Chapter XIII: Part IV: I (4)

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

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

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

_To N. F. von Meck._

“CLARENS, _March_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1878.

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

_To N. F. von Meck._

“CLARENS, _March_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1878.

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

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

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

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

_To N. F. von Meck._

“CLARENS, _March_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1872.

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

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

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

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

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

_To N. F. von Meck._

“CLARENS, _March_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1878.

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

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

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

_To P. I. Jurgenson._

“CLARENS, _March_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1878.

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

_To N. F. von Meck._

“CLARENS, _March_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1878.

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

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

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

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

_To N. F. von Meck._

“CLARENS, _March_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1878.

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

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

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

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

VII

_From S. I. Taneiev to Tchaikovsky._

“_March_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1878.

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

But the rhythm appears too often
and becomes wearisome.

“The Andante is charming (the middle does not particularly please
me). The Scherzo is exquisite, and goes splendidly. The Trio I
cannot bear: it sounds like a ballet movement.

“Nicholas Grigorievich (Rubinstein) likes the Finale best, but I do
not altogether agree with him. The variations on a folksong do not
strike me as very important or interesting.

“In my opinion the Symphony has one defect, to which I shall never
be reconciled: in every movement there are phrases which sound like
ballet music: the middle section of the Andante, the Trio of the
Scherzo, and a kind of march in the Finale. Hearing the Symphony,
my inner eye sees involuntarily ‘our _prima ballerina_,’ which
puts me out of humour and spoils my pleasure in the many beauties
of the work.

“This is my candid opinion. Perhaps I have expressed it somewhat
freely, but do not be hurt. It is not surprising that the Symphony
does not entirely please me. Had you not sent _Eugene Oniegin_ at
the same time, perhaps it might have satisfied me. It is your own
fault. Why have you composed such an opera, which has no parallel
in the world? _Oniegin_ has given me such pleasure that I cannot
find words to express it. A splendid opera! And yet you say you
want to give up composing. You have never done so well. Rejoice
that you have attained such perfection, and profit by it.”

_Tchaikovsky to Taneiev._

“CLARENS, _March_ 27_th_ (April 8_th_), 1878.

“DEAR SERGE,--I have read your letter with the greatest pleasure
and interest.... You need not be afraid that your criticism of my
Fourth Symphony is too severe. You have simply given me your frank
opinion, for which I am grateful. I want these kind of opinions,
not choruses of praise. At the same time many things in your letter
astonished me. I have no idea what you consider ‘ballet music,’ or
why you should object to it. Do you regard every melody in a lively
dance-rhythm as ‘ballet music’? In that case how can you reconcile
yourself to the majority of Beethoven’s symphonies, for in them you
will find similar melodies on every page? Or do you mean to say
that the Trio of my Scherzo is in the style of Minkus, Gerber, or
Pugni? It does not, to my mind, deserve such criticism. I never can
understand why ‘ballet music’ should be used as a contemptuous
epithet. The music of a ballet is not invariably bad, there are
good works of this class--Délibes’ _Sylvia_, for instance. And when
the music is good, what difference does it make whether the
Sobiesichanskaya[61] dances to it or not? I can only say that
certain portions of my Symphony do not please you because _they
recall the ballet_, not because they are intrinsically bad. You may
be right, but I do not see why dance tunes should not be employed
episodically in a symphony, even with the avowed intention of
giving a touch of coarse, everyday humour. Again I appeal to
Beethoven, who frequently had recourse to similar effects. I must
add that I have racked my brains in vain to recall in what part of
the Allegro you can possibly have discovered ‘ballet music.’ It
remains an enigma. With all that you say as to my Symphony having a
programme, I am quite in agreement. But I do not see why this
should be a mistake. I am far more afraid of the contrary; I do not
wish any symphonic work to emanate from me which has nothing to
express, and consists merely of harmonies and a purposeless design
of rhythms and modulations. Of course, my Symphony is programme
music, but it would be impossible to give the programme in words;
it would appear ludicrous and only raise a smile. Ought not this to
be the case with a symphony which is the most lyrical of all
musical forms? Ought it not to express all those things for which
words cannot be found, which nevertheless arise in the heart and
clamour for expression? Besides, I must tell you that in my
simplicity I imagined the plan of my Symphony to be so obvious that
everyone would understand its meaning, or at least its leading
ideas, without any definite programme. Pray do not imagine I want
to swagger before you with profound emotions and lofty ideas.
Throughout the work I have made no effort to express any new
thought. In reality my work is a reflection of Beethoven’s Fifth
Symphony; I have not copied his musical contents, only borrowed the
central idea. What kind of a programme has this Fifth Symphony, do
you think? Not only has it a programme, but it is so clear that
there cannot be the smallest difference of opinion as to what it
means. Much the same lies at the root of my Symphony, and if you
have failed to grasp it, it simply proves that I am no
Beethoven--on which point I have no doubt whatever. Let me add that
there is not a single bar in this Fourth Symphony of mine which I
have not truly felt, and which is not an echo of my most intimate
spiritual life. The only exception occurs perhaps in the middle
section of the first movement, in which there are some forced
passages, some things which are laboured and artificial. I know
you will laugh as you read these lines. You are a sceptic and a
mocking-bird. In spite of your great love of music you do not seem
to believe that a man can compose from his inner impulses. Wait
awhile, you too will join the ranks! Some day, perhaps very soon,
you will compose, not because others ask you to do so, but because
it is your own desire. Only then will the seed which can bring
forth a splendid harvest fall upon the rich soil of your gifted
nature. I speak the truth, if somewhat grandiloquently. Meanwhile
your fields are waiting for the sower. I will write more about this
in my next. There were beautiful details in your score, it only
lacks ... but I will not forestall matters. In my next letter I
will talk exclusively of yourself.

