Moonlight Sonata (Op. 27, 2), which is as full of hopelessness as the
last movement of the other Sonata of this great pair (Op. 27, 1) is
full of invigoration. The threatening strokes of the quaver chords
which sharply define each repetition of the stormy motive-passages,
the quivering secondary theme, the unrestful rests, the melodies,
which seek to calm down the seething bass; all this was a world of
seriousness which the clavier had not yet learned to know.
But this was still a _composition_, compared with the naturalistic
chaos of the Recitative Sonata (Op. 31, 2). This first movement is
a remarkable embodiment of gloomy brooding, which is continually
being disturbed by despairing cries, until it finally loses itself in
that resignation of utter indifference, which is a typical form of
Beethoven’s tragic finales.
It seems to me beyond question that the impulse which drove Beethoven
to compose great piano-pieces was supplied by the concerto-form. The
concerto, in its secular character, had not remained without its
advantages; it was broader and freer than the regular sonata. It
avoids _reprises_ in the first movement, and arranges the divisions
with more circumspection. In order to give the clavier-player a
chance to rest, the orchestra must take over some independent parts.
It begins with a broadly planned section, which so to say arouses
curiosity, in which various themes are treated; and portions of this
introduction are then inserted between the successive entries of
the pianoforte, or even simultaneously with them. The piano itself
appears usually three times. In the first and last of these the music
is to some extent repetition, the intermediate section is a kind of
free fantasia. Even in Mozart a strict unity of theme between the
orchestral and the solo sections is not always to be observed; it was
Beethoven who first carried it thoroughly out. He it was who with
visible affection fashioned the concerto form. It is no accident that
the two last of his pianoforte concertos, the G major and E flat
major, to-day enjoy an exuberant popularity. What Mozart had promised
in his C minor concerto, these perform to admiration. They are built
entirely on that plastic sensuousness which is the essence and the aim
of the concerto. Their themes are remarkably adapted for a polyphonous
orchestral development, for a delicate imitation on the piano, or for
the storm of the fullest harmonies.
The technique, whether of the piano or of the orchestral colouring,
though joyous, is yet severe. Far from all coquetry and all mere
show--the technique stands, especially in the cheerful E flat major,
on a height of extraordinary purity. The form is clear, but not
so precise as not to admit of modifications in single sections,
especially those devoted to the solo instrument. The intellectual G
major, the technical E flat major, represented an extreme of happy
sympathetic innovation.
We only need to compare the great Waldstein Sonata in C major (Op. 53)
with the Concertos, in order at once to see that the latter have stood
godfather to the former. There are not merely external likenesses, as
when the piano figures a theme which might have been played already
on the orchestra, or when more important divisions close with a long
shake, as in all concertos the piano sections usually do on the
re-entrance of the tutti; or when with passages played pianissimo,
and hurrying ghostlike, or in octaves, an effect is introduced which
in Beethoven’s concertos the delicate piano is generally used to play
out in contrast with the orchestra. Rather the important likeness
lies in the whole broad outline. The themes appear as a rule twice,
as is naturally the case in the concerto; the exposition is done
leisurely and cheerfully; a cadenza, such as Beethoven had already
used (_e.g._, in Opp. 2, 3, and 27, 2), gives to the conclusion of
the first movement a specially concerto-like quality. The second
slow movement is a short emotional transition, such as Beethoven has
written so exquisitely in the G major and E flat major concertos; and
the last movement, far from being a “concession” to the “light-robed”
muse, is a spirited rondo, in brilliant style it is true, but in its
augmentations and diminutions, its _stretto_ and the trill-conclusion,
a genuine Beethoven--as no other could be.
As thus the dependence on the broad effects to which the concerto
style had accustomed the hearer, gave to the first movement of the
sonata a new form and extent which it had hitherto not known, it was
possible for Beethoven to infuse into it a tragic content which soars
far above the general coloration of the “Pathétique” and the brooding
naturalism of the “Recitative” Sonata. Here for the first time we
hear those trumpet-calls to the battle with Fate, those heavy rolling
waves at the return to the first theme, which later in Op. 111 found
so concentrated an expression. A monumental epic develops itself about
the conflict, which usually forms the content of first movements. This
mighty form represents a mighty picture.
