“MY DEAR, KIND, INCOMPARABLE FRIEND,--Where are you now? I do not

know. But I have such a yearning to talk to you a little that I am

beginning this letter with the intention of posting it to you in

Moscow, as soon as I can find your address. For three weeks I have

been doing nothing in Petersburg. I say ‘doing nothing’ because my

real business is to compose; and all this conducting, attending

rehearsals for my ballet, etc., I regard as something purposeless

and fortuitous, which only shortens my days, for it needs all my

strength of will to endure the kind of life I have to lead in

Petersburg.... On January 6th I must be back in Moscow to conduct a

concert of the Musical Society, at which Anton Rubinstein will play

his new compositions, and on the 14th I have a popular concert

here; after that I shall be at the end of my forces. I have made up

my mind to refuse all engagements at home and abroad, and perhaps

to go to Italy for four months to rest and work at my future opera,

_Pique Dame_. I have chosen this subject from Poushkin. It happened

in this way: three years ago my brother Modeste undertook to make a

libretto for a certain Klenovsky, and gradually put together a very

successful book upon this subject.

“MOSCOW, _December_ 26_th_ (_January_ 7_th_), 1889.

“I continue my letter. The libretto of _Pique Dame_ was written by

Modeste for Klenovsky, but for some reason he declined to set it to

music. Then Vsievolojsky, the Director of the Opera, took it into

his head that I should write a work on this subject and have it

ready by next season. He communicated his wish to me, and as the

business fitted in admirably with my determination to escape from

Russia for a time and devote myself to composition, I said ‘yes.’ A

committee meeting was improvised, at which my brother read his

libretto, its merits and demerits were discussed, the scenery

planned, and even the parts distributed.... I feel very much

inclined to work. If only I can settle myself comfortably in some

corner abroad, I should be equal to my task, and could let the

Direction have the pianoforte score in May. In the course of the

summer the orchestration would be finished.”

On January 1st (13th) Tchaikovsky was back in St. Petersburg, and on the

following day attended a gala rehearsal of _The Sleeping Beauty_, at

which the Imperial Court was present.

Practically it was the first night, for while the _parterre_ was

reserved for the Imperial party, the boxes on the first tier were

crowded with aristocratic spectators. The Imperial family were pleased,

but not enthusiastic in their appreciation of the music, although

afterwards they grew very fond of this Ballet. “Very nice” was the only

expression of opinion Tchaikovsky received from the Emperor’s lips. This

scanty praise--judging from the entry in his diary--greatly mortified

the composer.

It is interesting to observe that at the first public performance, on

the following day, the public seems to have shared the Emperor’s

opinion, for the applause, which was lacking in warmth, seemed to

pronounce the same lukewarm verdict, “Very nice.” The composer was still

further depressed and embittered. “Embittered,” because, during the

rehearsals, Tchaikovsky had learnt to appreciate the splendour and

novelty of the scenery and costumes, and the inexhaustible taste and

invention of M. Petipa, and expected that all this talent and taste,

combined with his music--which came only second to _Oniegin_ in his

affections--would arouse a storm of enthusiasm in the public.

This was not the case, because the novelty of the programme and the

dazzling wealth of detail blinded the public to the musical beauties of

the work. They could not appreciate the Ballet at the first performance,

as they afterwards learnt to do. Its success was immense, and was proved

in the same way as that of _Eugene Oniegin_--not by frantic applause

during the performance, but by a long series of crowded houses.

On January 4th (16th) Tchaikovsky went to Moscow, where he conducted on

the 6th. Convinced that no repose was possible in that town, he decided

to start abroad immediately, and to take his brother Modeste’s servant,

Nazar, in place of Alexis, who remained by his wife’s death-bed.

Tchaikovsky left Petersburg on January 14th (26th) without any plans as

to his destination.

VII

Not until he reached Berlin did Tchaikovsky decide in favour of

Florence, where he arrived early on January 18th (30th), 1890. Italy did

not interest him at the moment. He was actuated only by one motive--to

get away. Soon he was at work upon _Pique Dame_. His surroundings were

favourable, and he made rapid progress. His condition of mind was not

cheerful, however, as may be gathered from the following letter to

Glazounov, dated January 30th (February 11th), 1890.

“DEAR ALEXANDER CONSTANTINOVICH,--Your kind letter touched me very

much. Just now I am sadly in need of friendly sympathy and

intercourse with people who are intimate and dear. I am passing

through a very enigmatical stage on my road to the grave. Something

strange, which I cannot understand, is going on within me. A kind

of life-weariness has come over me. Sometimes I feel an insane

anguish, but not that kind of anguish which is the herald of a new

tide of love for life; rather something hopeless, final, and--like

every _finale_--a little commonplace. Simultaneously a passionate

desire to create. The devil knows what it is! In fact, sometimes I

feel my song is sung, and then again an unconquerable impulse,

either to give it fresh life, or to start a new song.... As I have

said, I do not know what has come to me. For instance, there was a

time when I loved Italy and Florence. Now I have to make a great

effort to emerge from my shell. When I do go out, I feel no

pleasure whatever, either in the blue sky of Italy, in the sun that

shines from it, in the architectural beauties I see around me, or

in the teeming life of the streets. Formerly all this enchanted me,

and quickened my imagination. Perhaps my trouble actually lies in

those fifty years to which I shall attain two months hence, and my

imagination will no longer take colour from its surroundings?

“But enough of this! I am working hard. Whether what I am doing is

really good, is a question to which only posterity can give the

answer.

