Part IV (continued 2)

“How shall I escape from this dilemma?” he says to Nadejda von Meck. “I cannot prevent my brother’s coming here, because I have no idea where he is just now.... Neither is there time for me to take counsel with my friends. Who knows, perhaps it might be good for me to come out of my cell and plunge, against my will, into the stream of Paris life? But if only you knew what it would cost me! It goes without saying that I have not been able to do a stroke of work to-day. O God, when shall I eventually find peace?”

To Anatol Tchaikovsky.

“San Remo, December 23rd, 1877 (January 4th), 1878.

“ ... The day before yesterday I tried to imagine what you would say if you were here. I believe you would advise me to go to Paris.

“But if you saw my miserable face to-day, and could watch me striding up and down my room like a madman, you would certainly say—Stay where you are! Now that I have decided to refuse the post I shall be tormented with the thought that you, Nadejda von Meck, and the others, will be vexed with me.... There is one thing I have hidden from you; since the day you left I have taken several glasses of brandy at night, and during the day I drink a good deal. I cannot do without it.

“I never feel calm except when I have taken a little too much. I have accustomed myself so much to this secret tippling that I feel a kind of joy at the sight of the bottle I keep near me. I can only write my letters after a nip. This is a proof that I am still out of health.

“In Paris I should have to be drinking from morning till night to be equal to all the excitement. My hope is in Modeste. A quiet life in a pleasant spot and plenty of work—that is what I need. In a word, for God’s sake do not be angry with me that I cannot go to Paris.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“San Remo, December 24th, 1877 (January 5th, 1878).

“I have just received your letter, and must answer it fully. The young Petersburg composers are very gifted, but they are all impregnated with the most horrible presumptuousness and a purely amateur conviction of their superiority to all other musicians in the universe. The one exception, in later days, has been Rimsky-Korsakov. He was also an ‘auto-dictator’ like the rest, but recently he has undergone a complete change. By nature he is very earnest, honourable, and conscientious. As a very young man he dropped into a set which first solemnly assured him he was a genius, and then proceeded to convince him that he had no need to study, that academies were destructive to all inspiration and dried up creative activity. At first he believed all this. His earliest compositions bear the stamp of striking ability and a lack of theoretical training. The circle to which he belonged was a mutual admiration society. Each member was striving to imitate the work of another, after proclaiming it as something very wonderful. Consequently the whole set suffered from one-sidedness, lack of individuality and mannerisms. Rimsky-Korsakov is the only one among them who discovered, five years ago, that the doctrines preached by this circle had no sound basis, that their mockery of the schools and the classical masters, their denial of authority and of the masterpieces, was nothing but ignorance. I possess a letter dating from that time which moved me very deeply. Rimsky-Korsakov was overcome by despair when he realised how many unprofitable years he had wasted, and that he was following a road which led nowhere. He began to study with such zeal that the theory of the schools soon became to him an indispensable atmosphere. During one summer he achieved innumerable exercises in counterpoint and sixty-four fugues, ten of which he sent me for inspection. From contempt for the schools, Rimsky-Korsakov suddenly went over to the cult of musical technique. Shortly after this appeared his symphony and also his quartet. Both works are full of obscurities and—as you will justly observe—bear the stamp of dry pedantry. At present he appears to be passing through a crisis, and it is hard to predict how it will end. Either he will turn out a great master, or be lost in contrapuntal intricacies.

“C. Cui is a gifted amateur. His music is not original, but graceful and elegant; it is too coquettish—‘made up’—so to speak. At first it pleases, but soon satiates us. That is because Cui’s speciality is not music, but fortification, upon which he has to give a number of lectures in the various military schools in St. Petersburg. He himself once told me he could only compose by picking out his melodies and harmonies as he sat at the piano. When he hit upon some pretty idea, he worked it up in every detail, and this process was very lengthy, so that his opera Ratcliff, for instance, took him ten years to complete. But, as I have said, we cannot deny that he has talent of a kind—and at least taste and instinct.

“Borodin—aged fifty—Professor of Chemistry at the Academy of Medicine, also possesses talent, a very great talent, which however has come to nothing for the want of teaching, and because blind fate has led him into the science laboratories instead of a vital musical existence. He has not as much taste as Cui, and his technique is so poor that he cannot write a bar without assistance.

“With regard to Moussorgsky, as you very justly remark, he is ‘used up.” His gifts are perhaps the most remarkable of all, but his nature is narrow and he has no aspirations towards self-perfection. He has been too easily led away by the absurd theories of his set and the belief in his own genius. Besides which his nature is not of the finest quality, and he likes what is coarse, unpolished, and ugly. He is the exact opposite of the distinguished and elegant Cui.

“Moussorgsky plays with his lack of polish—and even seems proud of his want of skill, writing just as it comes to him, believing blindly in the infallibility of his genius. As a matter of fact his very original talent flashes forth now and again.

“Balakirev is the greatest personality of the entire circle. But he relapsed into silence before he had accomplished much. He possesses a wonderful talent which various fatal hindrances have helped to extinguish. After having proclaimed his agnosticism rather widely, he suddenly became ‘pious.’ Now he spends all his time in church, fasts, kisses the relics—and does very little else. In spite of his great gifts, he has done a great deal of harm. For instance, he it was who ruined Korsakov’s early career by assuring him he had no need to study. He is the inventor of all the theories of this remarkable circle which unites so many undeveloped, falsely developed, or prematurely decayed, talents.

“These are my frank opinions upon these gentlemen. What a sad phenomenon! So many talents from which—with the exception of Rimsky-Korsakov—we can scarcely dare to hope for anything serious. But this is always our case in Russia: vast forces which are impeded by the fatal shadow of a Plevna from taking the open field and fighting as they should. But all the same, these forces exist. Thus Moussorgsky, with all his ugliness, speaks a new idiom. Beautiful it may not be, but it is new. We may reasonably hope that Russia will one day produce a whole school of strong men who will open up new paths in art. Our roughness is, at any rate, better than the poor, would-be-serious pose of a Brahms. The Germans are hopelessly played out. With us there is always the hope that the moral Plevna will fall, and our strength will make itself felt. So far, however, very little has been accomplished. The French have made great progress. True, Berlioz has only just begun to be appreciated, ten years after his death; but they have many new talents and opponents of routine. In France the struggle against routine is a very hard matter, for the French are terribly conservative in art. They were the last nation to recognise Beethoven. Even as late as the forties they considered him a madman or an eccentric. The first of French critics, Fétis, bewailed the fact that Beethoven had committed so many sins against the laws of harmony, and obligingly corrected these mistakes twenty-five years later.

“Among modern French composers Bizet and Délibes are my favourites. I do not know the overture Patrie, about which you wrote to me, but I am very familiar with Bizet’s opera Carmen. The music is not profound, but it is so fascinating in its simplicity, so full of vitality, so sincere, that I know every note of it from beginning to end. I have already told you what I think of Délibes. In their efforts towards progress the French are not so rash as our younger men; they do not, like Borodin and Moussorgsky, go beyond the bounds of possibility.”

V

To N. F. von Meck.

“San Remo, January 1st (13th), 1878.

“Returning to San Remo, I found a mass of letters and your telegram. This time I actually heard from you the first intelligence of Radetzky’s victory.[56] Thank you for the good news and all your wishes. Whatever may chance, the year before me can bring nothing worse than the last. At any rate the present leaves nothing to be desired, except for my unhappy disposition, which always exaggerates the evil and does not sufficiently rejoice in the good. Among my letters was one from Anatol, who writes a great deal about my wife and the whole unhappy affair. All goes well, but directly I begin to think over the details of a past which is still too recent, my misery returns. I have also received a letter from the committee of the Russian section of the Paris Exhibition, which has made me regret my refusal. My conscience still pricks me. Is it not foolish and egotistical on my part to decline the office of delegate? I write this to you, because I am now in the habit of telling you everything....”

To N. G. Rubinstein.

“San Remo, January 1st (13th), 1878.

“ ... From Albrecht’s telegram, which I found here on my return from Milan, I gather that you are vexed with me for having declined to act as delegate. Dear friend, you know me well; could I really have helped the cause of Russian music in Paris? You know how little gift I have for organising. Added to which there is my misanthropical shyness, which is becoming a kind of incurable malady. What would have been the result? I should only worry myself to death with both the French and the Russian rabble, and nothing would be carried out. As regards myself, or any personal profit it might bring me, it will be sufficient to say that, without exaggeration, I would rather be condemned to penal servitude than act as delegate in Paris. Were I in a different frame of mind, I might agree that the visit could be of use to me; but not at present. I am ill, mentally and physically; just now I could not live in any situation in which I had to be busy, agitated, and conspicuously before the world.... Now as regards the symphony (No. 4) I despatched it to you from Milan on Thursday. Possibly it may not please you at first sight, therefore I beg you not to be too hasty in your judgment, but only to write me your opinion after you have heard it performed. I hope you will see your way to bringing it out at one of the later concerts. It seems to me to be my best work. Of my two recent productions—the opera and the symphony—I give decided preference to the latter.... You are the one conductor in all the world on whom I can rely. The first movement contains one or two awkward and recurrent changes of time to which I call your special attention. The third movement is to be played pizzicato; the quicker the better, but I do not quite know how fast it is possible to play pizzicato.”

