First drafts of a sixth symphony—not the _Pathetic_—were made by
Tschaikowsky on his return trip from America in the late spring of
1891. Dissatisfied with the way the new score was shaping up, he tore
it up and congratulated himself on his “admirable and irrevocable
determination” to do so. It is not till February, 1893, that first
mention is made of a fresh start on a sixth symphony. “I am now wholly
occupied with the new work,” he writes excitedly to his brother Anatol.
“It is hard for me to tear myself 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....” Subsequent events were to
give the last sentence of this letter a sinister note of prophesy. Like
Mozart writing the _Requiem Mass_ on his deathbed, Tschaikowsky seemed
to be defying some unfriendly fate to stop him in the midst of his
great symphony.
There was to be a program to this symphony, a mysterious, profoundly
personal program. But Tschaikowsky would never tell the world what
it was. “Let them guess who can,” he challenged. Amid the beautiful
natural scenery of Klin, near Moscow, Tschaikowsky worked at his
symphony. Curiously enough, his mood was bright and cheerful for a
change. Early in October he left for Moscow to attend a funeral. There
he met his friend Kashkin and together they talked jovially of life
and death. Tschaikowsky was in excellent spirits and Kashkin assured
him that he would outlive them all. Tschaikowsky laughed, and talked
excitedly about his new symphony, how he was satisfied with the first
three movements, how the finale still needed tinkering.
At length he was in St. Petersburg again. The day of the première of
his symphony was approaching. Rehearsals were begun and Tschaikowsky
soon found reason to grow morose and pessimistic again. He had counted
on the musicians reacting warmly to this new music of his, but he
began to notice cool faces, indifferent glances, and—horror of
horrors—yawns. This was too much for the hypersensitive Tschaikowsky.
He felt his hands suddenly become lifeless, his mind lose its
alertness. His confidence ebbed from him. To spare the men any further
boredom he cut short the rehearsal. Still, he knew he had written
his greatest symphony. At the première of October 28th, the audience
received the new symphony coolly, and it was not till shortly after
Tschaikowsky’s death that it began to make a mighty, overpowering
impression on listeners wherever it was played.
But the symphony had been baptized without a name. Tschaikowsky felt
the term “No. 6” was too bald and lonely a title for it. “Programme
Symphony” was also ruled out, for the good reason that he refused to
divulge the “program.” His brother Modeste suggested “Tragic,” but
Tschaikowsky rejected that too. When Modeste left him, he went on
casting about for a title. In a flash it came to him. He rushed back
to his brother. “Peter,” he exclaimed; “I have it! Why not call it the
‘Pathetic’ symphony.” Tschaikowsky pounced on the proposal eagerly:
“Splendid, Modi, bravo—_Pathetic_!” he shouted. In his brother’s
presence Tschaikowsky wrote on the score the name by which the symphony
has since been known. Most programs, however, give the title in its
French form, _Symphonie Pathétique_.
Shortly after the conversation with his brother, Tschaikowsky attended
a performance of Ostrowsky’s play, _A Warm Heart_. Later he went
backstage to pay his respects to the leading actor, Warlamoff. The
talk somehow turned to spiritualism, and again Tschaikowsky showed
a lighthearted mood. When Warlamoff laughingly ridiculed “these
abominations which remind one of death,” Tschaikowsky agreed jovially.
“There is plenty of time before we have to reckon with this snub-nosed
horror. It will not come to snatch us off just yet! _I feel that I
shall live a long time!_” Five days later, Peter Ilyitch Tschaikowsky,
generally regarded as Russia’s greatest composer, was dead, one of
the many victims of the fearful cholera epidemic then raging in St.
Petersburg.
If Tschaikowsky followed a definite emotional or philosophical program
in the _Pathetic_ symphony, the key to it died with him. Had he lived,
the chances are he would have divulged it, since he was not by nature
a secretive, unconfiding man. However, many have probed the symphony’s
content and concluded it harbored a message of impending death. Yet
Kashkin, Tschaikowsky’s close friend, interpreted the fierce energy of
the third movement and the abysmal sorrow of the Finale “in the broader
light of a national or historical significance.” He refused to narrow
down the scope of the symphony to a merely personal experience.
“If the last movement is intended to be prophetic, it is surely of
things vaster and issues more fatal than are contained in a purely
personal apprehension of death,” he said. “It speaks, rather, of
_une lamentation large et souffrance inconnue_—a large lamentation
and unknown suffering. It seems to set the seal of finality on all
human hopes. Even if we eliminate the merely subjective interest, this
autumnal inspiration of Tschaikowsky’s, in which we hear the _whirling
of the perished leaves of hope_, still remains the most profoundly
stirring of his works.”
I think we may safely agree with Kashkin’s judgment, at the same time
reserving the right to read into this monumental dirge, for such it
unmistakably is, our own individual sense of its profoundly moving
theme of tragic resignation. That Tschaikowsky left it as a testament
of disillusion and futility is likely. Yet no one can miss the fine
vein of tenderness and the flashes of defiance recurring through it.
Few artists have bequeathed the world such a candid, soul-searing
self-portrait.
* * * * *
COMPLETE LIST OF RECORDINGS
BY THE
PHILHARMONIC-SYMPHONY SOCIETY OF NEW YORK