Chapter XI: Part IV: I (2)

“ ... I am still quite a sick man. I cannot bear the least noise as
yet. Yesterday in Florence, and to-day in Rome, every vehicle that
rolled by threw me into an insane rage; every sound, every cry
exasperated my nerves. The crowds of people flowing through the
narrow streets annoy me so that every stranger I meet seems to me
an enemy. Now, for the first time, I begin to realise the folly of
my journey to Rome. My brother and I have just been to St. Peter’s:
all I have gained by it is overwhelming physical fatigue. Of the
noisy streets, the bad air, the dirt, I will say nothing. I know my
morbid condition makes me see only the bad side of Rome in all its
hatefulness, while the beauties of the city seem veiled to my eyes;
but this is a poor consolation. Yesterday I discussed with my
brother what we should do next, and came to this conclusion. It is
evident that I cannot continue my tour. If I feel ill in Florence
and Rome, it will be just as bad in Naples. A fortnight hence my
brother must leave me; in order somewhat to prolong our time
together, I have decided to accompany him as far as Vienna. I have
also come to the conclusion that I ought not to be left alone.
Therefore I have sent for my servant, who is leading an idle life
in Moscow. I shall await his coming in Vienna, and then return to
Clarens, where I think of staying.

“To-morrow, or the next day, we shall go to Venice for a few days
before starting for Vienna. Venice is quiet, and I can work there;
and it is very important I should do so....”

_To Nicholas Rubinstein._

“ROME, _November_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1877.

“I am agitated by uncertainty as to whether the first act[52] will
please you or not. Pray do not give it up on your first
impressions: they are often so deceptive. I wrote that music with
such love and delight! The following numbers were specially dear to
me: (1) the first duet behind the scenes, which afterwards becomes
the quartet; (2) Lensky’s Arioso; (3) the scene in Tatiana’s room;
(4) the chorus of maidens. If you can tell me it pleases you and
Albrecht (I value his opinion so highly), it will make me very
happy. As soon as I have finished the first scene of the second act
and sent it to you, I will attack the Symphony with all zeal, and
so I implore you to keep a place for it at the Symphony Concerts.

“I thank you, dear friend, with all my heart for the many things
you have done for me, and for your kind letter, in which I
recognise with joy your loyal friendship. But, for God’s sake, do
not summon me back to Moscow before next September. I know I shall
find nothing there but terrible mental suffering.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“VENICE, _November_ 11_th_ (23_rd_), 1877.

“DEAR NADEJDA FILARETOVNA,--The last day in Rome compensated for
all my troubles, but it was also rather fatiguing. In the morning I
had to go in search of the Symphony (No. 4), which had been sent
from Clarens. I inquired at the post office, at the station, at
various other offices. Everywhere they received me politely, looked
for the parcel, and failed to find it. Imagine my anxiety. If the
Symphony had been lost, I should never have had the energy to
rewrite it from memory. At last I requested that it should be
diligently sought for, and--behold the parcel was discovered! It
was a great comfort.

“Afterwards I visited the Capitol with my brother. I found much
that was interesting here and which touched me directly--for
instance, the statue of the Dying Gladiator. I cannot say the same
of the Venus of the Capitol, which still leaves me quite cold, as
on my first visit. At two o’clock we went to the Palace of the
Cæsars, and looked into the Villa Borghese as we passed, to see the
collection of pictures. Here, too, I was capable of taking in some
artistic impressions. One picture particularly attracted my
attention--the Death of a Saint (Jerome, if I am not mistaken), by
Domenicchino. But I must tell you frankly that I am no enthusiastic
amateur of pictures, and I lack any profound insight into the
subtleties of painting or sculpture. I soon get tired in the
galleries. Among a number of pictures there are seldom more than
two or three which remain firmly fixed in my mind’s eye; but these
I study in every detail, and endeavour to enter into their spirit,
while I run through the others with a superficial glance....
Besides the picture by Domenicchino, some of Raphael’s pleased me
very much, especially the portraits of Cæsar Borgia and Sixtus
V.[53]

“The grandest, the most overpowering, of all the sights I saw was
the Palace of the Cæsars. What gigantic proportions, what wealth of
beauty! At every step we are reminded of the past; we endeavour to
reconstruct it and the further we explore it, the more vivid are
the gorgeous pictures which crowd the imagination. The weather was
lovely. Every moment we came upon some fresh glimpse of the city,
which is as dirty as Moscow, but far more picturesquely situated,
and possessing infinitely greater historical interest. Quite close
by are the Colosseum and the ruined Palace of Constantine.[54] It
is all so grand, so beautiful, so rare! I am very glad to have left
Rome under this ineffaceable impression. I wanted to write to you
in the evening, but after packing I was too tired to move a finger.

