“January23rd(February4th).“ ... to-day I got rid of N——. We parted in peace, but my purse was lighter by five hundred marks in consequence. I do not regret it in the least; I would have given a good deal more to see the last of this gentleman.”
“January23rd(February4th).
“ ... to-day I got rid of N——. We parted in peace, but my purse was lighter by five hundred marks in consequence. I do not regret it in the least; I would have given a good deal more to see the last of this gentleman.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“Berlin,January23rd(February4th).“ ... I have made great progress in my conducting.... Wolf gave a large dinner-party at my desire, inorder that all the great lights here might hear Sapellnikov. All the critics were there. Sapellnikov created afurore. For the last three weeks we have been inseparable. I have grown so fond of him, and he so attached and good to me—just as though he were a near relation. Since Kotek’s days I have never cared for anyone so much. It is impossible to imagine anyone more sympathetic, gentle, kindly; more delicate-minded and distinguished. On his return I beg you not only to be friendly to him, but to introduce him to all our relatives. I consider him—and I am not alone in my opinion—a future genius as regards the piano. Yesterday Bock had a party. Artôt was there. I was inexpressibly glad to see her again; we made friends at once, without a word as to the past. Her husband, Padilla, embraced me heartily. To-morrow she gives a dinner. As an elderly woman she is just as fascinating as twenty years ago.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Berlin,January23rd(February4th).
“ ... I have made great progress in my conducting.... Wolf gave a large dinner-party at my desire, inorder that all the great lights here might hear Sapellnikov. All the critics were there. Sapellnikov created afurore. For the last three weeks we have been inseparable. I have grown so fond of him, and he so attached and good to me—just as though he were a near relation. Since Kotek’s days I have never cared for anyone so much. It is impossible to imagine anyone more sympathetic, gentle, kindly; more delicate-minded and distinguished. On his return I beg you not only to be friendly to him, but to introduce him to all our relatives. I consider him—and I am not alone in my opinion—a future genius as regards the piano. Yesterday Bock had a party. Artôt was there. I was inexpressibly glad to see her again; we made friends at once, without a word as to the past. Her husband, Padilla, embraced me heartily. To-morrow she gives a dinner. As an elderly woman she is just as fascinating as twenty years ago.”
To N. F. von Meck.“Leipzig,January30th(February11th), 1888.“My dear Friend,—My concert in Berlin was a great success.[128]I had a splendid orchestra to deal with and musicians who were in sympathy with me from the very first rehearsal. The programme was as follows:—“(1) Overture,Romeo and Juliet; (2) Pianoforte Concerto, played by Siloti; (3) Introduction and Fugue from the First Suite; (4) Andante from the First Quartet; (5) Songs, sung by Fräulein Friede; (6) Overture, “1812.”“The public gave me a most enthusiastic reception. Of course, all this is very pleasant, but at the same time I feel so worn out I hardly know how I am to get through all that lies before me.... Can you recognise in this Russian musician, touring all over Europe, the man who, a few years ago, fled from life and society, and lived in solitude abroad, or in the country?“A real triumphal festival awaits me in Prague. The programme of my week’s visit there is already arranged, and has been sent to me. It includes any number of ovations and receptions. The idea is to give my concertthere a certain patriotic and anti-German character. This puts me in an awkward position, because I have been received in a very friendly way in Germany.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Leipzig,January30th(February11th), 1888.
“My dear Friend,—My concert in Berlin was a great success.[128]I had a splendid orchestra to deal with and musicians who were in sympathy with me from the very first rehearsal. The programme was as follows:—
“(1) Overture,Romeo and Juliet; (2) Pianoforte Concerto, played by Siloti; (3) Introduction and Fugue from the First Suite; (4) Andante from the First Quartet; (5) Songs, sung by Fräulein Friede; (6) Overture, “1812.”
“The public gave me a most enthusiastic reception. Of course, all this is very pleasant, but at the same time I feel so worn out I hardly know how I am to get through all that lies before me.... Can you recognise in this Russian musician, touring all over Europe, the man who, a few years ago, fled from life and society, and lived in solitude abroad, or in the country?
“A real triumphal festival awaits me in Prague. The programme of my week’s visit there is already arranged, and has been sent to me. It includes any number of ovations and receptions. The idea is to give my concertthere a certain patriotic and anti-German character. This puts me in an awkward position, because I have been received in a very friendly way in Germany.”
In spite of the applause of the public and the flattering notices in the Press, Tchaikovsky’s visit made less impression in Berlin than in Leipzig and Hamburg. Whereas in the latter towns his concerts were the great events of the day, in the capital the début of a Russian composer passed comparatively unnoticed amid a thousand other interests. A brief entry in his diary on January 28th about “a bucket of cold water” seems to point to a certain disillusionment as to the character of his reception in Berlin. Possibly he had heard rumours that the concert-room had been liberally “papered,” and in this way a certain amount of artificial enthusiasm spread through the audience.
In any case, it was Leipzig, rather than Berlin, that showed the greater interest in Tchaikovsky during this tour, and he was glad to return there for a few days before leaving Germany. “I have come back to Leipzig,” he wrote to a relative on January 30th (February 11th), 1888, “as I had promised to be present at the concert given in my honour by the Liszt-Verein. The concert could not come off, so yesterday, at my request, Wagner’sMeistersingerwas performed at the theatre instead. I had never heard this opera. Early this morning I was awakened by the strains of the Russian hymn. An orchestra was serenading me. They played for nearly an hour under my windows, and the whole hotel ran out to see and hear.”
The marvellous performance ofMeistersingerunder Nikisch, and the touching ovation in the form of a serenade, were the closing events of Tchaikovsky’s first concert tour in Germany. In Bohemia and France far more brilliant receptions awaited him, but these were of quite a different nature.
On January 31st (February 12th) Tchaikovsky, accompanied by Siloti, arrived at the frontiers of Bohemia. The triumphal character of the reception which awaited him was soon made apparent by the extraordinary attentions of the railway officials. At one of the last stations before Prague, a deputation of members of various societies had assembled to welcome him. At Prague a representative of the “Russian Club” awaited him on the platform, having come expressly from Vienna to pay him this compliment. He presented Tchaikovsky with an address in Russian. This was followed by a speech in Czech, delivered by Dr. Strakaty, the representative of the “Umclecká Beseda,”[129]after which children presented him with flowers, and he was hailed with prolonged cries of “Slava!” (Hurrah!). The carriage which awaited him, and the suite of rooms at the Hotel de Saxe, were provided for him at the expense of the Artists’ Club.
In the evening he was invited to hear Verdi’sOtello, and a box was reserved for him at the Opera House. Rieger, “the leader of the Czech people,” was the first to greet the guest, after which followed many of the most prominent men in Bohemia.
The following day Tchaikovsky received a visit from Dvořák, and the two composers quickly made friends with each other.
