Beethoven’s Compositions: Critical Reception by German Contemporaries (Part 4)

Op. 111. Piano Sonata in C Minor 111.1. “Music Literature.” Zeitung für Theater, Musik und bildende Künste 3 (14 June 1823): 93–94.1 I f the appearance of shining stars on the horizon of the artistic sky is extremely rare, while, on the contrary, meteors and shooting stars flash suddenly and just as quickly disappear, each new work of truly creative productivity is all the more to be treasured if it is conceived by a genius such as, after Mozart and Haydn, exists among our contemporaries only in the instrumental compositions of Beethoven alone (who for a long time has not been known and favored by fate sufficiently in accordance with his worth). The newest sonata for the pianoforte by this composer rich in imagination, dedicated to his imperial highness the Archduke Rudolph, his 111th (that is to say: one hundred eleventh) work, is the third solo in the Original Keyboard Compositions of Beethoven, published by the firm of A. M. Schlesinger. Like the first two, it is distinguished by newness of form, overflowing richness of ideas, particularly by astonishing modulations in the short, but significant, truly majestic introduction to the first Allegro movement, which clearly and energetically works out, without going to exhaustive lengths, a passionate theme in a manner full of masterly unity and connection, with a delicately songful contrasting theme and fugues in strict imitation. The appassionato in C minor, begun with fire, fades out in comforting, luminous major—resounding like the seraphic tones of the Aeolian harp, gently moved by the play of the evening winds. This sonata contains only two movements (counting the introduction as part of the first). An entire world of notes, however, revolves, according to the laws of eternal harmony, within the free variations on a movingly lovely, simple melody, most strikingly designated as “Arietta, Adagio molto semplice cantabile.” The simplicity of the modulation, which moves only to the dominant of C major and to the related key of A minor, and the distinctive rhythm of the uneven 9/16 meter, give this melodic theme the charm that beautiful nature exerts on The piano sonata in C minor, Op. 111, was written in 1821–22 and published in 1823 by Maurice Schlesinger in Paris, Clementi and Co. in London, and Adolph Martin Schlesinger in Berlin. This review refers to the Berlin Schlesinger edition. 1 63 111.1 every receptive soul. In the variations that follow, with their rich and original figurations— really more free fantasies that retain the original cantilena—the chosen manner of writing makes it difficult to read the notes, which are truly quite a sight. 3/8 or 3/4 with triplets, sextuplets, etc. would have made less difficulty. Beethoven, however, does not write and think up his notes like other sons of earth. The second variation is written in 6/16, the third in 12/32. That the last takes up twelve pages—and how full of notes they are—seems excessive, and certainly testifies to the composer’s overabundance of ideas, but also to his peculiarity, not to say bizarrerie.2 Only persistent players, of accomplished skill in reading and thoughtful, can work their way through this last dozen pages without fatigue. They will, however, be compensated for their effort with many beauties. It cannot be denied, though, that far too many means are used toward the specified purpose, and the great length of the whole movement—taking up sixteen pages in vertical format—for all the originality of the etude-like working out of the principal idea, nevertheless brings forth genuine monotony, which leaves behind no total impression of perfection. One must nevertheless be amazed at such inventive genius! After such long cadenzas, double trills, etc., the composer closes almost too quickly with a threemeasure reminiscence of the theme. The engraving is outstanding, and the price of 1 Thaler, 8 Groschen inexpensive, since these high, broad pages encompass far more notes. The paper could be somewhat whiter. A player skilled in reading scores can probably become accustomed to the popular Parisian high format, although it is less comfortable than oblong format. This author is counting the extended coda as part of the last variation. 