“I feel the greatest sympathy for your misgivings as to the failure

of your ‘Oriental Fantasia.’ There is nothing more painful than

such doubts. But all evil has its good side. You say your friends

did not approve of the work, but did not express their disapproval

at the right time--at a moment when you could agree with them. It

was wrong of them to oppose the enthusiasm of the author for his

work, before it had had time to cool. But it is better that they

had the courage to speak frankly, instead of giving you that

meaningless, perfunctory praise some friends consider it their duty

to bestow, to which we listen, and which we accept, because we are

only too glad to believe. You are strong enough to guard your

feelings as composer in those moments when people tell you the

truth.... I, too, dear Alexander Constantinovich, have sometimes

wished to be quite frank with you about your work. I am a great

admirer of your gifts. I value the earnestness of your aims, and

your artistic sense of honour. And yet I often think about you. I

feel that, as an older friend who loves you, I ought to warn you

against certain exclusive tendencies, and a kind of one-sidedness.

Yet how to tell you this I do not quite know. In many respects you

are a riddle to me. You have genius, but something prevents you

from broadening out and penetrating the depths.... In short, during

the winter you may expect a letter from me, in which I will talk to

you after due reflection. If I fail to say anything apposite, it

will be a proof of my incapacity, not the result of any lack of

affection and sympathy for you.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“FLORENCE, _February_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1890.

“You have arranged the death scene of _The Queen of Spades_ very

well, and suitably for musical setting. I am very pleased with you

as a librettist, only keep conciseness in view and avoid prolixity.

As to the scene on the bridge, I have thought it over. You and

Laroche are quite opposed, and in spite of my wish to have as few

scenes as possible, and to be concise, I fear the whole of Act III.

will be without any women actors, and that would be dull. Lisa’s

part cannot be finished in the fourth scene; the audience must know

what becomes of her.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“FLORENCE, _February_ 6_th_ (18_th_), 1890.

“ ... To-day, for the first time, I enjoyed my visit to Italy. So

far I have felt indifferent--even hostile to it. But to-day the

weather was so divine, and it was such a joy to gather a few

violets in the Cascine! At Kamenka they only appear in April.

“Now to return to _Pique Dame_. How can we manage to make the part

lighter for poor Figner? Seven scenes, in which he has to sing

without intermission! Do think it over.

“I am anxiously awaiting the ball scene. For Heaven’s sake lose no

time, Modi, or I shall find myself without any text to set.”

_To A. P. Merkling._

“FLORENCE, _February_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1890.

“To-day I wrote the scene in which Hermann goes to the old _Queen

of Spades_. It was so gruesome that I am still under the horrible

spell of it.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“FLORENCE, _February_ 12_th_ (24_th_), 1890.

“If, God willing, I finish the opera, it will be something _chic_.

The fourth scene will have an overwhelming effect.”

Meanwhile, on February 4th (16th), _The Enchantress_ had been produced

in Moscow for the first time. Kashkin wrote of it as follows:--

“That the opera had been very superficially studied was evident

from the entire performance, which was most unsatisfactory. I will

not blame the artists, who did what they could, while some of them

were very good; but the ensemble was bad, in consequence of

insufficient rehearsal. All went in a more or less disconnected

way. The orchestra accompanied very roughly, without light or

shade, the brass playing [ff] throughout and drowning everything

else with their monotonous noise. Madame Korovina, who took the

chief part, was ill, and should not have been allowed to sing. We

see from the repertory published in the newspapers that _The

Enchantress_ will not be put on again before Lent. Thank goodness!

The repetition of such a performance is most undesirable. An opera

should be studied before it is put on the stage.”

_The Enchantress_, however, was not repeated, even after Lent. With this

solitary performance its career came to an end as regards the Imperial

Opera House.

_Diary._

“_February_ 21_st_ (_March_ 5_th_), 1890.

“This morning I had a letter from Alexis. He says Theklousha (his

wife) prays God to take her soon. Poor, poor sufferer!

“Began the fifth scene, and in imagination I finished it yesterday,

but in reality only got through it early to-day.”

“_February_ 24_th_ (_March_ 8_th_), 1890.

“Heard from Alexis. Theklousha is dead. I wept. Altogether a sad

morning.... In the evening an act from _Puritani_. With all his

glaring defects, Bellini is fascinating!”

“_March_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1890.

“_Finished everything_ this morning. God be praised, Who has let me

bring my work to an end.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“FLORENCE, _March_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1890.

“Yesterday I set your own closing scene to music. When I came to

Hermann’s death and the final chorus, I was suddenly overcome by

such intense pity for Hermann that I burst out crying. Afterwards I

discovered the reason for my tears (for I was never before so

deeply moved by the sorrows of my hero, and I tried to explain to

myself why it should be so now). I came to the conclusion that

Hermann was to me not merely a pretext for writing this or that

kind of music, but had been all the while an actual, living,

sympathetic human being. Because I am very fond of Figner, and I

always see Hermann in the form of Figner, therefore I have felt an

intimate realisation of his fate.[145] Now I hope my warm and

lively feeling for the hero of my opera may be happily reflected in

my music. In any case, I think _Pique Dame_ by no means a bad

opera. We shall see....

“Laroche writes that he and Napravnik do not approve of my having

composed an opera in so short a time. They will not realise that

to rush through my work is an essential feature of my character. I

only work quickly. I took my time over _The Enchantress_ and the

Fifth Symphony, and they were failures, whereas I finished the

Ballet in three weeks, and _Oniegin_ was written in an incredibly

short time. The chief thing is to love the work. I have certainly

written with love. How I cried yesterday when they sang over my

poor Hermann!”

