Suite “From Holberg’s Time,” Op.40

The originality, let alone the sheer genius, of Grieg’s Holberg Suite is rarely recognised. It is a celebration of eighteenth-century musical manners written a long time before    neoclassicism became any where near fashionable. The classical or baroque aspect of the work is explained by the fact that it was written to mark the two-hundredth anniversary of the birth in Bergen in 1684 of Ludwig Holberg, a writer revered as “the Molière of the North” and founder of Norwegian literature.

Consisting of a prelude, three dance movements and an air, all in the same key (G major or minor) like the baroque suite, it is a masterpiece of pastiche. The Prelude is in three sections, the first a study in arpeggios in the right hand set against a melody occasionally crossing it in the left, the second a toccata-like cadenza, the third a varied recall of the first ending in a coda of heavily emphatic chords.    The Sarabande, which most appealingly colours its eighteenth-century manners with a hint of Norwegian folk song, is a more intimate piece. The third movement, a formal Gavotte, includes an amusing Musette in C major – a sophisticated version of a shepherd’s bagpipe dance with characteristic drone harmonies in the bass – as a quicker middle section.

The Air is Grieg’s equivalent to the Air in Bach’s Suite No.3 in D. A rather more romantic inspiration, it departs at an early stage from its baroque model to assume its own harmonic identity, its own passionately extended development. The vigorous activity of the Rigaudon clears the air, though not without offering a gentle reminder of the previous movement in the slower middle section in G minor.

Effectively written for piano, it is unfortunate that the original version of the Holberg Suite has been all but supplanted by the slightly later    orchestral version, masterful though it is.

Suite “From Holberg’s Time,” Op.40

Prelude: Allegro vivace

Sarabande: Andante

Gavotte and Musette:Allegretto – Poco più mosso

Air: Andante religioso

Rigaudon: Allegro con brio – Poco meno mosso

The originality, let alone the sheer genius, of Grieg’s Holberg Suite has never been adequately recognised. It is a celebration of eighteenth-century musical manners written at a time, long before the emergence of neo-classicism, when composers were just not interested in that kind of thing. It is also a brilliant study in scoring for string orchestra undertaken at a date when, among the major composers of the day, only Dvorak and Tchaikovsky (in their respective Serenades) had published anything for the same kind of ensemble.

The classical or baroque aspect of the Holberg Suite is explained by the fact that it was written to mark the two-hundredth anniversary of the birth in Bergen in 1684 of Ludwig Holberg, a writer revered as “the Molière of the North” and founder of Norwegian literature. The quality of Grieg’s scoring for string orchestra is not so easy to explain, still less when bearing in mind that “From Holberg’s Time,” to give the suite its official title, was originally written for piano. The arrangement for string orchestra was made a year later in 1885.

It is difficult to believe that the Prelude was conceived for anything other than strings. Propelled throughout by the galloping rhythms with which it begins, it is illuminated by such contrasting features as the delicate use of cellos in counterpoint with violins and the broad sonority of an orchestra divided into eight parts in the closing bars. The Sarabande, which most appealingly colours its eighteenth-century pastiche with a hint of Norwegian folk song, is a more intimate piece remarkable also for its elegant cello writing. The third movement, a formal Gavotte, includes an amusing Musette – a sophisticated version of a shepherd’s bagpipe dance with characteristic drone harmonies in the bass – as a quicker middle section.

The Air is Grieg’s equivalent to the Air in Bach’s Suite No.3 in D. A very much more romantic inspiration, it departs at an early stage from its baroque model to assume its own harmonic identity, its own passionately extended development and its own deeply expressive scoring – not only for violins but also for lower strings, including basses. The vigorous activity of the Rigaudon, with its entertaining partnership between violin and viola soloists, clears the air, though not without offering a gentle reminder of the previous movement in the slower middle section.

