“The fourth movement. If you can find no reasons for happiness in yourself, look at others. Go to the people. See how they can enjoy life and give themselves up entirely to festivity. A rustic holiday is depicted. Hardly have we had time to forget ourselves in the spectacle of other people’s pleasure, when indefatigable Fate reminds us once more of its presence. Others pay no heed to us. They do not spare us a glance, nor stop to observe that we are lonely and sad. How merry, how glad they all are! All their feelings are so inconsequent, so simple. And will you still say that all the world is immersed in sorrow? Happiness does exist, simple and unspoilt. Be glad in others’ gladness. This makes life possible.
“I can tell you no more, dear friend, about the symphony. Naturally my description is not very clear or satisfactory. But there lies the peculiarity of instrumental music; we cannot analyse it. ‘Where words leave off, music begins,’ as Heine has said.
“It is growing late. I will not tell you anything about Florence in this letter. Only one thing—that I shall always keep a happy memory of this place.
“P.S.—Just as I was putting my letter into the envelope I began to read it again, and to feel misgivings as to the confused and incomplete programme which I am sending you. For the first time in my life I have attempted to put my musical thoughts and forms into words and phrases. I have not been very successful. I was horribly out of spirits all the time I was composing this symphony last winter, and this is a true echo of my feelings at the time. But only an echo. How is it possible to reproduce it in clear and definite language? I do not know. I have already forgotten a good deal. Only the general impression of my passionate and sorrowful experiences has remained. I am very, very anxious to know what my friends in Moscow say of my work.
“Last night I went to the People’s Theatre, and was very much amused. Italian humour is coarse, and lacks grace and delicacy, but it carries everything before it.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Florence, February 20th (March 4th), 1878.
“To-day is the last day but one of the Carnival.... My window is open. I am drinking in with delight the cool night air after a hot spring day. How strange, how odd, but yet how sweet, to think of my dear and distant country! There it is still winter! Probably you are sitting near the stove in your study. Fur-clad figures go to and fro in your house. The silence is unbroken by any sound of wheels, since all conveyances are turned into sleighs. How far we are apart! You amid winter snows, and I in a land where spring is green, and my window stands open at 11 p.m.! And yet I look back with affection to our seasons. I love our long, hard winters. How beautiful it is! How magical is the suddenness of our spring, when it bursts upon us with its first message! I delight in the trickle of melting snow in the streets, and the sense of something life-giving and exhilarating that pervades the atmosphere! With what delight we welcome the first blade of grass, the first sprouting seed, the arrival of the lark and all our summer guests! Here, spring comes by gradual stages, so that we cannot actually fix the time of its awakening.
“Do you remember I once wrote to you from Florence about a boy with a lovely and touching voice? A few days ago I met some street-singers, and inquired about him. They knew him, and promised to bring him to me on the Lung’ Arno at nine o’clock. Punctual to the moment I appeared at the place of meeting. The man who had promised was there with the boy. A curious crowd stood around them. As the numbers increased, I beckoned him aside and led the way into a side street. I had my doubts as to whether it was the same boy. ‘As soon as I begin to sing,’ he said, ‘you will be convinced that I am the same. Give me a silver piece of fifty centimes first.’ These words were spoken in a glorious voice, which seemed to come from his inmost soul. What I felt when he began to sing is beyond all words!
“I wept, I trembled, I was consumed with pure delight. He sang once more, ‘Perchè tradirmi, perchè lasciarmi!’ I do not remember any simple folksong ever having made such an impression upon me. This time the lad sang me a charming new melody, which I intend to make him sing again, so that I may write it down for my own use on some future occasion. I pitied this child. He seems to be exploited by his father and other relatives. Just now, during the Carnival, he is made to sing from morning till night, and will continue to do so until his voice vanishes for good and all.... If he belonged to a respectable family he might have some chance of becoming a great artist. One must live for a time with Italians in order to understand their supremacy in vocal art. Even as I write, I can hear in the distance a wonderful tenor singing some song with all his might. But even when the quality of the voice is not beautiful, every Italian can boast that he is a singer by nature. They all have a true émission (production), and sing from their chests, not from their throats and noses as we do.”