Three Madrigals

Younger by two generations than his countrymen Antonin Dvořák (heard later in the program) and Leos Janáček, Czech composer Bohuslav Martinů would inevitably come under the influence of these elder masters. Dvořák’s shadow looms largest over Bohemian music of the late 19th century, while Janáček—with his great gift for opera—lived long enough (d. 1928) to stake a claim to the 20th. Martinů worked hard to carve a niche for himself, achieving a measure of public success with his many chamber works. Having mastered the violin at an early age, Martinů made a living for many years playing in the Czech Philharmonic. Such surroundings helped channel his burgeoning compositional ambitions into string-based genres, such as quartets, trios, quintets, solo sonatas, and—apropos of tonight’s selection—duos.
Somewhere along the way Martinů developed a particular fascination for the style of the Renaissance madrigal, a form of poetry that inspired some of the most polished and experimental musical settings by Monteverdi, Marenzio, Willaert, and others. Martinů used the term “madrigal” in the title of at least six distinct compositions. Three Madrigals, composed in February 1947, had a more direct inspiration. Martinů began attending the new Musicians’ Guild in New York City that winter. At the first meeting of the Guild, whose mission to encourage live performance of chamber music also gave special attention to new music, Martinů was completely captivated by the playing of sibling duo Joseph and Lillian Fuchs. So impressed was he that Martinů proudly presented to Fuchs with the manuscript for Three Madrigals just three weeks later. Premiered at the Musicians’ Guild in December 1947, the work earned critical praise from the start and quickly garnered a prominent place in the violin/viola duo repertory.
Three Madrigals is laid out in three movements conventionally organized like a classical sonata: fast-slow-fast. The first movement comes crashing out of the gate, but soon settles down enough to make room for a more lyrical theme that passes from one instrument to the other. Martinů’s polyphony is tight—a feature enhanced by the similarity of register between violin and viola—though the writing is never so dissonant as to feel confrontational. Action flits quickly from idea to idea, yet Martinů manages to maintain a thread of dramatic connection. Not for a moment does either player get a chance to catch their breath; this is more than just a colloquial metaphor, for such a headstrong, continuous texture could never have been written the same way for a woodwind duo.
The slower middle movement takes it central idea from the trill, an ornament involving rapid oscillation around a basic pitch. Martinů enjoys setting the trills in tumbling descents that convey a sense of the ominous. The movement’s second theme, still relying largely on trills, nicely introduces a folk style strummed accompaniment. Overall, the harmonic language and form ensure the movement a gracious reception, and I would wager that the Madrigals’ accessibility was a major reason for its critical success early on.
The vibrant finale draws directly on older music; there are Baroque cadential rumblings, as well as an overt quotation from Domenico Scarlatti (1685-1757). One might compare such moments to the neo-classical works of Stravinsky or Poulenc, which also quote and then develop themes from past masters. Martinů even withdraws in this finale to an episode of austere Bachian counterpoint, which, like so many moments in Three Madrigals, gets just enough time to present itself before trills come along to wipe the slate clean. Martinů was clearly not lacking for thematic ideas when he dashed these pieces out. Their composition nicely balances inspiration from past centuries as well as the powerful impact of great performers.

(c) Jason Stell