XIII To N. F. von Meck
“The Caspian Sea, May 28th (June 9th), 1887.
“I left Moscow on the 20th. At Nijni-Novogorod I had great trouble in securing a second-class ticket for the steamer, Alexander II. This steamer is considered the best, and is therefore always full. My quarters were very small and uncomfortable, but I enjoyed the journey down the Volga. It was almost high tide, and therefore the banks were so far away that one could almost imagine oneself at sea. Mother Volga is sublimely poetical. The right bank is hilly, and there are many beautiful bits of scenery, but in this respect the Volga cannot compare with the Rhine, nor even with the Danube and Rhône. Its beauty does not lie in its banks, but in its unbounded width and in the extraordinary volume of its waters, which roll down to the sea without any motion. We stopped at the towns on the way just long enough to get an idea of them. Samara and the little town of Volsk pleased me best, the latter having the most beautiful gardens I have ever seen. We reached Astrakhan on the fifth day. Here we boarded a little steamer, which brought us to the spot where the mouth of the Volga debouches into the open sea, where we embarked on a schooner, on board which we have been for the last two days. The Caspian Sea has been very treacherous. It was so stormy during the night that I was quite frightened. Every moment it seemed as if the trembling ship must break up beneath the force of the waves; so much so that I could not close an eye all night. But in spite of this I was not sea-sick. We reached Baku to-day. The storm has abated. I shall not be able to start for Tiflis until to-morrow morning, for we cannot catch the train to-day.”
On the journey between Tsaritsin and Astrakhan, Tchaikovsky had a very droll experience. He had managed so cleverly that no one on board knew who he was. One day a little musical entertainment was got up, and Tchaikovsky offered to undertake the accompanying. It so happened that a lady amateur placed one of his own songs before him and explained to him the manner in which he was to accompany it. On his timidly objecting, the lady answered that she must know best, as Tchaikovsky himself had gone through the song in question with her music mistress. The same evening a passenger related how Tchaikovsky had been so delighted with the tenor Lody in the rôle of Orlik in Mazeppa120 that after the performance “he fell on Lody’s neck and wept tears of emotion.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Tiflis, May 30th (June 11th), 1887.
“Baku, in the most unexpected fashion, has turned out to be an altogether beautiful place, well planned and well built, clean and very characteristic. The Oriental (especially the Persian) character is very prevalent, so that one could almost imagine oneself to be on the other side of the Caspian Sea. It has but one drawback: the complete lack of verdure....
“On the day after my arrival I visited the neighbourhood of the naphtha wells, where some hundred boring-towers throw up a hundred thousand pouds of naphtha every minute. The picture is grand but gloomy....
“The road between Baku and Tiflis runs through a stony, desolate country.”
The end of this journey was Borjom, where he intended to pass the whole summer in the family of his brother Anatol. He reached there on June 11th. He only learnt to appreciate by degrees the enchanting beauty of the neighbourhood. The horizon, shut in by lofty mountains, the sombre flora, their luxuriance, and the depth of the shadows, made an unpleasant impression upon him at first. Only after he had learnt to know the inexhaustible number and variety of the walks did he begin to like this country more and more. When, ten days later, his brother Modeste arrived at Borjom he was already full of enthusiasm and ready to initiate him into all the beauties of the place.
Tchaikovsky worked very little while at Borjom, only spending an hour a day at the instrumentation of the “Mozartiana” Suite.
At the commencement of July Tchaikovsky left Borjom in response to a telegram from his friend Kondratiev, who had been removed to Aix-la-Chapelle, in the hopes that the baths might prolong his life for a few months. Kondratiev’s condition was so critical that Tchaikovsky could not do less than interrupt his own cure and join his friend as soon as possible.
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Aix-la-Chapelle, July 16th (28th), 1887.
“I do not dislike Aix—that is all I can say. What is really bad here is the atmosphere, saturated as it is with smells of cooking, cinnamon, and other spices. I think sorrowfully of the air in Borjom, but I try to dwell upon it as little as possible. However, I feel more cheerful here than I did on the journey. I see that my arrival has given much pleasure to Kondratiev and Legoshin, and that I shall be of use to them.”
Diary.
“Aix, July 22nd (August 3rd), 1887.
