“While defending Beethoven from the charge of long-windedness, I confess that the post-Beethoven music offers many examples of prolixity which is often carried so far as to become mere padding. That inspired musician who expresses himself with such breadth, majesty, force, and even brusqueness, has much in common with Michael Angelo. Just as the Abbé Bernini has flooded Rome with his statues, in which he strives to imitate the style of Michael Angelo, without possessing his genius, and makes a caricature of what is really powerful in his model, so Beethoven’s musical style has been copied over and over again. Is not Brahms in reality a caricature of Beethoven? Is not this pretension to profundity and power detestable, because the content which is poured into the Beethoven mould is not really of any value? Even in the case of Wagner (who certainly has genius), wherever he oversteps the limits it is the spirit of Beethoven which prompts him.
“As regards your humble servant, I have suffered all my life from my incapacity to grasp form in general. I have fought against this innate weakness, not—I am proud to say—without good results; yet I shall go to my grave without having produced anything really perfect in form. There is frequently padding in my works; to an experienced eye the stitches show in my seams, but I cannot help it. As to Manfred, I may tell you—without any desire to pose as being modest—that this is a repulsive work, and I hate it, with the exception of the first movement. I intend shortly, with the consent of my publisher, to destroy the remaining three movements and make a symphonic poem out of this long-winded symphony. I am sure my Manfred would then please the public. I enjoyed writing the first movement, whereas the others were the outcome of strenuous effort, in consequence of which—as far as I remember—I felt quite ill for a time. I should not think of being offended at what your Highness says about Manfred. You are quite right and even too indulgent.”
To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich.
“Frolovskoe, October 2nd (14th), 1888.
“Your Imperial Highness,—Just returned from Moscow, where I have seen my poor friend Hubert laid in his grave, and still depressed by my painful experiences, I hasten to answer your letter.... Your Highness must bear in mind that although one art stands in close relationship to the other, at the same time each has its peculiarities. As such we must regard the “verbal repetitions” which are only possible to a limited extent in literature, but are a necessity in music. Beethoven never repeats an entire movement without a special reason, and, in doing so, rarely fails to introduce something new; but he has recourse to this characteristic method in his instrumental music, knowing that his idea will only be understood after many statements. I cannot understand why your Highness should object to the constant repetition of the subject in the Scherzo of the Ninth Symphony. I always want to hear it over and over again. It is so divinely beautiful, strong, original, and significant! It is quite another matter with the prolixity and repetitions of Schubert, who, with all his genius, constantly harps upon his central idea—as in the Andante of the C major Symphony. Beethoven develops his first idea fully, in its entirety, before repeating it; Schubert seems too indolent to elaborate his first idea, and—perhaps from his unusual wealth of thematic material—hurries on the beginning to arrive at something else. It seems as though the stress of his inexhaustible inspiration hindered him from the careful elaboration of the theme, in all its depth and delicacy of workmanship.
“God grant I may be in Petersburg to hear the performance of Mozart’s Requiem in the Marble Palace. I hope your Highness will permit me to be present at this concert. The Requiem is one of the most divine creations, and we can but pity those who are unable to appreciate it.
“As regards Brahms, I cannot at all agree with your Highness. In the music of this master (it is impossible to deny his mastery) there is something dry and cold which repulses me. He has very little melodic invention. He never speaks out his musical ideas to the end. Scarcely do we hear an enjoyable melody, than it is engulfed in a whirlpool of unimportant harmonic progressions and modulations, as though the special aim of the composer was to be unintelligible. He excites and irritates our musical senses without wishing to satisfy them, and seems ashamed to speak the language which goes straight to the heart. His depth is not real: c’est voulu. He has set before himself, once and for all, the aim of trying to be profound, but he has only attained to an appearance of profundity. The gulf is void. It is impossible to say that the music of Brahms is weak and insignificant. His style is invariably lofty. He does not strive after mere external effects. He is never trivial. All he does is serious and noble, but he lacks the chief thing—beauty. Brahms commands our respect. We must bow before the original purity of his aspirations. We must admire his firm and proud attitude in the face of triumphant Wagnerism; but to love him is impossible. I, at least, in spite of much effort, have not arrived at it. I will own that certain early works (the Sextet in B♭) please me far more than those of a later period, especially the symphonies, which seem to me indescribably long and colourless.... Many Brahms lovers (Bülow, among others) predicted that some day I should see clearer, and learn to appreciate beauties which do not as yet appeal to me. This is not unlikely, for there have been such cases. I do not know the German Requiem well. I will get it and study it. Who knows?—perhaps my views on Brahms may undergo a complete revolution.”
To Ippolitov-Ivanov.
“October 27th (November 8th), 1888.
“I cannot possibly give you any definite news as to my journey to Tiflis. It will be two or three weeks, at the earliest, before I know when I shall have to go abroad.... I only know that I will come to Tiflis, even if I am dying. As to my fee, we will not speak of it. Before I take anything from you, something must be there. Let us see how the concert succeeds, and then we can settle how much you shall give me as ‘a tip.’ If it is not a success, I shall accept nothing.”