Like Rubinstein, Tschaïkowsky became celebrated as a composer after he
had written a little piano piece--a Chanson Sans Paroles, curiously
enough in the same key as Rubinstein’s melody in F. A Polish dance,
as we all know, lighted Scharwenka’s torch of fame in this country.
Tschaïkowsky has never since written so tender, so dainty a piece
as this little song without words. An op. 2, it gave him a vogue in
the salon that has sent many a shallow admirer to sorrow, for it
may be said at the outset that his compositions for piano are not
Klaviermässig, do not lie well for the flat keyboard.
Read the very first opus, the Russian Scherzo in B flat, and you
encounter a style that is decidedly orchestral. Massive octave and
chord work, with dangerous skips and a general disregard for the
well-sounding. In nearly all of his piano music I find this striving
for the expression of the idea at the expense of smooth delivery,
and we who have outlived the technical opportunism of the school
that shuddered at the placing of the thumb on a black key must of
necessity defend this course; but I wish to say for the benefit of
those who groan over Brahms that he is a veritable Chopin compared to
Tschaïkowsky--a veritable Chopin in his feeling for the right word and
the right mechanical placing of it. Tschaïkowsky’s writing for piano
is that of the composer for orchestra. He thinks orchestrally, and
his position as a technician might be placed midway between Schumann
and Liszt. Beethoven, employing the technics nearest at hand--the
Clementi technics--writes more idiomatically for the instrument than
this latter-day Russian master. Hence the general indifference to his
music manifested by pianists; hence the rareness of his name on concert
programmes, for the whole tribe of pianists is sheep-like in its
aversion to a new pasture, and only after the leader has leaped the gap
in the hedge does it timidly follow and sniff at novel herbage.
For teaching purposes the pedagogue encounters a genuine bar in
Tschaïkowsky’s smaller pieces. After a page of delightful and facile
writing, a flock of double notes or a nasty patch of octaves appear,
and sometimes the teacher is himself floored by the difficulties.
You may count on one hand the popular piano compositions of a small
genre--the song without words, a real serenata, if ever there was
one, with a streak of dark pathos in the middle; the number called
June, from the Seasons, in the key of G minor, a barcarolle hinting
of Mendelssohn and a stepfather to Moriz Moszkowski’s barcarolle; the
theme and variations from op. 19, a scherzo in F from Souvenir de
Hapsal, and the Album d’Enfants, op. 39.
I shall not consider in detail all the piano orchestral or lyric works
of Tschaïkowsky, but only the typical ones, and, furthermore, I urge
pianists who are clamoring for a novel repertory to study and search
for themselves and not be deterred by the absence of stereotyped forms
of passage work, for, while Tschaïkowsky is never a path-breaker in
this respect, his piano music is not always cast in an acceptable mould.
I have mentioned op. 1, No. 1, as being a Scherzo à la Russe; the
second number an Impromptu. The little scherzo in F from op. 2 is
tricky and full of vitality.
It is not difficult. The second theme is very pretty. This op. 2 also
contains “Ruines d’un Château,” and the familiar song without words,
op. 3--you see, I am in deadly earnest and mean to give you the story
to its bitter end--is the opera Voyevode. Op. 4 is Valse Caprice, for
piano in A flat, very brilliant; op. 5, the piano Romance much played
by Rubinstein; op. 6 is composed of six romances for voice; op. 7 is a
piano Valse-Scherzo, also played by Rubinstein; op. 8, a Capriccio for
piano in G flat; op. 9, three piano pieces--a Reverie, a Polka and a
Mazourka; op. 10, two piano pieces--a Nocturne in B and a Humoresque;
op. 11, the famous string quartet, E flat, with its entrancing slow
movement; op. 12, an opera rejoicing in the felicitous title of
Snegourotschka, or La Fille de Neige, a lyric drama in three acts. It
was damned by Russian critics. Op. 13--at last we come to a symphony,
the first in G minor, sometimes called A Winter’s Journey. It has been
played here.
The work took shape under Rubinstein’s eyes and has an antiquated
flavor. It was composed in 1868 when Tschaïkowsky taught at the St.
