It is well known that 100 years ago the technical prowess of the average violist was in a parlous state; there was a similarly limited solo repertoire for the instrument.
Lionel Tertis, impassioned by the viola’s unique character, set about rectifying this situation. He first needed a library of music that would enable him to demonstrate that the viola could hold its own as a solo instrument, on an equal footing with its cousins the violin and cello, and to that end he badgered his friends and colleagues into writing new pieces for him to play. He also set about borrowing or stealing anything that, through arrangement, might be rendered a suitable vehicle for the voice of the viola he so loved. It mattered not a bit for which instrument the music had originally been written; it didn’t matter if it was slight or profound; in any case, Tertis, as all great artists, was able to turn the merest trifle into a profound utterance by his extraordinary sincerity. The other crucial matter was to prove that the viola could be as virtuosic a performer as its aforementioned cousins. Though he employed a relatively large instrument, he extended its “normal” compass by more than an octave… “normal”, that is, by his contemporaries’ standards.
In his arrangements one can discern an adherence to certain beliefs and principles. Tertis held that the viola was not the impoverished “third fiddle” of earlier periods. He felt that the C string should have a quite distinct character, and not that of a bloated and flabby violin with grave health problems in the lower register! It should have strength and power clearly identifying the viola as a completely different instrument.
In his arrangements one can discern an adherence to certain beliefs and principles. Tertis held that the viola was not the impoverished “third fiddle” of earlier periods. He felt that the C string should have a quite distinct character, and not that of a bloated and flabby violin with grave health problems in the lower register! It should have strength and power clearly identifying the viola as a completely different instrument. (This belief was apparent in his efforts to create with Arthur Richardson a standardized instrument: the Richardson Tertis Model.) It was therefore vital to arrange the music in such a way that the C string was used to maximum effect. The Ireland Cello Sonata is an example where he must have chosen the piece, not only because it was truly beautiful and innovative, but also because he realized it would demonstrate the magnificent C string of his viola. Much of the piece is left untouched, but imagining the powerful cello line played “loco” on a small viola with a relatively weak bottom end makes one wonder if it would still be rich and effective.
“Octava-basso” was therefore not uncommon; not to avoid the technical difficulties of playing high up, but to utilize fully the C string, provided it could be done without destroying the musical line or argument. He constrained himself: The piano part should remain unchanged unless it was simply to transpose the entire piece into another key, for example in Kreisler’s Preludium and Allegro. In some instances his use of the C string permits an extraordinary intensification of the music. Drawing towards the end of the 3rd Delius Sonata the availability of the C string allows a quite shattering metamorphosis from the desperate virility of the climax to the exhaustion, then acceptance and finally perhaps the transcendence of old age. On the other hand, because he was keen to demonstrate that the viola could be as nimble and wide-ranging as the violin, much of the violin sonatas are left untouched. There are many and notable instances of his technical fearlessness, for example the last bars of the 2nd Delius Sonata.
Drawing towards the end of the 3rd Delius Sonata the availability of the C string allows a quite shattering metamorphosis from the desperate virility of the climax to the exhaustion, then acceptance and finally perhaps the transcendence of old age.
Another aspect of Tertis’ relationship with the viola was his obsession with colour. He knew that the viola would never defeat the violin in a straight contest for brilliance, so he searched instead for the subtlest of color nuances. This is the reason for the, at first glance, alarmingly idiosyncratic fingerings and bowings in his arrangements. The Ireland Violin Sonata is full of them. Patience with them, however, illuminates his remarkable and profound musical understanding allied to an equally remarkable practical sense and physical balance, all dedicated to the most fervent expression. He was aware, for example, that each of his left hand fingers produced a different quality of sound; he wasn’t seeking technical convenience and facility only, but a precise and deeply felt colour. He was aware that the viola would often require more bow and more detaché than the violin in order to enunciate a phrase.
His arrangements are replete with interpretive hints such as this, and I believe it behooves the modern player to consider them seriously. I feel they do not merely suggest an old fashioned and quaint style, irrelevant to our more sophisticated ears (we may perhaps argue), but a commitment to the spirit of the music that our faster paced world barely allows. Tertis knew Delius and Ireland; he was of their world. He played his arrangements to these and other marvelous composers. I am not aware of one who wasn’t thrilled by his interpretive insight and skill. And when we consider how little contemporary music some modern musicians explore, Tertis seems even more remarkable; he was at the cutting edge of modernism, writing, commissioning, and arranging the music of his time.
Tertis knew Delius and Ireland; he was of their world. He played his arrangements to these and other marvelous composers. I am not aware of one who wasn’t thrilled by his interpretive insight and skill.
When tackling a Tertis arrangement, like all cautious explorers I first return to the composer’s original score. I reinstate the original instructions and try to make sense of them. However, as familiarity with the piece grows through study and performance, I find myself in the frustrating position of having to reconsider Tertis’ alterations. Gradually I have to conclude that he knew best, that nothing is mere caprice. It is a profound pleasure and honor indeed to commune with the man who continues to amaze me with the enormous care, consideration and deep musical insight that he brought to his work as an arranger.