Beethoven, Second Edition

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beethoven

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R R Beethoven

second edition

William Kinderman

3 2009

1 Oxford University Press, Inc., publishes works that further Oxford University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education. Oxford New York Auckland Cape Town Dar es Salaam Hong Kong Karachi Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Nairobi New Delhi Shanghai Taipei Toronto With ofﬁces in Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore South Korea Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam

Copyright © 2009 by Oxford University Press, Inc. Published by Oxford University Press, Inc. 198 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016 www.oup.com Oxford is a registered trademark of Oxford University Press All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Oxford University Press. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Kinderman, William. Beethoven / William Kinderman. — 2nd ed. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978–0–19–532825–7; 978–0–19–532836–3 (pbk.) 1. Beethoven, Ludwig van, 1770–1827—Criticism and interpretation. I. Title. ML410.B4K56 2008 780.92—dc22 [B] 2007038279

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2 Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

R Preface

R This book examines the main lines of Beethoven’s creative development, from his formative years at Bonn to the last string quartets written near the end of his life. The investigation is set in the context of Beethoven’s biography, but gives priority to representative musical works in the major genres: the piano sonata and variation set; the duo sonata, trio, string quartet, and other types of chamber music; the concerto, overture, and symphony; and the forms of vocal music such as the art song, opera, cantata, and sacred mass. Not to be overlooked is his contribution to patriotic program music, of which the “Battle Symphony,” Wellingtons Sieg, is the best-known example. The introductory chapter, “Overture,” sets out the main philosophical and aesthetic argument. Like Beethoven’s second and third Leonore overtures, this one presents important themes that are later exempliﬁed in detail. Since the primary focus is aesthetic rather than biographical, some familiarity with the musical works is presupposed; the discussions of pieces aim toward an integrated approach that avoids sacriﬁcing artistic sensibility to systematic method. Analysis at its best is not an end in itself but a means to an end: it enables us to hear more in the music. In this sense, an analysis resembles an inward performance. It depends vitally on our imagination of the sound, and it needs to be veriﬁed by the reader: how does it feel? The book was ﬁrst published in 1995, and the chance to expand it for this new edition is a precious opportunity. I have used the available space to extend the discussions of several subjects and works: Beethoven’s “ﬁrst love,” Jeannette d’Honrath; his response to Mozart as revealed through their quintets for piano and winds; the Eroica Symphony and its mythic background; the cultural and political importance of Fidelio; a new source for the Hammerklavier Sonata; transﬁguration of the Arietta in the last sonata, op. 111; and structure and expression in the Quartet in A minor op. 132. The discussions of op. 16 and op. 111 overlap with my contributions to Variations on the Canon, edited by Robert Curry, David Gable, and Robert L. Marshall, and Verwandlungsmusik: Studien zur Wertungsforschung 48, edited by Andreas Dorschel, respectively; the discus-

vi

preface

sion of op. 132 intersects with my contribution to The String Quartets of Beethoven (University of Illinois Press, 2006). Many other additions have been made, and the bibliographical sections updated to include recent studies and interpretations. During the last decade, the many debts I have incurred and acknowledged in earlier editions of this book have continued to grow. I hope that my own development in recent years will have a positive impact on this new edition. To my research assistant during the ﬁnal stages of preparation, Joseph Jones, I am most grateful. From the large ﬁeld of Beethoven literature, I am indebted both to works with which I agree and to those with which I do not. I have tried to take account of sources and scholarship on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean and express particular thanks to the several institutions that have supported my extended periods of research in Europe: the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, the Killam Foundation, the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation, and the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.

R Contents

R List of Plates

ix

List of Figures and Music Examples

xi

Overture

3

1. The Bonn Years

16

2. The Path to Mastery: 1792–1798

32

3. Crisis and Creativity: 1799–1802

61

4. The Heroic Style I: 1803–1806

93

5. The Heroic Style II: 1806–1809

132

6. Consolidation: 1810–1812

162

7. The Congress of Vienna Period: 1813–1815

189

8. The Hammerklavier Sonata: 1816–1818

210

9. Struggle: 1819–1822

233

10. Triumph: 1822–1824

266

11. The Galitzin Quartets: 1824–1825

308

12. The Last Phase: 1826–1827

342

Selected Bibliography

371

Works Cited

383

Index of Beethoven’s Compositions

397

General Index

403

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R Plates

R Between pages 93 and 94 Plate 1. View of Bonn from the Kreuzberg Plate 2. Christian Gottlob Neefe, unsigned painting Plate 3. Beethoven and Jeannette d’Honrath, by Wilhelm von Lindenschmit Plate 4. Engraving of Beethoven by Johann Neidl Plate 5. Colored engraving of Vienna: Graben, toward Kohlmarkt Plate 6. Autograph score of the Third Piano Concerto Plate 7. Beethoven, miniature on ivory, 1803 Plate 8. Title page of Léonore (Bouilly) Plate 9. A page from the Mendelssohn 15 Sketchbook Plate 10. Drawing of the Palais Kinsky in Vienna Plate 11. Fidelio, finale of Act II, Metropolitan Opera production Plate 12. Title page of the ﬁrst edition of the three Goethe songs op. 83, 1811 Plate 13. Miniature on ivory, presumably of Antonie Brentano Between pages 189 and 190 Plate 14. Bronze bust of Beethoven, aged 42, by Franz Klein Plate 15. Title page of the piano arrangement of Wellingtons Sieg Plate 16. Beethoven’s response to a negative critique of Wellingtons Sieg ix

x

plates

Plates 17–18. The ﬁrst edition of Beethoven’s Hammerklavier Sonata op. 106, September 1819 Plates 19–20. Sketchleaf for the slow movement of Beethoven’s Hammerklavier Sonata op. 106 Plate 21. Beethoven’s draft of 1819 for one of the Diabelli Variations Plates 22–23. The ﬁrst edition of the Piano Sonata in E major op. 109, November 1821 Plates 24–25. Autograph score of the Agnus Dei of the Missa solemnis Plate 26. Oil portrait on canvas of Beethoven, 1823 Plate 27. Autograph score of the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony Plates 28–29. Two pages from a sketchbook used by Beethoven in 1824 Page 369 Drawing of Beethoven seen from behind by Joseph Daniel Böhm, c. 1820

R

Figures and Music Examples

R Figures Figure 1. The disposition of characters in Fidelio 117 Figure 2. Overview of the formal design of Fidelio, Act II

129

Figure 3. Rhythmic structure of the slow introduction to the ﬁrst movement of the Seventh Symphony, bars 15–22 179 Figure 4. Descending thirds in the fugue subject of the Credo of the Missa solemnis 272 Figure 5. Formal outline of the Credo in the Missa solemnis 276 Figure 6. Rhythmic patterns in the String Quartet op. 127

311

Figure 7. The F-E semitone in the Presto and finale theme of op. 132 Figure 8. Motivic relations in the Quartet in A Minor, op. 132 Figure 9. Motives in the String Quartet op. 135

366

Music Examples Example 1. Joseph Cantata WoO 87 Example 2. Fidelio, Act II, no. 11

26

27

Example 3. Waldstein Sonata op. 53

30

Examples 4–8. Piano Sonata op. 2 no. 1 Example 9. Piano Sonata op. 2 no. 2

35–39

40

Examples 10–11. Piano Sonata op. 10 no. 1 Example 12. Piano Sonata op. 10 no. 2 xi

44

42–43

326

325

xii

figures and music examples

Examples 13–14. Piano Sonata op. 10 no. 3

45–46

Example 15. Mozart, Quintet for Piano and Winds K. 452

50

Example 16. Beethoven, Quintet for Piano and Winds op. 16

51

Example 17. Mozart, Piano Concerto in E-flat Major K. 482

52

Example 18. Beethoven, Quintet for Piano and Winds op. 16

53

Example 19. Pathétique Sonata op. 13

59

Example 20. String Quartet op. 18 no. 4

67

Example 21. String Quartet op. 18 no. 6

70

Examples 22–24. Piano Concerto no. 3 op. 37 Example 25. Piano Sonata op. 31 no. 1

84

Example 26. Piano Sonata op. 31 no. 2

85

Example 27. Piano Sonata op. 31 no. 3

87

75–80

Examples 28–29. Second Symphony op. 36

90–92

Examples 30–32. Eroica Symphony op. 55

97–102

Example 33. Waldstein Sonata op. 53

110

Examples 34–35. Appassionata Sonata op. 57 Example 36. Fidelio, Act II, no. 2

111–12

120–21

Example 37. Fidelio, Act II, Quartet

127

Example 38. String Quartet op. 59 no. 1

134

Example 39. String Quartet op. 59 no. 3

136

Examples 40–41. Fourth Piano Concerto op. 58 Examples 42–43. Violin Concerto op. 61 Example 44. Coriolan Overture op. 62

141–42 145

Example 45. Pastoral Symphony op. 68

149

Examples 46–47. Fifth Symphony op. 67 Example 48. Piano Sonata op. 81a

138–39

151–54

160

Example 49. Wonne der Wehmut op. 83 no. 1 Examples 50–51. Archduke Trio op. 97

173–75

Examples 52–54. Seventh Symphony op. 92 Examples 55–57. Violin Sonata op. 96

164–65

178–82

185–87

Examples 58–59. Wellington’s Victory op. 91

194–97

Example 60. Der glorreiche Augenblick op. 136, quartet (no. 5)

199–200

figures and music examples Example 61. Piano Sonata op. 90

xiii

203

Examples 62–64. Cello Sonata op. 102 no. 2

205–9

Example 65a. An die ferne Geliebte op. 98 no. 6 Example 65b. Schumann, Fantasy in C op. 17

213

Example 66. An die ferne Geliebte op. 98 no. 6 Example 67. Piano Sonata op. 101

213

214–15

217

Examples 68–72. Hammerklavier Sonata op. 106 Examples 73–75. Diabelli Variations op. 120 Examples 76–79. Piano Sonata op. 109 Example 80a. Piano Sonata op. 110

225–31

235–37

241–45

247

Example 80b. Song, Ich bin lüderlich 247 Example 81a. Missa solemnis op. 123

248

Examples 81b–82b. Piano Sonata op. 110 Example 83. Piano Sonata op. 111

248–50

252

Example 84. Piano Sonata op. 111/II, bars 100–121

256

Example 85. Piano Sonata op. 111/II, bars 153–77 259–60 Examples 86–91. Missa solemnis op. 123

269–77

Examples 92–95. Diabelli Variations op. 120

282–84

Example 96a. Diabelli Variations op. 120, Variation 33 Example 96b. Piano Sonata op. 111

286

286

Examples 97–98. Bagatelle op. 126 no. 6

288–89

Examples 99–102. Ninth Symphony op. 125 Examples 103–5. String Quartet op. 127

294–306

310–16

v

Example 106a. Autograph 11/2, fol. 5

319

Example 106b. String Quartet op. 127

319

Example 107a. String Quartet op. 132, beginning

322

Example 107b. String Quartet op. 132, transition to beginning of finale Example 108. String Quartet op. 132/III, bars 179–95 Example 109. Piano Sonata op. 110/III Example 110. String Quartet op. 132

330 334

Examples 111–12. String Quartet op. 130 Example 113a. String Quartet op. 130

335–36

340

327

323

xiv

figures and music examples

Example 113b. Grosse Fuge op. 133

340

Examples 114–15. String Quartet op. 131 Example 116. Piano Sonata op. 110

343–44

345

Examples 117–23. String Quartet op. 131

349–55

Examples 124–25. String Quartet op. 135

363–65

beethoven

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R Overture

R No composer occupies a more central position in musical life than Beethoven. Changes in taste and in the role of art in society have in no way blunted the appeal of his music on many levels—from ubiquitous popularization in television advertising to the most exemplary professional performances. If the fascination Beethoven exerted in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries was tied to his heroic, revolutionary image, the last half century has increasingly demonstrated the universal scope of his legacy. Beethoven’s deep roots in the Enlightenment lent qualities to his art that cannot be adequately understood in terms of a merely personal or national style. His restless, open vision of the work of art reﬂects a modern and essentially cosmopolitan aesthetic attitude. Flexible principles and not ﬁxed preconceptions guided Beethoven’s artistic process, as is minutely documented in the thousands of pages of his surviving musical sketches. There is no shortcut to discerning these principles: only detailed critical engagement with the music offers a tenable basis for interpretation. Still, it is helpful to recall Beethoven’s own professed convictions about his general artistic aims. In a letter of 29 July 1819 to his patron and student the Archduke Rudolph, he wrote characteristically about the need for “freedom and progress . . . in the world of art as in the whole of creation.”1 To refer to his own artistic goal in this context Beethoven coined the term Kunstvereinigung, or “artistic uniﬁcation,” a notion that is connected to the aging composer’s intense assimilation of Handel and Bach during his last decade. A striving toward Kunstvereinigung is in no way conﬁned to his later years, however, and Beethoven’s entire career may be viewed as embodying just such a progressive uniﬁcation of artistic means. The central task of the present study is to trace the formation and evolution of this process through analysis of works from all periods of Beethoven’s life. A necessary prerequisite of any such undertaking is the examination of the historical, aesthetic, and biographical context of Beethoven’s style. Great works of art may seem to transcend their historical setting, absorbing its conventions into an aesthetic object in which, in Friedrich Schiller’s words, “the idea of self-determination shines back to us.” But it would be a serious error to confuse the apparent auton1 My translation. For a translation of the entire letter and a brief commentary, see Thayer-Forbes, pp. 741–42.

3

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beethoven

omy of the “absolute music” of the Viennese Classics with modern notions of a merely abstract structural matrix, lifted out of history. For Beethoven, as for Schiller, the idea of artistic self-determination meant something quite different, whereby the autonomy manifested in the work by no means insulates it from the world according to the ideal of l’art pour l’art, but, on the contrary, enables the work to display a “representation of freedom” as a goal for human striving.2 A proper consideration of Beethoven’s musical legacy thus entails not only an assessment of his impact on the musical traditions and characteristic styles of his day, but also an evaluation of the latent symbolism investing so many of his works. Susanne Langer once described the successful artwork as presenting “an unconsummated symbol” through a “process of articulation.”3 Crucial to her formulation is the word “unconsummated”, which points to the capability of the work to transcend the bounds of direct representation, so encasing the symbol within the artistic medium that its full meaning cannot be unpacked or reduced through analysis. It is revealing in this respect that many works of a superﬁcial, conventional cast are all too explicit or unmediated in their symbolic content. In Beethoven’s music, this principle is illustrated by the series of patriotic compositions written around 1813–14, the Congress of Vienna period. Beethoven’s “Battle Symphony,” Wellingtons Sieg (Wellington’s Victory), and his cantata Der glorreiche Augenblick (The Glorious Moment) marked a summit of his outward, public acclaim but a nadir of his artistic achievement. What the bundle of processional anthems and cannonades in Wellington’s Victory lacks is a compelling internal artistic context. In this work a literal, external programme assumes priority, whereas in the Eroica Symphony or the Lebewohl Sonata, by contrast, symbolic elements are absorbed into new and original musical designs, creating a whole greater than the sum of the parts. To express the same point differently, we could say that in Wellington’s Victory Langer’s requirement of a “process of articulation” is inadequately developed; as in most popular and commercial music, the symbolic content is not truly integrated into an artistic structure. This touches in turn on the problem of “absolute music” that has been so much debated in connection with Beethoven’s works since the nineteenth century. As some insightful earlier critics from E. T. A. Hoffmann to Walter Riezler have argued, Beethoven’s music represents a supreme embodiment of an art that had ﬁnally emancipated itself, through a long historical process, from its traditional dependence on words, dance, or ritual. Its status as “absolute music” was thus bound up with a sense of autonomy whereby the work seemed to follow not convention or external models but its own inner laws, achieving a qualitatively new realization of the tonal language in works of highly individualized character. Beethoven increasingly transformed the rhetorical models and conventional formal gestures of the music of his day. He was prepared thereby to strain the expectations of the aristocratic patrons who nourished his career but toward whom he 2 This and the preceding quotation are from Schiller’s correspondence with Körner, cited in Chytry, The Aesthetic State, pp. 81, 82. 3 Philosophy in a New Key, p. 204.

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showed a ﬁerce independence. More than any previous composer Beethoven contributed to a reversal of the perceived relation between artist and society: instead of supplying commodities for use, like a skilled tradesman, the successful artist could now be regarded as an original genius in the Kantian sense, revealing an unsuspected higher order in nature, and giving voice thereby to the unconditioned, or even paradoxically to the inﬁnite or the inexpressible. This idealistic outlook, which reinforced the myth of Beethoven as revolutionary prophet or “deaf seer,” in Wagner’s words, risks obscuring some essential aspects of the music and must be complemented by a dose of empirical realism. We are now more aware of the problematic character of evolutionary historicism, as well as the pitfalls of overemphasizing the allegedly unconditioned nature of the aesthetic object. In fact, a popularized version of the new aesthetic of expression, together with the cult of genius and a strong appetite for programmatic interpretations and titles, were all associated with a change in taste that was already becoming evident in Vienna during Beethoven’s lifetime, a change that in some important respects must be reckoned a decline. The palaces where Beethoven established himself in the 1790s and Mozart worked just a few years earlier supported a more reﬁned audience than the general concert public that came into existence a few decades later. Lost to the new aesthetic, for instance, was the dry, rationalistic spirit that inspired the comic instrumental works of Haydn and Beethoven—music with few parallels before the twentieth century. The Romantic composers tended to take themselves too seriously to partake in the ironic play of incongruity that remained a lifelong interest of Beethoven. Beethoven’s legacy cast a long shadow over the nineteenth century, a shadow covering both sides of the famous aesthetic controversies that raged around Liszt and Wagner on the one hand, and Brahms and Hanslick on the other. These controversies illustrate how difﬁcult it was to maintain the Beethovenian balance between tradition and innovation. For many, it seemed unavoidable to take sides for or against the “Music of the Future” through commitment to either the expressive or the formalistic aesthetic, and the duality has continued to exert inﬂuence up to the present. Yet the choice is invidious and unnecessary, since neither perspective rules out the other. A major challenge to criticism of Beethoven’s music consists precisely in the need to sustain a balance between these dimensions, which have been described as “the two classic elements that rub against one another in every work: expressive, fallible substance on the one hand, and determined, inexorable structure on the other.”4 Critics and analysts have often emphasized one or other of these aspects without grasping the synthesis on which Beethoven’s art vitally depends. The danger of a programmatic approach is that an objective, veriﬁable relationship with the work may be shortchanged in favor of the impressionistic response of the critic. Many such interpretations have been offered: two examples are Arnold Schering’s Beethoven und die Dichtung and Wilfrid Mellers’s Beethoven and the Voice of God. Schering saw the key to interpretation in dramas by Shakespeare, 4

Richard Kramer, “Ambiguities in La Malinconia,” p. 29.

beethoven

6

Schiller, and Goethe, and freely underlaid themes from Beethoven’s works with texts by these authors. Mellers, on the other hand, discerned in the emergent lyricism of Beethoven’s music a “hidden song” with divine connotations. Despite occasional insights, the work of both authors is compromised by their tendency to oversimplify the artistic phenomenon, interpreting its symbolism in a too explicit and arbitrary fashion. Consequently, the dialogue of the critic with the artwork and its historical context often collapses into a monologue, revealing far more about the writer than about the object of discourse. Equally serious difﬁculties undermine approaches based narrowly on aspects of musical structure whose aesthetic qualities are ignored. In Allen Forte’s book The Compositional Matrix, devoted to Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in E major op. 109, for instance, any reference to the aesthetic character of the music is conspicuously avoided as if unworthy of consideration. Some analyses, especially in English-speaking countries, continue to reﬂect inhibitions or even embarrassment about those aspects of the artistic experience that seem less accessible to systematic methodologies. Just as in Anglo-American philosophy of the postwar period, in which perennial issues of ethics and metaphysics were cast aside in favor of an intense yet often myopic probing of the logic of language, so has musical analysis too frequently limited its attention to quantiﬁable entities, cutting short the inquiry into artistic meaning. How, then, can we address Beethoven’s music in its proper aesthetic terms, while maintaining the necessary balance between subjectivity and objectivity? It is helpful in this connection to reassess some of the aesthetic ideas that emerged out of Enlightenment thought. To be sure, the leading thinkers of the age, such as Kant, Schiller, and Goethe, often showed insufﬁcient awareness of the potential of musical art, and it is usually not their explicit pronouncements about music but their more comprehensive insights that most richly reward our attention. Most crucial is the concept of human experience as a synthesis of sense perception and understanding regulated by the faculty of reason (Vernunft). The classic statement of this argument, which has been reformulated and elaborated many times up to the present day, is the ﬁrst of Kant’s three great critiques, the Kritik der reinen Vernunft (Critique of Pure Reason), ﬁrst published in 1781. Beethoven’s enthusiasm for one of Kant’s dictums is recorded in his conversation-book notation of February 1820: “‘The moral law within us, and the starry heavens above us’ Kant!!!”5 By the same token, Beethoven declined to attend lectures on Kant held at the University of Vienna, and it is unlikely that he studied many of Kant’s works at ﬁrst hand. Maynard Solomon has described Beethoven’s position as “superﬁcial Kantianism.”6 It is possible, however, that Beethoven’s afﬁnity with Kant lies not in any direct philosophical engagement but rather in his response, through his art, to the same underlying experiential issues. Still more important are the ideas of another creative artist who strove to integrate Kant’s theory with an elevated concept of the artwork—Schiller, whose let5 6

Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte, vol. 1, p. 235. Beethoven, p. 38.

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ters Über die aesthetische Erziehung des Menschen (On the Aesthetic Education of Mankind) ﬁrst appeared in 1795, to be warmly if not uncritically appreciated by the philosopher at Königsberg. Schiller’s Aesthetic Letters are underestimated today, but the core of his argument remains viable and provocative. One difﬁculty lies in his reliance on the term “beauty” (Schönheit) instead of “work of art,” since beauty is clearly not a necessary or sufﬁcient criterion for art, as Schiller sometimes implies. His basic argument nevertheless allows for the substitution of “artwork” for “beauty,” a substitution which strengthens the connection between the ontological and ethical aspects of his theory. For Schiller, the inborn faculty of the senses, comprising our perception of manifold impressions in a temporal continuity, is regarded as a “sensuous drive” (Sinntrieb). Our rational nature, on the other hand, which seeks to annul time by imposing categories on experience, is the “form drive” (Formtrieb). The profound signiﬁcance accorded to art in Schiller’s theory derives from its synthesis of the sensuous and rational in the “play drive” (Spieltrieb), which brings “life” and form (Gestalt) into conjunction as “living shape” (lebende Gestalt).7 This tensional synthesis of sensuous intuition and rational understanding should be distinguished from the dialectical speculations of Hegel and later idealistic thinkers. For Schiller or Kant, unlike the Romantic idealists, the recognition of limits is crucial. The limits imposed by the “critique of reason” hold ideological speculation in check, while moral and ethical issues emerge through the idea of freedom. Hegel’s philosophy of spirit oversteps, but does not escape, the Kantian critique by systematically dissolving ﬁxity of thought. The rhythm of Hegel’s speculative dialectic strives to overcome the gap between subjectivity and objectivity by means of an “expressive pantheism,” infusing philosophy with aesthetics, just as art in turn, in his view, can transcend its own sphere by becoming religion or Kunstreligion. Hegel ultimately elevates speculative thought to a kind of mysticism that supersedes religion while allegedly preserving its essential content. His closest musical counterpart is Wagner, who embraced Hegel’s commitment to a sweeping, evolutionary historicism and whose ﬁnal work became the most controversial modern embodiment of Kunstreligion: Parsifal. If Beethoven was no Hegelian, some of his aesthetic convictions do parallel those of Friedrich Schelling, a pivotal ﬁgure in the circle at Jena in the 1790s that included both Hölderlin and Hegel. As Joseph Chytry recently observed, these three colleagues pursued a “philosophical quest for an intuition prior to the distinction between subject and object,” a project with strong social, political, and religious implications, since what was sought was a unity with all being (Vereinigung).8 The attempt to advance beyond Kant’s Kritik der Urteilskraft (Critique of Judgment) of 1790 and Schiller’s Aesthetic Letters was a perilous one, and Schelling ultimately succumbed to the dismal attractions of political romanticism. The Schellingian position in his System of Transcendental Idealism of 1800, however, deserves attention for the exalted role it grants the artwork in displaying this 7 8

Cf. Chytry, The Aesthetic State, p. 82. The Aesthetic State, pp. 109–10, 135–47.

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original harmony of object and subject, unconscious and conscious, nature and freedom. Schelling’s concept of the natural world, like Goethe’s, was organicist; for him, mind itself was seen as emanating from the unending activity of nature. We are reminded here of Beethoven’s own nature worship, so richly documented in his heavily annotated copy of Christian Sturm’s Reﬂections on the Works of God in Nature. That Beethoven’s feelings had a philosophical core is implied as well by the inscriptions from ancient Egyptian monuments that he kept under glass on his work table. The second of these appeared as a footnote in Kant’s Critique of Judgment together with the following commentary: Perhaps nothing more sublime was ever said and no sublimer thought ever expressed than on the Temple of Isis (Mother Nature): “I am all that is and that was and that shall be, and no mortal hath lifted my veil.”

The dictum characterizes nature as inﬁnite, timeless and beyond comprehension, much the same message as conveyed in the Kantian quotation about the “starry heavens above”—an image Beethoven absorbed into an entire series of musical works. Noteworthy in this connection is Schelling’s argument that since philosophy is reﬂection, it must wait for art to produce a consciousness of the unity of nature and freedom. In effect, Schelling offered a philosophical justiﬁcation for the claim, attributed apocryphally to Beethoven, that the revelation of art was “higher than all wisdom and philosophy.” And it is perhaps in light of the struggle of the Jena circle to transcend the limits of Kantian and Schillerian aesthetics that we may best view the artistic enterprise that Beethoven himself provocatively dubbed Kunstvereinigung. What is the character of this unity of object and subject, or nature and freedom? The subsequent history of aesthetics shows clearly the temptation to oversimplify the issue, or even whiten it into abstraction. Sensationist or formalistic theories of art, for instance, isolate one side of Schiller’s triadic conﬁguration, giving too little attention to the interaction of the sensuous and rational. Analogous problems underlie the shortcomings of many musical analyses, as we have seen. Ultimately, the meaning of a pair of concepts such as “subjective” and “objective” proves provisionary if not vague when tested against concrete experience. The polarity of nature and freedom, however, touches abiding issues that were tackled in different ways by all the thinkers we have mentioned, and have lost none of their relevance in the ongoing philosophical debate.9 One pole centers on the “sublime” in nature, our experience of the inﬁnite and awe-inspiring in the phenomenal world; the other revolves around the possibility of “freedom,” that autonomy of the individual that is the prerequisite of moral action or creativity. The philosophical dilemma that has often impoverished aesthetics is lodged precisely at the nexus prior to the distinction between subject and object that Schelling contemplated in 1800. Schelling posited that the artwork displays the 9

Vilhjálmur Árnason has recently claimed, for instance, that “philosophy must recover the notion of nature as it enters into the history of human development” in order to provide “an adequate account of human morality” (“Morality and Humanity,” p. 3).

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synthesis of nature and freedom “as the most perfect unity,” treating the aesthetic experience as a medium of reconciliation in a manner looking back to Kant and forward to Hegel. The problem is that it is the aesthetic of beauty, not the sublime, that offers itself as an embodiment of reconciliation. Schiller’s vision of the artwork also involves a mediating synthesis, as we have seen, but the dynamic, tension-laden elements that are undervalued in too much aesthetic theory, including Kant’s Critique of Judgment, are fully recognized by Schiller. Unlike Kant, Schiller did not embrace the somewhat abstract notion of art as a “disinterested pleasure”; he persisted, despite all obstacles, in seeking an objective deﬁnition for art that would underscore its ethical character. Furthermore, Schiller located a conﬂict at the heart of the artwork, since in his view the synthesis of the rational and sensuous is problematic and can never be fully achieved. In this respect, his vision of the work of art belongs to what we may broadly describe as the aesthetic of the sublime rather than the aesthetic of the beautiful. The sublime, in Schiller’s formulation, fuses disparate elements, and its power is bound up with the irreconcilability of reason and sensibility. The ultimate aim of art, in this sense, is inevitably left unfulﬁlled, but the task is all the more compelling for its apparent impossibility. The ascendancy of the aesthetic of beauty and the related decline of the aesthetic of the sublime in the nineteenth century arose from a different line of interpretation. Kant saw in beauty a harmonious relationship between the imagination and understanding; in his view, a beautiful object is brought into accordance with unknown laws that govern a higher unity in nature. The sublime, however, entails a relationship between the imagination and reason that resists the ideal of reconciliation; for Kant, as for Schiller, the structure of the sublime is characterized by an unresolvable conﬂict. Consequently, Kant could not clearly incorporate the sublime into the comprehensive system of his philosophy. Beauty, being unburdened by any such fundamental conﬂict, offered a more serene model for art seemingly grounded in universal natural phenomena. Not surprisingly, systematic thinkers such as Hegel neglected the sublime, and tended to domesticate art under the category of beauty. The inﬂuence of German neo-Classicism, as mediated by Johann Winckelmann, who discovered in the art of Greece a spirit of “noble simplicity and quiet grandeur,” contributed to this trend, which was reﬂected for instance in the reduction of Mozart to Schumann’s “ﬂoating Greek gracefulness” or Wagner’s “genius of light and love.” Despite some countervailing tendencies, the nervous, disturbing, conﬂict-ridden aspects of Mozart—not to mention his wit— were often underestimated by an age predisposed to hear in his music a tranquil beauty comparable to the works of painters such as Raphael or Watteau. If the classicizing ideal of beauty proved too abstract to encompass the artistic reality of Mozart, its application to Beethoven seemed questionable from the beginning. For as E. T. A. Hoffmann stressed in his famous review of the Fifth Symphony, Beethoven’s music is permeated by the sublime. An aesthetic of the beautiful, whereby the artwork acts as a medium of reconciliation, is exempliﬁed far more in a composer like Johann Strauss. The Blue Danube, not the Ninth Symphony, has settled deeply into the general social consciousness without forfeiting

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its integrity. Whereas the waltzes of Strauss invite easy assimilation, the meaning of even the popular melodic emblem of Beethoven’s “Joy” theme is rendered conditional by the internal context of the symphony, placing further demands on the listener; only in relation to the earlier movements can the choral ﬁnale be fully understood. The challenges of a work like Beethoven’s Ninth conform to the aesthetic analysis by Hans-Georg Gadamer, for whom “not only the cognition of meaning is involved . . . something else is always awakened, whereby we recognize ourselves.” Gadamer proposes that only when the listener “ﬁlls out” the work of art, going beyond its immediate sensuous appearance in the direction of its implied meanings, does the work really come into existence. “Only then does all conﬂict disappear between intention and being, and every difference vanish between that which the artist wishes to say and what the interpreter makes of it. They have become one. . . . This is the reason why works of art bring about a true self-encounter in all those who come to grips with them.”10 Like Schiller, Gadamer thus stresses both the moment of aesthetic identiﬁcation and the ethical character of this process, whereby the individual is freed from a purely sensuous relationship with the work. Ultimately, of course, this process embraces much more than just the sublime: humour, deﬁned by Jean Paul Richter as “the sublime in reverse,” or gaiety, pathos or tragedy all surface in Beethoven’s dramatic style, emerging out of the conﬁguration of relationships forming the unconsummated symbol. Beethoven’s music often displays a provocatively open relationship with the world that forces us to reconsider the nature of aesthetic experience itself. In its original sense as episteme aisthetike, aesthetics refers not only to art or beauty but to sensible awareness more generally; the opposing complement to this concept is the anaesthetic, involving a loss or deadening of feeling.11 One reason for the scope of Beethoven’s achievement may lie in his ability to navigate between these two realms, ironically granting the anaesthetic its place beside the aesthetic. Beethoven expands the boundaries of art through his absorption of trivial, commonplace material, as in the Diabelli Variations, or through symbolic intrusions into a work from without, as in the “terror fanfare” in the ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony or the warlike episodes in the Missa solemnis. His use of severe contrasts becomes a means of welding sections or movements into a larger narrative sequence with symbolic implications, as in the last piano sonatas, with their open cadences pointing into the silence beyond. In the dualistic ﬁnale of the Sonata in A major op. 110, the resolution at the end of the second fugal section is afﬁrmed yet endangered; it proves barely sufﬁcient to outweigh the preceding Arioso dolente. Like the close of the Missa solemnis, this resolution is poised at the edge of an abyss. Walter Riezler wrote accordingly about the presence of the “world background” in Beethoven’s works, the sense that despite all their density of internal unifying relations these pieces are not self-contained but strive to confront 10 11

This and the preceding quotation come from “Ende der Kunst?,” pp. 31–32. Cf. Welsch, Ästhetisches Denken, pp. 9–40.

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the outer world of common existence.12 It is precisely this quality that invites and even demands of the listener the kind of self-encounter described by Gadamer. This need for the listener to grasp the latent artistic content—in its uneasy blending of object and subject, conscious and unconscious, nature and freedom— harbors ethical and even political implications. The work of art, in the sense described above, arises in a realm beyond the reach of political power and social conformity, and its very existence potentially conﬁrms the democratic ideal of personal freedom. For Schiller or Beethoven, the gloriﬁcation of freedom through art was coupled with discontent about actual political conditions. Schiller remained justiﬁably skeptical about the attainment of “freedom and progress” in the political sphere, maintaining that “art is the daughter of freedom” and that “in order to solve the political problem, one must take the route of aesthetics, since it is through beauty that the way is made to freedom.”13 Moreover, as Chytry has pointed out, Schiller explicitly distinguishes his approach from the premises motivating “the most perfect Platonic republic,” exposing the fallacy behind the standard argument of German Romantics advocating subordination of the individual to the state based on the metaphor of the formal artwork.14 With historical hindsight we can acknowledge the continuing validity of Schiller’s position: the work of art, if it is to represent the highest human potential, must embody the principle of self-determination while avoiding ideological determination from without. In this sense Schiller’s revised Enlightenment perspective remains more viable than later idealistic, romantic, formalist, structuralist, or socialistic views of the relationship of art and society. The danger of political romanticism, with its impending retrogression into nationalism or fascism, arises from inadequate recognition of the individual human being as a potentially autonomous and creative agent, the grounds of whose self-determination constitute freedom. As soon as our concept of the human being is dominated or consumed by his or her relationship with state, people, class, gender, background, formative experiences, or any other contextual factors, this principle of freedom is violated by ideology, that is, by premature and illegitimate generalization about human nature. An assumption of potential autonomy on the part of other human beings, then, is an indispensable means of curbing the intrusion of a limiting ideological bias. The open universe of Beethoven’s Fidelio, Missa solemnis, and Ninth Symphony, with its rejection of materialism, deemphasis on received doctrine, and gloriﬁcation of freedom, is not merely one ideological statement in preference to others but rather an artistic embodiment of ideas intrinsically resistant to ideology. Any such claim about speciﬁc works by Beethoven can of course be properly supported only through detailed analysis. But these preliminary observations already begin to indicate how close Beethoven’s aesthetic attitudes come to the ideas articulated by Schiller. The claims of “freedom and progress,” innovation and fan12

Beethoven, pp. 108–9, 198. Aesthetic Letters, L. 2. 14 The Aesthetic State, p. 86. 13

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tasy, were ingrained so deeply into Beethoven’s creative method that he could say about the last string quartets in 1826 that “You will ﬁnd a new manner of voice treatment, and thank God there is less lack of fantasy than ever before.”15 He could have added that there is also less lack of integration and structural control than ever before. Beethoven’s innovative quest is merged here with all those qualities of sovereign concentration that E. T. A. Hoffmann described as self-possession (Besonnenheit). The astonishing understatement of this comment about “less lack of fantasy” is characteristic of Beethoven, and carries the same implication as Schiller’s tenet about the unfulﬁlled nature of the artwork. Already twenty-ﬁve years earlier Beethoven had expressed dissatisfaction with his previous works, and according to Carl Czerny, stated his intention to seek a “new way,” a claim borne out by the series of pathbreaking compositions from around 1802, the threshold of his socalled second period. Beethoven’s conviction that in art one “cannot stand still” is best understood not merely as a personal idiosyncrasy, or as an expression of the problematic romantic notion of originality, but rather in terms of a universal experiential duality whose reconciliation is an ever-challenging task of art. The possibility of an artistic resolution to the division in human nature between the sensuous and rational accords a special role to the productive imagination, and raises fundamental aesthetic questions. A work of musical art is not an abstract entity, but needs to be realized in sound and time. The implications of that fact were probed by Theodor W. Adorno, who, like Gadamer, viewed the work itself as “a copy of a nonexistent original”—for, paradoxically, there is no work as such—it must become.16 At the same time, in Adorno’s view, the true performance or analysis does not possess the work ontologically—in its essential being—though it must convey it. For, as with any creative act, the product cannot be predicted or fully envisaged in advance but represents rather an imaginative synthesis consisting of elements that are intimately known. This concept of the musical work of art thus eschews relativism and structuralism by placing analytic criticism in the service of aesthetic categories in an immanent relationship with the music, which remains ever unknown in its totality, waiting for its true realization. Built into this concept is the necessary dynamic relation: “What is only and surely right,” in Adorno’s formulation, “isn’t right.” The underlying principle is thus analogous to the arguments stated above concerning the possibility of human freedom: only through an acknowledgment of limits to categorical understanding can we approach a truly integrated internal sound image of the work and a balanced appreciation of its blend of the sensuous and rational. The point needs stressing in view of the overemphasis on systematic methodology characteristic of some musical analysis, as well as recent polemical attacks on the notion of artistic unity by critics innocent of the underlying issues. If a primary condition for the appearance of a true work is its unity, this is to be understood not as an abstract, tautological concept, or even an organic whole, but 15 16

Thayer-Forbes, p. 982 (translation amended). Ästhetische Theorie, vol. 7 of Gesammelte Schriften, p. 32.

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rather that totality of concrete elements and relationships that demand realization in sound. What is meant is a unity that is synthetic in nature, and entirely compatible with tension, contrast, diversity, and the individuality of a work. Ultimately, of course, an apprehension of unity or integration is wholly dependent on our internal sound image, or Klangvorstellung, of the music. Without this key ingredient, analysis is empty and criticism blind. It follows that analysis, properly considered, must engage the immanent temporality of the work, not merely the visual notation of the score, nor a structural matrix posited by a priori theoretical constructs. Unlike most earlier music, which unfolds in a successive, linear fashion, and much later music, which returns to the continuous pulse characteristic of the Baroque, the Viennese Classical style cultivates structures whose internal shapes and symmetries seem to hold back or modify the unidirectional passage of time by joining the musical events together in complex ways. This process corresponds to the annulment of time Schiller attributed to the “form drive.” In recognition of this phenomenon, some scholars have distinguished between “temps espace,” or measured, divisible, quantitative time, and “temps durée,” a musical time concept contesting the transience of experience through anticipation of the future and memory of the past.17 The conﬁguration of such durational time typically involves a forward-directed tension, a ﬁeld of culmination, and a resolving, past-orientated phase—all three of which taken together comprise the sense of the gesture. Beethoven’s complex use of thematic foreshadowing and reminiscence contributes a dimension to his music that transcends a linear temporal unfolding. And his special interest in techniques of parenthetical enclosure, whereby contrasting passages are heard as an interruption within the larger context, further enriches the temporality of his musical forms, helping to open up narrative possibilities rare in instrumental music. Beethoven tended increasingly to tighten the cyclic relationship between movements of his larger works, deemphasizing their genre character while enhancing the individuality of the whole. Examples of this practice stem from Haydn and Mozart, but the uniﬁcation of the Classical sonata cycle reached new phases of development in Beethoven, often absorbing a symbolic component. In the Fifth Symphony, for instance, he thoroughly interweaves the formal and motivic content, compromising the autonomy of the four movements. Their individuality of character nevertheless remains more distinct than in comparable works by Berlioz, Schumann, or Bruckner, where shared thematic material is also spread across successive movements. The later practice is often more prose-like and analogous to literary practice,18 and more diffuse in its larger rhythmic movement. These factors tend to undermine the narrative possibilities of the intrinsic musical design, by softening the hard contrasts and concentrated movement characteristic of Beethoven into a more static, less highly determined idiom. 17 These concepts, which are indebted to the philosophy of Henri Bergson, are convincingly applied to music in Uhde and Wieland, Denken und Spielen. 18 For a discussion of “musical prose” from Berlioz to Mahler and Schoenberg, see Danuser, Musikalische Prosa.

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Of course, the programmatic designates favored in the nineteenth century often condition a more explicit narrative design than is characteristic of Beethoven (apart from aberrations such as Wellington’s Victory). In Beethoven, we typically encounter associations that “overﬂow the musical scenario, lending a sense of extramusical narrativity to otherwise untranslatable events,” to quote Solomon’s description of the Ninth Symphony.19 The narrative design involved is not externally imposed, and it eludes reductionistic interpretations in programmatic or structuralist terms. Far from being exhausted through analysis, these pieces seem more fully integrated than any single hearing, and better than any single performance, as Artur Schnabel liked to claim. The discernment in Beethoven of narrative designs of symbolic import—as opposed to merely literal, programmatic narratives—requires extensive discussion of the works in question. But we should note even at this early stage that the recognition is not new but builds on older insights. In his letter of 19 July 1825 Beethoven responded enthusiastically to the critical writings about his music by Adolf Bernhard Marx, expressing his “fervent hope that Marx would continue to reveal the higher aspects of the true realm of art” as an antidote to “the mere counting of syllables”—one example among others of an abstract mode of criticism incapable of grasping the essential artistic content. Marx, by contrast, addressed Beethoven’s works using the criteria of “organic wholeness and coherence” and perceived in them a “dramatic narrative” containing “deep psychological truth.”20 Beethoven’s path toward progressive integration, narrative design, and a deepened symbolic expression is perhaps encapsulated most succinctly in the following lines of the Schiller poem gloriﬁed in the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony: Freude, Tochter aus Elysium! Deine Zauber binden wieder, was die Mode streng geteilt. Joy, daughter from Elysium! join again with your magic what custom strictly divided.

The term “Mode” invites a broader interpretation here than “custom” or “fashion,” especially when we recall Schiller’s quest, begun well before the composition of the Ode in 1785, for a “transformational force” (Mittelkraft) to merge the rational side of the human being with the sensuous. Only years later, after Schiller’s move to Weimar in 1787 and his subsequent engagement with the thought of Wilhelm von Humboldt and Kant, did this ambition receive its philosophical expression in the Aesthetic Letters, and its highest artistic expression in his ﬁnal play, Wilhelm Tell. Nevertheless, a gap remained in Schiller’s achievement between the ideal and the historical, as has often been observed. In the recent formulation of 19

Beethoven Essays, p. 10. Beethoven’s letter and Marx’s reviews are cited in Burnham, “Criticism, Faith, and the Idee,” esp. pp. 183–84, 188, 191. 20

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Chytry, “Ultimately, Schiller’s praxis conﬁrms the implicitly pessimistic conclusion of the Aesthetic Letters: the theory of the aesthetic state, at least in Schiller’s version, cannot transcend an esoteric circle of initiates.”21 In this sense Beethoven succeeded where Schiller did not. Already in 1793 Schiller’s friend at Bonn, Bartholomäus Ludwig Fischenich, had written to Charlotte Schiller that Beethoven would set the Ode to Joy “strophe by strophe.” In the end, the project waited more than three decades for its fulﬁllment, by which time historical events had cast new meaning on the poem. It is remarkable that the Ode to Joy, almost repudiated by its author in 1802, became the poem through which Schiller’s “efﬁgy of [the] ideal” has had its most profound impact, delivered through a sonorous medium more eminently suited to the blending of the sensuous and rational than spoken drama.

21

The Aesthetic State, p. 101.

1

R The Bonn Years

R In retrospect, there is something ﬁtting and almost inevitable about Beethoven’s passage from Bonn to Vienna in 1792. The elector, or Kurfürst, at Bonn from 1784 was Maximilian Franz, the youngest son of Empress Maria Theresia of Austria, brother of Marie Antoinette in Paris and the Emperor Joseph II in Vienna. Max Franz’s assumption of the post was the product of intrigues and negotiations, part of an effort to extend the inﬂuence of the Habsburg monarchy into the Rhineland while limiting Prussian inﬂuence. As a result of this circumstance, the most intimate connections linked the small city on the Rhine with the distant capital on the Danube, ten times its size. For the arts and sciences the appointment had a beneﬁcent effect. Max Franz continued the reforms initiated by his predecessor, the Elector Maximilian Friedrich, reforms that paralleled those of his brother Joseph II in Vienna. The clerics and especially the Jesuits were curbed; musical, literary, and theatrical institutions were reorganized and supported. In 1785 the Bonn Academy was elevated to the rank of a university. Johannes Neeb was engaged to teach Kantian philosophy, and men like the later revolutionary Eulogius Schneider and Schiller’s friend Fischenich lectured on Greek literature, ethics, and law. By the 1780s Bonn was recognized as a center of the Enlightenment, that fragile yet immensely productive movement whose liberal reforms were imposed from above, not in response to revolutionary strivings of the suppressed classes. Bonn might have become another Weimar except for the upheavals brought about through the French occupation, which was to sweep away the government of Max Franz in 1794, less than two years after Beethoven’s departure. But no one could have anticipated these events a few years earlier. Otto Jahn, in his biography of Mozart, speculated that with a slightly different turn of events Mozart might have been offered employment at Bonn. Max Franz had known Mozart for many years and evidently valued him more highly than did his brother, Joseph II (“for him there is nobody but Salieri,” Mozart is supposed to have exclaimed).1 Already in 1787 Beethoven made a brief, abortive journey to Vienna to see Mozart. And in 1792, one year after the great composer’s death, Max Franz’s friend Count Ferdinand Waldstein depicted Mozart as Beethoven’s guardian spirit in his famous entry in the young composer’s album: 1

Cf. Thayer-Forbes, p. 77.

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You are going to Vienna in fulﬁllment of your long-frustrated wishes. The Genius of Mozart is mourning and weeping over the death of her pupil. She has found a refuge but no occupation with the inexhaustible Haydn; through him she wishes to form a union with another. With the help of assiduous labor you shall receive Mozart’s spirit from Haydn’s hands . . . 2

But if the association between Bonn and Vienna was natural and expected, the presence of another key inﬂuence on the young Beethoven—his most important teacher, the composer and court organist Christian Gottlob Neefe—was a fortunate stroke of luck. Neefe was a “foreigner”—from Chemnitz in Saxony—and a Protestant as well (see Plate 3). For these reasons he was at ﬁrst considered expendable when reorganization of the musical institutions at Bonn was begun under the new elector. Beethoven’s ﬁrst salary as organist, in fact, was taken out of Neefe’s income. It was Neefe who grounded Beethoven in the musical forms of the Classical style, who presumably introduced him to the theoretical works of Marpurg and C. P. E. Bach, and who arranged for Beethoven’s adolescent publications, the Dressler Variations and three Kurfürsten Sonatas for piano. Yet entirely apart from his competent professional guidance and early recognition of his pupil’s creative potential, Neefe made further contributions that exercised fruitful inﬂuence on the young Beethoven. One of these consisted in Neefe’s knowledge of and enthusiasm for the music of J. S. Bach. Very little of the elder Bach’s music had appeared in print by the 1780s, and one would not have expected The Well-Tempered Clavier to serve as the cornerstone of instruction, as it did in fact for Beethoven. Neefe, however, had studied in Leipzig, where his musical mentor had been Johann Adam Hiller, the director of the Gewandhaus Concerts and later Bach’s successor as Kantor of the Thomaskirche. By the time he came to Bonn in 1779 to work for the Grossmann theatrical company, Neefe was an avid Bach admirer eager to pass on the legacy. He summed up the situation in his notice in Cramer’s Magazin der Musik dated 2 March 1783, the very ﬁrst printed statement about Beethoven: Louis van Betthoven, son of the tenor singer mentioned, a boy of eleven years and of most promising talent. He plays the clavier very skillfully and with power, reads at sight very well, and—to put it in a nutshell—he plays chieﬂy The Well-Tempered Clavier of Sebastian Bach, which Herr Neefe has put into his hands. Whoever knows this collection of preludes and fugues in all the keys—which might almost be called the non plus ultra of our art—will know what this means. So far as his duties permitted, Herr Neefe has also given him instruction in thorough-bass. He is now training him in composition and for his encouragement has had nine variations for the pianoforte, written by him on a march—by Ernst Christoph Dressler— engraved at Mannheim. This youthful genius is deserving of help to enable him to travel. He would surely become a second Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart were he to continue as he has begun.3 2

Ibid., p. 115. Thayer-Forbes, p. 66. The spelling “Betthoven” appears in the original source; Beethoven was actually twelve years old at the time in question. 3

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Like Haydn and Mozart before him, Beethoven was to be exposed during his ﬁrst Vienna years to works of Handel and J. S. Bach at the musical gatherings of the venerable connoisseur Baron Gottfried van Swieten, who had developed his taste for Bach in Berlin before moving to the Austrian capital. Unlike his predecessors, however, Beethoven’s formative musical direction was already shaped by the Leipzig master. From an early stage Bach’s music counterbalanced for Beethoven the pervasive presence of the galant, the elegant but superﬁcial manner that had threatened to submerge Mozart’s individuality during the 1770s. So thorough was Beethoven’s assimilation of Bach, in fact, that Erwin Ratz was able to base an illuminating study of musical form precisely on the comparison of Bach’s inventions and preludes and fugues with Beethoven’s sonatas and quartets.4 Neefe’s own published compositions included operettas as well as songs, keyboard sonatas, and even a Piano Concerto in G major published in 1782. He also translated many opera librettos from French and Italian, including Mozart’s Don Giovanni. Beethoven’s early acquaintance with the music of C. P. E. Bach, Haydn, and especially Mozart owed much to Neefe. And although Neefe’s purely musical achievement remained within the sphere of solid professional competence, his works must have posed a stimulating challenge to his young assistant. Among Neefe’s larger compositions from the 1770s, for instance, were twelve settings of odes by Klopstock. In 1782, three years after his arrival at Bonn, Neefe set another such ode, Dem Unendlichen, for four choral voices and orchestra; it was performed at ﬁrst privately and then, during Holy Week, in the Fräuleinstiftskirche. This piece forms part of the context out of which was to emerge Beethoven’s most weighty single composition from his years at Bonn: the Cantata on the Death of Joseph II written eight years later, in 1790. For Beethoven, Neefe presumably became an important role model, helping to ﬁll the void opened by Beethoven’s difﬁcult relationship with his father, Johann. Neefe was a crucial ﬁgure but by no means the only source of personal support and cultural nourishment for the young musician; another musical inﬂuence was the Kapellmeister and composer Andrea Luccchesi, and especially important was Beethoven’s friendship with the von Breuning family, which apparently began by 1784, having been enabled through Beethoven’s friend Franz Gerhard Wegeler. Beethoven became acquainted with German literature and poetry in the cultivated domestic environment of the von Breunings, whom he served as piano instructor, giving lessons to Eleonore (who was about his age) and her brother Lenz (who was seven years younger). During the summers, he probably spent time at the von Breuning estate at Kerpen, west of Cologne. After the death of his mother in 1787, he was offered support ﬁrst by the violinist Franz Ries and later by the widow Frau Maria Helena von Breuning, who assumed a protective, motherly attitude toward Beethoven. To a great extent, then, the roles of both his natural parents were taken over by others by the time of Beethoven’s adolescence. Stefan von Breuning remained one of Beethoven’s closest friends during later years in Vienna, although their relationship was strained by occasional quarrels and misunderstandings. 4

Einführung in die musikalische Formenlehre (Vienna, 1968).

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Before we consider Beethoven’s intimate family constellation, it is essential to address one more aspect of Neefe’s contributions to Bonn cultural life: his role in the Orden der Illuminaten, and later in the Lesegesellschaft (Literary Society), organizations closely tied to the Enlightenment and not without links to freemasonry. The Freemasons’ Lodge founded at Bonn in 1776 soon disappeared in response to Maria Theresia’s suppression of the order, but its role was largely ﬁlled during the 1780s by the two aforementioned societies. The Bonn chapter of the Orden der Illuminaten, founded in 1781, included among its members many who stood close to Beethoven, including the horn player (later a publisher) Nikolaus Simrock, and Franz Ries, father of Beethoven’s student and friend Ferdinand Ries. Neefe was one of the leaders of the group. In 1784–85 the Orden der Illuminaten was suppressed at its headquarters in Ingolstadt, Bavaria; the Bonn circle continued their activities in following years in the Lesegesellschaft. Although there is no evidence that Beethoven belonged to the Lesegesellschaft, many of the key players surrounding him during his last years in Bonn were members, including not only Neefe and Ries but also Count Waldstein. One reﬂection of its importance for Beethoven is the fact that it commissioned the Joseph Cantata. If some of Beethoven’s loftiest ideals can be associated with the cultural milieu in Bonn during his second decade, his relationship to his family reveals the other side of the coin: it is troubled and difﬁcult to assess. A probing evaluation of the conditioning role of Beethoven’s early experiences on his personality was undertaken by Maynard Solomon in his 1977 biography. Solomon builds on documented facts of Beethoven’s life to construct a suggestive psychological model that attempts to pinpoint some of the driving sources of his creativity. Unlike many earlier biographers, Solomon does not hesitate to confront the more disturbing aspects of Beethoven’s character or actions, but neither does his work dwell on demythologizing critique. Deep psychological conﬂicts have, of course, been experienced by many persons without a trace of the miraculous artistic aftereffects these experiences helped produce in Beethoven, but this fact neither compromises Solomon’s insights nor conﬁnes their relevance strictly to the biographical sphere. The link between biography and the analysis of works of art is delicate, but it can sometimes prove tangible and illuminating. Solomon identiﬁes a complex of conﬂicts and delusions in Beethoven’s psychological makeup whose underlying sources relate to Beethoven’s relationship to his parents, and especially to his father. Beethoven’s deceased elder brother Ludwig Maria, who lived only six days, was not forgotten but lived a posthumous existence in Beethoven’s psyche. What Solomon describes as Beethoven’s “birth year delusion”—his lifelong tendency to deny the plain evidence that he was born in December 1770—involves much more than a simple misunderstanding based on Johann’s falsiﬁcation of his son’s age. Psychologically, this behavior may reﬂect Beethoven’s response to the unhappy resignation of his beloved mother, while also revealing an impulse to deny or disown his father. Within the family Beethoven’s role was to parallel that of his admired grandfather and namesake, the elder Ludwig van Beethoven, successful Kapellmeister at the Bonn court from 1761 until his death in 1773. The curse of the Beethoven family, on the other hand, was al-

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coholism: the Kapellmeister’s wife, Maria Josepha, was removed to a cloister on account of severe drunkenness, and the steep decline of Beethoven’s father into helplessness took the same form. (On hearing of Johann van Beethoven’s death, the elector spoke coldly about the loss to the liquor excise.) Beethoven’s ambivalence toward his father probably stemmed not only from Johann’s increasing addiction to drink, however, but from the severe and arbitrary discipline he suffered as a child. Surviving reports refer to Beethoven’s mother, Maria Magdalena, as a clever and resourceful, usually quiet and somewhat resigned woman. Beethoven’s ﬁrst preserved letter, from 15 September 1787, written soon after her death to an acquaintance in Augsburg, expresses deep affection: “She was such a good, kind mother to me and indeed my best friend. Oh! Who was happier than I, when I could still utter the sweet name of mother and it was heard and answered; and to whom can I say it now? To the dumb likenesses of her which my imagination fashions for me?”5 For the creative artist, nourished by dreams, fantasies, and aspirations toward a higher, more beautiful or perfectible world, a relationship with an ordinary, banal, depraved existence can become strained, even broken. Solomon argues convincingly that, in Beethoven’s case, one response to this schism took the form of what Freud and Otto Rank termed the “Family Romance”—the replacement of one or both parents by suitably elevated personages. Beethoven’s nobility pretence may be understood at least partly in these terms (the “van” in his name did not designate nobility). But Solomon also suggests the relevance of this constellation—involving the search for an ideal, loving father ﬁgure—to passages in the ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony, and he identiﬁes the mythic component of Beethoven’s musical works as a possible link between the apparently discrete realms of the biographical and artistic.6 In some respects, the challenge to analytic criticism is greatest when we confront the immature work of an artist, in which an authentic, original voice is not yet heard, or not clearly heard. Many of the piano pieces, songs, and chamber works that Beethoven composed at Bonn show relatively little of the skill and power that distinguish his mature music. Nevertheless, this music is not without interest. A piece showing insight into the abilities of the twelve-year-old Beethoven is the aforementioned Dressler Variations from 1782, the work singled out by Neefe in his announcement from the following year. In view of his subsequent artistic development, it is remarkable that the young Beethoven wrote these variations on a funeral march in C minor—the key of the funereal ﬁfth variation in the op. 34 set and the funeral march in the Eroica Symphony. The ﬁgurative elaboration in the Dressler set is mainly very straightforward, with the variations remaining closely bound to Dressler’s march. Variation 1 replaces the chords in dotted rhythm in the left hand of the theme by a ﬂowing eighth-note ﬁguration; in Variation 2 this pattern in the bass is joined with an elaboration in sixteenth notes in the treble. In Variation 3 further rhythmic division creates a texture of 5 6

Anderson, vol. 1, L. 1. Cf. “The Ninth Symphony: A Search for Order,” in Beethoven Essays, pp. 309–26.

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sixteenths in the left hand, which in Variation 4 migrates into the right hand, while the left resumes the ﬁguration from Variations 1 and 2. At two junctures, however, the music departs from these predictable patterns. Variation 5, at the center of the set, begins with close staccato imitation between the hands and subsequently varies this texture, employing slurred two-note motives and rapid ﬂurries of thirty-second notes. More surprisingly, the ﬁnal Allegro variation bursts into running thirty-second notes in the major mode, leaving behind almost all traces of the march, apart from allusion to its dotted rhythm at the close of each half of the variation. Hence Beethoven’s later propensity to resolve his C minor music into a lively concluding C major is also adumbrated in this piece by the budding twelve-year-old musician at Bonn. Beethoven’s most important works of the following period are his three Quartets for Piano and Strings, in E major, D major, and C major, WoO 36, from 1785. A clear Mozartian inﬂuence is felt here, with Mozart’s Violin Sonatas in G major K. 379, E major K. 380, and C major K. 296, respectively, serving as models. Striking, however, is the expressive force of the Allegro con spirito in E minor of WoO 36 no. 1, which opens with a rising triadic motive in the piano, reinforced by a dotted rhythm in the melody and syncopations in the accompanying strings. The crescendo on this gesture leads to an accented dissonance—a fortissimo diminished-seventh chord—and a restatement of the main motive on this harmony carries the music in turn onto a dominant-seventh sonority, while the atmosphere of stormy agitation is effectively maintained. Harmonically, this arresting opening may owe something to the prelude in this key from the ﬁrst book of J. S. Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, yet the character of the music is completely different and highly individual. The treatment of the string parts in these piano quartets is rather undeveloped, but a much more engaging dialogue between instruments can be observed in Beethoven’s Trio in G major for Flute, Bassoon, and Piano WoO 37, which he wrote a year later, in 1786, at the age of sixteen. During his Vienna years, Beethoven sometimes returned to his portfolio of Bonn compositions to absorb preexisting material into new works or publish older pieces. Beethoven’s early acquaintance with J. S. Bach’s Musical Offering of 1747 seems to be reﬂected in his 2 Präludien durch die 12 Dur-Tonarten für Klavier oder Orgel, pieces stemming from the 1780s and revised in 1789, although published only in 1803 as op. 39. Beethoven’s cyclical plan of modulations rises through the circle of ﬁfths from C major to C major and then falls through the ﬂat keys, reaching D major before returning to C major. There were, to be sure, various historical models for such modulating preludes “per tonus”; the bestknown was probably Bach’s perpetual canon, in the Musical Offering, on the royal theme “Ascendente Modulatione ascendat Gloria Regis,” in which continual ascent of the canon symbolizes the endlessly rising glory of the king. The modulations in Bach’s canon proceed not by ﬁfths but by rising whole steps; after six repetitions the original key is thus reattained an octave higher. The young Beethoven was not unaffected by this esoteric side of Bach’s legacy, although its full impact surfaces only much later, in works of his last decade. Beethoven wrote a number of songs at Bonn, some of which were published

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only many years later. The two settings of texts by Gottfried August Bürger (1748–1794), “Mollys Abschied” (Molly’s Departure”) and “Das Blümchen Wunderhold” (“The Dearest Sweet Little Flower”), published as no. 5 and no. 8, respectively, of the Eight Songs op. 52, in 1805, have long been thought to date from the Bonn period. The recent discovery of an album page in Beethoven’s hand from the later Bonn years supports this chronology. The newfound album inscription includes a slightly adapted version of the fourteenth strophe of another poem by Bürger, “Die beiden Liebenden” (“The Two Lovers”), followed by a short dedication: Ein volles Herz giebt wenig Klang; Das leere klingt aus allen Tönen. Man fühlet dennoch seinen Drang; Und ach! Versteht sein stummes Sehnen. Bürger. Zu immer grösserer Freundschaft emphielt sich Ludwig van Beethowen Hofmusikus in Bonn.7 [A full heart makes but little sound; An empty one sounds through all tones. Yet one then feels its urgent pulse; And oh! Does grasp its silent yearning. Bürger. To ever greater friendship with kind regards Ludwig van Beethowen Court musician in Bonn.]

That Bürger was one of the most inspirational poets for the young Beethoven is conﬁrmed as well by the composer’s setting as a double song of the poet’s “Seufzer eines Ungeliebten” and “Gegenliebe” (“Sighs of the Unloved”) and (“Requited Love”) WoO 118, in 1794 or 1795. Beethoven adapted the musical theme of “Gegenliebe” in the same key of C major as the basis for the variations in his Choral Fantasy op. 80 in 1808, a setting that in turn strongly anticipates the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony. For whom did Beethoven write this thoughtful inscription with the quotation 7

A facsimile, transcription, and description of this source appears in Grita Herre, “Ein frühes Stammbuchblatt Beethovens,” Bonner Beethoven-Studien 5 (2006), pp. 115–17. As Herre observes, the source was acquired by the Preussischer Staatsbibliothek (now Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin preussischer Kulturbesitz) by 1942; nevertheless, it long remained in obscurity, and was not included, for instance, in the comprehensive Beethoven Briefe published in 1996. The spelling “Beethowen” is characteristic of the composer’s signature in his early years.

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from Bürger? As Grita Herre observes, the recipients must have been Jeannette d’Honrath and Carl Greth, as is implied from the long-term possession of the album leaf by persons associated with the family Greth; in 1941–42 the manuscript passed to the Preussischer Staatsbibliothek in Berlin, but presumably due to wartime conditions it was not catalogued at that time and remained unknown until recently.8 Of considerable interest in this regard is an entry by Beethoven in a conversation book dating from February 1823, more than thirty years after the album inscription: “Carl v. Greth Feldm.[arschall-Lieutenant] | u. divi-|sionär | anjezo | ⫹ jeanette Hohen-|rath – Commandant | in Temes-|vár.”9 Carl Greth also belonged to the close circle of friends of the von Breuning family during Beethoven’s last years at Bonn; his poetic New Year’s greeting to Eleonore von Breuning from 1790 is preserved in the Wegeler Collection at the Bonn Beethoven-Haus. In 1802, Beethoven’s friend Franz Wegeler married Eleonore von Breuning, the composer’s former piano student and sister of Beethoven’s lifelong friend Stephan von Breuning. Wegeler, who in 1838 published his reminiscences of Beethoven together with those of Ferdinand Ries, left a vivid account of Jeannette d’Honrath that deserves to be recounted here: His [Beethoven’s] and Stephan von Breuning’s ﬁrst love was Miss Jeannette d’Honrath from Cologne . . . who often spent a few weeks with the Breuning family in Bonn. She was a beautiful, vivacious blonde, of good upbringing and friendly character, who much enjoyed music and had a pleasant voice. Thus she often teased our friend through her performance of a then-familiar song: “Mich heute noch von dir zu trennen Und dieses nicht verhindern können, Ist zu empﬁndlich für mein Herz!” “To leave you already today And not be able to delay Is stressful for my heart!”10

In 1788, Jeannette d’Honrath married Carl Greth, an Austrian captain and recruiting ofﬁcer in Cologne, and it is surely in this connection that Beethoven wrote his inscription for her. She presumably sang some of Beethoven’s early songs, such as the two aforementioned strophic settings in G major to texts by Bürger, “Mollys Abschied” op. 52 no. 5, and “Das Blümchen Wunderhold” op. 52 no. 8. The simplicity of the setting of “Das Blümchen Wunderhold,” which is reminiscent of a folk song, is part of its charm. The unassuming style lends itself well to the poem, since the “dearest sweet ﬂower”—in the last line of the twelfth and ﬁnal stanza— is identiﬁed with the moral virtue of “Bescheidenheit” or modesty. 8 See Herre, “Ein frühes Stammbuchblatt Beethovens,” Bonner Beethoven-Studien 5 (2006), pp. 116–17. 9 Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte, vol. 3, p. 56. 10 Franz Gerhard Wegeler and Ferdinand Ries, Biographische Notizen über Ludwig van Beethoven (Coblenz: Bädeher, 1838 and 1845; reprinted, Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 2000), pp. 42–43.

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Beethoven’s conversation-book entry from 1823 was likely triggered by reports in the Vienna newspapers of Carl von Greth’s appointment as “Commandant” in Temesvár (now Timisoara, Romania), then a city within the Austrian Empire. Greth had held the title of Feldmarschall-Leutenant at least since the Battle of Leipzig in 1813. When Beethoven wrote down this conversation-book entry, memories from his youth must have ﬂooded his consciousness. He probably did not know that Jeannette was then dying, and was soon to be buried at Temesvár.11 This vivid new glimpse of the context of Beethoven’s “ﬁrst love,” in Wegeler’s words, assumes special interest here as the ﬁrst instance of a recurring pattern in the composer’s life, whereby he became emotionally attached to women who were unavailable to him or who chose others as marriage partners. The artist’s distance from the feminine muse is conveyed in a stylized depiction titled Beethoven and Jeannette d’Honrath by Wilhelm von Lindenschmit, a picture stemming from the nineteenth century that is obviously inspired by Wegeler’s account (Plate 3). Continuing his remarks about Beethoven’s youthful erotic inclinations, Wegeler comments that “there was never a time when Beethoven was not in love” and he leaves to the reader’s judgment “whether one could compose Adelaide and Fidelio and other such works, without experiencing love in its innermost depths.”12

S S S When did the young composer ﬁrst assemble the elements out of which his creative enterprise was to be shaped? Until 1884, almost a century after he left Bonn for Vienna, this question could not have been answered, since only then did the score of the Joseph Cantata come to light. Even now, few recordings are available, and the piece remains virtually unknown to the general public. It never reached performance in 1790, possibly because its technical challenges overtaxed the performers; according to Simrock, “all the ﬁgures were completely unusual, therein lay the difﬁculty.” This was the score that Beethoven probably showed to his future teacher Haydn at their ﬁrst meeting, when the latter passed through Bonn. Beethoven could have been justly proud of the piece, since it is the most prophetic single composition of his entire Bonn period. After the cantata’s rediscovery, Johannes Brahms wrote enthusiastically that “Even if there were no name on the title page none other could be conjectured—it is Beethoven through and through!”13 A glance at the score sufﬁces to show why Beethoven never revised or published the cantata, for two of the most memorable passages in his opera Fidelio were adapted from its material! The passages in question represent more than thematic borrowings, and neatly illustrate sharply contrasting aspects of Beethoven’s musical symbolism. They could be described as topoi, or basic rhetorical arche11 Information related to Jeannette von Greth is found in Internet sources related to Timisoara, but inaccuracies abound, with a connection often drawn to Johann van Beethoven instead of Ludwig van Beethoven. 12 Biographische Notizen, p. 43. 13 Thayer-Forbes, p. 120.

