Chapter XXVII: Part VII: I (4)

“DEAR SOUL,--Send me immediately my _Legend_ for chorus, and the
_Liturgy_ and other church works, with the exception of the
Vespers. I must make a selection for the American festival.[155]
Have you the _Children’s Songs_ in Rahter’s edition? I want the
German text for the _Legend_.”

At the close of January Tchaikovsky went to St. Petersburg. Early in February he had to conduct at a concert in aid of the school founded by the Women’s Patriotic League. This annual concert drew a fashionable audience, who only cared for the singing of such stars as Melba and the De Reszkes. Consequently Tchaikovsky’s Third Suite merely served to try their patience.

His reception on the 9th, at the performance of _Hamlet_ (at the Michael Theatre), was equally poor. But he was agreeably surprised at the individual criticisms of his music which reached his ears. “I am not averse from your idea of publishing “the _Hamlet_ music,” he wrote to Jurgenson, “for it pleased, and everyone is delighted with the March.”

Meanwhile the Direction of the Imperial Opera were discussing the opera and ballet which Tchaikovsky had been commissioned to compose. For the former, Herz’s play, _King René’s Daughter_--translated into Russian by Zvanstiev--was chosen; and for the ballet, _Casse-Noisette_ (“The Nut-cracker”). Neither of these subjects awoke in Tchaikovsky that joy of creation he had experienced while composing _The Sleeping Beauty_ and _Pique Dame_. There were several reasons for this. The _Casse-Noisette_ subject did not at all please him. He had chosen _King René’s Daughter_ himself, but he did not know as yet how the libretto would suit him. He was also annoyed with the Direction because they had engaged foreign singers, and were permitting them to sing in French and Italian at the Russian Opera. Thirdly, in view of the American tour, he did not feel master of his time, and really had no idea how he should get through so much music by December, 1891. Finally, he was very deeply mortified.

The source of his vexation lay in the fact that after its thirteenth performance _Pique Dame_ was unexpectedly withdrawn until the autumn, although almost all the tickets had been secured beforehand for at least another ten performances. No definite reason was assigned for this action, which was the outcome of mere caprice on the part of some unknown person. Tchaikovsky’s anxiety was aggravated by the fear that his favourite work might disappear altogether from the repertory. He suspected that its withdrawal was ordered at the desire of the Emperor, who--so he fancied--did not like the opera. Anyone else would have discovered the real reason by the medium of inquiry, but Tchaikovsky was prevented from speaking of it in Petersburg “by pride and fear,” as he wrote to Jurgenson, “lest people should think I was regretting the royalty; and, on their part, the members of the operatic Direction carefully avoided mentioning the subject to me.” After a while he poured out his heart in a letter to Vsievolojsky, who, in reply, entirely reassured him as to his fears. The Emperor, he said, was very pleased with _Pique Dame_, and all that Tchaikovsky composed for the opera in Petersburg awakened a lively interest in the Imperial box. “Personally, I need not ‘lay floral tributes’ before you,” he concludes, “for you know how greatly I admire your talents.... In _Pique Dame_ your dramatic power stands out with startling effect in two scenes: the death of the Countess and Hermann’s madness. I think you should keep to intimate drama and avoid grandiose subjects. _Jamais, au grand jamais, vous ne m’avez impressioné comme dans ces deux tableaux d’un réalisme saissisant._”

Comforted by this letter, Tchaikovsky set to work upon his new ballet, _Casse-Noisette_. “I am working with all my might,” he wrote to his brother from Frolovskoe, “and I am growing more reconciled to the subject. I hope to finish a considerable part of the first act before I go abroad.”

Early in March he left Frolovskoe and travelled to Paris, _viâ_ St. Petersburg.

_To Vladimir Davidov._

“BERLIN, _March_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1891.

“Against this form of home-sickness, that you have hardly
experienced as yet, which is more agonising than anything in this
world, there is but one remedy--to get drunk. Between Eydkuhnen and
Berlin I consumed an incredible amount of wine and brandy;
consequently I slept, though badly.... To-day I am less home-sick,
yet all the while I feel as though some vampire were sucking at my
heart. I have a headache, and feel weak, so I shall spend the night
in Berlin.... After the midday meal I shall take a long walk
through the town and go to a concert where my ‘_1812_’ overture is
being played.

“It is great fun to sit incognito among a strange audience and
listen to one’s own works. I leave to-morrow, and my next letter
will be written from Paris. Bob, I idolise you! Do you remember how
I once told you that the happiness your presence gave me was
nothing compared to all I suffered in your absence? Away from home,
with the prospect of long weeks and months apart, I feel the full
meaning of my affection for you.”

“I had already been in Paris a month when my brother arrived on
March 10th (22nd),” says Modeste Tchaikovsky. “This was the first
time I had seen him abroad, except in a very intimate circle. Now I
saw him as the artist on tour. This period has left an unpleasant
impression on my memory. He had not told me the hour of his
arrival, and I only knew of it when I returned one evening to my
hotel. He was already asleep, and the servants told me he did not
wish to be aroused. This, in itself, was a symptom of an abnormal
frame of mind. As a rule he was eager for the first hour of
meeting. We met the next morning, and he evinced no sign of
pleasure, only wondered how I--who was under no obligation--could
care to stay so long away from Russia. A chilling and gloomy look,
his cheeks flushed with excitement, a bitter laugh upon his
lips--this is how I always remember Peter Ilich during that visit
to Paris. We saw very little of each other; he was continually
occupied either with Colonne, or Mackar, or somebody. Or he sat in
his room surrounded by visitors of all kinds. The real Peter Ilich
only reappeared in the evening when, in the society of Sophie
Menter, Sapellnikov, and Konius--a young violinist in Colonne’s
orchestra, formerly his pupil in Moscow--he rested after the rush
and bustle of the day.”