“I sit at home full of remorse. The cause of my remorse is this: life is passing away and draws near to its end, and yet I have not fathomed it. Rather do I drive away those disquieting questions of our destiny when they intrude themselves upon me, and try to hide from them. Do I live truly? Do I act rightly? For example, I am now sitting here, and everyone admires my sacrifice. Now there is no question of sacrifice. I lead a life of ease, gormandise at the table d’hôte, do nothing, and spend my money on luxuries, while others want it for absolute necessities. Is not that the veriest egoism? I do not act towards my neighbours as I ought.”
To P. Jurgenson.
“Aix, July 29th (August 10th), 1887.
“Dear Friend,—To-day I am sending you my Mozart Suite, registered. Three of the borrowed numbers in the Suite are pianoforte pieces (Nos. 1, 2, 4); one (No. 3) is the chorus ‘Ave Verum.’ Of course, I should be glad if the Suite could be played next season. That is all.”
Tchaikovsky’s “heroic act” of friendship consumed more than a month of his time. While paying full tribute to the generosity of his undertaking, we must confess that he failed to grasp the relation between wishing and doing. Tchaikovsky, filled with real and self-denying compassion for the sufferings of his neighbour, was wanting—as in all practical questions of life—in the necessary ability, self-control, and purpose. In the abstract, no one had more sympathy for his neighbour than he; but in reality no one was less able to do much for him. Anyone who could ask the trivial question: “Where wadding, needles, and thread could be bought?” would naturally lose his head at the bedside of a dying man. The consciousness of his helplessness and incapacity to lessen his friend’s suffering in the least, his irresolution in face of the slightest difficulty, rendered Tchaikovsky’s useless visit to Aix all the more painful. He suffered for the dying man and for himself. The result was that he did “too much” for friendship and “too little” for his sick friend; at least, in comparison to the extraordinary sacrifice of strength which his generous action demanded. When, at the end of August, the dying man’s nephew came to relieve him, Tchaikovsky fled from Aix, deeply grieved at parting from his friend “for ever,” humbled at his own mental condition, and angry at his inability “to see the sad business through to the end.” Exhausted, and wrathful with himself, he arrived at Maidanovo on August 30th (September 11th), where the news of Kondratiev’s death reached him a fortnight later.
Diary.
“September 21st (October 3rd), 1887.
“How short is life! How much I have still to do, to think, and to say! We keep putting things off, and meanwhile death lurks round the corner. It is just a year since I touched this book, and so much has changed since then. How strange! Just 365 days ago I was afraid to confess that, in spite of the glow of sympathetic feeling which Christ awoke in me, I dared to doubt His divinity. Since then my religion has become more clearly defined, for during this time I have thought a great deal about God, life, and death. In Aix especially I meditated on the fatal questions: why, how, for what end? I should like to define my religion in detail, if only I might be quite clear, once for all, as to my faith, and as to the boundary which divides it from speculation. But life and its vanities are passing, and I do not know whether I shall succeed in expressing the symbol of that faith which has arisen in me of late. It has very definite forms, but I do not use them when I pray. I pray just as before; as I was taught. Moreover, God can hardly require to know how and why we pray. God has no need of prayers. But we have.”
On October 20th (November 1st) The Enchantress was produced under the bâton of the composer, and the performance was altogether most brilliant and artistic.
On this first night Tchaikovsky does not appear to have observed that the opera was a failure. He thought, on the contrary, that it pleased the public. After the second performance (on October 23rd), which—notwithstanding that it went better than the first—still failed to move the audience to applause, he first felt doubts as to its success. The indifference of the public was clearly apparent after the third and fourth representations, when his appearance in the conductor’s desk was received in chilling silence. It was only then that he realised that The Enchantress was a failure. On the fifth night the house was empty.
Tchaikovsky, as we shall see, ascribed this failure to the ill_will of the critics. After I had read through all the notices—says Modeste—it seemed to me that, in the present instance, my brother had done them too much honour. In none of the eleven criticisms did I trace that tone of contempt and malicious enjoyment with which his other operas had been received. No one called The Enchantress a “still_born nonentity,” as Cui had said of Eugene Oniegin; no one attempted to count up the deliberate thefts in The Enchantress, as Galler had done with Mazeppa. The reason for the failure of The Enchantress must be sought elsewhere: possibly in the defective interpretation of both the chief parts; but more probably in the qualities of the music, which still awaits its just evaluation at the hands of a competent critic.
To N. F. von Meck.
“Moscow, November 13th (25th), 1887.
