Published
in
the
Three
oranges,
Journal
of
the
Serge
Prokofiev
Foundation,
No.
18
(November
2009),
7‐14.
Alexander
Ivashkin
COOLING
THE
VOLCANO:
Prokofiev’s
Cello
Concerto
Op.
58
and
‘Symphony‐Concerto’
Op.
125.
Prokofiev
was
writing
cello
music
all
his
life,
starting
with
an
early
Ballade
(1912),
to
his
very
last
and
incomplete
piece,
the
Sonata
for
Solo
Cello
Op.
133
(1953).[1]
Prokofiev's
cello
writing
in
the
late
period
of
his
life
was
inspired
by
the
young
Mstislav
Rostropovich,
who
began
his
brilliant
concert
career
in
the
1940s.
The
Cello
Concerto
No.
1
Op.
58
and
its
later
version,
the
Symphony‐Concerto
Op.
125,
completed
in
collaboration
with
Rostropovich,
are
very
different
works.
The
writing
for
cello
is
much
more
idiomatic
in
the
Symphony‐Concerto.
The
innovative
technical
discoveries
in
the
Symphony‐Concerto
influenced
Russian
composers
over
the
next
few
decades
(including
Dmitri
Shostakovich's
Cello
Concertos).[2]
The
Concerto
No.
1
is
still
very
much
related
to
Prokofiev's
early,
often
experimental
style,
while
the
Symphony‐Concerto
is
sometimes
seen
as
an
example
of
the
so‐ called
"degradation"
of
this
style
and
is
considered
by
many
as
a
typically
"Soviet"
work.
Prokofiev
wrote
his
Cello
Concerto
No
1
at
the
suggestion
of
the
virtuoso
cellist,
Gregor
Piatigorsky,
who
Piatigorsky
recalls
in
his
memoirs:
I
thought
that
I
had
first
met
the
awkward
and
outspoken
Prokofieff
in
the
house
of
Koussevitzky
in
Boston,
or
in
Paris
after
a
sonata
recital
with
Horowitz,
but
most
likely
it
was
in
Berlin,
when
I
played
his
early
Ballade
with
him
and
urged
that
he
write
a
cello
concerto.
"I
don't
know
your
crazy
instrument,"
he
said.
I
played
for
him
and,
demonstrating
all
the
possibilities
of
the
cello,
saw
him
from
time
to
time
jump
from
his
chair.
"It
is
slashing!
Play
it
again!"
He
made
notes
in
the
little
notebook
he
always
carried
with
him.
He
asked
me
to
show
him
some
of
the
typical
music
for
cello,
but
when
I
did,
he
glanced
through
it
and
said,
"You
should
not
keep
it
in
the
house.
It
smells."
[...]
Finally
he
completed
the
first
movement.
I
received
the
music
and
soon
we
began
to
discuss
the
other
movements
to
come.
The
beginning
of
the
second,
which
followed
shortly,
appeared
as
excitingly
promising
as
the
first.
"Even
so,"
said
Prokofiev,
"it
will
lead
to
nothing.
I
cannot
compose
away
from
Russia.
I
will
go
home."[3]
Indeed
Prokofiev
continued
his
work
on
the
Concerto
on
his
return
to
Russia.
In
September
1938
he
finished
the
score,
having
applied
significant
changes
to
the
piece
and
using
only
half
of
the
material
written
in
1934.
The
first
performance
took
place
in
Moscow,
on
26
November
1938,
with
Lev
Berezovsky,
a
cellist
from
the
Moscow
Philharmonic
Orchestra,
and
Alexander
Melik‐Pashaev
conducting
the
State
Symphony
Orchestra.
Piatigorsky played the US première in Boston in 1940, but wasn't very happy with the Concerto. In his letters to Prokofiev he pointed out "certain weaknesses of the work".[4] However, Prokofiev was already in the USSR, and it was almost impossible for Piatigorsky to communicate with him. The full score of the Concerto was published by Boosey and Hawkes in 1951, and the piano reduction in 1954.
On 21 December 1947, the young Mstislav Rostropovich performed Prokofiev's Cello Concerto with piano accompaniment. Prokofiev, who was present, liked the performance.[5] Later Prokofiev attended an evening performance of Nikolai Miaskovsky's Sonata No. 2 given by Rostropovich. Prokofiev enjoyed Rostropovich's playing, but ironically remarked: "You know, when you play passages on the G string in the finale, nothing can be heard."[6] It may have been his reaction to this performance which prompted Prokofiev to rewrite his Cello Concerto as a new work, the Symphony‐Concerto.[7]
Soon it was performed in Moscow as Concerto No. 2 for Cello and Orchestra. The first performance of the new work took place on 18 February 1952 in the Great Hall of the Moscow Conservatoire. Sviatoslav Richter was chosen to be the conductor: he had broken one of his fingers and could not play the piano at that time. Rostropovich approached not a professional orchestra, but the Moscow Youth Orchestra. He thought young musicians would be more enthusiastic about modern music. Unfortunately, this was not the case. The young musicians did not understand the music at all and made jokes at the rehearsals. The première was not successful, and the critics were quite negative. It was the last public performance with Prokofiev present. After the première of the Cello Concerto No. 2 Prokofiev again made some significant changes (especially in the orchestration and the composition of the final movement).[8] In this final version (never heard by Prokofiev himself) the new work received a new title: Symphony‐Concerto Op. 125.[9] Rostropovich premiered it with the Danish Radio Orchestra in Copenhagen in December 1954. After Prokofiev's death, Rostropovich did everything to establish as soon as possible the Symphony‐Concerto as a masterpiece of the cello repertoire. It wasn't easy, and for many years the work was deemed "unplayable".[10]
When comparing the Concerto No 1 and the Symphony‐Concerto one can see that the two works are very different, although Prokofiev used many tunes from the former piece in the latter. First of all, the role and size of the orchestra are much more significant in the Symphony‐Concerto (hence the title).
