Why Did the Great Composers Rewrite Beethoven?

 by Emily E. Hogstad 

Romantic Era composers had a unique relationship with Ludwig van Beethoven. The man and his music cast a massive shadow over the nineteenth century, especially when it came to orchestral music.

Joseph Willibrord Mähler: Ludwig van Beethoven, ca 1804–1805 (Vienna Museum)

The Beethoven works that loomed the largest were his nine symphonies, especially the Third (composed between 1802 and 1804) and the Ninth (composed between 1822 and 1824).

These works were so revolutionary that many composers found it difficult to write orchestral works after them.

Brahms, for instance, knew that any symphony he’d write would inevitably be compared to Beethoven’s. He struggled for over twenty years to write his first symphony. And even after all that effort, he still couldn’t escape Beethoven’s shadow: Brahms’s First quickly earned the nickname “Beethoven’s Tenth.”

Interestingly, one of the surprising ways that composers engaged with Beethoven’s towering legacy was by completely – and creatively – reimagining his works.

Today, we’re looking at three major composers who rewrote the Beethoven symphonies.

Franz Liszt Rewrites the Symphonies for Piano

Carbon print circa 1869 by photographer Franz Hanfstaengl

Franz Liszt was born in 1811 and apparently met Beethoven as a young prodigy shortly before Beethoven died in 1827.

At the beginning of his career as a daredevil virtuoso pianist, Liszt would transcribe the fifth, sixth, and seventh symphonies for piano. Decades later, he would finally complete the set.

These transcriptions have a frenetic brilliance to them that makes for gripping listening.

In the 1960s, Glenn Gould became the first pianist to record the transcripts of the Fifth and Sixth symphonies. Gould described them before a radio broadcast:  

According to a rather touching paragraph in Grove’s Dictionary, these keyboard extravaganzas were intended for his own use in towns which could boast no municipal orchestra, and before audiences which were otherwise without access to the symphonic milestones of Beethoven.

We have no such access problem these days, but Liszt’s transcription is much more than a tremolo-laden silent movie style period piece.

It’s not just remarkable as an archival curio, nor even as a typically Lisztian object lesson in the deployment of pianistic sonority, for even while it maintains an almost puritanical fidelity to the original text, it captures, I think, Liszt’s view of Beethoven, and, by implication, the attitude of the Romantic Age toward the classicist who unleashed romanticism.   

In his pre-performance remarks, Gould verbalised a couple of reasons for Liszt to take on the project: to increase the symphonies’ accessibility in cities without orchestras, and to capture nineteenth-century ideas about the works for future generations.

Wagner Takes on Beethoven

Richard Wagner

Composer Richard Wagner (1813–1883) was just a boy when Beethoven died.

He had recently fallen in love with music and was devastated by the loss. He later wrote about meeting Beethoven in his dreams, then awakening in tears.

In 1831, when he was still in his teens, Wagner made a transcription of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony for solo piano and voices. (Liszt had circumvented the difficulty of transcribing the choral part in the ninth by adding a second piano to his transcription.)   

Wagner wrote of his attraction to the symphony:

Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony became the mystical goal of all my strange thoughts and desires about music… It was considered the ‘non plus ultra’ of all that was fantastic and incomprehensible, and this was quite enough to rouse in me a passionate desire to study this mysterious work.

However, unlike Liszt, Wagner didn’t stop at a piano transcription.

In 1846, when he was working as a music director in Dresden, he mounted a performance of Beethoven’s Ninth. He prepared the local population for the performance by writing articles in the local newspaper.

He also altered the score. He believed that Beethoven wrote particular passages in certain ways because of his deafness or the limitations of earlier, more primitive instruments.

For instance, in bars 53-68 of the Scherzo, Wagner doubled a woodwind passage with brass.

Wagner also addressed the tempos of the symphony, encouraging musicians to discard the metronome markings that Beethoven had left behind, and taking the final two movements at almost half the speed of what Beethoven had indicated in the score.

(For a long time, conventional wisdom suggested that Beethoven’s deafness had made him incapable of judging the effects of the metronome markings, which many interpreters believed were too fast.)

Here’s a performance close to Beethoven’s stated metronome mark, as played by the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra under Nicholas McGegan:   

And here’s a Wagnerian tempo, as typified by the Vienna Philharmonic under Wilhelm Furtwängler:  

The difference is stark.