Petersburg Conservatory. If it were not for the last movement, which
has a smack of the Calmuck, and the modern instrumentation, I should
say that Mendelssohn had more to do with this youthful composition
than Rubinstein. There is the same saccharine volubility, the same
saccharine cantabile and the same damnable fluency that characterizes
the work of the feline Felix. Of the poet that penned those
masterpieces, Francesca, Hamlet and Roméo et Juliette there is not the
faintest spoor.
The symphony is monotonously in the key of G minor, with the exception
of the adagio. It is called A Winter Journey, and the slush must have
been ankle-deep. The first two movements are labelled, Winter Journey
Dreams and Foggy Landscape, which of course may mean anything or
nothing. The Allegro tranquillo is smooth, even smug, and one entire
phrase for the woodwind occurs in the working-out section of the
first movement of Rubinstein’s D minor piano concerto. The adagio is
well made but is not musically convincing, notwithstanding its dark,
rustling introduction, and the pretty conversation between oboe and
flute. When the ’celli take up the solo one feels as if something
were being accomplished. The scherzo is a melancholy apology and the
trio cheap. In the finale, noisy and barbaric, we get a taste of our
Tschaïkowsky, despite the garishness of loosely built fabric. The
work is promising but we miss the large sweep, the poetic, passionate
intensity, the keen note of naturalism and the fine intellectual
acidity which we look for in this great composer.
Oddly enough it was Tschaïkowsky’s favorite as is evidenced by the
following communication from Mr. E. Francis Hyde the president of the
New York Philharmonic Society: “When Tschaïkowsky was in this country
in the spring of 1891 I used frequently to see and converse with him
about musical matters. One evening when he was at my house, I had
taken from my library the scores of his second, third, fourth and fifth
symphonies and narrated to him the times of their first production in
this country, and the circumstances connected with their performance.
I then asked him which one of all his symphonies he liked the best,
naturally supposing he would mention one of those lying before us. To
my surprise however, he replied that he liked his first symphony best
of all. He said that it was the first expression of his feelings in
a large composition of purely orchestral form, and he had a peculiar
affection for his first born. He did not enter into any details
regarding its subject-matter but he expressed a hope that it would soon
be produced in this country.”
Tschaïkowsky may have been indulging in a little sentimental cynicism.
Op. 14 is an opera, Vakoula, The Smith, in three acts; op. 15 is the
Ouverture Triomphale; op. 16 comprises six romances for voice with
piano; op. 17 the second symphony in C minor and known as the Russian.
In it Tschaïkowsky begins to reveal his skill in orchestration, and
the themes of the first movement are all strong; at least two of its
movements are not symphonic in character. The first allegro, the
strongest, is very Russian in thematic quality. The entire movement is
characterized by a bizarre freedom, even recklessness. But there can be
no doubt about the skill of its maker. The fantastic Durchführungsatz
and the melancholy beauty of the opening--and very Slavic theme--are
intimations of the greater Tschaïkowsky who came later.
He omits the slow movement and marches us to the lilting rhythms of
Raff and Gounod. The harmonies are more piquant, for the Russian wields
a marvellous color brush. It is a clever episode, yet hardly weighty
enough for symphonic treatment. For that matter neither is the banal
march in Raff’s Lenore symphony.
The scherzo that follows is in the Saint-Saëns style. It reveals plenty
of spirit and there is the diabolic, riotous energy that pricks the
nerves, yet never strikes fire in our souls. The entire work leaves
one rather cold. The finale is very charming and the variation-making
genius of the composer peeps out. The movement has the whirl and glow
of some wild dance mood and over all Tschaïkowsky has cast the spell
of his wondrous orchestration. In the work are potentialities that are
realized in his later symphonic works. It is our beloved Tschaïkowsky
but as yet in precipitation. In style immature, there is much groping
after effects--effects which he used with such a sure touch in Hamlet
and Francesca. Those piano staccato chords for the brass choir, a
genuine mannerism, are already here, and his fondness for chromatic
scales, contrapuntally used, may be noted. An interesting symphony.
