Czech Janáček Philharmonic: Online Concert Programme | Sat 14 Feb 2026

Leoš Janáček (1854-1928): Prelude & Pantomime from The Cunning Little Vixen

Janáček’s The Cunning Little Vixen is the second of the four great operas that he composed in the last decade of his life (the other three being Káta Kabanová, The Makropulos Case and From the House of the Dead).

The story of the Vixen was based on a novella by Rudolf Těsnohlídek which first appeared in serial form in the local Czech newspaper. Janáček’s introduction to the story came about when he heard his housemaid laughing whilst reading the strip cartoon (with illustrations by Stanislav Lolek). She had intercepted the morning newspaper when it was delivered to the household. The housemaid apparently suggested to Janáček that he could create an opera from the comic scenarios.

Whilst there is plenty of comic action during the course of the Vixen’s various adventures, Janáček later said that he had composed the opera ‘for the sake of the forest and the sadness of old age.’ And there are moments of deeply felt tenderness in both the second and third acts, particularly in the portrayal of old age as the drama progresses. Janáček himself was approaching the milestone of his 70th birthday as he embarked on the composition.

There have been several orchestral suites produced from the orchestral score, making use of the rich tapestry of sounds created by the composer. Janáček spent time studying the wildlife in his local neighbourhood as he prepared to embark on his labour of love.

Tonight’s conductor, Daniel Raiskin, has created this seven-minute concert opener, describing it ‘as a teaser to Janáček’s music rather than a full suite or anything like that.’ All the music comes from the prelude to Act I, together with the first pantomime scene when the Forester catches the young Vixen. The prominent insect world at this stage is represented by a cricket, a grasshopper and a mosquito, as well as a young frog (whose grandson will conclude the drama at the end of Act III).

Information about the opening stage directions and action during the Prelude and following ‘Pantomime’ might help to conjure up what is happening:

At the start we are in a dark, dry glen with hot afternoon sun beating down. In the background is a badger’s burrow and the resident badger sticks his head out of the burrow; he is smoking a long pipe, and midges dance around him, then being joined by a blue dragonfly. During the first Pantomime a grasshopper and a cricket make music together, whilst a mosquito sucks blood from the Forester’s nose, becoming tipsy in the process. A frog attempts to catch the mosquito, and this is when the young Vixen first appears. She is fascinated by the frog and attempts to catch him, waking the Forester in the process. The Forester catches the young Vixen and takes her back home.

The animals have their human ‘doubles’: thus, in Act II, the badger re-appears as the pedantic parson, whilst the intoxicated mosquito becomes the tipsy teacher.

© Timothy Dowling

Max Bruch (1838-1920): Violin Concerto No. 1

1. Vorspiel (Allegro moderato)
2. Adagio
3. Finale (Allegro energico)

For five years this work topped Classic FM’s Hall of Fame and it remains Bruch’s most popular work, indeed the only work by which he is widely known, other than his shorter Kol Nidrei for cello and orchestra (1881).

Despite its appearance of having been composed in the white heat of inspiration, Bruch’s Concerto had a difficult gestation, and he revised it thoroughly after its first performance in 1866 with advice from the greatest violinist of the 19th century, Josef Joachim. After some six re-writes (according to Bruch himself), the version we know today was premiered in early 1868.

Like Mendelssohn’s Concerto the soloist opens Bruch’s Concerto, but this first movement is unusually titled ‘Vorspiel’ (Prelude) and it has a sense of constant anticipation, as if it is an introduction rather than the Concerto’s main centre of gravity. Thus, Bruch’s structure does not follow the classic example of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto, as Brahms was to do just a decade later.

After the rather restless opening theme we are transported to a radiant episode in the relative major key (B flat). An orchestral tutti passage then leads to a mini-cadenza section and the soloist exchanges questions and answers (or perhaps more questions) with the woodwind.

This leads directly to the central Adagio movement of the Concerto in a warm E flat major, surely the slowly beating heart of this work. The Adagio is based on three inspired themes that combine very effectively at its climax before drawing to a peaceful close.

However, not a full close, because the Finale clearly needs to follow directly, as its ‘opening’ in E flat major carries on the tonality of the Adagio before moving back to the Concerto’s home key of G, with a lively Hungarian dance-type tune in the major key. This alternates with a glorious second theme which could have Elgar’s nobilmente inscribed as its marking in the score. But there is no Elgarian lingering here and Bruch rushes headlong towards an exultant ending.

