STAGE AND SCREEN
MUSIC
Tehaikovsky's Centenary IT is amusing and instructive to look back upon the vicissitudes through which Tchaikovslcy's reputation has passed during the last thirty years. In two his symphonies, brilliantly expounded by Nikisch and Safonov, were still on the high crest of their popularity, and to the youthful ear they seemed overwhelming just because they were easier to understand than the German classics, and because their pathos found a sympathetic echo in the adolescent mind. Beside his recognisable tunefulness—what a satisfaction it was to be able to spot the appearance of the " motto " in the major key at the beginning of the finale of the Fifth Symphony !—Braluns seemed forbiddingly obscure, Beethoven (though, of course, to be revered) like Homer to the Lower Fourth, and Mozart (may youthful impercipience be forgiven!) a mere pretty tinkle.
Then came the second Russian invasion, generalled by Serge Diaghilev and Sir Joseph Beecham. It was suddenly discovered that Tchaikovsky was not really Russian at all. How deep was the impression made by the lofty pronouncement of a slightly elder amateur to the effect that Tchailcovsky's was second-hand, and therefore second-rate, Viennese music. The real thing was Moussorgsky. Fortunately for our conceit and our enjoyment we did not then know how little the Moussorgsky we heard actually was the real thing. Disclosure had not yet been made of Rimsky- Korsakov's inability to distinguish between the strokes of genius and the fumblings of inexperience.
Next, some time in the '20's, just when we had all grown rather weary of the barbaric splendours of Borodin, of
Moussorgsky's shapelessness and unrealised ideas, and of the void that closer acquaintance discovered beneath the orchestral brilliance of Rimsky-Korsakov, Diaghilev suddenly proclaimed, through the mouth of Stravinsky his prophet, the greatness of Tchaikovsky, particularly as a composer of ballet music. So the old favourite romped home again, carrying rather different colours indeed, but as strongly backed by the young and progressive as ever he had been by their fathers before them.
In the long run, which may be taken as beginning about too years after his birth, an artist has nothing to fear from extremes of praise and depreciation. Tchaikovsky is not a great symphonic composer in the classical tradition, but neither is he merely a maker of enchanting dance music. His ballets are what they are because they share with his symphonic music his extraordinary powers of dramatic expression. Whether they have poetic, titles or not, all his symphonic works are dramas, often intimately per- sonal and so tense that they are open to the obvious accusation of tearing passion to tatters. But Tchaikovsky's passion is always genuine and sincere, even if it is not well controlled, and such were his gifts of melody and invention that he can make us forget his weaknesses, which include an inability to think in the true symphonic way.
The fact is that his symphonies have suffered from being judged by standards made in Germany. Those standards are really irrelevant. For all the debt to the Viennese school, if that term is allowed also to embrace Liszt, he is essentially a Russian composer, with a Russian's weakness for four-square paragraphs and constant repetition. His symphonies are to be regarded not as pure musical thought, but as wordless dramas, and there is no harm in imagining one's own " programme " for them. The first movement of the Fourth Symphony calls to mind that scene in Anna Karenina where Kitty sees Vronsky dancing with her rival, she herself a wallflower in the next room watching through the open doors. That is not the way in which to listen to Beethoven, certainly, but it does Tchaikovsky no harm and, indeed, may elucidate his meaning. It is unfortunate that circumstances have prevented the promised production of The Queen of Spades at Sadler's Wells, for in his operas his dramatic and melodic gifts naturally find their fullest scope. His operas have suffered from a reputation of gloominess. But to a public that has delighted in Tchekov, Eugen Onegin and The Queen of Spades should appeal. With their careful presentation of Russian society and of what one must regard as typically fatalistic and futile characters they are the nearest operatic equivalents to The Cherry Orchard.
DYNELEY HUSSEY.
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