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types, with their roots in the conventions of ﬁgurative musical expression of the eighteenth century. Beethoven’s continuing development of these rhetorical models is by no means conﬁned to Fidelio; it touches on a broader dimension of symbolic expression in his music in general. For that reason we shall examine the cantata in some detail. Our concern is not to offer exhaustive description, however, but to indicate the work’s broader importance for the evolution of Beethoven’s musical language. The ﬁrst of the prophetic passages begins and closes the cantata: Beethoven rounds off the design of the whole piece with a varied repetition of its opening chorus. The registral and textural dissociation of sonorities in the solemn orchestral ritornello is especially striking (see Ex. 1). A low unison C in the strings in the ﬁrst bar is repeated more emphatically two bars later; pitted against these deep octave unisons are harmonized woodwind sonorities in a higher register. The ﬁrst unison is answered by a C minor triad, the second by a dissonant diminished-seventh chord that is dynamically inﬂected, played mezzoforte instead of piano. The intensiﬁcation is not merely harmonic, since the melodic implications of these paired sonorities allow us to hear the rising tenth C–E as growing into a tritone with octave displacement, C–F , when the gesture is restated. In bar 5 the diminishedseventh chord is resolved to the C minor tonic triad that marks the beginning of a two-bar harmonized segment for the winds, featuring a prominent ﬂute. The ritornello is completed by the return of the unharmonized strings, which assume a lamenting, declamatory character. At the repetition of the striking opening chords, the high woodwind sonorities are set to the words “Todt! Todt!” (“Dead! Dead!”) in the chorus, now making explicit the music’s desolate expressive connotations. The rhetorical devices employed here were not of course invented by Beethoven, but he combined them so as to make a strongly original impression. The most revealing factor, however, is neither the genuine pathos that the twenty-year-old composer evoked here, nor the shortcomings in technique or sensibility that prevented him from sustaining the opening tension effectively. The beginning of the Joseph Cantata confronts us with a characteristic phenomenon in Beethoven’s creative process: the deepening of musical conceptions in a seemingly continuous process which was to stretch over decades of his life. To evaluate the signiﬁcance of this piece in Beethoven’s artistic development we must glimpse ahead ﬁfteen years, to around 1805, when he completed his opera in its ﬁrst version, then entitled Leonore, soon after incorporating a startling late-minute revision into what was then the largest of all his piano sonatas, the Waldstein op. 53. Most obviously related to the cantata is the orchestral ritornello marked Grave that opens the last act of the opera, set in Florestan’s prison cell (Ex. 2). The low unison Fs in the strings are juxtaposed with penetrating woodwind chords in the high register—the gesture taken as a whole represents a direct transposition of the “death” topos from the cantata into the even more dismal, F minor gloom of Pizarro’s dungeon. But most instructive are the changes Beethoven makes as regards the musical continuation. He now exploits a variety of means—rhythmic, harmonic, linear, and motivic—to give to this music a powerful dramatic coherence that was beyond his ability in 1790.

26 Ex. 1 Joseph Cantata WoO 87

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Ex. 2 Fidelio, Act II, no. 11

In Leonore Beethoven discards the fermate that prolonged each sonority in the opening of the cantata. He endows the music with a new rhythmic energy bound up with his characteristic device of foreshortening: the metric emphasis on twobar units allows us to hear the three repeated chords in bar 5 as a diminution of the rhythmic shape of the entire opening gesture, with its slow articulation of three impulses spread over ﬁve bars. This process propels the music forward, generat-

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ing a gradual increase in tension. The larger harmonic progression, on the other hand, is controlled by a descending bass, reaching the ﬁrst signiﬁcant phrase division at bar 11 on the dominant of F minor. Here Beethoven injects declamatory motifs in the strings into the texture, motifs strongly reminiscent of the unharmonized string phrases in the Joseph Cantata. But unlike the cantata, this music seems constantly to be listening to itself. The expressive gesture in bar 11 highlights the semitone D –C, and Beethoven’s rhythmic and dynamic nuances underscore the poignant tension of the dissonance. This motif, in turn, is joined to a higher, answering inﬂection in the winds, with both elements combined into a sequential progression building in intensity to the climactic dissonant sonority in bar 15. But that is not all: the D –C semitone ﬁgure is not only an expressive ﬁgure but a structural intensiﬁcation—only in the merging of both functions does it take on its full aesthetic force. For the voice-leading of the opening woodwind chords— the gestures set ominously to “dead” in the cantata—had already exposed the interval C–D in a conspicuous way. The string motif is racked with the painful dissonance already heard at the very outset of the Grave. Such aesthetic relationships need to be conveyed in any adequate performance but are passed over by many. A merely literal rendering in sound of the appearance of the score is inadequate here, since an essential part of the meaning of this gesture in the strings is connected to its dramatic derivation from the opening chords in the winds. The connection can be made palpable through the combination of clarity of execution and expressive nuance, a matter to which we shall return. This example scratches only the smallest surface of the requirements of a successful performance, but it does point to the kinds of relationships that take us beyond the mere surface of the sound into the true content of the work seen as an unconsummated symbol. Once Beethoven had seen past the merely ﬁgurative level of this topos, other possibilities occurred to him that lend themselves eminently well to instrumental music. Characteristic is his use of a variant of the same topos in the substitute slow movement of the Waldstein Sonata op. 53, written a year earlier, in 1804. The original slow movement was an expansive, luxurious Andante favori in rondo form that Beethoven is supposed to have removed for reasons of overall length. That there were other, more intrinsic reasons for the change speaks for itself. The substitute movement is an extended introduction to the ﬁnale, to which it is directly linked; at the same time it makes a much stronger effect of contrast in relation to the outer movements than did the original slow movement. At stake in Beethoven’s decision to substitute the Introduzione were issues of balance and integration in the sonata cycle as a whole. This substitution marked a turning point in Beethoven’s practice. There are, to be sure, other slow introductions leading into ﬁnales in his earlier works—“La Malinconia” in the Quartet in B major op. 18 no. 6, for instance. But after the Waldstein, the principle of a contrasting slow movement linked to the ﬁnale in a three-movement design becomes a mainstay of his style for about six years, until 1810. Examples include the Appassionata and Lebewohl Sonatas, the Violin Concerto, and the last two piano concertos.

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By juxtaposing the contrasting slow movement directly with the ﬁnale, Beethoven brings their moods into a closer relationship, setting the moment of transition to the ﬁnale into sharp relief. Many later masterpieces, from the Archduke Trio to the C minor Quartet, follow this pattern. But most revealing in comparison with the Joseph Cantata is the way Beethoven achieves that quality of gigantic simplicity that marks the slow interlude of the Waldstein (Ex. 3). The topos from the cantata—with a low tonic pedal in unharmonized octaves answered ﬁrst by tonic harmony and then by a dissonant harmony with ascending voice-leading— is replicated in the sonata. The harmonic resolution of the dissonant sonority, however, is not to the tonic, as in the cantata, but to an E major chord, which lends a more directional impetus to the phrase, bridging the evocative silence at the start of the second bar. Furthermore, the ascending seventh in the bass, from F to E, is treated by Beethoven as the starting point for a long stepwise descending progression, even more relentless than the one in Fidelio. The form of the Adagio molto is based on a twofold statement of this progression drawn from the topos from the cantata, blended with an expressive idiom suggestive of recitative and thematic dualism. Following the opening nine-bar phrase, Beethoven restates the initial motif in the right hand which unfolds in a declamatory fashion, with rising echoes in a polyphonic texture. After only six bars, however, the passage dissipates into a hushed, enigmatic return of the beginning of the Introduzione. The recitative-like phrases posit an alternative to the somber, static character of the opening music that recalls the cantata. This brighter, more consoling voice cannot be sustained, however; the music settles even more deeply into the pensive mood generated by the falling-bass progression and countervailing ascent in the right hand. Only after an arresting climax on a widely spaced diminished-seventh sonority and the convergence onto the dominant seventh of C do we reach a miraculous turning point: the descending bass movement is reversed as G rises to G , clearing the way for a cadential progression in C major that underscores the luminescent texture and vast spacing at the beginning of the ﬁnale. Perhaps most remarkable here is the severe economy of the thematic material and tight coherence of its development. In the Waldstein, the structural model of the solemn chord progression that opens this youthful work was sufﬁcient to ground the entire structure of the slow introduction. At the same time, the darkhued, mysterious character of this music creates an expressive polarity that places the brilliant C major world of the outer movements of the sonata in a new light. The aspiring, afﬁrmative side of Beethoven’s symbolic art is foreshadowed just as clearly in the Joseph Cantata. The emblematic theme heard in the aria with chorus “Da stiegen die Menschen ans Licht” (“there the people ascended into the light”) is taken into the opera without much change. Beethoven preserves in Fidelio the original F major tonality, the meter and basic tempo, and many features of the orchestration, including the use of pizzicato strings. This melody is not only quoted in Fidelio but became a prototype for other Beethovenian melodies carrying analogous expressive connotations. The melodic shape in the cantata, featuring two initial rising fourths and further upward extension in the following

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Ex. 3 Waldstein Sonata op. 53/II

phrases, reﬂects the venerable practice of word-painting motivated in the text by the idea of the ascent of humanity toward illumination. In Fidelio, this Humanitätsmelodie emerges at the moment in the second-act ﬁnale when Leonore releases Florestan from his chains. Beethoven reuses the theme here to symbolize what language cannot convey. For after it is ﬁrst sounded in the oboe, Florestan himself doubles the melody heard in the winds to the words “O unaussprechlich süsses Glück!” (“Oh unspeakable sweet happiness!”). And when this hymn-like theme is repeated in the chorus, it is linked to the Deity and to a higher moral au-

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thority: “Gerecht, o Gott! gerecht ist dein Gericht. Du prüfest, du verlässt uns nicht” (“Just, oh God, just is your judgment! You test us, you abandon us not”). If the symbolism of this theme in the Joseph Cantata can be adequately grasped in terms of traditional musical rhetoric, its role in Fidelio is far more complex. The key of F major and soloistic role of the oboe in the setting of Florestan’s “unspeakable happiness,” for instance, recall his earlier aria in the dungeon, culminating in his delirious vision of Leonore as an angel leading him into the “heavenly realm of freedom.” Appeals to freedom, of course, inﬁltrate the dark landscape of Fidelio at every turn, from the symbolic trumpet calls of the Leonore overtures to the prisoners’ chorus in Act I. As a harbinger of Beethoven’s mature style, “Da stiegen die Menschen ans Licht” is at least as portentous as its antipode, the grim C minor opening of the cantata. Its hymn-like character with prominent rising perfect fourths preﬁgures a whole category of Beethovenian themes, from the Adagio cantabile of the Sonate Pathétique to the “Dona nobis pacem” of the Missa solemnis. Most revealing, however, is how both these symbolic musical elements from Beethoven’s ambitious early composition were eventually absorbed into the mainstream of his creative enterprise. Beethoven’s symbolic homage to the enlightened emperor reminds us that his art was from the beginning no abstract occupation. At the same time, his subsequent use of borrowings from the cantata underscores the fundamental compatibility between symbolic rhetoric and the rigorous musical processes so indispensable to the expressive power of his art. The Joseph Cantata is not the only weighty composition from Beethoven’s Bonn years, nor the only prophetic one. The Twenty-Four Variations on “Venni amore” by Righini for piano WoO 65 from 1791 is equally rich in ideas and devices used in Beethoven’s later music. In their imaginative skill and formal ingenuity the Righini Variations are perhaps the ﬁnest of all Beethoven’s independent variation sets up to 1802, when he wrote his important variations in F major and E major opp. 34 and 35 respectively. Other works from the Bonn period were revised at Vienna—salvaged, like the cantata, for material used in new pieces—or simply forgotten. For in spite of exceptional cases like the Righini Variations, the music Beethoven composed at Bonn is of interest less for artistic than for historical and biographical reasons. His coming-of-age as an artist may be placed around 1795, on the basis of his impressive piano sonatas from that year, and our ﬁrst detailed analyses of works will focus on these pieces. In reality, however, Beethoven’s creative development was a continuous, ongoing process that resists easy categorization but to which the works themselves bear witness in abundant measure. The formative inﬂuence of Bonn on Beethoven was profound, but its deepest artistic expression belonged to another time and place.

2

R The Path to Mastery: 1792–1798

R Beethoven could hardly have imagined when he left Bonn in late 1792 that he would never again see his birthplace, or that the reign of the elector would be swept away in the wake of the French occupation less than two years later. The conditions of his entry into Vienna were auspicious; he immediately came under the wing of music-loving aristocrats who supported him generously. Although he never held an ofﬁcial court position at Vienna, his success was dependent on the patronage of noble benefactors including Prince Karl von Lichnowsky, Baron van Swieten, the Count and Countess von Browne, and in later years Prince Lobkowitz and Prince Kinsky, among others. Soon after his arrival in Vienna, Beethoven moved in for a time with Lichnowsky, who had patronized Mozart a few years earlier and whose private string quartet, led by Ignaz Schuppanzigh, assumed special importance for Beethoven. The patronage of the Count and Countess Browne is reﬂected in Beethoven’s dedications of several important works, including the String Trios op. 9 and Piano Sonatas op. 10. Beethoven received valuable presents from his patrons, including a quartet of string instruments from Lichnowsky and a horse from Count Browne in response to his dedication to the Countess of the Twelve Variations for Piano on a Russian Dance WoO 71 in 1797. One of Beethoven’s most lasting friendships dating from these years was with the amateur cellist Nikolaus Zmeskall von Domanovecz, who attended the musical performances held on Friday mornings at Lichnowsky’s house. Zmeskall carefully preserved his correspondence with Beethoven from this period when the latter was not yet famous; the letters richly display Beethoven’s sense of humor and his indulgence in extravagant plays on words. One note, addressed to “My dearest Baron Muckcart-driver” (or “dirt-driver”) contains an elaborate pun based on the mixing up or transposition of the last three letters of “baron.” Beethoven delights himself here by linking the noun Versatzamt (“pawn shop”) with the verb versetzen (“to transpose”—in this case, words, letters, or notes), and he throws in for good measure a reference to his Duet for Viola and Cello WoO 32, a piece he dubbed a “duet with two eyeglasses obbligato” and apparently performed with Zmeskall.1 Zmeskall worked at the Hungarian Court Chancellery, but his name 1

Cf. Thayer-Forbes, pp. 221–22.

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is Czech (or Slovakian); “zmesˇkal” literally means “missed” in the sense of being late due to wasted time; another Czech word that sounds similar, zmetek, means “misﬁt.” Zmeskall presumably explained these meanings to the composer, who fancifully blended the connotations in addressing his friend as “dearest dirt hauler” or “garbage man.” Further examples of Beethoven’s puns from about this time surface in his correspondence with the horn player and publisher Nikolaus Simrock in Bonn in which Beethoven plays on the word stechen, meaning “to sting or stab,” as well as “to engrave.” Beethoven composed little music during his ﬁrst year in Vienna. This situation led to embarrassment when Haydn sent to the elector at Bonn a letter of recommendation for an increase in Beethoven’s stipend, accompanied by copies of pieces, most of which Beethoven had already written before his departure. The sting of the elector’s reply—with its assertion that Beethoven had learnt little and would bring back to Bonn nothing but debts—cannot have helped endear Haydn to Beethoven. Their relationship was somewhat stiff and reserved, though it remained cordial. There is little doubt that Beethoven owed less to formal instruction with Haydn than to the inspiring model of the older man’s compositions. The creative achievements of Haydn and Mozart were fully recognized for the ﬁrst time during the 1790s, and no one was better situated to build on their legacy than Beethoven. During his ﬁrst Vienna years Beethoven composed primarily for solo piano or combinations of instruments including piano. He devoted attention as well to the medium of the string trio, as represented by the divertimento-like Trio in E op. 3 and the accomplished set of three trios op. 9, and composed occasional songs, including the famous Adelaide. Beethoven referred to Adelaide as a “cantata,” alluding thereby to his departure from a strophic setting in favor of an extended two-part structure. The poem, by Friedrich von Matthisson, has four stanzas, each of which ends with an exclamation of the name “Adelaide!” In his setting, Beethoven accommodates the ﬁrst three stanzas to a ﬂowing Larghetto and shifts to Allegro molto for the last stanza, which includes additional repetitions of phrases of the text. In a comment accompanying the re-publication of his collected poems, Matthisson wrote that “several composers have animated this little lyrical fantasy through music; I am ﬁrmly convinced however that none of them so threw the text into the shade with their melody as did the genius Ludwig van Beethoven in Vienna.”2 The wistful melancholy of the protagonist’s unfulﬁlled yearning for the idealized, unattainable woman is conveyed through Beethoven’s sensitive melodic treatment; the opening words “Einsam wandelt dein Freund” (“Alone wanders your friend”) are set to a rising triadic upbeat leading a long note on the downbeat marking “wander,” whereas “friend” is expressed through an upward shift of a semitone to E at the ﬁrst change of harmony, from the tonic triad B major to a dominant-seventh chord. Beethoven was attracted by the sonic qualities of the text, with its references to “whispering” breezes and “whistling” nightingales, and he expresses these poetic qualities with soft tonal nuances and 2

Kinsky-Halm, Das Werk Beethovens, p. 110.

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vivid imagery. Most striking of all is the musical intensiﬁcation of the last stanza in the Allegro molto. In the piano, he compresses the melodic outline from the beginning of the song, with its upbeat from F leading to repeated Ds and then the dominant seventh supporting E . In this ﬁnal section, the protagonist imagines his death, and the attainment of his love seems remote; yet the music expresses a passionate, climactic conviction, and the only hint of resignation comes at the very end, in the pianissimo echo of the last “Adelaide!” Although written in the mid-1790s and ﬁrst published in 1797, Adelaide was eventually reissued in 1804 with the deceptively high opus number 46. The proud designation of op. 1, on the other hand, was granted to the three Trios for Piano, Violin, and Cello in E major, G major, and C minor, which were performed at a private concert at Prince Lichnowsky’s residence in late 1793 or early 1794 and painstakingly revised before their eventual publication in 1795. Beethoven’s pupil Ferdinand Ries reported that Haydn expressed reservations about the C minor Trio—remarks not well received by Beethoven, who considered it the best of the three. Haydn embarked around this time on his second triumphant journey to London. Beethoven, meanwhile, supplemented his instruction with Haydn by diligent study with others: the composer Johann Schenk and the systematic theorist Johann Georg Albrechtsberger. Beethoven’s independent artistic stance was thus fully compatible with his determination to master the traditional methods of composition; the imaginative ﬂights of the virtuoso pianist gained thereby in solidity, depth, and constructive power. By the time he had ﬁnished his First Symphony and the String Quartets op. 18 in 1800, Beethoven had written thirteen piano sonatas (up to and including op. 22 and the two Sonatas op. 49), the ﬁrst two concertos, and more than a dozen sets of independent piano variations. Other piano works of the 1790s include the Rondo in C op. 51 no. 1, the four-hand Sonata in D op. 6, various bagatelles and miscellaneous pieces, and the Rondo à Capriccio in G, published posthumously as op. 129. Contemporary reports described his extraordinary abilities in improvisation. In view of his formidable mastery of the instrument, we need hardly marvel that Beethoven’s piano music remained a vehicle for his most advanced ideas throughout his career. It would be a serious error to underestimate Beethoven’s sonatas from the 1790s. Whereas his ﬁrst published examples of the concerto, quartet, and symphony are generally inferior to Haydn’s and Mozart’s masterpieces in those genres, the same cannot be said of his early sonatas, especially those for solo piano. It was in the piano sonata that Beethoven ﬁrst revealed the full expressive range and power of invention that he was to demonstrate only years later in some other musical forms. In their broad scale and structural grandeur, his early sonatas and chamber music with piano show signs of a symphonic ambition. Characteristic, for instance, is his use of the four-movement form then associated more with symphonies or quartets than with these more intimate genres; each of the three Piano Trios op. 1 and Piano Sonatas op. 2 adds a minuet or scherzo to the conventional three-movement plan. In the case of the big Piano Sonata in E op. 7, Beethoven

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Ex. 4 Piano Sonata op. 2 no. 1/I

incorporated a dance-like Allegro with Minore as the penultimate movement, a piece he had originally sketched as a “bagatelle” independent from the sonata.3 In the three Violin Sonatas op. 12 written in 1797–98, he retained the three-movement framework, but he employed four movements in two later works in this genre—the C minor Sonata op. 30 no. 2 of 1802 and the ﬁnal Violin Sonata op. 96 of 1812. Our examination of the music from Beethoven’s early Vienna years will focus primarily on his piano sonatas, beginning with the three works in F minor, A major, and C major published with a dedication to Haydn as op. 2 in 1796. The ﬁrst movement of the very ﬁrst sonata serves as well as any to illustrate Beethoven’s thorough and original mastery of the Viennese classical style. This Allegro is dominated even more than usual by his favorite practice of increasing structural compression—a device sometimes described as “fragmentation” and which Alfred Brendel has more suitably termed “foreshortening” and described as “the driving force of his sonata forms and a basic principle of his musical thought.”4 In a foreshortening process phrases are divided into progressively smaller units: the effect is to drive the music forward with a nervous intensity quite alien to the relaxed rococo elegance of the ancien régime. The opening theme of op. 2 no. 1 (Ex. 4) juxtaposes two-bar phrases on tonic and dominant, using a version of the “Mannheim rocket” ﬁgure with a rising staccato arpeggiation peaking ﬁrst on A and then B in the treble, while staccato chords on the weaker beats in the left hand provide the accompaniment. The vitality of this theme is sustained from within, through constant reexamination of the ongoing musical discourse. Bar 5 is an intensiﬁcation of bar 2, cutting the initial phrase to half its length; bar 6 similarly curtails the second phrase to a single bar. All the dynamic markings are structural: they emphasize the melodic peaks of the opening phrases as well as the isolation of those pitches 3

Nottebohm, Zweite Beethoveniana, pp. 508–11. “Form and Psychology in Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas,” Musical Thoughts and Afterthoughts, p. 43; also see Brendel’s essay “The Process of Foreshortening in the First Movement of Beethoven’s Sonata Op. 2, No. 1” in the same volume, pp. 154–61. 4

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through sforzandi, while the crescendo to fortissimo at the broken chord in bar 7 reinforces both the upper linear motion to the ﬁfth degree, C, and the growing intensity of the process of rhythmic diminution. The last bars of the theme are also controlled by consistent foreshortening in the harmonic structure: the tonic chord in bar 7 is sustained for only a half bar, whereas the shift from tonic to dominant in the last bar of the theme is compressed into successive beats. The very silence at the fermata after the turn ﬁgure in this bar seems generated by the intensity of the drive toward concision, resulting in virtual liquidation of the basic thematic material. In this arresting theme the initial two-bar units are thus reduced to single bars, half bars, and single beats before the music abruptly confronts that silence out of which it came into being. One senses in the opening rhetorical accents of Beethoven’s ﬁrst sonata a more aggressive variant of Haydn’s exquisitely delicate play with silence in some movements of his op. 33 quartets. This type of open-ended thematic shaping—a “sentence” (Satz) as opposed to a closed “period” structure—displays an urgent temporal drive. The process of foreshortening shapes the musical events decisively, leading to the cessation of sound in bar 8, before a new statement of the “Mannheim rocket” ﬁgure in the bass ushers in the transition. We shall observe other examples of such musical processes in Beethoven, whereby an intensiﬁcation breaks the immediate sonorous continuity, suggesting metaphorically a heightened awareness of thought or action. In this sense, the opening movement of op. 2 no. 1 already anticipates larger works to come, such as the climax of the ﬁrst movement of the Eroica Symphony. Beethoven’s rough draft of this Allegro shows how concerned he was to tighten its thematic and harmonic relations. Compare, for instance, his sketch for the beginning of the second subject with the ﬁnal version (Ex. 5a and b).5 In the ﬁnished work Beethoven has changed his sketch into a free inversion of the shape of the ﬁrst subject, designating a crescendo and sforzando to make the correspondence clear. But that is not all: he has also shifted the second subject into the minor mode, so that the ﬂat sixth degree of A minor—F —is emphasized in two registers, harmonically as part of a dissonant minor ninth chord on the dominant. This stress on F in the second theme sounds much like an intensiﬁcation of the emphasis on the minor third (A ), in the opening theme. Beethoven’s procedure of foreshortening is a ﬂexible means of intensiﬁcation that is especially appropriate to the development section of the sonata design. In this movement the development starts with a varied restatement of the opening theme beginning in A major but passing through the pivotal harmony of a German augmented sixth to the second subject, now in B minor (Ex. 6). Beethoven thereby telescopes the entire ﬁrst half of his exposition, deleting a dozen of its bars while dramatically juxtaposing the two subjects he had devised as inversions of one another. The energy produced by this accelerated plunge into the second subject is sustained in turn through a new process of foreshortening. First, the eight5

Nottebohm transcribed the sketch in Zweite Beethoveniana, p. 565.

the path to mastery: 1792–1798 Ex. 5 Piano Sonata op. 2 no. 1/I a. sketch

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b. ﬁnal version

bar model of the second theme leads through a new augmented-sixth chord into C minor. Then the basic phrase is shifted into the bass, and descending sequences carry the music progressively lower in pitch as the thematic structure breaks up into smaller units. The prominent accented dissonances thus fall from A to G and F , before Beethoven takes the crucial step of stripping away the melodic material while preserving the descending linear motion and syncopated rhythmic energy in the circle-of-ﬁfths progression that follows. These deeper musical processes are the very lifeblood of the music. The falling series of syncopated bass notes reaches E , D , and C (pitches echoed a fourth higher in the treble), and the energy of this impressive passage is ﬁnally released at a powerful half cadence on the dominant of F minor (Ex. 7). The rhythmic articulation or structural downbeat at this juncture is marked by the ensuing dominant pedal, presaging the recapitulation twenty-one bars later. The following passage on the dominant pedal is no longer driven by the impetus of rhythmic compression and modulation; it assumes a more static, retrospective character. This music echoes the climactic cadence that had preceded it, particularly the semitone fall F–E and the associated harmonic resolution of the diminished-seventh chord, now heard over the pedal. There is a close kinship here with the second subject, with its similar dominant pedal and harmonic support;

Ex. 6 Piano Sonata op. 2 no. 1/I, bars 42–60

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Ex. 7 Piano Sonata op. 2 no. 1/I, bars 73–82

the relationship is easily audible in the recapitulation, when the second subject appears at the same pitch level. The gradually subsiding effect of the end of the development is conveyed by the decrescendo to pianissimo as the last cadential echo dissipates, reducing the music to a substratum of softly pulsating Cs in the left hand. This too is part of the process of foreshortening in its broadest sense: the lively eight-bar unit of the second subject has undergone a dramatic development so exhaustive that its material literally dissolves. Beethoven now uses the turn ﬁgure drawn from the opening theme to signal the imminent recapitulation, which is enhanced through more forceful placement of the accompanying chords of the main theme. Even more striking is his treatment of the closing theme of the exposition and his reinterpretation of this music at the close of the Allegro. He marks these passages “con espressione”; they are imbued with declamatory rhetoric recalling the opening theme (Ex. 8 shows the passage from the end of the movement). The staccato chords resemble its chordal accompaniment, while the basic motivic shape—except for the ascending leap to the dominant, C—derives from rhythmic augmentation of the turn ﬁgure. What sticks out curiously is the upward leap and accented stress on the dominant note, an inﬂection that soon delivers an astounding punch. The gesture at ﬁrst sounds odd, but harmless; only on its third appearance does Beethoven make his point. He repeats the motif an octave higher and drastically reinterprets the sensitive dominant note fortissimo with full harmonic support, prolonging it fourfold, through an entire bar. So emphasized, this pitch becomes the surprising penultimate chord of the cadence that closes the exposition. When Beethoven returns to this passage at the end of the movement, he retains not the same formula but his instinct for surprise. This time the emphatic “closing” chord is reharmonized to pass deceptively to the subdominant, evading a tonic cadence. A pause and descending sequence follow, carrying the progression down a tone to the mediant. Then Beethoven resorts for the last time to rhythmic diminution, as faster sequences of accented chords drive to the close in F minor. The brief coda traces a linear descent from dominant to tonic—thereby echoing

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Ex. 8 Piano Sonata op. 2 no. 1/I

gestures like the climax of the opening theme or the “con espressione” phrases— while gathering rhythmic energy through foreshortening to lead into the terse, emphatic cadence. This tight, concise movement shows that by 1795 Beethoven was capable of achieving a thematic integration and formal coherence which, though comparable to Haydn’s, are quite individual in quality. Particularly noteworthy is Beethoven’s almost obsessive use of rhythmic foreshortening as a means of musical development. Douglas Johnson’s comparison with Haydn, claiming that “the old man’s models are lean and taut, while the young man’s copies are overweight and longwinded”6 does not apply here, though it is true of certain other works from this period. In op. 2 no. 1 that criticism could perhaps be leveled at the second movement, a ﬂorid Adagio in F major, although its lyrical repose does bring welcome contrast after the terse drama of the Allegro. Like the opening Allegro con brio of op. 2 no. 3, this Adagio uses material from Beethoven’s earlier Piano Quartet WoO 36 no. 3, a work he wrote in Bonn at the age of fourteen, which shows the inﬂuence of Mozart’s Violin Sonata in C major, K. 296. We shall return to the issue of Beethoven’s use of Haydnesque and Mozartian models. More important in connection with op. 2 is actually to acknowledge how boldly independent Beethoven had already become. The opening Allegro vivace of op. 2 no. 2 offers further testimony to Beethoven’s audacity in its extraordinary treatment of the second subject group. After a brilliant play of scalar ﬁgures and falling leaps in the opening theme the music settles mysteriously onto the dominant E minor, with slow tremolos in the left hand and a legato, espressivo phrase in the treble (Ex. 9). The lyrical phrase outlines the falling semitones E–D –D, while the bass rises step by step, facilitating a modulation to G. Sequential intensiﬁcation of these bars extends the rising bass movement, bringing the music to the remote key of B . Beethoven now exploits his procedure of foreshortening to bring matters to the breaking point: instead of employing a stable thematic conﬁguration, he devises his second subject as a dra6

“1794–95: Decisive Years in Beethoven’s Early Development,” p. 26.

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Ex. 9 Piano Sonata op. 2 no. 2/I, bars 57–85

matic series of modulations that are strictly controlled by the long ascent of the bass through a full octave. Once this progression has reattained the original pitch an octave higher, the impact of foreshortening has stripped away all but the semitone E–D in the melody. Now comes the real crux of the matter: after the virtual disappearance of the second subject, the falling scalar ﬁgure of the opening theme returns fortissimo to ﬁll the void! Beethoven adds a touch of the grotesque by juxtaposing the soft, enigmatic high semitone E–D with the insistent bass ﬁgure outlining a tritone. He then dwells on the semitone in the high register, pausing on an ambiguous diminished-seventh chord. The silence that follows magniﬁes the complex quality of this moment, preparing a triumphant reversal of the resolution of the semitone, as the diminished seventh containing D is ﬁnally resolved into cascades of ﬁguration elaborating the long-awaited E major triad. Dramatically, the entire passage is posited on the notion of a controlled postponement of the dominant key, building suspense that makes the eventual discov-

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ery of that goal all the more satisfying. The dynamic thrust so evident in the development of the Allegro of op. 2 no. 1 is transplanted here into the exposition of the sonata form. The idea is original and the execution ﬂawless, demonstrating that by 1795 Beethoven had already transcended an imitative style of composition, at least in this genre. But many other aspects of his art can be properly appreciated only in the broader context of an entire piece or opus. To that end, we turn for an example to the remarkable trilogy of Piano Sonatas in C minor, F major, and D major that Beethoven published three years later, in 1798, as op. 10. The sharply proﬁled individuality of the op. 10 Sonatas nevertheless admits some common features among them, such as the presence of comic music abounding in sudden contrasts and unexpected turns. A whimsical, unpredictable humor surfaces in the ﬁnales of all three pieces, and most strikingly in the opening Allegro of the second sonata, in F major. The sonatas are nonetheless admirably contrasted in character, particularly in their ﬁrst movements: the terse, dramatic idiom of the C minor Sonata sets into relief the relaxed, mischievous spirit of the F major, whereas the dynamic brilliance of the third sonata, in D major, expands the formal design from within. Like Beethoven’s four earlier sonatas, op. 10 no. 3 also has four movements, incorporating a minuet before the ﬁnale. The ﬁrst two sonatas of op. 10 employ the more usual Classical design of three movements, with a slower movement sandwiched between an opening Allegro and a ﬁnale in a still faster tempo. Op. 10 no. 1 marks the ﬁrst appearance in the piano sonatas of Beethoven’s celebrated “C minor mood,” the tempestuous, strife-ridden character reﬂected in pieces such as the string trio op. 9 no. 3, the Pathétique Sonata, the Fifth Symphony, and the very last sonata, op. 111. This idiom was forged by Beethoven out of an artistic context reaching back to Mozart, Haydn, and Bach. Mozart’s piano works in this key, such as the Sonata K. 457 and the Concerto K. 491, particularly impressed Beethoven: he reportedly commented to J. B. Cramer about the concerto that “we shall never be able to do anything like that!”7 The rhetorical contrasts of these works often juxtapose a forceful, dramatic expression invested with rhythmic tension and dissonance on the one hand, with the emergence of a plaintive or lyrical voice on the other. Mozart’s C minor pieces, such as K. 491, frequently project a sense of fatalistic resignation that arises through the objective, even impersonal character of their pathetic chromaticism, implying a subordination of subjectivity to objectivity; Beethoven, by contrast, tends to subsume such contrasts into an all-encompassing subjective dynamic. The ﬁrst movement of op. 10 no. 1 distils these contrasts with utmost concentration. The powerful opening C minor chord, with its jagged, rising rhythmic inﬂections, yields to a quiet transformation of the same sound, while the ensuing motivic fall from C to B in bar 4 sets up reiteration of the forceful opening gesture, now intensiﬁed through use of the dissonant diminished-seventh chord (see Ex. 10). The following phrases build the climax of the opening theme through a threefold stress on the dominant, G, before the line descends stepwise through an 7

Thayer-Forbes, p. 209.

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Ex. 10 Piano Sonata op. 10 no. 1/I

octave and breaks off mysteriously into silence. Here, as elsewhere in Beethoven, the pauses are no less important than the notes: the rapport of sound with silence imparts tension to the end of the opening thematic period, before the head of the theme is reasserted with even greater vehemence. Most of what follows is related to this opening theme. Variants of the stepwise descending motif lurk in the tranquil transition passage, whereas the more lyrical second subject in E major utilizes the falling semitone ﬁgure of the opening theme while also hinting at its rhythm. The new melody that emerges in the development section brings together motifs from both principal themes, carrying the music through minor keys. The approach to the recapitulation, on the other hand, reshapes the descending line from the opening theme, the passage that had been broken off initially into silence. Now the pause is ﬁlled in, supplanting the mysterious interruption by a sonorous connection to the reprise—the symmetrical turning point in the movement as a whole. Another climax occurs later in the recapitulation, where the brighter second subject is drawn into the sphere of C minor, with an effect of pathos. Beethoven does not merely transpose it according to convention but ﬁrst elaborates it in a major key, F, reentering the tonic minor only at the point where the second subject is decorated with rising staccato scales. Thereafter the tonic remains unchallenged; the movement closes laconically, with stark cadential chords. The terse, concentrated expression of this movement would be misconstrued if taken as the effusion of a youthful, emotional Sturm und Drang. As the other movements make still clearer, the Beethoven that emerges here is as much a clear-sighted rationalist as a romantic visionary. As is usual in Beethoven’s C minor works, the slow movement, an Adagio molto, is in the key of the ﬂat sixth, A major. Its grand lyrical expression relies much on decorative variation, especially in the quiet second subject, in which each phrase is reshaped into rapid, delicate ﬁguration. This movement is a sonata form with a single, emphatic dominant-seventh chord standing in place of a development, but there is an extended coda, in which the reﬂective main theme is given a new continuation and a new outcome. Its characteristic falling melodic thirds are extended here to reach the dominant, E , before being softly resolved to the tonic in a gesture of thematic completion and liquidation. Out of the stillness at the end of the Adagio emerges the lean, shadowy opening of the prestissimo ﬁnale, in which motifs from the ﬁrst movement—such as the

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Ex. 11 Piano Sonata op. 10 no. 1/III

semitone C–B—reappear in a new context. Still more surprising is the way the principal motif is absorbed, with comic effect, into the second subject group of this compact sonata form. Riotous humor erupts in the cadential theme: as if the drastic contrasts of dynamics and register and the hammering, “telegraphic” rhythms were not enough, Beethoven wickedly inserts a “wrong” chord on C , fortissimo, just before the cadence! Following the brief development and a recapitulation hardly less amusing than the exposition, despite its turn to the minor, the coda gradually slows the tempo to adagio. Beethoven lingers here over his second subject, transforming its jaunty character into a more reﬂective expression, while bringing the music to rest on a seventh chord of A at the ﬁrst tenuto marking (Ex. 11). What is the meaning of this striking gesture? The sound is familiar, being enharmonically equivalent to the ﬁrst vertical harmony in the shadowy main theme of the movement. The point is that this sound contains the tonic sonority of the A major of the slow movement and can thereby serve both as a harmonic threshold to the ﬁnale and, later, as a subtle means of reference to the Adagio molto. Without making a direct thematic allusion, Beethoven thus evokes the aura of the slow movement, effectively setting off his ﬁnal plunge into the prestissimo, which quickly dissolves into a silence of pregnant irony. The second sonata, in F major, takes its point of departure from the comic strain already present in the ﬁnale of op. 10 no. 1. Though a favorite of Beethoven’s, the piece has been regarded disapprovingly by some commentators, who have pointed accusingly to loose, meandering features in the opening Allegro while remaining deaf to their aesthetic quality. Brendel has recently observed how easily such comic music can be spoilt in performance, or misunderstood by listeners “expecting the celebration of religious rites.”8 Beethoven felt no such constraints: like Laurence Sterne’s character Tristram Shandy, he could revel in the unexpected, the incongruous, and the grotesque, and, as in this movement, exhibit 8

“Must Classical Music be Entirely Serious?,” Music Sounded Out, p. 35.

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Ex. 12 Piano Sonata op. 10 no. 2/I, bars 38–50

a coyish, good-natured capacity for just getting lost. In comparison with op. 10 no. 1 the form is antiteleological; the music appears to progress in ﬁts and starts, sometimes driven by feverish outbursts of impatience. One cul-de-sac occurs in the second subject group after the ﬁrst cadence in the dominant, C major, in bar 41 (Ex. 12). The ensuing phrase loses its grip on the cadence, and the pianissimo chord in bar 46 suggests raised eyebrows of puzzled confusion. Another such passage is the false recapitulation, which begins innocently enough in D major. Remarkably, it is not the harmonized chords forming the head of the theme but rather its little ornamental turn whose repetitions stabilize the true recapitulation in F, conveying a sense of the tail wagging the dog. The second movement is an Allegretto with trio in F minor, the focus of gravity in this otherwise lighthearted work. Its seriousness of character stands as complementary to the comic fugal burlesque that forms the presto ﬁnale. This relationship can be vividly projected in performance through rhythmic means, if the steady motion in quarter notes in the Allegretto yields to a subdivision of these beats into eighth notes in the shorter bars of the Presto, thereby giving the effect of an acceleration to double-time in the ﬁnale. The beginning of the Presto also reshapes the same registral ascent that had begun the meditative Allegretto, transforming its structural aspects in an atmosphere of unbuttoned wit and musical laughter that “inverts the sublime,” according to one of Jean Paul Richter’s insightful deﬁnitions of humor. The design of the D major Sonata op. 10 no. 3 is unusual in that Beethoven maintains the tonic major or minor throughout all four movements. One reason for this tonal plan is found in the expressive relationship between the inner movements—an extended Largo e mesto of tragic character in D minor, whose solemn darkness is broken by the beginning of the gentle Minuetto in the major, marked dolce. This wonderfully sensitive and gradual effect of light dispelling darkness depends crucially on the use of a common tonality. A different sort of complementation holds between the bold and energetic ﬁrst movement, marked Presto, and the grave slow movement in the minor. The very opening of the sonata, in unharmonized octaves, presents material

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that in itself is not particularly distinctive: its initial descending fourth, D–A, and subsequent ascent through tonic triads of D major represent commonplace elements of Classical tonality (Ex. 13). The sparse, elemental nature of this opening lends itself well to reinterpretation and reworking, however, as is soon evident in the exposition, where extended passages are given over to developmental processes. The sudden interruptions and contrasts characteristic of this movement are carefully coordinated with a logical, progressive unfolding and development of the basic thematic material. Only after a contrasting episode in B minor and a brilliant transition passage does Beethoven present the main part of his second subject group, in A major. He incorporates here a new version of the opening motif in smaller note values, with the descending fourth D–A given three times in the major and three times in the minor before the music dissolves into silence. The motif is then absorbed into a contrapuntal phrase leading into an exciting developmental continuation of modulating sequences and persistent syncopations. The cadential themes are just as clearly based on the initial phrase of the movement, notably on the thematic motto of the descending fourth. The exposition of this Presto, as well as the remainder of the movement, shows an intense internal dynamism that strains the formal framework of the Classical sonata and expands it from within—a hallmark of Beethoven’s forceful early style. In the following Largo e mesto in D minor Beethoven exploits the contrast between thick, dark chords (with frequent use of the diminished-seventh sonority) and a more transparent, recitative-like voice in the upper register. This slow movement is one of the great tragic utterances in early Beethoven, and it displays a sense of abortive struggle and resignation in his treatment of the sonata form. The mood of brightness and hope at the beginning of the F major development is soon negated by the fortissimo diminished-seventh chords that lead back into the minor, while their register and motifs recall the movement’s opening theme. Especially powerful is the coda, in which a statement of the principal theme in the lowest register leads to a dramatic, chromatic ascent through an entire octave in the bass. The movement ends with references to fragments from the opening theme

Ex. 13 Piano Sonata op. 10 no. 3/I

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Ex. 14 Piano Sonata op. 10 no. 3/IV

and allusions to the registral disparities between its low chords and the extracted motif of a semitone in the highest register. If the ensuing transparent Minuetto leaves behind the gloomy depths of the slow movement, the concluding rondo is characterized by an unpredictable humor. Here the dynamic stops and starts from the Presto become a game of hideand-seek for the theme itself (Ex. 14). Indeed, is the theme ever found? The rondo seems to suggest a process of seeking, doubting, and evasion. Its prominent deceptive cadence on B minor (bar 7) is later developed in an entire central episode built upon a more jarring deceptive cadence on B . This episode, in turn, leads to a false recapitulation in that key, and to a transition based on the crucial interval of the fourth—no less important in this movement than in the Presto. The ﬁnal episode is like a quest for a more substantial but unattainable goal, and its sequences rise ecstatically into the highest register of the piano before falling back in a short cadenza. In a peculiar way we seem not to have left the original ground: the opening motif returns yet again, now assuming the minor mode and reminding us of the tragic slow movement. A series of chords based on the rhythm of the initial motif follows, and the sonata ends quietly with repetitions of the motif in the bass, heard beneath chromatic scales and arpeggios in the right hand. Like op. 10 no. 1, this D major Sonata has an open, dissolving conclusion, as beﬁts its commitment to emerging process and ongoing development, as well as the deft circumspection of its wit.

S S S If Beethoven had already by the 1790s achieved a consummate mastery in the piano sonata, his compositional struggles are more clearly reﬂected in other genres, in works like the Piano Concerto in B , the surviving torso of the C major Symphony he abandoned in 1796, and in some of the six string quartets of op. 18. Beethoven himself expressed dissatisfaction with the concerto in his letter to Breitkopf & Härtel of 22 April 1801:

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I wish to add that one of my ﬁrst concertos and therefore not one of the best of my compositions, is to be published by Hofmeister, and that Mollo is to publish a concerto which, indeed was written later, but which also does not rank among the best of my works in this form.9

The earliest of these concertos was the work in B eventually published as op. 19; the second concerto, in C major, received the lower opus number 15. The history of the B Concerto mirrors Beethoven’s growing compositional powers, since it was revised or overhauled repeatedly between 1790 and 1801. Its origins go back to the Bonn years; at that stage it probably had an entirely different ﬁnale, the movement now known as the Rondo for Piano and Orchestra WoO 6. The rondo was modeled in turn on the ﬁnale of Mozart’s Piano Concerto in E K. 271, a work whose inﬂuence also left traces in Beethoven’s ﬁrst movement. It was the D minor and C minor concertos of Mozart, however, together with the opening Allegro maestoso of the C major K. 503, that most deeply impressed Beethoven. Beethoven’s sketches for a Symphony in C major occupied him in Vienna in 1795 and again during his concert tour to Prague and Berlin the next year. Douglas Johnson has speculated that Beethoven may have expected a performance of the piece at Berlin that did not materialize. Johnson convincingly places the piece in the context of Beethoven’s frustrated ambition to match Haydn’s towering symphonic achievements, and he points as well to parallels between Beethoven’s fragment and Haydn’s Symphony no. 97 in the same key.10 Characteristically, some thematic material from the abandoned work eventually came to light ﬁve years later in the ﬁnale of Beethoven’s First Symphony in C major op. 21, a piece that owes little to the fragment but still falls short of Haydn’s lofty standards. The full power of Beethoven’s symphonic style ﬁrst emerges in the Second Symphony op. 36, one of a series of pathbreaking works from the watershed year of 1802. Beethoven’s pieces for winds and for winds and strings stem almost entirely from his Bonn period and ﬁrst Vienna years, and often show Mozart’s inﬂuence. They include the Octet in E , which Beethoven reworked as the String Quintet op. 4, the Rondino WoO 25, the Sextet for two horns and strings, and the Trio for two oboes and English horn. The Octet, Sextet, and Trio were all eventually published with deceptively high opus numbers: 103, 81b, and 87, respectively. Beethoven wrote the Serenade op. 25 and Sextet for Winds op. 71 during 1796; the minuet of the sextet quotes the opening of Mozart’s String Quintet in E K. 614, as Denis Matthews pointed out.11 The most famous of all Beethoven’s chamber works featuring winds is the Septet in E op. 20, from 1800. This attractive sixmovement divertimento is scored for bassoon, clarinet, horn, string trio, and double bass. Its extreme popularity irked Beethoven, who did not regard his 9

Thayer-Forbes, p. 275. Johnson’s full discussion of the unﬁnished symphony is found in the part of his Ph.D. dissertation entitled “The Unﬁnished Symphony of 1795–96,” pp. 785–1037; he summarizes his ﬁndings in Beethoven’s Early Sketches, vol. 1, pp. 461–69. 11 Beethoven, p. 150. 10

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pieces for wind ensemble too seriously; he claimed to have written the wind sextet “in a single night.” After 1800 the evolution of his resourceful writing for winds can be followed in his greater symphonic works. The early performance history of the Trio in B for clarinet, cello, and piano op. 11 of 1798 is bound up with Beethoven’s colorful competitive encounter with the ﬂamboyant virtuoso pianist Daniel Steibelt in 1800. According to Ferdinand Ries, Steibelt responded to a performance of Beethoven’s trio with polite condescension, offering in turn a showy improvisation on a popular theme drawn from Joseph Weigl’s opera L’Amor marinaro—the same tune chosen by Beethoven for the variations forming the ﬁnale of his trio. Beethoven retaliated by seizing the cello part of a quintet by Steibelt: after placing it upside down on the music stand, he poked out a theme with one ﬁnger from its opening bars. Offended, Steibelt walked out during Beethoven’s ensuing improvisation, and refused any further association with him.12 The use of a fashionable operatic tune as the basis for the variation ﬁnale of op. 11 is reminiscent of Beethoven’s practice in many independent piano variations of the 1790s, which employ themes by such composers as Dittersdorf, Haibel, Paisiello, Grétry, Salieri, Süssmayr, and Winter, among others. Years later, Beethoven is supposed to have talked about substituting another ﬁnale for the variations on Weigl’s tune in op. 11, which would have distanced this charming work from its original topical context. After the 1790s, he preferred to use original themes as the basis for variations in his greater works, and in the rare exception of the Diabelli Variations he transcended the preexisting theme in unprecedented fashion. A fascinating example of Beethoven’s response to Mozart in the sphere of chamber music is his Quintet in E for Piano and Winds op. 16, from 1796, an imposing yet underestimated work that invites comparison with Mozart’s great work for the same combination of instruments K. 452. Beethoven surely was aware of Mozart’s quintet when he wrote his op. 16, a work composed during his concert tour to Prague and Berlin. Douglas Johnson has speculated that woodwind players at Prague might have given Beethoven the idea of composing such a work, possibly after a performance of Mozart’s K. 452, and that Beethoven subsequently completed the quintet while in Berlin.13 The evaluations of commentators have often been to Beethoven’s disadvantage. Donald Francis Tovey wrote that “if you want to realize the difference between the highest art of classical composition and the easygoing, safety-ﬁrst product of a silver age, you cannot ﬁnd a better illustration than these two works, and here it is Mozart who is the classic and Beethoven who is something less.”14 Echoing this view, John Warrack wrote that “In the direct line of descent from Mozart’s 12

Thayer-Forbes, p. 257. “Music for Prague and Berlin: Beethoven’s Concert Tour of 1796,” in Beethoven, Performers, and Critics: The International Beethoven Congress, Detroit, 1977, ed. Robert Winter and Bruce Carr (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1980), p. 35. Beethoven’s sketches for op. 16 are found exclusively on paper that he obtained during his tour. 14 Beethoven (London: Oxford University Press, 1945), p. 88. 13

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piano and wind quintet is Beethoven’s work for the same combination . . . an inferior work to its begetter.”15 Lewis Lockwood dismisses Beethoven’s quintet as “designed for popularity and little more,” and he implies that with op. 16, as with the Clarinet Trio op. 11, “Beethoven did well to make his piece attractive to audiences and performers . . . but he was fully aware that instead of attempting a really serious work that could stand up to Mozart’s he was trolling the surface for easy dividends.”16 The similarities between the two works go beyond the choice of instruments. Both quintets are in three movements, and employ E major as the tonic key, with the subdominant B major serving as the tonic key of the slow movement. The opening movements are in sonata form, the ﬁnales in a rondo design, and each piece contains an extended slow introduction to the ﬁrst movement. These parallels could scarcely have been accidental, and indeed convey the impression of Beethoven placing himself in rivalry with Mozart’s quintet. The originality of Beethoven’s approach in op. 16 begins to emerge if we identify the speciﬁc motivic content he extracted from Mozart’s work. Eyewitness reports of Beethoven’s improvisations stress his capacity for developing much from little, seeing a world in a grain of sand by making a seemingly accidental scrap of musical material into the springboard for an imaginative musical discourse. Similarly, Beethoven would often seize upon a particular motive while composing that could serve as the basis for his musical elaborations. In this instance, it is the descending motive from Mozart’s slow introduction that drew Beethoven’s attention. Heard in the bassoon beginning in bar 10 of K. 452, the motive unfolds in sixteenth notes, passing by step through the falling seventh from G to a sustained A ; in the ensuing statement in the horn, the ﬁgure begins on A (Ex. 15). Mozart arranges the ensuing chain of motives so these entries sustain an ascending linear pattern passing through an octave. In the main theme of the Allegro, ma non troppo section in the massive ﬁrst movement of his op. 16, Beethoven develops this motivic pattern drawn from Mozart. Following the upbeat ﬁgure B to G, the high G is placed on a downbeat, supported by tonic harmony, and the four-bar antecedent phrase that unfolds from this gesture outlines the descending seventh, closing on dominant harmony (Ex. 16). Although the consequent phrase in bars 5–8 reaches A and unfolds over more than an octave, it comes to rest on B , so that the overall shape of the gesture retains the contour of a descending seventh, A to B . Within the entire opening theme of sixteen bars, bars 10–14 isolate and emphasize the motivic idea of a falling step, while the descending scale in bars 15–16 is articulated as a series of two-note ﬁgures. In striking ways, Beethoven alters this recognizable motivic idea in the opening theme of his Allegro, ma non troppo. Mozart’s ﬁgure appeared in steady sixteenth notes in a lower register and was then repeated in a series of sequences. In 15

The Beethoven Companion, ed. Thomas K. Scherman and Louis Biancolli (New York: Doubleday, 1972), p. 156. 16 Beethoven: The Music and The Life (New York: Norton, 2003), p. 108.

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Ex. 15. Mozart, Quintet for Piano and Winds K. 452, slow introduction to first movement, mm. 9–10

Beethoven’s work, the motive appears in 3/4 time rather than in duple meter, as in K. 452, and it receives a much more distinctive melodic and rhythmic proﬁle, in a higher register. The highest pitch G, the E a major third lower, and the lowest tone A are each emphasized through the use of notes of longer duration, ornaments, or note repetition. By setting off his four-bar phrases by silences in bars 4 and 8, Beethoven presents the motive as a characteristic entity, which assumes a leading role in the musical discourse. This descending motivic contour can be heard throughout Beethoven’s Allegro, ma non troppo, and not only when the opening subject is present. The dolce phrases at the beginning of the second subject and at the outset of the closing theme also partake of this gestural shape. Particularly resourceful is Beethoven’s subsequent compression of the closing theme into a two-bar unit in triplets, which is then reinterpreted in turn as falling staccato ﬁguration in the piano leading to the end of the exposition. Comparison of the two quintets shows that the motivic ﬁgure based on a descending scale, and speciﬁcally the falling seventh G to A , assumes more prominence in Beethoven’s work than in Mozart’s.17 While this ﬁgure is conspicuous in Mozart’s slow introduction, it remains a localized musical element in K. 452. If the motive pervades the principal themes of Beethoven’s entire ﬁrst movement, its importance is not conﬁned to the opening Allegro, ma non troppo of op. 16. The second movement, marked Andante cantabile, is a kind of slow movement rondo form with episodes, assuming the pattern A-B-A1-C-A2-coda. The main theme, which is varied and decorated each time it recurs, again displays the descending scalar contour familiar from the ﬁrst movement. The opening phrases of this dolce theme seem to reshape the dolce phrase at the head of the second subject of the opening Allegro. Beethoven’s sensitive reinterpretation of these phrases in his vari17

In view of these motivic similarities, as well as the general parallels between Mozart’s k. 452 and Beethoven’s op. 16 in their overall structure and key schemes, it is hard to maintain skepticism about Beethoven’s knowledge of Mozart’s work, such as is expressed by Barry Cooper in his study Beethoven (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), pp. 66–67.

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Ex. 16. Beethoven, Quintet for Piano and Winds op. 16, main theme of first movement

ations and coda ensure that the stepwise descending melodic contour remains prominent, and this is nowhere more so than in the coda, with its falling scale in octaves played fortissimo in triplets in the piano, over a dominant pedal point (bar 103). In the last moments of this Andante cantabile, the descending scalar motion is heard yet again in the piano, with falling thirds sinking with a decrescendo through a three-octave descent into the bass, leading to the cadence of the movement in pianissimo. In Beethoven’s closing rondo, on the other hand, a melodic relation to Mozart’s quintet is not in evidence. Instead, another of Mozart’s ﬁnale themes becomes his model—the opening subject of the rondo ﬁnale of the Piano Concerto in E Major, K. 482, from 1785. The main rondo theme of K. 482 is based on a swinging, hunting-type theme in 6/8 meter. The two-bar phrases of this theme outline a rising contour, so that the upward shift from B to E reaches in G in bar 2, while a sequence of this phrase moving from B ﬂat through F reaches A in bar 4 (Ex. 17). The overall melodic peak is reached in the third phrase, which passes from B through G to the B an octave higher, before the ﬁnal two-bar unit brings a balancing melodic descent to a tonic cadence. Like Mozart in K. 482, Beethoven initially gives the rondo Allegro theme in the

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Ex. 17. Mozart, Piano Concerto in E-flat Major K. 482, main theme of finale

ﬁnale of op. 16 to the pianist, and the swinging, hunting quality in 6/8 meter is retained from K. 482. Moreover, the opening pair of two-bar phrases of this theme outlines the same basic ascending pattern from B through E to G, and then from F to A . The third two-bar phrase departs from its model, as Beethoven intensiﬁes the ascent to reach C, a melodic peak underscored by a crescendo and a shift to subdominant harmony (Ex. 18). Beethoven composed his main theme as a kind of variation on the rondo theme of Mozart’s K. 482, but the model is effectively transformed, and the rest of the movement displays little contact with Mozart’s work. Our comparison of Mozart’s K. 452 and Beethoven’s op. 16 has uncovered motivic and thematic afﬁnities that both conﬁrm and limit the kinship between these compositions. Beethoven seizes upon speciﬁc structural features of Mozart’s music, while developing these aspects in ways that extend far beyond his models. At the same time, in the forms and proportions employed in his quintet, Beethoven departs substantially from Mozart, and his thematic model for the rondo theme in op. 16 is taken from a different Mozartian work, K. 482. In particular, Beethoven’s extensive development of the descending motive ﬁrst heard in the bassoon in bar 10 of Mozart’s K. 452 provokes reﬂection. Mozart’s motivic idea is extensively developed in the different musical environment of Beethoven’s op. 16. Was he merely “trolling the surface for easy dividends” here? This situation calls for an interpretative approach that gives more recognition to the challenging and original features of Beethoven’s energetic early style. A review of op. 16 from 1803 described it as “a new quintet by Beethoven, brilliant, serious, full of deep expression and character, but sometimes too bold, with occasional rips in the framework [Odensprünge], in accordance with the inclination of this composer.”18 A key term used by the reviewer is “Odensprünge,” meaning digressions or artistic leaps, ﬂights of fancy related here to the theory of the literary ode. Reinhold Brinkmann has linked this notion of “Odensprung” to the “rip of the century” (“Riss des Jahrhunderts”), connecting it to Romantic currents and speciﬁcally to the formal experiments that would characterize Beethoven’s Rasumovsky Quartets and subsequent works. Brinkmann observes in this context that the term “Odensprung” relates to “pathbreaking conceptions in chamber music and piano music, changes in formal function in sections and movements, and par18 “Ein neues Quintett von Beethoven, genialisch, ernst, voll tiefen Sinnes und Characters, nur dann und wann zu grell, hier und da Odensprünge, nach der Manier dieses Componisten,” in Ludwig van Beethovens Leben von Alexander Wheelock Thayer, vol. 2, ed. Hermann Deiters and Hugo Riemann (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1922), p. 380. Although the work under discussion is not explicitly identiﬁed, it seems clearly to be op. 16, which had been published in March 1801.

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Ex. 18. Beethoven, Quintet for Piano and Winds op. 16, main theme of finale

ticularly to the discontinuities of later works, with their richly divergent semantic and structural aspects poised between fugue, homophonic sonata design, and instrumental recitative, as well as to changes in tempo and texture, breaks in narrative continuity, expressive contrasts, and to tensions between form and subjectivity, aspects that Adorno sought to recognize as deﬁnitive for Beethoven’s late works.”19 This perspective thus differs greatly from the dismissal of Beethoven’s quintet as not a “serious work that could stand up to Mozart’s.” A richer sense of context can be gained from Beethoven’s musical manuscripts and what is known of the origins of the quintet. Douglas Johnson has claimed on the basis of study of the manuscripts that “the Grave introduction to the ﬁrst movement was in fact a late addition, or at least . . . did not reach mature form until after the remainder of the quintet had been worked out at length.”20 This insight makes good sense in light of the motivic afﬁnities we have discussed. For unlike the main body of the ﬁrst movement, the Grave introduction does not show a relationship to Mozart’s quintet, but it instead displays an obvious parallel to the main theme of the ﬁnale, with its independent Mozartian source, K. 482. The ﬁrst notes of the unison fanfare idea that opens the Grave—B , E (repeated), G, E —correspond to the beginning of the hunting-style theme of the ﬁnale. Most probably, Beethoven shaped the theme at the outset of the Grave introduction as a variant of the main subject of the ﬁnale, thereby casting connecting threads across the work as a whole. The evocation of a character suggestive of the hunt is especially appropriate here in light of the presence of the woodwind instruments, and particularly the horn. Each of the movements of op. 16 moves beyond Mozartian models, even when these are evoked, as in the ﬁrst movement and the rondo. Instead of the compact development section of the ﬁrst movement of Mozart’s K. 452, Beethoven writes a spacious, wide-ranging development that modulates initially to C minor, a key that was emphasized in the slow introduction. There follows a reprise of the open19 “Wirkungen Beethovens in der Kammermusik,” in Beiträge zu Beethovens Kammermusik: Symposion Bonn 1984, ed. Sieghard Brandenburg and Helmut Loos (Munich: Henle, 1987), pp. 100–101. 20 “Beethoven’s Early Sketches in the ‘Fischhof Miscellany’: Berlin Autograph 28” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1978), 614. A few sketches for the ﬁrst movement and more extended sketches and drafts for the second and third movements are transcribed in Ludwig van Beethoven: Autograph Miscellany from circa 1786 to 1799; British Museum Additional Manuscript 29801, ff. 39–162 (The “Kafka Sketchbook”), ed. Joseph Kerman (London: British Museum, 1970), vol. 2, pp. 39–42.

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ing theme in the subdominant, A major, a gesture which proves to function as a false recapitulation. Beethoven balances the development with a long coda, in which the winds stress the head motive of the original theme, with its stepwise fall to the tonic E , heard under a high trill in the piano, before emphatic chords bring the movement to a powerful close. The increasingly elaborate variations of the main theme in the Andante cantabile owe nothing to Mozart and foreshadow Beethoven’s practice in many of his later slow movements, from the “Andante favori” WoO 57 to the slow movements of the late sonatas and quartets. The transitions to each return of the main theme are delicately handled, and the exquisite use of the winds echoing the piano in some later passages foreshadows the antiphonal effects between strings and winds in the Adagio molto e cantabile in the Ninth Symphony. This is a touching slow movement, providing a ﬁtting center of gravity to the work as a whole. Nowhere in op. 16 does the notion of an “Odensprung,” or creative ﬂight of fancy overturning an preexisting framework, seem so appropriate as in the concluding rondo, marked Allegro, ma non troppo. As we have seen, Beethoven draws here on another Mozartian model—the rondo theme from K. 482—and transforms it especially through his use of the accented subdominant chord to serve as the climax of his main theme. Beethoven’s propensity to reinterpret his thematic material is much in evidence in this movement and contributes to the comic character of the music, which assumes a more robust character than Mozart’s lighthearted wit and revelry. The central episode of Beethoven’s rondo is full of mock bluster: all the instruments ﬁrst hammer out the head of the rondo theme in the minor, before this motive is tossed about between the winds, while the piano embroiders the harmonies with rapid virtuosic passagework. This whole episode in the minor culminates in a showdown between the pianist playing double octaves fortissimo, and the ensemble of winds in harmony, yet an ensuing transitional decrescendo featuring a long descending scale to a soft landing on the familiar rondo theme dissipates the commotion, conﬁrming Beethoven’s humorous intent. This mischievous dimension also surfaces in a colorful report about Beethoven’s own performance of the quintet. Ferdinand Ries related an occasion when Beethoven performed the piece with Friedrich Ramm as oboe soloist: In the last Allegro there are several holds [or pauses] before the theme is resumed. At one of these Beethoven suddenly began to improvise, took the Rondo for a theme and entertained himself and the others for a considerable time, but not the other players. They were displeased and Ramm even very angry. It was really very comical to see them, momentarily expecting the performance to be resumed, put their instruments to their mouths, only to put them down again. At length Beethoven was satisﬁed and dropped into the Rondo. The whole company was transported with delight.21

The “sore” note of the main theme—the high C ﬁrst heard in the piano in bar 6— creates a large-scale tension that is intensiﬁed as the rondo subject is repeated and 21

Thayer-Forbes, p. 350. Actually, there is only one fermata before a return of the main theme, in bar 75, and this is likely the place where Beethoven chose to extend the rondo through spontaneous improvisation.

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varied throughout the movement. Beethoven’s strategy is to bring this tension to a head in the ﬁnal stages, while reserving an active role for the pianist as soloist within the ensemble. Therefore the last full statement of the theme consists of antiphonal statements between the winds and piano. The winds blast the opening phrase fortissimo in bars 227–28, answered by the pianist in forte in bars 229–30. Then the winds venture their statement of the crucial phrase, including the crescendo to high C, in bars 230–32. At this juncture, Beethoven has the listener where he wants him, in a state of suspense and uncertainty, surely not unlike the situation that so irritated Friedrich Ramm in 1804. For long moments, the pianist seeks alternatives to the familiar course of the rondo theme. The repeated Cs are carried upward to D , and from D back to C; another attempt tries the rising third from C to E , with the harmonic ambiguity expressed through a diminished-seventh harmony in the winds and the pianist’s left hand. All of this is heard as a decrescendo, apparently in full retreat from reliable structures and formulaic patterns. Nevertheless, the goal of the mysterious decrescendo, reached in bar 240, is none other than a 6/4 chord of the E major tonic, the structural springboard to a cadence. The next, and last, version of the main motive in the piano is played softly on the dominant, B , leading into a long trill, heard over still subdued gestures in the winds. Then, all at once, the accumulated tension is released in a delightfully surprising fortissimo close, with rapid scales across the keyboard leading into an emphatic motivic assertion suggestive of a hunting call, a gesture reminiscent of the beginning of the entire work. In this rondo, and the quintet as a whole, the resemblances to Mozart have been diminished in a thorough process of transformation. Mozart’s music was undoubtedly inspirational for Beethoven, but despite the parallels between these compositions, the differences weigh more heavily than the similarities. Tovey clearly overstated the imitative aspects of Beethoven’s work, and our analysis does not support his view of Beethoven’s quintet as an “easygoing, safety-ﬁrst product.” More to the point is Charles Rosen’s insight about the elusive aspects of artistic inﬂuence, as expressed in his claim that “the most important form of inﬂuence is that which provokes the most original and most personal work.”22 In this context, Beethoven’s quintet has been often underestimated, and Hermann Abert’s more balanced assessment of Mozart’s k. 452 and Beethoven’s op. 16, that “both works truly mirror the qualities of their creators and stand artistically on the same level,”23 has much to recommend it.

S S S Unlike his occasional works for wind ensemble, or his isolated foray into the instrumentation of piano with wind quintet, Beethoven’s contributions to the duo sonata for piano with cello or violin became an important abiding part of his career. While he was in Berlin in 1796 he composed two innovative Sonatas for 22

“Inﬂuence: Plagiarism and Inspiration,” p. 88. Abert, W. A. Mozart, herausgegeben als fünfte, vollständig neu bearbeitete und erweiterte Ausgabe von Otto Jahns Mozart, vol. 2 (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1921), p. 189. 23

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Cello and Piano op. 5, and probably also wrote his sets of variations for these instruments on Mozart’s Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen op. 66 and on a theme from Handel’s Judas Maccabaeus WoO 45. In the two sonatas, in F major and G minor, the pianist assumes an essential, virtuoso role for the ﬁrst time in the history of the genre. The older continuo practice in cello sonatas is thereby discarded; a dramatic interplay of the two instruments is made possible. Beethoven himself performed the two sonatas at the Berlin court, presumably with the famous cellist Jean Louis Duport; they are dedicated to King Friedrich Wilhelm II. Especially prominent are their extended slow introductions. In the G minor Sonata the introduction takes on almost the weight of a slow movement. The serious, even pathetic character of this Adagio sostenuto ed espressivo is maintained in the following Allegro, before a joyous mood emerges in the G major rondo ﬁnale. The importance of the G minor Sonata to Beethoven’s artistic development has been underestimated. In its somber rhetoric and dramatic dialogue the slow introduction of op. 5 no. 2 is prophetic. It points toward the harrowing climax of the development in the slow movement of the Piano Sonata in E op. 7 and to “La Malinconia” in the last of the op. 18 quartets. Its most familiar successor, however, is another slow introduction, the Grave of the Sonate Pathétique in C minor op. 13, largely composed in 1798 and published the following year. The Pathétique is one of those celebrated works whose revolutionary aura so excited artists like the young pianist Ignaz Moscheles, who secretly copied it as a student at Prague in 1804, in deﬁance of his teacher. Moscheles related that The novelty of its style was so attractive to me, and I became so enthusiastic in my admiration of it, that I forgot myself so far as to mention my new acquisition to my teacher, who reminded me of his injunction, and warned me not to play or study any eccentric productions until I had based my style upon more solid models. Without, however, minding his injunctions, I seized upon the pianoforte works of Beethoven as they successively appeared, and in them found a solace and a delight such as no other composer afforded me.24

The Sturm und Drang pathos of pieces like the Pathétique was often overestimated in the nineteenth century but has been dismissed too readily in the twentieth as self-indulgent posturing. A more promising approach is offered by Schiller’s 1793 essay Über das Pathetische; its lucid discussion of tragic art contains a conceptual framework that applies well to Beethoven. Schiller stresses that the depiction of suffering as such is not the purpose of art; such depiction is properly regarded as but a means to an end. Pathos or tragedy arises when unblinkered awareness of suffering is counterbalanced by the capacity of reason to resist these feelings. In such resistance to the inevitability of pain or despair is lodged the principle of freedom. Schiller thus regards tragic art as founded on the intersection of suffering nature on the one hand, and moral resistance to this reality on the other. Beethoven’s Schillerian tendencies ran so deep that tragic resignation appears relatively rarely in his works, at least as a primary determinant of artistic charac24

Thayer-Forbes, pp. 242–43.

