The Quartets are
an under-investigated part of Martinů’s chamber output. Few
attempts stay long in the catalogue but the Panocha’s traversal
of all seven on Supraphon 11 0994-2 (three CDs) from 1980-83 LPs
was consolidated into a box in the mid-nineties. The Stamitz,
originally on Bayer, now in this Brilliant Classics “Czech Box,”
also recorded the cycle, in 1990, an extensive period in the studios
for them as they also set down the Smetana Quartets included here
alongside the two Janáček from 1988. At Brilliant
Classics’ ludicrously cheap price one can investigate at will
the variety of Martinů’s inspirations and occasionally, it
must be admitted, lack or recycling of them.
The First Quartet dates from 1918 and is something
of a ’prentice work. The first of
the four movements is folk-influenced in the moderato passages
while strong Dvořák inflexions inform the melodic line. The
form is rather unconventional, the lyricism touched by a degree
of youthful sensuousness, and the key keeps shifting as if to
keep us on our toes. The slow movement
is impressionistic - he may not have reached it yet but Martinů’s
musical horizons were already formidably Parisian. The formal
transitions in this Debussyian movement are rather unexpected
and startling but moderately
effective, especially in this performance. Rhythmically the third
movement is propulsive with a trio section full of supple lightness
and the finale, the longest of the four movements, rather outstays
its welcome despite the return of the earthy Dvořák influence.
The Second Quartet followed seven years later in 1925 and it opens
with deceptive gentility – soon to be followed by brisk animation
and mildly Roussel influenced writing. The technique here is much
more concentrated and advanced even though he allows himself the
luxury of a combustible pizzicato episode. The work is at its
most impressive and most impressively played in the rather static
Andante, complex with occasional sforzati but bathed in dense
dark colours. It threatens fugato or Chorale development at one
point but manages pretty well to fuse a historically aware sensibility
with a modern occasional neo-classicist technique; the ending
is oddly bleak. Come the Finale though and textures are immediately
lightened and aerated – there’s a frisky solo violin cadenza,
rousing pizzicati and dancing, relieved drive. The Third Quartet
of 1929 concludes the first disc of this set. It’s the most compact
of the seven and consolidates but doesn’t much expand upon the
advances made in the Second; big thrummed pizzicati for the lower
strings, the viola’s line thick and deep and some motoric writing
all enliven the first movement. The second movement is a slithery
affair and the finale has real drive and splashes of bold colour
- painterly music.
The Fourth Quartet, the first of his so-called
Concerto da Camera Quartets (the other was the last), begins
in that bustly neo-classical School of ’37-’38 way so familiar
from his contemporary orchestral works. It winds down in another
technique familiar to admirers before developing renewed adrenalin.
Scampering drama informs the Allegro scherzando and I was taken
by cellist Vladimir Leixner’s inquisitive little contributions.
The Adagio is rather light in tone with a somewhat wandering tonality
but it soon settles into high-lying
violin writing and expressive middle voices. The finale is genial
and colourfully motoric once again – the dramatic “slow down”
of the material that Martinů so often cultivates is linked
to the similar incident in the opening movement and acts
as a contrastive device as well as imparting an intriguing sense
of stasis and reflection into the material. Following, a year
later, in the turbulent year of 1938, the Fifth is the greatest
of all the Quartets. The tough drive of the opening movement is
elastically extended to take in moments of lyrical, almost nostalgic
reflection. There is a sense of distinct tension as each of the
voices seeks out its individual line before the driving momentum
is once more resumed. The first violin part explores exceptionally
high-lying writing, expertly negotiated by Bohuslav Matousek,
himself a soloist of distinct ability. The Adagio utilises melody
from Kaprálová’s song Farewell Handkerchief
to poignant effect. The movement is unsettled, full of jabbing
violin and cello accents – the introspection is complex and emotional
convoluted, and this is surely not an extrapolation from what
we know, biographically, of his relationship with Kaprálová.
