Lawrence Gilman

(Peter Iljitsch Tschaikowsky: born in Votinsk, in the government of Viatka, Russia, May 7, 1840; died in St. Petersburg, November 6, 1893)

"ROMEO AND JULIET," OVERTURE-FANTASIE[163]

"Romeo and Juliet" ("overture-fantasie after Shakespeare"), composed in 1869-70, is the second of Tschaikowsky's programmatic works for orchestra.[164] There is no note of any kind attached to the score; but according to responsible interpreters the music is concerned with definite aspects of Shakespeare's tragedy. At the start is presented the figure of Friar Laurence (churchly harmonies in the clarinets and bassoons); later, the conflict of the opposing houses, expressed in a tumultuous passage full of strife and fury. Then follows the love scene, introducing two themes of rich emotional suggestion. The first of these themes—the rhapsodic and song-like phrase announced by muted[165] violas and English horn—was used by Tschaikowsky in the fragmentary "Duo from 'Romeo and Juliet'" found among his papers after his death, where it voices these words sung by Romeo: O nuit d'extase, arrÊte toi, O nuit d'amour, Étends ton voile noir sur nous! ("O linger, night of ecstasy; O night of love, spread thy dark veil over us!"). The second theme—the lovely sequence of chords scored for muted and divided violins—forms, in the duet, the accompaniment to the impassioned dialogue of the enamoured pair in the chamber scene.[166] Following the love scene is a resumption of the stress and conflict of the first part, against which the solemn warning of Friar Laurence protests in vain. The lovers are again evoked, with more passionate insistence than before; there is a cumulative moment of arresting intensity; then, after a brief and portentous silence, a dolorous reminiscence of Romeo's ecstatic song, now dirge-like and woful (violins, 'cellos, bassoons; afterwards, declaimed with greater breadth, in the strings, with accompaniment of wood-wind, horns, and harp), brings the music to a close.

FANTASIA, "THE TEMPEST": Op. 18

During a visit to St. Petersburg in the winter of 1872-73, Tschaikowsky begged his friend Vladimir Stassov to suggest to him a subject for a symphonic fantasia—something, he preferred, Shakespearian. Stassov responded by sending Tschaikowsky a letter proposing "The Tempest" as a theme, and outlining, in elaborate and enthusiastic detail, the poetic and dramatic plan which, he conceived, should underlie the music. This scheme so appealed to Tschaikowsky that he announced his determination "to carry out every detail"; and, to judge from his own programme affixed to the score, he actually did so. Stassov's remarks, therefore, serve as the best possible commentary on the significance of Tschaikowsky's music. He wrote as follows:

"I ... rejoice in the prospect of your work, which should prove a worthy pendant to your 'Romeo and Juliet' [see the preceding pages]. You ask whether it is necessary to introduce the tempest. Most certainly. Undoubtedly, most undoubtedly. Without it ... the entire programme would fall through. I have carefully weighed every incident, with all their pros and cons, and it would be a pity to upset the whole business. I think the sea should be depicted twice—at the opening and close of the work. In the introduction I pictured it to myself as calm, until Prospero works his spell and the storm begins. But I think this storm should be different from all others [all other orchestral storms], in that it breaks out at once in all its fury, and does not, as generally happens, work itself up to a climax by degrees. I suggest this original treatment because this particular tempest is brought about by enchantment, and not, as in most operas, oratorios, and symphonies, by natural agencies. When the storm has abated, when its roaring, screeching, booming, and raging have subsided, the Enchanted Island appears in all its beauty, and, still more lovely, the maiden Miranda, who flits like a sunbeam over the island. Her conversation with Prospero, and immediately afterwards with Ferdinand, who fascinates her, and with whom she falls in love. The love theme (crescendo) must resemble the expanding and blooming of a flower; Shakespeare has thus depicted her at the close of the first act, and I think this would be something well suited to your muse. Then I would suggest the appearance of Caliban, the half-animal slave; and then Ariel, whose motto you may find in Shakespeare's lyric (at the end of the first act)—'Come unto these yellow sands.' After Ariel, Ferdinand and Miranda should reappear; this time in a phrase of glowing passion. Then the imposing figure of Prospero, who relinquishes his magic arts and takes farewell of his past; and finally the sea, calm and peaceful, which washes the shores of the desert island, while the happy inhabitants are borne away in a ship to distant Italy."