Secondly, the structure of the two works is very different: the central and most important part of the Symphony‐Concerto is the second movement. The largest and most important part of the Concerto is its finale. The composition of the finales is also very different (although in both cases it is a set of variations): in the Concerto Prokofiev presents a kaleidoscopic combination of different tunes and episodes from all the movements of the Concerto, including Reminiszenza, based on the tune from the beginning, and the very unusual ending based on an augmented tune from the second movement. In the finale of the Symphony‐Concerto the composer introduces a new theme. In the central episode one can hear the rather banal melody of a popular Soviet song by the Belorussian composer Isaak Liuban ("Byvaites' zdorovy, zhivite bogato").[11]
Thirdly, the cello part in the Symphony‐Concerto was written in consultation with Mstislav Rostropovich, so it is much more convenient to play on the instrument. In contrast the cello part in the Concerto is extremely difficult and in some places, it is almost impossible to play exactly what is written. Overall, the profile of the Concerto is rather "chamber", compared with the monumental character of the Symphony‐ Concerto. It is still very much representative of the early Prokofiev, with its typical "fountain" of very bright and sparkling ideas, a feature which makes this work very attractive and unusual in the cello repertoire.
Rostropovich's participation in the shaping of the Symphony‐Concerto has been discussed over the years, and more recently by Simon Morrison in his new book, The People's Artist: Prokofiev's Soviet Works. Despite Rostropovich's own memoirs of 1954[12], his liner notes for the CD box set Russian Years[13] and his numerous interviews (including talks with myself), as well as Prokofiev's own dedication on the cover page of the manuscript of the Cello Concerto No 2[14], Simon Morrison questions the degree of Rostropovich's participation in the creation of the Symphony‐Concerto. The common assumption that the two of them worked side by side on the Symphony‐Concerto stems from a single photograph and newspaper report. It is undone by the primary source evidence, which finds Prokofiev composing the solo and accompanimental parts in relative solitude — and perhaps recalling the recommendations for corrections to his First Cello Concerto that he had received from Piatigorsky back in 1940. Once the material was drafted, he gave the sketchbooks to Rostropovich for technical correction and refinement, who in turn forwarded them to Prokofiev's assistant, Levon Atovmyan, for orchestration.[15]
He
is
even
more
"critical"
in
his
OUP
blog,
accusing
Rostropovich
of
being
inaccurate
in
his
recollections:
In
1951,
Rostropovich
assisted
Prokofiev
in
transforming
the
First
Cello
Concerto
into
the
Second
Cello
Concerto
and
then
further
into
the
Sinfonia
Concertante
[Symphony‐Concerto],
but
the
level
of
Rostropovich's
involvement
is
unclear.[16]
It is not my intention to argue here with Simon Morrison, a meticulous researcher of the documents relating to Prokofiev. I merely intend to offer a few points for consideration, based on my own experience as a cellist who has performed and recorded all of Prokofiev's works for the cello.
If
we
look
at
Prokofiev's
early
cello
compositions
—
from
his
Ballade
(1912)
and
the
Overture
on
Hebrew
Themes
(1919),
through
his
string
quartets
(1930,
1941)
and
later,
his
Cello
Sonata
(1949),
it
is
clear
that
the
composer
had
very
little
knowledge
of
the
instrument
and
its
possibilities.
Thus, in the Ballade the register of the cello part is far too low and the range is too narrow. As a result the piece sounds like a piano work with cello accompaniment. The section with pizzicato is even more naïve: Prokofiev tries to match the marcato in the piano part with pizzicati in the cello part (very similar to Janáček's Pohádka written around the same time). As a result, it is very difficult for the performers to match each other's dynamic level. It is not surprising that the piece is not often played in concert, although it has been recorded quite a few times. The balance really only works in a studio situation, where "ideal" acoustics (which Prokofiev intended) can be re‐created.
The cello parts in Prokofiev's Overture on Hebrew Themes and in his string quartets are more elaborate. In particular the beautiful melody (the second subject) in the Overture (fig. 13) is well written and causes no concern in respect of projection. But the secondary texture (for example, the accompanying figurations at fig. 39) once again show a poor understanding of cello technique, as they do not really add anything to the general texture. Here the cello is almost inaudible; the figurations were clearly worked out at the piano, as they imitate piano technique and texture.
With the years (and quite independently from his Cello Concerto) Prokofiev started to use the extreme top register of the instrument. His orchestral works are particularly well known for this. Having spent many years as a solo cellist at the Bolshoi Opera and Ballet Orchestra, I always feared Prokofiev's high register solos. The most famous examples are the cello ensemble in the Friar Laurence scene from Romeo and Juliet (in particular the first cello part); the arson scene in Semyon Kotko; the beginning of the Finale of Symphony No. 5; and especially, a B‐major theme in The Stone Flower played by celli tutti in unison. This is not only high, but also quite uncomfortable, insecure in terms of its intonation.
I do not think that Prokofiev's frequent use of his favourite top cello register is a result of his meetings with Rostropovich, Piatigorsky or any other cellist. This was his own taste for extreme colours ‐ one of them was tuba timbre, with its extremely low notes of a very special kind. Rostropovich called these notes "beetles moving from one note to another".[18] However, it is quite possible that Piatigorsky may have helped to attract Prokofiev to the impressive possibilities of cello high register while they were working on the Cello Concerto. His arrangement of Prokofiev's March (a piano piece from the Music for Children Op. 65) for solo cello and his own piece for solo cello Prokofiev and Shostakovich walk in Moscow do not show any particularly brilliant or new instrumental ideas (despite the fact that Piatigorsky was himself an extraordinary virtuoso). My own view is that they are very much in the style of Prokofiev's early cello writing — such as in his Ballade or Overture on Hebrew Themes. On the contrary, Rostropovich's arrangements of Prokofiev's music — particularly the march from Love for Three Oranges — show a completely different vision of Prokofiev's style and of a cello palette suitable for this style.
