Johann Sebastian Bach’s works for unaccompanied violin
are among the finest works in the string instrument repertoire.
Although the series is generally known as “Six Sonatas for
Solo Violin,” Bach actually designated only the odd-numbered
works as “sonatas,” calling the even-numbered ones “partitas.”
The distinction is valid and meaningful, since the partitas con-
sist entirely of movements in dance form (sometimes preceded
by a prelude) whereas the sonatas adhere to the sonata da
chiesa type of composition (slow-fast-slow-fast). All six were
composed around 1720, along with their companion series, the
six unaccompanied suites for violoncello. At the time Bach was
director of music'to Prince Leopold of Anhalt-Céthen and his
duties were largely confined to turning out chamber and or-
chestral compositions for the Prince’s entertainment. The un-
accompanied string works, however, were not meant simply as
“entertainment”; they are, among other things, enormously
difficult études, providing the virtuoso violinist with some of
his most challenging technical hurdles. It is also obvious that
they were a challenge to Bach himself, as a composer. He
wished to make polyphonic music with single instruments that
are not inherently polyphonic. While it is simple enough to
write fugues and chaconnes for the harpsichord or the organ,
where the fingers and feet may go their separate ways, it is
an entirely different matter when the composer must keep two
or more voices going simultaneously in the four strings of a
violin, all of which must be activated by a single bow.
It has been long known, however, that the violin of Bach’s
day had a much straighter bridge than is used today. The four
strings were thus more level with each other and three con-
tiguous strings could be sounded simultaneously without dif-
ficulty. Furthermore, Bach probably expected the executant to
use an arched bow, with which tension was effected not by
means of a screw (as in the modern, flat bow) but by the pres-
sure of the thumb; instead of throwing the bow back onto the
lower strings to obtain a chord, the performer in Bach’s day
simply loosened the hairs slightly so that they curved over
several strings. The modern performer frequently has to break
(arpeggiate) a chord in performing the Bach unaccompanied
sonatas, whereas his eighteenth-century predecessor could
play the component notes simultaneously. Unfortunately, the
old curved bow produced a much weaker tone, lacking the
drama and brilliance that we have come to associate with the
chaconne of the D Minor Partita or the fugue of the G Minor
Sonata, and quite inappropriate for the concert hall (for which,
of course, the works were not intended). Therefore most
virtuosos today elect to perform the unaccompanied sonatas
with the same bow and the same bridge that they use in play-
ing the Tchaikovsky or Brahms concertos, making up in bril-
liance for what they lose in actual continuity of sound.
The sonata opens with an Adagio described by the nine-
teenth-century Bach ‘scholar, Philipp Spitta, as “a beautiful
and impassioned introductory movement...the melody first
appears in the middle part; the upper part meanwhile is pro-
gressing in single notes and phrases and seems to vanish away;
it is then lightly touched in the course of the melody and so
brought to sight again. But it is there all along for him who
can hear it.” As Spitta points out, Bach often implies the con-
tinuation of a theme or countertheme, even though the limita-
tions of a solo violin prevent the complete realization of the
separate themes. This is particularly true in the ensuing move-
ment, an impressive fugue. Here the counterpoint must be
condensed, mere chords often having to serve as accompani-
ment to the theme. But in spite of this, a great violinist can
give the impression of enormous strength and contrapuntal
fullness. Significantly, Bach later transcribed this fugue for
organ, filling out the polyphony implied in the solo sonata.
The third movement is marked Siciliano, although it bears little
resemblance to Bach’s usual treatment of that graceful dance;
it is closer to the solemn‘and sober sarabandes that usually
form the slow movements of Bach’s suites and partitas. The
finale, Presto, is one long, looping, uninterrupted line of
virtuosity.
Bartok’s unaccompanied Violin Sonata is undoubtedly the
finest example of its kind since Bach. None of the major
romantic composers attempted this severely limiting but very
challenging form, and it was not until Max Reger wrote for
unaccompanied violin in the early twentieth century that com-
posers began to look with interest at the possibilities of a type
of composition that extends back at least three hundred years.
Barték was not himself a violinist but had proved himself
thoroughly au courant with the mechanics of violin playing in
many works before attempting his unaccompanied sonata.
Indeed, Bartok more than any other composer of our century,
extended the technique of the instrument, drawing from it
sounds that were utterly novel and have since been appropri-
ated by his successors. That he was fascinated by the sound of
the violin unsupported by a bass instrument (a sound he was
familiar with since childhood, since he was a Hungarian) is
proved by the Forty-Four Duets for two solo violins, composed
in 1931.