How faithfully Tschaikowsky adhered to this admirable plan is made evident by the following programme, which, in Russian and French, prefixes the score:

"The Sea. Ariel, spirit of the air, obedient to the will of the magician Prospero, evokes a tempest. Wreck of the ship which carries Ferdinand. The Enchanted Isle. First timid stirring of love between Miranda and Ferdinand. Ariel. Caliban. The love-lorn couple abandon themselves to the triumphant sway of passion. Prospero lays aside his magical power and quits the isle. The Sea."

La TempÊte was begun early in August, 1873, and finished three months later. It is dedicated to Stassov. The work was produced at a concert of the Moscow Musical Society, December 19, 1873. In November of the following year it was performed in St. Petersburg. Stassov attended a rehearsal, and wrote frankly to Tschaikowsky concerning the music of which he was at least part creator:

"I have just come from the rehearsal for Saturday's concert. Your 'Tempest' was played for the first time. Rimsky-Korsakoff and I sat alone in the empty hall and overflowed with delight.

"Your 'Tempest' is fascinating! Unlike any other work! The tempest itself is not remarkable or new; Prospero, too, is nothing out of the way, and at the close you have made a very common-place cadenza, such as one might find in the finale of an Italian opera—these are three blemishes. But all the rest is a marvel of marvels! Caliban, Ariel, the love scene—all belong to the highest creations of art. In both love scenes, what passion, what languor, what beauty! I know nothing to compare with it. The wild, uncouth Caliban, the wonderful flights of Ariel—these are creations of the first order. In this scene the orchestration is enchanting.

"Rimsky and I send you our homage and heartiest congratulations upon the completion of such a fine piece of workmanship."[167]

FANTASIA, "FRANCESCA DA RIMINI": Op. 32

Tschaikowsky visited Paris in the summer of 1876, and while there sketched the plan of a symphonic poem after Dante—"Francesca da Rimini." He had intended to write an opera based on this theme, and had considered a libretto on the subject prepared by one Zvantsieff. But the project was abandoned. In July of that year he wrote from Paris to his brother Modeste: "Early this morning I read through the fifth canto of the 'Inferno,' and was beset by the wish to compose a symphonic poem, 'Francesca da Rimini.' On October 26th he wrote from Moscow: "I have just finished a new work, the symphonic fantasia 'Francesca da Rimini.' I have worked on it con amore, and I believe that my love has brought with it success.... However, a just estimate of this work is impossible so long as it is not orchestrated and has not been played."

The fantasia was completed in November, 1876.

Prefaced to the score is this introduction:

"Dante arrives in the second circle of hell. He sees that here the incontinent are punished, and their punishment is to be tormented continually by the crudest winds under a gloomy air. Among these tortured ones he recognizes Francesca da Rimini, who tells her story."

Then follows a quotation from the fifth canto of the "Inferno," beginning with Francesca's words:

"... Nessun maggior dolore,
Che ricordasi del tempo felice
Nella miseria;"

("... There is no greater pain
Than to recall a happier time
In misery;")

and ending with the concluding line of the canto—that is to say, twenty-one lines out of the hundred and forty comprised in the canto. Since it is, perhaps, well to recall the entire story as Dante relates it, in order that the scope and significance of Tschaikowsky's music may be understood, I quote the canto from beginning to end, in the extraordinarily careful and felicitous translation of Dr. John A. Carlyle:

"Thus I descended from the first circle down to the second,[168] which encompasses less space, and so much greater pain, that it stings to wailing. There Minos sits horrific, and grins; examines the crimes upon the entrance; judges, and sends according as he girds himself. I say that when the ill-born spirit comes before him it confesses all; and that sin-discerner sees what place in hell is for it, and with his tail makes as many circles round himself as the degrees [the number of grades or circles] he will have to descend. Always before him stands a crowd of them. They go each in its turn to judgment; they tell and hear and then are whirled down.

"'O thou who comest to the abode of pain!' said Minos to me, leaving the act of that great office when he saw me; 'look how thou enterest, and in whom thou trustest. Let not the wideness of the entrance deceive thee.'

"And my guide to him: 'Why criest thou? Hinder not his fated going. Thus it is willed there where what is willed can be done; and ask no more.'

