String Quartet No. 10 in E-flat Major, Op. 74, “Harp”, 1809

Its feels that Beethoven’s “Harp” quartet is somehow overlooked. A definite “middle period” work, it is followed quickly by the more innovative “Serioso” and then the late quartets, and it is preceded by the more landmark “Razumovsky” quartets of just a few years earlier. Even the earliest Op. 18 quartets appear more frequently on concert stages. Yet Beethoven’s String Quartet No. 10 in E-flat Major is a glorious work: full, rich and befitting the middle period character known as “Eroica.” Bountiful, beneficent, lavish and even sensuous, the “Harp” even features a dash of impressionistic pointillism with the first movement’s elegant pizzicato sections giving rise to the quartet’s historical nickname. Each of the four movements is a uniquely shaped touchstone of the multi-movement sonata form types and there is an overarching vector of momentum that joins these movements into a miraculous unity of purpose, design and expression. With its prevailing vitality, heart, invention and accessibility, one is almost tempted to call this Beethoven’s most “perfect” quartet. And yet, it is devilish to play.

The opening sonata form movement displays all of Beethoven’s artistic elaborations. For its long and dramatic introduction, it might be called Beethoven’s own “Dissonance” quartet. The main thematic materials are among his most mellifluous with long lines of counterpoint and dialog sharply contrasted with the harp-like pizzicato and Beethoven’s thunderous interruptions. The development section flows organically from the preceding materials and launches the music into a flight of heroic triumph that matches so much of Beethoven’s music from this period. And just as organically, a long rapturous coda evokes both symphony and violin concerto as a stunning movement artfully plays out its tremendous potential energy.

The slow movement showcases Beethoven’s unearthly sober sweetness as a humble tune somehow becomes a spiritual peak. The form is lovely with another direct pointer to Mozart: a hybrid of rondo, sonata and variations that would reappear in the late quartets with such magisterial mystery. A beautiful song verse repeats with ever elaborated counterpoint and dialog between contrasting episodes of poignant despair making a kind of single braid that holds both in perfect balance.

The Scherzo is brusque, sharp, muscular, stabbing. The tremendous momentum suggests a tarentella, a leaping gypsy dance, perhaps even something Russian. This is characteristic and crucial Beethoven that escalates with the trio as simple scale motives combine in staggering counterpoint to forge mountains of music thrusting upward with tectonic force. The sheer bounding inertia requires Beethoven (and the players) to apply the brakes quite skillfully to manage a nearly miraculous seamless segue into the finale.

While we might lament the absence of a fugue in such an elegant and satisfying quartet thus far, Beethoven opts for high Viennese hijinks to conclude the work, giving us something even better: a fine set of variations, yet another form in which Beethoven bulldozed the erstwhile classical style with his unbridled creative volcanism. It was George Bernard Shaw who remarked that Beethoven could make interesting music from bare sticks of themes and this may be one of the best examples. The series of variations can aptly be compared with the finest of Jazz solo pianists in that each new “chorus” is a miracle of invention and a transformation of mood and character. The theme is a full two-part binary form, a detail that can greatly guide your listening: the “second half” of each variation is where development and ingenuity accelerate every time. But the finest detail lies in Beethoven’s management of the overall shape of the movement. A handful of nearly manic, compressed final variations organically create a coda of perfectly conclusive effect. What’s not to love about the elusive “Harp” quartet?

String Quartet in C Major, K. 465, “Dissonance”, 1785

The opening chapters of an essential history of the mighty string quartet could do no better than presenting the initial call and response of two eternal masterworks: Haydn’s Op. 33 and Mozart’s six quartets dedicated to Haydn. Just before Haydn’s groundbreaking set of six quartets were published in 1781, Mozart fatefully attended (perhaps even played for) a gathering where he heard Haydn’s Op. 33 quartets first hand in what was surely their informal premiere. Mozart was now living in Vienna, learning about Bach, and here, stunned by Haydn’s latest chamber music. Over the next four years, Mozart would write string duos, trios and quartets enfolding the lessons from Bach and Haydn, culminating in a laborious two-year project yielding six new string quartets loving dedicated to Haydn himself. Upon hearing these works, also in a collegial, salon setting with Mozart definitely playing viola, Haydn remarked that Mozart was the greatest living composer he knew.

