Beethoven’s Compositions: Critical Reception by German Contemporaries (Part 3)

109.2. N. G. “Reviews.” Berliner allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 1 (4 February 1824): 37–38.1 A great portion of Beethoven’s admirers now certainly occupy themselves with his most recent works for keyboard and voice only in utter privacy.2 It cannot be denied that he is retreating ever more within himself, thus distancing himself ever more from the exterior world and from that which now occupies and interests other lovers of music. He discloses only his subjectivity, and writes continually in his inspiration, without regard for others. The only object that he embraces lovingly appears to be nature, which is eternal, as his works will be. It can be asked whether these often strange productions of his contemplative leisure are a gain for art. A truly proper one, it seems to us, for who among living composers has the courage to shake off his striving for the approval of the masses, and to write for a small circle? No one who first wishes to become known should, strictly speaking, be so advised; he may not attain his goal very well. We by no means wish hereby to advocate customary and insignificant compositions, but merely maintain that, next to the most valuable originality, a genuine accommodation is at first necessary, for example in form, from which, earlier, even Beethoven did not exempt himself. Now, to be sure, he is known to everyone as an inexhaustible genius; one becomes accustomed to studying him thoroughly, and to making the glittering metal from his excavations into one’s own. Experience teaches, however, that many unfortunately have neither the inner calling nor the patience for this, for: non cuivis homini contingit, adire Corinthum.3 It is more comfortable to limit oneself to what is fashionable, to what other peo­ple find truly pretty. When, however, stars created by fireworks darken for a short time the stars of the heavens, or even make them unnoticeable, they will nevertheless vaporize, and the This review, which was also based on the Schlesinger edition of 1821, is attributed by Stefan Kunze to Adolf Bernhard Marx. 2 At this point, Beethoven’s recent keyboard works would have included the sonata in A, Op. 101, the “Hammerklavier” sonata, Op. 106, the “Diabelli” variations, Op. 120, and the sonatas Opp. 110 and 111, as well as Op. 109, all of which had been published by the time this review appeared. It is hard to know exactly which vocal works the author has in mind. 3 Latin: “It is not allotted to everyone to go to Corinth.” 1 43 109.2 latter will calmly continue shining on their immutable paths, signaling consolation and hope to the friend of ideas. Beethoven is and remains always the same (however many time periods one may admit in his productions). It goes without saying that the current Beethoven, the man, must express other emotions than Beethoven the youth. The blossom becomes fruit, and an orange blossom will never produce a medlar.4 Some, if only a few, say nevertheless: Though they all fall away because of you, I will never fall away.5 One can also only become acquainted with the present sonata (in E major) after an inward impulse causes one to repeat it frequently. It begins in the manner of a prelude, as one might test a harp to see if it is correctly tuned.6 An Adagio with a noble, grievous melody, which nevertheless finds some consolation, interrupts the opening, makes strange (nearly convulsive) twists, and leads back into the first prelude, rather as though its figuration had pleased its inventor. He leads it forward in an interesting manner and takes up the theme of the Adagio again, which, however, moves over again consolingly into the form of the prelude, and concludes with it sentimentally. The reviewer must confess that in this entire first movement he found no leading idea;7 it must, then, consist in the sublime singer’s wanting to distract himself through playing (in this movement it is a very agreeable keyboard playing), but not completely succeeding. In the entire movement there is in fact a sense of concealment, and in spite of the lovely passages, it is somewhat dissatisfying. Now, however, the proper emotion jumps to the fore. A Prestissimo in E minor pours forth clearly and distinctly a most excited passion. With the last movement, it forms the sonata proper, and is also thrown into sonata form. It is a shame that this magnificent movement is so short! (It does not even amount to five pages.) Before one realizes, it has evaporated, and the reviewer always plays it two or three times. The last movement is an Andante (in an antique, noble style, as it were) with variations. After the bleak middle movement, the theme opens up a heaven of reconciliation, and the first variation dreams onward in undisturbed peace. The second variation remains rhapsodic and free, rich in many beauties. Variation 3 (Allegro vivace), powerful and bold, in double counterpoint at the octave throughout. Variation 4 treats the first two measures of the theme with a lovely rocking figure in 9/8 time (tempo primo). The beautiful voice leading is very delightful. Variation 5, Allegro non troppo, uses the first two notes of the theme in half notes for a fugue-like, strict working-out, and falls back into the simple theme, sung by the alto.8 The medlar is a small European tree that produces hard and bitter apple-like fruit. Matthew 26:33 (RSV). These are the words with which Peter declares his loyalty to Christ after he predicts that all the disciples will be disloyal during Christ’s Passion. 6 In other words, to see whether the harp’s pedals are arranged correctly for the key of E major. 7 This concept, often designated by Marx with the term “Grundidee” (here the author uses “leitende Idee”), is a key concept in his understanding of Beethoven’s larger works. As he would later use it (most notably in his biography of Beethoven, published in 1859), it refers not so much to a musical subject as to an extramusical idea that must be comprehensive enough to include all the movements of a multimovement composition. If Marx is the author of this review, this is an early instance of his preoccupation with this concept. 8 The author is here describing the beginning of the sixth and final variation, in which the theme appears in the second voice from the top in what is initially a four-part setting. Thus the expression “sung by the alto” is meant metaphorically. 