Interestingly, Wagner also moved the chorus from in front of the orchestra to behind it: an arrangement that has been adopted in modern performances today.

Gustav Mahler Takes on Beethoven

Gustav Mahler, 1902

Gustav Mahler (1860–1911) agreed with many of Wagner’s interpretive ideas. He was also in a position to put them into action after he became the conductor of the Vienna Philharmonic in 1898.

Mahler decided he wanted to modernise Beethoven’s symphonies to sound better in larger modern concert halls. Accordingly, he set about tinkering with the scores of all of them, save the Fourth.

Conductor Michael Francis, who has conducted a 2024 recording of these versions, says:

Mahler was concerned that in the turn of the 20th century that Beethoven’s classical language had lost some of the power. You think about some of the pieces that Strauss is writing; think of the pieces that Mahler was writing. So these are huge, big pieces, and he wanted Beethoven’s strength to be heard.

In order to create a bigger sound, Mahler doubled the winds and horns and even added a timpani player and tuba player. 

In February 1900, Mahler debuted his new version of Beethoven’s Ninth.

Audiences were scandalised. Purists claimed they were upset because they valued Beethoven’s original score so highly, but the entire hullabaloo was also a convenient outlet for raging Viennese anti-Semitism.

The outcry became so loud that Mahler was forced to write an explanatory note in the press about his choices!

Judge for yourself; here’s the version of the Ninth Symphony that was so controversial.  

In 2024, we published an article looking at his changes to Beethoven’s Third Symphony.

In 2020, we did an interview with conductor Johannes Vogel about what it’s actually like to perform these Mahler adaptations.

And here’s critic Dave Hurwitz sharing his opinions about the Mahler reorchestrations:  

Conclusion

Every composer has to reckon with the shadow of Beethoven.

These three composers – Liszt, Wagner, and Mahler – did so in an especially intriguing way: by rearranging and rewriting his music, all for their own unique reasons.

Liszt wanted to be able to share Beethoven’s works with a wider audience. Wagner wanted to better understand his composer idol and translate Beethoven’s intentions for a new generation. Mahler continued that same mission where Wagner left off.

Whether you appreciate their work or not, it’s undeniable that each of these men made major contributions to Beethoven’s legacy. In the process, they proved the symphonies’ relevance and timelessness.

Thunder and Trembling Vladimir Horowitz’s Battle with Performance Anxiety (Born October 1, 1903)

by Georg Predota

Vladimir Horowitz, the titan of 20th-century pianists, could silence a hall with a single chord, his fingers conjuring tempests from the keys. Yet, for all his mastery, he was a prisoner of performance anxiety, this crippling dread that drove him to the edge of collapse and forced four dramatic exits from the concert stage.

Vladimir Horowitz

“To tell you the truth, sometimes I’m frightened of myself,” he confessed in 1975, revealing the paradox of a genius who ruled Carnegie Hall but trembled at its threshold. This torment, born of revolution-scarred youth and relentless perfectionism, didn’t just haunt Horowitz.

Performance anxiety actually shaped his volcanic artistry, forging a legacy where fear and brilliance were inseparable. To celebrate his birthday on 1 October, let us honour the legacy of a pianist who transformed terror into transcendence.   

Paradox of Genius and Fear

Born on 1 October 1903 in the shadowed streets of Berdichev, near Kyiv in what was then the Russian Empire, Horowitz emerged as a prodigy whose fingers danced across the piano with a ferocity that could coax thunder from ivory. His mother, Sophie, a conservatory-trained pianist, recognised his gift early, and by age 12, he was enrolled at the Kyiv Conservatory under masters like Felix Blumenfeld, a student of Tchaikovsky himself.

Felix Blumenfeld

Horowitz’s early career was a blaze of triumphs. Debuts in Leningrad and Kharkov in 1920, a European tour that stunned audiences in Berlin and Paris, and a New York recital in 1928 that prompted The New York Times critic Olin Downes to hail him as displaying “most if not all the traits of a great interpreter.”

Yet, beneath this virtuosic facade lurked a profound vulnerability. Stage fright, that spectral adversary, would hound him for decades. That insidious cocktail of adrenaline and dread afflicted Horowitz like a recurring fever. It manifested not as mere butterflies but as a paralysing panic.   