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ter. In his C minor pieces, unlike Mozart’s, resignation is typically supplanted by a resistance tending to revolution; this subjective principle in Beethoven often involves a quest for an alternative vision that banishes, or at least delimits, the sway of strife. We shall return to this idea in connection with the narrative design of the Fifth Symphony. More germane to the Sonate Pathétique is Schiller’s basic concept of tragic pathos as a resistance to suffering. What is it about Beethoven’s treatment of textural dialogue or contrast and the development of musical tension that seems to convey an existential conﬂict encoded in the very structure of the sound? In the introductory Grave of this sonata, like the Largo e mesto of op. 10 no. 3, Beethoven stresses the contrast between an aspiring, transparent lyricism and darker, dissonant chords in the bass. But in the Pathétique these aspects are merged at the outset; the sense of resistance implied in the upward melodic unfolding is pitted against the leaden weight of the C minor tonality, with its emphasis on diminished-seventh chords. While penetrating the higher pitch registers, the melodic ascent becomes both poignant and fragile, since it is dependent on the unyielding harmonic underpinning of the bass. The recitative-like phrases near the end of the Grave are harmonically parenthetical, poised on a deceptive cadential inﬂection that delays the imminent resolution to the tonic C minor until the beginning of the ensuing Allegro di molto e con brio. At this moment of transformation Beethoven freely reshapes the rising chordal progression from the Grave above a rumbling bass pedal of tremolo octaves. The bass shows a powerful inclination to ascend, eventually forcing the music out of the tonic C minor to the dominant of E . Here, at the threshold of the second subject group, he resorts to a variant of his innovation from op. 2 no. 2: he avoids entering the key of E and remains instead on its minor dominant, creating thereby a large-scale tension underlying an immense passage forty bars long. The tension is reﬂected motivically in a dramatic dialogue exploiting registral contrast, in a manner reminiscent of the slow introduction, while also foreshadowing the ﬁrst movement of Beethoven’s Tempest Sonata op. 31 no. 2 of 1802. Most striking is how the Grave returns to preface the development and the coda. Beethoven thereby underscores the juxtaposition of tempos as the germinal idea of the movement, and he gradually deepens this conception. In the development he quotes phrases from the Grave in the ensuing Allegro, conﬁrming their relationship, whereas at the climax just before the recapitulation he heightens the registral contrast ﬁrst exposed in the slow introduction. It is in the coda, however, that the dramatic core of the movement is encapsulated in a single gesture. The opening Grave phrases resolve here, for the ﬁrst time, to bare octaves on C. This hint of resigned capitulation is abruptly negated by Beethoven’s intensiﬁed closing reinterpretation of the Allegro di molto e con brio. The leverage, as so often in Beethoven, is rhythmic: foreshortening of the closing phrase of the recapitulation propels the music into the ﬁnal accented chords, ending the movement with the precise sonority with which it had begun. The basic expressive tension is not laid to rest here but only disclosed: the cycle of suffering and resistance could continue indeﬁnitely. This demands a response from the following movements if they are to be linked psychologically with the

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ﬁrst; and in fact the Sonate Pathétique displays the outlines of a narrative sequence on which Beethoven was to build in subsequent compositions. The ensuing Adagio cantabile offers the fundamental contrast of hymnic serenity, set in Beethoven’s characteristic key for lyricism within a C minor context—the ﬂat sixth, A major. Characteristic too is the registral correspondence between the end of the ﬁrst movement and the beginning of the Adagio: the same C is reharmonized as the point of transition into a new region of consciousness and feeling. Accordingly, any extended pause or break of concentration between the movements is destructive to the artistic effect. The form of the Adagio is that of a slow-movement rondo, with two varied repetitions of the broad, lyrical subject separated by episodes touching on minor keys. The design is rounded off by a coda echoing the cadential phrase of the theme. Beethoven avoids an unambiguous close by ending in the middle of the bar; and he extends the ﬁnal chord with a fermata, implying an immediate continuation into the C minor ﬁnale. The rondo ﬁnale is clearly linked to each of the preceding movements. The head of its main theme, for instance, is derived from the beginning of the second subject in the Allegro di molto e con brio. The relationship between the rondo and the preceding Adagio is more involved. The role of the Adagio as lyrical complement to the turbulent outer movements is bound up with the tonal relationship of A major to C minor, and the rondo draws heavily on this association. Thus the sonority of the German augmented-sixth chord built on A appears conspicuously in the accompaniment to the rondo theme, whereas the central episode of the formal design is actually in the key of A major. In the coda, moreover, Beethoven recaptures this tonal relationship with a concentrated sense of summation. The last appearance of the head of the rondo theme (bar 203) appears in A major, in the same register as the main theme of the Adagio cantabile; Beethoven even strips away the ﬂowing left-hand accompaniment to enhance the similarity. Although this last-minute departure into a remote key might seem to disturb seriously the formal equilibrium, in fact Beethoven uses the technique as a means of formal integration and resolution of tensions. For in the ﬁnal bars, the German augmented-sixth chord on A serves as the pivot for the return to C minor, while the ﬁnal cadence, with its powerful descending scale in triplets from high F, assumes a structural signiﬁcance evidently overlooked in the analytical literature. A cardinal principle of Classical sonata procedure entails the ultimate resolution to the tonic of material originally heard in secondary keys. In this instance, the downward-rushing triplets recall earlier musical gestures, for example, descents from high F above the dominant-seventh chord of C minor (bars 58–60, 117–20), or, in the coda, above the dominant seventh of A (bars 198–201). Only at the very end of the ﬁnale is the sweeping downward run directed emphatically into the C

25

For an example of this practice in Haydn, see the ﬁrst movement of the String Quartet in C op. 33 no. 3, in which a last-minute adjustment enables Haydn to close the movement with its opening phrase.

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minor triad. The trick of delaying resolution of such a gesture until the ﬁnal bar was a specialty of Haydn, but never before Beethoven had it assumed such dramatic force and signiﬁcance.25 The rondo ﬁnale of the Pathétique does more than allude to the preceding movements; it welds these allusions into the intrinsic musical design. Important in this respect is the detached, serene character of the central episode; its contrapuntal subject is built on the interval of the fourth—the motivic hallmark of the hymn-like main theme of the Adagio. This initially calm episode stands apart from the rest of the movement in its texture, rhythm, key, and even its form—it unfolds as a series of variations. Variation procedure is the most static and uniﬁed of musical forms, since it revolves around repetition of a basic thematic shape. And although Beethoven is clearly indebted here to the venerable tradition of variation writing, he achieves a qualitatively new realization of artistic possibilities by leading his chain of variations on an abstract contrapuntal formula into a resumption of the strife-ridden music in C minor.

Ex. 19 Pathétique Sonata op. 13/III, bars 73–107

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Beethoven’s main resources here are rhythmic diminution and a rise in register. The registral starting point of the theme is identical with the beginning of the Adagio cantabile, whereas the ﬁrst variation of the eight-bar theme ascends an octave in pitch, while subdividing the basic rhythmic motion from half to quarter notes. After a four-bar interlude Beethoven brings in the second variation up another octave and then ﬁlls out the tonal space through a further diminution in rhythm to eighth notes (Ex. 19). The conﬁguration of fourths still heard in the original form in the right hand is “composed out” in inversion in the long falling scale into the bass. The structure of falling ﬁfths A –D –G–C–F–B is unraveled and ﬂeshed out in the scale, gaining sinuous strength reﬂected in the crescendo to forte when the descending scale-pattern begins in the right hand. This process of elaboration generates energy for the ensuing transition in character, as Beethoven leaves A major for the dominant of C minor, building toward a dramatic climax through further rhythmic foreshortening. This passage thus embodies on a larger scale the same relations as does the coda: a calm, detached oasis of sound in A dissipates into C minor pathos. What Beethoven does here is to incorporate a “foreshortening” or compressed formulation of the progression between movements into the ﬁnale proper. The rondo responds to its context in the work as a whole, twice making itself transparent to the Adagio cantabile. The resulting progression, as often in Beethoven, is from contemplation to action, and harbors an unmistakable hint of narrative strategies in works to come. This contrapuntal topos in A major is the departure point of a creative journey leading ultimately to the fugue of op. 110; the short series of variations on it is a much more distant prototype for the slow movement of the Appassionata or even for the Arietta movement of the last sonata, op. 111. Seeds for many of Beethoven’s greatest works were sown in the impressive piano sonatas from his ﬁrst decade in Vienna.

3

R Crisis and Creativity: 1799–1802

R The years around the turn of the century saw an important transition in Beethoven’s artistic development, accompanied by a biographical crisis of major proportions. No one category of analysis can adequately describe these complex events. The tension between consolidation and innovation, between retrospective and progressive tendencies, is particularly conspicuous in the music up to 1801, when, according to Czerny, Beethoven told his friend Wenzel Krumpholz that “I am only a little satisﬁed with my previous works. From today on I will take a new path.”1 Beginning in 1802, we can indeed discern a “new path” in works like the Piano Sonatas op. 31, the Piano Variations opp. 34 and 35, and the Second Symphony op. 36. But close examination of the music reveals deep continuities with Beethoven’s earlier and later works. The new path was not entirely new, and it was long—the expression attributed to Hippocrates, “ars longa, vita brevis,” was a favorite dictum of Beethoven’s which he repeatedly set as a canon many years later. The claim about the “new path” that Czerny attributed to Beethoven, and even the similar documented comment from the composer himself in 1802 concerning the variations opp. 34 and 35, need to be interpreted cautiously, with due attention to other historical evidence. With the passage of time, a simpliﬁed retrospective order tends to be imposed on the rich disorder of complex events, which are easily distorted thereby. In particular, we should avoid assuming, on the basis of verbal reports alone, that Beethoven set out to be more original at any one particular moment in time. As Hans-Werner Küthen has observed, Beethoven’s claim about the innovative quality of his opp. 34 and 35 variations was evidently connected to his irritation with a recent publication of music by his old friend from Bonn, the ﬂautist and composer Anton Reicha, in which reference was made to a “new method of writing fugues.”2 Beethoven’s letter to Gottfried Christoph Här1

On the Proper Performance of All Beethoven’s Works for the Piano, p. 13; translation amended. This remark supposedly followed the completion of the Sonata in D, op. 28, the autograph score of which is dated 1801. See Sonneck, ed., Beethoven: Impressions of Contemporaries, p. 31. 2 “Beethovens ‘wirklich ganz neue Manier’—Eine Persiﬂage”; also see Küthen’s essay “Pragmatic instead of Enigmatic: ‘The Fifty-First Sonata’ of Beethoven,” The Beethoven Newsletter 7 (1992), p. 73 note 14.

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tel in December 1802 refers to “all the commotion about a new method of v[ariations], as would be made by our neighbours, the Gallo-Franks, as for instance how a certain French composer offers fugues according to a new method [après une nouvelle méthode], which consists in the fact that the fugue is no longer a fugue, etc.”3 The term “French composer” was Beethoven’s replacement for the name “Reicha,” but it also ﬁts the context of his allusion here to the German idiom “Da kommt einem ja die Galle hoch!” Beethoven found Reicha’s claim unjustiﬁed and therefore “galling” and responded verbally with one of his characteristic puns. His own similar allusion to a “new manner” in his variations of 1802 may represent his ironic response to, or “persiﬂage” of, Reicha’s statement, but in Beethoven’s case the innovative presumption is actually conﬁrmed by the musical content. Beethoven’s claim cannot be discounted, but it needs to be understood in context. There is a special biographical background to Beethoven’s creative development during these years, but we shall attempt here to reevaluate the facts of his life in the light of the music, thus inverting the traditional procedure of artistic biography. His composing activities are documented in much more detail than his biography, and their sources are less familiar. My strategy is therefore to examine Beethoven’s personal crisis primarily in the light of his compositional preoccupations. His stylistic development, on the other hand, can be assessed only on the basis of a substantial selection of works in different genres. Attention will be given in this chapter not only to solo piano works but to three other genres: the quartet, concerto, and symphony. In 1799, despite his formidable accomplishments and increasing stature, Beethoven still remained cautious and even somewhat insecure when tackling those musical genres in which Haydn and Mozart reigned supreme. In opera and the piano concerto, a comparison with Mozart’s great legacy was inevitable; for the symphony and string quartet, Haydn’s model was perhaps even more intimidating, and more recent. Beethoven showed a particular self-consciousness about his early works in these genres, and he exerted a tireless will to match the accomplishments of his great predecessors on their own ground. One of the ﬁrst signiﬁcant works in which the brilliant young pianist-composer staked claim to the universal musical legacy of the Viennese Classical style was his Symphony in C major op. 21, completed in 1800. Stylistically, the First Symphony is ﬁrmly rooted in the eighteenth century, especially the graceful Andante cantabile con moto in F major, with its rococo rhetoric, and the playfully humorous, Haydnesque ﬁnale. Bolder and more progressive are the ﬁrst movement, with its impressive slow introduction and resourceful orchestration highlighting the woodwinds. At the beginning of this movement, as in the Prometheus Overture, Beethoven heightens the musical tension by avoiding an immediate statement of the tonic triad. Especially innovative in op. 21 is the dance movement, in the penultimate position. Beethoven entitled the movement Menuetto, but that designation is contradicted by his indication “Allegro molto e vivace” and by the swift metronome marking, not to mention the sharp rhythmic accents of the opening section. The 3

Anderson, ed., The Letters of Beethoven, vol. 1, L. 67; translation amended.

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dynamic tension is evident from the very ﬁrst phrase, in which a rising scale pattern in iambic rhythm drives with a crescendo to an emphatic cadence in the dominant. The trio retains the tonic key of C major and develops the contrasts in timbre from the ﬁrst movement in a delightful dialogue of pulsing woodwind phrases and swirling string ﬁguration. More than other movements of the symphony, this Allegro molto e vivace breaks free from the burden and the anxiety of inﬂuence; it displays a striking stylistic originality, while foreshadowing the scherzos in some of Beethoven’s later symphonies. It is in the context of this ambitious struggle with the legacy of Haydn and Mozart that we may view Beethoven’s biggest single compositional project of the ﬁrst decade at Vienna: the set of six Quartets op. 18, written during 1798–1800. The very number of pieces in the opus recalls the practice of Beethoven’s predecessors: Haydn’s Quartets opp. 20 and 33 and Mozart’s famous Haydn Quartets were all published in groups of six. In certain of Beethoven’s op. 18 Quartets the inﬂuence of these earlier pieces is direct and tangible. Op. 18 no. 2, in G major, is Haydnesque in spirit, reminding us of the older master’s quartet in the same key from his op. 33, as Joseph Kerman observed.4 And Beethoven’s A major Quartet op. 18 no. 5 shows a still closer kinship with Mozart’s quartet in this key from his Haydn set, K. 464, parts of which Beethoven even copied out in score. According to Czerny, Beethoven once exclaimed about Mozart’s K. 464: “That’s what I call a work! In it, Mozart was telling the world: ‘Look what I could do if you were ready for it!’”5 In view of the size of the project, and Beethoven’s inexperience in the medium, it is not surprising that the op. 18 Quartets are more uneven in quality than some of his earlier piano sonatas or the three String Trios op. 9 of 1798, which Beethoven had described as “la meilleure de [mes] œuvres.” Like the First Symphony, these quartets have shortcomings that Beethoven soon redressed in his later pieces in these forms; for this reason, an awareness of the historical context becomes an especially important part of the critical enterprise. Beethoven frankly acknowledged his struggle with op. 18 no. 1, in F major. This quartet was actually the second of the pieces composed; Beethoven presumably placed it at the head of the set because it is the grandest and most immediately impressive. It exists in a version that Beethoven presented to his friend Karl Friedrich Amenda in 1799—not just a draft, but a set of parts then intended as the ﬁnished work. Two years later, however, after completing his magnum opus of the ﬁrst Vienna decade, Beethoven cautioned Amenda to keep the manuscript to himself, since “he had only now learned how to write quartets properly.” Many of Beethoven’s revisions involved reﬁnements in scoring, but one farreaching change was the decrease in motivic saturation in the opening Allegro con brio movement, reducing the number of occurrences of the opening turn ﬁgure from 130 to 104.6 The number of accents was similarly curtailed, although one 4

The Beethoven Quartets, pp. 44–45. On the Proper Performance, p. 8. 6 Cf. Kerman, The Beethoven Quartets, p. 32, and the detailed comparison of the two versions in Levy, Beethoven’s Compositional Choices. 5

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striking new rhetorical feature was added—the two unison fortissimo scale ﬁgures that mark the beginning of the coda in this sonata-form movement. Even in the movement’s published form Beethoven exploits the turn ﬁgure with concentrated single-mindedness. The opening theme is permeated with it, and the transition begins with sequences of it leading to accented diminished harmonies. In the ensuing passage, and again near the end of the exposition, the cello takes it up as an ostinato ﬁgure, which generates a whole chain of turns in rapid ﬁguration. In the development section Beethoven is obsessed more than ever with the ﬁgure. He resourcefully exploits its rhythm in the agitated retransition to the fortissimo recapitulation: the characteristic threefold upbeat pulse is detached from the turn, rhythmically augmented, and syncopated as well in this striking if somewhat blatant passage. The slow movement in D minor, marked Adagio affettuoso ed appassionato, is somewhat reminiscent of the Largo e mesto in this key in Beethoven’s great Piano Sonata in D op. 10 no. 3. A speciﬁc poetic association is known for this Adagio. Amenda reported that Beethoven wrote it while thinking of the burial-vault scene in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. The connection is conﬁrmed by one of Beethoven’s sketchleaves, which contains the inscription “les derniers soupirs” over a passage emphasizing the interval of the diminished seventh. Such dissonances, together with an intense dramatic rhetoric, effective dynamic contrasts, and an evocative use of silences, all support the expression of pathos in this Adagio, the centre of gravity in the quartet as a whole. The following scherzo and ﬁnale are less weighty in tone and substance, though they offer some captivating passages, such as the humorous trio, with its striking rhythmic and textural contrasts. The opening Allegro of the G major Quartet op. 18 no. 2 shows a thorough assimilation of Haydn’s comedy of manners merged with an occasional dramatic thrust that is unmistakably Beethovenian. The beginning of the recapitulation, for instance, is rhythmically charged by accented octaves, casting the theme in a new light. The following Adagio cantabile employs a curious formal design, with a dance-like Allegro interpolated between the slow lyrical theme and its decorated recapitulation. Beethoven succeeds here in a seemingly paradoxical endeavor: to maximize differences between the two sections while retaining a tangible structural link, involving a similar motivic contour between the two themes.7 A point of this music is to show how the imagination can negotiate between seemingly incompatible realms, linking strange worlds together in a tensional balance. The somewhat static character of the Adagio cantabile, with its heavy cadences and portentous pauses, invites juxtaposition with its antipode, the swift and nimble interlude supplied by the Allegro. In this sense, each of the two sections of the movement can be regarded as a complement or critique of the other. The quest for a paradoxical unity of opposites seems all the more ﬁtting here in view of the humorous spirit of the quartet as a whole. In the scherzo and the ﬁnale Beethoven employs a rhetoric bristling with Hayd7 This thematic parallel is discussed in detail in my article “Transformational Processes in Beethoven’s Op. 18 Quartets,” pp. 22–23.

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nesque devices. The false recapitulation in the closing Allegro molto quasi Presto steals in quietly in A major, and then suspiciously repeats the rising scale pattern from the theme, conveying a character of puzzlement. Haydn typically handles such tricks with ﬁnesse; Beethoven makes his point more bluntly, by restating the ascending motif in doubled note values in a broad spacing, and with a crescendo as well. Not infrequently, a tension can be felt in these early quartets between a reﬁned, courtly rhetoric and a powerful directness of expression that is typical of Beethoven. Another striking parallel with Haydn is offered by the Andante and variations in C major forming the middle movement of Beethoven’s G major Piano Sonata op. 14 no. 2, a work completed shortly before the quartets, in 1799. The artless simplicity of Beethoven’s Andante tune is underscored by repetitions of its opening phrase; one eminent critic was even provoked into describing the movement as “stupid.” Yet the expressive heart of the piece lies in the tension between the apparent naïveté of the theme and its reinterpretation through the addition of syncopations and dissonances in Beethoven’s variations. This tension is sustained until the very end of the coda, with Beethoven’s humorous intent conﬁrmed once and for all in the surprising fortissimo outburst of the ﬁnal chord! In these variations, Beethoven enlarges on the famous musical joke contained in another Andante movement in C—the slow movement of Haydn’s Surprise Symphony (no. 94). Instead of placing the shocking chord in immediate juxtaposition to a soft and harmless theme, as Haydn did, Beethoven reserves the disruptive gesture until the close, challenging the sober listener to question the seriousness of the entire musical discourse, while also forging a transition to the ﬁnale—a playfully humorous rondo bearing the unusual designation “scherzo.” The third quartet of op. 18, in D major, opens with an Allegro of rather relaxed, even somewhat bland character, but Beethoven resourcefully experiments with the listener’s expectations. Once again the moment of recapitulation receives special reinforcement. Whereas the movement begins quietly with unaccompanied whole notes on the dominant-seventh chord in the ﬁrst violin, Beethoven later supports this sonority harmonically with a chromatic ascent reaching C at the end of the exposition. This pitch in turn becomes the focus for a huge fortissimo climax concluding the development, with the C resolved into the delicate continuation of the main theme. The following Andante con moto in B major is characterized by warmly lyrical canonic textures and contains one of the early instances in Beethoven of a coda in which the basic thematic material is gradually stripped away and virtually dissolved into silence. Beethoven labeled the penultimate dance movement neither “scherzo” nor “minuet” but merely “Allegro.” It relies heavily on motivic development of the appoggiatura or turn ﬁgure from the ﬁrst phrase of the theme; the trio, or “minore,” is based on the descending linear conﬁguration from the beginning of the Allegro, now heard in longer note values. The presto ﬁnale further develops the motivic turn D–C –D from the preceding Allegro in an expansive sonata form spiked with canonic episodes. The piece ends in a gesture of Haydnesque wit, as Beethoven reduces the music to the turn alone, heard pianissimo in all four instruments.

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The Quartet in C minor op. 18 no. 4, and especially its opening Allegro ma non tanto, is one of the most controversial of Beethoven’s compositions. Hugo Riemann speculated that it was based on older material, perhaps even dating back to the Bonn period; and Kerman has followed up this line of thought, concluding that “the C-minor ﬁrst movement is more crudely written than anything in the other op. 18 Quartets.”8 Ferdinand Ries related a conversation in which he pointed out to Beethoven a case of parallel ﬁfths in this work, to which Beethoven replied “Now, and who has forbidden them?” To Ries’s answer, that this grammatical failing was forbidden by Marpurg, Kirnberger, Fuchs, and other theorists, Beethoven deﬁantly declared “And so I allow them!”9 More recently Richard Kramer has analyzed the parallel ﬁfths which occur at the transition to the development in this ﬁrst movement, a passage in which strong chords preface a new statement of the main theme in G minor (Ex. 20).10 The bald unison progression from C through C to D overlaps here with the upper-voice ascent from A (⫽ G ) to A. It is difﬁcult to explain this particular irregularity in voice-leading as being required by artistic necessity. Beethoven’s protest to the contrary, a lapse in technique is indicated; nor is it an isolated failure. In fact, Beethoven’s earlier String Trio in this key, op. 9 no. 3, is a considerably more polished work than the C minor Quartet. Suspicions are rightly aroused about the piece being of early origin, but studies of the manuscript sources have not lent much support to such speculation. Ultimately, the roughness of this movement seems to arise from an imbalance between the passionate force of Beethoven’s “C minor mood” and his ability to mediate or control this idiom in the artistic form as a whole. A comparison with another C minor piece, the ﬁrst movement of the Sonate Pathétique op. 13, is revealing. The beginning of the Pathétique slow introduction is extremely close to the opening of the quartet in its rhythm, register, and rhetoric, with a parallel placement of expressive appoggiaturas in each work. The Pathétique relies on the repeated juxtaposition of its Grave introduction with the Allegro con brio, however; it does not depend so heavily on the vehement but rather simplistic gestures that sustain the quartet. Least convincing in the Allegro ma non tanto of the quartet is perhaps the succession of fortissimo chords alternating between tonic and dominant at the end of the main theme and at other junctures, including the passage with the parallel ﬁfths. To be sure, Beethoven is exposing in these bars an important rhythmic conﬁguration, one that is implicit within the main theme itself. But that is not quite enough to justify these powerful outbursts, nor to resolve suspicions about the somewhat overblown rhetoric of the movement. The other movements as well may not always convince according to the lofty 8 Riemann’s analysis appears in his 1917 German edition of the ﬁrst volume of Thayer’s biography, pp. 188–90; the passage is translated and commented on by Kerman in The Beethoven Quartets, pp. 65–71. 9 Sonneck, ed., Beethoven: Impressions of Contemporaries, pp. 49–50. 10 “Counterpoint and Syntax: On a Difﬁcult Passage in the First Movement of Beethoven’s String Quartet in C minor, Opus 18 No. 4,” p. 116.

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Ex. 20 String Quartet op. 18 no. 4/I, bars 76–96

standards set by Beethoven’s greater works, but they do contain unusual and striking ideas. For the ﬁnale, for example, Beethoven employed a kind of rustic gypsy melody in the ﬁrst violin which is accelerated to prestissimo in the coda. At the close, Beethoven ﬁrst separates the head of this theme from its continuation of six repeated notes, and then allows the latter motif to soar quietly into the very highest register, before ending the piece with arresting fortissimo strokes. As we have seen, Mozart’s Quartet in A major K. 464 was an inspiring inﬂuence on Beethoven’s op. 18 no. 5, in the same key. The impact of Mozart is also felt in several of Beethoven’s piano sonatas of these years, including the two little Sonatas in G minor and G major that he wrote between 1795 and 1798 and eventually published as op. 49, the two Sonatas op. 14 from 1799, and the Sonata in B major op. 22 from 1800. In the opening Allegro of the E major Sonata op. 14 no. 1 the Mozartian inﬂuence is reﬂected in the skilful arrangement of distinct yet related musical ﬁgures. Beethoven’s familiar technique of using a single dominating rhythmic motif is not in evidence. Instead, he devises the three phrases of the main theme as a network of thematic variations stressing the interval of a rising fourth. There is a Mozartian ﬂavor as well to the chromatic touches in the main subsidiary theme, and perhaps also to the transparent contrapuntal textures so evocative of chamber music. Op. 14 no. 1 is the only sonata Beethoven ever ar-

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ranged for string quartet, and his decision to undertake the transcription in 1802 was surely motivated by the special afﬁnity of this sonata with the quartet medium. In Beethoven’s A major Quartet, on the other hand, the Mozartian inﬂuence is centered on the third movement—like Mozart’s a set of variations. At the same time, Beethoven’s ﬁve variations on his Andante cantabile theme mark a signiﬁcant moment in his lifelong fascination with this form; there is a distant foreshadowing here of the slow movements of the Appassionata Sonata and Archduke Trio, among other works. As in these pieces, the theme has a quality of elemental simplicity, and it serves as an effective point of departure for a series of transformations based on progressively faster rhythmic ﬁguration—a venerable device in the history of variation writing. The opening phrases of the melody do little but spell out the interval of the sixth A–F , both ascending and descending. This basic structure is elaborated in increasingly intricate textures and ﬁguration as far as Variation 4, a still, mysterious, chromatic version of the theme. Then the rhythmic development reaches its climax in the high spirits of the last variation, in which a new version of the theme in the inner voices is gloriﬁed by trills in the ﬁrst violin and accented leaps in the cello. The movement ends with a soft, reﬂective reminiscence of the theme in a form close to its original. Of the other movements, the Allegro ﬁnale is nearest to Mozart. Near the end of the development Beethoven even borrows thematic material from K. 464, and he demonstrates mastery in handling the transparent counterpoint characteristic of the older master. A problem here, however, as elsewhere in the A major Quartet, is that the process of modeling has muted something of Beethoven’s own individual voice. Kerman concluded that “it must be counted the least personal of the quartets.”11 The opening Allegro con brio of the ﬁnal quartet of op. 18, in B major, shows a humorous spirit and lightness of tone. The delicately ornamented Adagio ma non troppo that follows shares with it a certain economy in form and expression. The most innovative and challenging movements are the energetic, syncopated scherzo and, above all, the ﬁnale, with its juxtaposition of radically contrasting material. The ﬁnale is a highly original conception that does not suggest the inﬂuence of Haydn or Mozart. Beethoven labels its opening Adagio section “La Malinconia,” and he recalls the Adagio in the midst of the following dance-like Allegretto quasi Allegro. We are reminded here of his abiding preoccupation with composite movements embracing strongly contrasting ideas. An earlier work in this vein is the Sonate Pathétique, which twice recalls the slow introduction in the context of the Allegro con brio. Later, more complex examples include the interweaving of scherzo and Allegro in the Fifth Symphony, and of arioso and fugue in the late Piano Sonata op. 110. Beethoven’s integration of powerful contrasts within a larger continuity is also a conspicuous feature in some of his last quartets, such as the ﬁrst movements of op. 130 in B and op. 132 in A minor. Extraordinary in “La Malinconia” are the mysterious chromatic progressions, which for all their effect of harmonic disorientation are masterfully shaped into an integrated dramatic progression. After this enigmatic harmonic labyrinth, the 11

The Beethoven Quartets, p. 64.

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following dance in 3/8 time provides an effective contrast and resolution of tension; and it also reshapes the falling third and rising steps from “La Malinconia” in a new context, suggesting a rejection of melancholy (Ex. 21). Typically for Beethoven, however, this optimistic transformation is not permanent but conditional. He later brings back ten bars of the Adagio juxtaposed with four of the Allegretto, and then two further bars of the Adagio, before the dance ﬁnally reasserts itself, shaking off the memory of “La Malinconia.” The intimate facing of these contrasting modalities represents perhaps the most single arresting idea in all the op. 18 Quartets.

S S S Up to now our narrative has traced Beethoven’s increasing but still imperfect mastery of the legacy of Haydn and Mozart; the fulﬁllment of Waldstein’s prophecy was actually a lifelong task for Beethoven, an occupation that ceased to be a problem by 1809 but which left traces even in the last quartets of 1824–26. The evocative juxtaposition of gaiety and melancholy in the ﬁnale of op. 18 no. 6 may be seen to signal a more profound conﬂict, with multiple implications. For it is around this time that Beethoven was forced to confront a demon from within: a progressive deterioration in his hearing that could no longer be ignored. His increasing deafness plunged him into despair at the very time when his outward success seemed assured. A pair of letters to Franz Wegeler and Amenda from 29 June and 1 July 1801 respectively document Beethoven’s response to his disability. To Wegeler he wrote: For almost two years I have ceased to attend any social functions, just because I ﬁnd it impossible to say to people: I am deaf.

And to Amenda he conﬁded: You will realize what a sad life I must now lead, seeing that I am cut off from everything that is dear and precious to me. . . . I must withdraw from everything; and my best years will rapidly pass away without my being able to achieve all that my talent and my strength have commanded me to do. Sad resignation, to which I am forced to have recourse. Needless to say, I am resolved to overcome all this, but how is it going to be done?12

As Beethoven makes clear, the onset of his deafness predates these letters by a considerable period; what precipitated his anguish was a growing recognition of both the incurable nature of his condition and the implications for his social and artistic life. The most important written documentation of Beethoven’s personal crisis is the Heiligenstadt Testament, dated 6 October 1802, well over a year after his letters to Wegeler and Amenda (we shall return to it below in connection with the Eroica Symphony). Its references to suicide, contemplated and then rejected in favor of stoical acceptance of his condition, show a deepening of the attitudes expressed in his letters of the preceding year. It appears from these documents that Beethoven came to terms with his inﬁrmity only very gradually. The crisis of his deafness forced him to reconsider the most fundamental assumptions about his 12

Anderson, vol. 1, L. 51 (to Wegeler), L. 53 (to Amenda).

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Ex. 21 String Quartet op. 18 no. 6/IV

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life and art. For, as Beethoven put it to Amenda, he was consumed by doubts not only about his social life but about his “being able to achieve all that [his] talent and strength commanded [him] to do.” One of his worst fears may have been that his deafness would stiﬂe realization of his artistic potential. The relationship between Beethoven’s deafness and his artistic development is fascinating. Despite his initial fears, and now discredited attempts to characterize his late style as a degeneration resulting from a lack of hearing, his art actually became richer as his hearing declined. Whereas the evolution of his so-called heroic style closely paralleled the personal crisis articulated in his Heiligenstadt Testament, the emergence of his late style, or “third period,” was marked by the complete erosion of his hearing many years later, around 1818. The parallel between Beethoven’s stylistic development and his increasing deafness is more than coincidental, and it has not escaped notice. For instance, Solomon assesses the period around 1801–2 as follows: “one begins to suspect that Beethoven’s crisis and his extraordinary creativity were somehow related, and even that the former may have been the necessary precondition of the latter.”13 In the very same letters to Wegeler and Amenda lamenting his condition Beethoven wrote: “I live entirely in my music, and hardly have I completed one composition when I have already begun another.” He even added: “Why, at the moment I feel equal to anything. Since your departure I have been composing all types of music, except operas and sacred works.” Beethoven’s expressions of conﬁdence are fully justiﬁed by the works of this period, and not only by those for piano but increasingly in “all types of music.” The consciously innovative thrust to his music from this time can be conﬁrmed by analysis, lending general support to the notion of a “new path,” though not to the ﬁxation of this pathbreaking trend to any particular point in time. The relationship between the biography of an artist and his works is a delicate one. But however difﬁcult it may be to establish the precise nature of the relationship, the connection cannot be severed in principle. It is pointless and unnecessary to isolate works of art from their biographical and historical context. At the same time, the successful artwork, if regarded in the sense of Langer’s “unconsummated symbol,” cannot be reduced to an expression of the artist’s personality or regarded merely as a historical artifact. These alternatives simplify or evade the critical challenge posed by the phenomenon of creativity. As Solomon has written: creativity is a threatening subject . . . the artist himself is a dangerous child. . . . Little wonder that he arouses extremes of ambivalent feeling—hostility and adoration, rage and awe, hate and love. Little wonder that those critics who speak for their own timidities, as well as for fearful social orders, have undertaken to neutralize him and his work by every conceivable strategy.14

We are now in a position to gain new perspective on Beethoven’s creative achievement from sources that were not available, or not fully available, to ear13 14

Beethoven, p. 115. Beethoven Essays, pp. 110–11.

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lier commentators. The most important of these is the rich legacy of manuscripts that Beethoven left at his death in 1827, including a large number of autograph scores and more than 8,000 pages of musical sketches. The Beethoven sketchbooks and loose sketchleaves represent the richest documentation of the creative process available for any composer of the ﬁrst rank. Yet because of the large-scale dispersal of these sources during the decades following Beethoven’s death, and the upheaval of the two world wars in our century, a proper overview of them became available only in 1985, about a century after Gustav Nottebohm’s pioneering surveys of the sketchbooks that were then accessible for study.15 A signiﬁcant body of analytical work has now been produced on the Beethoven sketches, and their signiﬁcance for our understanding of the music has become clearer, although much still remains to be done. When we contemplate this massive legacy of sketchbooks, a correspondence soon emerges between Beethoven’s response to his deafness and his ever-deepening commitment to his art. Although Beethoven had made sketches in earlier years, his ﬁrst use of a bound sketchbook was in mid-1798, in connection with the op. 18 Quartets. The process of rigorous self-criticism so richly documented in his sketches mirrors something of the increasing complexity and density of his style. The genesis of the Eroica, for instance, is documented in a long series of drafts, famous since Nottebohm. Much less familiar are the copious sketches from Beethoven’s last decade. For works like the Missa solemnis or the C minor Quartet op. 131 Beethoven made hundreds of pages of sketches in multiple formats before writing out the autograph scores, which themselves were often subject to farreaching revisions necessitating new bouts of sketching. Thus, long before Beethoven would have been forced to abandon composition at the piano because of his increasing deafness he had already adopted a method of composition specially designed to support his ambition to follow a “new path.” The sketches are ﬁxed improvisations, preserving a partial record of those sounds Beethoven heard while his works progressed toward their ﬁnal shape. The availability of these sources not only provides a remarkably detailed record of the chronology of his works, it also reveals important principles that guided his creative method. Many aspects of composition from melodic reﬁnement to large-scale formal continuity are clariﬁed in them. It is doubtful whether these documents have yet received the recognition they deserve. Their ontological status is nebulous, poised as it is between the biographical and the aesthetic, and this tension poses special challenges to interpretation. A popular notion of Beethoven’s sketching and compositional process would have it that he labored long and hard on unpromising motifs and themes that some other composers, such as Mozart or Schubert, would not have penned at all. The problem with this view is its tendency to identify the part of the creative process that was captured on paper with Beethoven’s artistic intention, without giving sufﬁcient heed to the full aesthetic context. In Beethoven’s sketches much and sometimes most of this context is not yet written down. Beethoven’s “movement 15

The Beethoven Sketchbooks by Douglas Johnson, Alan Tyson, and Robert Winter.

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plans” for works in progress reﬂect his attempt to envisage the whole even before the motifs, themes, and individual sections had been realized. Further evidence comes from his reported comment to Neate, “I have always a picture in my mind, when I am composing, and work up to it,” and by his comment to Treitschke, “For my custom when I am composing even instrumental music is always to keep the whole in view.”16 This characteristic but paradoxical procedure was recognized by Ernest Newman (in his book The Unconscious Beethoven), who wrote of the ﬁrst movement of the Eroica: From the Sketch Books, we get the impression that in some queer subconscious way the movement possessed him as a whole before he began to think out the details; and the long and painful search for the themes was simply an effort, not to ﬁnd workable atoms out of which he could construct a musical ediﬁce according to the conventions of symphonic form, but to reduce an already existing nebula, in which that ediﬁce was implicit, to the atom, and then, by the orderly arrangement of these atoms, to make the implicit explicit.17

We shall return to the subject of Beethoven’s compositional process in connection with individual works. Important here is the recognition that beginning in 1798 Beethoven expanded his practice of making preliminary musical sketches to that of using bound books; in subsequent years the nature of his creative project tended to demand more and more sketching. There can be no doubt that this practice somehow mirrored the complex ramiﬁcations of Beethoven’s aesthetic project. Whereas Mozart had resorted to sketches especially to work out contrapuntal passages, and Haydn made the greatest use of them in connection with the special demands of “The Depiction of Chaos” in The Creation, for Beethoven they became an absolute necessity. The attitude they reﬂect is instructive, for it turns the conventional dichotomy of “inspiration” and “calculation” on its head. We often ﬁnd that Beethoven’s relentless self-criticism in his sketchbooks has cleared the way for original and powerful ideas that emerge late in the compositional process. With Beethoven, it was not generally a matter of spontaneous ideas that were subsequently worked out with rational calculation, but, rather, a blend of the rational and sensuous achieved in a prolonged process of critical reﬂection. Ultimately Beethoven’s deafness may have aided this process, by insulating him from the outside world and by forcing him to abandon activities that competed with his composing, such as his public performances as a keyboard virtuoso.

S S S The Piano Concerto in C minor op. 37 is the ﬁrst of Beethoven’s great works in a genre closely associated with Mozart. Beethoven’s admiration for Mozart’s C minor Concerto is reﬂected in some details of the ﬁrst movement. Thus the motif C–E –A at the outset of K. 491 appears as counterpoint in the bass in bar 9 of 16

Cited in Solomon, “Beethoven’s Creative Process: A Two-Part Invention,” Beethoven Essays, pp. 127–28, which demonstrates that the famous account of Beethoven’s creative process by Louis Schlösser is untrustworthy. 17 Pp. 115–16.

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Beethoven’s concerto. The continuing presence of the piano after the cadenza is probably also inspired by Mozart’s concerto. The opening of Beethoven’s Allegro con brio, on the other hand, contains a succession of unison string and harmonized wind phrases followed by the orchestral tutti, a procedure reminiscent of the beginning of Mozart’s C major Concerto K. 467. The compositional origins of the C minor Concerto reach back to Beethoven’s journey to Berlin in 1796, when he made the notation “To the Concerto in C minor kettledrum at the cadenza.” As Küthen has observed, the timpani motif has a military ﬂavor that harks back to Mozart’s example;18 in Beethoven’s hands this motif becomes an important compositional element throughout the opening Allegro con brio. He may have originally intended to play this concerto at his beneﬁt concert on 2 April 1800, but the piece seems not to have been completed in time; Beethoven probably performed a revised version of the older C major Concerto op. 15. The C minor Concerto was apparently played for the ﬁrst time on 5 April 1803, with Beethoven as soloist, but aspects of the basic conception considerably predate the completion of the autograph score. The date on the autograph manuscript of the concerto (Staatsbibliothek Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Berlin, Beethoven ms. autogr. 14) has been disputed. Leon Plantinga has read the last digit of the apparent entry “1800” as a “3” turned on its side, and has argued consequently for a later chronology for the work.19 The thoroughgoing compositional changes in the score, however, lend more support to the older view that the concerto was revised after an interval. As with previous works in this genre, Beethoven subjects his own style to incisive critique of a kind that might imply a temporal gap, though no proof may be forthcoming on this matter. The solo part was left in an unﬁnished state in the autograph. The earlier layer of writing in the score, in brown ink, shows the rondo theme of the ﬁnale with syncopated chords in the left hand in place of the melodic accents of the ﬁnished work; the sixteenth-note ﬁguration in the left hand was not originally part of Beethoven’s conception at all. In other passages, such as the end of the development in the ﬁrst movement, shown in Plate 6, Beethoven’s revisions suppress gestures of an excessively showy pianistic virtuosity in favor of a more organic and logical development of the musical material. His revisions to the wind parts in the upper systems were entered in the older, brown ink, whereas his reworking of the solo piano part was made in darker ink. He originally notated a long rising chromatic scale in the piano, beginning one bar before the excerpt shown in Plate 6 and extending to the measured trill on high G and F in the second bar. Beethoven’s seminal notion of highlighting the kettledrum in the ﬁrst movement is noteworthy in view of his later practice, in several important orchestral works, of exposing an important motif in the timpani. One thinks of the opening drum taps in the Violin Concerto, or the transition to the ﬁnale in the Fifth Sym18

Ludwig van Beethoven: Klavierkonzert Nr. 3 in c, op. 37, preface, p. v. Cf. Johnson, Beethoven’s Early Sketches, pp. 389–93, and Plantinga, “When Did Beethoven Compose His Third Piano Concerto?”, and Beethoven’s Concertos: History, Style, Performance (New York: Norton, 1999), pp. 113–58. 19

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phony, not to mention the prominent timpani in the ﬁnale of the Seventh Symphony or in the scherzo of the Ninth. In the C minor Concerto the drum passage takes on a mysterious intensity in association with the solo cadenza, which Beethoven may have ﬁnalized as late as 1809. He strips away much of the thematic material and the orchestral texture here to isolate the dotted rhythm on tonic and dominant in the timpani, delaying the imminent cadence and redeﬁning at one stroke the customary relationship between solo and tutti at this point in the form. The end of the cadenza had already taken an extraordinary turn. Some moments before, the precadential trill on the supertonic, D, was prolonged in the right hand without being resolved (Ex. 22). Against this trill, a rising chromatic scale in the left hand merges into a simultaneous trill on B, the leading note. Beethoven extends the double trill for six bars, while the motif from the second bar of the opening theme is played in imitation above and below the trill on the harmony of the dominant seventh. Then G joins the trill, and the entire dominant

Ex. 22 Piano Concerto no. 3 op. 37/I, bars 469–82

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triad is set ablaze through this unmeasured pulsation. The A –G semitone at the top of this multiple trill is derived from the last two notes of the thematic fragment heard one bar before. The triple trill was a specialty of Beethoven’s piano playing: it also appears in the longest of the three cadenzas to the C major Concerto, near the conclusion of the virtuoso piano sonata in this key, op. 2 no. 3, and in the cadenza preceding the recapitulatory variation in the last movement of the ﬁnal sonata, op. 111. Here, in op. 37, the “Beethoven” trill stabilizes into a triple appoggiatura chord whose A harmony resolves onto the dominant triad; a series of repetitions and sequences of this ﬁgure leads once again to the dominantseventh chord with a trill on the supertonic. The entire passage has been poised at the threshold of the expected cadence and represents an immense internal expansion within the structural framework of the concerto cadenza. But now Beethoven again avoids resolution with an even more impressive effect. For the trill on the supertonic does not resolve to C; instead, it ascends chromatically, reaching not the tonic triad of C minor but an unstable seventh chord. This is the moment Beethoven may have imagined as early as 1796, “the kettledrum at the cadenza.” The drum taps out the third to fourth bars of the opening theme four times in all, accompanied softly by the strings and answered by ﬁguration in the piano outlining diminished harmonies. The passage is pianissimo and still suspended tonally, since the tonic cadence has not yet been afﬁrmed. Beethoven’s treatment of his opening theme in the cadenza as a whole displays a vast architectural logic. After the opening “lead-in” and canonic imitations on the head of the theme, he dwells at length on the rising third from its ﬁrst bar, as brilliant arpeggiations carry the music into distant tonal regions. Much later, near the conclusion of the cadenza, Beethoven resumes this thread, developing the second bar of the theme in the passage with the double trill, as we have seen. What remains is the tail of the theme—the last two bars with their characteristic dotted rhythm. This is what Beethoven gives to the timpani, while wrapping the motif in an uncanny veil of harmonic ambiguity. A guiding idea of the cadenza is thus the successive treatment of the three component parts of the main theme, culminating in the mysterious drum passage. Strictly considered, the cadenza embraces not only the solo but also the timpani statements, and ends only with the long-delayed C minor cadence in the last bar of the example, where a new dialogue between the piano and strings leads to the terse close of the movement. The climax of Beethoven’s cadenza at the triple trill with A as highest note foreshadows a relationship of surpassing importance in the movements to come. The slow movement is a reﬂective Largo, whose expressive contrast to the pathos of the outer movements is heightened by Beethoven’s choice of E major as the tonic key. Consequently, the ﬁrst and third degrees of the new tonic, E and G , are raised a semitone above the triadic degrees of C minor; this relationship contributes, along with many details of texture and orchestration, to the magical shift to a brighter tonal color that sets the Largo apart from the framing movements. That very contrast, in turn, poses a challenge to the ﬁnale, whose task it becomes

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to integrate the luminescent, lyrical E major sphere with the darker C minor idiom. Only in this light can we understand the E major chord with G as highest note that is played in the full orchestra to close the Largo (Ex. 23). The dynamic emphasis on this fortissimo chord, in conjunction with its weak rhythmic position, makes it into the most disruptive element in the movement—so disruptive, in fact, that conductors need to take care not to overemphasize the sudden increase in volume or the detached articulation of the sonority. The unstable, unﬁtting chord sets up the ensuing rondo ﬁnale, the main theme of which provides a tonal pivot from E major into the tonic of the work as a whole, C minor. The pivotal sound is, of course, the reinterpretation of G as A , and the motif that accomplishes the transition is built into the rondo theme as its most conspicuous melodic element: the emphasis on the semitone G–A at the beginning is reemphasized by the rising scale in bars 4–5. This striking melodic feature of the rondo theme will eventually be resolved in the coda. But long before that, Beethoven seizes the opportunity to recall the slow movement within the central episode of the rondo, a procedure comparable to (though more complex than) that in the ﬁnale of the Sonate Pathétique. As in the Pathétique, Beethoven begins the middle episode with a more placid section in A major employing variation; in the concerto the theme is marked espressivo and dolce, and offers a medium for lyrical exchange between the clarinet and solo piano. What ensues is an orchestral fugato based on the main subject; this developmental section converges onto the dominant of C minor with strong reinforcement from the trumpets and timpani. Beethoven now reduces the content of the music to two bars of bare octave Gs followed by reiterated octaves on A : the music now reexamines the ﬁgure that had launched the rondo ﬁnale and was so conspicuous in its main theme—the semitone G–A , which is made gigantic—and the dramatization of this motif in the tutti sets the stage for a fundamental reinterpretation by the piano soloist (Ex. 24). For the soloist withdraws here into the tranquility of the slow movement. Its ﬁrst bars receive the A octaves from the orchestra with a decrescendo; the next two have softened to pianissimo, and take on a liquidity of sound indicated by Beethoven’s pedal marking, corresponding to the slow movement. Beethoven does not indicate that the pedal be lifted two bars later, when the miracle occurs: the hands of the pianist are now resting over the precise spacing of the beginning of the Largo, and the most crucial aspect of interpretation here is to convey in sound the enharmonic shift of A into G as the E octave emerges in the bass. Unfortunately, even the best available editions suggest a change of pedal at this point; convincing performances are rare because of lack of comprehension of the full import of the passage. A “clear” performance of the change in harmony is not to the point here, and only betrays a lack of poetic sensibility. Essential, on the other hand, is the veiled effect of the softening A s, the sound of which is enveloped in pedal and then gradually mixed with the E octave in the left hand. This quiet sound represents the a priori condition of the slow movement, a tonal space not

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Ex. 23 Piano Concerto no. 3 op. 37/II–III

yet ﬁlled out. Moments later, a new transparent variant of the rondo theme is heard in the piano, pianissimo in E major; it is accompanied delicately in the strings but soon tails off into hushed legato phrases converging onto a quiet unison E in the violins. This is a vision of the slow movement seen through the veil of the rondo theme itself, and it shows how capable Beethoven is of such allusion even in the absence of direct thematic recall. In turn, this ethereal episode ad-

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Ex. 23 (continued)

mirably prepares the ensuing transition to C minor for the following statement of the rondo theme in its original form, which takes on in this context the quality of a return to reality after the dream-like aura of the E major episode. One more phase remains: the ﬁnal resolution of the crucial A as G , this time not in E major but in the major mode of the tonic, C. Beethoven’s solo cadenza before the coda meaningfully recaptures and reinterprets the rising ﬁguration that

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Ex. 24 Piano Concerto no. 3 op. 37/III, bars 252–70

previously led to various statements of the rondo theme: the tempo gradually slows to adagio, the dynamic level thins to pianissimo. The piano pauses on G in the same register as the beginning of the rondo. The last transformation comes as G is carried upward to A in the C major Presto, and the coda revels in the resolution of A to the keynote C, both ascending and descending. The expressive at-

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mosphere of the coda is unmistakably that of the opera buffa ﬁnale; comic wit and jubilation crown the dénouement of this drama in tones.

S S S The years spanning the intended performance and eventual completion of the C minor Concerto, 1800 to 1803, were especially fruitful for Beethoven; in 1802 in particular his productivity was awesome. As usual, a considerable number of his pathbreaking works were for piano solo or were duo sonatas with piano. The hastily written Sonata for Piano and Horn op. 17, from April 1800, is rather lightweight, but Beethoven was quite proud of the big Piano Sonata in B major op. 22, from the end of that year, claiming that the sonata “hat sich gewaschen”—that it had turned out splendidly. In 1801 he ﬁnished two impressive violin sonatas: a terse, concentrated work in A minor, op. 23, and the lyrically expansive Spring Sonata in F major op. 24. Beethoven conceived these sonatas as a contrasting pair and originally planned to have them appear under the single opus number 23. Two years earlier he had paired together the two charming Piano Sonatas in E major and G major as op. 14, but the violin sonatas offer the ﬁrst notable instance of Beethoven’s juxtaposition of drastically opposing characteristics in a pair of works in the same genre, one in the major and one in the minor. Later examples include the Waldstein and Appassionata Sonatas, and the Fifth and Sixth Symphonies. Another genre that occupied Beethoven at this time was the string quintet. Already in 1795–96 he had arranged and revised his then unpublished Octet for Winds as the String Quintet op. 4, as we have seen. In 1801 he composed the attractive C major String Quintet op. 29, a work whose unexpected and faulty publication by Artaria the following year led to bitter accusations of piracy from the composer and to a confused and messy lawsuit. To the irascible composer, Artaria & Co. were “rascals,” guilty of the “biggest swindle in the world”; yet Artaria was exonerated by the court, which requested in vain a retraction of Beethoven’s accusations against the ﬁrm. Beethoven’s only other original work for the string quintet medium was to be the Fugue in D major from 1817, published posthumously as op. 137, although he made sketches for another string quintet in C on his deathbed. A series of piano sonatas completed by Beethoven in 1801 and 1802 shows a variety of innovative approaches to the genre and, speciﬁcally, to the problem of welding successive movements into a uniﬁed continuity. The Sonata in A op. 26 begins with a variation movement (as had Mozart’s A major Sonata K. 331) and dispenses entirely with movements in sonata form, whereas the two works of op. 27 are each speciﬁcally described by Beethoven as Sonata quasi una fantasia. The popular C minor Sonata op. 27 no. 2 is one of Beethoven’s few works in which the ﬁnale is of unremittingly tragic character; the title Moonlight, invented by the poet and critic Ludwig Rellstab, is quite inappropriate. The sonata is dedicated to Countess Giulietta Guicciardi, who was incorrectly regarded in the nineteenth century as the likely recipient of Beethoven’s letter to the “Immortal Beloved.” In light of this, the opening slow movement was sometimes misconstrued as a kind of love song without words. No other sonata by Beethoven has been so abused as

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kitsch; sentimental images of lovers adrift on a moonlit lake have clung to the opening Adagio sostenuto. Much more suggestive and true to the music is Franz Liszt’s description of the middle movement as “a ﬂower between two abysses.” A central idea of this sonata concerns the transformation of the gently ascending arpeggios of the Adagio sostenuto in the Presto agitato ﬁnale, where surging arpeggios lead to emphatic syncopated chords in the highest register, supported by a descending bass progression similar to that at the beginning of the ﬁrst movement. The second subject of the ﬁnale also recalls the principal theme of the opening movement in its use of dotted rhythms, while still other passages of the ﬁnale, such as the end of the development and the elaborate cadenza in the coda, bear marked thematic and textural similarities to the Adagio sostenuto. The middle movement, a minuet and trio in D major, represents a kind of interlude that connects the almost static opening movement with the rapid, agitated ﬁnale. Some twenty-ﬁve years later, in his great String Quartet op. 131 in the same key, Beethoven returned to this conception of a series of interconnected movements leading, in the ﬁnale, to a fully developed sonata form; and in op. 131, as in op. 27 no. 2, the clear return of thematic material from the opening movement helps to conﬁrm the role of the ﬁnale as a culmination to the entire work. The next piano sonata, op. 28 in D major (Pastoral), and each of the three violin sonatas of op. 30 are highly individual and polished works. The title Pastoral is not unﬁtting for op. 28: one can ﬁnd pedal points in the ﬁrst and last movements and occasional bagpipe ﬁfths, whereas the cadential theme in the ﬁrst movement, internal episode of the slow movement, and scherzo are all rustic in character. The Andante in D minor has a processional, ballade-like atmosphere: the melodic inﬂections of its main theme seem suggestive of speech. In the coda Beethoven juxtaposes the ﬁrst phrases of the main theme with a disturbing, dissonant transformation of the innocent contrasting subject—a glimpse of the abyss, followed by a close in bleak resignation. In the other movements of op. 28, Beethoven often employs static textures with repetitive ﬁgures, yet the development of the opening Allegro is dominated even more than usual by a process of foreshortening. Appropriately, this developmental passage is set apart from its context: the music comes ﬁrmly to rest on a protracted F major harmony before phrases drawn from the cadential theme are played in B major and minor to preface the recapitulation. Beethoven used an identical modulation through the submediant to introduce the climactic ninth variation of the “Joy” theme in the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony. The C minor Violin Sonata op. 30 no. 2 is perhaps the most powerful of Beethoven’s works in this key up to 1802; one of its many inspired ideas is the terse rhythmic motif linked to a German augmented sixth harmony that begins the ﬁnale. The G major Violin Sonata op. 30 no. 3, on the other hand, is one of his wittiest contributions to the high comic style forged by Haydn, and its ﬁnale is a worthy successor to the humorous rondo ﬁnales in the D major Violin Sonata op. 12 no. 1 (with its clownish main theme) and the G major Piano Sonata op. 14 no. 2 (marked “Scherzo”). This Allegro vivace is studded with appearances of the ﬂowing contrapuntal theme in contrasting keys: we hear a robust version in C

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major, a gentle “false” return in B major, and yet another statement of the rondo theme in E major preceding the coda. At the close Beethoven heightens the humor by deriving a string of syncopated accents in the deepest bass register from the rustic trills of the original subject. Impressive as they are, these sonatas may be regarded as works of consolidation. Beethoven’s innovative tendencies surface more clearly in the three Piano Sonatas op. 31, also from 1802. These three sonatas, in G major, D minor, and E major, are notable landmarks along Beethoven’s so-called new path, boldly exploring artistic territory that he soon consolidated in the Eroica Symphony. An aggressively original thrust emerges at the beginning of the G major Sonata op. 31 no. 1. The initial gestures are syncopated; the two hands seem unable to play together. Swift falling passagework yields to repeated tonic chords that reach the dominant at the end of the ﬁrst phrase. Then, surprisingly, Beethoven shifts the following phrase down a whole step into F major. Such treatment of the nearer keys “as if they were mere local chords,” in Donald Francis Tovey’s words,20 expands the tonal and dramatic range of the music. Beethoven introduced similar harmonic departures at the outset of his Waldstein and Appassionata Sonatas. Both of the other op. 31 Sonatas, in D minor and E major, also begin with striking harmonic ambiguities and tensions—a hallmark of his innovative approach. Unlike these pieces, the G major Sonata proceeds with an air of paradox and comedy, with a touch of the bizarre that is no longer Haydnesque but distinctively Beethovenian. As Brendel writes, “the character that emerges is one of compulsive, but scatterbrained, determination.”21 Such a work cannot be taken at face value, but solemn commentators who would deny humorous possibilities to music have maligned op. 31 no. 1 as inferior and slipshod.22 A key to understanding the opening Allegro vivace lies in Beethoven’s ironic attitude to the unbalanced, somewhat commonplace nature of his basic material: what unfolds in the development with startling vehemence later dissolves into coyish, understated accents in the coda, where a new point emerges in the business at hand. In these last moments of the Allegro vivace, Beethoven introduces a turn ﬁgure foreshadowing the head motif of the rondo ﬁnale, while he correspondingly recalls the opening movement in the last moments of the rondo, thereby casting unifying threads across the piece as a whole. The second movement, Adagio grazioso, displays an atmosphere of operatic elegance slightly overdone. The trills and ornate decorations, the serenade-like ﬂavor, and the exaggerated rhetoric convey a hint of sophisticated mockery. In the following rondo ﬁnale, Beethoven’s ingenious demands on the musical tradition take yet another form. He renders the expected repetitions of the main theme in the rondo design unpredictable through variations in texture and rhythmic intensiﬁcation, but reserves the most extraordinary events for the coda. Here, once more, he sees through, and beyond, the surface of his thematic material, exposing an 20

A Companion to Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas, p. 115. Music Sounded Out, p. 28. 22 See, for instance, Blom, Beethoven’s Pianoforte Sonatas Discussed, pp. 125–26. 21

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Ex. 25 Piano Sonata op. 31 no. 1/III, bars 219–48

underlying substratum of musical meaning. First, the head of the rondo theme is broken off into silence; the ensuing phrase is then broadened into an Adagio. Beethoven extends the series of interrupted phrases without allowing the music to close in the tonic, building suspense (Ex. 25). He then plunges into an exciting Presto coda, with the thematic turn emancipated from its earlier context. Beethoven caps his sonata by allowing the rapid turn ﬁgure to migrate into the low bass register, as sharp repeated rhythms recalled from the opening movement dissipate into a paradoxical close of soft chords and pregnant silences. The Sonata op. 31 no. 2, the so-called Tempest, is Beethoven’s only sonata in the key of D minor. A chief innovation of this work is its use of an opening theme that embraces two diametrically opposed tempos and characters: a hovering, ambiguous unfolding of dominant arpeggios in ﬁrst inversion, marked largo; and a turbulent continuation stressing a rising bass and expressive two-note sigh ﬁgures or appoggiaturas, marked allegro. The harmonically ambiguous opening allows Beethoven to delay the ﬁrst strong cadence in D minor until the beginning of the apparent transition, where the initially suspended, arpeggiated motif is incarnated in the driven, propulsive Allegro (Ex. 26). The long series of ascending sequences in the bass is balanced against expressive gestures in the treble, creating a dra-

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Ex. 26 Piano Sonata op. 31 no. 2/I a. opening b. bars 21–22

c. recapitulation, bars 142–48

matic dialogue. From a variant of this passage Beethoven derives much of the development section, leading toward the climax of the movement at the beginning of the recapitulation. Here the mysterious arpeggios return, a kind of temporal oasis removed from the strife of the Allegro, and their expressive implications are now made explicit through passages of unaccompanied recitative. This recitative was the passage that inﬂuenced Beethoven, consciously or unconsciously, when he conceived the famous baritone recitative “O Freunde, nicht diese Töne!” in the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony, also in D minor. The thematic similarity amounts almost to quotation, and the analogous expressive function of the two recitative passages invites close comparison.23 In a sense, Beethoven seized on and exploited this moment of internalization and reﬂection as embodied in the gesture of recitative in the sonata to provide a gateway to the utopian plane of the Ode to Joy as the basis for the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth. The ensuing Adagio in the Tempest Sonata transforms elements from the ﬁrst movement in a brighter, warmer context: the opening arpeggio now rests on the stable tonic sonority of B major, and the following, double-dotted motifs in the high register are reminiscent of the recitative. The broadly lyrical periods of this Adagio are linked by mysterious drum rolls in the bass. The close of the movement exposes this registral gap in the most striking way, as a ﬁnal, cadential version of the high motif is answered by a single B in the cavernous low register. In the Allegretto ﬁnale, in D minor, Beethoven develops the arpeggiated chords throughout, as an all-encompassing, perpetuum mobile rhythm sweeps away the

23 Certain aspects of this relationship are noted by Kolodin in The Interior Beethoven, pp. 128–30.

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rhetoric of dialogue characteristic of the preceding movements. Intimate, speechlike accents are left behind here. As Jürgen Uhde pointed out, the temporal drive of this ﬁnale opens a new and strangely distanced dimension, suggestive not of spontaneous human expression but of engagement with objective phenomena beyond our control.24 Even more than the D minor Sonata, the opening of op. 31 no. 3 in E major sounds like a continuation of music that had already begun. Its initial “call” ﬁgures have no stable harmonic support; Beethoven’s characteristic device of rhythmic acceleration, together with asymmetrical phrasing and a ﬂuctuation in tempo, all lend tension to the gracious opening theme. The initial impression of holding back, of hesitation, stands as complementary to the irrepressible rhythmic energy characteristic of this sonata as a whole. When the opening theme of this Allegro closes, it sets into operation a steady eighth-note motion; later, in the second theme, the ﬁguration is rendered in still faster sixteenth notes. The comic atmosphere of these passages is heightened in the development, when a prominent motif derived from the main theme is reiterated with amusing insistence in the bass. Particularly innovative is the following Allegretto vivace in A major, labeled “Scherzo” by Beethoven. It is a typical scherzo neither in its meter (2/4) nor in its form, a sonata design without a trio. The deﬁning quality, of course, lies in its general character of humorous wit and rhythmic verve. As in the ﬁrst movement, a meaningful hesitation is built into the opening. After the initial phrases, a hushed, unharmonized staccato continuation reaches C and then D , before Beethoven reinterprets this pitch as part of the dominant seventh of A major. Later, after repetition of both the opening theme and the quiet deﬂection to C, Beethoven replaces the move to D with jarring, almost explosive fortissimo chords, decisively carrying the music away from the tonic. By contrast, the ensuing closing theme of the exposition is delicately transparent, staccato, and pianissimo. The development unfolds around appearances of the main theme in new keys—F major and C major. Beethoven extends the C major statement melodically to lead to D , and in the following passage forges the climax of the whole scherzo. D is stressed in all the pitch registers, and the supporting diminishedseventh harmony is altered to a dominant seventh as Beethoven “composes out” an enormous linear descent from the highest D to the lowest A marking the beginning of the recapitulation (Ex. 27). But the D , we recall, is not new: Beethoven’s curious dwelling on this pitch at the outset, and his brilliant stroke of placing the fortissimo eruption in the recapitulation on D , can only be fully appreciated if the climax of the development has made its mark. Here, as elsewhere, Beethoven’s treatment of dissonant sonorities is discriminate but potent and far-reaching: the tension of the climax on D overﬂows, as it were, into a network of related passages. The third movement, a minuet with trio, is the focus of lyricism in the sonata. A darker, mysterious dimension surfaces through a persistent emphasis on C , the lowered sixth degree in E major. In the second half of the minuet this sensitive 24

Beethovens Klaviermusik, iii, pp. 78–79.

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Ex. 27 Piano Sonata op. 31 no. 3/II, bars 97–107

pitch occurs twice, but in the middle of the trio it appears no fewer than seven times, as part of a diminished-ninth chord on the dominant. For a few moments the music is frozen on this static dissonance, before the graceful melodic character is reestablished. In the coda Beethoven recalls these darker inﬂections, casting shadows over the pianissimo conclusion. In the ﬁnale Beethoven recaptures with a vengeance the comic, grotesque, even parodistic tone of the opening movements of this sonata and of the G major Sonata. There is something almost mechanical about the opening ﬁguration, which sets in motion a tarantella rhythm that dominates the wide expanses of this sonata form. Like the ﬁnale of the Tempest Sonata, this Presto con fuoco is practically a perpetuum mobile, but Beethoven takes special care to hold back the momentum in the last few bars: twice the music halts on fortissimo arpeggiated diminished-seventh chords, before he reinterprets the jocular opening motif as a series of rising sequences leading to the powerful full close. Immediately after completing the op. 31 Sonatas Beethoven wrote his ﬁrst big sets of piano variations on original themes: the Six Variations in F op. 34, and the Fifteen Variations and Fugue in E op. 35. In his often-cited letter from October 1802, whose background we have considered above, Beethoven described them as having been written in “quite a new style and each in an entirely different way.”25 Both works introduce features that overcome the basically static and additive nature of Classical variation technique. The tonal plan of op. 34, for example, is unusual and wide-ranging. The successive variations do not remain in the expected tonic but appear in keys forming a chain of descending thirds, leading from the tonic, F major, through D major, B major, G major, E major, and C minor; a short extension to the ﬁfth variation elaborates the dominant seventh on C, preparing the F major cadence at the beginning of the ﬁnal variation, which closes the circle of falling thirds. This variation reminds us of the original theme in more compelling terms than the intervening ones (highly individualized and 25

Anderson, vol. 1, L. 62.

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marked by strong contrasts, with frequent changes of meter); the set concludes with an ornately decorated reprise of the theme, marked Adagio molto. The op. 35 Variations represent a larger and even more original conception than op. 34 and assume a special signiﬁcance by serving as a model for the ﬁnale of the Eroica Symphony, the seminal movement of that great work, as Lewis Lockwood has shown.26 In op. 35, as in the Eroica ﬁnale, the bass of the theme is presented ﬁrst alone and then in a series of introductory variations, with two, three, and four voices. The subsequent appearance of the actual theme, together with its bass, thus represents in a sense the fourth variation, but Beethoven’s numbering begins only after this statement of the composite theme. (In its fully harmonized form the theme was used earlier as the seventh of the Contredances for Orchestra WoO 14 and in the Prometheus ballet op. 43.) Opening with the basso del tema enables Beethoven to emphasize its comic aspects, particularly the three fortissimo B octaves in its second half, which are surrounded by rests, creating a humor of expressive silences. In the ninth and especially the thirteenth variations, this stress on B is developed as a pedal throughout the ﬁrst half, with amusing effect. The Minore, the fourteenth variation, and Maggiore, the ﬁfteenth—a majestic, decorated Largo—represent a new section in the overall formal progression, which culminates in the powerful fugal ﬁnale. In its structural grandeur and comprehensive range of expression this set anticipates the greatest of Beethoven’s works in this genre, the Thirty-Three Variations on a Waltz by Diabelli op. 120. In a relatively short period Beethoven had completed the six Sonatas of opp. 30 and 31 and the Variations of opp. 34 and 35, in addition to several other pieces; an additional key work of 1802 was the Second Symphony in D major op. 36. In this symphony, especially in its outer movements, Beethoven brought the full scope of his imagination to bear on the orchestral genre for the ﬁrst time. A link with the legacy of Haydn and Mozart is still tangible, to be sure: certain features of the slow introduction to the ﬁrst movement are reminiscent of Mozart’s Prague Symphony in the same key K. 504, whereas the coda of the ﬁnale has Haydnesque touches. Unlike the famous off-tonic opening of the First Symphony, Beethoven begins here with a deep unison D sounded across all the pitch registers. The unison ﬁgure is analogous to the opening of Mozart’s symphony, yet more forceful, since Beethoven begins not on the downbeat but with a thirty-secondnote upbeat to the sustained unison, and marks the gesture fortissimo. Such upbeats are characteristic of his dynamically propulsive style, of which this movement is a particularly telling example. The contrast between forceful unison octaves and more intimate, lyrical, harmonized phrases is a topos to which Mozart gave unforgettable expression; the beginning of the C minor Piano Sonata K. 457 must have particularly impressed Beethoven in this respect. Beethoven’s own development of this topos in the ﬁrst movement of op. 36 is brilliant, because it discloses a remote and almost forbidding character lurking behind the playful action and high spirits of the Allegro con brio and thereby lends much dramatic weight to the whole. Haydn frequently 26

Cf. “The Compositional Genesis of the Eroica Finale,” esp. pp. 84–85.

