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April 1, 2017
Polovtsian Dances from Prince Igor
Alexander Borodin
Born 1833 in St. Petersburg, Russia
Died 1887 in St. Petersburg, Russia
Alexander Borodin began composing his opera Prince Igor in 1869 but never
completed it; the opera was completed by Nicolai Rimsky-Korsakov and Alexander
Glazunov after the composer’s death and first performed in 1890. Borodin composed
the Polovtsian Dances from Act II in 1875, and they were first performed in 1879 in
St. Petersburg. The score ofthe Polovtsian Dances calls for optional mixed chorus,
3 flutes, piccolo, 2 oboes, English horn, 2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 4 horns, 2 trumpets,
3 trombones, tuba, timpani, percussion, harp, and strings.
Program Notes
Russian Spectacular
Alexander Borodin—who, along with Mily Balakirev, César Cui, Modest Mussorgsky, and
Nicolai Rimsky-Korsakov belonged to a group of like-minded composers called The
Russian Five—was, by profession, a chemist. As such he composed in his spare time.
Because that time was short, and because of his penchant for endlessly reevaluating
his music in mid-composition, he left relatively few works for us to hear.
His biggest project was his opera Prince Igor, which occupied him on and off for eighteen
years. When he died suddenly of a heart attack at age 53, the opera was a mish-mash of
fully-composed and orchestrated sections, sketches, bits of ideas scrawled on scraps of
paper—and a number of gaping holes. It was left to Glazunov and Rimsky-Korsakov to
put it all together (composing new music where necessary) after Borodin’s death.
Borodin had sketched the Polovtsian Dances from Act II early on. Rimsky knew them and
wished to perform them in concert in 1879; he relentlessly prodded Borodin to orchestrate
them, to no avail. Finally, with time running out, he went with fellow composer Anatoly
Lyadov to Borodin’s house, where the three men pulled an all-nighter to finish the task in
time for the parts to be copied.
In the opera, Prince Igor is captured while he defends his city against the invading Polovtsy;
Khan Konchak, leader of the Polovtsy, treats him as an honored guest, and in Act II calls his
slaves to dance for their entertainment. As the series of four dances begins we hear the
serene Dance of the Seductive Girls. (You may recognize this tune as “Strangers in Paradise”
from Kismet—and from countless late-night television commercials.) Without warning
a frantic clarinet ushers in the Wild Dance of the Men, which builds intensity by piling on
more and more counter-melodies, then wanes before the end. The General Dance follows,
barbaric in its praise for the Khan; a middle section makes a sweeter sound from the same
materials. The Dance of the Boys begins the last section, which expands to become a reprise
of the previous dances, now combined and juxtaposed with growing excitement and
extraordinary brilliance.
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Program Notes
continued from previous page
Suite from Mlada
Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov
Born 1844 in Tikhvin, Russia
Died 1908 in Lyubensk, Russia
Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov composed his opera Mlada to a libretto by Viktor Krylov in
1889-1890 and it was first performed in St. Petersburg in 1892 under the direction of
Eduard Nápravník. Rimsky extracted the Suite from the opera in 1903. The score of the
Suite calls for 4 flutes, piccolo, alto flute, 3 oboes, English horn, 4 clarinets, bass clarinet,
3 bassoons, contrabassoon, 6 horns, 3 trumpets, 3 trombones, tuba, timpani,
percussion, 3 harps, strings, and optional chorus.
Rimsky-Korsakov had been one of four composers (the others were Mussorgsky, Cui, and
Borodin) commissioned to collaborate on a grand opera-ballet entitled Mlada; each was to
contribute one act. The project was never completed, and the composers ended up using
much of the music they had written in other works. (Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain was
one such.) Many years later, Rimsky-Korsakov heard Wagner’s “Ring” cycle in St. Petersburg,
and it seems to have motivated him to compose his own version of Mlada in 1890.
Rimsky’s Mlada is a vast opera-ballet based on Slavic myths, replete with gods, goddesses,
ghosts, and other supernatural creatures. The title role is taken by a dancer, not a singer.
Princess Mlada is murdered at her wedding by a rival who has designs on her betrothed. She
returns as a ghost to interfere with her rival’s plans, and eventually is reunited with her lover.