"Now begin the doleful notes to reach me; now am I come where much lamenting strikes me. I am come into a part void of all light, which bellows like the sea in tempest when it is combated by warring winds. The hellish storm, which never rests, leads the spirits with its sweep; whirling and smiting, it vexes them. When they arrive before the ruin, there the shrieks, the moanings, and the lamentation; there they blaspheme the divine power.

"I learned that to such torment were doomed the carnal sinners who subject reason to lust. And as their wings bear along the starlings, at the cold season, in large and crowded troop, so that blast, the evil spirits. Hither, thither, down, up, it leads them. No hope ever comforts them, not of rest but even of less pain. And as the cranes go chanting their lays, making a long streak of themselves in the air, so I saw the shadows come, uttering wails, borne by that strife of winds. Whereat I said: 'Master, who are those people whom the black air thus lashes?'

"'The first of these concerning whom thou seekest to know,' he then replied, 'was Empress of many tongues. With the vice of luxury she was so broken that she made lust and law alike in her decree, to take away the blame she had incurred. She is Semiramis, of whom we read that she succeeded Ninus, and was his spouse. She held the land which the Soldan rules. That other is she [Dido] who slew herself in love and broke faith to the ashes of SichÆus. Next comes luxurious Cleopatra.'

"Helena I saw, for whom so long a time of ill revolved; and I saw the great Achilles, who fought at last with love. I saw Paris, Tristan. And more than a thousand shades he showed to me, and with his finger named them, whom love had parted from our life. After I had heard my teacher name the olden dames and cavaliers, pity conquered me, and I was as if bewildered.

"I began: 'Poet, willingly would I speak with these two that go together, and seem so light upon the wind.'

"And he to me: 'Thou shalt see when they are nearer to us; and do thou then entreat them by that love which leads them, and they will come.'

"Soon as the wind bends them to us I raise my voice: 'O wearied souls! come to speak with us, if none denies it.'

"As doves, called by desire, with open and steady wings fly through the air to their loved nest, borne by their will, so those spirits issued from the band where Dido is, coming to us through the malignant air. Such was the force of my affectuous cry.

[Francesca speaks] "'O living creature, gracious and benign! that goest through the black air, visiting us who stained the earth with blood. If the King of the Universe were our friend, we would pray him for thy peace, seeing that thou hast pity of our perverse misfortune. Of that which it pleases thee to hear and to speak, we will hear and speak with you, whilst the wind, as now, is silent.

"'The town[169] where I was born sits on the shore where Po descends to rest with his attendant streams. Love, which is quickly caught in gentle heart, took him with the fair body of which I was bereft; and the manner still afflicts me. Love, which to no loved one permits excuse from loving, took me so strongly with delight in him that, as thou seest, even now it leaves me not. Love led us to one death. CaÏna [the place in the lowest circle of hell occupied by Cain and other fratricides] waits for him who quenched our life.' These words from them were offered to us.

"After I had heard those wounded souls, I bowed my face and held it low until the Poet said to me: 'What art thou thinking of?'

"When I answered, I began: 'Ah me! what sweet thoughts, what longing led them to the woful pass!'

"Then I turned again to them; and I spoke, and began: 'Francesca, thy torments make me weep with grief and pity. But tell me: in the time of the sweet sighs, by what and how love granted you to know the dubious desires?'

"And she to me: 'No greater pain than to recall a happy time in wretchedness; and this thy teacher knows. But, if thou hast such desire to learn the first root of our love, I will do like one who weeps and tells. [170]

"'One day, for pastime, we read of Lancelot,[171] how love constrained him. We were alone and without all suspicion. Several times that reading urged our eyes to meet and changed the color of our faces. But one moment alone it was that overcame us. When we read how the fond smile was kissed by such a lover, he who shall never be divided from me kissed my mouth all trembling. The book, and he who wrote it, was a Galeotto. That day we read in it no further.'[172]

"Whilst the one spirit thus spake, the other wept so, that I fainted with pity, as if I had been dying; and fell, as a dead body falls."