It is fair to say that Mozart achieved at least two things with these new quartets: he surpassed his master evolving the string quartet art to a new level, and, he penned his own very best chamber music. Despite history’s worship of Mozart’s later string quintets, his six “Haydn” quartets, particularly when regarded as a whole, far surpass the quintets in technique, variety, depth of expression and sheer musical genius.

It is also fair to say that, within this set of Mozart quartets about which no praise could possibly be hyperbolic, the sixth and final quartet is arguably the most noteworthy. Ever since its innovative, foreboding, dark shadow of an introduction was first heard by rapt if not shocked listeners, it has borne the nickname “Dissonance.” The music begins as if it arose from a probing development section by Beethoven filled with brooding anxiety, pulsing, accented, distorted and evasive, eschewing harmonic resolution by drifting ever farther off course. As legend has it, the first publishers initially sent it back to Mozart believing it was riddled with mistakes. But this two-minute dramatic feint becomes the foil for one of Mozart’s most radiant and beneficent sonatas of all, bursting forth as a bright triumph of consonance in the natural key of C major. The first movement is a finely wrought sonata form, exquisitely articulated and naturally fluid with the fresh textures of Viennese high classicism: melody, motive, counterpoint and development, a refined dialog among four independent and highly cultivated souls. The dissonant introduction would jump like a spark of inspiration directly to Beethoven who greatly admired its ingenuity and clearly applied it to his own epic responses to the genre.

The slow movement is sweet and singing with a much more homophonic texture throughout. Mozart’s operatic gift for lyricism stretched across an arc of dramatic tension is fully present as violin and cello call and respond DELETE lovingly over a chasm of latent despair, the thread held tight by a little four-note trailing ornament that ingeniously becomes a motive-based mantra. As in so many of Mozart’s slow movements, melodic beauty is developed and deepened through aching wounds.

The third movement Menuetto is a mélange of melody, motive, counterpoint and development again. Instead of a simple minuet tune, Mozart writes another fully articulated drama like another little sonata of remarkable character, all still before the trio. The trio section only doubles this sensation of conflict within a larger unity. A shift to a minor key with a whole new sense OF nearly Schubertian restless pathos pursues its own little inner sonata before returning to the minuet whose chromatic swoons seem just a bit more edgy now.

The high art of this remarkable quartet ends with yet another tour de force of formal construction, elegance and wit burnished with immediate surface appeal. A rondo form (with recurring refrain and intervening episodes) is merged with A theme and variations (the rondo theme constantly varies) and the overarching dramatic plan of a sonata (the rondo theme and episodes wander and develop). The character is by turns effervescent, dark and lyrical, the counterpoint is rich, the rhythmic drive is irrepressible and the musical variety is inexpressible. Every bar of music is both a stitch in a fabric continuity as well new innovation in texture, harmony or variation. And so closes the sixth chapter of the second book of the greatest string quartets in history.

String Quartet No. 2 in a minor, Op. 51, No. 2, 1873

Like Schubert, Brahms apparently had many string quartets under his belt before making a published debut. Unlike Schubert, Brahms left no traces by mercilessly destroying what he deemed unworthy. Despite being “firsts”, the two quartets published as Op. 51 in 1873 when Brahms was forty must be considered mature works. And evidence suggests he worked on these quartets over an extended period of time. Brahms would write only one more string quartet a few years later. Unlike this final quartet exuberantly in B-flat major, both of the Op. 51 quartets are in a minor key, largely ponderous and dramatic, rich, thick and profound. But as always there is great variety within especially with Brahms’s signature gift for thematic variation that can completely transform the character of a theme even within the same movement.

The opening movement features a masterful sonata form with an expansive exposition that begins sounding like Schubert but pursues a vast architectural plan that is distinctly Brahms. From the beginning and throughout the quartet, one also hears a new rhythmic complexity arising from Brahms’s constant tendency to pose two counts against three at the same time. Despite passages of gorgeous and even delicate lyricism, a masterful coda reinforces the prevailing severity of this rather turbulent music.

