Chapter XIV: Part IV: I (5)

Try this acoustic experiment by drawing out register No. 1, that is
to say Flute and Cor Anglais. D and F sharp, A and C are perfectly
in tune, but the E sounds rather sharp.

“At 9 p.m. the second Balthazar’s feast takes place. Then I play
and make myself acquainted with your musical library. Yesterday I
played through a serenade for strings by Volkmann with great
pleasure. A sympathetic composer. He has many simple and natural
charms.

“Do you know that Volkmann is quite an old man and lives in the
greatest poverty at Pesth? Once the musicians in Moscow got up a
small fund for him, amounting to 300 roubles, in gratitude for
which he dedicated his Second Symphony to the Moscow Musical
Society. I never could discover why he was so poor.

“At 11 p.m. I go to my room and undress. Marcel, the good-natured
soldier-porter, and Alexis go to bed. I am left alone to read,
dream, or recall the past; to think of those near and dear to me;
to open the window and gaze out on the stars; to listen to the
sounds of night; and finally--to go to bed.

“A wonderful life! Like a vision, a dream! Kind and beloved Nadejda
Filaretovna, how grateful I am to you for everything! Sometimes my
sense of gratitude is so keen I feel I must proclaim it aloud.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“BRAILOV, _May_ 23_rd_ (_June_ 4_th_), 1878.

“As I walked through the woods yesterday I found a quantity of
mushrooms. Mushrooming is my greatest delight in summer. The moment
in which one first sees a plump, white mushroom is simply
fascinating! Passionate card-lovers may experience the same feeling
when they see the ace of trumps in their hand. All night long I
dreamed of large, fat, pink mushrooms. When I awoke I reflected
that these _mushroomy dreams_ were very childish. And, in truth,
one would become a child again if one lived long all alone with
Nature. One would become far more receptive to the simple, artless
joys which she offers us.

“Do you know what I am preoccupied with at present? When I was
sitting alone one evening at Kiev, while my sister and Modeste had
gone to the theatre to see Rossi in _Romeo and Juliet_, I read the
play through once more. Immediately I was possessed with the idea
of composing an opera on the subject. The existing operas of
Bellini and Gounod do not frighten me. In both of them Shakespeare
is mutilated and distorted until he is hardly recognisable. Do you
not think that this great work of the arch-genius is well adapted
to inspire a musician? I have already talked it over with Modeste;
but he shrank from the magnitude of the task. Nothing venture,
nothing have. I shall think over the plan of this opera and throw
all my energies into the work for which I am reserving them.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“BRAILOV, _May_ 25_th_ (_June_ 6_th_), 1878.

“Modi, ever since I re-read _Romeo and Juliet_, _Undine_,
_Berthalde_, _Gulbrand_, and the rest seem to me a pack of childish
nonsense. Of course, I shall compose an opera on _Romeo and
Juliet_. All your objections will vanish before the vast enthusiasm
which possesses me. It shall be my finest work. It seems absurd
that I have only just found out that fate has to some extent
ordained me for this task. Nothing could be better suited to my
musical temperament. No kings, no marches--in a word, none of the
usual accessories of Grand Opera. Nothing but love, love, love. And
then how delightful are the minor characters: Friar Lawrence,
Tybalt, Mercutio! You need not be afraid of monotony. The first
love duet will be very different from the second. In the first,
brightness and serenity; in the second, a tragic element. From
children, happily and carelessly in love, Romeo and Juliet have
become passionate and suffering beings, placed in a tragic and
inextricable dilemma. How I long to get to work on it!”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“BRAILOV, _May_ 27_th_ (_June_ 8_th_), 1878.

“Yesterday I played the whole of _Eugene Oniegin_, from beginning
to end. The author was the sole listener. I am half ashamed of what
I am going to confide to you in secret: the listener was moved to
tears, and paid the composer a thousand compliments. If only the
audiences of the future will feel towards this music as the
composer himself does!”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“BRAILOV, _May_ 29_th_ (_June_ 10_th_), 1878.

