At the age of 48, despite his growing international fame, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky was constantly plagued by self-doubt. Early in 1888, he went on a three-month European tour, conducting his own works with some of the world’s finest orchestras. He was feted in Leipzig, Paris, London, and Prague, and made the acquaintance of Dvořák, Grieg, and Mahler. 

Tchaikovsky’s private life, however, was not free from turmoil. His sister Alexandra and his niece Vera were both seriously ill, and one of his closest friends, Nikolai Kondratyev, had recently died. It must have been hard to escape the thought that life was a constant struggle against Fate, which appears as a hostile force attempting to thwart all human endeavors. 

After his return from abroad, Tchaikovsky decided to write a new symphony, his first in 10 years. Characteristically, the first sketches of the new work, made on April 15, 1888, include a verbal program portraying an individual’s reactions in the face of immutable destiny, involving stages of resignation, challenge, and triumph: 

Introduction. Complete resignation before Fate, or, which is the same, before the inscrutable predestination of Providence. Allegro. (1) Murmurs of doubt, complaints, reproaches against XXX. (2) Shall I throw myself in the embraces of faith??? A wonderful program, if only it can be carried out. 

Tchaikovsky never made this program public, however, and in one of his letters even went out of his way to stress that the symphony had no program. Clearly, the program was an intensely personal matter to him, in part because he was reluctant to openly acknowledge his homosexuality, which seemed to him one of the hardest manifestations of the Fate he was grappling with. Many people believe that the unnamed, mysterious “XXX” in the sketch stands for homosexuality. In his diaries, Tchaikovsky often referred to his homosexuality as “Z” or “That.” 

What, if anything, are we to make of all this? Should we listen to Tchaikovsky’s Fifth as a program symphony about Fate and Destiny? How concerned should we be about thoughts the composer never wanted to divulge, especially those regarding his sexual orientation? 

It seems clear that the “program” Tchaikovsky sketched had a deep influence on his thinking during the time he was writing the Fifth Symphony — without it, the symphony would not be what it is. Perhaps most particularly, the opening theme — the “Fate theme” — would probably not return so ominously in all four movements. 

At the same time, the “program” is insufficient to explain the finished work, in part because the “meaning” of other themes throughout the symphony is unclear. Moreover, Tchaikovsky had already written a “Fate” symphony — the Fourth — for which a more detailed program survives. And the similarities of the two programs do little to explain the great differences between the two works. (The program of the Fourth is also problematic, for no sooner had Tchaikovsky written it down in a letter to his patroness, Nadezhda von Meck, than he declared it to be hopelessly “confused and incomplete.”) 

As for the question of Tchaikovsky’s feelings and desires, while we shouldn’t be too preoccupied with a composer’s most private thoughts, we probably can’t ignore them completely either — especially because there is ample evidence to suggest that Tchaikovsky was both unable and unwilling to separate his extramusical preoccupations from his composing. 

The four movements of Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony are linked by a common theme, often played by the brass instruments and apparently symbolizing the threatening power of Fate. English musicologist Gerald Abraham noted that this theme was taken almost literally from an aria in Mikhail Glinka’s opera A Life for the Tsar. 

The Fate theme is first heard in the Andante introduction of the first movement, soon to be followed by a more lyrical, lilting idea as we move into the faster Allegro tempo. Even with the change of melody, the accompaniment of the Fate motif remains present as a stern reminder. The entire first movement swings back and forth between lyrical and dramatic moments. We would expect it to end with a final climax. Instead, the volume gradually decreases to a whisper, and the mysterious last measures are scored for the lowest-pitched instruments in the orchestra — bassoons, cellos, basses, and timpani. 

The second movement is lyrical and dreamlike, suggesting a brief respite from the struggle. The first horn plays a beautiful singing melody, eventually joined by the full orchestra. A second idea, in a slightly faster tempo, is introduced by the clarinet. Soon, however, an intense crescendo begins, culminating in a fortissimo entrance of the Fate theme. The movement’s opening theme returns, again interrupted by Fate; only after this second dramatic outburst does the music finally find its long-desired rest. 

The third movement is a graceful waltz, with a slightly more agitated middle section. Again we expect a respite from the Fate theme and the emotional drama it represents. Yet before the movement is over, there is a short reminder, subdued yet impossible to ignore, in the clarinets and bassoons. 

In the fourth-movement Finale, Tchaikovsky seems to have taken the bull by the horns. The Fate theme dominates the entire movement, despite the presence of several contrasting themes. At the end of a grandiose development section, the music comes to a halt. At some performances over the years, audience members have mistakenly thought that the symphony was over at this point and started applauding. The final resolution, however, is yet to come, in the form of a majestic reappearance of the Fate theme and a short Presto section in which all “doubts, complaints, and reproaches” are cast aside. Against all odds — or is it simply humanity’s optimistic desires? — the symphony receives the triumphant ending we’ve all been listening for.

— Peter Laki 

Peter Laki is a musicologist and frequent lecturer on classical music. He is a visiting associate professor of music at Bard College.