EUGENE YSAŸE was one of last of the virtuoso violinist-composers who dominated the late 19th century, but unlike Wieniawski and Vieuxtemps, he didn’t produce much in the way of the tuneful, show-offish morceaux that typically ended the concert recitals of the era. His works were thornier, more in keeping with the changes in the compositional atmosphere wrought by post-Wagnerians. Ysaÿe lived from 1858 to 1931 and began his concert career at the age of 27. A year later, César Franck wrote for him, as a wedding present, his renowned Violin Sonata.
The sonatas usually are recorded as a set, which only makes sense, and there are over fifty such recordings. One of the latest features Roman Simovic, a visiting professor of violin at the Royal Academy of Music in London whose resume includes appearances with all the top orchestras in Europe as well as distinguished festivals galore. He directed the London Symphony String Orchestra on four albums for the LSO Live label, for which he also recorded Paganini’s 24 Caprices.
His latest recording for the label is a traversal of the Ysaÿe sonatas. If the Paganini caprices stake a claim for sheer virtuosity, the Ysaÿe sonatas up the ante by contextualizing such ability in the context of a group of fascinating, distinctive works that display a seemingly restless exploration of the sound of the solo instrument within skillfully wrought compositions. As Ysaÿe himself put it, anyone who chooses to play them “must be a violinist, a thinker, a poet, a human being, he must have known hope, love, passion and despair, he must have run the gamut of the emotions in order to express them all in his playing.”
It’s worth reviewing the stories of each of the six violinists Ysaÿe chose to honor with these works as we examine the sonatas themselves.
The first, not surprising, is dedicated to Szigeti. He probably remains the best-known of the group because of his long recording career. If you’re familiar only with the last years of it, you know a violinist in decline, but his earlier recordings convey his uniquely appealing sound. He was a prodigy who had the gift of never calling undue attention to his abundant virtuosity. He became a good friend to Bartók, with whom he often performed (Bartók was a concert-level pianist) and premiered works by Bartók, Bloch, and others. But he also was known for championing Bach’s unaccompanied sonatas, which is where we came in.
At about 18 minutes, this four-movement work is the longest of the set, with a second-movement Fugato most directly reflecting the Bach influence. Although the violin sports four strings, they’re arrayed across a curved bridge to allow individual strings to easily sound a single-voiced melody. Two strings can be played at once, an effect called a double-stop; adding any more strings to the mix requires a broken sound, like an arpeggio, as the bow navigates the bridge. There are many instances of four-note chords in Bach, and Ysaÿe follows that example not only with similar chords but also with the understanding that the performer will alter the direction of the attack, playing it high-note to low-note or vice-versa depending on the melodic line.
Simovic has carefully thought this through, summoning the spirit of Bach throughout. The third-movement Allegro poco scherzoso is in three, as is the Sicilana from Bach’s First Sonata, but you won’t find Ysaÿe’s thirty-second note double-stop sequences there. Still, the effect is in the service of a melancholy sweetness. The concluding Finale con brio recalls the Bourrée in Bach’s Partita No. 1, but there’s more of Paganini here.
The Bach connection is even stronger in Ysaÿe’s Sonata No. 2. It was dedicated to Jacques Thibaud, a soloist with a special fondness for Mozart, and a chamber-music enthusiast who made a series of recordings with pianist Alfred Cortot and cellist Pablo Casals. Thibaud was a close friend known to warm up every morning by playing the Preludio from Bach’s Partita No. 3, and the opening theme of that movement opens this sonata as well, although it is immediately subsumed by the “Dies irae.” The four-movement sonata is subtitled “Obsession,” which also titles its opening movement; the subsequent three are “Malinconia,” “Danse des ombres” (a sarabande), and “Les Furies,” appropriately marked Allegro furioso.
As the second movement begins, you’re ready to believe that it’s mere melancholy we’re visiting until that “Dies irae” creeps in again, almost as if Rachmaninoff were hovering nearby. The dance of shadows promised in the third movement begins pizzicato before easing into a series of “Dies irae” variations, each more intricate than the last. And then that theme gets danced into sheer virtuoso land in the Furies’ dance.
Bowing is the biggest challenge here, both in cleanly articulating the many arpeggiated passages and in pulling off the creepy-sounding sul ponticello effect, wherein the violinist maneuvers the bow right beside the bridge. The many abrupt changes of mood in the piece, which sees fortissimo and pianissimo passages alternate, in some places, bar by bar, were said to be characteristic of Thibaud’s style. Simovic sets a sensible pace in this movement, keeping the effects unclouded. That’s not the fate of James Ehnes, who shaves over a minute off it (from 3:59 to 2:37) at the expense of clarity.
