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Sextet for Strings, Op. 70, “Souvenir de Florence”
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky

- Born May 7 (O.S. April 25), 1840, in Kamsko-Votkinsk, Russia 
- Died November 6 (O.S. October 25), 1893, in Saint Petersburg
- Composed in 1890; revised in 1891–92
- Duration: 35 minutes

In June and July of 1890, shortly after returning from Florence, Tchaikovsky dug into working on a chamber piece he had promised to write for the Saint Petersburg Chamber Music Society. It was slow-going, and in a letter to his younger brother, Modest, he lamented the challenges he faced: “I began it three days ago and am writing with difficulty, not for want of new ideas, but because of the novelty of the form. One requires six independent yet homogeneous voices. This is unimaginably difficult.” A hurdle for the composer was, as he put it, “my first attempt to break free from the quartet,” but it was balanced with a joyful discovery of how the arrangement was “rich in resources,” given the two extra voices.

Still wildly self-conscious to the point of obsession about his efforts, Tchaikovsky wrote to his friend, violinist Eugen Albrecht, about numerous worries: among them, concern over whether the six-part fugue he envisioned for the finale would sound dissonant when played rapidly, considerations over textures for specific passages (legato or detaché), fussing over bow markings, and the like. He also notes his desire for an “improbable pppp,” or extremely quiet sound, and elaborates with remarkably illustrative language, “this should be just discernible, like summer lightning.”  

Agitated and hurting from the end of his long-running friendship with (and patronage from) Madame von Meck, the composer continued to tinker and revise large portions of the work over the course of another two years, during which he traveled to the United States to conduct the inaugural concert for Carnegie Hall in May 1891. When he finally competed the revisions in 1892, it became one of his last completed works before his death the following year.

The finished product reveals Tchaikovsky’s ultimate mastery of exploiting the benefits of the sextet texture. Rather than pair off the parts, he found remarkable ways to balance between giving each part independence while blending everything into a homogenous whole. For example, there is a brilliant effect in the opening movement when a scale starts in the bass and is handed off, relay-style, through each part up and back down again. He plays with unison hairpin dynamics, where the ensemble has to collectively grow louder and then softer again repeatedly within a compressed period of measures. In the Adagio, the composer’s otherworldly ability to draft a lilting and gorgeous melodic line is on full display. Here, a conversation develops between the upper and lower voices, while the middle voices provide a more traditional accompaniment until the roles reverse. Against this backdrop the chorale-like sections stand out dramatically. The same goes for the contrasting middle section, in which all parts move together in ocean-like swells.

A mysterious mood pervades the third movement. Here, again, the composer finds remarkable variations in texture for a relatively small motivic feature and displays his ability to immediately shift into an entirely different emotional terrain, returning with equal imperceptibility. In the finale, Tchaikovsky did keep the idea of integrating fugues, of which he added two. Something that will catch the ear is the full-throated quotation from Swan Lake that emerges, then quickly dissipates. Toward the end, the composer’s unique ability to build momentum reaches full throttle, stretching out over multiple bars until the leap-to-your-feet conclusion.

Sextet for Strings, Op. 70, “Souvenir de Florence”
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky

- Born May 7 (O.S. April 25), 1840, in Kamsko-Votkinsk, Russia 
- Died November 6 (O.S. October 25), 1893, in Saint Petersburg
- Composed in 1890; revised in 1891–92
- Duration: 35 minutes

In June and July of 1890, shortly after returning from Florence, Tchaikovsky dug into working on a chamber piece he had promised to write for the Saint Petersburg Chamber Music Society. It was slow-going, and in a letter to his younger brother, Modest, he lamented the challenges he faced: “I began it three days ago and am writing with difficulty, not for want of new ideas, but because of the novelty of the form. One requires six independent yet homogeneous voices. This is unimaginably difficult.” A hurdle for the composer was, as he put it, “my first attempt to break free from the quartet,” but it was balanced with a joyful discovery of how the arrangement was “rich in resources,” given the two extra voices.

Still wildly self-conscious to the point of obsession about his efforts, Tchaikovsky wrote to his friend, violinist Eugen Albrecht, about numerous worries: among them, concern over whether the six-part fugue he envisioned for the finale would sound dissonant when played rapidly, considerations over textures for specific passages (legato or detaché), fussing over bow markings, and the like. He also notes his desire for an “improbable pppp,” or extremely quiet sound, and elaborates with remarkably illustrative language, “this should be just discernible, like summer lightning.”  

Agitated and hurting from the end of his long-running friendship with (and patronage from) Madame von Meck, the composer continued to tinker and revise large portions of the work over the course of another two years, during which he traveled to the United States to conduct the inaugural concert for Carnegie Hall in May 1891. When he finally competed the revisions in 1892, it became one of his last completed works before his death the following year.

The finished product reveals Tchaikovsky’s ultimate mastery of exploiting the benefits of the sextet texture. Rather than pair off the parts, he found remarkable ways to balance between giving each part independence while blending everything into a homogenous whole. For example, there is a brilliant effect in the opening movement when a scale starts in the bass and is handed off, relay-style, through each part up and back down again. He plays with unison hairpin dynamics, where the ensemble has to collectively grow louder and then softer again repeatedly within a compressed period of measures. In the Adagio, the composer’s otherworldly ability to draft a lilting and gorgeous melodic line is on full display. Here, a conversation develops between the upper and lower voices, while the middle voices provide a more traditional accompaniment until the roles reverse. Against this backdrop the chorale-like sections stand out dramatically. The same goes for the contrasting middle section, in which all parts move together in ocean-like swells.

A mysterious mood pervades the third movement. Here, again, the composer finds remarkable variations in texture for a relatively small motivic feature and displays his ability to immediately shift into an entirely different emotional terrain, returning with equal imperceptibility. In the finale, Tchaikovsky did keep the idea of integrating fugues, of which he added two. Something that will catch the ear is the full-throated quotation from Swan Lake that emerges, then quickly dissipates. Toward the end, the composer’s unique ability to build momentum reaches full throttle, stretching out over multiple bars until the leap-to-your-feet conclusion.