(From the Houston Symphony
presents Tchaikovsky)
Tchaikovsky’s final symphony: few
other pieces of music have provoked as much speculation with regard to secret meanings,
autobiographical resonances, and authorial intent. In part, this is a result of
Tchaikovsky’s own elusive statements, though the circumstances of his life and
his historical context have also played significant roles. Above all, however,
this powerful and tragic work—perhaps without parallel in the symphonic
tradition—seems to demand explanation. How could a person come to write such
music?
SECRET PROGRAMS
A grandson of Tsar Nicholas I,
Konstantin Konstantinovich Romanov (1858–1915) was an interesting character.
Though married with nine children, he seems to have been more-or-less secretly
bisexual. Gifted with an artistic disposition, he moonlighted as a poet,
publishing under his initials “K.R.” to considerable acclaim. He first
befriended Tchaikovsky in 1880, and even invited him to take a trip around the
world together (an offer Tchaikovsky politely declined).
From the late 1880s they
maintained a correspondence that is remarkable for the insights it gives into
Tchaikovsky’s artistic opinions and creative process. Tchaikovsky set a few of
the Grand Duke’s poems to music, notably his Opus 63 romances.
In 1889—only a year after
completing his Fifth Symphony—Tchaikovsky wrote to his friend, the Grand Duke
Konstantin Romanov, that “I want terribly to write a somewhat grandiose
symphony, which would crown my artistic career… For some time I have carried in
my head an outline plan for such a symphony… I hope that I shall not die
without carrying out this intention.” Tchaikovsky seems to have begun sketching
this ambitious project in 1891, and by April 1892, he wrote to the pianist
Alexander Ziloti that “I am already thinking of a new large composition, that
is, of a symphony with a secret program.”
Such “secret programs” were
nothing new for Tchaikovsky. To put this statement in context, his previous two
symphonies both seem to have had similar—even related—“outline plans.”
In a letter, Tchaikovsky revealed
that his Fourth Symphony was inspired by an individual’s struggle with fate—a
struggle that is left unresolved by the symphony’s conclusion. Sketches for the
Fifth Symphony suggest that it was similarly concerned with “Total submission
before fate, or, what is the same thing, the inscrutable designs of
Providence.” In each symphony, there is a motif that seems to be associated
with this inscrutable “fate” that recurs in multiple movements. While the
Fourth Symphony’s “fate” motif remains malevolent throughout the work, the
Fifth Symphony’s comparable musical idea transforms from an ominous force to a positive
one over the course of the piece and brings the work to a triumphant ending.
THE MUSIC
The symphony begins with a slow,
tenebrous introduction: a bassoon solo emerges above a descending chromatic
bassline—a musical pattern that has served as a traditional symbol of mourning
since the baroque:
This soon gives way to faster
music as the bassoon solo is transformed into a nervous theme in the violins.
Interwoven with descending scales, the theme develops until it is punctuated by
violent fanfares in the trumpets. The music then fades to silence, and muted
violins and cellos begin a second theme marked “tenderly, very singing,
expansively.
” This melody bears a striking
resemblance to Don José’s “Flower Song” from Bizet’s Carmen (one of
Tchaikovsky’s favorite operas). Both melodies begin with a falling, triadic
line, and when the melody leaps up to a descending scale, it recalls the phrase
when Don José sings “Car tu n’avais eu qu’à paraître,/Qu’à jeter un regard sur
moi,/Pour t’emparer de tout mon être” (“For you had only to appear,/Only to
cast a glance at me,/To take hold of all my being”). Tchaikovsky marks this
part “incalzando”—which can mean “urging” or “pressing.” A delicate interlude
for woodwinds leads to a passionate reprise of the singing melody, which fades
to an impossibly quiet pppppp.
Suddenly, the orchestra erupts.
The nervous first theme returns, fragmented and developed in a fugue marked
“feroce” (“ferocious”), until the trumpets intervene with powerful descending
scales. The music becomes quieter, and above the anxious perpetual motion of
the strings, the brass intone a quotation of the Russian Orthodox chant “With
thy saints, O Christ, give peace to the soul of thy servant,” a traditional
prayer for the dead. As if pleading, the strings respond, swelling and fading
away again until only a Morse code-like pulse remains in the horns. Fragments
of the nervous first theme appear above it, building to a powerful reprise.
Despite its vehemence, the return
of this theme fails to sound like an arrival point—the momentum of the
preceding development continues until the music collapses. A searing climax
based on simple, descending scales follows. After this crisis subsides, the
singing second theme returns, marked “con dolcezza” (“with sweetness”). The
movement fades away with a coda: a tranquil variant of the once anxious motif
that opened the symphony appears above the pizzicato strings’ descending
scales.
