Many cellists no doubt live with a certain degree of concerto envy. They play such a wonderful instrument, capable of singing the most beautiful melodies in a lush baritone range (but also with possibilities for transforming into a bass, a tenor, and even, in the highest registers, a soprano). They can also proudly claim what some consider the greatest concerto ever written, Dvořák’s magnificent essay from 1894–95, as well as wonderful singular offerings from Schumann and Elgar. And yet when cellists look at the riches that pianists and violinists have, so many concertos by so many composers, there may be some sense of frustration. Nothing from Mozart at all, and a shared spotlight from Beethoven and Brahms in the former’s Triple Concerto for Piano, Violin, and Cello, and the latter’s Double Concerto for Violin and Cello.

And even those works that cellists do possess sometimes require explanations, at least before the blossoming of repertory in the 20th century. Two concertos by Haydn are familiar fare, but the authenticity of the one in D major was long questioned and the charming one in C major was only discovered in the 1960s. Italian composer Luigi Boccherini (1743–1805) is best known today for one work: the Cello Concerto in B-flat major. This piece came to prominence in the late 19th century through a mangled arrangement by a leading German cellist, Friedrich Grützmacher, who pieced together various works by the composer.

The situation with Tchaikovsky’s Rococo Variations is somewhat similar. He composed the piece for a colleague at the Moscow Conservatory, the eminent young German cellist Wilhelm Fitzenhagen (1848–90), who had studied with Grützmacher in Dresden. Tchaikovsky started work just before Christmas in 1876 but soon became frustrated: “Many people keep dropping in here unexpectedly—it seems that everyone in Petersburg is holding me back, when I had stupidly imagined that it would be possible to take advantage of the holidays to work.” He first wrote out a cello and piano version that he showed to Fitzenhagen, who heavily edited the solo part. Such partnerships were not unusual, especially when the composer did not play the instrument. 

Tchaikovsky accepted Fitzenhagen’s emendations and went on to orchestrate the piece, which he finished in early 1877. Nikolai Rubinstein conducted the Moscow premiere later that year with Fitzenhagen as soloist. Since Tchaikovsky was abroad at the time he could not attend, but the event apparently was successful. Things got more complicated on the way to publication as Fitzenhagen considerably altered the piece, not limiting himself any longer to just the solo line, but going so far as to rearrange the order of the original eight variations and cut the last one entirely. The publisher Pyotr Jurgenson wrote to complain: “Loathsome Fitzenhagen! He is most insistent on making changes to your cello piece, and he says that you have given him full authority to do so. Heavens!” Jurgenson nonetheless published the work and one of Tchaikovsky’s students relates that the composer went along as well: “The devil take it! Let it stand as it is!” The cello and piano arrangement appeared in 1878 and the full score in 1889. Tchaikovsky’s original version was only reconstructed in 1941 and performed for the first time in Moscow; it is rarely played today.

Tchaikovsky once wrote to his generous patron Nadezhda von Meck: “It is thanks to Mozart that I devoted my life to music. I adore and idolize him.” The affinity may seem a bit surprising as Tchaikovsky’s music is popularly viewed as so lushly Romantic and Mozart’s as an exemplar of refined Classicism, yet both used music as a vehicle for deep personal expression and did so with exquisite technique. Tchaikovsky had a lasting affinity, indeed nostalgia, for the 18th century. The word rococo is most associated with the decorative arts of the time.

Following a short orchestral introduction, the cello states the principal theme that has the character of a charming gavotte dance. It is made up of two complementary parts plus a codetta, which, as David Brown has remarked, projects a spirit both old and new. Tchaikovsky originally had eight variations follow, which Fitzenhagen reordered and cut to seven, saving a passionate Andante until just before the coda. Perhaps Tchaikovsky agreed only reluctantly to the changes, but he nonetheless remained friends with the cellist, who premiered much of his chamber music as well, arranged pieces, and was enlisted for advice years later on another piece for cello and orchestra. Whatever the relative merits of the versions, audiences (and cellists) remain grateful for the enchanting addition to the instrument’s repertory.

                                                                    —Christopher H. Gibbs

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