20–26 April 1891

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.

Telegram from Jurgenson: ‘Christos vosskresse.’ 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 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.

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.

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.

‘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. 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 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.

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.

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?