Op. 18 is The Tempest, a fantaisie for orchestra I never remember
hearing. It was first played here by Mr. Frank Van Der Stucken.
In op. 19 we come once more upon familiar piano land, six pieces,
the last of which is the variations in F. These are built upon an
original theme, simply harmonized, savoring of a Russian cantus
firmus. The first three are not striking; the fourth, an allegro
vivace, is original in treatment; the fifth, an andante amoroso in D
flat, suggests Chopin; the sixth, very bold and full of imitations;
the seventh, short and in the mode ecclesiastic; eighth, in D minor,
is Schumannish; nine is a fascinating mazourka; number ten is in F
minor, and tender; number eleven, Alla Schumann, is characteristic; the
twelfth on a pedal point is Brahms in color, and the presto finale,
made of a figure in sixteenths, is very brilliant. These variations
give us a taste of Tschaïkowsky’s quality in a form at which he was
never beaten except by Brahms. They have served as models for several
composers of the younger generation.
Op. 20 is “Le Lac de Cygnes,” a ballet in three acts, also unknown to
us, but the title is a charming one; op. 21 is six pieces for piano,
dedicated to Rubinstein, a prelude, fugue, impromptu, marche funèbre,
mazourka and scherzo; op. 22 is the second string quartet, almost as
famous as its predecessor, but, if more euphonious, is not marked by
the rude Russian vigor and originality of op. 11; op. 23 is the first
piano concerto in B flat minor, and here let us tarry before again
plunging further in the thicket of twisting, octopus-like numerals.
This concerto, one of the most brilliant of works of its class written
since Liszt, is quite as fragmentary as Xaver Scharwenka’s concerto in
the same key, but it is more massive, more symphonic in the sense of
development, weight, power, color, but not of form. The piano part is
not grateful, yet it has attracted the attention of such a pianist as
Von Bülow, to whom it is dedicated.
The work is interesting and full of surprises. The march-like first
theme in three-quarter time, the astounding brilliancy and fulness
of the piano part makes this opening very imposing. The processional
quality is broken by the enunciation of the theme in dotted notes,
followed by a Lisztian cadenza, with a repetition later in the
orchestra of the subject. Then come those truncated, slurred triplets
for octaves in unison, which are so portentous, and with which
Tschaïkowsky accomplishes so much; makes a mountain out of a mole
hill. The flutes and clarinets indulge in imitations of this until the
full choir joins in, and then in augmented tempo the piano repeats,
and finally it all dies away in a cavernous manner, leaving you in
doubt as to its meaning or what to expect. But the Poco meno mosso is
delightful, albeit its halting, syncopated accent breeds pessimistic
doubts, soon resolved in the flowing lyric measures which ensue. The
shadow of Schumann hovers here on brooding wings; yet another theme
presents itself in A flat for the muted violins, with a zephyr-like
accompaniment from the piano. Pastoral is the effect and plangent the
rippling arpeggi. This theme leads off in the development with the
profile only of the triplets of the intermezzo preceding. The piano
part bursts in with octaves, and is singularly rich and vigorous. This
reprise is full of learning and boldness of handling. I like the way
the second theme reappears in B flat, although tonalities throughout
are constantly shifting, and a harmonic haze, a blur of color, is
often the only picture presented. The cadenza toward the close of the
movement is more than three pages, and starts off in G flat, sounding
suspiciously like the cadenza in Rubinstein’s D minor concerto. The
finale is very impressive. The second movement in D flat is exquisite;
a melting, amorous nocturne, charged with the soft languors of a summer
night in Russia. There is atmosphere and there is a beloved one being
sung to. The prestissimo, a fairy scherzo, with dancing, delicate
shapes, all disporting themselves to a vague valse tune that must have
been born on the Danube. This section has been charged with being
commonplace, but a clever concert master can with a pencil stroke give
the bowing and rhythm the distinction it needs. Yes, Tschaïkowsky could
be distractingly banal; he could add the two of loveliness to the two
of vulgar and make the sum five instead of four.
