"———It is clear that the transmutation which the subject of the Allegro undergoes just before the close of the symphony is of the same psychological order as that of the Fate motive—a change from clouds to sunshine, from defeat to triumph."
From Ernest Newman's criticism of Tschaikowsky.
To all outward appearances there was nothing unusual about the rehearsal. The musicians had assembled—and very softly the andante of Tschaikowsky's Fifth Symphony in E minor had begun—a dream-like wave—which little by little swelled—and dropped again—now as a hymn—a plea for unknown happiness.
Dasha Ivanovna Tortsov played. Since the first time she had heard this Slavic Symphony, one snowy night in Moscow, she had loved it. Queer yet beautiful ideas were brought by it into her mind—The String Movement—plentiful crops—full hearts of joy—But how could her heart be joyful? What right ever had she to be playing Russian music? She had deserted—left—talked against Russia, exaggerated the oppressions, the sufferings, had ridiculed all that others held sacred—Dolce—the running waters of Russia in the summer, a clear sky—then the coming of fall with the brown leaves—a gradual decline into winter.—A storm—oh—how she had loved storms—in bygone days—then. And again still weather—the dance of gypsies at a fair—very low—a sound—a murmur—
She scarcely heard the orchestra leader's shrill whistle, his calls of Back to letter B—or letter F—or Strings softer there
It was Russia—wistful—half-fulfilled thoughts.
Longing she had never known before took possession of her soul.
Gloom—and yet the very depth of a Russian's heart, pouring itself out in the mystic symphony.
Then—a lighter mood—again the green woods and water—oh for the happy song of the boatman on the Volga.
Higher and higher rose the trepidation. She was tense—what was it—what was breaking loose within her—Higher and higher rose the waves of the music—