Rituals of Dread

As biographer Glenn Plaskin recounts in Horowitz: A Biography, the pianist often arrived at venues in the eleventh hour, demanding silence from all around him, his anxiety so acute that aides sometimes had to physically nudge him toward the stage.

“Such was his stage fright that he often had to be pushed physically onto the stage,” notes music historian Robert Greenberg, underscoring how this neurotic ritual became as much a part of Horowitz’s lore as his octave-spanning arpeggios.

Incredibly, this man who commanded sold-out halls and fees that made him the highest-paid artist of the 1940s chronically doubted his own adequacy, whispering to himself that he was “inferior and inadequate” even as ovat

Murmurs of Assurance

The roots of Horowitz’s affliction might well be traced back to his tumultuous youth.

The 1917 Russian Revolution ravaged his family, as his father’s electrical engineering firm was seized, and relatives were imprisoned or executed. By 1925, the family had fled to Paris, leaving Vladimir to perform ragtime in silent-film theatres for survival.

This upheaval instilled a deep-seated insecurity, compounded by his innate perfectionism. “His consistent need to be perfect… drove his stage fright in a big way,” observed a scholar, also noting that the young pianist’s early acclaim only amplified his fear of failure.

Horowitz himself hinted at this inner turmoil in rare interviews, though direct quotes on stage fright are elusive. Instead, he channelled it into mantras of reassurance. Before performances, he would murmur, “I know my pieces,” a self-soothing litany affirming his meticulous preparation as a bulwark against the void.   

A Vanishing Act

Vladimir Horowitz in 1931

This ritual, born of desperation, revealed a man wrestling not just with notes but with the terror of exposure. Horowitz’s first major retreat came in 1936, a seismic event that rippled through the music world. At the peak of his powers, fresh off collaborations with Toscanini and recordings that refined the Rachmaninoff concertos, he succumbed to “nervous exhaustion.”

Married since 1933 to Wanda Toscanini, daughter of the imperious conductor Arturo, Horowitz faced mounting pressures. The stormy union was marked by Wanda’s infidelities and Vladimir’s alleged homosexuality, with colitis twisting his gut.

Vladimir and Wanda Horowitz

He vanished from the stage for 13 months, retreating to Italy and then New York, where therapy and rest barely quelled the storm. Biographer Harold C. Schonberg, in Horowitz: His Life and Music, describes this period as one where “the heartbreaking destruction of his family combined with… professional frustrations to bring on the first of several breakdowns.”   

Electric Return and Enduring Shadows

Upon return in 1938, his playing was electric, but the fright lingered like a shadow. The post-World War II years amplified the torment. By 1953, after a separation from Wanda and rumours of institutionalisation, Horowitz hit rock bottom.

He underwent electroshock therapy for depression, a brutal intervention that left him catatonic at the piano. “For months, for years, he was incapable of performing in public,” recounts author Lea Singer in a 2021 interview about Horowitz’s hidden life.

The mere thoughts of the stage triggered panic attacks so severe that rumours started to fly that he could no longer touch the keys. This hiatus lasted 12 years, the longest of his four periods of retirement. During these silences, Horowitz turned to recordings, a much safer harbour where he could edit out imperfections.

A Phoenix Rises

Vladimir Horowitz in 1986

Yet, from these ashes rose phoenix-like comebacks, each a testament to resilience. The most mythic unfolded on 9 May 1965, at Carnegie Hall. Backstage, Horowitz paced like a caged tiger, his wife and daughter, Sonia, imploring him to move forward. When he finally emerged, the ovation was deafening.

His program, scarred on showpieces and heavy on Bach, Clementi and Mozart, unleashed a Horowitz reborn. His playing was introspective, crystalline, with rubato that breathed like wind through willows. Pianist André Watts captured the onstage atmosphere, stating, “Horowitz was like a demon barely under control.” (Read more about “Vladimir Horowitz’s Legendary 1965 Carnegie Hall Comeback Concert“.)

The eminent musicologist Charles Rosen elaborated further, dubbing performance anxiety “a divine ailment, a sacred madness. It’s a Promethean curse where the artist suffers to deliver the divine spark.”    

Imperfect Perfection

Horowitz transmuted performance anxiety into daring, as the fear of errors became the edge that sharpened his interpretations. As he explained in 1975, “I must tell you I take terrible risks. Because my playing is very clear, when I make a mistake, you hear it… Never be afraid to dare.”

