VII 1879-1880
To P. I. Jurgenson.
(Early in September.)
“You will be very much astonished to hear of my being in Petersburg. I was summoned by a telegram from my brother Anatol, announcing that in consequence of some unpleasantness he had to resign his position in the Government service.... I think the matter can be so arranged that he can keep his place....
“I do not know how long I shall stay here. It depends upon the progress of my brother’s affairs. O detested Petersburg!”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Petersburg, September 13th (25th), 1879.
“I received your letter yesterday, dear friend. How I envied you when I read your account of the lovely autumn weather you were enjoying! The weather is not bad here, but what is the use of it to me?
“I often go to the opera, but I do not enjoy it much. The impossibility of escaping from innumerable acquaintances bores me dreadfully. No matter where I hide myself, there are always idle people who poison my pleasure in the music by their kind attentions. They will worry me with the usual commonplace questions: ‘How are you?’ ‘What are you composing now?’ etc. But the invitations are the most intolerable. It requires so much courage to refuse them.
“In one of your letters you asked me to tell you the whole method of procedure in order to get an opera accepted for performance. One has to send the score and pianoforte arrangement, with a written request for its performance, to the Direction of the Imperial Opera House. Then, in order to be successful, one must set in motion the whole machinery of solicitation and entreaty. This is just what I do not understand. My first two operas were performed, thanks to the assistance of the Grand Duke Constantine Nicholaevich who likes my music. How things will go this time I cannot say. I shall impress upon Jurgenson to do all that is necessary. Two days ago I was talking to Napravnik (one of the worthiest members of the musical world), who takes a lively interest in the fate of my opera. He told me it could not be performed this season, but advised me to send in the score as soon as possible.”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“Moscow, September 20th (October 2nd), 1879.
“Forgive me for not having written before to-day. Yesterday it was impossible.... Rubinstein and Jurgenson soon put in an appearance, and compelled me to leave the tea, upon which I had just started, and go out to breakfast with them. O Moscow! Scarcely has one set foot in it before one must needs begin to drink! At five o’clock I was invited to dinner at the Jurgensons’, where we began again. I cannot tell you how strange and repugnant to me is this Moscow atmosphere of swilling.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Grankino, September 25th (October 7th), 1879.
“I left Moscow on the 22nd. No sooner did the train begin to move, and I saw the outskirts of the town, than the black curtain, which had hung before my eyes during the whole of my time in the two capitals, suddenly vanished. I was once more free and happy.
“Here I found both your letters. I cannot tell you how glad I was to read your dear words. It was a surprise to hear our symphony was at last published, for the distracted Jurgenson forgot to mention this....
“I owe you everything: my life, the possibility of going forward to distant goals, freedom, and that complete happiness which formerly I believed to be unattainable.
“I read your letters with such a sense of eternal gratitude and affection that I cannot put it into words....”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Kamenka, October 5th (17th), 1879.
“At the present moment—I do not know why—I am going through an intense Italian craze. I feel so delighted, so happy, at the mere thought that before long I, too, shall be in Italy. Naples, Pompeii, Vesuvius... enchanting, lovely!
“I found the proofs of the Suite here. In three days I corrected and sent them back, so that I can now take a holiday—read, walk, play, dream—to my heart’s desire. For how long? I do not know. At any rate, I will not undertake any work during my first days in Naples. Do you not think that in the land of lazzarone one must be lazy too?”
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“Kamenka, October 7th (19th) 1879.
“No news. I feel very well, only a little misanthropical now and then. To-day there are visitors. When there are none I feel quite at ease. We all sit and sew. I have hemmed and marked a pocket-handkerchief.”71
To N. F. von Meck.
“Kamenka, October 9th (21st), 1879.
“How can I thank you for the trouble you have taken about our symphony? I am delighted Colonne will play it. At the same time there is no doubt it will have no success whatever with the public. Perhaps it might rouse a spark of sympathy in the hearts of ten or twelve people—and that would be a great step in advance.... Only one thing troubles me. Does Colonne really want to be paid for doing the work? It would gratify me to know that his readiness to perform the symphony was not based upon pecuniary considerations.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Kamenka, October 12th (24th), 1879.
“The last few days I have felt a secret dissatisfaction with myself, which has degenerated into boredom. I realised that I wanted work and began to occupy myself. The boredom immediately vanished and I felt relieved. I have begun a pianoforte concerto and intend to work at it without haste and over-fatigue.