The cellos open the second
movement with one of Tchaikovsky’s loveliest melodies. Reminiscent of the
composer’s ballet music, this theme would seem to be a waltz, except that it is
in 5/4 rather than the usual three-quarter time. Some commentators have
poetically suggested that this is a waltz “missing a beat,” but while its meter
is unusual, the melody sounds utterly complete as it is. Forgetting the
vicissitudes of the first movement, the music seems to simply delight in the
beauty of sound itself—until a contrasting central episode appears. Marked “con
dolcezza e flebile” (“faintly and with sweetness”), a sighing melody based on a
descending scale appears in the violins and cellos above an ominously pulsing
bass pedal. After a reprise of the main theme, descending scales in the
woodwinds initiate a coda in which echoes of the sighing middle section return.
The third movement begins with a
light, scherzando character: a fragmentary march emerges from the continuous
background of the strings as if from a distance. Other melodic ideas follow,
until forceful downward scales in the strings lead to more hints of the march
in the brass, as if it is coming closer. At last, the march arrives in full in
the clarinets and horns. Taken together, the impression is of some public
ceremony or military parade. After the march appears, the music cycles back
through the movement’s other ideas. When the march returns, it is now a
bombastic fortississimo. The symphony’s recurring downward scales return in an
overpowering coda.
The movement’s grandiose finale
frequently provokes applause from audiences, and many hear this music as an
uncomplicated expression of joy; however, like the outwardly jovial third
movement of Brahms’ Fourth Symphony, its position within an overall tragic
narrative suggests an underlying irony—the necessary false triumph before the
final peripeteia. For some listeners, passing shadows hint at an underlying
anxiety beneath the music’s decorative, balletic surface; at times, the music
can also seem artificial, mechanical, and repetitive, as if going in circles.
It is perhaps worth noting that in his later years, the famously shy Tchaikovsky
had ambivalent feelings about his own celebrity; while he was gratified by
success, he dreaded being feted at official occasions and felt that he had to
don “a mask” with strangers. He was also well aware of his exceptional talent
for writing stirring, celebratory finales. Perhaps the end of this movement is
a form of self-parody, just subtle enough that most take it for the real thing;
in an 1890 letter to the composer Alexander Glazunov, he wrote, “Something is
happening inside me, which I don’t understand: some sort of weariness from
life, a sense of disappointment. At times I’m madly homesick, but even in those
depths I can look forward to a new relish for life; instead it’s something
hopeless, final, and even, as finales often are, banal.”
The actual finale is among
Tchaikovsky’s most original conceptions; in place of the expected fireworks
(evoked in the previous movement) is a long, slow adagio in B minor. Marked
“lamentoso” (“lamenting”), the opening melody is the culmination of the many
descending scales that pervade the symphony. Tchaikovsky created a uniquely
labored sound by dividing the melody between the first and second violins—they
play each note of the descending scale in alternation.
Dying away, a bassoon solo leads
to a contrasting section; a long crescendo begins, the winds marked “con
espressione” (“with expression”) and the violins “con lenezza e devozione”
(“Lenezza,” interestingly, is not a standard Italian word. Some believe it is a
misspelling of “lentezza”—“slowness”—although others have suggested that it
might be an obscure, literary variant of “lenità”—“soothing.” “Devozione” means
“devotion” or “piety,” carrying a religious connotation). Slowly the music
rises, full of intense yearning, until reaching a thundering climax built on
descending scales. Like the climactic moment of the first movement of
Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony, this climax seems a negation.
A rush of descending scales leads
to a pause, after which the main, lamentoso theme returns. This time, it builds
to an anguished passage, obsessively returning to an intensified version of the
main theme’s descending scale over a pedal in the timpani. A tamtam sounds, and
the “con devozione” music returns, slowly fading to nothing.
“LET THEM GUESS”
Soon after the premiere, Tchaikovsky
contracted cholera—St. Petersburg was in the midst of an outbreak of the
disease, although the worst of it had seemed to be past. Ignoring the threat,
Tchaikovsky drank unboiled water, both at home and when dining out. Often
plagued by stomach aches, he ignored the first symptoms with disastrous
results—by the time doctors were called, it was too late to save him. The
disease destroyed his kidneys, and he died soon after.
The public reaction was one of
shock. Tsar Alexander III himself ordered a state funeral for the composer who
had enjoyed his official patronage. Thousands thronged Nevsky Prospect to bid
farewell to the national hero as his funeral cortege passed. Twelve days after
his death, a memorial concert was given which featured his Sixth Symphony,
which now appeared with the subtitle that Tchaikovsky had intended to be
printed in the published score: Pateticheskaya, a literary Russian word meaning
“full of pathos, impassioned, passionate, emotional.” In the West, it is
usually translated as the French Pathétique.
Warning: the remainder of this
post includes discussion of self-harm and homophobia.
In contrast with the premiere,
when the symphony met with “bewilderment,” the work now made a profound
impression. As the final movement faded away, it seemed to many that
Tchaikovsky had written his own requiem. Immediately, rumors and conspiracy
theories began to spread that Tchaikovsky had committed suicide and that the
cholera diagnosis was a cover-up.
In fact, the evidence suggests
that nothing could be further from the truth, as Tchaikovsky biographer
Alexander Poznansky has convincingly demonstrated. Tchaikovsky did suffer from
depressive episodes throughout his life–the one he experienced during the
winter of 1892–93, when he began composing his Symphony Pathétique in his head
is a prime example. In this case, however, it seems that composing the symphony
helped Tchaikovsky purge these negative emotions. Surviving letters and memoirs
from friends and family who actually knew Tchaikovsky intimately suggest that
the months leading up to the premiere were happy ones during which Tchaikovsky
was busy making plans for the future.