George Enescu’s reputation has been obscured by a single one of his works: “Romanian Rhapsody No. 1,” an orchestral showstopper. He was in fact a conductor, instructor, and, of course, violinist, living from 1881 to 1955. His studies took him to Vienna and Paris, and he conducted the Berlin Symphony and the Amsterdam Concertgebouw, but the spirit of his native Romania informed most of the music he wrote.
Was there a warmer-toned, more beloved violinist than Fritz Kreisler? I wouldn’t be asking if I thought so. Kreisler redefined an interpretive style with his use of expressive vibrato and the sentiment he could discover in a work, and remains a concert-program entity thanks to his many wonderful compositions and arrangements.
Ysaÿe’s Sonata No. 4 was said to be the composer’s personal favorite, and he cited Kreisler's radiant tone as an influence. The work’s three movements are marked Allemande, Sarabande, and Finale, the first two also frequent markings in Bach’s works. But the opening movement is hardly a Baroque-era Allemande, moving between 4/8 and 3/8 time, loosening the fingers with kinetic double-stop passages and the bow arm with three-string arpeggios. Although the Sarabande starts with a dignified pizzicato sequence, as soon as the bow is again brought to bear, the figurations grow wilder, culminating in four-string arpeggios very reminiscent of those in Bach’s Chaconne (although it’s worth noting that Bach didn’t write them out as such: he simply indicated chords and expected the fiddlers to fend for themselves). And I find more Bach inspiration hiding behind the opening of the Finale, drawn from a variation movement in the Partita No. 1 and some of the development passages in the fugue from Sonata No. 2.
Mathieu Crickboom may be the least-known of the six dedicatees because his performing career seems to have been spent in chamber groups, including as second violinist in Ysaÿe’s own quartet, which premiered the Quartet by Debussy. Crickboom was a fellow-Belgian and also was said to have been Ysaÿe’s best student; their shared affinity for the homeland probably inspired the folk melodies heard in this sonata, which also may quote some of the exercises Ysaÿe assigned to his students during their al fresco lessons. Thus, Sonata No. 5 is the most easygoing of the collection in terms of challenges to the ear, but it is no less packed with technical challenges than the others.
It’s the first major-key sonata in the series (no. 6 is the other), and it’s cast in a relatively brief two movements: “L’Aurore” and “Danse rustique.” The sunrise starts very softly, with plucked open-string fifths jarring the tranquility. But it’s an aural sunrise, an impressionist rendering through emotion, not nature sounds. As the movement gains intensity, Simovic has much interpretive choice to make, with runs and arpeggios grouped (and marked) in 7, 8, 9, 10 – even 15 – but strict time would spoil the effect, and he is shrewd in the use of accents and pauses. The opening sunrise motif is picked up by the rustic dance movement that follows, itself becoming the kind of whirlwind we now expect as the finish of each sonata.
Spanish-born Manuel Quiroga entered the Paris Conservatoire at 17, and his violin career took off not long thereafter. He made successful tours throughout the United States and Europe, his popularity skyrocketing during the 1920s, with sellout Carnegie Hall concerts and appearances with Beecham and Toscanini. It all came to an end when he was hit by a truck in Manhattan in 1937; he lost feeling in one arm to the extent that he had to give up playing. He continued work as a composer, however, writing over 40 pieces for the violin.
Ysaÿe’s Sixth Sonata is the most technically difficult of the set, and that’s saying something. It’s a tribute to Quiroga, and tribute to Simovic, who moves effortlessly through its challenges while giving full measure to the Spanish characteristics of the piece. It’s cast in a single movement, initially marked Allegro giusto non troppo vivo, although the opening again has the freedom of a recitative. It gives way to an easygoing dotted-rhythm passage that hints at the habanera styling to come when we get to the Allegretto poco scherzando indication, but only after a welter of fast parallel thirds and octaves and (heaven help the small-handed fiddler) tenths. Much like Paganini’s 24th Caprice, it’s the culmination of the set, its melodic delights bursting through its fingerbusting challenges.
Roman Simovic has the gift of being able to play beyond his virtuosity, which is to say that, like so many of the violinists to whom these sonatas were dedicated, and like Ysaÿe himself, he puts his formidable skill to the service of the music, and it’s all the richer for it.
Ysaÿe Sonatas
Roman Simovic, violin
LSO
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