Tchaikovsky composed this symphony during the winter of 1877-78. He had lost interest in an opera, Othello, for which a libretto at his own wish had been drafted by Stassov. The first draft was finished in May, 1877. He began the instrumentation on August 23 of that year, and finished the first movement September 24. He began work again towards the end of November. The andantino was finished on December 27, the scherzo on January 1, 1878, and the finale on January 7, 1878.
The first performance was at a symphony concert of the Russian Musical Society, Moscow, February 22, 1878. Nicholas Rubinstein conducted.
The dedication of this symphony is as follows: “À mon meilleur ami” (To my best friend), and thereby hangs a tale.
This best friend was the widow Nadejda Filaretovna von Meck. Her maiden name was Frolovsky. Born in the village Snamensk, government of Smolensk, February 10, 1831, she married in 1848 an engineer, and for some years knew poverty. Her courage did not give way; she was a helpmeet for her husband, who finally became famous and successful. In 1876 her husband died. She was left with eleven children and a fortune of “many millions of rubles.” Dwelling at Moscow, fond of music, she admired beyond measure certain works by Tchaikovsky. Inquiring curiously concerning his character as a man and about his worldly circumstances, she became acquainted with Kotek, a pupil of Tchaikovsky in composition. Through him she gave Tchaikovsky commissions for transcriptions for violin and pianoforte of some of his works. There was an interchange of letters. In the early summer of 1877 she learned that he was in debt. She sent him 3,000 rubles; in the fall of the same year she determined to give him yearly the sum of 6,000 rubles, that he might compose free from pecuniary care and vexation; but she insisted that they should never meet. They never spoke together; their letters were frequent and intimate. Tchaikovsky poured out his soul to this woman, described by his brother Modeste as proud and energetic, with deep-rooted principles, with the independence of a man; a woman that held in disdain all that was petty and conventional; pure in thought and action; a woman that was compassionate, not sentimental.
The composer wrote to her on May 13, 1877, that he purposed to dedicate this symphony to her. “I believe that you will find in it echoes of your deepest thoughts and feelings. At this moment any other work would be odious to me; I speak only of work that presupposes the existence of a determined mood. Added to this I am in a very nervous, worried, and irritable state, highly unfavorable to composition, and even my symphony suffers in consequence.” In August, 1877, writing to her, he referred to the symphony as “yours.” “I hope it will please you, for that is the main thing.” He wrote in August from Kamenka: “The first movement has cost me much trouble in scoring it. It is very complicated and long; but it seems to me it is also the most important. The other movements are simple, and it will be fun to score them. There will be a new effect of sound in the scherzo, and I expect much from it. At first the strings play alone and pizzicato throughout. In the trio the wood-wind instruments enter and play alone. At the end all three choirs toss short phrases to each other. I believe that the effects of sound and color will be most interesting.” He wrote to her in December from Venice that he was hard at work on the instrumentation: “No one of my orchestral pieces has cost me so much labor, but on no one have I worked with so much love and with such devotion. At first I was led on only by the wish to bring the symphony to an end, and then I grew more and more fond of the task, and now I cannot bear to leave it. My dear Nadejda Filaretovna, perhaps I am mistaken, but it seems to me that this symphony is no mediocre piece; that it is the best I have yet made. How glad I am that it is our work, and that you will know when you hear it how much I thought about you in every measure! If you were not, would it ever have been finished? When I was in Moscow and thought that my end was about to come [There is a reference here to the crazed condition of Tchaikovsky after his amazing marriage to Antonina Ivanovna Milioukov. The wedding was on July 18, 1877. He left his wife at Moscow, October 6, of that year.] I wrote on the first draft: ‘If I should die, please send this manuscript to N. F. von Meck.’ I wished the manuscript of my last composition to be in your possession. Now I am not only well, but, thanks to you, in the position to give myself wholly to work, and I believe that I have written music which cannot fall into oblivion. Yet it is possible that I am wrong; it is the peculiar habit of all artists to wax enthusiastic over the youngest of their productions.” Later he had chills as well as fever over the worth of the symphony.
SYMPHONY NO. 5, IN E MINOR, OP. 64
- I. Andante; Allegro con anima
- II. Andante cantabile, con alcuna licenza
- III. Valse (Allegro moderato)
- IV. Finale (Andante maestoso; allegro vivace)
Tchaikovsky was singularly reticent in his letters concerning the Fifth symphony, but who can refrain from thinking with Ernest Newman that this symphony was written to a programme; that the work “embodies an emotional sequence of some kind”? There is the tread of inexorable fate; this tread disturbs the beauty of the andante; it checks the forced gayety of the dancers in the waltz, and is the triumphant spirit in the finale something more than a heroic defiance of the inevitable, a brave stand before the approach of death?