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deepens the character of his symphonic allegro movements through a slow introduction, but nowhere in his symphonies do the expressive implications of an introduction impress themselves so powerfully on the following Allegro as in Beethoven’s D major Symphony. Crucial to Beethoven’s conception is the association of the stark, unharmonized unison gesture with the minor mode of D. The opening phrases of the Adagio molto employ this gesture to preface a pair of lyrical antecedent and consequent phrases in the wind and strings, respectively. Much else happens in the introduction, whose elaborate orchestral textures again invite comparison with Mozart’s Prague Symphony. But the climax and turning point of the entire introduction comes as Beethoven reafﬁrms and develops the unison gesture, with its double-dotted upbeat rhythm, as the music plunges into D minor. He enlarges the seminal rhythmic motif to form a broad, imposing arpeggiation that comes to rest on the dominant pedal, which is sustained in turn over the next ten bars, up to the beginning of the Allegro con brio (Ex. 28). This is one of the moments in Beethoven’s earlier music that reminds us forcefully of the Ninth Symphony. The main theme of the later work’s ﬁrst movement, in all its stark grandeur, is implicit in the dark undercurrent in the ﬁrst movement of this early symphony in the major mode of D. For the fortissimo outburst in the slow introduction is by no means an isolated gesture. The second subject group is fashioned so as to absorb the conﬂict exposed in the slow introduction, and the triumphant character of the movement as a whole, culminating in the chorale-like climax of the coda, is balanced against this large-scale tension. The second subject is a march-like theme employing a rising arpeggio and double-dotted rhythm. As in op. 2 no. 2, its development brings an increase in excitement, leading to a crisis that disrupts the organic musical development and opens a void that is ﬁlled by opposing forces. The fortissimo gesture from the slow introduction, now harmonized, punctuates the passage that prepares an expected cadence in the dominant at bar 100, but Beethoven breaks off the cadence deceptively, and silence ensues (Ex. 29). This rip in the form is ﬁlled by an interpolated passage. The turn ﬁgure from the main theme is recalled pianissimo in a series of rising sequences, reaching the cadence in the dominant in bar 112. Then comes one of those brilliant strokes that so utterly demolish the conventional gentility of courtly manners, transforming the very notion of sectional closure in this style. For as the music moves toward a further, necessary cadential articulation, Beethoven restates, in slightly varied form, the entire arpeggiated climax in D minor from the slow introduction, complete with the ensuing dominant pedal on A in the horns. The gesture is repeated, and the pedal derived from it resounds through the closing moments of the exposition. The intense energy from this thematic and modal conﬂict infuses the following cadential passages based on syncopated augmentation of the turn ﬁgure from the main theme; it also generates the scintillating arpeggiation of A major in the wind that is mirrored in rhythmic diminution in the strings across all the pitch registers. The excitement of passages like these was new to music, and it points toward some of the most intoxicated moments in the third Leonore Overture and the

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Ex. 28 Second Symphony op. 36/I, bars 23–47

crisis and creativity: 1799–1802 Ex. 28 (continued)

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Ex. 29 Second Symphony op. 36/I, bars 96–105

ﬁnales of the Fifth and Seventh Symphonies. Yet, in all these cases, the impression of unbridled power is inextricably linked with conﬂict, or set into relief through powerful contrasts. Genuine triumph cannot be easily won. Some early critics had difﬁculty with the Second Symphony, preferring the milder manners of the First. Exasperated denunciation of the music as bizarre, confused, or incomprehensible was directed especially at the ﬁnale, an Allegro molto in sonata form. The style is clearly Haydnesque, but it is even more audaciously impertinent than Haydn would have allowed. Immediately provocative is the opening theme, with its huge gap of one and a half octaves between the upbeat semitone F –G and the following trill ﬁgure on C . Only in the massive coda, however, are the full implications of this startling gesture realized. The semitone ﬁgure rises chromatically to C, as a chain of turns and trills around this pitch releases an almost frightening energy in fortissimo outbursts for the full orchestra. Earlier, a surprising dramatic bluster had surfaced, only to be incorporated paradoxically into the comic character of the movement as a whole. The Allegro molto of Beethoven’s Second Symphony is a heightened comedy, capable of absorbing disruptive elements and even an excessiveness bordering on the absurd. This is the comedy of the sublime.

4

R

The Heroic Style I: 1803–1806

R Eighteen hundred and three was the main year of composition of the Eroica Symphony, the centerpiece of the great stylistic transition that emerged out of Beethoven’s personal and artistic crisis of 1802, a crisis precipitated above all by his incurable loss of hearing. In the Third Symphony Beethoven’s “new path” ascended to a lofty summit with a commanding position in the history of the symphonic genre. The historical and biographical terrain surrounding the Eroica has not yet been exhaustively explored, despite the fame and irresistible fascination of Beethoven’s intended dedication of the work to Napoleon Bonaparte and his angry destruction of that dedication after Napoleon had himself crowned emperor. It is a commonplace of criticism that the Eroica inaugurates or consolidates Beethoven’s “heroic” style. In approaching the symphony, however, we should reconsider some of the familiar but questionable assumptions that have linked the work with heroism of the Napoleonic variety. Beethoven’s attitude toward Bonaparte was ambivalent, but he contemplated a possible move to Paris around this time, and he might have had some entirely pragmatic reasons for dedicating the symphony to the French leader—reasons that vanished when he remained in Vienna. The deepest importance of the Eroica in Beethoven’s creative development may lie in its symbolic or mythic qualities, which shape not only the individual movements but also their relationship to one another. This work is neither simply a homage to Bonaparte nor a “programmatic” symphony in the conventional manner, whereby the music follows a literal narrative sequence. The continuity between movements in the Eroica is sufﬁciently compelling to force us to give it critical recognition. But what really counts here is not the imposition of associations from outside the work, but rather the recognition that the music itself embodies these associations in its structure, rhythmic movement, orchestration, and character. For want of a better formulation, we may refer to this phenomenon as an intrinsically musical narrative. The explication of these relationships demands detailed musical analysis. But the biographical context is intriguing as well. The Heiligenstadt Testament, in particular, deserves renewed attention in relation to the symbolism of the Eroica. Solomon has offered an insightful analysis of Beethoven’s testament, shrewdly observing that “this neatly written document is a carefully revised ‘fair copy’ which has been scrubbed clean of much of its original emotion.” Solomon argues that 93

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one remains unpersuaded by the references to suicide: “I would have ended my life—it was only my art that held me back”; “Thanks to [virtue] and to my art, I did not end my life by suicide.” It is as though Beethoven were being deliberately laconic in order to avoid reviving distressful feelings.1

This histrionic element, suggesting the symbolic enactment of the artist’s own death in order that he might start anew—in short, the notion of a “rebirth”—is also implied by Beethoven’s references from about this time to a “new path” or “a completely new manner” in reference to his art. More evidence comes from the oratorio Christus am Ölberge op. 85 that Beethoven wrote in late 1802 and early 1803 and which served as the ﬁnal work at his concert of 5 April 1803. As Alan Tyson and Barry Cooper have pointed out, the libretto has much in common with the Heiligenstadt Testament, concerning ideas of undeserved suffering, intense struggle, terror, imminent death, love of mankind, and eventual triumph over adversity.2 In a recent study, Katherine Syer has suggested that the early genesis of the Eroica Symphony dates from about October 1802, the period of the Heiligenstadt Testament, and that the Landsberg 6 Sketchbook, the main source documenting the evolution of the symphony, was already in use by this time.3 Beethoven’s story in the Heiligenstadt Testament about feeling despair over his loss of hearing when he failed to hear the piping of a shepherd matches to a similar account by his student and frequent companion at the time, Ferdinand Ries. In this context, his comment that “it was only my art that held me back” may be taken as referring especially to the challenge of the new symphony. Further indications of Beethoven’s psychological realignment at around this time come from the immediate background of the Eroica Symphony. Its genesis is bound up with the now obscure ballet music to Die Geschöpfe des Prometheus (The Creatures of Prometheus) op. 43, written by Beethoven in collaboration with the dance master Salvatore Viganò. The Prometheus music was Beethoven’s ﬁrst major work for the stage and one of his earliest public successes, with more than twenty performances given at Vienna during 1801 and 1802. After the initial run, the choreography was lost. There have been practically no attempts to revive the ballet; concert performances of the music are rare. According to an anecdote preserved by Alois Fuchs, Haydn is supposed to have told Beethoven in 1801 that “I heard your ballet yesterday and it pleased me very much!,” whereupon Beethoven replied: “O, dear Papa, you are very kind; but it is far from being a Creation!” Surprised and almost offended, Haydn retorted: “That is true; it is not yet a Creation and I can scarcely believe that it will ever become one.”4 This story seems entirely characteristic and credi1

Beethoven, pp. 118–19. Canisius argues that some passages of the Heiligenstadt Testament paraphrase Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther (Beethoven, pp. 158–64). 2 Cf. Tyson, “Beethoven’s Heroic Phase,” p. 140; Cooper, Beethoven and the Creative Process, p. 48. 3 “A Peculiar Hybrid: The Structure and Chronology of the ‘Eroica’ Sketchbook (Landsberg 6),” Bonner Beethoven-Studien 5 (2006), pp. 159–81. 4 Thayer-Forbes, pp. 272–73.

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ble; it once again illustrates Beethoven’s strong attraction to puns, a matter to which we shall return. Haydn’s great oratorio The Creation had just recently been performed. The agreement of both composers that the ballet music was “far from being a Creation” is signiﬁcant. The Prometheus ballet is of course a creation myth in its own way, but what Beethoven produced in his op. 43 is illustrative, programmatic music that follows a scenario imposed from without. There is no real attempt here to achieve an “unconsummated symbol” in Langer’s sense. It is not the ballet music but the Eroica Symphony that embodies an achievement of Promethean stature, a work eminently worthy of being regarded as a “creation.” Nevertheless, the symphony owes more to the earlier work than has often been recognized. Because of the unfamiliarity of the ballet music, the extent of its relationship to the Eroica Symphony has remained obscure, in spite of the obvious reuse of an important theme from the ballet in the symphonic ﬁnale. Complicating matters further is the fact that Beethoven ﬁrst elaborated some ideas derived from the ballet in a work for piano: the Fifteen Variations and Fugue in E op. 35 from 1802. Together with its companion work, the F major Variations op. 34, this innovative variation set helped to launch Beethoven’s so-called new way. But behind both the piano variations and the symphony lies an inspiring mythic source that until recently had been largely forgotten. Only in the 1970s did Constantin Floros succeed in largely reconstructing the choreography and related symbolism of the ballet from Beethoven’s surviving musical sketches.5 Since Beethoven made notations about the stage action in these sketches, the association of music and dance can be largely reestablished. Floros’s work has shown that the links between the ballet and the symphony are more substantial than has usually been assumed. Floros traces various rhetorical and formal parallels between the opening Allegro con brio of the symphony and, in particular, the eighth piece of the Prometheus music, the “Danza eroica.” Still more important is the afﬁnity of the two following pieces of the ballet, the “Tragica scena” (no. 9) and “Giuocosa scena” (no. 10, in which the dead Prometheus is restored to life), to the progression from the Marcia funebre to the scherzo in the symphony. This part of the Eroica has often proven a stumbling block for commentators: Paul Bekker even suggested that the work would be more effective if the inner movements were interchanged, with the scherzo preceding the slow movement.6 The symbolism of the “heroic-allegorical” ballet—as it was described in the program at the première—can help here to supply a more convincing basis for analysis of the symphony. The version of the Prometheus myth that Beethoven and Viganò tackled reinterprets the ancient tale of the deﬁant champion of humanity in a manner compatible with the spirit of the Enlightenment. Prometheus ennobled humankind through his gifts of knowledge and art fashioned from ﬁre that he stole from the gods. In all versions of the myth Prometheus is severely punished in reprisal for 5 6

Beethovens Eroica und Prometheus-Musik; see esp. chapters 4 and 6. Beethoven, p. 223.

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his actions on behalf of humanity. In the original version, Prometheus is chained to a rock, where an eagle descends to devour his liver. After long years of suffering he is eventually freed by Hercules, a descendant of Io, who had come to Prometheus in the shape of a goat many years earlier. Variants of the legend exist in the ancient Greek sources, but all agree that the titan refuses to yield or compromise. Though physically in chains, Prometheus is spiritually free. In the world of myth, there is perhaps no more telling symbol of resistance to the arbitrary exercise of authority. In the version that Beethoven set to music, Prometheus’s suffering on the rock is deleted, but his punishment is rendered more decisive, since he is put to death. Another important change consists in the role of the two “creatures,” the Urmenschen, or archetypal man and woman. In the Greek sources the struggle of Prometheus occurs even before the creation of woman, whereas in the ballet the story is revised to embrace all humanity as potential beneﬁciaries of the Promethean sacriﬁce. Prometheus’s long trials and agonies are replaced here by a progression of death and rebirth, since Prometheus is subsequently restored to life. The ballet concludes with the apotheosis of Prometheus as he is celebrated by his two creatures, who at last begin to display a true understanding of the signiﬁcance of his heroic deed. This version of the myth thus shifts the dramatic emphasis from the deﬁant martyr to the reception by humankind of the Promethean gift of culture. In the ballet the cultural gifts of the titan are not initially understood or appreciated by his two “creatures”; consequently, Prometheus’s agony comes to parallel the plight of the misunderstood artist. Ultimately, a reconciliation is achieved in that ﬁnal section of the ballet that has always been understood as a link to the Eroica Symphony. The shared material is the lively tune that Beethoven employed as the seventh of his twelve German contredances WoO 14. He recycled the contredance three times: in the ballet, the E Piano Variations, and the Eroica ﬁnale. The original audience for the symphony would surely have recognized this theme in the ﬁnale, but that is not all they are likely to have recognized. The dramatic and symbolic elements incorporated from the Prometheus myth are by no means conﬁned to the ﬁnale. The overall narrative progression of the four movements of the symphony outlines a sequence—struggle, death, rebirth, apotheosis. The parallel with Beethoven’s own despair, thoughts of suicide, and discovery of his new artistic path is scarcely accidental. But the heroic symbolism of the Eroica is too deeply embodied in the artwork to be adequately interpreted in terms of Beethoven’s biography, or in relation to any other historical ﬁgure such as Napoleon. What Beethoven explores in the Eroica are universal aspects of heroism, centering on the idea of a confrontation with adversity leading ultimately to a renewal of creative possibilities. Variants of this narrative sequence surface again and again in Beethoven’s music up to his very last years. The immense scope of Beethoven’s ﬁrst movement is reﬂected in his open, continuously evolving treatment of the basic thematic material. Elements of dramatic tension are exposed from the outset. After the powerful opening chords and the

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Ex. 30 Eroica Symphony op. 55/I

following triadic turning ﬁgure, the melody descends to a mysterious, low C , with syncopations heard above this pitch in the violins (Ex. 30). The full implications of the mysterious C are explored only at the beginning of the recapitulation, when Beethoven reinterprets this pitch as D , with a new downward resolution leading to an extended solo for horn in F major. Beethoven’s most striking formal innovation in the opening Allegro con brio is his expansion of the development section and coda. With its 245 bars the development dwarfs the exposition, whereas the coda approaches the length of the recapitulation. The climax of the development is generated by an intense rhythmic process involving accented, syncopated dissonances; so unrelenting is this rhythmic fragmentation and compression that the thematic material is virtually dissolved into nothing at about that point when the recapitulation would normally be expected. Here Beethoven introduces an apparently new theme in the remote key of E minor, a theme that is later resolved to the tonic key in the coda.

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The formal expansion created by this infusion of new material in the development thus arises as a consequence of unprecedented dramatic tension, and particularly from Beethoven’s techniques of rhythmic foreshortening. His use of such fragmentation culminating in dramatic silence is characteristic; we have discussed one such example in the exposition of the ﬁrst movement of the Piano Sonata in A major op. 2 no. 2. There the device has the effect of comic wit; in the Eroica, by contrast, it yields one of the most shattering climaxes in all music. The sense of scale is vastly expanded: a long series of registrally enhanced motivic syncopations leads into massive syncopated chords, with a dissonant collision of the A minor and F major triads marking the peak of intensiﬁcation. The strongest rhythmic impulse or structural downbeat in the entire movement falls on the empty beat in bar 280, four bars before the E minor theme (Ex. 31). In this ﬁrst movement, then, the pivotal crux of the entire dramatic structure is anchored in a temporal moment that is, paradoxically, soundless. This enables Beethoven to discharge the almost unbearable tension of the dissonant syncopations while preparing the new formal episode that is to ﬁll the remainder of the development. That the so-called new theme beginning in bar 284 is not entirely new is not surprising, in view of the far-reaching motivic connections characteristic of this movement. The theme calls to mind the three-note dolce motive heard already beginning in bar 45, a motive employing an identical dotted rhythm in a different metrical position, emphasizing the upbeat. In a recent analysis, William Horne has suggested that the onset of the second theme group is best identiﬁed already at this early juncture. Consensus on this point is unlikely, since Beethoven undermines the prominence of the “ﬁrst cadential pillar” in the new key while presenting a rich array of thematic ideas.7 Horne’s perspective is supported, however, by the extensive development of the motive in the ﬁrst half of the development, including increasingly energetic, accented motivic variants that trigger the great syncopated passage leading to the soundless climax in bar 280. That accented silence, in turn, marks the beginning of a four-bar grouping, and the ensuing four-bar phrases of the “new theme” adjust their accents to emphasize the downbeats of the triple meter, which helps explain the changed metric position of the seminal motive. Beethoven’s pupil Ferdinand Ries related an incident at a rehearsal of the symphony in which he mistook the premature horn entry just before the recapitulation as an error in performance. The unfortunate Ries said to Beethoven “Can’t the damned horn player count?—it sounds infamously false!,” a remark that enraged the composer. The device is not well regarded as a “mischievous whim” or a “primitive banana skin,” as described by Ries or Martin Cooper, respectively.8 Beethoven’s music is elsewhere rich in humor, but this passage can hardly be reckoned comic, though it severely dislocates the instrumental parts. The effect is of a bold expansion and diffusion of the structural moment of recapitulation over a 7

See Horne, “The Hidden Trellis: Where Does the Second Group Begin in the First Movement of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony?” Beethoven Forum 13 (2006), p. 144, 146. 8 Thayer-Forbes, p. 350; Judgements of Value, p. 150.

the heroic style i: 1803–1806 Ex. 31 Eroica Symphony op. 55/I, bars 272–92

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broader temporal span. The second horn anticipates the reprise four bars before it occurs in the full orchestra, and brings about a superimposition of tonic and dominant harmonies. The resulting dissonance is acute, despite the soft dynamic level, and this helps motivate the powerful fortissimo outburst that ushers in the “true” recapitulation. Nevertheless, the reprise fails to follow a familiar path: the mysterious C is now reinterpreted as D , and its resolution to C opens up the key of F major for the solo of the ﬁrst horn. The two horn passages are related; both infuse excitement and unpredictability into the music at just that moment when concerns of formal symmetry would seem to be paramount. The coda is expanded to almost the length of the exposition and recapitulation. Here, the “new” theme from the development is resolved to the tonic key of E major. Thus the coda serves to recapitulate those musical passages that did not appear in the exposition or recapitulation. But it also presents the exciting last chapter in the story of the triadic turning theme that opens the movement. This main theme is joined with a contrasting rhythmic subject, recalling a thematic combination from the development section, and Beethoven gradually intensiﬁes the passage by means of orchestration and dynamics. As the music reaches its climax he reinterprets the theme to lead to a full authentic cadence in E major: the resolution of this primary theme is inseparably bound up with the tonal closure of the movement as a whole. Another reminder of the vast scale of this Allegro con brio comes in the emphatic closing chords, which correspond to the two great E chords at the beginning of the work. As Beethoven’s sketches show, these initial chords were an afterthought: they anticipate the majestic power of the movement to follow, but their echo in Beethoven’s ﬁnal cadence also serves to cast unifying threads over this immense symphonic structure. Beethoven was particularly drawn to the genre of the Marcia funebre during the transitional period that gave rise to his “new path”; other examples besides the slow movement of the Eroica include the C minor variation in op. 34 and the funeral march “on the death of a hero” in the A Piano Sonata op. 26, from 1801. The sonata “with the funeral march” was one of the most popular of all Beethoven’s works in the nineteenth century. Its Marcia funebre was performed during Beethoven’s own funeral procession in Vienna in 1827; it is the only movement in his sonatas that he arranged for orchestra. It thus takes on unusual interest not just for its orchestral rhetoric but for the part it played in the evolution of Beethoven’s posthumous reputation as artistic hero, a mythic role still very potent today. In its epic grandeur and dramatic power, the Marcia funebre in C minor in the Eroica goes far beyond the more conventional march in the piano sonata. The transparent orchestration gives special prominence to the woodwinds, particularly the oboe. Especially impressive is Beethoven’s reinterpretation and development of the opening processional theme, as well as his incorporation of contrasting episodes. At the heart of this Adagio assai he introduces a subject of triumphant character in C major, with very full orchestration, which leads into a dramatic fugato based on the main theme in the minor. The melodic climax of the processional march had been on A , a pitch that assumes special importance through-

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out. Now, immediately after the luminous C major climax with trumpets and drums, the music falls onto a mysterious unharmonized A , and hence into the darkness of the minor, with the sense of a gaze into the abyss. Later, following the fugato, Beethoven restates the head of the processional theme softly in the dominant before pausing on a high A in the violins, with the effect of a question posed against an indifferent sky. The ensuing silence is broken by an emphatic answering A in the low register, and a powerful “composing out” of this harmony leads to a varied reprise of the processional march. Equally striking is the fragmentation of the basic thematic material into hushed, broken inﬂections in the ﬁnal passages of the coda. Beethoven had already effected such a disintegration of his main theme at the close of the Largo e mesto of his Piano Sonata op. 10 no. 3, and he was to use the device again in his Coriolan Overture. The subtle opening of the scherzo—which begins pianissimo and staccato with strings alone in the lower registers—is presumably connected with the symbolic “rebirth” of Prometheus, as Floros has suggested.9 Beethoven enhances the suspense by withholding the main tune of this Allegro vivace until the seventh bar, and by placing the melody on the dominant. When at last the long-delayed theme is played by the full orchestra in the tonic key, it arrives with full force, fortissimo. An obvious heroic note is sounded in the trio, with its soloistic use of three horns—a special feature in the orchestration of the symphony. The musical character here is animated, even joyous, making a convincing psychological transition to the comedy and high spirits that emerge in the ﬁnale. But Beethoven also incorporates into the scherzo a speciﬁc thematic reference to the outset of the ﬁrst movement which clariﬁes the narrative sequence of the work as a whole. Just moments before the close, the rising motivic progression D –D –E is played twice in the high register in the winds (Ex. 32). In a sketch, Beethoven labeled the rising ﬁgure as “a strange [or unfamiliar] voice” (“eine fremde Stimme”).10 This is, of course, an inversion, and resolution, of the mysterious downward shift E –D–D (C ) that was heard in bars 6–7 of the Allegro con brio (cf. Ex. 30). That dissonant inﬂection in the ﬁrst movement is the ﬁrst hint in the work of strife and dramatic tension; the syncopations in the ﬁrst violins emerge in response to the downward chromatic ﬁgure, already foreshadowing the unprecedented rhythmic force of passages to come. At the end of the scherzo, by contrast, this breach in the E major tonality is closed; the wound is healed. The struggle embodied in the ﬁrst movement has been transcended. Furthermore, Beethoven enriches the context of this “strange voice” within the third movement. In the trio, a repeated cadential phrase in the ﬁrst horn outlines this cadential phrase in a diatonic form, rising a fourth from B to E . The chromatic variant in the winds at the end of the movement can thus be heard as echoing these earlier horn gestures, with their heroic associations. In the ﬁnale the association with Prometheus becomes explicit through the 9

Beethovens Eroica und Prometheus-Musik, p. 98. Nottebohm transcribes this sketch in Ein Skizzenbuch von Beethoven aus dem Jahre 1803, p. 44. 10

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Ex. 32 Eroica Symphony op. 55/III, bars 419–31

reuse of the theme from the ballet. The movement opens with a short emphatic fanfare for the full orchestra, which moves from G minor to the dominant of E major. This curtain-raising gesture is followed by a subject that enters on tiptoes; as in the op. 35 Variations, Beethoven presents just the bass of the theme, which is heard initially in the strings pizzicato, in a texture somewhat reminiscent of the beginning of the preceding scherzo. Unlike in the piano variations, he can reorchestrate the repetitions of each half of the theme, with the winds and brass at ﬁrst echoing the strings. At the beginning of the second half, the strings drop out, whereupon the octaves on B ring forth fortissimo from the winds and brass. The grotesque humor of expressive silences is conveyed all the more vividly in this orchestral version. A source of inspiration for this use of the basso del tema—with its stiff abruptness of loud repeated octave B s—may lie in the myth, since Prometheus fashioned his human creatures out of clay, and their initial movements were awkward and clumsy. In the two ensuing variations, Beethoven develops just the bass of the theme in an orchestration of strings alone. The woodwinds are reserved for the presentation of the main melody that follows, the tune associated with the apotheosis of Prometheus. We thereby witness the gradual creation of a composite theme out of its component elements, a notion that took deep hold on Beethoven and which surfaces again in more radical form in the Scherzando movement of the F major Quartet op. 59 no. 1, from 1806. In transplanting the contredance melody from the ﬁnale of the ballet to the piano variations and then the symphony, Beethoven changes its presentation considerably. The tempo changes from the original Alle-

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gretto to Allegretto vivace in op. 35 and Allegro molto in the symphony, and the instrumentation is more elaborate in the Eroica than in the ballet, with the ﬁrst statement of each variation half heard piano in a more transparent setting, whereas the repetitions are assigned to the full orchestra forte, with robust and humorous effect. The trajectory of the Eroica ﬁnale is bound up with a process of creation itself, and the fragmentary beginning with the basso del tema lends itself well to this metaphorical idea. Once the composite theme is revealed, the movement unfolds in an atmosphere of spontaneous, lively unpredictability, with some of the variations displaying a chameleon-like ability to change as they proceed. The continuation from the theme quickly modulates to the dominant of C minor, preparing a fugato. The fugato begins in the violins with the basso del tema, but short motivic injections from other instruments draw upon the repeated-note ﬁgure of the upper-line melody, and the continuation of the fugal theme also utilizes features of the contredance theme. Beethoven blends both features in his fugato, while the music continues to evolve: an increasing density of sound and a harmonic pivot through an augmented-sixth chord leads suddenly to another jaunty statement of the main melody in D major, in the ﬂutes and violins. This new variation then undergoes an astonishing transformation: the second half spawns a virtuosic ﬂute part and closes with loud blustering triplets. Its D major cadence serves in turn to launch an Alla marcia variation in G minor for the full orchestra. This highly characteristic Alla marcia variation is given literal repetitions of each variation half, unlike the developmental variations that precede and follow it. The march variation in G minor stands at the center of a formal design combining variation and rondo. The next appearance of the contredance melody, played dolce in the ﬂutes and violins in C major, recalls the earlier D major variation, but soon passes into another fugal episode, in which the basso del tema and upper-line melody are intermingled. A new dimension is opened in a pair of poco andante variations in the tonic E major beginning with an oboe solo con espressione. The expressive broadening of this section culminates in the richly scored, majestic second variation of the pair, yet this variation also changes character in its ﬁnal section, while modulating away from the tonic key. After building to a fortissimo climax and full cadence in G minor, a mysterious transition leads to a recall of the introductory ﬂourishes of the movement in G minor, ushering in the presto coda of this remarkable movement. The coda is rich in resonances. The prominence of the horns reminds us of the key role of this instrument in the symphony as a whole. The ﬁnal barrage of fortissimo tonic chords recalls both the opening salvos of the ﬁrst movement and the antiphonal gestures between winds and strings when the basso del tema was ﬁrst announced at the beginning of the ﬁnale. Even the rising scale ﬁgures at the conclusion recall similar scales in the Alla marcia variation, resolving this striking motivic gesture to the tonic E major. In shaping the form of the Eroica ﬁnale, Beethoven adapted the rondo prototype from the Prometheus ballet ﬁnale as well as the extended variation chain of op. 35. The resulting formal synthesis is tight and concentrated, ingeniously enriched through contrapuntal episodes and a sense of continuous development that

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overcomes the sectionalism often associated with rondo and variation form. Paradoxically, the craft of counterpoint and a richness of developmental processes are embodied here in music that begins in provocative simplicity, with just the basso del tema played in pizzicato strings. From the sketches for the Eroica, we know that the bass of the theme also served as progenitor for the opening of the main theme of the ﬁrst movement. Whereas the basso del tema initially outlines a intervallic boundary space reaching to the ﬁfth above and fourth below the tonic note, Beethoven shaped his primary theme for the opening Allegro con brio as a turning ﬁgure within this boundary space, which introduces the notes of the tonic triad in order, while returning to E after sounding G and B .11 The Promethean connection has received too little attention in discussions of the symphony, and the Eroica ﬁnale has remained relatively neglected by commentators. In a valuable study exploring programmatic interpretations of the Eroica Symphony, Scott Burnham observes that the “conjunction of Beethoven’s music with the ethical and mythical implications of the hero and his journey holds the entire reception history of the symphony in its sway,” yet he conﬁnes his own attention to the ﬁrst movement, as if the remaining movements held no meaning for the “hero and his journey.”12 Burnham believes that narrative interpretation linking all four movements is stymied by the “presence of two movements after the hero’s funeral.”13 Yet the Promethean narrative we have traced—struggle– death–rebirth–apotheosis—emerges only through the work as a whole, through the contribution of each movement to the narrative design. For Beethoven, heroism is bound up with a commitment to humanistic causes—freedom, enlightenment, creativity—that are pursued at risk or cost of death. In the Prometheus scenario, as we have seen, the death and reincarnation of the mythic hero are explicit, while the outcome of the narrative brings a dawning recognition of the creative principle by humanity’s representatives. Extolling the imagination and its transformative possibilities, the Eroica ﬁnale shows how even unpromising scraps—the bare bones of a grotesque basso del tema—can be turned into artistic coinage as an apotheosis of play. We should not forget the underdog status of Beethoven’s symbolic heroes. Prometheus has his Zeus; Leonore and Florestan their Pizarro; Egmont his Alba. Confronted by brute power, each is vulnerable; death threatens or claims them all. Most important is the principle for which they stand and undergo sacriﬁces. From this viewpoint, an individual who succumbs to the lure of power and authority for its own sake is disqualiﬁed from heroism, as was Napoleon after he had himself crowned emperor.14 11 Lewis Lockwood has illustrated this process in his essay “The Earliest Sketches for the Eroica Symphony” in Lockwood, Beethoven: Studies in the Creative Process (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992), pp. 142–43. 12 Beethoven Hero (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995), p. 27. 13 Beethoven Hero, p. 4. 14 In an often-cited letter to Zmeskall, Beethoven wrote gloatingly that “Power is the moral principle of those who excel others, and it is also mine” (Beethoven Briefe, vol. 1, L. 35, p. 43). However, the entire letter is humorous and highly satirical, and the statement is not to be taken at face value.

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The title Beethoven eventually gave to the work in 1806 was “Sinfonia Eroica . . . composta per festeggiare il sovvenire di un grand Uomo.” As Carl Dahlhaus has observed, this reference to “the memory of a great man” resonates with Friedrich Hölderlin’s unﬁnished “Ode to Napoleon” of 1797: “Poets are sacred vessels wherein the wine of life, the spirit of heroes, is preserved”; in this sense, “what the ‘Eroica’ realizes aesthetically is not the image but the myth of Napoleon, which was associated with the myth of Prometheus.”15 But if Napoleon was never the exclusive or even the primary heroic model for Beethoven’s Eroica, the composer’s canceled dedication of the work to Bonaparte has exerted an irresistible fascination. Some nineteenth-century commentators, such as A. B. Marx and Alexander Ulibischeff, offered programs depicting the opening of the symphony as morning on the battleﬁeld, with Napoleon leading the action on his battle steed.16 Such military symbolism does not ﬁt the symphony as a whole, nor is the ﬁrst movement well served by images more appropriate to a “battle” symphony like Wellington’s Victory. The Eroica Symphony is more than a soundtrack to an imaginary ﬁlm about Napoleon. What then can be said about the metaphorical meaning of the evolutionary trajectory of the Eroica’s ﬁrst movement, with its syncopated climax and “new” theme in the development? For Burnham, the movement reaches its “antipode” at the E minor theme, which is indeed the point of furthest remove in the tonal plan.17 On the other hand, this theme stands out on account of its unusually clear formal structure, unfolding as a sixteen-measure statement made up of two-bar phrase members; its ensuing repetition in F minor replicates this pattern. Actually, the theme is not unrelated to the earlier music, and it shows a distinct motivic kinship to the dolce subject ﬁrst heard at bar 45, as we have seen. It is tempting to regard the E minor theme not as an exact opposite—or antipode—of the opening triadic turning theme, but rather as an indispensable thematic complement that is achieved through fortitude and determination. Not without reason have some writers described this subject as a long-delayed “second theme” of the movement. An unstable oppositional character is conveyed above all in the syncopated passages, and especially that passage in Ex. 31 leading to accented collisions of the F major and A minor triads on an “evil chord,” in Marx’s words.18 Regarded in this way, the juxtaposition of the “new” theme with the primary thematic complex becomes an outcome of the momentous development, and the further integration of the “new” theme in the coda represents the achieved consequence of an arduous and even harrowing process. Nevertheless, the relationship of the “new” theme to the opening subject resides in its contrasting qualities: the darkening modal shift to the minor, and the replacement of 15

Ludwig van Beethoven: Approaches to his Music, p. 25. Marx, Ludwig van Beethoven: Leben und Schaffen, 3rd ed. (Berlin, 1875, ﬁrst published 1859), vol. 1, pp. 245–61; Ulibischeff, Beethoven, ses critiques, ses glossateurs (Leipzig: F. A. Brockhaus, 1857), pp. 173–80; cited in Burnham, Beethoven Hero, p. 5. 17 Beethoven Hero, p. 12. 18 Ludwig van Beethoven, p. 253. 16

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the triadic conﬁguration by stepwise melodic motion passing from the tonic to mediant, and then descending from the dominant. In these respects, as well as its downbeat orientation, the shape of the “new” theme invites comparison to the beginning of the opening subject of the Marcia funebre. Despite its connection to the Prometheus scenario, the overall narrative design of the Eroica grows out of Beethoven’s earlier experiments in forging expressive and symbolic links between the movements of his instrumental works. Particularly striking are the parallels to his weighty Piano Sonata in D major op. 10 no. 3, completed several years earlier, in 1798. Like the Eroica, op. 10 no. 3 opens with a bold energetic movement which strains the conventions of sonata style, while its second movement assumes a melancholy character. As the sketches conﬁrm, this Largo e mesto in D minor is a companion piece to the Adagio affettuoso ed appassionato of the Quartet in F major op. 18 no. 1 in the same key; both movements are associated in turn with the burial-vault scene in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet and thus linked to the idea of death.19 As we have seen, the type of dissolving close of the Marcia funebre in the symphony is foreshadowed at the end of the sonata’s slow movement, while distinctive features of the symphony’s third movement bear comparison to the delicate beginning and ebullient trio of the Minuetto in op. 10 no. 3. Finally, a character of emerging process, unpredictable humor, and deft wit inspires both ﬁnales. These afﬁnities remind us both of the deep continuities in Beethoven’s creative process, and of the presence in his instrumental music of levels of symbolic meaning. In the ﬁnale the association with Prometheus becomes explicit through the reuse of the theme from the ballet. As in the op. 35 Variations Beethoven ﬁrst develops just the bass of the theme—with its grotesque humor of expressive silences— before joining it to the upper-line melody. We thereby witness the gradual creation of a composite theme out of its component elements, a notion that took deep hold on Beethoven and which surfaces again in more radical form in the Scherzando movement of the F major Quartet op. 59 no. 1, from 1806. The variations that follow in the Eroica ﬁnale are resourcefully blended with fugato passages, an alla marcia section, and an extended andante featuring wind solos to create a unique formal design. As Lewis Lockwood has observed, “The Eroica ﬁnale emerges as the generating movement for the whole work and as the most fully original symphonic ﬁnale that Beethoven or anyone else had written up to its time.”20

S S S Beethoven’s other instrumental works from the period of the Eroica are few in number but great in their dimensions and demands on performers and instruments. One landmark is the Sonata for Violin and Piano op. 47, from 1803, dedi19 These parallels are explored in my essay “Transformational Processes in Beethoven’s Op. 18 Quartets,” in The String Quartets of Beethoven, ed. William Kinderman (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2006), pp. 25–26. 20 “The Compositional Genesis of the Eroica Finale,” p. 100; Beethoven: Studies in the Creative Process, p. 166.

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cated to the violinist Rodolphe Kreutzer. This is the most celebrated of Beethoven’s violin sonatas, and the very name “Kreutzer” gradually assumed mysterious connotations which Tolstoy’s novel served to intensify. (In his book Tolstoy ascribed uncanny seductive power to the ﬁrst movement of the sonata.) Beethoven described the piece as “written in a very concertante style, like that of a concerto.” The Kreutzer Sonata is a grand and ambitious duo sonata, a counterpart among the violin sonatas to works such as the Waldstein and Appassionata Sonatas for piano alone. The ﬁrst movement begins with a weighty slow introduction, marked Adagio sostenuto, protean in character and tonally unstable after its ﬁrst four bars for unaccompanied violin in A major. This modulatory introduction gradually isolates the germinal motif of a rising second, which becomes a crucial element in all the themes of the ensuing Presto, in A minor. The relentless rhythmic drive of the Presto abates momentarily at the chorale-like second theme, marked dolce, a passage linked thematically to the introduction. Beethoven brieﬂy recalls the Adagio, furthermore, in his coda. A central idea in this movement, as in the ﬁrst movement of the Tempest Sonata, is the relationship and contrast between the slow introduction and the faster, intensely dramatic material in the minor that forms the main body of the movement. The second movement, an Andante con variazioni in F major, consists of four increasingly ﬂorid variations followed by an extended coda. The ﬁnale is a rondo in tarantella rhythm, in A major, originally conceived as the ﬁnale of op. 30 no. 1, composed in 1802. Beethoven regarded it as too “brilliant” for the earlier work, but it is perfectly in keeping with the other movements of the Kreutzer, his most brilliant violin sonata. A remarkably original yet somewhat neglected piece from this period is the Piano Sonata in F major op. 54, of 1804, the ﬁrst movement of which is above all a study in contrasts. Richard Rosenberg dubbed it “La Belle et la Bête,” and Brendel has described how its two contrasting themes—a gracious, digniﬁed “feminine” theme resembling a minuet, and a stamping, assertive, “masculine” theme employing accented octave triplets—gradually inﬂuence one another in the course of the movement, until they become thoroughly integrated and combined in the ﬁnal passages.21 Here the music resembles the conventional form of minuet and trio only very superﬁcially, and the point of the dissonant outburst immediately preceding the ﬁnal cadence is to remind us—through the diminished-seventh harmonies, triplet rhythm, and the use of register—of the contrasting thematic complex that has gradually become absorbed into the minuet while transforming it. In this movement Beethoven thus explores a directional process and an ongoing synthesis of experience—qualities he further developed in many later works. The ensuing Allegretto in a perpetuum mobile rhythm is already the ﬁnale— op. 54 is the ﬁrst of Beethoven’s major sonatas for piano to compress the formal plan into a pair of movements. This sonata form unfolds with an irresistible momentum in long ascending lines punctuated by syncopated pedal notes. The twovoice texture is reminiscent of Bach, but the dramatic power is unmistakably Beethovenian. In the development Beethoven inverts the ascending linear motion 21

Die Klaviersonaten, vol. 2, p. 282; Musical Thoughts and Afterthoughts, pp. 47–50.

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so that it sinks chromatically into the depths of the bass, preparing a modulation into C minor. The coda then accelerates the perpetual motion in a furious più allegro. We can discern in this rhythmic drive a key to the relationship between the two strongly contrasting movements of op. 54. The initial minuet had proceeded in halting fashion, stopping every two or four bars in cadences set off by rests, but the assertive contrasting theme of that movement infused the music with an energy that in the ﬁnale becomes an all-encompassing force. The discovery, integration, and celebration of this rhythmic energy is a guiding idea of the sonata as a whole. In the wake of the Eroica Beethoven showed a strong inclination to reshape his sonatas and quartets on a grand scale, introducing innovations in texture, sonority, register, and color. Also essential is a sense of deepened contrast or conﬂict— a quality present in op. 54 but largely absent in the contemporaneous Triple Concerto in C major op. 56, with its superﬁcially brilliant yet rather conventional rhetoric. Wilhelm von Lenz once described the Waldstein Sonata in C major op. 53, of 1804, as “heroic pianistic deeds” (“Klavierheldenthaten”) with a “symphonic essence” (“symphonistischen Wesen”).22 In its opening Allegro con brio Beethoven goes beyond the harmonic experiments of earlier sonatas such as op. 31 no. 1 to create an enlarged sense of tonal space. The quietly pulsating tonic chords with which the sonata begins lead up a third to the dominant; moments later, a restatement of the opening phrase beginning a step lower carries the music to the subdominant. Within this broadened tonal spectrum it is natural that Beethoven should choose the remote key of E major for his second subject group, which begins with a serene, chorale-like subject marked dolce e molto legato. He develops this lyrical subject through variation, embroidering its sustained notes in a rhythmic texture of triplets that gradually reasserts the brilliant pianistic textures so characteristic of this sonata. The scale of conception of the Waldstein is impressive, yet Beethoven substantially reduced the length of the piece when he resolved to cut the original slow movement, a luxurious rondo in F major, and have it published separately, while substituting a brief but profound Introduzione in this key. The original slow movement, the Andante grazioso con moto WoO 57, was so wildly popular with his audiences that Beethoven called it “Andante favori,” favorite Andante. Each time the charming main theme of the rondo appears, it trails off in a mysterious decrescendo, and yields to a falling horn motive in D major, a gesture identical to the “Lebewohl” (“farewell”) motive from the outset of the later Sonata in E major op. 81a. The episodes of the rondo involve elaborate ﬁguration and passages with octaves; the second of these, in B major, is a deliciously mocking parody of Italian operatic style. In its ﬁnal stages, the rondo seems hesitant to end; even after a decrescendo to triple pianissimo with the hands placed in the extreme registers of the keyboard, we hear the main theme one last time, beginning on the Neapolitan harmony, G major, while the very last pair of soft chords are a gentle reminder of the disappearing residue of the now familiar opening of the rondo 22 Kritischer Katalog sämtlicher Werke Ludwig van Beethovens mit Analysen derselben, vol. 2, p. 273.

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theme. The “Andante favori” reminds us of Beethoven’s lyrical grace and subtle stylistic mastery, qualities that coexist with the more tempestuous characteristics of his art. As we have seen, the pensive substitute slow movement of op. 53 is linked, in its structure and character, to Beethoven’s setting of “Dead! Dead!” at the beginning of his Joseph Cantata, as well as to the orchestral introduction to the dungeon scene in Fidelio, composed shortly thereafter. To be sure, the symbolic connotations of the contrast between movements in the Waldstein are latent rather than explicit, and hardly comparable with, for instance, the drastic juxtaposition of the third and fourth Gellert songs “Vom Tode” (“Of Death”) and “Die Ehre Gottes aus der Natur” (“The Glory of God from Nature”) op. 48, from 1801–2, where gloomy F minor music associated with death yields to a resounding C major setting marked “majestic and sublime.” In the sonata, the new slow movement is admirably calculated to set into relief the luminous C major world of the longer outer movements. Its guiding structural idea—a descending bass progression with a countervailing ascent in the right hand—is so devised that resolution and closure cannot be achieved within the Introduzione but only at the threshold of the ensuing ﬁnale. Only after an arresting climax on a widely spaced diminishedseventh sonority do we reach a miraculous turning point at the emergence into the rondo, which is marked Allegretto moderato. The high G that acts as pivot from the Introduzione into the ﬁnale serves also as the crucial peak of the main theme of the rondo. Beethoven gloriﬁes this pitch through sustained trills as the theme migrates into the stratosphere with the left hand encompassing the lower registers with rapid scales (Ex. 33). Pianistic textures like these were unprecedented in 1804; they foreshadow some of the most visionary moments in Beethoven’s last sonatas. Impressive as well are the episodes of the rondo (the ﬁrst of which has a “Russian” ﬂavor, in A minor) and the central development section, an imaginative fantasy based on the rhythm of the head of the main theme. The prestissimo coda doubles the tempo, turning the main theme into an ethereal parody of itself. But that is not all: Beethoven recaptures here the developmental fantasy, and connects that passage to a series of octave glissandi in both hands culminating in the sustained trills. Now, however, the main theme is written in longer note values; it reassumes its original shape before the closing passages of this great sonata reassert ﬁrst the urgency of the thematic compression and then the magniﬁcent breadth of Beethoven’s rhythmic conception. The contrasting companion work to the Waldstein is the Appassionata Sonata in F minor op. 57. This work is overcast with dark foreboding and represents an antipode to the luminous C major Sonata. Tovey once observed that the F minor Sonata is Beethoven’s only work to maintain a tragic solemnity throughout all its movements.23 The title Appassionata, though not from Beethoven, is not inappropriate (though Czerny was surely correct in observing that the work is “much too magniﬁcent” for the title).24 In its poetic power and richness of allusion, and in 23 24

A Companion to Beethoven’s Pianoforte Sonatas, p. 169. On the Proper Performance of All Beethoven’s Works for the Piano, p. 12.

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Ex. 33 Waldstein Sonata op. 53/III, bars 49–64 (and 331–46)

the gigantic simplicity of its structural foundation, this sonata represents a profound achievement, outstanding even for Beethoven. The opening Allegro assai begins with a phrase of four bars, whose two halves embody contrary tendencies. The ﬁrst two, unharmonized, bars consist of a triadic ﬁgure in gapped octaves, with the bass reaching the lowest F (Ex. 34). The second half of the phrase, in contrast, presents an imploring, plaintive, harmonized gesture around an expressive trill. The tension implicit in this motivic juxtaposition is heightened in the following phrase, which is placed by Beethoven up a semitone, so that it closes on the dominant harmony of the Neapolitan, D . Subsequently, through his technique of foreshortening, Beethoven compresses the four-bar phrases into shorter units, beginning with the plaintive gesture of the trill, at which point we hear a four-note motif in the bass—D –D –D –C—a motto that tersely encapsulates the harmonic tension. A crucial dramatic event in the movement centers on the appearance in the development of the lyrical second theme in D major. Already in the exposition this theme had employed a bass-line rising stepwise through a ﬁfth. Now, in the development, the bass continues to rise, carrying the music through a series of modulations. After the ascent has spanned two octaves the theme dissolves, and the music becomes, in Tovey’s words, “inarticulate.”25 All that remains of the thematic material is a rhythmically charged texture of diminished-seventh arpeggios, and the music descends, in a free fall of four octaves, until impact is made on the low D . In a brilliant stroke Beethoven introduces at this point the four-note motto from the outset of the movement, the motif that so resembles the so-called Fate 25

Beethoven, p. 44.

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Ex. 34 Appassionata Sonata op. 57/I, bars 1–4

motif of the Fifth Symphony. The recapitulation follows, as the accumulated energy of the development is unleashed in an ostinato bass pedal. Other passages, such as the end of the exposition and conclusion of the coda, trail off into a mysterious pianissimo, while opening a vast gap in register between the two hands. As Martha Frohlich has observed, Beethoven actually sketched a powerful fortissimo conclusion, only to reject that idea in favor of a hushed, open-ended cadence.26 The mysterious ending connects more effectively with the ensuing slow movement, implying the unresolved character of the dramatic tensions exposed in the Allegro assai—tensions that must carry over into the remaining movements. In the overall design of the Appassionata Beethoven exploits a relationship between serene lyricism in D major and the tempestuous idiom in F minor such as is exposed in the ﬁrst movement. Important are the parallels in character between the opening Allegro assai and the ﬁnale, Allegro ma non troppo, and especially the contrasting role of the slow movement, a set of variations in D major on an almost static, hymn-like andante theme. The course of these variations seems predetermined by the quietly reﬂective nature of the theme, which consists initially of stationary pedal notes and which repeatedly closes harmonically on the tonic triad. The variations embellish the theme through a series of progressive rhythmic subdivisions, coordinated with a gradual ascent in register; yet the entire process is contemplative and dream-like, to be abruptly shattered, as Tovey observed, by the ﬁrst hint of action. That confrontation occurs at the harmonic substitution of an arpeggiated diminished seventh beneath the cadential D , in the treble which might, under other circumstances, have closed the movement (Ex. 35). The arpeggiated chord returns an octave higher and then is reiterated thirteen times in the original register at the outset of the Allegro ma non troppo, now intensiﬁed rhythmically and dynamically. The rhythm of the Andante theme is extracted and accelerated in these chords, which build the threshold into the ﬁnale. The “selfsufﬁciency” of the variation movement is thus annihilated, as its tonic, D , now becomes a crucial dissonance in the context of F minor, recalling a similar treatment in the ﬁrst movement. Indeed, from those thirteen repeated chords Beethoven derives the main theme of the ﬁnale by “composing out” the diminishedseventh chord as a sinuous ﬁguration that carries over into the passagework of the Allegro ma non troppo. 26

Beethoven’s “Appassionata” Sonata, pp. 97, 108–9.

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Ex. 35 Appassionata Sonata op. 57/II–III

According to Ries, Beethoven conceived this passage, and much that follows it, during and immediately after a long walk in the countryside near Döbling, a small town outside Vienna where he spent part of the summer of 1804. Ries wrote that during the walk, in which we went so far astray that we did not get back to Döbling, where Beethoven lived, until nearly 8 o’clock, he had been all the time humming and sometimes howling, always up and down, without singing any deﬁnite notes. In answer to my question what it was he said: “A theme for the last movement of the sonata has occurred to me” [in F minor op. 57]. When we entered the room he ran to the pianoforte without taking off his hat. I took a seat in the corner and he soon forgot all about me. Now he stormed for at least an hour with the beautiful ﬁnale of the sonata. Finally he got up, was surprised still to see me and said: “I cannot give you a lesson today, I must do some more work.”27

What preoccupied Beethoven on that summer day in 1804 was one of his most unrelenting ﬁnales, a movement “whose tragic passion is rushing downwards,” in Tovey’s words (if “rushing” is the right expression for a measured Allegro ma non troppo). Beethoven gives unusual weight to the later portions of the ﬁnale by prescribing a repetition of the development and recapitulation, a direction unfortunately ignored by some pianists, at the recommendation of Hans von Bülow.28 No one who has seen the inscription “la seconda parte due volta” written in large letters in Beethoven’s autograph, however, would be likely to ignore it. After the repetition we hear a Presto coda, beginning with an ecstatically stamping dance which dissolves into a ﬁnal, frenzied intensiﬁcation of the turbulent rhetoric from the Allegro ma non troppo. Uhde has rightly pointed to the dissociated, even shocking effect of the coda’s beginning:29 it seems to represent a valiant yet futile 27

Thayer-Forbes, p. 356. Notes in his edition of the sonatas (New York: Schirmer, 1894), p. 473. 29 Beethovens Klaviermusik, vol. 3, p. 214. 28

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attempt to break out of the downward rush of music burdened with a sense of tragic doom. Maxim Gorky described Vladimir Lenin’s comments after having heard a performance of a Beethoven sonata as follows: “I know nothing which is greater than the Appassionata; I would like to listen to it every day. It is marvelous superhuman music. I always think with pride— perhaps it is naïve of me—what marvelous things human beings can do!” Then screwing up his eyes and smiling, he added, rather sadly: “But I can’t listen to music too often. It affects your nerves, makes you want to say stupid, nice things, and stroke the heads of people who could create such beauty while living in this vile hell. And now you mustn’t stroke any one’s head—you might get your hand bitten off. You have to hit them on the head, without any mercy, although our ideal is not to use force against any one. H’m, h’m, our duty is infernally hard!”30

It is revealing that Lenin, for all his admiration for the Appassionata as “superhuman music,” seems to have perceived an idealistic “beauty” in this dark composition, an aspect that threatened to soften his ideological resolve. On the contrary, another famous political ﬁgure, the German Chancellor Otto von Bismarck, reportedly said that if he “listened often to music” like the ﬁrst movement of the Appassionata, “he would always be very brave.”31 This comparison reminds us of the divergent responses that characterize reception history, a sphere in which artworks are often viewed in contradictory ways.

S S S The antipodal tonal worlds of the Waldstein and Appassionata mirror something of the central schism in Fidelio, Beethoven’s only opera and the greatest problemchild of all his works. Beethoven’s labors over Fidelio, or Leonore, to use the title he would have preferred, were protracted over a decade and involved two major revisions of the entire opera and the composition of no fewer than four overtures. The models for the libretto and indeed also for aspects of the music were French; Beethoven was attracted at this time by the grand rhetorical manner of the operas and overtures of Luigi Cherubini. Fidelio is the only example of the genre of French Revolutionary “rescue” opera that has remained in the active repertory. Its text was adapted from Jean François-Nicolas Bouilly’s Léonore ou L’amour conjugal of 1798, a libretto based in turn on an actual episode from the Reign of Terror. In Fidelio themes of unjust imprisonment at the hands of a tyrant and heroic valor in the name of freedom are given expression in a manner not merely realistic but deeply symbolic and archetypal in import. It is not far-fetched to see in the character of Leonore an afﬁnity with the feminine liberty symbol of the French Revolu30 Maxim Gorky, Days with Lenin (New York: International, 1932), p. 52. The pianist who played the Beethoven sonata was Isaiah Dobrowein. 31 Cited in David B. Dennis, Beethoven in German Politics, 1870–1989 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996), p. 37. As Dennis notes, this report stems from the pianist Robert von Keudell, who found in it a “comic twist,” since the chancellor “never required musical inspiration to be brave” (p. 37).

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tion, and thus with the positive ethical potential of the Revolution that was betrayed during the upheavals of the 1790s. Unlike in many other revolutions, the statues of the monarch overturned during the French Revolution were often replaced by a timeless, universal image—that classically robed, feminine embodiment of “la liberté” that long graced French and American coins and which is also familiar from the famous gift of the French to the Americans: the Statue of Liberty. Ironically, in view of its cultural orientation, the premiere of Fidelio in November 1805 was spoiled by the military occupation of Vienna by the French. Many Viennese aristocrats ﬂed the city; some of those who did hear the sparsely attended performances were French ofﬁcers. Beethoven soon undertook a revision of the opera, compressing the original three acts to two. After only two performances of this version in the spring of 1806 he withdrew the opera, disgruntled over the ﬁnancial return. Not until 1814 was Fidelio successfully revived in the form that is familiar today. Fidelio can almost be regarded as two operas: a drama centered on noble, elevated personages—the unjustly imprisoned Florestan and his loyal, courageous wife Leonore, who works at the prison disguised as a man—inlaid into a more humble, opéra-comique plot inhabited by the commonplace characters of Rocco the jailor, his daughter Marzelline, and her jealous boyfriend Jaquino. As in Mozart’s Zauberﬂöte, things are not as they seem at the beginning. Doubtless the transformation of Bouilly’s libretto into the more exalted, ethically inspired drama of Fidelio is no more perfect, even in its ﬁnal version, than was the somewhat analogous reworking of the original fairy-tale plot of Die Zauberﬂöte into a richly symbolic drama of a rather different kind. An awareness of the political context and compositional evolution of Fidelio helps to illuminate its outstanding importance in Beethoven’s career. That the ethical dimension of Fidelio embodies a response to Mozart’s operatic legacy seems unmistakable. Beethoven expressed serious reservations about the subject matter of Mozart’s great Da Ponte operas: Le nozze di Figaro, Don Giovanni, and by implication, Così fan tutte. According to Ignaz von Seyfried, he stated that “‘Don Juan’ still is fashioned altogether in the Italian style and, besides, art, which is sacred, should never be degraded to serve as a pretext for so scandalous a subject.”32 Another witness, Ludwig Rellstab, reported Beethoven as saying that “I could not compose operas like ‘Don Giovanni’ and ‘Figaro.’ I hold them both in aversion. I could not have chosen such subjects, they are too frivolous for me.”33 Although Così fan tutte is not explicitly named in these reports, there is reason to suppose that it was especially this opera that preoccupied Beethoven when he composed Fidelio. What was it about these Mozartian works that got under Beethoven’s skin, and that he felt compelled to resist, despite his long-standing and sincere admiration for Mozart’s music? His charge of “frivolousness” seems aimed at the skepticism toward ideals and ironically tolerant view of fallible human relationships that are embodied in Mozart’s operas. In Così, the “philosopher” Don Alfonzo, aided by his paid assistant Despina, becomes the architect of 32 33

Beethoven: Impressions of Contemporaries, p. 44. Ibid., p. 182.

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a partner-swapping experiment designed to expose the transient nature of emotional commitments and the fragility of vows of faithfulness when confronted with the volatile passions of real individuals. This viewpoint of Don Alfonzo’s is set forth as a general theory of human nature, according to which ideals are destined to prove vulnerable when tested by human beings. Così fan tutte thus radically destabilizes those bonds between the sexes that Beethoven gloriﬁes through the elevation of spousal virtue in Fidelio. In this context, the subject of the opera Léonore ou L’amour conjugal, which reached the stage at Paris in 1798, with a text by Bouilly (1763–1842) and music by Pierre Gaveaux (1761–1825), was bound to have appealed to Beethoven. The historical realism and political cast of the Leonore plot gripped Beethoven, motivating him to pursue this project instead of the libretto of Vestas Feuer (Vesta’s Fire) that he was offered by Emanuel Schikaneder, the librettist of Mozart’s Zauberﬂöte. In a letter of 4 January 1804 to the writer and editor Johann Friedrich Rochlitz, Beethoven explains that he lingered for half a year over Schikaneder’s libretto and had composed several numbers, although the overall plan and sense of its heroic Roman subject remained obscure to him, and the language and verses of its characters sounded like “present-day Viennese apple-vendors.”34 Decrying the use of magic as a theatrical effect, Beethoven explained to Rochlitz that “Schikaneder’s realm has been totally eclipsed by the light of the clever and practical French operas” and stated that “I now have had an old French libretto adapted, and am beginning now to work on it.” Bouilly’s “old French libretto” as set by Gaveaux is an opéra-comique with spoken dialogue between the musical numbers. More precisely, it was entitled Fait historique en deux actes et en prose, mêlé de chants, with the formulation “fait historique” signaling its relation to an actual event (see Plate 8). The role of the villain, Pizare, is spoken, and Roc, Marceline, and Jaquino speak in dialect. In his autobiography Mes récapitulations, written some forty years after the fact, Bouilly describes how his training as a lawyer and judge led in 1793 to his being appointed accusateur public and then becoming a member of the commission militaire in his native Tours. As David Galliver has observed, “his apparent identiﬁcation with the revolutionary administration [was] only a cloak under cover of which his real activities were carried out. A convinced enemy of oppression and champion of liberty, he had been ceaselessly engaged in assisting families who had come under suspicion, and in saving his home town from the ravages of assassins.”35 In a tantalizing, glancing reference, Bouilly describes his Léonore, ou L’amour conjugal, as “[un] trait sublime d’héroisme et de dévouement d’une des dame de la Touraine, dont j’avais eu le bonheur de seconder les généreux efforts” (“a sublime act of heroism and devotion by one of the women of Touraine, whose generous efforts I had had the pleasure of assisting”).36 However, the absence of further details and the context of his activities imply that Bouilly’s story may have 34

Beethoven Briefe, vol. 1, L. 176. “Fidelio—Fact or Fantasy?,” Studies in Music 15 (1981), pp. 83. 36 Mes récapitulations: Deuxième Époque, 1791–1812 (Paris: Louis Janet, 1837), p. 81. 35

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imaginatively combined several occurrences, and that the author may have known more than one woman who served as a model for aspects of Leonore. The wide appeal of Bouilly’s Léonore plot was reﬂected not only by the considerable success of the Gaveaux opera at the Théâtre Feydeau in Paris, but through its adaptation in two other operas: Leonora, ossia L’amore conjugale by Fernando Paer at Dresden (1804), and the “farsa sentimentale” L’amor conjugale by Simone Mayr at Padua (1805). Since they are lighter comic works, the operas by Paer and Mayr do not exploit the fascinating mixture of genres in Bouilly’s original plot that is heightened in the German adaptation by Beethoven’s ﬁrst librettist, Joseph von Sonnleithner. Bouilly deserves more credit than he usually receives, and his reputation as librettist at the time was enhanced by his other operas, particularly Les deux journées, composed by Cherubini and admired by Beethoven, who while sketching Fidelio in 1804 copied out ensemble passages from Cherubini’s opera as well as from Mozart’s Don Giovanni and Die Zauberﬂöte. According to Seyfried, Beethoven regarded the latter as Mozart’s greatest opera, and the composer stated that “among all living opera composers Cherubini is for me the most deserving of respect.”37 While at work on his opera during 1804, the composer enjoyed free lodging in the Theater an der Wien building until the anticipated completion of the project. Seyfried, who was conductor at the theater, related that Beethoven took advantage of this situation to frequently attend performances in the house, and that “he was especially captivated by the creations of Cherubini and Méhul, which at that time had begun to rouse the enthusiasm of all Vienna.”38 Beethoven was well aware of recent developments in French opera, and it seems probable that he had access to the printed vocal score of Gaveaux’s Léonore.39 A strength of Bouilly’s Léonore plot lies in its sturdy symmetry, which combines aspects of two theatrical traditions, that of the tragédie bourgeoise (domestic tragedy) and the comédie larmoyante (sentimental drama). This blending creates a dramatic form poised midway between classical tragedy and comedy. The fact that the central protagonist, Leonore, is disguised allows her to function simultaneously on two planes of action, thereby connecting these dramatic levels. Disguised as Fidelio, she interacts with the jailor Rocco, his daughter Marzelline, and Jaquino. Revealed as Leonore, she confronts the tyrant Pizarro, shields her imprisoned spouse Florestan and is extolled for her heroism by Don Fernando in the ﬁnale of the last act. This symmetrical disposition of the seven main characters, which Sonnleithner and Beethoven took over from the original French version, is shown in Figure 1. At the same time, the architectural framework of Bouilly’s libretto was consider37

Beethoven: Impressions of Contemporaries, p. 44. Ibid., p. 40. 39 Rainer Cadenbach has explored the striking afﬁnities between Gaveaux’s work and Beethoven’s opera in “Die ‘Leonore’ des Pierre Gaveaux: Ein Modell für Beethovens ‘Fidelio’?,” in Collegium Musicologicum: Festschrift Emil Platen (Bonn: Beethoven-Archiv, 1985), pp. 100–121. 38

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Don Fernando Florestan

Fidelio Rocco Sentimental Drama

Figure 1. The disposition of characters in Fidelio

ably expanded. In its 1805 version, for instance, Beethoven’s opera begins with Marzelline’s aria followed by a duet for Marzelline with Jaquino, just as in the French original. However, the following terzett for Marzelline, Jaquino, and Rocco, and the quartet for these characters with Fidelio were new musical numbers, creating an overall opening sequence gradually building from one voice to four, and culminating in the remarkable canonic quartet, “Mir ist so wunderbar.” In the 1814 version of Fidelio, this plan has been obscured through the reversal of the opening two numbers, with the duet preceding Marzelline’s aria, while the terzett is one of three numbers from 1805 that were dropped altogether. Removed as well were a duet for Marzelline and Fidelio and a piece in which the villainous Pizarro intimidates his chorus of prison guards.40 The tension between the two dramatic levels surely accounts in large measure for Beethoven’s prolonged struggle together with his three librettists to ﬁnd an optimal form for the opera. Beethoven was captivated by the great, overarching themes of freedom and tyranny, life and death, and he wedded them to music of surpassing power. In the tonal symbolism of the opera the antipodes are F minor, the key of Florestan’s aria in the dungeon, and C major, that of the three Leonore overtures and the ﬁnale of the last act, which culminates in the arrival of the minister of state and the release of Florestan and the other political prisoners held by the tyrant Pizarro. As in the Appassionata Sonata, the F minor music of the dungeon scene particularly emphasizes the dissonant semitone D to C. Noteworthy in this connection is Beethoven’s use of D major as the ﬁrst change of key, twentyone bars into the orchestral introduction. There are few direct thematic correspondences between Fidelio and either of the great piano sonatas, apart from the Introduzione of op. 53. Nevertheless, there is an unmistakable and characteristic kinship in their key symbolism. If Florestan’s “God!—what darkness here!” might serve as commentary on the conclusion of the Appassionata, the choral text “Hail to the day! Hail to the hour!” at the end of Fidelio might also be the motto for the jubilant coda of the Waldstein ﬁnale. In comparison with Fidelio, of course, the 40 The removal of the duet helped conceal the artiﬁciality of the chain of lovers: Jaquino loves Marzelline, who loves Fidelio, who loves Florestan.

