Warsaw Philharmonic Orchestra: Online Concert Programme | Mon 18 May 2026

Grażyna Bacewicz (1909-1969): Scherzo

Grażyna Bacewicz was born in Łódź in Poland, the third of four children. Their Lithuanian father changed the family name from Bacevičius (Lithuanian) to Bacewicz (Polish), although he continued to honour his Lithuanian heritage; he recognised the importance of a musical education and ensured that all four children played violin and piano from an early age, alongside studying music theory.

Grażyna’s musical talent shone brightly from an early age, giving her first concert at the age of seven and composing her first piece of music at the start of her teenage years. She attended the Warsaw Conservatory in 1928 and after graduating in 1932 she went to study composition in Paris with Nadia Boulanger. She also continued with her piano and violin studies, returning to Warsaw to take up the role of concertmaster of the Polish National Radio Symphony Orchestra from 1936-1938. She lived in Warsaw during the war years, playing in secret underground concerts. She escaped from the city following the Warsaw Uprising in 1944, temporarily settling in Lublin before taking up a professorial role at the state Conservatoire of Music in her hometown of Łódź. She continued with her composing, completing seven violin concertos and four numbered symphonies, which are currently being performed and recorded.

She was seriously injured in a road traffic accident in 1954, and this put an end to her performing career and so for the last fifteen years of her life she concentrated on composition and teaching.

The current Scherzo was originally composed for solo piano in 1934 and was orchestrated in 2020 by Krzysztof Urbański, the Music and Artistic Director of the Warsaw Philharmonic. It is scored for an 18th-century classical orchestra, with pairs of flutes, oboes, clarinets, bassoons, horns and trumpets; timpani and two extra percussionists (although not strictly necessary) and strings.

Lasting less than four minutes, it is very much a neo-classical work and lives up to its title (‘Scherzo’ or ‘Joke’). Its catchy refrain can be heard throughout, right across the orchestral players. Its infectious good humour continues unabated to the end. It makes for a lively concert opener, or it can also be used as an encore item at the end of a concert to send the listeners home with a smile.

© Timothy Dowling

Frédéric Chopin (1810-1849): Piano Concerto No. 2 in F minor

1. Maestoso
2. Larghetto
3. Allegro vivace

Chopin’s two piano concertos were both products of his 20th year, the F minor being premiered on 17 March and the E minor on 11 October 1830 in Warsaw. However, their publication dates meant that they were numbered incorrectly: the E minor Concerto was the first to be published (in Paris in 1833) and so was numbered No. 1. His F minor Concerto was eventually published in Leipzig in 1836 and accordingly titled No. 2.

Both concertos reflect the 20-year-old’s infatuation with the 20-year-old singer Konstancja Gładkowska, a passion that seemingly remained undeclared, possibly until his farewell concert prior to his departure from Warsaw in November 1830.

He wrote to his closest friend Tytus Wojciechowki on 3rd October 1829:

‘… I, perhaps unfortunately, already have my own ideal, which I have served faithfully, though silently, for half a year; of which I dream, to thoughts of which the Adagio of my Concerto belongs… but how dismal it is to have no one to go to in the morning to share one’s griefs and joys; how hateful when something weighs on you and there’s nowhere to lay it down… You know to what I refer. I often tell to my pianoforte what I want to tell to you.’ (extracts from Frédéric Chopin’s Letters, translated by E.L. Voynich, 1931, Dover publication, 1988)

Although he was writing here about the F minor Concerto it is clear that she was also the inspiration for the E minor Concerto, and particularly the central Romanze. He wrote to Tytus later on 15th May 1830:

‘The Adagio of the new concerto is in E major. It is not meant to be loud, it’s more of a romance, quiet, melancholy; it should give the impression of gazing tenderly at a place which brings to the mind a thousand dear memories. It is a sort of meditation in beautiful spring weather, but by moonlight. That is why I have muted the accompaniment.’