ALEXANDER SILOTIALEXANDER SILOTI PETER ILICH TCHAIKOVSKY
It is impossible to give in detail the programme drawn up for each day of the composer’s visit to Prague. He made an almost royal progress to all the chief places of interest. On one occasion, entering the “Rathaus” whilea session was being held, the entire body of members rose to greet him. One evening he was serenaded by the famous Choral Union “Hlahol.” He listened to the songs from his balcony, and afterwards came down to thank the singers in person. An offer, made in the course of his speech, to compose something expressly for the Society was received with loud cheering. On February 6th (18th) he was invited to the Students’ Union and presented to the students. In his diary he speaks of this as “a very solemn and touching ceremony.” Accompanied by cries of “Slava!” and “Na Sdrava!” he was next led off to the public rehearsal of the concert. The evening wound up with a brilliantsoiréeat the Town Club (Meschtschanska Beseda).
The first concert itself took place on February 7th (19th), in the “Rudolfinum.” The programme consisted entirely of Tchaikovsky’s music, and included: (1) Overture,Romeo and Juliet; (2) Concerto for Pianoforte (B♭ minor), played by Siloti; (3) Elégie from the Third Suite; (4) Violin Concerto, played by Halir; (5), Overture, “1812.” Of all these works the last-named excited the greatest applause. Tchaikovsky sums up his impressions as follows: “Undoubtedly it was the most eventful day of my life. I have become so attached to these good Bohemians ... and with good reason! Heavens, what enthusiasm! Such as I have never known, but in my own dear Russia!”
Two days later, on February 9th (21st), the second concert was given in thefoyerof the Opera House. This time the programme comprised: (1) Serenade for strings; (2) Variations from the Third Suite; (3) Pianoforte Solos (Siloti); (4) Overture, “1812.” The ovations were even more hearty, and the gifts more costly, than at the first concert. “An overwhelming success,” says Tchaikovsky in his diary. “A moment of absolute bliss. But only one moment.”
On the evening of February 10th (22nd), sped by farewell addresses, and smothered in flowers, the composer took leave of the festive city of Prague.
Although the chief object of Tchaikovsky’s tour was to make his works more widely known in Europe, and to carry them beyond the confines of his native land, he combined with this aim—although in a lesser degree—the desire to see for himself the extent of his reputation and to reap some profit by it. Distrustful and modest as he was, he made no great demands in this respect, and even the appreciation he received in Germany quite surpassed his expectations. The honour done him in Prague far outstripped his wildest dreams. These ten days were the culminating point of Tchaikovsky’s fame during his lifetime. Allowing that nine-tenths of the ovations lavished on him were really intended for Russia, even then, he could not fail to be flattered that he was the chosen recipient of the sympathy of the Czechs for the Russians, since it proved that he was already famous as a composer. It was flattering, too, to feel that he was honoured by a nation which could be regarded as one of the most musical in the world. It pleased him that Prague—the first place to recognise the genius of Mozart—should pay him honour, thus uniting his fate with that of the illustrious German. It touched Tchaikovsky deeply to feel that those who gave him one “moment of absolute happiness” were descendants of the same race which, long ago, had given a portion of joy to him who was his teacher and model, both as man and as musician. This strange coincidence was the most flattering event of his life—the highest honour to which he had ever ventured to aspire.
Simultaneously with this climax of his renown, came one of the bitterest experiences of his life. The Russian Press did not give a line to this triumph of a native composer in Prague. He felt this to be a profound injury, which surprised and mortified him the more, becauseall these triumphs in his life were regarded as important events even by the Czechs themselves. It was most painful to realise that Russia, for whom the greater part of these honours were intended, knew nothing whatever about them; that on account of the attitude of the Press towards him, personally, this warm sympathy, meant for his countrymen as a whole, would never be known to them, nor evoke any response.
Quite another kind of ovation awaited Tchaikovsky in Paris. Here, too, his success surpassed his expectations; but the sympathy of the French capital differed as widely in character from that which was shown him in Prague as the Czechs differ from the French in their musical tastes and their relations towards the Russians. There is no country in which music is better loved, or more widely understood, than in Bohemia. Nor is there any other nation which feels such appreciation for all that is Russian; not merely as a matter of passing fashion, but on account of actual kinship between the Eastern and Western Slav. In Bohemia, therefore, both as a musician and a native of Russia, Tchaikovsky had been received with a warmth and sincerity hardly to be expected from France. It is true a little political feeling influenced his reception in Paris; it was just the beginning of the Franco-Russianrapprochement, so that everything Russian was the fashion of the hour. Many French people, who were not in the least musical, regarded it as their duty to express some appreciation of Tchaikovsky—simply because he was a Russian. All this, like the French sympathy itself, had no solid foundation of national affinity, but merely sprang from an ephemeral political combination. The enthusiastic, explosive, but fleeting, craze of the French for all that was Russian showed itself in hatsà laKronstadt, in shouting the Russian national anthem simultaneously with the “Marseillaise,” in ovations to the clown Durov, and in a “patronising” interest for our art andliterature—as species of curiosities—rather than in the hearty relations of two countries drawn together by true affinity of aims and sympathies. Naturally the festivities of Kronstadt, Toulon, and Paris led to no real appreciation of Poushkin, Gogol, Ostrovsky, Glinka, Dargomijsky, or Serov, only, at the utmost, to a phase of fashion, thanks to which Tolstoi and Dostoievsky found a certain superficial vogue, without being understood in their fullest value. Tchaikovsky was also a modern, and this lent a kind of brilliance to his reception in Paris; but it was purely external.... It may truly be said that all Prague welcomed the composer; whereas in Paris only the musicians and amateurs, a few newspapers in favour of the Franco-Russian alliance, and that crowd which is always in pursuit of novelty, were interested in Tchaikovsky’s visit.
Time has proved the respective value of these ovations. Although it is now fifteen years since Tchaikovsky visited Prague, his operas still hold their own in the repertory of the theatre, and his symphonic music is still as well known there and as much loved as in Russia. In Paris, on the contrary, not only are his works rarely given, either on the stage or in the concert-room, but his name—although it has gained in renown all over Europe—is not considered worthy of inclusion among those which adorn the programmes of the Conservatoire concerts. And yet those who are at the head of this institution are the same men who honoured him in 1888. Is not this a proof of that hidden but smouldering antipathy which the French really feel for the Russian spirit—that spirit which Tchaikovsky shares in common with his great predecessors in music, and with the representatives of all that Russia has produced of lofty and imperishable worth?
Tchaikovsky arrived in Paris on February 12th (24th), and went almost straight from the station to the rehearsal of his Serenade for strings, which—conducted by the composer—was to be played by Colonne’s orchestra at asoiréegiven by M. N. Benardaky.
N. Benardaky had married one of the three sisters Leibrock, operatic artists well known to the Russian public. He had a fine house in Paris, frequented by theéliteof the artistic world. As a wealthy patron of art—and as a fellow-countryman—he inaugurated the festivities in Tchaikovsky’s honour by this musical evening.
