Programme Notes:
Glamorgan Duo Recital, Expansive Canvas
August 2025

From the intimacy of domestic parlours to representation and recognition on public concert platforms, this programme of cello sonatas invites us to consider the remarkable development of female musicianship throughout the nineteenth century. While women were increasingly able to establish professional careers as performers — particularly in the keyboard and vocal domains — making their professional marks as composers remained challenging for most of the century.

The diverse cultural milieux of these sonatas illuminate a breadth of compositional voices, with each work telling a distinct story of musical accomplishment — that which emerged amid personal, societal, and familial tensions. 

Fanny Mendelssohn-Hensel (1805–1847)

Sonata oder Fantasia in G minor, H. 238 (1829)

“Music will perhaps become [Felix’s] profession, whilst for you it can and must only be an ornament, never the root of your being and doing [...] He feels a vocation for it, whilst it does you credit that you have always shown yourself good and sensible in these matters; and your very joy at the praise he earns proves that you might, in his place, have merited equal approval. Remain true to these sentiments and to this line of conduct; they are feminine, and only what is truly feminine is an ornament to your sex.”

Abraham Mendelssohn’s oft-quoted letter from Paris to his daughter on July 16, 1820, ahead of her 15th birthday, reveals stark distinctions between male-dominated, professional music-making and female talent, seen as but a “guarded family secret” (Todd, 2010). 

The repeated discouragement by her father and brother, Felix, enacts a tension on her musical career reflective of wider norms of her time, wherein musical aspirations were destined to be “confined within the domestic sphere” (Rosenberg, 1993). The support of her husband, the painter Wilhelm Hensel, presents an interesting — and fortunate — counterpoint. He encouraged her to compose, and even to publish under her own name, where her works were otherwise published under Felix’s name. 

Composed to be played with her younger brother Paul, an accomplished amateur cellist, this work blurs boundaries between creative forms. At its point of composition, Fanny titled it ‘Sonata oder Fantasia’. Indeed, it juxtaposes the freedom of a fantasy with a foray into a tradition that was still — at least in 1829 — a “liminal” space for women (Head, 2007).

Of the three sonatas presented today, it is the only one whose main theme is introduced by the pianist. Its poignant character is deeply rooted in the home key of G minor. Heard initially Andante doloroso, con intimo sentimento (sorrowful, with intimate feeling), its return emerges as a distant reminiscence — in modo di fantasia (in the style of a fantasia). While both the main theme and its reprise are anchored in the minor, other sections of the work explore the major axis of this tonality — at times serene and chorale-like (Lento), at others, jubilant (Prestissimo; Allegro molto moderato).

Mélanie Bonis (1858–1937)

Cello Sonata, Op. 67 (1904)

I.               Moderato quasi Andante — Allegretto 

II.             Très lent 

III.           Moderato molto — Allegro con fuoco 

Mélanie Bonis faced much familial resistance throughout her musical career; her parents opposed — and, as far as they could, forbade — her participation in this “dangerous artistic world”. That she published under the ambiguously gendered pseudonym, “Mel Bonis”, speaks to an added layer of complexity to the hindrances she faced: the continued disdain towards female public compositional activities, still evident well into the beginning of the twentieth century. 

A pivotal moment of her career came at the age of sixteen, when she was met with the public approval and admiration of César Franck — a feat particularly remarkable in light of these personal circumstances, and that she was a self-taught pianist. As a piano and composition pupil of Franck’s, Bonis earned a place in Parisian circles in the final quarter of the nineteenth century as prominent as that of her classmates, and more familiar names today — Claude Debussy, Vincent d’Indy, and Gabriel Pierné.

This three-movement sonata was composed in 1904 and dedicated to Monsieur Demaison: an art critic, writer, and doctor of law. It was published a year later and premiered in 1906 by Bonis herself with the cellist Louis Feuillard — well known amongst cellists today as the composer of an essential set of Daily Exercises for Cello.

Opening her sonata is a recitative-like cello melody accompanied by an array of chromatically inflected harmonies in the piano; these arpeggiated textures call to mind Franckian textures, specifically the Chorale from her mentor’s ‘Prélude, Chorale, and Fugue’ (1884). With rhythmic tension induced by underlying hemiolas, melodies flit in and out of tonal areas as the movement journeys through a myriad of harmonic colours and surprising twists. Presented first by the cello — twice in succession, each harmonised differently by the pianist — the movement’s main theme will come to reveal its structural importance as the movement develops.

Unrelenting, undulating triplets characterise the second movement. With its luxurious harmonies, proliferation of appoggiaturas, and interweaving of long, passionate Il canto melodies passed between the cello and piano, this movement is a particular highlight of the programme for Cheryl and Tabitha.

