_Marche Slave_, OPUS 31
The _Marche Slave_ stands foremost among Tschaikowsky’s marches,
of which he wrote numerous, including several incorporated in his
operas and suites. Most of them were composed for special purposes
or occasions. There is the _Marche Solennelle_, written “for the Law
Students,” which figured on the housewarming program at the opening
of Carnegie Hall in May, 1891, besides a _Marche Militaire_, which he
wrote for the band of the Czar’s 98th Infantry Regiment. In 1883 the
city of Moscow requisitioned a _Coronation March_ from him. Earlier,
Tschaikowsky had written a march in honor of the famous General
Skobelev. But he held it in such low esteem that he allowed it to
circulate as the work of a non-existent composer named Sinopov.
[Illustration: The composer at the age of twenty-three, during his
early years at the Moscow Conservatory.]
[Illustration: Désirée Artôt, the French soprano who, in jilting
Tschaikowsky, helped to inspire his Romeo and Juliet overture-fantasy.]
The _Marche Slave_ was written in 1876 for a benefit concert to raise
funds for soldiers wounded in the Turko-Serbian war, which presently
merged into a greater war between Turkey and Russia. It is based
largely on the old Russian anthem, “God Save the Emperor,” and some
South Slavonic and Serbian tunes. The main theme has been traced to the
Serbian folk song, _Sunce varko ne fijas jednako_ (“Come, my dearest,
why so sad this morning?”). Divided into three sections, the march
features fragments of the old Czarist hymn in the middle portion.
How the hymn itself came to be written is told by its author, Alexis
Feodorovich Lvov:
“In 1833, I accompanied the Emperor Nicholas during his travels in
Prussia and Austria. When we had returned to Russia I was informed by
Count von Benkendorf that the sovereign regretted that we Russians had
no national anthem of our own, and that, as he was tired of the English
tune which had filled the gap for many years, he wished me to see
whether I could not compose a Russian hymn.
“The problem appeared to me to be an extremely difficult and serious
one. When I recalled the imposing British national anthem, ‘God Save
the King,’ the very original French one and the really touching
Austrian hymn, I felt and appreciated the necessity of writing
something big, strong and moving; something national that should
resound through a church as well as through the ranks of an army;
something that could be taken up by a huge multitude and be within the
reach of every man, from the dunce to the scholar. The idea absorbed
me, but I was worried by the conditions thus imposed on the work with
which I had been commissioned.
“One evening as I was returning home very late, I thought out and wrote
down in a few minutes the tune of the hymn. The next day I called on
Shoukovsky to ask him to write the words; but he was no musician and
had much trouble to adapt them to the phrases of the first section of
the melody.
“At last I was able to announce the completion of the hymn to Count von
Benkendorf. The Emperor wished to hear it, and came on November 23 to
the chapel of the Imperial Choir, accompanied by the Empress and the
Grand Duke Michael. I had collected the whole body of choristers and
re-enforced them by two orchestras. The sovereign asked for the hymn
to be repeated several times, expressed a wish to hear it sung without
accompaniment, and then had it played first of all by each orchestra
separately and then finally by all the executants together. His Majesty
turned to me and said in French: ‘Why, it’s superb!’ and then and there
gave orders to Count von Benkendorf to inform the Minister of War that
the hymn was to be adopted for the army. The order to this effect was
issued December 4, 1883. The first public performance of the hymn was
on December 11, 1883, at the Grand Theater in Moscow. The Emperor
seemed to want to submit my work to the judgment of the Moscow public.
On December 25 the hymn resounded through the rooms of the Winter
Palace on the occasion of the blessing of the colors.
“As proof of his satisfaction the Emperor graciously presented me with
a gold snuff-box studded with diamonds, and in addition gave orders
that the words ‘God Save the Tsar’ should be placed on the armorial
bearings of the Lvov family.”
_Overture 1812_, OPUS 49
Although clearly a _pièce d’occasion_ prompted by the commemoration
of a crucial page in Russian history, the _Overture 1812_ is a minor
mystery in the Tschaikowsky catalogue. Supposedly Nicholas Rubinstein
commissioned Tschaikowsky in 1880 to write a festival overture for the
Moscow Exhibition. At least the composer admits as much in letters to
Nadezhka von Meck and the conductor Napravnik.