Tchaikovsky had decided to leave Florence early in March for Rome. But

failing to find rooms in any of the hotels, he stayed on in Florence for

two or three weeks longer.

_To Anna Merkling._

“FLORENCE, _March_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1890.

“ ... Heavens, what charming creatures children are! But little

dogs are even more beautiful. They are simply the pearls of

creation!... There is a breed here, almost unknown with us, called

‘Lupetto.’ You can often buy puppies of this kind on the Lungarno.

If my Alexis did not hate dogs (they have a wretched life when the

servants dislike them), I could not resist buying one of them.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“FLORENCE, _March_ 19_th_ (31_st_), 1890.

“Just two months ago I began the composition of the opera. To-day I

finished the pianoforte score of the second act. This is to me the

most dreadful and nerve-exasperating occupation. I composed the

opera with pleasure and self-oblivion; I shall orchestrate with

delight; but to make an arrangement! All the time one has to keep

undoing what is intended for orchestra. I believe my ill-health is

simply the result of this confounded work. Nazar says I have very

much altered the last week or two, and have been in a dreadful

state of mind. Whether it is that the worst and most wearisome part

of my work is nearing an end, or that the weather is finer, I

cannot say, but since yesterday I feel much better.... Modi, either

I am greatly mistaken or _Pique Dame_ is a masterpiece. At one

place in the fourth scene, which I was arranging to-day, I felt

such horror, such gruesome thrills, that surely the listeners

cannot escape the same impressions.

“Understand, that I shall certainly spend my fiftieth birthday in

Petersburg. Besides yourself, Anatol, and Jurgenson, I shall write

to no one.”

On March 27th (April 8th), Tchaikovsky completed the pianoforte

arrangement of _Pique Dame_, and resolved to move on to Rome. “I am

going there chiefly for Nazar’s sake,” he writes, “I want him to see the

place.” For the first time, after nine weeks of continuous work, the

composer enjoyed a little leisure, and spent one of his last days in the

Uffizi and Pitti galleries. “In spite of my efforts,” he says, “I cannot

acquire any appreciation of painting, especially of the older

masters--they leave me cold.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“ROME, _March_ 27_th_ (_April_ 8_th_).

“ ... The cheerful feelings that came over me to-day as soon as I

stepped into the streets, breathed the well-known air of Rome, and

saw the old familiar places, made me realise how foolish I had been

not to come here first of all. However, I must not blame poor

Florence, which for no particular reason grew so detestable to me,

since I was able to compose my opera there unmolested. Rome is much

changed. Parts of it are unrecognisable. Yet, in spite of these

alterations, it is a joy to be back in the dear place. I think of

the years that have dropped into eternity, of the two Kondratievs,

gone to their rest. It is very sad and yet it has a melancholy

pleasure.... Nazar is enchanted with Rome. I seem to see you and

Kolya at every turn. I shall stay here three weeks.”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“ROME, _March_ 28_th_ (_April_ 9_th_), 1890.

“All I hear about Safonov[146] does not surprise me in the least.

But in any case it must be confessed that he may be useful at this

critical juncture. A man of such childlike guilelessness and

rectitude as Taneiev can hardly uphold the prestige of the

Conservatoire. A Safonov is useful when there is no longer a

Rubinstein. Such a man as Nicholas Rubinstein, who had furious

energy, and at the same time could quite forget himself in the work

he loved, is rare indeed.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“ROME, _April_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1890.

“DEAR FRIEND,--I am forced to flee from Rome. I could not preserve

my incognito. A few Russians have already called to ask me to

dinners, soirées, etc. I have refused every invitation, but my

liberty is done for, and all pleasure in my visit at an end.

Sgambati, the leading musician here, having heard from the Russians

that I was in Rome, put my First Quartet into the programme of his

chamber concert, and came to request my attendance. I could not

possibly be ungracious, so I had to sacrifice one of my working

hours in order to sit in a stuffy room and listen to a second-rate

performance of my work; while all the time I was an object of

curiosity to the audience, whom Sgambati had informed of my

presence, and who seemed very curious to see what a Russian

musician could be like. It was most unpleasant. As these

occurrences are certain to be repeated, I have decided to return to

Russia in two or three days by way of Venice and Vienna.

“You cannot imagine how I long for Russia, and with what joy I look

forward to my rural solitude. Just now something wrong is going on

in Russia. But nothing hinders my passionate love of my own land. I

cannot imagine how formerly I was contented to stay so long away

from it, and even to take some pleasure in being abroad.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“ROME, _April_ 7_th_ (19_th_), 1890.

“.... The Quartet had a tremendous success; the papers praise it to

the skies. But the papers here praise everything. Home, quick,

quick, home!”

VIII

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“FROLOVSKOE, _May_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1890.

“I have been back four days. The house is almost unrecognisable:

the parlour (it is also the dining-room) has become a beautiful

apartment, thanks to the addition of Siloti’s furniture to

mine.[147] ... But outside the house, O horror! _The

whole--literally every stick--of the forest has been cut down!_

Only the little thicket behind the church is left. Where is one to

walk? Heavens, how entirely the disappearance of a wood changes the

character of a place, and what a pity it is! All those dear, shady

spots that were there last year are now a bare wilderness. Now we

are sowing our flowering seeds. I am doing double work, that is to

say, out of working hours I am correcting proofs....”

