During 1877, Tchaikovsky was on the brink of an emotional crisis. In an attempt to "cure" himself of his homosexuality - he thought in these terms because of the conservative, oppressive society that was late 19th-century Russia - he had decided to marry a woman. His closest female friend was the widow Nadezhda von Meck, who provided him with financial support and with whom he exchanged intimate letters. But they had an agreement that they should never interact face-to-face, and indeed neither had any interest in a physical relationship. Tchaikovsky's solution, then, came from an unexpected source. A young woman named Antonina Milyukova wrote Tchaikovsky a letter declaring her love for him. The composer spurned her at first, but then reconsidered his options; since a prolonged courtship could serve no real purpose, they were married within a few months. Unsurprisingly, the marriage was a disaster almost immediately, and the union lasted less than three months before the couple was permanently separated.
The emotional energy of this episode inspired Tchaikovsky to create some of his finest works, including the Symphony #4, the Violin Concerto, and the opera Eugene Onegin. After this spark burned itself out, however, the composer fell into despair and inactivity. Although he and Antonina were separated, she would not consent to a divorce, and he dreaded the damage that would occur if she were to reveal his secret. At last she gave birth to a child fathered by another man, so Tchaikovsky was free to get his divorce on safe ground. Nonetheless, the entire ordeal sapped his creative strength for years, and he wrote little of high quality until 1885, when he emerged with a long programmatic symphony on Byron's Manfred.
Further affirmation would come with the Symphony #5. Unlike many of Tchaikovsky's compositions, the symphony was generally well received at its first performances; favorable respondents included Johannes Brahms, who heard the work in Hamburg. While Tchaikovsky's music is sometimes characterized by meandering passages where the form is unconvincing and the melodic material stretched too thin, the drama of the Symphony #5 is easily grasped, even on first listening, and the melodic invention is rich. Motivic unity comes in the form of a so-called "motto theme," heard at the outset in the clarinets, appearing conspicuously in the second and third movements, and then framing the finale through its use at the beginning and end of the movement. The themes from the rest of the symphony receive even less thorough development, but they are all so compelling that their melodic sweep is enough to carry the music.
Indeed, it is its direct mode of expression that has endeared this symphony to so many. Tchaikovsky was a skilled orchestrator, and the Symphony #5 abounds with textbook examples of how to cast melodies in their best light. The opening of the piece, featuring the clarinets in their dark, mysterious low register, is only the first example. The climaxes of the first movement are superbly crafted, the horn solo that opens the second movement is one of the jewels of the repertoire, and the grace of the third movement's waltz is unsurpassed in Tchaikovsky's output. Even the finale, which is criticized for its lengthy coda and lack of harmonic interest, is tremendously effective in building dramatic tension. Tchaikovsky's lifelong insecurity is legendary, and commentators are quick to point out hollowness in even his most sincere works. His Symphony #5, however, reminds us that the real value of music is borne out by the generations of listeners it inspires.