“There have been great changes in my life since I wrote that I had
lost all hope of composing any more. The devil of authorship has
awoke in me again in the most unexpected way.

“Please, dear Serge, do not see any shadow of annoyance in my
defence of the Symphony; of course I should like you to be pleased
with everything I write, but I am quite satisfied with the interest
you always show me. You cannot think how delighted I am with your
approval of _Oniegin_. I value your opinion very highly, and the
more frankly you express it, the more I feel its worth. And so I
cordially thank you, and beg you not to be afraid of over-severity.
I want just those stinging criticisms from you. So long as you give
me the truth, what does it matter whether it is favourable or not?”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“_April_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1878.

“ ... It is very early. I slept badly, and after an unsuccessful
attempt to doze off again, I got up and came to sit near the
window, where I am now writing to you. What a wonderful morning!
The sky is absolutely clear. A few little harmless clouds are
floating over the mountains on either side the lake. From the
garden comes the twitter of innumerable birds. The Dent du Midi is
clear of mist, and glitters in the sunlight which catches its
snow-clad peaks. The lake is smooth as a mirror. How beautiful it
all is! Does it not seem hard that the fine weather should have
come just as I am on the point of departure?

“As regards Mozart, let me add these words. You say my worship for
him is quite contrary to my musical nature. But perhaps it is just
because--being a child of my day--I feel broken and spiritually out
of joint, that I find consolation and rest in the music of Mozart,
wherein he gives expression to that joy of life which was part of
his sane and wholesome temperament, not yet undermined by
reflection. It seems to me that an artist’s creative power is
something quite apart from his sympathy with this or that great
master. For instance, a man may admire Beethoven, and yet by
temperament be more akin to Mendelssohn. Could there be a more
glaring instance of inconsistency, for instance, than Berlioz the
composer and champion of ultra-romanticism in music, and Berlioz
the critic and adorer of Glück? Perhaps this is just an example of
the attraction which makes extremes meet, and causes a big, strong
man to fall in love with a tiny, delicate woman, and _vice versâ_.
Do you know that Chopin did not care for Beethoven, and could
hardly bear to hear some of his works? I was told this by a man who
knew him personally. At any rate, I will conclude by saying that
dissimilarity of temperament between two artists is no hindrance to
their mutual sympathy.”

_To N. F. von Meek._

“VIENNA, _April_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1878.

“ ... My next letter will reach you from Russia.

“I was surprised to find the spring so much further advanced in
Vienna than at Clarens. The trees there had scarcely begun to show
green, while here there is a look of summer already. Vienna is so
bright and sunny to-day, it would certainly have made a pleasant
impression upon me had I not read the morning papers, which are
full of poisonous, malicious, and abominable slanders about Russia.
The _Neue Freie Presse_ takes pains to inform its readers that the
action of the girl who fired at Trepov has created a revolution in
Russia, that the Emperor is in peril, and must flee from the
country, etc., etc.

“Now, on the point of taking leave of foreign lands and turning my
face homewards, a sound, sane man, full of renewed strength and
energy--let me thank you once again, my dear and invaluable friend,
for all I owe you, which I can never, never forget.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _April_ 12_th_ (24_th_).

