“Karl Klindworth came from London to Moscow in 1868,” says Laroche. “He was then thirty-eight, and at the zenith of his physical and artistic powers. He was tall and strongly built, with fair hair and bright blue eyes. His appearance accorded with our ideas of the Vikings of old; he was, in fact, of Norwegian descent. He cordially detested London, where he had lived many years, although he spoke English fluently. London was at that time quite unprepared for the Wagnerian propaganda, and, apart from this, life had neither meaning nor charm for Klindworth. As a pupil of Bülow and Liszt, he had been devoted to the Wagnerian cult from his youth. He was invited by Nicholas Rubinstein to come to Moscow as teacher of the pianoforte; but he was not popular, either as a pianist, or in society.... It would seem as though there could be no common meeting-ground between this Wagnerian fanatic and Tchaikovsky. If one desired to be logical, it would further appear that, as a composer, Tchaikovsky would not only fail to interest Klindworth, but must seem to him quite in the wrong, since Wagner has written that concert and chamber music have long since had their day. But luckily men are devoid of the sense of logical sequence, and Klindworth proved a man of far more heart than one would have thought at first sight. Tchaikovsky charmed him from the first, not merely as a man, but as a composer. Klindworth was one of the first to spread Tchaikovsky’s works abroad. It was owing to him that they became known in London and New York; and it was through him also that Liszt made acquaintance with some of them. In Klindworth, Tchaikovsky found a faithful but despotic friend. Speaking picturesquely, Peter Ilich trembled before him like an aspen-leaf, did not dare openly to give his real opinions upon the composer of the _Nibelungen Ring_, and I believe he embellished as far as possible the views expressed in his articles from Bayreuth in order not to irritate Klindworth.” While I am mentioning the important event of Tchaikovsky’s earliest introduction to Western Europe, I must recall the prophetic words of a young critic, then at the outset of his career. Five years before the appearance of the overture _Romeo and Juliet_, in 1866, Laroche had written to his friend:-- “Your creative work will not really begin for another five years; but these mature and classic works will surpass all that we have produced since Glinka’s time.”