Chapter XXVIII: Part VII: I (5)

“The manager of the Composers’ Club called upon me and wished to
arrange an evening for my compositions. Mrs. White[168] sent me
such a quantity of lovely flowers that, owing to lack of room and
vases, I had to give some to Max, who was highly delighted, as his
wife is passionately fond of them. Ritzel, the violinist, also
called upon me. He would like to have my portrait, and told me that
the members of the orchestra were quite delighted with me. This
touched me very much. I changed my things, and took Mayer my large
portrait. From there I went to Schirmer’s, and then hurried to the
Music Hall, where I was to make my last appearance before the
public. All these visits made before the concert show how calm I
was at this time. Why, I do not know. In the artists’ room I made
the acquaintance of a singer who sang one of my songs yesterday. A
very fine artist and a charming woman. My Concerto went
magnificently, thanks to Aus-der-Ohe’s brilliant interpretation.
The enthusiasm was far greater than anything I have met with, even
in Russia. I was recalled over and over again; handkerchiefs were
waved, cheers resounded--in fact, it is easy to see that I have
taken the Americans by storm. But what I valued most of all was the
enthusiasm of the orchestra. Owing to the heat and my exertions, I
was bathed in perspiration, and could not, unfortunately, listen to
the scenes from _Parsifal_. At the last evening concert of the
Festival I sat alternately in the boxes of Carnegie, Hyde, and
Reno. The whole of Handel’s oratorio, _Israel in Egypt_, was given.
During the course of the evening the architect of the Hall received
an ovation. Afterwards I had supper with Damrosch at the Sachs’....

“April 28th (May 10th).

“This has been a very heavy day. In the morning I was besieged by
visitors. The interesting Korbay, the young, good-looking composer
Klein, the pianist F.--with gold-stopped teeth--and others I do not
remember. I went out at one o’clock to call on the nihilist
Starck-Stoleshnikov, but he lives so far away, and the heat was so
oppressive, that I gave it up. I hastened instead to Dr. N.’s, and
arrived there in good time. Dr. N. is a Russian--at least he was
brought up in Russia. His wife, as I finally discovered, is
Countess G. They have lived in America since 1860, and often go to
Europe, but never visit Russia. I did not like to ask their reason
for avoiding it. They are both ardent patriots, and have a genuine
love of Russia. In speaking of our country he seems to think that
despotism and bureaucracy hinder it from becoming a leading nation.
It strikes me that he is a freethinker who has at some time brought
down the wrath of the Government on himself, and fled just at the
right moment. But his liberalism is not in the least akin to
Nihilism or Anarchism. Both frequently asserted that they had
nothing to do with the nihilists in this country. I lunched with
them about three o’clock, and then rushed off to B. MacMahan’s
(owing to a lack of cabs one has to walk everywhere). While the
N.s’ house is almost luxuriously furnished, this Russian
correspondent lives quite in the student style. Somewhat later the
celebrated sculptor Kamensky came in; he has lived in America for
the last twenty years, but I do not know why. He is an old,
somewhat invalidish-looking man, with a deep scar on his forehead.
He confused me very much by asking me to tell him _everything_ that
I knew about the Russia of to-day. I did not quite know how to
accomplish such a vast undertaking, but Barbara Nikolaevna (Mrs.
MacMahan) began to talk about my music, and I soon took my
departure, as I had to go home and dress before dining with
Carnegie. All the cafés are closed on Sundays. This English
Puritanism, which shows itself in such senseless trivialities (for
instance, one can only obtain a glass of whisky or beer on Sunday
by means of some fraud), irritates me very much. It is said that
the men who brought this law into force in the State of New York
were themselves heavy drinkers. I had scarcely time to change and
drive to Carnegie’s in a carriage, which had to be fetched from
some distance, and was very expensive. This millionaire really does
not live so luxuriously as many other people. Mr. and Mrs. Reno,
Mr. and Mrs. Damrosch, the architect of the Music Hall and his
wife, an unknown gentleman and a stout friend of Mrs. Damrosch’s
were at dinner. I sat beside this aristocratic and evidently
distinguished lady. This singular man, Carnegie, who rapidly rose
from a telegraph apprentice to be one of the richest men in
America, while still remaining quite simple, inspires me with
unusual confidence, perhaps because he shows me so much sympathy.
During the evening he expressed his liking for me in a very marked
manner. He took both my hands in his, and declared that, though not
crowned, I was a genuine king of music. He embraced me (without
kissing me: men do not kiss over here), got on tiptoe and stretched
his hand up to indicate my greatness, and finally made the whole
company laugh by imitating my conducting. This he did so solemnly,
so well, and so like me, that I myself was quite delighted. His
wife is also an extremely simple and charming young lady, and
showed her interest in me in every possible way. All this was very
pleasant, but still I was glad to get home again at eleven, as I
felt somewhat bored.

“_April_ 29_th_ (_May_ 11_th_).

“Mayer fetched me at a quarter-past eight. How should I have got on
without Mayer? I got a seat in a saloon carriage.... We reached
Buffalo at 8.30. I was met by two gentlemen whom Mayer had
instructed to look after me, as I had to change here, and it is
very difficult to find one’s way in this labyrinth of lines. I
reached Niagara fifty minutes after leaving Buffalo, and went to
the hotel in which a room--also thanks to Mayer--was reserved for
me. The hotel is quite unpretentious--after the style of the small
Swiss inns--but very clean and convenient, as German is spoken. I
went to bed early. The roaring of the waterfall is very audible in
the stillness of the night.

“NIAGARA, _April_ 30_th_ (_May_ 12_th_).