4 5 44 109.2 After the first four measures, the theme is decked out with abundant, brilliant and not easy figurations. The entire variation is to be regarded as a grand cadenza for the sonata (which can be called a grand sonata in every respect), in which the master documents his great facility in varying a theme. After the figurations in the bass have abated like ocean waves on the shore, the sun of the mild Andante shines once again in parting and casts a restful evening smile over the landscape. We scarcely need to mention that this sonata will bring much joy to Beethoven’s admirers, and it should not fail to be included in a collection of classic keyboard pieces. The engraving is tasteful, clear, and correct, and the price appropriate. 45 109.2 109.3. “Review.” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 26 (1 April 1824): col. 213–25.1 (With Op. 110, piano sonata in A-flat major, and Op. 111, piano sonata in C minor) I t has been a little over thirty years since the magnificent phenomenon of Beethoven’s genius first enchanted receptive and educated people in the world of music. This genius created a new epoch. Invention, spirit, and feeling in melody, harmony, and rhythm were fulfilled as conditions of a work of musical art in a manner new and unique to him. That opposition to this originality soon arose is just as well known as it is to be expected under such circumstances. The critical efforts, however, had only a slight and fleeting effect. The hero B. triumphed completely. Scarcely had several of his artistic creations appeared in the world than their reputation was established forever. Today this original spirit still stands unrivaled among his contemporaries. Only very rarely along his long artistic path has he for brief moments strayed from the direction of the magnificent goal toward which he has always striven. Even he, as a human being, must be affected by being human. One might compare such a rich artistic life to a magnificent landscape garden with splendidly laid out paths, often strangely intertwined, that circle through thickets, meadows, valleys, and rocky ravines. In such a garden, points with the most enchanting views present themselves, often in a surprising manner, that admittedly only the best-equipped eye fully enjoys. Likewise, in such a magnificent garden of musical art as the one that Mr. v. B. created, truly enchanting sections particularly stand out. Here as there, the paths sometimes turn so quickly, and often at precisely the most magical resting points, to an opposing side that, at least in the first moments, one believes oneself to be stepping backward away from the direction in which much beautiful artistic enjoyment was to be expected, of which one is now deprived. Meanwhile, there as here, if one only lets oneself be willingly and devotedly led by the creator of the artwork—for who could be a better leader than this?—one will find, to This review refers to the 1821 Schlesinger edition of Op. 109 and to the editions of Opp. 110 and 111 published by Cappi and Diabelli in Vienna in 1822 and 1823, respectively. 1 46 109.3 one’s joy, that not every turning point is a culmination.2 —It may be granted us, before we examine the above sonatas a bit more closely, to point out a pair of such apparent culminations among the keyboard compositions of Mr. v. B, this musical Jean Paul.3 We mean: the trio, Op. 70, particularly due to its Adagio;4 the sonatas Op. 90 and Op. 101, between which the two sonatas Opp. 96 and 975 form a kind of connection, since they deviate more and more from the previous ones than does Op. 90. If we were to cite the two sonatas for pianoforte and violoncello (Op. 102) in this regard, while Mr. v. B. might perhaps not agree with us, we can posit that as he created this work he found himself at an alarming summit from which a dangerous fall might have occurred. We, at least, as deeply as we revere Beethoven’s muse, as willingly as we usually surrender ourselves to it, and, primarily with the last named work, bear in mind that Beethoven’s works of art, in order to be fully grasped and enjoyed, demand the most persistent study in the most various moods—so that, as pertains to a judgment of a work by Beethoven, in particular, this writer always goes to work with the greatest mistrust of his artistic insight and makes a deliberate, committed effort to find only beautiful things in it everywhere—we have nevertheless not been able to acquire a taste for the sonatas, Op. 102. —Meanwhile, this work is perhaps a necessary middle link in the long, rich artistic chain of Beethovenian creations, and we could not have been spared it if we were to arrive where the sure hand of this great spirit has now led us. The above three keyboard sonatas incontestably have no closer relationship with any earlier Beethovenian artistic creations for this instrument than with that which we admire as Op. 101. As in that sonata, imagination and ingenuity have been particularly active here in working out the chosen melodic material, in part less striking here than there, harmonically and rhythmically, and applying to it (here and there perhaps also somewhat affectedly) the greatest mastery in technical twists and turns. These sonatas are by no means full of so-called monstrous difficulties for the player. Nevertheless, they demand many uncomfortable stretches, and especially (particularly in A footnote in the original review reads: “An astute head (see Dianoiologie, by Professor Boloselsky, London, 1791) represents the spheres of human mental ability as a number of concentric circles. —In the middle of these he places crude inertia: vim inertiae; next to it the lowest mental powers: memory and so forth. The broadest sphere he characterizes with: sagacité, imagination, goût, genie, sphère d’esprit. The unlimited space beyond this sphere he calls espaces imaginaires; the space between two designated spheres, espaces d’erreurs et de folie. —For the purpose of making such supernatural things concrete, so far as this is possible at all, while retaining the designations just cited, we would suggest instead the spiral made by an endless line. —It provides a good image of the context of all the mental powers; their restless striving for a constant broadening of their field of activity, and also makes comprehensible in a concrete manner the disappointment that all too easily befalls the one who, without surveying the entire spiral, observes only the temporary curvature of the next line and takes exactly what constitutes striving toward the most magnificent broadening for a return to the narrower sphere.” 3 A footnote in the original review reads: “Both proven by this designation. German geniuses may take up the association of ideas that we have brought to light here with forbearance, should they not meet with their approbation.” 