We are interested in the woe of Canio or of the Navarraise; we are moved by the infinite sadness of Mélisande; we understand the tragedy in the humble home on Montmartre and the agony of Rigoletto. We endure the spectacle of the anguish of these men and women on the stage, applaud and go comfortably to bed. Tchaikovsky’s music awakens in the breast the haunting, unanswerable questions of life and death that concern us directly and personally.
About the end of April, 1888, Tchaikovsky took possession of his country house at Frolovskoe, which had been made ready for him, when he was at Paris and London, by his servant Alexis. Frolovskoe is a picturesque place on a wooded hill on the way from Moscow to Klin. The house was simple. “Here he [Tchaikovsky] could be alone,”—we quote from Mrs. Newmarch’s translation into English of Modeste Tchaikovsky’s life of Peter,—“free from summer excursionists, to enjoy the little garden (with its charming pool and tiny islet) fringed by the forest, behind which the view opened out upon a distant stretch of country—upon that homely, unassuming landscape of Central Russia which Tchaikovsky preferred to all the sublimities of Switzerland, the Caucasus, and Italy. Had not the forest been gradually exterminated, he would never have quitted Frolovskoe, for, although he only lived there for three years, he became greatly attached to the place. A month before his death, traveling from Klin to Moscow, he said, looking out at the churchyard of Frolovskoe: ‘I should like to be buried there.’”
On June 22 he wrote to Mme von Meck: “Now I shall work my hardest. I am exceedingly anxious to prove to myself, as to others, that I am not played out as a composer.... Have I told you that I intend to write a symphony? The beginning was difficult; but now inspiration seems to have come. However, we shall see.”
In July, Tchaikovsky received a letter from an American manager who offered him 25,000 dollars for a concert tour of three months. The sum seemed incredible to the composer: “Should this tour really take place, I could realize my long-cherished wish to become a landowner.” On August 6 he wrote to Mme von Meck: “When I am old and past composing, I shall spend the whole of my time in growing flowers. I have been working with good results. I have orchestrated half the symphony. My age—although I am not very old [he was then forty-eight]—begins to tell on me. I become very tired, and I can no longer play the pianoforte or read at night as I used to do.” On August 26 he wrote to her: “I am not feeling well, ... but I am so glad that I have finished the symphony that I forget my physical troubles.... In November I shall conduct a whole series of my works in St. Petersburg, at the Philharmonic, and the new symphony will be one of them.”
The Fifth symphony was performed for the first time at St. Petersburg, November 17, 1888. The composer conducted. The audience was pleased, but the reviews in the newspapers were not very favorable. On November 24 of the same year, Tchaikovsky conducted the symphony again at a concert of the Musical Society.
In December, 1888, he wrote to Mme von Meck: “After two performances of my new symphony in St. Petersburg and one in Prague, I have come to the conclusion that it is a failure. There is something repellent, something superfluous, patchy, and insincere, which the public instinctively recognizes. It was obvious to me that the ovations I received were prompted more by my earlier work, and that the symphony itself did not really please the audience. The consciousness of this brings me a sharp twinge of self-dissatisfaction. Am I really played out, as they say? Can I merely repeat and ring the changes on my earlier idiom? Last night I looked through our symphony No. 4. What a difference! How immeasurably superior it is! It is very, very sad!” He was cheered by news of the success of the symphony in Moscow.
At the public rehearsal in Hamburg, the symphony pleased the musicians; there was real enthusiasm.
Tchaikovsky wrote after the concert to Davidov: “The Fifth symphony was magnificently played and I like it far better now, after having held a bad opinion of it for some time. Unfortunately, the Russian press continues to ignore me. With the exception of my nearest and dearest, no one will ever hear of my successes.”
Modeste Tchaikovsky is of the opinion that the Fifth symphony was a long time in making its way chiefly on account of his brother’s inefficiency as a conductor.
The andante, E minor, 4-4 theme of the symphony, which occurs in the four movements, typical of fate, “the eternal note of sadness,” of what you will, is given at the very beginning to the clarinets, and the development serves as an approach to the allegro. The principal theme of the first movement, allegro con anima, 6-8, is announced by clarinet and bassoon. It is developed elaborately and at great length. This theme is said to have been derived from a Polish folk song. The second theme in B minor is given to the strings. The recapitulation begins with the restatement of the principal theme by the bassoon. There is a long coda, which finally sinks to a pianissimo and passes to the original key.
The second movement has been characterized as a romance, firmly knit together in form, and admitting great freedom of interpretation, as the qualification, “con alcuna licenza,” of the andante cantabile indicates. After a short introduction in the deeper strings, the horn sings the principal melody. The oboe gives out a new theme, which is answered by the horn, and this theme is taken up by violins and violas. The principal theme is heard from the violoncellos, after which the clarinet sings still another melody, which is developed to a climax, in which the full orchestra thunders out the chief theme of the symphony, the theme of bodement. The second part of the movement follows in a general way along the lines already established. There is another climax, and again is heard the impressive theme of the symphony.