But his friend Kashkin insisted the piece was requested for the
ceremonies consecrating the Moscow Cathedral of the Saviour, intended
to symbolize Russia’s part in the Napoleonic struggle. The overture,
accordingly, pictured the great events beginning with the Battle of
Borodino (September 7, 1812) and ending with Napoleon’s flight from
Moscow, after the city was set aflame. To make it more effective, the
work was to be performed in the public square before the cathedral.
An electric connection on the conductor’s desk would set off salvos
of real artillery, and all Moscow would thrill with thoughts of its
heroic past. In any case Tschaikowsky finished the overture at Kamenka
in 1880, and though the cathedral was dedicated in the summer of 1881,
there is no record of the planned street scene having come off.
Instead, we find Tschaikowsky offering the overture to Eduard
Napravnik, then directing the Imperial Musical Society of St.
Petersburg: “Last winter, at Nicholas Rubinstein’s request, I composed
a Festival Overture for the concerts of the exhibition, entitled
‘1812.’” Tschaikowsky then makes a statement that possibly suggests
an earlier rebuff: “Could you possibly manage to have this played? It
is not of great value, and I shall not be at all surprised or hurt if
you consider the style of the music unsuitable to a symphony concert.”
Apparently Napravnik turned down the overture, and its première was
postponed to August 20, 1882, when it figured on an all-Tschaikowsky
concert in the Art and Industrial Exhibition at Moscow.
Tschaikowsky’s attitude to the work is further expressed in the
letter to his patroness-saint Mme. von Meck. There he speaks of the
overture as “very noisy” and having “no great artistic value” because
it was written “without much warmth of enthusiasm.” And in a diary
entry of the time he refers to it as having “only local and patriotic
significance.”
The “patriotic significance,” of course, is what gives the overture
its _raison d’être_ as a motion picture of historical events.
Tschaikowsky’s brushstrokes are bold and obvious. The French and
Russians are clearly depicted through the use of the Czarist National
Anthem and the _Marseillaise_. Fragments of Cossack and Novgorod folk
songs enter the scheme, and the battle and fire scenes are as plain as
pictures. As the overture develops, one envisions the clash of arms
at Borodino, with the Russians stiffly disputing every step and the
_Marseillaise_ finally rising dominant. The Russians are hurled back;
the French are in Moscow. Finally the city is ablaze and the dismal
rout begins, as cathedral bells mingle with the roll of drums and the
hymn, _God Preserve Thy People_, surges out in a paean of victory.
_Capriccio Italien_, OPUS 45
Described by Edwin Evans as a “bundle of Italian folk-tunes,” the
_Capriccio Italien_ draws partly on published collections of such
melodies and partly on popular airs heard by Tschaikowsky in 1880 while
touring Italy. “I am working on a sketch of an ‘Italian Fantasia’ based
on folksongs,” he notifies his patroness-confidante, Nadeshka von Meck,
from Rome on February 17, 1880. “Thanks to the charming themes, some of
which I have heard in the streets, the work will be effective.”
[Illustration: A facsimile of a piece of Tschaikowsky’s music, signed
by the composer.]
Tschaikowsky’s room at the Hotel Constanzi overlooked the barracks of
the Royal Cuirassiers. Apparently the bugle-call sounded nightly in
the barracks yards contributed another theme “heard in the streets,”
for it may be heard in the trumpet passage of the introduction. The
_Italian Fantasia_ was fully sketched out in Rome and the orchestration
begun. With the title now changed to _Capriccio Italien_, the work was
completed that summer on Tschaikowsky’s return to Russia. Nicholas
Rubinstein directed the première at Moscow on December 18, 1880. Six
years later Walter Damrosch introduced it to America at a concert in
the Metropolitan Opera House, the precise date being November 6, 1886.
After the introductory section, the strings chant a lyric theme of
slightly melancholy hue, which the orchestra then develops. Later
the oboes announce, in thirds, a simple folk melody of less sombre
character. This, too, is elaborately worked out, before the tempo
changes and violins and flutes bring in another tune. This promptly
subsides as a brisk march section sets in, followed by a return of
the opening theme. There is a transition to a lively tarantella, then
another bright theme in triple rhythm, and finally the Presto section,
with a second tarantella motif leading to a brilliant close.
“It is a piece of music which relies entirely on its orchestration for
its effects,” writes Evans in the Master Musicians Series. “Its musical
value is comparatively slight, but the coloring is so vivid and so
fascinating, and the movement throughout so animated, that one does not
realize this when listening to the work. It is only afterwards that
one experiences certain pangs of regret that such a rich garment should
bedeck so thin a figure.”