Antonin Dvorák (1841-1904) wrote his second piano quartet in August 1889, thereby finally acceeding to the request of his publisher to capitalise on the success of the first quartet. The composer wrote to a friend, “As I expected it came easily and the melodies just surged upon me, Thank God!“ Although written in his nationalist phase, the music does not over-use folk based material.

The work opens with the strings playing a strong unison statement which draws a somewhat capricious response from the piano. The attitude of the strings quickly changes to something more tender, although the piano maintains its carefree course, before a joyful collective reprise of the original string statement. With a quieter soulful passage for the viola, Dvorák makes the transition to the second principal subject, which is then elaborately expounded upon. The second movement presents five themes, each with their own distinctive character. The first, for the cello, is mysteriously passionate and intense; the violin plays the second in an aloof manner, maintaining calm amidst much activity in the other parts; a degree of gitated excitement is found in the piano-based third theme; the forth one is collectively played and stormy, whilst the last finds the piano quietening the passions. They are all repeated with minimal changes.

The third movement is the one most influenced by folk music forms. It is introduced by a gracefully swaying Ländler, a folk dance that was particularly popular in south Germany and Austria at the end of the eighteenth century, before the piano takes over with orientally tinged material. Often the piano repetitions of the principal theme are played to sound akin to the cimbalom. After a fast, dashing middle section the opening theme is repeated. Such is the demand for tone from the players in the final movement that one might almost desire it to be played by a full orchestra. Initally assertive, each instrument takes the theme in turn, before a phrase of great melody. Across shifting keys the movements main ideas are unified before leading to an at times climactic and brilliant conclusion.

In later life Enescu recalled, “By the second sonata for piano and violin and the Octet I felt I was rapidly improving, becoming my own person.” A great deal of confidence is discernable in the writing and this becomes immediately apparent if the romantically influenced first violin sonata of just three years earlier is taken into account as a marker for comparison. Formally, the composition owes its deepest debt to André Gédalge, Enescu’s counterpoint and fugue tutor at the Paris Conservatoire.

There is no doubt that it is an amazingly ambitious work, not least in terms of structure, for a composer yet to reach nineteen years of age. The structural complexities presented their own challenges for Enescu: "I was gripped by the problem of construction. I wanted to write it in four connected movements in such a way that, although each movement would have its own independent existence, the whole piece would form a single movement in sonata form on a huge scale. I was crushing myself with the effort of keeping aloft a piece of music in four sections, of such length that each one seemed about to fall apart at any moment. No engineer putting his first suspension bridge in place can have agonized more than I did, as I gradually filled my manuscript paper with notes."

Listening to the piece in performance it is easy to be immediately swept along by the intricately woven profusion of ideas that it contains. The first movement, which forms the exposition of the extended sonata form, is based upon seven distinct musical subjects. They offer a range of moods from the dramatic or dynamic to those that are lyrical or nostalgic in nature, sometimes with echoes of Romanian folk music being made apparent. The second and third movements together form the development section of the sonata. They principally enhance the thematic material already presented, but present a number of new ideas as well. The second movement most clearly displays Gédalge’s influence by being a daringly tempestuous fugue. The third movement offers a contrast since it is largely nocturnal in feeling. The final movement summarises all the ideas and in recalling the opening theme underlines the unified and cyclical nature of the score. Initially it seems improbable that the movement is written as a waltz, but the form serves the purpose of allowing themes to be combined, superimposed and intervals of seconds, thirds, sixths or sevenths to be explored.

For performers the challenges are many, but establishing the minute shifts of tempo that Enescu specifically asks for whilst maintaining a view of the overall structure must be a key one. The issue of balance between the instrumental lines is also important. To help, Enescu often pairs one part with another above the backdrop provided by the others.

Evan Dickerson