The third movement is a waltz allegro moderato, A major, 3-4. The structure is simple, and the development of the first theme, dolce con grazia, given to violins against horns, bassoons, and string instruments, is natural. Toward the very end clarinets and bassoons sound, as afar off, the theme of the symphony: the gayety is over.
There is a long introduction, andante maestoso, E major, 4-4, to the finale, a development of the somber and dominating theme. This andante is followed by an allegro vivace, E minor, with the first theme given to the strings, and a more tuneful theme assigned first to the wood-wind and afterward to the violins. The development of the second theme contains illusions to the chief theme of the symphony. Storm and fury; the movement comes to a halt; the coda begins in E major, the allegro vivace increases to a presto. The second theme of the finale is heard, and the final climax contains a reminiscence of the first theme of the first movement.
Some find pleasure in characterizing Tchaikovsky’s symphonies as suites; Dvořák is said to have made this criticism. But the Fifth symphony escapes this charge, for objectors admit that in this work the composer made his nearest approach to true symphonic form—in spite of the fact that there is no repetition of the first part of the first allegro, and a waltz movement takes the place of the scherzo.
SYMPHONY NO. 6, IN B MINOR, “PATHETIC,” OP. 74
- I. Adagio; allegro non troppo
- II. Allegro con grazia
- III. Allegro molto vivace
- IV. Finale: adagio lamentoso
We well remember the sensation the Sixth symphony made in Boston when Mr. Paur brought it out. When the late William Foster Apthorp described the music as “obscene,” a singular word to apply to it, indignant denunciatory letters were sent to the Evening Transcript, written by persons who, as Charles Reade once said of letter writers to newspapers, had no other waste-pipe for their intellect.
This symphony was at the first so popular that some predicted its life would be short. It is still an amazing human document. The Fifth may for some reasons be preferred as a purely musical composition; the Fourth has more of the Russian folk-spirit; but the somber eloquence of the Pathetic, its pages of recollected joys fled forever, its wild gayety quenched by the thought of the inevitable end, its mighty lamentation—these are overwhelming and shake the soul.
The first mention of the Pathetic symphony is in a letter from Tchaikovsky to his brother Anatol, dated Klin, February 22, 1893: “I am now wholly occupied with the new work (a symphony) and it is hard for me to tear myself away from it. I believe it comes into being as the best of my works. I must finish it as soon as possible, for I have to wind up a lot of affairs and I must also soon go to London. I told you that I had completed a symphony which suddenly displeased me, and I tore it up. Now I have composed a new symphony which I certainly shall not tear up.”
Returning in August from a trip to London, Peter wrote to Modeste that he was up to his neck in his symphony. “The orchestration is the more difficult, the farther I go. Twenty years ago I let myself write at ease without much thought, and it was all right. Now I have become cowardly and uncertain. I have sat the whole day over two pages; that which I wished came constantly to naught. In spite of this, I make progress.” He wrote to Davidov, August 15: “The symphony which I intended to dedicate to you—I shall reconsider this on account of your long silence—is progressing. I am very well satisfied with the contents, but not wholly with the orchestration. I do not succeed in my intentions. It will not surprise me in the least if the symphony is cursed or judged unfavorably; ’twill not be for the first time. I myself consider it the best, especially the most open-hearted of all my works. I love it as I never have loved any other of my musical creations. My life is without the charm of variety; evenings I am often bored; but I do not complain, for the symphony is now the main thing, and I cannot work anywhere so well as at home.” He wrote Jurgenson, his publisher, on August 24, that he had finished the orchestration: “I give you my word of honor that never in my life have I been so contented, so proud, so happy, in the knowledge that I have written a good piece.” It was at this time that he thought seriously of writing an opera with a text founded on The Sad Fortunes of the Reverend Mr. Barton, by George Eliot, of whose best works he was an enthusiastic admirer.
Tchaikovsky left Klin forever on October 19. He stopped at Moscow to attend a funeral, and there with Kashkin he talked freely after supper. Friends had died; who would be the next to go? “I told Peter,” said Kashkin, “that he would outlive us all. He disputed the likelihood, yet added that never had he felt so well and happy.” Peter told him that he had no doubt about the first three movements of his new symphony, but that the last was still doubtful in his mind; after the performance he might destroy it and write another finale. He arrived at St. Petersburg in good spirits, but he was depressed because the symphony made no impression on the orchestra at the rehearsals. He valued highly the opinion of players, and he conducted well only when he knew that the orchestra liked the work. He was dependent on them for the finesse of interpretation. “A cool facial expression, an indifferent glance, a yawn—these tied his hands; he lost his readiness of mind, he went over the work carelessly, and cut short the rehearsal, that the players might be freed from their boresome work.” Yet he insisted that he never had written and never would write a better composition than this symphony.