“At last we have arrived. The journey was long and tedious and my
expectations were disappointed. I had always thought my home-coming
would fill me with such sweet and profound sentiments. Nothing of
the kind! A tipsy policeman who would hardly let us pass because he
could not grasp that the number of passengers on my passport
corresponded to the figure on his own; an officer of customs who
demanded duty to the amount of fourteen gold roubles upon a dress I
had bought for my sister for seventy francs; a conversation with a
very importunate gentleman, bent on convincing me that the policy
of England was the most humane in the world; the crowd of dirty
Jews with their accompanying odours; the numbers of young
conscripts who travelled in our train, and the farewell scenes with
their wives and mothers at every station--all these things spoilt
my pleasure in returning to my beloved native land. At Shmerinka we
had to wait a few hours; unfortunately, as it was night, I could
not see Brailov,[62] although I knew in which direction to look for
it.... As my sister’s house is rather crowded, she has taken a
nice, quiet room near at hand for me. I have also a garden, well
stocked with flowers, which will soon begin to exhale their lovely
perfumes. My little home is very cosy and comfortable. There is
even a piano in the tiny parlour next to my bedroom. I shall be
able to work undisturbed.

“ ... How glad I am, dear Nadejda Filaretovna, that you take such a
just and sensible view of the agitating events which have been
taking place in Petersburg and Moscow! I did not expect you to
think differently, although I feared lest your pity for Sassoulich
personally--in any case a very diluted and involuntary
sympathy--might possibly have influenced your opinion. It is _one
thing_, however, to feel sorry for her, and to detest the arrogant
and brutal conduct of the arbitrary Prefect of Petersburg, and
quite _another thing_ to approve of that display of unpatriotic
sentiment by which her acquittal has been signalised, and with the
Moscow riots. It seems to me that both these events are most
disquieting at the present moment, and I am exceedingly glad that
the Russian lower classes have shown the crazy leaders of our
younger generation how little their orders are in accord with sound
sense and the spirit of the nation. I am glad to feel once again
that, in spite of a few differences as to details, we are in
agreement on most important matters.”

A few days after receiving this letter, N. F. von Meck invited Tchaikovsky to spend some weeks in the restful solitude of her estate at Brailov. “Of course she herself will not be there,” he wrote to his brother on April 27th (May 9th). “I am delighted to accept her invitation.” Meanwhile his days at Kamenka were fully occupied, as may be seen from the following extract from a letter to Nadejda von Meck, dated April 30th, 1878:--

“I am working very hard. The sonata is already finished, as are
also twelve pieces--of moderate difficulty--for pianoforte. Of
course all this is only sketched out. To-morrow I shall begin a
collection of miniature pieces for children. I thought long ago it
would not be a bad thing to do all in my power to enrich the
children’s musical literature, which is rather scanty. I want to
write a whole series of perfectly easy pieces, and to find titles
for them which would interest children, as Schumann has done. I
have planned songs and violin pieces for later on, and then, if the
favourable mood lasts long enough, I want to do something in the
way of Church music. A vast and almost untrodden field of activity
lies open to composers here. I appreciate certain merits in
Bortniansky, Berezovsky, and others; but how little their music is
in keeping with the Byzantine architecture, the ikons, and the
whole spirit of the Orthodox liturgy! Perhaps you are aware that
the Imperial Chapels have the monopoly of Church music, and that it
is forbidden to print, or to sing in church, any sacred
compositions which are not included in the published collections of
these Chapels. Moreover, they guard this monopoly very jealously,
and will not permit new settings of any portions of the liturgy
under any circumstances whatever. My publisher, Jurgenson, has
discovered a way of evading this curious prohibition, and if I
write anything of this kind, he will publish it abroad. It is not
improbable that I shall decide to set the entire liturgy of St.
John Chrysostom. I shall arrange all this by July. I intend to rest
absolutely during the whole of that month, and to start upon some
important work in August. I should like to write an opera. Turning
over books in my sister’s library, I came upon Joukovsky’s
_Undine_, and re-read the tale which I loved as a child. In 1869 I
wrote an opera on this subject, and submitted it to the Opera
Direction. It was rejected. Although at the time I thought this
very unjust, yet afterwards I became disillusioned with my own
work, and was very glad it had not had the chance of being damned.
Now I am again attracted to the subject.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“KIEV, _May_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1878.

“My telegram to-day, sent from Kiev, must have astonished you, dear
friend. I left quite suddenly, as my sister had to come here sooner
than she expected.... I could not wait at Kamenka for your letter
containing directions for my journey to Brailov; but, in any case,
I shall leave here on Tuesday, and arrive at Shmerinka at 7 a.m. on
Wednesday.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“BRAILOV, _May_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1878.

“Seated in the carriage, after you left me, of course I dissolved
in tears. The recollection of our meeting in Milan came back to
me. How jolly it was! The journey to Genoa and afterwards! How
beautiful it all seemed to me--and it was nearly six months ago!
Here followed a fresh burst of tears.