The opening section (Andante lugubre) of Tschaikowsky's fantasia evokes the sinister and dreadful scene which greeted Dante and Virgil as they entered the region of the second circle—the tempestuous winds, the wailing of the damned, the appalling gloom and horror of the place. "Pale, tormented, shadowy figures approach; they increase in number; orchestral spasm follow spasm; and then there is rest, there is awful silence." There follows a lull in the whirlwind, and a theme heard at the beginning (horns, cornet, trombones) "announces solemnly the approach of Francesca and Paolo. The wood-wind takes the theme, and a recitative leads to the second section of the fantasia, Andante cantabile non troppo." In this section the apparition of the two lovers is brought before us. "This middle part is especially beautiful," observes a German annotator, "on account of the original and vaporous accompaniment by three flutes of the chief theme. The ... motive of the first section enters ('cello) as the thought of remorse, but a delightful melody of the English horn and delicate harp-chords dispel the gloomy thoughts; and the picture of the two, happy in their all-absorbing, passionate, but disastrous love, is maintained. ["We seem," says Mrs. Rosa Newmarch of this passage, "to hear the spirit-voice of Francesca herself, from which all the horrors of hell have not taken the sweetness of human love and poignant memory."] Then the "lamenting ghosts" re-enter (largamente, wind instruments, then in the strings). "The lovers vanish in an orchestral storm." Saint-SaËns, in his lively Portraits et Souvenirs, makes some interesting comments on the music: "The gentlest and kindest of men," he writes, "has let loose a whirlwind in this work, and shows as little pity for his interpreters and hearers as Satan for sinners [here speaks the invincible classicist!].... A long, melodic phrase, the love song of Paolo and Francesca, soars above this tempest, this bufera infernale, which attracted Liszt before Tschaikowsky, and engendered his Dante Symphony [see pages 164-173]. Liszt's Francesca is more touching and more Italian in character than that of the great Slavonic composer; the whole work is so typical that we seem to see the profile of Dante projected in it. Tschaikowsky's art is more subtle, the outlines clearer, the material more attractive; from a purely musical point of view the work is better. Liszt's version is perhaps more to the taste of the poet or painter. On the whole, they can fitly stand side by side; either of them is worthy of Dante."

SYMPHONY No. 4, IN F MINOR: Op. 36

1. Andante sostenuto

Moderato con anima in movimento di valse

2. Andantino in modo di canzona

3. Scherzo, "Pizzicato ostinato": Allegro

4. Finale: Allegro con fuoco

Tschaikowsky began this symphony in 1876, and completed it in the winter of 1877-78. The score bears the dedication: "To my Best Friend"; and behind the phrase lies a singular history, too long to be told here in full. The "best friend" was Nadeshda Filaretowna von Meck, [173] a widow living in Moscow. Exceedingly wealthy, she deeply admired the music of Tschaikowsky. She inquired concerning his pecuniary circumstances, and, learning that his means were straitened and that he was in debt, she sent him, in the summer of 1877, the sum of three thousand rubles. A correspondence had meanwhile begun between them (the first letter, from Mrs. von Meck, is dated December 30, 1876); she had given Tschaikowsky certain small commissions to do for her—transcriptions for violin and piano of certain of his works which she wished made—and for these she paid him generous fees. In the autumn of 1877 she asked him, with many apologies, to permit her to settle upon him an annual allowance of 6000 rubles (about $3000), that he might compose undisturbed by material cares. "If I wanted something from you," she wrote, "of course you would give it me—is it not so? Very well, then, we cry quits. Do not interfere with my management of your domestic economy, Peter Iljitsch." She desired and insisted that they should never meet or personally know each other; "the more you fascinate me, the more I shrink from knowing you," she wrote. Tschaikowsky accepted the settlement, and respected her wish concerning their intercourse. "I can only serve you," wrote the composer, "by means of my music. Nadeshda Filaretowna, every note which comes from my pen in future is dedicated to you!" They corresponded frequently, at length, and with the deepest intellectual and spiritual intimacy; but they never met. "When they accidentally came face to face," writes Tschaikowsky's brother Modeste, "they passed as total strangers. To the end of their days they never exchanged a word...."

