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Only a few of the major composers of the 18th and 19th centuries showed much interest in the solo cello; the result was a paucity of literature. It was Casals who gave the cello its modern voice by enlarging its scope as a solo instrument. This emboldened composers, and the result today is a substantial library of fine cello musk. Casals' technical genius, moreover, virtually revolutionized cello playing. He extended the instrument's physical possibilities, stretching his left hand over the finger board instead of sliding it, and in so doing broadened the range of phrasing, intonation and expression. The outstanding cellists who followed—Emanuel Feuermann, Gregor Piatigorsky, Pierre Fournier, Leonard Rose, Janos Starker—all owe Casals a monumental debt.
In the hands of Rostropovich, the renaissance flowered. New works were written for him by Benjamin Britten, Lukas Foss, Dmitri Shostakovich, Sergei Prokofiev. In the Soviet Union alone, innumerable compositions were dedicated to him. This burgeoning literature, as well as the example of Rostropovich himself, has encouraged a new generation of fine young cellists, who have moved from deep inside the orchestra to center stage.
Like Casals, Slava is an unabashed romantic. Cradling his Strad between his legs—or, more precisely, embracing it—he seems to pour his Russian soul into every phrase, bowing long, singing lines with a subtle eloquence and a purity of tone. His technique is flawless. Modern composers lay finger-mangling minefields in the thickets of their pieces, but Rostropovich negotiates them with cheerful ease. "I don't even know why my hands do certain things sometimes," he says. "They just grab for the notes." His dynamic range, from the greatest fortissimo down the line to a pianissimo that comes on little cat feet, is nothing short of phenomenal. "You played like a god!" swooned a woman one night in New York. "Yes," replied Slava with a twinkle and a verbal pinch on the cheek, "but like a god with sex?"
Orchestra musicians are bewitched as much by his personality as by his musicianship. He insists that his players call him Slava, not maestro. He refuses to place himself on a pedestal higher than the podium. Herbert von Karajan once broke up a rehearsal when he spied a musician chewing gum. Szell was a tyrant. Toscanini's men loved him, yet trembled before his baton-snapping temper. "Sometimes," says Rostropovich in his near-impenetrable English, "conductor says to orchestra, 'You play for me and my ego!' No. Orchestra must not think conductor is god. Some day he is running quick to bathroom, then orchestra says, 'There go god with diarrhea.' I, with my work, make service for our most important god—music. I tell them, you not work for me,' I not work for you. We work first for our music, then for our people—for Washington, for America."