2 64 111.1 111.2. Janus a Costa (Christian Wilhelm Schmidt). Journal für Literature, Kunst, Luxus und Mode 38 (September 1823): 706–8.1 I f to the author of an interesting new treatise on musical art2 (Mr. Gerard, professor at the Royal School of Music in Liège and member of the Society of Emulation there),3 it still appears very questionable whether in a sonata or another instrumental composition a definite feeling can be clearly expressed, recalling the famous “Sonate, que me veux-tu?”4 many instrumental compositions, even by many celebrated names, may certainly justify such doubt. It has long since been eliminated, though, by Beethoven’s immortal musical creations, among which there are none into which he has not known how to breathe the richest, most distinctive life of the soul. The romantic art of tones surely speaks to us through a language of the spirit, which, without using words, awakens feelings for which no words exist, or which at least can only be imperfectly indicated with words. If, then, it also calls up in us familiar types of feeling, the individual soul states of those who experience it are so various, and the imagination, which copies the tone-poet through its own creativity, is of such variegated productivity, that a perfectly equal effect on the various souls can certainly not be assumed; rather, it must necessarily reproduce itself in a variety of refractions and shades of color. The effects of musical art are thus This review also refers to the Berlin Schlesinger edition. A footnote in the original review reads: “Considérations sur la musique en general, et particulièrement sur tout ce qui a rapport à la vocale,” par M. Gérard, à Paris chez Kleffer et Desoer. See the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung from the current year, nos. 31 and 32.” A review of Gérard’s treatise appears in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 25, cols. 493–97 and 509–19. 3 Henri-Philippe Gérard (1760–1848) was a Flemish composer and an important vocal pedagogue. His Considérations sur la musique en général et particulièrement sur tout ce qui a rapport à la vocale, avec des observations sur les différents genres de musique, et sur la possibilité d’une prosodie partielle dans la langue française entremêlées et suivies de quelques réflexions ou observations morales was published in 1819. 4 French: “Sonata, what do you want of me?” This famous phrase from the writings of Bernard le Bovier de Fontenelle (1657–1757) is often cited as evidence of the traditional view that music without words is incapable of communicating clearly. 1 2 65 111.2 something like a prism, a fact that cannot be ignored here, since it was recently the subject of a sonnet in these pages.5 Meanwhile, every work of music that is even somewhat characteristic will always specify the fundamental tone of emotion and define the circle in which it may move. It will lend the imagination the material for its patterns, and these, even in their colorful variety, will resemble the varieties of one and the same species of plant. In van Beethoven’s works, however, a living soul addresses us, a soul that draws us powerfully and grippingly into its depths, now into a night of pain and mourning, now onto the sunny peak of rejoicing and jubilation. The present sonata, which in the above regard is worthy of joining the two previous ones, the works 109 and 110,6 gives new proof of this. It con­ sists, like these, of two movements.7 The first movement, in C minor, in ctime throughout, marked “Allegro con brio ed appassionato,” and introduced by a Maestoso of sixteen measures, is the kind of night piece to which we just pointed. Pain and grief, which proclaim themselves right away in the simple motive, particularly through the diminished interval in the melody, weigh heavily on the benighted soul. It struggles in vain for consolation, for light, for freedom. With all the striving and commotion, it does not emerge from the dismal circle into which the demons have banished it. The theme, treated fugally and otherwise with wondrous artistic skill, makes its ever inconsolable voice of pain known now here, now there. A few glances of light do fall into this darkness, but they pass by in a moment and do not have the cheering effect of daylight, but rather, like lightning, serve only to make the terrible night even darker. And by this artistic means van Beethoven, who has made it so much his own precisely through such customary ingenious application, has already often achieved unbelievable effects. For similar reasons, the conclusion in the major mode is also very effective; the pain is finally exhausted and sinks into slumber. After all this, the heavenly effect of the second movement can only be felt, not described. An arietta theme in 9/16 time, C major, marked “Adagio molto semplice cantabile,” enters, as simple, noble, tender and holy and uplifting as the comforting voice of an angel. Hereupon follow variations, the first three of which recall the church style and the works of Händel and Sebastian Bach, with figurations, ties, suspensions, continuous notes, and so forth. The figurations become ever broader and grander. Then follows a very original double variation, namely in the sense that each part of the theme is first suggested through isolated, broken off chords in the dark depths over a tremolo figure in the bass, and then in the uppermost octaves rippling with the tenderest, loveliest triplet figurations, as if the imperfect earthly sounds are A footnote in the original review reads: “July issue, no. 60, p. 497.” The sonnet, written by the author of this review, is titled “Wirkung der Tonkunst” and makes an argument in poetic terms similar to the one advanced here. 6 The author here uses the German word Werk, which means “work,” in place of the Latin word opus, which means the same thing. 