To S. I. Taneiev.

“San Remo, January 2nd (14th), 1878.

“ ... Very probably you are quite right in saying that my opera is not effective for the stage. I must tell you, however, I do not care a rap for such effectiveness. It has long been an established fact that I have no dramatic vein, and now I do not trouble about it. If it is really not fit for the stage, then it had better not be performed! I composed this opera because I was moved to express in music all that seems to cry out for such expression in Eugene Oniegin. I did my best, working with indescribable pleasure and enthusiasm, and thought very little of the treatment, the effectiveness, and all the rest. I spit upon ‘effects’! Besides, what are effects? For instance, if Aïda is effective, I can assure you I would not compose an opera on a similar subject for all the wealth of the world; for I want to handle human beings, not puppets. I would gladly compose an opera which was completely lacking in startling effects, but which offered characters resembling my own, whose feelings and experiences I shared and understood. The feelings of an Egyptian Princess, a Pharaoh, or some mad Nubian, I cannot enter into, or comprehend. Some instinct, however, tells me that these people must have felt, acted, spoken, and expressed themselves quite differently from ourselves. Therefore my music, which—entirely against my will—is impregnated with Schumannism, Wagnerism, Chopinism, Glinkaism, Berliozism, and all the other ‘isms’ of our time, would be as out of keeping with the characters of Aïda as the elegant speeches of Racine’s heroes—couched in the second person plural—are unsuited to the real Orestes or the real Andromache. Such music would be a falsehood, and all falsehoods are abhorrent to me. Besides, I am reaping the fruits of my insufficient harvest of book-learning. Had I a wider acquaintance with the literatures of other countries, I should no doubt have discovered a subject which was both suitable for the stage and in harmony with my taste. Unfortunately I am not able to find such things for myself, nor do I know anyone who could call my attention to such a subject as Bizet’s Carmen, for example, one of the most perfect operas of our day. You will ask what I actually require. I will tell you. Above all I want no kings, no tumultuous populace, no gods, no pompous marches—in short, none of those things which are the attributes of ‘grand opera.’ I am looking for an intimate yet thrilling drama, based upon such a conflict of circumstance as I myself have experienced or witnessed, which is capable of touching me to the quick. I have nothing to say against the fantastic element, because it does not restrict one, but rather offers unlimited freedom. I feel I am not expressing myself very clearly. In a word, Aïda is so remote, her love for Radames touches me so little—since I cannot picture it in my mind’s eye—that my music would lack the vital warmth which is essential to good work. Not long since I saw L’Africaine in Genoa. This unhappy African, what she endures! Slavery, imprisonment, death under a poisoned tree, in her last moment the sight of her rival’s triumph—and yet I never once pitied her! But what effects there were: a ship, a battle, all manner of dodges! When all is said and done, what is the use of these effects?... With regard to your remark that Tatiana does not fall in love with Oniegin at first sight, allow me to say—you are mistaken. She falls in love at once. She does not learn to know him first, and then to care for him. Love comes suddenly to her. Even before Oniegin comes on the scene she is in love with the hero of her vague romance. The instant she sets eyes on Oniegin she invests him with all the qualities of her ideal, and the love she has hitherto bestowed upon the creation of her fancy is now transferred to a human being.

“The opera Oniegin will never have a success; I feel already assured of that. I shall never find singers capable, even partially, of fulfilling my requirements. The routine which prevails in our theatres, the senseless performances, the system of retaining invalided artists and giving no chance to younger ones: all this stands in the way of my opera being put on the stage. I would much prefer to confide it to the theatre of the Conservatoire. Here, at any rate, we escape the commonplace routine of the opera, and those fatal invalids of both sexes. Besides which, the performances at the Conservatoire are private, en petit comité. This is more suitable to my modest work, which I shall not describe as an opera, if it is published. I should like to call it ‘lyrical scenes,’ or something of that kind. This opera has no future! I was quite aware of this when I wrote it; nevertheless, I completed it and shall give it to the world if Jurgenson is willing to publish it. I shall make no effort to have it performed at the Maryinsky Theatre; on the contrary, I should oppose the idea as far as possible. It is the outcome of an invincible inward impulse. I assure you one should only compose opera under such conditions. It is only necessary to think of stage effects to a certain extent. If my enthusiasm for Eugene Oniegin is evidence of my limitations, my stupidity and ignorance of the requirements of the stage, I am very sorry; but I can at least affirm that the music proceeds in the most literal sense from my inmost being. It is not manufactured and forced. But enough of Oniegin.

“Now a word as to my latest work, the Fourth Symphony, which must have reached Moscow by now. What will you think of it? I value your opinion highly, and fear your criticism. I know you are absolutely sincere, that is why I think so much of your judgment. I cherish one dream, one intense desire, which I hardly dare disclose, lest it should seem selfish. You must write and play, and play and write, for your own self, and you ought not to waste time on arrangements. There are but two men in Moscow—nay, in the whole world—to whom I would entrust the arrangement of my symphony for four hands. One of these is Klindworth, and the other a certain person who lives in the Oboukhov pereoulok. The latter would be all the dearer to me, if I were not afraid of asking too much. Do not hesitate to refuse my request. Yet if you feel able to say ‘yes,’ I shall jump for joy, although my corpulence would be rather an impediment to such behaviour.”

To K. K. Albrecht.

“San Remo, January 8th (20th), 1878.

“To-day I received your letter. Had it come a fortnight ago I should no doubt have reflected whether in refusing the office of delegate I had done something foolish or wrong. Now, however, the matter is decided, and on mature consideration I am convinced I was wise not to undertake a business so antipathetic to my temperament.... Let us thoroughly consider the question. In what way could I have been useful as a delegate: First, to the cause of Russian music, and secondly, to myself?

“1. As regards Russian music.... What could I have done, under the circumstances, to interest the Parisians in our music? How could I (unless funds were forthcoming) arrange concerts and evenings for chamber music? What a poor figure I should have cut beside the other delegates, who were well supplied with money! But even had funds been forthcoming, what could I have done? Can I conduct anything? I might have beaten time to my own compositions, but I could not fill up the programmes with my works. I must, on the contrary, have put them aside in order to bring forward the compositions of Glinka, Dargomijsky, Serov, Rimsky-Korsakov, Cui, and Borodin. And for all this I should have had to prepare myself, unless I risked bringing disgrace upon Russian music. That I should have disgraced it is certain. Then all Russia would have blamed me afterwards, and with justification. I do not deny the fact that a man of temperament, skill, and talent for organisation could do much. But you know that apart from my speciality I am a useless sort of being. So, you see, I should have been of no service to Russian music, even if the Government had allowed me sufficient money to carry out any plans.

“2. As concerns myself.... I must say that the idea of making the acquaintance of the Parisian musical lights seemed to me the most terrible part of the business. To make myself amiable and pay court to all the ragtag and bobtail is not in my line. Pride shows itself in many different ways. In my case it takes the form of avoiding all contact with people who do not know or appreciate my worth. For instance, it would be unbearable to have to stand humbly before Saint-Saëns and to be honoured by his gracious condescension, when in my heart of hearts I feel myself as far above him as the Alps. In Paris my self-respect (which is very great in spite of my apparent modesty) would suffer hourly from having to mix with all kinds of celebrities who would look down upon me. To bring my works to their notice, to convince them that I am of some consequence—this is impossible to me.... Now let us leave the question of my own reputation and speak of my health. Physically I feel very well, at any rate better than could be expected; but mentally I am still far from sound. In a word, I am on the verge of insanity. I can only live in an atmosphere of complete quiet, quite away from all the turmoil of great cities. In order that you may realise how changed I am, let me tell you that now I spit—yes, spit upon the thought of all success or notoriety abroad. I beg and pray one thing only: to be let alone. I would gladly be dropped in some remote desert, if I could thus avoid contact with my fellow-men.... I cannot live without work, and when I can no longer compose I shall occupy myself with other musical matters. But I will not lift a finger to push my works in the world, because I do not care about it one way or the other. Anyone can play or sing my works if they please; if no one pleases—it is all the same to me, for, as I tell you, I spit, spit, spit upon the whole business!!! Once again, I repeat: were I rich I should live in complete seclusion from the world and only occasionally visit Moscow, to which I am deeply attached.... I am grieved, my dear Karl, that you are vexed with me. But listen: I have learnt from bitter experience that we cannot do violence to our nature without being punished for it. My whole self, every nerve, every fibre in me, protests against undertaking this post of delegate, and I subscribe to this protest.

