Program notes by Eric Bromberger

Sonata a Quattro No. 6 in D Major
Gioacchino ROSSINI
Born February 29, 1792, Pesaro
Died November 13, 1868, Paris

Rossini composed his Six Sonatas for Strings in 1804, when he was twelve years old. He wrote them for himself and some friends, probably at the instigation of Agostino Triossi, a bass-player. The particular choice of instruments–two violins, one cello, one bass, and no violas–sprang from necessity (there was no viola player available) and caused Rossini to give the lower voices unusual independence and prominence. The mature Rossini had no very high opinion of these works. The manuscript score (which was discovered in the Library of Congress after World War II) includes a handwritten note by the composer, added much later in life, in which he describes the music as:

“six dreadful sonatas composed by me at the country place (near Ravenna) of my Maecenas friend Triossi, when I was at the most infantile age, not even having taken a lesson in accompaniment, the whole composed and copied out in three days and performed by Triossi, double-bass, Morri, his cousin, first violin, the latter’s brother, violoncello, who played like dogs, and the second violin by me myself, who was not in the least doggish, by God.”

Despite Rossini’s low opinion, the sonatas are hardly dreadful, and for a twelve-year-old they are astonishing achievements. The Sonata in D Major opens with an Allegro spiritoso in a simplified sonata form. The suave opening contrasts with more jaunty secondary material, and along the way come an attractive cello and some brilliant runs for the violins. The Andante assai, which feels like an aria in its long flow of melody, is a brief interlude between the fast outer movements. Rossini titled the finale Tempesta. The movement gets off to an understated start, but the storm quickly arrives with a great deal of energy and motion–do we sense streaks of lightning running through this music? Rossini would, at age 38, create one of the great musical depictions of a storm in his William Tell Overture; the storm in this youthful sonata can seem a little innocent by contrast, but after all the sound and fury it too arrives at a peaceful close.

Throughout the sonata the second violin has an unusually prominent voice. Apparently the twelve-year-old Rossini wanted to make sure that he had something to do rather than getting stuck with a simple accompanying voice.

Polish Songs for Voice and Piano, Opus 74
No. 1 The Maiden’s Wish
No. 3 The Sad River
No. 5 What She Likes
No. 9 Melody
No. 10 The Warrior
Frédéric CHOPIN
Born February 22, 1810, Zelazowa Wola, Poland
Died October 17, 1849, Paris

When Chopin died in the fall of 1849 at the age of 39, his list of published opus numbers ran only to 65, but in the years after his death his publisher Julian Fontana brought out a number of new publications, and these eventually raised his total of opus numbers to 74. Some of these were pieces Chopin had neglected to publish, some were pieces he had not wanted published, and some were simply miscellaneous works. The final opus number of 74 was assigned to a collection of seventeen songs, all of them on Polish texts, that Chopin had composed between 1829 and 1847 (after this appeared, two more songs were discovered–Chopin wrote a total of nineteen songs).

All nineteen of Chopin’s songs are in Polish, and this has presented difficulties for non-Polish performers and audiences: these songs have never become popular, and they remain among the least-known of all Chopin’s works. Given the fact that Chopin chose not to publish these songs, some have speculated that he wrote them for himself: the Polish texts, the sound of the language, the evocation of Polish tales–all these may have offered the composer a connection with his homeland during his long exile in Paris.

This recital offers the rare opportunity to hear some of Chopin’s songs, and these five songs include some of his earliest and some of his last. For the texts, Chopin turned most often to the work of his countryman, the poet Stefan Vivitzki (1800-1847), who was the composer’s friend in both Warsaw and Paris–all but one of the songs on this program set poems by Vivitzki. No. 1 (1829), known as Desire or The Maiden’s Wish, is a gentle song in the form of a waltz; it is probably best-known in Franz Liszt’s transcription for solo piano. No. 3 (1833) has been titled variously The Sad River or Troubled Waves, while No. 5–composed in 1829 and titled What She Likes–is composed in short episodes. No. 9 (1847), known variously as Melody or The Promised Land, is the one song in this collection not on a Vivitzki text–it sets an anonymous or folk poem. The Warrior, composed in 1830 on the eve of Chopin’s departure from Poland, is about a soldier addressing his family as he leaves for battle. It may well have had autobiographical significance for the composer, who includes military bugle-calls as part of the piano accompaniment.

