‘Valse triste,’ op. 44, No. 1
Jean Sibelius

Jean Sibelius is indisputably the greatest composer Finland has ever produced. He was born on Dec. 8, 1865, in Hämeenlinna (Tavastehus) and died in Järvenpää on Sept. 20, 1957. His abiding interest in his homeland’s literature (especially the national epic known as the Kalevala) and natural landscape placed him in the vanguard of Finnish nationalism, although few traces of actual folk tunes are to be found in his music. Best known for his patriotic symphonic poem, Finlandia, Sibelius’s genius is revealed most clearly in his Violin Concerto and seven symphonies. Valse triste was composed in 1903 as part of a set of incidental music to the play, Kuolema (Death), written by the composer’s brother-in-law Arvid Järnefelt. Its original title was Tempo di valse lente – Poco risoluto. Sibelius revised the original the next year, giving it its new title and leading its first performance with as a concert piece on April 25, 1904, in Helsinki. The work is scored flute, clarinet, two horns, timpani and strings.                              

Valse triste, upon its premiere with the Helsinki Philharmonic Society in 1904, was an instantaneous hit. It remains one of Sibelius’ most popular shorter works for orchestra, along with Finlandia (1900), The Swan of Tuonela (1895, rev. 1897 and 1900), and excerpts from Karelia Overture and Suite. Its origin as music for the play, Kuolema (Death) offers the scenario that gave rise to its haunting ethos:

It is night. The son, who has been watching beside the bedside of his sick mother, has fallen asleep from sheer weariness, gradually a ruddy light is diffused through the room; there is a sound of distant music; the glow and the music steal nearer until the strains of a valse melody float distantly to our ears. The sleeping mother awakens, rises from her bed and, in her long white garment, which takes the semblance of a ball dress, begins to move silently and slowly to and fro. She waves her hands and beckons in time to the music, as though she were summoning a crowd of invisible guests. And now they appear, these strange visionary couples, turning and gliding to an unearthly valse rhythm. The dying woman mingles with the dancers; she strives to make them look into her eyes, but the shadowy guests one and all avoid her glance. Then she seems to sink exhausted on her bed and the music breaks off. Presently she gathers all her strength and invokes the dance once more, with more energetic gestures than before. Back come the shadowy dancers, gyrating in a wild, mad rhythm. The weird gaiety reaches a climax; there is a knock at the door, which flies wide open; the mother utters a despairing cry; the spectral guests vanish; the music dies away. Death stands on the threshold.

As hard as the music strives to escape its melancholia, it continues to sink back into the minor  mode.

‘Scheherazade,’ op. 35             
Nicolai Rimsky-Korsakov

The Russian master Nicolai Andreyevich Rimsky-Korsakov was born in Tikhvin, March 18, 1844, and died in Lyubensk, near Luga (now Pskov district), on June 21, 1908. He was a brilliant composer, arranger, and teacher, whose illustrious students included Igor Stravinsky. A member of the group of composers known as “The Five,” Rimsky-Korsakov (along with Mussorgsky, Balakirev, Cui, and Borodin) played an important role in developing an idiosyncratic Russian musical voice. The author of a manual on orchestration, and prized by all as a master of the same, Rimsky-Korsakov is best known for his orchestral showpieces, including the Great Russian Easter Festival Overture, Capriccio Espagnol, and the most popular of them all, Scheherazade (1887-8). The work was first performed on Nov. 3, 1888, in St. Petersburg and is scored for piccolo, two flutes, two oboes (one doubling on English horn), two clarinets, two bassoons, four French horns, two trumpets, three trombones, tuba, timpani, percussion, harp and strings.

Composed in 1888, the symphonic suite in four movements based on tales from the Thousand and One Nights, Scheherazade has captured the imagination of audiences, as well as serving as a model of orchestral opulence and virtuosity. The reasons for its immense popularity are readily apparent. Scheherazade is filled with sumptuous and tuneful melodies, brilliant splashes of orchestral color, exoticism of subject, and enough virtuoso writing to please everyone. This work has spawned other masterpieces, most notably Stravinsky’s ballets, The Firebird and Petrouchka (Stravinsky was Rimsky’s pupil) and Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloe. None of these scores could ever have existed without Rimsky’s model. The “plot” of Scheherazade’s story is given in the score:

The Sultan Schahriar, persuaded of the falseness and the faithlessness of women, has sworn to put to death each one of his wives after the first night. But the Sultana Scheherazade saved her life by interesting him in tales she told him during one thousand and one nights. Pricked by curiosity, the Sultan put off his wife’s execution from day to day, and at last entirely gave up his bloody plan.

A sense of narrative is apparent everywhere in the piece. A solo violin serves as the voice of the Sultana. Listeners should be content to give their imaginations free reign regarding the details of each tale, since even the titles for each of the movements were afterthoughts, urged on the composer by his friends.

I.                The Sea and Sinbad’s Ship. Clarinets, bassoons, trombones, tuba and massed strings introduce the menacing theme representing the Sultan. A series of wind chords, reminiscent of Mendelssohn and Weber, introduce the first of the solo violin’s many cadenzas. These, of course, are the voice of Scheherazade, our narrator. The setting of her first tale is the majestic ocean, as is made evident by ever-present rolling arpeggiated figures. The movement ends serenely.

II.              The Tale of the Kalender Prince. The narrative voice of Scheherazade once again introduces the tale, the specifics of which our imaginations are left to deduce from the episodic nature of the movement. The solo bassoon ushers in an alluring theme, which is picked up by the oboe, the strings, and eventually the whole orchestra. The mood is broken by a sudden outburst. The trombone announces a threatening fragment of an idea, echoed by the muted trumpet. (An astute listener will recognize the reference to the Sultan’s theme of the first movement.) This leads to an evocative and dramatic cadenza in the clarinet, accompanied by plucked strings. The fragment is developed more fully, but is soon interrupted by a new outburst and cadenza, this time featuring the voice of the bassoon. The various musical ideas are further explored in dramatic fashion. Wistful recollections of the clarinet and bassoon cadenzas are accompanied by bravura flourishes in the harp. The movement draws to a dramatic close.

III.             The Young Prince and the Young Princess. Here, as in the second movement, no specific program is identifiable. Nonetheless, the sweetness of the first of this movement’s two themes (Andantino quasi allegretto) suggests that a tender love story is about to unfold. The second theme ever so slightly faster reads the tempo indication is a graceful dance, first played by the clarinet to the accompaniment of the tambourine. The reprise of the first theme is interrupted by the solo violin, a gentle reminder of the music and voice of the sultana Scheherazade.

IV.             Festival at Baghdad: the Sea and the Ship Goes to Pieces on a Rock Surmounted by a Bronze Warrior; Conclusion. Despite the specificity of the title, we must again rely on our imaginations to fill in the scenario. The voice of the Sultan begins the movement in an angry mood. The narrative voice of the solo violin, now in double-stops and chords over a menacing sustained note in the cellos and basses, suggests that the trial of the Sultana has come to a point of crisis. The episodic music that unfolds is a highly colorful reprise of themes from previous movements, the climax of which occurs at the arrival of the principal theme from the first movement—whose majestic arpeggios are unforgettable. Appropriately, it is the solo violin, our aural guide through Rimsky’s colorful symphonic tour de force, that brings the work to its conclusion.