“Venice, December 3rd (15th), 1877.
“ ... There is one thing in your letter with which I cannot agree in the least—your view of music. I particularly dislike the way in which you compare music with a form of intoxication. I think this is quite wrong. A man has recourse to wine in order to stupefy himself and produce an illusion of well-being and happiness. But this dream costs him very dear! The reaction is generally terrible. But in any case wine can only bring a momentary oblivion of all our troubles—no more. Has music a similar effect? Music is no illusion, but rather a revelation. Its triumphant power lies in the fact that it reveals to us beauties we find in no other sphere; and the apprehension of them is not transitory, but a perpetual reconcilement to life. Music enlightens and delights us. It is extremely difficult to analyse and define the process of musical enjoyment, but it has nothing in common with intoxication. It is certainly not a physiological phenomenon. Of course the nerves—therefore to some extent our physical organs—take part in our musical impressions and, in this sense, music gives physical delight: but you must own it is exceedingly difficult to draw a hard-and-fast line between the physical and psychical functions; for instance, thought is a physiological process in so far as it pertains to the functions of the brain. But when all is said and done, this is only a matter of words. If we both look upon the enjoyment of music from opposite points of view, at least one thing is certain: our love of it is equally strong, and that is sufficient for me. I am glad you apply the word divine to the art to which I have dedicated my life.
“In your philosophy I altogether approve your views of good and evil. These views are perhaps rather fatalistic, but full of Christian charity towards your weak and sinful fellow-creatures. You are quite right in saying that it is foolish to expect wisdom and virtue from a person not endowed with these qualities. Here again I hit upon the obvious difference between your personality and mine; I have always compelled myself to regard the evil in man’s nature as the inevitable negation of good. Taking this point of view (which originates, if I am not mistaken, with Spinoza), I ought never to feel anger or hatred. Actually, however, no moment passes in which I am not prepared to lose my temper, to hate and despise my fellow-creatures, just as though I was not aware that each person acts according to the decree of fate. I know that you are a stranger to the least feeling of spite or contempt. You elude the blows aimed at you by others, and never retaliate. In short, you carry your philosophy into your workaday life. I am different; I think one thing and do another.
“I will just give you an instance. I have a friend called Kondratiev; he is a very nice, pleasant fellow, with only one fault—egotism. But he can cloak this failing under such charming, gentlemanly disguises that it is impossible to be angry with him for long. In September, when I was passing through the climax of my suffering in Moscow, and was looking about in a paroxysm of depression for someone to come to my aid, Kondratiev—who was then living on his property in the Government of Kharkov—chanced to write to me one of his usual kindly letters, assuring me of his friendship. I did not want to reveal my state to my brothers at that time, for fear of making them unhappy. My cup of misery was overflowing. I wrote to Kondratiev, telling him of my terrible and hopeless condition. The meaning of my letter, expressed between the lines, was: ‘I am going under, save me! Rescue me, but be quick about it!’ I felt sure that he, a well-to-do and independent man, who was—as he himself declared—ready to make any sacrifice for friendship’s sake, would immediately come to my assistance. Afterwards you know what happened. Not until I was in Clarens did I receive the answer to my letter, which had reached Moscow a week after my flight from thence. In this reply Kondratiev said he was sorry for my plight, and concluded with the following words: ‘Pray, dear friend, pray. God will show you how to overcome your sad condition.’ A cheap and simple way of getting out of the difficulty! To-night I have been reading the third volume of Thackeray’s splendid novel Pendennis. ‘The Major’ is a living type, who frequently reminds me of Kondratiev. One episode recalled my friend so vividly that I sprang out of bed, then and there, and wrote him in terms of mockery which disclosed all my temper. When I read your letter I felt ashamed. I wrote to him again, and asked pardon for my unreasonable anger. See what a good influence you have on me, dear friend! You are my Providence and my comforter!”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Venice, December 9th (21st), 1877.
“I am working diligently at the orchestration of our Symphony, and am quite absorbed in the task.
“None of my earlier works for orchestra have given me such trouble as this; but on none have I expended such love and devotion. I experienced a pleasant surprise when I began to work at it again. At first I was only actuated by a desire to bring the unfinished Symphony to an end, no matter what it cost me. Gradually, however, I fell more and more under the spell of the work, and now I can hardly tear myself away from it.
“Dear Nadejda Filaretovna, I may be making a mistake, but it seems to me this Symphony is not a mediocre work, but the best I have done so far. How glad I am that it is ours, and that, hearing it, you will know how much I thought of you with every bar. Would it ever have been finished but for you? When I was still in Moscow and believed my end to be imminent, I made the following note upon the first sketch, which I had quite forgotten until I came upon it just now: ‘In case of my death I desire this book to be given to N. F. von Meck.’ I wanted you to keep the manuscript of my last composition. Now I am not only well, but have to thank you for placing me in such a position that I can devote myself entirely to my work, and I believe a composition is taking form under my pen which will not be destined to oblivion. I may be wrong, however; all artists are alike in their enthusiasm for their latest work. In any case, I am in good heart now, thanks to the interest of the Symphony. I am even indifferent to the various petty annoyances inflicted upon me by the hotel-keeper. It is a wretched hotel; but I do not want to leave until the question of my brother’s coming is decided.”
To N. F. von Meck.