“At six o’clock this morning we arrived in Venice. Although I had
not been able to close my eyes all night, and although it was still
quite dark and cold when we got here, I was charmed with the
characteristic beauty of the place. We are staying at the Grand
Hôtel. In front of our windows is S. Maria della Salute, a
graceful, pretty building on the Canale Grande.”

_To N. F. Von Meck._

“VENICE, _November_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1877.

“ ... I have received a very comforting letter from my sister, and
am busy with the orchestration of the first scene of the second act
of my _Oniegin_.

“Venice is a fascinating city. Every day I discover some fresh
beauty. Yesterday we went to the Church of the Frati, in which,
among other art treasures, is the tomb of Canova. It is a marvel of
beauty! But what delights me most is the absolute quiet and absence
of all street noises. To sit at the open window in the moonlight
and gaze upon S. Maria della Salute, or over to the Lagoons on the
left, is simply glorious! It is very pleasant also to sit in the
Piazza di San Marco (near the Café) in the afternoon and watch the
stream of people go by. The little corridor-like streets please me,
too, especially in the evening when the windows are lit up. In
short, Venice has bewitched me. To-day I have been considering
whether it would not be better to stay here than at
Clarens--Clarens is quiet, cheap, and nice, but often dull; here
nature is less beautiful, but there is more life and movement, and
this is not of the kind that bewilders and confuses me....
To-morrow I will look for a furnished apartment. If I succeed in
finding one--I shall be just as undecided as before.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“VENICE, _November_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1877.

“ ... The few days spent here have done me a great deal of good.
First, I have been able to work a little, so that my brother will
take the second scene of the opera--not quite finished--back to
Moscow with him. Secondly, I feel much better, although I was not
very well yesterday. It is only a slight chill, however. Thirdly, I
am quite in love with my beautiful Venice, and have decided to come
back here after parting from my brother in Vienna. Do not laugh,
for Heaven’s sake, at my uncertainty and vacillation. This time my
decision is irrevocable. I have gone so far as to take a very nice
apartment in the Riva dei Chiavoni.

“To-morrow I go to Vienna. On my return I will begin to work at the
Symphony--_our_ Symphony.

“Do you know what enrages me in Venice?--The vendors of the evening
papers. If I go for a walk across the Piazza di San Marco I hear on
every side, ‘_Il Tempo! La Gazzetta di Venezia! Vittoria dei
Turchi!_’ This ‘_Vittoria dei Turchi_’ is shouted every evening.
Why do they never cry one of our actual victories? Why do they try
to attract customers by fictitious Turkish successes? Can it be
that peaceful, beautiful Venice, who once lost her strength in
fighting these same Turks, is as full of hatred for Russia as all
the rest of Western Europe?

“Beside myself with indignation, I asked one of them, ‘Ma dovè la
vittoria?’ It turned out that a Turkish victory was really a
reconnaissance, in which the Russians had had about one hundred
casualties. ‘Is that a victory?’ I asked him angrily. I could not
understand his reply, but he cried no more ‘victories.’ One must
acknowledge the amiability, politeness, and obligingness of the
Italians. These qualities of theirs strike one very forcibly when
one comes direct from Switzerland, where the people are gloomy,
unfriendly, and disinclined for a joke. To-day, when I met the same
vendor of papers, he greeted me civilly, and instead of calling
out, ‘Grande vittoria dei Turchi’--with which words the others were
recommending their wares--he began to cry, ‘Gran combattimento a
Plevna, vittoria dei Russi!’ I knew he lied, but it pleased me all
the same, since it expressed the innate courtesy of a poor man.

“When will it end, this terrible war, in which such unimportant
results have to be won at such vast sacrifices? And yet it must be
fought out to the end, until the enemy is utterly vanquished. This
war cannot and must not be settled by compromises and side issues.
One or the other must give in. But how disgraceful it seems to
speak of such a life-and-death struggle while sitting in a bright,
comfortable, well-lit room, knowing neither hunger nor thirst, and
well protected from bad weather and all other physical deprivations
and discomforts! From moral and spiritual troubles we are none of
us safe. As to my own, I know one remedy and alleviation--my work.
But our strength is not always equal to our work. Oh, my God, if I
could only find strength and gladness of heart for new works! Just
now I can only go on patching up the old ones.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“VIENNA, _November_ 20_th_ (_December_ 2_nd_), 1877.