_To Ippolitov-Ivanov._

“FROLOVSKOE, _May_ 5_th_ (17_th_), 1890.

“My visit abroad brought forth good fruit. I composed an opera,

_Pique Dame_, which seems to me a success, that is why I speak of

‘good fruit’.... My plans for the future are as follows: to finish

the orchestration of the opera, to sketch out a string sextet, to

go to my sister at Kamenka for the end of the summer, and to spend

the whole autumn with you at Tiflis. Is your opera _Asra_ finished?

I saw none of the musical world in Moscow, and know nothing of what

is going on. Safonov is a capable director, but---- However, we

will talk this over when we meet.”

_To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._

“FROLOVSKOE, _May_ 18_th_ (30_th_), 1890.

“YOUR IMPERIAL HIGHNESS,-- ... I should be delighted to meet

Maikov[148] at your house to discuss the relations between art and

craftsmanship. Ever since I began to compose I have endeavoured to

be in my work just what the great masters of music--Mozart,

Beethoven, and Schubert--were in theirs; not necessarily to be as

great as they were, but to work as they did--as the cobbler works

at his trade; not in a gentlemanly way, like Glinka, whose genius,

however, I by no means deny. Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert,

Mendelssohn, Schumann, composed their immortal works just as a

cobbler makes a pair of boots--by daily work; and more often than

not because they were ordered. The result was something colossal.

Had Glinka been a cobbler, rather than a gentleman, besides his two

(very beautiful) operas, he would have given us perhaps fifteen

others, and ten fine symphonies into the bargain. I could cry with

vexation when I think what Glinka might have left us, if he had not

been born into an aristocratic family before the days of the

Emancipation. He showed us what he could have done, but he never

actually accomplished a twentieth part of what it was in him to do.

For instance, in symphonic music (_Kamarinskaya_, and the two

Spanish overtures) he simply played about like an amateur--and yet

we are astonished at the force and originality of his gifts. What

would he not have accomplished had he worked in the same way as the

great masters of Western Europe?

“Although I am convinced that if a musician desires to attain to

the greatest heights to which his inspiration will carry him he

must develop himself as a craftsman, I will not assert that the

same thing applies to the other arts. For instance, in the sphere

you have chosen I do not think a man can force himself to create.

For a lyrical poem, not only the mood, but the idea, must be there.

But the idea will be evoked by some fortuitous phenomenon. In

music it is only necessary to evoke a certain general mood or

emotion. For example, to compose an elegy I must tune myself to a

melancholy key. But in a poet this melancholy must take some

concrete expression so to speak; therefore in his case an external

impulse is indispensable. But in all these things the difference

between the various creative temperaments plays a great part, and

what is right for one would not be permissible for another. The

majority of my fellow-workers, for instance, do not like working to

order; I, on the other hand, never feel more inspired than when I

am requested to compose something, when a term is fixed and I know

that my work is being impatiently awaited.”

At the beginning of June, Ippolitov-Ivanov wrote to Tchaikovsky that the

usual opera season would take place at Tiflis, and that, besides works

by Tchaikovsky, his own opera _Asra_ would be performed there. At the

same time, he seems to have sounded his friend as to his prospects of

succeeding to Altani’s post in Moscow.

“The rumours of Altani’s resignation were false,” replied Tchaikovsky,

“and the work of his enemies.... But you have no notion of all the

disagreeables and annoyances you would have to endure. A more suitable

position for you would be a professorship at the Moscow Conservatoire.

But Safonov, it appears, makes no propositions. Write to me: yes or no.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“FROLOVSKOE, _June_ 30_th_ (_July_ 12_th_), 1890.

“ ... I find more and more delight in the cultivation of flowers,

and comfort myself with the thought of devoting myself entirely to

this occupation when my powers of composition begin to decay.

Meanwhile I cannot complain. Scarcely was the opera finished before

I took up a new work, the sketch of which is already completed. I

hope you will be pleased to hear I have composed a sextet for

strings. I know your love of chamber music, and I am glad you will

be able to hear my sextet; that will not necessitate your going to

a concert, you can easily arrange a performance of it at home. I

hope the work will please you: I wrote it with the greatest

enthusiasm and without the least exertion.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“FROLOVSKOE, _June_ 30_th_ (_July_ 12_th_), 1890.

“Yesterday was my name-day. I had eleven guests to dinner, which

was served in the garden. The peasants came again to get their

money, and brought cracknels, etc. The summer is wonderful. My

flowers have never been so luxuriant. Quantities of everything.

Yesterday morning I had hardly left the house before I came upon

two splendid white mushrooms.”

_To N. F. von Meck._

“FROLOVSKOE, _July_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1890.

“DEAR, KIND FRIEND,--At the same time as your letter yesterday, the

composer Arensky came to see me, which delayed my immediate reply.

I am afraid I did not fully express my thanks. But then, words are

wanting to tell you of my eternal gratitude, and to say how deeply

touched I am by your care and attention. Acting upon your advice, I

have paid two-thirds of the sum to my current account. I have

firmly resolved to begin to put by this year, so that in time I may

buy a small landed property--perhaps Frolovskoe itself, since I am

very fond of it, in spite of the demolition of the woods.

“Arensky has written an opera,[149] which Jurgenson has published.

I had gone through it carefully and felt I must tell him exactly

what I thought of this fine work. My letter touched him so deeply

that he came here to thank me in person. Arensky is a man of

remarkable gifts, but morbidly nervous and lacking in

firmness--altogether a strange man.”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“_July_ 2_nd_ (14_th_), 1890.