Over three hundred guests were present, and, besides his Serenade for strings, Tchaikovsky conducted the Andante from his Quartet and presided at the piano. The composer was grateful to his kindly host for the unexpected and—according to Parisian custom—absolutely indispensableréclamewhich this entertainment conferred upon him. To ensure the success of the evening, and in return for the service done him, Tchaikovsky felt himself obliged to run from rehearsal to rehearsal, from musician to musician. To appear as a conductor before this assemblage of amateurs—more distinguished for vanity than for love of art—and to earn their languid approval, seemed to him flattering and important. But when we reflect what far greater trouble and fatigue this entailed upon him than his appearance before the Gewandhaus audience—whose opinion was really of weight and value—we cannot but regret the waste of energy and the lowering of the artist’s dignity. When we think of him, exhausted and out of humour, amid this crowd of fashionably attired strangers, who to-morrow would be “consecrating” the success of the latest chansonette singer, or the newest dance of a Loie Fuller—we cannot but rebel against fate, who took him from his rural quiet, from the surroundings to which he was attached, in which—sound in body and mind—it was his pleasure to plan some new composition in undisturbed solitude. Thank God, my brother comforted himself with the belief that it was necessary to suffer this martyrdom cheerfully, and that he did not live to realise that it wasindeed useless, for nowhere did he make a greater sacrifice for popularity’s sake with smaller results than in Paris.
Those musicians who had been absent during Tchaikovsky’s visit to Paris in 1886 now made his acquaintance for the first time. All of them, including Gounod, Massenet, Thomé and others, received him with great cordiality and consideration. The sole exception was Reyer, the composer ofSalammbô, whose indifference was the less hurtful to Tchaikovsky because he did not esteem him greatly as a musician. Of thevirtuosiwith whom he now became acquainted, Paderewski made the most impression upon him.
Among the brilliant Parisian gatherings held in Tchaikovsky’s honour must be mentioned the memorable evening at Colonne’s; thesoiréegiven by the aristocratic amateur, Baroness Tresderne, at whose house in the Place Vendôme Wagner’s Trilogy had been heard for the first time in Paris (“Marchionesses, duchesses—bored,” is Tchaikovsky’s laconic entry in his diary the day after this entertainment); the fête at the Russian Embassy; a reception at Madame Pauline Viardot’s; and an entertainment arranged by theFigaro.
Tchaikovsky made two public appearances in the double capacity of composer and conductor; both these were at the Châtelet concerts. At the first, half the programme was devoted to his works, including the Serenade for strings, Fantasia for pianoforte (Louis Diemer), Songs (Madame Conneau), pieces for violoncello (Brandoukov), and Theme and Variations from the Third Suite.
On ascending to the conductor’s desk he was received with a storm of applause, intended as much for his nationality as for his personality. Of his orchestral works, the Valse from the Serenade won most success, and had to be repeated in order to satisfy the audience.
The second concert, which took place a week later, consisted almost exclusively of Tchaikovsky’s works. TheVariations from the Third Suite, the Elégie, and Valse from the Serenade, and the pieces for violoncello were repeated; to which were added the Violin Concerto (Marsick) andFrancesca da Rimini. The applause was as vociferous as on the first occasion, although comparatively little of it fell to the lot ofFrancesca.
As long as they dealt with the private performances in the houses of Benardaky, Colonne, Madame Tresderne, or at theFigaro, the representatives of the Paris Press spoke with enthusiasm of the composer, of his works, and his nationality. After the public concerts, however, there was a sudden change of tone, and their fervour waned. It seemed they had most of them studied Cui’s book,La Musique en Russie, to good purpose, for, without quoting their source of information, they discovered that Tchaikovsky “was not so Russian as people imagined,” that he did not display “much audacity or a strong originality,” wherein lay the chief charm of the great Slavs: Borodin, Cui, Rimsky-Korsakov, Liadov, etc.
The Western cosmopolitanism of Tchaikovsky’s works was made a subject of reproach. “The German dominates and absorbs the Slav,” says one critic, who had looked for “impressions exotiques” at the Châtelet—perhaps for something in the style of the music of Dahomey, which had created such a sensation at the Jardin d’Acclimatation.
The remaining critics, who had not read Cui’s book, disapproved of the length of Tchaikovsky’s works, and held up to him as models, Saint-Saëns and other modern French composers. His own sense of disappointment appears in a letter addressed to P. Jurgenson towards the end of his visit:—
“I have expended a great deal of money, and even more health and strength,” he writes.[130]“In return I havegained some celebrity, but every hour I ask myself—Why? Is it worth while? And I come to the conclusion it is far better to live quietly without fame.”
“I have expended a great deal of money, and even more health and strength,” he writes.[130]“In return I havegained some celebrity, but every hour I ask myself—Why? Is it worth while? And I come to the conclusion it is far better to live quietly without fame.”
From Paris Tchaikovsky crossed to England.
“The journey to London was terrible,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck. “Our train was brought to a standstill in the open country in consequence of a snowstorm. On the steamer it was alarming, for the storm was so severe that every moment we dreaded some catastrophe.”
“The journey to London was terrible,” he wrote to Nadejda von Meck. “Our train was brought to a standstill in the open country in consequence of a snowstorm. On the steamer it was alarming, for the storm was so severe that every moment we dreaded some catastrophe.”
Tchaikovsky only spent four days in London. No one welcomed him, no one paid him special attention, or worried him with invitations. Except for a complimentary dinner given to him by Berger, the Secretary of the Philharmonic Society, he spent his time alone, or in the society of the violinist Ondricek and his wife. Yet, in spite of appearances, his visit to London had brilliant results for his future reputation. Next to Russia and America his music at present is nowhere more popular than in England.
He conducted the Serenade for strings and the Variations from the Third Suite. “The success was great,” he wrote, in the letter quoted above. “The Serenade pleased most, and I was recalled three times, which means a good deal from the reserved London public. The Variations were not so much liked, but all the same they elicited hearty applause.”
The leading London papers mostly gave Tchaikovsky the credit of a signal success. TheMusical Timesonly regretted that he had not chosen some more serious work for his début before the London public. “The Russian composer was received with signs of unanimous approbation,” said theTimes, while theDaily Chroniclefelt convinced that Tchaikovsky must have been fully satisfied with the extraordinarily warm welcome accorded him by the Londoners.
“Thus ended the torments, fears, agitations, and—to speak the truth—the joys of my first concert tour abroad.” In these words Tchaikovsky concludes his letter to N. F. von Meck, from which the above extracts have been quoted.
After a long journey—six nights in the train—Tchaikovsky reached Tiflis on March 26th (April 7th), 1888. Here he stayed with his brother Hyppolite, whom he had not seen for two years. About the end of April he travelled north to take possession of the country house at Frolovskoe, which had been prepared for him during his absence by his servant Alexis. He describes it as a highly picturesque spot, lying on a wooded hill on the way from Moscow to Klin. It was simpler and not so well furnished as Maidanovo. There was no park planted with lime trees, there were no marble vases; but its unpretentiousness was an added recommendation in Tchaikovsky’s eyes. Here he could be alone, free from summer excursionists, to enjoy the little garden (with its charming pool and tiny islet) fringed by the forest, behind which the view opened out upon a distant stretch of country—upon that homely, unassuming landscape of Central Russia which Tchaikovsky preferred to all the sublimities of Switzerland, the Caucasus, and Italy. Had not the forest been gradually exterminated, he would never have quitted Frolovskoe, for although he only lived there for threeyears, he became greatly attached to the place. A month before his death, travelling from Klin to Moscow, he said, looking out at the churchyard of Frolovskoe: “I should like to be buried there.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“Klin,May15th(27th), 1888.“I am in love with Frolovskoe. The neighbourhood is a paradise after Maidanovo. It is, indeed, so beautiful that when I go out for half an hour’s walk in the morning, I feel compelled to extend it to two hours.... I have not yet begun to work, excepting at some corrections. To speak frankly, I feel as yet no impulse for creative work. What does this mean? Have I written myself out? No ideas, no inclination? Still I am hoping gradually to collect material for a symphony.“To-day we were to have sown seeds and planted flowers in the beds in front of the house. I was looking forward to it with such pleasure, but the rain has hindered us. By the time you arrive all our seeds will be in.”TCHAIKOVSKY’S HOUSE AT FROLOVSKOETCHAIKOVSKY’S HOUSE AT FROLOVSKOE
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Klin,May15th(27th), 1888.