“ ... Yesterday evening found us in Vienna. The journey across the
Semmering left a fascinating impression. The weather was fine. On
the journey I read and re-read your letter, my dear friend.

“ ... Now it is evident that theoretically you have separated
yourself from the Church and from dogmatic belief. I perceive that
after years of thought you have framed for yourself a kind of
religio-philosophic catechism. But it strikes me you are mistaken
in supposing that parallel with the bulwarks of the old, strong
faith which you have overthrown, you have raised new ones, so sure
and reliable that you can afford to do away entirely with the old
lines of defence. Herein lies precisely the sceptic’s tragedy: once
he has broken the ties which bind him to traditional belief, he
passes from one set of philosophical speculations to another,
always imagining he will discover that inexhaustible source of
strength, so needful for the battle of life, with which the
believer is fully equipped. You may say what you please, but a
faith--not that which proceeds from mere deficiency of reasoning
power and is simply a matter of routine--but a faith founded on
reason and able to reconcile all misconceptions and contradictions
arising from intellectual criticism--such a belief is the supreme
happiness. A man who has both intellect and faith (and there are
many such) is clad, as it were, in a panoply of armour which can
resist all the blows of fate. You say you have fallen away from the
accepted forms of religion and have made a creed for yourself. But
religion is an element of reconciliation. Have you this sense of
being reconciled? I think not. For if you had, you would never have
written that letter from Como. Do you remember? That yearning, that
discontent, that aspiration towards some vague ideal, that
isolation from humanity, the confession that only in music--the
most ideal of all the arts--could you find any solution of these
agitating questions, all proved to me that your self-made religion
did not give that absolute peace of mind which is peculiar to those
who have found in their faith a ready-made answer to all those
doubts which torment a reflective and sensitive nature. And, do you
know--it seems to me you only care so much for my music because I
am as full of the ideal longing as yourself. Our sufferings are the
same. Your doubts are as strong as mine. We are both adrift in that
limitless sea of scepticism, seeking a haven and finding none.

“Are not these the reasons why my music touches you so closely? I
also think you are mistaken in calling yourself a realist. If we
define ‘realism’ as contempt for all that is false and
insincere--in life as in art--you are undoubtedly a ‘realist.’ But
when we consider that a true realist would never dream of seeking
consolation in music, as you do, it is evident you are far more of
an idealist. You are only a realist in the sense that you do not
care to waste time over sentimental, trivial, and aimless dreams,
like so many women. You do not care for phrases and empty words,
but that does not mean you are a realist. Impossible! Realism
argues a certain limited outlook, a thirst for truth which is too
quickly and easily satisfied. A realist does not actually feel
eager to comprehend the essential problems of existence; he even
denies the need of seeking truth, and does not believe in those
who are searching for reconcilement and religion, philosophy, or
art. Art--especially music--counts for nothing with the realist,
because it is the answer to a question which his narrow intellect
is incapable of posing. For these reasons I think you are wrong in
declaring you have enrolled under the banner of realism. You say
music only produces in you a pleasant, purely physical, sensation.
Against this I distinctly protest. You are deceiving yourself. Do
you really only care for music in the same way that I enjoy a
bottle of wine or a pickled gherkin? Nay, you love music as it
should be loved: that is to say, you give yourself up to it with
all your soul and let it exercise its magic spell all unconsciously
upon your spirit.

“Perhaps it may seem strange that I should doubt your
self-knowledge. But, to my mind, you are, first of all, a very good
woman, and have been so from your birth up. You honour what is good
because the aspiration towards the right, as well as the hatred of
lies and evil, is innate in you. You are clever, and consequently
sceptical. An intelligent man cannot help being a sceptic; at least
he must at some period of his life experience the most agonising
scepticism. When your innate scepticism led you to the negation of
tradition and dogma you naturally began to seek some way of escape
from your doubts. You found it _partly_ in the pantheistic point of
view, and _partly_ in music; but you discovered no perfect
reconcilement with faith. Hating all evil and falsehood, you
enclose yourself in your narrow family circle in order to shut out
the consciousness of human wickedness. You have done much good,
because, like your innate love of nature and art, this doing good
is an invincible craving of your soul. You help others, not in
order to purchase that eternal happiness which you neither quite
believe in nor quite deny, but because you are so made that you
cannot help doing good.”