“DEAR FRIEND,--The manuscript of the cantata is in the Petersburg

Conservatoire. I cannot consent to its publication, because it is

an immature work, for which there is no future. Besides, it is

written to Schiller’s _Ode to Joy_. It is not seemly to enter into

competition with Beethoven.

“As to the fate of _The Little Shoes_ (_Les Caprices d’Oxane_), I

fully believe it will come to have a place in the repertory, and

regard it, musically speaking, as my best operatic work.

“Arensky was here yesterday, and showed me a book of theory. It is

admirably put together, and would be very useful for teaching

purposes. I strongly recommend you to buy it.”

_To the Grand Duke Constantine Constantinovich._

“FROLOVSKOE, _August_ 3_rd_ (15_th_), 1890.

“YOUR IMPERIAL HIGHNESS,--Your kind and charming letter has reached

me on the eve of my departure for a long journey, so forgive me if

I do not answer it as fully as I ought. But I have much to say in

answer to your remarks about _Pique Dame_.... Your criticisms of my

sins as regards declamation are too lenient. In this respect I am

past redemption. I do not think I have perpetrated many blunders of

this kind in recitative and dialogue, but in the lyrical parts,

where my mood has carried me away from all just equivalents, I am

simply unconscious of my mistakes--you must get someone to point

them out to me....

“As regards the repetition of words and phrases, I must say that my

views differ entirely from those of your Imperial Highness. There

are cases in which such repetitions are quite natural and in

accordance with truth of expression.... But even were it not so, I

should not hesitate for an instant to sacrifice the literal to the

artistic truth. These truths differ fundamentally, and I could not

forget the second in pursuit of the first, for, if we aimed at

pushing realism in opera to its extreme limits, we should finally

have to abandon opera itself. To sing instead of speaking--that is

the climax of falsehood in the accepted sense of the word. Of

course, I am the child of my generation, and I have no wish to

return to the worn-out traditions of opera; at the same time I am

not disposed to submit to the despotic requirements of realistic

theories. I should be most grieved to think that any portions of

_Pique Dame_ were repellent to you--for I hoped the work might

please you--and I have made a few changes in the scene where the

governess scolds the girls, so that all the repetitions have some

good reason....”

IX

1890-1891

On December 13th (25th), 1890, Tchaikovsky received a letter from

Nadejda von Meck, informing him that in consequence of the complicated

state of her affairs she was on the brink of ruin, and therefore no

longer able to continue his allowance.

In the course of their correspondence, which extended over thirteen

years, Nadejda Filaretovna had referred more than once to her pecuniary

embarrassments and to her fears of becoming bankrupt. But each time she

had added that the allowance made to Tchaikovsky could be in no way

affected, since she had assured it to him for life, and that the sum of

6,000 roubles a year was of no consequence to her one way or the other.

In November, 1889, she had spoken again of her business anxieties, but,

as usual, without any reference to Tchaikovsky’s pension. On the

contrary, in the summer of 1890 she showed her willingness to help him

still further by advancing him a considerable sum. Consequently this

news fell upon the composer like a bolt from the blue, and provoked the

following reply:--

_To N. F. von Meck._

“TIFLIS, _September_ 22_nd_ (_October_ 4_th_), 1890.

“DEAREST FRIEND,--The news you communicated to me in your last

letter caused me great anxiety; not on my account, however, but on

your own. It would, of course, be untrue were I to say that such a

radical change in my budget did not in any way affect my financial

position. But it ought not to affect me so seriously as you

apparently fear. In recent years my earnings have considerably

increased, and there are indications that they will continue to do

so. Therefore, if I am accountable for any fraction of your endless

cares and anxieties, I beg you, for God’s sake, to be assured that

I can think of this pecuniary loss without any bitterness. Believe

me, this is the simple truth; I am no master of empty phraseology.

That I shall have to economise a little is of no importance. What

really matters is that you, with your requirements and large ways

of life, should have to retrench. This is terribly hard and

vexatious. I feel as though I wanted to lay the blame on someone

(you yourself are certainly above reproach), but I do not know who

is the real culprit. Besides, not only is my indignation quite

useless, but I have no right to interfere in your family affairs. I

would rather ask Ladislaw Pakhulsky to tell me what you intend to

do, where you will live, and how far you will be straitened as to

means. I cannot think of you except as a wealthy woman. The last

words of your letter have hurt me a little,[150] but I do not think

you meant them seriously. Do you really think me incapable of

remembering you when I no longer receive your money? How could I

forget for a moment all you have done for me, and all for which I

owe you gratitude? I may say without exaggeration that you saved

me. I should certainly have gone out of my mind and come to an

untimely end but for your friendship and sympathy, as well as for

the material assistance (then my safety anchor), which enabled me

to rally my forces and take up once more my chosen vocation. No,

dear friend, I shall always remember and bless you with my last

breath. I am glad you can now no longer spend your means upon me,

so that I may show my unbounded and passionate gratitude, which

passes all words. Perhaps you yourself hardly suspect how

immeasurable has been your generosity. If you did, you would never

have said that, now you are poor, I am to think of you

‘_sometimes_.’ I can truly say that I have never forgotten you, and

never shall forget you for a moment, for whenever I think of myself

my thoughts turn directly to you.

“I kiss your hands, with all my heart’s warmth, and implore you to

believe, once and for all, that no one feels more keenly for your

troubles than I do.

