With the exception, perhaps, of the “Moonlight,” this work is the best
known to the world at large, and the one most frequently attempted by
ambitious students of the Beethoven sonatas. Its familiar title was not
bestowed by Beethoven himself, but by some publishers later, and seems
to me inaptly chosen; in fact, not at all justly applicable to the
composition as a whole. It was probably suggested partly by the minor
key, but mainly by the second movement, which is gravely pathetic in
mood. As a whole the work is far too strong, intense, and dramatic to
warrant the name. _Sonata Tragica_ would have been better. I have not
been able to find any authority for attributing to it definite
descriptive significance in the objective sense. It is the forceful
expression of a pronounced emotional condition, or rather, sequence of
experiences, embodied with all the fervent glow and impetuous power of
early manhood, yet with the precision and finish of maturity. Every
measure is replete with intense feeling as well as intrinsic beauty.
There is not a superfluous note or a meaningless embellishment in it
from beginning to end; not an ounce of sawdust stuffing to fill out the
defective contours of a stereotyped form—which, alas! is not true of
many of Beethoven’s piano works; and, all in all, it seems to the
present writer to be the most musically interesting and evenly sustained
composition for the piano from Beethoven’s pen.
The broad, impressive introduction marked _grave_ is full of strength
and somber majesty. It is gloomily grand rather than pathetic, like the
epitome of some stern fatalist’s philosophy of life, and reminds one of
Swinburne’s lines:
“More dark than a dead world’s tomb,
More high than the sheer dawn’s gate,
More deep than the wide sea’s womb,
Fate.”
The first subject of the allegro movement is anything but pathetic. It
is full of fire, energy, and restless striving; of fierce conflict and
desperate endeavor; of the defiant pride of genius exulting in the
unequal combat with the world’s stony indifference, and the inimical
conditions of life.
The second theme is warmer and more nearly approaches the lyric vein. It
is half pleading, half argumentative in tone, strikingly suggestive of
the mood so common to young but gifted souls, in the bitterness of their
first pained surprise at the cruel contrast between the ideal and the
actual in life. It seems to strive to reason with unreasoning and
unreasonable facts, and to touch the heart of a heartless fate with its
tender pleading. The continually reiterated embellishments upon the
melody notes here should be given distinctly as a _mordente_, with
marked accent on the last of the three tones in every case, not played
as a triplet with accent on the first, as is so often done, and even so
indicated in many standard editions, thus materially weakening the
effect of the passage, rendering it trivial and characterless as well as
out of keeping with the general mood. This is what Kullak used to call
“the lazy way” of playing it. The striking contrast between the first
and second subjects should be maintained throughout, with greatest
possible distinctness, and the closing chords must be given boldly,
defiantly, like a challenge proudly flung to all the powers of darkness,
to fate, no matter how adverse.
With the second movement comes a radical change of mood. The first
impetuous vigor has been expended in the struggle; the first joy of
combat and self-reliant consciousness of strength have ebbed away like a
receding tide, leaving the soul exhausted, discouraged, but not
despairing. There is a moment of truce in life’s battle, a moment of
calm, though sad reflection; a moment in which to contemplate the
impassable gulf between the heaven-piercing heights of ambition and the
petty levels of possible human achievement, in which to dream, not of
victory and happiness,—those are among the unattainable ideals,—but of
rest and sweet forgetfulness, and to say with Tennyson—
“What profit do we have to war with evil?
Let us alone.”
There is an occasional hint of the volcanic fires of passion, slumbering
beneath this surface calm of a spirit sent to earth, but not broken,
gathering its forces for a fresh uprising. But as a whole it is
tranquilly thoughtful, gravely introspective, and should be rendered
with great deliberation and profound earnestness.
The last movement is hardly up to the standard of the other two, either
musically or emotionally. Still it is interesting, symmetrically made,
and not devoid of depth and intensity. It is perhaps a logical
conclusion to the work, if we regard the whole as a sort of tone-poem on
life. With most of us in youth, our boundless courage and aspiration
lead us to dare all things and believe in the possibility of all things;
to hurl ourselves into the fight with destiny, with the limitless
presumption of untried powers and unwarrantable hopes. Later comes a
period of depression and discouragement, in which nothing seems worth
effort, so far do realities fall below our expectations. Then, if we are
reasonable, we learn, at last, to adapt ourselves in a measure to things
as they are, to content ourselves in some wise with the flowers, since
the stars are out of reach, and to measure achievement relatively, not
by the standard of our first glorious, ever-to-be-regretted ambitions,
but of the possible, the partial and imperfect, under the limitations of
inflexible earthly conditions; and we quench our soul’s thirst as best
we may with the meager, mingled draught of bitter-sweet that life
offers.
This movement is light, rapid, and would be cheerful but for its minor
key and its undertone of plaintive sadness. It seems like an attempt to
take a brighter view of life, but is still shadowed by past
experiences,—a touching gaiety dimmed by the mist of recent tears,—and
this is, perhaps unintentionally, the most nearly pathetic of the three
movements. It should be given with life and warmth, and, despite the
pedants, with a free use of the rubato, but not with extreme velocity.