What was thus given in the Waldstein was deepened and unified in the
Appassionata (Op. 57). The uniform colouring of the Pathétique is here
deepened by hints taken from the concerto. A sublime and rhythmical
theme, based upon the simplest harmony, a solemn unison, dominates
the first movement. The second theme, lyrical as it appears, is
really only fashioned out of the first. As the movement progresses,
we seem to hear mysterious winds, stormy seas, convulsions of nature.
A cadenza, straight from the heart, leads to the most colossal
_stretto_ ever written: a wild upheaving, a sudden down-sinking and
extinction. Its spiritual connection with the choral-like andante con
moto is obvious. The note of aspiration is heard throughout, first by
pauses, then by a clearer and clearer expression in those deeply-felt
variations, which finally repeat their theme. The despair of the final
movement is the last act--a giant melody, uttered in piercing cries,
sinking down panting in the middle, and at the end breaking out into
Bacchanalian revelry, in which laughter and ruin are inextricably
mingled.
This was the most comprehensive tragic picture ever drawn by Beethoven
on the piano; and it has therefore remained a unique composition. His
works tell us that he outgrew the epoch in which misery is enjoyed.
His tragic art leads us beyond despair not to Nirvana, but to the
Elysian fields. Hymns of joy sound around him. Strong joy, Dionysian
strength, was the aim of this Faust. What he once depicted in the
wonderful monologue of Op. 27, 1, becomes his life. In the Elysian
Fields the fugue of adolescence returns to him, giving him repose and
safety. In it he allows the tragedy of Op. 106 to tower heavenwards.
Or, ethereal, world-dissolving glories shine around him--these are the
bright, cheerful phrases of the E major or A flat major Sonatas, in
which they now give the theme, now the figuration, or in the scherzo,
grow up in flowery profusion. Into this serenity he allows the tragedy
of the last Sonata (Op. 111) to pass at last. After a movement of wild
outcry come the simply resigned variations, which finally mount from
dull earthly devotion to angelic harmonies, to end in the glitter of
their smile, in the bright sphere of their unearthliness.
[Illustration: From Beethoven’s A flat major Sonata, Op. 26. Royal
Musikbibliothek.]
To understand the joyous Beethoven of later years we must remember the
capricious Beethoven of youth. A strong leaven of cheerfulness lay in
him, a healthy will, which knew how to be humorous.
The sportive Beethoven lies in the lap of Nature. There he hears the
entrancing imitations of his Haydn Sonatas, the hurrying ghost-like
scherzo with its Schubert-like romantic middle movement (Op. 10,
2), the sparkling Rondo of the Variation Sonata. This we must hear
played by Risler in order to appreciate its inimitable humour and
poetry, which is based entirely on the soft touch of the contrary
motions. The most perfect of Nature prayers, a Pastoral Symphony on
the pianoforte, is the _Pastorale_ (Op. 28). Not only the second
movement with its bird-like middle part; nor only the third with its
extreme cheerfulness, nor the fourth with its outlook on the woods,
its delight in the chase, its joyous conclusion; but also, and in the
highest degree, the first movement, are confessions of Beethoven’s
natural symbolism. This work stands on that indefinable border-line
between the comic and the tragic, which is the unfailing mark of the
intensest poetry. It is a complete picture of the world. Beethoven’s
scherzi, his most peculiar form of art, which in the Sonata take the
place of the old minuets, stand on this ground, and might be termed
“secular,” in comparison with the dramatic embodiments of his first
movements, or the complete picturings of the last.
The Rondos exhibit a similar process of alteration. In them first, so
early as the time of Philip Emanuel Bach, had the capacity of tonic
art to “let a theme speak,” been exercised. They allowed a theme
its full expressive value. To Beethoven, accordingly, in his first
period, such rondos appealed with the strongest effect, and their
charming melodies throng in his earlier sonatas. But he was able to
give this form a still deeper meaning. In place of the melodies he
adopts genuine motives of pregnant brevity, which, as in Op. 10, 3, he
develops with characteristic reserve. These pieces, as contrasted with
the old melodic rondo, show a convincing naturalism. To the old rondo
they are related as his scherzo to the minuet. Equally significant is
his love for certain diatonically moving accompaniment figures, as in
Op. 14, 1, or Op. 28; he thus avoids the impression of a regularly
harmonised theme, and allows the naturalistic motive to predominate
over the formal melody.