7 Both Op. 109 and Op. 110 actually contain three movements, with the last movement of Op. 110 further subdivided into slow Arioso and fast fugal sections. 5 66 111.2 now resounding downward from luminous heights and transfiguration. Now begins a coda, unfolding with the decoration of magnificent figurations and modulations; then comes yet another variation of the theme in wonderful splendor, breadth, and abundance of notes.8 Thus has the quiet, clear source of heavenly consolation gradually grown into a a stream of the most general rejoicing and exultation. We have only descriptively followed the poet’s path. The beautiful poetic idea that lies at the base of his composition, though, already speaks for itself in full clarity, just as clear and definite to thought as to inner feeling. Mm. 130ff. This passage is usually considered part of the coda rather than a variation per se. 8 67 111.2 111.3. “As a Review of the Sonata Op. 111. Letter from a Critic to the Editor.” Berliner allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 1 (17 March 1824): 95–99.1 Y ou will wonder, dear Sir, why, in place of the urgently commissioned review of the 111th sonata by Beethoven (published by Schlesinger), you have received it back. I—cannot review it. Can you feel what this admission costs an old critic? I would not have the strength for it, if hope did not convince me that you will not believe me. And yet—I owe you a closer accounting. I will recount to you what I experienced with the fatal sonata; you may then believe what you can about me and it. I was placed in an unusually favorable mood when I took up this sonata because it happened to be on precisely the same day fifteen years earlier that I first expressed my opinions about Beethoven. I remembered with the joy of the righteous how carefully I then compared Beethoven’s composition (I believe it was his C minor symphony; unfortunately I do not have the notice) with the rules, with the prevailing system, and with the works of earlier masters. In spite of the deviation that Beethoven already allowed himself at that time, I recognized his talent with encouragement. Indeed, I went so far in this well-meaning mood as to hold up for him the distant ideal of becoming a second Mozart, at least in the symphonies, if he could curb the excesses of his genius, learn to banish from a composition the baroque and the exaggerated, if he would write less affectedly, more clearly and comprehensibly. Alas! What use are we critics if nobody listens to us? But I will not alarm you, dear Sir, with this question. It is enough that Beethoven did not listen, has gone ever more his own way instead of returning to the old path. And that was my first consideration. “What use is it,” I asked myself, “to repeat these truths yet again? He cannot do otherwise, and young, intelligent composers are sufficiently warned not to become Beethovens. How will it be with the new sonata? Once again a work, like the so-called Sonata quasi una fantasia (C-sharp minor),2 This review, which was probably written by BamZ editor Adolph Bernhard Marx, is unusual in that it is cast in the form of a letter, much of which consists of a conversation among people with very different views of the merits of the work. See Robin Wallace, Beethoven’s Critics: Aesthetic Dilemmas and Resolutions during the Composer’s Lifetime (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 58. 2 The reference is to the “Moonlight” sonata, Op. 27, no. 2. 1 68 111.3 which begins with the Adagio, since he could not think of a first movement, or like his 54th, where one cannot get over the strange sounds.3 See here, the new one has indeed only two parts, no finale. Nevertheless we will take it as it is.” But now, sir, what shall I now say about its content! I might not be able to play it, though I have practiced my Kramer and Müller studies ever so valiantly (I mean the most recent caprices).4 He does not now write at all correctly for the fingers, and we have learned to tell, from looking at the notes, what must sound good if it could be played. But these strokes in the introductory movement, this desolate, unrestrained storming and raging in the Allegro: is this music, is this, indeed, an aesthetic enjoyment, to be swept away by the storm wind—my God, I am becoming eccentric myself—this striving to the highest height, this rumbling in the depths, is this comprehensible, clear, restful development, is there melody here? Actually—yes. Between the storms and rolls, a little phrase of one or two measures does once come through. But what