Tchaikowsky and His Orchestral Music 5

Tchaikowsky and His Orchestral Music 5

“Nor was that the end of time’s revenges,” wrote Pitts Sanborn.

“Hanslick was to write glowingly of the ‘Pathétique’ symphony, and

in due course Leopold Auer not only played the unplayable concerto

himself, but made a specialty of teaching it to his pupils, who have

carried its gospel the world over. But while the belated triumphs were

accruing Tschaikowsky died.”

 

The dedication is to Brodsky, who certainly earned it.

 

The first movement (_Allegro moderato_, D major, 4-4), opens with a

melody for strings and woodwind. Then the solo violin is heard in a

cadenza-like sequence followed by the first theme (_Moderato assai_). A

second theme, _Molto espressivo_, is next discoursed by the violin in A

major. Instead of the usual development there is an intricate cadenza

without accompaniment. A long and brilliant coda concludes the movement.

 

The second movement (_Canzonetta: Andante_, 3-4) starts with the

muted solo violin chanting, after a brief preface, a nostalgic theme

in G minor. The flute and clarinet then offer the first phrase of

this theme, and later the solo violin unreels a Chopinesque second

subject, in E-flat major, _con anima_. The clarinet offers an obbligato

of arpeggios when the first theme returns. The rousing finale is an

_Allegro vivacissimo_ in D major, 2-4.

 

The Rondo-like last movement, typically Russian in theme and rhythm,

develops from two folk-like melodies. Listeners will be reminded of

the well-known Russian dance, the Trepak, in this movement. The music

builds up at a brisk pace to a crashing climax.

 

 

CONCERTO FOR PIANO AND ORCHESTRA, IN B-FLAT MINOR, NO. 1, OPUS 23

 

Like the violin concerto, Tschaikowsky’s great piano concerto in

B-flat minor went through a gruelling ordeal of abusive rebuffs and

setbacks before becoming established as one of the world’s most beloved

symphonic scores. In the case of the violin work, it was Leopold

Auer who first flouted it as unplayable, and then made it a popular

repertory standby. Nicholas Rubinstein is the name linked with the

early stages of the piano concerto. After excoriating the concerto in

its first state, Rubinstein grew to like it, humbly apologized for his

blunder, and made practical amends by playing it in public with huge

success.

 

Early in its composition we find Tschaikowsky writing to his brother

Anatol: “I am so completely absorbed in the composition of a piano

concerto. I am anxious that Rubinstein should play it at his concert.

The work proceeds very slowly and does not turn out well. However, I

stick to my intentions and hammer piano passages out of my brain; the

result is nervous irritability.” Begun in November, 1874, the concerto

was completed the following month. Rubinstein was then invited to

hear the work. Rubinstein and one or two musical colleagues gathered

in one of the classrooms of the Moscow Conservatory. Unluckily, the

great man was in a sombre mood that day. Tschaikowsky sat down and

played the first movement. No comment from Rubinstein. Then he played

the Andantino. Still no comment. Finally, Tschaikowsky ran through the

last movement. He turned around expectantly. Rubinstein said nothing.

Uneasily, Tschaikowsky asked him pointblank: “What do you think of

it?” And the storm broke. It was vulgar, cheap, pianistic, completely

valueless, retorted Rubinstein, who then stepped up to the piano and

began to burlesque the music.

 

“I left the room without saying a word and went upstairs,” writes

the distraught Tschaikowsky. “I could not have spoken for anger and

agitation. Presently Rubinstein came to me and, seeing how upset I

was, called me into another room. There he repeated that my concerto

was impossible, pointed out many places where it needed to be

completely revised, and said that if I would suit the concerto to his

requirements, he would bring it out at his concert.

 

“‘I shall not alter a single note,’ he replied. ‘I shall publish the

work precisely as it stands.’ This intention I actually carried out.”

Tschaikowsky did make some alterations in the score, however.

 

Tschaikowsky changed his mind about dedicating the score to Rubinstein,

conferring the honor on Hans Von Bülow, instead. Von Bülow played the

world première in Boston on October 25, 1875, and in a letter to the

Russian composer conveyed his enthusiasm for the work: “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 the work actively or

passively respectively.” Later Tschaikowsky, reading reports of how

Americans were acclaiming his concerto, wrote: “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 own country.”

 

The concerto opens with a striking theme, _Allegro non troppo e molto

maestoso_, in D-flat major, 3-4, familiar to music-lovers of all tastes

the world over. The strings take it up after some brief preluding, and

it is then repeated, with rhythmic modification, by the solo piano.

There is a piano cadenza, and the theme comes back by way of the

strings, minus double-basses, against an ascending obbligato from the

piano. For reasons best known to himself, Tschaikowsky never allows

this imposing theme to return to the scene.