In the treatment of form in general, the sonatas exhibit a series of
different experiments, which are of emotional interest. His other
chamber music--the Violin Sonatas, the Trios, and all the rest, to
which I now only allude--could not accomplish the suppression of form
like the free, pure piano-pieces. The great Fantasia for chorus,
orchestra, and piano (the latter treated in concerto fashion), which
we value as an anticipation of the Ninth Symphony, was unique in its
disregard of rule. Psychologically viewed, the sonata-form is much
richer in content, and unravels the most wonderful mazes. Here is the
history of the re-constituted sonata-form; a history which is too
complicated to run in a straight line.
Down to Op. 10 on the whole we stand on the classical ground of the
sonata. In the three Sonatas, Op. 10, appear the first important
irregularities. Both in the first and in the second Sonatas there is,
in the “free” part, a quite new theme introduced, which points to
a definite design; and in the third we find that wonderful D minor
movement, with its utter abandonment to melancholy, which by means
of a stretto[114] in the Largo raises itself absolutely out of the
contemporary style. Yet all this was new only in tone; it was no
more absolutely new in idea than the Grave of the Pathétique or the
Variation Sonata with its Marcia Funebre, where the middle section is
introduced by means of realistic drum-reverberations.
[Illustration: Lyser’s Sketch of Beethoven.]
An essential change is to be observed in the two sonatas Op. 27. We
are at the beginning of the nineteenth century, not far from the
time of the composition of the Eroica Symphony. Beethoven was fully
conscious of the freedom of these sonatas (E flat major and C sharp
minor): he inscribed both “Sonata quasi una fantasia.” In the E flat
major a dainty andante movement meets us, whose voices are strongly
interwoven. It develops itself slightly, in variation manner, but
it is interrupted, once by a sustained melody, again by a stormy
episode in C major. What has become of the rondo with its couplets?
There follows the apparition of a rolling, beating, gigantic scherzo,
beginning in C minor and ending in C major. The C (always _attacca
subito_) prepares us for the bright A flat major adagio, which gently
takes us up till the whole idea is exhausted. Finally we have the
wholesome, powerful, and busy E flat major movement, arranged in free
rondo-form, with its stirring reminiscences of the adagio. The twin
sonata in C sharp minor is the so-called Moonlight, with its classical
first movement, which was a unique expression of melancholy; and
which, only slightly interrupted by the episodic allegretto, breaks
out again into the despair of the presto agitato, which we have learnt
to know as one of the most deeply tragical of Beethoven’s outbursts.
Of a sonata as a regular composition there was here no further idea.
These were transcripts from experiences.
The experiences of Beethoven’s life in the following period, so far as
they are recorded in the diary of the piano-sonatas, exhibit a certain
archaic character. In this period from 1803-4 (the period of Op. 31)
to 1811 (Op. 81 a) lie the most varied tendencies in confusion. It is
a mighty attempt in all possible paths, but the reader will soon see
that every path leads to a definite goal. In all the paths there is
an attempt to grasp certain great elementary principles, which lie
outside the direct development, and which are made subservient to the
new spirit.
This archaism of form appears first as an application of old forms
to modern purposes. In the G major (Op. 31, 1) we are surprised by
strange retrogressions--which yet are not mere retrogressions. The
rosy coloration of the adagio draws past recollections into new
life. The third movement shows us Bach’s application of the pedal
bass, transfigured by passing through the mind of Beethoven. In Op.
31, 3 the minuet returns again, and in other passages, with their
simply-cut melodies on “Alberti” basses[115] we seem to have gone
back a generation. In the “easy” sonata (Op. 49) and the “Ländler”
(Op. 79) this tendency reaches its height. It is a return to nature;
a growth of simplicity, in all points, however trifling; the reaction
experienced by every mature genius. Beethoven never wholly lost this
tendency to reaction. He became in his later days more Mozartian than
he had been even in his youth, and more of a Bach than Bach himself.