“I will write another time about myself and all I am doing. Forgive

my hasty, badly written letter: I am too much upset to write well.”

To the above letter we need only add that Tchaikovsky, with his usual

lack of confidence, greatly exaggerated to himself the consequences of

this loss. A few days later he wrote to Jurgenson:--

“Now I must start quite a fresh life, on a totally different scale

of expenditure. In all probability I shall be compelled to seek

some occupation in Petersburg which will bring me in a good salary.

This is very, very humiliating--yes, humiliating is the word!”

But this “humiliation” soon passed away. About this time his pecuniary

situation greatly improved, and the success of _Pique Dame_ more than

covered the loss of his pension.

Soon, too, he was relieved as to the fate of Nadejda Filaretovna, for he

learnt that her fears of ruin had been unfounded, and her financial

difficulties had almost completely blown over. But with this

relief--strange as it may appear--came also a sense of injury which

Tchaikovsky carried to the grave. No sooner was he assured that his

friend was as well off as before, than he began to persuade himself that

her last letter had been nothing “but an excuse to get rid of him on

the first opportunity”; that he had been mistaken in idealising his

relations with his “best friend”; that the allowance had long since

ceased to be the outcome of a generous impulse, and that Nadejda

Filaretovna was no longer as grateful to him for his ready acceptance of

her help, as he was to receive it.

“Such were my relations with her,” he wrote to Jurgenson, “that I never

felt oppressed by her generous gifts; but now they weigh upon me in

retrospect. My pride is hurt; my faith in her unfailing readiness to

help me, and to make any sacrifice for my sake is betrayed.”

In his agony of wounded pride Tchaikovsky was driven to wish that his

friend had really been ruined, so that he “might help her, even as she

had helped him.” To these painful feelings was added all the bitterness

involved in seeing their ideal connection shattered and dissolved. He

felt as though he had been roughly awakened from some beautiful dream,

and found in its stead “a commonplace, silly joke, which fills me with

disgust and shame.”

But the worst blow was yet to come. Shortly after receiving Nadejda von

Meck’s letter, Tchaikovsky’s circumstances--as we have already

said--improved so greatly that it would not have been difficult for him

to have returned her the sum she had allowed him. He believed, however,

that this would have hurt her feelings, and he could not bring himself

to mortify in the smallest degree the woman who had actually been his

saviour at the most critical moment of his life. The only way out of

this painful situation seemed the continuance of his correspondence with

her, as though nothing had happened. His advances, however, met with

nothing but silent opposition on the part of Nadejda Filaretovna, and

this proved the unkindest cut of all. Her indifference to his fate, her

lack of interest in his work, convinced him that things had never been

what they seemed, and all the old ideal friendship now appeared to him

as the whim of a wealthy woman--the commonplace ending to a fairy tale;

while her last letter remained like a blot upon the charm and beauty of

their former intercourse. Neither the great success of _Pique Dame_, nor

the profound sorrow caused by the death of his beloved sister, in April,

1891, nor even his triumphs in America, served to soften the blow she

had inflicted.

On June 6th (18th), 1891, he wrote from Moscow to Ladislaw Pakhulsky:--

“I have just received your letter. It is true Nadejda Filaretovna

is ill, weak, and her nerves are upset, so that she can no longer

write to me as before. Not for the world would I add to her

sufferings. I am grieved, bewildered, and--I say it frankly--deeply

hurt that she has ceased to feel any interest in me. Even if she no

longer desired me to go on corresponding directly with her, it

could have been easily arranged for you and Julia Karlovna to have

acted as links between us. But she has never once inquired through

either of you how I am living, or what I am doing. I have

endeavoured, through you, to re-establish my correspondence with

Nadejda Filaretovna, but not one of your letters has contained the

least courteous reference to my efforts. No doubt you are aware

that in September last she informed me that she could no longer pay

my pension. You must also know how I replied to her. I _wished_ and

_hoped_ that our relations might remain unchanged. But unhappily

this seemed impossible, because of her complete estrangement from

me. The result has been that all our intercourse was brought to an

end _directly I ceased to receive her money_. This situation lowers

me in my own estimation; makes the remembrance of the money I

accepted from her well-nigh intolerable; worries and weighs upon me

more than I can say. When I was in the country last autumn I

re-read all her letters to me. No illness, no misfortune, no

pecuniary anxieties could ever--so it seemed to me--change the

sentiments which were expressed in these letters. And yet they have

changed. Perhaps I idealised Nadejda Filaretovna because I did not

know her personally. I could not conceive change in anyone so

_half-divine_. I would sooner have believed that the earth could

fail beneath me than that our relations could suffer change. But

the inconceivable has happened, and all my ideas of human nature,

all my faith in the best of mankind, have been turned upside down.

My peace is broken, and the share of happiness fate has allotted me

is embittered and spoilt.

“No doubt Nadejda Filaretovna has dealt me this cruel blow

unconsciously and unintentionally. Never in my life have I felt so

lowered, or my pride so profoundly injured as in this matter. The

worst is that, on account of her shattered health, I dare not show

her all the troubles of my heart, lest I should grieve or upset

her.

“I may not speak out, which would be my sole relief. However, let

this suffice. Even as it is, I may regret having said all this--but

I felt the need of giving vent to some of my bitterness. Of course,

I do not wish a word to be said to her.

“Should she ever inquire about me, say I returned safely from

America and have settled down to work in Maidanovo. You may add

that I am well.