The concert which Tchaikovsky was to conduct in Paris on March 24th (April 5th) was the twenty-third of Colonne’s series, and the French conductor had relinquished his place for the occasion because he himself was engaged in Moscow. The colossal programme included: (1) the Third Suite, (2) Pianoforte Concerto No. 2 (Sapellnikov), (3) _Sérénade Mélancolique_ (Johann Wolf), (4) Songs, (5) Andante from the First Quartet (arranged for string orchestra), (6) Symphonic Fantasia, _The Tempest_, (7) Slavonic March. The room was crowded, and all the works met with notable success. The Press was also unanimous in its favourable verdict.

But nothing could appease Tchaikovsky’s home-sickness. There still remained twelve days before he sailed from Havre for America. Partly to work at his opera and ballet, partly to have a little rest and freedom, he decided to spend ten days at Rouen. On April 4th Sophie Menter, Sapellnikov, and myself were to meet him there, and see him off the following day from Havre.

This plan was not carried out, however, for on March 29th I received a telegram informing me of the death of our sister Alexandra Davidov.

For some years past, in consequence of a serious illness, which gradually cut her off from her relations with others, this sister had not played so important a part in the life of Peter Ilich. Continually fighting against her malady, sorely tried by the death of her two elder daughters, she could not keep up the same interest as of old in her brother’s existence. Yet he loved her dearly, and she was as essential to his happiness as ever. She, who had been to him a haven and a refuge from all the troubles of life, was still the holiest reliquary of his childhood, his youth, and the Kamenka period of his life; for, together with Nadejda von Meck, she had been his chief support, making him welcome, and bestowing upon him the most affectionate attention.

I was aware that the news of her death would come as a crushing blow to my brother, and felt it imperative to break it to him in person. The same day I set out for Rouen. Peter Ilich was as delighted to see me as though we had not met for ages. It was not difficult to guess at the overwhelming loneliness which he had experienced during his voluntary exile. Apart from the fact that I found it hard to damp his cheerful mood, I became more and more preoccupied with the idea: was it wise to tell him of our loss under the present circumstances? I knew it was too late for him to give up his journey to America. He had already taken his ticket to New York. What would he have done during the long voyage alone, which he already dreaded, had he been overweighted with this grief? In America, distracted by the anxieties of his concerts, the sad news would not come as so great a shock. Therefore, in answer to his question, why had I come, I did not reveal the truth, but simply said that I, too, felt home-sick, and had come to say good-bye before starting for Russia the next day. He seemed almost pleased at my news.... Incomprehensible to others, I understood his satisfaction. He had often said: “Modeste is too closely akin to myself.” In Paris, it vexed him to realise that I did not yearn for our native land. Now that he believed I was content to cut short my stay abroad, he forgave me, and our meeting was as hearty as though we had come together after a long separation. This made it all the more difficult to tell him what had happened, and I returned to Paris after a touching farewell, without having broken the news to him. I had warned our friends in Paris, and there were no Russian newspapers to be had in Rouen. All letters from home were to be addressed to the Hôtel Richepanse, whence I requested that they should be forwarded straight to America.

Firmly convinced that my brother would not receive the melancholy news until he reached New York, I started for St. Petersburg.

But no sooner had his brother left Rouen than Tchaikovsky’s depression reached a climax. First of all he wrote to Vsievolojsky that he could not possibly have the ballet and opera ready before the season of 1892-3; and then he resolved to return to Paris for a couple of days, to distract his anxiety as to the approaching journey.

On his arrival the truth became known to him, and he wrote the following letter to his brother:--

“Modi, yesterday I went to Paris. There I visited the reading-room
in the Passage de l’Opéra, took up the _Novoe Vremya_ and read the
announcement of Sasha’s death. I started up as though a snake had
stung me. Later on I went to Sophie Menter’s and Sapellnikov’s.
What a fortunate thing they were here! I spent the night with them.
To-day I start, _viâ_ Rouen and Le Havre. At first I thought it was
my duty to give up America and go to Petersburg, but afterwards I
reflected that this would be useless. I should have had to return
the 5,000 francs I had received, to relinquish the rest, and lose
my ticket. No, I must go to America. Mentally I am suffering much.
I am very anxious about Bob, although I know from my own experience
that at his age we easily recover from such blows.

“.... For God’s sake write all details to New York. To-day, even
more than yesterday, I feel the absolute impossibility of depicting
in music the ‘Sugar-plum Fairy.’”

XI

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“S.S. ‘LA BRETAGNE,’ ATLANTIC OCEAN,

“_April_ 6_th_ (18_st_), 1891.

“During the voyage I shall keep a diary, and send it to you when I
get to New York. Please take care of it, for I mean to write an
article later on, for which my diary will serve as material.... The
ship is one of the largest and most luxurious. I dined in Le Havre,
walked about a little, and at 10 p.m. made myself comfortable in my
cabin.... There I suddenly felt more miserable than ever.
Principally because I had received no answer to my telegram to
Petersburg. I cannot think why. Probably the usual telegraphic
blunder, but it is very hard to leave without any news.... I curse
this voyage.

“The ship is superb. A veritable floating palace. There are not a
great number of passengers, about eighty in the first class.... At
dinner I sit at a little table with an American family. Very
uncomfortable and wearisome.

