POLONAISE from Eugene Onegin, Op. 24

Composed: 1877–1878

In the spring of 1877, while teaching at the Moscow Conservatory, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky received a curious gift from the contralto Elizaveta Lavrovskaya: a copy of Alexander Pushkin’s verse novel Eugene Onegin. The singer suggested it might make a fine opera, though at first Tchaikovsky dismissed the idea. The story seemed too intimate, too subtle for the operatic stage—there were no grand battles, no spectacular deaths, just the quiet tragedy of mismatched affections and missed opportunities.

Yet Pushkin’s tale of unrequited love haunted the composer. Within days, he had sketched the pivotal Letter Scene, in which the young Tatyana pours out her heart to the sophisticated Onegin, only to be gently rejected. By May, he was fully committed to the project, famously declaring that he was “in love with the image of Tatyana” and working with an intensity that bordered on obsession.

The opera’s composition coincided with one of the most tumultuous periods in Tchaikovsky’s life. In 1877, Russia was at war with the Ottoman Empire—a conflict that would redraw the map of southeastern Europe and inflame Pan-Slavic sentiments across the empire. That same year, Thomas Edison announced his invention of the phonograph, a device that would eventually transform how the world experienced music. Closer to home, Tchaikovsky’s personal life was in crisis: his disastrous marriage to Antonina Milyukova in July 1877 would lead to a nervous breakdown by October, forcing him to flee abroad to recover.

The Polonaise occurs in Act III, set at a grand ball in St. Petersburg where the now-married Tatyana has become a sophisticated princess. The music captures the glittering surface of aristocratic society with its stately Polish dance rhythm—a fixture of Russian imperial court life since the 18th century. Tchaikovsky’s polonaise is both magnificent and slightly hollow, its brilliance serving as a foil for the emotional confrontation that follows between Tatyana and Onegin, who now realizes too late what he has lost. The composer’s orchestration is characteristically rich, with swirling strings, decisive brass fanfares, and the aristocratic bearing of a society that would vanish within forty years of the opera’s premiere.

Eugene Onegin received its first performance at Moscow’s Maly Theatre on March 29, 1879, with students from the Conservatory. Though Tchaikovsky called it “lyric scenes” rather than a grand opera, it would become one of the most beloved works in the Russian repertoire, its intimate psychological drama proving far more durable than the spectacles that dominated 19th-century opera houses.

Suite from The Nutcracker, Op. 71

Composed: 1891–1892

By 1891, Tchaikovsky had become Russia’s most celebrated composer, yet he approached his next ballet commission with considerable reluctance. Ivan Vsevolozhsky, Director of the Imperial Theatres, and the renowned choreographer Marius Petipa envisioned a lavish production based on E.T.A. Hoffmann’s fairy tale “The Nutcracker and the Mouse King” (as adapted by Alexandre Dumas). Tchaikovsky, still mourning his beloved sister Alexandra and struggling with depression, initially found the scenario “extremely poor.”

The world in 1891 was rapidly modernizing. Carnegie Hall opened in New York that May. The Trans-Siberian Railway began construction, promising to connect Moscow to the Pacific. Oscar Wilde published The Picture of Dorian Gray, while in France, a young pianist named Claude Debussy was beginning to challenge musical conventions. Meanwhile, in Menlo Park, Thomas Edison was developing the motion picture camera—another technological revolution that would transform entertainment.

Yet from his doubts, Tchaikovsky created magic. His trip to Paris in early 1891 proved crucial: there he discovered the celesta, a new instrument invented in 1886 by Auguste Mustel. Its crystalline, bell-like timbre immediately captivated him, and he arranged to have one shipped to St. Petersburg in secret, hoping to premiere the instrument in his new ballet before any other Russian composer could use it. This “voice of the Sugar Plum Fairy” would become one of the score’s most enchanting elements.

Tchaikovsky completed the ballet in 1892, but with characteristic practicality, he extracted an orchestral suite before the ballet’s premiere. This Suite, which debuted under his own baton in St. Petersburg on March 19, 1892, proved an immediate success—far more enthusiastically received than the complete ballet would be eight months later.

Miniature Overture: A delicate curtain-raiser scored without the darker colors of cellos and basses, suggesting the childlike wonder to come.

March: The children’s Christmas party springs to life with military precision and infectious energy, complete with trumpet fanfares and bright orchestral colors.

Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy: The celesta makes its famous entrance, accompanying the ethereal dance with an otherworldly shimmer. The orchestration is remarkably spare, allowing the new instrument’s magic to shine.

Russian Dance (Trepak): A vigorous dance of explosive energy, depicting dancers from exotic lands. The accelerating tempo and crackling orchestration suggest wild abandon.

Arabian Dance: A languid, chromatic dance marked by its hypnotic accompaniment—Tchaikovsky’s evocation of an imagined ‘exotic’ East, typical of 19th-century European ballet.

