Violin Sonata No.3 in A minor Op.25 (1926)

The unfulfilled ambition represented by the Sonata Movement in A major was achieved 15 years later in the Violin Sonata No.3 in A minor. It expresses his love of the musical and the natural sounds of the Romanian countryside more frankly than anything else he wrote – again without using actual folk material which, he said, “does not in itself ensure authenticity.”

Unlike Bartók in Hungary, Enescu had no objection to gypsy music. Much of the Third Violin Sonata is inspired by the playing of the gypsy fiddlers he heard during his childhood in Moldavia, their opulently decorated melodic lines and their exotically coloured harmonies. To emulate them he adapted his notation, to indicate such unusual items as quarter-tone intonation, and employed such a wide variety of techniques that he must have stretched even his extensive resources as a violinist. The result is a work with its own unique sound and, because of its improvisatory nature, its own structure.

Basically, there are two sorts of material: freely developed melody on the one hand and rhythmically more regular dance tunes on the other. The opening Moderato malinconico includes both. Fortunately, since the two deeply nostalgic melodies introduced by the violin at the beginning of the movement are so fluid in their chromatic outlines that they evade precise definition, the entry of the dance element, at a quicker tempo and in staccato figuration on the piano, makes a marked contrast. The violin takes up the dance but only briefly before it swoops up an octave in the first of several passionate climaxes, sustaining its line high over a clear imitation of the cimbalom on the piano. Both elements are developed, the dance with such rhythmic ingenuity that it sounds like an advanced study in jazz at one point.

The scoring of the Andante sostenuto e misterioso is even more atmospheric. The repeated notes in the right hand of the piano part in the opening bars represent, according to the composer, the croaking of toads, while the melody delicately set against them in false harmonics on the violin seems to be a distant echo of some primitive reed instrument. There is a dance episode here too, this one leading to a highly expressive and extended climax before a tearfully intimate epilogue restores the tranquillity of the opening section.

The last movement is for the most part a vigorously animated and fiercely articulated dance. There is, however, a characteristically emotional central episode featuring an eloquent exchange of gypsy violin and cimbalom recitatives before the dance rhythms return in multi-stopped pizzicato. The broadly expressive coda is an extraordinarily emphatic declaration of finality on violin accompanied by heavy rumblings and violent chord clusters at the bottom end of the piano.

When Enescu wrote his Third Violin Sonata in 1926 there was nothing at all like it in the repertoire. He had probably heard Jelly d’Aranyi play Bartók’s two Violin Sonatas with the composer in Paris in 1922 and    he might well have been impressed by them but, for all its folk origins, Bartók’s severely abstract language in those two scores is quite different from the exotic Romanian poetry of Enescu’s Third Violin Sonata. Although Enescu did much of his composing in his apartment in Paris, this particular work was written for the most part in his villa in the mountain resort of Sinaia, fifty miles north of Bucharest. It expresses his love of the musical and the natural sounds of the Romanian countryside more frankly than anything else he wrote – including his two early and highly popular Romanian Rhapsodies. In this case, however, he did not use any actual folk material which, he said, “does not in itself ensure authenticity.”    His aim here was to create music “in the spirit of the people” and in a “character similar to that of folk music but through different, absolutely personal means.”

Unlike Bartók, Enescu had no objection to gypsy music. Much of the Third Violin Sonata is inspired by the playing of the gypsy fiddlers he heard during his childhood in Moldavia, their opulently decorated melodic lines and their exotically coloured harmonies. To emulate them he adapted his notation – to indicate such unusual items as quarter-tone intonation, for example, or a very characteristic upward portamento – and employed such a wide variety of techniques that he must have stretched even his extensive resources as a violinist. The result is a work with its own unique sound and, because of its improvisatory nature, its own structure.

Basically, there are two sorts of material: freely developed melody on the one hand and rhythmically more regular dance tunes on the other. The opening Moderato malinconico includes both. Fortunately – since the two deeply nostalgic melodies introduced by the violin at the beginning of the movement are so fluid in their chromatic outlines that they evade precise definition – the entry of the dance element, at a quicker tempo and in staccato figuration on the piano, makes a marked contrast. The violin takes up the dance but only briefly before it swoops up an octave in the first of several passionate climaxes, sustaining its line high over a clear imitation of the cimbalom on the piano. Both elements are developed, the dance with such rhythmic ingenuity that it sounds like an advanced study in jazz at one point. When he gave the first performance of Ravel’s Violin Sonata in 1927 Enescu admitted that he did not like the jazz influence in it but, surely, it was here that his friend and colleague found an encouraging precedent.

The scoring of the Andante sostenuto e misterioso is even more atmospheric. The repeated notes in the right hand of the piano part in the opening bars represent, according to the composer, the croaking of toads, while the melody delicately set against them in false harmonics on the violin seems to be a distant echo of some primitive reed instrument. There is a dance episode here too, this one leading to a highly expressive and extended climax, the melody sustained in forceful octaves on the violin over dramatic runs and arpeggios on the piano. A tearfully intimate epilogue restores the tranquillity of the opening section.

The last movement is for the most part a vigorously animated and fiercely articulated dance. There is, however, a characteristically emotional central episode featuring an eloquent exchange of gypsy violin and cimbalom recitatives before the dance rhythms return in multi-stopped pizzicato. The broadly expressive coda is an extraordinarily emphatic declaration of finality on violin accompanied by heavy rumblings and violent chord clusters at the bottom end of the piano.

Gerald Larner © 2008