The Sixth symphony was performed for the first time at St. Petersburg, October 28, 1893. Tchaikovsky conducted. The symphony failed. “There was applause,” says Modeste, “and the composer was recalled, but with no more enthusiasm than on previous occasions. There was not the mighty, overpowering impression made by the work when it was conducted by Napravnik, November 18, 1893, and later, wherever it was played.” The critics were decidedly cool.
The morning after, Modeste found Peter at the tea-table with the score of the symphony in his hand. He regretted that, inasmuch as he had to send it that day to the publisher, he had not yet given it a title. He wished something more than “No. 6,” and did not like “Programme symphony.” “What does Programme symphony mean when I will give it no programme?” Modeste suggested “Tragic,” but Peter said that would not do. “I left the room before he had come to a decision. Suddenly I thought, ‘Pathetic.’ I went back to the room,—I remember it as though it were yesterday,—and I said the word to Peter. ‘Splendid, Modi, bravo, “Pathetic”!’ and he wrote in my presence the title that will forever remain.”
On November 1, Tchaikovsky was in perfect health. He dined with an old friend and went to the theater. In the cloakroom there was talk about spiritualism. Varlamov objected to all talk about ghosts and anything that reminded one of death. Tchaikovsky laughed at Varlamov’s manner of expression and said: “There is still time enough to become acquainted with this detestable snub-nosed one. At any rate, he will not have us soon. I know that I shall live for a long time.” He then went with friends to a restaurant, where he ate macaroni and drank white wine with mineral water. When he walked home about 2 A.M., Peter was well in body and in mind.
There are some who find pleasure in the thought that the death of a great man was in some way mysterious or melodramatic. For years some insisted that Salieri caused Mozart to be poisoned. There was a rumor after Tchaikovsky’s death that he took poison or sought deliberately the cholera. When Mr. Alexander Siloti, a pupil of Tchaikovsky, first visited Boston, in 1898, he did not hesitate to say that there might be truth in the report, and, asked as to his own belief, he shook his head with a portentous gravity that Burleigh might have envied. We have been assured by other Russians who knew Tchaikovsky that he killed himself, nor was the reason for his so doing withheld. Peter’s brother Modeste gives a circumstantial account of Peter’s death from natural causes. Peter awoke November 2 after a restless night, but he went out about noon to make a call; he returned to luncheon, ate nothing, and drank a glass of water that had not been boiled. Modeste and others were alarmed, but Peter was not disturbed, for he was less afraid of the cholera than of other diseases. Not until night was there any thought of serious illness, and then Peter said to his brother: “I think this is death. Good-bye, Modi.” At eleven o’clock that night it was determined that his sickness was cholera.
Modeste tells at length the story of Peter’s ending. Their mother had died of cholera in 1854, at the very moment that she was put into a bath. The physicians recommended as a last resort a warm bath for Peter, who, when asked if he would take one, answered: “I shall be glad to have a bath, but I shall probably die as soon as I am in the tub—as my mother died.” The bath was not given that night, the second night after the disease had been determined, for Peter was too weak. He was at times delirious, and he often repeated the name of Mme von Meck in reproach or in anger, for he had been sorely hurt by her sudden and capricious neglect after her years of interest and devotion. The next day the bath was given. A priest was called, but it was not possible to administer the Communion, and he spoke words that the dying man could no longer understand. “Peter Ilitch suddenly opened his eyes. There was an indescribable expression of unclouded consciousness. Passing over the others standing in the room, he looked at the three nearest him, and then toward heaven. There was a certain light for a moment in his eyes, which was soon extinguished, at the same time with his breath. It was about three o’clock in the morning.”
What was the programme in Tchaikovsky’s mind? Kashkin says that, if the composer had disclosed it to the public, the world would not have regarded the symphony as a kind of legacy from one filled with a presentiment of his own approaching end; that it seems more reasonable “to interpret the overwhelming energy of the third movement and the abysmal sorrow of the finale in the broader light of a national or historical significance rather than to narrow them to the expression of an individual experience. If the last movement is intended to be predictive, it is surely of things vaster and issues more fatal than are contained in a mere personal apprehension of death. It speaks rather of a ‘lamentation large et souffrance inconnue,’ and seems to set the seal of finality on all human hopes. Even if we eliminate the purely subjective interest, this autumnal inspiration of Tchaikovsky, in which we hear ‘the ground whirl of the perished leaves of hope, still remains the most profoundly stirring of his works.’ ...”
