II
At the beginning of November Tchaikovsky went to Kamenka, and here for the first time he began to breathe freely after two anxious and depressing months.
“I feel very well here,” he wrote in November. To “feel well” was the equivalent with him of “being equal to hard work.” As a matter of fact he composed more at Kamenka in a fortnight than during the two months he had spent in Moscow and Petersburg. On November 13th (25th) he wrote to his brother Modeste:—
“Inspiration has come to me, so the sketch of the Suite is almost finished. But I am anxious because I left the manuscript of the first three movements in Petersburg, and it may get lost. I wrote the last two movements here. This short and—if I am not mistaken—excellent Suite is in five movements: (1) Introduction and Fugue, (2) Scherzo, (3) Andante, (4) March Miniature, (5) Giant’s Dance.”
To A. Tchaikovsky.
“Florence, November 21st (December 3rd), 1878.
“... I came here yesterday, direct from Vienna, without visiting Venice. I was met by Pakhulsky (Kotek’s successor with N. F. von Meck), who took me to my quarters, which were warm and bright, and all ready for their admiring tenant.
“The apartment Nadejda Filaretovna has taken for me consists of a suite of five rooms: drawing-room, dining-room, bedroom, dressing-room, and a room for Alexis.
“In the drawing-room there is a splendid grand piano, on the writing-table every kind of stationery, and two big bouquets. The furniture is luxurious. I am delighted that the house stands outside the town, and that I have such a beautiful view from my windows!
“On the journey here I was troubled with the thought that Nadejda Filaretovna would be living so close to me; that we might meet. I even had a momentary suspicion that she might invite me. But a letter from her, which I found upon my writing-table yesterday, completely set my mind at rest. She will be leaving in three weeks, and during that time probably we shall not see each other once.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Florence, November 20th (December 2nd), 1878.
“... If you knew what a blessing this quiet, regular, and solitary life is, especially in such sympathetic surroundings! I shall begin the instrumentation of the Suite with ardour, because I am strongly attracted to a new subject for an opera: Schiller’s Maid of Orleans.... This idea came to me at Kamenka, while turning over the pages of Joukovsky. The subject offers much musical material. Verdi’s opera, Giovanna d’Arco, is not taken from Schiller in the first place, and secondly it is extremely poor. But I am glad I bought it. It will be very useful to compare the libretto with the French.”
“November 22nd (December 4th), 1878.
“I have never thanked you, my good fairy, for the fine instrument. I often reproach myself for not being sufficiently grateful. On the other hand I am afraid of wearying you with my reiterated assurance of gratitude.”
To P. I. Jurgenson.
“Florence, November 24th (December 6th), 1878.
“In the evening I often pace my verandah and enjoy the utter stillness. That strikes you as peculiar: how can anyone enjoy the absence of all sound, you will ask? If you were a musician, perhaps you, too, would have the gift of hearing, when all is still in the dead silence of night, the deep bass note which seems to come from the earth in its flight through space. But this is nonsense!”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Florence, November 26th (December 8th), 1878.
“Please send me the Lalo Concerto again. I only looked through the first movement attentively, and found it rather insipid. After what you have written I should like to run through the work again.
“I read Italian pretty well, but speak it badly. Once upon a time I studied it and could speak fluently. That was in the days of my admiration for Ristori.
“I place Massenet lower than Bizet, Délibes, or even Saint-Saëns, but he, too, has—like all our French contemporaries—that element of freshness which is lacking in the Germans.
8 p.m.
“Modeste’s telegram was a pleasant surprise. I had no idea the Symphony (No. 4) was going to be played yet. His news of its success is entirely trustworthy. First, because Modeste knows that I am not pleased when people send me exaggerated reports of such events; and secondly because the Scherzo was encored—an undoubted proof of success. After this news I am entirely lost in our Symphony. All day long I keep humming it, and trying to recall how, where, and under what impression this or that part of it was composed. I go back to two years ago, and return to the present with joy! What a change! What has not happened during these years! When I began to work at the Symphony I hardly knew you at all. I remember very well, however, that I dedicated my work to you. Some instinct told me that no one had such a fine insight into my music as yourself, that our natures had much in common, and that you would understand the contents of this Symphony better than any other human being. I love this child of my fancy very dearly. It is one of the things which will never disappoint me.”
The success of the Fourth Symphony, at a concert of the Russian Musical Society in St. Petersburg, on November 25th (December 7th), was most brilliant, and the Press was almost unanimous in its acknowledgment of the fact.
To N. F. von Meck.
“Florence, November 27th (December 9th), 1878.
“Permit me, dear friend, to give you my opinion of Lalo’s Concerto, which I have played through several times, and begin to know pretty thoroughly. Lalo is very talented, there is no doubt about it, but he is either a very young man—because all his deficiencies may be referred to a certain immaturity of style—or he will not go far, since, in a man of ripe age, these deficiencies point to an organic, incurable fault. I do not consider the Concerto as good as the ‘Spanish Symphony.’ All that was wild, lawless, and rhapsodical in the latter—which I attributed to the oriental and Moorish character of the Spanish melodies—is to be found also in the Concerto, which, however, is not at all Spanish. Let us analyse the first movement. It does not consist of two themes, as is usually the case, but of several—of five, in fact.
