“The manager of the Composers’ Club called upon me and wished to arrange an evening for my compositions. Mrs. White[168] 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’....
“April 28th (May 10th).
“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.
“April 29th (May 11th).
“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.
“Niagara, April 30th (May 12th).
“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.
“New York, May 1st (13th).
“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.
“May 2nd (14th).