“I am spending my last days here. I need hardly tell you why I
cannot accept your hospitality any longer, although I might remain
until June 10th (22nd). I have spent many unforgettable days here;
I have experienced the purest and most tranquil enjoyment. I have
drunk in the beauties and sympathetic surroundings of Brailov, so
that my visit will remain one of the most beautiful memories of my
life. I thank you. Nevertheless it is time I went away.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“BRAILOV, _May_ 30_th_ (_June_ 11_th_), 1878.

“I have given my pieces (which are dedicated to Brailov) to Marcel,
so that he may deliver them to you. The first is the best, I think,
but also the most difficult; it is called _Meditation_. The second
is a very quick Scherzo, and the third a ‘_Chant sans Paroles_.’ It
was very hard to part with them to Marcel. Just recently I had
started copying them! Then the lilacs were still in full bloom, the
grass uncut, and the roses had hardly begun to bud!”

VIII

_To N. F. Meck._

“VILLAGE OF NIZI, _June_ 6_th_ (18_th_) 1878.

“Forgive me, my friend, for not having written to you from
Petersburg. In the first place, I was afraid my letter might not
reach you in time, and secondly, you cannot imagine what a _hell_
my three days’ sojourn in Moscow proved to be. They seemed more
like three centuries. I experienced the same joy when I found
myself in the train once more that I might have felt on being
released from a narrow prison cell. I have come here in answer to
the invitation of a hospitable old friend, Kondratiev, whom I
formerly used to visit almost every summer. Here I composed
_Vakoula_ and many other works.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _June_ 24_th_ (_July_ 6_th_), 1878.

“You want to know my methods of composing? Do you know, dear
friend, that it is very difficult to give a satisfactory answer to
your question, because the circumstances under which a new work
comes into the world vary considerably in each case.

“First, I must divide my works into two categories, for this is
important in trying to explain my methods.

“(1) Works which I compose on my own initiative--that is to say,
from an invincible inward impulse.

“(2) Works which are inspired by external circumstances: the wish
of a friend, or a publisher, and _commissioned_ works.

“Here I should add experience has taught me that the intrinsic
value of a work has nothing to do with its place in one or the
other of these categories. It frequently happens that a composition
which owes its existence to external influences proves very
successful; while one that proceeds entirely from my own initiative
may, for various indirect reasons, turn out far less well. These
indirect circumstances, upon which depends the mood in which a work
is written, are of the very greatest importance. During the actual
time of creative activity complete quiet is absolutely necessary to
the artist. In this sense every work of art, even a musical
composition, is _objective_. Those who imagine that a creative
artist can--through the medium of his art--express his feelings at
the moment when he is _moved_, make the greatest mistake.
Emotions--sad or joyful--can only be expressed _retrospectively_,
so to speak. Without any special reason for rejoicing, I may be
moved by the most cheerful creative mood, and, _vice versâ_, a work
composed under the happiest surroundings may be touched with dark
and gloomy colours.

“In a word, an artist lives a double life: an everyday human life,
and an artistic life, and the two do not always go hand in hand.

“In any case, it is absolutely necessary for a composer to shake
off all the cares of daily existence, at least for a time, and give
himself up entirely to his art-life.

“Works belonging to the first category do not require the least
effort of will. It is only necessary to obey our inward promptings,
and if our material life does not crush our artistic life under its
weight of depressing circumstances, the work progresses with
inconceivable rapidity. Everything else is forgotten, the soul
throbs with an incomprehensible and indescribable excitement, so
that, almost before we can follow this swift flight of inspiration,
time passes literally unreckoned and unobserved.

“There is something _somnambulistic_ about this condition. _On ne
s’entend pas vivre._ It is impossible to describe such moments.
Everything that flows from one’s pen, or merely passes through
one’s brain (for such moments often come at a time when writing is
an impossibility) under these circumstances is _invariably good_,
and if no external obstacle comes to hinder the creative glow, the
result will be an artist’s best and most perfect work.
Unfortunately such external hindrances are inevitable. A duty has
to be performed, dinner is announced, a letter arrives, and so on.
This is the reason why there exist so few compositions which are of
equal quality throughout. Hence the _joins_, _patches_,
_inequalities and discrepancies_.

