To N. F. von Meck.
“Clarens, March 19th (31st), 1878.
“ ... You need not be troubled about my fame abroad, my dear. If I am destined ever to acquire such fame, it will come of its own accord, although in all probability not while I am alive to see it. When you come to think that during my many trips abroad I have never called on influential people, or sent them my compositions, that I have never pushed my reputation in other countries, we must be satisfied with any little success which my works may win. Do you know, all my pianoforte compositions are reprinted in Leipzig, and my songs also, with translations of the words? My principal works (with the exception of the operas) can be procured without difficulty in most of the large towns of France, Germany, and England. I myself bought my Third Symphony, arranged for four hands, and my Third Quartet, in Vienna. I have even come across some transcriptions hitherto unknown to me: the Barcarole for piano (Op. 37a) arranged for violin and piano, the andante from the First Quartet for flute. Brandus, in Paris, keeps all my works in stock. There are many reasons why my symphonic works are so seldom heard of abroad. In the first place I am a Russian, and consequently looked upon with prejudice by every Western European. Secondly—also because I am a Russian—there is something exotic in my music which makes it inaccessible to foreigners. My overture to Romeo and Juliet has been played in every capital, but always without success. In Vienna and Paris it was hissed. A short time ago it met with no better reception in Dresden. In some other towns (London and Hamburg) it was more fortunate, but, all the same, my music has not been included in the standard repertory of Germany and other countries. Among musical circles abroad my name is not unknown. A few men have been specially interested in me, and taken some pains to include my works in their concert programmes; but have generally met with insurmountable obstacles. For instance, Hans Richter, the Bayreuth conductor. In spite of all protests, he put my overture into the programme of one of the eight Philharmonic concerts which he conducts in Vienna. Disregarding its failure, he wished this season to do my Third Symphony; but after one rehearsal the directors of the Philharmonic pronounced the work ‘too Russian,’ and it was unanimously rejected. There is no doubt that I could do a great deal to spread my works abroad if I went the round of all the European capitals, calling upon the ‘big wigs,’ and displaying my wares to them. But I would rather abandon every joy in life. Good Lord! what one must undergo, what wounds to one’s self-respect one must be prepared to receive before one can catch the attention of these gentlemen! I will give you an instance. Supposing I wanted to become known in Vienna: Brahms is the musical lion of Vienna. Consequently, I should have to pay my respects to him. Brahms, the celebrity—and I, the unknown composer. I may tell you, however, without false modesty, that I place myself a good deal higher than Brahms. What could I say to him? If I were an honourable and sincere man I should have to say something of this kind: ‘Herr Brahms, I regard you as an uninspired and pretentious composer, without any creative genius whatever. I do not rate you very highly, and look down upon you with disdain. But you could be of some use to me, so I have come to call upon you.’ But if I were a dishonest man, then I should say exactly the opposite. I cannot adopt either course.
“I need not go into further details. You alone—with the exception of my brothers—can fully enter into my feelings. My friends in Moscow cannot reconcile themselves to my having declined to act as delegate in Paris. They cannot believe that my association with such distinguished names as Liszt (who represents Hungary) and Verdi would not do much to promote my reputation. My dear friend, I have the reputation of being modest. But I will confess to you that my modesty is nothing less than a secret, but immense, amour propre. Among all living musicians there is not one before whom I would willingly lower my crest. At the same time, Nature, who endowed me with such pride, denied me the capacity for showing off my wares. Je ne sais pas me faire valoir. I do not know how to meet fame half-way on my own initiative, and prefer to wait until it comes to me unsought. I have long since resigned myself to the belief that I shall not live to see the general recognition of my talents.
“You speak of Anton Rubinstein. How can I compare myself to him? He is at present the greatest pianist in the world. He combines the personalities of a remarkable virtuoso and a gifted composer, so that the latter is borne as it were upon the shoulders of the former. In my lifetime I shall never attain to a tenth part of what he has accomplished. Now we are on the subject of Rubinstein, let me tell you this: as my teacher, he knew my musical temperament better than anyone else, so that he might have done much to further my reputation abroad. Unfortunately, this ‘great light’ has always treated me with a loftiness bordering on contempt. No one has inflicted such cruel wounds upon my self-esteem as Rubinstein. Externally, he has always been amiable and friendly. But beneath this friendly manner he showed plainly that he did not think me worth a brass farthing! The one ‘big wig’ who has always been most kindly disposed towards me is Bülow. Unluckily, he has been forced almost to abandon his musical career on account of ill_health, and cannot therefore do much more on my behalf. Thanks to him, I am well known in England and America. I have a number of Press notices relating to myself which appeared in these countries, and were sent to me by Bülow.
“You need not worry yourself, my dear. If fame is destined for me, it will come with slow but sure steps. History convinces us that the success which is long delayed is often more lasting than when it comes easily and at a bound. Many a name which resounded through its own generation is now engulfed in the ocean of oblivion. An artist should not be troubled by the indifference of his contemporaries. He should go on working and say all he has been predestined to say. He should know that posterity alone can deliver a true and just verdict. I will tell you something more. Perhaps I accept my modest share with so little complaint because my faith in the judgment of the future is immovable. I have a foretaste during my lifetime of the fame which will be meted out to me when the history of Russian music comes to be written. For the present I am satisfied with what I have already acquired. I have no right to complain. I have met people on my way through life whose warm sympathy for my music more than compensates me for the indifference, misunderstanding, and ill_will of others.”
VII
From S. I. Taneiev to Tchaikovsky.
“March 18th (30th), 1878.
“ ... The first movement of your Fourth Symphony is disproportionately long in comparison with the others; it seems to me a symphonic poem, to which the three other movements are added fortuitously. The fanfare for trumpets in the introduction, which is repeated in other places, the frequent change of tempo in the tributary themes—all this makes me think that a programme is being treated here. Otherwise this movement pleases me.