“This is too much. A musical work must be digestible, and should not consist of too many ingredients. Then, of these themes, only the fifth can be considered successful. The rest are colourless, or, like the second, made up of scraps, which have no organic unity and lack definite outline. Thirdly, every one of these themes, except the fifth, shows a monotonous method, which occurs only too often in the ‘Spanish Symphony’: the alternation of rhythms of 3 and 2. If a man cannot keep his inspiration within the limits of balanced form, then he should strive, at least, to vary the rhythms of his themes; in this Concerto the rhythmical treatment is monotonous. I will say nothing about the laboured way in which the various episodes follow one another; it would take us too far afield. Then as to harmony. The Concerto is full of queer, wild harmonies. In a modest violin Concerto such spicy condiments are out of place; but apart from that, I must say they have a kind of crude character, because they are not the outcome of the essential musical idea, but are forced upon it, like a schoolboy’s bravado put on for his teacher’s benefit. Other passages—also in the schoolboy style—are really rather slovenly, so to speak. For instance, this ‘smudge’ à la Moussorgsky, which occurs twice over:
“If we play this horrible combination in quavers we get the following:—
“This is repulsive, and quite unnecessary, because it is based upon nothing, and at first I took it for a misprint. Do not imagine, my friend, that it is the pedantic harmony master who speaks thus. I myself am very partial to dissonant combinations, when they have a motive, and are rightly used. But there are limits which must not be overstepped. Now, to enter into technical details, let me say that no breach of the laws of harmony, no matter whether it is harsh or not, really sounds well unless it has been made under the influence of the melodic origin. In other words, a dissonance should only be resolved harmonically, or melodically. If neither of these courses is adopted, we merely get abominations à la Moussorgsky. In the example cited above I might possibly be reconciled to the painful dissonance if, in the next bar, each part followed the melodic plan. But this is not the case with Lalo. With him abomination follows abomination. Now that I have done scolding, I will say something good. The various movements, although disconnected, show warmth and many beautiful details of harmony. On the whole the music has a piquant character peculiarly French, although not nearly so elegant as Bizet’s work.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Florence, November 28th (December 10th), 1878.
“Yesterday’s performance at Pergola left a sad impression upon me. What a deterioration Italian music has suffered! What commonplace, yet pretentious stuff! What an incredibly poor performance as regards orchestra and chorus! The staging, too, was wretched. Such scenery in the town where Raphael and Michael Angelo once lived!”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Florence, December 5th (17th), 1878.
“A great number of my works I regard as weak. Several of these (the minority) have been published. Of those unpublished, many no longer exist, such as the operas Undine and The Voyevode (which were never performed), the symphonic fantasia Fatum, a Festival overture on the Danish National Hymn, and a cantata; but you are welcome to those I have kept, in order to complete your collection. They are very poor, although they contain some episodes and details I should be sorry to see disappear for ever.
“Laroche does not call me the enemy of programme music, but thinks I have no gift for this kind of work; therefore he describes me as an anti-programme composer. He takes every opportunity of expressing his regret that I so frequently compose programme music. What is programme music? Since for you and me a mere pattern of sounds has long since ceased to be music at all, all music is programme music from our point of view. In the limited sense of the word, however, it means symphonic, or, more generally, instrumental music which illustrates a definite subject, and bears the title of this subject. Beethoven partly invented programme music in the ‘Eroica’ symphony, but the idea is still more evident in the ‘Pastoral’. The true founder of programme music, however, was Berlioz, every one of whose works not only bears a definite title, but appears with a detailed explanation. Laroche is entirely opposed to a programme. He thinks the composer should leave the hearer to interpret the meaning of the work as he pleases; that the programme limits his freedom; that music is incapable of expressing the concrete phenomena of the physical and mental world. Nevertheless, he ranks Berlioz very highly, declares him to be an altogether rare genius and his music exemplary; but, all the same, he considers his programmes superfluous. If you care to hear my opinion on the subject, I will give it in a few words. I think the inspiration of a symphonic work can be of two kinds: subjective or objective. In the first instance it expresses the personal emotion of joy or sorrow, as when the lyric poet lets his soul flow out in verse. Here a programme is not only unnecessary, but impossible. It is very different when the composer’s inspiration is stirred by the perusal of some poem, or by the sight of a fine landscape, and he endeavours to express his impressions in musical forms. In this case a programme is indispensable, and it is a pity Beethoven did not affix one to the sonata you mention. To my mind, both kinds of music have their raison d’être, and I cannot understand those who will only admit one of these styles. Of course, every subject is not equally suitable for a symphony, any more than for an opera; but, all the same, programme music can and must exist. Who would insist in literature upon ignoring the epic and admitting only the lyric element?”