There have been advocates for his later concertos, but in truth Bruch never recaptured the spontaneous rapture of this romantic warhorse. Sadly, he sold the rights for the work cheaply early on and its unending popularity (together with his failure to live up to the inspiration of the G minor Concerto) was a source of bitter regret in the later years of his long life. Like his close contemporary Saint-Saëns (1835-1921), Bruch remained oblivious to the developments in music across Europe at the turn of the 19th century and he died virtually in poverty and oblivion in 1920.

Bruch’s G minor Concerto owes much to Mendelssohn’s E minor Concerto, just as Grieg’s A minor Piano Concerto is similarly indebted to Schumann’s in the same key. The Concertos by Bruch and Grieg are often paired together with their respective role models. Perhaps the original models do strike deeper chords, but there is no denying the sheer romantic attraction of the two works inspired by the timeless masterpieces of Mendelssohn and Schumann.

© Timothy Dowling

Antonín Dvořák (1841-1904): Symphony No. 9 ‘From the New World’

1. Adagio – Allegro molto
2. Largo
3. Scherzo: Molto vivace
4. Allegro con fuoco

Dvořák later further explained the title for the Symphony, saying that it meant ‘Impressions and greetings from the New World’, and he would usually refer to it as ‘the New World Symphony’. And so whilst its formal title can be recognised as ‘From the New World’, ease of reference enables us to simplify this to ‘the New World’ as repeating ‘From the New World’ is needlessly ugly and awkward.

The New World is the most famous souvenir from his sojourn in the United States. The invitation to work in America came from Mrs Jeannette M. Thurber, who was married to a millionaire grocer in New York. She had founded the National Conservatory of Music in America in 1885 and with plans to celebrate the 400th anniversary of Columbus landing on the American coast in 1892, Mrs Thurber was keen to secure the services of a prominent musician to head her Conservatory. Her cable to Dvořák in June 1891 simply read ‘Would you accept Director National Conservatory of Music New York October 1892 also lead six concerts of your works.’ There followed six months of more detailed negotiations regarding his contract, and he eventually left for New York in September 1892.

The same autumn Mrs Thurber suggested that he compose a symphony for America and, whilst he did not start work on the suggested composition immediately, he spoke about his teaching aims at the Conservatory and his belief in helping to foster American music: ‘In the negro melodies of America I discovered all that is needed for a great and noble school of music. They are pathetic, tender, passionate, melancholy, solemn, religious, bold, merry, gay or what you will…. There is nothing in the whole range of composition that cannot be supplied with themes from this source.’ (Interview with the New York Herald, May 1893)

There is a partial quotation from the spiritual ‘Swing low, sweet chariot’ in the Largo of his New World that testifies to the influence of local music on his new composition; however, it can be difficult to distinguish between the Czech folk music and American melodies, as he spent a lot of time in the Czech community in Spillville, Iowa, about 1000 miles east of New York.

He started composing the Symphony on 10 January 1893, sketching the first movement by 21 January, the Largo by 25 January and the Scherzo by 31 January. He then orchestrated these first three movements respectively through February, March and April before sketching the Finale, which he completed by 24 May 1893. During these months he wrote to his old Bohemian friend Jindřich Geisler: ‘It seems to me that the American soil will have a beneficial effect on my thought, and I would almost say that you will hear something of this already in this new symphony.’

The premiere took place at Carnegie Hall on 16 December 1893 with Anton Seidl conducting the New York Philharmonic Society and was one of his greatest triumphs, as he wrote to his publisher Simrock: ‘The success was enormous; the newspapers say no composer has ever before had such a triumph. I was in a box; the Hall was filled with the best New York public and the people applauded so much that I had to thank them from the box like a king! Alla Mascagni in Vienna (don’t laugh). You know that I gladly avoid such ovations, but I had to do it and show myself!’

The score was then sent to Simrock for engraving; the proofs were checked for this purpose by Johannes Brahms, much to Dvořák’s surprise and delight and he later wrote to Brahms to express his appreciation. Dvořák returned to Prague in time to conduct the European premiere there on 13 October 1894 and it then triumphed throughout Europe in the following years.