Nevertheless, there are still many very high passages in this cello concerto. They do not always sound great, as they are written in a very uncomfortable way for the cello in terms of fingering, positions and intervallic structure. For example, the tune in the Cello Concerto No. 1 (fig. 56), very similar to the "dangerous" celli tutti fragment from The Stone Flower: Prokofiev leaves very few options for a cellist here. The tune has to be played either in the thumb position, across the strings — which in itself restricts the flexibility of the hand, thereby affecting the tone / projection; or by making very large leaps, making the pitch rather insecure. The melodic line, however, is very interesting here. From a purely musical point of view, this melodic fragment is much more sophisticated than the tunes in the Symphony‐ Concerto, but technically it is difficult and not well written for the instrument.
In 1944, Prokofiev arranged for cello and piano the Adagio Op. 97 bis, a short piece from Cinderella. It was written for Alexander Stogorsky — brother of Gregor Piatigorsky, who changed his last name in a very odd way in order not to be associated with his ousted émigré brother — Piatigorsky means "five hills" and Stogorsky — "a hundred hills". Although I knew Stogorsky quite well (he was my wife Natalia Pavlutskaya's cello professor for a while) I have never heard any confirmation that he collaborated with Prokofiev on writing the cello part of the Adagio. Yet it is obvious to any cellist that this piece was written with, or corrected by someone with full knowledge of the cello's possibilities. It employs various registers of the instrument, with chordal texture, double stops, high positions — and even extensive octave duplications of the tune (which sound distinctly odd in the Concerto No. 1) — but always with a perfect understanding of cello technique.[19]
Then came Prokofiev's Cello Sonata. This was the first cello piece written by Prokofiev with some input by Rostropovich. And one can hear it immediately. This work is written in a much more effective way, and the use of the cello is more comfortable than in the Cello Concerto. Perhaps from the very beginning Prokofiev was thinking of Rostropovich (as he decided to write his cello sonata after he heard Rostropovich performing Miaskovsky's Second Cello Sonata). I have no information on what exactly Rostropovich may have changed in the Sonata cello part, but it is quite obvious that the highly "cellistic" profile of this work was co‐created with his help. Rostropovich himself told me about his involvement in shaping the cello part for the coda of the first movement, with well known passages for the cello. And indeed, these bell‐like arpeggios are written with full knowledge of the instrument and still represent one of the most brilliant passages in the entire cello repertoire (first movement coda, fig. 19).
The most surprising episode comes at the end of the finale, where Prokofiev again introduces two lines in the cello part. (which he will also do later in the Symphony‐ Concerto). We find similar ossia in Prokofiev's First Cello Concerto. But there the ossia version is much more difficult than the other one, almost unplayable (fig. 59 inthe Finale), although it offers a very interesting profile of the arpeggios. The ossia in the Cello Sonata, on the contrary, offers a much easier, but more boring, option and shows Prokofiev's own views on the limitations of cello instrumental technique. He avoids double stops and basically puts the cello in unison with the piano left hand. The other version (clearly suggested by Rostropovich), includes double‐stop figurations, and passages which make the cello part more dramatic and comfortable to play; it also matches perfectly the complex piano texture, creating a real dialogue of two instruments here. (Finale coda, cello part, fig. 18 ‐ 19).
Rostropovich observed: "Unlike Shostakovich, Prokofiev cannot sustain long development."[20] This is very true of his Cello Concerto No. 1 — it reminds one of a volcano, when the themes are born, then thrown away, and overlapped by new themes, or new sections with completely different textures and tempi. This Concerto is like a fountain with too many new ideas, so that the frame of the Concerto cannot accommodate all of them. This is very clear at the very end of the Finale. Less than a minute before the end an absolutely new idea is introduced, with scherzo‐like music (fig. 89). It is as if Prokofiev wanted to bring the entire concerto into a completely new dimension.
Before Prokofiev started to rework his Concerto No. 1 into the Symphony‐Concerto he asked Rostropovich to bring him some cello pieces. Rostropovich brought some Popper and Davidov. Well known is Prokofiev's response: "What rubbish you brought me!" But this "rubbish" certainly made some impact on the music of the Symphony‐Concerto. Not only are the phrases and tunes longer, but there is also a much more consistent way of narrating these instrumental ideas. Prokofiev, so volatile in his Concerto, works out a narrative and a logical development in the Symphony‐Concerto. Here all the sections are much longer, and the whole work is almost twice as long. There is a certain impact of "instructive" cello repertoire narrative in some passages and the way they evolve. What lasted just a few bars in the Concerto becomes a lengthy section in the Symphony‐Concerto. While the Concerto's first movement was written in ternary form, the first movement of the Symphony‐Concerto is in sonata allegro form that integrates new themes. For example, the development section in the first movement of the Symphony‐Concerto (certain passages and C‐major arpeggios suggested by Rostropovich) is written almost entirely like a Popper study or Davidov's Concerto, with consistent and gradual employment of various positions of the cello.
Of
course,
there
is
an
ostinato
idea
here
(always
typical
of
Prokofiev),
but
the
filling
of
the
rhythmical
ostinato
patterns
comes
from
instructive
cello
literature,
exploring
different
string
crossing
and
position
changing
(Symphony‐Concerto,
first
movement,
fig.
20).[21]
Nevertheless
I
regard
this
as
one
of
the
most
enjoyable
and
effective
parts
of
the
Symphony‐Concerto,
and
whenever
I
perform
it,
I
really
relish
these
passages,
so
well
written
(just
like
Popper's
C
major
study
in
his
High
School
of
Cello
Playing
Op.
73),
which
give
the
performer
a
chance
to
build
up
the
dynamic
development
and
reach
a
climax
starting
at
the
beginning
of
the
recapitulation
(this
typically
Russian
idea,
which
comes
from
Tchaikovsky,
was
inherited
by
both
Prokofiev
and
Shostakovich).