“At five o’clock there was a tragic occurrence, which had a
depressing effect upon me and all the other passengers. I was
below, when suddenly a whistle was heard, the ship hove to, and
everyone was greatly excited. A boat was lowered. I went on deck
and heard that a young man, a second-class passenger, had suddenly
taken out his pocket-book, scribbled a few words in haste, thrown
himself overboard and disappeared beneath the waves. A life-belt
was flung to him, and a boat was lowered immediately, which was
watched with the greatest anxiety by all of us. But nothing was to
be seen on the surface of the sea, and after half an hour’s search
we continued our course. In his pocket-book was found thirty-five
francs, and on a sheet of paper a few words hardly decipherable. I
was the first to make them out, for they were written in German,
and all the passengers were French or Americans. ‘_Ich bin
unschuldig, der Bursche weint_ ...’ followed by a few scrawls no
one could read. Afterwards I heard that the young man had attracted
attention by his strange conduct, and was probably insane.

“The weather is beautiful, and the sea quite calm. The ship moves
so quietly that one can hardly believe oneself on the water. We
have just seen the lighthouse at the Lizard. The last sight of land
before we reach New York.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_April_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1891.

“Early this morning the tossing began, and grew gradually worse,
until at times I felt horribly nervous. It was a comfort that most
of the passengers had made the voyage very often, and were not in
the least afraid of going down, as I was, only of being sea-sick. I
was not afraid of that, for I felt no symptoms whatever. The
steward to whom I spoke called it ‘_une mer un peu grosse_.’ What
must ‘_une mer très grosse_’ be like? The aspect of the sea is very
fine, and when I am free from alarm I enjoy watching the grand
spectacle. I am interested in three huge sea-gulls which are
following us. They say they will go with us to Newfoundland. When
do they rest, and where do they spend the night? I read all day,
for there is nothing else to do. Composition goes against the
grain. I am very depressed. When I opened my heart to my
acquaintance, the commercial traveller in the second class, he
replied, ‘Well, at your age it is very natural,’ which hurt my
feelings.... I would rather not say what I feel.... It is for the
last time.... When one gets to my years it is best to stay at home,
close to one’s own folk. The thought of being so far from all who
are dear to me almost kills me. But otherwise I am quite well,
thank God. A ‘miss’ has been singing Italian songs the whole
evening, and her performance was so abominable, such an effrontery,
that I was surprised no one said anything rude to her.”

_To M. Tchaikovsky._

“_April_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1891.

“I had a good night. When everyone had gone to bed I walked for a
long time on deck. The wind went down, and it was quite calm by the
time I went to my cabin. To-day it is sunny, but the wind has been
getting up since midday. There is now a head sea instead of the
waves coming broadside on. But the ship is so big that very few
have been sea-sick. My friendship with the commercial traveller and
his companions grows more intimate. They are very lively, and
entertain me more than the correct and respectable first-class
passengers.... The most interesting of these is a Canadian bishop
with his secretary, who has been to Europe to receive the Pope’s
blessing. Yesterday he celebrated mass in a private cabin, and I
chanced to be present. While I am writing, the ship is beginning to
pitch more, but now I realise it must be so in mid-ocean, and I am
getting used to it.”

“_April_ 9_th_ (21_st_), 1891.

“In the night the ship pitched so that I awoke, and had
palpitations and almost nervous fever. A glass of brandy soon
picked me up and had a calming effect. I put on my overcoat and
went on deck. It was a glorious moonlight night. When I saw that
everything was going on as usual, I realised that there was no
cause for fear.... By morning the wind had dropped. We were in the
Gulf Stream. This was evident, because suddenly it became much
warmer. There are about a hundred emigrants on board, mostly
Alsatians. As soon as the weather improves they give a ball, and it
is amusing to see them dancing to the strains of their concertinas.
These emigrants do not appear at all unhappy. The unsympathetic
lady who sits near me at table is the wife of a member of the
Boston orchestra. Consequently to-day the conversation turned upon
music. She related some interesting things about the Boston
concerts and musical life there.

“To-day we passed a few sailing vessels, and a huge whale which
sent up a spout of water into the air.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_April_ 10_th_ (22_nd_), 1891.

“I believed I was quite immune from sea-sickness. It appears that I
am not. Last night the weather got worse and worse. When I got up
at seven a.m. it was so bad, and the sea so rough, that I enjoyed
watching it, in spite of the huge ocean waves. It continued to blow
until two o’clock, when it was so terrible that I expected every
moment the ship would go down. Of course there was really no
question whatever of our sinking. Not only the captain, but the
sailors and all the stewards took it as a matter of course. But to
me, who only know the sea from the Mediterranean, it was like hell
let loose. Everything cracked and groaned. One minute we were
tossed up to the clouds, the next we sank into the depths. It was
impossible to go on deck, for the wind almost blew one
overboard--in short, it was terrible. Most of the passengers were
ill, but some enjoyed it, and even played the piano, arranged
card-parties, etc. I had no appetite for breakfast, afterwards I
felt _very uncomfortable_, and at dinner I could not bear the sight
of the food. I have not really been ill, but I have experienced
disagreeable sensations. It is impossible to sleep. _Brandy_ and
_coffee_ are the only nourishment I have taken to-day.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_April_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1891.

“The night was horrible. Towards morning the weather improved, and
remained bearable until four o’clock. Then came a fresh misery. As
we approached the ‘sand banks’ of Newfoundland we passed into a
belt of dense fog--which seems the usual experience here. This is
the thing most dreaded at sea, because a collision, even with a
small sailing vessel, may sink the ship. Our speed was considerably
slackened, and every few seconds the siren was heard; a machine
which emits a hideous roar, like a gigantic tiger. It gets terribly
on one’s nerves.... Now the people on board have discovered who I
am, and amiabilities, compliments, and conversations have begun. I
can never walk about by myself. Besides, they press me to play. I
refuse, but apparently it will never end until I have played
something on the wretched piano.... The fog is lifting, but the
rolling is beginning again.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“_April_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1891.