 

The “blind beggar tune” is the name often applied to the piano theme

serving as chief subject of the main section of the first movement

(_Allegro con spirito_, B-flat minor). Tschaikowsky heard it sung on a

street in Kamenko and he wrote to his patroness-friend, Mme. von Meck:

“It is curious that in Russia every blind beggar sings exactly the same

tune with the same refrain. I have used part of this refrain in my

piano concerto.” Horns and woodwind discourse the second subject (_Poco

meno mosso_, A-flat major) before the solo instrument turns to it.

 

The song-like first theme of the second movement (_Andantino semplice_,

D-flat major, 6-8) is given out first by the flute, with the oboe

and clarinets bringing in the second subject against a bassoon

accompaniment. The _Prestissimo_ middle section in F major, has the

spirit of a scherzo. A waltz enters the scheme by way of violas and

’cellos. Tschaikowsky’s brother, Modeste, insisted the theme of this

waltz derived from a French song the brothers Tschaikowsky used to sing

and whistle in their boyhood days.

 

The Rondo-like finale develops from three themes, the first of which,

a lively dance in Cossack style, is given out by the piano. A further

folk-like quality is observable in the second theme, and the violins

later chant the third of the finale’s themes. In the brisk Coda the

Cossack-like first theme is given the dominant role.

 

 

SYMPHONIES

 

 

SYMPHONY IN F MINOR, NO. 4, OPUS 36

 

At first sight, this symphony arouses no “cherchez la femme” mystery.

Seemingly, the lady is not far to seek. In fact, Tschaikowsky throws

off the search in his dedication. The lady is Madame Nadia Filaretovna

von Meck. She was his loyal confidante and benefactress. The least

Tschaikowsky could do was to dedicate a symphony to her. Comfort and

encouragement in the form of checks and adulatory letters from Mme. von

Meck saw the sorrowing Slav through many bleak periods.

 

The association has been called “the most amazing romance in musical

history.” That the “romance” was purely platonic does not make it any

the less “amazing.” Whatever Mme. von Meck’s secret hopes and longings,

Tschaikowsky shrank from carrying the liaison beyond epistolary scope.

Mme. von Meck resigned herself to an advisory role of patroness-friend,

and played it nobly. The world reveres her for it. “_Our_ symphony,”

Tschaikowsky wrote to her, communicating his intention to dedicate the

Fourth to her. “I believe you will find in it echoes of your deepest

thoughts and feelings.”

 

What Tschaikowsky meant, of course, was “_my_ deepest thoughts and

feelings.” The plural possessive, “_ours_,” is gallant rather than

collaborative. Even so, he could with more truth than courtesy have

written to another woman, Antonina Ivanovna Miliukov, in similar

style. Antonina was Tschaikowsky’s wife in a domestic farce lasting

two weeks. The whole episode—spanning a wild sequence of engagement,

marriage, flight in the night, attempted suicide, separation—nestles

snugly in the period of the symphony’s origin. Antonina would have

understood the words “_our_ symphony.” Only fate and brother Anatol

saved it from becoming Tschaikowsky’s obituary. Not that it was

Antonina’s fault. Far from it. But no psychological analysis of the

Fourth can be complete without her.

 

The girl was a conservatory pupil. Tschaikowsky’s music acted like

magic on her. Through it she came to a slavish worship of the composer.

Next followed written avowals of love sizzling with passion. At first

Tschaikowsky was amused, then alarmed, finally haunted. The girl was

persistent. Her pleas grew piteous. To make matters worse, Tschaikowsky

was immersed in his romantic opera _Eugene Onegin_ at the time. He had

just composed music for Tatiana’s impassioned love-letter to Onegin.

Antonina’s plight was too much like the spurned Tatiana’s to be lost on

Tschaikowsky’s sensitive nature. Onegin’s cold disdain had virtually

wrecked the girl’s life. Antonina might even kill herself. Tschaikowsky

saw himself as another and more heartless Onegin. The situation

probably stroked his vanity, too.

 

He made a naïve offer of friendship. It only stirred up more trouble.

He finally granted a meeting. Antonina had won. The girl was deaf

to his self-depiction as a morose, ill-tempered neurotic who would

assuredly drive her mad. Antonina knew better. No, there was only

one way out—marriage. Tschaikowsky became engaged. He repented at

leisure. Attempts to break the engagement proved futile. Antonina was

bent on becoming Mrs. Tschaikowsky. They were married. A few days later

Tschaikowsky fled for his sanity. They were reconciled. There followed

two hellish weeks of tragi-farcical life together in Moscow. One night,

in a wild daze, Tschaikowsky fled again. He wandered about wildly and

reached the Moscow River. He had made up his mind. He stood neck-deep

in the water, hoping to freeze to death. He was rescued in time.