“Karl, I recommend to you most highly my latest work. I mean my symphony. Feel kindly towards it, for I cannot be at rest without your praise. You do not guess how I value your opinion. Give Kashkin my best thanks for his letter and show him this one by way of reply, as it will serve for him too. Your warm words about Eugene Oniegin are 1,000,000,000,000 times more to me than the condescension of any Frenchmen. I embrace you both, and also Rubinstein. But as to fame, I spit, spit, yes, spit upon it.”

To. N. F. von Meck.

“San Remo, January 14th (26th), 1876.

“Two nights running we have had a gale from the northwest. It howled and whistled until I had the shivers. Last night it rattled and shook my window so that I could not sleep and began to think over my life. I do not know whence it came, but suddenly a very pleasant thought passed through my mind. I thought that I had never yet shown my gratitude to you in its fullest extent, my best and dearest friend. I saw clearly that all you are doing for me, with such untiring goodness and sympathy, is so beyond measure generous that I am not really worthy of it. I recollected the crisis when I found myself on the verge of an abyss, and believed that all was over, that nothing remained but to vanish from the face of the earth, and how, at the same time, an inward voice reminded me of you and predicted that you would hold out your hand to me. The inner voice proved true. You and my brothers have given me back my life. Not only am I still living, but I can work; without work life has no meaning for me. I know you do not want me to be pouring out assurances of my gratitude every moment; but let me say once for all that I owe you everything, everything; that you have not only given me the means to come through a very difficult crisis without anxiety, but have brought the new elements of light and gladness into my life. I am now speaking of your friendship, my dear, kind Nadejda Filaretovna, and I assure you since I have found in you so eternally good a friend, I can never be quite unhappy again. Perhaps the time will come when I shall no longer require the material assistance you have bestowed upon me with such admirable delicacy of feeling, such fabulous generosity; but I shall never be able to do without the moral aid and comfort I have derived from you. With my undecided character, which is innate in me, and with my faculty for getting out of heart, I am happy in the consciousness of having so good a friend at hand, who is always ready to help me and point out the right course of action. I know you will not only be the upholder of my good and wise achievements, but also a judge of my faults; a compassionate judge, however, who has my welfare at heart. All this I said to myself as I lay awake last night, and determined to write it to you to-day. In doing so I am merely satisfying my great desire to open my heart to you.

“Such a strange coincidence happened this morning! A letter from N. Rubinstein[57] was put into my hands. He has returned from his journey, and lost no time in replying to my letter, in which I excused myself for shirking the duties of delegate. His letter breathes savage wrath. This would not matter so much, but that the whole tone of the communication is so dry, so lacking in cordial feeling, so exaggerated! He says my illness is a mere fraud, that I am only putting it on, that I prefer the dolce far niente aspect of life, that I am drifting away from my work, and that he deeply regrets having shown me so much sympathy, because it has only encouraged my indolence!!! etc., etc.”

This lack of sympathy and complete misunderstanding of his motives provoked a sharp reply on Tchaikovsky’s part. But in calmer moments he saw clearly all the artistic benefit he had derived from N. Rubinstein’s friendship, and never ceased to feel grateful for it.

To Nicholas Rubinstein.

“San Remo, January 14th (26th), 1878.

“ ... I received your letter to-day. It would have annoyed me very much, had I not told myself you were keeping in view my ultimate recovery. To my regret, however, you seem to see what is good for me precisely where I—and several others—see what is inimical to my health; in the very thing which appears to me an unprofitable and aimless exertion.... All you have written to me, and also your manner of saying it, only proves how little you know me, as I have frequently observed on former occasions. Possibly you may be right, and I am only putting it on; but that is precisely the nature of my illness.... From your letter I can only gather the impression that in you I possess a great benefactor, and that I have proved an ungrateful and unworthy recipient of your favours. It is useless to try this tone! I know how much I am indebted to you; but, in the first place, your reproaches cool my gratitude, and, secondly, it annoys me when you pose as a benefactor in a matter in which you have proved yourself quite the reverse.

“ ... But, enough of this. Let us rather speak of those things in which you have really been my benefactor. Not possessing any gifts as a conductor, I should certainly have failed to make a name, had not so admirable an interpreter of my works been always at hand. Without you I should have been condemned to perpetual maltreatment. You are the one man who has rightly understood my works. Your extraordinary artistic instinct enables you to take a difficult work—without any previous study—and carry it through with only two rehearsals. I must beg you once again to bring this power to bear upon my opera and symphony. As regards the former—much as I desire it—I shall not be hurt if you find it impossible to perform it this season. The symphony, on the other hand, must be given soon, for in many ways it would seriously inconvenience me if the performance were postponed.... I have often told you that in spite of my loathing for the duties of a professor, and the thought of being tied for life to the Conservatoire, custom has now made it impossible for me to live anywhere but in Moscow and in your society.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“San Remo, January 15th (27th) 1878.

“We have just returned from a beautiful excursion to Colla.... To-day was exquisite; a real spring day. We hired a donkey for Kolya,[58] so that he might take part in the outing. It was not a very steep climb, and all the way the olive trees shut out the views of the sea and town, but all the same it was beautiful. Once I walked ahead of the others and sat under a tree, when suddenly there came over me that feeling of intense delight which I so often experienced during my country rambles in Russia, and for which I have longed in vain since I have been here. I was alone in the solemn stillness of the woods. Such moments are wonderful, indescribable, not to be compared with any other experience. The indispensable condition is—solitude. I always like walking alone in the country. The companionship of anyone as dear to me as my brother has its charms, but it is quite a different thing. In a word, I was happy. First of all I felt a great desire to write to you, and on the way home yet another pleasure awaited me. Do you love flowers? I am passionately fond of them, especially the wild flowers of the field and forest. To my mind the queen of flowers is the lily-of-the-valley; I love it to distraction. Modeste, who is equally fond of flowers, is all for the violet, so that we often fall out on the subject. I declare that violets smell of pomade, and he retorts that my lilies look like nightcaps. In any case I recognise in the violet a dangerous rival to the lily-of-the-valley, and am very fond of it. There are plenty of violets to be bought in the streets here, but as I had failed to find a single flower, even after the most diligent search, I began to regard this as the special privilege of the children of the soil. To-day, on my way home, I had the luck to come upon a place where they grew in profusion. This is the second subject of my letter. I send you a few sweet blossoms gathered by my own hand. May they remind you of the South, the sun, and the sea!”

To N. F. von Meck.

“San Remo, January 25th (February 6th), 1878.

“I am feeling splendidly well. My physical health is first-rate; my head clear and strong. I observe myself with delight, and have come to the conclusion that I am now completely recovered. Do you know, my dear friend, people have not been altogether wrong in reporting that I had gone out of my mind? When I look back on all I did, and all the follies I committed, I am unwillingly forced to the conclusion that my brain was temporarily affected, and has only now returned to its normal state. Much in my recent condition now takes on the semblance of a strange dream; something remote, a weird nightmare in which a man bearing my name, my likeness, and my consciousness acted as one acts in dreams: in a meaningless, disconnected, paradoxical way. That was not my sane self, in full possession of logical and reasonable will_powers. Everything I did then bore the character of an unhealthy conflict between will and intelligence, which is nothing less than insanity. Amid these nightmares which darkened my world during this strange and terrible—but fortunately brief—period, I clung for salvation to the one or two beings who were dearest to me, who seemed sent to draw me out of the abyss. To you, and to my two dear brothers, to all three of you, I owe, not only my life, but my mental and physical recovery.”

To P. I. Jurgenson.

“San Remo, January 26th (February 7th), 1878.

“Your letter reached me to-day, dear Peter Ivanovich. You are very kind. I am deeply touched by your liberality. All the same, I will not accept any money for the opera unless it should be performed in some important theatre, and, even then, nothing approaching to the large sum you propose. The fee for the symphony I wish to pass on to Taneiev. For the translations I cannot take anything from you, because I think them very poor. As regards a fee for the violin and ‘cello pieces, we will speak of it later.

“Dearest friend, I am only too thankful that you are not parsimonious to me and are so willing to publish my works. But this is nothing new, I have always appreciated your large-hearted liberality. Merci, merci, merci!”

To Nicholas Rubinstein.

“San Remo, January 30th (February 11th), 1878.

“Dear Friend,—I have read your letter with great pleasure.... If I expressed myself too sharply, please forget it. Now let us drop the subject entirely.