“ROMEO AND JULIET,” OVERTURE FANTASIA (AFTER SHAKESPEARE)
The Romeo and Juliet overture would be worth a journey if only to hear Tchaikovsky’s love music. Here is the incomparable expression in tones of the Southern passion of Juliet, and it is strangely Shakespearean. The remainder of the overture is rather rank Russian, with the exception of the music of Friar Laurence and the noble requiem at the end.
This overture fantasia was begun and completed in 1869. The first performance was at a concert of the Musical Society, Moscow, on March 16, 1870; Nicholas Rubinstein conducted. The work was revised in the summer of 1870 during a sojourn in Switzerland; it was published in 1871. Tchaikovsky, not satisfied with it, made other changes, and, it is said, shortened the overture. The second edition, published in 1881, contains these alterations.
The first performance in the United States was in New York, by the Philharmonic Society, George Matzka, conductor, on April 22, 1876.
The overture begins andante non tanto, quasi moderato, F sharp minor, 4-4. Clarinets and bassoons sound the solemn harmonies, which, according to Kashkin, characterize Friar Laurence; and yet Hermann Teibler finds this introduction symbolical of “the burden of fate.” A short theme creeps among the strings. There is an organ-point on D flat, with modulation to F minor (flutes, horns, harp, lower strings). The Friar Laurence theme is repeated (flutes, oboes, clarinets, English horn, with pizzicato bass). The ascending cry of the flutes is heard in E minor instead of F minor, as before.
Allegro giusto, B minor, 4-4. The two households from “ancient grudge break to new mutiny.” Wood-wind, horn, and strings picture the hatred and fury that find vent in street brawls. A brilliant passage for strings is followed by a repetition of the strife music. Then comes the first love theme, D flat major (muted violas and English horn, horns in syncopated accompaniment, with strings pizzicato). This motive is not unlike in mood, and at times in melodic structure, Tchaikovsky’s famous melody, Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt (Op. 6, No. 6), which was composed in December, 1869. In the “Duo from Romeo and Juliet,” found among Tchaikovsky’s sketches and orchestrated by S. Taneiev, this theme is the climax, the melodic phrase which Romeo sings to “O nuit d’extase, arrête-toi! O nuit d’amour, étends ton voile noir sur nous!” (O tarry, night of ecstasy! O night of love, stretch thy dark veil over us!). Divided and muted violins, with violas pizzicato, play delicate, mysterious chords (D flat major), which in the duet above mentioned serve as accompaniment to the amorous dialogue of Romeo and Juliet in the chamber scene. Flutes and oboes take up the first love theme.
There is a return to tumult and strife. The theme of dissension is developed at length; the horns intone the Friar Laurence motive. The strife theme at last dominates fortissimo, until there is a return to the mysterious music of the chamber scene (oboes and clarinets, with murmurings of violins and horns). The song grows more and more passionate, until Romeo’s love theme breaks out, this time in D major, and is combined with the strife theme and the motive of Friar Laurence in development. A burst of orchestral fury; there is a descent to the depths; violoncellos, basses, bassoons, alone are heard; they die on low F sharp, with roll of kettledrums. Then silence.
Moderato assai, B minor. Drum beats, double basses pizzicato. Romeo’s song in lamentation. Soft chords (wood-wind and horns) bring the end.
CONCERTO FOR PIANOFORTE NO. 1, IN B FLAT MINOR, OP. 23
- I. Allegro non troppo e molto maestoso; allegro con spirito
- II. Andantino semplice; allegro vivace assai
- III. Allegro con fuoco
There was an old Grecian gentleman who apologized for the sumptuous funeral provided for his little child. There are men who have built a lordly portico for a dwelling place, and then, for some reason or other, lack of funds or through caprice, contented themselves with a tasteless, shabbily furnished mansion. The opening section of Tchaikovsky’s piano concerto has a compelling melodic sentence, treated gorgeously, and with magnificent breadth and sweep. What follows is a curious mixture of engrossing measures and wild vulgarity.
Perhaps Nicholas Rubinstein was right; after all, in his bitter, almost venomous tirade when Tchaikovsky played it to him in private. When the concerto was brought out in Boston by Bülow, in October, 1875—it was the very first performance—a critic of this city shrewdly discovered that the first movement was “not in the classical concerto spirit.” Tchaikovsky himself was amused by American reviews sent to him by Bülow. Peter wrote: “The Americans think that the first movement of my concerto ‘suffers in consequence of the absence of a central idea’—and in the finale this reviewer has found ‘syncopation in trills, spasmodic pauses in the theme, and disturbing octave passages!’ Think what healthy appetites these Americans must have: each time Bülow was obliged to repeat the whole finale of my concerto! Nothing like this happens in our country!”