The unaccompanied Violin Sonata was Barték’s last cham-
ber composition, and with the exception of the Third Piano
Concerto, his last major composition to be completed. It was
commissioned by the violinist Yehudi Menuhin. The composer,
already gravely ill, spent the winter of 1943-44 in Asheville,
North Carolina, on the advice of his doctor, and there he com-
pleted the work on March 14. In sending the score to Menuhin,
Bartok wrote: “I am rather worried about the ‘playability’ of
some of the double-stops, etc. On the last page I give you some
of the alternatives. ... Would you be so kind as to introduce...
the necessary changes in bowing, and perhaps the absolutely
necessary fingering and other suggestions, and also indicate
the impracticable difficulties? I would. try to change them.”
This solicitousness on behalf of the performer was not at all
like Bartok, but he was well aware that he had written one of
his most demanding scores; although he could not play the
violin, he had fingered one while the sonata was being com-
posed and had come to the conclusion that some of the thornier
passages simply could not be negotiated. He was relieved when
Menuhin assured him that the work was playable. Its premiére
took place on November 26, 1944. It was apparent after the
concert that Bartok’s demands upon-his audience were no less
stringent than those made upon the instrumentalist. The critics
were frankly puzzled and Olin Downes described the sonata
as “a test for ears, the intelligence, the receptiveness of the
most learned listener. ...On initial hearing, we take none too
kindly to the piece.” But the sonata has established itself
firmly since that time, for it repays all the attention that ears,
intelligence and receptiveness can give to it.
The first movement is marked Tempo di ciaccona. In his
authoritative book, The Life and Music of Bela Barték, Halsey
Stevens points out that the movement is not a real chaconne
(variations on a ground bass) but merely “in the rhythm of
a chaconne,” that is, divided into brief variation-like sections.
It is actually a sonata-allegro movement with 52 bars of expo-
sition, 38 of development and 47 of recapitulation. With its
declamatory double and triple stopping, its chromaticism
and heavy use of seconds, fourths and sevenths, it is the
thost Magyar-sounding of the four movements. The second
movement is a fugue, less strict than Bach’s in the G Minor
Sonata, but with a magnificence and defiant boldness to make
up for any pedagogical lapses. The fugue begins and ends with
a savagely accentuated minor third (C-E flat) and that interval
plays an important part throughout. The third movement,
Melodia, is in simple A-B-A form. In the A section, each of the
elaborate, curving phrases (the first one sounds startlingly
like the opening of the slow movement of Brahms’ Double
Concerto) ends with a fascinating, iterative motto played more
quietly than the phrase itself, often in harmonics. After the B
section, which features difficult trills in double and triple stops,
section A returns in a much altered and ornamented shape, but
with the quiet motto still very much in evidence after each
phrase. The finale is a rondo whose main section darts and
buzzes like an irritated gnat. As Halsey Stevens remarks, this
movement is the easiest of the four to assimilate on first hear-
ing. Its second episode—strangely suggestive of Vaughan
Williams—uis particdarlyaniemorable:
Joseph Silverstein took a third place in the Brussels
Queen Elizabeth contest in 1959 and went on to re-
ceive a Naumburg Foundations award which brought
with it a distinguished appearance with the New York
Philharmonic and a highly successful recital at Town
Hall. Then came an offer of the post of concertmaster
with the Boston Symphony, an offer accepted by the
brilliant young violinist. Eric Salzman, reviewing his
Town Hall recital in the New York Times, expressed
the hope that his duties with the orchestra “will not
prevent Mr. Silverstein from letting us hear him play
in recital....Last night’s program was a memorable
and musical occasion. The core was provided by two
unaccompanied Sonatas of major difficulty: the Bar-
ték and the Bach No. 3 in C. The juxtaposition was
stimulating but no more so than the qualities of in-
sight and communication...in the Barték and there-
after through Bach and Beethoven there were the
finest qualities of top-flight violin playing: a rich,
clean tone that could thin itself to the silkiest strand
or fatten out to a full, firm sound; a fine left-hand
technique; the most careful control of color, register
and dynamics; and, most important of all, a sensitive
and intelligent way of building lines into phrases, into
sentences and paragraphs and then into meaningful
structures and shapes.”
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