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Waldstein coda is more rareﬁed and ethereal: the sonata does not confront the world in the same direct, encompassing way as does the opera. The trouble with the great overtures of Fidelio—the second and third Leonore overtures—is that they distil the overriding dramatic themes with such powerful concentration as to overshadow, if not annihilate, the homely opening scenes of the ﬁrst act. Beethoven recognized this problem and ﬁnally in 1814 substituted the shorter Fidelio overture, a piece that only hints at the deeper issues lying concealed at the outset of the dramatic action. Signiﬁcantly, he decided to change the key of the overture to E major, the dominant of the opening duet between Marzelline and Jaquino at the beginning of Act I. The very choice of C major as tonic for the Leonore overtures had been connected with Beethoven’s intention to anticipate the most weighty events to follow—these are foreshadowed not only in a direct quotation from Florestan’s aria and in the trumpet calls, but, no less important, in the ecstatic climax in the coda of Leonore no. 3 on a dominant minor ninth chord, where the musical intensity equals that of the most gripping of the later staged dramatic events. No amount of revision, including even the compression of the original three acts to two, could resolve the fundamental conﬂict between the overture and the ensuing Act I. Beethoven had spectacularly overindulged his characteristic practice of musical foreshadowing. Paradoxically, the greatest of all dramatic overtures, Leonore no. 3, had to be cut from the opera to which it is inextricably bound. It is no wonder that Beethoven claimed in 1814 to have earned a “martyr’s crown” for his labors on the revision of Fidelio! In the Adagio introduction of Leonore no. 3, a descent into darkness is embodied in the tonal shift from C major to B minor—from a stepwise falling scale emerging out of the initial fortissimo unison G to the hushed F octaves reached in bar 5. Then, following the quotation of Florestan’s “In des Lebens Frühlingstage” (“In the springtime of life”) in A major, with its mood of hopeful reminiscence, Beethoven modulates through the major mode of B to release astonishing energies in the A major tutti outburst of bar 27. On a metaphorical level, hope, maintained under conditions of adversity, becomes a springboard to a realization of joyful liberation. The dynamic and rhythmic power exposed here in the introduction reaches its culmination only in the coda of the sonata form. Dizzying chains of syncopations lead into a rising, chromatic linear ascent through a tenth to high A, a note corresponding to the peak of the initial motif of the main Allegro theme. In the ensuing climactic minor ninth chord, with its reversal of the linear motion through the downward shift to a dissonant A , Beethoven absorbs the darker tensions once and for all into the triumphant accents of the conclusion. Despite the problems of dramatic imbalance between the opera and its overtures and the awkwardness of Marzelline’s infatuation with the disguised Leonore, Fidelio draws much power from a collision of perspectives in which the commonplace characters such as Rocco play an essential role. It is appropriate that Beethoven, after having removed Rocco’s “Gold” aria from the ﬁrst revision, restored it in the ﬁnal version. We all know people like Rocco: his is a materialistic ideology that rejects higher values and ﬁlls the void through the embrace of money. He is not free, but is obliged to serve the tyrant Pizarro. Rocco’s integrity is severely com-

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promised by his complicity in oppressive criminal activities, even if he refuses to commit the murder himself. While not inherently evil, he is a collaborator, guilty because he lacks the conviction or courage to stand by higher ethical principles. As we have seen, the opening duet between Marzelline and Jaquino (“Jetzt, Schätzchen, jetzt sind wir allein”) was originally no. 2, but was placed by Beethoven at the outset of the opera in 1814. This duet brilliantly employs his new techniques of heightened tonal contrast—as heard at the beginnings of the G major Piano Sonata op. 31 no. 1, and the Waldstein—to depict psychological tension between characters. As Jaquino nervously but eagerly broaches the topic of marriage, he is rebuffed by Marzelline. This disharmony between them is reﬂected by Beethoven’s shifts from A major to B minor and back. Repeatedly, Marzelline changes the key of Jaquino’s entreaties when she answers him. The rhythm of the “knocking” distractions that annoy poor Jaquino returns with a vengeance in Marzelline’s emphatic cries of “No” (“Nein”). Jaquino’s hope (“Hoffnung”) becomes bothersome to Marzelline, since “he hopes at the slightest appearance” (“Er hofft bei dem mindesten Schein”). The political dimension of Fidelio operates on a collective as well as an individual level. The ﬁnale of Act I centers on the prisoners’ chorus. At Fidelio’s insistence, the prisoners are allowed brief access to the warmth and light of the outside. Their appeal, “O freedom, will you come?,” is juxtaposed with whispered warnings that the guards are listening; the atmosphere is that of a concentration camp. It was especially this part of the opera that struck home in the staging by Christine Mielitz at the Semper Opera in Dresden during October 1989, just as political demonstrations were beginning to topple the East German regime. In its ﬁrst versions, this act had closed with a number for Pizarro and the chorus of guards. In 1814, by contrast, the role of the prisoners’ chorus was enhanced through the addition of a stirring setting of the text “Lebwohl, du warmes Sonnenlicht” (“Farewell, you warm sunshine”), sung as the men return to their cells. The same basic dramatic progression, with a sustaining vision of freedom maintained against formidable physical odds, is repeated in more drastic form in Florestan’s aria. It is revealing that the death-wish of the prisoner in Bouilly’s French text was deleted in Fidelio. Close to death, Florestan is consoled by the knowledge that his action in seeking to expose Pizarro’s wrongdoing was virtuous and necessary: “I have done my duty!” The music of Florestan’s aria embodies a complex psychological progression: the dismal, death-haunted atmosphere is reﬂected in unusual aspects of harmony and orchestration, such as the drumstrokes on pitches a tritone apart, while his reminiscence of past happiness is conveyed in a dolce theme for winds in A major—the subject foreshadowed at the outset of the second and third Leonore overtures. Concluding the aria is Florestan’s delirious vision of Leonore as an angel leading him to freedom, a passage added to the work in 1814. In this F major section Beethoven uses an oboe melody soaring into the high register to symbolize the angel Leonore (Ex. 36). The association is made explicit at Florestan’s words “ein Engel, Leonore” (“an angel, Leonore”), which mimic the preceding oboe phrase. Nowhere else in the opera are the boundaries between imagination and reality

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Ex. 36 Fidelio, Act II, no. 2, bars 82–98

so challenged as here. The “heavenly realm” of freedom—is it to be realized in life, or only in death? The ﬁnal section of this aria is one of Beethoven’s most signiﬁcant moments to the Romantic tenet that the current of subjectivity, of spiritual activity, of the individual’s apprehension of value, is more than external reality. Florestan’s aria is among those parts of the opera that most deeply impressed

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Ex. 36 (continued)

Wagner, and traces of its inﬂuence are felt in Tristan’s “delirium” scene in the last act of Tristan und Isolde. The corresponding psychological moment for Leonore—exposing the underlying, nourishing source of her courageous determination—occurs in her aria “Komm, Hoffnung” (“Come, Hope”) in Act I. The principle of hope had occupied Beethoven in another context at about this time. In late 1804 and early 1805 he was infatuated with the Countess Josephine Brunsvik Deym; the ﬁrst of his two song settings of Tiedge’s An die Hoffnung op. 32 was written for her. His passion went unrequited; he soon had to retreat into a more distant relationship with Josephine, and by the time the song was published, in September 1805 her name had been removed from the dedication. Some years later Beethoven produced a more elaborate, through-composed setting of An die Hoffnung that was published in 1816 as op. 94. Tiedge’s poem takes the form of an ode, like Schiller’s An die Freude. As Hans Boettcher observed, such texts articulate an objective, conceptual awareness of an entity beyond the self.41 Similarly, in “Come, Hope” in Fidelio, Leonore’s vision of hope taps hidden archetypal energies that sustain her struggle against adversity. Beethoven’s sensitivity to psychological subtleties is illustrated by another passage that like Florestan’s vision must have been added to the work in 1814, even if surviving sketches for it are lacking. This is the ensuing melodrama, when the gravediggers stare at the unmoving prisoner. Rocco: “Maybe he is dead.” Leonore: “Do you mean that?” Rocco: “No, no, he is sleeping.” At the Poco adagio passage heard as Florestan makes a movement, the arpeggiated oboe line in F major is a near-quotation from the concluding section of Florestan’s aria, heard just before. In its register and character, the quotation closely resembles the oboe phrases surrounding Florestan’s text “an angel, Leonore,” the passage in which the exchange of melodic phrases between oboe and voice makes the symbolic role of the oboe explicit. 41

Beethoven als Liederkomponist, p. 46.

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What is the meaning of this correspondence? From the perspective of the gravediggers as they move toward the motionless prisoner, it appears that he may be dead. What has sustained Florestan’s vital forces against all odds in his predicament is an idealized, spiritual experience—a sustaining vision of Leonore as angel of freedom. In a profound sense, the aria of the prisoner, and especially its culminating F major section, is inward and psychological, and not an outward display or physical performance. The oboe excerpt in the melodrama thus conveys how Florestan’s life is sustained through his imagination and inner conviction; in so doing, it precisely identiﬁes this inward state with the symbolic climax of the preceding aria. If we wish, we may even take these two events to be simultaneous rather than successive: the outward sign of life that Rocco acknowledges with the words “No, no, he’s sleeping” coincides with that inner vision that soon becomes more real than external conditions. For the real object of aspiration and agent for change has just entered the forbidden chamber, and Florestan’s imminent death is about to be circumvented. That brings us to Leonore’s key role. Unlike Florestan, whose heroism is that of endurance, Leonore is an active heroine involved in a race against time. Two years have passed since the secret incarceration of Florestan, but the opera’s action transpires in a single day. Through Pizarro’s sadistic reduction of Florestan’s rations, the prisoner has been brought close to death; but the anonymous tip about the minister’s surprise visit to investigate “victims of arbitrary power” forces Pizarro’s hand, compelling him to plan the murder immediately. Like Leonore’s disguise, Pizarro’s decision to post an ofﬁcer and trumpeter on the lookout tower to warn him of the minister’s arrival is double-edged: although ostensibly to aid the tyrant, the trumpet call functions symbolically to conﬁrm the imminent arrival of justice, marking the end of Pizarro’s reign of terror. The minister Don Fernando is no deus ex machina, because Leonore’s interventions have by then already held Pizarro in check. Leonore’s quest invites assessment in relation to traditional gender roles, a topic that has attracted growing attention. Beethoven’s archetypal narrative of overcoming—of confronting and surmounting existential challenges—has been discussed by commentators including Hans Heinrich Eggebrecht,42 while the masculine connotations of this “heroic narrative” have been explored recently by Sanna Pederson and Scott Burnham.43 Pederson asks, “Why should a narrative of overcoming necessarily mark the music as masculine? Shouldn’t the struggle to realize one’s potential be a true universal of humanity?”44 In addressing these questions, Pederson refers not to Beethoven’s music, but to the German philosophical tradition, which she regards as “particularly strong in denying women their own Bildung.” Citing passages from Hegel, Wilhelm von Humboldt, and Ludwig 42

Zur Geschichte der Beethoven-Rezeption (Laaber: Laaber, 1994). Beethoven Hero, especially the chapter “Beethoven, the Goethezeit, and the Heroic Conception of Self,” pp. 112–46. 44 “Beethoven and Masculinity,” in Beethoven and His World, ed. Scott Burnham and Michael P. Steinberg (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), p. 325. 43

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Feuerbach, she ﬁnds support for the idea that the role of women was regarded as passive rather than active. She concludes that “in sum, the German tradition that valorizes Beethoven’s narrative of overcoming has a tradition of viewing woman as an unchanging, eternal essence, as the polar opposite of the dynamically striving and achieving man.”45 According to this view, the universal dimension of Beethoven’s heroic narrative of overcoming may be valid in theory, but it is undermined in practice. In the historical context, established role models and socially constructed expectations enforced an inequality of roles. If our only means of evaluating the meaning of Beethoven’s heroic narrative were derived from writings by Hegel and Humboldt, this argument might be more convincing, but what is missing is a consideration of Beethoven’s musical works. Burnham’s own engagement with Beethoven’s heroic phase is limited to a small handful of works, and his related discussion of the Eroica Symphony is conﬁned to the ﬁrst movement, as we have seen. Burnham bypasses Fidelio, which engages generously with heroic narrative and with gender roles. If we assume that the masculine role is invested with activity and power while the feminine role is passive, Beethoven’s opera can be seen to invert these relations, turning them on their head. At the climax of the opera, the heroine Leonore reveals her sex as female just as she asserts her moral and her physical or strategic superiority, burnishing a pistol to hold Pizarro at bay. The power-hungry tyrant is as it were unmanned, at that very moment when Leonore, who had until then been disguised as a man, reveals her femininity. An overlooked model for Beethoven’s interpretation of Leonore is the ﬁfteenthcentury teenage heroine Joan of Arc, as mediated through Schiller’s play Die Jungfrau von Orleans. According to Seyfried, “Beethoven never was seen in the street without a little note-book in which he jotted down his ideas of the moment. When by chance this was mentioned, he would parody the words of Joan of Arc: ‘I may not come unless I bear my banner!’”46 This allusion refers to the end of Schiller’s play, when the mortally-wounded Johanna asserts her ﬁdelity to the larger cause that sustains her: “Nicht ohne meine Fahne darf ich kommen.” Beethoven’s attachment to Schiller’s play is also reﬂected in a pair of canons he wrote in 1813 and 1815 on “Kurz ist der Schmerz, ewig ist die Freude” (“The pain is short, the joy is endless”).47 These are the words from the very last line of the play, uttered by Johanna immediately before her death. The parallels between Joan of Arc and Leonore extend to the gender ambiguity of a heroine dressed in masculine garb and to Johanna’s reference to herself as “Retterin” (“rescuer”), the same expression applied to Leonore in the ﬁnale of Act II of Fidelio. Another speciﬁc afﬁnity is lodged in the recitative preceding Leonore’s aria in Act I, in which the heroine, responding to Pizarro’s ﬁerce hate or “Tigersinn” (“tigerish heart”), perceives a consoling rainbow before her, illumi45

Ibid., p. 326. Beethoven: Impressions of Contemporaries, p. 42. 47 The ﬁrst canon, WoO 163, was written for Johann Friedrich Naue in November 1813; the second, WoO 166, was written for Louis Spohr in March 1815. 46

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nated above dark clouds: “so leuchtet mir ein Farbenbogen, der hell auf dunkeln Wolken ruht.” The inspiration for this luminous image—which was added in 1814—surely derives from the end of Schiller’s play, when the dying Johanna asks those around her, “Sehr ihr den Regenbogen in der Luft?” (“Do you see the rainbow in the air?”). The musical setting involves a shift to a sustained C major chord in the woodwind instruments in Adagio tempo, opening an expressive space of calm self-possession that stands in the strongest possible contrast to the agitated turbulence of Pizarro’s destructive rage. Berthold Hoeckner has described this gesture as a “C-major Lichtblick . . . [which] foretells, like a celestial apparition, the opera’s concluding ‘ode of matrimony’ in the same key.”48 Leonore’s ensuing aria “Komm, Hoffnung” (“Come, Hope”), undoubtedly responds to Fiordiligi’s “Per pietà, ben mio perdona” (“Dearest love, I beg your pardon”) in Act II of Così fan tutte. Both arias are set in E major, beginning Adagio, and the prominent horn in Fiordiligi’s piece becomes three horns in Leonore’s aria. Signiﬁcantly, the collapse of Fiordiligi’s efforts to remain faithful is a reﬂection of her immersion in the present moment, which supplants her loyalty to the past. In an analysis of Così, Edward W. Said observed that “one of the main motifs in Così fan tutte is the elimination of memory so that only the present is left standing.”49 In this respect, Fidelio offers the strongest possible contrast to Mozart’s work, since the undimmed memory and spiritual conviction of Leonore and Florestan are crucial enabling factors. In the face of uncertainty and seemingly insuperable barriers, yet strengthened by the “duty of true conjugal love,” Leonore appeals in her aria to the “last star” to “illuminate her goal, however distant, in order that love reach it.” Fittingly, the registral ascent to her peak note of high B ﬁrst takes place at “erreichen” (“reach”). In another E major Adagio written soon after the opera, the slow movement of the second Razumovsky Quartet from 1806, Beethoven would again invoke a contemplative vision of the “starry heavens.” A comparison to Mozart is suggested as well by Beethoven’s next number, the prisoner’s chorus beginning the Act I ﬁnale. The men sing “O welche Lust!” as they are allowed brief release from their cells into the open air. Yet their true yearning desire, or “Lust,” is revealed only later, in the contrasting middle section of the musical form, as the music shifts from the tonic B major to G major. Its tenor solo, inspired by divine faith and the whisper of hope (“Hoffnung”), with a chorale-like musical setting, boldly predicts liberation: “we will be free” (“wir werden frei”). To this utterance, the full chorus responds emphatically with an exclamation followed by a question: “O Himmel! Rettung! Welch ein Glück! O Freiheit, kehrst du zurück?” (“Oh heaven! Rescue! What happiness! Oh freedom, will you come?”). This invocation of freedom triggers an astonishing orchestral and vocal intensiﬁcation: a crescendo from pianissimo to fortissimo, involving the addition of the woodwinds and then horns and trumpets. Harmonically, the cli48

Programming the Absolute: Nineteenth-Century German Music and the Hermeneutics of the Moment (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002), p. 29. 49 On Late Style: Music and Literature against the Grain (New York: Pantheon, 2006), p. 66.

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max falls on a accented seventh chord on G , which Beethoven interprets as a German augmented-sixth sonority, and the music lands on the dominant of B major once the question is restated: “kehrst du zurück?” An entirely different evocation of liberty occurs at a parallel juncture in Mozart’s Don Giovanni: Giovanni’s “Viva la libertà!” in the Act I ﬁnale. In welcoming the masked avengers to his party, the Don adds these loaded words to his greeting; the slogan is then taken up by Leporello and the masked visitors, as the words are repeated over and over in a vocal quintet. For long moments, the music dwells on “Viva la libertà!” which is given an emphatic treatment with trumpets and drums in C major. The meaning of this gesture could hardly be more opposed to Beethoven’s chorus of ragged prisoners. For Don Giovanni is advocating not the genuine article, the political cause of liberty, but merely a self-serving freedom of indulgence. This raises in turn the matter of whether Pizarro’s captives should be understood to be political prisoners. As Galliver has observed, Bouilly would have found the material for his plot “amid the turmoil and violence of revolutionary Touraine,” and “the setting of his play, une prison d’état, might have been any one of the great châteaux—Loche, Amboise, or Chinon—which at that time were crammed with prisoners, many of them innocent suspects.”50 In this regard, Beethoven’s Fidelio holds clues that have been missed by some commentators. Winton Dean ﬁnds that the prisoners “could be a set of thieves, murderers, and delinquents,” and Joseph Kerman builds on this comment, referring to “all the thieves, murderers, and laudanum pushers” among the prisoners.51 However, the aforementioned message to Pizarro about “victims of arbitrary power” implies that Florestan is not the only innocent victim held at the prison, and this impression receives conﬁrmation from his cruel incarceration in response to an effort to expose Pizarro’s abuses. Rocco too is aware of injustice at the prison, for when asked by Leonore whether the unnamed prisoner in the dungeon is a “great criminal,” he responds that he may “have great enemies; that amounts to much the same thing.” While trying to bring Pizarro to justice, Florestan has joined the list of victims. In Beethoven’s opera, the captives come to stand for all of suffering humanity. Especially moving is the strange passage accompanying the bass solo heard after “O Freiheit, kehrst du zurück?” which intensiﬁes the long-held pianissimo string sonorities from the mysterious introduction to the prisoners’ chorus. In context, after sudden dispersal of the massed voices, the mufﬂed chromatic shift leading to a B major chord at “Sprecht leise” (“Speak softly”), and the diminished-seventh chords at “wir sind belauscht” (“we’re spied upon”), vividly convey the oppressed and justiﬁably paranoid state of the prisoners. Their lack of freedom is depicted in the empty, withdrawn character of the music. The soft dynamic level is 50

“Fidelio—Fact or Fantasy?” p. 90. Dean, “Beethoven and Opera,” and Kerman, “Augenblicke in Fidelio,” in Ludwig van Beethoven: Fidelio, ed. Paul Robinson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 45, 134, respectively. 51

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maintained throughout the remainder of this section, with reiterations of “leise” connecting to the soft onset of the recapitulation of “O, welche Lust!” Certain words appear with special frequency in Fidelio, helping to cross-reference the different responses of the characters. The word “Pﬂicht” (“duty”), with its Kantian ethical associations, marks Rocco’s refusal to kill the prisoner (“that is not my duty”), the fortifying presence of “the duty of true wifely love” in Leonore, and Florestan’s consoling thought that his opposition to Pizarro was rightful. An especially important word is “Augenblick,” referring to a decisive moment of decision or recognition. In Act I, such concentrated expression is encountered in Pizarro’s aria with chorus “Ha! welch’ ein Augenblick! Die Rache werd’ ich kühlen!” (“Ha! What a moment! I will taste revenge!”). Beethoven builds here again on Mozart’s legacy, but in a more straightforward fashion. D minor is the key associated with vengeance in several Mozartian operas; one thinks not only of Don Giovanni, but of Elettra’s ﬁnal aria in Idomeneo and the last aria of the Queen of the Night in Die Zauberﬂöte. In Beethoven’s Allegro agitato for Pizarro, the ﬁrst six measures of orchestral introduction are poised on a dominant pedal point of D minor, with a twisting melodic line emphasizing the half-step from A to an accented B . These two notes bear the words “Die Rache” (“revenge”) in bars 8–9, but Pizarro’s obsessive hate is already projected earlier in the rhythmic compression of this motive. After appearing once per measure in bars 2–3 and twice in bar 4, the motive appears fourfold in running sixteenth notes in the bar marking the vocal entrance before this driving momentum unleashes a falling scale in the following measure, leading to an emphatic D minor cadence at “Ha! welch’ ein Augenblick!” The collision of Pizarro’s thirst for revenge with Leonore’s protective response in the dungeon in Act II forms the crux of the entire drama, as lodged in the quartet “Er sterbe!” (“He dies!”). Beethoven assigns the major mode of D to this number, and allows Pizarro to dominate the ﬁrst section, disclosing his identity to Florestan as he prepares to kill the prisoner. At bars 49–50, the triumphant rhetoric of the music, with majestic dotted rhythmic ﬁgures in the horns and trumpets, supports Pizarro’s pretense to be an avenger, but Florestan deﬂates his claim: “A murderer, a murderer stands before me.” Provoked, Pizarro closes in for the kill, attempting to seize the moment: “nur noch ein Augenblick, und dieser Dolch” (“only just a moment, and this dagger”). Musically, the opening unison motive, with its accented long note and sweeping, descending continuation, is sequenced upward from A to B, C , and D. At “Dolch” comes Leonore’s ﬁrst intervention on a high G supported by a C major chord: “Zurück!” (“Back!”). In what follows, she assumes vocal leadership over the musical trajectory, carrying the ensuing passages through F minor and G minor. G then serves as a recitation tone for her message “death shall answer your lust for murder!” preceding her revelation “Tödt’ erst sein Weib!” (“kill ﬁrst his wife!”), whose vocal setting springs up a ﬁfth from E to the peak note of high B . These vocal high points help establish her musical dominance over her adversary, none more explicitly bound up with her femininity than “Weib!” (“woman!”), set as it is to the B near the top of her range, and heard unaccompanied, without the orchestra (Ex. 37).

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Ex. 37 Fidelio, Act II, Quartet (“Er sterbe”), setting of “Tödt’ erst sein Weib!” (“Kill first his wife!”)

The astonished response of the three men (“His/my wife?”) on a prolonged E seventh chord yields to a persistent anapestic rhythmic ostinato, whose shortshort-long-long pattern scans “Leonore!” as is conﬁrmed in Florestan’s vocal recognition. Now, taking the offense, Leonore challenges Pizarro on his musical home turf: the tonic key of D. Starting at the Più moto, Beethoven reafﬁrms D

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major in the faster tempo and recaptures the earlier pattern of rising tonal sequences, here ascending from D through E to F , reinforced by the anapestic rhythmic motive heard in the winds and trumpets. The linear goal of the larger trajectory is G, heard as part of a dominant seventh chord of D major, and it is Leonore who controls this crucial pitch. Her last and most decisive intervention, as she draws the pistol on Pizarro and silences him, outlines this sonority: “Noch einen Laut, und du bist todt!” (“One more sound, and you’re dead!”). Her silencing of her opponent involves seizing from him the structural fundamentals of the key of D, that tonality that was closely identiﬁed with Pizarro already in his aria in Act I. At the very moment when Pizarro utters “den Tod mit ihm!” again threatening Florestan with death, Leonore turns the tables, and her word “todt!” coincides with the sudden shift to a B major chord, as the trumpet sounds from the ramparts, announcing the approach of Don Fernando. The anapestic rhythm of the trumpet fanfare links it motivically to “Leonore!” In this thrilling “Augenblick,” her triumph over Pizarro reaches beyond the dungeon, overthrowing his tyrannical regime. The revision process of the 1814 Fidelio removed the prolonged suspense from the dramatic situation following this quartet. In its original version, the ensuing lovers’ duet “O namenlose Freude!” was a kind of ecstatic Liebestod, sung with the outcome still left in doubt and danger still hanging over their heads; offstage choral shouts calling for vengeance seemed potentially threatening to the pair. In accordance with the changed dramatic situation and the effective change of scene introduced in 1814, with the ﬁnale of Act II taking place not in the dungeon but in the light and fresh air of the outdoors, Beethoven drastically shortened “O namenlose Freude!” with this Allegro vivace in G major preparing the resolution to C major at the beginning of the ﬁnale with chorus: “Heil sei dem Tag! Heil sei der Stunde!” (“Hail to the day! Hail to the hour!”). Beethoven has sensitively linked parts of his ﬁnale to various earlier numbers of the opera, creating a network of tonal correspondences and resolutions. In this sense, the “namenlose Freude” duet for wife and husband in G major passionately realizes the latent potential of the beautifully suspended canonic quartet in this key in Act I, an ensemble associated with the idea of marriage. The overall key of C major of the Act II ﬁnale is foreshadowed already in the naive joy of Marzelline’s opening aria, in Leonore’s mysterious Lichtblick in her Act I recitative, and later in the trio “Euch werde Lohn” (“You’ll be rewarded”) in the dungeon, when Leonore offers bread to Florestan. The music of the A major Meno allegro section of the ﬁnale, heard as Don Fernando recognizes the couple, refers back through telling details of motive and rhythm to the grave-digging duet in A minor, assuming a resolving function. Most weighty of all these correspondences is the expansive musical “Augenblick” of the Sostenuto assai in F major. Don Fernando, in an afterthought, invites Leonore to unlock her husband’s chains. This is the passage in which Beethoven reused the hymn-like theme of his aria with chorus “Da stiegen die Menschen ans Licht” (“There the people ascended into the light”) from the

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Grave: Orchestral Introduction “Gott! Welch’ Dunkel hier!” “In des Lebens Frühlingstagen” Poco Allegro: Vision of Leonore

F minor F minor A-ﬂat major F major

Leonore, Rocco

Melodrama “Grave Digging” Duet

Modulatory A minor

Leonore, Rocco, Florestan

Trio: “Euch werde Lohn”

A major

Leonore, Rocco, Florestan, Pizarro

Quartet: “Er sterbe!

D major

Leonore, Florestan

Duet: “O namenlose Freude!”

G major

Finale

“Heil sei den Tag, Heil sei der Stunde!” Meno allegro: Don Fernando: “Gefesselt” Sostenuto assai: “O Gott! Welch, ein Augenblick!” “Wer ein holdes Weib errungen”

C major A major F major C major

Figure 2. Overview of the formal design of Fidelio, Act II

Joseph Cantata of 1790. Two rising fourths from C to F and then B are followed and balanced here by an expressive stepwise descent through the same tonal space, a melodic contour that unfolds and develops as the setting of Florestan’s words “O unaussprechlich süsses Glück!” (“Oh inexpressible sweet bliss!”). The use of the oboe in F major in this emblematic theme is surely connected to the revised ending of Florestan’s aria from 1814. In that passage, Florestan, in his clairvoyant state, conjures up a vision of his liberation by Leonore; in so doing, his music anticipates the oboe in F major that will mark his actual unchaining. In some uncanny way, as Beethoven’s purposeful musical design implies, it is this sustained ethical vision that has kept Florestan alive until his rescue by the heroic Leonore. Yet another example of dramatic foreshadowing related to the important Sostenuto assai passage spans the work as a whole. For when Fidelio is ﬁrst seen on stage, he/she is carrying chains for the prisoners, ironically preﬁguring her unchaining of Florestan and liberation of other prisoners in the ﬁnale of Act II. The overall formal design of the second act is shown in Figure 2. The successive keys form an audible tonal path, bridging some intervening passages of spoken dialogue. After the modal shift from A minor to A major for the trio “Euch werde Lohn,” descent through the circle of perfect ﬁfths carries the music through D major and G major, reaching C major at the celebratory beginning of the ﬁnale. A pivotal key in this large-scale design is D major, which is closely linked to D minor, Pizarro’s key of wrathful vengeance. Awareness of this tonal design lends perspective to Leonore’s dramatic interventions in the climactic quartet. Through her seizure from Pizarro of D major, she helps guide the musical trajectory toward its afﬁrmative outcome. Beethoven caps his choral ﬁnale with an Allegro ma non troppo, whose text

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begins with another allusion to Schiller, this time a direct use of two lines from An die Freude that would also ﬁnd their way into the Ninth Symphony, followed by the last two lines of the text praising Leonore as “Retterin”: Wer ein holdes Weib errungen stimm’ in unsern Jubel ein. Nie wird es zu hoch besungen, Retterin des Gatten sein. Whoever has won a noble woman join in our jubilation. Never will it be too highly praised to be rescuer of your partner.

Plate 9 shows a sketch for this text setting, which was already part of the original version of the opera from 1805. In view of his long-standing interest in the poem, it is probable that Beethoven himself interpolated these lines from Schiller. They ﬁt well into the dramatic context, since the prisoners have now been joined by the townspeople, and many couples have been reunited. In its innovative development of Bouilly’s plot, combining a sense of historical realism with an ethical idealism extolling feminine heroism, Fidelio is the most political of operas, carrying a message of burning conviction. Taken as a whole, the drama involves a penetration into the depths followed by a reemergence into a light that stands for Enlightenment, as ﬁdelity and justice triumph over tyranny. How does this scenario relate to the French Revolution? It is tempting but misleading to identify the villainous Pizarro simply as a tyrant of the ancien régime, who is overthrown amid rejoicing of the liberated prisoners and populace. Actually, the plot of Fidelio originally took shape as a story of rescue from the tyranny of post-Revolutionary circumstances, and by implication, it applies to all those oppressive events that continue to litter human history. The transposition of events to Spain in the libretto in no way blunts its undiminished political relevance. Fidelio honors the principles of the French Revolution but not its history, and no opera so powerfully critiques every regime that denies human freedom. In 1945, Thomas Mann wrote about the opera in Germany during the Third Reich: “How could it happen that Beethoven’s Fidelio . . . was not forbidden in the Germany of the last twelve years? . . . For what utter stupidity was required to be able to listen to Fidelio in Himmler’s Germany without covering one’s face and rushing out of the hall.”52 The action has been shifted forward to the twentieth century in some recent productions of the opera, such as the Metropolitan Opera’s Fidelio directed by Jürgen Flimm and conducted by James Levine, with Karita Mattila as Leonore. This production premiered in New York on 13 October 2000 and has since been mounted at the Chicago Lyric Opera and London’s Royal Opera House. In an essay accompanying the 2002 release of the production on DVD, Mike Ashman 52 Thomas Mann, Briefe, 1937–1947, vol. 2, ed. Erika Mann (Frankfurt: Fischer, 1961), p. 444.

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singles out the impressive characterization of Leonore, who “has to work hard to appear to be a man—and to pull off the seemingly impossible task of springing her man from a top-security prison. So, at last in a production of this opera, we see a credible looking male with a short, sharp haircut, tight, ﬂat military clothes and gauche, young-man mannerisms.”53 (See Plate 11.) There is good reason to believe that theatrically, Mattila’s Leonore would compare favorably to the most celebrated nineteenth-century exponent of the role, Wilhelmine Schröder-Devrient, while vocally, she would almost certainly prove superior to her famous predecessor.54 Other effective touches in this production include giving the role of the ﬁrst prisoner to a cleric, while the second prisoner, with his warning message, is assigned to a black person, who as a member of a minority might remain more suspicious of predictions of liberation. Fidelio and the Eroica Symphony are two major monuments of Beethoven’s heroic style, and it is not surprising that they share certain distinctive features. The three horns used in Leonore’s aria are reminiscent of those in the Eroica. In the Allegro con brio of the aria, in particular, the rising triadic horn fanfare invites comparison with the ascending horn gestures in the trio of the Eroica. But this is not the only point of contact between these compositions. Both works reﬂect Beethoven’s artistic response to serious issues of life and his determination to maintain an open, optimistic perspective despite setbacks and apparently insurmountable obstacles. The rescue of Florestan, or the rehabilitation of Prometheus, each stands for a generative process with universal human relevance, aspects of which are embedded in the “unconsummated symbol” of Beethoven’s music. As we have seen, the symbolization involved here is no mere programmatic illustration; the difference is well indicated by setting the Prometheus ballet music alongside the far greater achievement of the Eroica Symphony. The enhancement of the narrative and mythic dimension in some of Beethoven’s works after 1801 resulted from a conﬂuence of historical, artistic, and personal factors, but above all from his deepening appreciation of the almost unlimited potential of musical expression. The apparent failure of his opera after 1806 in no way dampened the energy he brought to this task.

53 “Modern Times,” essay accompanying the DVD of Ludwig van Beethoven: Fidelio (Deutsche Grammophon B0001417–09). 54 From the reports we have, Schröder-Devrient seemed to have been a brilliant actress but less impressive vocally than some other singers. See, for instance, Paul Robinson, “An Interpretative History,” in Ludwig van Beethoven: Fidelio (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 148–50.

5

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The Heroic Style II: 1806–1809

R After he put Fidelio aside, Beethoven’s major artistic preoccupation became the set of three Razumovsky String Quartets in F major, E minor, and C major of op. 59, composed mainly between April and November 1806. This trilogy stands at the center of a splendid series of masterpieces from that year, including the Fourth Piano Concerto op. 58, the Fourth Symphony op. 60, and the Violin Concerto op. 61. An orchestral ambition surfaces in the imaginative sonorities and enhanced scale of some movements of the Razumovsky Quartets, from the broad opening Allegro of the F major Quartet to the nervously emphatic ﬁnale of the C major. At the request of the Russian ambassador, Count Razumovsky, who commissioned the pieces, Beethoven incorporated Russian folk songs into the ﬁnale of op. 59 no. 1 and the third movement of op. 59 no. 2. The third quartet contains no obvious quotations, but, as Riezler and Marion Scott have suggested, its melancholy slow movement may harbor a more elusive relationship with Russian style.1 The ﬁrst two quartets were coolly received when ﬁrst performed; only the C major was warmly appreciated. Time has reversed that judgment, however: the F major and E minor Quartets are now placed among Beethoven’s surpassing essays in this genre, overshadowing op. 59 no. 3. Alan Tyson’s study of the genesis of these works indicates that the C major Quartet was composed swiftly, perhaps even hastily: the evidence comes from water stains on Beethoven’s manuscripts for the quartets and his Appassionata Sonata (which was ﬁnished only in 1806, though begun two years earlier).2 In late October 1806 Beethoven traveled from a country retreat in Silesia to Vienna with his manuscripts packed in a trunk. On the way he encountered a storm with pouring rain that penetrated the trunk, so that the manuscripts were wet when he reached Vienna. Thanks to this leaky trunk and the resulting water stains on his manuscripts, we know that by this point he had ﬁnished in score only the ﬁrst two movements of the E minor Quartet and had sketched just the ﬁrst movement of the C major. This left little time for the completion of op. 59 1 Riezler, Beethoven, p. 172; Scott, Beethoven, pp. 256–57; Czerny, On the Proper Performance, p. 13. Lini Hübsch, in her study Ludwig van Beethoven: Rasumowsky-Quartette, pp. 90–93, identiﬁes a Russian melody beginning at bar 23. 2 “The ‘Razumovsky’ Quartets: Some Aspects of the Sources”; the water staining can be seen in the facsimile editions of the quartets edited by Tyson.

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no. 3. The smaller scale of this work, the apparent absence of a Russian theme, and Beethoven’s use in the minuet of material sketched years earlier are all factors that may connect with a certain haste in the process of composition. The opening Allegro of the F major Quartet bears comparison with the corresponding movement of the Eroica Symphony. Like the Eroica, it is on an immense scale, with a development much longer than the exposition and studded in this case by a big double fugue. The quartet movement relies, as does the symphony, on far-reaching reinterpretation of the main theme at important junctures of the sonata form. Beethoven places the main subject in the cello, under the pulsating accompaniment; only after the second phrase does the theme pass to the violin two octaves higher. The guiding motivic idea is a series of ascending steps in quarter notes that becomes gigantic when this rising pattern is augmented to whole notes at the cadence of the theme. Especially important in the opening melody is the pitch G, which closes the second and third phrases in the cello and ﬁrst violin. When Beethoven restates this subject at the opening of the development, the G has become G , forcing a new harmonic continuation. Even more conspicuous is the shift at the recapitulation to a G that is sustained over ten bars to support a powerful climax. As Kerman has observed, two further reinterpretations of the opening theme occur in the coda.3 First, its harmonic ambiguity is purged when Beethoven restates the melody fortissimo in the upper instruments, while the cello (for once!) supplies the solid harmonic foundation that was previously withheld. Later in the coda the ﬁrst violin carries the rising steps from the theme into the stratosphere, as the highest C is sounded against G and then F in the cello. The scherzando movement that follows is an astonishingly original conception. Beethoven experiments here, as in the Eroica ﬁnale and its model, the op. 35 piano variations, with the notion that a piece may be conceived as a search for its own thematic material. He begins with a mere abstract of a seminal rhythm, tapped out softly in the cello on a single stationary pitch. Motivic fragments are juxtaposed long before they are eventually assembled as the “completed” theme. Only in bar 29 is the bare rhythm from the outset ﬁlled out harmonically and dynamically (Ex. 38), and only near the end of the ﬁrst subject group is this harmonized rhythm to be combined with an upper-line melody. The overall design is a modiﬁed sonata form with a somber second subject in the minor that foreshadows the character of the following slow movement. Beethoven dovetails the end of the development with the passage from his exposition leading to the harmonized fortissimo statement of the seminal rhythm, and it is again with this gesture that the scherzando movement ends. Immediately before the ﬁnal cadence he mischievously interpolates a striking dissonant G in the ﬁrst violin, reminding us thereby of disruptive earlier passages based around this sensitive note. The Adagio molto e mesto is a lament of tragic character that directly connects, through a ﬂorid violin cadenza, with the ﬁnale in sonata form. The main subject is a Russian tune that Beethoven found in a contemporary anthology. Here, as in the E minor Quartet, he showed little regard for the stately character and moder3

The Beethoven Quartets, pp. 95–97.

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Ex. 38 String Quartet op. 59 no. 1/II, bars 1–34

ate tempo of the preexisting theme, as Philip Radcliffe has pointed out.4 The theme is effective in the brisk tempo chosen by Beethoven; it also lends itself well to development. In its rising stepwise motion it has an obvious motivic parallel with the main subject of the opening Allegro. Whereas the F major Quartet is spacious and grand in its overall character, the E minor Quartet is more concentrated, at least in its ﬁrst movement. The introductory gesture of chords and silences is terse and arresting; the initial tonic sonority then unfolds as a broken chord, and, after another striking pause, Beethoven restates the idea on the Neapolitan, a semitone higher. Most of the movement’s thematic material is derived from these opening bars. According to Czerny, the following Molto adagio in E major occurred to Beethoven while he was “contemplating the starry heavens and thinking of the music of the spheres.”5 This is indeed music of sublime contemplation, foreshadowing later works, such as the Benedictus of the Missa solemnis and the celestial central variation in E major in the slow movement of the ﬁrst of the late quartets, op. 127. It is in the trio of the third movement, marked Allegretto, that Beethoven cites the second of the Rus4 5

Beethoven’s String Quartets, p. 49. Thayer-Forbes, pp. 408–9.

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sian folk songs used in op. 59, the same melody used by Mussorgsky in the Coronation Scene in Boris Godunov. The theme is stripped of its solemn, ecclesiastical associations and treated in a parodistic fugal medley that is repeated in full after the return of the Allegretto. The presto ﬁnale employs a main theme that begins in the “wrong” key of C major instead of the tonic E minor. In its rhythmic character this movement strongly anticipates the ﬁnale of the later Quartet in C minor op. 131. The characteristic tonal relationships of the second Razumovsky quartet may be connected in part with its central position in op. 59. Its ﬁrst and third movements are closely related in their structure and expression, sharing an emphasis on the Neapolitan degree of F in an E minor context; no less striking is the persistent C major beginning of the rondo theme in the ﬁnale. Whereas the Neapolitan emphasis can be heard in relationship to the tonic key of the preceding quartet, the main theme of the ﬁnale may be linked to the tonality of the following quartet. The C major Quartet op. 59 no. 3 is an oddly unsettled piece. It opens with a mysterious slow introduction, paralleling Mozart’s Dissonance Quartet K. 465 in the same key. The following Allegro vivace, and the minuet as well, show a retrospective orientation; they breathe the air of the eighteenth century. Perhaps this quality contributed to their contemporary popularity but now somewhat faded appeal. In the moto perpetuo ﬁnale an enormously extended, rambling theme is treated fugally; the triumphant fury of this conclusion is just a little hollow, quite unlike the masterful C major ﬁnale of the Fifth Symphony of 1808. The most impressive movement of op. 59 no. 3 is probably the second, in A minor, marked Andante con moto quasi Allegretto (Ex. 39). There is nothing else like it in Beethoven. The strangely static 6/8 rhythm, pedal points, haunting melodic inﬂections and harmonic dissonances, and use of pizzicato all lend an aura of remote, almost mythical melancholy and bleakness. Is this unique movement Beethoven’s attempt to capture a Russian character in music?

S S S A spacious, lyrical serenity characterizes several of Beethoven’s works from this period, including the Fourth Piano Concerto in G major op. 58. This reminds us of the breadth of Beethoven’s style, and of the need to avoid one-sidedness in discussion of the “heroic phase” of his career. In view of the central importance of the Eroica and Fidelio, and their lines of connection to a number of other compositions, it makes good sense to speak of Beethoven’s heroic style. However, these very works embrace a wide stylistic and expressive range, not excluding humor, and an impressive feature of Beethoven’s achievement is his artistic scope. In the opening Allegro moderato of op. 58, the presence of an upbeat ﬁgure of repeated notes similar to that in the Fifth Symphony reminds us of the fundamentally different character of the concerto. Whereas the symphony’s ﬁrst movement displays a relentless rhythmic drive, the concerto shows an extreme reﬁnement in texture. Particularly arresting are those moments when the soloist seems to withdraw into ethereal seclusion. One such passage appears early in the piano exposition, as the orchestra pauses on a mysterious pianissimo B major chord, and the pianist penetrates the very highest register with an espressivo melody, with an ac-

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Ex. 39 String Quartet op. 59 no. 3/II

companiment of triplets in the left hand. Another instance of lyrical withdrawal occurs at the end of the exposition, when the brilliant triplet trill of the soloist, instead of resolving, melts into a whispered dolce e con espressione statement of a motive that had just been afﬁrmed loudly in the orchestra. At the threshold of the development, on the other hand, the isolation by the soloist of the fourrepeated-note motive—with a sudden shift of mode and modulation—stops the orchestra in its tracks. Beethoven was surely inspired here by the corresponding passage in the ﬁrst movement of Mozart’s Concerto in C major, K. 503, since the same rhythmic motive appears there and even serves a similar transitional function at the change in key. Later, following the climax of the development on C minor, Beethoven places the motive in the low strings pizzicato, while the soloist is granted yet another mysterious utterance, marked pianissimo and dolce. In the ﬁnale of the concerto, yet another solo passage of this kind is the exquisite dolce second subject, with a melody perched in the heights and a counterpoint in contrary motion in the middle register in the left hand, all heard over a deep pedal point in the ﬁrst cello. According to a tradition stemming from Liszt and others, the Andante con moto is associated with Orpheus taming the Furies; more recently, this interpre-

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tation has been extended by Owen Jander and reﬁned by Joseph Kerman.6 In this movement the classical topos juxtaposing stark, unharmonized unisons and pliant, harmonized lyricism is imposed on the relationship between tutti and soloist, investing the music with a mythic aura. Beethoven bases the movement’s general progression on the principle of gradual transformation, so that the bare, harsh orchestral unison on E at the outset is eventually replaced by a soft, sustained, E minor harmony at the conclusion. This, in turn, is superseded by the brighter, more stable sonority of C major that opens the main theme of the ensuing rondo ﬁnale. Consequently, the entire slow movement seems to be poised in a dependent relationship with the music to come. Beethoven achieves a similar effect at the end of the B major Adagio of the “Emperor” Concerto, where a pivotal drop of the semitone B–B in the orchestra restores the basic tonality of E major at the threshold of the ﬁnale. An important dimension of the dialogue between tutti and soloist consists in Beethoven’s control of pitch registers. The orchestral passages take on a predominantly descending contour, with the ﬁrst two phrases closing a fourth and ﬁfth below the initial pitch level of E. In contrast, the piano ascends, molto cantabile, closing its phrases in a somewhat lower register in order to connect with the succeeding entries of the tutti. This tug of registers, with the piano gradually gaining primacy, is most vividly illustrated after bar 26, where Beethoven employs his familiar technique of foreshortening to tighten the exchanges between the contenders (Ex. 40). The ﬁrst of these shortened orchestral phrases descends from E to A, to be answered by an ascending solo phrase whose expressive appoggiatura controls the pitch level of the following tutti phrase, beginning on F and falling to B. The ensuing phrase in the piano now forces a further concession from the orchestra, which is obliged to ascend from B to C. The accelerating process of diminution helps to underscore the growing primacy of the soloist; in bars 33–35 the exchanges occur in every bar, with the soloist gaining an increasing monopoly over the texture while the orchestra completes its uncharacteristic ascent to the tonic E. As the tutti is thereby compelled to abandon its uncompromising stance, the solo unfolds for the ﬁrst time in a more animated motion in continuous eighth notes, in its characteristic legato articulation. The following phrases are modeled on the sequences beginning in bar 26, but they sound utterly different in expressive quality. The tutti, while still maintaining its detached articulation, has lost its stolid fortitude; the dynamic level softens to piano. Now the soloist can afford to mimic the falling contour of the orchestral phrases, while penetrating still higher in register. Hence the very substance of the tutti phrases is transformed here into the more integrated, harmonized texture of the soloist. The music assumes a human face; the stern, forbidding posture of the orchestral phrases is injected with inner life. As the foreshortening process runs its course, the orchestral dynamic level softens to pianissimo, and the incorporation 6 Jander, “Beethoven’s Orpheus in Hades”; Kerman, “Representing a Relationship: Notes on a Beethoven Concerto.”

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Ex. 40 Fourth Piano Concerto op. 58/II, bars 19–38

of C in place of C signals yet another concession in the lost struggle with the soloist—even the hold of the tutti on the minor mode is momentarily put into question. From this point the dominance of the pianist is absolute, and a new stage in the narrative design of the movement has been reached. Having subdued the antagonists, the soloist exploits them as audience for an unforgettable climactic message. A contrapuntal transition accompanied by subservient pizzicato strokes in the strings leads to a pause on the dominant-seventh chord of E minor (Ex. 41). A chain of trills rises by thirds to reach C, a ninth above the root of the dominant sonority. The C is made to ring through the long, stationary vibration of the trill, played fortissimo. Beethoven “composes out” the diminished-seventh chord supporting the C, with a rapid oscillation across the tritone A–D below the trill, and an appoggiatura G –A sounded above it. The searing intensity of this cadenza is the apex and turning point of the entire concerto. As the music gradually fades from fortissimo to pianissimo, the trill unravels into the contour of the ﬁguration played moments before in the left hand, and a relaxing process of rhythmic augmentation prepares the arpeggiated caden-

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Ex. 41 Fourth Piano Concerto op. 58/II, bars 47–62

tial chords that follow. At the cadence in bar 64, the conversion of the orchestral antagonists is conﬁrmed through the sustained E octave, marked with a triple pianissimo, a rare indication in Beethoven. Noteworthy too is the stress placed by the orchestral phrases on C; three times C is sounded below the protracted E, before the music unfolds toward the ﬁnal cadence. Now, most signiﬁcantly, the tutti adopts the harmonic texture and legato articulation from the solo piano. As the

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movement closes, a complete concordance is established; all traces of conﬂict have been erased. The Andante con moto of the G major Concerto thus provides a paradigm of musical transformation, whereby the detached, objective idiom of the tutti is gradually infused with human subjectivity, won over by the power of the artistic imagination. It can do no harm to think of the Orpheus myth here, as long as we do not limit the music to this association. For Beethoven’s Andante is far too subtle to allow a smooth ﬁt between the stages in Orpheus’s passage and the musical process we have described. Comparison with the famous setting of Orpheus and the Furies in Gluck’s Orfeo reminds us of the greater musical integrity of Beethoven’s movement. The Andante con moto is an intrinsically musical narrative, which urgently invites interpretation without allowing itself to be displaced thereby. The imposition of a deﬁnitive verbal interpretation would disrupt the balance in the music between the rational and the sensuous, ignoring the primacy of the Klangvorstellung. It is more appropriate to reﬂect on the impact of Beethoven’s climactic, despairing cadenza. Here the soloist’s earlier conﬁdent tone experiences a crisis. Has his apparent rhetorical triumph masked a hidden weakness? Does the cadenza harbor implications of a Pyrrhic victory? Such questions are raised but not answered by the music. This much is certain: the powerful elaboration of the dominant ninth as a trill on C is not truly resolved here. The sound of the C lingers in the mind after the dissipation of its physical sound; the later emphasis of the strings on the low C picks up traces of these dying resonances. The overall effect is to destabilize the ensuing cadence in E minor, which opens into the C major of the rondo ﬁnale. There is an anticipation within the Andante con moto of the music to come, making clear that the entire movement is a stage within a larger process. The ﬁrst movement of this concerto had already given particular prominence to the dialogue between solo and tutti by beginning with a short piano passage, marked dolce. Such an opening was unusual, although Mozart’s Concerto in E major K. 271 provided a precedent. Beethoven sought out novel, experimental openings for each of his later concertos. The Fifth Piano Concerto in E op. 73, for instance, begins with a written-out cadenza for the soloist, and the unﬁnished D major Piano Concerto of 1815 was also intended to open with a cadenza.7 At the outset of his beautiful Violin Concerto in D major op. 61, composed for the virtuoso Franz Clement during December 1806, Beethoven employed an even more striking idea. The Violin Concerto begins with a bar of soft drum taps, a motif consisting of ﬁve repeated notes (Ex. 42). Rhythmic motifs involving repeated notes often appear in Beethoven’s works of these years: the ﬁrst movements of the Appassionata Sonata, Fourth Piano Concerto, and Fifth Symphony each provide examples. In these pieces the repeated notes act as an anacrusis, or upbeat, driving the music forward. The Violin Concerto, by contrast, opens on a downbeat, anchoring the motif and ensuring its stability. The initial isolation of this motif in the timpani is especially ﬁtting in the Violin Concerto; the device exposes in the most distinct way the tonal substratum and underlying pulse of the musical structure. Its impor7

Cf. Lockwood, “Beethoven’s Unﬁnished Piano Concerto of 1815.”

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Ex. 42 Violin Concerto op. 61/I

tance is conﬁrmed by the manner in which later themes defer to its rhythm, and no less by Beethoven’s imaginative reinterpretation of this elemental gesture. Few pieces by Beethoven achieve such grand effects with such economy of means. Consider, for instance, Beethoven’s treatment of the moment of recapitulation. In many earlier works, as we have seen, he enhances this symmetrical axis of the sonata form by intensifying the dynamic level or by ﬁlling out the harmonic texture. The ﬁrst movements of several of the op. 18 Quartets already display his tendency to fortify the point of recapitulation, making clear that this structural point is no mere repetition but a reinterpretation of the earlier music experienced in a qualitatively new way. Other works, such as the Eroica, tend to diffuse or enlarge the moment of recapitulation; Beethoven develops this procedure in a variety of ways in later compositions. In the Violin Concerto the moment of recapitulation is gloriﬁed through a rhythmic preparation of great breadth, leading to a transformation of the quiet drum beats into deep, emphatic unison strokes in the full orchestra. This is just one striking example of Beethoven’s resourceful manipulation of the seminal rhythmic motif, which permeates much of the Allegro ma non troppo. The luminous opening phrases in the winds already absorb this rhythm; the entry of the violins on a mysterious, dissonant D employs it as well. An even more conspicuous development of the idea occurs in the memorable lyrical theme exchanged between the winds and strings, with a shift between major and minor (Ex. 43). Here, the motif derived from the drum taps is played in the violins, dovetailed with related rhythmic phrases in the winds in a higher register. Beethoven’s use of such a rhythmic motif with repeated notes to underpin a broad lyrical sub-

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Ex. 43 Violin Concerto op. 61/I, bars 47–58

ject may have inﬂuenced Schubert in the second theme of the ﬁnale of his Great C major Symphony. The entry of the solo violin exposes another essential dimension of Beethoven’s use of the unaccompanied timpani at the outset. An improvisatory solo passage ascends into the registral stratosphere to the highest D, four octaves above the re-

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peated drumstrokes that announce the beginning of the second exposition. Another vast disjunction in register marks a related pivotal moment near the beginning of the development: here the solo violin restates its introductory passage, in C major, but Beethoven reinterprets the high ethereal pitch and its low counterpoint as a harmonically unstable augmented sixth, and the music passes mysteriously into B minor. There is an afﬁnity between this passage and the uncanny pianissimo passage in C minor in the middle of the development of the G major Piano Concerto. One of Beethoven’s simplest yet most telling strokes in the Violin Concerto is his derivation of the sustained dominant pedal that precedes the recapitulation from the elemental drum motif. The hushed sound of timpani and trumpets underlies and strongly foreshadows the recapitulation itself, where the drum taps are made gigantic, sounded fortissimo in the full orchestra. This work reminds us of the extent to which Beethoven relies on the reinterpretation of gestures over vast temporal spans, often reserving the most deﬁnitive presentation of his themes or motifs to a late stage in the musical discourse. Another such example is his decision to delay giving the violin solo the memorable lyrical theme until after the cadenza. Here, at last, the ﬁgure of repeated notes disappears, as the soloist guides the music to its radiant conclusion. The ﬁrst movement of the Fourth Symphony in B major op. 60, composed earlier in 1806, offers another example of Beethoven’s extraordinary use of the timpani, here in connection with an unorthodox approach to the recapitulation. The general character of the Allegro vivace is energetic and even boisterous, but Beethoven withdraws into a subdued pianissimo toward the end of the development. Mysterious drum rolls are heard on B , and the music lingers for some moments in the remote key of B major, as hushed, transparent descending scales unfold in the strings, while the timpani are silent. Beethoven then returns to the harmony of B major while maintaining the enigmatic pianissimo. The drum rolls recur, ﬁrst intermittently, then as a sustained tonic pedal held for twenty-three bars until the beginning of the recapitulation. There is no cadence; the approach to the reprise is a protracted crescendo, in which the motivic texture gradually penetrates and then ﬁlls the tonal space above the rumbling drum until the recapitulation is afﬁrmed fortissimo by the full orchestra. A fascinating aspect of this passage is that the drum sounds on B can be heard, at least in retrospect, as a subtle foreshadowing of the actual recapitulation, which is ushered in by the long timpani roll on the tonic. The modulation to B major, on the other hand, introduces sufﬁcient contrast to enable Beethoven to relinquish any dominant preparation, or indeed any cadence whatever. This passage may have helped inspire the remarkable approach to the recapitulation in the ﬁrst movement of Schubert’s last Piano Sonata, in B major, in which analogous “drum rolls” in the form of low trills introduce a foreshadowing of the main theme on (but not in) the tonic, moments before the actual recapitulation is reached.

S S S

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In March 1807 the ﬁrst performances of the Fourth Symphony and Fourth Piano Concerto were given at the Lobkowitz palace, together with another orchestral work completed early that year: the Coriolan Overture op. 62. Along with the Fifth Symphony, the Coriolan Overture is the most intensely dramatic and rhythmically propulsive of the orchestral works in Beethoven’s “C minor mood.” Based not on Shakespeare but on a tragedy by the Austrian dramatist Heinrich von Collin, the story concerns a proud, deﬁant aristocrat caught in unresolvable inner conﬂict; seeing no way out of his dilemma, he chooses death. In a perceptive appreciation of the overture, Wagner described Coriolanus as “the man of untamable force, unsuited for a hypocrite’s humility.”8 A quality of deﬁant, passionate energy permeates this music. Unlike the Fifth Symphony, the Coriolan Overture has no positive resolution; the tragic end of the protagonist is implied in the fragmented, dissolving coda. Beethoven begins the Coriolan Overture with yet another transformation of the topos associated with death in the Joseph Cantata and in Fidelio. As in those works, deep sustained unisons are juxtaposed with harmonized chords employing winds in the upper register (Ex. 44). In the faster tempo of this Allegro con brio, Beethoven prescribes tied whole notes for each of the unisons; the sharp, accented chords that follow are hurled into the void. Sequences of this arresting gesture ensue, with the rising upper voice supported by diminished-seventh chords, before two further chords connect cadentially to the main theme in more rapid eighthnote motion, beginning in bar 15. Michael Broyles suggests that this opening resembles a typical slow introduction notated in the main tempo, but this is wide of the mark.9 The prescribed metrical structure does apply to these fortissimo chords, placed as they are in a context of extraordinary rhythmic tension. In order to sustain the tension, and propel the music forward, Beethoven foreshortens the metrical pattern just before the cadence, so that the music is pushed ahead of time into the main theme. Characteristically, he compensates for this gain of energy by otherwise relaxing the point of arrival; the new subject begins piano, in a relatively simple texture that lends itself to later development. In later sections of the overture he combines the sinuous ﬁguration of the main subject with massive, emphatic sonorities such as were heard at the outset. Thus, like the ﬁrst movement of the Fifth Symphony, the Coriolan Overture shows an interplay between molecular motivic ﬁgures and larger harmonic structures. An important but old-fashioned piano work in this key which reached publication in 1807 is the set of Thirty-Two Variations in C minor WoO 80. This piece was seriously underestimated by Beethoven himself, who referred to it disparagingly and failed to assign it an opus number. The C minor Variations are strongly reminiscent of a Baroque chaconne, employing a short, eight-bar theme with a chromatically descending ground bass. Beethoven often effectively overcomes the terseness

8 9

“Ouvertüre zu Koriolan,” Sämtliche Schriften und Dichtungen, vol. 5, p. 173. The Emergence and Evolution of Beethoven’s Heroic Style, pp. 148–51.

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Ex. 44 Coriolan Overture op. 62

of the theme by grouping the variations together, as in nos. 1–3, 7–8, 10–11, 12–14, 15–16, 19–22, 26–27, and 31–32. These groupings by no means exhaust the many relationships between individual variations, which are based on general rhythmic and textural features and on modal contrast (the Maggiore section, Variations 12–16, for example, embraces two of these groupings, and provides large-scale contrast after the agitated variation pair nos. 10–11). Variation 31 provides a reprise of the original theme above an arpeggiated accompaniment, whereas in Variation 32 a rhythmic elaboration of the theme leads upward in register to the high C three octaves above middle C, marking the beginning of the coda. (This high C occurs for the ﬁrst time among the sonatas in op. 57, composed in 1804–6, and reﬂects the upward expansion of register in the pianos available to Beethoven; in works up to op. 31, of 1802, the range rarely exceeds high F, a ﬁfth lower.) With his ﬁrst mass, the work in C major eventually published as op. 86, Beethoven found himself in a particularly direct and taxing comparison with Haydn. The commission came from Prince Nikolaus Esterházy the younger, who turned to Beethoven on account of Haydn’s advanced age. For Esterházy, Haydn had written all six of his late masses, four of which were published by Breitkopf &

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Härtel during 1802–4. Beethoven’s sketches for the C major Mass contain excerpts from Haydn’s Schöpfungsmesse (Hob. xxii: 13), and his treatment of the form of the mass largely follows Haydn’s models. Nevertheless, Beethoven’s dynamic and richly contrasting musical characterization of the text departs from Haydn’s more restrained, uniﬁed approach; this is presumably what displeased the prince, as Jens Peter Larsen has observed.10 After the ﬁrst performance on 13 September 1807 at Eisenstadt, Esterházy is supposed to have remarked skeptically “But, dear Beethoven, what is this that you have done again?”; the composer left in anger, and changed the dedication of the mass in favor of Prince Kinsky. No more such commissions were forthcoming; twelve years were to pass before Beethoven tackled his second and ﬁnal mass, the Missa solemnis. On 8 June 1808, in a letter offering the C major Mass to the reluctant publisher Breitkopf & Härtel, Beethoven proudly emphasized the very aspect of the piece that must have troubled Esterházy: “About my mass . . . I believe that I have handled the text as it has been yet seldom treated.” In its historical context, this work appears less conservative than when viewed only in the company of Beethoven’s ambitious symphonic compositions of these years. The climax of this immensely productive period of Beethoven’s career is the contrasted pair of symphonies that he completed in 1808 and which were ﬁrst performed at his musical Akademie in the Theater an der Wien on 22 December of that year. The Fifth and Sixth Symphonies are not only sharply proﬁled individuals but are diametrically opposed to one another in conspicuous features of their structure and expression. Nevertheless, certain kinships between them are revealing: their points of similarity relate to aspects of the narrative design, as well as to style and character. Like the Waldstein and Appassionata Sonatas, the Fifth and Sixth Symphonies represent disparate musical worlds that ultimately complement one another. We need not choose between them, but can appreciate each more fully in the light of the opposing perspective embodied in its companion. Whereas the C minor Symphony is perhaps the most goal-directed or teleological of all Beethoven’s works, the Pastoral Symphony in F major is remarkably relaxed, even passive. In the ﬁrst movement of the Pastoral, Beethoven not only suppresses dissonance to a remarkable extent, but he nearly banishes the minor triad. The arrival at the recapitulation is treated in a soft, understated manner, through the subdominant. In the development, extended passages are given over to repetitive ﬁgures on basic triadic harmonies; mere chords are thereby magniﬁed into tonal regions. If the syntactical discourse of the musical language is ﬂattened, Beethoven compensates the listener through his deliciously sensitive handling of orchestral sonority. The F major Symphony is a transparently sensuous score, in which rhythmic drive is largely suspended, held in reserve for moments of special import. In its style and expression, the opening Allegro con brio of the Fifth Symphony is the opposite: propulsive rhythmic energy and relentless harmonic dissonance sustain it. In place of the broad expansion of sound of the Pastoral there is a terse concentration, with strong emphasis on dissonant diminished-seventh chords. Here, 10

“Beethovens C-dur-Messe und die Spätmessen Joseph Haydns,” pp. 12–19.

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more than in his earlier C minor works, Beethoven gives voice to the Schillerian notion of resistance to suffering in a manner that only music can command. In the Fifth Symphony he enlarges this message across all four movements, which are welded into an even tighter and more cohesive narrative design than in the Eroica. In comparing these two symphonies it is tempting to claim that in the Pastoral Beethoven precisely inverted the technique of his Fifth Symphony. The idea of a “Pastoral” Symphony was in no way unprecedented; Beethoven actually adapted his movement titles from those in a symphony by the eighteenth-century composer Justin Heinrich Knecht entitled Le Portrait musical de la nature. The realization of the Pastoral Symphony, however, is not conventional but unique; it embodies an artistic approach in the mainstream of Beethoven’s creative development. Here, as in the C minor Symphony, an overall design is imposed whereby the later movements ﬂow directly into one another. In the Fifth Symphony the scherzo is linked through a transition to the ﬁnale and is later recalled before the recapitulation of that movement. Of the ﬁve movements of the Pastoral, the last three are directly connected: the “Merry gathering of villagers” is disrupted by the “Thunderstorm” and resolves into the concluding “Shepherd’s song,” expressing “happy, grateful thanks after the storm.” In accordance with its less directional or deterministic aesthetic, the Pastoral Symphony shows much afﬁnity between the opening movement and the ﬁnale, quite unlike the polar opposition embodied in the Fifth. Following the beautifully placid Allegro, marked “Pleasant, cheerful feelings aroused on arriving in the countryside,” and the following “Scene at the brook,” with birdcalls in the winds interpolated before the conclusion, Beethoven introduces the symphony’s ﬁrst marked contrast in the central dance movement. The elements of humor and parody that surface here are not unusual for him; F major, the key of this Allegro, is the tonality of several of his most comic pieces, ranging from the Piano Sonatas op. 10 no. 2 and op. 54 to the Eighth Symphony and the String Quartet op. 135. One of Beethoven’s funniest ideas is his parody of a village bassoonist, in the middle of the ﬁrst section. The bassoon player is unable to play along with the oboe and strings, since he or she can produce only two notes, which vividly conveys a homely touch of rustic surroundings! Just as humorous, though more subtle, is the following sympathetic imitation by the violas and cellos of the falling pitches produced by the worthy bassoonist. Beethoven interrupts the merrymaking of the peasants with an abrupt deceptive cadence, as the natural elements force their attention on the countryfolk. The effective realism of the “storm,” with its wind, rain, thunder, and lightning, is used here to make a dramatic point that puts the rest of the work into a new perspective. Hector Berlioz saw this clearly when he wrote of the climax of this Allegro that “It is no longer just a wind and rain storm: it is a frightful cataclysm, a universal deluge, the end of the world.”11 In the peaceful, idyllic environment that has prevailed up to this point, the ﬁrst impact of the full orchestral forces on the F minor triad early in the “storm” is already disturbing. The climax that im11

A travers chants, p. 45.

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pressed Berlioz, on a vast diminished-seventh sonority enhanced by passing notes in the basses, is so potent in good performance as to endanger the very premise of a “programmatic” symphony. It is perhaps in part for this reason that Beethoven wrote that the work was “more an expression of feeling than tone painting” (“mehr Ausdruck der Empﬁndung als Malerei”). He does indulge in egregious tone painting in his “storm”— his resourceful use of the piccolo to provide streaks of lightning is one example. But unlike many programmatic works, the Pastoral Symphony is not at all conﬁned to realistic depiction. At the climax Beethoven gathers together his entire arsenal of instruments, including the trombones, and breaks the syntax of the musical discourse by protracting the great syncopated chord over six bars (Ex. 45). This is a window out of the work into the world, a psychic storm that encourages every attentive listener to reevaluate his or her aesthetic response to the music. In the Fifth Symphony this reﬂexive dimension is much more pronounced. In no other work did Beethoven achieve such a concentrated synthesis of successive movements. One aspect of this synthesis is the famous rhythmic motif of repeated notes and a falling third heard at the outset of the whole symphony. In the opening phrases Beethoven dramatizes the ﬁgure by pausing on the last notes of the motif, which momentarily holds back the full ﬂood of the musical unfolding. Variants of this so-called fate motif appear in later movements, most obviously in the insistent horn motifs of the scherzo. The motivic integration of the symphony also shapes many aspects of the thematic treatment, orchestration, and form. By combining the scherzo and ﬁnale into a composite movement, Beethoven places an elemental polarity at the core of his formal conception. Another complementary relationship holds between the terse C minor idiom of the opening Allegro con brio, with its overpowering force and pathos, and the tremendous ﬁnal Allegro in C major, whose presto coda accomplishes the seemingly impossible, ﬁrmly resolving the formidable tensions of the entire symphony into an elemental substratum of sound and time. In the narrative design of the symphony, the slow variation movement in A major represents both a lyrical diversion after the C minor pathos of the opening Allegro and a signiﬁcant foreshadowing of the triumphant ﬁnale. The episodes of this Andante con moto turn repeatedly to C major with horns and trumpets, only then to withdraw mysteriously into a twilight of harmonic ambiguity. In his sketches Beethoven tried out a more straightforward anticipation of the C major ﬁnale, but settled on a solution that is more precariously balanced, suggesting the distant premonition of a goal that cannot yet be attained. The ﬁnal cadence of this movement sounds unsettled; it stresses a short, ascending triadic fanfare drawn from the main theme, a ﬁgure that also presages the ﬁnale. Still another, more obvious link to the ﬁnal movement is the trio of the scherzo, which employs thematic material in C major with a prominently rising contour. The pervasive ascending tendency of the music is reﬂected as well in the orchestration of the trio, which begins in the double basses and ends in the ﬂute. The trio is an advance parody of the ﬁnale folded into the mocking, grotesque context of the C minor scherzo. Beethoven originally intended to repeat the entire scherzo and trio, but the

the heroic style ii: 1806–1809 Ex. 45 Pastoral Symphony op. 68/IV, bars 105–14

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published version, without the repetition, is most effective in the overall narrative design. The scherzo thereby yields up some of its formal autonomy in the interest of the unfolding progression between movements. At the reprise of the scherzo its substance is transformed into shadowy accents, with hushed pizzicato strings and mysterious muted sounds in the winds. Then its dark humor fades into deeper obscurity as a cadence is reached in the low register in an extremely soft dynamic range, with the strings marked triple pianissimo. At this juncture we have reached a turning point at the threshold of audibility. What follows is one of the most celebrated transitions in all music (Ex. 46). The timpani are heard on low C, softly tapping the motivic rhythm, before this ﬁgure is gradually transformed into a steady pulsation. This drum sound is enveloped by the strings; at the structural downbeat in bar 324 the cellos and basses settle onto a long-held A , pushing the music into a mysterious deceptive cadence. When the strings now try to pick up the thread of the scherzo, they are stopped in their tracks after three bars and dwell as if hypnotized on the falling intervals from the end of the fragment. Although the thematic fragment is drawn from the scherzo, its earlier temporal and formal context is completely suspended; opposing forces have come into play. The motivic scrap from the scherzo is quietly repeated over and over, and drifts higher and higher until it converges into the dominant-seventh chord for full orchestra that resolves to the emphatic beginning of the ensuing Allegro, marked by the ﬁrst appearance of trombones in the symphony. The impact of the dominant seventh is enhanced by the mysteriously understated, yet logical and even inevitable quality of the transitional passage. The ﬁnale of the Fifth Symphony emerges suddenly, like a mirage in the desert. As it appears, however, the apparent mirage takes on the glaring force of reality, and exposes the desert as the illusion. The ﬁnale of the Fifth absorbs something of the character of an éclat triomphal, with ties to French revolutionary music,12 and this accounts in part for the dismissive reaction of some of the older critics. Alexander Ulibischeff saw the coda of the ﬁnale as “ﬁlled up with commonplaces of military music”;13 Hermann Kretzschmar found the themes “simple to the point of triviality.”14 The ﬁrst movement already shows a striking parallel with Cherubini’s Hymne du Panthéon, as Arnold Schmitz observed.15 The rich connotations of this music owe much less to such conventions, however, than to the gigantic, overreaching polarity of minor and major that embraces the whole symphony. Lawrence Kramer has rightly emphasized the relationship between the end of the ﬁrst movement, with its vehement effect of minor conquering major, and the inverse process at the end of the ﬁnale, the positing of C major in a form “that cannot be followed.”16 Beethoven 12

Cf. Gülke, Zur Neuausgabe der Sinfonie Nr. 5, esp. pp. 56–57. Beethoven: Ses critiques et ses glossateurs, p. 205. 14 Führer durch den Konzertsaal, vol. 1, p. 97. 15 Das romantische Beethovenbild, p. 167; see also Rolland, Beethoven: Les grandes époques créatrices, who draws attention to the inﬂuence of Gluck. 16 Music and Poetry: The Nineteenth Century and After, p. 235. 13

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Ex. 46 Fifth Symphony op. 67/III, bars 316–end

continued

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Ex. 46 (continued)

reminds us of the conditional, and perhaps provisional, status of his triumphant ﬁnal movement by recalling the scherzo in C minor in place of the development. The moment of recapitulation thus represents not merely a return of the exposition in the tonic key, but a reinterpretation of the entire intermovement transition. As the scherzo is recalled, the presence of the oboe harks back to the short expres-

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sive oboe cadenza at the recapitulation of the ﬁrst movement, a moment of brief respite in the furious temporal drive of the Allegro con brio. The presto coda leaves all doubts about a further relapse into the minor far behind by delivering the C major “that cannot be followed.” Here, as in certain passages of the ﬁrst movement of the Eroica, the rhythmic tension becomes so great as to ﬂatten and almost obliterate the harmonic syntax; the movement ends with no fewer than twenty-nine bars reiterating the tonic triad of C major, with no harmonic change whatsoever. Earlier in the coda Beethoven introduces extravagant touches in orchestration, including a high trill in the piccolo. Climax builds on climax, as the rising triadic theme of the Allegro is compressed into at least double time, generating an exciting linear ascent of an octave and a half from C to the highest G. This is the peak; the ﬁnal phrases strive to repeat the ascent, but succeed only in reaching E, a third lower. The ﬁnal chords are positioned with the mathematical precision of a gothic cathedral (Ex. 47). There are three groups of three contained in the last thirteen bars: the three chords of the example, separated by rests and containing the descent of the tenth from E to C; the next three chords, at the beginnings of bars 438–40; and the overlapping closing group of three chords, each set two bars apart. But superimposed on these groupings is a bigger pattern of rhythmic impulses four bars apart beginning in bar 432, so that the closing beats of each of the basic conﬁgurations, in bars 436, 440, and 444, resonate as a larger embodiment of the same rhythm. This is the ﬁnal, unsurpassable transformation and gloriﬁcation of the motif that began the entire symphony. The Fifth Symphony, like the Andante of the Fourth Concerto, embodies a process of symbolic transformation, which is projected with remarkable coherence over the work as a whole. Unifying motifs are almost inevitable in any such intermovement narrative design, but no less essential is the directional tension culminating in the ﬁnale—a feature that resurfaces in later masterpieces such as the Ninth Symphony and the C minor Quartet. A shifting of weight to the ﬁnale occurs in certain eighteenth-century pieces—notably in Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony—but in Beethoven this tendency assumes such prominence as to realign the aesthetic foundations of music. In the Fifth Symphony Beethoven departs from the more static, successive classical formal models by explicitly connecting the movements, undermining their individual autonomy. A mythic pattern seems to be imposed on the overall artistic sequence, guiding the processive chain of interconnected musical forms. In its embrace of the dichotomous and its evocation of the ineffable or even the demonic, the Fifth Symphony opens the door to Romanticism, yet the profound lucidity of its musical shape deﬁes unequivocal programmatic interpretation. In this respect, as in many others, Beethoven’s importance lies in his synthesis of the old and new, of the universality of the classical harmonic framework with the quest for particularity of expression characteristic of the nineteenth century.