In 1874 Tchaikovsky was a teacher of theory at the Moscow Conservatory. (He began his duties at that institution in 1866 at a salary of thirty dollars a month.) On December 13, 1874, he wrote to his brother Anatol: “I am wholly absorbed in the composition of a pianoforte concerto, and I am very anxious that Rubinstein [Nicholas] should play it in his concert. I make slow progress with the work, and without real success; but I stick fast to my principles, and cudgel my brain to subtilize pianoforte passages: as a result I am somewhat nervous, so that I should much like to make a trip to Kiev for the purpose of diversion.”
The orchestration of the concerto was finished on February 21, 1875, but before that date he played the work to Nicholas Rubinstein. The episode is one of the most singular in the history of this strangely sensitive composer. He described it in a letter written to Nadeshda Filaretovna von Meck. This letter is dated San Remo, February 2, 1878. It has been published in Modeste Tchaikovsky’s Life of his famous brother.
“In December, 1874, I had written a pianoforte concerto. As I am not a pianist, I thought it necessary to ask a virtuoso what was technically unplayable in the work, thankless, or ineffective. I needed the advice of a severe critic who at the same time was friendly disposed toward me. Without going too much into detail, I must frankly say that an interior voice protested against the choice of Nicholas Rubinstein as a judge over the mechanical side of my work. But he was the best pianist in Moscow, and also a most excellent musician. I was told that he would take it ill from me if he should learn that I had passed him by and shown the concerto to another; so I determined to ask him to hear it and criticize the pianoforte part.
“On Christmas Eve, 1874, we were all invited to Albrecht’s, and Nicholas asked me, before we should go there, to play the concerto in a classroom of the Conservatory. We agreed to it. I took my manuscript, and Nicholas and Hubert came. Hubert is a mighty good and shrewd fellow, but he is not a bit independent; he is garrulous and verbose; he must always make a long preface to ‘yes’ or ‘no’; he is not capable of expressing an opinion in decisive, unmistakable form; and he is always on the side of the stronger, whoever he may chance to be. I must add that this does not come from cowardice, but only from natural instability.
“I played through the first movement. Not a criticism, not a word. You know how foolish you feel, if you invite one to partake of a meal provided by your own hands, and the friend eats and—is silent! ‘At least say something, scold me good-naturedly, but for God’s sake speak, only speak, whatever you may say.’ Rubinstein said nothing. He was preparing his thunderstorm; and Hubert was waiting to see how things would go before he should jump to one side or the other. The matter was right here: I did not need any judgment on the artistic form of my work: there was question only about mechanical details. This silence of Rubinstein said much. It said to me at once: ‘Dear friend, how can I talk about details when I dislike your composition as a whole?’ But I kept my temper and played the concerto through. Again silence.
“‘Well?’ I said, and stood up. Then burst forth from Rubinstein’s mouth a mighty torrent of words. He spoke quietly at first; then he waxed hot, and at last he resembled Zeus hurling thunderbolts. It appeared that my concerto was utterly worthless, absolutely unplayable; passages were so commonplace and awkward that they could not be improved; the piece as a whole was bad, trivial, vulgar. I had stolen this from that one and that from this one; so only two or three pages were good for anything, while the others should be wiped out or radically rewritten. ‘For instance, that! What is it, anyhow?’ (And then he caricatured the passage on the pianoforte.) ‘And this? Is it possible?’ and so on, and so on. I cannot reproduce for you the main thing, the tones in which he said all this. An impartial bystander would necessarily have believed that I was a stupid, ignorant, conceited note-scratcher, who was so impudent as to show his scribble to a celebrated man.
“Hubert was staggered by my silence, and he probably wondered how a man who had already written so many works and was a teacher of composition at the Moscow Conservatory could keep still during such a moral lecture or refrain from contradiction—a moral lecture that no one should have delivered to a student without first examining carefully his work. And then Hubert began to annotate Rubinstein; that is, he incorporated Rubinstein’s opinions, but sought to clothe in milder words what Nicholas had harshly said.”
Tchaikovsky erased the name of Nicholas Rubinstein from the score and inserted in the dedication the name of Hans von Bülow, whom he had not yet seen; but Klindworth had told him of Bülow’s interest in his works and his efforts to make them known in Germany. Bülow acknowledged the compliment, and in a warm letter of thanks praised the concerto, which he called the “fullest” work by Tchaikovsky yet known to him: “The ideas are so original, so noble, so powerful; the details are so interesting, and though there are many of them they do not impair the clearness and the unity of the work. The form is so mature, ripe, distinguished for style, for intention and labor are everywhere concealed. I should weary you if I were to enumerate all the characteristics of your work—characteristics which compel me to congratulate equally the composer as well as all those who shall enjoy actively or passively (respectively) the work.”
