WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
(1908-1988) by PAUL CONWAY
Courtesy of the Scottish
Music Centre
In a personal tribute to William Wordsworth,
the Rev. Campbell M. Maclean, a close friend of the composer,
offered this character portrait:
‘Bill was a hard man to know. He was chronically
shy, reticent, and impenetrably private. His taciturnity was
such as to inhibit conversation. The most he could contribute
was a laconic phrase or, more likely, a curt adverb, the most
characteristic of which was “possibly”’.
The Rev. Maclean continues with a telling description
by of Wordsworth’s reaction to the highly successful première
of his Symposium, for solo violin and orchestra in Edinburgh
in March 1973, after which he was invited to join the performers
on the platform and receive a well deserved ovation:
‘If ever an event called for some additional
celebration, say a jubilant carousal with a few select friends,
here we had it. Conversation an hour later at my home:
SELF: “I thought Leonard Friedman played
the solo part superbly”
W.W.: “Did you?” in his dry, clipped
tones.
SELF: “There must surely be additional
performances after such a convincing first.”
W.W.: “Possibly” in his languid,
posh accent.
Now is the time, I said to myself, to uncork
the champagne bottle and toasts all round.
W.W.: “well, bed for me.”
This lack of self-indulgence was an attitude
he extended to his compositions, whose distinction owes not
a little to an absence of empty rhetoric. Ironically, for someone
so reticent in speech, many of the titles he gave his works
suggest a form of discourse, such as Conversation, for
two cellos and piano, Op.74 (1962), Dialogue, for horn
and piano, Op.77 (1965), Conversation Piece, for viola
and guitar, Op.113 (1982) and the aforementioned Symposium,
though the ‘discussion’ involved in these pieces
is of a musical nature and in this he was a master, as evidenced
in his symphonic works and, perhaps most authentically, in his
series of six very fine string quartets.
William BrocklesbyWordsworth,
a great-great grandson of the poet’s brother Christopher,
was born in London on 17 December 1908. As he was considered
too delicate a child to attend school, most of his non-musical
education came from his father, a Church of England parson.
His interest in music became predominant when he was about 12
years of age. At this time, he was receiving piano lessons from
a Miss Sterry, a member of the Religious Arts Society which
used to meet at the Wordsworths’ home in Hindhead, Surrey.
She suggested he might enhance his musical training by studying
with the composer George Oldroyd, who was choirmaster and organist
at St Michael’s, Croydon. So he became a chorister at
St Michael’s and between 1921 and 1931, studied harmony,
counterpoint, singing and three instruments (viola, piano and
organ) with Oldroyd. At the end of this period, Three Hymn
Preludes for organ, Op.1 (1932) was published.
In 1934 he was invited to become a pupil of Sir
Donald Tovey in Edinburgh. His three years of study with the
composer, teacher and musicologist were a result of his sending
a violin and piano sonata
to the great man, who, impressed by the talent displayed in
it by this young unknown, immediately consented to receive him
as a pupil. From Tovey, he acquired a respect for and command
of traditional genres, though his approach to these forms was
always very personal. In a posthumous tribute, Wordsworth wrote
of his inspiring tutor, ‘One felt one knew for the first
time what words like “genius” and “greatness”
really meant, when one had been in his company.’
Much later, with characteristic hesitation, he was to dedicate
his second symphony ‘To the memory of Donald Tovey, whose
understanding love of music has been an abiding inspiration.’
After leaving Edinburgh without taking a degree
at the University, and being of independent means, he was able
to follow his instincts and devote himself entirely to composition,
producing his first large-scale works in the late 1930s. Pacifism
was an essential part of his character
and for several years before the outbreak of the Second World
War, he was associated with the Peace Pledge Union and, for
some years, acted as secretary of the Hindhead Fellowship of
Reconciliation Group. During this time he knew Max Plowman and
John Middleton Murry very well and also counted among his friends
Miss Nellie “Kay” Gill, a professional violinist
and musical patron who organised chamber concerts in her house
next-door to the Wordsworths; he always maintained that his
long friendship with her much strengthened his development both
as a composer and as pacifist; she was also perhaps something
of a surrogate mother figure to him, his own mother having died
when he was 16.
It was inevitable that he should take his stand as a conscientious
objector and when war came, he was consigned to work on the
land,
music giving way to agriculture as the primary claim on his
time. Nevertheless, he still took an opportunity at night, after
the day’s farm work was done, to write music. In fact,
compositions dating from this time such as the first symphony
and first and second string quartets were the first to attract
critical attention, his earliest breakthrough arising when his
String Quartet No.1 in D, Op.16 won the Clements Memorial Prize
in 1941. His vocal music from this time met with less success:
The Houseless Dead, Op.14 (1939), a setting of D. H.
Lawrence for baritone solo, chorus and orchestra, remains unperformed
and his largest work, the oratorio Dies Domini, for three
soloists, chorus and large orchestra, written between 1942 and
1944 and praised by Vaughan Williams, is also still awaiting
its first performance (it was rejected by the BBC for broadcast
on the Third Programme and Home Service in 1960).
While working in Hampshire, he met Frieda Robson, also an ardent
pacifist, and in 1945 they were married. After the war, he became
even more prolific and many of his earlier works were published
for the first time. The next fifteen years or so were his most
productive in terms of performances and recognition.
He served on the Executive Committee of the Composers’
Guild of Great Britain for five years from 1955, and was elected
Chairman four years later. Arising from his work with the Guild,
in the Spring of 1961, along with Thea Musgrave, he undertook
a fortnight’s tour of the Soviet Union at the invitation
of the Union of Soviet Composers of Moscow, where he met, among
other composers, Shostakovich and Khachaturian. He gave a speech
during the tour, which began in a characteristically self-deprecating
tone: ‘I believe I share with your most famous composer,
Shostakovich, one characteristic – an extreme distaste
for speaking in public. For an occasion such as this, I could
wish that the floor would open and I could disappear. I could
wish also that the resemblance between me and Shostakovich did
not end there, but I cannot be so arrogant as to pretend that
my compositions are on a level with his!’
In 1961 he moved, with his family, from Hindhead
to the Scottish Highlands to live at Kincraig in Inverness-shire.
The view from his study window across the top of the pines to
the mountains above Glen Feshie was a rich inspiration to him.
During the course of a ‘Composer’s Portrait’
broadcast by the BBC in July 1967, he confessed, ‘I have
always had joy in the grander aspects of Nature – mountains,
storms, spacious views, and in the ever-changing colours of
the Scottish Highlands. I cannot say if there has been any change
in my style of writing since we came to live in Scotland, but
I would like to think that it is becoming clearer and less complicated,
more direct in its expression. In fact all the things it should
not be, if one wants to be successful in the present musical
fashions.’