S S S When the two new symphonies were ﬁrst performed, in the Theater an der Wien on 22 December 1808, they were joined in the program by several other pieces, including the aria “Ah perﬁdo!” and the G major Concerto, with the composer at

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Ex. 47 Fifth Symphony op. 67/IV, bars 428–end

the piano. The concert had some severe shortcomings, due to lack of rehearsal and the fact that the hall remained unheated in the cold weather. Johann Friedrich Reichardt reported that “I accepted with hearty thanks the kind offer of Prince Lobkowitz to let me sit in his box. There we continued, in the bitterest cold, too, from 6:30 until 10:30, and experienced the truth that one can easily have too much of a good thing.”17 Despite the large amount of music to be performed, Bee17

Thayer-Forbes, p. 448.

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thoven directed his energies to completing yet another work to serve as the crowning ﬁnal piece of his Akademie: the Choral Fantasy in C major for piano, orchestra, and chorus op. 80. Its performance did not run smoothly: at one point in the middle Beethoven was obliged to stop the orchestra and begin again. The Choral Fantasy begins with an improvisatory piano introduction, leading to a set of variations on the theme Beethoven had used in his song Gegenliebe WoO 118 of 1794 or 1795. Czerny reported that the poet Kuffner was engaged at the last minute to write new words for the Choral Fantasy, following hints given by the composer.18 Beethoven probably conceived much of the music before the text was completed, since the words are missing from his sketches. The text took the form of an idealistic “Ode to Music,” reminding us of Beethoven’s fascination with other poems of this general type, such as Tiedge’s Ode to Hope and Schiller’s Ode to Joy. In fact, many aspects of the Choral Fantasy anticipate Beethoven’s later setting of Schiller’s text in the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony, as the composer himself recognized. In a letter from March 1824 Beethoven described the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth as “a setting of the words of Schiller’s immortal ‘Lied an die Freude’ in the same way as my pianoforte fantasia with chorus, but on a far grander scale.”19 Yet another work from this period captures Beethoven’s abilities in keyboard improvisation: the Fantasy for piano solo op. 77. Although not ﬁnished until October 1809, this piece may represent a revised version of the improvised solo fantasy Beethoven played at the Akademie. The op. 77 Fantasy also culminates in a set of variations, in B major, following a strikingly free opening section abounding in thematic contrasts and sudden modulations, in a style reminiscent of C. P. E. Bach. The initial gesture of this work is a rapid descending scale, which seems torn, as it were, from the celestial ether; rather than support its key, G minor, Beethoven proceeds to the remote D major, the key of the contrasting lyrical theme. The op. 77 Fantasy and op. 80 Choral Fantasy both offer insight into Beethoven’s considerable powers of invention outside the formal demands of the classical sonata style. The year 1809 was one of upheaval in Vienna, bringing events that had much impact on the composer. The high inﬂation and unstable economic conditions wrought by the Napoleonic wars worried Beethoven, who considered leaving the city. The circumstances are tangled and hard to evaluate; once again, Beethoven’s ambivalent attitude toward Napoleon lies at the heart of the matter. Shortly before, Beethoven had received a tempting offer of employment at Cassel from Napoleon’s brother Jerôme, who had been installed there as King of Westphalia one year earlier. On 1 November 1808 Beethoven wrote to Count Oppersdorf

18 Thayer-Forbes, pp. 448, 451. Nottebohm questioned Czerny’s attribution of the text to Kuffner and speculated that the author might have been Georg Friedrich Treitschke, who revised the libretto of Fidelio in 1814. 19 Anderson, vol. 3, L. 1269.

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that “I have been asked to become Kapellmeister to the King of Westphalia, and it could be that I will accept this offer.”20 In a letter dated 7 January 1809 to Breitkopf & Härtel Beethoven indicated that he had decided to move, and Ries asserted that around February the contract for the position at Cassel was ready and “lacked only the signature.”21 In response to Beethoven’s imminent departure, a counteroffer and annuity contract were drawn up by three of Beethoven’s loyal patrons, the Archduke Rudolph, Prince Lobkowitz, and Prince Ferdinand Kinsky. All three were younger than Beethoven: the archduke only twenty-one, Lobkowitz thirty-ﬁve, and Kinsky twenty-seven. The agreement, dated 1 March 1809, guaranteed Beethoven a substantial income for life in return for the continuation of his artistic contributions in Vienna. The later history of the annuity payments was complicated not only by steep inﬂation and currency reform but by the premature death in 1812 of Kinsky and the virtual bankruptcy of Lobkowitz, whose excessive expenditures on art had drained his resources. Beethoven struggled with considerable determination and occasional legal interventions to assure the continuance of the stipend to the end of his life. Three of Beethoven’s major works of chamber music were dedicated to the persons who helped negotiate the annuity agreement: the Cello Sonata in A major op. 69 was dedicated to Ignaz Gleichenstein, and the two Piano Trios op. 70 to Countess Erdödy. In the op. 69 Sonata the cello begins unaccompanied, dolce and legato, with motifs that permeate the entire ﬁrst movement. After the main theme has been heard in both instruments it is suddenly dramatically altered, and cast into A minor. This contrast between the quiet atmosphere of the lyrical opening and a turbulent, rhythmically charged continuation is characteristic of the Allegro, ma non tanto. The second movement is a scherzo, whose main theme takes on a strong rhythmic tension through syncopation. Like the Cello Sonatas op. 5, this work has no independent slow movement, but the ﬁnale is introduced by an expressive Adagio cantabile in E major, whose thematic material bears a subtle relationship to the ﬁnale. At the beginning of his D major Trio op. 70 no. 1 Beethoven reshapes the basic thematic outline from his earlier piano sonata in this key, op. 10 no. 3, to endow the music with an intense forward drive. Instead of an upbeat ﬁgure descending a fourth followed by a sequential rise in pitch, as in the sonata, Beethoven compresses the initial four-note motif, starting on the downbeat, fortissimo. This foreshortening generates a kind of metrical dissonance within the triple meter that infuses much energy into the succeeding motivic ﬁgures based on fourths. He thereby reverses his normal procedure, whereby rhythmic diminution follows the basic motivic presentation, and he heightens the outcome of this arresting unison phrase through a shocking turn into the minor mode, as F is substituted for F in bar 5. Beethoven packs an extraordinary density of ideas into the concentrated unison opening of this work. 20 21

Anderson, vol. 1, L. 178. Thayer-Forbes, pp. 453–54, 458.

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No less remarkable is the slow movement of op. 70 no. 1, on account of which the work has become known as the Ghost Trio. Czerny wrote about this Largo assai ed espressivo in D minor that it “resembles an appearance from the underworld. One could think not inappropriately of the ﬁrst appearance of the ghost in Hamlet.”22 Beethoven’s sketches do imply a Shakespearean connection here, though to a different play, Macbeth. During 1808 Heinrich von Collin offered Beethoven part of an opera libretto based on Shakespeare’s Macbeth; the drama, like Shakespeare’s, was to have begun with the witches’ scene. In leaves originally belonging to Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony Sketchbook, entries for the projected opera on Macbeth are juxtaposed with work on the slow movement of the trio. An uncanny atmosphere invests Beethoven’s Largo, with its mysterious tremolos, chromatic textures, and powerful dynamic contrasts. Lockwood has shown how intensively Beethoven labored on the ﬁnal cadence, painstakingly devising a solution that does not resolve but sustains the tension until the beginning of the ensuing presto ﬁnale.23 During 1808–9 Beethoven showed a marked tendency to compose works in E major; the Trio op. 70 no. 2, Piano Concerto op. 73, String Quartet op. 74, and Piano Sonata op. 81a are all in this key. The E Trio looks back to Mozart and especially Haydn, while at the same time anticipating Schubert in its gracious third movement, marked Allegretto ma non troppo. In the ﬁrst movement, the relationship of the poco sostenuto slow introduction to the Allegro ma non troppo shows parallels with Haydn’s Drumroll Symphony (no. 103) in the same key, as Anthony Burton has observed; an afﬁnity with Haydn’s work can also be felt in the slow movement, a set of variations on two alternating themes.24 Tovey wrote of an “integration of Mozart’s and Haydn’s resources” in op. 70 no. 2;25 the subtle stylistic play at work in this trio transcends the classicizing impulse in some of Beethoven’s earlier compositions, such as the C major Mass of 1807, with its more obvious debt to Haydn. The most stylistically progressive movement of the E Trio is the gentle, scherzo-like third movement. Beethoven breaks with convention by placing this Allegretto not in the tonic but in the subdominant key, A major, and he introduces enharmonic shifts of Schubertian delicacy in the trio, with the piano penetrating the highest register in a transparent, pianissimo texture. The Fifth Piano Concerto, from the beginning of 1809, is cast in a more brilliant, heroic mould. Its outer movements assume a majestic character, with rhythmic ﬁgures evocative of military style and a formal breadth reminiscent of the Eroica Symphony. Yet the important dramatic events often depend on the withdrawal of the music into a mysterious stillness. In the solo exposition of the opening Allegro the pianist presents a transparent, pianissimo subject in B minor and 22

On the Proper Performance of All Beethoven’s Works for the Piano, p. [87] 97. “Beethoven and the Problem of Closure,” in Beiträge zu Beethovens Kammermusik, pp. 267–70; Beethoven: Studies in the Creative Process, pp. 191–97. 24 Anthony Burton, notes to the recording by Wilhelm Kempff, Henryk Szering, and Pierre Fournier (Deutsche Grammophon), p. 17. 25 Beethoven, p. 88. 23

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C major, thereby presaging the Adagio un poco mosso in B major, the enharmonic equivalent of C . The last section of the development almost recedes into inaudibility, as the music is reduced to its seminal rhythmic motif before increasingly intense repetitions of this ﬁgure open the door to the recapitulation. Beethoven had employed such a quiet withdrawal preceding the recapitulation in the ﬁrst movement of his Fourth Symphony, as we have seen. By no means do Beethoven’s development sections in his sonata designs always require a steady increase in tension leading up to the recapitulation. As early as 1800, in the ﬁrst movement of the Piano Sonata in B op. 22, Beethoven had experimented with a development that unfolds into a vast decrescendo, to be followed by a fresh start at the beginning of the ensuing reprise. Another example from the period in question is the ﬁrst movement development of the Quartet in E op. 74, which gradually fades into pianissimo before the use of pizzicato brings an even softer dynamic level; only in the last three bars does Beethoven prescribe a crescendo leading to the reprise in forte. In the overall design of the E major Concerto the serene slow movement in B major acts as an immense parenthesis; its mood of dream-like reﬂection is dissipated with wonderful sensitivity at the transition to the ﬁnale. The cadential ﬁgure of the Adagio theme, with its repeated motif B–A –B, is reinterpreted in a long diminuendo passage, beginning at the point where the leading note A falls to A instead of rising to B. The cadence is thereby interrupted, and the piano descends out of the high pitch registers to alight eventually on a soft B in the bass. The pivotal moment is reached when this B octave is sustained through a bar in the bassoons. For the next downward shift of a semitone is not merely motivic but signals a structural modulation: A becomes B , the dominant of E major. When the resolution to B is sounded and then prolonged in the horns, the slow movement is ﬁnished, but Beethoven preserves its tempo and dynamic level in his ensuing anticipation in the piano of the ﬁnale’s rondo theme. Schumann imitated this passage at the transition to the ﬁnale of his Piano Concerto in A minor op. 54. By the spring of 1809 political events in Austria had reached a crisis. On 9 April Austria declared war on France; Tyson has noted that Beethoven’s sketches for Collin’s Östreich über Alles and for a Jubelgesang may be connected with the patriotic fervor engendered by these conditions.26 By the end of April the French armies had invaded Austria. On the night of 11–12 May the French bombarded Vienna; Beethoven took refuge in the cellar of his brother Carl’s house, and, according to Ries, “covered his head with pillows so as not to hear the cannons.”27 Vienna capitulated the next day. During the ensuing occupation Beethoven is supposed to have displayed contempt for the French military, but he did not avoid friendly contact with individual Frenchmen. He repeatedly met the Baron de Trémont, a French ofﬁcer and music lover who vividly described Beethoven’s improvisations and commented on the composer’s fascination with Napoleon. In the wake of the war with France and occupation of Vienna, many of Bee26 27

The Beethoven Sketchbooks, p. 188. Wegeler-Ries, Biographische Notizen, p. 121.

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thoven’s friends and patrons left the city, including the Archduke Rudolph, who departed on 4 May 1809, not to return until 30 January 1810. Shortly thereafter, on 4 February, Beethoven offered Breitkopf & Härtel three new piano sonatas for publication: the two-movement Sonata in F dedicated to the Countess Therese Brunswick and eventually issued as op. 78, the “Sonatina” in G op. 79, and the Sonata in E major op. 81a. Notwithstanding its compact dimensions and motivic similarities to Beethoven’s Ritterballett of 1791, op. 79 is a highly polished work. The rhythmic élan of its outer movements is reﬂected in the unusual direction “Presto alla tedesca” for the ﬁrst movement: the relaxed pace more typical of a German dance is supplanted here by vivacious energy. The second movement, in G minor, marked Andante, displays metrical ambiguity and a remote, archaic quality suggesting the inﬂuence of Eastern folklore; one is reminded at least distantly of the Allegretto of the C major Quartet op. 59 no. 3. An unusual feature of the F major Sonata op. 78 is the introductory motto encapsulated in the four opening bars, marked Adagio cantabile. Euphonious chords enhanced with expressive appoggiaturas rise above a deep pedal point in the bass; the gesture is declamatory, yet tender and heartfelt. This quality of Innigkeit is found often in Beethoven, yet nowhere more prominently than in some of the solo piano sonatas, from the gracious ﬁnale of the E Sonata op. 7 to the glowing lyricism of the opening Allegretto of op. 101. Several such works were dedicated to Beethoven’s female piano pupils: Countess “Babette” Keglevics (later Countess Odescalchi) received the dedications of op. 7 and other works, while the distinguished pianist Baroness Ertmann, whom Beethoven once addressed as his “dear, valued Dorothea-Cäcilia,” received the dedication of op. 101. Therese Brunswick was presumably a less accomplished player than Keglevics or Ertmann, but Beethoven devoted long hours to teaching her and her sister Josephine as early as 1799, when, as she later recalled, he “never tired” of “holding and bending my ﬁngers.” Uhde has suggested that the choice of key for the F major Sonata may have had a pedagogical purpose, and that the intimately lyrical character of the music was inﬂuenced by Bach’s works in this key in The WellTempered Clavier.28 A tight network of motivic relationships takes shape in op. 78 as the ascending contour and harmonic color of the fervent opening motto are reinterpreted in ensuing passages of the Allegro, ma non troppo. In turn, the second group of the exposition introduces a motif of three emphatic chords, the last marked sforzando, which are juxtaposed with more gentle ﬁgures marked piano. A variant of this motif is employed in the principal theme of the ﬁnale. The most weighty of the three sonatas is the Lebewohl in E major op. 81a, a piece which, like op. 78, uses a motto technique in its opening movement. In this instance Beethoven entered the dates of the archduke’s departure and return into the score and allowed the emotional progression of “farewell–absence–reunion” to determine the basic character of the three movements. He was irritated by the use, in the ﬁrst edition, of French instead of German titles, probably not only because of the difference in meaning between “Les adieux” and “Das Lebewohl,” 28

Beethovens Klaviermusik, vol. 3, pp. 225–27.

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but also because of the relationship between the falling horn motif (G–F–E , with E –B –G in the lower voice) at the outset of the slow introduction and the syllables “Le-be-wohl,” which are written above these chords. The initial harmonization of this “Lebewohl” motif in the slow introduction of the ﬁrst movement does not afﬁrm the tonic, E major, but leads ﬁrst deceptively to the submediant, C minor, and then, in the eighth bar, to a sustained harmony on the more remote ﬂat sixth, C major. The ﬁrst strong cadential arrival at the tonic triad of E is thus delayed until ﬁve bars into the following Allegro. The tonal ambiguity of the slow introduction contributes to its suspended, searching character, qualities that reappear in the second movement, “Abwesenheit” (“Absence”). At the same time, the “Lebewohl” motto of a stepwise descending third assumes much importance throughout the Allegro of the ﬁrst movement, which begins with an energetic reinterpretation of the progression G–F–E above a chromatically falling bass. In the development Beethoven further exploits the association of this motto with ambiguous harmonies, leading the music into remote key areas; but the harmonic boldness characteristic of this sonata is most of all evident in the coda, where the tonic and dominant are repeatedly sounded together (Ex. 48). Here the imitations of the original motto seem to recede into the distance, implying that the departure has taken place. (In many passages of this Allegro, the “Lebewohl” motif is written in whole notes, so that its actual duration in performance approximates its initial appearances in the Adagio, where it is notated in quarter notes.) The “Absence” has a slow processional character and (like the “Introduzione” of the Waldstein Sonata) leads directly into the ﬁnale. Though the principal key is C minor, the opening dwells not on the tonic triad but on a diminished-seventh chord; indeed, in a later restatement of the initial motif at the same pitch level (bar

Ex. 48 Piano Sonata op. 81a/I, coda

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11), the harmony is intensiﬁed through the use of a dissonant chord of the eleventh. Immediately afterward the motif is foreshortened and stressed by accents above a descending bass; this poignant and expressive passage leads through a brief transition to a consoling, cantabile subject in the dominant key. The entire period embracing these two themes is then repeated, beginning in B minor; and we are given the sense that this cyclic repetition of grief and consolation could continue indeﬁnitely. After six bars of a third period, in which the music ascends to the dominantseventh chord of E , the long-awaited event occurs in the form of a decisive and jubilant elaboration of this chord in a ten-bar transition to the ﬁnale. This is, of course, the moment of reunion. A dancing Vivacissimamente in sonata form now transforms the “Lebewohl” motif from the ﬁrst movement into scintillating ﬁguration. Beethoven recalls the symbolic progression from the “Absence” to “Reunion” by transforming hard, bleak, unharmonized octaves into delicate turns with grace notes in the swinging 6/8 meter. This ﬁnale embodies not only an outcome of the overall narrative progression of movements, as in the Pathétique Sonata, but acts as dramatic culmination of the entire work. Beethoven apparently delayed the completion of this exuberant ﬁnale until the actual return of the archduke gave him cause for celebration and a reason to immortalize their friendship through a work of art.

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R According to Czerny, Beethoven once said that “Schiller’s poems are extremely difﬁcult for the musician. The composer must know how to lift himself far above the poet; who can do that with a Schiller text? In that respect Goethe is much easier!”1 Schiller himself had grappled with this difference in his treatise Über naive und sentimentale Dichtung (On Naive and Sentimental Poetry) of 1795–96, where he postulated two basic mental attitudes, the “naive” and the “sentimental,” with the latter understood in the sense of “reﬂective.” Goethe, like Shakespeare and the greatest Greek poets, was regarded as “naive” because his work mirrors the external world directly and unreﬂectingly; Schiller saw his own poetry and much literature of his time as “sentimental,” in that it reconstructs, reﬂects, and modiﬁes the world through an active intrusion of the imagination. Beethoven’s art straddles both sides of the distinction; the “sentimental” aspect is perhaps most succinctly captured by Nietzsche’s comment that Beethoven “writes music about music.”2 The less idealistic, more realistic cast of Goethe’s poetry made it more accessible to the musician, in Beethoven’s view. Nevertheless, Beethoven experienced difﬁculty in setting Goethe’s poetry in earlier years. Of the eight songs to texts by Goethe that Beethoven attempted between 1800 and 1804, six remained incomplete. And in 1808, when Beethoven tackled “Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt” from Wilhelm Meister, he produced no one deﬁnitive setting. On his autograph score Beethoven wrote, perhaps ironically, that “I lacked time to produce a good setting, therefore several tries.” He left four settings of this text.3 The climax of Beethoven’s engagement with Goethe’s writings came in 1810. His main project during the ﬁrst half of the year was the incidental music to Goethe’s tragedy Egmont op. 84, which was ﬁrst performed on 15 or 18 June. During the following months he also completed three songs to Goethe texts that 1 On the Proper Performance of All Beethoven’s Works for the Piano, p. 19; translation amended. 2 “Der Wanderer und sein Schatten,” no. 152 in Menschliches, Allzumenschliches I and II, p. 616. 3 Cf. the facsimile edition with commentary by Helga Lühning, Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt (Bonn, 1986).

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were published as op. 83 nos. 1–3: Wonne der Wehmut, Sehnsucht, and Mit einem gemalten Band (see Plate 9). Wonne der Wehmut might be translated as “Bliss in Sorrow”; we shall examine this song in detail in order to illustrate some characteristic features of Beethoven’s text setting (Ex. 49). Beethoven’s best lieder have not received the attention they deserve; the songs have always been overshadowed by his much larger production of instrumental music. The key of Wonne der Wehmut, E major, was associated by Beethoven with a reﬂective, elevated, and often ethereal or religious character. Examples among the songs include the ﬁrst of the Gellert Lieder, Bitten (op. 48 no. 1), the Opferlied, and the Abendlied unterm gestirnten Himmel of 1820. Similar qualities surface in some of Beethoven’s instrumental works in this key. As we have seen, he is said to have conceived the E major slow movement of the second Razumovsky quartet while “contemplating the starry heavens and thinking of the music of the spheres.” His piano music in this key and general character ranges from the main theme of the Adagio of the Piano Sonata op. 2 no. 3 to the slow movement of the Third Concerto and the variation ﬁnale of the Sonata op. 109. A comparison of the song with Goethe’s original poem reveals how freely Beethoven has altered the text by repeating and interpolating certain words. “Trocknet nicht!” is inserted between the third and fourth lines of Goethe’s poem. Subsequently, Beethoven reiterates the last two lines of the text, and he closes the song by changing the order of words, with a last repetition of “unglücklicher Liebe!,” followed by a ﬁnal, resolving statement of “Trocknet nicht!” He has reshaped the text in accordance with his musical interpretation. Beethoven’s means are simple but telling; like Schubert’s six Heine settings of 1828, Wonne der Wehmut displays a miraculous artistic economy whereby the most basic elements of harmony and melody are endowed with a pregnant signiﬁcance. The song begins without introduction. The twofold statement of “Trocknet nicht!” is supported by a harmonic progression from the tonic triad in root position through a dominant-seventh chord to another tonic in ﬁrst inversion in the middle of bar 2; the bass ascends by step, with the subdominant reached in bar 3 and the tonic in second inversion in bar 4. The resolution to the dominant in this bar marks the end of the ﬁrst larger phrase. Beethoven’s basic voice-leading in this opening passage involves an ascending stepwise progression from the third degree, G , in the voice and right hand of the piano, supported by a parallel ascent in the bass beginning a third lower on the tonic note E and reaching B at the half cadence on the dominant. It is in relation to this ﬁrm structure that Beethoven introduces telling expressive nuances. Especially striking are the vocal appoggiaturas on “nicht,” stressing the negative import of “Dry not!” as a means of heightening the poignant, almost masochistic conﬂict within the protagonist. These vocal appoggiaturas embellish and resolve to the pitches A and B heard in the piano; their dissonance imparts forward impulse to the music by twice emphasizing a weak beat, the second eighth of the duple meter. In a stronger metrical position on the second quarter of each of these bars, the pianist plays a falling scale with slightly detached articulation, beginning exactly

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Ex. 49 Wonne der Wehmut op. 83 no. 1

an octave above the voice, sounding the same note, A, in the higher register. Rhythmically, moreover, the initial A in the piano corresponds to what has just been sung a moment before; this A, too, serves as a vocal appoggiatura in its character and structure. The entire descending scale in the piano is thus set into motion by the sigh ﬁgure derived from the vocal setting of “nicht.”4 The ﬁrst appearance of the falling scale sounds parenthetical, as a linear unfolding of the dominant-seventh chords heard immediately before and after. This important motif is strictly derived from the voice part, and its presence greatly heightens the impact of the vocal delivery of “Trocknet nicht!” 4

Cf. Boettcher, Beethoven als Liederkomponist, p. 115.

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[Dry not, dry not, tears of eternal love! Ah, it is only to the half-dried eye that the world seems bleak and dead! Dry not, dry not, tears of unhappy love!]

Some commentators have described this descending scale ﬁgure in the piano as a “veil of tears,” but it is more than a pictorial device. In fact, Beethoven uses the evocative descending scale in a much more generalized relationship with the text; the last two times the word “Thränen” (“tears”) is sung, the scale is not heard in the immediate context. This is not to deny that the falling scale is associated with tears: the link is indeed unmistakable near the beginning of the second larger musical phrase, when the voice declaims “Trocknet nicht!” while the motif reappears in the piano. The point is that Beethoven’s sensitive development of the vocal appoggiatura into the descending motif in the piano is part of a larger process whereby the expressive affect derived from the poem is transformed into the musical structure. He does not simply depict particular words by means of musical motifs; the words enter into a dialogue with the music, which is not subordinated to the text but, on the contrary, creates a new formal context for it. By imitating the initial vocal phrases in the piano in bars 5 and 6, and incorporating the words “Trocknet nicht!,” Beethoven introduces the subsequent lines of the poem in a manner that parallels the beginning. This procedure departs from the structure of Goethe’s poem; but it allows Beethoven to set up expectations of a paired phrase beginning in bar 5, implying a pattern that would normally lead to a cadence in the tonic key in bar 8. There is no such continuation, however, since the words “Ah, it is only to the half-dried eye that the world seems bleak and dead!” motivate a change in character. In place of the rising melodic motion in E major from the opening Beethoven now employs a vocal descent laden with

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chromaticism. The word “öde” (“bleak”) is stressed by a dissonant appoggiatura against a dynamically emphasized seventh chord in the piano. But most striking is the treatment of the words “wie todt die Welt ihm erscheint!,” with its accented chords and descent in octaves in the bass of the piano. The voice reiterates a single pitch to these words: G , a dark point of sound a semitone below the bright G of the opening. One reason for Beethoven’s stubborn emphasis on this note is that he is to return to the G in later sections of the song, recapturing the same bleak sound in relation to different words. The continuation in bar 11 provides yet another variant of the opening motif, with the rising ﬁgure in the piano twice juxtaposed with “Trocknet nicht” in the voice. What is touching here is the very absence of the descending scale ﬁgure that was previously heard. The tears no longer ﬂow; the cheeks dry. The current of sustaining inner life threatens to expire. The second interjection of “Trocknet nicht” (bar 12) leads directly into the following phrase, a double setting of “Thränen unglücklicher Liebe.” By repeating these words Beethoven underscores their importance in the piece as a whole. The inner drama of this paradoxical poem resides in the tension between “tears of eternal love” and “tears of unhappy love”; at stake here is the human capacity to experience happiness despite the pain of loss. In the language of the poem, Goethe only juxtaposes these sentiments, although his striking title Wonne der Wehmut does conjoin them. A remarkable feature of Beethoven’s setting of “Thränen unglücklicher Liebe” is that he combines aspects of two earlier passages, “tears of eternal love” and “how dead the world seems.” The rhythm and melodic ascent to E remind us of the beginning of the song, but the dark telltale G at “Liebe” harks back to the end of the preceding phrase, alluding to the loss of feeling signaled by the drying of the tears. In this context Beethoven cannot end his song where Goethe concluded his text. The musical sentiment spills over, forcing extensive reuse of the preceding words. Such a practice is by no means conﬁned to Beethoven’s lieder but is characteristic of his text setting in his most massive vocal works. The ﬁnal sections of the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony, for instance, are based entirely on the repetition of earlier parts of the text, and the great fugue and coda of the Credo in the Missa solemnis elaborates no more than the last ﬁve words, “Et vitam venturi saeculi Amen.” Something of the same process is at work in miniature in this astonishing song from 1810. In the ﬁnal eight bars Beethoven brings together the conﬂicting sentiments and at last succeeds in truly integrating them, absorbing melancholy into bliss in the unconsummated symbol of musical expression. “Trocknet nicht” is recalled as a reprise of the beginning of the song, complete with the descending scale; but Beethoven now carries the voice part into the upper register to ﬁnd its peak at “Thränen,” on high G . This pitch is held over the barline; the very full harmonic support in the piano recalls the earlier setting of “wie todt die Welt ihm erscheint!” Here, ﬁnally, the music strives toward that cadence in E major that had already been implied in the second of the paired phrases near the beginning. Beethoven imposes a formal symmetry on the song as a whole by employing paired

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phrases again at the conclusion. The ﬁrst of these reaches a deceptive cadence in bar 19; the second supplies the authentic E major cadence two bars before the end. But we have not yet touched the heart of Beethoven’s conception, that moment when the emphasis on G and the descending motif converge in the vocal part. This occurs ﬁttingly at the word “Thränen” (“tears”); the rhythm of an eighth and two sixteenths in bar 18 corresponds to the falling motif in the piano. The consequent phrase recaptures the climactic sonority in the piano and retraces the descending contour of the preceding bars. The overall drop in register spans the interval of a tenth, from G to E. One of the most fascinating aspects of Beethoven’s song is that this descent represents an elaboration, or “composing out,” of the descending scale motif. Even between the two phrases there is a remarkable sense of organic growth. The second phrase supplies the neighbor note A above the G in bar 20 and a stepwise descent from C to B in bars 20–21. The original descending linear progression from A through a seventh to B is thus embedded in the voice and piano part of these bars. Conspicuous as well is the linear discontinuity after the dominant note B is reached at “Liebe”; here both voice and piano drop by the interval of a sixth; the last segment of the linear path is left open. The compelling logic of this melodic gap is revealed in the last two bars. With a last, framing assertion of “Trocknet nicht!” the voice appropriates the falling motif, ﬁlls the linear gap, and carries the progression ﬁrmly into the E major cadence. This gesture provides both a linear and rhythmic resolution of the motif. But it remains for the piano to restate its version of the descent, which for the ﬁrst and only time is now extended to reach the same stable tonic resolution as was afﬁrmed in the voice. The consolation of “bliss in sorrow” is conveyed through Beethoven’s ingenious techniques of musical transformation and resolution.

S S S The small scale of Wonne der Wehmut allows for a more comprehensive analysis in a short space, illustrating aspects of Beethoven’s musical language that surface in many of his larger instrumental compositions. Among his lieder this setting particularly stands out; here Beethoven did “lift himself above the poet,” revealing new perspectives on the poetry that Goethe probably did not fully understand. As is well known, Goethe preferred settings of his poetry that kept the text in the forefront to those in which the music assumes preeminence. But Wonne der Wehmut also invites consideration in relation to the biographical context of this period. The theme of the “distant beloved” surfaces repeatedly in Beethoven’s songs from An den fernen Geliebten of 1809 to the cycle An die ferne Geliebte of 1816. One is also reminded in this connection of An die Geliebte, a copy of which Beethoven gave to Antonie Brentano in March 1812, as Solomon has shown.5 Wonne der Wehmut, with its touching meditation on “tears of eternal love” and “tears of unhappy love,” gives compelling artistic expression to issues that were of surpassing personal importance to Beethoven during these years. 5

Beethoven, p. 175.

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Early in 1810 Beethoven proposed marriage to the young Therese Malfatti, who rejected him. His famous piano piece Für Elise WoO 59 is connected to this episode of his life. As Max Unger ﬁrst pointed out, Ludwig Nohl’s reading of the inscription as “For Elise” is probably an error, since the manuscript was found among the possessions of Therese von Malfatti and was apparently entitled “For Therese.”6 Still more signiﬁcant than his relationship to Therese Malfatti was Beethoven’s association with the Brentano family, and especially with Antonie Brentano and her sister-in-law Bettina Brentano. Antonie (see Plate 10) was the daughter of the distinguished diplomat, art collector, and scholar Johann Melchior von Birkenstock; Beethoven was a welcome guest in the Birkenstock mansion. Bettina vividly described the house in a letter to her friend Goethe: Here I live in the house of the deceased Birkenstock, surrounded by two thousand copperplate engravings, as many marble vases, antique fragments of hands and feet, paintings, Chinese garments, coins, geological collections, sea insects, telescopes and countless maps, plans of ancient buried empires and cities, skillfully carved walking sticks, precious documents, and ﬁnally, the sword of the Emperor Carolus.7

After her father’s death in October 1809 Antonie returned to her home town with her husband Franz Brentano; she was to stay until 1812, when the couple permanently left Vienna to return to Frankfurt, where his business was located. Thus it was that this cultured family came into close contact with Beethoven at precisely that time when his interest in Goethe’s poetry and drama was most intense. The Brentano family ﬁgured very signiﬁcantly in the literature of German Romanticism. Bettina’s brother Clemens was author of the important novel Godwi, published in 1801; she married the distinguished scholar and writer Ludwig Achim von Arnim. She was closely acquainted with Goethe and took it upon herself to encourage an exchange between Beethoven and the great poet at Weimar. The accounts she left of her experiences with Beethoven are not free from literary exaggeration and even occasional deception, but they assume special interest because of their bearing on Beethoven’s aesthetic attitudes and ideas. Meanwhile, the heavily revised manuscript of Beethoven’s early version of Wonne der Wehmut (Hess 142) came into Goethe’s hands, probably through Friedrich Rochlitz. A decade later, in October 1821, Goethe placed this treasure before the young Felix Mendelssohn, who delighted the ageing poet with his performance and with his clean transcription of the song, which is housed, together with Beethoven’s autograph, in Weimar. When Beethoven ﬁrst met Bettina in May 1810, he sang and played for her two of his Goethe songs: Kennst du das Land? from Wilhelm Meister (op. 75 no. 1) and Trocknet nicht, Thränen der ewigen Liebe. Immediately after this encounter Bettina wrote enthusiastically to Goethe about Beethoven; in his reply Goethe 6 7

Thayer-Forbes, p. 502. Cited in Solomon, Beethoven Essays, p. 166.

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suggested that Beethoven meet him in the summer at Karlsbad. That the two great artists actually did meet at the Bohemian spas two years later, in July 1812, surely owed much to the initiative of Bettina Brentano. In Bettina’s letters to Goethe about Beethoven she repeatedly emphasizes the notion of a synthesis between rational and sensuous faculties—an idea that particularly captivated her and which she attributes to the composer. Thus she writes on 28 May that “Beethoven feels himself to be the founder of a new sensuous basis in the intellectual life.” Later in the same letter she describes Beethoven as having said that “Music, verily, is the mediator between the life of the mind and the senses.” The later elaborations in her letter about music as “the one incorporeal entrance into the higher world of knowledge” and of music as “the electrical soil in which the mind thinks, lives, feels” similarly imply a bond between the mind and sensibility that is potentially achieved through music. In yet another passage Bettina attributes to Beethoven the statement that “Music gives to the mind the relationship to harmony. An isolated thought still has the feeling of the whole, of relatedness in the mind.”8 How can we best evaluate Bettina Brentano’s testimony?9 Many of these statements are variations on a theme, and it is not necessary to have full conﬁdence in the details of Bettina Brentano’s report in order to evaluate the general import of her testimony. At bottom, what we confront here is a sometimes fanciful embellishment of Schiller’s basic conviction about the merging of the rational and sensuous in the work of art. By 1810 the time was ripe for such speculations, and an urgent need was felt to augment the critical vocabulary in order to better describe the artwork as a tensional synthesis of conﬂicting elements. A landmark in this development appeared less than two months after Bettina’s letter to Goethe: E. T. A. Hoffmann’s famous review of the Fifth Symphony, with its appropriation from Jean Paul Richter of the idiosyncratic term Besonnenheit, or “self-possession,” to describe Beethoven’s combination of structural control and expressive vehemence. At the time Bettina Brentano met Beethoven he was hard at work on the incidental music to Egmont op. 84. Like Fidelio, the Egmont drama is based on historical events. In his play, Goethe explicitly envisioned a role for music. The historical Count Egmont in the sixteenth century was an opponent of the Inquisition and became a victim of the infamous “Council of Blood” erected by the Duke of Alba, a ruler nicknamed “the Iron Duke” by Protestants in the Low Countries be8

These letters are reproduced with commentary in Thayer-Forbes, pp. 494–98. K. M. Knittel dismisses Brentano’s input, relegating it to a vaguely deﬁned “Beethoven myth”; in a more nuanced, generous assessment, C. Edward Walden argues for the authenticity of the missing 1812 letter from Beethoven to her, with its famous account of an incident at Teplitz when Beethoven refused to show deference to members of the royal family, while Goethe stood to the side bowing. Knittel, “The Construction of Beethoven,” The Cambridge History of Nineteenth-Century Music, ed. Jim Samson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), p. 119; Walden, “The Authenticity of the 1812 Beethoven Letter to Bettina von Arnim,” Beethoven Journal 14 (1999), pp. 9–15. 9

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cause of his harsh rule and cruelty. The dialogue between Egmont and Alba in Goethe’s play (Act IV, Scene 2, 85–86) touches on these themes:

egmont . Religion, it is said, is merely a splendid device, behind which every dangerous design may be contrived with the greater ease; the prostrate crowds adore the sacred symbols pictured there while behind lurks the fowler ready to ensnare them.

alba . This must I hear from you? egmont . I speak not my own sentiments! I but repeat what is loudly rumoured, and uttered now here and now there by great and by humble, by wise men and fools. The Netherlanders fear a double yoke, and who will be surety to them for their liberty?10

When Egmont faces execution by the Spaniards, he accepts his fate proudly, predicting the liberation of his country. At the end of Goethe’s play, the imprisoned Egmont describes his dream vision of his beloved Klärchen: With blood-stained feet the vision approached, the waving folds of her robe also were tinged with blood. It was my blood, and the blood of many brave hearts. No! It shall not be shed in vain! Forward! Brave people! The goddess of liberty leads you on!

Egmont’s dream projection of his role as a martyr of Flemish freedom thus foresees an uprising—the famous revolt of the Netherlands. In his treatment of this theme, Goethe’s direction that the play culminate in a Siegessymphonie or Victory Symphony gloriﬁes Egmont’s role, and that inspired Beethoven in turn to write the prescribed music. Regarded in context, the Victory Symphony is explicitly associated with resistance to arbitrary authority and tyrannical brutality.11 In the Egmont Overture, which culminates in the Siegessymphonie, Beethoven seizes upon the conﬂict between the personal tragedy of Count Egmont and the larger ideal of freedom for which Egmont sacriﬁces himself. The pause at the end of the reprise of this stern, concentrated overture is of symbolic import—in his sketches Beethoven wrote that “the death could be expressed through a rest.” Unlike the Coriolan Overture, however, a tragic end is avoided here: the piece is capped by the Victory Symphony in F major, with its gripping apotheosis of the fallen hero and his just cause. The Egmont Overture opens with a slow introduction that juxtaposes massive orchestral unisons and low, accented motifs in the strings with plaintive, transpar10

Egmont by J. W. von Goethe, trans. Anna Swanwick (New York: P. F. Collier & Son, 1909–14); The Harvard Classics, vol. 19, part 3; quotations are verse 85 of Act IV, scene II, and verse 59 of Act V, scene IV, respectively. 11 Matthew Head’s claims that Goethe “appears to critique the idealism of Egmont as much as the tyranny of Alba,” and that Beethoven’s “Victory Symphony discloses that the heroic is essentially nothing more or less than noise” lack foundation. “Beethoven Heroine: A Female Allegory of Music and Authorship in Egmont.” 19th-Century Music 30 (2006), pp. 112, 131.

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ent phrases in the winds in the higher registers. These contrasting ideas reappear in the ensuing Allegro, where they are paired together and developed extensively. The expressive associations of these motifs—the relentless, fortissimo gestures on the one hand, and a more yielding, lyrical expression on the other—are clariﬁed at the end of the F minor Allegro. First, the ominous knocking rhythms are given to the horns and trumpets; then the dismal fanfare is heard fortissimo from most of the orchestra. The following lyrical response of the strings is abruptly cut off, and a short pause follows; this is the moment symbolizing Egmont’s death. Signiﬁcantly, the following quiet transition is accomplished in the woodwinds. In the Egmont Overture the winds are used consistently to hint at an alternative to the tragic outcome, which is now to be manifested in the F major Allegro con brio of the Victory Symphony. The triumphant close of the overture thus extracts a moral thread from the F minor pathos of the preceding Allegro, and asserts this alternative strain with a grandeur and power that subvert the tragedy. Beethoven’s other major work of 1810 is also in the key of F minor: the String Quartet op. 95, which was dedicated to Zmeskall. This piece was withheld from publication until 1816. Beethoven titled it Quartetto serioso, which beﬁts its dark, introspective, and vehement character. Its idiom is concise if not laconic, with many of the conventional transitional and cadential passages of the Viennese Classical style curtailed or eliminated altogether; also drastically compressed is the recapitulation in the ﬁrst movement. As in Beethoven’s last quartets, there is a special emphasis here on counterpoint and fugue. The slow movement in D major, marked Allegretto ma non troppo, contains extended fugal passages based on a chromatic subject, whereas the following march-like Allegro assai vivace ma serioso in F minor makes much use of contrapuntal imitation of its basic dottedrhythm motif. As in the Appassionata Sonata in the same key, Beethoven makes the Neapolitan scale degree of G —a semitone above the tonic—serve as a crux for powerful dramatic tensions. Already near the beginning of the Allegro con brio the terse opening motif is heard on G ; an analogous rising semitone relationship is embodied in prominent and disruptive rising scales, while an emphatic D chord—the analogous semitone above the dominant—opens the coda. The mysterious descending cello scale beginning on D that opens the slow movement is related to this harmonic complex in the opening Allegro con brio, and particularly to the gesture of rising scales, which in the ﬁrst movement have twice been heard on D. At the end of the slow movement the crucial pitch D is harmonized with a soft diminished-seventh chord, before a sudden, forceful reinterpretation of that sonority launches the third movement, in F minor. The ﬁnale, marked Allegretto agitato, stresses some of the same harmonic relationships, particularly the dissonant semitone D –C of the ﬁrst movement, but its astonishing coda, in F major, leaves the brooding character of the work as a whole far behind. There is a curious parallel here with the Egmont Overture: in the coda of the quartet the dramatic tensions are not resolved but are forgotten and seemingly transcended in a brilliant, exhilarating conclusion. Randall Thomp-

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son wrote of the passage, as cited by Daniel Gregory Mason, that “no bottle of champagne was ever uncorked at a better time.”12

S S S Between the summer of 1810 and the end of 1812 Beethoven concentrated on four major compositions, the Archduke Trio in B major op. 97; the Seventh Symphony in A major op. 92; the Eighth Symphony in F major op. 93; and the Violin Sonata in G major op. 96. During 1811 he also wrote extensive music for stage works by August von Kotzebue, Die Ruinen von Athen (The Ruins of Athens) op. 113 and König Stephan (King Stephen) op. 117. Much of this stage music is hackwork far beneath the level of his other compositions. In 1811 a trend emerges that was to assume more importance in the immediately following years: around this time Beethoven made a clear distinction between serious compositions and works written for public or ceremonial use but not fashioned to the highest artistic standards. The gap in quality widens between pieces that may have been written almost concurrently but with a fundamentally different aim. The fact that Beethoven titled a bold, advanced work like the F minor Quartet Quartetto serioso is interesting in this regard, since the title may be understood to allude not merely to the work’s dark emotional tone but also to its challenging stylistic demands. Op. 95 is one of the pieces of these years that is most prophetic of the style of Beethoven’s later music. Whereas the quartet is terse and concentrated, the Archduke Trio is broad and expansive, the largest and most outstanding of all Beethoven’s pieces in this genre. This Piano Trio in B major stands dead center in Beethoven’s creative development. In some ways it looks back to the spacious, lyrical style of the masterpieces from around 1806, like the Fourth Piano Concerto. But it also preﬁgures important features of Beethoven’s later works. As he was to do in the Hammerklavier Sonata and the Ninth Symphony, Beethoven inverts the traditional order of the middle movements, placing the scherzo before a meditative set of variations, which itself foreshadows the ﬁnal movements of two of the last piano sonatas, op. 109 and op. 111. The beginning of the Allegro moderato is of the utmost breadth (Ex.50). The effect derives in part from the poise and inner strength of the theme itself. Built into the opening thematic statement is a subtle treatment of linear relationships and rhythmic foreshortening. The rhythmic stress falls on the second bar of each of the initial two-bar phrases, emphasizing the melodic progression from F in bar 2 to G in bar 4. The rising stepwise motion through the fourth F–B in the third bar is elaborated on a much larger scale across the ﬁrst eight bars. Beethoven’s ﬁfth bar compresses the content of the preceding two bars; a further sequence in the next bar substitutes A for G, extending the linear ascent. At this point Beethoven varies the ascending ﬁgure from bar 3, which carries the melody upward more rapidly to a ﬁrm half cadence on the dominant in the eighth bar; at the same time, the long tonic pedal in the bass is succeeded by a stepwise descent in the left hand. The linear ascent of the theme thus extends through an entire octave, with a 12

Cited in Radcliffe, Beethoven’s String Quartets, p. 97.

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Ex. 50 Archduke Trio op. 97/I

strong effect of intensiﬁcation arising from a rich combination of structural factors. The crescendo and trills in the piano are generated by the inner growth of the theme itself. At this point of articulation Beethoven avoids an immediate restatement of the opening phrases and, instead, expands the music from within. The cello and violin seem to meditate on possible continuations, before ﬁnally taking up the counterstatement as the piano reenters with the pedal ﬁguration, now in both hands. As the music reaches the half cadence, however, it takes a new turn. In place of the stable dominant of the earlier passage, Beethoven substitutes an ambiguous diminished-seventh chord, and the music withdraws mysteriously into pianissimo. Only after a brief excursion through sequences stressing diminished and minor harmonies does the continuation pass through the subdominant to the cadential phrases of this immense theme. The opening subject of the Archduke Trio is no less than thirty-three bars in length, one of the broadest in the entire Classical repertory. The second half of the development again withdraws into pianissimo, employing pizzicato strings with soft, ethereal trills in the piano. The texture is veiled and muted, yet dynamically shaped; a single pizzicato line in the cello gradually builds into more rapid, contrapuntal voices. All of this serves to throw the recapitulation into relief. Trills lead to an unfolding of the main theme, and Beethoven now deepens its cantabile, dolce character by adding expressive appoggiaturas in the piano. The scherzo is invested with jaunty humor and lively counterpoint rich in contrary motion. Emil Platen has compared its exhaustive permutations of a basic motivic cell to those in Beethoven’s aforementioned letter from the 1790s addressed to Zmeskall as “Baron Dreckfahrer,” where he writes “Adieu Baron Ba

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ron ron/nor/orn/rno/onr,” mixing up the order of letters in all possible ways; Platen is also reminded of the passage near the end of the Alla danza tedesca in the op. 130 Quartet, with its juggling of the expected sequence of bars in the main theme.13 The formal scale of the scherzo, like the other movements of op. 97, is large, and Beethoven uses an abbreviated return of the trio to serve as a coda. This is especially appropriate on account of the complementary relationship between scherzo and trio. Riezler has compared the trio to “an abyss into whose gloomy depths a ray from the triumphant sun suddenly strikes.”14 He refers here to the contrast between the uncanny chromatic canon in B minor at the outset of the trio and the radiant waltz which suddenly emerges in D major. This duality within the trio is clariﬁed in turn by a thematic relationship linking the scherzo and trio. The scherzo begins with a rising scale through the octave in the cello alone. The trio also opens with an ascent from B in the cello, but its theme does not show the same carefree spirit (Ex. 51a and b). Instead, the music explores those spaces between steps of the diatonic major scale that were passed over lightly by the scherzo. The reﬂective chromaticism greatly slows the rising motion and deepens it, revealing an unsuspected seriousness lurking behind the gaiety of the scherzo subject. The canonic entries form part of Beethoven’s transformation of the scherzo theme. Since each entry of the canon rises only a fourth, it requires two such entries, in the cello and left hand of the piano, to retrace the same ascent through the octave. In the coda, by contrast, Beethoven reduces the trio to its basic semitonal shape, especially C –B , before resolving it into the gaiety of the rising scale in the major. The theme of the Andante cantabile ma pero con moto in D major is of hymnlike serenity. Rhythmically it resembles a sarabande, with frequent stress on the second beat of the triple meter. The stately, chorale-like character of the theme is decorated through rhythmic subdivisions in each variation: the triplet eighth notes of Variation 1 are succeeded by textures of sixteenths, triplet sixteenths, and thirty-second notes with syncopations. A reprise of the original theme follows, varied in many details of harmony and instrumentation. But the movement is far from over: a surprising modulation to the bright key of E major ushers in a coda that dwells on the falling melodic step and dotted rhythm from the cadential phrases of the theme. At the ensuing transition this rhythm and motivic step are inverted to launch the main theme of the rondo, which begins with yet another transformation of the rising linear pattern familiar from the ﬁrst two movements. The humor and high spirits of this Allegro moderato carry everything before them. The rondo ﬁnale is a ﬁtting culmination to the work, and shows the same bold spaciousness that characterized the earlier movements. At the beginning of the presto coda, Beethoven even incorporates an unusual modulatory excursion to the key of the leading note, A major, distantly foreshadowing his more radical use of this tonal relationship in the ﬁnale of the Piano Sonata in A op. 110. 13

“‘Voila Quelque Chose aus dem alten Versatzamt’: Zum Scherzo des Klaviertrios BDur opus 97,” pp. 168–84. 14 Beethoven, p. 177.

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Ex. 51 Archduke Trio op. 97/II a. Scherzo

b. Trio

During the months after March 1811, when he ﬁnished the Archduke Trio, Beethoven’s compositional output was modest. That summer he journeyed to the Bohemian spas at Teplitz, where he met a group of writers and intellectuals including Christoph August Tiedge, and Karl August Varnhagen von Ense and his wife Rahel Levin. It was at about this time that Beethoven worked on the revision of his oratorio Christus am Ölberge for publication, and that his Mass in C major of 1807 was at last successfully performed, to be published the following year.

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Beethoven’s ﬁrst sketches for the Seventh Symphony in the Petter Sketchbook appear to date from the time at Teplitz. This work and its companion, the Eighth Symphony, were Beethoven’s main projects during the following year. When he returned to Teplitz in the summer of 1812 he made sketches for the Eighth Symphony in later parts of the same sketchbook. In 1827 a reviewer of the Seventh Symphony and professed admirer of Beethoven’s earlier works asked “what had become of the good man in his later period? Did he not succumb to a kind of insanity?” The tone of the review echoes that of other dismissive contemporary assessments of Beethoven; it is the length, strong contrasts, and expressive vehemence of the music that provoked rejection: “the whole thing lasts at least three-quarters of an hour, and is a true mixture of tragic, comic, serious, and trivial ideas, which spring from one level to another without any connection, repeat themselves to excess, and are almost wrecked by the immoderate noise of the timpani.”15 A similar judgment was attributed, probably falsely, to Carl Maria von Weber by the untrustworthy Anton Schindler, Beethoven’s self-appointed secretary and biographer: according to Schindler, Weber is supposed to have declared that the Seventh Symphony showed Beethoven “ripe for the madhouse.”16 Despite such reactions, the A major Symphony, and particularly its Allegretto, rapidly became one of Beethoven’s most popular works. Perhaps no other work by Beethoven is so intensely animated and driven by the power of rhythm. In response to this quality Wagner dubbed the symphony “the apotheosis of the dance,” and imaginative commentators have produced various programmatic interpretations. Solomon has sought a common denominator for these opinions in the notion of a “festive Paradise, outside of time and history, untouched by mortality.”17 For the Seventh Symphony, unlike the Fifth, does not involve struggle against adversity, even if a darker, contrasting range of character emerges in the A minor Allegretto. It is an accident of history that the ﬁrst performances of this radiant symphony in 1813 and 1814 exactly coincided with the celebration of the victory over Napoleon. The slow introduction is the most weighty in all Beethoven’s symphonies, and it generates out of the most fundamental relationships of sound and time a propulsive rhythmic energy that is to infuse the entire work. Especially important is the series of four short but emphatic chords with a descending bass heard at the outset. These sonorities are placed two bars apart in the 4/4 meter; they outline the harmonic progression I–V–I7–IV. Connecting these majestic chords are motifs of legato half notes, heard ﬁrst in the oboes and then in the other wind instruments. Beethoven soon reinterprets this opening gesture in compelling fashion. Beginning in bar 15, the harmonic progression over a descending bass is restated, but the chords are sustained in the winds and trumpets and played fortissimo (Ex. 52). 15

Cited in Kunze, ed., Beethoven: Die Werke im Spiegel seiner Zeit, pp. 288–89. See the discussion of this famous attribution by Robin Wallace in Beethoven’s Critics, pp. 102–3. 17 Beethoven, p. 213. 16

consolidation: 1810–1812 Ex. 52 Seventh Symphony op. 92/I, bars 10–19

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The oboe line in half notes is assigned to the violins. At this moment Beethoven introduces a third rhythmic level—a texture of rising scales in detached sixteenth notes that spans and connects the various pitch registers outlined by the chords. The power of this music derives in part from its synthesis of three rhythmic levels, which subdivide the basic slow pulse of the chords according to precise proportions. Thus the larger, controlling impulses at the beginning of each two-bar group are divided into four, in half notes, and these impulses in turn are divided into eight, yielding thirty-two sixteenth notes in each two-bar unit (see Fig. 3). The tension generated by these relationships depends on the fact that Beethoven’s second rhythmic division doubles the proportions of the ﬁrst. At the same time, the rising scales “compose out” the sound of the chords through the tonal space. They are derived from the chords, yet they introduce an energy that later serves to prepare the rhythmic transition into the Vivace. The fortissimo passage combining the three rhythmic levels changes the harmonic progression from the outset of the movement. The descent of the bass is now chromatic, tracing the pitches A–G –G –F –F–E, and Beethoven alters the harmonies to effect a modulation to C major, the key of the ensuing dolce subject, played ﬁrst in the winds and then in the strings. This theme reappears later in the slow introduction in F major, which, like C, is a signiﬁcant key in the main body of the movement. But Beethoven’s use of these mediant and submediant tonalities in the introduction is not merely a foreshadowing of later events. Above all, it enables him to set the gracious dolce melody into marked tonal contrast with the rest of the introduction, before integrating both in the passage that leads into the beginning of the Vivace. The dolce passages are not just episodes in the introduction. They are more like musical samples, excerpts of a pleasant, charming style that could not puzzle or offend Beethoven’s listeners. His treatment of these passages in the slow introduction of the Seventh illustrates Nietzsche’s comment about Beethoven’s writing “music about music.” For in the second episode a transformation takes place. Beethoven repeats the rhythm of the tune in the strings, while a rhythmic and dynamic intensiﬁcation leads to the structural downbeat on the dominant in bar 53 (Ex. 53). Twice the winds attempt to carry on a musical discourse whose harmonic texture and dotted rhythm is unmistakably related to the earlier dolce episodes. But these interjections are not taken up; the stronger rhythmic impulses and their reverberations are reasserted and then seemingly distilled to their essence. Beethoven restructures his framework of rhythmic levels to absorb the dotted rhythm drawn from the dolce theme. The crucial turning point at the end of the introduction occurs as the dotted rhythm is infused with this intense energy, creating thereby the ostinato ﬁgure of a dotted rhythm in 6/8 meter that dominates large sections of the ﬁrst movement. Other passages in Beethoven most comparable to this generative process in the Seventh Symphony include not only the slow introductions in the Second and Fourth Symphonies but also the slow introductions to some of his instrumental ﬁnales. One is reminded, very distantly, of the Introduzione of the Waldstein Sonata and, much more concretely, of the introduction to the ﬁnale of the Ham-

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Figure 3. Rhythmic structure of the slow introduction to the ﬁrst movement of the Seventh Symphony, bars 15–22

merklavier Sonata. Quite unlike the symphony, however, these movements begin in a quiet, almost motionless state of calm. The opening of the Seventh Symphony, by contrast, harbors virtually inexhaustible reserves of rhythmic energy that spill over into every one of the four movements. The famous Allegretto in A minor also features a prominent rhythmic ostinato, which endows this movement with a processional aura, imposing a strong unifying character that is felt throughout the variations of the theme and even the contrasting episodes in the major. Here is one of the sources of inspiration for Schubert’s many processional pieces associated with the Romantic theme of the wanderer. The following, propulsive scherzo in F major emphasizes iambic rhythms, whereas the closing Allegro con brio displays a considerable diversity of rhythmic ﬁgures and patterns. The trio of the scherzo, on the other hand, represents the still center of the symphony. Its majestic, yet almost static character is conveyed in part by impressive pedal points on A that resound through extended passages, played fortissimo in the trumpets and drum. Yet even here, a suggestion of processional movement is retained; according to a report from Abbé Stadler, the theme of the trio was drawn from an Austrian pilgrimage hymn.18

18

Thayer-Forbes, p. 527.

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Ex. 53 Seventh Symphony op. 92/I, bars 47–60

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In the Allegro con brio ﬁnale Beethoven’s main theme itself becomes an ostinato, a kind of revolving cam whose driving momentum is reﬂected in insistent syncopation in the winds and low strings. The primary motif is like a coiled spring, whose tension permeates the broader thematic idea that circles in quarter notes around C , the third degree of A major (Ex. 54). This is hardly the idea of a madman. What is involved is a sudden fourfold rhythmic augmentation of the basic motif, so that the rapid motivic contour that had occupied less than one bar of music is suddenly enlarged over several bars, while the structural accent on E is reﬂected in the prolonged notes of the winds and horns. Here, as elsewhere in the Seventh Symphony, Beethoven does indeed “spring from one level to another,” but the connections are real and tangible. The music is dependent on these relationships and it only truly comes alive when they are felt and conveyed in performance. Ernest Newman once wrote that the Eighth Symphony “takes the overspill of the mighty Seventh.”19 Despite the strong differences between these works, the extraordinary rhythmic intensity of the preceding symphony reappears in certain passages of the Eighth, particularly in the development of the ﬁrst movement and in the ﬁnale. In its character the Eighth Symphony is somewhat reminiscent of the sublime comedy of the Second Symphony. Beethoven often associated the key of F major with humor, and this work is no exception. One of the humorous anecdotes often related about the symphony must be disallowed, however. Schindler wrote that the Allegretto scherzando of the Eighth was based on a canon that Beethoven improvised in the spring of 1812 at a farewell dinner for Johann Nepomuk Mälzel. Mälzel was an inventor best known for his devices to measure musical tempo. His ﬁrst such device was the “chronometer,” which he was anxious to publicize at precisely this time (it was only several years later, in 1815, that he invented the metronome), and Beethoven’s interest in him was connected in part to Mälzel’s efforts to fashion ear trumpets for the deaf composer. According to Schindler, Beethoven’s party canon on “ta ta ta”—representing the beat of the chronometer—supplied the principal motif for the second movement of the symphony. Research since the 1970s has indicated that the Mälzel canon is almost certainly a forgery.20 Schindler forged many entries in the conversation notebooks that came into his possession. He had no scruples about fabricating history and did not hesitate to falsify sources to support the account published in his Beethoven biography. There is no manuscript for the alleged Mälzel canon, and the historical facts and sketch sources contradict Schindler’s account of the genesis of the Allegretto scherzando. Thus this colorful story must be laid to rest, despite its illustrious career in Beethoven biography. Another ﬁnding is Sieghard Brandenburg’s discovery from manuscript sources that Beethoven sketched the opening Allegro of the Eighth Symphony as a piano 19

Notes to the Klemperer recording, p. 21, cited in Solomon, Beethoven, p. 213. See especially the symposium of essays by Standley Howell, Kathryn John, and Harry Goldschmidt in Zu Beethoven, ed. Goldschmidt, vol. 2, pp. 163–204. 20

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Ex. 54 Seventh Symphony op. 92/IV, bars 36–45

concerto.21 Much of the symphonic exposition, up to the passage in dotted rhythm, was to have served as the introductory orchestral ritornello in the tonic key; at this point the solo piano was to enter with a cadenza. The transformation of the nascent concerto into a symphony required no changes in the basic progression of themes. But something of the genesis of the work can be felt in the contrast between the lighter, more transparent textures of the exposition and the forceful motivic repetitions and sustained syncopations of the development, which would not have found a home in a concerto. The recapitulation marks the climax of this progression, and Beethoven writes a triple fortissimo in all the parts, creating problems of balance between the thematic return in the low register and the rest of the orchestra. In this instance Beethoven enlarges the process of thematic return, diffusing the moment of recapitulation, which might also be placed at the more harmonically stable, dolce return of the theme in the winds. The concluding Allegro vivace of the Eighth Symphony has been regarded as a sonata form with a coda almost as long as the rest of the movement, or, more convincingly, as a combination of sonata form and rondo, with two developments and two recapitulations. Haydn had often resourcefully merged rondo and sonata form in the ﬁnales of his symphonies, but he had never attempted anything resembling this ﬁnale. Beethoven’s sublime humor is reﬂected above all in his treatment of the 21 “Ein Skizzenbuch Beethovens aus dem Jahre 1812,” in Zu Beethoven, ed. Goldschmidt, vol. 1, pp. 135–39.

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intrusive “false note,” the C that is played between the paired statements making up the principal theme. In the main body of the movement this striking dissonance is juxtaposed with the theme, but it exerts no further inﬂuence upon it. Near the end of the movement, however, the C asserts itself, shifting the entire perspective of the music. The theme is subverted, and even the tonal equilibrium is thrown into question, as the music turns into F minor, with the effect of an overturning of restraints. Riezler described the passage as one of “those sudden and surprising contrasts, which seem to tear open a gaping chasm beneath the hearer’s feet, but which illumine the whole movement—the whole symphony—and are prepared with the greatest mastery and form part of the living organism.”22

S S S During his stay in Bohemia in July 1812 Beethoven experienced the emotional crisis that is documented in his famous letter to the “Immortal Beloved.” Maynard Solomon has demonstrated that Antonie Brentano fulﬁls the external criteria to qualify as Beethoven’s beloved. She was in sustained contact with Beethoven from May 1810 and visited Prague and Karlsbad at times compatible with the information in Beethoven’s letter. The skepticism that still exists about Solomon’s identiﬁcation is most often connected with doubts that Antonie Brentano fulﬁls the internal criteria. That she was so long overlooked as a candidate was surely due to her status as a married woman and mother; indeed, the last of her children was born at Frankfurt in March 1813, approximately eight months after Beethoven’s letter was written. Proof of the identity of the “Immortal Beloved” may never be forthcoming, but the circumstantial evidence pointing to Antonie Brentano is substantial, and she is the only known candidate who remains in serious contention on the basis of documentary evidence from the period in question.23 Antonie’s marital status would have inhibited Beethoven from committing himself to her, since that act would have involved a betrayal of his friend Franz Brentano. Solomon offers plausible reasons for Antonie Brentano’s having been drawn to Beethoven: she was probably not emotionally fulﬁlled in her marriage; she intensely wished to remain in Vienna; and she idolized Beethoven. Solomon interprets the letter as an expression of Beethoven’s inner conﬂict between acceptance and renunciation, as his “gratitude toward and love for

22

Beethoven, p. 159. Arguments continue to be advanced occasionally for Josephine Brunsvik Deym, to whom Beethoven was strongly attracted during 1804–5, as we have seen. In his Um die Unsterbliche Geliebte: Eine Bestandsaufnahme of 1977, Harry Goldschmidt analyzed the candidacy of both Josephine Brunsvik Deym and Antonie Brentano, without resolving the issue one way or the other. In identifying Josephine as the “Immortal Beloved” in her book Beethoven und seine “Unsterbliche Geliebte” Josephine Brunswick of 1983, Marie-Elisabeth Tellenbach rejects the case for Antonie Brentano hastily and seemingly on principle, while compensating for the lack of supporting evidence for Josephine from the period around 1812 by a leap of faith, asserting that “Since the letter . . . can only have been written to Josephine, she must have been in Bohemia in the summer of 1812” (p. 113). 23

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Antonie . . . struggled against the ingrained patterns and habits of a lifetime.”24 It is ironic but ﬁtting that one of the songs Beethoven sang and gave to Antonie was Trocknet nicht (see Plate 12). For the very language of his love letter shows a sublimated, distancing tendency. The name “Immortal Beloved” itself serves to emphasize an exalted devotion but not a passionate realization. Beethoven writes in the second postscript, “Be calm, only by a calm consideration of our existence can we achieve our purpose to live together—Be calm—.” The suffering of Beethoven’s beloved may have arisen in part from a realization that his capacity to transform “unhappy love” into “eternal love” was itself a barrier to commitment in a relationship. In the autumn of 1812 Franz and Antonie Brentano left Vienna for Frankfurt. There is evidence that Beethoven was under emotional stress around this time; the aftermath of the “Immortal Beloved” affair was one of the most troubled and least creative episodes in his life, quite unlike the artistically productive period of crisis in 1802. Before the end of the year, however, he did complete one more major work: the Violin Sonata in G major op. 96, which was performed by Pierre Rode and the Archduke Rudolph on 29 December. Like the Archduke Trio, the ﬁnal violin sonata stands in the mainstream of Beethoven’s compositional development. These two pieces are the most advanced works that Beethoven had produced in their respective genres. His efforts to surpass his previous achievements in various musical forms were to continue in later years in works like the Hammerklavier Sonata, but this tendency is visible at least as early as the Archduke Trio. The op. 96 Violin Sonata is an intimate work, rich in lyricism and subtle in its motivic relationships. The delicate opening for violin alone—a trill connected to an expressive appoggiatura a third higher—bears a family resemblance to various other motifs in the ﬁrst movement using appoggiaturas or neighbor-note ﬁgures. At the beginning of the coda Beethoven introduces a mysterious dialogue based on the trill ﬁgure in the lower registers of both instruments. Beethoven’s manuscript shows that this section was an afterthought; the change was evidently made in 1815, when he prepared the sonata for publication.25 The incorporation of this passage is linked to the ﬁnal reinterpretation of the ﬁrst theme of the movement at the end of Beethoven’s coda, where the open continuation characteristic of earlier appearances of the theme is replaced, for the ﬁrst time, by a progression to an emphatic tonic cadence. Beethoven’s revision thus expands the role of the coda in probing and eventually resolving the opening theme, whose motivic potential had been explored throughout. The inner movements of the sonata—an Adagio in E major and scherzo in G minor—form a striking contrast but are directly connected to one another. The 24

Beethoven, p. 184; Solomon devotes an entire chapter to the riddle of the “Immortal Beloved,” pp. 158–89. 25 Cf. the facsimile edition with an introduction by Martin Staehelin (Munich, 1977), and Brandenburg’s “Bemerkungen zu Beethovens Opus 96,” pp. 22–25.