4 This presumably refers to the second movement of the “Ghost” trio, Op. 70, no. 1, which features some unusual keyboard sonorities. It is actually marked Largo assai ed espressivo. 5 That is, the violin sonata in G major and the “Archduke” trio. It is interesting that while Op. 70, no. 1, is described here as a trio, the “Archduke” is called a sonata, suggesting that the terminology was still in flux when this review was written. 2 47 109.3 regard to the last sonata), due to their length, unusual physical strength. Most of all, they demand deep penetration into the spirit of the whole if their delivery is to bring forth the full effect through which they are capable of enchanting educated listeners. In accordance with the purpose of this journal, we by no means may or wish to withhold from the reader any detail about these sonatas, nor to fail to indicate, just as faithfully as unassumingly, where something perhaps strikes us as questionable, particularly harsh moments in the harmony or modulation. Only a very detailed analysis that follows the artistic creator, as it were, step-by-step seems to us to be superfluous, since Mr. v. B.’s style is familiar to all those knowledgeable about art, and the ways in which the above sonatas deviate from earlier works of this master is already indicated above, and anyway the most detailed evaluation of a work of art (with the possible exception of compositions with a text), even with an abundance of examples, for which there is not room here, can only create for the reader a very meager image of the work itself. In the fine arts, the positive alone does not suffice for the creation of a work of art. The application of the most perfect knowledge of all the muscles and parts of the body, of aerial perspective and the mixing of colors, etc., does not make a picture into a work of art, and just as little does a piece of music become one just because it contains all imaginable contrapuntal and technical rarities. Only the positive alone, though, can be talked about in positive terms. Everything else, and precisely what is most important, can only be talked over.6 —So just as merely reading the notes cannot grant the full enjoyment of a piece of music to even the most accomplished score reader, even if it were his own work—cannot suffice for an apt final judgment of it—so the written citation of isolated passages through music examples is not enough to win over others, to whom the work is unfamiliar. It absolutely must be heard in its entirety and astutely performed. —We are then perhaps swept away by a certain inexplicable something, so that we ignore or forgive even serious sins against the laws of music; just as, conversely, the greatest correctness and technical artistry, which on reading greatly delights us, loses practically all value when it is heard. We hope that, at this opportunity, what is said here will have been sufficiently demonstrated: that, with works of art, which first act upon our feelings through the sense of hearing—thus primarily of so-called pure, not applied, music—a thoroughness in their evaluation that penetrates to the smallest detail (which is still always aimed only at the understanding) is for the most part a wasted effort. The first movement of the sonata Op. 109, with the caption Vivace, ma non troppo, sempre legato, in the key of E major, 2/4 time, has a quality that is rather touching and, at several points, soothing. It falls into two principal sections. After one and the same brokenchord figuration is extended through eight measures with predictable harmonic progressions, practically until the cadence in the dominant is reached, the diminished seventh chord on B-sharp suddenly enters in the immediately following Adagio espressivo, 3/4 time, and carries These two sentences contrast the verbs sprechen, meaning “to speak,” and besprechen, meaning “to discuss.” The author says that the positive aspects of a work of art can only be gesprochen (past participle of sprechen) in positive terms, while everything else can only be besprechen (infinitive). 6 48 109.3 the listener away with it in a completely new direction.7 The character of this inserted Adagio section, which returns later with different harmonies, is melancholy, with lighter moments and several—we will let the English word suffice—whims. After six measures filled with notes of the most various values, the tempo primo returns as before on the B major harmony, and is now not so quickly forced off of the path suggested earlier, following its figuration and similar completely natural progressions without interruption.8 However, even before the close on the dominant is reached, it must once again allow the Adagio to intervene by means of the sudden intervention of the diminished seventh chord on E-sharp and to take its course through eight measures.9 The tempo primo uses a three-measure-long lingering by this Adagio in the main key to assert itself again though, and, having taken up its figuration, abandons it only for a few measures while steering toward port in E major, which it finally reaches after thirty-five measures.10 The Prestissimo, E minor 6/8 time, which now follows and which, in our opinion, must be played immediately after the previous movement if the effect of the whole is to be complete, is a most outstandingly successful piece. The element of its artistic life is defiance and passionate haste. Shortly before the principal interjection in the dominant minor key, which includes a transfer of the bass into the upper voice that is as fitting to the character of the movement as it is in itself extremely simple,11 a lovely little melody built on the alternation of the F 6/4/2 and C major chords is fleetingly heard.12 Later, particularly on the last system of page 9, after a fermata on F-sharp, as the dominant of B minor, it is as though the passionate striving, which had been pushed to the point of excess, is exhausted. The eight measures in this passage—they consist of the simplest exchange of the following fundamental chords: E minor, B7 with the fundamental tone omitted, and F-sharp major—surely excite in every listener the feeling of inmost melancholy. How little does a genius need to produce a deep effect!13 —Now the theme reemerges with full power in the principal key, the hands are inverted with the most imposing effect on the whole, imitated at the upper fourth, and the entire movement, true to the chosen character and in a manner similar to the first section in regard to inner technique, closes with haste and defiance.14 The last movement of this sonata is an Andante molto cantabile ed espressivo (Songful, with the most deeply felt emotion15—appears over it in the German language), E major 3/4 time, which the master has varied six times and in a way that is at times outstandingly admirable. The theme, a very simple four-part piece of sixteen measures, is altered in variation 1 through a very songful melody, tender throughout and lovely, in the upper voice, and Mm. 9–15. Mm. 16ff. 9 Mm. 58–65. 