Dancing with danger
Did you know that Tchaikovsky, the man who wrote the most beautiful music for the ballet, had secret passions that put his reputation in peril?
We join Tchaikovsky in the mid-1870s, now a composer of growing renown, with two symphonies already to his name. He is, however, struggling in his private life. Eduard Sack, known as Edya, his gay lover, has just committed suicide.
21 NOVEMBER 1873 The mother of my dear, beautiful Edya has written to me demanding if I know anything of the circumstances in which he ended his life. He was only 19, the poor boy. I tried my very best to find him employment, but his life was such a torment and I believe there is nothing I could have done to quell his determination to end it with a gun. I am not sure what I shall say to her. I shall try to remember more innocent times, back in 1869, when his tenderness and youthful passion helped inspire me to write my Romeo And Juliet overture.
6 DECEMBER 1874 I have nearly finished my first piano concerto, which I truly hope will grant me enough success in the concert halls to free me from the shackles of endless teaching at the Moscow Conservatory. I have asked my good friend, the pianist Nikolai Rubinstein, if he will perform it. He has been such a steadfast friend and supporter of mine and he is a big enough ‘name’, I hope, to propel the concerto skywards.
15 JANUARY 1875 Tonight I played the finished concerto for Nikolai. What a disaster! I played the first movement. Not a single word, not a single remark.
Even at the end he did not say anything, until I begged him for some comment. He then said the work was ‘utterly worthless and absolutely unplayable’. He claimed it was badly written, with passages clumsily stitched together. On and on he went, purposefully trying to wound me.
He then had the temerity to suggest that if I loaned him the manuscript he could rework it to his satisfaction. No, I shall not change a single note. I shall publish it exactly as it is.
17 FEBRUARY 1877 I have received a letter from a ‘fervent admirer’. She is Madame von Meck, a wealthy widow, and she has asked me to write something for her which would convey an impression of a broken heart. I have told her I do not write for the sake of a 100 rouble note.
3 MARCH 1877 I am aware that my homosexual inclinations are the greatest and most unconquerable obstacles to happiness; I must fight my nature with all my strength. I shall do everything possible to marry this year.
14 MARCH 1877 Madame von Meck has now loaned me 3,000 roubles while I finish my fourth symphony. She is proving a very voluminous correspondent, but has told me she has no desire to make my acquaintance.
4 APRIL 1877 Most strange. I have received a love letter from a 28-yearold woman called Antonina Ivanovna Miliukova. I get so many of these nowadays, but this one struck me as something a little different, full of warmth and very genuine. She claims she met me a decade ago or so when she was at the Moscow Conservatory and that I was one of her teachers. I have no memory of this at all.
11 APRIL 1877 The Miliukova woman has written again, insisting we meet.
20 MAY 1877 I have travelled to Moscow from St Petersburg to meet with Antonina. She is a pretty thing, despite her years. Her reputation is immaculate, though she is utterly poor and really not that educated. I have tried to impress upon her that I could never love her and that she really should bury thoughts of any romantic attachment. 27 MAY 1877 Antonina has discovered I have left Moscow to return to St Petersburg and has written the most imploring letter full of desperate threats, claiming she will kill herself unless I return. Have I led her on? If I did not love her and did not want to encourage her sentiments, then why did I visit her? What a mess.
JUNE 1877 I have returned to Moscow. Last night I met again with Antonina in order to lay out my character to her in detail. I made it clear that I am irritable, unpredictable and unsociable. Then I asked her, did she want to be my wife? The answer was, of course, affirmative. I cannot put into words the dreadful sensation I now feel. I cannot escape my destiny and I fear that I am being yoked to this woman whether I desire it or not. So be it. If I am marrying without love it is because circumstances have turned out that way. I have not lied or deceived her.
18 JULY 1877 I married Antonina at St George’s Church in Moscow today. But I have left my bride at the Hermitage Hotel (Anatoly, my brother, is entertaining her and her stepsister) to return to my apartment. I could not stomach a party. Have I made a terrible, terrible mistake? Tomorrow we start our honeymoon by travelling to Klin, in the countryside north of Moscow. I do not think I can endure the 60-mile railway journey. Or the honeymoon. 21 JULY 1877 My wife is physically repugnant to me. I have tried. Dear God, I have tried, but I can only share a bed with her after taking a draught of the herb valerian to help me sleep. I have told her that if this relationship is to survive, it must be strictly platonic. 25 JULY 1877 It is not just her physical form that repels me, it is the incessant nattering. I cannot envisage a future together back in Moscow. 3 SEPTEMBER 1877 Today I waded into the Moskva river in an attempt to, what? I do not know. If it was to
end my life it failed. If it was to shock my senses, maybe I achieved success. I have cabled Anatoly and told him to telegraph me as if it was from the conductor of the St Petersburg Opera summoning me. I can never see my wife again. I must leave Moscow.