“I absolutely cannot write. Since yesterday evening I have been a
martyr. It is blowing a fearful gale. They say it was predicted by
the Meteorological Observatory. It is horrible! Especially to me, a
novice. They say it will last till we get to New York. I suffer as
much mentally as physically; simply from fright and anxiety.”

“_April_ 13_th_ (25_th_), 1891.

“After writing the above lines I went into the smoking-room. Very
few passengers were there, and they sat idle, with gloomy, anxious
faces.... The gale continually increased. There was no thought of
lying down. I sat in a corner of the sofa in my cabin and tried not
to think about what was going on; but that was impossible, for the
straining, creaking, and shivering of the vessel, and the howling
of the wind outside, could not be silenced. So I sat on, and what
passed through my mind I cannot describe to you. Unpleasant
reflections. Presently I noticed that the horrible shocks each
time the screw was lifted out of the water came at longer
intervals, the wind howled less. Then I fell asleep, still sitting
propped between my trunk and the wall of the cabin.... In the
morning I found we had passed through the very centre of an
unusually severe storm, such as is rarely experienced. At two
o’clock we met the pilot who had long been expected. The whole bevy
of passengers turned out to see him waiting for us in his tiny
boat. The ship hove to, and we took him on board. There are only
about twenty-four hours left. In consequence of the gale we are a
few hours late. I am very glad the voyage is nearing its end: I
simply could not bear to remain any longer on board ship. I have
decided to return from New York by a German liner on April 30th
(May 12th). By May 10th (22nd), or a little later, I shall be in
Petersburg again, D.V.”

XII

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“NEW YORK, _April_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1891.

“The remainder of the journey was happily accomplished. The nearer
we came to New York, the greater grew my fear and home-sickness,
and I regretted ever having undertaken this insane voyage. When all
is over I may look back to it with pleasure, but at present it is
not without suffering. Before we reached New York--endless
formalities with passports and Customs. A whole day was spent in
answering inquiries. At last we landed at 5 p.m. I was met by four
very amiable gentlemen and a lady, who took me straight to the
Hotel Normandie. Here I explained to Mr. Morris Reno[156] that I
should leave on the 12th. He said that would not be feasible,
because an extra concert had been fixed for the 18th, of which Wolf
had not said a word to me. After all these people had gone, I began
to walk up and down my rooms (I have two) and shed many tears. I
declined their invitations to dinner and supper, and begged to be
left to myself for to-night.

“After a bath, I dressed, dined against my inclination, and went
for a stroll down Broadway. An extraordinary street! Houses of one
and two stories alternate with some nine-storied buildings. Most
original. I was struck with the number of nigger faces I saw. When
I got back I began crying again, and slept like the dead, as I
always do after tears. I awoke refreshed, but the tears are always
in my eyes.”

_Diary._

“_Monday_, _April_ 15_th_ (27_th_).

“Mayer[157] was my first visitor. The cordial friendliness of this
pleasant German astonished and touched me. For, being the head of a
pianoforte firm, he had no interest in paying attentions to a
musician who is not a pianist. Then a reporter appeared, and I was
very thankful for Mayer’s presence. Many of his questions were very
curious. Reno next arrived, bringing an interesting friend with
him. Reno told me I was expected at the rehearsal. After we had got
rid of the interviewer we went on foot to the music hall.[158] A
magnificent building. We got to the rehearsal just at the end of
Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Damrosch[159](who was conducting
without his coat) appeared very pleasant. I wanted to speak to him
at the finish of the Symphony, but had to wait and answer the
cordial greetings of the orchestra. Damrosch made a little speech.
More ovations. I could only rehearse the first and third movements
of the First Suite. The orchestra is excellent. After the rehearsal
I breakfasted with Mayer, who then took me up Broadway, helped me
to buy a hat, presented me with a hundred cigarettes, showed me the
very interesting Hoffman Bar, which is decorated with the most
beautiful pictures, statues and tapestries, and finally brought me
home. I lay down to rest, completely exhausted. Later on I dressed,
for I was expecting Reno, who soon turned up. I tried to persuade
him to let me give up Philadelphia and Baltimore, but he did not
seem inclined to grant my request. He took me to his house and
introduced me to his wife and daughters, who are very nice.
Afterwards he went with me to Damrosch’s. A year ago Damrosch
married the daughter of a very rich and distinguished man. They are
a very agreeable couple. We sat down three to dinner. Then Damrosch
took me to visit Carnegie,[160] the possessor of 30,000,000
dollars, who is very like our dramatist Ostrovsky. I was very much
taken with the old man, especially as he is an admirer of Moscow,
which he visited two years ago. Next to Moscow, he admires the
national songs of Scotland, a great many of which Damrosch played
to him on a magnificent Steinway grand. He has a young and pretty
wife. After these visits I went with Hyde[161] and Damrosch to see
the Athletic Club and another, more serious in tone, which I might
perhaps compare with our English Club. The Athletic Club astonished
me, especially the swimming bath, in which the members bathe, and
the upper gallery, where they skate in winter. We ordered drinks in
the serious club. I reached home about eleven o’clock. Needless to
say, I was worn out.

“_April_ 16_th_ (28_th_).

