27 April–3 May 1891

The manager of the Composers’ Club called upon me and wished to arrange an evening for my compositions. Mrs. White 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’....

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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