Yet, Horowitz disdained mechanical perfection. “Perfection itself is imperfection,” he quipped, instead favouring “a little mistake here and there” to infuse music with human warmth.

Lea Singer described his offstage demeanour as a “shy penguin”, noting his 1986 Moscow bow tie, and grinning through “great sadness.” Pianist Oscar Levant, another anxiety-plagued musician, jested that Horowitz should advertise “for a limited number of cancellations.”   

Tears and Triumph

Vladimir Horowitz in 1986

Critics and peers dissected Horowitz’s affliction with awe and empathy. In The Guardian, a 2015 reflection on overcoming anxiety likened stage fright to “an untamed horse. We have to try to harness it, let it out, pull it back,” an apt metaphor for Horowitz’s volatile command.

Even in later years, as recordings supplanted tours, his influence endured. His late-career resurgences, in 1978 in Cleveland after a nine-year absence, and the 1986 historic Moscow return amid Gorbachev’s glasnost, were defiant rebuttals to his demons.

As he plays Schumann’s Träumerei with tears in his eyes, an encore that bridges across 61 years of exile, he once declared, “without false modesty, I feel that, when I’m on the stage, I’m the king, the boss of the situation.” Yet, as Classical Music magazine reflected in 2025, his “success… came at a heavy price, with electroshock scars and pill bottles as collateral.”  

Chasing the Sublime

Vladimir Horowitz died on 5 November 1989, in New York, felled by a heart attack at the age of 86. His legacy, etched in 25 Grammys and the Presidential Medal of Freedom, transcends the man. Performance anxiety for Horowitz was no mere malady but the crucible of his art.

It forced retirements that honed his depth, risks that electrified his touch, and returns that redefined triumph. In an era when beta-blockers offered chemical relief, as proposed in a 1979 Times article, Horowitz reminds us that the raw edge of fear can give birth to the sublime.

As Joan Acocella, in her 2015 The New Yorker essay on performance anxiety, wrote, “Horowitz played from the other side of the score, looking back.” And maybe that’s how we should gaze at him as well. A demon tamed, a king enthroned, forever chasing the music behind the notes.

John Rutter - Celebrating 80 Years of Choral Legacy

by Georg Predota  October 3rd, 2025

On the occasion of John Rutter’s 80th birthday on 24 September 2025, choral communities across the globe join in a formal celebration of his extraordinary contributions to the world of music. His compositions have enriched the repertoire of choirs worldwide, gracing sacred spaces, concert halls, and festivals with their profound beauty and emotional depth.

John Rutter

Rutter’s artistry has inspired generations of singers, conductors, and audiences, fostering a shared sense of unity and reverence through the power of choral music. As we reflect on this milestone, it is fitting to explore Rutter’s life, his artistic contributions, and the enduring impact of his work 

Igniting a Lifelong Passion

John Rutter’s early life was steeped in the sounds of London’s vibrant cultural landscape. Growing up above the Globe pub on Marylebone Road, the son of an industrial chemist, he discovered music’s enchanting world through an out-of-tune upright piano.

His formal education at Highgate School, where he sang as a chorister alongside future luminaries like John Tavener, ignited a passion for composition. At just 18, Rutter penned his “Shepherd’s Pipe Carol,” a piece that captured the ethereal innocence of pastoral imagery and foreshadowed his affinity for Christmas carols.

This early work, published during his undergraduate years at Clare College, Cambridge, marked the beginning of a prolific output that blended English choral traditions with innovative textures. At Cambridge, Rutter not only studied music but also served as Director of Music at Clare College Chapel from 1975 to 1979, elevating the choir to an international standing.  

Crafting Choral Classics

John Rutter

John Rutter played a pivotal role in the Carols of Choir series, particularly from 1970 onward. As co-editor alongside Sir David Willcocks, Rutter contributed original works and arrangements, which blended traditional folk elements with vibrant rhythms and luminous harmonies.

Earning praise for their “joyful qualities” and “musical polish,” Rutter’s work on subsequent volumes further showcases his versatility. In fact, Willcocks called him “the most gifted composer of his generation.”

Rutter decided to leave Academia in 1979 to focus on composition. This decision was pivotal as it allowed him to establish the Cambridge Singers in 1981. This professional choir became his creative laboratory, recording sacred repertoire on his Collegium Records label and touring globally.   