Like some warm, familiar song, the slow movement soothes and even swoons with a kind of gemütlichkeit that only Brahms can conjure. But the greatest beauty is always enhanced by conflict, here, a nervous and very Schubertian interruption that lends a deeper poignancy to the main material that ultimately subdues it. The scherzo that Brahms marks “Quasi Minuetto” remarkably points to Schubert again. Tentative and quiet, it is almost more mood than movement, song more than dance. This becomes an effective foil for a trio that comparatively rocks with a Mendelssohnian lilt, a major tonality and a pert duple meter.

What might be described as the “missing” triple meter scherzo feel from the minuet arrives with a vengeance in the finale establishing a recurring refrain of great muscularity and drive. As with the great rondos of Haydn and Beethoven, this one develops as each recurrence elaborates its dramatic character. Between are contrasting episodes of great and even tender sweetness that develop their own extended lyricism before an ingenious final transformation of the recurring theme hurls the music towards its devastating conclusion.

String Quartet No. 13 in A minor, D. 804, “Rosamunde”, 1824

Schubert grew up playing chamber music with his family and composed several youthful (and quite skillful) string quartets for these domestic affairs. His mature “professional” quartets composed for public performance date from the 1820’s and include the single movement “Quartettsatz”, the “Rosamunde”, the “Death and the Maiden”, and the final epic in G major completing a lifelong set of 15 numbered quartets. Written in 1824 when Schubert was still only 27 (with only four years left), the “Rosamunde” quartet would be the only string quartet performed and published during his lifetime. Overshadowed by the more dramatic quartets that surround it chronologically, the 13th quartet is notable for its suave but dark-tinged reserve, a delicacy of atmosphere, texture and Schubert’s irrepressible signature: delicious lyricism.

As he frequently did, Schubert borrowed melodic and rhythmic seeds from his other music – songs and incidental music – to crystallize a new work. These influences are detectable in all four movements, particularly the gentle song of the slow movement taken from an entr’acte for the play “Rosamunde” written a year earlier, hence, the quartet’s nickname supplied by history rather than Schubert himself.

The first movement is the most intense. A wistful melody with an underlying rhythmic urgency sets a mood that is trademark Schubert: hopeful yearning surrounded by despair. Using multiple themes, flexible textures, strong dynamics and briefly alarming swatches of fugato, the music rises and falls, each new positive gesture thwarted by an ever-stronger darkness. The middle movements are much more subtle. The Andante with the theme from Rosamunde softly sings but still rises to a startling peak of anguish if only briefly. The Menuetto is a surprise: instead of a lively scherzo, Schubert writes an atmospheric character piece that only gains its rhythmic sway tentatively, demure and uncertain. Only the trio brings relief with its chaste simplicity waltzing into the light. This kinder spirit pervades the finale, surprisingly gentle for Schubert. A moderately paced folk dance with a slight gypsy influence becomes a showcase for a masterful fantasy of textures and flickering tonalities confirming the Rosamunde quartet as a subtle delicacy among Schubert’s “late” chamber masterworks.

String Quartet No. 14 in A-flat, Op. 105, 1895

Antonín Dvořák was an absolutely superb and prolific chamber music composer, writing fourteen string quartets as well as numerous trios, quintets, sonatas and a variety of miniatures and character pieces. The “American” quartet (No. 12 in F Major) is by far his most well-known and beloved chamber work, but it may well do disservice to Dvořák by overshadowing his other mature quartets, all fantastic, and each of a unique character. Equally noteworthy is the “Slavonic” quartet (No. 10 in E-flat major) so named for its distinctive Czech and Bohemian folk references, and the final two quartets written almost as a simultaneous pair in 1895 upon Dvořák’s return from America to his homeland. Dvořák started work on the quartet in A-flat while still in America. Barely begun, he returned home and complained to friends about a creative block, a short “dry spell” without inspiration. When his muse returned, Dvořák began a fresh composition, the string quartet in G major, which he completed before returning to the A-flat quartet, which he swiftly finished. This explains the curiosity that the quartet in A-flat, called number 14, has a lower opus number than the quartet number 13 in G, Op. 106. The String Quartet No. 14 in A-flat, Op. 105, was to be Dvořák’s last quartet, indeed, his last chamber music composition of any kind.