In 1828 the composer Johann Nepomuk Hummel (1778-1837) visited Warsaw and heard the 18-year-old Chopin perform and he was greatly impressed by the 18-year-old’s pianistic skills. Hummel’s concertos provided a model for Chopin; he also learnt much from the concertos of Ignaz Moscheles (1794-1870) whose Adagio from his Piano Concerto No. 3 (1821) appears to anticipate the Larghetto in Chopin’s F minor Concerto. And so, the early Romantic concertos were the major influence for Chopin rather than the classical Viennese school of Mozart and Beethoven.

It is not surprising that Berlioz, whose Symphonie fantastique dates from the same year as Chopin’s piano concertos, was critical of Chopin’s orchestration. This is particularly an issue in the long first movement where Chopin employs the structure of sonata-form, orchestral passages staking out the four bare marking points of the edifice: firstly, the long orchestral exposition at the start (which has been severely cut in some performances without arguably affecting the essential qualities of the movement), then two passages to mark the end of the soloist’s exposition and the start of the recapitulation (allowing time for the soloist to take breath), and finally a short coda passage to close the movement. Otherwise, the orchestra simply provides a subdued background texture to support the soloist’s virtuoso and poetic performance: all the musical material is pianistically inspired.

The musicologist Donald Tovey has criticised Chopin’s limitations in handling larger structures, pointing out that we only have the bare bones of Sonata-form without the dynamic energy displayed by his contemporaries Mendelssohn and Schumann. But – and this is a ‘But’ with a capital ‘B’ – the pianist as protagonist is the sole purpose and lifeblood of Chopin’s concertos. His works therefore need to be heard as the prime examples of the romantic concerto, the heirs of Hummel and Moscheles and also first cousins to the lyrical outpourings of Italian opera’s bel canto style, as exemplified by Vincenzo Bellini (1801-1835).

The central Larghetto remains the heart and soul of the Concerto. We can best appreciate here the possible influence of Bellini’s lyrical gifts – his long-breathed melodies – on his younger contemporary. Bellini’s opera based on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, I Capuleti e i Montecchi (The Capulets and the Montagues) also premiered in 1830.

Like the finale of the E minor Concerto, the F minor Concerto’s lively Rondo finale celebrates outdoor life in Poland, and the music is more folk-based than the earlier movements. Chopin’s orchestral writing shows more confidence in the finale and comes much closer to partnership with the soloist, rather than what Berlioz described as ‘a cold, almost superfluous accompaniment’ in the earlier parts of the Concerto.

A solo horn call signals the start of the coda, with a transformation of the mood as Chopin allows light to flood the scene. We are happily taken into the brighter world of F major for the concluding bars. It is little wonder that this effervescent and joyous music ensures a positive reception.

Just three weeks after the premiere of the E minor Concerto in Warsaw in October 1830 Chopin left Poland, travelling via Breslau, Dresden and Prague to Vienna. He travelled with his friend Tytus Wojciechowski who returned to Warsaw when they heard news of the uprising in Warsaw on their arrival in Vienna on 29th November. Chopin was stranded in Vienna for the next six months but finally obtained a visa to travel to Paris. He left Vienna on 20 July and travelled via Munich and Stuttgart, arriving in Paris in September 1831. The E minor Concerto triumphed in the French capital and Chopin later performed the work to help raise funds for the burgeoning number of Polish refugees in the French capital following the Warsaw uprising; Berlioz and Liszt were amongst enthusiastic supporters in the early audiences. It was also positively appreciated by the foremost pianist of the day in Paris, Friedrich Kalkbrenner (1785-1849). Kalkbrenner offered Chopin the opportunity of becoming his student, but on the condition that he sign a contract for three years; Chopin wisely declined his offer but tactfully dedicated the E minor Concerto to him. Chopin was well aware of his own abilities as a pianist and realised that he did not need to be bound to a musician who was later to become merely a footnote in musical history.

Apart from the Andante spianato et grande polonaise brillante, Op. 22, that he had started composing in 1830 and completed in 1834, Chopin concentrated on music for solo piano for his remaining years and so avoided further orchestral forays.

