Music of the Month: John Ireland by H. E. Wortham Part II

This is the second and final part of British biographer, journalist, and music critic Hugh Evelyn Wortham's (1884–1959) portrait of composer John Ireland. It was published in the arts journal; Apollo (August 1928).

THROUGHOUT his work, indeed, one notices a certain insensitiveness to such considerations. Admittedly, the collaboration of piano and violoncello offer difficulties which have been surmounted with entire success by no composers (though Brahms has very nearly done so). Still, the Sonata for ’cello and piano by Ireland is one of his most significant works. [1] It really is what it purports to be - in other words, the composer has expressed himself within the limits and under the restraints which the sonata form imposes. And in spite of this he has avoided any suggestions that the music comes from the head rather than the heart. On the contrary, the whole composition palpitates with life and feeling, with feeling under that restraint which is the mark of the true creative spirit. His control of form is absolutely sure and gives that impression of consciousness which the sonata form, filled with the sense of its own importance, so often fails to produce. As mood follows mood with the beauty of contrast that shows emotion controlled by will one has no doubt of Ireland’s poetic insight. An intense first movement, coloured by a sternness that is never long absent from Ireland’s work, is succeeded by a passionate seven-bar introduction leading to the lovely theme (A) played first by the piano alone.

Cello Sonata: Second Movement

One could hardly believe that so simple and suave a melody could have been written in the stormy years after the war, when music was suffering from just another attack of such convulsions as the Duchesse de Choiseul complained of when Gluck was leading opera into the fields wherein Wagner, nearly a century later, reaped so fruitful a harvest.[2] And with what ingenious beauty of harmonic device does Ireland proceed to elaborate this charming idea! Then in the last movement, in an atmosphere of increased rhythmical tension, he returns to use up material taken from the first and thus rounds off a work in which there is not a redundant bar or an incongruous phrase. There are many other qualities, too, which one might note in this sonata, in particular the solidity of the diatonic idiom (which at the same time is perfectly individual to himself and conveys no suggestion of reminiscence) and the firm control of rhythm, admirably illustrated in the flowing lines of the slow movement. Its weakness in performance - and here I am speaking of my own personal experience - is that the piano part is apt to overbalance that of the ’cello. A passage like this (B) for instance,

Cello Sonata: Third Movement

…comes off ungratefully for the string instrument, and there are many others in the first and third movements where the elaboration of the piano writing detracts from the unity of ensemble. We may ascribe this in part to the special difficulties, already alluded to, that beset the composer writing for piano and ’cello, and also to the fact that Ireland is not primarily a musical colourist and is chiefly interested in other things than timbres. Insensitiveness is perhaps too strong a word to use in this connection. At the same time, it does remain a defect, the outstanding defect in Ireland’s work, appearing in many places, not least in his songs where the beauty of many is clouded by piano accompaniments which obscure the fine drawing of the vocal line.

He seems to have become aware of this in his latest songs, and in settings to such poems as “Friendship in Misfortune ” and “ The One Hope,” [3] both of which echo with deep sincerity the dark moods that inspire the words, he has returned to the simplicity of an earlier manner, though he has now thrown off the influences which that betrayed. In spite of this, his songs, which must number at least sixty, form a remarkable collection for the variety of moods they mirror, as also for the fidelity with which he always treats the poet’s line. Though Ireland belongs to a generation which cannot but be sensible to the current of folksong, against which only our younger composers can successfully struggle, he never definitely surrenders to it. He goes, of course, to the country, but he does not pretend to be a countryman. A song like “The Vagabond” [4] is a good example of the rarely shown picturesque side of his art. “The Land of the Lost Continent,” [5] a cycle of six songs taken from A Shropshire Lad, without being in any way bucolic have a ring about them that is always English and sometimes Purcellian. To this category belongs “Ladslove,” where the long rhythmic curves of the vocal line wonderfully fit the deliberate movement of the poem. Of another sort is “Santa Chiara,” [6] certainly an exception to the generalization that his accompaniments are inclined to be out of perspective with the voice, a song which recaptures in more subtle form the impressionist feelings which ran through his popular piano pieces of 1919, the already mentioned Chelsea Reach and Soho Forenoons.

