Tchaikovsky in St. Petersburg and at Carnegie Hall

Recently, I've become more aware when music and dance companies from St. Petersburg arrive in New York.  I blame this fascination on my recent trip to Russia.  Before visiting last December, St. Petersburg was the frozen Venice of the North and the burial place of my uncle.  I had vague thoughts of finding his grave.  But who was I kidding?  It was so cold that walking the streets proved dangerous.  Ice covered ground that had been frozen solid for weeks.  Instead, in Nevsky Monsatery I found art:  Tchaikovsky's grave easily identified by its decorations: a curlicued angel and ornate iron gate.  Red roses, wilted from the cold, were scattered before it.  

So it wasn't surprising that I was recently drawn to the "Tchaikovsky in St. Petersburg" festival at Carnegie Hall, celebrating the 120th anniversary of the great concert hall and featuring the renowned Maryiinsky Orchestra conducted by Valerie Gergiev.  Apparently, Tchaikovsky and Carnegie Hall go way back.  Tchaikovsky was brought over for the opening festivities of Carnegie Hall in 1891.  He was wined and dined, and in return he conducted his own symphonies in the newly opened concert hall. 

So, last Monday I bought an obstructed view ticket in Dress Circle (tip: the Carnegie Hall website has a new app that allows you to see the stage view from your seat before purchasing tickets online-- my neighbor's view was nearly the same as mine, but he paid almost twice as much). The concert began with Tchaikovsky's Symphony no.3 in D Major ("Polish").  Rarely performed, the cheerfulness of the major key failed to inspire my imagination (contrary to the program notes).  I was familiar with the waltz and scherzo from Balanchine's Jewels.  But this was Tchaikovsky, and my heart stings wanted more tugging.

That came after intermission:  Symphony no. 4 in F Minor.  Composed after the failure of his short-lived yet tempestuous marriage, the symphony is filled with the moodiness and pathos of this troubled time in the composer's life.  Melancholy filled the hall, followed by a determined scherzo marching on, as one must do despite life's struggles.  And then the conclusion, ultimately uplifting and virtually bombastic.   

After all, this was Tchaikovsky.  How else could the composer of the frightfully cheerful holiday classic "The Nutcracker" leave his audience but with this message:  hope survives despite the tragedies of this world.