Their correspondence, which extended over thirteen years, was abruptly and lamentably ended. In December, 1890, Tschaikowsky received a letter from his patroness informing him that she was on the brink of ruin, and that she would be obliged to discontinue his allowance; this, despite the fact that she had more than once declared to him that, no matter what occurred, his annuity was assured to him for life. As it happened, this curtailment of his income did not greatly affect Tschaikowsky's pecuniary situation, for he had come to know prosperity with his increasing fame; but he suffered keen anxiety on his friend's account. Not long after, it turned out that Mrs. von Meck's fortune was not seriously affected, after all—a turn of events which, however, brought misery to the hyper-sensitive soul of Tschaikowsky. He persuaded himself that Mrs. von Meck's announcement had been merely "an excuse to get rid of him on the first opportunity"; that he had been mistaken in idealizing his relations with his "best friend"; that his allowance had long since ceased to be the outcome of a generous impulse. "Such were my relations with her," he wrote at this time to a friend, "that I never felt oppressed by her generous gifts; but now they weigh upon me in retrospect. My pride is hurt; my faith in her unfailing readiness to help me, and to make any sacrifice for my sake, is betrayed." He thought of returning to her in full the money she had settled upon him, but feared to mortify her. He endeavored, both frankly and diplomatically, to renew their intercourse; but to no avail. She made no response whatever to his attempts to continue their relationship, either through letters or in response to overtures made by Tschaikowsky through mutual friends. He learned that she was ill—ill of "a terrible nervous disease, which changed her relations not only to him, but to others." Yet no illness, no misfortune, it seemed to him, could, as he wrote, "change the sentiments which were expressed in [her] letters."... "I would sooner," he declared, "have believed that the earth could fail beneath me than that our relations could suffer change. But the inconceivable has happened, and all my ideas of human nature, all my faith in the best of mankind, have been turned upside-down. My peace is broken, and the share of happiness fate has allotted me is embittered and spoiled." Two years later, on his death-bed, her name was constantly and feverishly on his lips, "in an indignant or reproachful tone," says Modeste. "... In the broken phrases of his last delirium these words alone were intelligible to those around him."[174] Nadeshda von Meck survived him by only two months. She died January 25, 1894.

The Fourth Symphony is closely bound up with this singular experience. Not only is it dedicated to Tschaikowsky's devoted benefactress, but he speaks of it repeatedly in his correspondence with her as "our" symphony. "May this music, which is so intimately associated with the thought of you," he wrote to her in November, 1877, "speak to you and tell you that I love you with all my heart and soul. O my best and incomparable friend!" That the symphony has a well-defined programme we know on the authority of the composer himself, though the score bears no descriptive title or prefatory note of any kind. Writing to Mrs. von Meck from Florence in March, 1878, Tschaikowsky sent this exposition of his music, which he accompanied with thematic illustrations:

"You ask if in composing this symphony I had a special programme in view.... For our symphony there is a programme. That is to say, it is possible to express its contents in words, and I will tell you, and you alone, the meaning of the entire work and of its separate movements. Naturally, I can do so only as regards its general features."

[I. Andante sostenuto; Moderato con anima in movimento di valse]

"The Introduction is the kernel, the quintessence, the chief thought of the whole symphony. [Tschaikowsky quotes the stern and threatening opening theme, announced by horns and bassoons, Andante.] This is Fate, the fatal power which hinders one in the pursuit of happiness from gaining the goal, which jealously provides that peace and comfort do not prevail, that the sky is not free from clouds—a might that swings, like the sword of Damocles, constantly over the head, that poisons continually the soul. This might is overpowering and invincible. There is nothing to do but to submit and vainly to complain. [Tschaikowsky quotes here the expressive theme for strings, Moderato con anima.] The feeling of despondency and despair grows ever stronger and more passionate. It is better to turn from the realities and to lull one's self in dreams. [Clarinet solo, accompanied by strings.] O joy! What a lovely and gentle dream! A radiant being, promising happiness, floats before me and beckons me on. The importunate first theme of the allegro is now heard afar off, and now the soul is wholly enwrapped with dreams. There is no thought of gloom and cheerlessness. Happiness! Happiness! Happiness!... No, they are only dreams, and Fate dispels them. The whole of life is only a constant alternation between dismal reality and flattering dreams of happiness. There is no port: you will be tossed hither and thither by the waves, until the sea swallows you. This, approximately, is the programme of the first movement."

[II. Andantino, in modo di canzona]

"The second movement shows suffering in another stage. It is a feeling of melancholy such as fills one when one sits alone at home, exhausted by work; the book has slipped out of one's hand; a swarm of memories arise in one's mind. How sad that so much has been and is gone, and yet it is pleasant to think of the days of one's youth. We regret the past and have neither the courage nor the desire to begin a new life. We are weary of life. We wish refreshment, retrospection. We think of happy hours when our young blood still sparkled and effervesced and life brought satisfaction. We think of moments of sadness and irrepressible losses. But these things are far away, so far away! It is sad, yet sweet, to pore over the past."