But the works which have done the most to make Ireland’s reputation as a composer of other things than miniatures are, as I have already said, his two sonatas for piano and violin, though he reverses the usual precedence and puts the violin first. The first is well made and effective to play, and it was this work which raised the enthusiasm of my Viennese friend whose remark I repeated at the head of this article. The second sonata, however, has many more qualities than this, and on the whole, we may take the judgment of English music-lovers, which considers this as easily his best work, to be justified. The first movement has the same grimness that underlies a good deal of the ‘cello and piano sonata and is found in its most undiluted form in the E Minor piano trio. [7] But we must remember, for one thing, that it reflected the war spirit, and for another that music, tending always to the sweetness of insipidity, as the impulse of inspiration leaves it, has been particularly emphatic in avoiding this imputation in its reaction against romanticism. Ireland is inclined to be harsh, rugged, and grim. Sometimes he overdoes it, but not in this violin and piano sonata. The second movement by contrast is a beautiful piece of lyrical writing, strongly felt, richly endowed with melody, and worked out with the utmost nicety of skill. The cadenza-like passage in the middle for the violin alone, climbing to the C an octave above the C in alt and followed by a bar’s silence, is one of those touches that make this movement one of the greatest achievements in contemporary English music. Then comes the finale, where a tonic and dominant theme gives an atmosphere of quite irresistible jollity. The whole of this last movement is a proof of two things - that music can still be unsophisticatedly gay without dropping into banality, and that it is possible for a composer to be as diatonic as you please without suffering the same fate.

Notes:

[1] John Ireland’s Sonata in G minor was completed in 1923 and was premiered on 4 April the following year. The soloists were Beatrice Harrison (cello) and Evelyn Howard-Jones (piano). This is not programme music; however, it is difficult not to sense some of the feeling that imbued works such as The Forgotten Rite. Places associated with this work may include The Devil’s Jump and Chanctonbury Hill, both in Sussex. The Sonata is written in three movements - a ‘moderato e sostenuto,’ a ‘poco largamente’ and a ‘finale, con moto a marcato.’ Musically, this is a tightly constructed work that has cross-referencing of themes across all movements. For me, the highlight is the introverted middle movement –it is one of the loveliest things in the cello/piano literature. The work has been well described by Marion Scott as ‘...beginning quietly for cello alone, is cumulative and [ends] very brilliantly!”

[2] I was unable to find any reference to this anecdote. However, Béatrix de Choiseul, Duchesse de Gramont (1729-94), was a sharp-witted French salonnière and bibliophile. She wielded influence at Louis XV’s court through her brother, the Duke of Choiseul, and famously rivalled Madame du Barry for royal favour. Richard Wagner saw Gluck as an important precursor to his own work, particularly in the area of reform and seriousness of dramatic purpose.

[3] Being the second and third number of Three Songs completed around 1926. Friendship in Misfortune sets an anonymous text, whilst The One Hope was Sonnet 101 from Dante Gabriel Rossetti The House of Life (1881, first published 1870). The first song in the series was Love and Friendship (Emily Bronte).

[4] The Vagabond: Song for voice and piano 1922) Text by John Masefield (1879-1967), from Saltwater Ballads (1902).

[5] John Ireland’s The Land of Lost Content (1920–21) sets six poems by A.E. Housman in a poignant cycle reflecting nostalgia, youth, and transience. With lyrical vocal lines and sensitive piano writing, Ireland evokes pastoral melancholy and emotional restraint, capturing Housman’s elegiac tone with understated beauty and deeply English musical sensibility.

[6] John Ireland’s Santa Chiara (1927) is based on a poem recalling Palm Sunday in Naples. The poet’s spiritual longing and exile infuse the setting. The singer complains that “I have grown tired of all these things, And what is left for me?” The poem was by Arthur Symons (1865-1945), from Images of Good and Evil (1899).

[7] The Trio in E written in 1917, is known as No.2. It is not to be confused with the later example, in the key of E minor, which was completed during 1938.

Concluded.