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Ex. 55 Violin Sonata op. 96/IV

melodic interval of a descending tone or semitone assumes importance in these movements as well. In the Adagio the hymn-like principal theme in the piano is followed by a melodic continuation in the violin stressing the falling tone B –A , which initiates a change in key to A major, the subdominant. A modulating, developmental passage then leads to the dominant of E and eventually to the recapitulation of the opening theme in the violin. At the attacca transition to the ensuing scherzo, the pivotal falling tone—spelt enharmonically as E –C in the violin—represents a variant, in rhythmic augmentation, of the B –A interval stressed earlier in the movement. Now, surprisingly, the descending second leads through an augmented-sixth chord into G minor, the key of the scherzo. Beethoven reinterprets the dissonant augmented sixth as the ﬁrst upbeat of the scherzo, setting into motion the insistent syncopations so characteristic of that movement. This passage illustrates Beethoven’s concern to establish subtle transitions in sonority between successive movements, even when these involve a strong contrast in character. Another such example is found at the end of the coda of the scherzo, where the turn to the major mode and broadening in register create a sonorous transition to the ﬁnale. The theme of the closing variation movement predates the rest of the work, since it appears on a sketchleaf from 1807–8, among sketches for the Cello Sonata in A op. 69, for which it may originally have been intended. The ﬁnale comprises a set of six variations on this dance-like melody of seemingly naive character (Ex. 55), which reminded Nottebohm of a tune from J. A. Hiller’s operetta The Happy Cobbler.26 The variations are anything but naive, however, and thoroughly transform the surface of the theme while developing its motivic substance. In the ﬁrst few variations Beethoven follows the familiar practice of introducing a progres26

Beethoveniana, p. 30.

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Ex. 56 Violin Sonata op. 96/IV, Variation 5, bars 1–6

sive foreshortening of rhythm, with one strong beat per bar in Variation 1, followed by two accented beats in Variation 2 and four in Variation 3, where the persistent syncopations in the melody and faster motion in sixteenth notes in the accompaniment reﬂect the increasing rhythmic energy. Variation 4 shows an intensiﬁcation of the internal phrase structure of the theme, as emphatic ascending chords in the ﬁrst two bars of each phrase are juxtaposed with the descending linear motion of the remaining bars. The movement’s center of gravity rests in the ﬁfth variation, where the thematic model is greatly expanded through a slowing in tempo to Adagio espressivo and a change in meter to 6/8 (Ex. 56). This aria-like variation freely elaborates the basic melodic structure of the theme in intricate chromatic diminutions. Twice the ﬁguration crystallizes into sustained trills in the piano followed by soft, cadenzalike interpolations of falling chromatic scales that seem to suspend the forward progress of the music (bar 4). The piano trill arises out of the appoggiatura B–A; the threefold chromatic run from C to F and the following extension to F in the lower octave serve to compose out the dominant seventh of G, leading in the next bar to the arrival in the tonic of the melody in the violin. These gestures hold back the unfolding of the theme, exploring its structure from within. Such ﬂorid, decorative textures are normal in the penultimate slow variation in a Classical variation set, but the depth of expression touched on here retains a lin-

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gering inﬂuence over the rest of the movement. A tension arises between the contemplative transformation of the theme in Variation 5 and the return of the naive folk-like tune as the basis for the conclusion. One is reminded in this connection of the Diabelli Variations op. 120, whose richly decorated slow variation in the minor, Variation 31, seems to leave Diabelli’s commonplace waltz so far behind. In the Diabelli set, of course, there is no closing da capo of the original theme; the ﬁnal variation and coda seem to transcend Diabelli’s waltz once and for all. In the sonata Beethoven follows established precedent in placing an Allegro variation and return to the original theme after the slow, decorated penultimate variation. Remarkable, however, is the way in which he evokes a more serious, contemplative atmosphere in his coda. After the abrupt return of the original theme, initially in the “wrong” key, E major, and the boisterous ﬁnal variation, Ex. 57 Violin Sonata op. 96/IV, bars 259–end

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Beethoven introduces a dark-hued fugal passage in the minor, written in longer note values. A return to the major mode and the original theme follows, in a somewhat faster tempo, leading to rushing scale passages played fortissimo in both piano and violin. The ﬁnal cadence is near. But Beethoven now again interrupts the musical discourse with a reminiscence of the tempo and harmonic inﬂections of the slow ﬁfth variation (Ex. 57). Although Beethoven does not literally quote the Adagio espressivo, a sensitive performance can unmistakably recall its character. As in the E major transformation of the rondo theme in the ﬁnale of the Piano Concerto in C minor op. 37, with its evocation of the Largo movement in that key, the slow variation is delicately recaptured here, glimpsed through the veil of the original theme. Then, in the last bars before the Presto, Beethoven dwells on the closing motifs of the theme, before suddenly accelerating the tempo as the pattern of rising thirds and fourths drives to the cadence, played fortissimo in the upper register. The brilliant closing ﬂourish seems to complete the earlier Allegro passage, whose cadences had been ﬁrst avoided in the higher register, ﬁve bars before the Poco Adagio, and then interrupted deceptively at the Poco Adagio itself, with its withdrawal into thoughtful reminiscence. Thus, at the end of the sonata, two levels of experience are juxtaposed: the inward world of the slow variation and the outward world of the dance. The ending of Beethoven’s last violin sonata deepens the registral contrast of the ﬁrst-movement coda into a tensional play of tempos and character that embraces both of Schiller’s poetic categories.

7

R

The Congress of Vienna Period: 1813–1815

R The aftermath of the “Immortal Beloved” affair of 1812 opens the most contradictory chapter in Beethoven’s life. At no other time did he enjoy so much public veneration or receive such generous monetary rewards. Half of the public concerts held for Beethoven’s beneﬁt in his lifetime took place in the single year 1814. Never before nor since has a musician received such recognition from assembled monarchs and heads of state. Beethoven basked in the limelight and exploited the opportunity ﬁnancially for all it was worth, although beneﬁts also accrued to public causes. His enhanced popularity helped bring about the revival of his opera Fidelio. In 1815 he was awarded the “freedom of the city” in recognition of his efforts to raise money for charity through performances of his works in Vienna. As far as his fame and public recognition were concerned, this was the climax, “the glorious moment,” to cite the title of his ceremonial cantata for the Congress of Vienna. What is remarkable is that this success rested on some of the weakest music Beethoven ever wrote. The issues raised thereby are not only aesthetic but historical, sociological, and even psychological in nature. For despite the outward brilliance of his success, this was a time of deep inner conﬂict for Beethoven. In 1813 he experienced a creative impasse that was undoubtedly linked to his personal life. He produced virtually nothing of artistic importance during that year. There is evidence, moreover, that his life was in disarray during the aftermath of the “Immortal Beloved” affair. At about this time he began a Tagebuch, or personal diary, that he kept for six years, until 1818.1 An excerpt from the very ﬁrst entry reads as follows: You may not be a human being, not for yourself, but only for others, for you there is no more happiness except within yourself, in your art. O God! give me strength to conquer myself, nothing at all must fetter me to life.—Thus everything connected with A will go to destruction. 1

The following quotations are taken from Solomon’s edition of the Tagebuch, ﬁrst published in 1982 in Beethoven Studies, vol. 3, pp. 193–285, and subsequently in Beethoven Essays and as Beethovens Tagebuch (Bonn, 1990).

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“A” may refer to Antonie Brentano, from whom Beethoven was presumably attempting to disengage himself. Several other entries in his diary document Beethoven’s intention to embrace art while rejecting “life,” reﬂecting a disposition akin to Arthur Schopenhauer’s “negation of the will to life” in his book Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung (The World as Will and Idea), published a few years later, in 1819. Beethoven writes in an 1814 entry in the Tagebuch that “Everything that is called life should be sacriﬁced to the sublime and be a sanctuary of art.” Another, later, inscription reads, “Live only in your art, for you are so limited by your senses. This is therefore the only existence for you.” If Beethoven meant to compensate for shortcomings in his life through creative activity, he failed, at least during 1813. His creativity may have been paralyzed by depression. His resignation to the prospect of a permanent solitary existence was accompanied by a marked withdrawal from society. Other factors also played a role. Financial worries plagued him, since his annuity income had been reduced at the very time that his ailing brother Caspar Carl required assistance. The illness and near death of Caspar Carl from consumption in the ﬁrst months of 1813 also took its toll on the composer. Solomon has speculated that Beethoven attempted suicide during the spring or summer of 1813; reports of a suicide attempt were made by Schindler and Joseph August Röckel, although the date has always remained uncertain.2 Descriptions of Beethoven’s social isolation stem from Nanette and Andreas Streicher, who commented on his despondent state of mind and on the “deplorable condition” of his clothes and personal and domestic affairs. According to the painter Blasius Höfel, Beethoven neglected his appearance and cleanliness to the extent that his dining table at a favorite inn, although large, “was avoided by the other guests due to the very uninviting habits into which he had fallen.”3 Solomon and others have suggested that Beethoven visited prostitutes around this time, in the company of his old friend Zmeskall. Beethoven’s notes to Zmeskall contain puns using code names, whereby “fortresses” stands for prostitutes and “assaults” for sexual acts.4 That Beethoven would have felt guilt about such encounters may be surmised from entries in his Tagebuch like the following (no. 122): “Sensual gratiﬁcation without a spiritual union is and remains bestial, afterwards one has no trace of noble feeling but rather remorse.” If Beethoven had strayed from higher ethical ideals in his personal life, a deviating trend can also be discerned in his music. He was now exploring another “new path,” a path leading to a steep decline in artistic quality. More than at any other time in his career, economic and political factors exerted a dominating inﬂuence. Little scholarly attention has been given to Beethoven’s patriotic compositions from 1813 and 1814, which have often been dismissed as uncharacter2

Beethoven, p. 220. Thayer-Forbes, p. 590. 4 Beethoven, p. 220. 3

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istic aberrations or altogether disregarded. The neglect is unjustiﬁed, however, since fascinating aesthetic issues are raised by such pieces as Wellingtons Sieg, Germania, Ihr weisen Gründer, and Der glorreiche Augenblick. In these works Beethoven appears as a pioneer of kitsch at the dawn of the age of mass production and modern commercial propaganda. This is a surprising role, perhaps, for a cultural hero of Beethoven’s stature, but one nonetheless supported by the historical evidence. Beethoven’s patriotic potboilers offer the spectacle of a great composer lowering his art to gain economic reward and court political favor. This episode in his career raises fundamental aesthetic and ethical questions. In order to evaluate these matters, it is helpful to review some of the critical literature devoted to art and kitsch. In two classic essays from 1933 and 1950 Hermann Broch deﬁned kitsch as “evil in the value system of art.”5 According to Broch, kitsch involves a false association between fundamental principles. Whereas the true work of art shows qualities of openness, originality, and irrationality, kitsch displays a closed and rational system of imitation. Broch compares kitsch to an anti-Christ, who looks like Christ, and “acts and speaks like Christ and is nevertheless Lucifer.” He asks, Wherein is the difference ultimately noticed? An open system . . . is an ethical one, that is, it offers the individual a guiding framework, within which he or she can act. A closed system, on the other hand, cannot go beyond ﬁxed rules—even if these are given an ethical coloring—and it thus transforms those parts of human life that it touches into a game that is no longer ethical, but only aesthetic in nature.6

Broch admits, even for himself, “that one is not infrequently very well disposed to kitsch,” but he insists at the same time that “the goddess of beauty in art” is “the goddess of kitsch.”7 He argues, in other words, that beauty alone is an insufﬁcient basis for art. Rather, beauty needs to be integrated with other dimensions of the work in order that it does not become an end in itself, or a simple play of effects. For in that case we would be dealing not with art, but with kitsch. Other leading thinkers on aesthetics have shared the opinion that art is concerned with more than mere beauty. Consider, for instance, Susanne Langer’s concept of a successful artwork as an “unconsummated symbol,” or even Adorno’s paradoxical description of a true performance as “a copy of a nonexistent original.” What is essential is that the symbolic artistic content be recognized without it being diminished or reduced, as in some programmatic interpretations in which the integrity of the work threatens to vanish behind an unequivocal verbal inter-

5 “Das Böse im Wertsystem der Kunst,” p. 123; “Einige Bemerkungen zum Problem des Kitsches,” p. 170. For an abridged version of this work in English, see Broch, “Notes on the Problem of Kitsch.” 6 “Einige Bemerkungen,” p. 169. 7 Ibid., pp. 171, 167.

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pretation. The danger that arises thereby is of art being degraded into kitsch—a common enough tendency in the reception history of art. Broch’s insights can be reﬁned on the basis of recent studies by Wolfgang Welsch, who employs the pair of concepts “aesthetic” and “anaesthetic.” Welsch writes that Whereas aesthetic experience increases our sensibility, the anaesthetic stands for a loss of sensibility . . . the anaesthetic is the converse of the aesthetic . . . Through anaesthesia we block out feeling—and the loss of a higher perceptive capacity is the direct result. The anaesthetic realm thus deals with the most elementary level of the aesthetic, and furnishes its condition and boundary.8

This pair of concepts applies to the phenomenon of kitsch, and offers us a means of critically testing Broch’s thesis. We can discern two opposing processes at work. In the Viennese Classical style, and in Beethoven’s music generally, we observe tendencies to widen the boundaries of art. Thus material can be absorbed from the commonplace, taken from the anaesthetic into the aesthetic realm. With kitsch we evidently encounter the opposite—what is offered as art demands no higher perceptive capacity and brings a regression; material from the aesthetic sphere returns to the realm of the anaesthetic. It would be misleading, however, to regard art only as the expansion and kitsch as the surrender of aesthetic substance. For, according to Broch, kitsch tends to wallow in beauty—its shortcoming is not aesthetic, but ethical. Thus the boundary between aesthetic and anaesthetic experience is not to be understood merely negatively. As Welsch remarks, “one anaesthetizes, in order to avoid aesthetic pain”; and not a few artists, stoics, or mystics, for instance, “strive toward a transcendence of the senses in the attainment of ‘another condition’”—which can presumably be understood as a type of anaesthetic state.9 These possibilities are contained in Broch’s somewhat questionable attack on beauty as the “goddess of kitsch.” Broch is undoubtedly right, however, that kitsch, if regarded as a system of imitation, can imply an ethical failure, inasmuch as it embodies a false pretense. Let us consider in this light Beethoven’s “Battle Symphony” Wellingtons Sieg (Wellington’s Victory), which was composed in late 1813, well before the beginning of the Congress of Vienna (see Plate 12). After Wellington’s military victory in Spain on 21 June 1813, Johann Mälzel spotted an excellent business opportunity in the form of a commemorative piece to be performed on his elaborate mechanical instrument, the Panharmonicon. Mälzel approached Beethoven, who agreed to take up the task. From the beginning the work was tailored for popular success, particularly in England. Moscheles maintained that the entire plan of the work, with its ﬂourishes, marches, use of the hymns Rule, Brittania and God Save the King, and even the fugue based on the latter, came from Mälzel, but

8 9

Ästhetisches Denken, p. 10. Ibid., p. 11.

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Küthen has suggested on the basis of the manuscript sources that Mälzel’s input was mainly conﬁned to the battle signals and fanfares.10 In the end, the “Battle Symphony” was ﬁrst given not by Mälzel’s Panharmonicon but in a version for augmented orchestra at two gala charity performances on 8 and 12 December 1813. Its enthusiastic reception led to further performances for Beethoven’s own beneﬁt. At the ﬁrst of those, on 2 January 1814, Beethoven dropped all reference to Mälzel from the program, substituting pieces from The Ruins of Athens music for Mälzel’s Mechanical Trumpeter, which had been featured in the charity performances. Beethoven’s action contributed to a serious break in his relationship with Mälzel that was not repaired until 1817. Thayer cites Tomaschek’s comments on Wellington’s Victory that he was very painfully affected to see a Beethoven, whom Providence had probably assigned to the highest throne in the realm of music, among the rudest materialists. I was told, it is true, that he himself had declared the work to be folly, and that he liked it only because with it he had thoroughly thrashed the Viennese.

Thayer comments that There is no doubt that this was so; nor that they, who engaged in its performance, viewed it as a stupendous musical joke, and engaged in it con amore as in a gigantic professional frolic.11

Among the musicians who took part were the famous double bass player Dragonetti, the cellist Bernhard Romberg, the composer and violinist Ludwig Spohr, and the future master of French grand opera Giacomo Meyerbeer, whose timid drum playing reportedly met with Beethoven’s scorn. Some critics have viewed this “professional frolic” kindly; Ludwig Misch deemed it a masterpiece of its own genre.12 Is Wellington’s Victory shielded from critique if it is regarded as practical Gebrauchsmusik with no higher pretensions? We should resist the temptation simply to collapse the work into its historical context. In its style Wellington’s Victory departs radically from Beethoven’s aesthetic norms, quite unlike other “characteristic” pieces such as the Pastoral Symphony or the Lebewohl Sonata. The crude realism of Wellington’s Victory is well illustrated in its ﬁrst main section, which is devoted to the battle. After the preliminary fanfares and national marches heard from the opposing ensembles representing the French and British forces, the engagement begins with an Allegro, sporting syncopations and motivic ﬁgures of descending scales. Initially, Beethoven favors these syncopated beats for his placement of the cannon shots, which are meticulously speciﬁed in the score with dark circles for the British and open circles for the French artillery. A well-known aspect of the historical battle was the British

10

“Wellingtons Sieg oder die Schlacht bei Vittoria,” pp. 262–63. Thayer-Forbes, p. 565. 12 Beethoven Studies, pp. 153–62. 11

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Ex. 58 Wellington’s Victory op. 91, “Storm March”

capture of the French guns; this is clearly reﬂected in Beethoven’s distribution of the 188 cannon shots. As the tide turns against the French, their cannons are heard less and less frequently and are then silenced altogether. Characteristic of Wellington’s Victory are insistent repetitions of a few basic ﬁgures on a broad but ﬂat musical canvas. As the British launch their assault in the “Storm March,” the music consists largely of twenty-four almost undifferentiated repetitions of the single note A , followed by sixteen strokes on A and sixteen more on B , leading to still more repetitions on B (Ex. 58). Beethoven pushes up the music notch by notch, a familiar device in popular music. This is symptomatic of the almost complete absence, in the “Battle Symphony,” of a unifying tonal and formal perspective such as we normally ﬁnd in Beethoven. Wellington’s

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Ex. 58 (continued)

soldiers have no need of subtlety; they force their way heavily and brutally into the French defenses. There are nevertheless a few ﬁner points to Beethoven’s musical depiction of the collapse of the French resistance. He employs a motif with a triplet ﬁgure and falling semitone to serve as a tag for the French forces—this turn of phrase is clearly derived from the “Marlborough” French marching song heard at the outset. As the British gain the upper hand, the motif is deprived of its downbeat,

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Ex. 59 Wellington’s Victory op. 91, “Storm March,” bars 331–49

suggesting an effect of breathless panic.13 While the British cannons pound relentlessly, Beethoven even dismembers what is left of the French motif. In the bars following the “double hits” of the cannoneers—as designated by two dark circles on successive beats—the “Marlborough” ﬁgure is reduced to a single note (Ex. 59). The subsequent rout of the French army is conveyed not only by the 13

Cf. Küthen, “Wellingtons Sieg,” p. 267.

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Ex. 59 (continued)

long descending lines and decrescendo but by a limping and forlorn F minor version of the “Marlborough” tune. This dismal departure of the French army makes room for the triumphant “Victory Symphony” that makes up the remainder of the work. The occasional subtle touches do little to relieve the impression of pastiche and bombast. Some of the same rhetorical ﬁgures appear here as in Beethoven’s important compositions, but an integrating aesthetic context is absent or undeveloped. The “Battle Symphony” is a fascinating historical artifact, but a dubious work of art; it is a “consummated,” not an “unconsummated,” symbol. As Solomon has claimed, elements of Beethoven’s heroic style are recalled here, but only as parody or farce.14 In this instance, identiﬁable aspects of Beethoven’s aesthetic 14

Beethoven, p. 222.

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enterprise dissipate into the realm of the anaesthetic. The narrative design of the music is mainly extrinsic rather than intrinsic. It was in response to these aspects that Alfred Einstein once described Wellington’s Victory as “the lowest point in Beethoven’s work.”15 But a better candidate for that distinction might be Der glorreiche Augenblick (The Glorious Moment), the cantata for chorus, orchestra, and soloists that Beethoven wrote during the autumn of 1814 in fawning tribute to the assembled dignitaries at the Congress of Vienna. The Glorious Moment was performed on 29 November and 2 December 1814 in a program containing Wellington’s Victory and (as the reviewer in the Wiener Zeitung put it) “a symphony composed to accompany” these works—the Seventh Symphony! The text, written by the deaf surgeon Alois Weissenbach, is an exercise in bathos. One recurrent motif is a hymn of praise to “the queen of cities,” Vienna, or “Vindobona,” the archaic name for the town, used in the fugal setting of the closing chorus. “I am Europe, give way, proud Rome,” is the message in the aria in which the soprano becomes the voice of Vienna herself. The Glorious Moment is mostly sweetness and light, with a correspondingly “triumphant” musical setting. The moments of pathos are exaggerated. “Oh kneel down, people, and worship those who have rescued you!” are the words of the recitative praising the “gleaming crowned heads” of Europe. To be thus “worshipped” are the same monarchs who were already consolidating their restoration of political power. Only a few years later Austria was to suffer the oppressive police state of Metternich. In historical retrospect, at least, the ideological content of this work is blatant and cynical. Beethoven’s music closely follows the rhetorical overemphases of Weissenbach’s text. Thus, at the end of the recitative and quartet (no. 5), Beethoven brings about a great climax at the mention of Emperor Franz (Ex. 60). The commotion in the orchestra matches the effect of overstated pathos in the poem, with its dubious rhymed pairing of “Glanz” (“splendor”) and “Franz”: “And God has drawn this splendor, this glorious arch, through the world, in our Franz.” The majestic rhythms and rising string arpeggios contribute to the stirring fortissimo climax on a D major chord in the full orchestra. This is an example of the manner in which words and music in this work have been subordinated to the political adoration of authority. More than the “Battle Symphony,” The Glorious Moment offers an example of kitsch in Broch’s sense, whereby beauty and harmony reign supreme and unchallenged. There is no trace of critique in the cantata, although Beethoven surely could have chosen a somewhat more differentiated approach without interference from the censors. His own attitude toward the piece was by no means dismissive. He offered it for performance or publication to contacts in London and urged his new publisher, Steiner, to issue it. Beethoven considered writing an overture to 15

“Beethoven’s Military Style,” p. 244.

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Ex. 60 Der glorreiche Augenblick op. 136, quartet (no. 5), bars 172–90

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Ex. 60 (continued)

preface the cantata, and even ﬁve months before his death the cantata is mentioned in one of his conversation notebooks. When it was eventually published in 1837, with a different text, it received the opus number 136, one higher than the last of the great string quartets. In its style The Glorious Moment is not without parallels in Beethoven’s greater works. Certain passages in the aria with violin solo (no. 3) vaguely foreshadow aspects of the Benedictus of the Missa solemnis, and the choral fugue on “Vindobona” faintly echoes, in its rhythm and texture, the Handelian ﬂavor of

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the fugue in the Gloria of Beethoven’s Mass in D. The Glorious Moment is more smooth and reﬁned than Wellington’s Victory, but it consistently lacks those qualities of expressive tension and formal integrity that we normally expect from Beethoven. Especially after his experience with Wellington’s Victory, Beethoven may have felt it appropriate to dilute much of the strength of his musical style in order to please and ﬂatter his listeners without really demanding their attention. It is hard to know just how seriously Beethoven took The Glorious Moment and some of his other pieces for the Congress of Vienna, such as the choralorchestral works Germania WoO 94 and Ihr weisen Gründer glücklicher Staaten (You Wise Founders of Happy Countries) WoO 95, whose title alone betrays the same mindless obsequiousness as The Glorious Moment. His angrily dismissive response to a negative critique of Wellington’s Victory, however, shows a streak of defensiveness: he wrote “nichts als Gelegenheitsstück” (“nothing but an occasional work”) and then added, “pitiful scoundrel, my shit is better than [anything] you have ever thought” (see Plate 16). But intentionally or not, Beethoven held up a very unﬂattering mirror to this grand party of the restoration. In giving his audience what they wanted, his Congress of Vienna pieces exposed the superﬁcial veneer that concealed the far less glorious realities of post-Napoleonic politics. Some recent scholars have been drawn to Beethoven’s Congress of Vienna works precisely because of their noncanonic status. Springing to the defense of these works as pieces “marginalized by the ‘Beethoven Hero’ paradigm,” Nicholas Cook urges that Wellingtons Sieg be experienced through a collage-like aesthetic of “hyper-representation” and Der glorreiche Augenblick in terms of an “enactment of community.”16 Yet both pieces are well endowed with heroic accents and ceremonial gestures of a rather conventional kind. Rather than assuming that the works are victims of some ill-deﬁned prejudice, it is more convincing to observe, with Nicholas Mathew, that what is lacking is “an aesthetic tension that is constitutive of the composer’s voice.”17 Such a lack also characterizes the martial music for Pizarro and his chorus of guards that closed the second act of Fidelio in its original three-act version, a number that was retained in 1806 but wisely removed in 1814. If in Beethoven’s Congress of Vienna works we witness his “metamorphosis from a cosmopolitan composer writing heroic works with a distinctly French ﬂavor to a patriotic German writing propaganda pieces against Napoleon,” in Stephen Rumph’s words, this “metamorphosis” remained but a temporary, passing phase lying outside the mainstream of his creative development.18 A reminder of that situation is the timing of Beethoven’s painstaking revision and successful re-

16 “The Other Beethoven: Heroism, the Canon, and the Works of 1813–14,” 19th-Century Music 27 (2003), pp. 3–24, quotation from p. 24. 17 “Beethoven and His Others: Criticism, Difference, and the Composer’s Many Voices,” Beethoven Forum 13 (2006), pp. 148–87, quotation from p. 182. 18 See Rumph’s Beethoven After Napoleon: Political Romanticism in the Late Works (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004); quotation from p. 96.

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vival of Fidelio, an opportunity that arose, ironically, precisely from his heightened popularity during the Congress of Vienna period. As we have seen, the opera is inextricably bound up with French models and Enlightenment ideals, and its extensive ﬁnal revision in 1814 took place several years after Rumph sees Beethoven as having renounced these principles (for a more detailed discussion of Fidelio, see chapter 4). In at least one key aspect of the 1814 revision, Beethoven enhances the symbolic treatment of freedom, while building on another of his works evincing Enlightenment principles, the music to Goethe’s Egmont that he wrote in 1810. Egmont’s vision of Klärchen in the Egmont Music undoubtedly served as a model for Florestan’s vision of Leonore as an angel of freedom. In both works, two archetypes are combined into one: a “distant beloved” with an idealized feminine embodiment of liberty. In Fidelio, the symbolic treatment of this theme is richly developed, supported by a far-reaching network of musical and dramatic connections. By contrast, the hollow splendor of The Glorious Moment represents an overextended pretence in artistic guise, and the glaring contrast with Beethoven’s other music implies a conscious decision on his part to adjust priorities. To be sure, his occasional patriotic works indulge far less in hedonism than in aggressive nationalist sentiments. Even in The Glorious Moment, a seductive wallowing in beauty remains a secondary rather than a primary characteristic. It is not dreamy sentimentality but the underlying criterion of a false pretence that betrays the afﬁnity of Beethoven’s Congress of Vienna works with Broch’s categories.

S S S During 1814 Beethoven returned to serious composition with two major projects, the revision of Fidelio with the librettist Georg Friedrich Treitschke, and the Piano Sonata in E minor op. 90. Important revisions were made throughout the opera and in aspects of its staging. As we have seen, some crucial additions were made, such as the setting of “Farewell, you warm sunshine” for the prisoners at the end of Act I and the F major concluding section of Florestan’s aria, and Beethoven ﬁnally resolved the problem of the overture by writing a new one in E major. One aspect of his revision that has received little attention is his compression of numerous passages in various numbers of the opera. A more concise, terse concentration is characteristic of his later style in general, and the revision of his opera helped initiate this new approach. A work like the F minor Quartet op. 95, which was revised for publication in 1815, already displays this heightened density, as does the ﬁrst movement of the op. 90 sonata. Beginning with the two Cello Sonatas of op. 102, from 1815, such concentration becomes an abiding feature of Beethoven’s music. After his patriotic potboilers of 1813–14, with their thin, vapid character, Beethoven turned about-face in his important works, signiﬁcantly raising the speciﬁc gravity of their artistic content. The ﬁrst movement of the E minor Sonata op. 90 tends to elide the formal divisions between the exposition and development and between the development and recapitulation. As in the next sonata, op. 101 (as well as in opp. 57 and 110), the exposition is not repeated. The development begins quietly, in bar 82, on the pitch B, drawn from the preceding dominant chords that close the exposition, and

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Ex. 61 Piano Sonata op. 90/I, development, bars 109–23

it is based almost entirely on the ﬁrst theme, though the accompaniment in repeated notes and chords is drawn from the second group. The entire second half of the development (bars 113 ff.) employs a different accompanimental texture outlining broken chords in the right hand, while a ﬁgure drawn from the opening theme is intensiﬁed with sforzandi in the left hand (Ex. 61). Especially fascinating is how the musical content of bar 130—where Beethoven changes the key signature to one sharp, indicating E minor—is treated in the ensuing canonic passage to allow the recapitulation to emerge. This bar already contains the essence of the recapitulation in its second and third beats, in particular in the descent of the third G–E in the high register. After three repetitions (bar 131) this ﬁgure is isolated and stressed dynamically in the next bar, with an imitation an octave lower. Then a series of canonic mutations elongates the ﬁgure in three successive rhythmic augmentations, and its relationship with the principal theme gradually becomes clear. The close stretto at the unison (bars 138–41) stresses the pitch level of the imminent recapitulation; in performance, these bars are difﬁcult to bring out effectively, on account of their dense texture, as the motif continues to turn onto itself. Finally, the stretto expands across other registers and yields to the recapitulation (bar 144). As in the ﬁrst movement of the Fourth Symphony, there is no cadence; harmonically, this entire static passage has remained on the tonic. The rapid sixteenth-note ﬁguration of the development (beginning in Ex. 61) has proven against all expectations to belong to the head of the principal theme. Instead of deﬁning a single structural moment, the recapitulation represents a process that extends over the eighteen bars that precede the literal point of recapitulation. As in the ﬁrst movements of two of the last quartets, opp. 130 and 132, the tonal and thematic recapitulations do not coincide. The second and ﬁnal movement, in E major, is the most Schubertian movement in Beethoven, a luxurious rondo dominated by many, almost unvaried, appear-

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ances of a spacious cantabile theme. This is the last big lyrical rondo ﬁnale in the Beethoven sonatas, the successor to the closing movements in op. 2 no. 2, op. 7, op. 22, op. 31 no. 1, and the Waldstein. In this rondo, and in the A major Sonata op. 101, Beethoven comes closest to the emerging Romantic style, yet there are elements here that point unmistakably toward the unique synthesis embodied in many compositions of his last decade. The op. 90 Sonata is a reminder that even during the Congress of Vienna period Beethoven’s basic compositional integrity remained intact and continued to grow, work by work, as he forged the elements of a new style. Continuity from the past is especially felt in some songs of these years. Apart from his occasional folk-song settings, Beethoven returned, in his second setting of An die Hoffnung and in his later song Sehnsucht (Yearning) WoO 146, based on the poem by Reissig, to abiding preoccupations—he had already written ﬁve songs entitled Sehnsucht based on two poems by Goethe (the four settings of WoO 134; op. 83 no. 2). Another signiﬁcant piece from this time is his sensitive setting of two Goethe poems for chorus and orchestra Meeresstille und glückliche Fahrt (Calm Seas and Prosperous Voyage), which was composed in 1814–15 but published only in 1822, as op. 112, with a dedication to the poet. The two Cello Sonatas in C major and D major of op. 102 are Beethoven’s only other important works of 1815. Though shorter than his earlier cello sonatas, they are more concentrated and richly polyphonic. The C major Sonata opens with an unaccompanied dolce cantabile phrase in the cello, as did the op. 69 Sonata in A major. The effect there is broader, but his treatment of the opening phrase in the C major Sonata goes perhaps still deeper, since the thematic material is immediately worked out contrapuntally with the entry of the piano. Much happens here in a small space. The form of the whole also takes on some unprecedented features: for this pregnant, lyrical opening of the ﬁrst movement is recalled, in slightly varied form, shortly before the beginning of the ﬁnale; its thematic substance seems to be plumbed, and the fourth G–C—the main motif and point of departure of the ﬁnale—is discovered as an outcome of contemplative reminiscence. Beethoven’s last cello sonata, in D major, begins with a contrast-laden and yet superbly coherent theme: the opening fanfares in the piano preface a reﬂective, dolce phrase in the cello, before the robust character of the theme is restored (Ex. 62). This theme well illustrates the enhanced density of Beethoven’s evolving musical language and its implications for analysis and performance. The succinct four-bar opening in the piano is a conﬁguration of durational time, in which disruptive and unifying forces are held in balance. They syncopated upward leaps of an octave to D and a tenth to G outline precisely the tonal space that is traversed in continuous motion in the descending gesture of the third bar. The inversion of the linear motion leads to the register of the beginning in bar 4, making clear that the second half of the phrase closes the ﬁrst half. This closure is not merely conventional symmetry, however: the second half of the phrase seems to turn back, or even reverse, the driving upward sallies of the ﬁrst half, producing a kind of contrapuntal mirroring effect.

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Ex. 62 Cello Sonata op. 102 no. 2/I

After its initial rising arpeggios the cello reaches its dolce melody in bar 5, stressing in two registers the dominant note, A—a pitch prepared in turn by the contour of the ascending fourth D–G in the opening piano fanfares. The cello melody then elaborates that intervallic relation as G–D in the descending contour of bars 6–7. Beethoven absorbs here the rhythm in sixteenths from the piano fanfares into the cello line, while displacing the notes of the turn ﬁgure by one sixteenth. The ensuing phrases also develop the fourth D–G. In bars 8–9 the cello and piano both play a linear conﬁguration outlining D–G–D, which is treated in a descending sequence in the following bar. But even this motif has been foreshadowed in an inner voice of the piano at the beginning of the dolce theme. In both cases the voices rise from D to D before continuing to ascend. That chromatic inﬂection, in turn, is developed in the E of bar 10, and further in the G of bar 12, which opens up the energetic drive into the dominant. The ascending syncopated octaves in piano and cello in bars 13–14 transform the initial fanfares and

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at the same time balance the opening phrase of four tonic bars with a varied concluding phrase over a dominant pedal. The overall structure of this sixteen-bar theme is almost parenthetical: an eight-bar dolce melody in the cello is nested into two four-bar units of more assertive character, with the piano in the dominating role. Beethoven has cast many connecting threads over these contrasting components and woven the sections tightly together to form a complex composite theme. Essentially, he has experimented here with a variant of the openings of his two earlier cello sonatas, opp. 69 and 102 no. 1, in which the cello begins with a lyrical dolce gesture. The corresponding gesture here in the D major Sonata is the dolce theme beginning in bar 5, which even shows a rhythmic resemblance to the beginning of op. 69. Most extraordinary is the way Beethoven devises the continuation of this theme. The music unfolds in dialogue with what had preceded and what is to follow, gradually building an organic transition from the reﬂective, dolce character into the brilliant, extroverted passage leading to the cadence in the dominant. It is a tall order to convey these qualities clearly in performance, a challenge rarely met. The rich network of motivic and formal relationships carries implications for the temporality of the music. A piece such as the Allegro con brio of op. 102 no. 2 seems to arise out of a sustained tension between an anticipation of the future and memory of the past. Inasmuch as this is perceived and adequately conveyed in performance, it is no longer appropriate to attend to the artistic content as if it were simply a succession of events in measured, quantitative time. This phenomenon is undoubtedly connected to the confusion or grief that Beethoven’s most advanced works have sometimes caused listeners. The very ﬁrst reviewer of op. 102 in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung in 1818 wrote: These two sonatas certainly belong to the most strange and unusual . . . that have ever been written for piano. Everything is different, completely different from what could be expected, even from this composer. He should not take it badly if we add that not a few things . . . are shaped in order that they should appear very strange.19

Op. 102 no. 2 is the only one of Beethoven’s cello sonatas to incorporate a fully independent slow movement. This is an Adagio con molto sentimento d’affetto in D minor, reminiscent in its mysterious character of the Largo of the Ghost Trio, in the same key. Also analogous to the Ghost Trio is Beethoven’s combination of a slow, almost static theme with more intricate textures employing dotted rhythms. A more distant but equally fascinating kinship may be felt with one of the last and greatest of all Beethoven’s slow movements: the “Heiliger Dankgesang” of the Quartet in A minor op. 132. For the Adagio of the cello sonata begins with solemn strains of a chorale-like subject, which are subsequently blended with more elaborate, expressive textures. The austerity of the chorale is deepened by Beethoven’s use of the low register of the piano, by modal inﬂections, and by 19

Cited in Kunze, ed., Beethoven: Die Werke im Spiegel seiner Zeit, pp. 341–42.

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the ritual pauses after every second bar. The setting exudes a remote, archaic, and even oppressive atmosphere, which is suddenly, even miraculously, relieved by the shift into D major in the middle section of the movement, marked dolce. Beethoven emphasizes the affective contrast of the middle section in several ways. The dragging pace of the chorale is supplanted by gentle pulsation of the accompanimental ﬁguration, the somber heaviness of texture by transparent, lyrical gestures reaching into the upper registers. In the “Heiliger Dankgesang” movement, by contrast, Beethoven chooses a Lydian modality for his hymn, and he pits against this chorale a luxurious, dancelike subject in the major, marked “feeling new strength.” The roots of this extraordinary conception can be recognized in the impressive slow movement of op. 102 no. 2. Quite unlike the quartet, however, is the conclusion of the Adagio con molto sentimento d’affetto. At the threshold of the ﬁnal cadence in D minor he introduces a mysterious, deceptive shift to a sonority of C minor, leading into the transition to the ﬁnal movement, the Allegro fugato (Ex. 63). This transition supplies a good example of Beethoven’s increasing propensity for isolating the basic motivic material in advance. The cello and piano each play a rising scale, which soon becomes the point of departure for the culmination of the sonata in the fugal ﬁnale.

Ex. 63 Cello Sonata op. 102 no. 2/II, bars 79–85; III, bars 1–14

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This fugue has often proved a stumbling block for critics. One early review of 1824, probably by Adolf Bernhard Marx, includes the following comments: The theme is too merry for such serious treatment, and it therefore makes too shrill a contrast to the other movements. How much we would rather have heard another movement—a Beethovenian ﬁnale!—in place of this fugue. It would be therefore desirable that Beethoven not exploit fugue in such a willful manner, since his great genius is naturally lifted above every form.20

The reviewer’s dismissal of the ﬁnale seems motivated by his conviction that the very traditional form of the fugue has obstructed Beethoven’s artistic expression; despite its originality and skill, this fugue is not beautiful and “will not please anyone, neither the connoisseur nor—and even less—the amateur.” This contention touches central aesthetic issues in Beethoven’s later music. For the fugal ﬁnale of the D major Cello Sonata is not an isolated experiment. This is the ﬁrst of a series of important fugal ﬁnales which Beethoven was to set forth in the piano sonatas opp. 106 and 110 and in the huge ﬁnale of the original version of the Quartet in B major op. 130, the Grosse Fuge. In this respect, as in many others, op. 102 no. 2 is a prophetic composition. There are motivic parallels linking this fugue with the fugal ﬁnale of the Hammerklavier Sonata. The main subject of the Hammerklavier fugue also uses scalar segments, which at ﬁrst descend, instead of ascending, as they do in the cello sonata. Both fugues make much use of inversion, as well as rhythmic augmentation. In a sense, the fugal subject of the Hammerklavier might be regarded as combining motivic elements from the ﬁrst movement of that work—the rising tenth and chain of falling thirds—with the stepwise, scalar contour of op. 102 no. 2. Other motivic parallels of this kind link the cello sonata fugue with the fugal development in the middle of the ﬁnale of Beethoven’s next sonata, op. 101. As in these works, there is a grainy, even harsh quality to some of the contrapuntal developments in the D major Cello Sonata. Quite unlike the Hammerklavier is the humorous character of the original subject, the quality that irritated Marx in 1824. Beethoven’s choice of character is undoubtedly linked to the slow movement, with its despairing mood, which is resolved or superseded in the unhampered gaiety of the beginning of the fugue. The intensity of the contrapuntal operations lends weight to the ﬁnale, thereby anchoring the sonata as a whole. Beethoven’s fugal subject undergoes a kind of passage from innocence to experience, a progression guided by the cold logic of the contrapuntal combinations and culminating in an almost violent chain of strettos—one of those passages that must have most shocked the reviewer from the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung (Ex. 64). Immediately following this fortissimo climax, the music pauses on F as it fades into pianissimo. A new fugal subject enters in long notes and ﬂat legato articulation. Unlike the rest of the Allegro fugato, this subject has a feeling of motionlessness. It resists the swift, unfettered movement of the ﬁnale in favor of the static 20

Ibid., p. 344.

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Ex. 64 Cello Sonata op. 102 no. 2/III, bars 129–49

world of the Adagio. Hence a pivotal moment in the narrative design of the fugue, and of the entire sonata, comes as each of the three contrapuntal voices in turn breaks out of this detached stillness to reemerge into the dynamic, propulsive experience of the movement proper. The process occurs ﬁrst in the cello; but the crescendo to fortissimo marks the precise passage in which this emancipation takes place in the piano, clearing the way for the exuberant closing section, with its textures of contrary motion and trills. Beethoven’s resource of the fugal ﬁnale in his last cello sonata can be seen in part as an outgrowth of his practice, begun in works like the fantasy sonatas op. 27, of reserving the fastest and most continuous rhythmic motion for the ﬁnale. The lively, dance-like gait of the Allegro fugato is well calculated to supersede the contrast-laden ﬁrst movement and the somber, chorale-like Adagio con molto sentimento d’affetto. What the fugal texture adds is the necessary density to allow the ﬁnale to stand up successfully against the other movements, and indeed to act as culmination of the whole. By 1815 Beethoven had accomplished a further deepening in his art, fulﬁlling the intention expressed in the ﬁrst Tagebuch entry three years earlier. His unproductive spell at the close of the “Immortal Beloved” affair had been left behind; the extravagant artistic misadventures of the Congress period were a closed chapter. His public popularity was now on the wane; the composer of the hour was Rossini. As complete deafness closed in on Beethoven, he approached his greatest artistic challenges. Slowly and deliberately he assembled the elements of an unprecedented stylistic synthesis, whereby nothing was lost and yet everything changed.

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R In the summer of 1816 Fanny Giannatasio recorded notes in her diary about Beethoven’s visit to her family at Baden, outside Vienna, which included the following: My father thought that B. could rescue himself from his unfortunate domestic conditions only by marriage, did he know anybody, etc. Now our long foreboding was conﬁrmed: he was unhappy in love! Five years ago he had made the acquaintance of a person, a union with whom he would have considered the greatest happiness of his life. It was not to be thought of, almost an impossibility, a chimera— nevertheless it is now as on the ﬁrst day.1

Shortly before, on 8 May, Beethoven had written to Ries: Unfortunately I have no wife. I found only one, whom I shall no doubt never possess.2

As Solomon has observed, the Tagebuch contains two entries from 1816 implying the possible identity of the woman as Antonie, or “Toni,” Brentano: Regarding T. nothing is left but to trust in God; never to go where weakness might lead to do wrong; to Him alone, the omniscient God, leave all this. But toward T. [be] as good as possible; her devotion deserves never to be forgotten— though, unfortunately, advantageous consequences for you could never result therefrom.3

In the spring of 1816, after Beethoven’s “Immortal Beloved” had remained a “distant beloved” for several years, he gave deﬁnitive artistic expression to this abiding and universal human theme in the song cycle An die ferne Geliebte op. 98. Thayer wrote about these songs that “no one can hear them adequately sung without feeling that there is something more in that music than the mere inspiration of the poetry.”4 Yet, as Kerman has claimed, it seems likely that this music 1

Thayer-Forbes, p. 646. Ibid., p. 639. 3 Beethoven, p. 173. 4 Thayer-Forbes, p. 647. 2

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helped Beethoven to bring his emotional conﬂicts to rest; “by bringing his feelings into the open, Beethoven was renouncing or abandoning them.”5 An die ferne Geliebte relates to the “Immortal Beloved” crisis in a manner analogous to the role of the Eroica Symphony in the Heiligenstadt crisis more than a decade earlier. But there was another factor that ameliorated Beethoven’s loneliness and isolation at this time. He had formed a close attachment to his nephew Karl, son of his brother Caspar Carl, who had died in 1815. Beethoven’s relationship to Karl undoubtedly helped ﬁll the emotional void in the bachelor existence to which he was now permanently resigned. (We shall return later to the problems surrounding Beethoven’s guardianship of his nephew.) The text of An die ferne Geliebte stems from the Moravian medical student Alois Jeitteles, who presumably gave Beethoven the poems in manuscript—they were never published separately from the music. Beethoven made musical sketches for the cycle in the Scheide Sketchbook, immediately preceding work on the A major Piano Sonata op. 101. As Christopher Reynolds has pointed out, Beethoven sketched the ﬁrst song of the cycle most intensively; the music of the following ﬁve songs often varies or transforms elements from the ﬁrst.6 The songs are directly interconnected by transitions in sonority; they outline a cyclical key scheme passing from E major to G (no. 2), A (nos. 3 and 4), and C (no. 5), returning to the tonic for the sixth song. But the primacy of the opening song “Auf dem Hügel sitz’ ich spähend” is reﬂected most vividly by Beethoven’s decision to link its text and music with the conclusion of the cycle. Kerman has convincingly suggested that Beethoven added the last stanza to the opening strophic song in order to promote this cyclic connection.7 The ﬁfth stanza of “Auf dem Hügel” contains a closing couplet identical to the end of the last song, preceded by two lines that may stem from Beethoven himself: Denn vor Liedesklang entweichet jeder Raum und jede Zeit, und ein liebend Herz erreichet, was ein liebend Herz geweiht. [For the sound of song transcends all space and time, that a loving heart receive what a loving heart has consecrated.]

The import of these lines resists literal translation; what is involved is a communication from one soul to another, overcoming spatial and temporal constraints. Much the same message is conveyed in the dedication Beethoven was to write over the Kyrie of his Missa solemnis: “Von Herzen—Möge es wieder—zu Herzen gehn!” (“From the heart, may it go again to the heart!”). The beginning of the ﬁnal song, “Nimm sie hin denn, diese Lieder, die ich dir, 5

“An die ferne Geliebte,” p. 131. “The Representational Impulse in Late Beethoven, I: An die ferne Geliebte.” 7 “An die ferne Geliebte,” pp. 126–7, 129. 6

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Geliebte, sang” (“Take to your heart these songs that I sang to you, beloved”) is quoted with moving effect by Robert Schumann at the end of the ﬁrst movement of his C major Fantasy op. 17 (Ex. 65a and b).8 Schumann’s quotation is at once a homage to Beethoven and an allusion to his own “distant beloved” at the time, Clara Wieck. It is noteworthy that Schumann originally intended to repeat the quotation at the end of the ﬁnal movement of the fantasy, a gesture that would have echoed Beethoven’s procedure in An die ferne Geliebte, where the last song brings a return of the music and words of the ﬁrst. This device is the most striking single idea in Beethoven’s song cycle, an inspiration with broader ties to his instrumental music from these years. It is for the last stanza of this closing song that Beethoven recalls the music from “Denn vor Liedesklang entweichet” in the ﬁrst song: Denn vor diesen Liedern weichet, was geschieden uns so weit, und ein liebend Herz erreichet was ein liebend Herz geweiht! [Then the distance that so divides us dissolves through these songs, that a loving heart receive what a loving heart has consecrated!]

A short piano introduction and a longer postlude frame the stanza, setting the recall of the music from the ﬁfth stanza of the opening song on a pedestal. As Kerman observes, this device also marks an important moment in the gradually increasing prominence of the piano throughout the cycle.9 The beginning of the cycle had not strayed far from the Volksweise ideal, in which the words and vocal line remain dominant; only the end of the cycle could have elicited Goethe’s disapproval by giving the music sway over the text. The two-bar piano introduction was probably an afterthought that Beethoven inserted into the autograph score.10 As a result of this interpolation, the vocal line takes its cue from the piano; and now Beethoven uses every rhetorical and formal device at his disposal to highlight the message of the ﬁnal stanza (Ex. 66). The words are repeated over and over, as motivic elements from the postlude of the ﬁrst song, such as the decorated inﬂection on high B in the piano, are developed in a new context. Beethoven reserves the peak of the vocal tessitura on high G for the passionate closing repetitions of “was ein liebend, liebend Herz geweiht!” The piano echoes the ﬁnal inﬂection of the voice and brings the music to a close with an emphatic reiteration of the phrase that had begun the cycle. Beethoven’s cadence is left open, with the ﬁnal accented E major chord placed 8 Cf. Rosen, The Classical Style, pp. 451–53. Recent research has failed to discover any documented references to Schumann’s Beethoven allusion before the twentieth century, but that does not invalidate the tangible artistic kinship between these works. 9 “An die ferne Geliebte,” pp. 154–55. 10 Ibid.

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Ex. 65a. An die ferne Geliebte op. 98 no. 6

b. Schumann, Fantasy in C op. 17/I

on a weak beat of the triple meter. The cycle turns back on itself, forcing the listener to reﬂect on the meaning of the circular design of the whole, with its symbolic embodiment of the perennial, unending theme of human communication and separation. It is the possibility of a true intimacy that is at stake here: “From the heart, may it go to the heart!,” as Beethoven wrote into his score of the Missa solemnis. This is the ﬁrst of a series of open-ended conclusions of works that Beethoven was to compose in following years, including the last three piano sonatas and the Diabelli Variations.

S S S As Alfred Brendel has suggested, Beethoven’s late music involves a general expansion and synthesis of the means of expression, whereby opposites are often juxta-

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Ex. 66 An die ferne Geliebte op. 98 no. 6, bars 38–end

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posed, with every new complexity of style seeming to parallel, as its antithesis, a childlike simplicity. Normal modes of analysis are inadequate to grasp the tremendous richness of this idiom, which “embraces equally the past, present, and future, the sublime and the profane.”11 This expansion in expressive range is often associated with new departures in large-scale formal organization, and especially with a tendency to replace symmetrical forms with a central climax by a progression leading to a ﬁnal, culminating experience. Not only does Beethoven avoid the enclosure of literal recapitulation within movements; he also tends to arrange successive movements into a directional sequence leading toward the ﬁnale, now usually the most weighty movement of the sonata cycle. Beethoven now devises new, unique means of linking the movements of his works. In the C major Cello Sonata op. 102 no. 1 and in An die ferne Geliebte, as we have seen, his later recall of the opening lyrical music assumes unusual importance, going well beyond the most analogous earlier example—his reminiscence of the slow movement in the ﬁnale of the ﬁrst of the fantasy sonatas op. 27 no. 1, of 1801. But Beethoven’s most subtle use of this device is found in his next composition, the Piano Sonata in A major op. 101, from 1816. The crux of this sonata is contained not in the opening Allegretto, ma non troppo, despite its quiet, lyrical beginning in medias res on the dominant. The suspended quality of the music is enhanced by Beethoven’s seamless lyricism, his placement of the exposition in the dominant key, and by his avoidance throughout of strong tonic cadences. Following this short movement of yearning character, and the brusque, angular, contrapuntal march in F major forming the second movement, a more fundamental level of feeling or state of being is uncovered in the slow introduction to the ﬁnale, marked Langsam und sehnsuchtsvoll. Here the music is drawn progressively lower in pitch, falling through a series of diminished-seventh chords, before it drops still further in register, collapsing onto a soft sustained chord that is to serve as a turning point and a new beginning (Ex. 67). This passage anticipates in striking fashion the Praeludium to the Benedictus of the Missa solemnis, where a low chord reached through a similar descending progression is transposed upward several octaves to the solo violin and ﬂutes, to symbolize, with astonishing effect, the divine presence. In the case of the sonata, this soft chord, which represents the end of the descending progression and the termination of the Adagio, also embodies the a priori condition for the ﬁrst movement, since it presents the exact sonority, in the precise register, out of which the opening of that movement has sprung. In view of this, the opening of the sonata in medias res assumes a new and deeper signiﬁcance. The importance of this original sound—an E major sonority marked by a fermata—is conﬁrmed by its transformation, after a short cadenza-like passage, into the actual beginning of the opening movement. This reminiscence lasts a few bars before it dissolves into the emphatic beginning of the ﬁnale, marked by the ﬁrst strong tonic cadence (in A major) that has yet been heard in the sonata. The ﬁnale is in sonata form, with its development assigned to a fugato. Contrapuntal devices have already been prominent in the march, particularly in its trans11

Music Sounded Out, p. 63.

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Ex. 67 Piano Sonata op. 101, slow introduction to ﬁnale

parent canonic trio; but the fugal textures in the ﬁnale unfold with an uncompromising determination and virtuosity comparable only with the fugal ﬁnale of Beethoven’s next sonata, the Hammerklavier. Op. 101 is among the most difﬁcult of the sonatas, and Beethoven himself once described it as “hard to play.” The characteristically ironic context of this remark—which relates to a critique of performance difﬁculties in the Seventh Symphony—in no way invalidates the comment.

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The challenge of this work lies not only in the complex polyphony of the march and ﬁnale but in the delicate narrative sequence of the whole. Twice we pass from spheres of dreamlike reﬂection into the vigorous musical landscapes of the march and ﬁnale. A complex network of tonal and thematic relationships makes clear that these are not merely ruptures in the musical form but moments of transformation. Especially characteristic is Beethoven’s abiding memory, at the end of op. 101, of earlier stages in the artistic process. It is almost uncanny how this enhanced vision or enlarged perspective nourishes the humorous wit of the conclusion. Thus, the dolce passage beginning the coda is subtly reminiscent of the slow introduction to the ﬁnale; and the continuation not only alludes to the earlier fugal development but recalls harmonic features of the ﬁrst two movements. Near the end, Beethoven brings back as a pedal point the low contra E previously used in the climactic cadence to the recapitulation of the ﬁnale, and adds above it a long, dissonant trill, both of which are emphatically resolved into the ﬁnal triadic fanfare—a fanfare that itself ultimately derives from the climactic cadence to the recapitulation. The depth of synthesis and richness of allusion in passages such as this make special demands on listener and interpreter alike. Few of Beethoven’s pieces exerted such a strong spell on the Romantic composers as this A major Sonata. Mendelssohn imitated it in his op. 6 Sonata; Wagner found in its opening movement the ideal of his “inﬁnite melody”; Schumann was captivated by its march-like second movement. Along with the cello sonatas op. 102 and the song cycle An die ferne Geliebte, the A major Sonata marks a major transition in Beethoven’s style, pointing unmistakably to the unique synthesis achieved in works of his last decade.

S S S Let us pause at this point to reconsider the traditional periodization of Beethoven’s career. The conception of three main periods—a classicizing or “imitative” style in the 1790s, followed by a more expansive, “heroic” idiom forged in the Eroica Symphony, and ﬁnally a concentrated “late” style inaugurated in pieces like op. 101 and op. 102—has a venerable history reaching back at least to Wilhelm von Lenz in the nineteenth century. The tripartite division is not unjustiﬁed, and its transitional points correspond roughly to events in Beethoven’s life: his crisis over his incurable loss of hearing, and the onset of nearly total deafness more than a decade later. Nevertheless, such a periodization easily risks obscuring the strong lines of continuity in Beethoven’s artistic development, as well as other signiﬁcant demarcations in his career. As we have seen, certain early works, notably the Joseph Cantata, foreshadow aspects of his later music, without yet demonstrating the structural mastery and sustained intensity of his mature style. Beethoven’s achievement in the various musical genres did not proceed at an even pace; his piano sonatas of the 1790s, for instance, can hardly be regarded as products of an “imitative” style. On the other hand, after 1809 we can discern a change in his approach to composition that may be related in part to his income from the princes Kinsky and Lobkowitz and the Archduke Rudolph. Beginning around 1810, Beethoven concentrated on a smaller number of pieces, some of which display an enhanced scope in their respective genres: the Archduke Trio,

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Seventh Symphony, and Violin Sonata in G major. By 1815, major works like the Cello Sonatas op. 102 show even more conspicuous experimental features. For the composer of the Eroica, such an innovative tendency was in no way new; it is the striking consistency of this progressive trend from work to work that eventually signals another important stylistic shift. An die ferne Geliebte is one product of this impulse toward a richer artistic integration, with a group of individual songs merged into a larger unity. Diametrically opposed to this integrating tendency are the patriotic potboilers such as Wellington’s Victory and The Glorious Moment, pieces that fall out of the main line of Beethoven’s artistic development and demand therefore a different critical approach. The three “periods” are a convenient simpliﬁcation, which reﬂects some of Beethoven’s abiding stylistic changes but fails to apply to a number of his works. Ultimately, a convincing periodization needs to take biographical and historical factors into account while nevertheless giving priority to the musical works. To that end, we may discern four main periods, which are reﬂected in the chapter organization of this book. The ﬁrst and most heterogeneous period embraces Beethoven’s apprenticeship, as well as his path to mastery, and extends from the Bonn years up to 1802. The second or “heroic” period begins in 1803 with the composition of the Eroica Symphony and extends to the end of 1812. Characteristic of the music of this highly productive decade is a heightened symbolic or mythic dimension that is embodied in an intrinsically musical narrative; examples include the Appassionata Sonata, the Andante con moto of the Fourth Concerto, the Fifth Symphony, and the Egmont Overture, among many others. The onset of a third period can be placed for biographical and historical reasons in 1813, although the emergence of Beethoven’s “late” style was a gradual process in which the pivotal work, the Hammerklavier Sonata—a primary focus of the present chapter—was completed only in 1818. The culmination of the third period comes in May 1824, with the performance of the pair of choral-orchestral masterpieces, the Missa solemnis and the Ninth Symphony. The fourth period is fragmentary, extending from 1824 to Beethoven’s death in March 1827. During these years Beethoven’s creative energies were devoted almost entirely to his last ﬁve string quartets. The late quartets are deeply grounded in his earlier music, but they open up new artistic territory in ways comparable with the Eroica or the Hammerklavier; for this reason it is possible to regard these works—or at least opp. 132, 130 with the Grosse Fuge as ﬁnale, and 131—as marking the onset of a new period rather than serving as a subset of the third period. Were it not for the collapse of Beethoven’s health in December 1826, he might have continued these explorations in some of the pieces that he talked about or had just begun to sketch: a String Quintet, a Tenth Symphony, an Overture on B–A–C–H, a Requiem Mass. As it was, the task of building on the legacy of the last quartets was left to the future: to Schoenberg, Bartók, and others.

S S S Beethoven composed little music in 1817. His preoccupation with the education and well-being of his nephew Karl and health problems both conspired to hinder the completion of new compositions. This decline in productivity had begun ear-

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lier and is reﬂected in the surviving music manuscripts from the period. However, a balanced assessment of Beethoven’s productivity at this time should take into account projects that remained incomplete as well as projects that evolved over many years. During 1816, for instance, Beethoven worked on a Piano Trio in F minor, which he offered to British publisher Robert Birchall on 1 October of that year. The Scheide Sketchbook contains twenty-two pages devoted to the piece, and a fragmentary draft in full score in Berlin preserves Beethoven’s ideas for the opening section of the ﬁrst movement of the trio. When these sources are studied in conjunction with one another, they cast much light on his plans for this fascinating project, which would have become one of his major chamber works had it been completed.12 The innovative character of this fragmentary trio is signaled by its extensive slow introduction, more than ﬁfty bars long. The transformational character of this introductory Andante con moto merits attention. Beginning with a complete absence of tension, as a mysterious rumbling accompanimental ﬁgure in triplets is played softly in the piano, Beethoven gradually introduces consequential musical elements that foreshadow the main theme of the ensuing Allegro molto, in sonata form. The short notes that conclude the opening phrases of the Andante con moto already anticipate the rhythmic structure of this main subject of the Allegro molto. Its characteristic dotted rhythmic motive, moreover, is soon foreshadowed in the introduction, pianissimo; by stages this motive is then developed through imitation and, ﬁnally, is emphasized ﬁrst as an ostinato pedal point and then as part of a thematic unit of breadth and verve. In its evolving rhythmic intensiﬁcation and motivic concentration, the passage invites comparison with some features of the introduction to the ﬁrst movement of the Seventh Symphony. Taken as a whole, this weighty introduction in the trio offers a gradually unfolding intensiﬁcation or crescendo that leads with a sense of inevitability to the emergence of the main theme. Another work that begins with a pianissimo accompaniment involving triplets is the Ninth Symphony, a piece whose compositional genesis reaches back to the period of Beethoven’s involvement with the unﬁnished trio. Carl Friedrich Hirsch, a grandson of Johann Albrechtsberger and Beethoven’s composition student during late 1816 and early 1817, reported that the composer was then already at work on his Ninth Symphony.13 The sketches support this chronology, since the earliest sketch used in the Ninth Symphony is the notation for the second movement, marked “fuge,” found at the top of page 51 of the Scheide Sketchbook, an entry that probably dates from December 1815 or January 1816. A related sketchleaf is held at Weimar, containing sketches for the ﬁrst and second 12 A detailed commentary with transcriptions of Beethoven’s sketches and draft is offered in my study “Beethoven’s Unﬁnished Piano Trio in F Minor from 1816: A Study of Its Genesis and Signiﬁcance,” Journal of Musicological Research 25 (2006), pp. 1–42. 13 Hirsch’s reminiscences are recounted in Theodor von Frimmel, “Carl Friedrich Hirsch,” Beethoven-Studien, vol. 2 (Munich and Leipzig: Georg Müller, 1906), pp. 55–69; the Ninth Symphony is mentioned on p. 60.

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movements of the Ninth Symphony together with entries for the canon “Das Schwiegen.”14 Beethoven wrote the two canons, “Das Schweigen” and “Das Reden” (“Silence” and “Talking”) WoO 168, into the album of the English pianist Charles Neate on 24 January 1816, preceding Neate’s departure for England. In 1815, Neate had traveled to Vienna to spend eight months there, motivated by his admiration for Beethoven. He was one of the original members of the London Philharmonic Society, and his connection to Beethoven formed part of the context for the invitation from the Philharmonic Society the following year, on 9 June 1817, according to which Beethoven was to compose two symphonies. The composer accepted the terms in a letter of 9 July 1817, declaring his intention to compose the symphonies and travel to London by January 1818. Even though Beethoven’s relationship with the Philharmonic Society was not always smooth, the symphonic plans for London nevertheless exerted an impact on his creative activities during the period in question. Beethoven’s thoughts of leaving Vienna with a new symphony, while still hoping to collect the annuity conditional on his Austrian residence, were vividly expressed in his diary in early 1817: “There is no other way to save yourself except to leave here, only through this can you again lift yourself to the heights of your art, whereas here you are submerged in vulgarity. Only a symphony—and then away, away, away. Meanwhile collect the salary, which can still be done for years.”15 In the end, however, the planned journey to England never took place, and the completion of the Ninth Symphony required another seven years, until 1824. Among Beethoven’s few works from 1817 is the melancholy song Resignation WoO 149, which he completed only in a solo version but sketched as well for vocal quartet, a setting reminiscent of his mournful Elegischer Gesang op. 118 for four voices and string quartet of 1814. One of Beethoven’s main projects of 1817 was actually his arrangement of the C minor Piano Trio op. 1 no. 3 as the String Quintet op. 104. This transcription was motivated by an unsatisfactory attempt by a certain Herr Kaufmann, in response to which Beethoven undertook the task himself. With characteristic humor, Beethoven described the ﬁnished arrangement in an inscription as having been “raised from the most abject misery to some degree of respectability”; the original quintet arrangement was “ceremonially sacriﬁced as a burnt offering to the gods of the underworld.” As Tyson has shown, however, Beethoven’s completion of the arrangement was actually somewhat uncritical and careless; in this case, he evidently lacked the patience to redeem the arrangement in all respects from the faulty standard of “Mr. Goodwill,” as Beethoven dubbed Kaufmann.16 If Beethoven undertook few such transcriptions, he did make numerous arrangements of Scottish, Irish, English, Welsh, and Continental songs that were commissioned by the Edinburgh publisher George Thomson between 1809 and 14

For further details, see my study of “Beethoven’s Unﬁnished Piano Trio,” p. 40. “Beethoven’s Tagebuch,” ed. Maynard Solomon, p. 119 (entry no. 119). 16 See “The Authors of the Op. 104 String Quintet,” pp. 158–73; the quotations are from 159–61, 173. 15

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1820. In his study of these arrangements, Barry Cooper tabulates 179 settings and observes that Beethoven’s occupation with these folk songs ﬁlls some otherwise inexplicable gaps in the record of his compositional activity. One such gap falls in early 1817, when Beethoven produced a dozen settings for Thomson. In one of these, the Scottish song Sweet Were the Hours op. 108 no. 3, to a text by William Smyth, Cooper ﬁnds an experimental aspect not unlike the scherzo of the Ninth Symphony: “an alteration of lyrical and dynamic sections, and the ﬁnal soft, lyrical one suddenly gives way to a loud, dynamic interruption that brings the music to an abrupt close.”17 A duality of tempi between an Andante con moto e semplice and an Allegro ben marcato characterizes this setting, and the abrupt conclusion recalls the spirited setting of the words “Wine! Wine! Wine! Come bring me wine to cheer me.” In 1816, another British publisher, Birchall, to whom Beethoven offered his unﬁnished Piano Trio in F minor, requested variations on folk songs, and Thomson subsequently commissioned variations on sixteen melodies, pieces Beethoven completed by early 1819. Thomson published only nine of these sets; the variations on all sixteen folk songs ﬁrst appeared as opp. 105 and 107 in the editions of Artaria and Simrock. In addition to eleven Scottish, Welsh, and Irish songs, these collections include variations on two Russian and three Tyrolean tunes. As the publisher speciﬁed, the folk-song variations are of modest difﬁculty and provide an optional ﬂute or violin part in the manner of the old-fashioned accompanied keyboard sonata. In essence, however, they are piano music of considerable subtlety that easily dispenses with the accompaniment. They deserve to be better known, and represent a not insigniﬁcant stage in Beethoven’s evolving treatment of variation technique, which assumes surpassing importance in his later works. In his ﬁne study of these variations, Uhde points out an impressive richness of detail, as well as cyclic connections between the pieces, and concludes that “they demonstrate convincingly . . . that nothing is too slight to serve as the point of departure for great music. . . . The most humble things can be illuminated to reveal a deeper meaning.”18 Beethoven’s blending of the exalted and the commonplace also surfaces in one of his numerous letters from 1818 to Nanette Streicher, who showed an almost maternal concern at this time for the well-being of the deaf master. As we have seen, Beethoven’s attraction to puns was an abiding character trait; Czerny reported that “he always knew how to devise a pun. While listening to an overture by Weber [‘weaver’] he said: ‘Hm! It’s woven!’ [gewebt].”19 As Küthen has observed,20 a subtle allusion to the Catholic Mass is incorporated into the following note to Nanette Streicher: 17

Beethoven’s Folksong Settings: Chronology, Sources, Style, p. 208. Beethovens Klaviermusik, vol. 1, p. 456. For a detailed study of the folk-song settings, see Barry Cooper, Beethoven’s Folksong Settings: Chronology, Sources, Style. 19 Über den richtigen Vortrag, p. 13. On the Proper Performance, p. 7; translation amended. 20 Personal communication. 18

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Ich bitte in Eile mit Eile und durch Eile, dass Sie Streicher bitten, dass wir heute gegen 12 Uhr allein sind. In eiligster Eile ihr Freund Beethoven [I ask in haste with haste and through haste, that you ask of Streicher, that we are alone around 12 o’clock today. In the most hasty haste your friend Beethoven21]

There is a double parody at work here. Beethoven’s other communications to Nanette Streicher often contain the close “In Eil” (“in haste”). This time he comically ampliﬁes that formulation as “eiligster Eile” (“the most hasty haste”). But that is not all. The words “in Eile mit Eile und durch Eile” are a parody of the Ordo Missae, part of the divine service preceding the consecration: “Durch Ihn und mit Ihm und in Ihm wird Dir, Gott allmächtiger Vater, in der Einheit des Heiligen Geistes, alle Ehre und Verherrlichung” (in Latin, “Per ipsum et cum ipso, et in ipso, est tibi Deo patri omnipotenti”). Beethoven unexpectedly twists this solemn exhortation to dramatize the urgency of his wish for a noonday meeting with Frau Streicher. He delivers his message from the high altar, so to speak.