12 DECEMBER 1878 I have written a poem! It makes a wonderful change from music. It is called Lilies Of The
Valley, and it is about my favourite flower. ‘I am happy while you bloom, modest lily of the valley,/The tedium of winter days has passed without a trace.’ I am terribly proud of it.
NOVEMBER 1880 I have struggled to work these last few years, but I have managed to write an overture in celebration of Russia’s stand against Napoleon in 1812. As I wrote to dear Madame von Meck, it is very loud and noisy, but I wrote it with no warm feeling of love and therefore people should not be surprised if it has no artistic merit in it.
AUGUST 1885 I may have found peace at last in Klin after years of incessant wandering. I am indebted to the marvellous Madame von Meck; with her income I am free of any ties. I will be able to admire the lilies of the valley when they flower in spring and pray that this landscape will inspire me to write again.
MAY 1888 I have been approached by Ivan Vsevolozhsky, the director of the Imperial Theatre in St Petersburg, to provide the music for a new ballet. He suggested the story of Undine, the water sprite. But I do not think it will work, so we have agreed upon Sleeping Beauty. It will suit me perfectly. NOVEMBER 1888 After the difficulties with Swan Lake 11 years ago – the dancers ignored my music, and oh, how the critics hated it – I have asked the choreographer Marius Petipa to plot each section of Sleeping Beauty in detail, indicating how much music is needed and at what tempo. The restrictions are not limiting; far from it, they are sparking my imagination. JANUARY 1890 Tsar Alexander III attended Sleeping Beauty at the Mariinsky Theatre in St Petersburg. He said it was ‘very nice’. Was that the best he could come up with? It is a stupendous work; we have achieved something never seen before – the dance and the music
are one. OCTOBER 1890 Madame von Meck, whose correspondence has sustained me for so long with wit and love, writes to say she can no longer afford to fund my annuity and has decided to cease our correspondence. I am very, very, very offended. My relations with Madame von Meck were such that I was never embarrassed by her generous handouts. Now I am embarrassed in retrospect; it is an insult to my pride. I do not care for the end of the income; I care deeply that our friendship – one entirely conducted by ink and paper – is over. APRIL 1891 New York is such a beautiful and original city. On the main streets single-storey cottages alternate with houses of nine floors. Last night I conducted my Suite No 3 at Andrew Carnegie’s new music hall. It surpasses anything in Russia. It is vast and magnificent and the audience was so enthusiastic. They adored the 1812
Overture, which I also played. Americans have an insatiable appetite for anything big, bold and loud! The newspapers today have called me a ‘sensation’. If only critics at home were so lavish in their praise. I must make progress with The Nutcracker. I am not enjoying it nearly as much as Sleeping Beauty. The story, about a girl whose toys come to life, isn’t as good. I have travelled to New York with Petipa’s detailed guides. We both believe this method was such a success with
Sleeping Beauty, it will produce results again, though I do fear that this writing by numbers is not the best use of my talents. JUNE 1891 I have come across an amazing new instrument in Paris called a celesta. It is a keyboard, but it produces a heavenly sound, richer than a glockenspiel. It is the perfect sound for The
Dance Of The Sugar Plum Fairy in The Nutcracker. I have asked for one to be shipped to St Petersburg.
29 OCTOBER 1893 Last night I conducted the premiere of my Sixth Symphony. The best thing I ever composed. My brother, Modest, has christened it Pathétique [Passionate]. The critics do not seem to like it, though the audience gave it a warm reception. 31 OCTOBER 1893 I met with many alumni from my old school today. There was much raking over my private life and how I should be more careful if I do not want to bring dishonour to the establishment. One even suggested I should end my life rather than carry on fooling around with young men. Really? Half of the men in the room have indulged in homosexual relations. I will not be lectured on honour and dishonour by people I was at school with nearly 40 years ago.
2 NOVEMBER 1893 Modest is making such a fuss about the cholera outbreak here in St Petersburg. Last night after my meal in Leiner’s restaurant I drank a glass of water, and Modest tried to knock it out of my hand saying it was not pure. If I listened to him, I wouldn’t eat or drink anything in this city.
Though, it has to be said, I am not feeling very well today. Tchaikovsky died four days later.