“For the works in my second category it is necessary to _get into
the mood_. To do so we are often obliged to fight with indolence
and disinclination. Besides this, there are many other fortuitous
circumstances. Sometimes the victory is easily gained. At other
times inspiration eludes us, and cannot be recaptured. I consider
it, however, the _duty_ of an artist not to be conquered by
circumstances. He must not wait. Inspiration is a guest who does
not care to visit those who are indolent. The reproaches heaped
upon the Russian nation because of its deficiency in original works
of art are not without foundation, for the Russians are lazy. A
Russian is always glad to procrastinate: he is gifted by nature,
but at the same time nature has withheld from him the power of
will. A man must learn to conquer himself, lest he should
degenerate into _dilettantism_, from which even so colossal a
talent as Glinka’s was not free. This man, endowed with an
extraordinary and special creative talent, achieved astonishingly
little, although he attained a fairly ripe age. Read his _Memoirs_.
You will see that he worked like a _dilettante_--on and off, when
he was in the mood. However proud we may be of Glinka, we must
acknowledge that he did not entirely fulfil his task, if we take
into consideration the magnitude of his gifts. Both his operas, in
spite of their astonishing and original beauty, suffer from glaring
inequalities of style. Side by side with touches of genius and
passages of imperishable beauty we find childish and weak numbers.
What might not Glinka have accomplished had he lived amid different
surroundings, had he worked like an artist who, fully alive to his
power and his duty, develops his gifts to the ultimate limit of
perfection, rather than as an amateur who makes music his pastime!

“I have explained that I compose either from an inward impulse,
winged by a lofty and undefinable inspiration, or I simply _work_,
invoking all my powers, which sometimes answer and sometimes remain
deaf to my invocation. In the latter case the work created will
always remain the mere product of labour, without any glow of
genuine musical feeling.

“I hope you will not think I am boasting, if I say that my appeal
to inspiration is very rarely in vain. In other words, that power
which I have already described as a capricious guest has long since
become fast friends with me, so that we are inseparable, and it
only deserts me when my material existence is beset by untoward
circumstances and its presence is of no avail. Under normal
conditions I may say there is no hour of the day in which I cannot
compose. Sometimes I observe with curiosity that uninterrupted
activity, which--independent of the subject of any conversation I
may be carrying on--continues its course in that department of my
brain which is devoted to music. Sometimes it takes a preparatory
form--that is, the consideration of all details that concern the
elaboration of some projected work; another time it may be an
entirely new and independent musical idea, and I make an effort to
hold it fast in my memory. Whence does it come? It is an
inscrutable mystery.

“Now I will try to describe my actual procedure in composition. But
not until _after dinner_. _Au revoir._ If you only knew how
_difficult_, yet at the same time how _pleasant_ it is to talk to
you about all this!

“_Two o’clock._

“I usually write my sketches on the first piece of paper to hand. I
jot them down in the most abbreviated form. A melody never stands
alone, but invariably with the harmonies which belong to it. These
two elements of music, together with the rhythm, must never be
separated; every melodic idea brings its own inevitable harmony and
its suitable rhythm. If the harmony is very intricate, I set down
in the sketch a few details as to the working out of the parts;
when the harmony is quite simple, I only put in the bass, or a
figured bass, and sometimes not even this. If the sketch is
intended for an orchestral work, the ideas appear ready-coloured by
some special instrumental combination. The original plan of
instrumentation often undergoes some modifications.

“The text must _never_ be written after the music, for if music is
written to given words only, these words invoke a suitable musical
expression. It is quite possible to fit words to a short melody,
but in treating a serious work such adaptation is not permissible.
It is equally impossible to compose a symphonic work and afterwards
to attach to it a programme, since every episode of the chosen
programme should evoke its corresponding musical presentment. This
stage of composition--the sketch--is remarkably pleasant and
interesting. It brings an indescribable delight, accompanied,
however, by a kind of unrest and nervous agitation. Sleep is
disturbed and meals forgotten. Nevertheless, the development of the
project proceeds tranquilly. The instrumentation of a work which is
completely thought out and matured is a most enjoyable task.