Chinese Dance: Marked by staccato bassoons, pizzicato strings, and flutes imitating a shepherd’s pipe—a deliberately “exotic” characterization that reflected 19th-century European perceptions of the East.

Dance of the Reed Flutes: Three flutes intertwine in delicate counterpoint, creating one of Tchaikovsky’s most enchanting chamber-like orchestral movements.

Waltz of the Flowers: The suite’s grand finale builds from a majestic harp cadenza to a sweeping waltz of Viennese splendor, demonstrating Tchaikovsky’s unrivaled gift for memorable melody and lush orchestration.

Grand Pas de Deux: Not included in the original orchestral suite, this showpiece from Act II features some of Tchaikovsky’s most rapturous music. The Andante maestoso begins with a solemn introduction before the famous violin solo, supported by the full orchestra in music of transcendent beauty. The variation for the Sugar Plum Fairy returns us to the celesta’s magic, while the coda brings the entire ballet to a jubilant conclusion with all the forces of the orchestra in full glory.

Symphony No. 1 in G minor, Op. 13, “Winter Daydreams”

Composed: 1866 (revised 1874)

1. Daydreams on a Winter Journey– Allegro tranquillo
   II. Land of Gloom, Land of Mist– Adagio cantabile ma non tanto
   III. Scherzo – Allegro scherzando giocoso
   IV. Finale – Andante lugubre – Allegro maestoso

When the 25-year-old Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky began his First Symphony in March 1866, he was a fledgling composer of limited reputation, having only recently abandoned a civil service career to study music. Russia itself was in flux: Tsar Alexander II had emancipated the serfs just five years earlier, fundamentally transforming Russian society. In the United States, the Civil War had just ended, and the nation was beginning its painful Reconstruction. In Europe, Prussia was ascending—within months of the symphony’s completion, Bismarck would defeat Austria at the Battle of Königgrätz, setting in motion the unification of Germany.

The composition nearly destroyed Tchaikovsky. He worked obsessively through the spring and summer of 1866, suffering from severe headaches, insomnia, and what he described as nervous hallucinations. By autumn, his health had deteriorated so alarmingly that doctors ordered him to abandon the work entirely. He persisted, but the symphony’s premiere in February 1868 was only partial, and reactions were mixed. Tchaikovsky would substantially revise the work in 1874, and it is this version that we hear today.

The subtitle “Winter Daydreams” (Zimniye gryozy) reflects both the Russian soul’s complex relationship with winter—simultaneously beautiful, oppressive, and spiritually evocative—and the symphony’s deep roots in Russian musical nationalism. Tchaikovsky’s mentors at the St. Petersburg Conservatory, including Anton Rubinstein, had encouraged their students to look westward to Germanic models. But the young composer couldn’t resist the pull of his homeland’s melodies and landscapes.

The first movement opens with a melody that seems to emerge from swirling snow, marked by Tchaikovsky’s direction “Daydreams on a Winter Journey.” The music evokes the hypnotic rhythm of a sleigh crossing vast, frozen expanses—a journey both geographical and psychological. Throughout, there’s a quality of melancholy nostalgia, even in the more animated passages, suggesting the bittersweet nature of memory and longing.

The second movement, titled “Land of Gloom, Land of Mist,” presents one of Tchaikovsky’s earliest essays in the profound melancholy that would characterize his mature works. The oboe’s plaintive opening melody unfolds over a spare accompaniment, creating an atmosphere of desolation and isolation. Yet there’s remarkable beauty in this bleakness—Tchaikovsky understood that the Russian landscape’s severity also held a strange consolation.

The Scherzo provides welcome relief with its elfin grace and rhythmic vitality. Here Tchaikovsky demonstrates his mastery of orchestral color and contrapuntal skill, with themes tossed between orchestral sections in playful dialogue. The middle section offers a more lyrical contrast before the return of the opening’s quicksilver energy.

The Finale begins with a somber introduction (Andante lugubre) that recalls the emotional landscape of the second movement. But this darkness serves as preparation for the triumphant Allegro maestoso that follows—a bold, assertive movement that draws on Russian folk idioms and builds to a jubilant conclusion. Some critics have found the finale’s optimism unconvincing after the symphony’s prevailing melancholy, but it represents the young composer’s determination to overcome doubt—both musical and personal.

Despite its difficult genesis, the First Symphony reveals Tchaikovsky’s genius already in bloom: his incomparable gift for melody, his increasingly sophisticated orchestration, and his ability to translate deep emotion into sound. While he would go on to write greater symphonies, “Winter Daydreams” remains a fresh and appealing work, capturing a young artist finding his voice while remaining true to his Russian heritage.

As we listen today, we might remember that this music was written by a composer still seeking his path, in a Russia undergoing profound transformation, by an artist who would eventually become one of the world’s most beloved musical voices—proof that even in winter’s depths, dreams can take flight.