The andantino semplice ends serenely; and the Allegro con fuoco which
follows is Russian in its insistent, irritable hammering accent on the
second beat of the bar. You can’t help being carried away by the swing
of it all, and the gay second subject relieves the drastic note at the
beginning. All goes bravely, another subject appearing in Schumannish
figuration. A dazzling movement this. Joseffy has altered the three
pages of what he calls “Czerny unisons,” and made the passage work more
modern. The finale is thundering. This B flat minor concerto is, after
all, Tschaïkowsky at his best on the piano. His melodies are sweet, for
the most part sane, and there is a sense of restless power suffusing
the entire composition. It will stand as one of his representative
efforts.
Let us, O weary sister, O bored brother! take up our staff and again
wander down this flower and fungi-dotted path of opus land. Op. 24 is
our next number, and is the opera Eugene Oneguine, or Jewgeny Onegin.
This was produced in St. Petersburg in 1879. It never proved a success,
although transplanted in various countries. The mazourka and valse
are familiar, and the polonaise in G has been arranged by Liszt for
concert. It is sonorous and pompous, but for me rather empty. The
lyric theme or trio is commonplace. Upon the opera as a whole I can
pass no judgment, not having a score. Op. 25, more romances, six for
voice; op. 26 is the Sérénade Mélancholique, for violin; op. 27, six
romances for voice; op. 28, seven more; op. 29, the third symphony in
D, a further step in power and variety in this form. The first movement
is beautiful music. The introduction in D minor hardly presages the
brilliant allegro with its clear cut and animated figure. This theme is
martial in character, a charming second subject being announced by the
oboes. The movement is concise and shows an increased mastery in form.
The second movement, an alla tedesco in B flat, is sweet and quaint but
hardly belongs to a symphony. The andante comes next, in D minor, it
is short and elegiac and seems better suited to a suite. This idea is
further intensified when you are confronted by a fourth movement in B
minor and a finale in D. Five short movements do not make a symphony,
for there is neither unity of thought nor tonality in the work; not so
pregnant a composition as the second essay in the symphonic form.
Op. 30 is the third string quartet; op. 31 is the delightfully
fresh Marche Slave for orchestra, which we have so often admired in
the concert room; op. 32 brings us to the Tschaïkowsky we all feel
is great, for it is the overture-fantaisie, Francesca da Rimini,
surcharged with the woe, the passion of the guilty pair who forgot that
day to read their book, and so were slain, and were seen by Dante and
the Shade of Virgil as their thin souls mounted in the spiral of sin
and shame and in the stormy blasts of hell.
Not as often heard as the Romeo and Juliet, I nevertheless prefer it.
The Variations “Sur un air rococo,” for ’cello and orchestra, op. 33,
are excellently written, very ingenious and very difficult. Op. 34 is
a scherzo-valse for violin and orchestra, and op. 35 the concerto in D
for the same instrument. This has been heard here several times. It is
romantic in feeling and a very interesting work, although by no means
a masterpiece. Op. 36 is the fourth symphony in F minor, a symphony
that only falls short of being as great as the fifth and sixth. It is
like all of his symphonies; loosely put together but certainly more
homogeneous than the last one. The first strong, sombre movement, the
andantino di modo canzona, the scherzo pizzicato ostinato and the
harsh and sweeping finale are all fine imaginative mood pictures.
There is the melancholy, the droning lament, the feverish burliness of
the Russian poet, the Russian peasant. The scherzo is like a winged
projectile. I shall speak of it again.
Op. 37, the only piano sonata of Tschaïkowsky, deserves resurrection.
Its great length, fifty pages, has kept it in the libraries of
pianists. Doubtless Karl Klindworth, to whom it is dedicated, plays
it. Its opening is rudely vigorous, while a counter theme in G minor
is a blending of Chopin and Mendelssohn; diffuseness follows, lack of
cohesiveness being the gravest fault of the work. Here, as in most
of the piano music, the thought is orchestral, and is writ large for
orchestra. There is more simplicity in the E minor andante, and for a
time the idiom is of the piano. The scherzo is the Tschaïkowsky of the
merry mood, the waggish humor. He plays jokes throughout. The finale is
all hammer and tongs. In a foot note the composer humbly suggests the
correct use of the pedal, knowing that color, atmosphere, perspective
are the very essentials of his piano music.
