Cello Concerto in B minor, Op. 104
Antonín Dvořák (1841-1904)
Allegro; Adagio ma non troppo; Finale: Allegro moderato
‘I have written a cello concerto, but am sorry to this day I did so. The cello is a beautiful instrument, but it isn’t much good as a solo instrument.’ So said Antonín Dvořák to a composition student. How could he have owned up to such weakness when Johannes Brahms had praised his B minor concerto so enthusiastically? ‘Why on earth didn’t I know that one could write a cello concerto like this?’, Brahms asked. ‘Had I known, I would have written one long ago.’
In confessing regrets to his student, Dvořák was referring to another cello concerto, written at the age of 24. Couched in the key of A major, it is said to last 80 minutes. The score was found in a cupboard more than 20 years after his death. The two concertos are linked because the earlier work was inspired by Dvořák’s love for a reportedly beautiful young woman, Josefina Cermakova. He asked her to marry him. She refused so he married her sister instead. We must wait awhile to learn the end of that tale.
It is easy to understand Brahms’s enthusiasm for the B minor Concerto, there being few competitors in the field. Rarity adds value. While the verdict of time has wholly endorsed its merits, some contemporary admirers sought changes at the draft stage. For example the cellist Hanus Wihan (the intended first soloist) urged Dvořák to include a long and juicy cadenza for the cellist, but failed to persuade him. Others suggested cuts because of the concerto’s considerable length. Again, Dvořák held his line, even presenting his publishers, Simrock, with a threat of withdrawal if they changed a single note at the behest of anyone other than himself.
The first movement plays for about 15 minutes. Critics agree that its thematic material is handled idiosyncratically. Some conventions of concerto writing are flouted, but this is not necessarily a weakness. At the start, we hear a full-length orchestral exposition, offering a cornucopia of melodies ranging from the opening Slavic chant to the operatic lyricism of the ‘second subject’, here entrusted to the first horn, a melody described by Sir Donald Tovey as ‘…one of the most beautiful passages ever written for the horn’. These and other themes or thematic fragments are adopted and adapted by the soloist to assemble a movement of impressive proportions. The sheer melodic fecundity and the solo cellist’s dominance leave the listener convinced and satisfied, even though pundits may grumble about the concerto-writing ‘rules’ that had been broken. Tovey was less judgemental: ‘… the total impression left by the (first) movement is unequivocally that of a masterpiece, whatever theorists may say.’ If Tovey says it’s okay, it is okay.
The lyrical slow movement includes an almost notatim quotation from a song Dvořák wrote as a younger man. This song was admired by Josefina Cermakova, his first love, so its inclusion here might be indicative of Dvořák’s unquenched affection for his sister-in-law, or for the memory of her as a younger woman. Like the first movement, the final Rondo is discursive but richly melodic as well, so our interest is always engaged. The influence of Czech folk music dominates. Although Dvořák had composed his ‘New World’ symphony shortly before embarking upon this cello concerto, any hint of America had evaporated. It seems that Dvořák’s thoughts of Josefina Cermakova had not. And this is where their tale ends, partly in sadness. The news of her death reached him as he was completing the score. He added an extended contemplative coda as a memorial. Tovey wrote:
Eventually, in quite a slow tempo, the ghost of the first movement appears seraphically in the clarinets. But at last the orchestra rouses itself. The trombones give out the figure of the rondo theme in solemn big notes; and, after all, the work ends allegro vivo in high spirits.
Antonín Dvořák (1841-1904)
Allegro; Adagio ma non troppo; Finale: Allegro moderato
‘I have written a cello concerto, but am sorry to this day I did so. The cello is a beautiful instrument, but it isn’t much good as a solo instrument.’ So said Antonín Dvořák to a composition student. How could he have owned up to such weakness when Johannes Brahms had praised his B minor concerto so enthusiastically? ‘Why on earth didn’t I know that one could write a cello concerto like this?’, Brahms asked. ‘Had I known, I would have written one long ago.’
In confessing regrets to his student, Dvořák was referring to another cello concerto, written at the age of 24. Couched in the key of A major, it is said to last 80 minutes. The score was found in a cupboard more than 20 years after his death. The two concertos are linked because the earlier work was inspired by Dvořák’s love for a reportedly beautiful young woman, Josefina Cermakova. He asked her to marry him. She refused so he married her sister instead. We must wait awhile to learn the end of that tale.
It is easy to understand Brahms’s enthusiasm for the B minor Concerto, there being few competitors in the field. Rarity adds value. While the verdict of time has wholly endorsed its merits, some contemporary admirers sought changes at the draft stage. For example the cellist Hanus Wihan (the intended first soloist) urged Dvořák to include a long and juicy cadenza for the cellist, but failed to persuade him. Others suggested cuts because of the concerto’s considerable length. Again, Dvořák held his line, even presenting his publishers, Simrock, with a threat of withdrawal if they changed a single note at the behest of anyone other than himself.
The first movement plays for about 15 minutes. Critics agree that its thematic material is handled idiosyncratically. Some conventions of concerto writing are flouted, but this is not necessarily a weakness. At the start, we hear a full-length orchestral exposition, offering a cornucopia of melodies ranging from the opening Slavic chant to the operatic lyricism of the ‘second subject’, here entrusted to the first horn, a melody described by Sir Donald Tovey as ‘…one of the most beautiful passages ever written for the horn’. These and other themes or thematic fragments are adopted and adapted by the soloist to assemble a movement of impressive proportions. The sheer melodic fecundity and the solo cellist’s dominance leave the listener convinced and satisfied, even though pundits may grumble about the concerto-writing ‘rules’ that had been broken. Tovey was less judgemental: ‘… the total impression left by the (first) movement is unequivocally that of a masterpiece, whatever theorists may say.’ If Tovey says it’s okay, it is okay.
The lyrical slow movement includes an almost notatim quotation from a song Dvořák wrote as a younger man. This song was admired by Josefina Cermakova, his first love, so its inclusion here might be indicative of Dvořák’s unquenched affection for his sister-in-law, or for the memory of her as a younger woman. Like the first movement, the final Rondo is discursive but richly melodic as well, so our interest is always engaged. The influence of Czech folk music dominates. Although Dvořák had composed his ‘New World’ symphony shortly before embarking upon this cello concerto, any hint of America had evaporated. It seems that Dvořák’s thoughts of Josefina Cermakova had not. And this is where their tale ends, partly in sadness. The news of her death reached him as he was completing the score. He added an extended contemplative coda as a memorial. Tovey wrote:
Eventually, in quite a slow tempo, the ghost of the first movement appears seraphically in the clarinets. But at last the orchestra rouses itself. The trombones give out the figure of the rondo theme in solemn big notes; and, after all, the work ends allegro vivo in high spirits.