“My dear Friend,—Please forgive me for so seldom writing. I am passing through a very stirring period of my life, and am always in such a state of agitation that it is impossible to speak to you from my heart as I should wish. After conducting my opera four times, I returned here, about five days ago, in a very melancholy frame of mind. In spite of the ovation I received on the opening night, my opera has not taken with the public, and practically met with no success. From the Press I have encountered such hatred and hostility that, even now, I cannot account for it. On no other opera have I expended so much labour and sacrifice; yet never before have I been so persecuted by the critics. I have given up the journey to Tiflis, for I shall scarcely have time to get sufficient rest in Maidanovo before I have to start on my concert tour abroad. I conduct first in Leipzig, and afterwards in Dresden, Hamburg, Copenhagen, Berlin, and Prague. In March I give my own concert in Paris, and from there I go to London, as I have received an invitation from the Philharmonic Society. In short, a whole crowd of new and strong impressions are awaiting me.”
The Symphony Concert of the Russian Musical Society, November 14th (26th), was the first concert ever conducted by Tchaikovsky in Moscow. The programme consisted exclusively of his own works, including “Mozartiana” (first time), Francesca da Rimini, the Fantasia for pianoforte, op. 56 (Taneiev as soloist), and the Arioso from The Enchantress. On the following day the same programme was repeated by the Russian Musical Society at a popular concert. The “Mozartiana” Suite was a great success (the “Ave Verum” was encored), and the Press—in contradistinction to that of St. Petersburg—spoke with great warmth and cordiality of the composer and conductor.
To P. Jurgenson.
“November 24th (December 6th) 1887.
“In to-day’s paper I accidentally saw that the eighth performance of The Enchantress was given before a half-empty house. It is an undoubted fiasco. This failure has wounded me in my inmost soul, for I never worked with greater ardour than at The Enchantress. Besides, I feel ashamed when I think of you, for you must have sustained a terrible loss. I know well enough that some day the opera will be reinstated, but when? Meanwhile it makes me very bitter. So far I have always maintained that the Press could not influence one’s success or failure; but now I am inclined to think that it is only the united attack of these hounds of critics which has ruined my opera. The devil take them! Why this spite? Just now, for example, in to-day’s number of the Novosti, see how they rail at our Musical Society and at me, because of this Popular Concert! Incomprehensible!”
WITH December, 1887, began a new and last period in the life of Tchaikovsky, during which he realised his wildest dreams of fame, and attained to such prosperity and universal honour as rarely fall to the lot of an artist during his lifetime. Distrustful and modest (from an excess of pride), he was now in a perpetual state of wonder and delight to find himself far more appreciated in Russia and abroad than he had ever hoped in the past. Physically neither better nor worse than in former years, possessing the unlimited affections of those whom he loved in return,—he was, to all appearance, an example of mortal happiness, yet in reality he was less happy than before.
Those menacing blows of fate—like the opening of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony—had sounded, although muffled and distant, even on the day of Tchaikovsky’s first concert (March 5th); while that intangible and groundless sense of bitterness—that “touch of gall,” as he himself calls it—was present even in that triumphant moment when he found himself master of the orchestra and all its tempestuous elements, as though prophetic of those sufferings which overshadowed the last years of his life. At the time he did not understand this vague warning; afterwards, when it came back to him, he realised it had been a friendly caution, not to continue the chase for fame; not to take up occupations that went against his nature, nor to spend his strength upon the attainment of things which would come of themselves; finally, to cling to his true vocation, lest disappointment should await him in the new path he had elected to follow. In February he wrote to Nadejda von Meck: “New and powerful impressions continually await me. Probably my fame will increase, but would it not be better to stay at home and work? God knows! I can say this: I regret the time when I was left in peace in the solitude of the country.” And this regret grew keener, as his weariness grew more intolerable. The more he accustomed his temperament to unsuitable occupations, the further he advanced his reputation, the more complete was his disenchantment with the prize. Radiant and glittering as it had appeared from afar, seen closer, it proved insignificant and tarnished. Hence the profound disillusionment, “the insane depression,” the something “hopeless and final” which make so dark a background to the picture of his brilliant success at home and abroad.
Tchaikovsky left Russia on December 15th (27th) and arrived in Berlin two days later. Here he was to meet Herr N—— who was acting as his concert agent during this tour. He had no sooner settled in his hotel than, picking up a newspaper, his eye fell upon a paragraph to the effect that: “To-day, December 29th, the Russian composer Tchaikovsky arrives in Berlin. To-morrow his numerous friends (?) and admirers (?) will meet to celebrate his arrival by a luncheon at the —— restaurant, at one o’clock. Punctual attendance is requested.” “No words could describe my horror and indignation,” wrote Tchaikovsky. “At that moment I could cheerfully have murdered Herr N——. I went out to breakfast at a café in the Passage, and afterwards to the Museum, walking in fear and trembling lest I should meet Herr N—— or some of my numerous friends and admirers.”