© Timothy Dowling

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893): Symphony No. 6 ‘Pathétique’

1. Adagio – Allegro non troppo
2. Allegro con grazia
3. Allegro molto vivace
4. Finale: Adagio lamentoso

The circumstances of Tchaikovsky’s death just weeks after the premiere of his final Symphony have inevitably led to various theories regarding the composition itself, the cause of his death and also whether the two are linked. Much of this is speculation that would not be considered admissible at a coroner’s court and does little (if anything) to affect our appreciation of his final masterpiece. And so it is best to concentrate on the work itself and Tchaikovsky’s own words about its genesis and possible programme.

Tchaikovsky remained very ambivalent about programme music and often avowed how he despised the form, preferring to let the music speak for itself on its own terms. However, he continued to produce programme music throughout his career, and his Romeo and Juliet Overture must rank as one of the greatest masterpieces of the form. In 1877 he wrote a very detailed description of the programme of his Fourth Symphony in a letter to its dedicatee Nadezhda von Meck. This was clearly a description written after the event and Tchaikovsky immediately had misgivings about committing himself to paper in these terms. And yet despite these misgivings, a rough programme outline was found amongst the sketches for the first movement of the Fifth Symphony in 1888. Similarly, five years later in 1893 he wrote to his brother Modest about his new plans for a programme symphony:

‘At the time of my journey I had an idea for another symphony, this time with a programme, but a programme of a kind that will remain an enigma to all – let them guess, but the symphony will just be called Programme Symphony (No. 6). This progamme is permeated with subjective feeling, and quite often on my journey, composing it in my mind, I wept copiously. When I reached home, I settled down to the sketches, and the work went with such ardour and at such speed that in less than four days I had completely finished the first movement and clearly outlined the remaining movements in my head. Half the third movement is already done. Formally there will be much that is new in this symphony, and incidentally the Finale will not be a loud Allegro but, on the contrary, a very slow-moving Adagio. You cannot imagine what bliss I feel in the conviction that my time is not yet over and that work is still possible. Of course I may be wrong, but I don’t think so. I can tell you in all sincerity that I consider this symphony the best thing I have ever done. In any case, it is the most deeply felt. And I love it as I have never loved any of my compositions.’

One striking feature in this letter is Tchaikovsky’s positive frame of mind, despite the proposed content of the suggested programme on which he was working at the time. There is no suggestion here that he was writing a musical suicide letter as appears to be the case in some of the conspiracy theories regarding the ‘Pathétique’.

The posthumous publication title for the Symphony was suggested by Tchaikovsky’s brother Modest. ‘Патетическая’ (‘Pateticheskaya Simfoniya’) or Pathétique Symphony does not translate easily into contemporary English; the Greek origin of the word would be closer with its suggestion of ‘passion’ or ‘suffering’ and perhaps The Passionate would thus be a more apt translation, although its subtitle is now ingrained in our consciousness and so is unlikely to change.

Tchaikovsky’s programme for the ‘Pathétique’ remained unspoken in words although it is likely that he may have transferred some of his ideas from a proposed E flat major symphony that he wrote about in 1892: ‘the ultimate essence of the symphony is Life: First part – all impulsive passion, confidence, thirst for activity. Must be short (the Finale death – result of collapse). Second part love: third disappointments; fourth ends dying away (also short).’

This is clearly not the programme for the ‘Pathétique’, but the struggle between Life and Death is the common feature and the most daring part of the plan was the suggested ending as the proposed symphony dies away quietly: this then proved to be the ‘Pathétique’s most radical dramatic stroke. The battle with Fate had dominated Tchaikovsky’s previous two Symphonies; he managed to achieve a positive victory in the Finales of these two works, but with mixed results as shown in his ambivalence about their success. The radical departure from the triumphant Finale remains the ‘Pathétique’s defining character.

The ‘Pathétique’ is thus a work about life and death and it marks death’s ultimate victory with its Adagio lamentoso, although this does not necessarily mean the composer’s imminent death. If so, Mahler would have had at least nine lives: each of his symphonies contains a funeral march and yet he survived all his symphonies until the Tenth…

As was customary with Tchaikovsky the first movement is the most substantial part of the Symphony and contains its essential drama. In a sense, we start with its ending as pianissimo cellos and basses steal in quietly. This provides the background for the four-note repeated theme introduced by solo bassoon, a brief fragmented theme that will then form the essential germ for the ensuing Allegro non troppo. The brief motivic quality of this theme represents a new development for Tchaikovsky who had previously relied on his lyrical gift for symphonic composition. However, this nervous, darting music does provide a strong contrast for the lamenting long-limbed theme soon introduced by muted strings playing teneramente, molto cantabile, con espansione. This is one of Tchaikovsky’s most memorable themes and he repeats it unchanged apart from instrumentation and accompaniment, firstly on full orchestra and then on solo clarinet, dying away to an extreme pppppp.