It is unclear who suggested that the "Davidov‐like" passages should be repeated twice before any change is made. Perhaps Prokofiev thought of it himself. And in this respect he is a typical Russian, believing in the magic number "three", omnipresent in Russian folklore and fairy tales, as well as in Russian prayers. If the first attempt is unsuccessful, the third will definitely be a success. This very old Russian superstition has been part of the Russian mentality for centuries. There are always three roads to choose from in Russian fairy tales. You have to pray three times. You kiss your friends three times. You believe in the Trinity. You say "God loves number Three". The same idea can be found in the superstitious numerology of Tchaikovsky's (and Pushkin's) Queen of Spades: "three — seven — ace". Shostakovich takes this three‐based pattern everywhere. So does Prokofiev, but only in his later compositions. In the Symphony‐Concerto they are everywhere — you find them in the second movement as well, in particular, in the episode with a so‐called "fate theme", just before the coda starts (fig. 40‐43). There is nothing like this in Prokofiev's Cello Concerto No. 1. Changes there are so rapid that it is often difficult to follow them. This is probably why Prokofiev uses simple forms (ternary, variations) in the Concerto, and more complex sonata allegro forms in the Symphony‐Concerto (even in the first movement).
Perhaps the more repetitive character of Prokofiev's style in his later compositions was also the result of his writing (and hearing) official Soviet music. There are striking similarities between the repetitiveness of Russian Orthodox church service music and Soviet official rituals. Communist leaders themselves used this powerful tool to make their speeches and their meetings more convincing. Ritualistic repetitiveness was one of the major components of Lenin's and especially Stalin's rhetoric. These "ritualistic" principles, also important in pop music today, were very typical for Soviet mass‐culture songs in the 1930s‐1950s. Exploring this repetitiveness, both Prokofiev and Shostakovich were able to find new resources for their musical language; suitable for the demands of "official" propaganda, but also for the composer's own use, without any compromise in musical terms.
Another example of this "superstitious three" (but also proof of Rostropovich's intervention) is the episode which acts as a bridge to the coda in the second movement of the Symphony‐Concerto. This is one of the most impressive episodes, particularly unusual for late Prokofiev style because it is so dissonant, disturbing, and not really related to any of the standard shapes of Soviet Socialist Realism. (Symphony‐Concerto, second movement, fig. 40‐43). In the Cello Concerto No. 1, typically, this outstanding idea is thrown away and forgotten, without any development or direct continuation. It serves as a very impressive, but quite strange and brief "warning" before and after the main theme of the Finale makes a surprising (and rather ghostly) appearance in between these two warnings (Cello Concerto, second movement, 5 bars before fig. 50 to 3 bars before fig. 51). This is one of the most impressive ideas in the Cello Concerto ‐ the very unusual, and expressive juxtaposition of the most simple major C‐major tune of the Finale (yet to be born), and its "pre‐conditional" fateful atonal surroundings (dissonant theme). So the theme of the Finale appears from the very beginning with a deep shadow. This is a clear forecast that the Finale (variations on this theme) will fail to establish anything; and indeed the finale of the Concerto (unlike the finale of Symphony‐ Concerto) is rather surrealistic, of bitter and fragile construction; almost like a stream of consciousness, totally unlike the typically Soviet optimistic, squarely structured conclusions of later Prokofiev pieces.
I do not know whether the brilliant idea of extending this episode came from Prokofiev or Rostropovich. But in the Symphony‐Concerto the dissonant theme becomes the basis of quite an extensive bridge between the second subject of the movement at its most expressive appearances (with beautiful and intense double‐ stopping texture) and its very fast return to the beginning of the movement: dramatic and unquiet passages bursting into the almost hysterical and abrupt ending of the main tune. This brings a completely new dramatic profile to the movement, shaping it almost like a vicious circle.
But the most unusual and fascinating thing about this new "bridge" and its dramatic profile is that it is based on a simple idea of cello fingering. Of course, in the Concerto the cello doesn't even play the dissonant tune — it introduces instead the C major tune of the Finale, opposed by the orchestra's dissonant shadow chords. In the Symphony‐Concerto, the cello starts (after two initial attempts by the orchestra — the superstitious "three" again) to develop the dissonant image as an idée fixe, just by moving positions in the cello part, and also by moving the thumb up and down. The dissonant tune itself seems to be a product of cello practising (a kind of exercise on changing pitches without changing the position of the second finger, indicated in Adrien‐Fran?ois Servais' cello pieces as restez [remain]). It wasn't of course, initially composed with the cello in mind (Prokofiev gave this material to the orchestra, rather than the cellist, in the Concerto). However, its expansion in the Symphony‐Concerto was probably Rostropovich's idea, having noticed the "cellistic" nature of the tune and how easily it could be moved up simply by changing position. The extended version of this theme in the Symphony‐Concerto was certainly based on cello fingering principles.
Unlike
the
Symphony‐Concerto,
there
are
many
places
in
the
Concerto
which
should
really
be
acknowledged
as
unplayable,
at
least
in
the
tempi
indicated.
For
example,
the
change
from
arco‐spiccato
to
pizzicato
with
no
pause
in
the
Finale
(Variation
II,
fig.
62,
bars
18‐19)
is
impossible
to
execute.[23]
And
the
passages
in
the
second
movement
at
fig.
18,
cannot
be
performed
clearly
in
the
recommended
tempo
(crotchet
=
152).
The
Finale's
Interludio
II
and
most
of
the
coda
are
very
uncomfortably
written
for
cello.
It
is
not
surprising
that
Janos
Starker
in
his
first
recording
of
the
Concerto
(1956)
made
very
significant
cuts
in
the
Finale
(from
fig.
74
to
4
bars
after
fig.
83;
and
between
fig.
92
to
4
bars
after
fig.
94).
Christina
Walewska
in
her
later
recording
(1972)
omits
from
half
a
bar
after
fig.
88
to
four
bars
after
fig.
91
(Meno
mosso);
and
again,
like
Starker,
makes
a
cut
from
fig.
92
to
four
bars
after
fig.
94.
This
last
passage
(fig.
92
to
four
bars
after
fig.