The following morning the dreaded interview with his agent took place. Tchaikovsky found him not altogether unsympathetic, but during the entire tour he realised that he was dealing with a very peculiar and eccentric man, whom he never really understood.
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Leipzig, December 21st, 1887 (January 2nd, 1888).
“I have made acquaintance with Scharwenka and a number of other people. I also met Artôt.121 Everyone was astonished to see me with N——, who follows me like my own shadow. At three o’clock I left for Leipzig, luckily without N—— for once, and was met by Brodsky, Siloti, and two of my admirers. I had supper with Brodsky. There was a Christmas-tree. His wife and sister-in-law are charming—really good Russian women. All the time the tears were in my eyes. Next day I took a walk (it was New Year’s Day), and went back to dine with Siloti at Brodsky’s. He was just trying a new trio by Brahms. The composer himself was at the piano. Brahms is a handsome man, rather short and stout.122 He was very friendly to me. Then we sat down to table. Brahms enjoys a good drink. Grieg, fascinating and sympathetic, was there too.123 In the evening I went to the Gewandhaus, when Joachim and Hausmann played the new Double Concerto of Brahms for violin and ’cello, and the composer himself conducted. I sat in the Directors’ box, and made acquaintance with such numbers of people that I could not keep pace with them all. The Directors informed me that my rehearsal was fixed for the next day. What I suffered during the evening—in fact the whole time—cannot be described. If Brodsky and Siloti had not been there, I think I should have died. I spent a terrible night. The rehearsal took place early this morning. I was formally introduced to the orchestra by Carl Reinecke. I made a little speech in German. The rehearsal went well in the end. Brahms was there, and yesterday and to-day we have been a good deal together. We are ill at ease, because we do not really like each other, but he takes great pains to be kind to me. Grieg is charming. Dined with Siloti. Quartet concert at night. The new trio of Brahms. Home-sick. Very tired.
“You cannot imagine a finer room than at the Gewandhaus. It is the best concert-room I ever saw in my life.”
To P. I. Jurgenson.
“Leipzig, December 24th, 1887 (January 5th, 1888).
“Yesterday the public rehearsal took place. I was very nervous, but my success was unusually flattering.... To-night, however, all may be reversed, for it is by no means certain that I shall not make a fool of myself. I have seen a good deal of Brahms. He is by no means a total abstainer, but he is very pleasant, and not so vain as I expected. But it is Grieg who has altogether won my heart. He is most taking and sympathetic, and his wife equally so. Reinecke is very amiable. At the first rehearsal he introduced me to the band, and I made the following speech: ‘Gentlemen, I cannot speak German, but I am proud to have to do with such a... such a... that is to say... I am proud... I cannot.’ The band is splendid; I could not have believed that our musicians—good as they are—were still so far behind a first-rate German orchestra.”
“December 25th (January 6th).
“The concert has gone off well. The reception of the Suite was good, but not to be compared with that at the public rehearsal, when the audience consisted almost entirely of students and musicians. After the concert I went to a banquet arranged in my honour by Reinecke. He related much that was interesting about Schumann and, generally speaking, I felt very much at ease with him. Afterwards I had to go on to a fête given by the Russian students, and I did not get home until very late. Now I am just off to a Tchaikovsky Festival held by the Liszt-Verein. It begins at 11 a.m.”
The Press notices upon Tchaikovsky’s début in Leipzig as conductor and composer were numerous and lengthy. Keeping in view the importance of this occasion, and the influence it exercised on his future career, it has been thought well to give some extracts from the most interesting of these criticisms, which will be found in the Appendix.124
At the Tchaikovsky Festival given by the Liszt-Verein, his Quartet, op. 11, Trio, and some of his smaller compositions were included in the programme. The following day the composer returned to Berlin, where he arranged with the Directors of the Philharmonic Society to give a concert of his works on February 8th. He then left for Hamburg in the company of Adolf Brodsky, where the latter was to take part in a concert conducted by Hans von Bülow. As Tchaikovsky had the prospect of a few days’ leisure, he decided to spend them in Lübeck, whence he wrote to his brother Modeste on December 30th, 1887 (January 11th 1888):—
“What joy! I do so enjoy finding myself in a strange town, in a capital hotel, with the prospect of five peaceful days before me! I arrived in Hamburg with Brodsky at 6 a.m. The rehearsal for Bülow’s concert began at ten o’clock. Bülow was delighted to see me. He has altered and aged. He seems, too, calmer, more subdued, and softer in manner.... I went to the concert in the evening. Bülow conducted with inspiration, especially the ‘Eroica.’ I came on here to-day. It is very pleasant. What a blessing to be silent! To feel that no one will be coming, that I shall not be dragged out anywhere!”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“January 1st (13th), 1888.