“The carriage was here at nine o’clock. There was no guide, which
was very pleasant. I will not try to describe the beauties of the
Falls; it is hard to find words for these things. In the afternoon
I walked again to the Falls and round the town. During this
walk--as in the morning--I could not get rid of a curious--probably
entirely nervous--lassitude, which prevented my full enjoyment of
this beautiful scenery. I started again at a quarter-past six in a
special sleeping-carriage.

“NEW YORK, _May_ 1_st_ (13_th_).

“At five o’clock I awoke, my mind full of anxious thoughts about
the approaching week, which I dread so much. I was home by 8 a.m.,
and very glad to see Max again. The news of the attempt on the
Tsarevich made me feel very sad. I was also grieved to find that
there were no letters from home--and I had hoped to find a number.
Many visitors. I hired a carriage from the hotel, on account of the
great distances which I had to get over to-day. First I went to
say good-bye to Damrosch, as he is going to Europe. He asked me to
take him as a pupil. Of course I refused, but am afraid
involuntarily I showed far too plainly my horror at the idea of
Damrosch arriving at my country home to study with me. From there I
hastened to lunch at the Renos’. The coachman was quite drunk, and
would not understand where I wanted him to drive. It was lucky I
knew the way myself. The Renos received me as cordially as ever.
Afterwards I went to Mayer’s. Then the same drunken coachman drove
Mayer and myself to the great steam-ferry which conveys carriages,
horses, and foot-passengers over the East River. Thence we went by
train to Mayer’s summer residence. I felt so tired, so irritable
and unhappy, I could hardly restrain my tears. His family is good
and kind, but all the same I was bored, and longed to get away. In
the afternoon we walked along the shore; the sea was rather rough.
The air is so fresh and pure here that my walk really gave me
pleasure and did me good. I stayed the night at Mayer’s, but slept
badly.

“_May_ 2_nd_ (14_th_).

“I got up at six o’clock. Went down to the sea, and was delighted.
After breakfast we drove into the town. I should have liked to be
alone. Miss Ross came to see me. My letter on Wagner has been
published, and created quite a sensation. Anton Seidl, the
celebrated conductor and Wagnerian, had published a lengthy reply,
in which he attacked me, but in quite a friendly tone. Miss Ross
came to ask me to write an answer to Seidl’s reply. I set to work
upon it, but was interrupted by X., who stayed an endless time, and
told me all kinds of uninteresting musical gossip, which I had
heard a hundred times before. The next to come was the
correspondent of a Philadelphia newspaper, who is one of my most
fervent admirers. I had to speak English with him: I have made
progress, and can say a few phrases very well. Wrote letters.
Breakfasted alone in my hotel. Wandered through the Central Park.
According to my promise, I went over to Z.’s to write a testimonial
for the * * * pianofortes. Was this the object of all Z.’s
attentions? All these presents, all this time and money spent on
me, all these unaccountable kindnesses, were these intended as a
premium for a future puff? I proposed that Z. himself should write
the testimonial. He sat for a long time, but could not think of
anything; so we put it off until our next meeting. Then I paid a
call on Tretbar, Steinway’s representative, for whom I had a letter
of introduction from Jurgenson. He had waited till now without
calling upon me because he did not wish to make the first advances.
I had purposely delayed my visit from similar motives. Home to
pack. Shortly afterwards a messenger from Z. brought me the
testimonial to sign. It read as follows: ‘_I consider the_ * * *
_pianofortes without doubt the best in America_.’ Now as I do _not_
think so at all, but value some other makers’ far more highly, I
declined to have my opinion expressed in this form. I told Z., that
notwithstanding my deep gratitude to him, I could not tell a lie.
The reporter from the _Herald_ came to see me--a very interesting
man. Drove to Hyde’s. I wish I could find words to describe all the
charm and originality of this interesting couple. Hyde greeted me
with these words: ‘Kak vasche sdorovie? sidite poschaljust.’[169]
Then he laughed like a lunatic, and his wife and I joined in. He
had bought a guide to Russian conversation, and learnt a few
phrases as a surprise to me. Mrs. Hyde immediately invited me to
smoke a cigarette in her drawing-room--the climax of hospitality in
America. After the cigarette we went to dinner. The table was most
exquisitely decorated with flowers; everyone received a bouquet.
Then, quite unexpectedly, Hyde became very solemn, closed his eyes
and said the Lord’s Prayer. I did the same as the others: lowered
my eyes and gazed on the ground. Then began an endlessly long
dinner.... At ten o’clock I withdrew. At home a messenger from
Knabe was waiting for me. We drank a glass of beer together, took
my trunk, and went down town. We went over the Hudson in the
steam-ferry, and finally reached the station. Knabe’s messenger
(without whose help I should certainly have been lost) engaged a
comfortable _coupé_ for me; the friendly negro made the bed, I
threw myself on it just as I was, for I really had not the
strength to undress, and sank at once into a deep sleep. I slept
soundly, but not for long. The negro woke me an hour before my
arrival at Baltimore.

“BALTIMORE, _May_ 3_rd_ (15_th_).