“Do not answer this letter.”

Nadejda Filaretovna made no response to this communication. Pakhulsky

assured Tchaikovsky that her apparent indifference was the result of a

serious nervous illness, but that in her heart of hearts she still cared

for her old friend. He returned the above letter to Tchaikovsky, because

he dare not give it to Nadejda Filaretovna during her illness, and did

not consider himself justified in keeping it.

This was Tchaikovsky’s last effort to win back the affection of his

“best friend.” But the wound remained unhealed, a cause of secret

anguish which darkened his life to the end. Even on his death-bed the

name of Nadejda Filaretovna was constantly on his lips, and in the

broken phrases of his last delirium these words alone were intelligible

to those around him.

Before taking leave of this personality who played so benevolent a part

in Tchaikovsky’s existence, let it be said, in extenuation of her

undeserved cruelty, that from 1890 Nadejda von Meck’s life was a slow

decline, brought about by a terrible nervous disease, which changed her

relations not only to him, but to others. The news of his end reached

her on her death-bed, and two months later she, too, passed away, on

January 13th (25th), 1894.

X

Early in September, 1890, Tchaikovsky spent a day or two in Kiev on his

way to Tiflis. In the former town he learnt that Prianichnikov, a

favourite singer and theatrical impresario, was anxious to produce _Dame

de Pique_. The idea pleased Tchaikovsky, for, thanks to Prianichnikov’s

energy, the opera at Kiev almost surpassed that of Moscow as regards

_ensemble_ and the excellence of the staging in general.

On October 20th (November 1st) Tchaikovsky conducted a concert given by

the Tiflis branch of the Musical Society, the programme of which was

drawn exclusively from his own works. The evening was a great success

for the composer, who received a perfect ovation and was “almost

smothered in flowers,” besides being presented with a bâton.

Tiflis was the first town to welcome Tchaikovsky with cordiality and

enthusiasm; it was also the first to accord him a warm and friendly

farewell, destined, alas! to be for eternity.

On his return to Frolovskoe he busied himself with the collected edition

of his songs, which Jurgenson proposed to issue shortly. The composer

stipulated that the songs should be reprinted in their original keys,

for, as he writes to Jurgenson: “I have neither strength nor patience to

look through all the transpositions, which have been very badly done,

and are full of the stupidest mistakes.”

From Frolovskoe Tchaikovsky went to Petersburg, about the middle of

November, to attend the rehearsals for his latest opera, _Pique Dame_.

During his stay at the Hôtel Rossiya he arranged an _audition_ of his

newly composed sextet. The instrumentalists were: Albrecht, Hildebrandt,

Wierzbilowicz, Hille, Kouznietsov and Heine. As audience, he invited

Glazounov, Liadov, Laroche, and a few friends and relatives. Neither his

hearers, nor the composer himself, were equally pleased with all the

movements of the sextet, so that he eventually resolved to rewrite the

Scherzo and Finale. Apart from this one disappointment, the rest of his

affairs--including the rehearsals--went so well that his prevailing mood

at this time was cheerful; although the numerous festivities given in

his honour hindered him from keeping up his correspondence during this

visit to Petersburg. Not a single letter appears to exist dating from

these weeks of his life.

On December 6th (18th) a rehearsal of the opera was given before their

Imperial Majesties and many leaders of society in the capital. The

success of the work was very evident; yet Tchaikovsky had an idea that

the Emperor did not care for it. As we shall see, later on, he was quite

mistaken in coming to this conclusion.

The first public representation took place on December 7th (19th), 1890,

just a year after the commencement of the work. Not one of Tchaikovsky’s

operas had a better caste than _Pique Dame_. The part of Hermann was

taken by the celebrated singer Figner, while the heroine was represented

by his wife. The rôles of the old Countess and Paulina were respectively

allotted to Slavina and Dolina. Each of these leading singers

distinguished themselves in some special quality of their art.

Throughout the entire evening artists and audience alike experienced a

sense of complete satisfaction, rarely felt during any operatic

performance. Napravnik as conductor, and Figner in the part of hero,

surpassed themselves, and did most to ensure the success of the opera.

The scenery and dresses, by their beauty and historical accuracy, were

worthy of the fine musical interpretation.

The applause increased steadily to the end of the work, and composer and

singers were frequently recalled. At the same time, no one would have

ventured to predict that the opera would even now be holding its own in

the repertory, for there was no question of a great ovation.

The critics not only unanimously condemned the libretto, but did not

approve of the music. One remarked: “As regards instrumentation,

Tchaikovsky is certainly a great poet; but in the actual music _he not

only repeats himself, but does not shrink from imitating other

composers_.” Another thought this “the weakest of all his efforts at

opera.” A third called the work “a card problem,” and declared that,

musically speaking, “the accessories prevailed over the essential ideas,

and external brilliance over the inner content.”

A few days after the first performance of _Pique Dame_ in St.

Petersburg, Tchaikovsky went through the same experience in Kiev, with

this difference, that the reception of the opera in the southern city

far surpassed in enthusiasm that which had been accorded to it in the

capital.

“It was indescribable,” he wrote to his brother on December 21st

(January 2nd, 1891). “I am very tired, however, and in reality I suffer

a great deal. My uncertainty as to the immediate future weighs upon me.

Shall I give up the idea of wandering abroad or not? Is it wise to

accept the offer of the Opera Direction,[151] for the sextet seems to

point to the fact that I am going down-hill? My brain is empty; I have

not the least pleasure in work. _Hamlet_[152] oppresses me terribly.”

