Elgar left 130 pages of sketches for his Third Symphony and they have haunted the composer, author and critic, Anthony Payne, ever since he first gained access to them back in 1972. Longstanding opinion was that the ideas for the symphony (which occupied Elgar during 1933, the last full year of his life) showed a sad waning of the composer’s powers. Yet, as Payne’s masterly and deeply moving reconstruction demonstrates, this proves to be anything but the case; indeed, such is the quality of Elgar’s inspiration that my own initial reaction to Payne’s achievement chimes precisely with that of Colin Matthews, who states in his lucid booklet-essay that “the only proper response is one of immense gratitude”. In his absorbing, illustrated talk on the companion CD, Payne likens his 56-minute ‘elaboration’ to “the building of a frame – or rather a context – to display the exceptionally rich expressive qualities and the symphonic potential of Elgar’s material. I hope this frame resembles the kind of overall structure which the composer might have envisaged.” Dyed-in-the-wool sceptics will no doubt scoff, but Payne makes it abundantly clear that his completion should by no stretch of the imagination be regarded as a definitive statement. “In making my realization,” he writes, “I was dealing at best with probabilities but more often than not with possibilities.” Matthews puts it another way: “Although there can be no pretence that this is the Symphony as Elgar would have completed it, what we are given is the unmissable opportunity to hear the final thoughts of a great composer.”
And what thoughts they are! The sweeping, almost grimly defiant opening paragraph with its gaunt parallel open fifths (the first 17 bars of which Elgar actually left in full score) is hard to dislodge from one’s mind, as is the sublimely wistful second subject. After an unexpected exposition repeat (Elgar’s, not Payne’s, in case you were wondering), the development is launched with a magical new idea, whose incense-laden mystery and wonderfully penetrating harmonic scope seem to cast a wistful glance back to the world of the oratorios. From a series of seemingly unpromising fragments, Payne proceeds to fashion a movement of great power and immensely satisfying proportions, while his stunningly idiomatic orchestration, deft and opulent by turns, will surely win him many plaudits.
Next to the mighty edifice of that Allegro molto maestoso, the succeeding Allegretto is more in the nature of a woodland interlude or divertissement. The winsome main idea is drawn from Elgar’s 1923 incidental score for Laurence Binyon’s drama, Arthur. There are also two contrasting episodes, the second of which features a delectable little tune in A major. I was reminded here of Elgar’s happy phrase, when he likened the Trio of the First Symphony to “something you hear down by the river”.
By contrast, the Adagio solenne slow movement wears a nobly tragic, world-weary demeanour. The mournful, daringly harmonized introduction immediately grips with its pain and anguish, yet the achingly rapt D major second subject seems to offer new hope. Between these two themes comes another one of those visionary ideas (from 3'29'') which, as Payne asserts (rightly in my view), “positively demands the sound of muted strings”. (One thinks of those two almost unbearably intimate string paragraphs in the Second Symphony’s Larghetto.) The close could hardly be more chilling, a single solo viola note hanging in the air; it was this phrase, marked fine, that the dying composer gave to his dear friend, the violinist W. H. Reed, uttering the famous words: “Billy, this is the end.”
The finale begins with a rousing fanfare (in Elgar’s scoring) and struts out in confident, bustling fashion (“heroic, almost chivalric”, is how Payne describes it). All the same, the thematic invention is not quite on the same level as in the remainder (much of it is again drawn from the Arthur music), though the second subject has a Cockaigne-like swagger about it. Payne’s resolution is intriguing, ingenious and, naturally, very personal. I still don’t find it terribly satisfying, but everyone will form their own view – and anyway, there is so much in the preceding 55 minutes for which to be exceedingly thankful.
All praise to Andrew Davis and the BBC SO for such an eloquent, profoundly involving performance and to the production team for obtaining such handsome, indeed demonstration-worthy sound (can this sumptuous acoustic really be Maida Vale Studio No. 1?). The companion issue is also beautifully realized, with over 50 musical examples, including the sketches for violin and piano that Elgar would play through on the piano with Billy Reed. There are excellent contributions here from David Owen Norris and Robert Gibbs (the latter uses Reed’s own instrument). A fascinating and, above all, deeply rewarding pair of CDs which no Elgarian will want to miss.'