“I am still in Vienna. Yesterday I heard that my servant would leave Moscow on Saturday. Although I have given him the most minute instructions what to do on the journey, I have no idea how he will cross the frontier, not knowing a single word of any foreign language. I fancy there will be many tragic-comic episodes. Sometimes I think it is not very wise to have a Russian servant. And yet—I do not know what I should have done, since I cannot endure complete solitude. Besides which I know it will be a comfort to my brother to feel I am not quite alone. I have seen Wagner’s Walküre. The performance was excellent. The orchestra surpassed itself; the best singers did all within their powers—and yet it was wearisome. What a Don Quixote is Wagner! He expends his whole force in pursuing the impossible, and all the time, if he would but follow the natural bent of his extraordinary gift, he might evoke a whole world of musical beauties. In my opinion Wagner is a symphonist by nature. He is gifted with genius which has wrecked itself upon his tendencies; his inspiration is paralysed by theories which he has invented on his own account, and which, nolens volens, he wants to bring into practice. In his efforts to attain reality, truth, and rationalism he lets music slip quite out of sight, so that in his four latest operas it is, more often than not, conspicuous by its absence. I cannot call that music which consists of kaleidoscopic, shifting phrases, which succeed each other without a break and never come to a close, that is to say, never give the ear the least chance to rest upon musical form. Not a single broad, rounded melody, nor yet one moment of repose for the singer! The latter must always pursue the orchestra, and be careful never to lose his note, which has no more importance in the score than some note for the fourth horn. But there is no doubt Wagner is a wonderful symphonist. I will just prove to you by one example how far the symphonic prevails over the operatic style in his operas. You have probably heard his celebrated Walkürenritt? What a great and marvellous picture! How we actually seem to see these fierce heroines flying on their magic steeds amid thunder and lightning! In the concert-room this piece makes an extraordinary impression. On the stage, in view of the cardboard rocks, the canvas clouds, and the soldiers who run about very awkwardly in the background—in a word, seen in this very inadequate theatrical heaven, which makes a poor pretence of realising the illimitable realms above, the music loses all its powers of expression. Here the stage does not enhance the effect, but acts rather like a wet blanket. Finally I cannot understand, and never shall, why the Nibelungen should be considered a literary masterpiece. As a national saga—perhaps, but as a libretto—distinctly not!
“Wotan, Brünnhilda, Fricka, and the rest are all so impossible, so little human, that it is very difficult to feel any sympathy with their destinies. And how little life! For three whole hours Wotan lectures Brünnhilda upon her disobedience. How wearisome! And with it all, there are many fine and beautiful episodes of a purely symphonic description.
“Yesterday Kotek[55] and I looked through a new symphony by Brahms (No. I in C minor), a composer whom the Germans exalt to the skies. He has no charms for me. I find him cold and obscure, full of pretensions, but without any real depths. Altogether it seems to me Germany is deteriorating as regards music. I believe the French are now coming to the front. Lately I have heard Délibes’ very clever music—in its own style—to the ballet Sylvia, I became acquainted with this music in the pianoforte arrangement some time ago, but the splendid performance of it by the Vienna orchestra quite fascinated me, especially the first part. The Swan Lake is poor stuff compared to Sylvia. Nothing during the last few years has charmed me so greatly as this ballet of Délibes and Carmen.”
To N. F. von Meek.
“Vienna, November 27th (December 9th), 1877.
“Kotek and my brother have gone to the Philharmonic concert, at which my favourite Third Symphony of Schumann is being played. I preferred to remain at home alone. I was afraid I might meet some of the local musicians with whom I am acquainted. If only I came across one, by to-morrow I should have to call on at least ten musical ‘lions’, make their acquaintance, and express my gratitude for their favours. (Last year, without any initiative on my part, my overture Romeo and Juliet was performed here and unanimously hissed.) No doubt I should do much towards making my works known abroad if I went the round of the influential people, paying visits and compliments. But, Lord, how I hate that kind of thing! If you could only hear the offensively patronising tone in which they speak of Russian music! One reads in their faces: ‘Although you are a Russian, my condescension is such that I honour you with my attention.’ God be with them! Last year I met Liszt. He was sickeningly polite, but all the while there was a smile on his lips which expressed the above words pretty plainly. At the present moment, as you will understand, I am less than ever in the mood to be civil to these gentlemen.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Vienna, November 29th (December 10th), 1877.
“My brother only left at a quarter to eleven. I will not go into my feelings; you know what they are. My servant arrived yesterday at five o’clock. I was quite wrong in supposing he would encounter any serious difficulties on account of his ignorance of the language; and equally wrong as to his first impressions of foreign lands. He is, like all Russian peasants, as plucky as he is quick-witted, and knows how to get out of the most difficult situations; consequently he crossed the frontier as easily as though he had been in the habit of making the journey frequently. As to his impressions, he thinks the houses in Vienna far inferior to those in Moscow, and Moscow altogether incomparably more beautiful. The news of the capture of Plevna has made the separation from my brother more bearable. When the waiter brought my early coffee yesterday, with the announcement, ‘Plevna has fallen,’ I nearly embraced him! It seems from the papers as though Austria was not best pleased, and was rather aggrieved at the capitulation of the flower of the Turkish army.”
To N. F. von Meck.