Antonín Dvořák: Piano Works 2
Radoslav Kvapil, piano
Recorded Domovina Studios, Prague, 1969-70
SUPRAPHON SU 3376-2 [70:32]
If you thought Dvořák’s piano writing was little more than a sideline—occasional salon fare or embryonic sketches for his more commanding orchestral output—this collection, Piano Works 2, offers a nuanced, if not entirely revelatory, counterpoint. Radoslav Kvapil’s 1969-70 recordings, long out of the immediate limelight but newly resurfaced on SUPRAPHON, trace an intriguing map across Dvořák’s lesser-known keyboard repertoire—a world where charm and craftsmanship intersect, yet rarely collide with the symphonic ambitions most associate with this Czech master. The Waltzes Op.
54 open the disc with a buoyant, almost earthy vitality that feels rooted in Prague’s ballrooms circa 1879. Eight movements, each tripartite in form, are poised somewhere between rustic dance and refined drawing-room entertainment. Kvapil’s tempos occasionally court risk—the initial Moderato edges toward lumbering, which momentarily blunts the abrupt vivacity that should follow.
Yet the pianist’s crystalline articulation and subtle pedaling quickly redeem this hesitancy. The second Waltz bursts forth with a treble shimmer that almost sparkles—hammered out yet feather-light—a vivid contrast against the deeper, sinewy bass underpinning. No.
4 stands out as the disc’s beating heart. Its texture, reminiscent of the Slavonic Dances (unsurprisingly, since the material is often doubled or reimagined there), unfolds with both folkish directness and chamber-like intimacy. Here, Kvapil’s phrasing is particularly telling: he delineates the tripartite structure with an almost conversational ease, weaving rubato so naturally you scarcely notice it until the music’s ebb and — well — flow has been reshaped.
The subtle key modulations of No. 5 shimmer with anticipatory tension, underpinned by a rubato that balances delicacy with a hint of veiled passion. Kvapil never overindulges, avoiding the pitfalls of sentimental excess, instead privileging clarity and structural coherence.
Then come the Eclogues Op. 56, composed shortly after the Waltzes but published posthumously thanks to Josef Suk’s insistence. These four pieces — almost Virgilian in their pastoral leanings — reveal Dvořák’s more introspective side.
The opening “Moderato” here feels oddly forced, a generic gesture that struggles to find its voice. The “Quasi allegretto” follows with an insistence that borders on fussy; interesting, yes, but lacking the melodic distinction that would anchor it in memory. Yet even this unevenness is part of the appeal: the Allegretto’s melodic nucleus, later repurposed in the Slavonic Dances, is glimpsed as a sort of embryonic brilliance.
Kvapil’s delivery is as scrupulous as ever—limpid, restrained — never allowing the less inspired passages to drag. The Piano Pieces Op. 52, composed to capitalize on the Slavonic Dances’ popularity, add another layer to this patchwork portrait.
The subtle intake of breath before the pianist’s attack.
The Intermezzo’s slowly moving bass line frames a melody strikingly classical in its symmetry—Dvořák’s voice here; almost veers into an entirely different language, one of inward reflection rather than outward folk exuberance. Kvapil’s approach is judicious; he embraces the fractured textures of the subsequent Eclogue with the same limpid clarity that defines his handling of these works. The disc concludes with a grand March, a fittingly rousing "finale" that caps the journey from intimate salon music to a more publicly declamatory mode.
The “Album Leaves”—a handful of smaller, Schumannesque miniatures—might seem to some akin to bottom-drawer detritus, yet they are imbued with an understated charm. Kvapil’s touch here is particularly telling: the tender balance of nuance, the slight hesitations, the well-placed; dynamic swells, all reveal a pianist who understands that even the smallest piece demands full musical engagement. There’s a certain archaeological thrill to this disc.
Kvapil’s recordings date back over half a century, and much of this repertoire was previously unrecorded—or at least underrepresented—in the recorded canon. Yet the value is not merely historical. Despite occasional moments of compositional reticence from Dvořák, the performances uncover a wealth of melodic appeal and rhythmic subtlety that reward patient listening.
Kvapil’s playing, imbued with a Czech sensibility and a fearless simplicity, makes this a compelling companion for Dvořák enthusiasts keen to hear the composer’s piano voice in its more intimate, often shadowy forms. In the end, Piano Works 2 is not a revelation of hidden masterpieces but rather a quietly persuasive argument for Dvořák’s piano works as a vital, if subsidiary, facet of his oeuvre. And Kvapil?
His artistry here — courageous, clear-eyed, and warmly communicative — ensures that this journey is worth taking. Those who know Dvořák only through his symphonies or string quartets will find these pieces; a fascinating, if occasionally uneven, glimpse into the domestic spaces where his melodies first took shape.