10 Mm. 65–99. 11 Mm. 57–65. 12 Mm. 49–55. 13 Mm. 97–104. 14 Mm. 112ff. 15 On Beethoven’s use of German designations in his late sonatas, see 101.1, n. 3. This passage is marked “Gesangvoll mit innigster Empfindung.” 7 8 49 109.3 in variation 2 through a quite capricious arpeggiation of the theme’s fundamental harmonies in sixteenth notes, given to both hands, which is twice happily interrupted by a sort of counterpoint. Variation 3, Allegro vivace 2/4 time, cannot be sufficiently praised. While the upper voice seems to single out individual eighth notes from the theme, thereby reaching up to the dominant B above the staff, the bass rolls down in contrary motion in sixteenth notes towards the contra B. The voices immediately change places; the upper voice hurries downward in imitation of the bass, while the bass, as had the upper voice earlier, climbs upward with individual eighth notes separated by eighth-note rests. At the repetition of this clause—the above-mentioned exchange of the voices continues throughout the entire variation—the pauses disappear and all intervals appropriate to the harmony are touched, successively moving upward or downward. The second clause is as similar as possible to the first in the treatment of both voices, and the whole variation is superbly effective. The first clause of the fourth variation, 9/8 meter with the direction to be played slower than the theme,16 consists of a cajoling figure covering three eighth notes in time,17 which is imitated more or less strictly in all the voices, while sometimes above it, sometimes below it, lies a little melody six eighth notes long. The second clause of this variation only follows these ideas here and there, often only in passing and without rigor. To give only a passably adequate account of variation 5, Allegro ma non troppo ctime, one would have to go on at length, since the entire variation cannot be inserted here, for it is indeed full of harmonic and technical beauties. It begins right off with a weighty, fugue-like theme, accompanied by a countersubject, which is followed, beginning with the next measure, by imitations, inversions, exchanges of all the voices, and intensification that extends in part to completely new modulatory turns, in quick succession until the end. Certainly, this little episode, with its serious physiognomy in the so-called galant style, contains, within the narrow boundaries allotted to it, as many demonstrations of the great master’s artistic skill as are hardly to be found in many of his strictly worked-out fugues. —Variation 6, 3/4 time, begins with the simple theme of these variations, to which is added a kind of organ point, which lies both above and in the middle voices on the dominant of the harmonies successively touched upon. These dominants, two voices strong, are heard first in quarter notes, then in eighths, then in triplets, in sextuplets of thirty-second notes, as written-out slow trills, and finally as real trills, which are surrounded by the theme in eight-note triplets. With the second clause an eight-measure-long trill on contra B enters as a genuine organ-point, above which the serviceable harmonies of the theme are slung out in thirty-second notes and various arpeggiations, while preserving the theme’s melody as closely as possible. At the repetition of this clause the composer places the dominant in the middle voice of the right hand, while the same hand lets isolated eighth notes from the melody of the theme be heard above it, and the left hand completes the underlying counterpoint with running thirty-second notes. After lingering briefly on the third inversion of the minor seventh The fourth variation is marked “Un poco meno Andante ciò è un poco più Adagio come il tema” in Italian and “Etwas langsamer als das Thema” in German. 17 The figure actually consists of six sixteenth notes. 16 50 109.3 chord of B18 in thirty-second note figures, against which are heard both the tonic E in the lower voice and that trill in the middle voice, the theme of the variations itself closes the movement, stripped of all decoration. The delivery of the last variation is very tiring for both hands, and we doubt whether even players who can perform this variation just as easily as delicately will take a commensurate amount of pleasure in it. The second of the above-named sonatas (Op. 110), a work in every regard very splendid, extremely melodious, and rich in harmonic beauties throughout, has for its first movement a Moderato cantabile, molto espressivo A-flat major 3/4 time. Right at the beginning, Mr. v. B. has further applied the words con amabilità to the delivery of this movement, and in fact, in order to express this, the player needs only to follow the composer faithfully here, for charm, gracefulness, kindness glance out from every trait of this beautiful tone-painting. — Since, as we observed in the introduction to the announcement of these three works, the distinctive beauty of a work of art—the spirit, the soul that animate it—cannot be properly analyzed, at least not in a way that is truly instructive and can persuade others, may the above suggestion suffice, which nevertheless, in our opinion, sufficiently specifies the character of the piece. We will not conceal the few things that disturbed our great enjoyment of this work upon repeated delivery: the ungracious, we almost want to say awkward return (page 6, system 2, measure 2)19 to A-flat from E major through the minor seventh chord on E-flat; we were likewise unable to acquire a taste for the twice-occurring exchange between a major key and the minor seventh chord on its second degree (page 2, system 2, measure 5, and page 6, system 3, measure 3)20—probably because the minor seventh is thereby left unresolved until the third measure—although the gracefulness of the movement itself is not greatly damaged by it. Would not the whole benefit if, in both places, the diminished chord took the place of the minor seventh chord, which would certainly be more customary? A departure from the customary can certainly sometimes be