“This is why I feel so angry with those among us who are ready to perish of hunger in a garret in Paris, and who seem to enjoy running down everything Russian; who can spend their whole lives abroad without regret, on the grounds that there are fewer comforts to be had in Russia. I hate these people; they trample in the mud all that to me is inexpressibly precious and sacred.
“But to return to Italy. It would be a heavy punishment to be condemned to spend my life in this beautiful land; but a temporary sojourn here is another matter. Everything in Italy exercises a charm for one who is travelling for health and relaxation.... This conviction has so gained ground with me that I am beginning to wonder if, instead of going to Switzerland, it might not be better to visit Naples. Naples continually beckons and calls to me! I have not yet definitely decided. It will be wiser to think it over. Of course I shall let you know the result of my reflections in good time.
“I think you must have been amused by the letter in which I told you I was going to give you a brief outline of Schopenhauer’s philosophy. It is evident that you are thoroughly acquainted with the subject, while I have hardly yet reached the essential question: the moral aspect of the matter. It strikes me you make a very just evaluation of his curious theories. His final deductions contain something hurtful to human dignity, something dry and egotistical, which is not warmed by any love towards mankind. However, as I have said, I have not yet got to the root of the matter. In the exposition of his views upon the meaning of intelligence and will, and their interrelationship, there is much truth and ingenuity. Like yourself, I marvel how a man who has never attempted to carry out in his own life his theories of austere asceticism should preach to others the complete renunciation of all the joys of life. In any case the book interests me immensely, and I hope to discuss it further with you after a more thorough study of its contents. Meanwhile, just one observation: how can a man who takes so low a view of human intelligence, and accords it so subordinate a position, display at the same time such self-assurance, such a haughty belief in the infallibility of his own reason, heaping contempt upon the views of others, and regarding himself as the sole arbiter of truth? What a contradiction! To declare at each step that the reasoning faculty in man is something fortuitous, a function of the brain (therefore merely a physiological function), and as weak and imperfect as all human things—and at the same time to set such value upon his own process of reasoning! A philosopher like Schopenhauer, who goes so far as to deny to mankind anything beyond an instinctive desire to perpetuate his species, ought, first of all, to be prepared to acknowledge the complete uselessness of all systems of philosophy. A man who is convinced that non-existence is the best thing of all should endeavour to act up to his conviction; should suppress himself, annihilate himself, and leave those in peace who desire to live. So far, I cannot quite make out whether he really believes himself to be doing mankind a great service by his philosophy. What use is it to prove to us that there can be nothing more lamentable than existence? If the blind instinct of perpetuation is so strong in us, if no power suffices to weaken our love of individual life, why should he poison this life with his pessimism? What end does this serve? It might seem as though he were advocating suicide; but on the contrary, he forbids self-destruction. These are questions which arise in my mind, and to which perhaps I may find answers when I have finished the book.
“You ask me, my friend, if I have known love other than platonic. Yes and no. If the question had been differently put, if you had asked me whether I had ever found complete happiness in love, I should have replied no, and again, no. Besides, I think the answer to this question is to be heard in my music. If, however, you ask me whether I have felt the whole power and inexpressible stress of love, I must reply yes, yes, yes; for often and often have I striven to render in music all the anguish and the bliss of love. Whether I have been successful I do not know, or rather I leave others to judge. I do not in the least agree with you that music cannot interpret the universal nature of love. On the contrary, I think only music is capable of doing so. You say words are necessary. O no! This is just where words are not needed, and where they have no power; a more eloquent language comes in, which is music. Look at the poetical forms to which poets have recourse in order to sing of love; they simply usurp the spheres which belong inseparably to music. Words clothed in poetical forms cease to be mere words; they become partly music. The best proof that love-poetry is really more music than words lies in the fact that such poetry—if you read it carefully from the point of view of words rather than of music—contains very little meaning. (I refer you to the poet Fet, whom I greatly admire.) And yet it has a meaning, and a very profound one, although it is more musical than literary.
“I am delighted that you value instrumental music so highly. Your observation that words often spoil music and degrade it from its highest level is perfectly true. I have often felt this very keenly, and perhaps therein lies the reason why I am more successful with instrumental than with vocal music.”
On February 10th (22nd), Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony was performed for the first time at one of the symphony concerts of the Russian Musical Society. It did not produce, either upon the public or the Press, that impression which the composer had confidently awaited. Most of the papers passed it over in silence, and the remainder only record an indifferent success, both for the work and its performance.
To N. F. von Meck.
“Florence, February 12th (24th), 1878.
“Early yesterday came your telegram, dear friend. It gave me inexpressible pleasure. I was more than anxious to know how you liked the Symphony. Probably you would have given me some friendly sign of your sympathy, even if you had not cared much about it. From the warm tone of your telegram, however, I see that you are satisfied, on the whole, with the work which was written for you. In my heart of hearts I feel sure it is the best thing I have done so far. It seems rather strange that not one of my friends in Moscow has thought it worth while to give me any news of the Symphony, although I sent off the score nearly six weeks ago. At the same time as your telegram I received one signed by Rubinstein and all the others. But it only stated the fact that the work had been very well performed. Not a word as to its merits; perhaps that is intended to be understood. Thank you for your news of the success of ‘my favourite child,’ and the cordial words of your telegram. My thoughts were in the concert-room. I calculated the moment when the opening phrase would be heard, and endeavoured, by following every detail, to realise the effect of my music upon the public. The first movement (the most complicated, but also the best) is probably far too long, and would not be completely understood at the first hearing. The other movements are simple....
“I have not finished Schopenhauer yet, and am saving up my opinions upon it for some future letter. I have been twice with my brother to the Uffizi and Palazzo Pitti. Thanks to Modeste, I took in a good many artistic impressions. He was lost in ecstasy before the masterpieces of Raphael and Leonardo da Vinci. We also visited an exhibition of modern pictures, and discovered a few fine works. If I am not mistaken, the spirit of realism has entered into modern Italian painting. All the pictures I have seen here by painters of the present day are more remarkable for the truthful presentment of details than for profound or poetic thought. The figures are very lifelike, even when the conception is crude. For instance, a page drawing aside a curtain; both page and curtain are so real that one actually expects to see some movement. An old Pompeiian woman, leaning back in an ancient chair and indulging in a burst of Homeric laughter, makes one want to laugh too. All this has no pretensions to profound thought, but the drawing and colouring are astonishingly truthful.