Elgar (1857-1934) - Symphony No. 1

“Gentlemen, now let us rehearse the greatest symphony of modern times, written by the greatest  modern composer - and not only in this country.” Thus spake Hans Richter, in 1908, of Elgar's  First Symphony - dismissing Dvorak and Sibelius, to name but two. Was he overstating his case?  Maybe, but then maybe it was justifiable considering the circumstances, which much later led Michael Kennedy to conclude, “This was not only Elgar's first symphony, it was England's.” For  many, many years England had been “the Land without Music”, perhaps a harsh judgement, but true. Admittedly, Englishmen like Parry, Stanford and Sullivan had written much splendid  music, including symphonies, but at best they imparted an English flavour to a menu already served, consumed and digested in mainland Europe. Musically, England was a backwater,  producing plenty of also-rans but no front-runners. 

Then along came Elgar, dishing up roast beef and veg. liberally laced with tongue-toasting English mustard. His pièce de resistance (to date) came courtesy of a symphony that was, in  many ways, right at the cutting edge of the avant-garde of the time! If that itself seems like overstatement, try comparing it with Mahler's Seventh which was also premièred in 1908. Then  ask yourself whether our ears, cosied by the comfy nobilmente of his popular public gestures,  aren't thereby conned into glossing over his more abrasive, personally expressive music - in effect tucking the wood behind the trees. 

By the end of the Nineteenth Century, people habitually accepted the British Empire's stability  and security. But, during the first decade of the Twentieth, it became obvious that it was flaking around the edges. A growing unease was felt generally, but perhaps most acutely by the hyper-sensitive nerve-endings of the artistic. From this angle, it's easy to imagine a symphony being  written as something of a “mission statement” reminding people firstly of what they stood to lose, secondly of the “bulldog” spirit that built the Empire, and thirdly of their track record in coming out on top. 

If anyone could put this message across, it was Elgar. In Froissart (1890), the Enigma Variations  (1899), Cockaigne (1901) and Alassio (1904) he'd shown an exceptional talent for bold, colourful expression. Indeed, in Froissart and Alassio you can readily detect a stylistic affinity  with Strauss, the current ruler of that particular roost. Following Brahms, however, Elgar acquired a rock-solid craftsmanship and structural ingenuity, evident in pieces like Cockaigne  and the Introduction and Allegro (1905). Finally, there's Elgar's in-depth experience of musical  dramatisation, developed through that long, magnificent line of oratorios and cantatas,  culminating in The Kingdom (1906). 

The CV was spot-on, the motivation was there: the time was ripe. All that remained was to deliver the goods. Judging by the number of performances his symphony received during its first  year - nearly one every three days - Elgar's “goods” were in the “blockbuster” class. It had struck a singularly resonant chord, whose relevance has reverberated down through the years, wherever and whenever the well-being of honest citizens is jeopardised. 

Viewed this way, the symphony can be said to deal with time-honoured subjects like peace under  threat, conflict and victory. However, the secret of its success probably depends less on the subject matter itself than on the way it's handled. While others might have composed four symphonic poems dressed up as a symphony, Elgar composed a symphony, first and foremost:  extramusical ideas are subservient to the logical processes. As I see it, any one theme generally characterises one positive idea: “stability”, “optimism”, “fighting”. However, opposing elements  like (say) “threat” and “attack” aren't - they seem to derive from the positives. Typically, Elgar's  predecessors offered relatively cut-and-dried views of conflict, notably overlooking the aspect he covers in his slow movement. With his First Symphony, Elgar shattered the mould. So, maybe Richter wasn't exaggerating? 

The opening theme forms an introduction comparable to those of Tchaikovsky's First Piano Concerto or Sibelius' First Symphony. However, unlike Tchaikovsky's, Elgar's theme is no mere introduction, and unlike Sibelius' it is threaded through the fabric of the entire work. In fact, it's soon obvious that Elgar's motto theme represents himself in the symphonic scenario. To me, what's most astonishing is that Elgar contrives a work that is at once a superb structure and a drama that's more graphically involving than anything on stage or screen. 