Insistent, repeated, bordering on the tensely obsessive, the Allegro
vivo continues the unsettledness of the work before the passionate
lament that opens the finale. This is the delayed heart of the
piece, its journeying-toward moment; the inward keening concentrates
in one focal point all the rhythmic and motivic shards that have
not coalesced, that have stubbornly
refused to cohere. Once done Martinů unleashes the full weight
of the Allegro conclusion – stern, bristling, allowing some more
innocent passages to emerge but turning back to the bridling,
arresting authority that the earlier emotional resolution
has now allowed. Not only is this a technically powerful work,
it is argued with strong internal dynamic and emotive contrasts.
It charts that movement with honesty and with genuine warmth and
power and stands as the summit of Martinů’s
control over the form, a focus of conflict and resolution he never
again attempted.
The Sixth Quartet was a post-war work, written
in 1946 in America. It’s essentially optimistic with folk-like
textures vaguely reminiscent of his earlier work in the quartet
form. It marks a distinct change from the pre-war Fifth, a work
suffused in personal and spiritual turmoil, and which embraces
in the Andante easy and free lyricism. The Andante here is quite
quick and has elegance and charm with only a few brief shadows
to intrude. The finale banishes care; spirited optimism prevails.
I suspect however that the Stamitz could have found just a few
more flecks of disappointment in the opening Allegro moderato.
The last Quartet, No. 7, dates from 1947, a period in which
he was still optimistic about his return to a professorship in
Prague. The Stamitz capture pretty well the sense of excitement,
almost friskiness – well, as near to frisky as Martinů gets
in a Quartet – that is engendered here. He even ends the opening
movement with a barely concealed little quasi-baroque procedure,
a joke-flourish of delightful panache and confidence. The Andante
is indeed one of his most sheerly beautiful and relaxed melodies
and one moreover that unfolds with unselfconscious, uninterrupted
eloquence. It is radiant, not at all accompanied by harmonic shifts
or neo-classical design, just plain unvarnished lyricism evolving
peacefully at its own pace. Eight glorious minutes. The joyous
and affectionate finale in a rather "old fashioned"
style hints indeed at Haydn and Beethoven along the way, almost
as if Martinů felt he had nothing left to prove or to demonstrate
in the form.
And indeed that was it. The rest of the disc
gives us the Madrigals of 1947 written for Lillian and Joseph
Fuchs. Matousek and Jan Peruska are lithe and elegant in the first,
exploit the fluttery whimsicality of the second with conviction
and skill – especially when they open out into reflective intimacy.
In the Allegro they are rhythmically solid and galvanizing – also
full of airy lyricism. The String Trio is the second he wrote
and dates from 1934. It’s in two compact movements, the first
doused with colourful neo-classicist intentions and incident,
harmonic and rhythmic, as well as a good sense of "space."
There are times when it does sound a little clotted – I’d like
to know how the Parisian dedicatees, the excellent sibling trio,
the Pasquier, managed it. A swift and comprehensive Poco moderato
ends the work – not a hugely impressive one but well worth hearing.
I’ll be brief with the remainder of the discs
not because the performances are poor but because most prospective
purchasers will be interested in this box for the Martinů.
The Stamitz essay both quartets by Smetana and Janáček. They
are fine, rather middle-of-the-road performances, honest and well
played. There are moments – in Smetana No. 1 and Janáček
Intimate Letters first movement - when a degree
of literalness can occasionally derail them. These are however
discreet, not over-emoted traversals; you won’t find much sleekness,
sensuality or emotive effusion – equally you won’t find leaden
phrasing or technical liabilities. Tonal blend is not as cohesive
here as it is with other quartets but the advantages are those
of individuality of phrasing.
A warm welcome to this disarmingly cheap set.
The Martinů Quartets are well
worth the effort to get to know and the notes by Milan Slavicky
point some of the way there – Karl Michael Komma writes on the
Janáček works. If you’ve not heard them, or have not heard
them all, I can heartily recommend this comprehensive
traversal of the unpredictable, occasionally highly impressive
works that make up the corpus of Martinů’s Quartets.
Jonathan Woolf
for details 
Stamitz Quartet