He was appointed Regional Representative of the
Composers’ Guild for Scotland in 1965, and (with Robert
Crawford, his predecessor in that office), was largely responsible
for the formation of a Scottish Branch of that body in 1966,
of which he was Chairman until 1970; his social awkwardness
did not extend to fellow composers and he hosted weekends at
his house for members of the Scottish Branch of the Guild such
as Thomas Wilson (who became a good friend), John Maxwell Geddes,
David Dorward, Robert Crawford and Shaun Dillon. As well as
an opportunity for dealing with business matters of the Guild,
they were very social affairs with walking, sightseeing, fishing
and wine making, as well as offering a chance to listen enthusiastically
to tapes of each other’s music and discuss it constructively
in a supportive environment.
Apart from music, which was the focus of his
life, Wordsworth enjoyed reading, especially poetry –
among his works may be numbered several poetry settings. His
hobbies included gardening, golf, bee-keeping, fishing, chess
and woodwork (amid the numerous documents touching on various
musical matters in his archive in the Scottish Music Centre,
Glasgow, are receipts for various power tools!). He regarded
himself as a ‘handyman’, making and putting up his
own shelves and constructing a radio transistor with the aid
of a soldering iron. He also made model steam engines in his
workshop, equipped with a lathe. Gadgets were a particular passion
and one of his treasured possessions in later life was an electronic
chess set.
Two deep sorrows darkened his last decades. In
1971, his elder son Tim was killed at the age of 23 in a motor
accident near Pitlochry on his way back to London. Though the
composer was devastated, he initially suffered in silence, but
his grief eventually found expression in two works. The first,
Adonais, for mixed voices, Op.97 (1974) is an imposing
setting of words taken from Shelley’s long poem written
in memory of Keats and a moving evocation of the transience
of life. The second, Symphony No.6 Elegiaca, for mezzo-soprano,
baritone, chorus and orchestra, Op.102 (1977) is dedicated simply
‘In memory, Tim’. This work also sets words from
Shelley’s Adonais, as well as John Donne’s
Meditation XVII and Edna St. Vincent Millais’ Dirge
Without Music; regrettably, it is his only symphony still
awaiting its first performance. The second blow came in 1982
when his wife Frieda died. According to Rev. Maclean, ‘Bill
was lost. Lovely, fresh, engaging Frieda spoke for him, managed
him, decided for him. Without her, he became a bundle of untidy
clothes, a vagrant in search of dependency.’
In the same year as her death, he wrote a work for string quartet,
later rescored for string orchestra, which he called Elegy
for Frieda, an eloquent love song of enraptured, fond recollection
and cherished intimacy. Ill health dogged his final years and
his creativity all but dried up. His last completed work was
a symphony, his eighth, subtitled Pax Hominibus.
He died in Kingussie on 10 March 1988, aged 79.
William Wordsworth’s large and varied oeuvre
embraced many forms, including orchestral, chamber and instrumental
music, many songs and music for radio. It is impossible to do
justice to the full range of his considerable output in the
space of this article, therefore the following pieces have been
selected for consideration on the basis that they are either
significant works or representative of his contribution to a
genre.
One of his first important compositions to appear
after his studies with Tovey was the Sinfonia in A minor, for
string orchestra, Op.6 (1939). It received its first performance
(apparently in a much revised version)
given by the Hallé Orchestra under Sir John Barbirolli
on 15 July 1952 at that year’s Cheltenham Festival. The
opening Allegretto evolves from a simple descending phrase
on the cellos with a complementary theme. Contrapuntal in style,
its mood is cordial and innocent. A lively jig in G major and
9/8 time follows, earthy and bucolic, owing something, perhaps,
to Holst’s St Paul’s Suite. The time changes
to 12/8 and the key to D flat major for the more deliberate
and richly romantic ‘trio’ section; the subtle metamorphosis
of the trio’s material to the return to the jig is an
early intimation of the composer’s skilful handling of
transition passages. The Andante begins with a brief
muted introduction to the principal melody on violas, taken
up by cellos. The mood intensifies as the phrase from the introduction
is inverted, but the movement ends in the quiet peace of C major.
The Allegro molto finale’s thematic ingredients
are direct and straightforward, but they accumulate expansively
and are heard, impressively, in unison in the coda. The work
ends in a majestic flourish.
A genial work, the Sinfonia’s language
and temperament are not fully representative of the mature composer,
though the craftsmanship certainly is. Like Malcolm Arnold’s
early Symphony for Strings, Op.13 (1946), it provided a good
introductory exercise for the composer in symphonic writing.
Mindful that he had turned down a number of other scores by
Wordsworth for performance, including the second symphony, Barbirolli
was very enthusiastic about this piece, writing to the composer
that he was ‘very much looking forward to doing your Sinfonia
for Strings at Cheltenham as I enjoyed reading it very much
indeed’, going on to describe is ‘a work of yours
I really like’.
After the Cheltenham première, the Times reviewer wrote
that ‘the work is shot through with that gentle mellowness
and quiet beauty which characterises so much of the English
landscape, and its friendly, predominantly diatonic idiom should
have done a lot to win over even the stoutest opponent to contemporary
music.’
In his review for the Musical Times, Mosco Carner questioned
why such an early piece of Wordsworth’s was chosen for
performance in preference to his later work, the Sinfonia being,
in his view, ‘as characteristic of his greatest achievements
as the chrysalis is of the butterfly.’
The Piano Sonata in D minor, Op.13 was begun in 1938 and completed
the following year. The first of its three movements is the
most substantial and wide ranging. A sombre and searching Maestoso
introduction, in the lower registers of the keyboard conveys
a sense of preparing for an epic journey. An intense, hushed
figure marked parlando provides a foretaste of the ensuing
Allegro deciso’s first subject, direct and spirited.
Marked Allegretto, the secondary material is characterised
by a poetic simplicity and delicacy; this mood is overshadowed
by the arrival of the development section that reviews and elaborates
the preceding material. The recapitulation is of similar proportions
to the exposition, though the first subject has been tamed into
a gentler, more flowing and airy incarnation of its former self.
Dominating the coda is the haunting presence of the expressive
parlando figure, before an incisive final Allegro
provides a swift but firm conclusion to an elaborate and assured
opening movement.
In contrast, the Largamente a calmato slow movement is
bathed in half-lights, introspective and brooding; its mood
of otherworldly tranquillity is summoned up by a steady traversal
of fluctuating tonalities. Progress becomes increasingly reflective
and tentative until, without a break, the Allegro molto
finale skips in quietly, its initially capering semiquavers
leading to sturdier material. Motifs from the first movement
subtly weave their way in to the gossamer textures, until, near
the end, there is a re-appearance of the poignant parlando
figure. The Finale’s whirling semiquavers briefly attempt
to reassert themselves, bringing the sonata to a decisive, upbeat
conclusion, but that affecting motto theme, an unmistakably
human element in this epic drama, persists in the memory. The
work has recently appeared, along with two later piano works
by Wordsworth, the Cheesecombe Suite, Op.27 (1945) and
Ballade, Op.41 (1949) and sonatas by Michael Tippett
and Ian Hamilton, in historical mono recordings by Margaret
Kitchin on a 2-CD Lyrita release (REAM.2106).
The Theme and Variations for Small Orchestra,
Op.19 (1943) consists of seven variations and a finale on a
theme of pastoral character given out in turn by clarinet and
oboe. The first variations follow the theme closely, whilst
in the later ones, the relationship derives more from phrase
lengths. The last variation breaks off, leading straight into
the finale, which begins with a slow fugal treatment of the
theme and then becomes more energetic. As the composer observed
in his programme note to the piece, ‘there is nothing
to alarm the ordinary music-lover in the style of the work,
which is mainly diatonic.’ This little piece demonstrates
that Wordsworth could never admit a trite or slipshod expression
or settle for slovenly or makeshift passages even in his lighter
works.
Symphony No.1 in F minor, Op.23 (1944) is a substantial
and powerful first essay in a form he was to make his own. The
initial theme of the Allegro Maestoso first movement
sets the tone for the whole work, strident, angular and aggressive.
The Adagio ma non troppo second movement provides some
respite with its lyrically expressive opening material for first
violins. Two fugal passages, one ascending from the lower strings,
the other descending from the upper woodwind are a reminder
of his classical training with Tovey: in his later works, such
‘academic’ devices would be less obvious, growing
more naturally out of the material. The ensuing scherzo, marked
Allegro con brio, is one of the composer’s first
forays into the grotesque, with gurgling bassoons and screaming
violins attending an oddly brusque and convulsive martial main
theme, presaging Havergal Brian’s spasmodic march music
in his Symphony No.8 of 1949. There is a strong sense of irony,
made clear by the ‘pomposo’ marking of the central
trio-like section. After a slow, brooding introductory passage,
the Allegro main theme of the Finale returns to the combative
mood of the first movement, whose principal idea recurs near
the end. A decisive conclusion is reached in the tonic key of
F major, but it has been hard won.
The symphony has been broadcast on a couple of
occasions, but has not yet received a public performance, where
its powerful gestures and towering climaxes would register more
effectively than within the confines of an enclosed studio.
It was first performed in 1946 in a studio recording by the
BBC Northern Orchestra under Julius Harrison and the broadcast
of this performance caused some consternation at the BBC: this
was in the days before the Third Programme, so it went out on
the home service between a cricket commentary and a variety
programme. The four loud discords on the brass with which the
symphony begins led to a mass switch-off by offended listeners
and many letters of protest. Nevertheless, Edward Sackville
West wrote, after the broadcast, ‘I feel it to be important
to call attention to this composer’s indubitable gift…its
seriousness and purely musical intensity, and its many technical
virtues, seem to me to place its composer among the few whom
it would be foolish to ignore.’ It has been described
by Michael Kennedy as having the ‘overtones of war or
spiritual strife.’
The String Trio in G minor, Op.25 was composed
in 1945 and given its first performance two years later by the
Carter Trio, to whom the work is dedicated. It was heard at
the 1948 Edinburgh Festival and received several subsequent
performances, internationally. In four movements, the Trio is
characterised by a highly individual treatment of the thematic
ideas – the frequent opposing of two parts against a third,
in unisons or octaves, sometimes flowing, sometimes driving
figures of accompaniment, ostinato basses and multiple
rhythms, with a texture often contrapuntal in style, all lending
a vitality and brilliance to the music. An early indication
of Wordsworth’s command and understanding of chamber music,
the String Trio’s four short movements are quite consciously
direct in form and content. Malcolm Rayment has referred to
the piece as ‘…concise and masterly.’
Though dedicated to Clifford Curzon, it was John
Hunt who took up Wordsworth’s Piano Concerto in D minor,
Op.28 (1946), and was the soloist at its first performance at
a concert in the Royal Albert Hall in London in April 1947.
The concerto is cast as a single, continuous movement subdivided
into sections and attempts to emphasise the dramatic conflict
of the solo instrument with the orchestra inherent in the form.
In his talk ‘Thinking in Music’, the composer revealed
that, whilst writing this piece, the verbal-literary idea of
the impotence of the individual in the modern world, and at
the same time the faith that it is only through the individual
that the mass can be tamed and redeemed came strongly to him.
This idea is reflected in the concerto, with the soloist as
the individual pitted against the orchestra as the crowd. If
the piano is overwhelmed by the orchestra, it finally emerges
not by force, but by starting a melody in which the orchestra
can be persuaded to join in. The composer was at pains to point
out, however, that ‘the mental-verbal idea of the relation
of the individual and the crowd is not necessary to an understanding
of the music, because it is (I hope) quite clear in the music
itself what is going on, and there is a very good musical reason
why it should work out so.’
A short introduction (Poco Adagio) leads
to an exposition (Allegro Feroce, D minor) of the main
themes of the work by the orchestra alone. The solo instrument
enters, and expands and develops the themes, leading to a gradual
relaxation of tension. The central section (Adagio, B
major), the most beautiful part of the work, is mainly concerned
with an expansion of a short phrase from the introduction in
contemplative dialogue between piano and orchestra. The soloist
then leads the orchestra in a resumption of the Allegro Feroce,
which increases in violence until the soloist brings in a new,
highly decorated version of one of the original themes. The
cadenza follows, ending with a reference to the theme of the
Adagio section. The coda consists of a new version of
some of the themes of the introduction, in D major, in which
piano and orchestra co-operate. It includes a brief reappearance
of the Adagio theme.
Reviewing the concerto in the New Statesman,
Desmond Shawe-Taylor, suggested the composer was ‘…now
emerging into the secure enjoyment of his talent. It [the concerto]
is singularly free from modern inhibitions about direct emotional
appeal and beauty of sheer sound. The solo writing is for the
most part decorative rather than showy; this fact should not
deter our pianists from taking up a work which makes so valuable
and attractive an addition to their repertory.’
String Quartet No.3 in A, Op.30, dedicated to
the composer’s wife Frieda, was completed in the Spring
of 1947 and first performed on 1 July 1948 as part of that year’s
Cheltenham Festival. It is in three movements, played without
a break. The expressive theme first heard at the start of the
quartet, marked Andante molto tranquillo, is given out
by the first violin and the viola; this soon gives place to
a group of themes in a more lively tempo (12/8 Allegretto),
which are worked out in sonata form; at the end of the first
statement of these themes, hints of the opening theme may be
heard. The movement ends with a new version of the Andante
Tranquillo and the final bars contain a hint of the martial
rhythm of the following movement. The central movement (Allegro
alla Marcia, C minor) is in direct contrast to the pastoral
and contemplative first movement, being mainly quick and aggressive
in character. There are, however, references to the initial
theme of the quartet, though this is given a more restless character,
in keeping with the general mood of the movement, by the adjustments
of rhythm to which it is subjected. The movement eventually
fades into the distance from which it first emerged, again with
a brief allusion to the following Andante espressivo
finale, which is built on an expansion of the Andante
theme from the first movement, treated first in the manner of
a passacaglia, and later in a more energetic fugal style (Allegretto).
A return to the slower tempo of the opening of the movement,
leads to a short concluding Allegro section, ending decisively
on an A major chord.
One of the composer’s most powerful works,
the String Quartet No.3 evinces his confident grasp of the medium.
The performance of the Allegri String Quartet on a long-deleted
Discurio LP (CD001) shows its variety of mood and texture to
advantage and it would be good to see this recording reissued,
or a new interpretation captured on disc. Writing in the Daily
Telegraph on 21 December 1964, Michael Kennedy observed, ‘here
is a work of dark and sombre beauty, harmonically presenting
few problems to ears hostile to “modern music” and
shaped with the born composer’s mastery of economical
material…It is thoughtful music, and haunts the listener
long after it is over.’
When Wordsworth submitted his Second Symphony
in D major, Op.34 (1948) to the B.B.C. for consideration in
1948, those who were responsible for reading scores for the
organisation decided it wasn’t suitable for their programmes
(years later he found out the panel had included his friend
and fellow composer William Alwyn, a discovery which did not
affect their friendship). Wordsworth was doubtful about this
decision as he was sure that if his first symphony had been
suitable, then his second would be too. As the Edinburgh Festival
Society had announced that it was awarding a prize (in the form
of a cheque for £150) for the best symphony, the composer
felt he had nothing to lose by submitting it to the Festival
authorities and was delighted to hear it had been chosen as
the winning work out of more than 60 entries submitted from
13 countries. It was commended by Sir Arthur Bliss, the final
adjudicator of the competition, in these words: ‘A symphony
in the truest sense of the word. Each of the four contrasting
movements is firmly built and skilfully formed.’ Wordsworth
was not so pleased to find that, as their Reading Panel had
turned down the work, the B. B. C. felt themselves unable to
broadcast the opening concert of the Festival, in spite of the
fact that the concert was being given in the Usher Hall, Edinburgh
by the London Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Sir Adrian
Boult, a decision that led the music critic of The Listener
to write that he could think of no other country whose broadcasting
organisation would ignore the first performance of a new Symphony
by one of its nationals which had carried off the prize in a
worldwide competition sponsored by the Festival authorities.
The Symphony was composed between September 1947
and January 1948. It is scored for double woodwind, triple brass
(with tuba ad lib), timpani and cymbals, and strings.
It is in four movements, but the composer, as in several of
his other works, makes use of a modified version of cyclic form
where the ‘motto’ theme is an organic part of the
whole. This motto theme is the initial long melody on bassoons
and cellos which contains all the notes of the chromatic scale.
This permeates the whole work and the composer later ascribed
its nature to his recent reading of Paul Hindemith’s book
The Craft of Musical Composition.
The Presto second movement is a lively scherzo with something
of the night about it; traces of the long ‘motto’
theme are used in the more lyrical and quieter middle section.
The Adagio molto cantabile third movement is the most
deeply-felt part of the work. A slow sequence of sombre chords
introduces a long-breathed melody in D major on clarinet and
lower strings which rises, again with traces of the first movement’s
basic idea, to a quiet end. The finale (Allegro molto)
is based on an aggressive theme in a fast tempo, repeated three
times, leading to a repeated dissonant chord. This subsides
to a quieter section based on a three-fold repetition of a fresh,
more compact version of the original 12-note theme from the
first movement, leading to a bright D major chord on the brass,
which the basses try unsuccessfully to disrupt with a repeated
E flat. The work ends on a note of triumphal brilliance with
a positive and unambiguous statement of the chord of D major
by the full orchestra.
With this work, Wordsworth proved beyond doubt
he could command long-range technique. In other words, he was
a born symphonist. Writing in the News Chronicle on 20
August 1951, Scott Goddard commented that it ‘…has
perhaps not so much wit as an elusive humour and certainly a
dignity and integrity which bring it near to the classical idea
of what a symphony should be…It is music of a brooding
thoughtfulness and has about it a restrained intensity which
leads one on and then ends by hiding more than it reveals.’
The Yorkshire Post critic described it as ‘…a
lovely, immediately attractive work’, observing that ‘…one
feels that further knowledge of this score may show the Symphony
to be a very important addition to English music.’ The
London première of the work on 9 December 1952 was rather
less well received by London-based reviewers: an unnamed author
in The Musical Times, said ‘one is forced to admit,
however reluctantly, that one does not particularly want to
hear it again’, claiming that he missed ‘any sense
of burning imagination behind the music.’
C. G-F, writing in Musical Opinion, was even less complimentary:
‘such music is utterly unlovely and it had the effect
of removing people from the [Festival] hall after each movement’,
though the work ‘aroused respect for the composer’s
integrity of purpose and technical command.’
The symphony was very successfully recorded by the London Philharmonic
Orchestra under Nicholas Braithwaite the Third Symphony and
released on the Lyrita label (Lyrita SRCD.207).
Wordsworth’s Oboe Quartet, Op.44 (1949)
was written for the Cartier String Trio and dedicated to Leon
Goosens and the Cartier String Trio, who gave the work’s
first performance at Cheltenham Town Hall on 12 July 1950 as
part of that year’s Cheltenham Festival. It is in two
movements, the first combines some of the expressive features
of a slow movement with the more energetic type of writing characteristic
of a first movement. It is cast in the form of a kind of fantasia
in several subdivisions, beginning with a slow section (Poco
Adagio) consisting of a dark hued theme, laced with exotic
arabesques, given out by the oboe and a more flowing passage
initiated by the strings. This works up to a brief climax which
quickly subsides, and gives place to a spirited group of themes
in a quicker tempo (Allegretto); the last of these themes
(a playful subject in 6/8 rhythm) pretends to seek the opening
mood, but is prevented from doing so by the oboe in a remarkable
episode full of ominous disquiet. Then follows a shortened repetition
of the Allegretto section which, this time, is allowed
to subside and return to the Poco adagio – a return
which brings the movement to a nostalgic close.
This is followed by a more vehement scherzo-finale
marked Allegro molto, e Giocoso. It is mostly fast and
furious, but, as the word Giocoso indicates, its ferocity
is not to be taken too seriously. It is in sonata-rondo form,
with a vivacious first subject, shared in turn by all the instruments,
but the dolce lyrical second subject is given over to
the oboe over lightly scored arpeggios on the strings. There
is almost no development and the themes are restated; then,
as the recapitulation merges into the coda, the oboe alludes
to the important adagio idea with which the first movement
begins. The strings, however, impatiently tug at the rhythm,
and with a sharp quickening of the pace the work ends in bravura
exuberance. Colin Mason described the Oboe Quartet as ‘an
attractive and interesting work, in Wordsworth’s best
vein, serious and satisfying in content, yet light and easy
in tone and manner.’
Three Wordsworth Songs, Op.45 were written
in 1950 for the centenary of the poet’s death; they combine
two areas of musical expression, the song and chamber music,
which the composer has consistently turned to throughout his
creative life. The three songs featured are Westminster Bridge,
Daffodils, a typical Wordsworth scherzo, and finally,
Calais Beach, whose closing bars end in a mood of hushed
serenity (the composer used this last setting as the basis of
the second movement of his subsequent work, the String Quartet
No.4 in A minor, Op.47). The fact that the composer is treating
words by one of his own relatives serves to heighten the sense
of intimacy and the music is used sparingly, enhancing the beauty
and natural rhythm of the words. As an introduction to his style,
these little pieces could not be bettered. They have been appeared
on LP twice: initially by Alexander Young and the Allegri String
Quartet for Discurio (DC 001) and, more recently, by Ian Partridge
and the Alberni String Quartet on the CRD label (CRD 1097);
sadly neither version is currently available on disc.
Symphony No.3 in C major, Op.48 (1951), dedicated
to Bernard de Nevers, was first performed on 11 June 1953 by
the Hallé Orchestra under Sir John Barbirolli at Cheltenham
Town Hall as part of that year’s Cheltenham Festival.
Like the second symphony, it is scored for a standard orchestra
of double woodwind, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones,
percussion and strings, the only extras being the use of a gong
in the first and last movements and a celesta in the second.
After the difficulties Wordsworth had experienced in attempting
to get his second symphony performed, he aimed to make its successor
directly accessible in a more concise form.
There are three movements, of which the first,
marked Allegretto scioltamente has the character of both
a traditional sonata-form and a scherzo. After a few preliminary
bars establishing a rhythm, the main subject is presented by
the violins, a purposeful theme, hinting at the primary clash
of tonalities (C and C sharp minor) which is a recurring feature
of the work. As a pendent to this theme, the woodwind introduce
a scherzando feature in the form of a descending figure.
A more significant theme, lyrical and graced with flowing triplets,
is heralded by the flute. The development section concentrates
on these three elements. The recapitulation begins quietly with
fresh statements of the principal themes, culminating in a fugato
episode on the main subject, the semiquavers of which provide
a final flourish and an insistence on the C sharp-C natural
clash.
A simple ternary movement, the sustained central
Andante has a gently expressive main theme played by
cellos and violas and then elaborated in fantasia style by various
instruments. In the middle section, the celesta enters, memorably,
with a mysterious and exotic theme of its own. Then the first
part is resumed with much elaboration in the form of arabesques
and at the end the celesta has a last little flourish over a
sustained chord.
The Allegro deciso finale reflects, rather
than quotes, some suggestion of the earlier material. It is
a kind of summing up of the rather unsettled tonalities of the
symphony and its basic ideas, which are insistent throughout.
The predominant theme is a rich, almost Brahmsian largamente
melody for strings. There is a last minute attempt on the part
of the intrusive C sharp, trilled out on the woodwind, to prevail
against the stubborn assertion of the strings that the real
key of the symphony is C major.
The Music Critic for The Times wrote that
Wordsworth’s third example in the genre ‘showed
a marked advance in sheer striking power’ and that ‘it
made its decisive appeal to an audience thus grown truly critical
and there is not likely to be any dissent from its decision.’
Donald Mitchell was less than enthusiastic about the work, commenting
that ‘as for the symphony’s intended and much praised
‘light-weight’ content, I am inclined to the opinion
that Mr. Wordsworth’s lighter inspirations would have
been more felicitously expressed within the confines of a structure
of less weighty pretensions.’
The Third Symphony is one of the composer’s most popular
and often-performed works. Barbirolli himself conducted it no
fewer than eight times in its first year alone, including performances
in Manchester and Sheffield, as well as at a Promenade Concert.
It has also been heard often on the radio, initially with on
the BBC Overseas Service by Barbirolli, and more recently in
broadcasts by the BBC Scottish Symphony and Ulster Orchestras.
In 1990 a fine performance by the London Philharmonic Orchestra
under Nicholas Braithwaite the Third Symphony was released by
Lyrita (SRCD.207).
Symphony No. 4, Op.54 was written during the
first half of 1953 and is dedicated ‘in affectionate admiration’
to Sir John Barbirolli and the Hallé Orchestra, who premièred
it at the Edinburgh Festival, though the conductor never performed
it again because he found a particular passage in 10/8 difficult
to conduct, according to Wordsworth.
Unlike its predecessors, it is in one continuous movement. The
Poco Adagio slow introduction’s opening theme,
rising and falling on the flute, is prophetic of much that is
to come, and the chord of E flat clashing against the first
phrase is also characteristic. After the introduction of further
material germane to the rest of the symphony, two sharply uttered
chords emphasising the key of E flat announce the arrival of
the main Allegro, composed of two contrasted main subjects,
a brisk, purposeful tune introduced by first violins and flutes
derived from the inaugural theme and, eventually, on strings
and woodwind, a contrasting second subject, strong yet gentler
in mood and less tense in harmony, in a rolling 6/4: this melody
sounds almost self-consciously Elgarian, more specifically a
second cousin to the magisterial con dignità
opening theme of the finale of Elgar’s Second Symphony
(also in E flat) and perhaps, bearing in mind the work’s
dedication, fashioned specifically to appeal to Barbirolli.
A falling phrase a few bars further on is noteworthy. Shortly,
through widely spaced tremolando strings, a trumpet brings
back the primary theme of the symphony in the dominant key of
B flat and the first section of the symphony is ended; then,
in place of the expected ‘development’ of these,
the music passes directly to an extended march-like section
and then to a slow section in which the flute has key material.
The final part of the symphony serves not only to recapitulate
the opening Allegro, but also to recall parts of the
intervening march and slow section; the opening themes of the
work are heard, driving the music up to its energetic, exultant
conclusion.
The Divertimento in D for orchestra, Op.58 (1954)
was commissioned by Stewart Deas for Sheffield University’s
Jubilee Concert, where it was premièred by the Hallé
Orchestra under Sir John Barbirolli on 18 March 1955. The main
theme of the work consists of the notes D E A S (or E flat),
spelling out the surname of Sheffield University’s then
Professor of Music, the work’s dedicatee. The first movement
(Overture) consists of a short, slow introduction giving out
the main theme and leading into an Allegro starting with
the first three notes of the theme on the trumpets. This grows
into a long tune which, with various subsidiary ideas, dominates
the rest of the movement. The slow introduction recurs at the
end in a fuller form. The slow movement (Air) begins with the
main theme inverted (D C G C sharp). From the first three notes
of this theme in a different key an extended melody is derived,
given out first by the oboe. This melody and a series of quiet
chords given to the divided strings are the main elements of
the movement. The finale (Gigue) starts with a lively 12/8 version
of the main theme the right way up, given out by the flute,
and taken up by the strings and brass. It is followed by a long
tune on the strings, and a shorter syncopated new theme first
heard on the woodwind. The rest of the movement consists of
repetition and development of these ideas, leading to a jubilant
end.
Having heard a radio broadcast of the Divertimento,
Ralph Vaughan Williams wrote William Wordsworth a brief letter
to express his admiration of the work, stating that it had ‘originality
without eccentricity’, an apt summation of Wordsworth’s
musical output as a whole. RVW finished by suggesting that it
ought to be expanded into a four movement symphony, owing to
the existing movements’ being ‘symphonic in size
and character.’
In the Violin Concerto in A major, Op.60 (1955),
the tough first movement exemplifies the composer’s command
of large-scale structure and expressive clarity. The Adagio
cantabile slow movement contains an idyllic duet between
violin and horn. After a slow introduction (Allegretto),
the Allegro Spiritoso finale is exceptionally lively
and extremely skilfully scored for a large percussion section
(cymbal, gong, side drum, bass drum, wooden box) requiring three
players, which never drowns out the soloist, thanks to the composer’s
sensitivity to textures. The use of the vibraphone throughout
adds a very specific mid-1950s atmosphere, such as that encountered
in Vaughan Williams’ contemporaneous Symphony No.8. Michael
Kennedy wrote that it was the composer’s ‘best large-scale
work to date, showing an extra warmth and ease of melodic style…Violinists
should welcome this addition to their repertoire, a concerto
free from academic restraints and inhibitions.’
It is one of Wordsworth’s finest works, ranking alongside
the Cello Concerto and Symphony No.5 in terms of expert handling
of large-scale form and imaginative use of instrumental colour.
String Quartet No.5 in G minor, Op.63 was written
in the Spring of 1957 for the Hirsch Quartet, who played it
for the first time on 12 July at that year’s Cheltenham
Festival. However, the composer was not satisfied with the last
movement and rewrote it during 1977-78. The quartet is in three
movements and the general mood of the work is cheerful, though
the opening of the first and last movements might not suggest
this. Characteristically, the first six bars of the Andante
tranquillo introduction furnish much of the material of
the rest of the work. After an Allegro vivace scherzo-like
second movement arising from the same two motives which opened
the previous movement, the finale is by far the most substantial
of the quartet’s three movements, both in terms of its
weighty character and its duration. It begins Adagio
with a new and haunting theme. References to the opening material
of the quartet are heard. This Adagio alternates in rondo
fashion with lighter allegro sections, in which the material
already heard is developed. The movement concludes with further
brief passages of allegro and adagio is alternation,
and the music dies away (in G major) with the serenity in which
it began. So ends one of Wordsworth’s most impressive
chamber works, whose crisp rhythms, graceful phrasing and intricate
structure is suggestive of the consummate quartet writing of
Egon Wellesz.
The Symphony No.5 in A minor, Op.68 was written
between 1957 and 1960 and first played in a broadcast concert
by the BBC Northern Symphony Orchestra under Sir Adrian Boult
on the BBC. Third Programme on 5 October 1962. After the fourth
symphony’s single-movement structure, the fifth return
to a three-movement design, each of which is dominated by one
aspect – thematic, rhythmic, or harmonic – of the
strong theme which thrusts upwards on cellos and basses at the
outset. The scoring of the first movement is light in character
but is not lacking in sonority. Groups of instruments play in
concertante fashion. The long closing diminuendo
of the first movement, in which the solo violin weaves its arabesques
over a rich and delicately etched background emphasises Wordsworth’s
power to produce impressive music from traditional harmonic
devices. In the Allegro central movement the ‘motto’
theme received further revealing transmutations, aided by some
judicious use of percussion and in the Allegro finale,
after a haunting slow introduction, there are fresh, transformations
like a sequence of variations, which enrich the ‘motto’
theme whilst retaining its character. The movement reaches a
climactic conclusion which, thanks to its organic development,
is both convincing and decisive.
For any listeners familiar with Wordsworth’s
symphonic output through the Lyrita recording of his second
and third symphonies, the fifth would be a revelation. A world
away from the sombre and sometimes greyish hues of the Symphony
No.2, it is a riot of colour and seemingly unstoppable invention,
yet all stemming from the same source. Along with the Cello
and Violin Concertos, it represents the composer at the very
peak of his powers in terms of his orchestral works and ranks
as one of his finest, most life-affirming utterances in any
genre. If any one work of his was crying out to be recorded,
this is it. Writing in the Listener on 4 July 1963, Deryck
Cook commented, ‘it is a bold and full-organised symphonic
drama, whose whole structure arises naturally from its questing
initial theme; and it use of familiar gestures – in a
brooding first movement, a disquieting scherzo, and a finale
of cumulative violence – carries complete conviction’.
In the same journal, Michael Kennedy went further, describing
the symphony as ‘his finest work to date.’
The Sonata in C for unaccompanied solo cello,
Op.70 (1961) was written for Joan Dickson, who gave the first
performance. It is in three movements, of which the opening
Andante is characterised by its sinuously curving lines
and the haunting bugle-calls that intermittently appear in the
upper register. Scrunching rhythms appear in the typically witty
central scherzo. Conrad Wilson wrote of the piece that ‘It
is a typically poetic, lucidly written work, whose three movements
have a tender, confidential quality admirably suited to the
warmly narrative tones of the instrument.’
It offers a prime example of Wordsworth’s gift for writing
idiomatically for a particular instrument, whilst retaining
his individual voice.
The Concerto for Cello and Orchestra, Op.73 was
written in 1963 but not premièred until a broadcast on
20 January 1975 by the B.B.C. Scottish Symphony Orchestra under
Christopher Adey with Moray Welsh as soloist and its first public
performance had to wait until 7 May 1979, when Moray Welsh played
it again, this time with the Scottish National Orchestra under
Bryden Thomson. It is in three movements, of which the first
is the longest and most varied, including four contrasting themes:
a fragment of scale in contrary motion on the strings with which
the movement begins; an ensuing leaping figure on the brass
heard before the soloist enters, joined by other instruments
in a discussion of both themes heard so far; an energetic fugal
figure on strings which through further discussion of the first
two main themes leads to a more extended melody given out first
by the clarinet and taken up and extended later by the soloist.
A short-lived culmination of these leads to an orchestral climax
and a longish cadenza for the soloist alone. At the end of this,
the orchestra steals in and builds up to a climax with the repetitions
and combinations of all four themes. Out of the climax, the
soloist emerges and leads to a quiet conclusion based on the
first and last themes. The second movement is a Nocturne (marked
Lento) which is mostly slow and very quiet, but has a
fleetingly tempestuous and nightmarish middle section. The Allegro
vivace finale is in rondo form, with a florid and assured
main subject derived from a reversal of the first movement’s
opening theme. It is a lively movement and mainly light hearted
(the second theme is marked Pomposo), though at times
the orchestra becomes more aggressive and the cadenza is marked
feroce. The concerto is one of the composer’s most
directly expressive works, essentially lyrical and enriched
by ear-catching sonorities.
The String Quartet No.6, Op.75 was begun in 1963
and completed early the following year, soon after the composer
had come to live in the Scottish Highlands. It is dedicated
‘with affection and admiration’ to the Allegri Quartet,
who gave the first performance at Gordonstoun School on 8 November
1982. There are three movements, of which the last is the weightiest.
The general mood is more light-hearted than many of his previous
works, though this is not due to any conscious use of Scottish
traditional material to supply the themes. Although there is
no motif from which the work evolves, the music is permeated
by the interval of a falling fourth, which first appears at
the start of the Allegretto vivace first movement, a
brilliant, closely argued structure, showing the composer at
his most subtle and engaging. The Allegro molto second
movement is a scherzo in the form of a rondo, whose dance-like
main theme is heard at the start. Its two interludes are based
on material from the opening of the quartet. The first two movements
are mainly lively and short; the last movement, which, like
the fifth quartet, is the longest and most complex, begins with
a slow introduction of a more introspective character than the
rest of the work with considerable expressive power, as rhapsodic
recitatives for cello and first violin alternate with a meditative
chordal passage. Presently an increase in tempo signals a return
to the quartet’s former cheerful manner, and the rest
of the movement is mainly in the more vigorous, extrovert mood
of the earlier movements. The style is tonal – in spite
of some use of quarter-tones in the last movement – and
both the first and last movements end on C.
The writing in this witty and graceful quartet
differs from its predecessor in that it is more airy and widely
spaced, giving it a pellucid radiance. It is also refreshingly
energetic. Malcolm Rayment, writing in the Glasgow Herald on
25 April 1968, described it as a ‘jovial piece…the
whole composition suggests that it was written in a happy and
carefree frame of mind’.
Though William Wordsworth was often drawn to
the traditional forms of symphony and string quartet, he also
wrote a significant number of occasional and shorter pieces
such as music for plays, radio productions and concert overtures.
A fine example of the latter is the Overture Conflict,
Op.86 (1968), which was commissioned for the Guildford Festival
of 1969 and premiered at the Civic Hall, Guildford on 16 March
of that year by the Guildford Philharmonic Orchestra under Vernon
Handley. Soon after the composer had been asked to write the
piece, the invasion of Czechoslovakia took place. Though the
event undoubtedly influenced the course of the work, it is not
programmatic in any sense and the ‘Conflict’ of
the title is more that between the dead weight of static authority
and the desire of the human spirit to develop in freedom, than
a picture of Prague in August 1968. There are two main ideas
– the rising scalic theme in irregular rhythm with which
the work begins, and a contrasting theme given out briefly by
the trumpet near the beginning and later developed and expanded
against a background derived from the opening theme. A bright
chord of C major ends the conflict. Malcolm Rayment wrote in
the Glasgow Herald that it ‘…has a harmonic tension
such as we do not normally associate with this composer –
it is an impressive work.’
Symposium, for solo violin, strings, piano,
recorded voices and percussion, Op.94 (1972) was commissioned
by the Scottish Baroque Ensemble and dedicated to Leonard Friedman,
who premièred the work in Edinburgh in March 1973. According
to the dictionary, a ‘symposium’ may be a collection
of views on one topic, or a meeting of for philosophic discussion,
and this definition covers the plan of the work; almost all
its material is derived from the five-note phrase played by
the cellos (pizzicato) at the beginning and answered
by the seven-note phrase in quicker tempo with which the soloist
enters. The resulting twelve-note theme is present in part or
as a whole almost throughout the work, either in its original
direction or reversed or inverted. There are many changes of
mood and speed and, towards the end, taped vocal sounds appear
under the orchestra. Writing in the Glasgow Herald on
14 April 1974, Malcolm Rayment described Symposium as
one of Wordsworth’s ‘…most concentrated works
and almost certainly one of his best…The writing for
solo violin is both brilliant and rewarding.’ On the same
day, R.M., in the Scotsman, described the work as an
‘eloquent and heartfelt peroration…’ going
on to observe that the ‘logic and economy of the composer
was evident...’
Symphony No. 7 ‘Cosmos’, Op.107 (1980)
was premièred by the Scottish National Orchestral conducted
by Sir Alexander Gibson on 26 September 1981at Eden Court Theatre,
Inverness. It was commissioned by the theatre to celebrate the
renewal of their sound system. Shortly after this commission,
the BBC showed a television programme on Albert Einstein and
two quotations from him helped to shape the work and provide
the work’s title. Both suggest that Wordsworth’s
concept of music or at least of ‘Cosmos’ was not
as a medium of ideas but rather as mystical stimulation: ‘The
most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious; it
is the source of all art, and he who cannot experience it is
already half-dead’…’What really interests
me is whether God had any choice in the creation of the
world.’
