Elgar Violin Concerto op61 Sheet Music, Program Notes and recordings

Violin Concerto in B minor, Op. 61

The Soul Enshrined

On the title page of his newly completed Violin Concerto, Edward Elgar penned a mysterious inscription in Spanish, a language he did not speak. It was a line from the picaresque novel Gil Blas: "Aquí está encerrada el alma de ....." ("Herein is enshrined the soul of ....."). The "soul" to whom he referred was not his wife, Alice, but another Alice—Alice Stuart-Wortley, the daughter of a painter and a gifted amateur pianist. She had become Elgar’s dear friend, his confidante, and his muse, to whom he gave the affectionate nickname "Windflower". It was for her that he wrote the concerto, and her "soul"—her gentle spirit, her encouragement, and her inspiration—that is enshrined within its pages. This deeply personal dedication is the key to understanding the work. It is not merely a display of virtuosity but a vast, symphonic drama of the heart, full of private meanings, nostalgic reflections, and a profound sense of longing. It is Elgar’s most intimate and autobiographical large-scale work.

A Summation of an Era

The Violin Concerto was created at the high watermark of Elgar’s career and of the Edwardian age itself. By 1910, Elgar was a celebrated national figure, the composer of the Enigma Variations and the First Symphony, which had been hailed as a masterpiece. The concerto reflects this confidence; it is a work of grand ambition and heroic scale, standing proudly in the tradition of the great German romantic concertos by Beethoven, Brahms, and Mendelssohn. And yet, beneath its magnificent facade lies a persistent vein of melancholy and nostalgia, a quality of farewell. It is as if Elgar, consciously or not, was writing a requiem for a world of stability and certainty that would soon be swept away by the Great War. The concerto is therefore a work of poignant duality: a public statement of artistic mastery and a private diary of the soul.

Movement I: Allegro

The first movement is of truly symphonic proportions, one of the longest and most complex in the concerto literature. It begins not with the soloist, but with a long and elaborate orchestral introduction that presents the movement's wealth of thematic material—at least six distinct melodic ideas. The first of these themes, a noble and restless tune, acts as a motto for the entire work, reappearing in various transformations across all three movements. When the solo violin finally enters, it does so not with a grand flourish, but by reflectively commenting on the themes the orchestra has already laid out. The movement unfolds as an epic struggle between heroic, declamatory passages and moments of intensely personal, lyrical introspection. The violin part is relentlessly demanding, requiring the soloist to navigate furious double-stops, brilliant passagework, and soaring, expressive cantilenas.

Movement II: Andante

After the monumental drama of the first movement, the Andante provides a spell of profound peace and dreamlike beauty. It is a tender, lyrical interlude in B-flat major, far removed from the turmoil of the opening. The main theme, introduced by the orchestra and then taken up by the soloist, is one of Elgar’s most beautiful and heartfelt melodies, a serene song of deep affection. The atmosphere is one of quiet, intimate reflection. If the "soul" of the inscription is to be found anywhere, it is surely here, in the gentle warmth and untroubled beauty of this movement. Elgar’s orchestration is at its most delicate, creating a shimmering, hazy backdrop against which the violin’s voice can float, sing, and reminisce.

Movement III: Allegro molto

The finale returns to the home key of B minor and to a mood of restless, driving energy. It is a powerful and assertive movement, combining the rhythmic vitality of a dance with the noble spirit of a march. The soloist is immediately thrust into the spotlight with virtuosic, athletic passages that propel the music forward with unstoppable momentum. The movement is full of brilliant orchestral color and thematic invention, but its true genius—and the concerto's most revolutionary feature—is saved for the very end.

The Cadenza Accompaniment

Traditionally, a cadenza is the point in a concerto where the orchestra falls silent and the soloist performs a dazzling, unaccompanied improvisation or written-out solo. Elgar subverts this expectation in a way that is both structurally brilliant and deeply moving. As the soloist embarks on the massive cadenza, the orchestra does not stop. Instead, the strings provide a soft, ethereal accompaniment, a technique Elgar marked pizzicato tremolando, like the strumming of a hundred guitars or mandolins. Over this magical, shimmering texture, the violin does not merely show off. Instead, it recalls, as if in a dream, the most important themes from the first and second movements. It is a moment of profound nostalgia, a final, wistful glance backward before the music charges into its triumphant and heroic final coda. This accompanied cadenza is a stroke of pure genius, a structural innovation that serves a deeply emotional purpose.

A Heroic Protagonist

The concerto was written for and dedicated to Fritz Kreisler, the greatest violinist of his day, and the solo part reflects his immense capabilities. The technical demands are colossal, requiring absolute mastery of the instrument. But more than that, the soloist must be a compelling actor, a heroic protagonist on a vast emotional journey. The part requires power, passion, intimacy, and a command of the long lyrical line that was Elgar’s signature. When the young Yehudi Menuhin made his legendary recording of the work in 1932, with the aging composer conducting, Elgar reportedly told him, "I can't play the violin, but I think I know what you are feeling." It is this deep well of feeling that any performer of this concerto must tap into to bring the enshrined soul to life.