“As usual, I was received at the hotel with cool contempt. Sitting
alone in my room, I suddenly felt so unhappy, chiefly because
everyone around me speaks only English. I slept a little. Then I
went into a restaurant for breakfast, and was quite annoyed because
the waiter (a negro) would not understand that I wished for tea and
bread-and-butter only. I had to go to the desk, where they did not
understand me any better. At last a gentleman knowing a little
German kindly came to my help. I had hardly sat down when Knabe, a
stout man, came in. Very shortly after, Adèle Aus-der-Ohe and her
sister joined us, too. I was very glad to see them, for they seem
like connections, at least as regards music. We went to the
rehearsal together. This was held on the stage of the Lyceum
Theatre. The orchestra was small, only four first violins, but not
bad. But the Third Suite was not to be thought of. It was decided
to put the Serenade for strings in its place. The orchestra did not
know this work. The conductor had not even played it through,
although Reno had promised that this should be done. The Concerto
with Adèle Aus-der-Ohe went very smoothly, but the Serenade needs
many rehearsals. The orchestra was impatient. The young leader
behaved in rather a tactless way, and made it too clearly evident
that he thought it time to stop. It is true--this unhappy touring
orchestra must be wearied by their constant travelling. After the
rehearsal I went home with Adèle Aus-der-Ohe, dressed, and went
immediately to the concert. I conducted in my frock-coat. Happily
everything went very well, but there was little enthusiasm in
comparison with New York. After the concert we both drove home to
change. Half an hour later Knabe called for us. His hospitality is
on the same colossal scale as his figure. This beardless giant had
arranged a festivity in my honour at his own house. I found a
number of people there. The dinner was endlessly long, but very
tasteful and good, as were also the wines with which Knabe kept
filling up our glasses. During the second half of the dinner I felt
quite worn out. A terrible hatred of everything seemed to come over
me, especially of my two neighbours. After dinner I conversed a
little with everyone, and smoked and drank ceaselessly. At
half-past twelve Knabe brought me home, and also the sisters
Aus-der-Ohe.

“WASHINGTON, 4_th_ (16_th_).

“I woke early, breakfasted downstairs, wrote my diary, and waited,
rather in fear and trembling, for Knabe, who wanted to show me the
sights of the town. At last he came and, together with the sisters
Aus-der-Ohe, we drove round Baltimore. Weather bad and inclined to
rain. Baltimore is a pretty, clean town. Then the good-natured
giant helped me to pack my box, invited Aus-der-Ohe and myself to a
champagne lunch, and finally put me in the carriage that was to
take me to my destination. He himself was travelling to
Philadelphia, while I was going to Washington. The journey lasted
about three-quarters of an hour. I was met by Botkin, who
accompanied me to the hotel, where a room was engaged for me. This
was delightfully comfortable, and at the same time tastefully and
simply furnished. I declined to receive Rennen, begged Botkin to
call for me before the dinner, took a bath, and hurried into my
dress clothes. The dinner was given in the Metropolitan Club, of
which Botkin and his colleagues are members. The dinner was very
gay, and I was so delighted to talk Russian once more, although
this happiness was a little dimmed by the sad fact that my ‘s,’
‘sch,’ ‘tsch,’ are beginning to sound rather indistinct from age.
During the dinner we heard, first by telegram and then through the
telephone, that the Ambassador Struve had returned from a journey
to New York solely on my account. At ten o’clock we all repaired to
the Embassy, where Botkin had arranged a musical evening. About a
hundred persons were invited. The Ambassador also arrived, an old
man, very cordial and also interesting. The company at the Embassy
belonged principally to the diplomatic circle. There were
ambassadors with their wives and daughters, and personages
belonging to the highest class of the diplomatic service. Most of
the ladies spoke French, so things were not so difficult for me.
The programme consisted of my Trio and a Quartet by Brahms. Hausen,
the Secretary to our Embassy, was at the piano, and he proved quite
a respectable pianist. My Trio he played decidedly well. The
violinist was only middling. I was introduced to everyone. After
the music there was an excellent cold supper. When most of the
guests had left, ten of us (the Belgian Ambassador and the
Secretaries to the Swedish and Austrian Embassies, besides the
Russians) sat for some time longer at a large round table, before
an excellent flagon. Struve enjoys a glass of wine. He gave me the
impression of a broken and unhappy man who finds it a consolation.
It was three o’clock before I went home, accompanied by Botkin and
Hausen.

“_May_ 5_th_ (17_th_).

“Awoke with pleasant memories of yesterday. I always feel well in
Russian society when I am not obliged to speak a foreign tongue. At
twelve o’clock Botkin called for me to lunch with the Ambassador,
Struve. Afterwards I went with Botkin and Hausen to see the sights
of Washington.

“PHILADELPHIA, _May_ 6_th_ (18_th_).

“I reached Philadelphia at three o’clock. Breakfasted downstairs. A
very importunate Jew from Odessa called and got some money out of
me. Went for a walk. The concert at eight p.m. The enormous theatre
was filled to overflowing. After the concert, according to
long-standing promise, I went to the club. The return journey to
New York was very wearisome.

“_May_ 7_th_ (19_th_).

“Feel quite stupid from exhaustion and constant travelling. I could
stand no more, if it were not for the thought of my departure
to-morrow, which buoys me up. I am inundated with requests for my
autograph. At 12.30 I went over to Z.’s and wrote the testimonial,
omitting the phrase which ranks these pianos as the first. Went
home and waited for the composer Brummklein. He came and played me
some very pretty things.

“_May_ 8_th_ (20_th_).