Six pieces for singing, as they call them, mark op. 38, the first being
that devilish and rollicking and saturnine serenade of Don Juan in B
minor, the text by Tolstoy. He sings to his love on the balcony. In the
accents of a sinister Bravo he bids her from behind the lattice, and
there is fear and cynicism in this wonderful song, so full of fire and
the melancholy of a foredoomed soul. A great song, and I shall never
forget the night Edouard de Reszke sang it, with its growling piano
ritornello. It sounded satanic.
Op. 39, to pick up the arithmetical thread, is the Piano Album for
Children, and contains just two dozen little pieces fit for the soft
fingers of babyhood, except where a stretch wanders in, that would tax
an organist’s thumb. Op. 40 is another collection of pieces, twelve in
all, of medium difficulty. The Chanson Triste is familiar. Op. 41 is a
Messe Russe for four voices, with organ and piano; op. 42 is for violin
and piano, Souvenir d’un lieu cher; op. 43 is the first orchestral
suite, and op. 44 the second concerto for piano and orchestra in G.
This latter is dedicated to Nicolas Rubinstein, and the first time I
heard it played in public was at the Philharmonic festival in 1892
at the Metropolitan Opera House, under Anton Seidl. Franz Rummel was
the pianist, and even he, iron-handed as he was, had to make abundant
cuts. The work, as I recollect it, is more closely knit in texture than
the first of its form, and is more musical, more imaginative, if less
brilliant and showy. It will figure on the programmes of the twentieth
century virtuoso. The pianists of to-day refer to it as a symphony with
piano obbligato. It has since been played here by Siloti. The last
movement is the most Russian, the second being an exquisite pastoral,
while the opening allegro is rhythmically noble and broadly eloquent.
There is no uncertainty in the ring of its first theme, a theme of
sonorous nobility and virile assertiveness. The man who made such
a theme has the blood of musical giants in his veins, peradventure
the blood is a bit crossed with a Calmuck strain. The first movement
is admirably developed, and the orchestra and piano have it out
hammer and tongs fashion, the piano getting the better of the
situation, particularly in the tremendous cadenza set in a decidedly
unconventional place in the movement. The second movement contains some
lovely writing, and the piano has to concede to the violin a solo of
charming interest, although it later takes its revenge by playing the
melody harmonically amplified. But the work is much too long.
Op. 45 is the Capriccio Italien, for orchestra, of which I once wrote:
It is Russian icicles melted into fantastic shapes by Neapolitan fire
and terpsichorean fury. The Russian loves to dream of the South. Even
Heine wrote “Ein Fichtenbaum steht einsam.” Philip Hale says that there
are in it “passages needlessly and ineffectively vulgar.” I accept his
later judgment, for when I heard the piece I was color mad, and in
those days I loved any color so it was red or purple. Op. 46, six vocal
duos; op. 47, seven romances for voice and piano; op. 48, the serenade,
for strings; op. 49, the Overture Solennelle, better known as “1812,”
an impossible and noisy overture; op. 50 is the lovely trio in A minor
for piano and strings, written to commemorate the death of Nicolas
Rubinstein, who was a near friend of Tschaïkowsky. It is a true elegy.
Op. 51 contains six piano pieces, valse, polka, minuetto, valse,
romance and a valse sentimentale; op. 52 is another Russian mass for
four voices, and op. 53 is the second suite for orchestra; op. 54 is
another collection of songs, sixteen in number, and for youth; op.
55 is the third and most popular suite for orchestra, the theme and
variations of which are heard nearly every season. The finale-polonaise
of these is most brilliant; op. 56 is that tremendously difficult and
long fantasie for piano and orchestra, written for Annette Essipoff,
and played here by Julia Rivé-King. I forget how many bars the cadenza
contains, but it is so long that the audience is apt to forget there is
an orchestra. Yet the themes are fresh, the execution in Tschaïkowsky’s
most virile vein, and if the cadenza were cut or omitted the fantasie
would certainly be heard oftener, especially as the orchestra is so
eloquent and entertaining. But who will play the surgeon?