Grand Duo Concertante sur la romance de M. Lafont “Le marin,” S.128
Franz LISZT
Born October 22, 1811, Raiding, Hungary
Died July 31, 1886, Bayreuth

We do not normally associate the name Franz Liszt with chamber music, but he did write a small number of works for chamber ensembles, and this program offers the rare opportunity to hear two of these. During the mid-1830s, when Liszt–then in his twenties–was based in Paris and making his career as a virtuoso pianist, he met the French violinist and composer Charles Philippe Lafont (1781-1839). Out of this friendship came a piece we know today as Liszt’s Grand Duo Concertante, though evidence suggests that it was composed as a collaboration between the two men. They probably performed the Grand Duo in Paris, but the music was still in manuscript when Lafont was killed in 1839 when his carriage overturned. Liszt retained his affection for this music, however, and he returned to it in 1849 and revised it. The Grand Duo was finally published it in 1852, nearly two decades after it had been first composed.

The title Grand Duo Concertante suggests a virtuoso work, and this is indeed virtuoso music: it is beautifully written for both instruments, both instruments have cadenza-like passages along the way, and the idiomatic writing for violin suggests that Lafont had a great deal to do with creating that part. While the Grand Duo may be a virtuoso piece, it takes the form of a set of variations, and those variations are based on the song Le marin (“The Sailor”) by Lafont himself. A dramatic and substantial introduction leads to Lafont’s gentle melody, stated first by the violin and then taken up by the piano. The four variations follow, and these give both performers plenty of opportunity to shine. The Grand Duo is rounded off by a lengthy finale, and Lafont’s original melody makes a brilliant reappearance in the course of the rush to the close.

Three Songs after Byron’s Hebraic Melodies, Opus 95
Robert SCHUMANN
Born June 8, 1810, Zwickau, Germany
Died July 29, 1856, Endenich, Germany

Robert Schumann was fascinated by the poetry of Byron throughout his life. He read it constantly, recommended it to others, and once–while reading Manfred aloud to a group of friends–he burst into tears, overcome by emotion. But Schumann did not set much of Byron’s poetry–that poetry appeared to inflame his emotions rather than exciting his musical imagination. Schumann’s one big Byron setting is his incidental music to Manfred, composed in 1848 (ironically, Byron did not want that verse drama performed–he preferred to have it read rather than acted). Late in the following year, Schumann composed his only collection of Byron settings, titled Three Songs after Byron’s Hebraic Melodies.

For his texts, Schumann turned to a group of poems Byron had collected under the title Hebrew Melodies. These poems, many of them love lyrics, had begun to appear in 1815, and their inspiration came from an unusual source: Isaac Nathan, a young rabbi in London, approached Byron and asked him to write lyrics for ancient Hebrew melodies the rabbi had discovered (or perhaps composed himself). That request sparked Byron’s interest, and he produced a total of 28 poems for these melodies. Among these are some of finest, including “She Walks in Beauty” and “The Destruction of Sennacharib.”

In December 1849 Schumann set three poems from Byron’s Hebraic Melodies (in German translations by Julius Körner) to his own music, and these were published in 1851. They have remained among the least-familiar of Schumann’s songs. In a note in the score, Schumann specified that the singer could be accompanied either by piano or by harp–perhaps the use of the harp was intended to give these songs a bardic feel. At this concert the songs are performed with harp accompaniment. Die Tochter Jephthas is a song of love and sacrifice; Schumann marks it Mit Affekt (“with affection’). An den Mond may be familiar to some listeners–Byron’s original (titled in English “Sun of the Sleepless”) is a beautiful poem, and Mendelssohn also set this text. Dem Helden is a song about heroism, and–appropriately–it is a loud one: Schumann marks it some form of either forte or fortissimo throughout, and it drives this set of songs to a grand conclusion.

At the Grave of Richard Wagner for String Quartet and Harp, S. 135
Franz LISZT

Liszt and Wagner had a close but difficult relationship. The two men were friends and colleagues, and in Weimar Liszt conducted Tannhäuser and the première of Lohengrin. But in 1865 Liszt’s daughter Cosima abandoned her husband Hans von Bülow and ran off with Wagner, eventually marrying him. Liszt was furious with both Wagner and Cosima, and a long period of estrangement followed; a reconciliation was not worked out until 1872.