Following a peaceful close in D-flat, a jarring semitonal shift marks the beginning of the finale — a pianistic tour de force that invites us into Bonis’ world as a keyboard virtuosa. Its main theme transforms the idyllic triplet motif from the second movement (see above) into a fiery impetus for a passionate melodic line which now parallels the long, lyrical lines of the second movement — alas, now agitato.

A Lento interjection offers a fleeting, introspective glimpse of the second movement, before the music dissolves back into its main material. A pianistic cadenza drives the work towards its apotheosis: a fortissimo Maestoso section. The loudest point in the piece indicated by Bonis in the entire work, the hallmark arpeggiated triplets defining the second movement are diminuted. Rhythmically quickened, they now span two octaves — juxtaposed with the main theme from the first movement. No longer cantando, this theme is now characterised by relentless accents; around these swirling textures, it is treated canonically between the cello and bassline of the piano. Chromatic harmonies propel the work towards its bravura B-flat major culmination, upon whose attainment this magnificent work draws to a close.

In its whole, this sonata’s harmonic language, textures, and use of cyclic form bear clear imprints of her Franckian tutelage. Music history’s recognition of César Franck’s legacy has long centred on Debussy and d’Indy; perhaps it is time to elevate and restore Bonis to her rightful place in this lineage, celebrating her achievements as that which equalled those of her male contemporaries. 

Rebecca Clarke (1886–1979)

Sonata for Viola (or Cello) and Piano (1919)

I.               Impetuoso

II.             Vivace 

III.           Adagio 

Rebecca Clarke came to music during her childhood as solace from her cruel father. As a teenager, she often carried sheet music around with her; she felt a particular affinity for late-Romantic works, and was often moved to tears when playing the violin. At the age of 16, she successfully auditioned for a place at the Royal Academy of Music where she not only committed her time to practising the violin, but also immersed herself in theory and harmony — all of which would come to have real significance on her future as a composer. A year later, however, her harmony teacher asked for her hand in marriage. This proposal came as a shock to Clarke, who was concerned that if she agreed to marry him, she would then be expected to stop pursuing a career — before it had even started. Her father coerced her into rejecting the proposal, further removing her from the Academy — the educational setting and social circle in which she thrived.

For her father, Rebecca’s commitment to practising, attending concerts, and composing was productive insofar as it served the eventual purpose of “mak[ing] some good man happy”. Although he was scornful towards her compositions, he nonetheless sent some of her work to Sir Charles Villiers Stanford — Professor of Composition at the Royal College of Music. Whether this move was to support Clarke in her aspirations, or done with the hope that Stanford would condemn her aspirations and abilities, the result worked in Clarke’s favour: she shortly began her studies at the College under his tutelage, and indeed as his first female student.

Stanford was very complimentary towards Clarke’s compositional voice and gave her the freedom to hone her style. At his encouragement, she also made the switch from the violin to viola. His rationale: that she would be playing at the heart of the harmony and therefore better understand its inner workings. 

Her pursuit of a professional career was necessitated when her father threw her out at the age of 24. Clarke relished her newfound independence and began building up a freelance career as an orchestral and chamber violist. While Clarke took pride in attaining financial independence, this unfortunately curtailed her compositional studies at the RCM. As evidenced by her compositional output, however, this did not hinder her success as a composer. 

This Viola Sonata was composed as a competition entry for the American Berkshire Musical Festival of Chamber Music in 1919, three years after she moved to the United States. Published for Viola (or Cello) and Piano, it initially tied for the first prize with Ernst Bloch’s Suite for Viola and Piano, although the latter was eventually awarded the first prize, and Clarke’s the second. 

“You should have seen the faces of the jury when it was revealed the composer was a woman!” The Competition’s sponsor, Mrs. Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge, told Clarke herself. Six decades later, Clarke reflected on her own success in the competition: 

“And when I had that one little whiff of success that I’ve had in my life, with the Viola Sonata, the rumour went around, I heard, that I hadn’t written the stuff myself, that somebody had done it for me. And I even got one or two little bits of [...] press clippings saying that it was impossible, that I couldn’t have written it myself. And the funniest of all was that I had a clipping once which said that I didn’t exist, there wasn’t any such person as Rebecca Clarke, that it was a pseudonym… for Ernest Bloch! Now these people have got it most beautifully mixed — I thought to myself what a funny idea that when he writes his very much lesser works that he should take a pseudonym of a girl, that anyone should consider this possible!”

In spite of the jury’s final decision in the 1919 Festival, Clarke’s remarkable Sonata has come to form a staple of the viola repertoire — much more so than Bloch’s Suite for Viola and Piano.