“The Himalaya of the violinist”: this is how George Enescu nicknamed Johann Sebastian Bach’s six Sonatas and Partitas for Solo Violin, among which the Chaconne in D minor naturally stands as the “Everest”. This 15-minute piece has fascinated – and still fascinates – generations of musicians. In it, Bach transforms the monodic instrument which is the violin into an organ capable of playing a rich polyphony by tirelessly varying its timbre and texture. Struck chords, staccato playing, rich colours and arpeggios, imaginative ornamentation – the dazzling instrumental display would almost hide from sight that the writing is at the service of a formidable science of architecture and discourse. The transition to major mode in the central section of the work is a miracle that Enescu visualised as follows, according to his student Serge Blanc: “a ray of sunlight passing through a stained-glass window, landing on the quiet hands of an organist.” And for the final recapitulation of the theme, Enescu apparently would have liked “to be able to grab three more violins and five bows to have enough strength to express what one feels at such a moment”.
When Brahms delivered “his” violin-piano version of the Chaconne, the tradition of transcriptions had already been established for a long time. One of the favorite musical objects of transcriber-pianists has been Niccolò Paganini’s cycle of Caprices for solo violin. Published in 1820, this collection made a lasting impression from the moment it appeared, not only for the formidable difficulties it compiled, but also for its accomplished musical form, which made it much more than a simple exercise book. The tradition of Rossini’s bel canto is clearly perceptible in the developed Cantilenas (Nos. 4 and 6), a truly poetic imagination is conjured up (the imitation of flutes and hunting horns in No. 9), and the use of a tripartite structure allows for powerful expressive contrasts (the transition from a fluid cadenza to a perpetual saltato movement in No. 5). Finally, the collection follows a genuine progression that culminates in the eleven variations of the last Caprice(No. 24) as well as the introduction of Paganini’s ultimate invention: the spectacular left-handed pizzicato.
The young Robert Schumann was one of the first to attempt transcribing the Caprices for the piano (in 1832), soon followed by Franz Liszt (in 1838 for a first cycle and in 1851 for the Grandes Études de Paganini, S.141). Comparing the approaches of the two composers is fascinating. In the foreword to his Études, Op. 3, Schumann modestly explains his ambition: “to remain as faithful as possible to the original, while adapting his transcription to the nature and mechanism of the piano.” The first of these Études, which is based on Caprice No. 5, is a fine example of this adaptation: Schumann simply duplicates the fluid opening cadenza for two hands at the octave before adding a light accompaniment to the perpetual motion that follows. Liszt modifies the original text more extensively to serve his own piano virtuosity, even changing the very architecture of Paganini’s pieces: thus, the cadenza of Caprice No. 5, presented in a gesture that becomes increasingly expansive on the keyboard, serves as an introduction to his transcription of… Caprice No. 6! Liszt nevertheless remains faithful to the progression imagined by Paganini, ending his Grandes Études with a reinterpretation of the twenty-fourth and final Caprice.
Let us return to George Enescu, who is too often forgotten not only as an extremely gifted instrumentalist but also as a talented composer. Written in 1926, his Violin Sonata No. 3 combines these two dimensions. The violin part is inventive and unusually precise in terms of vibrato intensity and bowing positions – Enescu even goes so far as to specify, for example, that it should be played “flautato sulla tastiera colla punta del arco” (“flute-like, on the fingerboard, with the tip of the bow”). And the piano part is no less impressive. Enescu was clearly inspired by the sounds of the cimbalom when writing it, which helps to establish the “Romanian folk character” announced in the work’s subtitle. Here we are a long way from the Himalayas, as described by pianist Alfred Cortot, who performed the work with the composer. For him, the slow central movement is “a sonic evocation of the mysterious sensation of summer nights in Romania: below, the endless plain, deserted and silent; above, constellations stretching towards infinity…”
Tristan Labouret