_To N. F. Von Meck._

“VIENNA, _November_ 23_rd_ (_December_ 5_th_), 1877.

“The continuation of my letter:--

“My feeling about the Church is quite different to yours. For me
it still possesses much poetical charm. I very often attend the
services. I consider the liturgy of St. John Chrysostom one of the
greatest productions of art. If we follow the service very
carefully, and enter into the meaning of every ceremony, it is
impossible not to be profoundly moved by the liturgy of our own
Orthodox Church. I also love vespers. To stand on a Saturday
evening in the twilight in some little old country church, filled
with the smoke of incense; to lose oneself in the eternal
questions, _whence_, _why_, and _whither_; to be startled from
one’s trance by a burst from the choir; to be carried away by the
poetry of this music; to be thrilled with quiet rapture when the
Golden Gates of the Iconostasis are flung open and the words ring
out, ‘Praise the name of the Lord!’--all this is infinitely
precious to me! One of my deepest joys!

“Thus, from one point of view, I am firmly united to our Church.
From other standpoints I have--like yourself--long since lost faith
in dogma. The doctrine of retribution, for instance, seems to me
monstrous in its injustice and unreason. Like you, I am convinced
that if there is a future life at all, it is only conceivable in
the sense of the indestructibility of matter, in the pantheistic
view of the eternity of nature, of which I am only a microscopic
atom. I cannot believe in a personal, individual immortality.

“How shall we picture to ourselves eternal life after death? As
endless bliss? But such endless joy is inconceivable apart from its
opposite--eternal pain. I entirely refuse to believe in the latter.
Finally, I am not sure that life beyond death is desirable, for it
would lose its charm but for its alternations of joy and sorrow,
its struggle between good and evil, darkness and light. How can we
contemplate immortality as a state of eternal bliss? According to
our earthly conceptions, even bliss itself becomes wearisome if it
is never broken or interrupted. So I have come to the conclusion,
as the result of much thinking, that there is no future life. But
conviction is one thing, and feeling and instinct another. This
denial of immortality brings me face to face with the terrible
thought that I shall never, never, again set eyes upon some of my
dear dead. In spite of the strength of my _convictions_, I shall
never reconcile myself to the thought that my dear mother, whom I
loved so much, actually _is not_; that I shall never have any
chance of telling her how, after twenty-three years of separation,
she is as dear to me as ever.

“You see, my dear friend, I am made up of contradictions, and I
have reached a very mature age without resting upon anything
positive, without having calmed my restless spirit either by
religion or philosophy. Undoubtedly I should have gone mad but for
_music_. Music is indeed the most beautiful of all Heaven’s gifts
to humanity wandering in the darkness. Alone it calms, enlightens,
and stills our souls. It is not the straw to which the drowning man
clings; but a true friend, refuge, and comforter, for whose sake
life is worth living. Perhaps there will be no music in heaven.
Well, let us give our mortal life to it as long as it lasts.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“VIENNA, _November_ 26_th_ (_December_ 8_th_), 1877.

“I am still in Vienna. Yesterday I heard that my servant would
leave Moscow on Saturday. Although I have given him the most minute
instructions what to do on the journey, I have no idea how he will
cross the frontier, not knowing a single word of any foreign
language. I fancy there will be many tragic-comic episodes.
Sometimes I think it is not very wise to have a Russian servant.
And yet--I do not know what I should have done, since I cannot
endure complete solitude. Besides which I know it will be a comfort
to my brother to feel I am not quite alone. I have seen Wagner’s
_Walküre_. The performance was excellent. The orchestra surpassed
itself; the best singers did all within their powers--and yet it
was wearisome. What a Don Quixote is Wagner! He expends his whole
force in pursuing the impossible, and all the time, if he would but
follow the natural bent of his extraordinary gift, he might evoke a
whole world of musical beauties. In my opinion Wagner is a
symphonist by nature. He is gifted with genius which has wrecked
itself upon his tendencies; his inspiration is paralysed by
theories which he has invented on his own account, and which,
_nolens volens_, he wants to bring into practice. In his efforts to
attain _reality_, _truth_, and _rationalism_ he lets _music_ slip
quite out of sight, so that in his four latest operas it is, more
often than not, conspicuous by its absence. I cannot call that
music which consists of kaleidoscopic, shifting phrases, which
succeed each other without a break and never come to a close, that
is to say, never give the ear the least chance to rest upon musical
form. Not a single broad, rounded melody, nor yet one moment of
repose for the singer! The latter must always pursue the orchestra,
and be careful never to lose his note, which has no more importance
in the score than some note for the fourth horn. But there is no
doubt Wagner is a wonderful symphonist. I will just prove to you by
one example how far the symphonic prevails over the operatic style
in his operas. You have probably heard his celebrated
_Walkürenritt_? What a great and marvellous picture! How we
actually seem to see these fierce heroines flying on their magic
steeds amid thunder and lightning! In the concert-room this piece
makes an extraordinary impression. On the stage, in view of the
cardboard rocks, the canvas clouds, and the soldiers who run about
very awkwardly in the background--in a word, seen in this very
inadequate theatrical heaven, which makes a poor pretence of
realising the illimitable realms above, the music loses all its
powers of expression. Here the stage does not enhance the effect,
but acts rather like a wet blanket. Finally I cannot understand,
and never shall, why the _Nibelungen_ should be considered a
literary masterpiece. As a national saga--perhaps, but as a
libretto--distinctly not!

