Sergej Rachmaninow
Isle of the Dead, Symphonic Poem, op. 29

In the middle of the immeasurable waters a steep rock face, rising abruptly as if hewn by a giant hand, forming a bay in a semicircle and enclosing a grove of tall cypresses; halfway up, rectangular cave openings cut into the stone, below a little masonry; in the background a threatening tangle of clouds, in the foreground a boat rowed by a dark ferryman, on it a coffin draped with white cloth and decorated with garlands, in front of which a mysterious figure cloaked entirely in white seems to stand motionless. Arnold Böcklin's Isle of the Dead, the most famous painting by the Swiss symbolist, has inspired many composers for good reason (some thirty pieces of music refer to it). The painter himself believed that ‘a work of art’ should ‘tell something and make the viewer think, as well as a poem, and make an impression on him like a piece of music’. When Sergei Rachmaninov became acquainted with Böcklin's painting in Paris - initially in a black and white reproduction, possibly the etching created by Max Klinger - the morbid atmosphere immediately appealed to him. Inspired by this, he created one of his most characteristic orchestral works.

After many disappointments, Rachmaninov had temporarily turned his back on his Russian homeland and settled in Dresden in the autumn of 1906, at that time one of the top addresses on the international art and music scene. Several operas by Richard Strauss were premiered at the Court Opera in those years. Rachmaninov heard Salome there ‘and got completely excited’; Strauss was ‘a very talented man’, ‘his orchestration is incredible’. Orchestration was always a challenge for the composer, who came from the piano. In the case of Toteninsel, however, he thought in retrospect that he had grasped everything in one fell swoop at the beginning of 1909. ‘When composing, I find it very helpful to have a book in mind, a beautiful picture or a poem .... And they come: all the voices at the same time. Not one piece here, one piece there. Everything. The whole emerges. Thus the Isle of the Dead. Everything was done in April and May. When it came, how it began - how can I say? It arose in me, was guarded and written down.’

Despite many happy moments at that time, such as the birth of his second daughter, concert successes and recognition at home and in the West, Rachmaninov's brooding mood, clouded by frequent depression, is expressed in this work. The swaying 5/8 metre, which traces the waves and irregularly changes the inner accent, determines the outer sections of the piece, which, without a real melody or theme, is merely an inwardly moving sound surface. Lights occasionally shine through the changing gloom: a horn call, an oboe lament, a glimmer of hope in the high violins. But fate moves inexorably forward, even in the middle section with its pleas against the inexorable fate. The brass announces the ‘Dies irae’ theme of the Latin Mass for the Dead, the first four notes of which then characterise the transition to the return of the opening mood and which has the last word in the low strings at the very end.