“I think you have acted wisely in postponing my opera until next year. I agree with you that it is better to have it studied without undue haste and to perform the work in its entirety. You may rest assured that I shall not give the work to the Petersburg Conservatoire. So far, I have not been asked to do so; if I were invited, I should refuse. I hope this letter may reach you about the moment of the first rehearsal of my (Fourth) Symphony. I am very anxious about the Scherzo. I think I told you that the quicker it can go, the better. Now I begin to think it should not be taken too fast. However, I entrust myself entirely to your intelligence, and believe you will find out the right tempo better than I can.

“I have read your letter a second time. You ask if I care to have your advice. Of course I do. You know I am always ready to accept the advice of a judicious friend and that I have frequently sought yours, not only in matters concerning music, but in my daily life. It was not the advice you gave me in your letter which hurt me, but the harsh, dry tone (at least so it seemed to me) of your communication, the reproach to my indolence, and the insinuation that I only refused to go to Paris because N. von Meck was allowing me enough to live upon; in short, you entirely misunderstood the true motives of my conduct.

“I have become terribly misanthropical, and dread the thought of having to change my present mode of life, in which I hardly come in contact with anyone. At the same time I am weary of it, and would gladly relinquish all the natural beauties and the climate of this place to be once more in my beloved Moscow.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“San Remo, February 1st (13th), 1878.

“My dear Friend,—Yesterday I forgot to thank you for the Schopenhauer.[59]

“Has not the thought occurred to you that now I am quite recovered I ought to return to Russia to take up my duties at the Conservatoire and my old ways of life? The thought constantly passes through my mind, and perhaps it might be good for me in every way if I decided to act upon it. And yet, with all my longing for Russia, and my attachment to Moscow, I should find it terribly hard suddenly to give up this life of freedom and the convalescence I am now enjoying, and return to my teaching and my various complications—in a word, to my old life. I shudder at the very thought. Give me your frank opinion. Answer me this question, entirely oblivious of the fact that you are making me an allowance. The fact that I profited by your wealth to travel abroad for my health’s sake does not weigh upon me seriously. I know the sentiment which prompted your offer of pecuniary assistance, and I have long since grown to regard the situation as quite normal. My relations with you are outside the scope of everyday friendship. From you I can accept assistance without any sense of embarrassment. This is not the difficulty.

“Since Rubinstein told me I was drifting into indolence and feigning ill_health (that was his expression) I have been somewhat troubled by the thought that perhaps it was actually my duty to hasten back to Moscow. Help me to decide this question, kind friend, without showing me excessive indulgence.

“On the other hand, if they have been able to do without me for six months, surely now—when there remain but three months before the vacation—I shall not be greatly missed.... To sum up the foregoing arguments: although I may now be equal to resuming my duties, it would be very hard upon me to be forced to do so, because I am most anxious to give myself a longer convalescence in order to return in September altogether a new man, having forgotten—as far as forgetfulness is possible—the unhappy events of six months ago. My request to you involves a strange contradiction. I ask you to tell me the truth and, without allowing yourself to be influenced by any side issues, to exact the fulfilment of my duty; while at the same time you will read between the lines: for God’s sake do not insist on my returning to Moscow now, for it will make me profoundly miserable.

“I remember writing to you in a very depressed frame of mind from Florence, for I was out of spirits at the time. Florence itself was in no way to blame for my mood. Now I am feeling quite well again, I have conceived a great wish to return there, chiefly because Modeste has never been in Italy and I know how he would enjoy all the art treasures in that city. He has far greater feeling for the plastic arts than I have, and possibly his enthusiasm may be communicated to me. So I have decided to await the coming of spring in Florence and then go to Switzerland viâ Mont Cenis. Early in April I shall return to Russia, probably to Kamenka, where I shall stay until September.

“I will not attempt to conceal from you, most invaluable of friends, that the consciousness of having achieved two works on a large scale, in both of which, it seems to me, I have made a distinct advance, is a great source of consolation. The rehearsals for the symphony will commence soon. Would you find it possible—if you are quite well by then—to attend one of them? One gains so much by hearing a new and lengthy work twice. I am so anxious you should like this symphony! It is impossible to get a true idea of it at one hearing. The second time it grows clearer. Much that escapes us at first then attracts our attention; the details fall into place; the leading ideas assume their proper proportions as compared with the subordinate matter. It would be such an excellent thing if you could manage this.

“I am in a rose-coloured mood. Glad the opera is finished, glad spring is at hand, glad I am well and free, glad to feel safe from unpleasant meetings, but happiest of all to possess in your friendship, and in my brothers’ affection, such sure props in life, and to be conscious that I may eventually perfect my art. I trust this feeling is no self-deception, but a just appreciation of my powers. I thank you for all, for all.”

VI

To N. F. von Meck.

“Florence, February 9th (21st), 1878.

“We arrived in Florence to-day. A charming and attractive town. I came here with the pleasantest feelings, and thought how different the place appeared to me two months ago. What a change has taken place in my mental state! What a sad and sorry creature I was then—and now, how well I am! What glad days lie before me! Once again I am able to delight in life, in the full, luxuriant life of Italy.

“This evening we wandered through the streets. How beautiful! A mild evening; the life and bustle of the thoroughfares; the brilliant illumination of the shop-windows! What fun it is to mix with the crowd, unknown and unrecognised! Italy is beginning to cast over me her magic spell. I feel so free here, so cheerful, amid the turmoil and hum of life.

“But in spite of the enjoyments of life in Italy, in spite of the good effect it has upon me—I am, and shall ever be, faithful to my Russia. Do you know, I have never yet come across anyone so much in love with Mother Russia—especially Great Russia—as myself? The verses by Lermontov which you sent me only depict one side of our native land: that indefinable charm which lies in our modest, plain, poor, but wide and open landscape. I go further. I am passionately devoted to the Russian people, to the language, to the Russian spirit, to the fine Russian type of countenance and to Russian customs. Lermontov says frankly: ‘the sacred traditions of our past’ do not move his soul. I love these traditions. I believe my sympathy for the Orthodox faith, the tenets of which have long been undermined in me by destructive criticism, has its source in my innate affection for its national element. I could not say what particular virtue or quality it is which endears Russia and the Russians to me. No doubt such qualities exist. A lover, however, does not love for such reasons, but because he cannot help himself.

“This is why I feel so angry with those among us who are ready to perish of hunger in a garret in Paris, and who seem to enjoy running down everything Russian; who can spend their whole lives abroad without regret, on the grounds that there are fewer comforts to be had in Russia. I hate these people; they trample in the mud all that to me is inexpressibly precious and sacred.

“But to return to Italy. It would be a heavy punishment to be condemned to spend my life in this beautiful land; but a temporary sojourn here is another matter. Everything in Italy exercises a charm for one who is travelling for health and relaxation.... This conviction has so gained ground with me that I am beginning to wonder if, instead of going to Switzerland, it might not be better to visit Naples. Naples continually beckons and calls to me! I have not yet definitely decided. It will be wiser to think it over. Of course I shall let you know the result of my reflections in good time.

“I think you must have been amused by the letter in which I told you I was going to give you a brief outline of Schopenhauer’s philosophy. It is evident that you are thoroughly acquainted with the subject, while I have hardly yet reached the essential question: the moral aspect of the matter. It strikes me you make a very just evaluation of his curious theories. His final deductions contain something hurtful to human dignity, something dry and egotistical, which is not warmed by any love towards mankind. However, as I have said, I have not yet got to the root of the matter. In the exposition of his views upon the meaning of intelligence and will, and their interrelationship, there is much truth and ingenuity. Like yourself, I marvel how a man who has never attempted to carry out in his own life his theories of austere asceticism should preach to others the complete renunciation of all the joys of life. In any case the book interests me immensely, and I hope to discuss it further with you after a more thorough study of its contents. Meanwhile, just one observation: how can a man who takes so low a view of human intelligence, and accords it so subordinate a position, display at the same time such self-assurance, such a haughty belief in the infallibility of his own reason, heaping contempt upon the views of others, and regarding himself as the sole arbiter of truth? What a contradiction! To declare at each step that the reasoning faculty in man is something fortuitous, a function of the brain (therefore merely a physiological function), and as weak and imperfect as all human things—and at the same time to set such value upon his own process of reasoning! A philosopher like Schopenhauer, who goes so far as to deny to mankind anything beyond an instinctive desire to perpetuate his species, ought, first of all, to be prepared to acknowledge the complete uselessness of all systems of philosophy. A man who is convinced that non-existence is the best thing of all should endeavour to act up to his conviction; should suppress himself, annihilate himself, and leave those in peace who desire to live. So far, I cannot quite make out whether he really believes himself to be doing mankind a great service by his philosophy. What use is it to prove to us that there can be nothing more lamentable than existence? If the blind instinct of perpetuation is so strong in us, if no power suffices to weaken our love of individual life, why should he poison this life with his pessimism? What end does this serve? It might seem as though he were advocating suicide; but on the contrary, he forbids self-destruction. These are questions which arise in my mind, and to which perhaps I may find answers when I have finished the book.

