Russian winters are colder, longer and deeper than most, so it’s no surprise that Russian composers depict the season so well. So wrap yourself in a warm coat and snuggle down in a troika for our ride across the snowy landscapes of Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov and Glazunov.
Symphony no. 1 in G minor, “Winter Daydreams” (Tchaikovsky)
In 1866, Tchaikovsky had just been appointed to teach harmony at the Moscow Conservatory and decided to write a symphony – not a musical form which had any strong tradition at that point in Russia. Composers such as Balakirev and Rimsky-Korsakov, members of The Mighty Handful, were busily trying to establish a distinctive national style, far from Germanic influences, having just composed their own first symphonies. Tchaikovsky felt the time was ripe for him to have a go.
Although it is not an openly programmatic work, the first two movements of “Winter Daydreams” (Tchaikovsky’s own title, unlike some of his other symphonies) do conjure up specific, wintry landscapes. Over shivering strings, flute and bassoon double a wistful, pining theme, bringing a distinctly Russian snap as you step into the snow. The music of this first movement, subtitled “Daydreams of a Winter Journey”, is more like a tone poem painting rather than a traditional symphonic argument; flutes conjure up snow flurries as the strings thicken and icy brass stabs puncture your winter coat. There are fierce violin pizzicatos – this is not an easy journey but a bracing one all the same.
In “Land of Desolation, Land of Mists”, there is a sluggish mood, from which the oboe uncurls with a sentimental, haunting theme, the flute providing encouraging commentary. Tchaikovsky’s scherzo is the work’s most “westernised” movement; with its dainty, elven woodwinds, it could easily have been modelled on Mendelssohn. The finale, based on a pair of folk songs, the lugubrious introduction leading to a more vigorous tune which could easily be a cossack dance.
The symphony earned a terrible reception from Anton Rubinstein at a playthrough, after which it was not approved for performance: “I spent the entire day wandering about the town repeating to myself ‘I am sterile, I am a nonentity, nothing will ever come of me, I have no talent.’” Twenty years later, Tchaikovsky wrote to his patron, Nadezhda von Meck: “Despite all its glaring deficiencies I have a soft spot for it, for it is a sin of my sweet youth.”