To Ippolitov-Ivanov.“Kamenka,December24th, 1890 (January5th, 1891).“In Petersburg I frequently saw the Intendant of the Opera, and tried to throw out a bait with regard to yourAsra. 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’sMladais 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 hisDream 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 Ippolitov-Ivanov.
“Kamenka,December24th, 1890 (January5th, 1891).
“In Petersburg I frequently saw the Intendant of the Opera, and tried to throw out a bait with regard to yourAsra. 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’sMladais 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 hisDream 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,January1st(13th), 1890.“Do you sometimes give a thought toKing 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.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Kamenka,January1st(13th), 1890.
“Do you sometimes give a thought toKing 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 theHamletmusic, 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 existingHamletoverture, 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 theHamletmusic 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.“January14th(26th), 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 Eumenidesand Fates asdramatis 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 S. I. Taneiev.
“January14th(26th), 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 Eumenidesand Fates asdramatis 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.“January15th(27th), 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 P. Jurgenson.
“January15th(27th), 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.“January17th(29th), 1891.“Dear Soul,—Send me immediately myLegendfor chorus, and theLiturgyand other church works, with the exception of the Vespers. I must make a selection for the American festival.[155]Have you theChildren’s Songsin Rahter’s edition? I want the German text for theLegend.”
To the same.
“January17th(29th), 1891.
“Dear Soul,—Send me immediately myLegendfor chorus, and theLiturgyand other church works, with the exception of the Vespers. I must make a selection for the American festival.[155]Have you theChildren’s Songsin Rahter’s edition? I want the German text for theLegend.”
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 ofHamlet(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 “theHamletmusic,” 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 composingThe Sleeping BeautyandPique Dame. There were several reasons for this. TheCasse-Noisettesubject did not at all please him. He had chosenKing René’s Daughterhimself, 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 performancePique Damewas 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 withPique Dame, and all that Tchaikovsky composed for the opera in Petersburg awakened a lively interest in the Imperial box. “Personally, I need not ‘layfloral tributes’ before you,” he concludes, “for you know how greatly I admire your talents.... InPique Dameyour 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,viâSt. Petersburg.
To Vladimir Davidov.“Berlin,March8th(20th), 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.”
To Vladimir Davidov.
“Berlin,March8th(20th), 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. Whatwould 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 theNovoe Vremyaand 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,viâRouen 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.’”
“Modi, yesterday I went to Paris. There I visited the reading-room in the Passage de l’Opéra, took up theNovoe Vremyaand 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,viâRouen 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.’”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“S.S. ‘La Bretagne,’Atlantic Ocean,“April6th(18st), 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.
“S.S. ‘La Bretagne,’Atlantic Ocean,
“April6th(18st), 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.“April7th(19th), 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 heartto 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 Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“April7th(19th), 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 heartto 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.“April8th(20th), 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.”
To M. Tchaikovsky.
“April8th(20th), 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.”
“April9th(21st), 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 GulfStream. 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.”
“April9th(21st), 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 GulfStream. 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.“April10th(22nd), 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 feltvery 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.Brandyandcoffeeare the only nourishment I have taken to-day.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“April10th(22nd), 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 feltvery 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.Brandyandcoffeeare the only nourishment I have taken to-day.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“April12th(24th), 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.
“April12th(24th), 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.“April12th(24th), 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.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“April12th(24th), 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.”
“April13th(25th), 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 Inoticed 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.”
“April13th(25th), 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 Inoticed 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.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.“New York,April15th(27th), 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 myrooms (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.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“New York,April15th(27th), 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 myrooms (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,April15th(27th).“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 veryinteresting 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.
Diary.
“Monday,April15th(27th).
“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 veryinteresting 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.
“April16th(28th).“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 anyarrière-pensée, isvery 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 thebestside of my face. Then he developed rather a tedious theory of thebest side of the faceand 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 aniced peppermint drink, supported my failing courage. They brought me home at twelve o’clock. A telegram from Botkin summoning me to Washington.
“April16th(28th).
“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 anyarrière-pensée, isvery 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 thebestside of my face. Then he developed rather a tedious theory of thebest side of the faceand 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 aniced peppermint drink, supported my failing courage. They brought me home at twelve o’clock. A telegram from Botkin summoning me to Washington.
“April17th(29th).“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.”
“April17th(29th).
“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,April18th(30th), 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?”
To V. Davidov.
“New York,April18th(30th), 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.“April18th(30th).“It is becoming more and more difficult to find time for writing. Breakfasted with my French friends. Interviewwith 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.
Diary.
“April18th(30th).
“It is becoming more and more difficult to find time for writing. Breakfasted with my French friends. Interviewwith 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.
“April19th(May1st).“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 theFürst 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 tovisit 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. Wewill 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.
“April19th(May1st).
“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 theFürst 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 tovisit 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. Wewill 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.