Mourning and Majesty

Yet, Rutter’s path was not without adversity as he battled health problems from 1985 to 1992, a period that curtailed commissions and forced a re-evaluation of his creative process. Emerging from this trial, Rutter’s music gained deeper emotional layers, as evident in works like the Requiem, which balances mourning with consolation.

Rutter’s sacred choral music is rooted in a harmonic language that favours modal shifts and lush tertian sonorities to facilitate emotional accessibility. Demanding vocal precision, these works blend simplicity and sophistication, appealing to both amateur and professional ensembles alike.

John Rutter’s influence extends to secular realms as well. His “This is the Day,” composed for the wedding of Prince William and Catherine Middleton, fuses psalmic joy with contemporary resonance. We also find orchestral works, such as the Suite Antique, stimulated by Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos, and two Beatles-themed piano concertos inspired by the American songbook tradition. 

Uniting Voices

John Rutter with the Cambridge Singers

John Rutter’s contributions to choral music have left an enduring mark on the global choral landscape, blending accessibility with harmonic sophistication to create works that resonate across sacred and secular contexts.

Rutter’s ability to infuse traditional texts with modern sensibilities, often through luminous tonal palettes and subtle rhythmic vitality, has been praised as “a gift for melody and an instinctive understanding of the voice.”

As we celebrate his 80th birthday, we honour John Rutter’s enduring legacy as a defining figure in contemporary choral music. His lasting impact stems from his unique ability to craft music that is both emotionally immediate and technically refined. In other words, Rutter’s music unites singers and listeners in shared emotional experiences.

Madame Butterfly by Puccini - Love Duet (Opera Movie, 1995 - subtitled)

Madama Butterfly (Madame Butterfly) is an opera in three acts (originally two acts) by Giacomo Puccini, with an Italian libretto by Luigi Illica and Giuseppe Giacosa. Puccini based his opera in part on the short story "Madame Butterfly" (1898) by John Luther Long, which was dramatized by David Belasco. Puccini also based it on the novel Madame Chrysanthème (1887) by Pierre Loti. According to one scholar, the opera was based on events that actually occurred in Nagasaki in the early 1890s. The original version of the opera, in two acts, premiered on February 17, 1904, at La Scala in Milan. It was very poorly received despite the presence of such notable singers as soprano Rosina Storchio, tenor Giovanni Zenatello and baritone Giuseppe De Luca in the lead roles. This was due in large part to the late completion and inadequate time for rehearsals. Puccini revised the opera, splitting the second act into two acts and making other changes. On May 28, 1904, this version was performed in Brescia and was a huge success. The opera is set in the city of Nagasaki. Japan's best-known opera singer Tamaki Miura won international fame for her performances as Cio-Cio San; her statue, along with that of Puccini, can be found in Nagasaki's Glover Garden. Butterfly is a staple of the standard operatic repertoire for companies around the world and it is the most-performed opera in the United States, where it ranks as Number 1 in Opera America's list of the 20 most-performed operas in North America.

5 songs that will make you feel nostalgic (Filipino songs Editon)

10,258,517 views Aug 15, 2023 #nostalgic #hits #lyrics

5 Filipino songs that will make you feel nostalgic. We do not own the music or photos, and no copyright is intended. The original creator receives full credit. #filipinosongs #lyrics #nostalgic #hits

Freddie Mercury & Montserrat Caballé - Barcelona

The ‘Never Boring’ box set out NOW!. Order here: https://freddiemercury.lnk.to/NeverBo... Click here to buy Freddie Mercury – Messenger Of The Gods – The Singles: https://MessengerOfTheGods.lnk.to/Fre... Freddie Mercury was a man of many talents and many different sides. The songs he wrote for and with Queen filled stadiums around the globe and have rightly gone down in history, but he also embarked on a solo career that took him from the clubs of Munich and New York to the great opera houses of the world. He was the ultimate showman, but he kept his private life away from the prying eyes of the media; a larger than life rock star who loved disco, classical music and ballet. He was a restless spirit, a true chameleon who revelled in his own contradictions. All the different sides of this iconic musician can be found on Freddie Mercury: Messenger Of The Gods - The Singles. All formats released September 2nd 2016. On 29th May 1987, a huge festival was held on the island of Ibiza, at a venue called Ku Club. Titled 'Ibiza '92', the event was held to celebrate Spain hosting the Olympic Games in 1992. Along with many other artists, Freddie appeared with Montserrat Caballé to showcase the song they had been working on - seventeen months before it was released as a single. Subscribe to the official Freddie Mercury Solo channel here: https://FreddieMercury.lnk.to/Subscribe Watch more: https://FreddieMercury.lnk.to/BestOfF... About Freddie Mercury Solo: Freddie Mercury; lead singer of Queen and solo artist in his own right. Songwriter, musician, singer of songs, lover of life. Freddie majored in Stardom while giving new meaning to the word Showmanship. He left a legacy of songs that will never lose their stature as classics and will live on forever.