“I am in love with Frolovskoe. The neighbourhood is a paradise after Maidanovo. It is, indeed, so beautiful that when I go out for half an hour’s walk in the morning, I feel compelled to extend it to two hours.... I have not yet begun to work, excepting at some corrections. To speak frankly, I feel as yet no impulse for creative work. What does this mean? Have I written myself out? No ideas, no inclination? Still I am hoping gradually to collect material for a symphony.
“To-day we were to have sown seeds and planted flowers in the beds in front of the house. I was looking forward to it with such pleasure, but the rain has hindered us. By the time you arrive all our seeds will be in.”
TCHAIKOVSKY’S HOUSE AT FROLOVSKOETCHAIKOVSKY’S HOUSE AT FROLOVSKOE
To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich.“Frolovskoe,May30th(June11th), 1888.“Your Highness,—I am very glad you were not offended by my remarks, and thank you most heartily for your explanations in reference to them.[131]In matters of versification I am only an amateur, but have long wished to become thoroughly acquainted with the subject. So far, I have only reached the stage of inquiry. Many questions interest me to which no one seems able to give a clear and decided reply. For instance, when I read Joukovsky’s translation of theOdyssey, or hisUndine, or Gniedich’s version of theIliad, I suffer under the intolerable monotony of the Russian hexameter as compared with the Latin (I do not know the Greek), which has strength, beauty, and variety. I know that the fault lies in the fact that we do not use the spondee, but I cannotunderstand why this should be. To my mind we ought to employ it. Another question that greatly occupies me is why, as compared with Russian poetry, German verse should be less severe in the matter of regular rhythm and metre. When I read Goethe I am astonished at his audacity as regards metrical feet, the cæsura, etc., which he carries so far that, to an unpractised ear, many of his verses scarcely seem like verse. At the same time, the ear is only taken by surprise—not offended. Were a Russian poet to do the same, one would be conscious of a certain lameness. Is it in consequence of the peculiar qualities of our language, or because tradition allows greater freedom to the Germans than to us? I do not know if I express myself correctly; I only state that, as regards regularity, refinement, and euphony, much more is expected from the Russian than from the German poet. I should be glad to find some explanation of this....”
To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich.
“Frolovskoe,May30th(June11th), 1888.
“Your Highness,—I am very glad you were not offended by my remarks, and thank you most heartily for your explanations in reference to them.[131]In matters of versification I am only an amateur, but have long wished to become thoroughly acquainted with the subject. So far, I have only reached the stage of inquiry. Many questions interest me to which no one seems able to give a clear and decided reply. For instance, when I read Joukovsky’s translation of theOdyssey, or hisUndine, or Gniedich’s version of theIliad, I suffer under the intolerable monotony of the Russian hexameter as compared with the Latin (I do not know the Greek), which has strength, beauty, and variety. I know that the fault lies in the fact that we do not use the spondee, but I cannotunderstand why this should be. To my mind we ought to employ it. Another question that greatly occupies me is why, as compared with Russian poetry, German verse should be less severe in the matter of regular rhythm and metre. When I read Goethe I am astonished at his audacity as regards metrical feet, the cæsura, etc., which he carries so far that, to an unpractised ear, many of his verses scarcely seem like verse. At the same time, the ear is only taken by surprise—not offended. Were a Russian poet to do the same, one would be conscious of a certain lameness. Is it in consequence of the peculiar qualities of our language, or because tradition allows greater freedom to the Germans than to us? I do not know if I express myself correctly; I only state that, as regards regularity, refinement, and euphony, much more is expected from the Russian than from the German poet. I should be glad to find some explanation of this....”
To N. F. von Meck.“Frolovskoe,June1st(13th), 1888.“.... Just now I am busy with flowers and flower-growing. I should like to have as many flowers as possible in my garden, but I have very little knowledge or experience. I am not lacking in zeal, and have indeed taken cold from pottering about in the damp. Now, thank goodness, it is warmer weather; I am glad of it, for you, for myself, and for my dear flowers, for I have sown a quantity, and the cold nights made me anxious for them....”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Frolovskoe,June1st(13th), 1888.
“.... Just now I am busy with flowers and flower-growing. I should like to have as many flowers as possible in my garden, but I have very little knowledge or experience. I am not lacking in zeal, and have indeed taken cold from pottering about in the damp. Now, thank goodness, it is warmer weather; I am glad of it, for you, for myself, and for my dear flowers, for I have sown a quantity, and the cold nights made me anxious for them....”
To N. F. von Meck.“Frolovskoe,June10th(22nd), 1888.“.... Now I shall work my hardest. I am dreadfully anxious to prove not only to others, but also to myself, that I am not yetplayed outas a composer.... Have I already told you that I intend to write a symphony? The beginning was difficult; now, however, inspiration seems to have come. We shall see!”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Frolovskoe,June10th(22nd), 1888.
“.... Now I shall work my hardest. I am dreadfully anxious to prove not only to others, but also to myself, that I am not yetplayed outas a composer.... Have I already told you that I intend to write a symphony? The beginning was difficult; now, however, inspiration seems to have come. We shall see!”
To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich.“Frolovskoe,June11th(23rd), 1888.“Your Imperial Highness,—I am the more glad to hear your favourable verdict upon my songs, because I was afraid you would think them weak.... I composed them at a time when my state of mind was anything but promising for good work. At the same time, I did not wish to postpone the setting of your words, as I had informed you long ago of my intention with regard to them....“I am not at all astonished that you should write beautiful verses without being an adept in the science of versification. Several of our poets—Plestcheiev for one—have told me the same. All the same, I think it would be better if some of our gifted Russian poets were more interested in the technique of their art. ‘I am sick of four iambic feet,’ said Poushkin, and I would add that sometimes his readers get weary of it too. To discover new metres and rare rhythmic combinations must be very interesting. Were I a poet, I should certainly try to write in varied rhythms like the Germans....”
To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich.
“Frolovskoe,June11th(23rd), 1888.
“Your Imperial Highness,—I am the more glad to hear your favourable verdict upon my songs, because I was afraid you would think them weak.... I composed them at a time when my state of mind was anything but promising for good work. At the same time, I did not wish to postpone the setting of your words, as I had informed you long ago of my intention with regard to them....
“I am not at all astonished that you should write beautiful verses without being an adept in the science of versification. Several of our poets—Plestcheiev for one—have told me the same. All the same, I think it would be better if some of our gifted Russian poets were more interested in the technique of their art. ‘I am sick of four iambic feet,’ said Poushkin, and I would add that sometimes his readers get weary of it too. To discover new metres and rare rhythmic combinations must be very interesting. Were I a poet, I should certainly try to write in varied rhythms like the Germans....”