Dvořák’s final quartet is neither especially Bohemian nor in any way like the singular “American quartet” with its folk-like pentatonic themes. Rather, this last quartet is simply a tour de force of pure expression alla Dvořák: rich in lyricism, color, texture and rhythmic vitality with a sound that is unmistakably Dvořák’s. One senses that Dvořák felt happy and free upon returning to his homeland, as a kind of rhapsodic exuberance pervades the quartet.

The first movement begins with a suspenseful, brooding introduction that deftly reveals multiple thematic ideas in a disguised, fragmentary way. Once the real momentum is established, Dvořák indulges in at least three different main themes in a loosely woven form that features a nearly continuous kind of development from beginning to end. The second movement Molto vivace bears the strongest national or folk influence in the quartet, evoking the highly spirited leaping dance known as the furiant. A bristling scherzo in the minor mode gives way to a gorgeous trio in the major mode, a beautiful moment of lyrical grace characteristic of Dvořák’s apparently infinite muse. His scherzi are always impeccably crafted and one of a kind, in this case featuring a smooth transition from trio back to scherzo that hides the seams of this typically sectional form.

The third is the slow movement, yet another piece of classic Dvořák tuneful lyricism carefully marked lento e molto cantabile – slow and very songlike. It is a “basic” ternary form with a contrasting middle section where an unresolved chromatic wanderlust reveals Dvořák’s late romantic style, with traces of Wagner and perhaps early Schoenberg. The lyrical reprise is treated to a whole new texture with pizzicato and scherzando embellishments from the second fiddle and a brief recall of the chromatic middle, like a memory that fades with the conclusion.

The finale, the very last of Dvořák’s movements for string quartet, features another rhapsodic wealth of thematic materials in a continuous organic form that is hard to characterize. A somber introduction in the lowest register of the cello swiftly, if not manically, morphs into a lively dance that bundles headlong until it is interrupted by the introduction again, recitative and suspenseful tremolo throttling the action for a brief interlude. This curious, conflicted stream-of-consciousness from inner reflection to outward exuberance is ultimately resolved in a big finish of unambiguous triumph. And here Dvořák concludes a mighty canon of first-rate chamber works, among the very last in the tradition of Schubert and Brahms before the rapidly approaching sea change of the 20th century.

String Quartet in E-flat Major, Op. 33, No. 2, “Joke”

, 1781

In 1781, after a lapse of ten years, a 49-year-old Joseph Haydn turned to the string quartet again, composing a set of six that were published the following year as Op. 33. The publication bore a dedication to the “Grand Duke of Russia” and so these quartets are most commonly known as the “Russian” quartets. The alternate nickname, Gli Scherzi (The Jokes), refers to the fact that Haydn replaced the traditional title “Minuet” with the Italian word “Scherzo,” meaning joke or playfulness. Whether these dance movements were any different than their predecessors is difficult to determine, but the birth of a new movement genre is undeniable, as history would prove. The nickname is apt here because with Op. 33, Haydn did recast the essential character of the string quartet by making it somewhat more lighthearted. Yet he also made it more sophisticated in terms of musical construction resulting in cleverness and, in several places, literal musical jokes based on confounding the expectations of common music forms and devices. In this respect the quartets are a great historical watershed. Haydn himself advertised his quartets in private subscription letters as having been written in a “new and special way.” An impressionable Mozart heard these quartets in 1781. Astonished, Mozart responded by writing his own set of six masterworks that he lovingly dedicated to Haydn.

Perhaps most famous of the set is second quartet in E-flat, itself known as the “Joke” quartet. It begins with a movement in sonata form, moderate, singing, and simple. A closer look reveals that the first five bars contain all the musical materials of the movement, both the theme, its constituent and omnipresent musical motives, and thereby, the source of conflict that generates the articulated sonata form. The first three notes of the quartet establish a lilting motive that, during a stormy development, assumes a menacing character that recasts the main theme in a minor key as the most dramatic point before the recapitulation. The elegant elaborations of the opening material at the end demonstrate that Haydn’s music is always developing regardless of where in the “form” he is supposed to be.

