Dvorak Cello Concert, Sheet Music and Program Notes

Program Notes & Analysis

The Reluctant Masterpiece

For years, Antonín Dvořák resisted the idea of composing a major concerto for the violoncello. He famously complained that the cello was a fine orchestral instrument, but ill-suited for a solo role, quipping that it tended to "whine" in its high register and "mumble" in its low register. He politely but firmly rebuffed requests from his friend, the great cellist Hanuš Wihan, for such a work. It took an ocean crossing and a concert in New York City to finally change his mind. In 1894, Dvořák attended a performance of a new Cello Concerto No. 2 by the Irish-American composer and cellist Victor Herbert. While not a revolutionary work, Herbert’s concerto demonstrated an impressive and skillful use of the orchestra that allowed the cello to sing and soar without being overwhelmed. Dvořák was inspired. He saw that the supposed limitations of the instrument could be overcome with brilliant orchestration. He immediately began sketches for his own cello concerto, a work that would not only prove his initial skepticism wrong but would ultimately stand as the undisputed king of the cello repertoire.

A Symphony for Cello and Orchestra

What sets Dvořák’s concerto apart from nearly all others is its immense, symphonic scale. This is not merely a vehicle for a virtuoso to display their technical prowess; it is a profound musical drama in which the orchestra is an equal partner. The thematic material is as rich and weighty as that of his great symphonies, and the intricate development and dialogue between soloist and ensemble are more akin to the concertos of Johannes Brahms than to flashier showpieces. Dvořák’s genius was in creating a soundscape where the cello’s uniquely warm and human voice could speak with heroic power, intimate tenderness, and heartbreaking nostalgia, all while engaging in a deep conversation with the full forces of the modern orchestra.

Movement I: Allegro

The concerto begins not with the soloist, but with a magnificent orchestral introduction that is almost a symphonic movement in itself. A long, brooding theme is stated quietly by the clarinets, setting a tone of noble gravity. This theme builds to a powerful, march-like statement by the full orchestra. This is followed by one of the most beautiful melodies in all of music: a soaring, lyrical theme in D major, introduced by a solo horn. Only after the orchestra has fully laid out this rich thematic landscape does the cello make its entrance. It does so not with a flourish, but with a commanding, almost defiant, recasting of the opening theme. The soloist then takes up the gorgeous horn melody, making it even more personal and intimate. Throughout the movement's grand sonata form, the cello and orchestra pass these themes back and forth, developing them with fiery passion and virtuosic flair, culminating in a powerful and dramatic conclusion.

Movement II: Adagio ma non troppo

After the epic scope of the first movement, the Adagio offers a profound sense of peace and nostalgic reflection. It is a beautiful, expansive song without words, evoking the tranquil forests and fields of Dvořák’s distant Bohemian homeland. The main theme, a simple and deeply touching melody, is first introduced by the woodwinds before being taken up by the solo cello. This theme held a deeply personal meaning for the composer; it is a direct quote from one of his own songs, "Kéž duch můj sám" ("Leave Me Alone"), which happened to be a favorite of his sister-in-law, Josefina Čermáková, with whom he had been in love in his youth. The serene mood is briefly interrupted by a more turbulent and dramatic middle section, where the cello recalls, like a troubled memory, the main theme from the first movement. The movement concludes with a peaceful return to the opening melody, fading into a state of quiet contemplation.

Movement III: Finale: Allegro moderato

The finale is a spirited rondo that begins with the character of a robust Czech folk dance. The cello introduces the main theme, a vigorous, rhythmic tune that sets a determined and optimistic tone. The orchestra responds, and the movement unfolds through a series of contrasting episodes, some lyrical and songful, others full of stomping, dance-like energy. The music seems to be heading towards a conventional, triumphant conclusion, but Dvořák had a far more profound ending in mind. As he was completing the concerto in 1895, he received news from home that Josefina was gravely ill. Deeply affected, he put aside his original plans for the ending and composed a new, extended coda that transforms the entire character of the work.

The Coda: A Personal and Heartbreaking Epilogue

This coda is what elevates the concerto from a masterpiece to a legend. The boisterous energy of the finale gradually subsides, and the tempo slows dramatically. The music becomes quiet, reflective, and intensely personal. In a passage of breathtaking beauty, the cello tenderly recalls the heroic main theme from the first movement, now transformed into a quiet, wistful memory. Then, in the most moving moment of the entire work, the cello begins a slow, dreamlike reminiscence of the Adagio’s main theme—Josefina’s song. The orchestra holds a soft, shimmering chord as the cello’s line drifts upward, fading away into a moment of transcendent stillness. This deeply personal farewell is finally broken by a sudden, brief rush of energy as the concerto drives to a decisive and triumphant, though not joyful, conclusion. It is an ending full of sorrow, love, and resignation.

A Composer's Vision, A Performer's Challenge

Dvořák dedicated the concerto to Hanuš Wihan, but a famous disagreement arose between the two men. Wihan, in the tradition of 19th-century virtuosos, suggested several changes to the solo part and insisted on inserting a large, flashy solo cadenza in the final movement. Dvořák flatly refused. He argued that the work was a cohesive musical narrative and that such a self-indulgent display would break the emotional arc, particularly before the deeply personal coda he had written for Josefina. He wrote to his publisher, "I must insist that my work be published as I have written it. " Dvořák’s victory in this dispute was a victory for musical integrity over empty virtuosity, preserving the very qualities that make the concerto so profound and universally beloved.