“The same does not apply to the bare sketch of a work for
pianoforte or voice, or little pieces in general, which are
sometimes very tiresome. Just now I am occupied with this kind of
work. You ask: do I confine myself to established forms? Yes, and
no. Some compositions imply the use of traditional forms; but only
as regards their general features--the sequence of the various
movements. The details permit of considerable freedom of treatment,
if the development of the ideas require it. For example, the first
movement of _our_ Symphony is written in a very informal style. The
second subject, which ought, properly speaking, to be in the major,
is in a somewhat remote minor key. In the recapitulation of the
principal part the second subject is entirely left out, etc. In the
finale, too, there are many deviations from traditional form. In
vocal music, in which everything depends on the text, and in
fantasias (like _The Tempest_ and _Francesca_) the form is quite
free. You ask me about melodies built upon the notes of the
harmony. I can assure you, and prove it by many examples, that it
is quite possible, by means of rhythm and the transposition of
these notes, to evolve millions of new and beautiful melodic
combinations. But this only applies to homophonic music. With
polyphonic music such a method of building up a melody would
interfere with the independence of the parts. In the music of
Beethoven, Weber, Mendelssohn, Schumann, and especially Wagner, we
frequently find melodies which consist of the notes of the common
chord; a gifted musician will always be able to invent a new and
interesting fanfare. Do you remember the beautiful Sword-motive in
the Nibelungen?

“I am very fond of a melody by Verdi (a very gifted man):

“How glorious and how fresh the chief theme of the first movement
of Rubinstein’s _Ocean_ symphony:

“If I racked my brains a little, I should find countless examples
to support my assertion. Talent is the sole secret. It knows no
limitations: it creates the most beautiful music out of nothing.
Could there be anything more trivial than the following melody?

Beethoven, Seventh Symphony:

or Glinka, _Jota aragonesa_:

“And yet what splendid musical structures Beethoven and Glinka have
raised on these themes!”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“KAMENKA, _June_ 25_th_ (_July_ 7_th_), 1878.

“Yesterday, when I wrote to you about my methods of composing, I
did not sufficiently enter into that phase of work which relates to
the working out of the sketch. This phase is of primary importance.
What has been set down in a moment of ardour must now be
critically examined, improved, extended, or condensed, as the form
requires. Sometimes one must do oneself violence, must sternly and
pitilessly take part against oneself, before one can mercilessly
erase things thought out with love and enthusiasm. I cannot
complain of poverty of imagination, or lack of inventive power;
but, on the other hand, I have always suffered from my want of
skill in the management of form. Only after strenuous labour have I
at last succeeded in making the form of my compositions correspond,
more or less, with their contents. Formerly I was careless and did
not give sufficient attention to the critical overhauling of my
sketches. Consequently my _seams_ showed, and there was no organic
union between my individual episodes. This was a very serious
defect, and I only improved gradually as time went on; but the form
of my works will never be _exemplary_, because, although I can
modify, I cannot radically alter the essential qualities of my
musical temperament. But I am far from believing that my gifts have
yet reached their ultimate development. I can affirm with joy that
I make continual progress on the way of self-development, and am
passionately desirous of attaining the highest degree of perfection
of which my talents are capable. Therefore I expressed myself badly
when I told you yesterday that I transcribed my works direct from
the first sketches. The process is something more than copying; it
is actually a critical examination, leading to corrections,
occasional additions, and frequent curtailments.

“In your letter you express a wish to see my sketches. Will you
accept the original sketch for my opera _Eugene Oniegin_? As the
pianoforte score will be published in the autumn, it might interest
you to compare the autograph sketches with the completed work. If
so, I will send you the manuscript as soon as I return to Moscow. I
suggest _Oniegin_ because none of my works has been written with
such fluency; therefore the manuscript is easy to read, as it
contains few corrections.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“VERBOVKA, _July_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1878.

“ ... My work progresses slowly. The sonata is finished, however,
and to-day I have begun to write out some songs, composed partly
abroad and partly at Kamenka, in April. I have heard from Jurgenson
that four great Russian concerts, conducted by N. Rubinstein, are
to take place in Paris. My Pianoforte Concerto, _The Tempest,
Francesca_, and two movements from _our_ Symphony are to be given.
I will let you have further particulars, in case you care to time
your visit to Paris so that it coincides with the concerts. Among
those engaged to take part in them is Lavrovsky.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“_July_ 25_th_ (_August_ 6_th_), 1878.