an aberration from what is right and beautiful. The second movement, Allegro molto, F minor, 2/4 time, with its middle section in D-flat major, is a truly precious little pearl in the rich garland of Beethovenian keyboard compositions, and thus of the most admirable works for the pianoforte in general. This movement paints with notes, in turn, melancholy, encouragement, being swept away as though by a higher power, hesitation before a decision, complete discouragement once again, finally, after a cry of despair, utter collapse. —Feelings about which, after they have scarcely resounded in the listener’s inner being, it is as though an entire horn of plenty full of lovely, cajoling banter is poured out in a completely original melodic figure, never before encountered by us, in the upper voice (to which only isolated notes, mostly on weak beats, that determine the harmony are added by the left hand). The little figure that ends this D-flat major section The text reads “Nach einem kurzen Verweilen auf der dritten Umkehrung des kl. Sext. Accords von H.” “Sext.” is almost certainly a misprint for “Sept.,” indicating the seventh chord. 19 M. 77. 20 Mm. 24 and 83. 18 51 109.3 seems at last to call back the previous F minor section: let that be enough joking around. — The principal section returns unchanged at once, and with it resound anew all the feelings previously excited by it. A short coda, consisting only of the perfect cadential chords of the key of F minor, seems even to reinforce the mood brought about by the entire F minor section. And yet, in the last four measures, F major, ritardando, with which the beautiful whole fades out, the sun happily reappears in the sky that until now has been so dismal, satisfying the heart. The quick and effortless performance of the middle section in D-flat major demands a very good player. The third principal movement of this beautiful sonata, Adagio ma non troppo, initially in B-flat minor, ctime, soon barely touching upon E major harmony, A-flat minor, 12/16 time, is a true dramatic scene exciting the deepest sympathy. There can be no more simple, beautiful, and soulful song than that which glides past here with wistful gentleness above a rich stream of harmonies. This song dies out, after a length of two pages, in a short cadential unison pp on A-flat, and a magnificent three-voice fugue in A-flat major 6/8 time, full of admirable beauties of the most varied nature, in which the earlier admirably constructed passage (this time in G minor) reappears after a pause on the E-flat major chord and leads back to the above fugue with its theme inverted in G major, worthily concludes this splendid sonata. —We must content ourselves with pointing out only a few particularly effective passages. Page 17, second and third system, where the fugue theme, reinforced with octaves in the bass, reaches down to contra C.21 Then the augmentation on the second system of the twentieth page, with the theme in its original melodic progression and the newly added extremely piquant ornamentations of the middle voices,22 out of which, on page 21, a new idea develops, briefly having fun, so to speak,23 until finally, in a faster tempo and with livelier motion overall, all the elements of the fugue announce themselves again and, after a deft spice of dissonances, the whole closes in the fundamental key of A-flat major by means of an organ point that makes extremely effective use of most chord positions here suitable.24 We come now to the third of the above-named sonatas, which is an extremely noteworthy work of art in two regards. It consists of only two movements: an Allegro con brio ed appassionato, C minor, ctime, which is preceded by an introduction of sixteen measures, Maestoso, in the same key and time signature, and a very slow movement in C major, which, not even taking into account the eight repetitions that it contains, is thirteen customary oblong folio pages long. —The first movement is laid out grandly and broadly and executed in a truly imposing manner. The first movement begins in the bass on the diminished seventh chord of F-sharp, with a few sharply accented notes doubled at the octave, striding, in preparation for Mm. 101–11. Mm. 153ff. 23 Mm. 168–74. 24 Mm. 174ff. 21 22 52 109.3 something powerful, to a pause on the dominant, with which the Allegro section begins. The principal idea of this section actually consists of only three notes: Figure 19. Op. 111, 1st movement, mm. 19–20. The key signature of three flats is missing. but what a magnificent, rich, truly grand work of art has the master put together from this simple material! For in fact, what little else he has used to hold together the interior of his artistic edifice is either, strictly speaking, this material itself, or derived from it in a completely natural way. An active life, indeed, one could say a kind of wildness, animates the whole, which is nevertheless interrupted several times by an incomparably melodious idea, which sounds for the first time on the fourth page, last system, measure 2,25 and there, just as at every point where it can be heard, forms the loveliest contrast to the powerful, passionate drive that scarcely stops even momentarily in this entire movement, carrying everything restlessly along with it. So as not to go even further beyond the boundaries of this notice, we can only single out a few things that are particularly effective. Foremost the splendid construction of the counterpoints that bind together details and their powerful inversions. Then, above all, in the second clause26 the passage where the principal idea at the same time emerges in augmentation as a fugue theme and is thrice imitated, appearing both above and below at its original speed.27 Finally, the completely magnificent passage, page 9, system 2, measure 1, in which that melodious phrase lies in the bass and, precisely there, speaks most intimately to the heart.28 —By far the most noteworthy movement of this sonata is the last, marked Arietta, Adagio molto, semplice cantabile, in C major throughout, initially 9/16 time, right after that l’istesso tempo 6/16 time, then 12/32 time, then for nine pages before the conclusion, the first meter, 9/16 time. —When we call this movement the most noteworthy in this sonata, we by no means wish thereby to place it above the one discussed previously. On the contrary, we are of the opinion that it stands well below that one. —We call it noteworthy because in striking qualities—it by no means outdoes what we have previously encountered Mm. 50ff. That is, the second part of the Allegro, consisting of what we would now call the development, recapitulation, and coda. 27 Mm. 76–81. 