would one say about a painting where, in the midst of fog and night, here glimmered a star, there flickered a will-o’-the-wisp, flashed a stroke of lightning? Would that be a well-proportioned illustration, would it indeed be feasible? And this melodic phrase—every child sings like this in his innocence; is this artistic invention? I ask you! — I came to the variations. The theme a suitably pretty folk-like Arietta—Beethoven has observed what makes an impression since Weber’s Freischütz.5 But for heaven’s sake, what an accompaniment! Two octaves below the melody, in the deepest bass notes, it buzzes and blusters forth with the dominant left lying there like a bell fading away in the distance; and why? Because the first rule of polyphonic composition is not to draw the voices apart from one another, but to keep them together in the middle region like notes that belong together, and because it has pleased Mr. Beethoven to set himself above every rule. I cast only one more glance at the next three variations. True enough, they are worked out (though I will not mention those by Bach), but where is there here a pleasing, tasteful, brilliant figuration? The voices are forced into and through each other as if frightened, and so things are drawn out endlessly until one is ready to lose one’s breath. Here a friend, the music director ** interrupted me and led to me a young man, also an artist. After a while, we became his companions, and now began my worst sufferings. During our conversation, I had already heard from time to time with pleasure how the young man—for good reason I will call him Edward—performed the Beethoven sonata (as soon as he saw it, he seated himself at the piano with it) plainly and precisely, not too stormily and powerfully. At his age, one is not yet modest. Now (he was already deep in the variations), The reference is to the sonata in F major, Op. 54. Johann Baptist Cramer (1771–1858) was one of the most famous pianists of the early 19th century. His Studio per il pianoforte, published in two volumes in 1804 and 1810, was probably the most influential set of keyboard studies of its time. According to New Grove 5, 20, Beethoven considered them “the best preparation for his own works.” August Eberhard Müller (1767–1817) published four sets of caprices in the first two decades of the 19th century that were at the forefront of contemporary piano technique. 5 On Beethoven’s “surprised admiration” for Weber’s Freischütz, see John Warrack, Carl Maria von Weber, 2 ed. (Cam­bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 229, 235. 3 4 69 111.3 a note tormented me with endlessly repetitive strokes like a dagger-point in the ear. We had to stop. At a later point, I know not how many trills jarred into one another, Edward let his hands drop.6 How I felt the triumph of my opinion: “Isn’t it true, dear boy, that it is not to be endured?” He was deeply affected, and only at length did he say: “It must be finished.” He played further. How difficult it was for me to wait for the end—and how—yes, I will admit it, how dumbfounded must I have appeared when I finally found that Edward had stopped and called out not from displeasure, but rather that the young man, who was now bathed in tears, pale and disheveled, was that deeply affected by this—this chaos of sounds—but I should not talk this way any more; by this music. But do I know any longer what is music and what is effective, if there is at least one person, and what is more, a professional, who is moved by this music? I will spare you, dear Sir, the dithyramb into which Edward burst after a long silence, how he sighed that Beethoven was now dead and his gigantic spirit had stepped before humankind and had spoken: you have not recognized me; look up, this was my powerful life, these sufferings purified me, this ray of hope from Elysium, these sounds from the time of blessed youth strengthened me, refreshed my faint heart—and now I die. “Yes, he is dead,” Edward cried out, and in vain I asked whether the information was reliable enough for your journal.7 The devil, sir, I am neither a poet nor a sensitive nature, but a critic, and have only mentioned the foregoing in order to pave the way for the following conversation, which I convey to you faithfully. Perhaps you know a place for it. I: So, the music has pleased you? Edward: Pleased! O Heavens! Now you see that I have felt it. I: However—I do not understand—we are not in complete agreement. Which phrases, then, spoke to you the most? I admit that none appeared to me. Edward: O, sir, what do I know of individual phrases? I heard no individual phrase, but rather a great stream that fully drew me onward, and you ask me about an individual wave. I: I understand that you want to keep the unity of the whole before you, apart from individual details. I will enter into this spirit and acknowledge the unity of the first movement. It is