“I shall not set to work upon the pianoforte Concerto, of which I wrote to you, before autumn or early winter. Of course, it will be difficult ever again to find such an ideal interpreter as Nicholas Rubinstein, but there is a pianist whom I had in my mind when I thought of a second Concerto. This is a certain young man, called d’Albert, who was in Moscow last winter, and whom I heard several times in public and at private houses. To my mind he is a pianist of genius, the legitimate successor of Rubinstein. Taneiev—whom I value very highly as musician, teacher, and theorist—would also be a suitable interpreter, if he had just that vein of virtuosity wherein lies the secret of the magic spell which great interpreters exercise over the public.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Skabeievka, July 28th (August 9th), 1884.
“The coachman will have told you our adventures. All went well as far as Kochenovka. There I had supper, and read Sapho by the mingled light of the moon and a lantern, keeping an anxious eye upon the lightning that was flashing all around. At 11.30 p.m. we resumed our journey. The storm came nearer and nearer, until it broke over our heads. Although the constant flashes were mild, and the rain wetted us through, my nerves were overstrained. I was convinced we should miss the train.... Fortunately it was late. Here we had an appalling storm. The sight of it at the hour of sunset, which still glowed here and there through the clouds, was so grand that, forgetful of my fears, I stood by the door to watch it. The rest of the journey was comfortable. I read Sapho, which I do not like.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Skabeievka, July 25th (August 6th), 1884.
“ ... You ask my opinion upon Daudet’s Sapho ... in spite of his great talent, this author has long since dropped out of favour with me. If Daudet had not dedicated the book to his sons in order to display the fact that it contained a lesson and a warning, I should say that he had described the sensuality and depravity of the hero and heroine very simply and picturesquely, with considerable sympathy. But in view of this dedication I feel indignant at the Pharisaism and false virtuousness of the author. In reality he wants to tickle the depraved taste of his public, and describes with cynical frankness the immorality of Parisian life, while pretending to deliver a sermon to his sons. He would have us believe him to be pursuing a moral aim, actuated by the noble aspiration of saving the young from evil ways. In reality his only aim was to produce a book which would please the immoral Parisian public, and to make money by it. One must own that he has attained his object. The book will have a great success, like Zola’s Pot-Bouille, the novels of Guy de Maupassant, and similar works of the new French school. When we reflect upon the group of people, and their way of life, as depicted by the author, we come to the conclusion that under the cloak of verisimilitude and realism the novel is fundamentally false. Sapho is an impossible being; at least I never came across a similar combination of honourable feeling and baseness, of nobility and infamy. Yet the author always sympathises with his heroine, and although, judging from the dedication, she is intended to inspire his sons with horror and repulsion, she must really seem very attractive to them. On the other hand, the virtuous characters in the book could not appeal sympathetically either to Daudet’s sons, or to anyone else; the tiresome Divonne, the hero’s impossible sister, and the rest of them—all these people are quite artificial. Sapho is an overdrawn type of a Parisian cocotte, but there is something true to nature in her. The others are not alive. Most insipid of all is Irène. Any young man reading the book must realise why Sapho succeeded in supplanting her in the heart of her husband Jean. It is here that Daudet’s hypocrisy is so evident, for while we ought to sympathise with Irène as greatly as we despise Sapho, in reality we involuntarily take the part of the depraved heroine. At the same time we cannot deny the great talent and mastery displayed in the book. Two or three dozen pages are wonderfully written.”
XX
Early in September, 1884, Tchaikovsky went to stay at Plestcheievo, a country property which Nadejda von Meck had purchased after circumstances compelled her to sell Brailov. Here he led the kind of life which suited him best—reading, composing, and studying the works of other musicians, in undisturbed quiet and freedom from social duties.
To N. F. von Meck.