“I write to you, dear friend, with a light heart, happy in the
consciousness of having finished a work (the Liturgy).... People
who go to work in feverish haste (like myself) are really the
laziest folk. They get through their work as fast as possible in
order to enjoy idleness. Now I can indulge to the full my secret
delight in doing nothing.”

_To P. I. Jurgenson._

“VERBOVKA, _July_ 29_th_ (_August_ 10_th_), 1878.

“DEAR FRIEND,--My manuscripts will have been taken to you. You will
find plenty of material for your engravers. I send you five pieces,
and besides these I shall shortly despatch three pieces for violin.

“I should like to receive the following fees:--[63]

£ _s.__d._
“1. Sonata (50 roubles) 5 0 0
2. Twelve pieces (at 25 roubles each) 30 0 0
3. The Children’s Album (240 roubles) 24 0 0
4. Six songs (at 25 roubles) 15 0 0
5. Violin pieces (at 25 roubles each) 7 10 0
6. The Liturgy 10 0 0
____________
91 10 0

“In a round sum 900 roubles; but having regard to the fact that I
have written such a quantity at once, I will let you have the lot
for 800 roubles.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“_August_ 4_th_ (16_th_), 1878.

“With my usual habit of worrying and upsetting myself about things,
I am now troubled because I did not get to Brailov in
time--immediately after your departure. I am afraid this may have
caused some inconvenience to your servants. But what could I do? I
wish someone could explain to me the origin of that curious
exhaustion which comes upon me almost every evening, about which I
have already written to you. I cannot say it is altogether
disagreeable, because it usually ends in a heavy, almost lethargic
sleep, and such repose is bliss. Nevertheless the attacks are
tiresome and unpleasant, because of the vague anxiety, the
undefinable yearning, which take an inconceivably strong hold upon
my spirit, and end in a positive longing for Nirvana--_la soif du
néant_. Probably the cause of this psychological phenomenon is of
quite a prosaic nature; I think it is not so much a mental ailment
as a result of bad digestion, a sequel of my catarrh of the
stomach. Unluckily we cannot get over the fact that the material
influences the spiritual! Too often, alas! a pickled gherkin too
much has played the most important part in the highest functions of
the human intellect. Forgive me, dear friend, for boring you with
these continual complaints about my health, which are out of place,
for in reality I am a perfectly sound man, and the little ailments
about which I grumble are not serious. I only want repose, and I
shall certainly find it in Brailov. Good Lord! how I long for the
dear house and the dear neighbourhood!”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“BRAILOV, _August_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1878.

“I have brought a great many interesting books with me, among them
_Histoire de ma vie_, by George Sand. The book is rather carelessly
written--without logical sequence, like a clever gossip relating
his own reminiscences, but with many digressions. But it has much
sincerity, a complete absence of pose, and remarkably clever
portraiture of the people among whom she moved in her youth. Your
library, too, contains many books I cannot put down when I have
once opened them. Among these is a superb edition of de Musset, one
of my favourite authors. To-day, looking through this volume, I
became so absorbed in _Andrea del Sarto_ that--seated upon the
floor--I was compelled to read the whole work to the end. I am
passionately fond of all de Musset’s dramatic works. How often have
I thought of using one of his comedies or plays as an opera
libretto! Unfortunately they are all too French, and not to be
thought of in a translation; for instance, _Le Chandelier_, or _On
ne badine pas avec l’amour_. Some, less _local_ in character, are
lacking in dramatic movement, such as _Lorenzaccio_, or _Andrea del
Sarto_. Others, again, contain too much philosophising, like _Les
caprices de Marianne_.

“I cannot understand why French composers have hitherto neglected
this rich source of inspiration.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“BRAILOV, _August_ 16_th_ (28_th_), 1878.

