My first visit to the house of Leo Nikolaevich was on January 20th, 1896. I was not then twenty-one years old. I was almost a boy. I was taken to the Tolstois’ by a well-known Moscow lady singer who used to visit the Tolstois. She took me there in my capacity as pianist, of course. If one is so unlucky as to play some instrument, or to sing or recite, one has a constant impediment in one’s relations with people. People do not take to one, are not interested in one as in a person: one is asked to play something, to sing, to recite.... Hence one feels so embarrassed, so awkward, in other people’s society.
I felt awkward then, and painfully shy. I was introduced. I went into the drawing-room, where, fortunately, two or three people I knew were sitting. I did not yet see Tolstoi. Shortly afterwards he came in, dressed in a blouse, with his hands in his belt. He greeted us all. I do not remember whether he spoke to me then. Then I played, and played badly. Of course, out of politeness I was thanked and complimented, which made me inexpressibly ashamed. And then, when I stood in the middle of the large room, at a loss, not knowing what to do with myself, not daring to raise my eyes, Leo Nikolaevich came up to me, and, speaking with a simplicity which was his alone, began to talk to me.
Among other things, talking of the piece I had played, he asked me:
“Which composer do you like best?”
“Beethoven,” I replied.
Tolstoi looked straight into my eyes and said quietly as if doubting me:
“Is that so?”
It seemed as if I were repeating what every one says; but I spoke the truth.
Leo Nikolaevich observed that he loved Chopin beyond almost all other composers.
He said to me: