The programme of this disc draws a compact constellation of German late Romanticism around a privileged voice, the cello, and around a historic name that passes through the three works as an ordering presence, Robert Hausmann. Cellist of the Joachim Quartet, interlocutor of Brahms and dedicatee of decisive pages, Hausmann belongs to that generation of musicians for whom instrumental virtue coincided with chamber thought, with the cult of form and with a nobility of sound capable of transforming song into architecture. Heinrich von Herzogenberg’s Sonata no. 3 in E flat major op. 94 was dedicated to Hélène and Robert Hausmann; Johannes Brahms’s Sonata no. 2 in F major op. 99 was conceived for the same cellist; Max Bruch’s Kol Nidrei op. 47 received from him both impulse and dedication. The path thus assumes the profile of a triptych on the nineteenth-century destiny of the cello. Herzogenberg represents within it the classical dialogue and the measure of the school; Brahms, lyrical expansion governed by sovereign formal thought; Bruch, the praying voice, suspended between liturgical memory and great Romantic cantability. Their contiguity illuminates a musical civilisation in which friendships, dedications, salons and quartets constructed a dense network of exchanges, and in which chamber music still preserved a moral authority.
Heinrich von Herzogenberg occupies in the later nineteenth century a position more complex than present-day fame would suggest. Born in the Austrian sphere, trained in Vienna with Felix Otto Dessoff, bound to Brahms by a relationship made of esteem, emulation and at times stern critical distance, he became in Leipzig one of the protagonists of a renewal founded upon the study of Bach and of the classical tradition. With Philipp Spitta he contributed to the revival of Bachian practice, and his later activity in Berlin consolidated the image of a composer for whom counterpoint, solidity of construction and expressive decorum formed inseparable principles. Beside him one must recall Elisabeth von Herzogenberg, a pianist of the highest intelligence and an acute interlocutor of Brahms. The Sonata no. 3 in E flat major op. 94, dedicated to Hélène and Robert Hausmann, was born within this horizon. Its language favours the well-proportioned line, organic growth, transparency of dialogue, and a watchful cantability that carries the classical inheritance into a more crepuscular and more domestic climate.
The key of E flat major gives the sonata by Herzogenberg a broad and nobly pastoral colour. The opening Allegro immediately places the two instruments in a relationship of full reciprocal responsibility. The piano sets forth, articulates and prepares the harmonic field; the cello replies with a line that always preserves a vocal profile, and the entire form proceeds through continuity of texture rather than spectacular opposition. Herzogenberg likes the discourse to grow from recognisable cells, treated with discreet imitation, and entrusts tension to the quality of the process. The central Andantino carries the page into a zone of gathered intimacy. Here the voice of the cello becomes more confidential, almost a song without words woven with reserve, while the piano sustains the phrase with limpid harmonies and with a pulse capable of allowing the period to breathe. The concluding Allegretto moderato finally illumines the most personal character of the work, a mobile serenity crossed by slight melancholy inflections. The classical lesson becomes discipline of motion, art of transition, measure of eloquence. The sonata founds its strength upon the equilibrium between intensity and restraint, upon the art of making the cello speak with a profoundly chamber-like dignity.
With Brahms the programme enters the heart of the repertory. The Sonata no. 2 in F major op. 99 constitutes one of the summits of the literature for cello and piano, through the breadth of its conception and the complexity of the relationship between the two instruments. After the severe Sonata in E minor op. 38, dominated by an almost Bachian gravity, Brahms arrives here at a language more luminous and more tumultuous, in which fullness of sound nourishes the motivic work and renders it incandescent. The page was destined for Robert Hausmann, whose authority contributed decisively to the life of the Brahmsian cello. The bond with Hausmann would find further fulfilment in the Double Concerto op. 102, where violin and cello become instruments of conciliation and of lofty moral conversation. In this sonata the classical inheritance assumes an almost symphonic dimension. The cello sings, declaims, contrasts; the piano generates matter, rhythm and internal memory. The great form is born from the density of every detail, according to that Brahmsian logic whereby an interval or a rhythmic figure can become the seed of the whole edifice. The opening Allegro vivace of the Brahmsian sonata bursts forth with immediate energy. The tremolo of the piano creates a vibrating background above which the cello launches a theme of broad, almost orchestral impetus. The material is ardent and governed by an iron logic. Fragments, rhythmic profiles, intervals and internal recollections are transformed without interrupting the flow. The Adagio affettuoso, in F sharp major, represents the emotional centre of the work. The pizzicato of the cello and the gravity of the lower register create an atmosphere of intimate solemnity, while the song expands with an almost painful sweetness. The third movement, Allegro passionato, concentrates the profile of the scherzo into a driving, dark writing, traversed by vigorous accents; the Trio opens a parenthesis of greater relaxation, destined to make the return of the principal movement more incisive. The final Allegro molto releases the tension into a fluid and brilliant motion, in which cantability and construction are reunited with elevated naturalness. The greatness of op. 99 lies also in its timbral conception. Brahms knew the risk of imbalance between the low register of the cello and the harmonic mass of the piano, and he constructs a writing of rare intelligence, capable of alternating fullness, transparency and clarity of design.
The presence of Max Bruch enlarges the frame and leads it towards a spiritual dimension. A composer of lyrical temperament, faithful to a Romantic ideal of melodic beauty and formal clarity, Bruch had a less extensive relationship with the cello than with the violin, yet Kol Nidrei op. 47 secured him a lasting place in the memory of cellists. The subtitle of the work, Adagio on Hebrew melodies, indicates its meditative nature. The title refers to the Aramaic prayer sung at the beginning of the evening service of Yom Kippur, one of the most solemn melodies of the Ashkenazi synagogue tradition. Bruch, a Protestant and deeply interested in the folk and religious songs of different cultures, came to know Jewish materials through the Berlin environment and through contact with the cantor Abraham Jacob Lichtenstein. The second theme of the work derives from a melody connected with Isaac Nathan’s Hebrew Melodies on verses by Byron. The concertante origin of the page remains perceptible also in the version for cello and piano, where the keyboard must recreate depth, resonance and harmonic support. The cello assumes within it the function of a praying voice, with a rhapsodic course close to the declamation of the cantor. In Kol Nidrei the line proceeds through broad inflections, painful appoggiaturas and sudden surges towards the upper register. The first region, gravitating around D minor, preserves a penitential severity; the second, oriented towards a major light, opens a more expansive zone of consolation. The passage between the two sections preserves the initial gravity and transfigures it into memorial song. Bruch constructs the form with essential means, entrusting the principal task to melodic quality. It is precisely this concentration that confers its strength upon the page: the cello speaks like a human voice traversing guilt, supplication and hope. In the first two composers chamber dialogue stands at the centre of invention; in Kol Nidrei the piano becomes a ritual backdrop, and the grave voice of the cello assumes an almost liturgical responsibility. The music transports the rite into the space of the Romantic concert and clothes it in a universal pathos, in which collective memory and individual feeling are fused into a single expressive arc.
The path formed by Herzogenberg, Brahms and Bruch thus reveals three complementary faces of the Romantic cello. In Herzogenberg the instrument takes part in a conversation of the highest school, founded upon equilibrium, proportion and nobility of line. In Brahms it becomes the protagonist of broad formal thought, capable of uniting impetus, melancholy and architecture. In Bruch it assumes the character of the sacred voice, of song bearing within itself a collective memory. The figure of Hausmann binds these trajectories together with rare historical coherence. He was dedicatee, stimulus, custodian of a sonic ideal that conceived the cello as an instrument of moral gravity and supreme cantability. The disc may thus be heard as a triptych on the nineteenth-century destiny of the instrument, from form to confession, from conversation to prayer, from chamber discipline to spiritual resonance. In all three works the cello conquers the scene through density of thought, through human warmth, through that particular authority of the grave voice which knows how to speak to the depths of listening and to leave there a lasting echo.
Giuliano Marco Mattioli © 2026