Symphony No. 2 in C Minor, Op. 17 “Ukrainian”

The symphonies of Tchaikovsky clearly stand in the center of nineteenth-century orchestral repertoire. Beloved by audiences and musicians alike for more than a century, they were embraced enthusiastically from the onset. To be sure, there was a time when some commonly scoffed at what they perceived as the composer’s emotional theatrics and shallow playing to the cheap seats. Thankfully, that reaction has largely passed, and Tchaikovsky’s genius stands in higher regard. To be sure, the deep affection for his symphonies largely stems from the evergreen popularity of the last three of his six works in that genre. Of his other symphonic works, Romeo and Juliet (a rather early piece) enjoys equal esteem with the three last symphonies.

Nevertheless, his first three symphonies are a delight, and decidedly feature the overall style, attractive melodies, and dramatic flair with which audiences are familiar in the “big three” final ones. And don’t for a minute presume that the first three are mere “juvenilia” or youthful experiments. Tchaikovsky matured quickly in the St. Petersburg conservatory, under the tutelage of Anton Rubinstein, and he dove into symphonic composition with alacrity and facility. While a student he made several youthful efforts at symphonic music, but the major steps came when he moved to Moscow in 1866 as a young teacher of harmony. His first symphony appeared that year (but typically, underwent revisions in 1874). The remarkably mature overture, Romeo and Juliet, came soon, in 1869—it too, underwent revisions right up to 1880. The second symphony was completed in 1872, and revised in 1880. It was composed during the summer and fall while the composer was a guest with his sister’s family in Kamianka, a city about two hundred miles southeast of Kyiv. The estate and the area were favorites of Tchaikovsky, and there he learned the Ukrainian folksongs that so inform the second symphony.

A word about the popular nickname for the symphony: Almost since its composition it has been known as the “Little Russian,” not given by Tchaikovsky, but by the music critic, Nikolay Kashkin. For centuries that term has been fraught with controversy, owing to its origin as a Russian reference to the Ukraine. To be sure, the composer wrote his second symphony while visiting in Ukraine and it significantly employs Ukrainian folksongs. Nevertheless, “Little Russia” as a reference to the Ukraine is a term that now is in totally disrepute—even considered a major insult by Ukrainians. Rather like The Moldau by Smetana. The river in the Czech Republic is the Vltava, and “Moldau” is a forgotten vestige of German hegemony. Likewise, by general agreement, the symphony is now “Ukrainian.” Time moves on.

While Tchaikovsky was instilled with a deep appreciation of Russian culture and native musical traditions, in keeping with the general tendencies of nineteenth-century musical nationalism, he was not one who generally used folk materials in his oeuvre. The “Ukrainian” symphony is the chief exception, for he utilized traditional Ukrainian folksongs in three of its four movements. No mean feat, for it is often a technical challenge for composers to utilize the characteristic shapes of folk tunes into the material suitable for development in Western art music. Unlike much of his music, the symphony is largely devoid of dark emotional angst. Rather, it is a bustling, cheerful work that churns happily along.

The first movement begins with a substantial andante introduction, featuring the folksong, “Down by Mother Volga”—it will be heard again in the middle of the movement. A solo, unaccompanied French horn leads off with the tune, soon answered by the bassoon. The composer goes on build on elements of the tune, with the tension increasing by the addition of his characteristic, rather frenetic, string scales. But shortly, the introduction concludes with unaccompanied horns playing the tune as at the beginning.

The tempo quickens considerably, and a new, snappy tune appears. Some will identify it as used in Rimsky-Korsakov’s Russian Easter Overture. In the best tradition of a Beethovenian “economy of means,” Tchaikovsky takes elements of both melodies as motifs—including a little three-note ascending one–and constructs almost the entire weft of the movement. Not until the development section in the middle, though, do we finally hear the opening horn melody again—this time in the two clarinets Every idea seems familiar and integrated into the whole, as it all charges through the recapitulation to the end in the best careening, pounding Tchaikovsky fashion. But ending softly, as it began, with “Down by Mother Voga” in the horn and bassoon.

The “slow” movement is in fact a rather stately little march introduced and led along quietly by the timpani. It’s not a folksong, but a recycled and rather sedate bridal procession from his unpublished—and largely lost–opera, Undine (1869). The quiet little tune seems a bit odd for a wedding march, but after ambling along in several settings, it gives over to a contrasting middle section. This is, indeed, another Ukrainian folksong. Its simple rhythm soon is accompanied by Tchaikovsky’s characteristic rhythmic undulations, carrying it along to the return of the “wedding march.” And it, through the composer’s mastery of drama through orchestration and imaginative rhythms, returns in new imaginative guises. Many will be reminded of sounds, colors, and textures from his Nutcracker from decades later in his life—demonstrating his remarkable early musical maturity. Finally, the modest little march gradually fragments softly away, ending, as it began, with the timpani.

The scherzo that follows doesn’t last long, and is an effervescent, sparkling affair, almost a moto perpetuo. The strings bounce fervently along, driven by sizzling woodwind interjections—a Tchaikovsky trademark, for sure. Another familiar mark of the composer is here, as well: the implication of a 3/4 measure for two in 6/8 time—perceived as a syncopation. The middle section starts with a miniature “village band” in the woodwinds, and is in duple time, providing an agreeable contrast with the usual triple time of most scherzos. After a few times though the tune the opening rapidity of the beginning returns. A short coda concludes the romp.

A massive, magisterial passage introduces the finale. It has long been compared with Mussorgsky’s grand, imposing “Great Gate of Kiev” (composed two years later and orchestrated even later, actually), but this brief introduction is quintessentially Tchaikovsky’s. The movement proper is soon quietly, but vigorously, off to the races, starting with the Ukrainian folksong, “The Crane.” The composer is reputed to have said that he was taught the tune by an old servant on the estate where he was staying when he wrote the symphony, and that the old butler was the “real composer.” The tune serves admirably in its rôle as the main material of the movement. It’s really only four bars long, and simple as can be. It pervades the movement almost as thoroughly as the immortal four notes of the first movement of Beethoven’s fifth symphony. One can do almost anything with a simple, well-chiseled tune as this, and Tchaikovsky manifestly does. You’re going to hear it a lot! After running the tune through several guises, a descending, more lyrical theme comes softly in the strings—and those two themes make up the whole from here on. In this, and much more, the young Tchaikovsky shows himself to have been an astute student of the disciplined approach to composition that stems from Haydn and Mozart through Beethoven—Russian nationalism and folk materials, notwithstanding.

After a vigorous development of both ideas, the approaching recap is signaled by the traditional a long held note in the bass. A riot of chromatic harmony rises over the bass and the ominously thundering timpani, but suddenly ceases. Unaccompanied horns announce the recapitulation, which begins softly with the lyrical second theme, joined soon by “The Crane” theme in the string section. But Tchaikovsky’s famous knack for stupendous finishes soon dominates all. Then abruptly, in a surprise, everything halts dramatically, with a smash in the tam-tam. The frenetic coda then takes off in a breathtaking dash to the slam-bang ending—driven by the pervading, demonic timpani.

It’s all great fun, and highly entertaining. Experienced listeners will spot much that resembles the composer’s evergreen fourth symphony, and it’s clear that the young Tchaikovsky already had developed his personal mastery of the symphonic idiom. To be sure, there are moments that seem overwrought, or prolix, and a bit repetitious, but it’s a fine work, and a welcome revelation for Tchaikovsky fans for whom it is new.

Program notes by:
Wm. E. Runyan
©2024 William E. Runyan