“Slept very well. A messenger came from * * * * to know if I wanted
anything. These Americans strike me as very remarkable, especially
after the impression the Parisians left upon me: there politeness
or amiability to a stranger always savoured of self-interest;
whereas in this country the honesty, sincerity, generosity,
cordiality, and readiness to help you without any _arrière-pensée_,
is very pleasant. I like this, and most of the American ways and
customs, yet I enjoy it all in the same spirit as a man who sits at
a table laden with good things and has no appetite. My appetite
will only come with the near prospect of my return to Russia.

“At eleven a.m. I went for a walk, and breakfasted in a very pretty
restaurant. Home again by one o’clock and reflected a little.
Reinhard,[162] an agreeable young man, came to take me to Mayer’s.
On the way we turned into the Hoffman Bar. Saw Knabe’s warehouse.
Mayer took me to a photographic studio. We went up by the lift to
the ninth or tenth floor, where a little old man (the owner of the
studio) received us in a red nightcap. I never came across such a
droll fellow. He is a parody of Napoleon III. (very like the
original, but a caricature of him). He turned me round and round
while he looked for the _best_ side of my face. Then he developed
rather a tedious theory of the _best side of the face_ and
proceeded to experiment on Mayer. Finally I was photographed in
every conceivable position, during which the old man entertained me
with all kinds of mechanical toys. But, with all his peculiarities,
he was pleasant and cordial in the American way. From the
photographer I drove with Mayer to the park, which is newly laid
out, but very beautiful. There was a crowd of smart ladies and
carriages. We called for Mayer’s wife and daughter and continued
our drive along the high bank of the Hudson. It became gradually
colder, and the conversation with these good German-Americans
wearied me. At last we stopped at the celebrated Restaurant
Delmonico, and Mayer invited me to a most luxurious dinner, after
which he and the ladies took me back to my hotel. I hurried into my
dress-coat and waited for Mr. Hyde. Then, together with him and his
wife, Damrosch, and Mr. and Mrs. Reno, we all went to a somewhat
tedious concert at the great Opera House. We heard an oratorio,
_The Captivity_, by the American composer Max Wagrich. Most
wearisome. After this I wanted to go home, but the dear Hydes
carried me off to supper at Delmonico’s. We ate oysters with a
sauce of small turtles (!!!), and cheese. Champagne, and an iced
peppermint drink, supported my failing courage. They brought me
home at twelve o’clock. A telegram from Botkin summoning me to
Washington.

“_April_ 17_th_ (29_th_).

“Passed a restless night. After my early tea I wrote letters. Then
I sauntered through Fifth Avenue. What palaces! Breakfasted alone
at home. Went to Mayer’s. The kindness and attentiveness of this
man are simply wonderful. According to Paris custom, I try to
discover what he wants to get out of me. But I can think of
nothing. Early this morning he sent Reinhard to me again, in case I
wanted anything, and I was very glad of his help, for I did not
know what to do about the telegram from Washington. By three
o’clock I was at home, waiting for William de Sachs, a very amiable
and elegant gentleman, who loves music and writes about it. He was
still here when my French friends from the steamer arrived. I was
very glad to see them and we went out together to have some
absinthe. When I got back I rested for a while. At seven o’clock
Hyde and his wife called for me. What a pity it is that words and
colours fail me to describe this most original couple, who are so
extremely kind and friendly! The language in which we carry on our
conversation is very amusing; it consists of the queerest mixture
of English, French and German. Every word which Hyde utters in our
conversation is the result of an extraordinary intellectual effort:
literally a whole minute passes before there emerges, from an
indefinite murmur, some word so weird-sounding that it is
impossible to tell to which of the three languages it belongs. All
the time Hyde and his wife have such a serious, yet good-natured
air. I accompanied them to Reno’s, who was giving a big dinner in
my honour. The ladies--all in full evening dress. The table
decorated with flowers. At each lady’s place lay a bunch of
flowers, while the men had lilies-of-the-valley, which we put in
our buttonholes as soon as we were seated at table. Each lady had
also a little picture of myself in a pretty frame. The dinner began
at half-past seven, and was over at eleven. I am not exaggerating
when I say this, for it is the custom here. It is impossible to
describe all the courses. In the middle of the dinner ices were
served in little cases, to which were attached small slates with
pencils and sponges, on which fragments from my works were
beautifully inscribed. I had to write my autograph on these slates.
The conversation was very lively. I sat between Mrs. Reno and Mrs.
Damrosch. The latter is a most charming and graceful woman.
Opposite to me sat Carnegie, the admirer of Moscow, and the
possessor of forty million dollars. His likeness to Ostrovsky is
astonishing. Tormented by the want of a smoke, and almost ill with
over-eating, I determined about eleven o’clock to ask Mrs. Reno’s
permission to leave the table. Half an hour later we all took our
leave.”

_To V. Davidov._

“NEW YORK, _April_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1891.

“Have just received my letters. It is impossible to say how
precious these are under the present circumstances. I was
unspeakably glad. I make copious entries every day in my diary and,
on my return, you shall each have it to read in turn, so I will not
go into details now. New York, American customs, American
hospitality--all their comforts and arrangements--everything, in
fact, is to my taste. If only I were younger I should very much
enjoy my visit to this interesting and youthful country. But now, I
just tolerate everything as if it were a slight punishment
mitigated by many pleasant things. All my thoughts, all my
aspirations, tend towards Home, Home!!! I am convinced that I am
ten times more famous in America than in Europe. At first, when
others spoke about it to me, I thought it was only their
exaggerated amiability. But now I see that it really is so. Several
of my works, which are unknown even in Moscow, are frequently
played here. I am a much more important person here than in Russia.
Is not that curious?”

