Antonín Dvorák (1841-1904) – Violin Concerto
in A minor, op. 53
In my opinion (though possibly not yours), Dvorák’s
destiny was shaped by Smetana, Brahms, and his father. His father?
Well, yes: selflessly releasing Antonín from his apprenticeship
lost Bohemia a budding butcher, but look what it gave to the World!
Smetana (late 1860s) showed Dvorák the true potential of the
musical riches of Bohemia’s woods and fields. Brahms (1876)
took him under his wing and, albeit unwittingly, provided a creative
model far more apposite than the fashionable “Wagner/Liszt”.
The daisy-fresh Violin Concerto is a happy early fruit of the union
of these complementary influences. Contrariwise, its history is confused.
Undoubtedly, it starts with Joachim’s premičre of Brahms’s
Violin Concerto (January 1879). But, did Joachim then ask Dvorák
for a concerto, or did Dvorák write one off his own bat?
Either way, Dvorák did (July to September 1879), and posted
the score to its dedicatee. Joachim’s prompt, complimentary
acknowledgement intimated that, although unable to do so immediately,
he was “. . . looking forward to going through [the] work very
soon and con amore.”
The next certainty is that František Ondricek premičred
the concerto (October 1883). Accounts of the interim vary, the common
factor being Joachim’s endless suggestions and generous insistence
on tweaking the solo part. One account claims that Dvorák,
feeling insulted, denied Joachim the premičre. Others more
circumspectly suggest that Joachim “became sceptical”
or “for some reason went rather cool”.
To be fair, although their exchange was uncommonly protracted, such
goings-on were not uncommon. In his letters Dvorák complained
(mildly) only of the delay. In mid-1882 he wrote, “[I] played
through the Violin Concerto with Joachim twice; he is very delighted
with it.” Indeed, they both worked hard – needing three
revisions to finish the job (late 1882).
Why Joachim couldn’t do the premičre is a mystery. Ironically,
in 1884, Dvorák wrote to Ondricek saying that Joachim had wanted
to perform it prior to Dvorák’s formal London engagements;
however, in deference to the Philharmonic, the offer was regretfully
declined!
Each movement is marked ma non troppo, an insistence on moderation
that – along with minimal pyrotechnic opportunities –
probably worried the “professional” in Joachim. Yet, beneath
the evident charms – eloquent melodies, toe-tapping rhythms
and that characteristically “open-air” orchestration –
further wonders forge a gratifying whole.
1. Allegro ma non troppo. Calling this a sonata-form means wrestling
with considerable “unconventionalities”. Fortunately,
unseemly wrestling is unnecessary – because it’s actually
a variation-form. An introduction features imperious orchestra and
wistful violin, disputing the tenor of a theme. The orchestra makes
it a vigorous Slavonic subject [A], spilling into a tender, two-part
Brahmsian subject [B].
The violin whips up a storm [A, v1]. This subsides, leaving violin
and woodwind musing [B, v1]. An impassioned violin elaborates its
original Slavonic idea, whose Brahmsian climax [A, v2] prefaces something
special – through two successive variations [B, v2-3], the serene
“Brahms” character magically acquires irresistibly lilting
“Slavonicism”!
B retires. The tempo picks up; a long crescendo [A, v3] reaches a
big climax for orchestra and soloist [A, v4]. A modest, horn-accompanied
cadenza [A, v5] precedes a pregnant pause. Regretfully, the protagonists
sigh goodbye to A, preparing and sliding seamlessly into . . .
2. Adagio ma non troppo . . . an exquisitely-turned tribute to Brahms!
This serene stream of variation blurs the theme’s bounds, a
strident variation twice rupturing its reverie – and conveniently
guiding the wanderer (who might otherwise remain “lonely as
a cloud”). Interrupting a “Brahmsian” orchestral
climax, its first appearance (about Ľ way through) on violin
is extensive, whilst its second (about ˝) is a brief tutti.
An expansive “Slavonic” orchestral climax (about ľ)
mirrors the earlier “Brahmsian” and, thereafter, memories
of early variations furnish feelings of ternary balance.
3. Allegro giocoso, ma non troppo. Dvorák, whose Slavonic
Dances (op. 46) were a “smash hit” in 1878, makes a large-scale
rondo of similar sizzling fare. The second and fifth As use only fragments
of the ritornello, but otherwise the A B A C A D A B A C A/coda form
is crystal-clear.
However, nothing’s ever twice the same. By imaginatively ringing
the changes – of thematic detail, pulse, accents, instrumentation,
ornamentation, key (and, well, everything really!) – Dvorák
keeps your hair on end. Not that it needs much encouragement –
the predominant style is that of the toe-teasing furiant. Dvorák’s
sleeve, though, contains yet another trick – he reserves centre-stage
[D] for music in the captivating slow/fast style of the dumkas.
Influences are generally something the listener must uncover. Rarely
do composers deliberately exhibit them. But how many of those thereby
convince us of their own greatness? Well, I know of one . . .
© Paul Serotsky, 2013
.
© Paul Serotsky
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