To N. F. von Meck.“Frolovskoe,June22nd(July4th), 1888.“ ... Lately I have been in frequent correspondence with the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich, who sent me his poem, ‘St. Sebastian,’ with the request that I would say what I thought of it. On the whole I liked it, but I criticised a few details very freely. He was pleased with this, but defended himself, and thus a brisk exchange of letters has taken place. He is not only gifted, but surprisingly modest, devoted to art, and ambitious to excel in it rather than inthe service. He is also an excellent musician—in fact, a rare and sympathetic nature.“It is well that the political horizon is clearer, and if it be true that the German Emperor is to visit Russia, we may say with some certainty that the horrors of war will not break out for many years to come....”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Frolovskoe,June22nd(July4th), 1888.
“ ... Lately I have been in frequent correspondence with the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich, who sent me his poem, ‘St. Sebastian,’ with the request that I would say what I thought of it. On the whole I liked it, but I criticised a few details very freely. He was pleased with this, but defended himself, and thus a brisk exchange of letters has taken place. He is not only gifted, but surprisingly modest, devoted to art, and ambitious to excel in it rather than inthe service. He is also an excellent musician—in fact, a rare and sympathetic nature.
“It is well that the political horizon is clearer, and if it be true that the German Emperor is to visit Russia, we may say with some certainty that the horrors of war will not break out for many years to come....”
Diary.“June27th(July9th), 1888.“It seems to me letters are not perfectly sincere—I am judging by myself. No matter to whom I am writing, I am always conscious of the effect of my letter, not only upon the person to whom it is addressed, but upon any chance reader. Consequently I embroider. I often take pains to make the tone of a letter simple and sincere—at least to make itappearso. But apart from letters written at the moment when I am worked upon, I am never quite myself in my correspondence. These letters are to me a source of repentance, and often of agonising regret. When I read the correspondence of great men, published after their death, I am always disturbed by a vague sense of insincerity and falsehood.“I will go on with the record of my musical predilections which I began some time ago. What are my feelings towards the Russian composers?
Diary.
“June27th(July9th), 1888.
“It seems to me letters are not perfectly sincere—I am judging by myself. No matter to whom I am writing, I am always conscious of the effect of my letter, not only upon the person to whom it is addressed, but upon any chance reader. Consequently I embroider. I often take pains to make the tone of a letter simple and sincere—at least to make itappearso. But apart from letters written at the moment when I am worked upon, I am never quite myself in my correspondence. These letters are to me a source of repentance, and often of agonising regret. When I read the correspondence of great men, published after their death, I am always disturbed by a vague sense of insincerity and falsehood.
“I will go on with the record of my musical predilections which I began some time ago. What are my feelings towards the Russian composers?
Glinka.“An unheard-of and astonishing apparition in the world of art. A dilettante who played the violin and the piano a little; who concocted a few insipid quadrilles and fantasias upon Italian airs; who tried his hand at more serious musical forms (songs, quartets, sextets, etc.), but accomplished nothing which rose superior to the jejune taste of the thirties; suddenly, in his thirty-fourth year, creates an opera, which for inspiration, originality, and irreproachable technique, is worthy to stand beside all that is loftiest and most profound in musical art! We are still more astonished when we reflect that the composer of this work is the author of theMemoirspublished some twenty years later. The latter give one the impression of a nice, kind, commonplace man, with not much to say for himself. Like a nightmare, the questions continually haunt me: How could such colossal artistic force be united to such emptiness? and how came this average amateur to catch up in a single stride such men as Mozart and Beethoven? Yes, for hehasovertaken them. One may say this without exaggeration of the composer of the‘Slavsia.’ This question may be answered by those who are better fitted than myself to penetrate the mysteries of the artistic spirit which makes its habitation in such fragile and apparently unpromising shrines. I can only say no one loves and appreciates Glinka more than I do. I am no indiscriminate worshipper ofRusslan; on the contrary, I am disposed to preferA Life for the Tsar, althoughRusslanmay perhaps be of greater musical worth. But the elemental force is more perceptible in his earlier opera; the ‘Slavsia’ is overwhelming and gigantic. For this he employed no model. Neither Glück nor Mozart composed anything similar. Astounding, inconceivable!Kamarinskayais also a work of remarkable inspiration. Without intending to compose anything beyond a simple, humorous trifle, he has left us a little masterpiece, every bar of which is the outcome of enormous creative power. Half a century has passed since then, and many Russian symphonic works have been composed; we may even speak of a symphonic school. Well? The germ of all this lies inKamarinskaya, as the oak tree lies in the acorn. For long years to come Russian composers will drink at this source, for it will need much time and much strength to exhaust its wealth of inspiration. Yes! Glinka was a true creative genius!”
Glinka.
“An unheard-of and astonishing apparition in the world of art. A dilettante who played the violin and the piano a little; who concocted a few insipid quadrilles and fantasias upon Italian airs; who tried his hand at more serious musical forms (songs, quartets, sextets, etc.), but accomplished nothing which rose superior to the jejune taste of the thirties; suddenly, in his thirty-fourth year, creates an opera, which for inspiration, originality, and irreproachable technique, is worthy to stand beside all that is loftiest and most profound in musical art! We are still more astonished when we reflect that the composer of this work is the author of theMemoirspublished some twenty years later. The latter give one the impression of a nice, kind, commonplace man, with not much to say for himself. Like a nightmare, the questions continually haunt me: How could such colossal artistic force be united to such emptiness? and how came this average amateur to catch up in a single stride such men as Mozart and Beethoven? Yes, for hehasovertaken them. One may say this without exaggeration of the composer of the‘Slavsia.’ This question may be answered by those who are better fitted than myself to penetrate the mysteries of the artistic spirit which makes its habitation in such fragile and apparently unpromising shrines. I can only say no one loves and appreciates Glinka more than I do. I am no indiscriminate worshipper ofRusslan; on the contrary, I am disposed to preferA Life for the Tsar, althoughRusslanmay perhaps be of greater musical worth. But the elemental force is more perceptible in his earlier opera; the ‘Slavsia’ is overwhelming and gigantic. For this he employed no model. Neither Glück nor Mozart composed anything similar. Astounding, inconceivable!Kamarinskayais also a work of remarkable inspiration. Without intending to compose anything beyond a simple, humorous trifle, he has left us a little masterpiece, every bar of which is the outcome of enormous creative power. Half a century has passed since then, and many Russian symphonic works have been composed; we may even speak of a symphonic school. Well? The germ of all this lies inKamarinskaya, as the oak tree lies in the acorn. For long years to come Russian composers will drink at this source, for it will need much time and much strength to exhaust its wealth of inspiration. Yes! Glinka was a true creative genius!”
To N. F. Von Meck.“Frolovskoe,July17th(29th), 1888.“.... My name-day was a great interruption to my work, for my visitors arrived the day before and only left yesterday evening. My guests were Laroche and his wife, Jurgenson, Albrecht, Siloti, and Zet,[132]who arrived quite unexpectedly from Petersburg. The last named (who has been highly recommended to me) has been my concert agent since May.... He is a great admirer of my work, and cares less to make money out of his position than to forward my interests in Europe and America....”
To N. F. Von Meck.
“Frolovskoe,July17th(29th), 1888.