_Diary._

“_April_ 18_th_ (30_th_).

“It is becoming more and more difficult to find time for writing.
Breakfasted with my French friends. Interview with de Sachs. We
went to see the Brooklyn Bridge. From there we went on to see
Schirmer, who owns the largest music business in America; the
warehouse--especially the metallography--resembles Jurgenson’s in
many respects. Schirmer begged to be allowed to publish some of my
compositions. On reaching home, I received the journalist, Ivy
Ross, who asked me for a contribution for her paper. When she had
gone, I sank on the sofa like a log and enjoyed a little rest and
solitude. By 8.30 I was already at the Music Hall for the first
rehearsal. The chorus greeted me with an ovation. They sang
beautifully. As I was about to leave, I met the builder of the hall
in the doorway; he presented to me a pleasant, rather stout, man,
his chief assistant, whose talent and cleverness he could not
sufficiently praise. This man was--as it turned out--a pure-blooded
Russian, who had become a naturalised American. The architect told
me he was an anarchist and socialist. I had a little conversation
with my fellow-countryman, and promised to visit him. After a light
supper I took a walk. Read over and over again the letters I had
received and, naturally, shed a few tears.

“_April_ 19_th_ (_May_ 1_st_).

“Awoke late and sat down to write a little article for Miss Ross.
Reno appeared, with the news that he had engaged a cabin for me on
board the _Fürst Bismarck_, which sails on May 2nd (14th). Oh God,
what a long way off it still seems! I called for my good friend
Mayer and breakfasted with him in an excellent little Italian
restaurant, after which we went down town. Here I saw for the first
time what life means at certain hours on Broadway. So far I had
only been able to judge this street from the neighbourhood of the
hotel, where there is little traffic. But this is only a very small
portion of this street, which is seven versts (over four miles)
long. The houses down town are simply colossal; I cannot understand
how anyone can live on the thirteenth floor. Mayer and I went out
on the roof of one such house. The view was splendid, but I felt
quite giddy when I looked down into Broadway. Then Mayer obtained
permission for me to visit the cellars of the mint, where hundreds
of millions of gold and silver coins, as well as paper money, are
kept. Very good-natured, but fussy and important, officials
conducted us round these cellars, and opened monumental doors with
mysterious keys and no less mysterious pressings of various springs
and knobs. The sacks of gold, which look just like sacks of corn in
a granary, are kept in clean, tidy rooms lit by electric light. I
was allowed to hold in my hand a packet of new shining coins worth
about 10,000,000 dollars.[163] Then I understood why so little gold
and silver are in circulation. The Americans prefer dirty,
unpleasant paper notes to metal, because they find them so much
more practical and useful. Therefore, these paper notes--quite the
reverse to our country--thanks to the vast amount of metals kept in
the mint, are valued far more than gold and silver. From the mint
we visited the scene of activity of good Mr. Hyde. He is a director
of one of the banks, and took me round his strong-rooms, in which
mountains of paper money are stored away. We also visited the
Exchange, which struck me as quieter than the Paris Bourse. Hyde
treated us to lemonade at a café. On my return home I had to finish
my newspaper article on Wagner for Miss Ross, and at five o’clock I
was ready to visit William de Sachs. He lives in a very large
house, where rooms are let to bachelors only. Ladies are only
admitted as guests into this curious American monastery. I found a
small gathering, which gradually grew larger. It was “five o’clock
tea.” The pianist, Miss Wilson (who called on me yesterday, and is
a staunch adherent of Russian music), played Borodin’s beautiful
Serenade. After refusing several invitations I spent the evening
alone. How pleasant it was! Dined in the Restaurant Hoffmann, as
usual, without any enjoyment. During my walk further along Broadway
I came upon a meeting of Socialists in red caps. Next morning I
learnt from the newspapers that about five thousand men had
assembled, carrying banners and huge lanterns, on which were
inscribed these words: ‘Comrades! We are slaves in free America.
We will no longer work more than eight hours!’ The whole
demonstration seemed to me a farce; I think the inhabitants also
look on it as such, for very few people had the curiosity to stand
and watch; the others walked about as usual. I went to bed bodily
tired, but mentally refreshed.

“_April_ 20_th_ (_May_ 2_nd_).

“By 10.30 a.m. I was at the rehearsal in the Music Hall. It was
held in the large hall, where several workmen were hammering,
shouting, and running hither and thither. The orchestra is placed
across the whole breadth of the huge platform; consequently the
sound is bad and unequal. This got on my nerves until, in my rage,
I was several times on the point of making a scene, leaving
everything in the lurch and running away. I played through the
Suite and the March very carelessly, and stopped the Pianoforte
Concerto at the first movement, as the parts were in confusion and
the musicians exhausted. The pianist, Adèle Aus-der-Ohe, came at
five o’clock and played over the Concerto, which had gone so badly
at rehearsal.

“_April_ 21_st_ (_May_ 3_rd_).