“You ask me, my friend, if I have known love other than platonic. Yes and no. If the question had been differently put, if you had asked me whether I had ever found complete happiness in love, I should have replied no, and again, no. Besides, I think the answer to this question is to be heard in my music. If, however, you ask me whether I have felt the whole power and inexpressible stress of love, I must reply yes, yes, yes; for often and often have I striven to render in music all the anguish and the bliss of love. Whether I have been successful I do not know, or rather I leave others to judge. I do not in the least agree with you that music cannot interpret the universal nature of love. On the contrary, I think only music is capable of doing so. You say words are necessary. O no! This is just where words are not needed, and where they have no power; a more eloquent language comes in, which is music. Look at the poetical forms to which poets have recourse in order to sing of love; they simply usurp the spheres which belong inseparably to music. Words clothed in poetical forms cease to be mere words; they become partly music. The best proof that love-poetry is really more music than words lies in the fact that such poetry—if you read it carefully from the point of view of words rather than of music—contains very little meaning. (I refer you to the poet Fet, whom I greatly admire.) And yet it has a meaning, and a very profound one, although it is more musical than literary.

“I am delighted that you value instrumental music so highly. Your observation that words often spoil music and degrade it from its highest level is perfectly true. I have often felt this very keenly, and perhaps therein lies the reason why I am more successful with instrumental than with vocal music.”

On February 10th (22nd), Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony was performed for the first time at one of the symphony concerts of the Russian Musical Society. It did not produce, either upon the public or the Press, that impression which the composer had confidently awaited. Most of the papers passed it over in silence, and the remainder only record an indifferent success, both for the work and its performance.

To N. F. von Meck.

“Florence, February 12th (24th), 1878.

“Early yesterday came your telegram, dear friend. It gave me inexpressible pleasure. I was more than anxious to know how you liked the Symphony. Probably you would have given me some friendly sign of your sympathy, even if you had not cared much about it. From the warm tone of your telegram, however, I see that you are satisfied, on the whole, with the work which was written for you. In my heart of hearts I feel sure it is the best thing I have done so far. It seems rather strange that not one of my friends in Moscow has thought it worth while to give me any news of the Symphony, although I sent off the score nearly six weeks ago. At the same time as your telegram I received one signed by Rubinstein and all the others. But it only stated the fact that the work had been very well performed. Not a word as to its merits; perhaps that is intended to be understood. Thank you for your news of the success of ‘my favourite child,’ and the cordial words of your telegram. My thoughts were in the concert-room. I calculated the moment when the opening phrase would be heard, and endeavoured, by following every detail, to realise the effect of my music upon the public. The first movement (the most complicated, but also the best) is probably far too long, and would not be completely understood at the first hearing. The other movements are simple....

“I have not finished Schopenhauer yet, and am saving up my opinions upon it for some future letter. I have been twice with my brother to the Uffizi and Palazzo Pitti. Thanks to Modeste, I took in a good many artistic impressions. He was lost in ecstasy before the masterpieces of Raphael and Leonardo da Vinci. We also visited an exhibition of modern pictures, and discovered a few fine works. If I am not mistaken, the spirit of realism has entered into modern Italian painting. All the pictures I have seen here by painters of the present day are more remarkable for the truthful presentment of details than for profound or poetic thought. The figures are very lifelike, even when the conception is crude. For instance, a page drawing aside a curtain; both page and curtain are so real that one actually expects to see some movement. An old Pompeiian woman, leaning back in an ancient chair and indulging in a burst of Homeric laughter, makes one want to laugh too. All this has no pretensions to profound thought, but the drawing and colouring are astonishingly truthful.

“As regards music, Italy is in a bad way. Such a town as Florence, for instance, has no opera house. There are theatres, but nothing is given in them because there is no impresario.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Florence, February 16th (28th), 1878.

“ ... Of all that I have seen here the chapel of the Medici in San Lorenzo has made the most profound impression upon me. It is grandiose and beautiful. Here, for the first time, I realised the greatness of Michael Angelo in its fullest significance. I think he has a spiritual affinity with Beethoven. The same breadth and power, the same daring courage, which sometimes almost oversteps the limits of the beautiful, the same dark and troubled moods. Probably this idea is not original. Taine gives a very ingenious comparison between Raphael and Mozart. But whether anyone has ever drawn a parallel between Michael Angelo and Beethoven I cannot say.

“I have finished Schopenhauer. I do not know what impression this philosophy might have made upon me had I come to know it in some other place, under different surroundings. Here it seems to me only a brilliant paradox. I think Schopenhauer’s inconsequence lies in his ultimate conclusions. When he has proved that non-existence is better than existence, we say to ourselves: granted, but what are we to do? It is in his reply to this question that he shows his weakness. Logically, his theories lead direct to suicide. But Schopenhauer evidently shrinks from this dangerous method of shifting the burden of life, and not daring to recommend self-destruction as a universal method of carrying his philosophy into practice, he falls into a curious sophistry and endeavours to prove that the man who commits suicide merely lays stress on his love of life. This is neither logical nor ingenious. As regards ‘Nirvana,’ this is a species of insanity not worth discussion. But, in any case, I have read Schopenhauer with the greatest interest, and found in him much that is extraordinarily clever. His definition of love is original, although a few details are somewhat distorted and wrested from the truth. You are quite right in saying that we must regard with suspicion the views of a philosopher who bids us renounce all joy in life and stamp out every lust of the flesh, while he himself, without any qualms of conscience, enjoyed the pleasures of existence to the day of his death, and had a very good notion of managing his affairs for the best.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Florence, February 17th (March 1st), 1878.

“What joy your letter brought me to-day, dearest Nadejda Filaretovna! I am inexpressibly delighted that the symphony pleases you: that, hearing it, you felt just as I did while writing it, and that my music found its way to your heart.

“You ask if in composing this symphony I had a special programme in view. To such questions regarding my symphonic works I generally answer: nothing of the kind. In reality it is very difficult to answer this question. How interpret those vague feelings which pass through one during the composition of an instrumental work, without reference to any definite subject? It is a purely lyrical process. A kind of musical shriving of the soul, in which there is an encrustation of material which flows forth again in notes, just as the lyrical poet pours himself out in verse. The difference consists in the fact that music possesses far richer means of expression, and is a more subtle medium in which to translate the thousand shifting moments in the mood of a soul. Generally speaking, the germ of a future composition comes suddenly and unexpectedly. If the soil is ready—that is to say, if the disposition for work is there—it takes root with extraordinary force and rapidity, shoots up through the earth, puts forth branches, leaves, and, finally, blossoms. I cannot define the creative process in any other way than by this simile. The great difficulty is that the germ must appear at a favourable moment, the rest goes of itself. It would be vain to try to put into words that immeasurable sense of bliss which comes over me directly a new idea awakens in me and begins to assume a definite form. I forget everything and behave like a madman. Everything within me starts pulsing and quivering; hardly have I begun the sketch ere one thought follows another. In the midst of this magic process it frequently happens that some external interruption wakes me from my somnambulistic state: a ring at the bell, the entrance of my servant, the striking of the clock, reminding me that it is time to leave off. Dreadful, indeed, are such interruptions. Sometimes they break the thread of inspiration for a considerable time, so that I have to seek it again—often in vain. In such cases cool headwork and technical knowledge have to come to my aid. Even in the works of the greatest master we find such moments, when the organic sequence fails and a skilful join has to be made, so that the parts appear as a completely welded whole. But it cannot be avoided. If that condition of mind and soul, which we call inspiration, lasted long without intermission, no artist could survive it. The strings would break and the instrument be shattered into fragments. It is already a great thing if the main ideas and general outline of a work come without any racking of brains, as the result of that supernatural and inexplicable force we call inspiration.

“However, I have wandered from the point without answering your question. Our symphony has a programme. That is to say, it is possible to express its contents in words, and I will tell you—and you alone—the meaning of the entire work and of its separate movements. Naturally I can only do so as regards its general features.

“The Introduction is the germ, the leading idea of the whole work.

“This is Fate, that inevitable force which checks our aspirations towards happiness ere they reach the goal, which watches jealously lest our peace and bliss should be complete and cloudless—a force which, like the sword of Damocles, hangs perpetually over our heads and is always embittering the soul. This force is inescapable and invincible. There is no other course but to submit and inwardly lament.

“The sense of hopeless despair grows stronger and more poignant. Is it not better to turn from reality and lose ourselves in dreams?

O joy! A sweet and tender dream enfolds me. A bright and serene presence leads me on.