[III. Scherzo, "Pizzicato ostinato": Allegro]

"No definite feelings find expression in the third movement. These are capricious arabesques, intangible figures which flit through the fancy as if one had drunk wine and become slightly intoxicated. The mood is neither merry nor sad. We think of nothing, but give free rein to the fancy which humors itself in drafting the most singular lines. Suddenly there arises the memory of a drunken peasant and a ribald song.... Military music passes by in the distance. Such are the disconnected images which flit through the brain as one sinks into slumber. They have nothing to do with reality; they are incomprehensible, bizarre, fragmentary."

[IV. Finale: Allegro con fuoco]

"Fourth movement. If you find no pleasure in yourself, look about you. Go to the folk. See how it understands to be jolly, how it surrenders itself to gaiety. The picture of a folk-holiday. Scarcely have you forgotten yourself, scarcely have you had time to be absorbed in the happiness of others, before untiring Fate again announces its approach. The other children of men are not concerned with you. They neither see nor feel that you are lonely and sad. How they enjoy themselves, how happy they are! And will you maintain that everything in the world is sad and gloomy? There is still happiness—simple, native happiness. Rejoice in the happiness of others—and you can still live.

"This is all that I can tell you, my dear friend, about the symphony...."

"MANFRED," SYMPHONY IN FOUR TABLEAUX: Op. 58

This symphony is frankly programme-music. It is not listed among Tschaikowsky's symphonies—where, in order of composition and opus number, it would stand between the Fourth (Op. 36, 1876-78) and the Fifth (Op. 64, 1888). "Manfred, Symphony in Four Tableaux, after the Dramatic Poem by Byron," was composed in 1885. The score contains the following preface, printed in French and Russian:

I
(Lento lugubre; andante)

Manfred's despair and anguish, his inextinguishable longing and remorse, his fruitless quest after forgetfulness, form the emotional and dramatic burden of this movement. Manfred's theme is heard at the beginning—a sombre and tragic motive for bassoons and bass clarinet. There are also musical symbols for his passionate appeal for oblivion, for his occult powers, and for the thought of Astarte. "The movement should not be considered as panoramic in any sense. There is no attempt to depict any special scene, to translate into music any particular soliloquy. It is the soul of Manfred that the composer wishes to portray."

II
(Scherzo: Vivace con spirito)

This movement was suggested by the second scene of act two of Byron's drama, in which Manfred, beside the cataract, evokes the Witch of the Alps, tells her of Astarte and of his own remorse and longing, and—although she intimates that she may help him—rejects her aid; for he is not willing to swear obedience to her will. "As the scene in the poem may be regarded as a picturesque episode—for the incantation is fruitless and only one of many—so the music is a relief after the tumultuous passion and raging despair of the first movement. The vision of the dashing, glistening cataract continues until, with note of triangle and chord of harp, the rainbow is revealed." To the accompaniment of mysterious and ethereal harp tones Manfred conjures up the witch, "who rises beneath the arch of the sunbow of the torrent." Her song is suggested (violins and harps). There is a poignant reminiscence of Manfred's despair. "The glory of the cataract is once more seen. It pales as the theme of despair is heard again."

III
(Pastorale: Andante con moto)

This scene is general in its suggestiveness; it has no definite connection with any particular scene in Byron's poem. The opening is idyllic, but the mood of the music is soon altered. Again we are reminded of Manfred's unalterable woe. Perhaps Tschaikowsky had in mind here a tense passage in the scene between Manfred and the Chamois-Hunter (Act II., Scene I.):

"MANFRED. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time?
It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine
Have made my days and nights imperishable,
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore,
Innumerable atoms; and one desert,
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks,
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness.

"CHAMOIS-HUNTER. Alas! he's mad—but yet I must not leave him.

"MANFRED. I would I were—for then the things I see
Would be but a distempered dream.

"CHAMOIS-HUNTER. What is it?
That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon?

"MANFRED. Myself, and thee—a peasant of the Alps—
Thy humble virtues, hospitable home,
And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free;
Thy self-respect, ingrained on innocent thoughts;

"This do I see—and then I look within—
It matters not—my soul was scorch'd already!"

IV
(Finale: Allegro con fuoco)

This bacchanal in the underground palace of Arimanes is Tschaikowsky's own invention; there is no bacchanal, or suggestion of one, in the corresponding scene in Byron's poem, where Arimanes, seated on his throne of fire, is surrounded by spirits, who praise him in a worshipful hymn.