“One of my fellow-travellers, who seemed to know this
neighbourhood, told us that Brailov belonged to the banker Meck,
had cost three million roubles, and brought the owner a yearly
income of 700,000 roubles, and other nonsense. I was very much
excited on the journey. In the waiting-room at Shmerinka I was
greeted by the same waiter--you remember him--who served our
supper; I told him to inquire whether any horses had been sent from
Brailov. Two minutes later Marcel appeared. He is not a Frenchman,
but a native. He was very attentive and amiable. His coat and hat
were infinitely superior to mine, so that I felt quite embarrassed
as I took my seat in the luxuriously appointed carriage, while he
mounted the box beside the coachman. The house is really a palace.
At Marcel’s invitation I entered the dining-room, where a huge
silver samovar steamed on the table, together with a coffee-pot
upon a spirit-lamp, cups of rare china, eggs, butter, etc. I
observed that Marcel had received his instructions; he did not
attempt to converse, nor to stand behind my chair, but just served
what was necessary and went away. He inquired how I desired to
arrange my day. I _ordered_ my midday meal at one o’clock, tea at
nine, and a cold supper. After coffee I explored the house, which
contains a series of separate suites of rooms. A large wing, built
in stone for the accommodation of guests, is arranged like a kind
of hotel; a long corridor with rooms on each side, which are always
kept exactly as though they were inhabited. The first floor, which
I occupy, is furnished with the utmost comfort. There are many
bookcases containing very interesting illustrated publications. In
the music-room, a grand piano, a very fine harmonium, and plenty of
music. In Nadejda Filaretovna’s study there are a few pictures. At
one o’clock I had dinner, a very exquisite, but rather slight,
repast. The _Zakouska_ (_hors d’œuvre_) excellent, the wine
ditto. After dinner I looked through the music and strolled in the
garden. At four o’clock I ordered the carriage and took a drive.
The neighbourhood of Brailov is not very pretty. There is no view
from the windows. The garden is extensive and well stocked,
especially with lilacs and roses, but it is not picturesque, nor
sufficiently shady. On the whole I like the house best....”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“BRAILOV, _May_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1878.

“How lovely, how free, it is in your country home! The sun has set,
and over the wide fields in front of the main entrance the heat is
already giving way to the cool evening breeze. The lilacs scent the
air, and the cockchafers break the stillness with their bass note.
The nightingale is singing in the distance. How glorious it is!”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“BRAILOV, _May_ 21_st_ (_June_ 2_nd_), 1878.

“My life at Brailov flows tranquilly on. In the early morning after
coffee I stroll in the garden, and then slip out through the little
wooden door in the wall near the stable, and, jumping the ditch,
find myself in the old, forsaken garden of the monastery, where the
monks used to wander of old, but which is now tenanted by all kinds
of birds. Not infrequently the oriole and the nightingale are seen
there. This garden is apparently deserted, for the paths are so
overgrown and the greenery so fresh that one could fancy oneself in
the heart of the forest. First I wander through it, then sit down
in a shady place for an hour or so. Such moments of solitude amid
the flowers and green branches are incomparable; then I can watch
every form of organic life which manifests itself silently, without
a sound, yet speaks more forcibly of the illimitable and the
eternal than the rumbling of bridges and all the turmoil of the
streets. In one of your letters you say I shall not find a Gorge de
Chaudière at Brailov. I do not want it! Such places satisfy one’s
curiosity rather than one’s heart and imagination; one sees more
English tourists than birds and flowers; they bring more fatigue
than enjoyment.

“After my walk I work at the violin pieces, one of which is quite
finished. If I am not mistaken, it will please you, although the
accompaniment is rather difficult in places, and this, I fear, will
make you angry.

“Punctually at 1 p.m. Marcel summons me to the dining-room, where,
in the middle of the elegantly appointed table, two big bouquets
are arranged, which give me fresh cause for delight. Then follows a
real Balthazar’s feast. Each time I feel a little ashamed to sit
down alone to such a liberal and sumptuous table.

“After dinner I walk in the garden, read, or write letters until
4.30, when I go for a drive.

“Yesterday the rain prevented me from taking my usual
constitutional in the meadows facing the house. At sunset I like a
more open space, and these meadows enclosed by trees, lilac bushes,
and the stream, offer a charming evening walk.

“Then I generally spend half an hour at your splendid harmonium. I
like to observe all its curious acoustic properties, which are
called aliquot tones. No doubt you have observed that when you play
chords on the organ, besides the sound which comes from the notes
struck, another sound is heard in the bass, which sometimes
harmonises with the chord and sometimes results in a harsh discord.
Occasionally the most curious combinations are produced. This is
what I discovered yesterday.