The “Scherzo” comes next. Haydn would continuously shift the triple-meter dance movement between second and third slot in his sonatas. There really is no rule. On the surface, this is easy going, smiling music. But Haydn invests both scherzo and trio with perfectly shaped dramatic forms – constant development – and at least one of the musical jokes of the set must be the sliding theme of the nearly giddy trio set against the more heavy-footed folk dance of the scherzo. This is a dash of musical “insouciance” we normally associate with Mozart.

The third, slow movement is one of the innumerable beautiful songs Haydn composed throughout his oeuvre. A lovely, pastorale kind of melody in hunting horn intervals softly calls out from the mellow pair of viola and cello. The treble twins call back and so a dialog ensues. A dramatic interruption of ‘Sturm und drang’ banishes any sense of jocularity with a stabbing emotional darkness. But the mellifluous pastorale will prevail through two more restatements, each time made more sweet and elegant by a growing filigree of counterpoint. Somewhat of a rondo as well as a theme and variations, this is yet another Haydn movement genre that would rise to great achievements in the hands of Mozart and, especially, Beethoven.

The finale is definitely a crisply articulated rondo, loping with characteristic mirth in the rather magical meter of 6/8, the establishment of yet another precedent. A rondo features an easily recognizable refrain that recurs with intervening episodes of contrast, departure or development. By assigning letters to the sections, one can perfectly describe Haydn’s finale as: “AbAcA.” Almost. The inevitable musical expectations give Haydn an opportunity for true musical play, the humor of confounding an established rhetoric as the true mark of cultural sophistication. But one of many instances of musical humor in the quartet, this is the one that gave rise to the quartets nickname, the “Joke.”

Piano Trio No. 1 in C minor, Op. 7, 1850

Although Lalo’s lasting reputation is based primarily on operatic and orchestral compositions, he demonstrated a lifelong passion for chamber music. He played violin and viola and was the founding member of the Armingaud Quartet, established in 1855 with the mission of introducing the chamber music of Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn and Schumann to a French public largely obsessed with grand opera. During the 1850’s, Lalo was among the first French composers to take up chamber music composition, ultimately producing three piano trios, a violin sonata, a cello sonata and a string quartet. Although these compositions are generally outside of the traditional repertoire, they are all fine works that deserve more exposure.

Lalo’s first piano trio in C minor, Op. 7 was most likely composed around 1850 when Lalo was 27. The preceding decade witnessed the appearance of both piano trios by Mendelssohn (who was now deceased), two of Schumann’s three trios, and the youthful trios of the Belgian César Franck. Brahms was merely 17 and his trios would not materialize for a good thirty years. It is not surprising that Lalo’s musical character in this trio evokes Schumann and especially Mendelssohn, but placed within a French historical context, Lalo was a bold trailblazer establishing a fresh genre. The trio comprises four movements in a traditional Germanic style, and the prevailing key of C minor invests the work with a restless, dark and dramatic character full of strong dynamic contrasts and a big, powerful sound.

The opening movement is a crisp sonata form with two prominent themes, the first in C minor, and the second in E-flat major, a clear contrast of dark and light. Lalo was a lyrical composer and his themes tend towards complete melodies versus the shorter motive-based subjects of his Germanic models, a trait he shared with Mendelssohn. Curiously, the movement begins with a mournful recitative for solo cello introducing the first theme in a unique treatment. The finale reiterates this distinctive approach for a compelling sense of symmetry.

The second movement is a warm “song without words” in G major that begins like a rather dreamy salon piece with an easy demeanor and a nostalgic cast. The form is a clear ternary or three-part scheme, with a middle section adding a muscular march as a close variation of the first theme. Lalo embellishes the reprise with fresh textures, giving this traditional song-form the feel of a little theme and variations. A brief chromatic coda sustains a memory of the contrasting center.

The lively third-movement scherzo is marked throughout by a short rhythmic motive that leaps and gallops like a polonaise, a clear reference to Chopin who had charmed French society and passed away only one year before. The scherzo is interesting for at least two details of construction. First, the music begins in the relative major key as if yearning towards bright and cheery, but quickly and inevitably, the music turns dark. The same is true of the trio section. Second, with the return of the scherzo, Lalo does not rely on a simple and literal “da capo” repeat but thoroughly composes the reprise with extensions and developments of the opening material ending, surprisingly, in a major key. Full of rhythmic vitality and finesse, the entire movement has a kind of seamless continuity unusual for this typically more sectional form.