“... At last January (old style) has come. Now at any rate I can reckon four months to my return to Russia. I went to the theatre yesterday. Barnay was the star in Othello. He is sometimes astounding, quite a genius, but what an agonising play! Iago is too revolting—such beings do not exist.”
On January 1st, 1888, a piece of good fortune fell to Tchaikovsky’s lot. Thanks to the efforts of Vsievolojsky, Director of the Imperial Opera, the Emperor bestowed upon him a life pension of 3,000 roubles (£300) per annum.
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Hamburg, January 10th (22nd), 1888.
“On my appearance I was enthusiastically received by the orchestra, and their applause was supported by the public, which was not the case in Leipzig. I conducted without agitation, but towards the end I grew so tired I was afraid I could not hold out. Sapellnikov125 played splendidly. After the concert there was a large party at the house of Bernuth, the Director of the Philharmonic. About a hundred guests were present, all in full-dress. After a long speech from Bernuth, I replied in German, which created a furore. Then we began to eat and drink. Yesterday was terrible; I cannot describe how I was torn to pieces, nor how exhausted I felt afterwards. In the evening there was a gala in my honour, at which my compositions were exclusively performed. The Press was very favourable.
“After the soirée followed a fearful night of it, in company with many musicians, critics, and amateurs, admirers of my music. I feel befogged. To-day I start for Berlin. Bülow is very amiable.”
The programme of the concert at which Tchaikovsky made his first appearance in Hamburg was as follows: Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for strings, Pianoforte Concerto in B♭ minor (Sapellnikov), the Theme and Variations from his Third Suite, and Haydn’s “Oxford” Symphony.126
Between the Hamburg and Berlin concerts Tchaikovsky was anxious for a little repose, and decided to spend a few days at Magdeburg. On the one day spent in Berlin en passant he heard, for the first time, a work by Richard Strauss. “Bülow has taken him up just now,” he wrote to his brother, “as formerly he took up Brahms and others. To my mind such an astounding lack of talent, united to such pretentiousness, never before existed.”
Tchaikovsky now began to receive invitations from many musical centres to conduct his own works. Colonne had engaged him for two concerts in Paris on March 11th and 18th. Several other offers, including Weimar and the Dresden Philharmonic, had to be refused because the dates did not fit in with his plans.
On the advice of Bülow, Wolf, and other friends he decided to alter the programme of the forthcoming concert at Berlin, for which he had put down his Francesca da Rimini. “Perhaps they are right,” he says in a letter to his brother. “The taste of the German public is quite different to ours. Now I understand why Brahms is idolised here, although my opinion of him has not changed. Had I known this sooner, perhaps I, too, might have learnt to compose in a different way. Remind me later to tell you about my acquaintance with the venerable Ave-Lallemant,127 which touched me profoundly.
“Sapellnikov made quite a sensation in Hamburg. He really has a great talent. He is also a charming and good-hearted young man.”
To V. Napravnik.
“Magdeburg, January, 12th (24th), 1888.
“The newspapers have published long articles about me. They ‘slate’ me a good deal, but pay me far more attention than our own Press. Their views are sometimes funny. A critic, speaking of the variations in the Third Suite, says that one describes a sitting of the Holy Synod and another a dynamite explosion.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Leipzig, January 20th (February 1st), 1888.