For a long time Tchaikovsky was sore in heart, wounded by his friend. In 1878 Nicholas had the manliness to confess his error; as a proof of his good-will he studied the concerto and played it often and brilliantly in Russia and beyond the boundaries, as at the Paris Exhibition of 1878.
CONCERTO FOR VIOLIN, IN D MAJOR OP. 35
- I. Allegro moderato
- II. Canzonetta: andante
- III. Finale: allegro vivacissimo
Hanslick’s volumes of collected reviews and essays are many. It is possible that in the days to come he will be remembered only by the fact that he said, apropos of Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto, that it stank in the ear. In spite of Hanslick’s dictum, the concerto still lives, whatever its obvious faults: its endless repetitions, its measures of sheer padding. Why cannot someone arrange Gems from Tchaikovsky’s Concerto after the manner of various anthologies (including Crumbs of Comfort)? Long-winded, tedious at times as it is, the concerto, by reason of melodic charm and demoniacal spirit, is still heard by the people gladly.
The concerto, dedicated at first to Leopold Auer, but afterwards to Adolf Brodsky—and thereby hangs a tale—was performed for the first time at a Philharmonic concert, Vienna, December 4, 1881. Brodsky was the solo violinist. An interesting letter from him to Tchaikovsky after the first performance, is published in Modeste’s Life of his brother (Vol. II, p. 177): “I had the wish to play the concerto in public ever since I first looked it through. That was two years ago. I often took it up and often put it down, because my laziness was stronger than my wish to reach the goal. You have, indeed, crammed too many difficulties into it. I played it last year in Paris to Laroche, but so badly that he could gain no true idea of the work; nevertheless, he was pleased with it. That journey to Paris which turned out unluckily for me—I had to bear many rude things from Colonne and Pasdeloup—fired my energy (misfortune always does this to me, but when I am fortunate then am I weak) so that, back in Russia, I took up the concerto with burning zeal. It is wonderfully beautiful. One can play it again and again and never be bored; and this is a most important circumstance for the conquering of its difficulties. When I felt myself sure of it, I determined to try my luck in Vienna. Now I come to the point where I must say to you that you should not thank me: I should thank you; for it was only the wish to know the new concerto that induced Hans Richter and later the Philharmonic Orchestra to hear me play and grant my participation in one of these concerts. The concerto was not liked at the rehearsal of the new pieces, although I came out successfully on its shoulders. It would have been most unthankful on my part, had I not strained every nerve to pull my benefactor through behind me. Finally we were admitted to the Philharmonic concert. I had to be satisfied with one rehearsal, and much time was lost there in the correction of the parts, that swarmed with errors. The players determined to accompany everything pianissimo, not to go to smash; naturally, the work, which demands many nuances, even in the accompaniment, suffered thereby. Richter wished to make some cuts, but I did not allow it.”
The concerto came immediately after a divertimento by Mozart. According to the account of the Viennese critics and of Brodsky there was a furious mixture of applause and hissing after the performance. The applause prevailed, and Brodsky was thrice recalled, which showed that the hissing was directed against the work, not the interpreter. Out of ten critics only two, and they were the least important, reviewed the concerto favorably. The review by Eduard Hanslick, who was born hating programme music and the Russian school, was extravagant in its bitterness, and caused Tchaikovsky long-continued distress, although Brodsky, Carl Halir, and other violinists soon made his concerto popular. Tchaikovsky wrote from Rome, December 27, 1881, to Jurgenson: “My dear, I saw lately in a café a number of the Neue Freie Presse in which Hanslick speaks so curiously about my violin concerto that I beg you to read it. Besides other reproaches he censures Brodsky for having chosen it. If you know Brodsky’s address, please write to him that I am moved deeply by the courage shown by him in playing so difficult and ungrateful a piece before a most prejudiced audience. If Kotek, my best friend, were so cowardly and pusillanimous as to change his intention of acquainting the St. Petersburg public with this concerto, although it was his pressing duty to play it, for he is responsible in the matter of ease of execution of the piece; if Auer, to whom the work is dedicated, intrigued against me, so am I doubly thankful to dear Brodsky, in that for my sake he must stand the curses of the Viennese journals.”
The review of Hanslick is preserved in the volume of his collected feuilletons entitled, Concerte, Componisten, und Virtuosen der Letzten fünfzehn Jahre, 1870-1885, pp. 295, 296 (Berlin, 1886). The criticism in its fierce extravagance now seems amusing. Here are extracts: “For a while the concerto has proportion, is musical, and is not without genius, but soon savagery gains the upper hand and lords it to the end of the first movement. The violin is no longer played: it is yanked about, it is torn asunder, it is beaten black and blue. I do not know whether it is possible for anyone to conquer these hair-raising difficulties, but I do know that Mr. Brodsky martyrized his hearers as well as himself. The adagio, with its tender national melody, almost conciliates, almost wins us. But it breaks off abruptly to make way for a finale that puts us in the midst of the brutal and wretched jollity of a Russian kermess. We see wild and vulgar faces, we hear curses, we smell bad brandy. Friedrich Vischer once asserted in reference to lascivious painting that there are pictures which ‘stink in the eye.’ Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto brings to us for the first time the horrid idea that there may be music that stinks in the ear.” Modeste Tchaikovsky tells us that this article disquieted Peter till he died; that he knew it by heart, as he did an adverse criticism written by César Cui in 1866.
