Over three hundred guests were present, and, besides his Serenade for strings, Tchaikovsky conducted the Andante from his Quartet and presided at the piano. The composer was grateful to his kindly host for the unexpected and—according to Parisian custom—absolutely indispensable réclame which this entertainment conferred upon him. To ensure the success of the evening, and in return for the service done him, Tchaikovsky felt himself obliged to run from rehearsal to rehearsal, from musician to musician. To appear as a conductor before this assemblage of amateurs—more distinguished for vanity than for love of art—and to earn their languid approval, seemed to him flattering and important. But when we reflect what far greater trouble and fatigue this entailed upon him than his appearance before the Gewandhaus audience—whose opinion was really of weight and value—we cannot but regret the waste of energy and the lowering of the artist’s dignity. When we think of him, exhausted and out of humour, amid this crowd of fashionably attired strangers, who to-morrow would be “consecrating” the success of the latest chansonette singer, or the newest dance of a Loie Fuller—we cannot but rebel against fate, who took him from his rural quiet, from the surroundings to which he was attached, in which—sound in body and mind—it was his pleasure to plan some new composition in undisturbed solitude. Thank God, my brother comforted himself with the belief that it was necessary to suffer this martyrdom cheerfully, and that he did not live to realise that it was indeed useless, for nowhere did he make a greater sacrifice for popularity’s sake with smaller results than in Paris.
Those musicians who had been absent during Tchaikovsky’s visit to Paris in 1886 now made his acquaintance for the first time. All of them, including Gounod, Massenet, Thomé and others, received him with great cordiality and consideration. The sole exception was Reyer, the composer of Salammbô, whose indifference was the less hurtful to Tchaikovsky because he did not esteem him greatly as a musician. Of the virtuosi with whom he now became acquainted, Paderewski made the most impression upon him.
Among the brilliant Parisian gatherings held in Tchaikovsky’s honour must be mentioned the memorable evening at Colonne’s; the soirée given by the aristocratic amateur, Baroness Tresderne, at whose house in the Place Vendôme Wagner’s Trilogy had been heard for the first time in Paris (“Marchionesses, duchesses—bored,” is Tchaikovsky’s laconic entry in his diary the day after this entertainment); the fête at the Russian Embassy; a reception at Madame Pauline Viardot’s; and an entertainment arranged by the Figaro.
Tchaikovsky made two public appearances in the double capacity of composer and conductor; both these were at the Châtelet concerts. At the first, half the programme was devoted to his works, including the Serenade for strings, Fantasia for pianoforte (Louis Diemer), Songs (Madame Conneau), pieces for violoncello (Brandoukov), and Theme and Variations from the Third Suite.
On ascending to the conductor’s desk he was received with a storm of applause, intended as much for his nationality as for his personality. Of his orchestral works, the Valse from the Serenade won most success, and had to be repeated in order to satisfy the audience.
The second concert, which took place a week later, consisted almost exclusively of Tchaikovsky’s works. The Variations from the Third Suite, the Elégie, and Valse from the Serenade, and the pieces for violoncello were repeated; to which were added the Violin Concerto (Marsick) and Francesca da Rimini. The applause was as vociferous as on the first occasion, although comparatively little of it fell to the lot of Francesca.
As long as they dealt with the private performances in the houses of Benardaky, Colonne, Madame Tresderne, or at the Figaro, the representatives of the Paris Press spoke with enthusiasm of the composer, of his works, and his nationality. After the public concerts, however, there was a sudden change of tone, and their fervour waned. It seemed they had most of them studied Cui’s book, La Musique en Russie, to good purpose, for, without quoting their source of information, they discovered that Tchaikovsky “was not so Russian as people imagined,” that he did not display “much audacity or a strong originality,” wherein lay the chief charm of the great Slavs: Borodin, Cui, Rimsky-Korsakov, Liadov, etc.
The Western cosmopolitanism of Tchaikovsky’s works was made a subject of reproach. “The German dominates and absorbs the Slav,” says one critic, who had looked for “impressions exotiques” at the Châtelet—perhaps for something in the style of the music of Dahomey, which had created such a sensation at the Jardin d’Acclimatation.
The remaining critics, who had not read Cui’s book, disapproved of the length of Tchaikovsky’s works, and held up to him as models, Saint-Saëns and other modern French composers. His own sense of disappointment appears in a letter addressed to P. Jurgenson towards the end of his visit:—
“I have expended a great deal of money, and even more health and strength,” he writes.[130] “In return I have gained some celebrity, but every hour I ask myself—Why? Is it worth while? And I come to the conclusion it is far better to live quietly without fame.”