VIII To N. F. Meck
“Village of Nizi, June 6th (18th) 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 24th (July 6th), 1878.
“You want to know my methods of composing? Do you know, dear friend, that it is very difficult to give a satisfactory answer to your question, because the circumstances under which a new work comes into the world vary considerably in each case.
“First, I must divide my works into two categories, for this is important in trying to explain my methods.
“(1) Works which I compose on my own initiative—that is to say, from an invincible inward impulse.
“(2) Works which are inspired by external circumstances: the wish of a friend, or a publisher, and commissioned works.
“Here I should add experience has taught me that the intrinsic value of a work has nothing to do with its place in one or the other of these categories. It frequently happens that a composition which owes its existence to external influences proves very successful; while one that proceeds entirely from my own initiative may, for various indirect reasons, turn out far less well. These indirect circumstances, upon which depends the mood in which a work is written, are of the very greatest importance. During the actual time of creative activity complete quiet is absolutely necessary to the artist. In this sense every work of art, even a musical composition, is objective. Those who imagine that a creative artist can—through the medium of his art—express his feelings at the moment when he is moved, make the greatest mistake. Emotions—sad or joyful—can only be expressed retrospectively, so to speak. Without any special reason for rejoicing, I may be moved by the most cheerful creative mood, and, vice versâ, a work composed under the happiest surroundings may be touched with dark and gloomy colours.
“In a word, an artist lives a double life: an everyday human life, and an artistic life, and the two do not always go hand in hand.
“In any case, it is absolutely necessary for a composer to shake off all the cares of daily existence, at least for a time, and give himself up entirely to his art-life.
“Works belonging to the first category do not require the least effort of will. It is only necessary to obey our inward promptings, and if our material life does not crush our artistic life under its weight of depressing circumstances, the work progresses with inconceivable rapidity. Everything else is forgotten, the soul throbs with an incomprehensible and indescribable excitement, so that, almost before we can follow this swift flight of inspiration, time passes literally unreckoned and unobserved.
“There is something somnambulistic about this condition. On ne s’entend pas vivre. It is impossible to describe such moments. Everything that flows from one’s pen, or merely passes through one’s brain (for such moments often come at a time when writing is an impossibility) under these circumstances is invariably good, and if no external obstacle comes to hinder the creative glow, the result will be an artist’s best and most perfect work. Unfortunately such external hindrances are inevitable. A duty has to be performed, dinner is announced, a letter arrives, and so on. This is the reason why there exist so few compositions which are of equal quality throughout. Hence the joins, patches, inequalities and discrepancies.
“For the works in my second category it is necessary to get into the mood. To do so we are often obliged to fight with indolence and disinclination. Besides this, there are many other fortuitous circumstances. Sometimes the victory is easily gained. At other times inspiration eludes us, and cannot be recaptured. I consider it, however, the duty of an artist not to be conquered by circumstances. He must not wait. Inspiration is a guest who does not care to visit those who are indolent. The reproaches heaped upon the Russian nation because of its deficiency in original works of art are not without foundation, for the Russians are lazy. A Russian is always glad to procrastinate: he is gifted by nature, but at the same time nature has withheld from him the power of will. A man must learn to conquer himself, lest he should degenerate into dilettantism, from which even so colossal a talent as Glinka’s was not free. This man, endowed with an extraordinary and special creative talent, achieved astonishingly little, although he attained a fairly ripe age. Read his Memoirs. You will see that he worked like a dilettante—on and off, when he was in the mood. However proud we may be of Glinka, we must acknowledge that he did not entirely fulfil his task, if we take into consideration the magnitude of his gifts. Both his operas, in spite of their astonishing and original beauty, suffer from glaring inequalities of style. Side by side with touches of genius and passages of imperishable beauty we find childish and weak numbers. What might not Glinka have accomplished had he lived amid different surroundings, had he worked like an artist who, fully alive to his power and his duty, develops his gifts to the ultimate limit of perfection, rather than as an amateur who makes music his pastime!
“I have explained that I compose either from an inward impulse, winged by a lofty and undefinable inspiration, or I simply work, invoking all my powers, which sometimes answer and sometimes remain deaf to my invocation. In the latter case the work created will always remain the mere product of labour, without any glow of genuine musical feeling.
“I hope you will not think I am boasting, if I say that my appeal to inspiration is very rarely in vain. In other words, that power which I have already described as a capricious guest has long since become fast friends with me, so that we are inseparable, and it only deserts me when my material existence is beset by untoward circumstances and its presence is of no avail. Under normal conditions I may say there is no hour of the day in which I cannot compose. Sometimes I observe with curiosity that uninterrupted activity, which—independent of the subject of any conversation I may be carrying on—continues its course in that department of my brain which is devoted to music. Sometimes it takes a preparatory form—that is, the consideration of all details that concern the elaboration of some projected work; another time it may be an entirely new and independent musical idea, and I make an effort to hold it fast in my memory. Whence does it come? It is an inscrutable mystery.
“Now I will try to describe my actual procedure in composition. But not until after dinner. Au revoir. If you only knew how difficult, yet at the same time how pleasant it is to talk to you about all this!
“Two o’clock.
“I usually write my sketches on the first piece of paper to hand. I jot them down in the most abbreviated form. A melody never stands alone, but invariably with the harmonies which belong to it. These two elements of music, together with the rhythm, must never be separated; every melodic idea brings its own inevitable harmony and its suitable rhythm. If the harmony is very intricate, I set down in the sketch a few details as to the working out of the parts; when the harmony is quite simple, I only put in the bass, or a figured bass, and sometimes not even this. If the sketch is intended for an orchestral work, the ideas appear ready-coloured by some special instrumental combination. The original plan of instrumentation often undergoes some modifications.
“The text must never be written after the music, for if music is written to given words only, these words invoke a suitable musical expression. It is quite possible to fit words to a short melody, but in treating a serious work such adaptation is not permissible. It is equally impossible to compose a symphonic work and afterwards to attach to it a programme, since every episode of the chosen programme should evoke its corresponding musical presentment. This stage of composition—the sketch—is remarkably pleasant and interesting. It brings an indescribable delight, accompanied, however, by a kind of unrest and nervous agitation. Sleep is disturbed and meals forgotten. Nevertheless, the development of the project proceeds tranquilly. The instrumentation of a work which is completely thought out and matured is a most enjoyable task.
“The same does not apply to the bare sketch of a work for pianoforte or voice, or little pieces in general, which are sometimes very tiresome. Just now I am occupied with this kind of work. You ask: do I confine myself to established forms? Yes, and no. Some compositions imply the use of traditional forms; but only as regards their general features—the sequence of the various movements. The details permit of considerable freedom of treatment, if the development of the ideas require it. For example, the first movement of our Symphony is written in a very informal style. The second subject, which ought, properly speaking, to be in the major, is in a somewhat remote minor key. In the recapitulation of the principal part the second subject is entirely left out, etc. In the finale, too, there are many deviations from traditional form. In vocal music, in which everything depends on the text, and in fantasias (like The Tempest and Francesca) the form is quite free. You ask me about melodies built upon the notes of the harmony. I can assure you, and prove it by many examples, that it is quite possible, by means of rhythm and the transposition of these notes, to evolve millions of new and beautiful melodic combinations. But this only applies to homophonic music. With polyphonic music such a method of building up a melody would interfere with the independence of the parts. In the music of Beethoven, Weber, Mendelssohn, Schumann, and especially Wagner, we frequently find melodies which consist of the notes of the common chord; a gifted musician will always be able to invent a new and interesting fanfare. Do you remember the beautiful Sword-motive in the Nibelungen?
“I am very fond of a melody by Verdi (a very gifted man):
“How glorious and how fresh the chief theme of the first movement of Rubinstein’s Ocean symphony:
“If I racked my brains a little, I should find countless examples to support my assertion. Talent is the sole secret. It knows no limitations: it creates the most beautiful music out of nothing. Could there be anything more trivial than the following melody?
Beethoven, Seventh Symphony:
or Glinka, Jota aragonesa:
“And yet what splendid musical structures Beethoven and Glinka have raised on these themes!”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Kamenka, June 25th (July 7th), 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 4th (16th), 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 25th (August 6th), 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 29th (August 10th), 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) | 71 | 0 | 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 4th (16th), 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 14th (26th), 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 16th (28th), 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 25th (September 6th), 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 29th (September 10th), 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)!”