The concerto was dedicated first to Leopold Auer. Tchaikovsky, in the Diary of his tour in 1888, wrote: “I do not know whether my dedication was flattering to Mr. Auer, but in spite of his genuine friendship he never tried to conquer the difficulties of this concerto. He pronounced it impossible to play, and this verdict, coming from such an authority as the St. Petersburg virtuoso, had the effect of casting this unfortunate child of my imagination for many years to come into the limbo of hopelessly forgotten things.” The composer about seven years before this wrote to Jurgenson from Rome (January 16, 1882) that Auer had been “intriguing against him.” Peter’s brother Modeste explains this by saying: “It had been reported to Peter that Auer had dissuaded Emile Sauret from playing the concerto in St. Petersburg;” but Modeste also adds that Auer changed his opinion many years later, and became one of the most brilliant interpreters of the concerto.
The following orchestration was used by Tchaikovsky in his last three symphonies (with no percussion but timpani in the Fifth): piccolo, two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, bass tuba, kettledrums, bass drum, cymbals, triangle, and strings. In the Romeo and Juliet overture, the English horn and harp were added for color, and the bass drum (with the customary kettledrums) sufficed for percussion. In the piano and violin concertos there was the same scheme of orchestration (without the additional percussion).—EDITOR.
RICHARD
WAGNER
(Born at Leipsic, May 22, 1813; died at Venice, February 13, 1883)
It is not easy for anyone who did not live through the period of the Wagnerian excitement to understand the fierceness of the controversy. The younger generation reads at its ease accounts of protests against compositions by Strauss, Reger, Schönberg; how this or that piece was hissed by some in a concert hall and applauded by others; it reads and is amused, but it regards the discussion as academic. The Wagner question, like the Beecher trial, like the Ibsen controversy in Norway, divided households.
The world has moved since 1876. Much water has flowed under the bridge. Wagner is still one of the most commanding figures in the temple, but it is no longer an act of irreverence to discuss him as Verdi, Gluck, Richard Strauss are discussed. It is now generally agreed that this towering genius was after all a mortal; that he was often verbose, that he could be dull in his musical speech, as other geniuses were before him.
The great public today cares nothing about Wagner’s philosophy, or the “metaphysics” of his Ring. Wotan, Mime, Siegfried, and the rest of them, heroic or shabby characters, are as Radames, Salome, Mélisande, Edgardo, Leonora, Manrico in the tower; they are persons in a drama who sing, and do not speak the dialogue. We have the heartiest admiration for the great scenes in the Ring, and yet find Wotan long-winded and tiresome in his reminiscences and narrations. Mime is like Artemus Ward’s kangaroo, “an amoozin’ little cuss.” Alberich with his gibbering and his jumping about is also amusing. The Dragon and the Bird do not excite our ridicule. We accept them and find their singing no more surprising than the vocal endurance of Tristan on his deathbed or the moving scenery in the first act of Parsifal. The dragon is a familiar figure in art, and we should not rub our eyes more than once if we should see one in the wilds of New Jersey. We enjoy seeing him in his proper place in Siegfried and do not wish to be told what he represents or typifies.
Enemies of Wagner, esthetic enemies, used to reproach him for the “immorality” of his librettos. In Tannhäuser there is the Venusberg. In Die Walküre there is the incestuous and adulterous pair whose amorous shoutings shocked Arthur Schopenhauer. Reading the story of Tristan, these rigid moralists held the nose and called for civet. Fie on Kundry’s case!
We now hear little about the “immorality” of the music dramas. King Mark’s long harangue is more immoral than the rapturous duet of the lovers; the Landgrave is more immoral than Venus; for Mark and the Landgrave, by reason of their long-winded platitudes, make Virtue boresome and Respectability a monster.
And in the expression of certain emotions and passions, in the expression of amorous ecstasy and the mystery of death, Wagner reached a height of eloquence that has seldom been attained by makers of music. Hearing the announcement by Brünnhilde of Siegmund’s fate, the love song of Tristan and Isolde under the cloak of the conniving night, the rustle and murmur of Siegfried’s forest, we marvel at the genius of the man who first heard these things and had the ability to let the world hear them with him.