“The old librettist came. I was very sorry to have to tell him I
could not compose an opera to his libretto. He seemed very sad.
Scarcely had he gone before Dannreuther came in to take me to the
rehearsal of the Quartets and Trios to be played this evening at
the Composers’ Club. It was rather a long distance. The Quartet was
indifferently played and the Trio really badly, for the pianist, a
shy, nervous man, was no good: he could not even count. I had no
time to make any preparations for the journey. Drove to Renos’.
They received me with more kindness and cordiality than ever,
especially Madame Reno and her three daughters. The eldest (Anna,
who is married) gave me a beautiful cigar-case, M. Reno a quantity
of scent, and Alice and her sister cakes for the journey. Then I
hurried to Hyde’s. Mrs. Hyde was already expecting me. Here too I
was received with great kindness and sincere enthusiasm. At last I
got home to pack my box. Hateful business, which gave me a dreadful
pain in my back. Tired out, I went over to Mayer’s, and invited him
to dinner at Martelli’s. At eight o’clock I was taken to the
Composers’ Club. This is not a club of composers, as I first
thought, but a special musical union which arranges, from time to
time, evenings devoted to the works of one composer. Yesterday was
devoted to me, and the concert was held in the magnificent
Metropolitan House. I sat in the first row. They played the Quartet
(E flat minor) and the Trio; some songs were very well sung, but
the programme was too long. In the middle of the evening I received
an address; I answered shortly, in French; of course an ovation.
One lady threw an exquisite bouquet of roses straight in my face. I
was introduced to a crowd of people, among others our
Consul-General. At the conclusion I had to speak to about a hundred
people and distribute a hundred autographs. I reached home half
dead with fatigue. As the steamer left at five o’clock in the
morning, I had to go on board that night, so I dressed with all
speed, and packed my things while Reno and Mayer waited for me.
Downstairs we drank two bottles of champagne. I said good-bye to
the servants of the hotel and drove off to the steamer. The drive
was very long. The steamer is quite as fine as the _Bretagne_; I
have an officer’s cabin. On this ship the officers are allowed to
let their cabins, but they ask an exorbitant price. I had to pay
300 dollars (1,500 francs) for mine.... But it is really nice and
very roomy. I said good-bye to my dear American friends and went
straight to bed. I slept badly and heard all the noise when the
steamer started at five o’clock. I came out of my cabin as we
passed the statue of Freedom.”

Altogether Tchaikovsky gave six concerts in America: four in New York, one in Baltimore, and one in Philadelphia. The following works were performed: (1) The Coronation March, (2) Third Suite, (3) two Sacred Choruses: the Lord’s Prayer and the Legend, (4) Pianoforte Concerto No. 1, and (5) Serenade for string instruments.

I have before me sixteen American Press notices of Tchaikovsky, and all are written in a tone of unqualified praise; the only difference lies in the degree of enthusiasm expressed. According to some he is “the first of modern composers after Wagner”; according to others, “one of the first.” His talent as a conductor is equally praised. Everywhere he had an unprecedented success, and many spoke of his interesting appearance. The interviews (especially those in _The New York Herald_) are reproduced with astonishing fidelity. As we read them we can almost fancy we can hear the voice of Tchaikovsky himself.

XIII

“‘PRINCE BISMARCK,’ _May_ 9_th_ (21_st_).

“On account of the maddening pain in my back, I dressed with great
difficulty, went below for my morning tea, and then walked about
the ship to make myself better acquainted with the various
quarters. A host of passengers, but of totally different appearance
to those who travelled with me on the _Bretagne_. The most
perceptible difference lies in the fact that there are no
emigrants. At eight a.m. I was called to breakfast. My place had
already been allotted to me. I had a middle-aged man for my
neighbour, who immediately began to converse. Slept the whole
morning. The sight of the sea leaves me indifferent. I think with
horror of the rest of the journey, but also with longing: may it
soon be over. This is a very fast ship; it is the magnificent new
_Prince Bismarck_, and is making its first passage. Last week it
only took six days and fourteen hours from Hamburg to New York. I
trust we shall get over the horrible distance as quickly. The
motion is not so smooth as that of the _Bretagne_. The weather is
splendid just now. At breakfast I became better acquainted with my
vis-à-vis. It is difficult to say to what nationality he belongs,
as he speaks all languages wonderfully well; perhaps he is a Jew,
so I told him on purpose the story of the importunate Jew. He lives
in Dresden, and is a wholesale tobacco dealer. He has already
discovered who I am. If he speaks the truth, he heard me conduct in
New York; anyway, he improves on acquaintance. I have got so
accustomed to talking in New York that, in spite of my preference
for silence, I can stand his society without being bored. I am
astonished to find I sleep so much. In the evening, soon after
dinner, I was so overcome that I went to bed at ten o’clock and
slept straight on until seven the next morning. Nothing particular
happened during the day. A Mr. Aronson and his young wife
introduced themselves to me. He is the proprietor of the Casino
Theatre (favoured by Von Bülow), as I discovered by means of an
autograph album which was sent to me that I might write my name and
a few lines in it. Schröder, the man who attends to my cabin, is a
good-natured young German; at table also there are two nice German
stewards--this is very important for me. I am pleased with the
ship, the cabin, and the food. As there are no emigrants I can walk
on the lower deck; this is very pleasant, as I meet no first-class
passengers there and can be quiet.

“_May_ 11_th_ (23_rd_).

“I keep very much to myself and, thanks to my splendid cabin, in
which there is plenty of room to move about, I feel much freer than
on the _Bretagne_. I only use the drawing-room in the morning when
no one is there. There is a nice Steinway grand, and not at all a
bad musical library, including a few of my own productions. The day
is divided as follows: Dress, ring my bell, and Schröder brings me
a cup of tea; first breakfast, eight o’clock; walk on the lower
deck, work, read. By work I mean the sketches for my next Symphony.
At twelve o’clock the gong sounds for second breakfast.... I am
reading a book by Tatistchev, _Alexandre et Napoléon_.

“_May_ 11_th_ (23_rd_).

“In New York they so often assured me that the sea was calm at this
time of year that I believed them. But what a disenchantment! Since
early morning the weather has been getting worse: rain, wind, and
towards evening quite a gale. A dreadful night, could not sleep, so
sat on the sofa. Towards morning dozed a little.