How fair! How remotely now is heard the first theme of the Allegro! Deeper and deeper the soul is sunk in dreams. All that was dark and joyless is forgotten.

“Here is happiness!

“It is but a dream, Fate awakens us roughly.

So all life is but a continual alternation between grim truth and fleeting dreams of happiness. There is no haven. The waves drive us hither and thither, until the sea engulfs us. This is, approximately, the programme of the first movement.

“The second movement expresses another phase of suffering. Now it is the melancholy which steals over us when at evening we sit indoors alone, weary of work, while the book we have picked up for relaxation slips unheeded from our fingers. A long procession of old memories goes by. How sad to think how much is already past and gone! And yet these recollections of youth are sweet. We regret the past, although we have neither courage nor desire to start a new life. We are rather weary of existence. We would fain rest awhile and look back, recalling many things. There were moments when young blood pulsed warm through our veins and life gave all we asked. There were also moments of sorrow, irreparable loss. All this has receded so far into the past. How sad, yet sweet to lose ourselves therein!

“In the third movement no definite feelings find expression. Here we have only capricious arabesques, intangible forms, which come into a man’s head when he has been drinking wine and his nerves are rather excited. His mood is neither joyful nor sad. He thinks of nothing in particular. His fancy is free to follow its own flight, and it designs the strangest patterns. Suddenly memory calls up the picture of a tipsy peasant and a street song. From afar come the sounds of a military band. These are the kind of confused images which pass through our brains as we fall asleep. They have no connection with actuality, but are simply wild, strange, and bizarre.

“The fourth movement. If you can find no reasons for happiness in yourself, look at others. Go to the people. See how they can enjoy life and give themselves up entirely to festivity. A rustic holiday is depicted. Hardly have we had time to forget ourselves in the spectacle of other people’s pleasure, when indefatigable Fate reminds us once more of its presence. Others pay no heed to us. They do not spare us a glance, nor stop to observe that we are lonely and sad. How merry, how glad they all are! All their feelings are so inconsequent, so simple. And will you still say that all the world is immersed in sorrow? Happiness does exist, simple and unspoilt. Be glad in others’ gladness. This makes life possible.

“I can tell you no more, dear friend, about the symphony. Naturally my description is not very clear or satisfactory. But there lies the peculiarity of instrumental music; we cannot analyse it. ‘Where words leave off, music begins,’ as Heine has said.

“It is growing late. I will not tell you anything about Florence in this letter. Only one thing—that I shall always keep a happy memory of this place.

“P.S.—Just as I was putting my letter into the envelope I began to read it again, and to feel misgivings as to the confused and incomplete programme which I am sending you. For the first time in my life I have attempted to put my musical thoughts and forms into words and phrases. I have not been very successful. I was horribly out of spirits all the time I was composing this symphony last winter, and this is a true echo of my feelings at the time. But only an echo. How is it possible to reproduce it in clear and definite language? I do not know. I have already forgotten a good deal. Only the general impression of my passionate and sorrowful experiences has remained. I am very, very anxious to know what my friends in Moscow say of my work.

“Last night I went to the People’s Theatre, and was very much amused. Italian humour is coarse, and lacks grace and delicacy, but it carries everything before it.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Florence, February 20th (March 4th), 1878.

“To-day is the last day but one of the Carnival.... My window is open. I am drinking in with delight the cool night air after a hot spring day. How strange, how odd, but yet how sweet, to think of my dear and distant country! There it is still winter! Probably you are sitting near the stove in your study. Fur-clad figures go to and fro in your house. The silence is unbroken by any sound of wheels, since all conveyances are turned into sleighs. How far we are apart! You amid winter snows, and I in a land where spring is green, and my window stands open at 11 p.m.! And yet I look back with affection to our seasons. I love our long, hard winters. How beautiful it is! How magical is the suddenness of our spring, when it bursts upon us with its first message! I delight in the trickle of melting snow in the streets, and the sense of something life-giving and exhilarating that pervades the atmosphere! With what delight we welcome the first blade of grass, the first sprouting seed, the arrival of the lark and all our summer guests! Here, spring comes by gradual stages, so that we cannot actually fix the time of its awakening.

“Do you remember I once wrote to you from Florence about a boy with a lovely and touching voice? A few days ago I met some street-singers, and inquired about him. They knew him, and promised to bring him to me on the Lung’ Arno at nine o’clock. Punctual to the moment I appeared at the place of meeting. The man who had promised was there with the boy. A curious crowd stood around them. As the numbers increased, I beckoned him aside and led the way into a side street. I had my doubts as to whether it was the same boy. ‘As soon as I begin to sing,’ he said, ‘you will be convinced that I am the same. Give me a silver piece of fifty centimes first.’ These words were spoken in a glorious voice, which seemed to come from his inmost soul. What I felt when he began to sing is beyond all words!

“I wept, I trembled, I was consumed with pure delight. He sang once more, ‘Perchè tradirmi, perchè lasciarmi!’ I do not remember any simple folksong ever having made such an impression upon me. This time the lad sang me a charming new melody, which I intend to make him sing again, so that I may write it down for my own use on some future occasion. I pitied this child. He seems to be exploited by his father and other relatives. Just now, during the Carnival, he is made to sing from morning till night, and will continue to do so until his voice vanishes for good and all.... If he belonged to a respectable family he might have some chance of becoming a great artist. One must live for a time with Italians in order to understand their supremacy in vocal art. Even as I write, I can hear in the distance a wonderful tenor singing some song with all his might. But even when the quality of the voice is not beautiful, every Italian can boast that he is a singer by nature. They all have a true émission (production), and sing from their chests, not from their throats and noses as we do.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Clarens, March 3rd (15th), 1878.

“I have been very much occupied with music the last few days, as the weather has made going out impossible. To-day I played nearly all day with Kotek. Do you know the Symphonie Espagnole, by the French composer, Lalo? The piece has been recently brought out by that very modern violinist, Sarasate. It is for solo violin and orchestra, and consists of five independent movements, based upon Spanish folksongs. The work has given me great enjoyment. It is so fresh and light, and contains piquant rhythms and melodies which are beautifully harmonised. It resembles many other works of the modern French school with which I am acquainted. Like Leo Délibes and Bizet, Lalo is careful to avoid all that is routinier, seeks new forms without trying to be profound, and is more concerned with musical beauty than with tradition, as are the Germans. The young generation of French composers is really very promising.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Clarens, March 5th (17th), 1878.

“It is delightful to talk to you about my own methods of composition. So far I have never had any opportunity of confiding to anyone these hidden utterances of my inner life; partly because very few would be interested, and partly because, of these few, scarcely one would know how to respond to me properly. To you, and you alone, I gladly describe all the details of the creative process, because in you I have found one who has a fine feeling and can understand my music.

“Do not believe those who try to persuade you that composition is only a cold exercise of the intellect. The only music capable of moving and touching us is that which flows from the depths of a composer’s soul when he is stirred by inspiration. There is no doubt that even the greatest musical geniuses have sometimes worked without inspiration. This guest does not always respond to the first invitation. We must always work, and a self-respecting artist must not fold his hands on the pretext that he is not in the mood. If we wait for the mood, without endeavouring to meet it half-way, we easily become indolent and apathetic. We must be patient, and believe that inspiration will come to those who can master their disinclination. A few days ago I told you I was working every day without any real inspiration. Had I given way to my disinclination, undoubtedly I should have drifted into a long period of idleness. But my patience and faith did not fail me, and to-day I felt that inexplicable glow of inspiration of which I told you; thanks to which I know beforehand that whatever I write to-day will have power to make an impression, and to touch the hearts of those who hear it. I hope you will not think I am indulging in self-laudation, if I tell you that I very seldom suffer from this disinclination to work. I believe the reason for this is that I am naturally patient. I have learnt to master myself, and I am glad I have not followed in the steps of some of my Russian colleagues, who have no self-confidence and are so impatient that at the least difficulty they are ready to throw up the sponge. This is why, in spite of great gifts, they accomplish so little, and that in an amateur way.

You ask me how I manage my instrumentation. I never compose in the abstract; that is to say, the musical thought never appears otherwise than in a suitable external form. In this way I invent the musical idea and the instrumentation simultaneously. Thus I thought out the scherzo of our symphony—at the moment of its composition—exactly as you heard it. It is inconceivable except as pizzicato. Were it played with the bow, it would lose all its charm and be a mere body without a soul.

As regards the Russian element in my works, I may tell you that not infrequently I begin a composition with the intention of introducing some folk-melody into it. Sometimes it comes of its own accord, unintentionally (as in the finale of our symphony). As to this national element in my work, its affinity with the folksongs in some of my melodies and harmonies proceeds from my having spent my childhood in the country, and having, from my earliest years, been impregnated with the characteristic beauty of our Russian folk-music. I am passionately fond of the national element in all its varied expressions. In a word, I am Russian in the fullest sense of the word.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Clarens, March 7th (19th), 1872.

