“San Remo, January 2nd (14th), 1878.
“ ... Very probably you are quite right in saying that my opera is not effective for the stage. I must tell you, however, I do not care a rap for such effectiveness. It has long been an established fact that I have no dramatic vein, and now I do not trouble about it. If it is really not fit for the stage, then it had better not be performed! I composed this opera because I was moved to express in music all that seems to cry out for such expression in Eugene Oniegin. I did my best, working with indescribable pleasure and enthusiasm, and thought very little of the treatment, the effectiveness, and all the rest. I spit upon ‘effects’! Besides, what are effects? For instance, if Aïda is effective, I can assure you I would not compose an opera on a similar subject for all the wealth of the world; for I want to handle human beings, not puppets. I would gladly compose an opera which was completely lacking in startling effects, but which offered characters resembling my own, whose feelings and experiences I shared and understood. The feelings of an Egyptian Princess, a Pharaoh, or some mad Nubian, I cannot enter into, or comprehend. Some instinct, however, tells me that these people must have felt, acted, spoken, and expressed themselves quite differently from ourselves. Therefore my music, which—entirely against my will—is impregnated with Schumannism, Wagnerism, Chopinism, Glinkaism, Berliozism, and all the other ‘isms’ of our time, would be as out of keeping with the characters of Aïda as the elegant speeches of Racine’s heroes—couched in the second person plural—are unsuited to the real Orestes or the real Andromache. Such music would be a falsehood, and all falsehoods are abhorrent to me. Besides, I am reaping the fruits of my insufficient harvest of book-learning. Had I a wider acquaintance with the literatures of other countries, I should no doubt have discovered a subject which was both suitable for the stage and in harmony with my taste. Unfortunately I am not able to find such things for myself, nor do I know anyone who could call my attention to such a subject as Bizet’s Carmen, for example, one of the most perfect operas of our day. You will ask what I actually require. I will tell you. Above all I want no kings, no tumultuous populace, no gods, no pompous marches—in short, none of those things which are the attributes of ‘grand opera.’ I am looking for an intimate yet thrilling drama, based upon such a conflict of circumstance as I myself have experienced or witnessed, which is capable of touching me to the quick. I have nothing to say against the fantastic element, because it does not restrict one, but rather offers unlimited freedom. I feel I am not expressing myself very clearly. In a word, Aïda is so remote, her love for Radames touches me so little—since I cannot picture it in my mind’s eye—that my music would lack the vital warmth which is essential to good work. Not long since I saw L’Africaine in Genoa. This unhappy African, what she endures! Slavery, imprisonment, death under a poisoned tree, in her last moment the sight of her rival’s triumph—and yet I never once pitied her! But what effects there were: a ship, a battle, all manner of dodges! When all is said and done, what is the use of these effects?... With regard to your remark that Tatiana does not fall in love with Oniegin at first sight, allow me to say—you are mistaken. She falls in love at once. She does not learn to know him first, and then to care for him. Love comes suddenly to her. Even before Oniegin comes on the scene she is in love with the hero of her vague romance. The instant she sets eyes on Oniegin she invests him with all the qualities of her ideal, and the love she has hitherto bestowed upon the creation of her fancy is now transferred to a human being.
“The opera Oniegin will never have a success; I feel already assured of that. I shall never find singers capable, even partially, of fulfilling my requirements. The routine which prevails in our theatres, the senseless performances, the system of retaining invalided artists and giving no chance to younger ones: all this stands in the way of my opera being put on the stage. I would much prefer to confide it to the theatre of the Conservatoire. Here, at any rate, we escape the commonplace routine of the opera, and those fatal invalids of both sexes. Besides which, the performances at the Conservatoire are private, en petit comité. This is more suitable to my modest work, which I shall not describe as an opera, if it is published. I should like to call it ‘lyrical scenes,’ or something of that kind. This opera has no future! I was quite aware of this when I wrote it; nevertheless, I completed it and shall give it to the world if Jurgenson is willing to publish it. I shall make no effort to have it performed at the Maryinsky Theatre; on the contrary, I should oppose the idea as far as possible. It is the outcome of an invincible inward impulse. I assure you one should only compose opera under such conditions. It is only necessary to think of stage effects to a certain extent. If my enthusiasm for Eugene Oniegin is evidence of my limitations, my stupidity and ignorance of the requirements of the stage, I am very sorry; but I can at least affirm that the music proceeds in the most literal sense from my inmost being. It is not manufactured and forced. But enough of Oniegin.