_To Ippolitov-Ivanov._

“KAMENKA, _December_ 24_th_, 1890 (_January_ 5_th_, 1891).

“In Petersburg I frequently saw the Intendant of the Opera, and

tried to throw out a bait with regard to your _Asra_. I shall be

able to go more closely into the matter in January, but I can tell

you already there is little hope for next year. Rimsky-Korsakov’s

_Mlada_ is being considered, and I am commissioned to write a

one-act opera and a ballet.... In this way I am involuntarily a

hindrance to the younger composers, who would be glad to see their

works performed at the Imperial Opera. This troubles me, but the

temptation is too great, and I am not yet convinced that the time

has come for me to make room for the younger generation.... As I

have also asked Kondratiev--at Arensky’s request--to persuade the

Direction into giving a performance of his _Dream on the Volga_, I

must warn you that you will meet with great difficulties in gaining

your end.... No one knows better than I do how important it is for

a young composer to get his works performed at a great theatre,

therefore I would be willing to make some sacrifice, if I were sure

it would be of any use. But supposing I were to relinquish my

commission to compose an opera and a ballet. What would be the

result? They would rather put on three foreign operas than risk a

new Russian one by a young composer.”

_To Modeste Tchaikovsky._

“KAMENKA, _January_ 1_st_ (13_th_), 1890.

“Do you sometimes give a thought to _King René’s Daughter_?[153] It

is very probable that I shall end by going to work in Italy. In

that case the libretto ought to be in my hands by the end of

January. And the ballet? I shall spend a fortnight at Frolovskoe.”

The time Tchaikovsky now spent at Frolovskoe was devoted to the _Hamlet_

music, which he had promised Guitry should be ready in February.

Not one of his works inspired him with less enthusiasm than this. As a

rule he rather enjoyed working to order, but he took up this task with

great repugnance, because he had to begin by arranging the existing

_Hamlet_ overture, originally written for full orchestra, for the small

band of the Michael Theatre. At his request the orchestra of twenty-nine

was increased by seven musicians, but there was no room to accommodate a

larger number. In spite of his disinclination for the work, Tchaikovsky

succeeded in composing several numbers which delighted the public; while

one movement (_The Funeral March_) became exceedingly popular.

Tchaikovsky arrived at Frolovskoe on January 6th (18th), and immediately

telegraphed to the concert agent, Wolf, that he would be unable to

fulfil the engagements made for him at Mainz, Buda-Pesth, and Frankfort.

It was not merely the composition of the _Hamlet_ music which caused him

to relinquish these engagements; at this time he was suffering from a

nervous affection of the right hand, which made conducting a matter of

considerable difficulty.

_To S. I. Taneiev._

“_January_ 14_th_ (26_th_), 1891.

“The question: How should opera be written? is one I answer, have

answered, and always shall answer, in the simplest way. Operas,

like everything else, should be written just as they come to us. I

always try to express in the music as truthfully and sincerely as

possible all there is in the text. But truth and sincerity are not

the result of a process of reasoning, but the inevitable outcome of

our inmost feelings. In order that these feelings should have

warmth and vitality, I always choose subjects in which I have to

deal with real men and women, who share the same emotions as

myself. That is why I cannot bear the Wagnerian subjects, in which

there is so little human interest. Neither would I have chosen your

subject, with its supernatural agencies, its inevitable crimes, its

Eumenides and Fates as _dramatis personæ_. As soon as I have found

a subject, and decided to compose an opera, I give free rein to my

feelings, neither trying to carry out Wagner’s principles, nor

striving after originality. At the same time I make no conscious

effort to go against the spirit of my time. If Wagner had not

existed, probably my compositions would have been different to what

they are. I may add that even the ‘Invincible Band’ has had some

influence on my operas. Italian music, which I loved passionately

from my childhood, and Glinka, whom I idolised in my youth, have

both influenced me deeply, to say nothing of Mozart. But I never

invoked any one of these musical deities and bade him dispose of my

musical conscience as he pleased. Consequently I do not think any

of my operas can be said to belong to a particular school. Perhaps

one of these influences may occasionally have gained the upper hand

and I have fallen into imitation; but whatever happened came of

itself, and I am sure I appear in my works just as God made me, and

such as I have become through the action of time, nationality, and

education. I have never been untrue to myself. What I am, whether

good or bad, others must judge for me....

“Arensky’s opera[154] did not please me much when he played me

fragments of it in Petersburg after his illness. I liked it a

little better when he played it to you at Altani’s; far more when I

went through it myself this summer; and now, having seen it

actually performed, I think it one of the best of Russian operas.

It is very elegant and equal throughout; only the end lacks

something of inspiration. It has one defect: a certain monotony of

method which reminds me of Korsakov.... Arensky is extraordinarily

clever in music; everything is so subtly and truly thought out. He

is a very interesting musical personality.”

_To P. Jurgenson._

“_January_ 15_th_ (27_th_), 1891.

“DEAR FRIEND,--Wolf has sent me the letter from that American

gentleman who has arranged for my engagement. It is so easy and

profitable that it would be foolish to lose this opportunity of an

American tour, which has long been one of my dreams. This explains

my telegram to you yesterday. In America, the news that I could not

go, because my right hand was disabled, reached them by cable, and

they were very much upset. Now they are awaiting an answer--yes or

no.”

_To the same._

“_January_ 17_th_ (29_th_), 1891.

“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_).

“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_).