“The wintry weather still continues. To-day it has never ceased snowing. However, I am not at all bored, and time passes very quickly while I am at work. The sonata and concerto interest me greatly. For the first time in my life I have begun to work at a new piece before finishing the one on hand. Hitherto I have invariably followed the rule not to take up a new composition until the old was completed. This time I could not resist the pleasure of sketching out the concerto, and allowed myself to be so carried away that the sonata has been set aside; but I return to it at intervals.

“I have read the two volumes of Russian Antiquities with delight. As they were already cut, I conclude you have read them yourself.

“Do you not think, dear friend, that Serov’s letters are extremely interesting? At least I find them so, because I well remember the period to which the correspondence belongs. I made Serov’s acquaintance just at the moment when Judith[60] was first performed, and I attended many of the rehearsals. The work roused my enthusiasm at the time, and Serov seemed to me a genius. Afterwards I was bitterly disappointed in him, not only as a man, but as a composer. His personality was never very sympathetic to me. His petty vanity and self-adoration, which often showed themselves in the most naïve way, were repugnant and incomprehensible in so gifted and clever a man. For he was remarkably clever in spite of his small-minded egotism.

“All the same, he was an interesting personality. At the age of forty-three he had not composed anything at all; he had made some attempts, but was either inflated by his self-admiration, or else he entirely lost heart. Finally, after twenty-five years of irresolution, he set to work upon Judith, and astonished the world, which expected from him a dull and pretentious work, in the style of Grand Opera. It was supposed that a man who had reached maturity without having produced a single composition could not be greatly gifted. But the world was wrong. The novice of forty-three presented the public of St. Petersburg with an opera which, in every respect, must be described as beautiful, and shows no indications whatever of being the composer’s first work. I do not know whether you have heard Judith, dear friend; the opera has many good points. It is written with unusual warmth, and sometimes rises to great emotional heights. It had considerable success with the public, and was extraordinarily well received by musical circles, especially by the younger generation. Serov, who had hitherto been unknown, and led a very humble life, in which he had been obliged to fight poverty, became suddenly the hero of the hour, the idol of a certain set, in fact, a celebrity. This unexpected success turned his head, and he began to regard himself as a genius. The childishness with which he sings his own praises in his letters is quite remarkable. Never before was there such originality of style, or such beauty of melody. And Serov actually had proved himself a gifted composer, but not a genius of the first order. His second opera, Rogneda, is already a falling off from the first. Here he is evidently striving for effect, frequently degenerates into the commonplace, and attempts to impress the gallery by coarse and startling effects. This is all the more remarkable because, as a true Wagnerian, he inveighed in speech and in writing against Meyerbeer’s vulgar and flashy style. The Power of the Evil One is still weaker. Serov is, in reality, a very peculiar and interesting musical phenomenon. If we consider his voluminous critical articles, we shall observe that his practice does not agree with his principles; he composes his music on methods diametrically opposed to those which he advocates in his writings. I have held forth at length upon Serov, because I am still under the influence of his letters, which I read yesterday, and all day to-day I can think of nothing else. I recall the arrogance with which he behaved to me, and how I longed for his recognition. Now I know that this very clever and highly cultured man possessed one weakness: he could not appreciate anyone but himself. He disparaged the success of others; detested those who had become famous in his own art, and frequently gave way to impulses of small-minded egotism. On the other hand, one forgave him all, on account of what he suffered before success raised him from poverty, and because he bore his troubles in a strong, manly spirit for love of his art. Having regard to his birth, education, and connections, he might have had a brilliant career, but his love for music won the day. How painful it was to me to learn from his letters that he met with neither support nor encouragement at home but, on the contrary, with derision, mistrust, and hostility!

“I do not know how to thank you, my dear, for the collection of poems you have sent me. I am particularly delighted with those of A. Tolstoi, of whom I am very fond, and—apart from my intention to use some of his words for songs—it will be a great pleasure to read a few of his longer poems again. I am specially interested in his Don Juan, which I read long ago.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Clarens, March 14th (26th), 1878.

“I have just been reading the newspapers, and am thoroughly depressed. Undoubtedly a war is imminent. It is terrible. It seems to me that now I am no longer absorbed in my personal troubles, I feel far more keenly all the wounds inflicted upon our Fatherland, although I have no doubt that in the end Russia—indeed, the whole Slavonic world—will triumph, if only because we have truth and honour on our side. I am glad I shall be in Russia during the war. How many unpleasant moments have I endured abroad, seeing the satisfaction (Schadenfreude) which greeted the news of every small misfortune that befell us, and the ill_feeling which was provoked by any victory on our part! Let us hope our cup of bitterness may pass from us. There are good men to be found among us in every walk of life—with one exception. I am now speaking of my own special line. Whether the (Moscow) Conservatoire was somewhat too forcibly planted upon Muscovite soil by the despotic hand of N. Rubinstein, or whether the Russian intellect is not made to grasp the theory of music, it is certain that there is nothing more difficult than to find a good teacher of harmony. I have come to this conclusion because—in spite of the low valuation I set upon my teaching capacities, in spite, too, of my loathing for a professor’s work—I am indispensable to the Conservatoire. If I resigned my post, it would be hardly possible to find anyone to take my place. This is the reason why I hold it to be my duty to remain there until I feel sure the institution would not suffer from my departure. I am telling you all this, my dear, because I have been constantly wondering of late whether it might not be possible to slip this heavy load from my shoulders.

“How unpleasant teaching will be after these months of freedom! I can give you no adequate idea how derogatory this kind of work can be to a man who has not the smallest vocation for it. Among the male students I have to deal with a considerable number of raw youths who intend, however, to make music their profession: violinists, horn-players, teachers, and so on. Although it is very hard to have to explain to such lads, for twelve consecutive years, that a triad consists of a third and fifth, I feel at least that I am instilling into them some indispensable knowledge. Here, at any rate, I am of some use. But the ladies’ classes! O Lord! Out of the sixty or seventy girls who attend my harmony lessons there are, at the utmost, five who will really turn out musicians. All the rest come to the Conservatoire simply for occupation, or from motives which have nothing to do with music. It cannot be said that these young ladies are less intelligent, or industrious, than the men. Rather the reverse; the women are more conscientious and make greater efforts. They take in a new rule far quicker—but only up to a certain point. Directly this rule ceases to be applied mechanically, and it becomes a question of initiative, all these young women, although inspired with the best intentions in the world, come hopelessly to grief. I often lose my patience and my head, forget all that is going on, and go into a frantic rage, as much with myself as with them. I think a more patient teacher might produce better results. What makes one despair is the thought that it is all to no purpose: a mere farce! Out of the crowd of girls I have taught in the Conservatoire only a very small number came to the classes with a serious aim in view. For how few of them is it worth while to torment and exhaust myself, to wear myself to thread-paper! For how few is my teaching of any real importance! There are many other unpleasant aspects of my work.

“And yet I am bound to continue it. I am delighted at what you tell me about my pupils’ sympathy. I always feel they must hate me for my irritability, which sometimes overstepped the bounds of reason; as well as for my scolding and eternal discontent. I was very glad to be convinced of the contrary.”

To P. I. Jurgenson.

“Clarens, March 15th (27th), 1878.

“ ... The violin concerto is rapidly nearing completion. I hit upon the idea quite accidentally, began to work at it, was completely carried away, and now the sketch is all but finished. Altogether a considerable number of new compositions are hanging over your head: seven little pieces, two songs, and a pianoforte sonata which I have begun. By the end of the summer I shall have to engage a railway truck to convey them all to you. I can hear your energetic expletive: ‘The devil take you!’”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Clarens, March 16th (28th), 1878.

“Yesterday I received your letter with the news of Rubinstein’s concert. I am so glad you were pleased with my concerto. I was convinced from the first that Nicholas Grigorievich would play it splendidly. The work was originally intended for him, and took into consideration his immense virtuosity. It is good to see from your letter how attentively you follow every new musical event. Hardly has a new concerto by Max Bruch appeared than you know all about it. I do not know it yet; nor the concerto by Goldmark which you mention. I only know one of his orchestral works, the overture to Sakuntala, and a quartet. Both compositions are clever and sympathetic. Goldmark is one of the few German composers who possess some originality and freshness of invention.

