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The history of his third suite is a tormented one—in keeping with the music itself, based as it is on four Russian themes which range in mood from poignant to tragic. Written in early 1971, the suite had to wait until the end of 1974 for its premiere, for political reasons. In October 1970, Rostropovich had written an open letter protesting at the Soviet authorities’ treatment of the writer Alexander Solzhenitsyn. From having been a favoured star of the Soviet system, allowed to travel all over the world, Rostropovich (or ‘Slava’—meaning ‘glory’—as he was known to his friends) was suddenly in disgrace, permitted to perform within the Soviet Union but barred from international travel, and humiliated at every turn. In April 1971, nevertheless, Britten somehow obtained permission to feature Rostropovich and Richter (who was also in a dicey position by that point) as soloists with the London Symphony Orchestra for a festival of British music in Moscow. He took the manuscript of the newly completed suite with him, and played it through on the piano at Rostropovich’s apartment to a select gathering made up of the Rostropoviches, the Shostakoviches, Peter Pears, Pears’s niece Sue Phipps, and the cellist and author Elizabeth Wilson (pupil of Rostropovich, and daughter of the then British Ambassador to the Soviet Union, Sir Duncan Wilson). The piece was much lauded by those present—even though Britten felt that he’d played it too fast. The atmosphere soured somewhat, however, when Shostakovich remarked that he’d been brought up with a slightly different version of the last and most important of the four themes on which the suite is based, the Kontakion, an Orthodox chant for the dead (known in English as ‘Grant repose together with the saints’). Britten, having based several of the movements on this chant, was distraught, wondering aloud how he could possibly alter the music to incorporate the changes. Later, no doubt to his intense relief, he was assured by authorities within the Russian Orthodox Church that both versions were valid (as Shostakovich, feeling dreadful at having upset his friend, had immediately suggested), and he contented himself by adding an ossia offering Shostakovich’s version as an alternative where the theme is heard in full at the end of the suite. (I play the original.)
So what was in Britten’s mind as he composed this extraordinary music? It has been suggested that the dark, foreboding atmosphere of much of the suite is a reflection of his concern for Rostropovich’s dangerous situation. I’m sure that there is some truth to that—how could he not have been affected by those circumstances? But I feel also that there is a deeper, more universal inspiration here—that the suite offers us a profound meditation on death. Aside from the Kontakion, the other three themes are all taken from collections of folk-song arrangements by Tchaikovsky—the one entitled ‘Autumn’ being set for children’s voices; the words of all three are concerned, more or less, with mortality. Mournful song (‘Under the little apple tree’) and Street song (‘The grey eagle’) feature grieving lovers, while Autumn offers a doleful portrait of fallen leaves in the cold wind. For curiosity’s sake, we have added to this recording versions, for cello and piano, of the three Tchaikovsky settings, plus a multi-track version of ‘Grant repose’ in the adaptation used by Britten, which is to be found in The English Hymnal, edited by organist and composer Sir Walter Parratt (1841-1924—private organist to Queen Victoria, no less). For me, the interest of encountering these themes in earlier incarnations is heightened by observing the skill with which Britten has altered and adapted them for the purposes of his suite.
The work is composed in the ‘reverse variation’ form—i.e. the themes appearing after, not before, the variations—also used by Britten in two Dowland-inspired works: the Nocturnal for guitar, and Lachrymae for viola. The suite opens with the lowest note on the cello, an open C string, played pizzicato; this is sounded repeatedly through the ‘Introduzione’, underpinning a melodic line derived from ‘Grant repose’—as if one priest, and then two, were intoning a prayer for the departed, to the accompaniment of funeral bells. This is followed by a more energetic ‘Marcia’, based on ‘The grey eagle’, the bellicose march contrasted with elements of the chant. This movement then melts into a ‘Canto’ (based on ‘Under the little apple tree’), a series of gentle sighs, which is in turn succeeded by what appears to be a tribute to Bach’s first cello suite: a flowing ‘Barcarola’ derived from Autumn. From there the music becomes more complex, a ‘Dialogo’ (possibly suggested by Musorgsky’s ‘Samuel Goldenberg and Schmuyle’ from Pictures from an exhibition?) between opposing aggressive fragments taken from ‘The grey eagle’, and calm pizzicato answers stemming from ‘Grant repose’. Halfway through this movement, it is as if the first voice resigns itself to the inescapable reality of death; from angry protests, the abrupt rhythmic patterns fade to soft floating, culminating in a gentle drift down to earth. An expressive ‘Fuga’, based on Autumn, follows, and then a total change of atmosphere: an eerie ‘Recitativo’ entitled ‘Fantastico’, in which strange, disjointed splinters of musical material are sounded briefly before flitting away into the shadows. (I have a question about a little phrase here, although I’m aware that I could easily be barking up the wrong shrub: one isolated figure consists of the notes E flat and A, a tritone. It seems to me that there is no obvious tritone in any of the themes; I wonder whether Britten might have been quoting instead the two musical letters of the name Slava: S—Es or E flat—and A? Maybe …) The spectral atmosphere carries over into the presto which follows, a scurrying ‘Moto perpetuo’ which brings to mind Chopin’s ‘wind howling through the graves’ in the last movement of his ‘funeral march’ sonata. Finally, the most substantial movement of all: an extensive ‘Passacaglia’, the main theme taken from ‘Grant repose’, firmly stating its cold purpose deep within the cavernous lower reaches of the cello, while the upper voice weeps and pleads in falling semitones. The intensity develops until the upper voice lets forth a melodious cry of anguish. And then—somehow making the whole meaning of the work clear in retrospect—we hear the four themes themselves, moving in their simplicity and expressive appeal. The third suite, like Britten’s even later third string quartet, takes us on a deeply affecting emotional and spiritual journey, bidding us a sombre farewell; it ends as it began—on the cello’s lowest, darkest note.
Rostropovich had been scheduled to perform the suite at the 1972 Aldeburgh Festival. Forced to cancel his trip just a few days before he had been supposed to travel (ironically, cruelly, Shostakovich was permitted to attend the festival), he wrote in desperation to Britten: ‘Ben, your suite is sheer genius. If they forbid me going abroad for a long time, please give me permission to play it for the first time in Moscow.’ This too was disallowed, however. Finally, in 1974, he was ignominiously dismissed by the Soviet authorities, and forced into exile; on 21 December that year he was at last able to give the premiere of the (now slightly revised) suite in the main concert hall of the Aldeburgh Festival, the Maltings at Snape. As can be imagined, it was a deeply emotional and memorable occasion—and I’m happy to report that I was there! I remember looking at Britten, sitting there, inscrutable, in the gloom of the box. In more recent years, I have performed the suite several times in that hall; each time, I look into the obscurity of the box and wonder whether Britten’s ghost might just be there …
from notes by Steven Isserlis © 2021
extrait des notes rédigées par Mervyn Cooke © 2013
Français: Marie-Stella Pâris
aus dem Begleittext von Mervyn Cooke © 2013
Deutsch: Viola Scheffel
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