“.... My name-day was a great interruption to my work, for my visitors arrived the day before and only left yesterday evening. My guests were Laroche and his wife, Jurgenson, Albrecht, Siloti, and Zet,[132]who arrived quite unexpectedly from Petersburg. The last named (who has been highly recommended to me) has been my concert agent since May.... He is a great admirer of my work, and cares less to make money out of his position than to forward my interests in Europe and America....”
At this time Tchaikovsky received an offer from an American impresario offering him a three months’ concert tour at a fee of 25,000 dollars. The sum appeared to the Russian composer fabulous in its amount. “Should this really come off,” he says, “I could realise my long-cherished wish to become a landowner.”
Diary.“July13th(25th), 1888.“Dargomijsky? Certainly he was a gifted man. But never was the type of amateur musician more strikingly realised than in him. Glinka, too, was a dilettante, but his immense inspiration served him as a defence from amateurishness. Except for his fatalMemoirs, we should not have realised his dilettantism. It is another matter with Dargomijsky: his amateurishness lies in his creative work, in his very forms themselves. To possess an average talent, to be weak in technique and yet to pose as aninnovator—is pure amateurishness. When, at the close of his life, Dargomijsky composedThe Stone Guest, he seriously believed he had overturned the old foundations and erected something new and colossal in their place. A piteous error; I saw him in this last period of his life, and in view of his suffering condition (he had a heart disease) there could be no question of a discussion. But I have never come in contact with anything more antipathetic and false than this unsuccessful attempt to dragtruthinto this sphere of art, in which everything is based upon falsehood, and “truth,” in the everyday sense of the word, is not required at all. Dargomijsky was nomaster(he had not a tenth part of Glinka’s mastership). He possessed a certain originality and piquancy. He was most successful incuriosities. But artistic beauty does not lie in this direction, as so many of us think.“I might speak personally of Dargomijsky (I frequently saw him in Moscow at the time of his success there), but I prefer not to recall my acquaintance. He was very cutting and unjust in his judgments (when he raged against the brothers Rubinstein, for instance), but was pleased to talk of himself in a tone of self-laudation. During hisfatal illness he became far more kindly disposed, and showed much cordial feeling to his younger colleagues. I will only keep this memory of him. Unexpectedly he showed me great sympathy (in respect of my operaThe Voyevode).[133]Apparently he did not believe the report that I had hissed at the first performance of hisEsmeraldain Moscow.”
Diary.
“July13th(25th), 1888.
“Dargomijsky? Certainly he was a gifted man. But never was the type of amateur musician more strikingly realised than in him. Glinka, too, was a dilettante, but his immense inspiration served him as a defence from amateurishness. Except for his fatalMemoirs, we should not have realised his dilettantism. It is another matter with Dargomijsky: his amateurishness lies in his creative work, in his very forms themselves. To possess an average talent, to be weak in technique and yet to pose as aninnovator—is pure amateurishness. When, at the close of his life, Dargomijsky composedThe Stone Guest, he seriously believed he had overturned the old foundations and erected something new and colossal in their place. A piteous error; I saw him in this last period of his life, and in view of his suffering condition (he had a heart disease) there could be no question of a discussion. But I have never come in contact with anything more antipathetic and false than this unsuccessful attempt to dragtruthinto this sphere of art, in which everything is based upon falsehood, and “truth,” in the everyday sense of the word, is not required at all. Dargomijsky was nomaster(he had not a tenth part of Glinka’s mastership). He possessed a certain originality and piquancy. He was most successful incuriosities. But artistic beauty does not lie in this direction, as so many of us think.
“I might speak personally of Dargomijsky (I frequently saw him in Moscow at the time of his success there), but I prefer not to recall my acquaintance. He was very cutting and unjust in his judgments (when he raged against the brothers Rubinstein, for instance), but was pleased to talk of himself in a tone of self-laudation. During hisfatal illness he became far more kindly disposed, and showed much cordial feeling to his younger colleagues. I will only keep this memory of him. Unexpectedly he showed me great sympathy (in respect of my operaThe Voyevode).[133]Apparently he did not believe the report that I had hissed at the first performance of hisEsmeraldain Moscow.”
To N. F. von Meck.“Frolovskoe,July25th(August6th), 1888.“ ... The real summer weather has not lasted long, but how I enjoyed it! My flowers, which I feared would die, have nearly all recovered, and some have blossomed luxuriantly. I cannot tell you what a pleasure it has been to watch them grow and to see daily—even hourly—new blossoms coming out. Now I have as many as I want. When I am quite old, and past composing, I shall devote myself to growing flowers. I have been working with good results, and half the symphony is orchestrated. My age—although not very advanced—begins to tell. I get very tired now, and can no longer play or read at night as I used. Lately I miss the chance of a game ofvint[134]in the evenings; it is the one thing that rests and distracts me.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Frolovskoe,July25th(August6th), 1888.
“ ... The real summer weather has not lasted long, but how I enjoyed it! My flowers, which I feared would die, have nearly all recovered, and some have blossomed luxuriantly. I cannot tell you what a pleasure it has been to watch them grow and to see daily—even hourly—new blossoms coming out. Now I have as many as I want. When I am quite old, and past composing, I shall devote myself to growing flowers. I have been working with good results, and half the symphony is orchestrated. My age—although not very advanced—begins to tell. I get very tired now, and can no longer play or read at night as I used. Lately I miss the chance of a game ofvint[134]in the evenings; it is the one thing that rests and distracts me.”
To N. F. von Meck.“Frolovskoe,August14th(26th), 1888.“Again I am not feeling well ... but I am so glad to have finished the Symphony (No. 5) that I can forget all physical ailments. I have made no settled plans for the winter. There is a prospect of a tour in Scandinavia and also in America. But nothing is decided as to the first, and the second seems so fantastic that I can hardly give it a serious thought. I have promised to conduct at Dresden, Berlin, and Prague.... In November I am to conduct a whole series of my works in Petersburg (at the Philharmonic), including the new Symphony. They also want me in Tiflis, but I do not know if it will come off.”IV1888-1889The winter season 1888-1889 opened with much arduous work and personal anxiety. Tchaikovsky’s niece, Vera, the second daughter of his sister Alexandra Davidov, was in a dying condition, and his old friend Hubert was suffering from a terrible form of intermittent fever. One gleam of joy shone through the darkness. His Moscow friends, Taneiev in particular, were delighted with the Fifth Symphony, a work which had filled Tchaikovsky himself with gloomy misgivings. At this time he was engaged in an active correspondence upon music and poetry with the Grand Duke Constantine.
To N. F. von Meck.
“Frolovskoe,August14th(26th), 1888.
“Again I am not feeling well ... but I am so glad to have finished the Symphony (No. 5) that I can forget all physical ailments. I have made no settled plans for the winter. There is a prospect of a tour in Scandinavia and also in America. But nothing is decided as to the first, and the second seems so fantastic that I can hardly give it a serious thought. I have promised to conduct at Dresden, Berlin, and Prague.... In November I am to conduct a whole series of my works in Petersburg (at the Philharmonic), including the new Symphony. They also want me in Tiflis, but I do not know if it will come off.”