a proficient, if also somewhat impetuous, fugato. But after such a movement—an arietta with variations, is that appropriate? Edward: Sir (if I must already give an account of what I have just felt) just these variations belong among Beethoven’s greatest accomplishments. How far does his genius carry him on never trodden, unexplored paths; how far does he descend into the deepest depths and then boldly fly back up into the heights; how much does he bring together here—and— how measured is the course, how controlled (if I may use the ambiguous expression) the form! Thus must the Greek chorus have wandered about the stage, with measured steps of the utmost seriousness, while it disclosed the poet’s deepest emotions, raised the deepest truths to the spectator’s eye. If I may speak as a composer, my highest goal (for genius, the gift of nature, Presumably mm. 112ff. At the time this review was published, Beethoven was still alive and would live another three years. 6 7 70 111.3 cannot be wished for and won), my keenest striving, is to make form my own as Beethoven has done; to be as measured as he is in the freest flight of imagination, as free and uninhibited in the strictest fetter. I: You have brought up a related point. It is true that the greater attention I pay to the sonata, the stricter I find the form to be. You cannot demonstrate this to me with every piece by Beethoven and do so here as well — Edward: But what do you call a demonstration? Must not whatever is truly there be visible to everyone who can see? But it has already often seemed to me that most of those who speak about Beethoven have not yet placed themselves on that point from which alone his and all works can be perceived. In general, one speaks so much of form and seems to indicate thereby a prototype for all works of the spirit, which exists for all time. Is form then something self-sufficient? Is it anything other than the revelation of the idea, the incarnation of the thought in the work of art? Every mature, sound idea must reveal itself as such, in a measured form. But each is identical to the form, or if hair-splitting reason still wants to make the distinction, and must do so: every idea has created its own form, which must be organized like itself. I: I still do not see how this applies. Edward: With a work of art, I meant to say, no demonstration can be more desirable, more necessary, than the idea; for it is only from it outward that the whole can be considered and judged. I: You said earlier that to you the first movement is like an allegorical indication of Beethoven’s life, — Edward: Well, then; the second movement is the death of the great man.8 Do not the harmonies of the theme already swell like the mournful music borne through the night from the funeral procession rolling on in the distance? The bells already toll in the second half. Now the first troop of those who accompany the corpse decked out in crape, the gently lamenting friends; it crowds in more and more, the orange torchlight floats nearer, the bells toll throughout—Memory takes us back to the deathbed. Through the continuous humming of the bells I once again hear the last laboring breaths of the dying one. Confusedly, and then ever more clearly, angel voices sound for him through the night in the delirium of his last hours. Children’s songs lull from above, like the trifling of the lark in the highest blue of the ether. The holy triad penetrates through the lightening twilight with a crystal clear call. The whispering sounds and ever more powerfully swelling chords rush down from the angels’ harps—he has died, the magnificent one. And the whole earth mourns the misunderstood favorite, and everywhere can be heard the death knell; gentle laments, sad memories, thankful, loving celebrations accompany him to his resting place. Who would not toss the most beautiful flowers upon his coffin; who, in their destitution, would not, through a stream of tears, send the most loving glance upon the failing earth? There is a paragraph break here in the original text, but it is clearly still Edward who is speaking in what follows. 8 71 111.3 The music director: Easy, friend Yorick! Don’t get carried away! Beethoven is still alive. Edward: Oh believe me, this often misunderstood man has suffered much. Who comforts the last days of him who never ceases to endow us royally? Though he is still alive, he has nevertheless experienced death; he has emptied the bitter cup. What artist could convey anything other than what he has himself experienced? The music director: But, my dear boy, you tell us most unusual things. How do you know, and how are we supposed to know, that Beethoven meant all this and not something entirely different? For if you cannot answer to our satisfaction, then the rule by which you say works of art are to be judged may be thoroughly suspect. I: So it is, my inspired sir. What may not be