94)
is
particularly
uncomfortable.
It
sounds
great
(and
I
enjoyed
playing
and
recording
it),
but
it
is
very
hard
to
be
in
tune
here,
since
the
ricochet
passages
(very
effective
and
unusual
in
themselves)
are
merely
an
attempt
to
apply
piano
technique
to
the
cello
fingerboard
(after
all,
Bach
himself
did
the
same
thing).
This
coda
is,
in
a
way,
very
similar
to
the
coda
of
Prokofiev's
Symphony
No.
5,
which
brings
a
certain
element
of
madness
into
the
epic
narrative
of
this
great
Symphony.
In
the
Cello
Concerto
too,
the
coda
in
the
Finale
(especially
from
89)
starts
like
something
completely
unexpected,
like
a
brand
new
idea,
something
that
takes
the
listener
and
the
performer
outside
the
main
structure
of
the
concerto,
outside
everything
that
has
happened
so
far.
This
idea
of
the
"open
form",
or
of
a
form
opened
to
outside
space,
is
a
very
innovative
(and
in
fact
quite
post‐modern
)
point
Prokofiev
was
trying
to
make.
Of
course,
if
you
make
cuts,
the
meaning
and
profile
of
the
Finale
look
completely
different.
Very different are the cadenzas in the two works. In the Concerto the cadenza is in the Finale, and is in fact one of the variations (in a very free improvisatory mood). In the Symphony‐Concerto the cadenza is in the centre of the second movement, and is really the first part of the development section of this sonata allegro form. The harmonics in the cadenza of the Concerto are not well written, without any knowledge of the cello technique. Here the cellist is supposed to perform like a trombone player with his coulisse, except that the cello does not have a coulisse, which makes this passage very unsafe and also unimpressive, at least from a standard conservative point of view. In fact, perhaps Prokofiev wanted to discover some extended technique here, far from the rusty idioms of Dotzauer or Popper. It certainly sounds like an attempt to find something unusual, but any cellist will hate it, myself included.
In contrast, the cadenza in the Symphony‐Concerto demonstrates an exemplary, extremely polished cello technique, and acts as a showcase. It is hard to see how Prokofiev could have written such a cellistic piece of music without any advice from Rostropovich. There are other examples of Rostropovich's corrections, mentioned by him in our conversations. The end of the first movement in the Symphony‐ Concerto is one of them. Instead of the uncomfortable passages starting at the fifth bar after fig. 10 in the Concerto, Prokofiev introduces a perfectly "cellistically" appropriate figuration, although more traditional, at fig. 24 of the first movement of the Symphony‐Concerto.
A
further
example
is
the
use
of
octaves
and
double
stops.
In
the
Concerto
Prokofiev
uses
them
a
lot,
but
mainly
in
the
fashion
of
octaves
/
double
stops
in
piano
texture.
He
must
have
thought
that
these
would
reinforce
the
line
(as
it
does
on
the
piano),
but
in
reality
octaves
played
on
a
cello
only
make
the
melodic
line
weaker,
as
they
are
to
be
played
with
the
thumb,
in
other
words,
with
a
fixed
hand,
without
much
flexibility
and
without
any
possibility
for
vibrato.
Completely
different
and
very
effective
are
the
octaves
in
a
marcato
context
in
the
Symphony‐Concerto's
second
movement
(second
bar
of
fig.
22).
In
the
Concerto
(Finale,
fig.
79),
Prokofiev
introduces
two
voices
played
by
the
soloist:
one
of
the
most
difficult
and
uncomfortable
(if
not
unplayable)
episodes
in
the
entire
Concerto.
This
episode,
without
any
doubt,
influenced
Shostakovich
in
his
first
Cello
Concerto's
cadenza,
when
the
cello
plays
the
tune
of
the
second
movement
in
double
stops.
But
in
Shostakovich's
Concerto,
although
the
cello
writing
may
be
difficult,
it
is
comfortable,
unlike
Prokofiev's,
even
though
the
idea
itself
is
striking
and
innovative.
In
the
Symphony‐Concerto
all
the
double
stops
are
very
convenient
to
play,
partly
because
all
of
them
have
been
adapted
to
the
technical
possibilities
of
the
cello.
One
of
the
most
convincing
examples
—
the
parallel
sixths,
octaves
and
tenths
in
the
cadenza
of
the
Symphony‐Concerto,
which
are
almost
glissando
—
is
a
relatively
simple
device,
but
highly
effective.
A
cellist
doesn't
need
to
constantly
change
the
configuration
of
the
fingers
or
the
position
of
the
hand,
it
is
enough
just
to
move
the
hand
and
keep
the
position
(more
or
less
similar
to
the
post‐modernist
George
Crumb's
"sea‐gull"
effect).
The E‐major arpeggio‐like figurations at the end of the Concerto's Finale (fig. 92) are not effective enough. Prokofiev changed them in the Symphony‐Concerto for extremely effective, yet very similar ones right at the end of the coda — just before the final and exciting orchestral tutti. The solution is very simple: delete the slurs and play these arpeggios separately (surely, this idea must have come from Rostropovich).
Another example: the transposition of the second tune one semitone down in the second movement of the Symphony‐Concerto (fig. 7, second movement). It immediately sounds so much brighter, whereas the same material in the Concerto (written a semitone higher) doesn't project well enough (fig. 19, second movement).
Finally, the broken arpeggios in the Concerto serve mostly as a rhetorical device (see the very end of the coda in the Finale — Meno Mosso, 6 bars before fig. 96). They do not really add any density or articulation to the music. They are not eloquent enough, nor could they be from a technical point of view, as they are written over four strings in a low register. In the Symphony‐Concerto (number 36, second movement) Prokofiev introduces a background of brilliant arpeggios (with some elements of ricochet and in ensemble with the tambourine). This is one of the most exciting moments leading to the outburst of the coda. Here arpeggios are used mostly as a percussive rhythmical device, which works extraordinarily well.