“Have you read V. Soloviev’s philosophical articles? They are admirably written; very popular in form, so that they do not overstep the intelligence of the ordinary reader, yet very clever. I do not know to what conclusions the writer will eventually come. In the last number he proves very effectively the untenableness of positivism, which denies metaphysics, yet cannot get along without philosophy. Soloviev speaks in a very striking way of the delusion of the materialists who, because they deny metaphysics, believe they are only dealing with what actually exists, that is, with the material; whereas the material has no objective existence, and is only a phenomenon, the result of the activity of our sense and intellect. I express his ideas very indifferently, but I advise you to read this book for yourself.
“Yesterday I heard from Anatol about the performance of Vakoula the Smith, which took place the previous week. The theatre was full, but the public cool, just as on former occasions. Anatol attributes this to the indifferent performance. But I can see with startling clearness that this attitude of reserve is the outcome of my own stupid mistakes. I am glad to know that The Maid of Orleans is free from the faults of my earlier pseudo-opera style, in which I wearied my listeners with a superfluity of details, and made my harmony too complicated, so that there was no moderation in my orchestral effects. Besides which, I gave the audience no repose. I set too many heavy dishes before them. Opera style should be broad, simple, and decorative. Vakoula is not in true opera style, but is far more like symphonic or chamber music. It is only surprising that it has not proved a complete failure. It is possible that it may find favour with the public in course of time. I place it in the front rank of my works, although I see all its defects. It was a labour of love, an enjoyment, like Oniegin, the Fourth Symphony, and the Second Quartet.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Kamenka, October 15th (27th), 1879.
“Only a month—and I shall be at Naples! I look forward to this as a child to his birthday, and the presents it will bring. Meanwhile things are going well with me. My latest musical creation begins to grow and display more characteristic features. I work with greater pleasure and try to curb my habitual haste, which has often been injurious to my work.”
On October 21st Nicholas Rubinstein played Tchaikovsky’s Pianoforte Sonata at a concert of the Musical Society in Moscow. The success was so great that the famous pianist repeated it at his own concert in the course of the same season.
On November 11th the composer’s First Suite had a decided success, judging by the newspapers. The short number which Tchaikovsky once thought of cutting out of the work was encored.
To Anatol Tchaikovsky.
“Berlin, November 11th (23rd), 1879.
“My dear Anatol,—I have had an ideal journey. I arrived in Berlin early this morning. After breakfast I went to see Kotek. The good man seemed wild with delight at seeing me again, and even I was glad. But at the end of two hours of musical tittle-tattle I was tired, and thankful he had to attend a rehearsal. Strange! The longer I live, the less I care for the society of my fellow-creatures. There is no doubt that I am fond of Kotek, but his chatter wearies me more than the severest physical exertion.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Paris, November 18th (30th), 1879.
“I know the Variations by Rimsky-Korsakov & Co.72 very well. The work is original in its way and shows some remarkable talent for harmony in its authors. At the same time I do not care for it. It is too heavy and spun-out for a joke, and the everlasting repetition of the theme is—clumsy. As a work of art it is a mere nonentity. It is not surprising that a few clever men should have amused themselves by inventing all kinds of variations upon a commonplace theme; the surprising thing is their having published them. Only amateurs can suppose that every piquant harmony is worthy to be given to the public. Liszt, the old Jesuit, speaks in terms of exaggerated praise of every work which is submitted to his inspection. He is at heart a good man, one of the very few great artists who have never known envy (Wagner and in some measure Anton Rubinstein owe their success to him; he also did much for Berlioz); but he is too much of a Jesuit to be frank and sincere.”
To P. Jurgenson.
“Paris, November 19th (December 1st), 1879.
“Dear Friend,—What happiness to get right away from one’s own country! Not until I had passed the frontiers, did I breathe freely and feel at ease. On the journey I came across Joseph Wieniawsky, who was in the same corridor train. I immediately told him I was not alone, but travelling with a lady, upon which he winked at me slyly, as much as to say, ‘Of course, we know, shocking dog!’
“At present I want to work slowly at my Concerto; later I mean to look through my old works, especially the Second Symphony, which I intend to revise thoroughly.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Paris, November 21st (December 3rd), 1879.
