“Yesterday was a very exciting day. In the morning at the Châtelet Concert the performance of my _Tempest_ took place. The agonies I endured are the best proof that a country life is the most tolerable for me. What used to be a pleasure--the hearing of one of my own works--has now become a source of misery. The evening before I began to suffer from colic and nausea. My agitation continued to grow _crescendo_ until the opening chords, and while the work was proceeding I felt I should die of the pain in my heart. It was not the fear of failure with the public, but because lately the first hearing of all my works has brought me the sharpest disappointment. Mendelssohn’s _Reformation_ symphony preceded _The Tempest_, and all the time I was admiring this fine masterpiece. I have not attained to the rank of a master. I still write like a gifted young man from whom much is to be expected. What surprised me chiefly was the fact that my orchestration sounded so poor. Of course, my reason told me I was exaggerating my own defects, but this was no great consolation. _The Tempest_ was not badly played. The orchestra took pains, but showed no warmth of enthusiasm. One member of the band (a ‘cellist) kept staring, smiling, and nodding his head, as much as to say: ‘Excuse our playing such an extraordinary work; it is not our fault; we are ordered to play it, and we obey.’ After the last bars had died away, there followed some feeble applause, mingled with two or three audible hisses, at which the whole room broke out into exclamations of ‘O! O!’ which were intended as a kindly protest against the hisses. Then came silence. The whole business passed over me without leaving any special bitterness. I was only vexed to feel that _The Tempest_, which I have hitherto regarded as one of my most brilliant works, is in reality so unimportant. I left the room and, as the weather was very fine, took a two hours’ stroll. On returning home I wrote a card to Colonne, telling him that I could only remain another day in Paris, and could not therefore call to thank him personally. “I must soon leave Paris. I am reconciled to the failure of _The Tempest_. I speak of it as a failure _to myself_, but I console myself with the thought that after the opera and the Suite I shall at last compose a fine symphonic work. And so, in all probability, I shall strive for mastery until my last breath, without ever attaining it. Something is lacking in me--I can feel it--but there is nothing to be done.” The _Gazette Musicale_ published Tchaikovsky’s letter to Colonne, which ran as follows:--