28 Mm. 124ff. 25 26 53 109.3 in pure pianoforte music in melody, modulation, and so forth. The theme, mostly written in four parts, is in itself as simple and calm in its progress as could be wished for in a theme to be varied or, as here, paraphrased. However, it has pleased the composer—why, we cannot guess—to make use, for the working out of his beautiful material, of such artistic means as we do not find worthy of his lofty genius. In this tone-painting, he resembles a painter who fills up the space for an altarpiece in a single color (monotone) with a miniature pencil. — The entire piece, which lasts nearly a quarter of an hour, abounds in notes with the strangest possible metrical divisions, which often strain against the sense of the beat; the melody is surrounded for pages with the most curious triplet ornamentation; both, though, mostly without what is most important: an effect on the soul. — Nevertheless, Mr. v. B.’s imagination is a sun that can break through even the thickest fogs of the lower atmosphere. On page 19 it shines again in all its distinctive glory and spreads warmth and life.29 From here on out—even though we could wish the excursus to be shorter— the movement gave us very great joy, particularly because in this conclusion we have received a new assurance: the great master will not tarry long in the “espaces imaginaires et—d’erreurs,”30 but will yet often enchant the admirers of his magnificent artistic garden on paths that quickly turn back toward the beautiful. —We wish this for both him and ourselves. The engraving of all three sonatas announced here, particularly the last two, is clear and without error down to the smallest detail. The paper is also firm and white. Before we completely close this announcement, we must further note that we are sorry to be deprived, with these sonatas, of tempo markings by means of a metronome. As little as this mechanical aid suffices and can suffice in teaching delivery itself, if one follows the markings during the performance of a piece of music, it nevertheless certainly prevents it from being completely distorted. —If, then, for example, Mozart had known and used this aid—and he would certainly then have used it—would the overture to Don Juan be clipped the way one hears it clipped by many orchestras?! For this reason, we greatly wish that all good composers, particularly the heroes among them, would not disdain the use of this mechanical assistant to indicate the delivery of their works, next to the verbal directions for delivery. The practicing true artist will not allow the bonds of the metronome to restrict his delivery either in terms of freedom or of spirit and feeling. The usual so-called virtuosos, however, will not be properly instructed by either words or metronome. —Consequently, marking the tempo by means of a metronome can at least not corrupt anyone, and could in many cases be very useful. The writer is probably referring to the passage marked “espressivo” that begins at m. 120. French: “spaces of imagination and—of errors.” See n. 2, above. 29 30 54 109.3 Op. 110. Piano Sonata in A-flat Major 110.1. “Music. Overview of New Publications. L. in October 1822.” Journal f ür Literatur, Kunst, Luxus und Mode 37 (October 1822): 605–6.1 T his superb new sonata begins with a grand movement in A-flat major, 3/4 time, marked Moderato cantabile molto espressivo, and con amabilità. And the melody with which the movement begins in four parts, and whose slow notes are then accompanied with sixteenth notes, surely contains a lovable, intimate expression of tenderness. It is hard to describe how originally the master knows how to maintain and heighten interest; how a light fluttering figure in thirty-second notes, which move up and down, interrupts the melody, only to let it step forth again with new charms; how meaningfully and distinctively the bass is made into the plunging lower voice, extended with trills, and then worked into simultaneously rising and descending figures;2 how the modulation turns so beautifully to E major for a short time,3 and all ideas are so distinctively scattered and developed. Hereupon follows a fiery, powerful movement, Allegro molto in F minor in 2/4 time, whose main melody in chords makes a ready and deep impression, like a lively chorus. It alternates with a middle section in D-flat major. The Adagio ma non troppo that follows, beginning in B-flat minor, 4/4 time, with recitative woven in, turns quickly to A-flat minor, and develops in 12/16 time in plaintive melodies, with a threepart accompaniment, into an extremely expressive composition of the elegiac type, such as only a Beethovenian genius could create. Hereupon follows a three-voice fugue, full of clarity and energy, in A-flat major in 6/8 time, Allegro ma non troppo. The previous Arioso returns, with its principal features, now in G minor, and fades out in G major, whereupon the fugue returns, but with its theme inverted, and then with a new countersubject in G minor,4 until the movement finally modulates back to A-flat major as a Meno allegro and closes amid new, artistically rich working out of the fugue theme. The content of this work has led me into greater detail than was perhaps necessary, in order to recommend it to connoisseurs and to warrant repeated thanks to its creator.) The sonata in A-flat major, Op. 110, was written in late 1821 and published in 1822 by Maurice Schlesinger in Paris, Vienna, and Berlin. This review refers to the first edition. 2 Mm. 20–30. 3 Mm. 69–77. 4 Mm. 152ff. 1 55 110.1 110.2. Adolf Bernhard Marx. “Review.” Berliner allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 1 (10 March 1824): 87–90.1 I t is an impressive sight when human strength fights against a powerful misfortune and wins. —Beethoven’s genius endures such a fight. Deafness has robbed him of all active com­ munication. Among the hundreds of thousands in the imperial city he lives solitary, alone. For him, the exultant call of joy, the expression of love and respect, are mute. His hand glides over the strings and he does not perceive the chords that charm everyone. What a hard blow for the tone-poet to lose his hearing, to see shut off the sense that was for him the most developed, that gave the richest nourishment to his spirit. What a trial: never to hear what his genius has prompted him to write—and yet to trust! How many vigorous arms would not have sunk at this, how many loud voices would not have fallen mute! Beethoven had the strength to endure this struggle and