LOVE THAT DARE NOT SPEAK ITS
NAME?
Nevertheless, the rumors
persisted, and especially in the wake of Oscar Wilde’s very public downfall in
England less than two years later, they began to link the composer’s alleged
suicide with his homosexuality. Specifically, people began to suspect that Tchaikovsky
had committed suicide because he was tortured by his sexuality.
That Tchaikovsky was gay was a
more or less open secret in Russian musical circles and high society during his
life. Though sex between men was officially illegal, attitudes toward
homosexuality seem to have been surprisingly tolerant in 19th century Russia,
at least among the upper classes. A number of Tchaikovsky’s gay friends even
lived openly with lovers, and after Tsar Alexander III awarded Tchaikovsky
official honors and a state-funded pension, he had virtually nothing to fear in
terms of legal prosecution or exposure in the press within Russia (although it
seems unlikely that the Tsar’s patronage could have protected him from scandal
outside of Russia–perhaps explaining his dislike of traveling abroad). Tsar
Alexander III in all likelihood was aware of and unconcerned by Tchaikovsky’s
sexuality, as he was of that of other gay men at his court.
Though Tchaikovsky struggled to
come to turns with his sexuality earlier in his life, in the aftermath of his
disastrous marriage, he seems to have found self-acceptance. At the same time,
it is difficult to imagine that he was completely happy with the society in
which he lived. He was out to his brothers (though not his parents or sisters)
and his close friends and professional colleagues, but that was as open as he
wanted to be. A passage from Tolstoy’s 1899 novel Resurrection gives some idea
of contemporary attitudes on the topic, ranging from disgust to amusement.
After becoming embroiled in a homosexual scandal, an official is punished not
with prison, but by being made governor of a distant town in Siberia:
The cover of the first US edition
of Tolstoy’s “Resurrection.” The novel included one of the earliest explicit
discussions of homosexuality in Russian fiction, albeit as a minor subplot. The
first Russian novel to focus on gay characters and themes was Mikhail Kuzmin’s
“Wings,” published in 1906. Had Tchaikovsky not contracted cholera, he might
have lived to have read it.
Meanwhile the Senators rang and
ordered tea, and began talking about the event that, together with the duel,
was occupying the Petersburgers.
It was the case of the chief of a
Government department, who was accused of the crime provided for in Statute
995.
“What nastiness,” said Bay, with
disgust.
“Why; where is the harm of it? I
can show you a Russian book containing the project of a German writer [likely
Karl Heinrich Ulrichs], who openly proposes that it should not be considered a
crime,” said Skovorodnikoff, drawing in greedily the fumes of the crumpled
cigarette, which he held between his fingers close to the palm, and he laughed
boisterously.
“Impossible!” said Bay.
I shall show it you,” said
Skovorodnikoff, giving the full title of the book, and even its date and the
name of its editor.
“I hear he has been appointed
governor to some town in Siberia.”
“That`s fine. The archdeacon will
meet him with a crucifix. They ought to appoint an archdeacon of the same
sort,” said Skovorodnikoff. “I could recommend them one,” and he threw the end
of his cigarette into his saucer, and again shoved as much of his beard and
moustaches as he could into his mouth and began chewing them.
While tolerated by some,
homosexuality was clearly not widely accepted or considered to be respectable.
Could Tchaikovsky’s feelings regarding his sexuality have played a role in the
genesis of his Sixth Symphony? It is impossible to know, and there is no direct
evidence to suggest that they did. Certainly Tchaikovsky experienced many other
hardships throughout his life that could have provided fodder for a tragic
symphony. The death of his sister in 1891, as well as the passing of other
close friends, might have been an alternative stimulus for the work’s tragic
mood.
Many have criticized the need to
search for autobiographical interpretations at all, arguing that to do so
implicitly belittles the power of Tchaikovsky’s imagination. After all, does
anyone look for autobiographical interpretations of, say, Strauss’s Salome?
Clearly Strauss did not need to perform a striptease in order to write the
Dance of the Seven Veils. Furthermore, interpretations of the symphony as a
“gay suicide note” play into many unfortunate tropes and stereotypes that have
long dogged the representation of LGBTQ people in media, namely the tendency of
writers to kill off LGBTQ characters and the implication that it is impossible
to be LGBTQ and happy at the same time.
Nevertheless, it is important to
remember that the symphony was often interpreted as a specifically homosexual
tragedy within the gay community itself. In 1913-14, 20 years after the
premiere of Tchaikovsky’s symphony, E. M. Forster penned Maurice, a novel with
explicitly gay characters and themes. Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique (and its
speculative interpretations) play a notable role in the novel, which
demonstrates just how widespread the rumors were even in the symphony’s first
decades. No one will ever know what Tchaikovsky’s “secret program” was, and the
symphony is open to as many interpretations as it has listeners.