Ten years later, when Liszt was in his early seventies, he wrote a series of short pieces inspired by Wagner’s death, and the eerie thing was that Wagner was still alive when Liszt wrote them. While in Venice in the fall of 1882, Liszt saw a procession of funeral gondolas and suddenly had a premonition of Wagner’s death. In response, he wrote La Lugubre Gondola and several other pieces, and then–to make that premonition even more eerie–Wagner did die in Venice in February 1883, and his body was borne to burial by just such a procession of black-draped gondolas.

In May 1883, a few months after Wagner’s death, Liszt wrote yet another memorial piece, which he titled At the Grave of Richard Wagner. Liszt prefaced his manuscript with a note, written on what would have been Wagner’s seventieth birthday: “Wagner once reminded me of the likeness between his Parsifal theme and my previously written Excelsior! May this remembrance remain here. He has fulfilled the great and sublime in the art of the present day. F. Liszt. 22 May 1883. Weimar.”

Scored for string quartet and harp, At the Grave of Richard Wagner is a memorial piece that grew out of that musical connection between Wagner and Liszt. Marked Sehr langsam (“very slow”), this piece is quite brief: solo cello announces the rising main theme, this evolves into a series of quiet and ethereal chords, and the music falls away to its subdued close. As with many of his chamber pieces, Liszt was not much concerned with the specific instrumentation: he himself arranged this music for piano and for organ, and there is also a version for string quartet plus double bass. At this concert At the Grave of Richard Wagner is heard in Liszt’s original version for string quartet and harp.

String Quintet in A Major, Opus 18
Felix MENDELSSOHN
Born February 3, 1809, Hamburg
Died November 4, 1847, Leipzig

The String Quintet in A Major is a product of Mendelssohn’s extraordinarily precocious youth. He completed it in March 1826, shortly after his seventeenth birthday; the Quintet thus comes between the two masterpieces of Mendelssohn’s youth, the Octet for Strings, composed the previous year, and the Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, written the following year. Mendelssohn, who was an undergraduate at Berlin University when he wrote the Quintet, allowed the music to sit in manuscript for several years. And then came an event that changed the entire shape of this piece.

On January 23, 1832, Mendelssohn’s friend Eduard Rietz died. Rietz was more than just a friend to the composer. Only seven years older than Mendelssohn, he had been the young man’s violin teacher and had remained a close companion: it was for Rietz’s 23^rd birthday that Mendelssohn had composed the Octet. His sudden death at age 29 was a blow, and in the weeks after Rietz’s death Mendelssohn went back to the manuscript of the Quintet and rewrote it. In its original form, the Scherzo came second and was followed by a Minuet. Now, in memory of Rietz, Mendelssohn composed a new slow movement, an Intermezzo; he made this the new second movement, dropped the Minuet entirely, and moved the Scherzo into its place. And it was in this new form that the Quintet was published the following year.

This music shows all the virtues of the young Mendelssohn: an instinctive sense of form, graceful melodies, and light textures. The Quintet is also somewhat unusual in that the first three movements all end quietly. The extended first movement opens immediately with the main idea in the first violin; this figure will dominate the Allegro con moto, and though Mendelssohn does introduce secondary material, some of this does not return in the recapitulation. The development of the opening idea is quite animated: Mendelssohn marks it con fuoco and expands the sonority with rippling arpeggios before this music makes its way to the calm close.

The Intermezzo written in memory of Rietz is heartfelt and expressive rather than grieving. As might be expected in music composed as a memorial to a violinist, it features a prominent first violin part. The simple melody heard at the opening is treated throughout; though textures become more complex as the movement proceeds, the music never turns anguished and finally fades into silence on two pizzicato strokes.

The Scherzo is the most effective movement in the Quintet. We associate the scherzos of Mendelssohn’s youth with the elfin fairyland he created in his incidental music for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but there is none of that here. Instead, this music is rigorously polyphonic: it opens with a gritty and very difficult fugue subject (first announced by the second viola), and Mendelssohn builds the entire movement around the contrapuntal treatment of the possibilities locked within this blistering theme. There is no trio section, and the Scherzo rushes along breathlessly to the very end, where it suddenly winks out before our eyes. The finale, marked Allegro vivace, is somewhat more conventional, riding constantly forward on its buoyant energy, good tunes, and swirling triplets.