The symphony is cast in one closely-argued movement,
which divides into sections. There are two main musical themes
– the first begins in the bass, moving slowly in fourths
and fifths, and the second consists of a contrasting four-note
theme in adjacent notes, the whole work evolving, passacaglia-like,
in continuous variations of these themes, gradually increasing
in volume in a long crescendo, producing a cumulative effect
of building up by repetition. The pre-recorded tape (which the
composer had already decided would be in the piece when he first
began work on it in early 1980) was provided at the first performance
by Adrian Shepherd and the strings of Cantilena and played through
loud speakers; it consists of two slowly repeated chords for
strings, and is heard four times – firstly quietly, before
the orchestra enters, picking up on the material; second, as
loudly as possible, to link the climax of the first section
to the second, this consisting of a slow, extended development
and elaboration of the main themes; third, to fade into the
quiet coda; and finally, very quietly just before the last bars,
where there is just a trace of the two chords of the tape.
Elegy for Frieda, Op.111 (1982) is one
of the composer’s most deeply expressive and finely wrought
works. Following the recording of his fifth and sixth quartets
by the Alberni Quartet in 1981, a tour of Scotland was planned
to include a Wordsworth quartet. It was first performed in Kingussie,
not far from his home, on 9 November 1982. The initial statement
by viola and cello, marked affetuoso, is chromatic but
tonal, converging upon F sharp minor. Recurring appearances
of this theme are linked by episodes of a livelier nature, even
skittish. There is one central climax, fortissimo con forza,
from which the calm of the opening gradually returns, closing
on a chord of B major. The Elegy represents Wordsworth
at his most directly communicative and compassionate. In his
brief but poignant programme note for the piece, he wrote, ‘It
has been said that music is so subtle and profound a language
that it is impossible to translate its meaning into words. There
is therefore no need for me to say more about this Elegy than
to say that my wife died last June, and that it was written
for the Alberni Quartet to play during a tour of Scotland last
November. For the rest, let the music speak for me.’
The Symphony No.8 ‘Pax Hominibus’,
Op.117 (1986), his last completed work, was commissioned by
BBC Scotland and dedicated, poignantly, ‘to Martin Dalby,
who persuaded me that life could be worth living again after
a heart attack, by arranging for the B.B.C. to commission this
piece’. It was premièred by the B.B.C. Scottish
Symphony Orchestra under Jerzy Maksymiuk in Stirling on 28 October
1986. Wordsworth’s long-term involvement with the peace
movement is reflected in the symphony’s subtitle and the
work literally begins peacefully with a gentle passage for two
horns, succeeded by a more expressive phrase for strings: these
two elements form the basis of the first movement, which has
the breadth of a natural symphonist and a well-poised elegance.
The second, and final, movement is quicker, a gradual crescendo
leading to a quieter, lyrical section. After a brief recurrence
of the symphony’s opening bars, the movement is marked
to be repeated and then follows the first movement’s principal
material. Finally, the work ends with a short and quick coda.
Wordsworth’s last symphony is his most
enigmatic. The last movement, in particular, contains some of
the quirkiest material he ever penned: a peculiar ‘clucking’
idea, heard at the outset, though clearly descended from other
such dislocated, hesitant initial statements as the start of
the fifth symphony’s central movement and the opening
movement of the sixth string quartet, is very disorientating
in its effect; yet it soon generates enormous energy, building
to a tremendous climax redolent of Robert Simpson, culminating
in a brass cadence as glorious as it is short-lived. The song-like
subject that follows sounds like a pastiche of a nineteenth-century
bel canto operatic aria, yet there is something infinitely
sad about it, entombed within such grotesque surroundings. It
is entirely fitting that the composer’s last work should
be a symphony, a form in which he excelled and to which he returned
most often.
All the previous examples taken from William
Wordsworth’s considerable catalogue of works have several
aspects in common: they are consummately well-crafted and draw
their inspiration from the wellsprings of the mainstream rather
than any shallow side-channels. Both in inspiration and content,
his music displays a rugged individuality mirroring his physical
environment, and an integrity that isolated him from the influence
of the latest musical trends. He was, however, a man of his
time and if the music demanded it, he would unhesitatingly include
quarter tones and electronic tape, for example, in his works.
There are no sensational tricks, no compromises to fashion and
his is generally a quieter, more contemplative voice than that
of his contemporaries. Various influences such as Sibelius,
Bartók, Nielsen and, to a lesser extent Bax and Vaughan
Williams may be detected fleetingly in some of his writing,
but he went his own way and the best of his music, of which
there is a significant amount, is passionate, tough, direct
and utterly sincere.
Though he was socially diffident, he had no false
modesty regarding his compositions and was fully aware of what
he perceived to be their lasting value. In a forthright letter
to the Music Controller of the BBC in 1957 concerning the decline
in the Corporation’s broadcasts of his symphonic works,
he wrote, ‘I am quite convinced that I have something
to say, and an individual way of saying it which the ordinary
music-lover is capable is responding to if he is given sufficient
opportunities. I would not go through the labour of creation
were I not so convinced.’
In various articles about him, commentators and
journalists are fond of quoting the following lines from his
ancestral namesake: ‘Enough if something from our hands
have power to live, and act, and serve the future hour.’
Indeed, the words apply aptly enough to the composer Wordsworth,
dedicated and serious-minded. Let us hope, especially in this,
his centenary year that the ‘future hour’ comes
quickly. Until then, the current woeful lack of performances,
broadcasts and recordings means listeners are missing out on
a highly distinctive voice, refreshingly lacking in self-indulgence
and characterised by its inherent truthfulness, stubborn integrity
and calculated understatement. Ideally, his eight symphonies,
concertos for piano, violin and cello and six string quartets
should be available on disc, but if simply the Symphony No.5,
Cello Concerto, Violin Concerto, String Quartet Nos. 5 and 6
and Oboe Quartet were obtainable, the best of William Wordsworth
would be represented in the catalogues.
This article began with a droll but revealing
anecdote from the composer’s friend the Rev. Maclean;
perhaps it is fitting to close with a more wistful recollection
from the same source:
‘When I heard of his decline in health,
I called to see him at the hospital in Kingussie. He sat in
his wheelchair with a far-away look in his eye. “I have
been listening for the past month to a recording of your 8th
Symphony. I have heard it, perhaps, 50 times. I know it better
than you do”, I said. A wondering look. No reply, not
even “possibly.”’
© Paul Conway 2008
(The author wishes
to thank Jonathan Wordsworth and the staff of the Scottish Music
Centre, Glasgow for all their help during his researches for
this article)
