Tchaikovsky: Symphony No.6 in B minor, Op. 74 (“Pathétique”, 1893)

Adagio – Allegro non troppo – Andante
Allegro con grazia
Allegro molto vivace
Finale: Adagio lamentoso – Andante

Because so many of his well-known orchestral works are so difficult to play (together with the relative unfamiliarity of most of his smaller-scale pieces) Tchaikovsky’s music is more likely to be heard on the professional stage than in amateur circles. But in many ways that presents a positive advantage for the latter dedicated enthusiasts, in that an appearance of the sixth symphony on the programme will invariably constitute something of a special event – which is no more than it should be, since the almost excessive popularity the “Pathétique” has gained for itself has not only aroused the suspicions and prejudices of critics and academics alike, but also obscured its true greatness and achievement. 

Indeed, any performance of this towering masterpiece must surely be regarded as a special occasion and one likely to prompt a few perceptive observations, which might so easily be taken for granted through sheer over-exposure. First, it must not be forgotten that the Sixth was special to the composer himself: “I certainly regard it as quite the best – and especially the ‘most sincere’ – of all my works. I love it as I have never loved any of my musical offspring before.” Indeed, a glance through the score will quickly reveal a painstaking care over the most minute details: the staves are crammed with dynamic markings, precise articulations, tempo fluctuations, and clear indications with regard to rubato, all to a degree previously unencountered with this composer; here, nothing is left to chance. Even the cool response on the part of orchestra and audience at the premiere did little to shake his belief in what he had created – which in itself was remarkable for one whose life had been constantly plagued by self-doubt, such that after the Fifth he believed himself “finished” as a composer. 

So what was it that made this particular symphony so special for him? Any number of theories have been proposed during the 132 years since its birth, many of which are heavily coloured by circumstances that occurred after its composition: not least Tchaikovsky’s mysterious death. Yet relatively recent sensational discoveries – proposing that suicide was officially (though secretly) insisted on as the only alternative to a scandal over his sexuality – suggest after all that he may well have been aware of his approaching doom, during the actual composition of the symphony. Yet the music is by no means all morbid despair; the “love” that he wrote about cannot surely have been lavished on a symbol of his own demise! The simple dedication at the head of the score, “To Mr. V. Davidov”, might well be rather more significant: Vladimir “Bob” Davidov happened to be the son of his dear sister Alexandra; and there is no doubt that Tchaikovsky lavished a deep affection on him (a touching, if not entirely similar, parallel with Beethoven and his adored but troublesome nephew Carl). Very likely it was a physical affection as well, as many commentators have seized on; such that Havelock Ellis sees the symphony as “the confessions of a homosexual”. However, Bob also represented the living flesh of his beloved Alexandra, and therefore of Pyotr Ilyich’s own mother: the most powerful emotional and psychological influence on his whole life – devastatingly snatched away from him by cholera at the impressionable age of 14. 

Tchaikovsky himself invited us to indulge in these speculations when he announced that the symphony had a programme, which should remain an enigma: “Let them puzzle their heads over it.” Without doubt it’s an intense personal drama, yet it is also distinctly possible that the composer’s very close attachment to it grew out of sheer professional pride. Critical opinion has tended to overlook the fact that Tchaikovsky was generally the first to recognise faults in his own work – particularly with regard to form and transition. Having at one time complained of never having written anything of which he could claim “This is perfect”, even he must have recognised that with this symphony he had come as close to perfection as any mortal being has the right. He was certainly aware of its striking originality, and was quick to draw attention to the novelty of its overall layout, even before it was finished. Of course, Tchaikovsky did not invent the slow finale – any more than he invented a time signature of 5/4 (for the second movement): the concept of the former can be traced back to Schumann’s Fantasia Op.17, further to Beethoven’s piano sonatas Opp.109 and 111, or even to Haydn’s string quartet Op.54 No.2. But such a symphonic finale was significant, if not revolutionary; its influence was inevitable and – in the case of Mahler – immediate. Incidentally, it should be noted that Tchaikovsky never allows this movement to settle back into the Adagio tempo of the opening bars: Andante gains the upper hand, and there is a restless – almost relentless – feeling of thrust right to the end. Additionally, why should he have scored the main Adagio theme so that first and second violins play alternate notes? (Check the score, and at first glance it looks nothing like it sounds….). Another mystery (let US puzzle our heads over it!); maybe at least a watertight case here for the two violin sections to be divided at the front of the concert platform?

Those traditional performances (with an honourable exception in Toscanini’s), which draw out the closing bars to a lingering death, are in blatant violation of the composer’s clearly specified intentions. It could be that the finale is deemed not long enough to balance the rest of the symphony – the same is sometimes said of Mahler’s Ninth. But the music’s succinct refusal to linger is part and parcel of its almost frightening impact – and the experience does not truly end with those last, barely audible sounds; furthermore, the finale’s relationship to the preceding Allegro is as crucial as its standing as a movement in its own right. 

That marvellous scherzo – as deft as any of Mendelssohn’s – generates a memorable march theme which ultimately sweeps all before it in its brazen joy. One could seek for sinister meanings lurking beneath its surface – except they are not there! It is only with the first aching chord of the Adagio that the whole experience of this brilliant Allegro is retrospectively transformed; the revelry was pure phantasmagoria, the extravagant conclusion almost a send up of the end of the fifth symphony (which had so dissatisfied him). Likewise, in the previous movement; we can surely detect genuine happiness and ardour in its lilting principal melody, even if it is a happiness recalled in the memory. The flebile (“mournful”) Trio section longs for that sunniness to return – which it does! Tchaikovsky had harnessed together a waltz and a scherzo before – notably in the third symphony and the second orchestral suite……. A waltz? In 5/4 time? Such was the man’s mastery of dance forms that he could effect this remarkable rhythmic metamorphosis with total ease and fluency; it is only when we ponder it – retrospectively, once again – that we might feel strangely uneasy.  

Mastery of a different order – endlessly striven for over the years – gave rise to a first movement in which sonata form is the unselfconscious and subtle propagator of the musical drama and conflict, to the extent of disguising itself behind a more outwardly assimilable slow-fast-slow-fast-slow structure. The great second-subject melody is understood to be already in full bloom, so the potent motifs of the first-subject group are rightly given precedence in the wild development section – which is clearly identifiable, although all the movement’s fast music is in essence developmental, in the true Classical sense. There is an additional “inner logic” (perhaps unintended?) by which a falling scale characterises the closing sections of all four movements (taking Prof Brian Newbould’s beloved “descending bass lines” a major step further). Silence is deployed as daringly as by any present-day composer; and the sound of the orchestra is manipulated with breathtaking imagination and originality: who else (Schubert excepted) had previously used trombones so resourcefully in soft music? When before has one heard such doleful sonority from woodwind instruments playing in unison? 

Sitting in the middle of the orchestra during this symphony must surely be a revelation; one can only be amazed – constantly – by what one hears, yet misses all too often. Each player and listener will doubtless make their own observations about this music, feel their own emotional response to its unfolding drama (but do not be over-influenced by the familiar title; this was suggested by the composer’s brother Modest after the premiere – and later removed). All of us will surely sense something peculiarly different here; perhaps Tchaikovsky was at the threshold of a new phase of creativity – as likely as Beethoven or Schubert, but in this case criminally cut short by misguided moral attitudes. Or maybe the Sixth really was a swan song, with no possible sequel. The enigma persists.

© Alan George
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