“Why do you not care for Mozart? In this respect our opinions differ, dear friend. I not only like Mozart, I idolise him. To me the most beautiful opera ever written is Don Juan. You, who possess such a fine musical taste, must surely love this pure and ideal artist. It is true Mozart used up his forces too generously, and often wrote without inspiration, because he was compelled by want. But read his biography by Otto Jahn, and you will see that he could not help it. Even Bach and Beethoven have left a considerable number of inferior works which are not worthy to be spoken of in the same breath as their masterpieces. Fate compelled them occasionally to degrade their art to the level of a handicraft. But think of Mozart’s operas, of two or three of his symphonies, his Requiem, the six quartets dedicated to Haydn, and the D minor string quintet. Do you feel no charm in these works? True, Mozart reaches neither the depths nor heights of Beethoven. And since in life, too, he remained to the end of his days a careless child, his music has not that subjectively tragic quality which is so powerfully expressed in that of Beethoven. But this did not prevent him from creating an objectively tragic type, the most superb and wonderful human presentment ever depicted in music. I mean Donna Anna, in Don Juan. Ah, how difficult it is to make anyone else see and feel in music what we see and feel ourselves! I am quite incapable of describing to you what I felt on hearing Don Juan, especially in the scene where the noble figure of the beautiful, proud, revengeful woman appears on the stage. Nothing in any opera ever impressed me so profoundly. And afterwards, when Donna Anna recognises in Don Juan the man who has wounded her pride and killed her father, and her wrath breaks out like a rushing torrent in that wonderful recitative, or in that later aria, in which every note in the orchestra seems to speak of her wrath and pride and actually to quiver with horror—I could cry out and weep under the overwhelming stress of the emotional impression. And her lament over her father’s corpse, the duet with Don Ottavio, in which she vows vengeance, her arioso in the great sextet in the churchyard—these are inimitable, colossal operatic scenes!

“I am so much in love with the music of Don Juan that even as I write to you I could shed tears of agitation and emotion. In his chamber music, Mozart charms me by his purity and distinction of style and his exquisite handling of the parts. Here, too, are things which can bring tears to our eyes. I will only mention the adagio of the D minor string quintet. No one else has ever known as well how to interpret so exquisitely in music the sense of resigned and inconsolable sorrow. Every time Laub played the adagio I had to hide in the farthest corner of the concert-room, so that others might not see how deeply this music affected me....

“I could go on to eternity holding forth to you upon this sunny genius, for whom I cherish a cult. Although I am very tolerant to other people’s musical views, I must confess, my dear, that I should like very much to convert you to Mozart. I know that would be difficult. I have met one or two others, besides yourself, who have a fine feeling for music, yet nevertheless failed to appreciate Mozart. I should have tried in vain to make them discover the beauties of his music. Our musical sympathies are often affected by purely external circumstances. The music of Don Juan was the first which stirred me profoundly. It roused in me a divine enthusiasm which was not without after-results. Through its medium I was transplanted to that region of artistic beauty where only genius dwells. Previously I had only known the Italian opera. It is thanks to Mozart that I have devoted my life to music. All these things have probably played a part in my exclusive love for him—and perhaps it is foolish of me to expect those who are dear to me to feel towards Mozart as I do. But if I could do anything to change your opinion—it would make me very happy. If ever you tell me that you have been touched by the adagio of the D minor quintet I shall rejoice.”

To N. F. von Meck.

“Clarens, March 19th (31st), 1878.

“ ... You need not be troubled about my fame abroad, my dear. If I am destined ever to acquire such fame, it will come of its own accord, although in all probability not while I am alive to see it. When you come to think that during my many trips abroad I have never called on influential people, or sent them my compositions, that I have never pushed my reputation in other countries, we must be satisfied with any little success which my works may win. Do you know, all my pianoforte compositions are reprinted in Leipzig, and my songs also, with translations of the words? My principal works (with the exception of the operas) can be procured without difficulty in most of the large towns of France, Germany, and England. I myself bought my Third Symphony, arranged for four hands, and my Third Quartet, in Vienna. I have even come across some transcriptions hitherto unknown to me: the Barcarole for piano (Op. 37a) arranged for violin and piano, the andante from the First Quartet for flute. Brandus, in Paris, keeps all my works in stock. There are many reasons why my symphonic works are so seldom heard of abroad. In the first place I am a Russian, and consequently looked upon with prejudice by every Western European. Secondly—also because I am a Russian—there is something exotic in my music which makes it inaccessible to foreigners. My overture to Romeo and Juliet has been played in every capital, but always without success. In Vienna and Paris it was hissed. A short time ago it met with no better reception in Dresden. In some other towns (London and Hamburg) it was more fortunate, but, all the same, my music has not been included in the standard repertory of Germany and other countries. Among musical circles abroad my name is not unknown. A few men have been specially interested in me, and taken some pains to include my works in their concert programmes; but have generally met with insurmountable obstacles. For instance, Hans Richter, the Bayreuth conductor. In spite of all protests, he put my overture into the programme of one of the eight Philharmonic concerts which he conducts in Vienna. Disregarding its failure, he wished this season to do my Third Symphony; but after one rehearsal the directors of the Philharmonic pronounced the work ‘too Russian,’ and it was unanimously rejected. There is no doubt that I could do a great deal to spread my works abroad if I went the round of all the European capitals, calling upon the ‘big wigs,’ and displaying my wares to them. But I would rather abandon every joy in life. Good Lord! what one must undergo, what wounds to one’s self-respect one must be prepared to receive before one can catch the attention of these gentlemen! I will give you an instance. Supposing I wanted to become known in Vienna: Brahms is the musical lion of Vienna. Consequently, I should have to pay my respects to him. Brahms, the celebrity—and I, the unknown composer. I may tell you, however, without false modesty, that I place myself a good deal higher than Brahms. What could I say to him? If I were an honourable and sincere man I should have to say something of this kind: ‘Herr Brahms, I regard you as an uninspired and pretentious composer, without any creative genius whatever. I do not rate you very highly, and look down upon you with disdain. But you could be of some use to me, so I have come to call upon you.’ But if I were a dishonest man, then I should say exactly the opposite. I cannot adopt either course.

“I need not go into further details. You alone—with the exception of my brothers—can fully enter into my feelings. My friends in Moscow cannot reconcile themselves to my having declined to act as delegate in Paris. They cannot believe that my association with such distinguished names as Liszt (who represents Hungary) and Verdi would not do much to promote my reputation. My dear friend, I have the reputation of being modest. But I will confess to you that my modesty is nothing less than a secret, but immense, amour propre. Among all living musicians there is not one before whom I would willingly lower my crest. At the same time, Nature, who endowed me with such pride, denied me the capacity for showing off my wares. Je ne sais pas me faire valoir. I do not know how to meet fame half-way on my own initiative, and prefer to wait until it comes to me unsought. I have long since resigned myself to the belief that I shall not live to see the general recognition of my talents.

“You speak of Anton Rubinstein. How can I compare myself to him? He is at present the greatest pianist in the world. He combines the personalities of a remarkable virtuoso and a gifted composer, so that the latter is borne as it were upon the shoulders of the former. In my lifetime I shall never attain to a tenth part of what he has accomplished. Now we are on the subject of Rubinstein, let me tell you this: as my teacher, he knew my musical temperament better than anyone else, so that he might have done much to further my reputation abroad. Unfortunately, this ‘great light’ has always treated me with a loftiness bordering on contempt. No one has inflicted such cruel wounds upon my self-esteem as Rubinstein. Externally, he has always been amiable and friendly. But beneath this friendly manner he showed plainly that he did not think me worth a brass farthing! The one ‘big wig’ who has always been most kindly disposed towards me is Bülow. Unluckily, he has been forced almost to abandon his musical career on account of ill_health, and cannot therefore do much more on my behalf. Thanks to him, I am well known in England and America. I have a number of Press notices relating to myself which appeared in these countries, and were sent to me by Bülow.

“You need not worry yourself, my dear. If fame is destined for me, it will come with slow but sure steps. History convinces us that the success which is long delayed is often more lasting than when it comes easily and at a bound. Many a name which resounded through its own generation is now engulfed in the ocean of oblivion. An artist should not be troubled by the indifference of his contemporaries. He should go on working and say all he has been predestined to say. He should know that posterity alone can deliver a true and just verdict. I will tell you something more. Perhaps I accept my modest share with so little complaint because my faith in the judgment of the future is immovable. I have a foretaste during my lifetime of the fame which will be meted out to me when the history of Russian music comes to be written. For the present I am satisfied with what I have already acquired. I have no right to complain. I have met people on my way through life whose warm sympathy for my music more than compensates me for the indifference, misunderstanding, and ill_will of others.”

VII

From S. I. Taneiev to Tchaikovsky.

“March 18th (30th), 1878.

“ ... The first movement of your Fourth Symphony is disproportionately long in comparison with the others; it seems to me a symphonic poem, to which the three other movements are added fortuitously. The fanfare for trumpets in the introduction, which is repeated in other places, the frequent change of tempo in the tributary themes—all this makes me think that a programme is being treated here. Otherwise this movement pleases me.