Donna Summer "I Feel Love" (2023 Extended Revisit Mix) ***

2,800,664 views Premiered Aug 25, 2023

The original multitracks for IFL are presumed lost. When official remixes were done in 1995, the studio multitrack tape could not be found. For those remixes, the vocals were re-recorded. Here, through the marvel of today's technology, the original lead and backing vocals are used. The rest of the backing track is a recreation of the original, not meant to be 100% clone, but also uses a couple of judicious short samples from the original. My intention was to keep the same feel and vibe of the original and NOT try to make it sound like a clone of 21st century EDM. I also took a little inspiration from the Patrick Cowley version. I hope you enjoy this new version and video!

For Your Eyes Only ~ Sheena Easton (James Bond 007 Theme HD)

328,496 views Nov 9, 2016

For Your Eyes Only theme song by Sheena Easton, James Bond 007 music video theme song from the official 1981 soundtrack starring Roger Moore. Album Score by Bill Conti. here is my awesome extended pop video in hq, HD 720p, This title theme song was played over the intro gunbarrel James Bond opening & end credit titles. Starring Rodger Moore, edited with a glorious HD picture & high quality HQ stereo Audio. original "for your eyes only" album music composed by Bill Conti. Blondie did a cover to this also, I hope you enjoy my exclusive extended Youtube Music Video.....All comments welcome, Enjoy! Scotland's Sheena Easton scored a world wide hit with this in 1981. She also remains the only artist to ever be seen singing the theme song to a James Bond movie during its opening titles. Sheena released this song originally on a 45 RPM. Side A contained the single version, Side B contained an instrumental version. This is my special extended HQ mix of both versions. Enjoy! ________________________________________ "For Your Eyes Only" » Sheena Easton For your eyes only, can see me through the night For your eyes only, I never need to hide You can see so much in me, so much in me that's new I never felt until I looked at you For your eyes only, only for you You'll see what no one else can see, and now I'm breaking free For your eyes only, only for you The love I know you need in me, the fantasy you've freed in me Only for you, only for you For your eyes only, the nights are never cold You really know me, that's all I need to know Maybe I'm an open book because I know you're mine But you won't need to read between the lines For your eyes only, only for you You see what no one else can see, and now I'm breaking free For your eyes only, only for you The passions that collide in me, the wild abandoned side of me Only for you, for your eyes only.

🎻 PART III - 24 famous classical pieces you've heard and don't know the title

Dvořák Cello Concerto: how a heartbroken composer’s lost love inspired his greatest work

A yearning for his homeland and the devastating loss of a beloved friend give the Czech’s work an almost unbearable pathos, explains Jo Talbot

Antonín Dvořák © Getty Images

Jo Talbot

Published: September 29, 2025 at 5:00 pm

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Who was Antonín Dvořák?

In September 1892, the 51-year-old Antonín Dvořák arrived in New York to take up the position of director of the National Conservatory – a move that would not only swell his bank account but also see him fêted as something of a celebrity in his adopted home. On top of his teaching duties, Dvořák also performed and travelled widely, absorbing much of the local culture. His compositions from his period in the US are among his most famous, including his Symphony No. 9 ‘From the New World’, ‘American’ String Quartet No. 12 and, shortly before returning back to his Czech homeland in 1895, his Cello Concerto.  

Dvořák Cello Concerto: the work

Discovering the cello's potential

As Robert Hausmann played Dvořák’s Cello Concerto through, Johannes Brahms turned round to the composer and said, ‘If I had known that it was possible to write a cello concerto like this, I would have tried it as well!’ High praise indeed.

Dvořák’s Concerto is indeed an inspired work, but he hadn’t always been so taken with the cello. He considered his youthful First Concerto, written at the age of 23, to be incompetent, and it was almost 30 years later, on hearing Victor Herbert’s Second Cello Concerto in New York, that he realised the instrument’s potential. He studied Herbert’s score and six months later began sketching his own work, completing the first version in February 1895. Returning to Prague in April, he revised his Concerto over the summer and offered it to Simrock, his publisher.

