cards I was the more enraged since, out of magnanimity in view of her bad luck in the game yesterday, I had only just previously let her have the bid in clubs. How do you like that? Are these the feelings of an artist who enjoys fame? Ugh! Pyotr Ilich, this is shameful, my good fellow! During the morning worked with the maximum effort (the scherzo). Drank tea in my room. Afterwards wrote a bit more. Bob walked about the garden with me. Ah, what a delight this Bob is! After supper (I was out of temper) vint for three. Ugh! What a life!9 May . After a short walk worked all morning; it was now going better … Ah, what a perfect being this Bob is!10 May . Today has been extremely successful – in the first place, because my work has gone excellently: secondly, because my stomach is in order. In the morning strolled in the garden with Bob (what a darling he is!). It’s very nice when they speak English at dinner. I’m beginning to understand – but Sister always butts in.11 May . Finished the scherzo.12 May . Why do I play vint? The only result is upset and bad temper. Spent all day writing the waltz for the suite, but I’m far from certain it’s completely satisfactory.13 May . Continued the waltz. After supper (before which, to his great joy, I played duets with my darling, the incomparable, wonderful, ideal Bob) played vint.14 May . The waltz came along with enormous difficulty. No, I’m growing old. Laboured on the waltz until nearly 7 o’clock, but got nowhere.15 May . After strolling in the garden a little, finished the sketch of the waltz.16 May . Having, with the greatest composure of spirit, sat down to play Mozart’s Magic Flute , I was, in the middle of the most exquisite pleasure, interrupted by the entrance of Bob , with a horrified expression, to tell me of the death of Tusya Bazilevskaya [a young relative of Lev]. Great sorrow … At last our vint took place. I am very weary. Darling Tusya! Ah, the poor things, the poor things! And why? But God’s will be done.17 May . After dinner wandered about with Bob. Until 7 o’clock struggled with a spot in the Andante. Sad thoughts and tears about Tusya. Was late for supper. Vint for two.18 May . Went to Mass. Was very susceptible to religious impressions; stood nearly all the time with tears in my eyes. I’m always touched to the depths of my soul by the manifestation of simple, wholesome religious feeling in the common people. Went to the market with Bob. Worked very successfully. After supper played dances for the children.19 May . Only managed to work a little. Picked lilies of the valley with Bob.20 May . Worked all morning – not without effort, but my Andante is coming along and I think it will come out very nicely. Tragic details of Tusya’s death received – so painful, they make you weep. Worked till 7 o’clock.21 May . Worked and finished the Andante , with which I’m very satisfied.23 May . Again cold and windy. The first movement of the suite, called Contrasts , is so loathsome to me that, having played about with it all day, I decided to discard it and write something completely different. How hard has work become for me! Is it old age at last?24 May . Played Mozart. After tea was on the point of struggling again with the loathsome Contrasts , but suddenly a new idea flashed into my head, and the matter sorted itself out. Bob – in the end he will simply drive me out of my mind with his unspeakable fascination.25 May . Mass finished early. Worked. After dinner sat in my workroom with Bob. After tea composed a bit.26 May . Worked successfully until dinner. After dinner read Krïlov with Bob.27 May . Composed the final variation (the polonaise-finale). Worked again after tea.28 May . Wrote right up to dinner. After tea again worked. Sat for a long time with Bob and Flegont on a bench in the conservatory. Worked at English.29 May . Sat down to work without taking a walk, and wrote until midday. Played Mozart, and was in ecstasy. Idea for a suite from Mozart.30 May . I am working too hard, as though I’m being driven. The straining is unhealthy, and it will probably show in the poor suite. I walked. Worked very successfully (the variations before the finale). After this sat with Bob on the roof (I’d only climb up there for this angel!). After this drank tea and then worked furiously so as to be able to begin something new tomorrow.31 May . In the morning I wrote a variation. With Bob (the darling!) walked to the cliffs, then joined a boating party, and returned home with him. At Vespers. An evening with dances: I was the pianist. Bob was amused beyond words when I played quadrilles on themes that he gave me. At the end, when everyone had dispersed, Nata [a second cousin of Lev, and much liked by Tchaikovsky], who’d been very thoughtful, suddenly said to me, ‘Ah, Petichka, life isn’t worth living!’ Such words on the lips of so healthy and balanced a person as Nata made a very sad impression on me. In the course of the evening Vera Vasilyevna [who had been in love with Tchaikovsky seventeen years earlier] recalled the past – and apparently with regret. But all that she recalls is personally loathsome to me, and I wouldn’t want any of it to return.1 June . At home I managed to write a variation. Vint after supper, at which I lost seven and a half roubles.2 June . I worked well today, for I wrote a whole four variations. In the morning I only made a tour of the garden, and afterwards worked, finishing at 12.30 in expectation of Bob, who’d promised to come for a singing lesson, but who disappointed my expectations. Walked about vainly searching for Bob.3 June . Before dinner Bob came, and I played him my children’s songs. After tea was sitting down to work, but Bob lured me away. As soon as I’m working or walking I begin to long for Bob, and feel lonely without him. I love him terribly.4 June . Worked successfully. Finished the suite! Wonderful evening. A rehearsal – Les femmes savantes [by Molière]?!!?5 June . Talked a great deal with Vera Vasilyevna. Either I’m mistaken, or she’s not completely changed in her old feelings [towards me]. After supper read Gogol with Bob.6 June . Worked during the morning on arranging the variations for piano duet.10 June . Worked on the transcription of the variations.11 June . Worked on the variations. Got Bob ready for his ride on horseback.12 June . For two hours after dinner was inseparable from my wonderful, incomparable Bob. At first he lounged about on a bench on the balcony, and was enchantingly relaxed and chatted about my compositions.14 June . Wrote the transcription of the finale. After dinner sat in my study with Bob and talked about school matters.15 June . A strange thing: I’m terribly reluctant to leave here. I think it’s because of Bob.