At the climax of the music's wild revelling the motive of despair is recalled; the music becomes uncanny, mysterious; we hear the theme of Manfred. Nemesis, who has entered the hall together with the Destinies, invokes the wraith of Astarte:

"MANFRED. Can this be death? there's bloom upon her cheek;
But now I see it is no living hue,
But a strange hectic—like the unnatural red
Which Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf.
It is the same! O God! that I should dread
To look upon the same—Astarte!—No,
I cannot speak to her—but bid her speak—
Forgive me or condemn me.

"PHANTOM OF ASTARTE. Manfred!

"MANFRED. Say on, say on—
I live but in the sound—it is thy voice!

"PHANTOM. Manfred! To-morrow ends thine earthly ills. Farewell!

"MANFRED. Yet one word more—am I forgiven?

"PHANTOM. Farewell!

"MANFRED. Say, shall we meet again?

"PHANTOM. Farewell!

"MANFRED. One word for mercy! Say thou lovest me.

"PHANTOM. Manfred!"

[The Spirit of ASTARTE disappears.]

"NEMESIS. She's gone, and will not be recall'd;
Her words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth.

"A SPIRIT. He is convulsed.—This is to be a mortal,
And seek the things beyond mortality."

The music rises to a momentous and tragic climax. Manfred's death scene is brought before us. We are in the tower of his castle. Night approaches. The importunate demons have disappeared. Manfred and the Abbot are alone (Act III., Scene IV.):

"THE ABBOT. Alas! how pale thou art—thy lips are white—
And thy breast heaves—and in thy gasping throat
The accents rattle. Give thy prayers to Heaven—
Pray—albeit but in thought—but die not thus.

"MANFRED. 'Tis over—my dull eyes can fix thee not;
But all things swim around me, and the earth
Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well—
Give me thy hand.

"ABBOT. Cold—cold—even to the heart;
But yet one prayer. Alas! how fares it with thee?

"MANFRED. Old man! 'tis not so difficult to die."

"ABBOT. He's gone—his soul hath ta'en his earthless flight.
Whither? I dread to think; but he is gone."

SYMPHONY No. 6, "PATHETIC": Op. 74

Tschaikowsky wrote to Vladimir Davidoff on February 23, 1893:

"Just as I was starting on my journey [the visit to Paris in December, 1892] the idea came to me for a new symphony. This time with a programme; but a programme which should be a riddle to all—let them guess it who can! The work will be entitled 'A Programme Symphony' (No. 6). This programme is penetrated by subjective sentiment. During my journey, while composing it in my mind, I have often wept bitterly. Now that I am home again I have settled down to sketch out the work, and I work at it with such ardor that in less than four days I have finished the first movement, while the other movements are clearly outlined in my mind. There will be much, as regards the form, that will be novel in this work. For instance, the Finale will not be a boisterous Allegro, but, on the contrary, an extended Adagio." Six months later he wrote to Davidoff that the symphony was progressing, and that he considered it the best—especially "the most open-hearted"—of all his works. "I love it as I have never loved any of my musical offspring before." On August 24th he informed his publisher, Jurgenson, that he had finished orchestrating the symphony; nor did his opinion of it change. "It is indescribably beautiful," he wrote, in a fervor of enthusiasm, to his brother Modeste; and to the Grand-Duke Constantine he wrote, on October 3d: "Without exaggeration I have put my whole soul into this work." It was the last score but one upon which he was to work. Five weeks later he was dead.[176]

The symphony was produced at St. Petersburg on October 28th, when it made little impression; it was said that its inspiration "stood far below Tschaikowsky's other symphonies." It did not then bear the title "Pathetic." How it came to be so named is thus related by Modeste Tschaikowsky:

"The morning after the concert I found my brother sitting at the breakfast-table with the score of the symphony before him. He had agreed to send the score to Jurgenson [his publisher] that very day, but could not decide upon a title. He did not care to designate it merely by a number, and he had abandoned his original intention of entitling it 'A Programme Symphony.' 'What would Programme Symphony mean,' he said, 'if I will not give the programme?' I suggested 'Tragic' Symphony as an appropriate title, but that did not please him. I left the room while he was still undecided. Suddenly 'Pathetic' occurred to me, and I went back to the room and suggested it. I remember, as though it were yesterday, how he exclaimed: 'Bravo, Modi, splendid! Pathetic!' And then and there he added to the score, in my presence, the title that will always remain."