Yo-Yo Ma performs the Dvořák Cello Concerto with Calgary Philharmonic Orchestra

• Ranked: the 11 best cello concertos of all time

Tragedy and tribute: the death of Dvořák's beloved sister-in-law

This gives us the timeline of the composition, but misses the personal tragedy that defines its creative impetus. While working on the sketches, Dvořák knew that his beloved sister-in-law Josefina was ill. She wrote to him: ‘Forgive me for not writing, but I have been seriously confined to bed, and unable to do so. I have not heard from you for such a long time. This is not as it should be! However, I shall resign myself to the fact I have nothing to look forward to anymore.  

With the knowledge that Josefina’s health was failing, Dvořák wanted to pay tribute to her in his new work. He includes in the second movement some quotes from the song ‘Lasst mich allein’ (Leave me alone) which was a favourite of Josefina, and a reference to the three-note ‘Lebewohl’ (Farewell) motif from Beethoven’s Sonata ‘Les adieux’. On learning of Josefina’s death, Dvořák was utterly devastated, adding a Coda in the last movement that quotes the same song – a mesmerisingly tender moment. 

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Was this an open love letter and farewell?  Dvořák’s early passion for Josefina had come to nothing and she married a German-speaking aristocrat – a better match than his position then as a lowly orchestral player. But the two remained close – Dvořák married her younger sister, and his family visited her estate at Vysoká every summer. The passion and intimacy in the music perhaps tells the story best.

Dvořák Cello Concerto: a stormy route to the first performance

The dedicatee of the Cello Concerto, friend and cellist Hanuš Wihan, stepped in with some virtuosic figurations and advice and was originally going to give the premiere in London. But then he and Dvořák had a major rift. The cause? Wihan had decided his own cadenza should be inserted into the Finale, ruining Dvořák’s intricately wrought tribute to Josefina. Dvořák angrily wrote in October 1895 to Simrock: ‘I have some differences of opinion with friend Wihan. I do not like some of the passages – and I must insist on my work being printed as I have written it. I shall only give you my work if you promise not to allow anybody to make changes. There is no cadenza in the last movement. I told Wihan straight away when he showed it to me it was impossible just to stick such a bit on.’    

Jacqueline du Pré performs the Dvořák Cello Concerto with the LSO conducted by Daniel Barenboim

Wihan dropped the work, and the British cellist Leo Stern took over. It had been a vitriolic spat, as Dvořák’s biographer Otakar Šourek elucidated in a letter: ‘He esteemed Josefina not only as a dear friend, but also as the charming young actress who, long years ago, had awakened in him a secret passion.’ Šourek also mentions the songs Dvořák quoted by way of farewell: ‘For this reason, Dvořák insisted on his own definitive conclusions.’

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The Concerto meant everything to Dvořák. In a letter to his friend Alois Göbl he admitted his relentless rehearsal of the work in Prague, taxing Leo Stern to his limit: ‘We studied and practised every day – he was quite in despair and I was insisting that it was good, but that it must still be better.’

Dvořák Cello Concerto: the premiere

It served them both well – the premiere, with Dvořák conducting the Philharmonic Society Orchestra in London in March 1896, was warmly received. ‘All three movements are richly melodious,’ wrote The Times, ‘the just balance is maintained between orchestra and solo instrument, and the passages written for display are admirably devised. Mr Stern played the solo part with good taste and faultless technical skill.’ On the Viennese premiere two years later, Eduard Hanslick, critic of Neue Freie Presse, wrote that ‘Dvořák has written a magnificent work which has brought to an end the stagnation of violoncello literature.’   

• Rostropovich: the virtuoso who redefined the cello forever

Dvořák Cello Concerto: form and style

While teeming with Romantic gestures, there are also interesting modern elements. It is more of a cello symphony than concerto, the solo part integrated into orchestral dialogues. Textures are multi-layered, with a leaning towards Wagnerian chromaticism, and programmatic elements are suggested – the numerous trills perhaps allude to the bird song from the composer’s notoriously early morning walks at Vysoká. And the march that opens the Finale even foreshadows Gustav Mahler, while the Bohemian inflection in the melodies lends a flavour of nationalism to this towering work.