When
I
recently
played
the
Symphony‐Concerto
with
the
St.
Petersburg
Philharmonic
Orchestra
in
St.
Petersburg,
my
friend
the
composer
Alexander
Knaifel
(formerly
a
cellist,
and
a
student
of
Rostropovich),
said
to
me:
"This
is
clearly
Slava's
self‐
portrait..."
Whether
it
was
from
direct
collaboration,
or
just
from
the
impression
made
by
performances
in
the
composer's
presence,
it
is
nevertheless
quite
clear
that
the
Symphony‐Concerto
is
a
work
influenced
by
Rostropovich
to
a
significant
degree.
Some
may
not
like
it
(like
Richter),
but
it
is
hard
to
deny
it.
When
Nikolai
Miaskovsky
saw
the
score
of
the
Cello
Concerto
he
wrote,
"I
had
a
look...
at
Prokofiev's
Cello
Concerto:
the
music
is
good,
but
the
form
isn't".[24]
So
is
the
Cello
Concerto
No.
1
a
good
work
or
not?
And
was
Sviatoslav
Richter
correct
when
he
accused
Rostropovich
of
having
had
a
negative
influence
on
Prokofiev,
remarking:
"This
is
in
fact
the
work
now
called
the
Symphony‐Concerto
for
cello
and
orchestra,
the
third
movement
of
which
has
suffered
a
great
deal
from
the
revisions
inspired
by
the
(almost
great)
cellist
to
whom
the
work
is
dedicated.
I'll
never
forgive
him
for
this."[25]
Perhaps
Gregor
Piatigorsky
offered
the
best
answer
to
the
question
as
to
which
of
the
two
compositions
is
best:
"I
am
grateful
that
there
are
now
two
major
works
for
the
cello
by
this
great
composer
and
unforgettable
man."[26]
The Cello Concerto (1934‐38) and the Symphony‐Concerto (1950) are two profoundly different works in texture and size, despite the fact that much of the melodic material from the former piece is used in the latter. The themes, however, are very different in character, more abrupt in the Concerto and much longer in the Symphony‐Concerto. The basic idea of the development is different in both compositions, especially the role of the finales. The Concerto's Finale is longer but less focused; it goes in different directions, away from everything stated previously. In fact it is a tragic, pessimistic finale, with a certain funereal flavour, but also, as is typical of Prokofiev, with some elements of mockery, as in his ballet, Chout (1920). Prokofiev makes very clear his reluctance to make a bold full stop or to emphasise anything at the end. In its complexity and density, the Concerto is still very much a piece of early Prokofiev, in the Russian style of the 1920s‐30s as seen in Medtner, Anatolii Alexandrov, Roslavets and Lourié. In this work the composer's mind frequently goes back and forth, often retrospectively, with a good deal of resignation. Nor is there any strong evidence of development.[27]
In contrast, the Symphony‐Concerto's Finale is scherzo‐like, while the scherzo in the second movement could be the real finale, so impressive and dramatic it is. Here, perhaps, we are dealing with a strategy typical of Soviet composers, to exchange the scherzo and the finale, in order to make the final movement more cheerful, playful and therefore not "dangerous" in the eyes of Soviet officialdom.[28] However, the final section of the Symphony‐Concerto is much more monumental and effective, much clearer in its intentions than the conclusion of the Concerto.
The Finale of the Symphony‐Concerto is a special case. As Richter recalls: There was a passage in the Finale that Prokofiev unfortunately later cut, at Rostropovich's request, a very interesting passage in which the soloist plays triplets against semiquavers in the first cello in the orchestra. It was a marvellous passage, but Rostropovich, wanting to create more of an impression, insisted that Prokofiev change it... He got his way and the new version is undeniably effective, but the music lost something by being rewritten, and the very end of the Concerto became somehow more ordinary. Will it ever be possible to reconstruct the original? I very much doubt it.[29] .[...] It's complicated as nobody knows where to dig up the score.[30]
There is one rather enigmatic moment in Richter, the Enigma, a documentary by Bruno Monsaingeon (1998). When the fragment of the first performance of the Symphony‐Concerto (then Cello Concerto No. 2, conducted by Richter) is shown, we hear the Finale of the Concertino Op. 132 (fig. 3‐4, with Zakharov / Liuban's theme)! Visually the performance is definitely conducted by Richter. This could not have been filmed later, since the concert was Richter's one and only appearance as a conductor. And the cello part is definitely played by a young Rostropovich who looks similar to his other photos of 1952, not of 1960, when the Concertino was finally premiered in Kabalevsky's orchestration. Therefore, the last, final version of the Finale of the Symphony‐Concerto is indeed dramatically different from what was actually played on 18 February 1952.
The Cello Concerto is still very much a work of the early Prokofiev, a volcano of sparkling and sometimes rough ideas, which makes it very attractive, but a rather unusual piece in the concert repertoire, if at times unplayable. The Symphony‐ Concerto is a brilliantly cellistic work, with a very wide range required from the cellist, who has to play in extremely high registers — "just under the cupola", as Shostakovich once remarked about the very end of the work, where the cello is playing in the third octave. The intensity of the cello tone is enormously increased. The long melodies and endless phrases, typical of the composer, require a special, powerful bow‐arm and immaculate bow‐changes. Equally unusual is the structure of the piece, with its fast central movement. The mixture of many different tunes, following each other and forming the mainstream of a sonata allegro pattern, is also a novelty, requiring the performer to understand it and give it shape.
But the question arises: how did it come about that the Symphony‐Concerto became so much longer than the Concerto and why does it have much longer development sections? Was it Rostropovich's influence with his cellistic ideas, or rather Prokofiev's own experience on Soviet soil with his new style as implemented in his cantatas and late symphonies? I think the difference between the two compositions reflects the general difference between Prokofiev's pre‐Soviet and Soviet styles. In the Symphony‐Concerto Prokofiev, as in his cantatas and Soviet symphonies, provides more introductions, a more consistent, standard development, larger development sections, more bridges, less surprising changes, music more repetitive in character (including the already mentioned superstitious "three"), a different attitude towards the finales and their meaning. More symmetry, more development, much longer and much more expressive melodic lines. Monumental and epic instead of spontaneous and capricious. Marble (the favourite decorative material in Stalin's Moscow underground) instead of the lava of a volcano.