“Wotan, Brünnhilda, Fricka, and the rest are all so impossible, so
little human, that it is very difficult to feel any sympathy with
their destinies. And how little life! For three whole hours Wotan
lectures Brünnhilda upon her disobedience. How wearisome! And with
it all, there are many fine and beautiful episodes of a purely
symphonic description.

“Yesterday Kotek[55] and I looked through a new symphony by Brahms
(No. I in C minor), a composer whom the Germans exalt to the skies.
He has no charms for me. I find him cold and obscure, full of
pretensions, but without any real depths. Altogether it seems to me
Germany is deteriorating as regards music. I believe the French are
now coming to the front. Lately I have heard Délibes’ very clever
music--in its own style--to the ballet _Sylvia_, I became
acquainted with this music in the pianoforte arrangement some time
ago, but the splendid performance of it by the Vienna orchestra
quite fascinated me, especially the first part. _The Swan Lake_ is
poor stuff compared to _Sylvia_. Nothing during the last few years
has charmed me so greatly as this ballet of Délibes and _Carmen_.”

_To N. F. von Meek._

“VIENNA, _November_ 27_th_ (_December_ 9_th_), 1877.

“Kotek and my brother have gone to the Philharmonic concert, at
which my favourite Third Symphony of Schumann is being played. I
preferred to remain at home alone. I was afraid I might meet some
of the local musicians with whom I am acquainted. If only I came
across one, by to-morrow I should have to call on at least ten
musical ‘lions’, make their acquaintance, and express my gratitude
for their favours. (Last year, without any initiative on my part,
my overture _Romeo and Juliet_ was performed here and unanimously
hissed.) No doubt I should do much towards making my works known
abroad if I went the round of the influential people, paying visits
and compliments. But, Lord, how I hate that kind of thing! If you
could only hear the offensively patronising tone in which they
speak of Russian music! One reads in their faces: ‘Although you are
a Russian, my condescension is such that I honour you with my
attention.’ God be with them! Last year I met Liszt. He was
sickeningly polite, but all the while there was a smile on his lips
which expressed the above words pretty plainly. At the present
moment, as you will understand, I am less than ever in the mood to
be civil to these gentlemen.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“VIENNA, _November_ 29_th_ (_December_ 10_th_), 1877.

“My brother only left at a quarter to eleven. I will not go into my
feelings; you know what they are. My servant arrived yesterday at
five o’clock. I was quite wrong in supposing he would encounter any
serious difficulties on account of his ignorance of the language;
and equally wrong as to his first impressions of foreign lands. He
is, like all Russian peasants, as plucky as he is quick-witted, and
knows how to get out of the most difficult situations; consequently
he crossed the frontier as easily as though he had been in the
habit of making the journey frequently. As to his impressions, he
thinks the houses in Vienna far inferior to those in Moscow, and
Moscow altogether incomparably more beautiful. The news of the
capture of Plevna has made the separation from my brother more
bearable. When the waiter brought my early coffee yesterday, with
the announcement, ‘Plevna has fallen,’ I nearly embraced him! It
seems from the papers as though Austria was not best pleased, and
was rather aggrieved at the capitulation of the flower of the
Turkish army.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“VENICE, _December_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1877.