“Telegram from Jurgenson: ‘Christos vosskresse.’[164] Rain outside.
Letters from Modi and Jurgenson. ‘Nur wer die Sehnsucht
kennt’--realises what it means to receive letters in a strange
country. I have never before experienced similar sensations. Mr. N.
and his wife came to call upon me. He--a tall, bearded man, with
iron-grey hair, very elegantly dressed, always bewailing his spinal
complaint, speaking very good Russian and abusing the Jews
(although he himself looks very like one); she--a very plain
Englishwoman (not American), who can speak nothing but English. She
brought a great pile of newspapers with her, and showed me her
articles. I cannot make out what these people want. He asked me if
I had composed a fantasia on the _Red Sarafan_. On my replying in
the negative, he was very much astonished, and added: ‘I will send
you Thalberg’s fantasia; pray copy his style.’ I had great trouble
in politely getting rid of this curious couple. De Sachs came to
fetch me at twelve o’clock. We walked into the park. Then we went
up by the lift to the fourth floor of an immense house where
Schirmer lives. Besides myself and Sachs, there were at table the
conductor Seidl, a Wagnerian and well known in this country, his
wife, the pianist Adèle Aus-der-Ohe, who is going to play at my
concert, her sister, and the Schirmer family. Seidl told me that my
_Maid of Orleans_ would be produced next season. I had to be at
rehearsal by four o’clock. De Sachs accompanied me to the Music
Hall in the Schirmers’ carriage. It was lit up and in order for the
first time to-day. I sat in Carnegie’s box, while an oratorio, _The
Shulamite_, by the elder Damrosch, was being rehearsed. Before my
turn came they sang a wearisome cantata by Schütz, _The Seven
Words_. My choruses[165] went very well. After it was over, I
accompanied Sachs very unwillingly to the Schirmers’, as he had
made me promise to come back. We found a number of people there who
had come merely to see me. Schirmer took us on the roof of his
house. This huge, nine-storied house has a roof so arranged that
one can take quite a delightful walk on it and enjoy a splendid
view from all sides. The sunset was indescribably beautiful. When
we went downstairs we found only a few intimate friends left, with
whom I enjoyed myself most unexpectedly. Aus-der-Ohe played
beautifully. Among other things, we played my Concerto together. We
sat down to supper at nine o’clock. About 10.30 we, that is, Sachs,
Aus-der-Ohe, her sister, and myself, were presented with the most
splendid roses, conveyed downstairs in the lift and sent home in
the Schirmers’ carriage. One must do justice to American
hospitality; there is nothing like it--except, perhaps, in our own
country.

“_April_ 22_nd_ (_May_ 4_th_).

“Received letters. A visit from Mr. Romeike, the proprietor of the
bureau for newspaper cuttings. Apparently, he, too, is one of our
Anarchists, like those mysterious Russians who spoke to me
yesterday at the rehearsal. Wrote letters and my diary. Called for
Mayer, and went with him to see Hyde, who invited us to breakfast
at the Down Town Club. After a most excellent breakfast I walked
down Broadway, alas--still with Mayer. Then we went to the concert
given by the celebrated English singer Santley. The celebrated
singer turned out to be an elderly man, who sang arias and songs in
a fairly rhythmic manner, but without any tone, and with truly
English stiffness. I was greeted by several critics, among them
Finck, who had written to me last winter so enthusiastically about
_Hamlet_. I went home without waiting for the end of the concert,
as I had to go through my Pianoforte Concerto with Adèle
Aus-der-Ohe. She came with her sister, and I showed her various
little nuances and delicate details, which--after yesterday’s
rehearsal--I considered necessary, in view of her powerful, clean,
brilliant, but somewhat rough, style of playing. Reno had told me
some interesting facts about Aus-der-Ohe’s American career. Four
years ago she obtained an engagement at one of the Symphony
Concerts to play a Concerto by Liszt (she was one of his pupils),
and came over without a penny in her pocket. Her playing took with
the public. She was engaged everywhere, and was a complete success.
During these four years she has toured all over America, and now
possesses a capital of over £20,000!!! Such is America! After they
had left, I hurried into my evening clothes and went to dinner at
the Renos’. This time it was quite a small family party. Damrosch
came in after dinner. I played duets with charming Alice Reno. The
evening passed very pleasantly. Reno saw me to the tramway. It has
suddenly turned very cold.

“_April_ 23_rd_ (_May_ 5_th_).

“The waiter Max, who brings me my tea in the morning, spent all his
childhood in Nijni-Novogorod and went to school there. Since his
fifteenth year he has lived partly in Germany, partly in New York.
He is now twenty-three, and has so completely forgotten his native
tongue that he can only mangle it, although he still remembers the
most common words. I find it very pleasant to talk a little Russian
with him. At eleven a.m. the pianist Rummel (an old acquaintance
from Berlin) came to ask me again if I would conduct his concert
on the 17th; he has been once before. Next came a very pleasant and
friendly journalist, who asked how my wife liked New York. I have
been asked this question before. One day, shortly after my arrival,
it was announced in some of the newspapers that I had arrived with
a young and pretty wife. This arose from the fact that two
reporters on the pier had seen me get into a carriage with Alice
Reno. At 7.30 Reno’s brother-in-law came. We drove to the Music
Hall in a carriage, filled to overflowing. The appearance of the
hall in the evening, lit up and crowded with people, was very fine
and effective. The ceremony began with a speech by Reno (this had
caused the poor fellow much perturbation all the day before). After
this the National Anthem was sung. Then a clergyman made a very
long and wearisome speech, in which he eulogised the founders of
the Hall, especially Carnegie. The Leonore Symphony was then
beautifully rendered. Interval. I went downstairs. Great
excitement. I appeared, and was greeted with loud applause. The
March went splendidly. Great success. I sat in Hyde’s box for the
rest of the concert. Berlioz’s _Te Deum_ is somewhat wearisome;
only towards the end I began to enjoy it thoroughly. Reno carried
me off with him. An improvised supper. Slept like a log.”

“_April_ 24_th_ (_May_ 6_th_), 1891.