dreamed—if you will allow the expression—into a piece of music; what nonsense cannot be forced upon a composition, that the composer himself may never have thought of ? Edward: I have already had to hear this objection many times. Meanwhile, to speak just as freely, it is such a hybrid by nature that one can agree with it without prejudice and contradict it without danger. I do not know whether Beethoven has thought reflectively about his creations; it is, in any case, not necessary. For I know with assurance that he did not create through reflection. But what purpose does it serve to ask the composer? If the artwork does not itself speak, if it is necessary for him first to tell us what it is supposed to mean, then it is too bad for his effort and our time. If, however, the work of art is worthy of the name, and if we are really capable of understanding it, I cannot grasp how it is possible to find in it anything other than what lies within it. Is something that a genuine stimulus makes us feel a product of our caprice? Just try to have happy, cheerful emotions with this sonata! I: Are you denying that different people can understand the same work of art differently? I would have thought that we ourselves provided proof of this. Edward: Allow me to disagree with that last point, since it seems to me that you have not yet understood the sonata artistically, but only anatomically. But I do agree that the same work of art must to some extent be understood differently by different people. I imagine the effect of a work of art to be a product of its idea and of the characteristics of the observing subject, and find a proof of the godliness of art in the fact that it offers different individuals what is appropriate to them. At the same time, though, I beg you not to lose sight of two things. First, to be specific, there is probably a greater similarity among people than is often assumed. Above all, we are one and the same race, we are the same type (Europeans), and we have in common the most powerful, lasting, general influences manifested by similarities of time, country, language, etc. If moreover, we now strip away from the face of art all that is capricious, conventional, external, as we must do in order to be capable and worthy of a true artistic impression, the differences in understanding will pretty much disappear. Second, one must then also recognize the power that the finished work of art has to lift everyone capable of understanding out of his individuality toward the idea of the work of art. I: Well then: set forth for us what it is that is accessible to us individually, what in us is accessible to people overall. Edward: I can do nothing else in this regard but play the sonata for you. 72 111.3 Edward played. I admit, dear sir, just as candidly, that I felt that lugubrious expression of the second movement, though I was not able to make myself agree with Edward’s understanding of it. It is true that bells sounded, and in the passage with the trills that I referred to, the strokes of the low B-flat resounded most frighteningly through the other ringing. The music director showed sympathy and impatience at the same time. He left me no time to formulate the question of whether painting along the principles of Eschenburg and Maassen should be sanctioned, and began to dispute whether such a fearsome effect belongs in the realm of the beautiful. Where, then, asked Edward, do you want to draw the line? The music director: Let me ask, rather, if you do not want to draw one at all. Edward: None—unless nature itself commands a standstill. The music director: How do you demonstrate to me its command, or its silence? Edward: Art is life, is the world recreated by people. What life offers belongs also to art, and all other things are miscarriages, stillborn, and nothing more. Must we not depart from life, endure the death of thought, the loss of what is most noble and dear? Why should art not express what reality impresses on us with an iron stamp? The music director: But let art comfort us, not disturb us. Edward: Comfort is for the weak. Holy art instructs us by showing and allowing us to anticipate what must be borne; it strengthens us by making us aware of the awakening powers in our breast; it elevates us by showing us, as does nature, the rise within the decline, the new life, the eternal in the end of the finite.9 — Enough of this. May you, Mr. Editor, find the point from which criticism and the generally recognized laws of aesthetics can be defended against these innovations, against this attack on the first principles. For if the first understanding of works of art is taken away from reason, if feeling is to be allowed to fix the point of reference from which judgment is to proceed, if works that mock all our rules gain such fiery partisans, I will be silent. In the final paragraph, the voice returns to that of the author. 9 73 111.3