We are shocked out of our reverie by the fortissimo start of the development section, mainly featuring the four-note theme that set the work in motion. Death stalks the first movement as chant from the Russian Orthodox Requiem makes a quiet appearance on brass in the development section (bars 201ff), the unsung words being ‘With thy saints, O Christ, give peace to the soul of thy servant.’

This whole middle section is Tchaikovsky’s greatest symphonic development and builds up to a tremendous climax over a long, sustained dominant pedal. This heralds the return of the tender second subject theme now in the home key of B in major mode. Quiet chant on brass brings this dramatic movement to a peaceful conclusion. We are reminded of the story that the musicologist Stephen Johnson told regarding the Russian’s love affair with the minor mode:

Q: Why are so many Russian symphonies and concertos in the minor mode?

A: Because they reserved the major mode for their saddest moments.

In his Fifth Symphony Tchaikovsky introduced a graceful waltz in order to lower the emotional tension created by the first two movements. After all the life/death drama that we have traversed, Tchaikovsky here also turns to a waltz-like theme. But it is now a broken waltz, in a halting 5/4 rhythm that is maintained throughout, even in the central ‘trio’ section with its falling, mournful (flebile) theme over its endless pulse on timpani.

Likewise, Tchaikovsky was a skilled creator of the triumphant march and uses this as the basis for his third movement, but this ‘march’ has a strange hollowness to it. Mendelssohnian grace and lightness set us on our way as strings and woodwind skip around the broken fragments of the gathering march. The march theme is only stated in full after several minutes, but the movement then builds up to an undeniably exciting climax although we are aware of an emptiness at the core of all this hyperactivity. Its emphatic G major close may initially sound like the exciting ending of the work and plunging straight into the B minor Adagio lamentoso creates an unnerving shock. Applause between these disjointed worlds deprives us of the full effect of this experience.

The fragmentary march does have an echo in the broken theme that starts this lament as first and second violins play alternate notes of the opening falling phrase, thus producing an aural illusion. As the first two horns provide a gentle heartbeat, the final apotheosis of the falling phrase comes with the central Andante section in D major. We can imagine that this is where Tchaikovsky may have ‘wept copiously’ as there appears to be no end to the grief. However, a quiet, single stroke of the gong (tamtam) marks the end of the grieving as life ebbs slowly away and we drift into silence.

And so the ‘Pathétique’ ends like no previous symphony, but soon found followers in the next generations, in particular with Mahler’s Sixth and Ninth Symphonies and Sibelius’s Fourth Symphony. The shape of Mahler’s Ninth is remarkably similar to the ‘Pathétique’ and in particular the two central movements: Mahler’s second movement Ländler echoing Tchaikovsky’s broken waltz and Mahler’s Rondo burlesque matching Tchaikovsky’s bombastic march. Both Finales then take the consoling road to silence.

Tchaikovsky’s bombastic march could also be heard as an ancestor of Shostakovich’s nihilistic second movement of his Tenth Symphony composed some 60 years later in the wake of Stalin’s death.

Thus this is Tchaikovsky’s greatest symphony and an overwhelming emotional experience as he tackles head-on the issues of life and death. In so doing he joins together with other 19th century composers for whom death remained a figure of endless fascination, including Berlioz and Liszt, and then Mahler and Rachmaninoff in the generation that followed.

Tchaikovsky’s brother Modest attested to Tchaikovsky’s positive attitude both during and after the completion of the ‘Pathétique’; we may well appreciate the cathartic effect that this work may have had on the composer as he finally came to terms with Fate without equivocation and so poured out his heart in music of searing honesty and directness. With music of this power and intensity, why do we need to turn to conspiracy theories? The music provides all the answers we need.

© Timothy Dowling