“... How shall I describe all I am experiencing just now? Continual home-sickness, some well-nigh intolerable hours, and a few very pleasant moments. I intended to spend a few quiet days here, instead of which I am whirled along in a stream of gaiety: dinners, visits, concerts, suppers, the theatre, etc. My sole comfort is the society of Siloti, Brodsky (I am quite in love with his wife and sister-in-law), and Grieg and his wife. But besides these, every day I make new and sympathetic acquaintances. I take Sapellnikov with me wherever I go, and have introduced him to many people in the musical world. Wherever he plays he creates a sensation. I am more and more convinced of his superb talent.... I went to a Quartet Concert, at which I heard a quartet by an exceedingly gifted Italian, Busoni. I quickly made friends with him. At an evening given by Brodsky I was charmed with a new sonata by Grieg. Grieg and his wife are so quaint, sympathetic, interesting, and original that I could not describe them in a letter. I regard Grieg as very highly gifted. To-day I dine with him at Brodsky’s. To-night is the extra concert in aid of the funds for the Mendelssohn Memorial, and to-morrow the public rehearsal of the Gewandhaus Concert, at which Rubinstein’s symphony will be given. Afterwards I am giving a dinner to my friends at a restaurant, and start for Berlin at five o’clock. How tired I am!”
“January 23rd (February 4th).
“... to-day I got rid of N——. We parted in peace, but my purse was lighter by five hundred marks in consequence. I do not regret it in the least; I would have given a good deal more to see the last of this gentleman.”
To Modeste Tchaikovsky.
“Berlin, January 23rd (February 4th).
“... I have made great progress in my conducting.... Wolf gave a large dinner-party at my desire, in order that all the great lights here might hear Sapellnikov. All the critics were there. Sapellnikov created a furore. For the last three weeks we have been inseparable. I have grown so fond of him, and he so attached and good to me—just as though he were a near relation. Since Kotek’s days I have never cared for anyone so much. It is impossible to imagine anyone more sympathetic, gentle, kindly; more delicate-minded and distinguished. On his return I beg you not only to be friendly to him, but to introduce him to all our relatives. I consider him—and I am not alone in my opinion—a future genius as regards the piano. Yesterday Bock had a party. Artôt was there. I was inexpressibly glad to see her again; we made friends at once, without a word as to the past. Her husband, Padilla, embraced me heartily. To-morrow she gives a dinner. As an elderly woman she is just as fascinating as twenty years ago.”
To N. F. von Meck.
“Leipzig, January 30th (February 11th), 1888.
“My dear Friend,—My concert in Berlin was a great success.128 I had a splendid orchestra to deal with and musicians who were in sympathy with me from the very first rehearsal. The programme was as follows:—
“(1) Overture, Romeo and Juliet; (2) Pianoforte Concerto, played by Siloti; (3) Introduction and Fugue from the First Suite; (4) Andante from the First Quartet; (5) Songs, sung by Fräulein Friede; (6) Overture, “1812.”
“The public gave me a most enthusiastic reception. Of course, all this is very pleasant, but at the same time I feel so worn out I hardly know how I am to get through all that lies before me.... Can you recognise in this Russian musician, touring all over Europe, the man who, a few years ago, fled from life and society, and lived in solitude abroad, or in the country?
“A real triumphal festival awaits me in Prague. The programme of my week’s visit there is already arranged, and has been sent to me. It includes any number of ovations and receptions. The idea is to give my concert there a certain patriotic and anti-German character. This puts me in an awkward position, because I have been received in a very friendly way in Germany.”
In spite of the applause of the public and the flattering notices in the Press, Tchaikovsky’s visit made less impression in Berlin than in Leipzig and Hamburg. Whereas in the latter towns his concerts were the great events of the day, in the capital the début of a Russian composer passed comparatively unnoticed amid a thousand other interests. A brief entry in his diary on January 28th about “a bucket of cold water” seems to point to a certain disillusionment as to the character of his reception in Berlin. Possibly he had heard rumours that the concert-room had been liberally “papered,” and in this way a certain amount of artificial enthusiasm spread through the audience.
In any case, it was Leipzig, rather than Berlin, that showed the greater interest in Tchaikovsky during this tour, and he was glad to return there for a few days before leaving Germany. “I have come back to Leipzig,” he wrote to a relative on January 30th (February 11th), 1888, “as I had promised to be present at the concert given in my honour by the Liszt-Verein. The concert could not come off, so yesterday, at my request, Wagner’s Meistersinger was performed at the theatre instead. I had never heard this opera. Early this morning I was awakened by the strains of the Russian hymn. An orchestra was serenading me. They played for nearly an hour under my windows, and the whole hotel ran out to see and hear.”
The marvellous performance of Meistersinger under Nikisch, and the touching ovation in the form of a serenade, were the closing events of Tchaikovsky’s first concert tour in Germany. In Bohemia and France far more brilliant receptions awaited him, but these were of quite a different nature.