Sergei Rachmaninov’s First Symphony was nearly his last.
During the work’s disastrous premiere in Saint Petersburg on March 28, 1897, the 23-year-old composer hid in a backstage fire escape with his ears plugged as an under-rehearsed orchestra, led by an inebriated and disinterested Alexander Glazunov, desecrated the score. Catcalls erupted throughout the hall, and César Cui colorfully derided the new Symphony as music that would “delight the inhabitants of Hell.”
The confidence-shattering event plunged Rachmaninov into a deep depression. For three years, he was unable to compose. Finally, in 1901, the creative block lifted with the rapturous Second Piano Concerto. It was not until 1906 that Rachmaninov, now a celebrity pianist and the conductor of the Imperial Opera at the Moscow’s Bolshoi Theatre, traveled with his wife and infant daughter to out-of-the-way Dresden to write a Second Symphony. Even then, he proceeded cautiously, at one point declaring, “To hell with them! I do not know how to write symphonies, and besides, I have no real desire to write them.”
Ultimately, the new Symphony was warmly received when it was premiered, under the composer’s baton, in Saint Petersburg on February 8, 1908. The establishment, which had so harshly misjudged the First Symphony a decade earlier, awarded Rachmaninov his second Glinka Prize.
Melancholy, sensuous, and lushly beautiful, Rachmaninov’s Symphony No. 2 in E minor, Op. 27 is a celebration of the majesty of melody. A seven-note motto, which emerges deep in the cellos and basses in the opening of the first movement (Largo – Allegro moderato) provides the motivic seed out of which the entire Symphony develops. Grim and shadowy, this initial line evokes the timelessness of a fragment of Russian Orthodox chant. It sets in motion a sumptuous and aspiring melodic stream which forms a spacious introduction. Throughout the first movement, solo instrumental voices herald the arrival of something new. It is the plaintive, solitary voice of the English horn which opens the door to the exposition section and the arrival of the first theme, a variation on the opening motto. The solo clarinet ushers in the sunny second theme (6:15). Beginning with a simple oscillation between two pitches (D-C-D), it is derived from the first statement of the woodwinds in the Symphony’s opening bars. Now, initial tragedy is transformed into overflowing warmth and tenderness. Turbulent and impassioned, the development section reaches a soaring, titanic climax reminiscent of Tchaikovsky (12:50) before fading into the recapitulation.
The second movement (Allegro molto) is a vibrant scherzo. It begins with something akin to a dazzling flash of light against new-fallen snow, and the thrilling momentum of a Russian sleigh ride. Heroic, adventurous horn and trumpet calls ring out. In numerous works, Rachmaninov was drawn back to the downward-stepping motif of the Dies irae (“Day of Wrath”), the medieval Latin chant of the dead. The motivic imprint of the Dies irae is once again evident here. The scherzo’s contrasting second theme is lushly beautiful, warm, and expansive. The movement’s middle section (Meno mosso) arrives with a sudden crash of cymbals and a vigorous fugue subject, initiated by the second violins. With the entrance of the snare drum, the fugue transforms into a spirited march in which we hear a curious motivic foreshadowing of Rachmaninov’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, composed years later in 1934 (4:25). The motto theme returns in the movement’s final moments, this time as a striking brass chorale.
Melody, in all of its sensuous glory, blossoms in the third movement (Adagio). The first bars offer a warm tonal embrace which opens the door to a soulful, expansive statement by the solo clarinet. It’s a melody so captivating and unforgettable that it inspired the American singer-songwriter Eric Carmen’s 1975 hit, Never Gonna Fall in Love Again. Yet the pop song seems one dimensional next to Rachmaninov’s original music, with its miraculous sense of organic development, and magical blend of wistfulness and exultation.
Moving to E major, the opening of the finale (Allegro Vivace) erupts with a sense of unabashed joy and celebration. Synthesizing elements of the previous movements, it begins as an Italian tarantella and shifts into a regal march. The emotional high point arrives with yet another soaring and lushly beautiful melody, which concludes with a passing remembrance of the third movement’s theme. Descending scales underlie the development section, and climax with a torrent of jubilant, bell-like descending lines which occur at various rates of speed. The coda section surges to a euphoric conclusion which echoes the final bars of Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony, a work set in the same key. The final cadence is punctuated with Rachmaninov’s trademark ending, a triumphant triplet rap.
Rachmaninov and the Philadelphia Orchestra
Rachmaninov’s long association with the Philadelphia Orchestra began in 1909, a year after the premiere of the Second Symphony, and extended through the music director tenures of Leopold Stokowski and Eugene Ormandy. Addressing the Philadelphia Orchestra at the final rehearsal of his last composition, the Symphonic Dances, Op. 45, Rachmaninov spoke of the influence of the Russian bass, Feodor Chaliapin:
He was my ideal, and when I thought of composition I thought of song and of Chaliapin. Now he is gone. Today, when I think of composing, my thoughts turn to you, the greatest orchestra in the world.
Early conductors often performed the Second Symphony with cuts. Eugene Ormandy’s 1973 recording with the Philadelphia Orchestra presents the score in its complete form:
I. Largo – Allegro moderato:
II. Allegro molto:
III. Adagio:
IV. Allegro Vivace:
Five Great Recordings
- Rachmaninov: Symphony No. 2 in E Minor, Op. 27, Eugene Ormandy, The Philadelphia Orchestra Amazon
- André Previn and the London Symphony Orchestra
- Antonio Pappano and the Staatskapelle Dresden
- Yuri Temirkanov and the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra
- Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra (1959 recording)