What, precisely, was in Tschaikowsky's mind when he composed this "Programme Symphony"? According to Tschaikowsky's intimate friend Nicholas Kashkin, "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." To him 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 Tschaikowsky, in which we hear 'the ground whirl of the perished leaves of hope,' still remains the most profoundly stirring of his works."

No one has speculated with finer tact and sympathy concerning this extraordinary human document than has Mr. Philip Hale, whose meditations may well serve as a comment upon the character of the music:

"Each hearer has his own thoughts when he is 'reminded by the instruments.' To some this symphony is as the life of man. The story is to them of man's illusions, desires, loves, struggles, victories, and end. In the first movement they find, with the despair of old age and the dread of death, the recollection of early years, with the transports and illusions of love, the remembrance of youth and all that is contained in that word.

"The second movement might bear as a motto the words of the Third Kalandar in the Thousand Nights and a Night: 'And we sat down to drink, and some sang songs and others played the lute and psaltery and recorders and other instruments, and the bowl went merrily round. Hereupon such gladness possessed me that I forgot the sorrows of the world one and all, and said: "This is indeed life O sad that 'tis fleeting!'" The trio[177] is as the sound of the clock that in Poe's wild tale compelled even the musicians of the orchestra to pause momentarily in their performance, to hearken to the sound; 'and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions, and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused revery or meditation.' In this trio Death beats the drum. With Tschaikowsky, here, as in the 'Manfred' symphony, the drum is the most tragic of instruments. The persistent drum-beat in this trio is poignant in despair not untouched with irony. Man says: 'Come now, I'll be gay'; and he tries to sing and to dance and to forget. His very gaiety is labored, forced, constrained, in an unnatural rhythm. And then the drum is heard, and there is wailing, there is angry protest, there is the conviction that the struggle against Fate is vain. Again there is the deliberate effort to be gay, but the drum once heard beats in the ears forever.

"The third movement—the march-scherzo—is the excuse, the pretext, for the final lamentation. The man triumphs; he knows all that there is in earthly fame. Success is hideous, as Victor Hugo said. The blare of trumpets, the shouts of the mob, may drown the sneers of envy; but at Pompey passing Roman streets, at Tasso with the laurel wreath, at coronation of czar or inauguration of president, Death grins, for he knows the emptiness, the vulgarity, of what this world calls success.

"This battle-drunk, delirious movement must perforce precede the mighty wail—

"'The glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armor against fate;

Death lays his icy hands on kings.'"

The last movement—the prodigious Adagio lamentoso—moved Mr. Vernon Blackburn to a comparison with Shelley's "Adonais": "The precise emotions," he wrote, "down to a certain and extreme point, which inspired Shelley in his wonderful expression of grief and despair, also inspired the greatest of modern musicians since Wagner in his 'Swan Song'—his last musical utterance on earth. The first movement is the exact counterpart of those lines—

"'He will awake no more, oh, never more!—
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace
The shadow of white Death....'

"As the musician strays into the darkness and into the miserable oblivion of death, ... Tschaikowsky reaches the full despair of those other lines—

"'We decay
Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief
Convulse us and consume us day by day,
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.'

"With that mysterious and desperate hopelessness the Russian comes to an end of his faith and anticipation.... For as ['life'], writes Shelley, 'like a many-colored dome of glass, stains the white radiance of eternity,' even so Tschaikowsky in this symphony has stained eternity's radiance: he has captured the years and bound them into a momentary emotional pang."

"THE VOYVODE,"[178] ORCHESTRAL BALLAD (Posthumous): Op. 78

Tschaikowsky composed Le Voyvode at Tiflis in 1890, under the inspiration of a poem by the Polish poet Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855). It is said that after the first performance of the work at Moscow in November, 1891, Tschaikowsky, disheartened over the cool reception of his music by the audience, and by the adverse criticism of his friends, "tore his score in pieces, exclaiming, 'Such rubbish should never have been written!'" [179] The orchestral parts are alleged to have been preserved, and the score restored from them. At all events, the work was published in 1897, four years after Tschaikowsky's death.

Mickiewicz's poem, in French and Russian, prefaces the score. It has been translated into English prose as follows:[180]