“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.

[Illustration: musical notation]

“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.

[Illustration: musical notation]

“The sense of hopeless despair grows stronger and more poignant. Is

it not better to turn from reality and lose ourselves in dreams?

[Illustration: musical notation]

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

presence leads me on.

[Illustration: musical notation]

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.

[Illustration: musical notation]

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.

“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 [Illustration: musical notation] 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.

[Illustration]

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?

[Illustration: musical notation]

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

[Illustration: musical notation]

“How glorious and how fresh the chief theme of the first movement

of Rubinstein’s _Ocean_ symphony:

[Illustration: musical notation]

“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:

[Illustration: musical notation]

or Glinka, _Jota aragonesa_:

[Illustration: musical notation]

“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)!”