Felix Mendelssohn (1809-1847)

7 Songs without Words Lieder ohne Worte

in E major, Op.19 No.1 (1830-1832)

in A major, Op.19 No.3 “The Hunt” (1830-1832)

in F sharp minor Op.30 No.6 “Venetian Gondola Song” (1833-1834)

in G minor, Op.53, No.3 [1840]

Mendelssohn’s Songs without Words have for too long been victims of their Victorian success. It was inevitable that, having gathered so many drawing-room associations and sentimental accretions, they would lose their prominent place in the recital repertoire - even though it took them a long time to go. But to continue to avoid them even now, when most of the audience is in a position to approach them without preconceptions, is not only to distort musical history but also to miss out on much lyrical beauty.

“If we could be satisfied today with a simple beauty that raises no questions and does not attempt to puzzle us, these pieces would resume their old place in the repertoire,” says Charles Rosen in the one, short paragraph he devotes to the Songs without Words in his “The Romantic Generation.” “They are not insipid,” he goes on to say, “but they might as well be.” That is just words without a song. The opening number in the early Op.19 set - first published in London as Original Melodies for the Pianoforte in 1832 - is pure romantic poetry. Schumann was clearly aware of that and, although there was still room for him to add an erotic frisson to the harmonies, he was happy enough to echo the gently descending melodic line on any number of tender occasions. The next piece in the same volume represents one of the few attempts by any composer in Mendelssohn’s generation to explore the implications of Beethoven’s Bagatelles, discreetly though he goes about it. Op.19, No.3 in A major - traditionally known as “Jaegerlied” (Hunting Song) - is another essential romantic image which, though obviously not Mendelssohn’s invention, is so exuberantly written as to stimulate echoes of its horn calls and galloping rhythms for decades to come.

Of the mere five (out of a total of forty-eight) Songs without Words to which the composer himself attached a title, three of them are called “Venetianisches Gondellied” (Venetian Gondola Song), a form he probably did invent. Certainly, he wrote some seductive examples and, in the closing number of the Op.30 set, anticipated Chopin in applying deorative keyboard figuration to a melodic line poised above a barcarolle rhythm in the left hand. If the comparatively extended Song without Words in G minor, Op.53, No.3, doesn’t really anticipate Brahms, as is often claimed, it is none the worse for that and, indeed, is all the better for being so characteristic of Mendelssohn in its expressive urgency.

The originality, let alone the sheer genius, of Grieg’s Holberg Suite has never been adequately recognised. It is a celebration of eighteenth-century musical manners written at a time, long before the emergence of neo-classicism, when composers were just not interested in that kind of thing. It is also a brilliant study in scoring for string orchestra undertaken at a date when, among the major composers of the day, only Dvorak and Tchaikovsky (in their respective Serenades) had published anything for the same kind of ensemble.

The classical or baroque aspect of the Holberg Suite is explained by the fact that it was written to mark the two-hundredth anniversary of the birth in Bergen in 1684 of Ludwig Holberg, a writer revered as “the Molière of the North” and founder of Norwegian literature. The quality of Grieg’s scoring for string orchestra is not so easy to explain, still less when bearing in mind that “From Holberg’s Time,” to give the suite its official title, was originally written for piano. The arrangement for string orchestra was made a year later in 1885.

It is difficult to believe that the Prelude was conceived for anything other than strings. Propelled throughout by the galloping rhythms with which it begins, it is illuminated by such contrasting features as the delicate use of cellos in counterpoint with violins and the broad sonority of an orchestra divided into eight parts in the closing bars. The Sarabande, which most appealingly colours its eighteenth-century pastiche with a hint of Norwegian folk song, is a more intimate piece remarkable also for its elegant cello writing. The third movement, a formal Gavotte, includes an amusing Musette - a sophisticated version of a shepherd’s bagpipe dance with characteristic drone harmonies in the bass - as a quicker middle section.

The Air is Grieg’s equivalent to the Air in Bach’s Suite No.3 in D. A very much more romantic inspiration, it departs at an early stage from its baroque model to assume its own harmonic identity, its own passionately extended development and its own deeply expressive scoring - not only for violins but also for lower strings, including basses. The vigorous activity of the Rigaudon, with its entertaining partnership between violin and viola soloists, clears the air, though not without offering a gentle reminder of the previous movement in the slower middle section.