“_May_ 12_th_ (24_th_).

“A detestable day. The weather is frightful. Seasickness, could eat
nothing but an orange.

“_May_ (13_th_) 25_th_.

“I feel quite unnerved from exhaustion and sickness. Yesterday
evening I fell asleep in my clothes on my sofa and slept there the
whole night. To-day the motion is less, but the weather is still
dreadful. My nerves are inexpressibly strained and irritated by
this ceaseless noise and horrible cracking. Shall I ever make up my
mind to endure such torment again?

“During the course of the day the motion grew still less and the
weather improved. I have taken such a dislike to the society of my
fellow-passengers that the very sight of them annoys and irritates
me. I constantly sit in my own cabin.

“_May_ 14_th_ (26_th_).

“The moon was magnificent to-night. I read in my cabin till I was
tired, and then went out for a stroll on deck. Everyone, without
exception, was asleep, and I was the only one of the 300
first-class passengers who had come out to enjoy the lovely night.
It was beautiful beyond all words. It was strange to think of the
terrible night on Sunday, when everything in my cabin, even my
trunk, was hurled from one side to the other, and the vessel seemed
to be fighting for life against the storm; when one was racked with
terror, and, added to all, the electric lamp and bell fell with a
crash on the floor and was smashed to pieces. That night I vowed
never to make another sea-voyage. But Schröder, my steward, says he
resolves to give up his place every time the weather is bad, but no
sooner is he in harbour than he longs for the sea again. Perhaps it
may be the same with me. The passengers are getting up a concert,
and want me to play. Quite the worst part of a sea-voyage is having
to know all the passengers.

“_May_ 15_th_ (27_th_).

“As we neared the Channel it became more lively. Hundreds of little
ships came in sight. About two o’clock the English coast was
visible; sometimes rocky and picturesque, sometimes flat and green
with spring grass.... Soon afterwards we entered Southampton.

“_May_ 16_th_ (28_th_).

“After passing Southampton and the Isle of Wight, I went to sleep
and awoke feeling rather chilly.... Enjoyed the views of the
English coast and the sight of the many steamers and sailing
vessels which enliven the Channel. We saw Folkestone and Dover. The
North Sea is very lively. We passed Heligoland in the night

“_May_ 17_th_ (29_th_).

“Arrived early this morning at Cuxhaven.... At 8 a.m. we went on
board a small steamer that took us to the Custom House. Long wait
and examination. Arrived at Hamburg by midday.”

Tchaikovsky spent one day in Hamburg and one in Berlin; then travelled direct to Petersburg.

During his short stay there he was in a cheerful frame of mind. This was partly the result of his reunion with his friends and relatives, and partly the delightful impression of the early spring in Petersburg, which he always enjoyed. This time he was so charmed with the city that he had a great wish to settle in the neighbourhood, and commissioned us to look out for a suitable house, or a small country property.

* * * * *

Since Frolovskoe was becoming more and more denuded of its forests, and the demands of the landlord steadily increased, Tchaikovsky decided to leave. After many vain attempts to find a suitable country house, or to acquire a small property, he resolved to return to Maidanovo. While he was abroad, Alexis Safronov had moved all his belongings into the house he formerly occupied, and arranged it just as in 1886. Although Tchaikovsky was fond of this house and its surroundings, and looked forward to working there under the old conditions, his return somewhat depressed him. There was an air of decay about house and park; the walks did not please him; and then there was the prospect of an inroad of summer visitors.

Soon after settling in Maidanovo he was visited by his brother, Modeste Tchaikovsky, and his nephews, Vladimir Davidov and Count A. Litke. All four travelled to Moscow together, where he was greatly interested by the Franco-Russian Exhibition, and enjoyed acting as cicerone to his favourite nephews.

The chief musical works upon which he was engaged at this time were: the second act of the Ballet, _The Nut-cracker_; the completion of the opera, _King René’s Daughter_; the remodelling of the Sextet and the instrumentation of a symphonic poem, _The Voyevode_, composed the previous autumn while he was staying at Tiflis.

_To P. Jurgenson._

“MAIDANOVO, _June_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1891.

“I have discovered a new instrument in Paris, something between a
piano and a _glockenspiel_, with a divinely beautiful tone. I want
to introduce this into the ballet and the symphonic poem. The
instrument is called the ‘Celesta Mustel,’ and costs 1,200 francs.
You can only buy it from the inventor, Mustel, in Paris. I want to
ask you to order one of these instruments. You will not lose by it,
because you can hire it out to the concerts at which _The Voyevode_
will be played, and afterwards sell it to the Opera when my ballet
is put on.... Have it sent direct to Petersburg; but no one there
must know about it. I am afraid Rimsky-Korsakov and Glazounov might
hear of it and make use of the new effect before I could. I expect
the instrument will make a tremendous sensation.”

_To J. Konius._

“_June_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1891.

“ ... The news that you are engaged (for America) with Brodsky
rejoices me. Brodsky is one of the most sympathetic men I ever met.
He is also a fine artist and the best quartet player I ever heard,
not excepting Laub, who was so great in this line.”

_To V. Davidov._

“_June_ 25_th_ (_July_ 7_th_), 1891.

“According to my promise, I write to let you know that I finished
the sketch of the ballet yesterday. You will remember my boasting
when you were here that I should get it done in about five days.
But I have taken at least a fortnight. Yes, the old fellow is
getting worn out. Not only is his hair turning white as snow and
beginning to fall, not only is he losing his teeth, not only do his
eyes grow weaker and get tired sooner, not only do his feet begin
to drag--but he is growing less capable of accomplishing anything.
This ballet is far weaker than _The Sleeping Beauty_--no doubt
about it. We shall see how the opera turns out. Once I feel
convinced that I can only contribute ‘warmed-up’ dishes to the
musical bill of fare, I shall give up composing.”