“ ... There is one thing in your letter with which I cannot agree
in the least--your view of music. I particularly dislike the way in
which you compare music with a form of intoxication. I think this
is quite wrong. A man has recourse to wine in order to stupefy
himself and produce an illusion of well-being and happiness. But
this dream costs him very dear! The reaction is generally terrible.
But in any case wine can only bring a momentary oblivion of all our
troubles--no more. Has music a similar effect? Music is no
illusion, but rather a revelation. Its triumphant power lies in the
fact that it reveals to us beauties we find in no other sphere; and
the apprehension of them is not transitory, but a perpetual
reconcilement to life. Music enlightens and delights us. It is
extremely difficult to analyse and define the process of musical
enjoyment, but it has nothing in common with intoxication. It is
certainly not a physiological phenomenon. Of course the
nerves--therefore to some extent our physical organs--take part in
our musical impressions and, in this sense, music gives physical
delight: but you must own it is exceedingly difficult to draw a
hard-and-fast line between the physical and psychical functions;
for instance, thought is a physiological process in so far as it
pertains to the functions of the brain. But when all is said and
done, this is only a matter of words. If we both look upon the
enjoyment of music from opposite points of view, at least one thing
is certain: our love of it is equally strong, and that is
sufficient for me. I am glad you apply the word _divine_ to the art
to which I have dedicated my life.

“In your philosophy I altogether approve your views of good and
evil. These views are perhaps rather fatalistic, but full of
Christian charity towards your weak and sinful fellow-creatures.
You are quite right in saying that it is foolish to expect wisdom
and virtue from a person not endowed with these qualities. Here
again I hit upon the obvious difference between your personality
and mine; I have always compelled myself to regard the evil in
man’s nature as the inevitable negation of good. Taking this point
of view (which originates, if I am not mistaken, with Spinoza), I
ought never to feel anger or hatred. Actually, however, no moment
passes in which I am not prepared to lose my temper, to hate and
despise my fellow-creatures, just as though I was not aware that
each person acts according to the decree of fate. I know that you
are a stranger to the least feeling of spite or contempt. You elude
the blows aimed at you by others, and never retaliate. In short,
you carry your philosophy into your workaday life. I am different;
I think one thing and do another.

“I will just give you an instance. I have a friend called
Kondratiev; he is a very nice, pleasant fellow, with only one
fault--egotism. But he can cloak this failing under such charming,
gentlemanly disguises that it is impossible to be angry with him
for long. In September, when I was passing through the climax of my
suffering in Moscow, and was looking about in a paroxysm of
depression for someone to come to my aid, Kondratiev--who was then
living on his property in the Government of Kharkov--chanced to
write to me one of his usual kindly letters, assuring me of his
friendship. I did not want to reveal my state to my brothers at
that time, for fear of making them unhappy. My cup of misery was
overflowing. I wrote to Kondratiev, telling him of my terrible and
hopeless condition. The meaning of my letter, expressed between the
lines, was: ‘I am going under, save me! Rescue me, but be quick
about it!’ I felt sure that he, a well-to-do and independent man,
who was--as he himself declared--ready to make any sacrifice for
friendship’s sake, would immediately come to my assistance.
Afterwards you know what happened. Not until I was in Clarens did I
receive the answer to my letter, which had reached Moscow a week
after my flight from thence. In this reply Kondratiev said he was
sorry for my plight, and concluded with the following words: ‘Pray,
dear friend, pray. God will show you how to overcome your sad
condition.’ A cheap and simple way of getting out of the
difficulty! To-night I have been reading the third volume of
Thackeray’s splendid novel _Pendennis_. ‘The Major’ is a living
type, who frequently reminds me of Kondratiev. One episode recalled
my friend so vividly that I sprang out of bed, then and there, and
wrote him in terms of mockery which disclosed all my _temper_. When
I read your letter I felt ashamed. I wrote to him again, and asked
pardon for my unreasonable anger. See what a good influence you
have on me, dear friend! You are my Providence and my comforter!”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“VENICE, _December_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1877.

“I am working diligently at the orchestration of _our_ Symphony,
and am quite absorbed in the task.

“None of my earlier works for orchestra have given me such trouble
as this; but on none have I expended such love and devotion. I
experienced a pleasant surprise when I began to work at it again.
At first I was only actuated by a desire to bring the unfinished
Symphony to an end, no matter what it cost me. Gradually, however,
I fell more and more under the spell of the work, and now I can
hardly tear myself away from it.