“Now a word as to my latest work, the Fourth Symphony, which must have reached Moscow by now. What will you think of it? I value your opinion highly, and fear your criticism. I know you are absolutely sincere, that is why I think so much of your judgment. I cherish one dream, one intense desire, which I hardly dare disclose, lest it should seem selfish. You must write and play, and play and write, for your own self, and you ought not to waste time on arrangements. There are but two men in Moscow—nay, in the whole world—to whom I would entrust the arrangement of my symphony for four hands. One of these is Klindworth, and the other a certain person who lives in the Oboukhov pereoulok. The latter would be all the dearer to me, if I were not afraid of asking too much. Do not hesitate to refuse my request. Yet if you feel able to say ‘yes,’ I shall jump for joy, although my corpulence would be rather an impediment to such behaviour.”
To K. K. Albrecht.
“San Remo, January 8th (20th), 1878.
“To-day I received your letter. Had it come a fortnight ago I should no doubt have reflected whether in refusing the office of delegate I had done something foolish or wrong. Now, however, the matter is decided, and on mature consideration I am convinced I was wise not to undertake a business so antipathetic to my temperament.... Let us thoroughly consider the question. In what way could I have been useful as a delegate: First, to the cause of Russian music, and secondly, to myself?
“1. As regards Russian music.... What could I have done, under the circumstances, to interest the Parisians in our music? How could I (unless funds were forthcoming) arrange concerts and evenings for chamber music? What a poor figure I should have cut beside the other delegates, who were well supplied with money! But even had funds been forthcoming, what could I have done? Can I conduct anything? I might have beaten time to my own compositions, but I could not fill up the programmes with my works. I must, on the contrary, have put them aside in order to bring forward the compositions of Glinka, Dargomijsky, Serov, Rimsky-Korsakov, Cui, and Borodin. And for all this I should have had to prepare myself, unless I risked bringing disgrace upon Russian music. That I should have disgraced it is certain. Then all Russia would have blamed me afterwards, and with justification. I do not deny the fact that a man of temperament, skill, and talent for organisation could do much. But you know that apart from my speciality I am a useless sort of being. So, you see, I should have been of no service to Russian music, even if the Government had allowed me sufficient money to carry out any plans.
“2. As concerns myself.... I must say that the idea of making the acquaintance of the Parisian musical lights seemed to me the most terrible part of the business. To make myself amiable and pay court to all the ragtag and bobtail is not in my line. Pride shows itself in many different ways. In my case it takes the form of avoiding all contact with people who do not know or appreciate my worth. For instance, it would be unbearable to have to stand humbly before Saint-Saëns and to be honoured by his gracious condescension, when in my heart of hearts I feel myself as far above him as the Alps. In Paris my self-respect (which is very great in spite of my apparent modesty) would suffer hourly from having to mix with all kinds of celebrities who would look down upon me. To bring my works to their notice, to convince them that I am of some consequence—this is impossible to me.... Now let us leave the question of my own reputation and speak of my health. Physically I feel very well, at any rate better than could be expected; but mentally I am still far from sound. In a word, I am on the verge of insanity. I can only live in an atmosphere of complete quiet, quite away from all the turmoil of great cities. In order that you may realise how changed I am, let me tell you that now I spit—yes, spit upon the thought of all success or notoriety abroad. I beg and pray one thing only: to be let alone. I would gladly be dropped in some remote desert, if I could thus avoid contact with my fellow-men.... I cannot live without work, and when I can no longer compose I shall occupy myself with other musical matters. But I will not lift a finger to push my works in the world, because I do not care about it one way or the other. Anyone can play or sing my works if they please; if no one pleases—it is all the same to me, for, as I tell you, I spit, spit, spit upon the whole business!!! Once again, I repeat: were I rich I should live in complete seclusion from the world and only occasionally visit Moscow, to which I am deeply attached.... I am grieved, my dear Karl, that you are vexed with me. But listen: I have learnt from bitter experience that we cannot do violence to our nature without being punished for it. My whole self, every nerve, every fibre in me, protests against undertaking this post of delegate, and I subscribe to this protest.
“Karl, I recommend to you most highly my latest work. I mean my symphony. Feel kindly towards it, for I cannot be at rest without your praise. You do not guess how I value your opinion. Give Kashkin my best thanks for his letter and show him this one by way of reply, as it will serve for him too. Your warm words about Eugene Oniegin are 1,000,000,000,000 times more to me than the condescension of any Frenchmen. I embrace you both, and also Rubinstein. But as to fame, I spit, spit, yes, spit upon it.”