Chapter XII: Part IV: I (3)

“ ... 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_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 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_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 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_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 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_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 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_ 15_th_ (27_th_) 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_ 25_th_ (_February_ 6_th_), 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_ 26_th_ (_February_ 7_th_), 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_ 30_th_ (_February_ 11_th_), 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_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 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_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 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_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 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_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 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_ 17_th_ (_March_ 1_st_), 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_ 20_th_ (_March_ 4_th_), 1878.