“I am so pleased with a book that has come into my hands, I cannot put it down. It is nothing less than an excellent rendering of Tacitus into French. He is a great artist.”
About this time the performance of Tchaikovsky’s opera The Oprichnik was forbidden, because the subject was considered too revolutionary in that moment of political agitation. “Je n’ai qu’à m’en féliciter,” wrote the composer on receiving the news, “for I am glad of any hindrance to the performance of this ill_starred opera.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Rome, February 16th (28th), 1880.
“I chose the title of Divertimento for the second movement of my Suite, because it was the first which occurred to me. I wrote the movement without attaching any great importance to it, and only interpolated it in the Suite to avoid rhythmical monotony. I wrote it actually at one sitting, and spent much less time upon it than upon any other movement. As it turns out, this has not hindered it from giving more pleasure than all the rest. You are not the only one who thinks so. It proves for the thousandth time that an author never judges his own works with justice.
“I am most grateful to you for calling Colonne’s attention to my new works, but I must tell you frankly: it would be very disagreeable to me if you were again to repay him in a material form for his attention.... The first time it was very painful that you should have spent a considerable sum of money, although I was glad to feel that, thanks to your devoted friendship, our symphony should be made known to the Paris public. I was grateful for this new proof of your sympathy. But now it would be painful and disgraceful to me to know that Colonne could only see the worth of my compositions by the flashlight of gold. All the same, I am grateful for your recommendation.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Rome, February 18th (March 1st), 1880.
“The Concerto[76] of Brahms does not please me better than any other of his works. He is certainly a great musician, even a Master, but, in his case, his mastery overwhelms his inspiration. So many preparations and circumlocutions for something which ought to come and charm us at once—and nothing does come, but boredom. His music is not warmed by any genuine emotion. It lacks poetry, but makes great pretensions to profundity. These depths contain nothing: they are void. Take the opening of the Concerto, for instance. It is an introduction, a preparation for something fine; an admirable pedestal for a statue; but the statue is lacking, we only get a second pedestal piled upon the first. I do not know whether I have properly expressed the thoughts, or rather feelings, which Brahms’s music awakens in me. I mean to say that he never expresses anything, or, when he does, he fails to express it fully. His music is made up of fragments of some indefinable something, skilfully welded together. The design lacks definite contour, colour, life.
“But I must simply confess that, independent of any definite accusation, Brahms, as a musical personality, is antipathetic to me. I cannot abide him. Whatever he does—I remain unmoved and cold. It is a purely instinctive feeling.”