This has proved to be by far his most popular symphony and indeed one of the most loved of all classical works. As a result of its familiarity, it can be difficult to listen to the New World again with fresh ears. Some critics have suggested that, despite its popularity, it is in several ways inferior to its two predecessors. However, these three symphonies are so different in spirit and content that it is difficult to compare them together. The Seventh (1885) probably remains his most ‘serious’ symphony and demonstrates his assimilation of Brahms and the Germanic tradition. The Eighth (1889) then reflects a return to his Bohemian roots and also his kindred association with his Russian contemporary Tchaikovsky and particularly Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony (1888) composed just the year before his own Eighth Symphony. Tchaikovsky had bound his Fifth together with the recurring ‘fate’ motif that opens the first movement, returns at the climax of the slow movement, the end of the waltz third movement and then transformed in the finale.

However, Dvořák avoids any fatalistic preoccupations in the New World and the thematic link is purely musical in nature without any psycho-dramatic purpose.

This main rising and falling arpeggio theme is well prepared in the Adagio introduction and the answering/accompanying music is so rich in invention that it can be difficult to disentangle what is mere accompaniment from subsidiary themes that will be developed in their own right. When we eventually reach what could formally be labelled the second subject in the relative major key of G major – the delightful song on solo flute – we have already had so many melodies that Dvořák is almost spoiled for choice when it comes to the development section, truly an embarrassment of riches. Energy and high spirits remain central with birdsong featuring both in the thematic and accompanying material.

Solemn brass chords slowly lead us to the distant world of D flat major and the introduction of perhaps the most famous cor anglais solo in all music. The careful preparation echoes the quiet string chords that introduced Tchaikovsky’s equally renowned horn solo in his Fifth Symphony of 1888. Again, woodwind birdsong features prominently, particularly in the bird chorus in the central section, leading to the quote of the main theme from the first movement. Surely it was only a matter of time before this music, music that springs from the profound depths of the soil, would be associated with the staple food from the dawn of history.

Hints of the Scherzo from Beethoven’s Ninth come to mind at the start of the Dvořák’s Scherzo, but this is essentially a Czech dance movement. Yet again, birdsong fills the air and in particular the cooing of his beloved pigeons in the central ‘trio’ section. We might possibly think that the return of the ghost from the first movement is a little contrived in the coda section.

The Allegro con fuoco starts with its powerful main theme blasted out by fortissimo horns and trumpets with plenty of rhythmic drive suggesting the power of one of his beloved great steam trains. Dvořák, however, wants to bind the symphony together by bringing back the main musical material not just from the first movement, but also from the Largo and Scherzo with some moments of aching nostalgia as we reflect wistfully on past events.

The varied motifs are thus united in varying combinations as we finally reach an apotheosis in glorious E major before we hurry to the finishing line con fuoco. However, Dvořák’s final surprise is to request the woodwind and brass to hold their last chord, quietening to triple pianissimo at the end.

After proofreading the New World, Brahms wrote:

‘Don’t forget, I know the symphony by heart and could here and there find something to criticise. Had I written it one day after breakfast, so I would therefore look it over to see what could possibly be made from it. But, just as it stands, it is so unspeakably gifted, so healthy, that one must rejoice in it’.

His comment reflects the basic temperamental differences between the more introspective, self-critical Brahms and the spontaneous, outward-looking Dvořák. As to suggestions by contemporary critics that he might now be an American composer, he answered: ‘I was and remain a Czech composer. I have only shown them the path they might take – how they should work.’

The critic of the Musical Courier agreed:

‘Dr Dvořák is a Bohemian. His new symphony in E minor is not American. He has evidently saturated himself with the so-called Negro music of the South, and has evolved thematic material which preserves some of the spirit and color of the original, while lending itself readily to symphonic treatment…. There is no turgidity in his polyphonic writing, no crabbed, abstruse scholasticism in his handling and developing of his themes. All is spontaneous, clear, airy, healthy, sane and logical. The so-called American Symphony will be an enormous favorite with the public, and will doubtless be played all over the world.’

And so, this Symphony demands that we be open-hearted in our response rather than nit-picking; hopefully, given the pure joy in the music making and the great melodies here on offer before us, this is not an issue.

© Timothy Dowling