Beginning with a lonely cello recitative after the manner of the first movement, the finale seals the majestic tragedy of this work with a sweeping, dramatic drive highly reminiscent of Mendelssohn’s two trios. Like his predecessor, Lalo intersperses long lyrical phrases of tender expression that nonetheless succumb to the turbulent rush towards a definitive conclusion in C minor. Throughout the work, Lalo displays excellent craftsmanship and the confident handling of parts like a musician intimately familiar with first-hand chamber music performance.

String Quartet No. 4 in F major, Op. 44, 1906, revised in 1919

Though Carl Nielsen was an exact contemporary of Jean Sibelius, his recognition and acceptance into the repertoire came much later. During the 1930’s, Sibelius was widely regarded as one of the great living composers while Nielsen would have been largely unknown outside of Denmark. It was primarily under the aegis and baton of Leonard Bernstein in the 1960’s that Nielsen came to light as another significant 20th century European composer now celebrated for his five symphonies, some concerti and a reasonable clutch of chamber compositions including four string quartets and a one-movement quintet. As with Sibelius, Nielsen’s style is largely rooted in late romantic tonality though marked by a more contemporary freedom of tonal migration (sometimes called “progressive tonality”) and well as relaxed formal plans. Beyond these vague generalizations, Nielsen’s music is well-crafted, superbly scored and very much of a unique, individual style. His final String Quartet No. 4 in F major, Op. 44 is a well-kept secret: rarely played but well worth appreciating.

Nielsen originally composed this quartet in 1906 under the title Piacevolezza, meaning a pleasantry, something simply pleasing. Nearly thirteen years later, he revised it for a fresh premiere in 1919 with publication following in 1923 as Op. 44. The notion of a pleasantry suggests a serenade or divertimento, and the quartet has an overall gestalt of something genial, gallant and almost literally classical in the manner of Haydn and Mozart albeit with Nielsen’s “neoclassical” transformation. But some of the pleasure is a direct reflection of Nielsen’s own delight in having composed the piece. He wrote, “I am starting to know the true nature of string instruments. It is indeed peculiar that one can court and cajole a tender being such as a string quartet for many years before she surrenders. Only now do I consider myself to have reached some sort of accord with its chaste, fugitive character.”

The originality of Nielsen’s quartet is immediately evident from the beginning. Rather than a rousing first movement sonata form, possibly with pregnant introduction, the quartet begins with a moderate triple-meter dance with the character of a middle movement scherzo or slow movement in a rondo form. Swaying with pleasant languor that is rich with changing textures and colors, it sustains a continuous evolving development producing a wealth of material in a seamless sweep. Nielsen is a skillful contrapuntalist throughout the quartet beginning with a prominent fugato section midway through the Allegro. His love of Viennese classicism is particularly evident in this opening movement though it is given a modern tartness of both harmony and sonority.

The Adagio is a beautiful slow movement very much in the character of Nielsen’s title, con sentimento religioso. It begins with the four-part blended unity of a hymn sounding far older than 1906. The texture soon splits into top and bottom with a mellifluous exchange of melody, accompaniment and imitation that suggests a serenade for string orchestra. But the music grows more introspective and probing as the opening four-note motive returns for a contrapuntal exploration (another fugato section) and a dissolve back into the chaste hymn that continues to flower further over time until it meets a reverent conclusion featuring soft, individual voices.

Nielsen continues his exploration of diverse textures and sonorities with the third movement Allegretto, an atmospheric and mercurial scherzo in a relaxed, brief form suggesting a little intermezzo within the serenade. Despite is deft vigor and scherzando character, it is not in a triple meter (like the first movement) but based entirely on two and four counts evenly subdivided.

The finale is lively and lyrical mixing contemporary quirkiness with sections that sound nearly like Dvořák. Nielsen’s consistently fine scoring for rich color, sonority and rhythmic gesture is the connection. But his surface piacevolezza is darkened with a return to contrapuntal meditation with a third fugato section along with the dissolution of the quartet into fragmented solo voices and a fascinating breakdown of rhythm alla Beethoven. But nothing is quite as serious as its sounds and the occasional use of almost “sour” dissonances injects a fleeting levity that is almost ironically neoclassical. Nielsen’s music is neither “traditional” nor forbiddingly modern. Its exact “vintage” is elusive but its successful originality is entirely clear.