The second path leads us back not to the form but to the essential
nature of Beethoven’s youthful period. The delicate work of the
porcelain age lives again in him; above all in the charming F
sharp major Sonata, of which he himself was so fond. It is quite
extraordinary how in Beethoven the spirit of a past time receives
life under astonishingly new forms. This graceful filigree-work,
with its sweeping unearthly conclusion in the first section,[116]
built entirely on delicate inspirations, piquant harmonies, dainty
modulations--has wonderfully shot up in such colour, as autumn
blossoms only can offer. Take next the famous Les Adieux, dedicated to
his pupil, the Archduke Rudolf (E flat major). It shows a delight in
the minute and the intimate, such as we meet in old Dutch pictures.
There is not a passing-note, not a modulation, which was not worked
under the magnifying glass. I should myself not like to omit the last
movement, known as the “Wiedersehen.”
The beautiful characteristics of the “Absence” Sonata are well known;
the various metamorphoses of the three descending notes, more or less
obvious, but always helping to enlarge the meaning of the first idea
[see, for instance, in the first Adagio, bar 7; also the bass of each
phrase from bar 10 (third quaver) to the first double bar; then in
the Allegro, bars 19-21, in the bass, and the semibreves just before
the repeat; also in the “free” part after the repeat mark; and 13
bars from the end of the movement, left hand, etc.], the meaning of
a dreary longing, which Beethoven tries to portray in the “Lebewohl”
movements. The tender expression of the Andante, the trembling joy and
almost overpowering delight of the “Wiedersehen,” the sweet charm of
the delicate prolongation of this movement at the _Poco andante_ near
the close, all these cannot but deserve mention here. Of course there
was nothing new in having three movements labelled with such names as
these. What _was_ new was the inner unity which was attained in this
piece, and which was only equalled by the delicacy of the workmanship
itself. To this (so to speak) archaic and delicate style was added
the world-embracing Art which found its proper field in the C major
(Waldstein, Op. 53) and the F minor (Appassionata, Op. 57) sonatas.
Thus was the proper foundation laid for the grandiose poems of the
last six Sonatas, which lead the three streams into one course.
The first of these (Op. 90) is in two movements, like the last: the
first, a thoughtful and restful movement without reprise, with a new
motive in its development; the second, a slow rondo, embracing the
parts of the theme fugally. It is a work which, like all these last
sonatas, is never thought of as a “piece,” but stands before us in one
transparency, laying bare the inmost fibres of the man.
In Op. 101 an unparalleled height of thematic development is attained.
Rhythmical motives are plentiful; the smoothly flowing six-eight time;
the same with accent completely displaced (as in bar 29, etc.); the
vigorous dotted quaver and semiquaver of the Vivace; the prominent
formula of the section in B flat in the same movement, etc. As before
in the Appassionata, the boundaries between first and second themes
fade away before the consciousness of their unity. The Sonata exhibits
thematic in all its forms. The fugue half changes into the rondo,
free in expression, lively in character. An unearthly sweep of music,
born tone by tone, rolls over us; the _e a_ of the motive is its
air-built scaffolding. It is the streaming forth of the most inward
intuition of tone; a special kind of absolute naturalism, which yet
enfolds in itself the future of music. We think of the “Bagatelles,”
which Beethoven wrote and published at this time, cabinet-pieces of
remarkably genuine character.
Then suddenly rises before us the “Grand Sonata” (Op. 106). We
recognise no longer the old well-known features. It has assumed
the forms of the giant-world; it laughs in its greatness, in its
childlikeness. Will it really permit itself to be played by human
hands? We are at the mysterious limits of piano-music. Rhythms marked
by sharp blows, modulations in thirds, enharmonics, narrow-cut
successions of chords[117]--these are the very hand of Beethoven. The
first movement works with its three themes--an Olympian poem--as far
as the _stretto_. Its development rests on a fugal foundation. The
scherzo is all rhythm; in the trio, it is all unrhythmical; mystical
colours, sliding passages from B flat minor to D flat major, as in
the Ninth Symphony from D minor to B flat major. The Adagio is so
to speak the last possibility of the old form, wide as life itself,
Michael Angelo-like in its strenuous longing for F sharp major. The
transitional passage, the Largo, which introduces the last movement,
like an old Toccata, tries this and that, prelude-wise, and striving
after fixed forms. The three-voiced giant-fugue is the deliverance,
in whose retardations the old storm, however, still conceals itself.
