it is a foil, in its simple flow, to the revel of the motto, now grown into a sonorous, joyous march.  And we seem to see how most of the other melodies,—­the minor episode, the expressive duet—­have sprung from bits of the main text.

To return for another view,—­the Finale begins in a mood that if not joyous, is religious.  Out of the cadence of the hymn dances the Allegro tune almost saucily.  Nor has this charming trip the ring of gladness, though it grows to great momentum.  As a whole there is no doubt of the assurance, after the earlier fitful gloom, and with the resignation an almost militant spirit of piety.

In the dulcet canon, an exquisite gem, bliss and sadness seem intermingled; and then follows the crowning song, broad of pace, blending the smaller rhythms in ecstatic surmounting of gloom.  In further verse it doubles its sweet burden in overlapping voices, while far below still moves the rapid trip.

But the motto will return, in major to be sure, and tempered in mercy.  And the whole hymn dominates, with mere interludes of tripping motion, breaking at the height into double pace of concluding strain.  Before falling back into the thrall of the legend the furious race rushes eagerly into the deepest note of bliss, where in sonorous bass rolls the broad, tranquil song.  And though the revel must languish, yet we attend the refrain of all the melodies in crowning rapture.  Then at last, in stern minor, sounds the motto, still with the continuing motion, in a loud and long chant.

In blended conclusion of the contending moods comes a final verse of the legend in major, with full accoutrement of sounds and lesser rhythm, in majestic pace.  And there is a following frolic with a verse of the serene song.  The end is in the first Allegro theme of the symphony, in transfigured major tone.

We must be clear at least of the poet’s intent.  In the Fifth Symphony Tschaikowsky sang a brave song of struggle with Fate.

CHAPTER XI

THE NEO-RUSSIANS

For some mystic reason nowhere in modern music is the symphony so justified as in Russia.  Elsewhere it survives by the vitality of its tradition.  In France we have seen a series of works distinguished rather by consummate refinement than by strength of intrinsic content.  In Germany since the masterpieces of Brahms we glean little besides the learnedly facile scores of a Bruckner, with a maximum of workmanship and a minimum of sturdy feeling,—­or a group of “heroic” symphonies all cast in the same plot of final transfiguration.  The one hopeful sign is the revival of a true counterpoint in the works of Mahler.