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.