String Quartet in d minor, Op. 56, Voces intimae (Intimate Voices), 1909

Although there are literally dozens of noteworthy “Scandinavian” composers from the classical, romantic and especially modern eras, Grieg and Sibelius are apt to comprise the short list for most listeners. Sibelius was Finnish, technically not Scandinavian, though Finland is often referenced in a broader sense of Scandinavian culture. He experienced a vogue of international fame in the mid-20th century largely for his orchestral works including a celebrated cycle of seven symphonies and several tone poems representing Sibelius as a great Finnish nationalist. He was also prolific in composing chamber music though most of his quartets and trios remain outside the repertoire, regarded as “juvenilia”, house or even salon music in a light style for practical entertainment. The clear exception is the masterful String Quartet in d minor written by a 44-year-old Sibelius in 1909 just a few years after Carl Nielsen’s final quartet. The title “Intimate Voices” comes from an inscription over the staff in the third movement Adagio. Although its makes a suggestive subtitle, its meaning is cryptic at best. Melvin Berger relates that Sibelius was not fond of talking about “meaning” in his music. Sibelius explained, “You know how the wing of a butterfly crumbles at a touch? So it is with my compositions; the very mention of them is fatal.”

Nonetheless, the phrase “intimate voices” is perfect for chamber music and the quartet begins with an intimate exchange between violin and cello with a mournful, lonely melody that immediately establishes an introspective cast. The full ensemble joins spinning out a long theme in smooth step-wise motion that weaves long swatches of contrapuntal fabric in loose imitative threads eventually unified by strong, conclusive cadences. This tendency for elongated, spacious polyphony surfaces again in the finale giving a kind of symmetry to this five-movement work. Hardly a suite of independent movements, the structure has something of the “arch” form later used by Bartók and Shostakovich: the outer “bookends” embrace two scherzi (movements two and four) which frame a central slow movement of deep emotional impact, the true intimate core of the quartet. Thematic relationships further knit multiple movements into a cohesive unity.

The second movement is a swift and bright vivace with a bristling motion in the manner of a scherzo although it is in duple, not triple time. Soft, nervous tremolos slowly give rise to a scurrying theme that worries then brightens as it jumps synaptically from part to part. Within this brief transitional movement (almost an entr’acte), Sibelius seems to exercise one of his unique devises for revealing his theme over time so that it emerges only towards the end as if out of freshly formed matter. This short foray of scherzando character is more substantially plumbed in the fourth movement, a true three-to-a-beat scherzo with a similar filigree of nervous motion constantly undermining a more pronounced, stomping folk dance pattern. The tonality is dark and the restless themes insistent as if an exchange of intimate voices was forced to contend with a maelstrom.

The deep center of the work is the central slow movement where, early on, over three distinctive muted chords, Sibelius wrote the phrase “voces intimae” in the manuscript. Tender, pleading lines intertwine with lush romantic lyricism tinged by a silvery coolness characteristic of Sibelius. Passing suggestions of Wagner and Mahler dissolve into lonely individual strands that postpone harmonic resolution until the very end, one of the few moments of true repose in the entire quartet.

The finale has a fierce driving perpetual motion that surges ever forward despite the characteristic fragmentation of both rhythm and melodic lines into a great diversity of “sections.” The swirling, dizzy dance is almost a frantic tarantella with yet more nervous tremolos and synaptic sparks jumping among the players. A muscular two-part texture of close cat-and-mouse imitation between treble and base rushes the music into a final cadence that is dark, definitive and unanimous. So ends the single and singular chamber masterwork of Sibelius.

