“ ... The few days spent here have done me a great deal of good. First, I have been able to work a little, so that my brother will take the second scene of the opera—not quite finished—back to Moscow with him. Secondly, I feel much better, although I was not very well yesterday. It is only a slight chill, however. Thirdly, I am quite in love with my beautiful Venice, and have decided to come back here after parting from my brother in Vienna. Do not laugh, for Heaven’s sake, at my uncertainty and vacillation. This time my decision is irrevocable. I have gone so far as to take a very nice apartment in the Riva dei Chiavoni.
“To-morrow I go to Vienna. On my return I will begin to work at the Symphony—our Symphony.
“Do you know what enrages me in Venice?—The vendors of the evening papers. If I go for a walk across the Piazza di San Marco I hear on every side, ‘Il Tempo! La Gazzetta di Venezia! Vittoria dei Turchi!’ This ‘Vittoria dei Turchi’ is shouted every evening. Why do they never cry one of our actual victories? Why do they try to attract customers by fictitious Turkish successes? Can it be that peaceful, beautiful Venice, who once lost her strength in fighting these same Turks, is as full of hatred for Russia as all the rest of Western Europe?
“Beside myself with indignation, I asked one of them, ‘Ma dovè la vittoria?’ It turned out that a Turkish victory was really a reconnaissance, in which the Russians had had about one hundred casualties. ‘Is that a victory?’ I asked him angrily. I could not understand his reply, but he cried no more ‘victories.’ One must acknowledge the amiability, politeness, and obligingness of the Italians. These qualities of theirs strike one very forcibly when one comes direct from Switzerland, where the people are gloomy, unfriendly, and disinclined for a joke. To-day, when I met the same vendor of papers, he greeted me civilly, and instead of calling out, ‘Grande vittoria dei Turchi’—with which words the others were recommending their wares—he began to cry, ‘Gran combattimento a Plevna, vittoria dei Russi!’ I knew he lied, but it pleased me all the same, since it expressed the innate courtesy of a poor man.
“When will it end, this terrible war, in which such unimportant results have to be won at such vast sacrifices? And yet it must be fought out to the end, until the enemy is utterly vanquished. This war cannot and must not be settled by compromises and side issues. One or the other must give in. But how disgraceful it seems to speak of such a life-and-death struggle while sitting in a bright, comfortable, well-lit room, knowing neither hunger nor thirst, and well protected from bad weather and all other physical deprivations and discomforts! From moral and spiritual troubles we are none of us safe. As to my own, I know one remedy and alleviation—my work. But our strength is not always equal to our work. Oh, my God, if I could only find strength and gladness of heart for new works! Just now I can only go on patching up the old ones.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Vienna, November 20th (December 2nd), 1877.
“ ... Yesterday evening found us in Vienna. The journey across the Semmering left a fascinating impression. The weather was fine. On the journey I read and re-read your letter, my dear friend.
“ ... Now it is evident that theoretically you have separated yourself from the Church and from dogmatic belief. I perceive that after years of thought you have framed for yourself a kind of religio-philosophic catechism. But it strikes me you are mistaken in supposing that parallel with the bulwarks of the old, strong faith which you have overthrown, you have raised new ones, so sure and reliable that you can afford to do away entirely with the old lines of defence. Herein lies precisely the sceptic’s tragedy: once he has broken the ties which bind him to traditional belief, he passes from one set of philosophical speculations to another, always imagining he will discover that inexhaustible source of strength, so needful for the battle of life, with which the believer is fully equipped. You may say what you please, but a faith—not that which proceeds from mere deficiency of reasoning power and is simply a matter of routine—but a faith founded on reason and able to reconcile all misconceptions and contradictions arising from intellectual criticism—such a belief is the supreme happiness. A man who has both intellect and faith (and there are many such) is clad, as it were, in a panoply of armour which can resist all the blows of fate. You say you have fallen away from the accepted forms of religion and have made a creed for yourself. But religion is an element of reconciliation. Have you this sense of being reconciled? I think not. For if you had, you would never have written that letter from Como. Do you remember? That yearning, that discontent, that aspiration towards some vague ideal, that isolation from humanity, the confession that only in music—the most ideal of all the arts—could you find any solution of these agitating questions, all proved to me that your self-made religion did not give that absolute peace of mind which is peculiar to those who have found in their faith a ready-made answer to all those doubts which torment a reflective and sensitive nature. And, do you know—it seems to me you only care so much for my music because I am as full of the ideal longing as yourself. Our sufferings are the same. Your doubts are as strong as mine. We are both adrift in that limitless sea of scepticism, seeking a haven and finding none.
“Are not these the reasons why my music touches you so closely? I also think you are mistaken in calling yourself a realist. If we define ‘realism’ as contempt for all that is false and insincere—in life as in art—you are undoubtedly a ‘realist.’ But when we consider that a true realist would never dream of seeking consolation in music, as you do, it is evident you are far more of an idealist. You are only a realist in the sense that you do not care to waste time over sentimental, trivial, and aimless dreams, like so many women. You do not care for phrases and empty words, but that does not mean you are a realist. Impossible! Realism argues a certain limited outlook, a thirst for truth which is too quickly and easily satisfied. A realist does not actually feel eager to comprehend the essential problems of existence; he even denies the need of seeking truth, and does not believe in those who are searching for reconcilement and religion, philosophy, or art. Art—especially music—counts for nothing with the realist, because it is the answer to a question which his narrow intellect is incapable of posing. For these reasons I think you are wrong in declaring you have enrolled under the banner of realism. You say music only produces in you a pleasant, purely physical, sensation. Against this I distinctly protest. You are deceiving yourself. Do you really only care for music in the same way that I enjoy a bottle of wine or a pickled gherkin? Nay, you love music as it should be loved: that is to say, you give yourself up to it with all your soul and let it exercise its magic spell all unconsciously upon your spirit.