has emerged from the fight strengthened and exalted. The more the outer world was shut off to him, the more deeply he turned back into his inner being, the freer he made himself of all bonds that ensnared and dammed off his individual will—whether of habit, of the wishes and abilities of his contemporaries, or who knows what else. The more purely he frees himself from obligations, the richer do his gifts become to the person who understands him, the more inaccessible do his works become to those who can never understand how to grasp his most characteristic essence. All of this will be discussed more thoroughly at the appropriate time. It is human and necessary that in this seclusion, in this solitude of self-denial, many a melancholy glance should turn back to more fortunate times. If all good fortune, if Beethoven’s whole existence were dissolved into the task that he faces as a tone-poet, the language of music would still have to include the longing for a happier condition that is now past, the private lament over that which he has sacrificed and renounced. —The present sonata seems to be such an outpouring from the innermost heart. One at last stops treating a work of art as a dead product. One only believes oneself to understand it if one has rediscovered and traced one’s own sensibilities in the soul of the creator. This review also refers to the original edition by Schlesinger. 1 56 110.2 The first Allegro (3/4 A-flat major) is the lament of the lonely one, full of the most delicate expression of sadness, charming in grace and majesty. To me, this Allegro—which in regard to its meaning should be called an Adagio2—was a new proof of my conviction that the rank of a work of art is determined not by melodies and harmonies of a rare order, but by the spirit that permeates the whole. The simplest melody, the simplest accompaniment, the most artless development—are here sufficient means for the deepest expression. Indeed, the meaning of the whole ennobles even familiar figurations, like Figure 20. Op. 110, 1st movement, m. 12 (in which only the soaring through all the octaves can be called new) and gives them new charm. More unusual successions of notes, like Figure 21. Op. 101, 1st movement, m. 22 and Figure 22. Op. 101, 1st movement, mm. 23–25 develop with the most natural facility, which is the surest mark of genius. In other words, the expressive weight of this movement, which is actually marked “Moderato cantabile molto espressivo,” is more like that of a slow movement than that of an opening Allegro. 2 57 110.2 When the song has died out in sighs, when the music of the strings has faded away, there follows a strange, impetuous Allegro molto (F minor 2/4), into which is unexpectedly interwoven the melody of a desolate folk song familiar to everyone,3 and which then closes just as unexpectedly with a delicate echo. “All of this”—the artist seems to relate—“the trivial joys, by means of which people elevate and deceive themselves in their time, the desolate pleasure in whose delirium so much of life is lost, have never had power over me. They have blown over me like an empty wind (trio in D-flat major) and (coda) this is how it should and must have been.” If I could only lead each of my readers, before speaking about the Adagio4 (B-flat, c, later A-flat minor 12/16), before Correggio’s Magdalene in the Dresden gallery, let them look into the deep, lonely, silent darkness of the forest in which rests the divinely beautiful, holy woman repenting the weakness of mankind, surrounded by the angelic harmonies resounding from above. Or at least let every reader know and experience Beethoven’s sonata quasi una fantasia in C-sharp minor, that holy lament of unhappy love!5 Beethoven, who in earlier years sang so freshly and sweetly of love (Adelaide—Herz mein Herz—Liederkreis von Jeitteles),6 looks back here on the golden age that is past and gone. Whoever does not suspect, at the almost disconnected chords of the prelude (the Adagio is written in the form of a recitative and arioso), which is unable to remain in any key, that Beethoven here seeks to open up his inner heart—and how painfully—whoever does not perceive, in the song of the arioso, in the stream of harmonies, which quietly and gently joins with it, like the friendly brook to the neighboring bushes and meadow flowers, in the weeping second voice at the conclusion, the lament of a deeply wounded, orphaned heart: for them Beethoven is forever mute, and they will also never understand me and will never like reading me. — The finale (fugue, A-flat major, 6/8)7 hurries along like the ceaseless progress of time, mysteriously entwining moments and events, often with crushing footsteps. The arioso returns once again in G minor, and even more sadly; the fugue begins its round dance again in inversion,8 later interwoven with new figurations that recall the spirit of the first movement, and perfectly rounds out the whole. The song in question is “Ich bin liederlich, du bist liederlich, wir sind liederliche Leut” (“I am dissolute [or tipsy], you are dissolute, we are dissolute people”), which Beethoven quotes beginning at m. 17. 4 Actually Adagio ma non troppo. 5 The author is referring to the so-called Moonlight Sonata, Op. 27, no. 2. Beethoven called both sonatas of Op. 27 “Sonata quasi una fantasia,” although the title “Moonlight” is not his own. 6 The author is referring to Adelaide, Op. 46; Neue Liebe, neues Leben, Op. 75, no. 2; and An die ferne Geliebte, Op. 98. The comparison is somewhat misleading, since the last of these, written in 1815–1816, antedates this sonata by only a half dozen years, and only Adelaide, written in 1794–1795, can be ascribed to Beethoven’s youth. 7 This section is also marked Allegro ma non troppo. 8 A footnote in the original review reads: “Inversion is that configuration of the theme in which every succession of tones that previously rose or fell now falls or rises the same amount. I give the theme of the previous fugue and its inversion.” 3 Figure 23. 