Prokofiev's wonderful melodic gift, still quite hidden in the Concerto, is very evident in the Symphony‐Concerto. He was undoubtedly one of the best melodists of the twentieth century. The inspirational sources of these melodies can be quite surprising sometimes. Just as Erich Wolfgang Korngold changed his style to became a prolific film composer in the USA, so Prokofiev wrote music for Soviet films and many ballet scores in Soviet Russia. Just as in Soviet propaganda and film music (songs by Isaac Dunaievsky, for example, with almost direct quotations from Bach, Beethoven, Mahler or Wagner's tunes), Prokofiev also tried to incorporate organically some important Western classical and Romantic idioms into his rich and most impressive melodic style. It is not by accident that he asked Rostropovich to bring him operatic arias by Bach, Handel and Gluck when he wrote his unfinished Concertino. The melodic profile of the Symphony‐Concerto is stunningly beautiful and can be compared with the best tunes by Gluck, Schubert, Rakhmaninov or Saint‐ Saëns.
Prokofiev's Concerto is a great work, still untouched by the Soviet regime. In contrast, the Symphony‐Concerto shows the Soviet touch. But unlike many other late compositions by Prokofiev, it deals with material from his early period and retains its freshness. Thus it is surely one of Prokofiev's most astonishing late compositions, full of youthful energy, melodic fantasy and expression, and with a spirit of true independence.
I know Prokofiev was not a religious man. But when I play the Finale of the Symphony‐Concerto (particularly the last bars in the third octave), I always experience the clear sensation that this amazing (and still quite unique) passage is the image of a very small gateway to Paradise (according to the Russian Orthodox image, it should be smaller than the eye of a needle). In these last four bars Prokofiev escapes from all official pressure, all Soviet hindrance, all personal problems, and is granted complete freedom. Like a soul liberating itself from the physical yoke of a dying body.
1. One of the completed movements of this unfinished Sonata, the Fugue, is still unpublished. In conversation with the author, Mstislav Rostropovich confirmed that the manuscript was in his possession. Its location, however, is unknown to me. As most of Rostropovich's archive is now in the process of being moved to the family house in St Petersburg, it is likely that the manuscript will be placed there. [↑]
2. The Cadenza in Shostakovich's Cello Concerto No 1 is a separate movement, and its "development" function in the form of the complete Concerto, its texture and pyrotechnics are clearly influenced by Prokofiev's Symphony‐Concerto. Shostakovich himself mentioned this on several occasions (see Shostakovich's statement in an interview published on 6 June 1959: "Tvorcheskie plany Dmitriia Shostakovicha", Sovetskaia Kul'tura. His Second Cello Concerto is a real Symphony‐ Concerto (like Prokofiev's own), inasmuch as the orchestra plays a most important role in dialogue between the soloist and the orchestra. [↑]
3.
Piatigorsky,
Gregor,
Cellist
(New
York:
Doubleday
and
Company,
1965),
chapter
26.
http://www.cello.org/heaven/cellist/index.htm,
accessed
6
September
2009.
[↑]
4.
Ibid.
[↑]
5.
Not
long
afterwards
in
February
1948
at
a
special
meeting
of
the
Composers'
Union,
Prokofiev
was
branded
as
a
"formalist"
and
his
works
banned.
[↑]
6.
"Rostropovich
se
souvient
de
Prokofiev:
'Un
na?f
aux
yeux
gris'".
Le
Monde,
28
November
1986,
12.
There
are
many
moments
in
the
Cello
Concerto
when
the
solo
cello
is
totally
inaudible.
Even
Steven
Isserlis,
who
always
uses
gut
strings,
used
metal
ones
for
his
Manchester
performance
of
Prokofiev's
Cello
Concerto
in
2003
—
the
first
time
in
his
life
he
had
done
this,
as
he
admitted
to
me
then.
[↑]
7.
That
same
evening
Prokofiev
said
he
would
like
to
compose
a
new
cello
sonata
for
Rostropovich.
Soon
afterwards
Rostropovich
gave
the
first
(closed
door)
performance
of
Prokofiev's
Cello
Sonata
in
Moscow
on
27
September
1949,
with
Sviatoslav
Richter
at
the
piano.
[↑]
8.
Detailed
information
on
the
several
stages
of
Prokofiev's
work
on
the
Symphony‐ Concerto
can
be
found
in
a
brilliant
book
by
Vladimir
Blok:
Violonchel'noe
Tvorchestvo
Prokof'eva
(Moskva:
Sovetskii
Kompozitor,
1973).
[↑]
9.
The
work
is
often
called
Sinfonia
Concertante,
which
is
wrong.
In
the
first
place,
the
Russian
title
is
"Simfoniia‐kontsert",
not
"Kontsertnaia
Simfoniia"
(which
would
be
a
Russian
equivalent
of
Sinfonia
Concertante),
as
in
the
case
of
Mozart,
Haydn
or
Bortniansky's
works.
Secondly,
the
title
"Simfoniia‐kontsert"
implies
a
large
and
important
role
for
the
orchestra.
It
is
really
half‐concerto
and
half‐symphony.
This
is
why
I
prefer
to
call
it
Symphony‐Concerto
on
all
my
recordings,
including
the
recent
Ivashkin
plays
Prokofiev
Chandos
album.
All
my
comments
about
my
own
performance
refer
to
this
album
(CHAN
241‐41,
Prokofiev's
Complete
Cello
Concertos
and
Sonatas,
2008).
[↑]
10.
I
recall
my
student
years
(with
the
Symphony‐Concerto
as
my
graduation
piece),
when
fellow‐cellists
laughed
at
me
for
daring
to
learn
this
work,
at
a
time
when
it
had
long
been
regarded
as
fiendishly
difficult,
dense,
almost
"mad".