The winter season 1888-1889 opened with much arduous work and personal anxiety. Tchaikovsky’s niece, Vera, the second daughter of his sister Alexandra Davidov, was in a dying condition, and his old friend Hubert was suffering from a terrible form of intermittent fever. One gleam of joy shone through the darkness. His Moscow friends, Taneiev in particular, were delighted with the Fifth Symphony, a work which had filled Tchaikovsky himself with gloomy misgivings. At this time he was engaged in an active correspondence upon music and poetry with the Grand Duke Constantine.
To the Grand Duke Constantinovich.“Frolovskoe,September21st(October3rd), 1888.“ ... Fet[135]is quite right in asserting, as you say he does, that ‘all which has no connection with the leading idea should be cast aside, even though it is beautiful and melodious.’ But we must not deduce from this that only what is terse can be highly artistic; therefore, to my mind, Fet’s rule that an exemplary lyric must not exceed a certain limit is entirely wrong. All depends upon the nature of the leading idea and the poet who expresses it. Of two equally inspired poets, or composers, one, by reason of his artistic temperament, will show greater breadth of treatment, more complexity in the development of the leading idea, and a greater inclination for luxuriant and varied elaboration; while the other will express himself concisely. All that is good, but superfluous, we call ‘padding.’ Can we say we find this padding in Beethoven’s works? I think most decidedly we do not. On the contrary, it is astonishing how equal, how significant and forceful, this giant among musicians always remains, andhow well he understands the art of curbing his vast inspiration, and never loses sight of balanced and traditional form. In his last quartets, which were long regarded as the productions of an insane and deaf man, there seems to be some padding, until we have studied them thoroughly. But ask someone who is well acquainted with these works, a member of a quartet who plays them frequently, if there is anything superfluous in the C♯ minor Quartet. Unless he is an old-fashioned musician, brought up upon Haydn, he would be horrified at the idea of abbreviating or cutting any portion of it. In speaking of Beethoven I was not merely thinking of his latest period. Could anyone show me a bar in theEroica, which is very lengthy, that could be called superfluous, or any portion that could really be omitted as padding? So everything that is long is nottoo long; many words do not necessarily mean empty verbiage, and terseness is not, as Fet asserts, the essential condition of beautiful form. Beethoven, who in the first movement of theEroicahas built up a superb edifice out of an endless series of varied and ever new architectural beauties upon so simple and seemingly poor a subject, knows on occasion how to surprise us by the terseness and exiguity of his forms. Do you remember the Andante of the Pianoforte Concerto in B flat? I know nothing more inspired than this short movement; I go cold and pale every time I hear it.“Of course, the classical beauty of Beethoven’s predecessors, and their art of keeping within bounds, is of the greatest value. It must be owned, however, that Haydn had no occasion to limit himself, for he had not an inexhaustible wealth of material at command. As to Mozart, had he lived another twenty years, and seen the beginning of our century, he would certainly have sought to express his prodigal inspiration in forms less strictly classical than those with which he had to content himself.“While defending Beethoven from the charge of long-windedness, I confess that the post-Beethoven music offers many examples of prolixity which is often carried so far as to become mere padding. That inspired musician who expresses himself with such breadth, majesty, force, and even brusqueness, has much in common with MichaelAngelo. Just as the Abbé Bernini has flooded Rome with his statues, in which he strives to imitate the style of Michael Angelo, without possessing his genius, and makes a caricature of what is really powerful in his model, so Beethoven’s musical style has been copied over and over again. Is not Brahms in reality a caricature of Beethoven? Is not this pretension to profundity and power detestable, because the content which is poured into the Beethoven mould is not really of any value? Even in the case of Wagner (who certainly has genius), wherever he oversteps the limits it is the spirit of Beethoven which prompts him.“As regards your humble servant, I have suffered all my life from my incapacity to grasp form in general. I have fought against this innate weakness, not—I am proud to say—without good results; yet I shall go to my grave without having produced anything really perfect in form. There is frequentlypaddingin my works; to an experienced eye the stitches show in my seams, but I cannot help it. As toManfred, I may tell you—without any desire to pose as being modest—that this is a repulsive work, and I hate it, with the exception of the first movement. I intend shortly, with the consent of my publisher, to destroy the remaining three movements and make a symphonic poem out of this long-winded symphony. I am sure myManfredwould then please the public. I enjoyed writing the first movement, whereas the others were the outcome of strenuous effort, in consequence of which—as far as I remember—I felt quite ill for a time. I should not think of being offended at what your Highness says aboutManfred. You are quite right and even too indulgent.”
To the Grand Duke Constantinovich.
“Frolovskoe,September21st(October3rd), 1888.
“ ... Fet[135]is quite right in asserting, as you say he does, that ‘all which has no connection with the leading idea should be cast aside, even though it is beautiful and melodious.’ But we must not deduce from this that only what is terse can be highly artistic; therefore, to my mind, Fet’s rule that an exemplary lyric must not exceed a certain limit is entirely wrong. All depends upon the nature of the leading idea and the poet who expresses it. Of two equally inspired poets, or composers, one, by reason of his artistic temperament, will show greater breadth of treatment, more complexity in the development of the leading idea, and a greater inclination for luxuriant and varied elaboration; while the other will express himself concisely. All that is good, but superfluous, we call ‘padding.’ Can we say we find this padding in Beethoven’s works? I think most decidedly we do not. On the contrary, it is astonishing how equal, how significant and forceful, this giant among musicians always remains, andhow well he understands the art of curbing his vast inspiration, and never loses sight of balanced and traditional form. In his last quartets, which were long regarded as the productions of an insane and deaf man, there seems to be some padding, until we have studied them thoroughly. But ask someone who is well acquainted with these works, a member of a quartet who plays them frequently, if there is anything superfluous in the C♯ minor Quartet. Unless he is an old-fashioned musician, brought up upon Haydn, he would be horrified at the idea of abbreviating or cutting any portion of it. In speaking of Beethoven I was not merely thinking of his latest period. Could anyone show me a bar in theEroica, which is very lengthy, that could be called superfluous, or any portion that could really be omitted as padding? So everything that is long is nottoo long; many words do not necessarily mean empty verbiage, and terseness is not, as Fet asserts, the essential condition of beautiful form. Beethoven, who in the first movement of theEroicahas built up a superb edifice out of an endless series of varied and ever new architectural beauties upon so simple and seemingly poor a subject, knows on occasion how to surprise us by the terseness and exiguity of his forms. Do you remember the Andante of the Pianoforte Concerto in B flat? I know nothing more inspired than this short movement; I go cold and pale every time I hear it.
“Of course, the classical beauty of Beethoven’s predecessors, and their art of keeping within bounds, is of the greatest value. It must be owned, however, that Haydn had no occasion to limit himself, for he had not an inexhaustible wealth of material at command. As to Mozart, had he lived another twenty years, and seen the beginning of our century, he would certainly have sought to express his prodigal inspiration in forms less strictly classical than those with which he had to content himself.
