for tonal beauty and for delicacy of shading. At times, to be
sure, he fairly riots in gorgeous colors—this being the result of
his Slavic blood—but few composers have been able to achieve
such brilliancy without becoming vulgar.
As to the charge of pessimism often made against Tchaikowsky,
he was a thinker, an explorer into the mysteries of human aspi-
ration and disappointment,[307] and his music seems weighted
down with the riddle of the universe. This introspective dejec-
tion, however, is a natural result of his temperament and his
nationality. If to us of a more hopeful outlook upon life it seems
morbid, we should simply remember that our conditions have
been different. A distinction must likewise be made between the
expression of such feelings in art and their influence in actual life.
As a man Tchaikowsky was practical, conscientious, and did not
in the least allow his feelings to emasculate him. He was a prodi-
gious worker and throughout his career, in the face of ill health
and many adverse circumstances, showed immense courage. His
creed was no ignoble one—“To regret the past, to hope in the fu-
ture, and never to be satisfied with the present; this is my life.”
And to a gushing patroness of art who asked him what were his
ideals, his simple reply was “My ideal is to become a good com-
poser.” Certain English critics in their fault-finding have been
particularly boresome, because, forsooth, Tchaikowsky’s music
does not show the serenity of Brahms or the solidity or stolidity
of their own composers. To the well-fed and prosperous Briton
“God’s in his Heaven, all’s right with the world” is hardly an
expression of faith, but a certainty of existence. Not so with
the Russian, upon whom the oppression of centuries has left its
stamp. This same note of gloomy or even morbid introspection
is found in some of the great literature of the world—in the
Bible, the Greek Tragedies and in Shakespeare. Granted that
optimism is the only working creed for every-day life, until the
millenium arrives a sincere and artistic expression of the sorrows
of humanity will always strike a note in oppressed souls.
[Footnote 307: See the passage from his diary (quoted on page
504 of theBiographyby his brother) in which he writes—“What
touching love and compassion for mankind lie in these words:
’Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden!’ In
comparison with these simple words all the Psalms of David are
as nothing.”]
Each of Tchaikowsky’s last three symphonies is a remarkable