“Dear Nadejda Filaretovna, I may be making a mistake, but it seems
to me this Symphony is not a mediocre work, but the best I have
done so far. How glad I am that it is _ours_, and that, hearing it,
you will know how much I thought of you with every bar. Would it
ever have been finished but for you? When I was still in Moscow and
believed my end to be imminent, I made the following note upon the
first sketch, which I had quite forgotten until I came upon it just
now: ‘In case of my death I desire this book to be given to N. F.
von Meck.’ I wanted you to keep the manuscript of my last
composition. Now I am not only well, but have to thank you for
placing me in such a position that I can devote myself entirely to
my work, and I believe a composition is taking form under my pen
which will not be destined to oblivion. I may be wrong, however;
all artists are alike in their enthusiasm for their latest work. In
any case, I am in good heart now, thanks to the interest of the
Symphony. I am even indifferent to the various petty annoyances
inflicted upon me by the hotel-keeper. It is a wretched hotel; but
I do not want to leave until the question of my brother’s coming is
decided.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“VENICE, _December_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1877.

“To-day I have received the pleasant news that Modeste and his nice
pupil are coming to join me. The boy’s father (Konradi) has only
consented to this arrangement on condition that I will go to some
place where the climate is suitable for his son. He suggests San
Remo, where there are plenty of comfortable hotels and pensions....
I have had a letter from my brother Anatol, which was very
comforting. They are just as fond of me as ever at Kamenka; I am
quite at rest on this score. I had a fancy that they only pitied
me, and this hurt me very deeply! Lately I have begun to receive
letters from them ... but my brother has reassured me that all the
folk at Kamenka--a group of beings who are very, very dear to
me--have forgiven me, and understand I acted blindly, and that my
fault was involuntary.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“MILAN, _December_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1877.

“I only arrived here at four o’clock, and after a short walk in the
charming town went to the theatre in the evening. Unfortunately,
not to La Scala, which was closed to-night, but to Dal Verme, where
four years ago _A Life for the Tsar_ was produced. This evening
_Ruy Blas_, by Marcetti, was given. This opera has made a stir in
Italy for some years, so I hoped to hear something interesting. It
proved, however, to be a dull, commonplace imitation of Verdi, but
lacking the strength and sincere warmth which characterise the
coarse, but powerful, works of this composer. The performance was
worse than mediocre. Sometimes it awoke sad thoughts in my mind. A
young queen comes upon the stage, with whom everyone is in love.
The singer who took this part seemed very conscientious and did her
utmost. How far she was, however, from resembling a beautiful,
queenly woman who has the gift of charming every man she sets eyes
upon! And the hero, Ruy Blas! He did not sing so badly, but instead
of a handsome young hero, one saw--a lackey. Not the smallest
illusion! Then I thought of my own opera. Where shall I find a
Tatiana such as Poushkin dreamed of, and such as I have striven to
realise in music? Where is the artist who can approach the ideal
Oniegin, that cold-hearted dandy, impregnated to the marrow of his
bones with the fashionable notion of ‘good tone’? Where is there a
Lensky, that youth of eighteen, with the flowing locks and the
gushing and would-be-original manners of a poetaster _à la_
Schiller? How commonplace Poushkin’s charming characters will
appear on the stage, with all its routine, its drivelling
traditions, its veterans--male and female--who undertake without a
blush to play the parts of girl-heroines and beardless youths!
Moral: it is much pleasanter to write purely instrumental music
which involves fewer disappointments. What agony I have had to go
through during the performance of my operas, more especially
_Vakoula_! What I pictured to myself had so little resemblance to
what I actually saw on the stage of the Maryinsky Theatre! What an
Oxane, what a Vakoula! You saw them?

“After the opera to-night there was a very frivolous ballet with
transformation scenes, a harlequin, and all manner of astonishing
things; but the music was dreadfully commonplace. At the same time
it amused while the opera performance irritated me. Yet _Ruy Blas_
is an excellent operatic subject.

“From Venice I carried away a charming little song. I had two
pleasant musical experiences while in Italy. The first was in
Florence. I cannot remember whether I told you about it before. One
evening Anatol and I suddenly heard someone singing in the street,
and saw a crowd in which we joined. The singer was a boy about ten
or eleven, who accompanied himself on a guitar. He sang in a
wonderfully rich, full voice, with such warmth and finish as one
rarely hears, even among accomplished artists. The intensely tragic
words of the song had a strange charm coming from these childish
lips. The singer, like all Italians, showed an extraordinary
feeling for rhythm. This characteristic of the Italians interests
me very much, because it is directly contrary to our folksongs as
sung by the people.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“SAN REMO, _December_ 20_th_, 1877 (_January_ 1_st_, 1878).

