Violin Sonata

à la mémoire de Federico Garcia Lorca 1899-1936

Allegro con fuoco

Intermezzo: très lent et calme

Presto tragico

In an interview published in 1954 Pouilenc rather surprisingly declared his Violin Sonata “a failure.” First sketched in 1940 and completed in 1943, the Sonata was written for Ginette Neveu and dedicated to the memory of the Spanish poet, Federico Garcia Lorca, who was murdered by Franco’s Falangists in 1936. So it is also surprising that, while acknowledging Neveu’s help in preparing “some delectable violinistic details,” the composer regretted the “artificial pathos” of the work.

If there is anything wrong with the first movement, it is to do not with insincerity but, on the contrary, with spontaneity so uninhibited that it leads the composer into stylistic and structural anomalies. The impetuous opening section, for example, mixes echoes of Stravinsky with reminders of César Franck and the first lyrical expression of the violin is clearly derived from Tatyana’s letter song in Eugene Onegin. But that sort of thing is part of the impulsive inspiration which created a construction of quite extraordinary boldness. In developing one idea from another, in allowing melody after melody to take shape out of sympathy rather than by means of a direct thematic relationship with the last, it defies all conventional expectations.

The Intermezzo - which is headed by a line from Lorca, “The guitar makes dreams weep” - is the only one of the three movements with any overt reference to Spain. There is an allusion to a popular dance rhythm in the piano part in the opening bars and both instruments occasionally suggest a strummed guitar chord. But, although the dance rhythm is not entirely forgotten, the heart of the movement is a sustained violin cantilena amiably coloured at one point by voluptuous double-stopped thirds and rising to a heated climax. A strange closing section, harmonised in Debussy-like parallel triads, replaces the expected reprise of the opening section.

The tragedy implied in the tempo heading of the last movement, Presto tragico, does not happen until near the end. The beginning is violent enough but, once again, Poulenc’s lyrical impulse intervenes - together with his taste for the café-concert - which makes the catastrophe all the more unexpected when it strikes, dropping from the top to the bottom of the keyboard with a heavily discordant thump. A briefly agonized violin recitative is followed by an epilogue which puts the carefree material from earlier in the movement in a different light.

(à la mémoire de Federico Garcia Lorca 1899-1936)

Allegro con fuoco

Intermezzo: Très lent et calme

Presto tragico

“My colleagues have not given me a good press,” wrote Poulenc to Pierre Bernac shortly after the first performance of his Violin Sonata in 1943. And it hasn’t had a good press since. In an interview published in 1954 even the composer declared it “a failure.” On the other hand, when revising the work only five years earlier he had found so little wrong with it that he had had to do no more than make a few small cuts in the last movement. Similarly, although he protested that he did not like “ the violin in the singular,” he had actually tried to write a violin sonata twice before – for Hélène Jourdan-Morhange in 1918 and for Jelly d’Aranyi in 1923.

The Violin Sonata which Poulenc first sketched in 1940 and completed in 1943 was written for Ginette Neveu and dedicated to the memory of the Spanish poet, Federico Garcia Lorca, who was murdered by Franco’s Falangists in 1936. So again it is surprising that, while acknowledging Neveu’s help in preparing “some delectable violinistic details,” Poulenc regretted the “artificial pathos” of the work.

If there is anything wrong with the first movement, it is to do not with insincerity but, on the contrary, with spontaneity so uninhibited that it leads the composer into stylistic and structural anomalies. The impetuous opening section, for example, mixes echoes of Stravinsky with reminders of César Franck, unlikely though that might seem, and the first lyrical expression of the violin is clearly derived from Tatyana’s letter song in Eugene Onegin. But that sort of thing is part of the impulsive inspiration which created a construction of quite extraordinary boldness. In developing one idea from another, in allowing melody after melody to take shape out of sympathy rather than by means of a direct thematic relationship with the last, it defies all conventional expectations. It makes its emotional statements and only then, just before the end, briefly recalls the opening bars.

The Intermezzo – which is headed by a line from Lorca, “The guitar makes dreams weep” – is the only one of the three movements with any overt reference to Spain. There is an allusion to a popular dance rhythm in the piano part in the opening bars and both instruments occasionally suggest a strummed guitar chord. But, although the dance rhythm is not entirely forgotten, the heart of the movement is a sustained violin cantilena amiably set in D major, coloured at one point by voluptuous double-stopped thirds and rising to a heated climax. A strange closing section, harmonised in Debussy-like parallel triads, replaces the expected reprise of the opening section.

The tragedy implied in the tempo heading of the last movement, Presto tragico, does not happen until near the end. The beginning is violent enough but, once again, Poulenc’s lyrical impulse intervenes – together with his taste for the café-concert at one point – which makes the catastrophe all the more unexpected when it strikes, dropping from the top to the bottom of the keyboard with a heavily discordant thump. A briefly agonised violin recitative is followed by an epilogue which puts the carefree material from earlier in the movement in a different light.