But there is a joy in the mighty straining of these dissonances, which
Bülow ought not to have tried to soften. Theme and counter-theme,
“cancrizans” canon,[118] lyrical episodes, dainty counter-motives,
inversions, new canonic motives, tied up again with the fugue,
contrary motions, diminutions. This old lofty tone speech remained
serious; it is the refuge of the anchorite who turns back to the
powers of Nature, and finds rest in the wise observation of the stars.
It is the utmost of art for art. Who is there whom it troubles?
* * * * *
Three flowers bloom in this late garden, three unique documents of
a pure masterdom: the “playing” sonata, the “landscape” sonata, the
“life” sonata. The first is on the heights of pure technique, the
second is a clarified objective picture, the third is pure subjective
inwardness.
Op. 109 opens with a graceful impromptu-like harp-play of broken
chords, which twice thicken themselves in recitative songs. A somewhat
hard sounding scherzo stands in the midst. It is closed by the
variations on that never-to-be-forgotten melody in E major, which,
through reflective romance, cheerful étude-like activity, sober
fugues, bright trill-heights, lead back to the captivating simplicity
of their theme. The freedom of the first movement and the confinement
of the second are both made use of by the third.
We have a landscape in the A flat major (Op. 110). Over the
sward rises the tender song. Butterflies and sun-glitter are the
accompaniment. A wholesome strength mounts up and cheerfully wings
its way. In a pause of meditation it comes to rest; and from the
contemplation rises the old eternal lamentation of man. From its last
breathed tones ascends the fugue, the great law of nature. Once again
the lament, broken, helpless, dashing itself blindly against fate--and
all the more dazzling is the fugue, embracing all, Truth with its
disregard of the individual.[119] Thus does Beethoven express his
pantheism.
But even this sonata seems feeble in comparison with the unheard-of
intensity and greatness of Op. 111. The master sits at the piano, and
his hands run preluding over the keys, in broad, piercing, dashing
chords, which become closer and intenser round the node-point of the
dominant. From the dominant grows a theme of savage grandeur, of
Titanic power, all-embracing in its widening grasp, its Medusa-locks
flying in the air, crushing out all sweetness and softness, till, as
it came, it sinks terribly to earth, in those helpless _diminuendo_
chords,[120] with no _ritardando_, such as Beethoven alone
experienced. In the elemental song of the Adagio comes the release. In
its variations it spreads itself out into a world-embracing grandeur,
till its wisdom attains the two extremes of deep internal ardour and
ethereal brightness, whose opposition is developed in the last pages
in broad lines. The earth remains below; the minor conclusions are
forgotten; the forms have become a twilight dream; only when _our_
soul meets the Master-Soul does man attain to these realms.
* * * * *
At this time the inventive composer-publisher Diabelli had a good
idea. He composed a childish waltz in C major, and invited fifty of
the most distinguished composers and virtuosos of Vienna and the
Austrian states to be kind enough to set variations to it. Beethoven
sent him thirty-three variations, which appeared as Op. 120. Diabelli
may well have been astonished. He had perhaps some dread of the “last”
Beethoven who was then so full of youth. But he had not expected
anything of this kind. Perhaps he did not quite know whether it was
all done in earnest. Even the name of Beethoven did not aid the
venture much. The world during many years troubled itself little
about it, and let the strange colossus alone. It was reserved for
Bülow, who had the keenest sense for the last efforts of Beethoven’s
genius, to penetrate deeply into the great mass. He observed that the
thirty-three variations are no co-ordinated series; they are an inner
drama, like one of the later sonatas. They rise from the explanatory
sections which lay out the theme, through a gentle minor group, by a
double fugue, into calmer regions; a minuet concludes, which is no
minuet, but one of those wonderful resurrections which were the old
Master’s special love. The variations are a testament, as the Goldberg
variations were those of Bach. From melody to canon, from gloom to
parody, from archaism to anticipations of the future, from popularity
to the philosophy of the hermit, from mysticism to dance, from
technical glitter to the mystery of enharmonics, they lead us along
three and thirty paths to different realms.
[Illustration:
Beethoven’s last Grand Piano, by Graf, Vienna, with four strings to
each note, on account of his deafness. ]
[110] _Pigtail and Tuft_, a combination of “Bigwig” and
“High and Mighty,” with “Sir Oracle.”