Mlada got a cool reception at its premiere and closed after only six performances. It has
rarely been revived, but Rimsky extracted a suite from the opera that is still performed. This
Suite begins with a slow introduction to set the mood, featuring a simple but beautiful
ascending melody that passes from the winds to the rest of the orchestra. Three characteristic
dances follow, all taken from a dream sequence in the opera. The first of these is a Rédowa,
an energetic yet graceful Bohemian dance not unlike a mazurka. A rhythmically-charged
Lithuanian Dance follows, then an Indian Dance where Rimsky’s version of “oriental” music
has more than a whiff of Scheherazade. Capping the Suite is the brassy and stirring Cortège
from Act II of the opera, better known to us as the Procession of the Nobles. This movement
is so well-loved that it is often heard on its own apart from the Suite.
Symphony No. 5 in E minor, Op. 64
Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky
Born 1840 in Votkinsk, Russia
Died 1893 in St. Petersburg, Russia
Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky composed his Fifth Symphony in 1888, and conducted the premiere in
St. Petersburg the same year. The symphony is scored for 3 flutes, piccolo, 2 oboes,
2 clarinets, 2 bassoons, 4 horns, 2 trumpets, 3 trombones, tuba, timpani, and strings.
According to his own writings, each of Tchaikovsky’s last three symphonies deals with fate
in one way or another. In the Fourth Symphony fate evolves into triumph, after the model
of Beethoven’s Fifth. His Fifth Symphony ends in triumph, too, but that triumph appears
suddenly, as if imposed by an act of sheer will. In the Sixth Symphony, fate seems to be
overcome, but the glorious swagger of the third movement gives way to a dark, brooding
finale that reeks of resignation.
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We don’t know for certain whether Tchaikovsky’s struggle with his sexual nature gave a
subtext to his music. He never wrote or spoke about it openly, but his letters sometimes
made reference to “x”—a variable never explained, but widely assumed to mean his
homosexuality. It often fits. For example, in a notebook he sketched his idea for the
Fifth: “Introduction: complete resignation before Fate, or, which is the same, before the
inscrutable predestination of Providence. Allegro: (1) murmurs, doubts, plaints, reproaches
against xxx. (2) Shall I throw myself into the embraces of faith???”
Program Notes
For his public, the generalized concept of fate was rich enough to allow an easy approach to
the symphonies, but it has long been assumed that for Tchaikovsky himself, fate had a very
personal meaning. Tchaikovsky was ashamed of his homosexuality, and he lived with the
terror that it might be revealed. In this sense, fate was not an abstract notion for him; he felt
he lived and struggled with it every day. He called fate—and perhaps his sexuality, too—“the
inevitable power that hampers our search for happiness.”
It’s easy to make too much of this. Like any composer, Tchaikovsky had to solve the musical
problems he set for himself, and the solutions, by definition, had to be musical. Good
program music, even when the program is broadly drawn, must succeed as music if the
program is to succeed as well. The music of the Fifth does, with or without its program.
Tchaikovsky begins the symphony with his fate motto in dark, lugubrious clarinets. This
music will return in each movement, serving various musical and programmatic purposes
on its way to final transformation. The allegro that follows the introduction is rhythmic and
bold in its “murmurs, doubts, plaints, and reproaches.”
The poignant lyricism of the second movement — perhaps the “faith” mentioned in his
program — is interrupted twice by the fate motto. After the first disruption the lyrical music
returns with even more passion. The second outburst shatters the mood once and for all;
the lyrical music trails off, unable to pick up the pieces.
The theme of the Valse comes from an Italian street song Tchaikovsky had heard sung by a
boy in Florence a decade earlier. Even here a remembrance of the fate motto intrudes.
The fate theme is rehabilitated in the Finale’s introduction by casting it in a major key. The
allegro adds some contrasting tension, but the transformed motto returns with confidence
and exultation; by the end, it can only be seen as triumphant.
Some critics find the Fifth Symphony’s solution to its programmatic and musical dilemma
too abrupt: the fate music does not evolve into triumph, it simply becomes triumphant.
Perhaps the answer lies in the fact that both forms spring from the same musical source:
that for Tchaikovsky, happiness and that which destroys happiness appear to be two sides of
the very same coin.
©2016 Mark Rohr | Questions or comments? [email protected]
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