58 Op. 101, 3rd movement, mm. 27–30, followed by an inversion starting at the same pitch 110.2 Whoever is seriously concerned with improving delivery, either of a song or on an instrument, can learn how to vary a melody, how the expression can be strengthened through variation, from the repetition of the arioso. How often do singers and virtuosos use their freedom only to obliterate it! Finally, the fugue should dispel the preconception that this form is studied, affected, lacking in freedom, or interesting only for the intellect, for the trained musician. I will not neglect to express myself more thoroughly on this point. For now let this fugue demonstrate how appropriate, natural, and necessary this form is in general, even in its more unusual constructions of inversion and augmentation.9 In particular, the reappearance and continuation of the fugue in inversion gave me the worthiest image of the strophe and antistrophe10 of Greek drama, and the all-encompassing conclusion seemed to me to be a victorious exode. Addendum When one is speaking of Beethoven, how difficult it is to finish! And how completely inadequate must everything that one has said about him ultimately appear! Understanding creeps discreetly along, step by step, with the crutch of language, while surmise flies above the clouds on the wing of notes and hurries from star to star. —I would have to proclaim this even if I had written not a page but a book. What an abundance of beauties unfolds in the fugue of this sonata alone! How does everything—even things that would be drawbacks and mistakes in the hands of a technician— join together toward a more magnificent unfolding of the ideas! This fugue must be studied along with the richest ones by Sebastian Bach and Händel. A footnote in the original reads: “Augmentation is the appearance of a phrase in greater note values, for example on p. 19 [mm. 153–68], first in the upper voice and then in the bass: 9 Figure 24. Op. 101, 3rd movement, mm. 160–68, simplification of the left hand Diminution is the appearance in smaller note values.” 10 A footnote in the original review reads: “Following the meter of the poetry and of the music, the chorus in Greek drama turned in solemn round dance first toward the pictures of the gods on the right of the orchestra, then similarly toward the gods placed on the left.” 59 110.2 it,11 Let us consider once again the theme, along with the countersubject that is joined to Figure 25. Op. 101, 3rd movement, mm. 27–35 the latter in a series of running eighth notes, and the former also continuing until the end in notes of the same value. If one mentions that the countersubject is woven under and above all repetitions of the theme, and even during the episodes,12 one might have reason to fear that the fugue would go at a uniform, dragging pace. And how differently did it turn out, how much is the progress of the fugue enlivened by the most variegated means! After the first and during the second exposition (p. 15),13 the distinctive shape of the countersubject suffices to let the more powerful theme and its closing formula stand out. After the second exposition the close of the episode remains in a higher register, and the theme enters again in octaves deep in the bass, with new power and in a meaningful augmentation. Supported by the same rhythm in the middle voice and brought out, in a manner already familiar, by a tie in the upper voice, it enhances the entire fugal movement.14 The restful third exposition15 is now welcome. In it, the third voice follows more closely after the second but is soon lost in an episode, giving over A footnote in the original review reads: “A countersubject is the name given to a phrase that is set as an accompaniment in opposition to the theme, whether it appears as the subject or as the answer. The fugue theme, as opposed to its similar repetition in another voice, is called the subject, this repetition, the answer.” 12 A footnote in the original review reads: “According to the rules, a fugue theme is proclaimed by one voice after another, either as subject or as answer, accompanied by the countersubject. Each such run through all the voices is called an exposition. After an exposition, the theme appears either at once or only after a contrasting passage. This is called an episode and is readily woven together with a part of the countersubject, the theme, or both.” 13 P. 15 of the original edition begins at m. 42. 14 Mm. 73–81; ties in the countersubject to enhance fugal entries had appeared previously at, for example, mm. 45 and 53. 15 Mm. 87 ff. 11 60 110.2 the closing formula of the theme to the top voice, which repeats it three times, later imitated by the second voice. From here on everything works toward a forceful conclusion. The theme strides brazenly onward in octaves in the lowest register, and then again in the bass with an extended closing formula. At the same time the upper voice drives toward a close in the dominant with an extension of the middle part of the theme. Then the return of that song, that voice of longing, that sad reminiscence of happier days, full of the blessing of peace, of sweet enchantment! Oh how thankless is the effort to find words for the inexpressible! After twelve dull strokes and an echo of the harp, the fugue gradually reawakens. —With its return, the deep context first makes itself understood—the iron fate that moved along at a steady pace, and the voice of the heart, which sighs over so many trampled flowers. As the fugue advanced in straightforward motion, with the character of inflexible strictness, with the theme beginning in the bass, appearing there again after the first exposition and then twice again in octaves: so does the upper voice begin here with the theme in inversion, with the most eloquent expression of timid, humble resignation. And how does the childlike G major support this expression! In place of the countersubject the theme appears worked through twice in diminution in two voices with an accelerated, ephemeral closing formula that disrupts the character Figure 26. Op. 101, 3rd movement, mm. 152–58 61 110.2 against the principal theme proclaimed in the upper voice in orderly motion and in augmentation. Immediately thereafter it is repeated by the bass in octaves with the greatest majesty.16 Ties then appear simultaneously in all voices,17 the pulse falters, the motion is arrested, until a gentle play with notes begins with a twice diminished and shortened theme, Figure 27. Op. 101, 3rd movement, mm. 168–172 which winds around the principal theme in its original note values in free inversion. Like a rosy morning cloud announcing a magnificent new day, and its reflection on the mirror of the quiet sea, the melodies swim around the principal melody both above and below. The theme resounds again from the depths beneath the sounds of the harp—related in spirit to those of the first Allegro—is led by the powerfully resonant harp up to the most delicate heights— then the conclusion.18 This is a Beethovenian fugue. Observe here how one must learn art and then let it be forgotten in the free movement of the spirit. Mm. 160–68. Mm. 165–68. 18 Mm. 174ff. 16 17 62 110.2