“While defending Beethoven from the charge of long-windedness, I confess that the post-Beethoven music offers many examples of prolixity which is often carried so far as to become mere padding. That inspired musician who expresses himself with such breadth, majesty, force, and even brusqueness, has much in common with MichaelAngelo. Just as the Abbé Bernini has flooded Rome with his statues, in which he strives to imitate the style of Michael Angelo, without possessing his genius, and makes a caricature of what is really powerful in his model, so Beethoven’s musical style has been copied over and over again. Is not Brahms in reality a caricature of Beethoven? Is not this pretension to profundity and power detestable, because the content which is poured into the Beethoven mould is not really of any value? Even in the case of Wagner (who certainly has genius), wherever he oversteps the limits it is the spirit of Beethoven which prompts him.
“As regards your humble servant, I have suffered all my life from my incapacity to grasp form in general. I have fought against this innate weakness, not—I am proud to say—without good results; yet I shall go to my grave without having produced anything really perfect in form. There is frequentlypaddingin my works; to an experienced eye the stitches show in my seams, but I cannot help it. As toManfred, I may tell you—without any desire to pose as being modest—that this is a repulsive work, and I hate it, with the exception of the first movement. I intend shortly, with the consent of my publisher, to destroy the remaining three movements and make a symphonic poem out of this long-winded symphony. I am sure myManfredwould then please the public. I enjoyed writing the first movement, whereas the others were the outcome of strenuous effort, in consequence of which—as far as I remember—I felt quite ill for a time. I should not think of being offended at what your Highness says aboutManfred. You are quite right and even too indulgent.”
To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich.“Frolovskoe,October2nd(14th), 1888.“Your Imperial Highness,—Just returned from Moscow, where I have seen my poor friend Hubert laid in his grave, and still depressed by my painful experiences, I hasten to answer your letter.... Your Highness must bear in mind that although one art stands in close relationshipto the other, at the same time each has its peculiarities. As such we must regard the “verbal repetitions” which are only possible to a limited extent in literature, but are a necessity in music. Beethoven never repeats an entire movement without a special reason, and, in doing so, rarely fails to introduce something new; but he has recourse to this characteristic method in his instrumental music, knowing that his idea will only be understood after many statements. I cannot understand why your Highness should object to the constant repetition of the subject in the Scherzo of the Ninth Symphony. I always want to hear it over and over again. It is so divinely beautiful, strong, original, and significant! It is quite another matter with the prolixity and repetitions of Schubert, who, with all his genius, constantly harps upon his central idea—as in the Andante of the C major Symphony. Beethoven develops his first idea fully, in its entirety, before repeating it; Schubert seems too indolent to elaborate his first idea, and—perhaps from his unusual wealth of thematic material—hurries on the beginning to arrive at something else. It seems as though the stress of his inexhaustible inspiration hindered him from the careful elaboration of the theme, in all its depth and delicacy of workmanship.“God grant I may be in Petersburg to hear the performance of Mozart’sRequiemin the Marble Palace. I hope your Highness will permit me to be present at this concert. TheRequiemis one of the most divine creations, and we can but pity those who are unable to appreciate it.“As regards Brahms, I cannot at all agree with your Highness. In the music of this master (it is impossible to deny his mastery) there is something dry and cold which repulses me. He has very little melodic invention. He never speaks out his musical ideas to the end. Scarcely do we hear an enjoyable melody, than it is engulfed in a whirlpool of unimportant harmonic progressions and modulations, as though the special aim of the composer was to be unintelligible. He excites and irritates our musical senses without wishing to satisfy them, and seems ashamed to speak the language which goes straight to the heart. His depth is not real:c’est voulu. He has setbefore himself, once and for all, the aim of trying to be profound, but he has only attained to an appearance of profundity. The gulf is void. It is impossible to say that the music of Brahms is weak and insignificant. His style is invariably lofty. He does not strive after mere external effects. He is never trivial. All he does is serious and noble, but he lacks the chief thing—beauty. Brahms commands our respect. We must bow before the original purity of his aspirations. We must admire his firm and proud attitude in the face of triumphant Wagnerism; but to love him is impossible. I, at least, in spite of much effort, have not arrived at it. I will own that certain early works (the Sextet in B♭) please me far more than those of a later period, especially the symphonies, which seem to me indescribably long and colourless.... Many Brahms lovers (Bülow, among others) predicted that some day I should see clearer, and learn to appreciate beauties which do not as yet appeal to me. This is not unlikely, for there have been such cases. I do not know theGerman Requiemwell. I will get it and study it. Who knows?—perhaps my views on Brahms may undergo a complete revolution.”
To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich.
“Frolovskoe,October2nd(14th), 1888.
“Your Imperial Highness,—Just returned from Moscow, where I have seen my poor friend Hubert laid in his grave, and still depressed by my painful experiences, I hasten to answer your letter.... Your Highness must bear in mind that although one art stands in close relationshipto the other, at the same time each has its peculiarities. As such we must regard the “verbal repetitions” which are only possible to a limited extent in literature, but are a necessity in music. Beethoven never repeats an entire movement without a special reason, and, in doing so, rarely fails to introduce something new; but he has recourse to this characteristic method in his instrumental music, knowing that his idea will only be understood after many statements. I cannot understand why your Highness should object to the constant repetition of the subject in the Scherzo of the Ninth Symphony. I always want to hear it over and over again. It is so divinely beautiful, strong, original, and significant! It is quite another matter with the prolixity and repetitions of Schubert, who, with all his genius, constantly harps upon his central idea—as in the Andante of the C major Symphony. Beethoven develops his first idea fully, in its entirety, before repeating it; Schubert seems too indolent to elaborate his first idea, and—perhaps from his unusual wealth of thematic material—hurries on the beginning to arrive at something else. It seems as though the stress of his inexhaustible inspiration hindered him from the careful elaboration of the theme, in all its depth and delicacy of workmanship.
“God grant I may be in Petersburg to hear the performance of Mozart’sRequiemin the Marble Palace. I hope your Highness will permit me to be present at this concert. TheRequiemis one of the most divine creations, and we can but pity those who are unable to appreciate it.
“As regards Brahms, I cannot at all agree with your Highness. In the music of this master (it is impossible to deny his mastery) there is something dry and cold which repulses me. He has very little melodic invention. He never speaks out his musical ideas to the end. Scarcely do we hear an enjoyable melody, than it is engulfed in a whirlpool of unimportant harmonic progressions and modulations, as though the special aim of the composer was to be unintelligible. He excites and irritates our musical senses without wishing to satisfy them, and seems ashamed to speak the language which goes straight to the heart. His depth is not real:c’est voulu. He has setbefore himself, once and for all, the aim of trying to be profound, but he has only attained to an appearance of profundity. The gulf is void. It is impossible to say that the music of Brahms is weak and insignificant. His style is invariably lofty. He does not strive after mere external effects. He is never trivial. All he does is serious and noble, but he lacks the chief thing—beauty. Brahms commands our respect. We must bow before the original purity of his aspirations. We must admire his firm and proud attitude in the face of triumphant Wagnerism; but to love him is impossible. I, at least, in spite of much effort, have not arrived at it. I will own that certain early works (the Sextet in B♭) please me far more than those of a later period, especially the symphonies, which seem to me indescribably long and colourless.... Many Brahms lovers (Bülow, among others) predicted that some day I should see clearer, and learn to appreciate beauties which do not as yet appeal to me. This is not unlikely, for there have been such cases. I do not know theGerman Requiemwell. I will get it and study it. Who knows?—perhaps my views on Brahms may undergo a complete revolution.”