String Quartet in G Major, Op. 77, No 1, 1799

1799 quietly witnessed a great turning point in the history of the string quartet. With Mozart gone, both an elderly Haydn and a young Beethoven were simultaneously working on a new set of string quartets: Haydn’s last and Beethoven’s first. On this noteworthy “passing of the baton”, the composers shared a common patron. A young Price Lobkowitz commissioned both composers around the same time. Beethoven’s Op. 18 was published at the end of 1801, Haydn’s Op. 77 in early 1802. It is no surprise that Haydn’s last quartets are often called “Beethovenian” just as Beethoven’s first quartets may be called “Haydnesque.” Together, they comprise a great high water mark of the mature Viennese style before Beethoven’s middle period expansion. And just as Beethoven’s quartets are “early”, hewing close to Haydn as a model, Haydn’s final quartets represent his own most modern, consolidated and polished efforts in the form with many forward looking aspects.

The most curious (and unanswered) question regarding this historical moment is whether they knew of each other’s latest work. There is evidence to suggest that Haydn may have heard a performance of some of Beethoven’s Op. 18 quartets as he was in the midst of working on the Op. 77 set. Some have even speculated that Haydn thereby stopped composing quartets, essentially bowing out of the competition with this new young composer from Bonn. Others suggest that Haydn was busy, tired and possibly ill. Either way, it is a mystery why Op. 77 contains only two quartets rather than Haydn’s characteristic grouping of three or six to a set. It seems unlikely that Beethoven knew of Haydn’s quartets. One might just say they emerged separately, in parallel.

Haydn’s Op. 77, no 1 in G major is quite simply a brilliant quartet. The fluid diversity of textures is a hallmark of Haydn and the Viennese style. Dazzling counterpoint is juxtaposed with homophony and even dramatic unisons. Virtuosic concertante solos are soon echoed by call and response interactions that formalize into canons and long harmonic sequences for elegant skeins of interchange evoking the late Baroque. The composite effect demonstrates that unique style so famously called conversational.

The opening movement is a robust, definitive sonata form with the two-beat drive of a march and the three-beat perpetual motion of a dance. As in multiple places throughout the quartet, the cello rises in repartee with the first fiddle for some of the most independent part writing to date. This is one of the most elaborate of Haydn’s sonatas complete with multiple themes, an adventurous development section, a recapitulation full of fresh innovations and even a small coda. The elaborate polyphony bounding with energy makes for a showcase of both technique and bravado character.

The slow movement is almost the polar opposite. Vocal models prevail from the opening unisons, to four-part chorale, to the accompanied cantilena for first violin to the nearly operatic duet for violin and cello. On the surface, the form appears to be another sonata with all its requisite sections, but, typical of Haydn’s endless imagination, the form is relaxed and rhapsodic in the manner of a fantasy. A recurring refrain suggests a rondo but the character equally evokes a da capo aria in a simple song form. Sweet and beautiful as so many of Haydn’s lyrical slow movements, it broaches deeper emotions that might best be called a noble melancholy punctuated by some startling outbursts of anguish, a bit of Sturm und Drang surfacing even here at the end of Haydn’s quartet journey. One is tempted to call this Haydn’s most “Schubertian” vein, if, in fact, it were not Haydn himself doing it first.

The Scherzo finds Haydn ever toying with his fascination for the transformed minuet here with the verve and pace of a true “Beethovenian” scherzo though it is clear that Haydn got there first. A leaping, syncopated line may have found its inspiration in Hungarian folk music and its soaring energy propels the violin into the stratospheric range of the instrument. A trio intensifies the rhythmic bustle with husky tremolos, abrupt dynamics and a more frantic kind of folk dance in a rather surprising key of E-flat major.

With the finale, Haydn writes his third sonata form of the quartet, this time, a “monothematic” sonata with but one theme as the vehicle for otherwise harmonic changes. The “theme” is barely a scrap of a tune that, in conjunction with all the so-called themes of the quartet, reiterates the Viennese emphasis on the motif rather than melody. The driving rhythms of both the first movement and the scherzo here boil into a true dash of perpetual motion that humorously stalls and disassembles with a playfulness so characteristic of Haydn’s finales and so influential on Beethoven. The finale features long stretches of canonic writing in yet another texture: the violins against the viola and cello, the reinforced parts strengthening the canonic play with a unified might. As James Keller has observed, the first and last movements even hint at Mendelssohn with his nervous splendor. In summary, this “late” work of Haydn’s shows absolutely no diminution of craft, creativity or energy. Apparently as a conscious choice, Haydn chose to quit on a high note leaving yet another exemplar of a genre he largely invented and surely perfected.