The following is quoted from a letter to Arensky, who had been consulting Tchaikovsky as to the advisability of taking the post of Director of the Tiflis branch of the Musical Society:--

“I hardly know how to advise you, dear Anton Stepanovich. I would
prefer not to do so. If you had some private means, I could only
rejoice in the prospect of your going to the Caucasus for a time.
But it saddens me to think of you in the provinces, remote from
musical centres, overburdened with tiresome work, solitary and
unable to hear good music. You cannot imagine how it depresses me
to think of men like Rimsky-Korsakov, Liadov, and yourself being
obliged to worry with teaching. But how can it be helped? I think
if you bear it for another two years, and work hard, little by
little, you may manage to live by composition only. I know in my
own case this is not impossible. I earn enough now to keep a large
family, if need were. I may tell you in conclusion, that Tiflis is
a fascinating town, and life there is pleasant.”

_To Anatol Tchaikovsky._

“MAIDANOVO, _July_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1891.

“ ... Do not be vexed that I stayed so long in Petersburg without
coming to see you in Reval.[170] ... From your letter I gather that
you are pretty comfortable there, although you mention many
difficulties you have to contend with. I think one must be very
politic and tactful in these things, then we can get over most
difficulties. In the diplomatic service we must often _faire bonne
mine au mauvais jeu_. There is nothing for it! I think you would
find Valoniev’s diary interesting. He was governor of one of the
Baltic provinces, and relates a great deal that is interesting. At
that time Souvarov, the extreme Liberal, ruled in these provinces.
In the long run the spirit of Pobiedonostsiev is better than the
spirit of Souvorov.”

Towards the end of July a misfortune befell Tchaikovsky which was the cause of much subsequent anxiety. While he was taking his afternoon constitutional, and Alexis was resting in his room, a thief, who probably entered through the window, carried off the clock which had been given to him by Nadejda von Meck in 1888. This clock, which was beautifully decorated with a figure of Joan of Arc on one side, and on the other with the Apollo of the Grand Opéra, upon a background of black enamel, had been specially made in Paris, and cost 10,000 francs. For years Tchaikovsky had hardly consented to be parted from this gift, even for the necessary cleaning and repairs. It was his chief souvenir of his relations with his friend and benefactress. The police of Moscow and Klin were communicated with at once, but to no purpose: the clock was never recovered.

_To V. Davidov._

“_August_ 1_st_(13_th_), 1891.

“ ... I am now reading your “Chevrillon on Ceylon,”[171] and
thinking of you. I do not altogether share your enthusiasm. These
modern French writers are terribly affected; they have a kind of
affectation of simplicity which disgusts me almost as much as
Victor Hugo’s high-sounding phrases, epithets, and antitheses.
Everything that your favourite recounts in such a clever and lively
style might be told in very simple and ordinary language, neither
in such brief and broken sentences, nor yet in long periods with
the subject and predicate in such forced and unnatural positions.
It is very easy to parody this gentleman:--

“Une serviette de table négligemment attachée à son cou, il
dégustait. Tout autour des mouches, avides, grouillantes, d’un
noir inquiétant volaient. Nul bruit sinon un claquement de machoirs
énervant. Une odeur moite, fétide, écœurante, lourde, répandait
un je ne sais quoi d’animal, de carnacier dans l’air. Point de
lumière. Un rayon de soleil couchant, pénétrant comme par hasard
dans la chambre nue et basse, éclairait par-ci, par-là tantôt la
figure blême du maître engurgitant sa soupe, tantôt celle du valet,
moustachue, à traits kalmouks, stupide et rampante. On devinait un
idiot servi par un idiot. 9 heures. Un morne silence régnait. Les
mouches fatiguées, somnolentes, devenues moins agitées, se
dispersaient. Et lá-bas, dans le lointain, par la fenêtre, on
voyait une lune, grimaçante, enorme, rouge, surgir sur l’horizon
embrasé. Il mangeait, il mangeait toujours. Puis l’estomac bourré,
la face écarlate, l’œil hagard, il se leva et sortit, etc.,
etc., etc. I have described my supper this evening. I think Zola
was the discoverer of this mode of expression.”

_To A. Alferaki._

“_August_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1891.

“ ... I have received your letter and the songs, and played through
the latter. I have nothing new to add to what I have already said
as to your remarkable creative gifts. It is useless to lament that
circumstances have not enabled you to go through a course of strict
counterpoint, which you specially needed. This goes without saying.
Your resolve to confine yourself entirely to song-writing does not
please me. A true artist, even if he possesses only a limited
creative capacity, which hinders him from producing great works in
certain spheres of art, should still keep the highest aim in view.
Neither age, nor any other obstacle, should check his ambition. Why
should you suppose one needs less than a complete all-round
technique in order to compose a perfect song? With an imperfect
technique you may limit your sphere of work as much as you
please--you will never get beyond an elegant amateurism.... I
dislike the system of putting the date of composition on each song.
What is the use of it? What does it matter to the public when and
where a work was composed?”

About August 20th Tchaikovsky left home for Kamenka, from whence he went on to stay with his brother Nicholas. Here he met his favourite poet, A. Fet, and became very friendly with him. Fet wrote a poem, “To Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky,” an attention which touched the musician very deeply. At the end of August he returned to Moscow in a very contented frame of mind.