The Diary contains no further reference to Bob during Tchaikovsky’s remaining five days at Kamenka.
The above narrative has contained the clearest possible record of how Tchaikovsky’s Third Suite for orchestra came into the world, though scoring the piece would take longer, and was not completed until 31 July. It was first performed in St Petersburg on 24 January 1885, directed by the great German pianist and conductor, Hans von Bülow, and it enjoyed an extraordinary success. ‘I have never had such a triumph,’ Tchaikovsky wrote to his patroness. ‘I saw the whole audience was moved, and grateful to me. These moments are the finest adornments of an artist’s life. Thanks to these it is worth living and labouring.’ He might well have added that this unstinted and unanimous approbation was an endorsement by the wider Russian public of what the Tsar’s award had signified. The press were unanimously favourable. The premiere of Tchaikovsky’s Second Suite had been conducted by Max Erdmannsdörfer, but Tchaikovsky had not been present, having fled to Western Europe that very evening to recover from the personal strains that had attended the premiere of Mazeppa the previous day. Erdmannsdörfer, unsurprisingly, had been upset at this absence, and Tchaikovsky now made amends by giving him the dedication of the new Suite, and personalizing the dedication by using characteristically Germanic musical forms (fugue and chorale) among the variations that constitute the Suite’s final movement.
Suite no. 3 in G, for orchestra ****(*)
[Unlike its two predecessors, the Third Suite is not simply a collection of contrasting pieces, but more resembles a symphony in four movements, the first being in sonata form. But it does not aspire to the sophistication and seriousness of the symphony; it is music to entertain, but in the highest sense and of the highest quality, and is unlikely to present any particular challenges to the lay listener, except perhaps in its length – some forty minutes. Nevertheless, there are some points worth drawing out that may interest the more searching listener.]
Each of the suite’s movements has a title. The first is headed Elégie , but the mood is more reflective than melancholy. Though Tchaikovsky cast it in sonata form, its component parts hardly fulfil their usual roles within the broader structure (e.g., the two subjects are not contrasted, nor does the short development present the complexities or challenges normal in such sections); rather, the sonata pattern provides merely a framework on which Tchaikovsky can span out an almost continuous flow of gracious, rather pastoral melody. The first subject is some three minutes long: there is no transition, and the second subject, about the same length, retains much of the mood of the first. The ‘development’ does bring a change to the music (chattering woodwind and upward flying scales), and builds powerfully to the recapitulation; here the two subjects are heard in reverse order, and an extensive intervention from the coranglais braces the coda. As for the following Valse mélancolique , this is dark-hued rather than melancholy. Its main theme is one of Tchaikovsky’s most sophisticated, and in a ballet it would doubtless have foxed some of the dancers (try whistling it, getting not only the pitches right, but also the lengths of the notes). It is designed as a simple rondo and the two melodies that intersect this thrice-heard theme are more regular; throughout, some of the accompaniments that Tchaikovsky provides are unobtrusively striking.
The following Scherzo whisks us into a fascinating world in which orchestral colour and texture are the most striking features, the central section being as stunning for the mercurial slenderness of its material as for the dazzling virtuosity of its pointilliste colouring (Laroche saw in this a Lilliputian army, tiny elfin soldiers on parade). I can think of no other piece of music quite like this Scherzo ; it is certainly one of Tchaikovsky’s most brilliant and enchanting confections. It needs no further pointers from me: just listen to it!
The Tema con Variazioni finale is an altogether weightier matter, but never ponderous, and full of surprises. The theme, like that of the Rococo Variations for cello and orchestra, is a Mozartian pastiche, a clear ternary structure, simple and clear in outlines and harmony (the one element that is preserved in every variation is a portion of the theme’s opening contour). The first four odd-numbered variations are surely tributes to Erdmannsdörfer’s nationality, each being contrapuntal throughout, with the original theme retained intact in the first two of these. In the first variation, the pizzicato strings play this theme while two clarinet–flute pairs work a two-strand counterpoint above; in the third, scored only for woodwind (three flutes, two clarinets and two bassoons), the theme is now at the top for the outer sections, at the bottom for the central one, the other six participants providing a complex six-strand network. The fifth and seventh variations are more explicitly Teutonic, the former a ‘heavy’ fugato (real German fugues are nothing like as ponderous as this: was this treatment intended as a touch of Tchaikovskyan humour?), the latter turning the theme into a solemn German-mannered chorale (that is, hymn tune), which passes seamlessly into a plangent – and very un-Teutonic – cor anglais cantilena. By contrast, the intervening even-numbered variations have a more familiar Russian tone; mark especially the noisy central portion of variation 4, where the theme, now on loud brass, momentarily turns itself into the famous Dies irae plainsong. Variation 9 proves to be a gopak. With the exception of the final polonaise, variation 10 is the longest of the set; it is also introduced by a violin cadenza, this new soloist going on to dominate the following variation, which is a kind of halting waltz. Variation 11 returns us to the original theme, though its very different backing gives it a very different flavour, and it leads into the very portentous preparation for the finale, a splendid, enormously expansive polonaise that was bound to prove an audience rouser – but note in the middle of this, if you can, the tiny allusion to that magical central section of the suite’s third movement, the Scherzo .