“April 23rd (May 5th).
“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.”
“April 24th (May 6th), 1891.
“‘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.[166] 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[167] 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.
“April 25th (May 7th).
“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.
“April 26th (May 8th).
“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?
“April 27th (May 9th).