XIV

1891-1892

Through September, and the greater part of October, Tchaikovsky remained at Maidanovo, working uninterruptedly upon the opera _Iolanthe_ and the orchestration of _The Voyevode_. The work went easily, and his health was good. The evenings, which during the last years of his life brought home to him a sense of his loneliness, were enlivened by the presence of Laroche, who was staying in the house. The friends played arrangements for four hands, or Laroche read aloud. Everything seemed so ordered as to leave no room for dissatisfaction with his lot; and yet his former contentment with his surroundings had vanished.

The theft of his clock was still a matter of anxiety. He might have partially forgotten it, had not the police announced the capture of the criminal. “I am living in the atmosphere of one of Gaboriau’s novels,” he wrote to his brother. “The police have caught the criminal, and he has confessed. But nothing will induce him to reveal where he has hidden the clock. To-day he was brought to me in the hopes that I might persuade him to tell the truth.... He said he would confess all, if he was left alone with me. We went into the next room. There he flung himself at my feet and implored forgiveness. Of course I forgave him, and only begged him to say where the clock was. Then he became very quiet and afterwards declared he had never stolen it at all!... You can imagine how all this has upset me, and how it has set me against Maidanovo.”

Another cause of his passing discontent was wounded pride. So far he believed himself to have scored a great success in America; he was convinced that his return was anxiously waited, and that his popularity had greatly increased. One day, however, he received a letter from Morris Reno, who had originally engaged him, offering him a three months’ tour with twenty concerts at a fee of 4,000 dollars. Seeing that on the first occasion he had received 2,400 dollars for four concerts, Tchaikovsky immediately concluded that he had greatly overrated the importance of his previous visit, and was deeply mortified in consequence. He telegraphed in reply to Reno two words only: “Non. Tchaikovsky.” Afterwards he came to recognise that there was nothing offensive in the proposal made to him, and that it in no way denoted any falling off in the appreciation of the Americans. But the desire to return was no longer so keen; only a very substantial pecuniary advantage would have induced him to undertake the voyage.

Finally, he had another reason for feeling somewhat depressed at this moment. The will which he made in the month of September involuntarily caused him to think of that “flat-nosed horror,” which was sometimes his equivalent for death. He had hitherto been under the impression that the law which existed before the accession of Alexander III. was still in force, and that at his death all his rights in his operas would pass into the hands of the Theatrical Direction. The discovery that he had more than a life interest in them was the reason for making a will. It proves how much attention Tchaikovsky must have given to his contracts for _Eugene Oniegin_, _Mazeppa_, and the later operas before signing them, since the clause relating to his hereditary rights was prominent in them all. When his brother Modeste called his attention to the fact, he would not believe him until he had inquired from the Direction, when he found himself agreeably mistaken. He was always anxious as to the fate of certain people whom he supported during his lifetime, and was thankful to feel that this assistance would be continued after his death.

The number of those he assisted continually increased. “I was the most expensive pensioner,” says Modeste Tchaikovsky, “for he allowed me about two thousand roubles a year.” But he always met every request for money half-way. Here are a few specimens of his generosity, quoted from letters to Jurgenson and others:--

“DEAR FRIEND,--I want to help X. in some way. You are selling the
tickets for his concert. Should they go badly, take fifteen or
twenty places on my behalf and give them to whomsoever you please.
Of course, X. must know nothing about it.”

“If you are in pecuniary difficulties,” he wrote to Y., “come to
your sincere friend (myself), who now earns so much from his operas
and will be delighted to help you. I promise not a soul shall hear
of it; but it will be a great pleasure to me.”

“Please write at once to K., that he is to send Y. twenty-five
roubles a month. He may pay him three months in advance.”

There would be no difficulty in multiplying such instances. Not only his neighbour’s need, but the mere whim of another person, awoke in Tchaikovsky the desire of fulfilment. He always wished to give all and receive nothing. It is not surprising, therefore, that there were occasionally periods--as in September and October, 1891--when he found himself penniless and felt the shortness of funds, chiefly because he was unable to help others.

His correspondence with concert agents, publishers and all kinds of applicants had become a great burden to him in those days.

All these things conduced to that mood of melancholy which is reflected in the letters written at this time.

At the end of October he went to Moscow, to be present at the first performance of _Pique Dame_, and to conduct Siloti’s concert, at which his Symphonic Fantasia, _The Voyevode_, was brought out.

_To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._

“MOSCOW, _October_ 31_st_ (_November_ 12_th_), 1891.

“It is difficult to say how deeply your precious lines touched and
delighted me. Naturally I felt in my heart of hearts that you had
not forgotten me--but it is pleasant to have some clear evidence
that amid all your varied and complicated occupations, and while
under the impression of a profound family sorrow, you still found
time to think of me.

“I was very pleased to make Fet’s acquaintance. From his
‘Reminiscences,’ which were published in the _Russky Viestnik_, I
fancied it would not be very interesting to converse with him. On
the contrary, he is most agreeable company, full of humour and
originality. If your Highness only knew how enchanting his summer
residence is! The house and park--what a cosy retreat for a poet in
his old age! Unluckily, as his wife complained to me, the poet does
not enjoy life in these poetical surroundings at all. He sits at
home all day, dictating verses, or his translation of Martial, to
his lady secretary. He read me many new poems, and I was surprised
at the freshness and youthfulness of his inspiration. We both
regretted your Highness could not devote yourself entirely to
poetry. If only you could repose in summer in just such a solitary
spot! But, alas! it is not possible....

“When I have finished my opera and ballet I shall give up that
kind of work for a time and devote myself to Symphony.... I often
think it is time to shut up shop. A composer who has won success
and recognition stands in the way of younger men who want to be
heard. Time was when no one wanted to listen to my music, and if
the Grand Duke, your father, had not been my patron, not one of my
operas would ever have been performed. Now I am spoilt and
encouraged in every way. It is very pleasant, but I am often
tormented by the thought that I ought to make room for others.”