“‘Tchaikovsky is a man of ample proportions, with rather grey hair,
well built, of a pleasing appearance, and about sixty years of age
(!!!). He seemed rather nervous, and answered the applause with a
number of stiff little bows. But as soon as he had taken up the
bâton he was quite master of himself.’ I read this to-day in the
_Herald_.[166] It annoys me that, not content with writing about my
music, they must also write about my personal appearance. I cannot
bear to think that my shyness is noticeable, or that my ‘stiff
little bows’ fill them with astonishment. I went to rehearsal at
10.30. I had to get a workman to show me the entrance to the Hall.
The rehearsal went very well. After the Suite the musicians called
out something which sounded like ‘hoch.’ Simply bathed in
perspiration, I had to go and talk to Mme. Reno, her eldest
daughter and two other ladies. Went to see Reno. The steamboat
ticket. Instructions for the journey to Philadelphia and Boston.
Then I hurried over to Mayer’s, where Rummel had already been
waiting half an hour to play me the Second Concerto. But we did not
play it. I practised my powers of eloquence instead. I tried to
prove to him that there was no reason why I should accede to his
proposal--to conduct his concert gratuitously on the 17th.
Breakfasted with Mayer at the Italian Restaurant. P. Botkin[167]
from Washington turned up quite unexpectedly about seven o’clock.
He has come on purpose to be at the concert. Hyde and his wife
fetched me about 7.30. The second concert. Mendelssohn’s oratorio,
_Elijah_, was given. A splendid work, but rather too long. During
the interval, I was dragged the round of the boxes of various local
magnates.

“_April_ 25_th_ (_May_ 7_th_).

“I am fifty-one to-day. I feel very excited. The concert begins at
two o’clock, with the Suite. This curious fright I suffer from is
very strange. How many times have I already conducted the Suite,
and it goes splendidly. Why this anxiety? I suffer horribly, and it
gets worse and worse. I never remember feeling so anxious before.
Perhaps it is because over here they pay so much attention to my
outward appearance, and consequently my shyness is more noticeable.
However that may be, after getting over some painful hours (the
last was worst of all, for before my appearance I had to speak to
several strangers) I stepped into the conductor’s desk, was
received most enthusiastically, and made a sensation--according to
to-day’s papers. After the Suite I sat in Reno’s private room, and
was interviewed by several reporters. (Oh, these reporters!) Among
others, the well-known journalist, Jackson. I paid my respects to
Mrs. Reno in her box; she had sent me a quantity of flowers in the
morning, almost as if she had guessed it was my birthday. I felt I
must be alone, so refused Reno’s invitation, pushed my way through
a crowd of ladies, who were standing in the corridor to stare at
me, and in whose eyes I read with involuntary pleasure signs of
enthusiastic sympathy--and hastened home. I wrote Botkin a card,
telling him that I could not keep my promise to dine with him.
Relieved and--in a measure--happy, I went out to stroll about, to
eat my dinner, and lounge in a café, to enjoy silence and solitude.

“_April_ 26_th_ (_May_ 8_th_).

“I can scarcely find time to keep up my diary and correspondence. I
am simply overrun with visitors--reporters, composers, and
librettists. Among the latter was one who brought me the text of an
opera, _Vlasta_, and touched me very deeply by the account of the
death of his only son. Moreover, from every part of America I
receive a heap of letters asking for my autograph; these I answer
most conscientiously. Went to the rehearsal of the Pianoforte
Concerto. Damrosch annoyed me very much by taking up the best of
the time for himself and leaving the rest of the rehearsal to me.
However, all went well. Went to Knabe’s to thank him for the
beautiful present (a statue of Freedom) which he sent me yesterday.
Shall I be allowed to take it into Russia? Then I hastened home.
Visitors without end, among others two Russian ladies. One of them
was Mrs. MacMahan, widow of the celebrated war correspondent of
1877, and herself the correspondent of the _Russky Viedomosti_ and
the _Severny Vestnik_. This was the first time I had had the
pleasure of talking to a Russian lady; consequently I made a fool
of myself. Suddenly the tears came into my eyes, my voice broke,
and I could not suppress my sobs. I fled into the next room, and
could not show myself again for a long time. I blush with shame to
think of this unexpected episode.... Rested a little before the
concert. The chorus went well, but might have gone better if I had
not been so upset. Sat in the box with Reno and Hyde during the
beautiful oratorio, _The Shulamite_. Walked with Reno and Carnegie
to sup with Damrosch. This archmillionaire is very kind to me, and
constantly talks of an engagement for next year.... A good deal of
champagne was drunk. I sat between the host and the conductor,
Dannreuther. While I was talking to him about his brother he must
have had the impression, for at least two hours, that I was either
a madman or an impudent liar. He sat with his mouth open, and
looked quite astonished. It seems that I had confused the pianist
Dannreuther with the pianist Hartvigson. My absent-mindedness is
becoming almost unbearable, and is a sign of advancing age.
However, everyone was surprised to learn that I was only fifty-one
yesterday. Carnegie especially was very much astonished. They all
thought, except those who knew something of my life, that I was
much older. Probably I have aged very much in the last few years. I
feel I have lost vitality. I returned in Carnegie’s carriage. This
talk about my age resulted in dreadful dreams; I thought I slipped
down a tremendously steep wall into the sea, and then climbed on to
a little rocky projection. Probably this was the result of our
conversation yesterday.

“Every day Romeike sends me a heap of newspaper cuttings about
myself. All, without exception, are written in terms of the highest
praise. The Third Suite is praised to the skies, and, what is more,
my conducting also. Am I really such a good conductor, or do the
Americans exaggerate?

“_April_ 27_th_ (_May_ 9_th_).