“I have found an abode in the Pension “Joli”; four poorly furnished
rooms which form a little separate flat at a comparatively low
rent.

“The situation of San Remo is truly enchanting. The little town
lies on a hill, and is closely packed together. The lower town
consists almost exclusively of hotels, which are all overcrowded.
San Remo has become the fashion since our Empress stayed here.
To-day, without exaggeration, we are having summer weather. The sun
was almost unbearable, even without an overcoat. Everywhere one
sees olive trees, palms, oranges, lemons, heliotrope, jasmine--in
short, it is gloriously beautiful. And yet--shall I tell you or
not? When I walk by the sea I am seized with a desire to go home
and pour out all my yearning and agitations in a letter to you, or
to Toly. Why? Why should a simple Russian landscape, a walk through
our homely villages and woods, a tramp over the fields and steppes
at sunset, inspire me with such an intense love of nature that I
throw myself down on the earth and give myself up to the
enchantment with which all these humble things can fill me? Why? I
only observe the fact without attempting to explain it.

“I am very glad, however, that I continued my walk, for had I
listened to my inner promptings, you would have had to endure
another of my jeremiads. I know I shall feel quite differently
to-morrow, especially when I begin the finale of my Symphony; but
to-day? I am unequal to describing exactly what I feel, or what I
want. To return to Russia--no. It would be terrible to go back; for
I know I shall return a different man.

“And here?--There is no more lovely spot on earth than San Remo,
and yet I assure you that neither the palms, nor the oranges, nor
the beautiful blue sea, nor the mountains, make the impression upon
me which they might be expected to do. Consolation, peace,
well-being I can only draw from within. The success of the
Symphony, the consciousness that I am writing something good, will
reconcile me to-morrow to all the friction and worry of previous
days. The arrival of my brother will be a great joy. I have a
curious feeling towards nature--at least towards such a luxuriant
nature as surrounds me here. It dazzles me, gets on my nerves,
makes me angry. I feel at such moments as though I were going out
of my mind. But enough of all this ... really I am like the old
woman whose fate Poushkin describes in his fable of ‘The Fisherman
and the little Fish.’ The greater reason I have to be happy, the
more discontented I become. Since I left Russia a few dear souls
have shown me such proofs of affection as would suffice to make the
happiness of a hundred men. I see that as compared to millions of
people who are really unhappy, I should regard myself as a spoilt
child of fortune, and yet I am not happy, not happy, not happy.
There are moments of happiness. There is also that preoccupation
with my work which often possesses me so entirely that I forget
everything not directly connected with my art. But happiness does
not exist for me. However, here is my jeremiad after all; it seems
to have been inevitable! And it is ridiculous, besides, being in
some sort indelicate. But since once for all you are my best
friend, dear Nadejda Filaretovna, must I not tell you all, _all_
that goes on in my queer, morbid soul? Forgive me this. To-morrow I
shall regret it; to-day it has been a relief to grumble to you a
little. Do not attach too much importance to it. Do you know what I
sometimes feel on such days as this? It comes over me suddenly that
no one really loves me, or can love me, because I am a pitiable,
contemptible being. And I have not strength to put away such
thoughts ... but there--I am beginning my lamentations over again.

“I quite forgot to tell you, I spent a day in Genoa. In its way it
is a fine place. Do you know Santa Maria di Carignano, from the
tower of which one gets such a wonderful view over the whole town?
Extraordinarily picturesque!”

Shortly after Tchaikovsky left Russia for this tour abroad, he was asked to represent his country as musical delegate at the Paris Exhibition. The part was not suited to his nervous and retiring nature, but, as the prospect seemed remote, he had not given a definite refusal, and by December had almost entirely forgotten the proposal. Then, to his extreme annoyance, he received a communication from the Minister of Finance, nominating him to the post with a fee of 1,000 francs per month. Tchaikovsky was thrown into the greatest consternation at this news, as we may gather from the letters he wrote at this time.

“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_ 23_rd_, 1877 (_January_ 4_th_), 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_ 24_th_, 1877 (_January_ 5_th_, 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_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 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_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1878.