1. Andante nobilmente e semplice - Allegro: From gloomy rumbling emerges Elgar's motto, at first subdued then resonating confidently. The buoyant, athletic first subject is linked to the serene but capricious second via subsidiary, dancing motives. A codetta based on the first subject is subverted by belligerent brass charging down the  hillsides, torching the latter dancing motive's innocence into a corrupt inferno!  Stunned, the motto creeps among the ruins (marking the start of the development), the air of bewilderment subsequently increased by chimerical scoring. Development focuses on the second subject group, at first increasingly panicky, but then subsiding into exhausted anxiety. The motto returns,  subdued and questioning (marking the end of the development). Increasing activity coalesces  into the first subject's reprise. Both main subjects show signs of shaken self-assurance, confirmed by the re-emergence of that infernal apparition, its ferocity unabated. But in the ensuing coda, fleeting anxious visions are supplanted by the motto, now growing in fortitude and reaching a climax of immense resolve. Anxiety is not relieved (“resolve” is not “solution”!), yet in the  gloaming there is a wonderful image of hope: the motto pleads, and is answered by a magical  modulation onto the dancing motive, cleansed of corruption. 

2. Allegro: There's a curiously prophetic parallel between the import of this music and the “Your Country  Needs You!” enlistment method soon to become necessary. Like some defensive reflex,  scampering strings urgently stir the blood, giving rise to a masculine, militaristic rallying-march  which itself generates a ferocious - and fearsome -  enthusiasm. The scene cross-fades to a second subject  which (as Elgar put it) “is like something you hear down by the river”. This whimsical filigree of  feminine enchantment incites the resurgence of the bellicose first subject which, impatiently, gets  going even before the second has “finished speaking”. But the marching is more dogged - as if  chastened by its grim purpose. Not so the “ladies”, who press forward in high excitement before catching themselves, as if suddenly realising an impropriety! As they regain their composure, icy  tremolandi suggest encroaching anxiety: “white silk hankies waved as the men march off”, and  indeed the militarist music recedes. Then “a final wave” brings a hint of the motto, subtly altered and preparing a moment of inimitable Elgarian magic . . . 

3. Lento: If we take the first movement to represent “threat and dismay” and the second “active response”,  then this is surely the “vision of the cherishable”, seen through the eyes of those who must sit and await the outcome. It fits, being a set of variations on two alternating themes, one glowing  like an English summer afternoon, the other like clouds obscuring the sun. The motto's altered phrase is transformed into a flowing theme of matchless, expanding beauty. As this glorious exposition ends, a shadow clouds our vision, both without and within. The phrases of the second  theme, lilting and rocking, turn down within themselves, and stepwise descend the scale like falling leaves. Ominous also are the sombre tones of hushed brass, again darkly descending. The  progression, of three variations for each theme, seems to amplify both our cherishing and our  fears. Thus the last variations find the first subject less fulsome, becoming submerged by the second. As the latter fades, the former appears once more - very softly, but with the feelings of  foreboding embedded within. 

4. Allegro molto: Rather like the Prelude to Act II of Siegfried, sustained tremolandi underpin the motto, mingling with the fretful shades of the main themes. A pregnant pause - and then the movement leaps into life. Three shades gain substance in quick succession: firstly, strings juggle pairs of notes in  canon. Secondly, over a tramping rhythm 'cellos contribute a rolling tune to which a great arching phrase (also presaged in the introduction) seems to be related. Thirdly, an assertive and (again) militaristic march gets a big build-up. The climax spills into development, a festive  tumult in which a triplet phrase becomes detached from the rolling tune, to be tossed around the orchestra with joyous abandon. The “troops”, you might say, are back - and delirious about it!  However, a sudden halt is called - the motto, cautiously questioning, seems to seek reassurance,  and reassurance is forthcoming: a truly marvellous transformation of the militaristic march glows with visionary optimism. Out of a climax of immense grandeur, the festive development  resumes, blurring into a recapitulation which becomes apparent only when the rolling tune rolls back in. The reprise of the militaristic build-up bursts brilliantly into jubilation,  the “troops” hoisting the wise and wary motto shoulder high. At first buffeted by the celebratory clamour, the motto heaves itself clear and, thus untrammelled, grandly proclaims victory. At this particular  moment, it's very hard to disagree with Richter.
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© Paul Serotsky
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