The first performance of _Pique Dame_ in Moscow took place on November 4th (16th), 1891, under Altani’s bâton. It was merely a fair copy of the Petersburg performance, and presented no “special” qualities as regards musical rendering or scenery.

The opera met with a warmer and more genuine welcome than in the northern capital. Nevertheless the Press was not very pleased with the music. The _Moscow Viedomosti_ thought “Tchaikovsky possessed a remarkable talent for imitation, sometimes going so far as to borrow wholesale from the older masters, as in his Suite _Mozartiana_.” Another newspaper considered the opera “more pleasing than inspired.” The only serious and intelligent criticism of the work appeared in the _Russky Viedomosti_, from Kashkin’s pen.

Siloti’s concert, two days later, was marked by one of the most painful episodes in the composer’s career. Kashkin, in his ‘Reminiscences,’ says that, even at the rehearsals, Tchaikovsky had shown a kind of careless indifference in conducting his latest orchestral work, the Symphonic Ballade, _The Voyevode_. After the rehearsal he asked several people for their opinion upon the work, among others Taneiev, who seems to have replied that the chief movement of the Ballade--the love episode--was not equal to similar episodes in _The Tempest_, _Romeo and Juliet_, or _Francesca_. Moreover, he considered that Tchaikovsky had treated it wrongly, and that Poushkin’s words could be _sung_ to this melody, so that it was more in the style of a vocal than an orchestral work.

At the concert _The Voyevode_ made little impression, notwithstanding the enthusiastic reception given to the composer. This was due to some extent to Tchaikovsky’s careless rendering of the work.

Siloti relates that during the interval the composer came into the artists’ room and tore his score to pieces, exclaiming: “Such rubbish should never have been written.” To tear a thick score in pieces is not an easy feat, and possibly Siloti’s memory may have been at fault. It is more probable that Tchaikovsky _wished_ to destroy the score on the spot than that he actually did so. Besides, he himself wrote to V. Napravnik: “_The Voyevode_ turned out such wretched stuff that I tore it up the day _after_ the concert.”

Siloti carefully concealed the parts of _The Voyevode_, so that after Tchaikovsky’s death the score was restored from these and published by M. Belaiev, of Leipzig. When it was given for the first time in Petersburg, under Nikisch, it made a very different impression upon Taneiev, and he bitterly regretted his hasty verdict delivered in 1891.

Tchaikovsky remained two days longer in Moscow, in order to be present at a dinner given in his honour by the artists who had taken part in _Pique Dame_, and returned to Maidanovo worn out with the excitement he had experienced.

On December 17th (29th) he started upon his concert tour, which included not only foreign, but Russian towns. He was pledged to conduct in Kiev and Warsaw, as well as at the Hague and in Amsterdam,[172] and to attend the first performance of _Oniegin_ in Hamburg and of _Pique Dame_ in Prague.

At the time of the first performance of _Pique Dame_ in Kiev, Tchaikovsky had become intimately acquainted with Prianichnikov, whose services to art he valued very highly. Not only the attitude of this artist towards him, but that of the entire opera company, had touched him very deeply. He was aware that the affairs of this company--one of the best in Russia--were not very flourishing, and he wanted to show his sympathy in some substantial form. He proposed, therefore, that the first performance of his _Iolanthe_ should be transferred from Petersburg to Kiev, provided the Imperial Direction made no objections to the plan. Naturally they objected very strongly, and Tchaikovsky, by way of compensation, offered to conduct a concert for the benefit of Prianichnikov’s company. The local branch of the Musical Society, which had made overtures to the composer on several occasions, was offended at his preference for the artists of the opera, and immediately engaged him for a concert of their own. In view of his former connection with the Society, Tchaikovsky could not refuse this offer. Both concerts were a great success, and evoked immense enthusiasm from the public and the Press.

From Kiev he went to Kamenka for a few days, but a feeling of sadness came over him at the sight of his old dwelling-place, so inseparably connected with the memory of the sister he had lost.

... At Warsaw, where he arrived on December 29th (January 10th), he was overcome with that terrible, despairing nostalgia, which, towards the close of his life, accompanied him like some sinister travelling companion whenever he left Russia. “I am counting--just as last year--the days, hours, and minutes till my journey is over,” he wrote to Vladimir Davidov. “You are constantly in my thoughts, for at every access of agitation and home-sickness, whenever my spiritual horizon grows dark, the thought that you are there, that I shall see you sooner or later, flashes like a ray of sunlight across my mind. I am not exaggerating, upon my honour! Every moment this sun-ray keeps breaking forth in these or similar words: “Yes, it is bad, but never mind, Bob lives in the world”; “Far away in ‘Peter’[173] sits Bob, drudging at his work”; “In a month’s time I shall see Bob again.”

_To N. Konradi._

“WARSAW, _December_ 31_st_ (_January_ 12_th_).

“I have been three days in Warsaw. I do not find this town as
agreeable as many others. It is better in summer. The rehearsals
are in progress, but the orchestra here is worse than second-rate.
I spend my time with my former pupil, the celebrated violinist
Barcewicz, and with the Friede[174] family. I shall stay here over
the New Year. In the evening I generally go to the theatre. The
opera is not bad here. Yesterday I saw the famous _Cavalleria
Rusticana_. This opera is really very remarkable, chiefly for its
successful subject. Perhaps Modi could find a similar libretto. Oh,
when will the glad day of return be here!”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“WARSAW, _January_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1892.