“I return once more to Alfred de Musset. You must read his
_Proverbes Dramatiques_ from end to end. I recommend you especially
_Les caprices de Marianne_, _On ne badine pas avec l’amour_, and
_Le Chandelier_. Do not these things cry aloud for music? What
thought! what wit! How profoundly felt and fascinating in their
elegance! Yet in reading his works we feel that all is written with
a light hand, not for the sake of the ideas; that is, we never feel
that these ideas have been forcibly obtruded upon the artistic
material, thereby paralysing the free development of the characters
and situations. Then I delight in his truly Shakespearean
anachronisms: for instance, when an imaginary King of Bavaria
discusses the art of Grisi with some fantastic Duke of Mantua. Like
Shakespeare, de Musset does not keep to the _verities of place_,
yet all the same we find among his characters, as among those of
Shakespeare, many of those universal human presentments who,
independent of time and locality, belong to the eternal truth. Only
with de Musset the frame is narrower and the flight less lofty.
Nevertheless, no other dramatic writer approaches Shakespeare so
closely. _Les Caprices de Marianne_ has made a peculiarly strong
impression upon me, and I have thought of nothing else all day long
but the possibility of turning it into an opera. I feel the
necessity of considering a libretto. My enthusiasm for _Undine_ has
cooled. I am still captivated by _Romeo and Juliet_, but--first it
is very difficult, and secondly, I am rather frightened of Gounod,
who has already written a mediocre opera on this subject.”

_To N. F. Von Meck._

“VERBOVKA, _August_ 25_th_ (_September_ 6_th_), 1878.

“ ... I have already told you that at Brailov I jotted down the
sketch of a scherzo for orchestra. Afterwards the idea came to me
of composing a series of orchestral pieces out of which I could put
together a Suite, in the style of Lachner. Arrived at Verbovka, I
felt I could not restrain my impulse, and hastened to work out on
paper my sketches for this Suite. I worked at it with such delight
and enthusiasm that I literally lost count of time. At the present
moment three movements are finished, the fourth is sketched out,
and the fifth sits waiting in my head.... The Suite will consist of
five movements: (1) Introduction and Fugue, (2) Scherzo, (3)
Andante, (4) Intermezzo (_Echo du bal_), (5) Rondo. While engaged
upon this work my thoughts were perpetually with you; every moment
I asked myself if such and such passages would please, or such and
such melodies touch you? Therefore my new work can only be
dedicated to _my best friend_.

“To-morrow I travel straight to Petersburg to see my father and
Anatol again, and shall remain there two or three days. Then I go
to Moscow. I look to the future with a little apprehension, a
little sadness, and a trifle of disgust.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“KIEV, _August_ 29_th_ (_September_ 10_th_), 1878.

“In to-day’s paper (the _Novoe Vremya_) I found an article
containing a mean, base and vulgar attack upon the Moscow
Conservatoire. Very little is said about me personally; it simply
states that I occupy myself exclusively with music and take no part
in the intrigues.

“Going along in the train, with this paper in my hand, I resolved
to resign my professorship. I should have done so immediately, and
not returned to Moscow at all, if my rooms had not been already
engaged, and if I had not been definitely expected at the
Conservatoire. I have made up my mind to wait until December, then
I will go to Kamenka for the holidays and write from there that I
am indisposed. Of course I shall give private information of my
intentions to Rubinstein, so that he may have time to engage
another professor. So _vive la liberté_, and especially Nadejda
Filaretovna! There is no doubt whatever that she will approve of my
decision--consequently I shall be able to lead a glorious,
wandering life, sometimes in Kamenka, sometimes in Verbovka,
sometimes in Petersburg or abroad....

“For God’s sake go on with your novel! Work is the sole cure for
_les misères de la vie humaine_. Besides, it gives you
independence.

“You will say you have _no time_ for writing because you are
occupied all day with Kolya. All the same, I repeat: Write, write,
write! I might offer myself as an example. I used to have six
hours’ exhausting teaching at the Conservatoire, besides living
with Rubinstein--whose ways hindered me exceedingly--in a house
next door to the Conservatoire, whence was borne the sound of
unceasing scales and exercises which made it difficult to compose.
Your occupations with Kolya may be somewhat heavier than my theory
classes, but still I say, Write! Meanwhile I embrace you, dear
Modi! What does anything matter when people love as I love you and
you love me (forgive my self-assurance)!”