“To-day, being a Saint’s Day, Alexis went to church, and told me the Grand Duke Nicholas Nicholaevich, with all his suite in full uniform, had attended the service. I could not account for this until I took up the Gaulois at breakfast, and read of an attempt made in Moscow on the Tsar’s life.... The Emperor escaped unharmed.
“I do not believe, dear friend, that we are in immediate danger of a war with Prussia. Such a war, although inevitable, is improbable during the lives of the present emperors. How can it be possible to think of war, when such horrors are taking place in our midst?... I think the Tsar would do well to assemble representatives throughout all Russia, and take counsel with them how to prevent the recurrence of such terrible actions on the part of mad revolutionaries. So long as all of us—the Russian citizens—are not called to take part in the government of the country, there is no hope of a better future.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Paris, November 26th (December 8th), 1879.
“I am not altogether at one with you as regards Cui. I do not recognise in him any great creative power, although his music has a certain elegance, agreeable harmonies, and shows good taste, in which he is distinguished from the other members of ‘the band,’ especially Moussorgsky. By nature Cui is more drawn towards light and piquantly rhythmic French music; but the demands of ’the band’ which he has joined compel him to do violence to his natural gifts and to follow those paths of would-be original harmony which do not suit him. Cui is now forty-four years of age and has only composed two operas and two or three dozen songs. He was engaged for ten years upon his opera Ratcliff. It is evident that the work was composed piecemeal, hence the lack of any unity of style.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Paris, November 27th (December 9th), 1879.
“Now I will answer your question. My Voyevode is undoubtedly a very poor opera. I do not speak of the music only, but of all that goes to the making of a good opera. The subject is lacking in dramatic interest and movement, and the work was written hastily and carelessly. I wrote music to the words without troubling to consider the difference between operatic and symphonic style. In composing an opera the stage should be the musician’s first thought, he must not abuse the confidence of the theatre-goer who comes to see as well as to hear. Finally, the style of music written for the stage should be the same as the decorative style in painting, clear, simple, and highly coloured. A picture by Meissonier would lose half its charm if exhibited on the stage; and subtle, delicately harmonised music would be equally inappropriate, since the public demands sharply defined melodies on a background of subdued harmony. In my Voyevode I have been chiefly concerned with filigree work, and have forgotten the requirements of the stage.
“The stage often paralyses a composer’s inspiration, that is why symphonic and chamber music are so far superior to opera. A symphony or sonata imposes no limitations, but in opera, the first necessity is to speak the musical language of the great public.... The final defect of The Voyevode lies in the heaviness of its orchestration, which overpowers the soloists. These are all the faults of inexperience; we must leave a whole series of failures behind us before we can attain to perfection. This is the reason why I am not ashamed of my first opera. It has taught me useful lessons. And you see, dear friend, how strenuously I have endeavoured to correct my errors. Even Undine (the opera I burnt), The Oprichnik, and Vakoula are not what they should be. I find this branch of art very difficult! I think The Maid of Orleans at last fulfils every requirement, but perhaps I deceive myself. If it is so, if it turns out that I have failed to grasp the true opera style, even in this work, then I shall be convinced of the justice of the opinion that I am by nature only a symphonic composer and should not attempt dramatic music. In that case, I shall abandon all attempts at opera.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Paris, December 1879.
“I have read the proclamation you mention. It is impossible to conceive anything more astounding and cynical. How will such revolutionary proceedings forward the reforms with which, sooner or later, the Tsar will crown his reign? That which the Socialists are doing in the name of Russia is foolish and insolent. But equally false is their pretence of readiness to shake hands with all parties and to leave the Emperor in peace as soon as he summons a Parliament. This is not what they really aim at, for they mean to go further—to a socialist-republic, or to anarchy. But no one will swallow this bait. Even were a constitution granted to Russia in the remote future, the first act of the Zemstvo should be extermination of this band of murderers who hope to become the leaders of the country.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Paris, December 3rd (15th), 1879.
“The sketch of my Concerto is finished and I am very pleased with it, especially with the Andante. Now I shall take in hand the revision of my Second Symphony, of which only the last movement can be left intact. I published this work through Bessel in 1872, as a return for the trouble he took over the performance of The Oprichnik.... For seven years he has led me a dance over the engraving of the score—always putting me off with the assurance that it would soon be ready. I was sometimes furious with him, but his lack of conscience has proved itself a blessing in disguise!... If I succeed in working steadily in Rome, I shall make a good work out of my immature, mediocre symphony.”