[↑]
11.
This
tune
was
arranged
for
the
Piatnitskii
Choir
by
its
director,
a
mediocre
official
composer,
Vladimir
Zakharov,
who
appeared
to
claim
it
as
its
own.
Zakharov
publicly
accused
Prokofiev
of
plagiarism.
Earlier,
in
1948
Zakharov
criticised
Shostakovich
for
his
lack
of
melodic
gift
and
public
appeal
(see
Soveshchanie
Deiateli
Sovetskoi
Muzyki
v
TsK
VKP
(b)
(Moskva:
Pravda,
1948),
20‐25.
Prokofiev
used
this
tune
again
in
his
Concertino
for
Cello
and
Orchestra
Op.
132
and
in
his
Sonata
for
Solo
Cello
Op.
133,
merely
attempting
to
make
fun
of
Zakharov.
In
the
Concertino
the
tune
sounds
like
a
mazurka,
and
in
the
Sonata
—
like
a
minuet.
The
text
of
this
song
is
used
in
Prokofiev's
cantata
Songs
of
our
Days
Op.
76
(1937).
[↑]
12.
"While
working
on
his
concerto,
he
invited
me
to
spend
the
summer
with
him
at
his
country
home.
I
spent
two
summers
at
Nikolina
Gora
and
saw
a
great
deal
of
him
during
the
following
winters."
See
Shlifshtein,
S.
(ed.),
S.S.
Prokofiev:
Materialy,
Dokumenty,
Vospominaniia.(Moskva:
Gosudarstvennoe
Muzykal'noe
Izdatel'stvo,
1961),
472.
[↑]
13. "Prokofiev honoured me by saying that he wished to revise the Concerto with my help... He even asked me to compose some of the passages, but when I did so he always made some small but significant changes, leaving me wondering at how narrow, yet unbridgeable, is the gap between the mundane and the sublime." [↑]
14. A facsimile of this page was published in Blok, V.M., Kontserty dlia violoncheli s orkestrom S. Prokof'eva.(Moskva: Gosudarstvennoe Muzykal'noe Izdatel'stvo, 1959) 17. The dedication, in Prokofiev's own handwriting, reads : "Dedicated to the outstanding talent Mstislav Rostropovich in memory of our collaboration on the Concerto." [↑]
15.
Simon
Morrison.
The
People's
Artist:
Prokofiev's
Soviet
Years.
New
York:
Oxford
University
Press,
2009,
377.
[↑]
16.
http://blog.oup.com/2009/02/rostropovich/
Accessed
6
September
2009.
[↑]
18. See Rostropovich's recollection on Prokofiev's taste for extreme timbres in his Preface to A Schnittke Reader, ed. Alexander Ivashkin (Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2002), viii. [↑]
19.
Alexander
Stogorsky
was
one
of
the
most
eccentric
and
underestimated
cellists
of
the
twentieth
century.
He
premiered
many
great
works,
including
Alexander
Mosolov's
Cello
Concerto
and
Prokofiev's
Adagio,
and
discovered
and
published
dozens
of
unknown
cello
masterpieces,
including
the
original
version
of
Tchaikovsky's
Rococo
Variations,
so
popular
today.
[↑]
20. In conversation with the author at a masterclass in Florence, 6 October 2006. [↑]
21. "Prokofiev's ostinato drives me mad. It fires everyone immediately. With ostinato Prokofiev entered music history and will be remembered. If one plays this ostinato slightly romantically, everything is ruined, everything should be 'made of iron' — rhythm, tempo, articulation." (Mstislav Rostropovich at his Florence masterclass, 6 October 2006. Recorded by the author.) [↑]
22. My friend and colleague, the violinist Mark Lubotsky (b. 1930), told me in 2004 that Shostakovich used to say to him: "You have to 'stomp' on the spot before you move elsewhere". Shostakovich often repeats the same pattern twice before moving ahead. Examples of this are numerous: the beginning of the First Cello Concerto, the first movement of the 15th Symphony, the Finale of the 6th Symphony. Any change always comes after the second attempt. This principle applies to rhythmical structure, motif development and general structural patterns in Shostakovich's music. [↑]
23.
This
has
been
corrected
(probably
by
Rostropovich),
in
the
Symphony‐Concerto
(Finale,
fig.
7),
where
arco
and
pizzicato
are
separated
by
a
short
pause.
[↑]
24.
Lamm,
Olga,
Stranitsy
tvorcheskoi
biografii
Miaskovskogo
(Moskva:
Muzyka,
1989),
230.
[↑]
25. Monsaingeon, Bruno, Sviatoslav Richter: notebooks and conversations (London: Faber and Faber, 2001), 339 (a fragment from Richter's notebooks dated 10 October 1990). Richter had only three rehearsals with the orchestra before the concert. Perhaps his bad feeling about the new work was partly determined by an accident. He almost fell down when he went on stage. He never conducted again. Richter (then a student) also acted as accompanist when the first performer, Lev Berezovsky, was learning the Concerto No. 1 in 1938. [↑]
26. Piatigorsky, Cellist, chapter 26. [↑]
27.
Perhaps
this
early
feature
of
Prokofiev's
music
inspired
Alfred
Schnittke
to
start
his
Prokofiev
lecture
of
1991
with
a
rather
surprising
statement
about
the
lack
of
progress
in
human
history
(see
Ivashkin,
A
Schnittke
Reader,
61).
[↑]
28. Thus, Shostakovich's finales are in fact often scherzos (or simply "jokes"): Symphonies No. 6, 9, and 10 are very good examples. Prokofiev did the same thing in his second, official version of the ending to his Symphony No. 7. [↑]
29.
Monsaingeon,
Sviatoslav
Richter,
65.
[↑]
30. Ibid., 340. The original manuscript of the Symphony‐Concerto is in the Rostropovich family archive and at present is not available for perusal. [↑