S S S As we have seen, the almost feverish pace of Beethoven’s earlier productivity had by now slowed considerably. To a substantial extent this more deliberate approach was motivated by the changing nature of his artistic enterprise. He lavished more and more attention on each of his major new compositions, which were usually sketched at great length. As he began work on the largest of his piano sonatas, the mammoth work in B , op. 106, Beethoven was virtually stone deaf; the ﬁrst of his conversation notebooks, in which visitors and friends wrote down their comments to him, date from this period. Yet Beethoven’s inward powers of imagination now gained new strength, as the great sonata abundantly reveals. The name “Hammerklavier” reﬂects Beethoven’s concern at this time to use German terms in music in place of Italian ones; the word was originally also associated with op. 101 but came to be linked speciﬁcally with op. 106. The Hammerklavier Sonata is but the ﬁrst of a series of works that includes Beethoven’s most monumental achievements in several other important musical genres: the Diabelli Variations, the Missa solemnis, and the Ninth Symphony. The sonata became his major compositional preoccupation in late 1817 and throughout 1818. Beethoven himself claimed that op. 106 was “a sonata that will give pianists something to do” and that it would “be played ﬁfty years hence”—a fairly accurate prediction since, apart from Liszt, Clara Schumann, and von Bülow, few pianists tackled the immense challenges of this great sonata before the last decades of the nineteenth century. The op. 106 Sonata offers unusual challenges not only to pianists but to all listeners. It was this work in particular that provoked a crisis in the reception of his music. The notion of Beethoven’s later music as inaccessible, too difﬁcult, or even 21 Kastner and Kapp, eds., Ludwig van Beethovens sämtliche Briefe, L. 859; my translation.

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incomprehensible arose particularly in reaction to pieces like the fugal ﬁnales of op. 106 and of the Quartet op. 130 in its original version—the Grosse Fuge. Beethoven was fully aware that he had broken new ground with the Hammerklavier and succeeding works, and he expressed resentment about what he saw as undeserved enthusiasm for certain of his earlier pieces, such as the popular Septet op. 20. The signiﬁcance of the Hammerklavier was not lost on some of Beethoven’s friends; a conversation book entry from late 1819 records that Zmeskall “listens to no music apart from op. 106.”22 Not surprisingly, other listeners took a contrary view. One reviewer wrote about the septet in 1826, for instance, that “It is strange, that Beethoven declared precisely this work to be one of his least successful. For even if the dimensions are somewhat broad, it is inﬁnitely richer in true beauty than many of his later works, for instance the big sonata, op. 106.”23 The Hammerklavier Sonata is concerned with much more than mere beauty; it is profoundly shaped by forces of conﬂict and tension, and in the opening Allegro it displays a remarkable forward drive and motivic richness. The sonata begins with an imposing twofold fanfare, which unfolds from a low bass note held in pedal; the ensuing fortissimo chords ﬁll out the higher pitch registers, reaching more than four octaves above the bass. The rhythm of each chordal fanfare suggests “Vivat vivat Rudolphus,” an homage to the Archduke Rudolph to whom the piece is dedicated. Following these impressive opening gestures, Beethoven introduces a contrast, with sensitive polyphonic phrases played piano. Each of these units—the fanfares and answering polyphonic phrases—is four measures long. Beginning at the upbeat to bar 9, Beethoven restates the soft polyphonic phrases an octave higher, and the lowest voice begins an enormous descent, as a long crescendo leads to a powerful tonic cadence in bar 17. He now brilliantly combines features of the two initial contrasting ideas, alternating forte and piano measures, while a series of rising phrases accompanied by chords reminiscent of the opening fanfares carries the music through a huge arc. The passage eventually settles with a diminuendo on widely-spaced Fs, a dominant pedal-point that acts as a platform for a varied restatement of the opening fanfare motto, marking the threshold to the second subject group. An extraordinary role is assumed in each movement by B minor—a tonality Beethoven once described as a “black key.” B minor functions in the Hammerklavier like a focus of negative energy pitted against the B major tonic, creating a dramatic opposition with far-reaching consequences. In the ﬁrst movement this generates an important climax after the beginning of the recapitulation, an event deeply anchored in the musical structure. The melodic detail and the harmonic and tonal progressions of op. 106 mirror one another with uncanny precision, often elaborating chains of falling thirds, as Charles Rosen has pointed out.24 The opening chordal fanfares triumphantly spell out the descending thirds D–B and F–D; the G major theme beginning the second subject group brings 22

Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte, vol. 1, p. 92. Cited in Kunze, ed., Ludwig van Beethoven: Die Werke im Spiegel seiner Zeit, p. 21. 24 The Classical Style, pp. 404–34; also Ratz, Einführung, pp. 201–41. 23

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graceful falling thirds in a smooth legato ﬁguration; and the powerful fugal development elaborates the descending thirds relentlessly, periodically substituting rising sixths (their inversion) in order to maintain a stability of register within the extended chains of thirds. On the larger, architectural level of the tonal structure, Beethoven develops the same relationships based on descending thirds. Beginning at the abbreviated restatement of the opening fanfare, he modulates from B major to G major, whereas the fugal development begins with another conspicuous tonal drop of a third, to E . Then, instead of preparing the recapitulation with the usual dominant key, F major, he continues the series of descending thirds by modulating to B major (enharmonically equivalent to C major) for the last section of the development. The shift to B major at the recapitulation is abrupt, undermining the reassertion of the tonic, and he soon makes yet another change of key down a third, to G . He now seizes upon the enharmonic equivalence of G to F to expose the opening fanfare of the movement in the remote, yet rigorously prepared key of B minor, climactically destabilizing the B major tonic while opening a rift into the “black key” (Ex. 68). Never before had Beethoven achieved such close coordination between motivic and harmonic detail, tonal structure, and formal shape. We have noted various passages in earlier works in which he turns a melodic inﬂection into a pivotal structural gesture; the shift from B to B at the end of the slow movement of the Emperor Concerto is one such example. In the Hammerklavier Sonata this practice is taken to a new stage. The difference is perhaps best illustrated through a comparison with Beethoven’s previous compositions that exploit the same motivic relationships that are so prominent in the Hammerklavier: the semitone from the Neapolitan B to the tonic B and the related semitone above the dominant, G –F, in the key of B major. As we have seen, it is especially characteristic for Beethoven to emphasize dramatically the semitones above the tonic and dominant in his F minor works: the Quartet op. 95 and the Appassionata Sonata spring to mind. The Appassionata

Ex. 68 Hammerklavier Sonata op. 106/I, bars 262–73

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goes furthest toward “composing out” this relationship on the various possible levels of structure: Beethoven distils the D –C tension as a motto within the main theme, places the lyrical second theme in the key of D major in the development, and has the entire slow movement in this key as well. These interlocking levels of structure contribute to the quality of gigantic simplicity in the Appassionata, as well as to its expressive force. In the Hammerklavier Sonata the semitone tension is more deeply and pervasively lodged in the musical substance. Beethoven does not employ a motivic tag or motto here, as he does in the Appassionata Sonata. Instead, as Rosen observes, he allows the same relationships that are highlighted in the large-scale tonal structure to invest the harmonic texture of individual themes. The G –F semitone is prominent in the bass line of the polyphonic continuation to the opening theme, after the majestic opening fanfares. A striking phrase in the second subject group in G stresses the corresponding relationship E –D and each time supplies the alternative, E –D, in a higher register (Ex. 69). In the next few bars Beethoven transfers this tension between E and E into the bass progression B–E–C –D–E and develops it in turn in a series of sequences. The theme that follows, marked cantabile dolce ed espressivo, is similarly poised between the major and minor. Beethoven repeatedly supplies both the minor (B ) and major (B ) thirds in its melodic structure, and, although the major tonic triad retains primacy, the balancing presence of the minor is reﬂected in his very consistent use of the lowered sixth degree, E instead of E . In this context Beethoven’s stroke of substituting B for B in the ﬁrst-time bar leading back from the end of the exposition to its repetition carries special conviction. When the exposition is repeated, in the second-time bar, the B is superseded by B , which carries the music into the development. Elements of the minor are structurally assimilated into the basic tonality of the Hammerklavier Sonata, as part of the pervasive emphasis on third relationships. Nowhere in the opening Allegro is this modal tension involving a rising semitone more conspicuous than in the ﬁnal section of the development leading to the recapitulation. The long fugal passage in E shows a gradual broadening in harmonic rhythm, until the

Ex. 69 Hammerklavier Sonata op. 106/I, bars 74–83

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Ex. 70 Hammerklavier Sonata op. 106/I, bars 197–202

music dwells on repeated Ds in both hands. Here, the energy of the descending third chain shifts from a harmonic to a tonal level, as Beethoven recalls the cantabile theme in B, a key enharmonically a third below E and Neapolitan to B , the tonic (Ex. 70). At this transitional moment the melodic semitone tension is between D and D , the minor and major third degrees of B; in the ﬁfth bar of the cantabile, marked espressivo, and again two bars later, Beethoven restates this semitone, whereas the following decorated variant in eighth notes expresses the tension as D against C . The rising linear motion is developed by Beethoven in the passage leading to the recapitulation. The bars immediately before the reprise are a foreshortening of the preceding music and incorporate the chromatic ascending motion derived from the cantabile theme. This relationship supports a reading of A instead of A at the famous disputed passage beginning at the upbeat, two bars before the recapitulation. The ﬁrst edition (Plates 14 and 15) contained no natural signs here to cancel the A , but that was presumably an error (there are numerous other mistakes and omissions on the same page). The autograph score is not extant, but a sketch implies the accuracy of A , as Nottebohm pointed out.25 If the passage is played as originally printed, the shift from G to A as the lowest notes in these sequences causes the music to avoid the dominant triad altogether, not only weakening the harmonic preparation for the reprise but breaking the ascent by semitone to the tonic note B , a progression implied by the intrinsic logic of the musical structure. Beethoven underscores the importance of the cantabile theme by recalling it once more at the beginning of his coda. Here, a slow trill on the semitone C –B , enharmonically equivalent to B–B , is at ﬁrst combined with the theme; moments later, this new reﬂection of the work’s central harmonic tension is resolved by a double trill in the inner voices on C –B . Still, the corresponding semitone tension on the dominant, G –F, darkens most of the remainder of the coda. These tensions prove too powerful to be resolved in the ﬁrst movement; they spill over into every movement of this enormous work. The following scherzo is a humorous yet dark parody of the opening Allegro, transforming the motivic material based on thirds. A sardonic dimension surfaces 25

A thorough discussion of this sketch and other issues bearing on the disputed passage is in Badura-Skoda, “Noch einmal zur Frage Ais oder A in der Hammerklaviersonate Opus 106 von Beethoven,” pp. 53–81.

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Ex. 71 Hammerklavier Sonata op. 106/II, bars 153–end

here in the presto passage connecting the B minor trio to the repetition of the scherzo, and again, more tellingly, in the closing moments of this Assai vivace. Characteristic of the scherzo is a tendency for its phrases to close softly on the telltale B . The drift toward B undercuts the tonic B octaves that closed the ﬁrst scherzo section and might otherwise have closed the entire movement. What follows is an eerie disruption of the tonal equilibrium, as the music lingers in the “wrong” tonality of B minor, even venturing a “distorted” version of the opening motif in that key (Ex. 71). Only through a tremendous exercise of will does Beethoven bring these subversive forces under control, as eighteen repeated double octaves build in a furious crescendo to a brief closing restoration of the tonic B major. The two mysterious octaves on A and C that open the following slow movement were an afterthought by Beethoven, added just before the sonata was printed. The added bar acts like a pedestal, setting the ensuing music into relief. But the A also captures the descending linear energy from the end of the scherzo, carrying the B–B progression one step further, to A, before a change of key casts this pitch into a new perspective. The great Adagio sostenuto that follows is the longest slow movement in Bee-

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thoven, an immense sonata form, described by von Lenz as “a mausoleum of collective suffering of the world,”26 although the indication appassionato et con molto sentimento points toward a suffering that is painfully alive. The key, F minor, is enharmonically a third below B , poised between the overall tonic of the work and the focus of contrary forces in B minor. The opening section in F minor contains two themes, the ﬁrst of which is played with the left pedal (una corda) throughout, its sombre restraint brightened intermittently by ﬂeeting lyrical glimpses of the Neapolitan G major in the higher pitch registers. In the second theme the left pedal is lifted, yielding a more direct sound quality, as a passionately inward expression is rendered in intricate melodic decoration of the melody. Only now, after forty bars, does the music change key to D major (a third lower), opening up new, more hopeful regions of feeling in a theme whose phrases are ﬁrst sounded in the cavernous bass register before being echoed four octaves higher in the treble. A return to mufﬂed una corda inﬂections eventually leads to the cadence of the exposition in a passage of vast contemplative stillness. In the development Beethoven dwells on the opening theme and the juxtaposition of una corda and tutte le corde, while a long series of harmonic sequences based on descending thirds eventually converges onto the recapitulation. The music seems at once suspended and in ﬂux. The recapitulation is no mere symmetrical return, but a profound reinterpretation of the opening theme, which is “composed out” into moving thirty-second-note ﬁguration in the right hand, balanced against deep chordal pedal points in the bass. But if the recapitulation brings the inner climax of the Adagio sostenuto, the outward, dramatic climax is reserved for the coda. Here the theme characterized by vast registral echoes returns in G major, and Beethoven incorporates a rising bass progression bringing the music for once a third higher, to B minor. A series of high, climactic repeated F s follows; after this dramatic outbreak, the return of a curtailed form of the opening una corda theme has the effect of deep resignation. Yet here, for the ﬁrst time, the theme is conclusively resolved into F major, with the major third, A (enharmonically equivalent to B ), prominently doubled in the inner voices in the ﬁnal bars. The sketchleaf shown in Plates 19–20 is a new and revealing source for this Adagio sostenuto. The leaf was misidentiﬁed by earlier scholars, such as Georg Kinsky, who believed that its musical contents related to a violin sonata, and who commented on the melodic and metrical similarity of this music to the violin part in the Benedictus of the Missa solemnis.27 Like the Benedictus, the extended draft that occupies most of this leaf is in 12/8 meter, not the 6/8 meter familiar from the ﬁnal version of the movement. This sketchleaf was not listed in standard catalogues of Beethoven’s sketches, but was discussed in a study by Nicholas Marston, 26 Kritischer Katalog sämtlicher Werke Ludwig van Beethovens mit Analysen derselben, iv, p. 41. 27 Georg Kinsky, Manuskripte, Briefe, Dokumente von Scarlatti bis Stravinsky: Katalog der Musikautographen-Sammlung Louis Koch (Stuttgart, 1953), p. 69. The manuscript contains a notation not in Beethoven’s hand at the bottom of the recto side attributing the draft to a “Violinsonate.”

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who supplies a transcription based on photographs on deposit at the Nationalbibliothek in Vienna.28 The recto side of the manuscript contains nine measures distributed across three systems devoted to the opening theme; the verso side has about a dozen measures devoted to the next main theme and to the elaborate ﬁguration characteristic of this remarkable slow movement. Taking into account the 12/8 meter of this draft, the music in question corresponds to a section of more than forty measures of the ﬁnished work. Another fascinating dimension of this source is the short sketch in 6/8 meter at the top of the recto side, accompanied by the inscription “auch in 3/4tel [Takt] mit 16tel besser” (“also in 3/4 meter with sixteenth [notes] [is] better”). It is possible that this sketch might have been connected to the introduction to the fugal ﬁnale, which is marked Largo in the ﬁnished work, and which begins with a gesture of rising octave Fs not unlike those at the beginning of the sketch. The ensuing slow introduction to the ﬁnale indeed begins with this drop of a semitone, as F is sounded across all the pitch registers. Beethoven now distills the intervallic basis of the whole sonata, reducing the music to a fundamental, underlying level of content consisting solely of the chain of falling thirds in the bass, accompanied by soft, hesitant chords in the treble. This chain of thirds is interrupted three times by brief glimpses of other music, and the last of these evocations is obviously Bachian in character. As in the transition to the choral ﬁnale in the Ninth Symphony there is thus a search toward new compositional possibilities, with the clear implication here that Baroque counterpoint is transcended by the creation of a new contrapuntal idiom embodied in the revolutionary fugal ﬁnale of the sonata. No less fascinating is the manner in which Beethoven seems to derive elements of the fugal ﬁnale from this Largo introduction. Following the Bachian “quotation,” he repeats the searching unison octaves across all the pitch registers, now on A instead of F; the head of the fugue subject employs precisely these pitches, F and A, to span a rising tenth—an interval reminiscent at the same time of the initial upbeat in the ﬁrst movement. Another, more obvious foreshadowing of the ﬁnale is rhythmic in nature. After the strangely still and expressively blank chain of falling thirds, Beethoven introduces an astonishing rhythmic intensiﬁcation and acceleration to fortissimo and prestissimo in the ﬁnal moments of the introduction, before a ritardando and harmonic pivot from A to F lead into the Allegro risoluto. Beethoven described the fugue as “con alcune licenze,” but it is exhaustive in its contrapuntal resources. Most of the seven main sections of the ﬁnale unfold like fugal variations on the main subject, which is worked out in rhythmic augmentation (section 2), retrograde motion (section 3), and inversion (section 4). The subject bears an audible resemblance to the beginning of the ﬁrst movement. 28

“Approaching the Sketches for Beethoven’s ‘Hammerklavier’ Sonata,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 44 (1991), pp. 406–9, 416–18. The source in the Vienna Nationalbibliothek is catalogued as Photogramm-Archiv 157.

the

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Ex. 72 Hammerklavier Sonata op. 106/IV a. fugue, bars 1–7

b. fugue, bars 141–49; the retrograde version of the theme is in the left hand in bars 144–49

Its striking opening leap of a tenth to a sustained trill and its sharp proﬁle of sequences outlining falling thirds lend themselves particularly well to contrapuntal processes. Even the most abstract thematic transformation—the retrograde version, played in reverse, or Krebsgang—can be readily recognized through the rhythm and placement of repeated notes (Ex. 72a and b). This section in retrograde with its implied negation of the theme, as well as the sublime interlude heard later in D major, raise fundamental aesthetic issues. The smooth, somewhat faceless cantabile of the retrograde section and its tonality (B minor!) set it apart from the remainder of the movement. By reversing the pattern of thematic unfolding Beethoven seems almost to annul time, opening a dimension apart from the main action. The role of B minor as a focus of negative energy receives its ultimate embodiment in this passage, though one, to be sure, that depends vitally on an understanding of the structural operations in the music and not merely on a response to the outward expressive effect. By contrast, the D major episode, played una corda, is wholly positive in char-

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acter and akin to Beethoven’s setting of “in nomine Domini” in the Benedictus of the Missa solemnis, as Uhde observed.29 As a still oasis amid the harsh brilliance and rhythmic fury that generally characterize the ﬁnale, the D major interlude creates an even greater contrast than the B minor episode in retrograde. Yet both contrasting modalities are but stages within a larger process, and exert little lasting inﬂuence on the ﬁnal sections of the movement. The fugue of the Hammerklavier seems not to afﬁrm a higher, more perfect or serene world of eternal harmonies, as in Bach’s works, but to confront an open uni verse. Beethoven utilizes an initially abstract, retrograde rhythm to generate a vigorous, propulsive forward momentum in the transition to the fourth section, when this ﬁgure is juxtaposed with the original subject in inversion. And the wonderful transition from the sublime D major interlude to the penultimate section is like an awakening from a dream. As Uhde pointed out, there is no deus ex machina in the Hammerklavier ﬁnale. “‘Man thinks,’ but whether ‘God guides’ is left open, not denied, but also not afﬁrmed here.”30 A relevant mythic analogy to the Hammerklavier Sonata may be Prometheus, the legend that gripped Beethoven more than any other and became an inspiring force for the Eroica Symphony, as we have seen. Of possible signiﬁcance are certain motivic parallels between op. 106 and the Eroica—the trio of the scherzo in the sonata sounds much like a minor-mode variant of the opening of the symphony. Prometheus was, of course, condemned to suffering in reprisal for his gift to humankind of knowledge and art. Like the Eroica, yet even more profoundly, the Hammerklavier Sonata implies an analogous narrative progression of heroic struggle and suffering, leading to a rebirth of creative possibilities. After the purgatorial Adagio sostenuto, the return of vital forces in the slow introduction to the ﬁnale, and the ﬁery deﬁance of expression in the fugue itself, embody one of Beethoven’s most radical artistic statements, a piece of “new music” among the most uncompromising ever written.

29 30

Beethovens Klaviermusik, vol. 3, p. 457. Ibid., p. 464.

9

R Struggle: 1819–1822

R Until relatively recently, 1819 seemed to have been one of Beethoven’s least productive periods, with only a few canons and the Eleven Dances for Seven Instruments WoO 17 attributed to that year. This impression has been substantially revised through the scrutiny of manuscripts unknown to earlier scholars, particularly the Wittgenstein Sketchbook in the Bodmer Collection held at the Beethoven-Archiv in Bonn and related documents in other collections. The chief discovery is that by the summer of 1819 Beethoven had already conceived much of his next gigantic undertaking after the Hammerklavier Sonata: the Thirty-Three Variations on a Waltz by Diabelli op. 120, a work that was ﬁnished and published only four years later, in 1823. The Diabelli Variations is the most paradoxical work that Beethoven ever wrote, an enormous musical ediﬁce built on a trivial waltz that he originally dismissed as a “cobbler’s patch” on account of its mechanical sequences. The publisher Anton Diabelli circulated this waltz of his own invention to ﬁfty composers, each of whom was requested to contribute a variation to the collective endeavor; the project was tailored to generate publicity for Diabelli’s ﬁrm. It is astonishing and yet characteristic of Beethoven in his last decade that such a commonplace stimulus could trigger a major creative brainstorm. Instead of the requested single variation, Beethoven conceived a microcosm of his art embodied in a vast collection of transformations, or “Veränderungen.” In the end, the Variations became one of his longest and most intellectually demanding pieces; Brendel has described it as “the greatest of all piano works.”1 The unique formal design and psychological complexity of this composition have inspired literary responses from writers such as Michel Butor and Irene Dische, whose novel Sad Strains of a Gay Waltz imitates the form of a “theme” and thirty-three changes or transformations in a “German”—in this case, variations not on a waltz (“Deutscher”) but on her main character, Benedikt August Anton Cecil August, Count Waller von Wallerstein. A probing exploration of Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations on the stage has been undertaken in Moisés Kaufman’s play 33 Variations, which opened in 2007. The revelation of the genesis of the Diabelli Variations sheds new light on this monumental work. Like many of Beethoven’s sketchbooks, the Wittgenstein 1

Musical Thoughts and Afterthoughts, p. 14.

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Sketchbook has not survived intact, as Beethoven originally used it. Among the papers he used in the Wittgenstein Sketchbook are four pages of sketches for the Diabelli Variations now held in Paris; these two bifolia belong with the fourteen pages of sketches for the Variations found near the beginning of the book. Even more important is a draft on loose papers that can be conceptually reconstructed from sources now dispersed in various locations (see Plate 16; Beethoven originally kept this page together with other manuscripts, which are now in collections in Berlin and in Montauban, France, as well as in Paris). The content of the draft corresponds intimately to the entries in the Wittgenstein Sketchbook, preserving a remarkably coherent record of the genesis of the Variations in their early draft version.2 This source reconstruction shows that in 1819 Beethoven composed no fewer than twenty-three variations, ten fewer than the ﬁnal number. Then, by the summer of that year, he set the work aside to attend to the Missa solemnis op. 123. When he returned to the Variations several years later, in late 1822 and early 1823, he expanded his draft from within, retaining the preestablished order while inserting new variations at strategic points and greatly elaborating the conclusion. The added variations from 1823 include nos. 1–2, 15, 23–26, 28–29, and 31, as well as the present form of the ﬁnal Minuet variation and coda. We shall assess the special role of these variations and the unique formal design of the work in the following chapter, which considers the period when the Diabelli Variations was completed. The impetus behind the Diabelli Variations is basically comic in nature, touching issues that are by no means conﬁned to Beethoven’s art but which surface in his biography as well. No other work by him is so rich in allusion, humor, and parody. We might almost regard the Variations as an enormously extended chain of puns; in each transformation, motivic aspects of the waltz are developed with far more determination than is evident in Diabelli’s ditty. Beethoven treats the waltz as a reservoir of unrealized possibilities, out of which the variations generate an almost encyclopedic range of contexts. The psychological complexity of the Diabelli Variations arises above all from this tension between the commonplace theme as point of departure and the almost unlimited horizon of the variations. Beethoven’s most striking joke is his reference, in the unison octaves of Variation 22 (no. 19 in the draft), to “Notte e giorno faticar” from the beginning of Mozart’s Don Giovanni (Ex. 73). In devising this variation Beethoven is reputed to have been grumbling at all his hard work in composing the Variations, but, even if true, this story touches only one dimension of the parody.3 The allusion is brilliant, not only through the musical afﬁnity of the themes—which share, for example, the descending fourth and ﬁfth—but through the reference to Mozart’s Leporello. For Leporello shares a psychological trait usually developed to a considerable degree by great artists—a capacity for ironic detachment. A quotation from Leporello ﬁts the work, whereas a quotation from Don Giovanni or from virtually any other character in the opera would not: Beethoven’s relationship to 2

A discussion and full transcription of the 1819 draft is offered in my book Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations. 3 This story appears, for example, in Martin Cooper, Beethoven: The Last Decade, p. 208.

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Ex. 73 Diabelli Variations op. 120, Variation 22

his theme, like Leporello’s to his master, is critical but faithful, inasmuch as he thoroughly exploits its motivic components. Moreover, like Leporello, the variations after this point gain the capacity for disguise, as if they were not what they seem to be. With uncanny wit, this variation expands the scope of the set beyond the formalistic limits of art. It is relevant here to recall Beethoven’s passion for verbal puns, which is especially well documented in the letters and sketchbooks of his later years. He found it absolutely irresistible to pun on words such as gelehrt (“learned”) and geleert (“emptied”), or Verleger (“publisher”) and verlegen (“embarrassed”), and on names like “Steiner,” “Gebauer,” “Hoffmann,” and others in which double or multiple meanings occurred to him. In the case of the choir director and concert organizer Franz Xaver Gebauer, Beethoven reinterpreted the name as “Geh! Bauer” (“Go! peasant”), and in one note he requested “toilet tickets” (Abtrittskarten instead of Eintrittskarten) to attend Gebauer’s “music in the corner” (Winkelmusik).4 This, of course, exempliﬁes Beethoven’s use not of a high, but of a low comic style. Beethoven’s verbal wit rarely approaches the level of the best of his comic music. As early as 1795, in the scherzo of the C major Piano Sonata op. 2 no. 3, for example, he produced a resourceful play of paradox comparable to the most brilliant literary devices in Laurence Sterne’s comic masterpiece Tristram Shandy. In this scherzo a motivic turn ﬁgure serves as the pivot between two drastically opposing moods: light, humorous music in the major pitted against mock bluster in the minor in the developmental middle section. Subsequently, in the coda, the two hands of the pianist even agree to disagree about the mode of the piece, with droll minor accents in low ostinato ﬁgures sounded against major harmonies in the upper registers.5 This delightfully humorous yet highly rational strain of Bee4 Thayer-Forbes, p. 771, where “Winkelmusik” is mistranslated as “musical obscurity.” In this context, “Winkelmusik” must refer to “music in the corner,” or “music in the outhouse,” i.e., sounds emanating from the place where the “Abtrittskarten” were to be used. 5 For a more detailed discussion, see my essay “‘Beethoven’s High Comic Style in Piano Sonatas of the 1790s’ or ‘Beethoven, Uncle Toby, and the Muck-Cart Driver.’”

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thoven’s art resurfaces time and again in different ways, in pieces like the sonatas of opp. 10 and 31, the bagatelles op. 33, and the scherzando of the ﬁrst Razumovsky quartet. In Beethoven’s verbal puns and accompanying music, on the other hand, the comedy can fall short. Martin Cooper has described Beethoven’s verbal humor as “the kind that friends tolerate, and even come to enjoy, not because it is in fact amusing but because they associate it with the good humor and the happy moods of a man they love and admire.”6 The blunt or even crude side of Beethoven’s sense of humor is illustrated in his vocal piece Lob auf den Dicken (“Praise to the fat one”), written at the expense of the stout violinist Schuppanzigh; more amusing is his canon Bester Herr Graf, Sie sind ein Schaf (“Dear Mr. Count, you are a sheep,” i.e. a gullible fool) directed at Count Moritz Lichnowsky. These pieces are not works of art but spontaneous effusions of mood within a social context. By contrast, Beethoven’s important works of comic music contain a deeper symbolic dimension; Cooper cites in this connection Goethe’s shrewd comment about the poet Lichtenberg: “Whenever [he] makes a joke you will ﬁnd some problem hidden.”7 Even in a masterpiece like the Diabelli Variations, however, with its multitude of hidden “problems,” Beethoven makes room for a direct and even provocatively aggressive vein of humor. This sharp edge of his wit is felt above all in his reinterpretation of trivial or repetitious features of the waltz. The C major chords repeated tenfold in the right hand in its opening bars, for instance, are mercilessly exaggerated in Variation 21 (Ex. 74a and b). The ﬁrst four bars of the variation form a grotesque exaggeration of the primitive chord repetitions in the waltz and of its conventional turn at the head of the melody: the chords repeat each harmony sixteen times, the turns multiply themselves down three octaves. The juxtaposition of this passage with the following Meno allegro in 3/4 is one of those instances in Beethoven’s late music in which the notes speak with rhetorical signiﬁcance. It is as if he meant to say, after the Schreckensfanfare of the ﬁrst four bars, “nicht diese Töne.” In another parody variation, no. 13, the harmonically static bars of Diabelli’s theme are suppressed altogether, obliterated into the silence behind rhythmically charged chords (Ex. 75). Here the sheer strength of Beethoven’s rhythmic conception makes a mockery of Diabelli’s theme and the inconsequential complacency of its opening bars. The humor of the variation consists in its expressive use of silence: our expectations are alternately strained by the forceful gesture of the chords and then dissipated into nothing. At the same time Beethoven resourcefully exploits contrasts in register and dynamics. In this variation the humor of expressive silences that characterizes the bass theme of the Eroica Variations op. 35 (see chapter 3) is carried to a higher level, while absorbing Beethoven’s implied critique of the waltz. Beethoven also assimilates into this comic masterpiece variations embodying 6 7

Beethoven: The Last Decade, p. 103. Ibid., p. 210, note.

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Ex. 74 Diabelli Variations op. 120 a. Theme

b. Variation 21

his most serious, exalted, or transcendental styles. Some of these pieces seem to allude to Handel and, especially, to Johann Sebastian Bach, the great artistic predecessors noted by Beethoven in his aforementioned letter to the Archduke Rudolph of 29 July 1819—the letter containing his evocative expression Kunstvereinigung. In the same document Beethoven mentions his researches in the archduke’s music library, work presumably connected with his labors on the Missa solemnis. The Mass is the great watershed composition of Beethoven’s later years, the piece that consumed him more than any other. Early in June 1819 he wrote to the archduke that “The day on which a High Mass composed by me will be performed during the ceremonies solemnized for Your Imperial Highness will be the most glorious day of my life,” and by August he wrote to him again: “But I hope

Ex. 75 Diabelli Variations op. 120, Variation 13

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to complete the Mass and in good time too, so that, if the arrangement still stands, it can be performed on the 19th.”8 The elevation of the archduke to archbishop of Olmütz in March 1820 provided the occasion for Beethoven’s composition of the Missa solemnis, but, like the Diabelli Variations, this project assumed unprecedented dimensions and its completion took years longer than expected. Only in 1822 was the Mass ﬁnished in its basic substance, while Beethoven continued to make revisions in the autograph long after that date. Beethoven’s struggle with the Missa solemnis involved the achievement of a balance between tradition and innovation in this most conservative of musical genres. The work shows the evidence of his studies of much sacred composition from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and his assimilation of the traditional rhetoric of Mass composition.9 The greatest historical strokes in the Mass, however, rely not on assimilation of tradition but on the bold juxtaposition of different idioms. For his setting of the “Incarnatus est” Beethoven revived the Dorian mode, yet moments later, at the words “et homo factus est,” the music shifts into D major and the warmth of tonality. This passage derives power not only from the remote ethos of the distant past but from our sense that the later idiom is actually an advance, that the birth of tonality is itself capable of dramatizing the birth (or rebirth) of humankind. In other archaizing passages in the Mass, and in the G major section of the Ninth Symphony ﬁnale, there is often no sense that these historical references are superseded, as in the Credo of the Mass. But it is signiﬁcant that the conclusions of both works stress an immediacy of experience that leaves all such references behind. The end of the Mass, in particular, in its “depiction of inner and outer peace,”10 is highly subjective, though without a trace of sentimentality. Because of the close afﬁnity between the musical symbolism of the Missa solemnis and the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth, we shall reserve detailed discussion of the Mass until the next chapter. The Diabelli Variations, Missa solemnis, and Ninth Symphony offer ever more striking instances of a trend reaching back to the Hammerklavier Sonata, or even to the Archduke Trio or the Eroica—Beethoven’s tendency to produce pieces of special ambition and enhanced scope that surpass his previous achievements in particular genres. This process is reﬂected in his sketching procedure. For the Missa solemnis he made more than 600 pages of sketches, ﬁlling generous portions of four large-format sketchbooks as well as numerous pocket sketchbooks and loose gatherings of sketchleaves. A comparable amount of preliminary labor was invested in other late works, with the number of sketches for the C minor Quartet op. 131 exceeding even that for the Mass. In view of this pattern one must question the claim advanced recently by Julia Moore that ﬁnancial considerations motivated Beethoven to undertake more ambitious artistic plans. Moore writes that “He set very high prices for his works at 8

Anderson, vol. 1, L. 963. Cf. Kirkendale, “New Roads to Old Ideas in Beethoven’s Missa solemnis.” 10 Beethoven’s original inscription in the autograph score used the word “Darstellung” (“depiction”); he subsequently changed it to “prayer for inner and outer peace.” 9

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an early stage of composition and then had to justify these fees by producing works large in scope and original in style.”11 If ﬁnancial concerns were as dominant as Moore maintains, Beethoven would hardly have delayed the completion of projects like the Variations and the Mass for such a long time. On the contrary, it was the unique artistic demands of these projects that apparently compelled him to prolong the process of composition. Moore argues that Beethoven aimed at deliberate inaccessibility in his later music, since “his public no longer much cared whether they understood his works . . . and they were moved to inordinate admiration of works by the great Beethoven, works they could not understand.”12 This statement is hard to reconcile with either the artistic or historical evidence. Notwithstanding his ﬁnancial anxieties and his sharp business practice in connection with the Missa solemnis, Beethoven’s greater musical masterpieces can scarcely be regarded as works written “for money”; such a view loses sight of the priority of his artistic enterprise, which is more evident during these years than ever before. We do not need to seek special economic motives for his Missa solemnis, or for his later sonatas and quartets: he quite justiﬁably demanded higher fees in view of the enhanced scale and content of such works. The relatively small number of pieces completed lent urgency to his concern to be fairly compensated. Beethoven’s creative struggle from 1819 to 1822 resulted not from any loss of inspiration but from the formidable compositional challenges he set himself, in conjunction with the distractions of custody battles over his nephew Karl and bouts of ill health. The climax of the custody hearings came in 1820. In February Beethoven prepared a massive document presenting his side of the case, brimming with accusations against Karl’s mother, his sister-in-law Johanna, whom elsewhere he dubbed “the Queen of the Night.” In July the case was ﬁnally decided in Beethoven’s favor, and Karl remained in his guardianship. Meanwhile, the Berlin publisher Adolf Schlesinger had approached Beethoven about piano sonatas, an impulse that led to the ﬁnal sonata trilogy, opp. 109–11, works that we shall examine in some detail. These three sonatas represented interruptions in Beethoven’s protracted ongoing labors on the Missa solemnis, but their completion was in turn held up by severe illness during the ﬁrst half of 1821, which brought Beethoven’s compositional activity to a virtual standstill for several months. Only in 1822 and 1823 was he able to ﬁnish a number of major projects that had occupied him for years.

S S S The compositional origins of the Sonata in E major op. 109 can be traced to the ﬁrst months of 1820 and actually preceded Beethoven’s negotiations with Schlesinger. Recent research suggests that it was another request, from the musician and editor Friedrich Starke, that motivated Beethoven by April of that year to break off work on the Missa solemnis to write what soon became the ﬁrst movement of op. 109. Starke asked Beethoven for a contribution to his piano anthology, the Wiener Pianoforteschule, in response to which the composer eventually offered the 11 12

“Beethoven and Inﬂation,” p. 217. Ibid.

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Bagatelles op. 119 nos. 7 to 11 inclusive. But it appears that “the new little piece”— as described in Beethoven’s conversation book in late April—was originally identical with what became the opening Vivace, ma non troppo of the sonata.13 Its unusual design suggests a bagatelle interrupted by two fantasy-like episodes, and in his draft in the Grasnick 20b manuscript Beethoven even labeled the slow continuation in triple meter, marked Adagio espressivo in the completed work, as a “Fantasie.”14 Brandenburg has proposed on the basis of sketches (Grasnick 20b, fol. 1v) that Beethoven may have at ﬁrst contemplated a new two-movement E minor Sonata, without the independently conceived ﬁrst movement.15 Some of the prominent motivic links connecting the Vivace with the following Prestissimo movement and the closing set of variations were evidently created or developed only after Beethoven’s decision to weld the three movements together as one work. The ﬁrst movement of op. 109 reﬂects Beethoven’s intense interest at this time with parenthetical structures that enclose musical passages within contrasting sections. His use of such procedures assumes more and more importance in the last sonatas and seems to have increased as a result of his labors on the Credo of the Missa solemnis during the ﬁrst half of 1820, when he devised an immense parenthetical structure separating the musical setting of the events on earth (from the “et incarnatus est” to the “Resurrexit”) from the remainder of the movement; here, an abrupt interruption of the cadence at “descendit de coelis” prepares a later resumption of the music at “ascendit in coelum.”16 The opening movement of the sonata was composed at about the same time, and its unique formal design is evidently the product of similar techniques of parenthetical enclosure. The opening Vivace material is interrupted after only eight bars, as it reaches the threshold of a cadence in the dominant of E major (Ex. 76). The cadence is not granted but evaded in the ensuing fantasy-like Adagio passage, whose elaborate arpeggiations make a striking contrast with the initial Vivace material, with its uniformity of rhythm and texture. Yet, when the music ﬁnally arrives ﬁrmly on a dominant cadence (bar 15), this is timed to coincide with the resumption of the Vivace music in the very same register as before. The entire Adagio section is thus positioned at the moment of the interrupted cadence, and the resulting parenthetical structure gives the effect of a suspension of time in the contrasting section, or the enclosure of one time within another. Awareness of this parenthetical structure is essential to a proper understanding of the formal design of the movement, which has resisted the schematic categorization so often advanced by analysts. Charles Rosen and others have suggested that the “second subject” is found already in bar 9, at the beginning of the Adagio, but that explanation is partial and not entirely satisfactory.17 In fact, the ﬁrm arrival 13

Cf. Meredith, “The Origins of Beethoven’s op. 109.” A facsimile and transcription of this draft is contained in my article “Thematic Contrast and Parenthetical Enclosure in Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas, Opp. 109 and 111.” 15 “Die Skizzen zur Neunten Symphonie,” p. 105, note 35. 16 See chapter 10, pp. 270–73. 17 Sonata Forms, pp. 283–84. 14

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Ex. 76 Piano Sonata op. 109/I

of a cadence in the dominant, which typically marks the beginning of a second subject group, is delayed here until the beginning of the development section based on the Vivace material. The central idea of the exposition consists precisely in the interdependence of the two contrasting thematic complexes, in which the parenthetical structure plays an essential role. The bold and unpredictable quality of this design is sustained by Beethoven’s avoidance of literal recapitulation in later stages of the movement, such as at the point of recapitulation (bar 48), where the music penetrates the highest register, or the return of the Adagio (bars 58 ff.), which is no mere transposition of the exposition but a reinterpretation of it, carrying the music emphatically and climactically into the remote key of C major. It remains for the coda to synthesize the contrasting themes and bring them into a new and closer relationship. These elements of continuing development and reinterpretation represent a paradoxical assertion of Beethoven’s ﬁdelity to Classical principles: since the initial material had involved an astonishing and abrupt contrast, a predictability of design involving literal transpositions in the recapitulation would be out of keeping with the unpredictable, exploratory character established at the outset. Beethoven’s coda actually does more than synthesize aspects of the two contrasting themes, since it simultaneously prepares the movements to come (Ex. 77). Its melodic crux lies in the falling tone C –B, which occurs twice in the chordal legato passage and then repeatedly in both the minor (with C ) and major in the following bars, where the original texture of the Vivace is restored. This melodic emphasis on the descent from C provides a direct link to the second half of the theme of the ﬁnale. Later, in the penultimate bar of the coda, a sudden dislocation in register and rhythm emphasizes the closing E major chord and sets up the surprising plunge into the ensuing Prestissimo in E minor. As in opp. 110 and 111 Beethoven builds a bridge to the following music into the conclusion of the open-

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Ex. 77 Piano Sonata op. 109/I, bars 73–88

ing movement, which seems in its yearning incompleteness to hint at more than it can encompass. A similar narrative thread, whereby the coda of a ﬁrst movement acts simultaneously as a reminiscence and a foreshadowing, can be observed in both the following sonatas. The Prestissimo is in 6/8 meter and takes on much of the character of a scherzo, though it is in sonata form and lacks a trio. Like the ﬁrst movement it employs a stepwise falling bass, and the motivic relationship C–B, or C –B, from the end of the Vivace again assumes considerable importance. The second subject begins on the supertonic, F , by replacing the motivic step C–B by C –B, whereas in the development a prominent bass pedal rises from B to C. The driven, agitated character of the music relents at the end of the brief contrapuntal development, leading to an una corda passage so devised as to slow and then virtually suspend all sense of forward motion after the fermata nine bars before the recapitulation (Ex. 78). Beethoven accomplishes this effect by introducing a melodic and rhythmic retrograde of the basic thematic cell, whose treble line E–F –G–E–F and rhythmic pattern long–long–short–short–long is turned back on itself in the following bars, with their melodic pattern E–G–F and rhythmic pattern short–short–long. At the center of this mirroring retrograde effect is a renewed stress on the supertonic F ; thus it is the dominant not of the tonic E minor but of the dominant B minor— the “wrong” key—that leads into the reprise. The remote quality of this retrograde gesture arises not only through tonal means but also through the spareness of texture and the extremely soft dynamic level, pianissimo and una corda, in contrast with fortissimo and tutte le corde at the recapitulation. Consequently, the music is wrenched violently into the recapitulation, overthrowing harmonic conventions. Yet the stroke seems fully convincing in context, after the still moment of introspection that ends the development. Here again, as in the coda of the ﬁrst movement, the music transcends itself and seems to look beyond its immediate context as in an act of clairvoyance, distantly foreshadowing the serene inwardness of the ﬁnale before the reassertion of the agitated character of the movement as a whole. Some parallels with these special procedures are found in the faster movements of both opp. 110 and 111. In the scherzo-like Allegro molto of op. 110 the music

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Ex. 78 Piano Sonata op. 109/II, bars 81–111

slows in tempo just before a brusque reassertion of the basic character leads to the cadence of the main section in F minor. The thematic contour of this prominent repeated gesture is later developed in the “coda” of the movement, which acts as a bridge to the weighty ﬁnale. In op. 111, on the other hand, the contrasting lyrical theme in A major in the exposition of the turbulent Allegro con brio ed appassionato is presented parenthetically, slowing the tempo and transforming the prevailing character. And although this theme is cut off abruptly in the exposition by a resumption of the tempestuous music of the Allegro, its return in the recapitulation is developed at greater length in C major, preparing the remarkable transition in the coda to the ensuing Arietta movement. In each of the last three sonatas, thematic contrast in the faster movements thus serves the larger function of foreshadowing the spiritualized ﬁnal movements; the narrative signiﬁcance of this procedure is subtle but unmistakable. Like the slow variation theme of the Archduke Trio op. 97, the theme of the variations that close op. 109 resembles a sarabande, a digniﬁed Baroque dance type whose rhythm stresses the second beat of each bar of triple meter. Its reﬂective character results in part from a meditative dwelling on the tonic note E, which is approached at ﬁrst from the third above and then from more expressive, distant intervals above and below. The pervasive descending bass motion familiar from the earlier movements is reversed here: the bass ascends one and a half octaves in the ﬁrst two bars, forming an effective counterpoint to the melody in the treble, whose falling thirds similarly invert the texture of rising thirds from the beginning of the sonata. Beethoven’s indication Gesangvoll, mit innigster Empﬁndung underscores the sublime lyricism that characterizes the whole, culminating in the extraordinary sixth variation and the following, closing da capo of the original theme. As with the op. 111 Arietta movement, Beethoven’s manuscripts for these

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variations reveal a rigorous process of selection, with many sketched variations left unused and a number of early ideas combined in some of the ﬁnished variations. In the completed work the ﬁrst variation maintains the tempo of the theme, while expanding its register in an unfolding of passionate melody of an almost operatic character (see Plates 22 and 23). The more ﬂowing second variation has a tripartite structure in each half with varied structural repetitions: while the ﬁrst and last sections somewhat resemble the texture of the Vivace in the ﬁrst movement, the beginning of the second section elaborates the lower pitch of each falling third in expressive trills. The other variations bring metrical changes and an increased density of counterpoint: Variation 3 suggests a two-voice Bachian invention in invertible counterpoint; Variation 4 introduces four imitative voices; and Variation 5 develops a complex fugal web infused with intense rhythmic energy. The climactic quality of this ﬁfth variation even motivated Beethoven to include an extra, more subdued repetition of the second half of the thematic structure; this passage acts as a transition to the ﬁnal variation, with its initial restoration of the tempo and basic character of the original theme. Several of the variations are directly connected by subtle transitions in sonority, thus enhancing the unity of the whole. The strong contrast between the swift Allegro vivace in 2/4 time and the more gentle, contrapuntal fourth variation, with its spacious bars of 9/8 meter in a tempo slower than the theme, is bridged through a common tied note, for instance. A direct harmonic transition links the fugal Allegro, ma non troppo of Variation 5 with the last variation, since the last chord of the former is left on the dominant and resolves to the tonic only at the outset of the ensuing reprise of the head of the original theme. An even more telling cadential overlap later connects the end of the ethereal sixth variation with the closing da capo of the entire theme. After the striking contrasts of the preceding variations, the sixth at ﬁrst seems to bring us full circle, with a return of the sarabande in its original register; but Beethoven now explores the theme by developing the dominant pedal from the beginning of each half. This pedal is prolonged and soon elaborated as a slow trill; after a total of ﬁve progressive rhythmic diminutions, it grows into an unmeasured pulsation of fast trills sounded in both hands. At this point Beethoven continues the process of rhythmic intensiﬁcation by increasing the motion of the melodic voices ﬁrst to triplet eighths and then to thirty-second notes, as the trill on the dominant drops into the lowest register. Yet another stage of transformation is reached at the repetition of the second half of the thematic structure, where the original contour of the theme appears in syncopation in the highest register, above the trill in the middle register and rapid thirty-second-note ﬁguration in the left hand (Ex. 79). Thus, through a rigorous process of rhythmic acceleration and registral expansion, the slow cantabile theme virtually explodes from within, yielding, through a kind of radioactive break-up, a fantastically elaborate texture of shimmering, vibrating sounds. This ecstatic moment in the ﬁnal variation reafﬁrms in the celestial upper register the progression leading to the melodic peak on C that derives from the theme itself, three bars from the conclusion of the sarabande. It is this gesture that

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Ex. 79 Piano Sonata op. 109/III, bars 177–80

was foreshadowed in the coda of the ﬁrst movement and stressed at the fortissimo climax of the fourth variation, among other passages; but perhaps nowhere else is the expressive impact of the dissonant major ninth chord supporting C so striking as here. After this climax a gradual diminuendo on the protracted dominant eventually resolves to the slightly varied da capo of the theme, which now seems transﬁgured by the experience we have undergone in reapproaching it. In a sense, then, the variations concluding op. 109 embody two cycles of transformation: the ﬁrst ﬁve variations recast the theme and develop its structure and character in a variety of expressive contexts, while the sixth initiates a new series of changes compressed into a single continuous process that is guided by the logical unfolding of rhythmic development. In the ﬁnal variation an urgent will to overcome the inevitable passing of time and sound seems to ﬁll up the spaces of the slow theme with a virtually unprecedented density of material, challenging the physical limits of execution and hearing. This idea, in turn, was to be greatly expanded by Beethoven into the controlling framework of the variations on the Arietta that conclude op. 111, the last movement of his last sonata.

S S S On 6 December 1821 Beethoven wrote a moving dedication of the E major Sonata to Maximiliane Brentano, daughter of Antonie Brentano, who was to receive the dedication of the Diabelli Variations. In the dedication Beethoven describes his spiritual bond to the Brentano family as something that “can never be destroyed by time,” and he recaptures his own fond memories of the experiences of a decade earlier. He was now living in the Landstrasse, in the vicinity of the former Birkenstock mansion, a circumstance that must have helped draw his thoughts to the past, although his ﬁnancial indebtedness to Franz Brentano may also have played a role in these dedications. The ﬁrst half of 1821 had been a dismal time for Beethoven. The scant documentation of his activities, his letters attesting sickness, and the sketch sources all point to a signiﬁcant drop in productivity. He must have been too sick to compose at all during some of this period. After a rheumatic attack in the winter, he suf-

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fered in the spring from an outbreak of jaundice, an ominous symptom of the liver disease that eventually claimed his life. After this onset of long-term hepatitis, Beethoven’s basic physical condition was especially vulnerable, and even his moderate intake of wine would have had a damaging impact. In a recent study, Horst Scherf divides the composer’s life into two clinical phases separated by the appearance of incurable illness in 1821.18 Still, ﬁve extremely productive years remained to Beethoven before the ultimate breakdown of his health in December 1826. These years may be regarded as his last “creative period” if the emphasis is placed on biographical criteria. The works of 1821–24, however, show deep afﬁnities with his earlier music and were begun in part well before 1821, even if some of their conspicuous symbolic features were devised only later in the compositional process, after his convalescence in September 1821. Beethoven’s recovery sparked his sense of humor and his creative forces, resulting in the genesis of the Piano Sonata in A major op. 110, the composition of which overlapped somewhat with that of the ﬁnal Sonata in C minor op. 111, from 1822. Humor is abundantly evident in Beethoven’s canon O Tobias Dominus Haslinger O! O! from September 1821, one of his numerous joking communications to Haslinger, a partner in Steiner’s publishing ﬁrm. Beethoven explained the origin of the canon as entwined with a twofold journey: a trip by carriage from Baden to Vienna, during which he fell asleep; and an ensuing dream journey to Syria, India, Arabia, and ﬁnally Jerusalem. “The Holy City made my thoughts turn to the sacred books. So it is no wonder that I then began to think of that fellow Tobias,” Beethoven wrote in the letter accompanying the canon he sent to Haslinger. According to Beethoven, he forgot the canon upon awakening. Another journey in the same vehicle the next day allowed him “in accordance with the law of the association of ideas” to recall the piece and commit it to paper.19 This story well illustrates Beethoven’s delight in the paradoxical joining of the exalted and the commonplace, the sacred and the profane. A somewhat analogous contrast is embedded in the A major Sonata op. 110. Its second movement serves as a scherzo in form and character, although it bears only the tempo designation Allegro molto, in 2/4 meter. This movement shows the humorous temper characteristic of Beethoven’s scherzos, even though the tonic is minor. As others have observed, Beethoven alludes to two popular songs, Unsa Kätz häd Katzln ghabt (“Our cat has had kittens”) and Ich bin lüderlich, du bist lüderlich (“I am dissolute, you are dissolute”), in the main section of this movement.20 The opening phrase, with its use of Unsa Kätz häd Katzla ghabt, is stated piano before being answered, in Martin Cooper’s words, by a “C major shout,” and the sforzandi at cadences contradict the rounded phrase endings normal in Beethoven, and sound comic and parodistic. One key to the expressive associations of the Allegro molto rests in the text “I 18

“Die Legende vom Trinker Beethoven,” esp. pp. 242–46. The letter and canon appear in Anderson, vol. 2, L. 1056. 20 Cooper, Beethoven: The Last Decade, pp. 190–91; A. B. Marx, Ludwig van Beethoven: Leben und Schaffen, ii, p. 416. 19

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Ex. 80a. Piano Sonata op. 110/II, bars 17–21

b. Song, Ich bin lüderlich

am dissolute, you are dissolute” (the source of Beethoven’s quotation and the passage in the Allegro molto are compared in Ex. 80a and b). The word “lüderlich” refers to a bedraggled or slovenly individual not ﬁt for polite society. Beethoven himself was once taken for such around this time when, miserably clothed and having lost his way in Wiener Neustadt, he was seen peering in at the windows of the houses, whereupon the police were summoned. When arrested, he protested, “I am Beethoven,” to which the policeman replied, “Well, why not? You’re a bum: Beethoven doesn’t look like that” (“Warum nit gar? A Lump sind Sie; so sieht der Beethoven nit aus”).21 But even if there is an autobiographical resonance in this passage, its main artistic signiﬁcance lies in Beethoven’s assimilation of the lowly, droll, and commonplace into the work, where such material proves complementary to the most elevated of sentiments. Some musicians, such as von Bülow and Martin Cooper, have looked askance at the unsophisticated humor of Ich bin lüderlich; Cooper comments on “that Dutch vein of humour which reminds us that the composer’s forebears may well have been among the peasants whose gross amusements we know from the pictures of the Breughels.”22 Yet here, once more, “a problem may lie hidden,” in Goethe’s sense. Important in this connection is Beethoven’s apparent allusion to Ich bin lüderlich in a passage much later in the sonata, to be discussed below. Transcendental and even religious characteristics surface in the unique ﬁnale of op. 110, with its pairing of Arioso dolente and fugue. As in the Hammerklavier Sonata and in the Ninth Symphony Beethoven incorporates a transition before reaching the ﬁnale proper; the music is notated partly without bar lines and with a profusion of tempo and expressive directions. An explicit recitative emerges in the fourth bar and carries us to A minor, tonic minor of the sonata as a whole. For some moments the music dwells contemplatively on a high A ; the recitative then falls in pitch, brieﬂy afﬁrming E major before returning to A minor in the bars immediately preceding the beginning of the great lament. In a sense, the ensuing Arioso dolente is operatic in character, with a broadly extended but asym21

Thayer-Forbes, p. 778, polishes the language of the Austrian policeman; the colloquialisms are retained in Frimmel, “Beethovens Spaziergang nach Wiener Neustadt,” BeethovenForschung: Lose Blätter 9 (1923), p. 7. 22 Beethoven: The Last Decade, p. 191.

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metrical melody supported by poignant harmonies in the repeated chords of the left hand. The recitative already foreshadows the tragic passion of the lament and preﬁgures some of its motivic relationships. There is even a framing cadential gesture at the conclusion of the Arioso dolente that harks back to the end of the passage in recitative (cf. bars 6–7 and 25–26). The pairing of the Arioso dolente with the fugue in A major has no precedent in Beethoven’s earlier instrumental music; its closest afﬁnity is with the Agnus Dei and “Dona nobis pacem” of the Missa solemnis, the movements of the Mass that occupied him contemporaneously with the sonata. The Agnus Dei, in B minor, is burdened by an overwhelming awareness of the sins of humanity and the fallen state of earthly existence; by contrast, the “Dona nobis pacem” represents the promise of liberation from this endless cycle of suffering and injustice, symbolized by the recurring and ominous approach of bellicose music. Signiﬁcantly, Beethoven’s setting of the “Dona nobis pacem,” in D major, employs a prominent motif outlining ascending perfect fourths, which are ﬁlled in by conjunct motion. The fugue subject of op. 110 consists similarly of three ascending perfect fourths, the last of them ﬁlled in by stepwise descending motion, while smooth conjunct motion also characterizes the countersubjects (Ex. 81a and b). The closest stylistic parallels to this exalted fugal idiom in Beethoven’s piano music are the D major cantabile fugal episode in the ﬁnale of the Hammerklavier Sonata and the superb Fughetta from the Diabelli Variations, written soon thereafter, in early 1823. Each of these recalls the polyphony of J. S. Bach, assimilating that idiom into the rich context of Beethoven’s Kunstvereinigung. The importance of the fugue subject in op. 110 is underscored by Beethoven’s foreshadowing of this theme in the ﬁrst movement. Its intervallic structure, with three successive rising fourths (A –D , B –E , C–F) is already latent in the opening four bars. This initial phrase is set apart from the continuation through its polyphonic texture, fermata, and trill, and functions almost like a motto for the entire sonata. The later fugal subject represents a kind of intervallic crystallization or even puriﬁcation of the motto. The vocal character and harmonic consonance of the fugal subject in op. 110 bear comparison with the “Dona nobis pacem” of the Missa solemnis, and, in its function within the whole sonata, the fugal subject acts like a symbolic counterpart to the “Joy” theme of the Ninth Symphony. Ex. 81a. Missa solemnis op. 123, Agnus Dei, bars 107–10

b. Piano Sonata op. 110/III, bars 27–35

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Beethoven’s later fugues make extensive, sometimes exhaustive use of the devices of inversion, stretto, diminution, and augmentation. These devices tend to be used not for their own sake but as a means of expressive intensiﬁcation, especially in the later stages of a work; in op. 110 they are concentrated in the second part of the fugue, beginning in the remote key of G major. The central idea of this ﬁnale consists in the relationship between the earthly pain of the lament and the consolation and inward strength of the fugue. Initially, however, the fugue cannot be sustained; it is suddenly broken off on a dominant-seventh chord of A major, which is interpreted as a German augmented-sixth chord, resolving to a triad of G minor, and this dark sonority is treated as tonic for the return of the Arioso dolente. The tonal relationship involved is bold and virtually unprecedented in Beethoven: the entire lament is restated, in intensiﬁed and varied form, in G minor; and the framing cadential gesture brings a shift to the major, which assumes the character of a miraculous discovery. Nine increasingly intense repetitions of this G major sonority follow, and a gradual arpeggiation of that sound leads upward to the inversion of the fugue subject, which now enters, quietly and una corda, in G major. The concluding fugue thus begins in the key of the leading note, to reemerge only later into the tonic, A major, in the triumphant ﬁnal passages. This unusual tonal relationship enhances the power of the conclusion; equally striking is Beethoven’s treatment of contrapuntal permutations in the transition from G major to A major. Not only does the subject appear against itself in diminution and augmentation, but it appears in double diminution at the Meno allegro, comprising a decorating motivic cell that soon surrounds the sustained notes of the inverted subject (Ex. 82b). Tovey claimed that in this closing fugue Beethoven eschewed an “organ-like climax” with its ascetic connotations as a “negation of the world”: “Like all Beethoven’s visions this fugue absorbs and transcends the world.”23 It is signiﬁcant in this regard that the transitional double-diminution passage seems to recall the earlier comic allusion in the Allegro molto. The rhythmic and registral correspondence renders the beginning of the Meno allegro transparent to Ich bin lüderlich, reinforcing Tovey’s sense of an absorption of the “world”; a similarity is clearly audible, in part because Beethoven compresses the fugal subject in diminution, deleting the second of its three rising fourths (Ex. 82a and b). Both motifs stress the fourths spanning A –E and C–G, which are inverted in the fugue, and there is a parallel placement of faster note values. The import of Beethoven’s inscription for the entire transitional passage, “nach u. nach sich neu belebend” (“gradually coming anew to life”), is embodied in this musical progression. The abstract contrapuntal matrix beginning with the inverted subject is gradually infused with a new energy, which arises not naturally through traditional fugal procedures but only through an exertion of will that strains those processes to their limits. The rhythmic developments that point the way out of Beethoven’s fugal labyrinth 23 A Companion to Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas, pp. 270, 285–86; see also Mellers, Beethoven and the Voice of God, pp. 238–39.

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Ex. 82a. Piano Sonata op. 110/II, bars 17–21

b. Piano Sonata op. 110/III, bars 165–75

thus distort the subject, compressing it almost beyond recognition, while simultaneously opening a means of connection with the earlier movements through what Carl Dahlhaus calls “subthematic ﬁguration.”24 The entry of the original subject in bar 174 is accompanied by sixteenth-note ﬁguration continuing the texture of double diminution, giving the effect of the theme being gloriﬁed by its own substance; at the same time this rapid ﬁguration recalls the ethereal passagework from the ﬁrst movement of the sonata. The transition from the darkness and pessimism of the Arioso dolente to the light and ecstasy of the fugue is now fully accomplished; and in the ﬁnal moments Beethoven extends the fugal subject melodically into the high register before it is emphatically resolved, once and for all, into A major sonority ﬁve bars before the end. This structural downbeat represents a goal toward which the whole work seems to have aspired. Yet the true conclusion lies beyond this chord in a rapport with silence, as (in Brendel’s words) the work throws off even “the chains of music itself.”25 24

Ludwig van Beethoven, pp. 261–62.

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Like op. 110 the design of Beethoven’s ﬁnal sonata op. 111 shows a powerful directional progression toward its ﬁnale, consisting, as in op. 109, of a weighty series of variations on a contemplative, hymn-like theme. The variations on the Arietta in C major that form the second movement of op. 111 are more tightly integrated than those that close op. 109 and unfold according to the venerable device whereby each transformation of the theme brings increasing subdivisions in rhythm. Beethoven carries this process so far in op. 111 that the series of rhythmic diminutions ﬁrst transforms the original character without altering the basic tempo, and then reapproaches the sublime quality of the chorale-like theme, as the most rapid rhythmic textures, culminating in sustained trills, are reached in the closing stages. Something of the same plan underlies the ﬁnal variation in the ﬁnale of op. 109, but in his ﬁnal sonata Beethoven developed this procedure to serve as the structural basis for the entire closing movement. The variations on the Arietta became a suitable culmination and resolution for the work, which dispenses with any further movements and leaves the tempestuous C minor idiom of the opening Allegro far behind. Moritz Schlesinger’s naive query whether a concluding third movement had been omitted from the manuscript was received disdainfully by Beethoven, who is supposed to have responded to a similar question from Schindler with the ironic, and perhaps even contemptuous remark that he had “no time to write a ﬁnale, and so had therefore somewhat extended the second movement.”26 Thomas Mann (in consultation with Theodor W. Adorno) devoted a chapter of his famous novel Doktor Faustus to the piece, and had the ﬁctional character Wendell Kretzschmar describe the climactic and yet open quality of the end of the Arietta movement as an “end without any return,” comprising a farewell to the art form of the sonata in general. The ﬁrst movement of op. 111 represents the last example of Beethoven’s celebrated “C minor mood,” evidenced in a long line of works from the String Trio op. 9 no. 3 and Pathétique Sonata to the Coriolan Overture and Fifth Symphony. As in these works great stress is placed on diminished-seventh chords in a turbulent, dissonant idiom. As in the Pathétique there is a slow introduction, but the greater musical tension of the later sonata is evident at once in the tonal ambiguity of the octaves outlining the diminished-seventh interval E –F , and in the use of the three possible diminished-seventh chords in the opening sequences, emphasized by majestic double-dotted rhythms and trills. The closest relative to this passage is Beethoven’s setting of the Cruciﬁxus in the Missa solemnis, as Mellers has pointed out.27 The tension of the slow introduction is sustained in the pianissimo continuation, leading ﬁrst to a convergence onto a dominant pedal expressed as a bass trill, and then to a transition to the new tempo, Allegro con brio ed appassionato, and the long-delayed resolution of the trill to C minor that marks the be-

25

“Beethoven’s New Style,” in Music Sounded Out, p. 70. Thayer-Forbes, p. 786. 27 Beethoven and the Voice of God, p. 325. 26

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ginning of the sonata exposition. The interval of the diminished seventh is incorporated prominently into the principal subject, which is ﬁrst presented in unison octaves and is developed only gradually, after several hesitating closes on the tonic. A major portion of the sonata exposition (bars 35–50) consists of a fugal exposition on a variant of this subject, combined with a countersubject in octaves. This material is coordinated to create a large-scale ascending progression, beginning on C and rising through an octave, before the bass brings the music climactically to D , D , and ﬁnally E (bars 48–50; Ex. 83). This extraordinary climax is underscored by the registral disparities of the sustained pitches played in the right hand, F–D –D –C , which represent a variant, in rhythmic augmentation, of the principal fugal motif. The shift from this low D to the high C traverses an ascent of almost ﬁve octaves, so that the motif appears enlarged, or gapped, over an immense tonal space. Then, suddenly, with the arrival of the bass at E in bar 50, a lyrical voice is heard in the contrasting key of A major. A three-bar phrase with expressive appoggiaturas ﬁlls bars 50–52, a ﬂeeting lyrical moment that is extended by a decorated restatement in the following bars and by a gradual slowing in tempo to Adagio. The formal isolation of this lyrical second subject is an example of Beethoven’s important technique of parenthetical enclosure, a device that also surfaces prominently in two of his immediately preceding works—the ﬁrst movement of op. 109 (as we have seen) and the Credo of the Missa solemnis. In op. 111 this technique assumes special signiﬁcance as a means of linking the two movements, which are so antithetical in character. An effect of parenthetical enclosure is created not only through the sudden thematic and tonal contrast and slowing in tempo but also Ex. 83 Piano Sonata op. 111/I, bars 48–58

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through the sudden return of the original tempo and agitated musical character at the upbeat to bar 56, where Beethoven brings back the same diminished-seventh sonority heard earlier, when the climactic progression had been broken off (also shown in Ex. 83). Here the high C is stressed as the clear link back to the earlier passage, and the diminished seventh is elaborated by descending sequences through those pitch registers that had been spanned in the earlier gesture. Consequently, the intervening lyrical utterance in A major is isolated, like “a soft glimpse of sunlight illuminating the dark, stormy heavens,” in the imagery of Mann’s character Kretzschmar in Doktor Faustus. In the recapitulation this lyrical material is not so easily swept aside; rather, Beethoven extends the passage and, beginning in bar 128, reshapes it to lead us back into the tempest. The lyrical passage has now reached C major, the key of the second movement; when it slows to adagio in bars 120–21, it seems to foreshadow the sublime atmosphere of the Arietta ﬁnale. A direct transition to the ensuing Arietta is built into the coda, when threefold phrases resolving plagally to the tonic major seem to resolve the tension and strife of those threefold phrases that had opened the slow introduction. The rhythm and register of the last bars of the coda allude unmistakably to the forceful diminished-seventh chords that interrupted the lyrical episode in the exposition (bars 55–56). Here, however, the diminished seventh is resolved, once and for all, into the C major triad, whose high register and wide spacing foreshadow aspects of the Arietta and variations, marked Adagio molto semplice e cantabile. The Arietta movement is perhaps the most extraordinary example of a new type of variation set characteristic of Beethoven’s later years. Formerly, variations were most often used in inner movements of the sonata cycle; but here, and in op. 109, they assume such weight and ﬁnality as to render any further movements superﬂuous. As we have said, the op. 111 variations are based structurally on the model provided by the ﬁnal variation of op. 109: there, a reprise of the slow rhythmic values of the original theme is followed by a series of rhythmic diminutions culminating in sustained trills. Now, in the op. 111 Arietta movement, each variation brings diminutions in the rhythmic texture without affecting the slow basic tempo: consequently, the theme seems to evolve from within through a rigorously controlled process. By the third variation, there is a resulting transformation in character, due to the agitation and complexity of the rhythm, which Beethoven notates in the meter 12/32. Thereafter, in the fourth variation, the tremolos and arabesques of thirty-second-note triplets, together with the syncopated chords in the right hand and the striking registral contrasts, create an ethereal atmosphere, as if the music has entered a transﬁgured realm. Martin Cooper once wrote of Beethoven’s late music as reﬂecting “a search for unity in diversity and multum in parvo” representing the composer’s “growing awareness of a unity lying behind the diversity of the phenomena of human existence.”28 If we acknowledge the presence in this music of heightened contrasts and 28 Beethoven: The Last Decade, 1817–1827 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970), p. 420.

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discontinuities, on the one hand, and powerful resources for integration, on the other, how are we to understand its process of unfolding in concrete terms as a “search for unity in diversity”? In this regard, “transformation” and “transﬁguration” need to be treated as speciﬁc concepts, not vague laudatory terms. The notion of Verwandlung, understood as transformation or metamorphosis, is applicable here, since the changes involved in this process go beyond a structural or decorative treatment to surpass or even transﬁgure the original music. The guiding idea involves a transformative process capable of shifting levels, projecting a change of kind rather than degree, and fundamentally altering thereby the basic qualities of a phenomenon. The techniques employed are but no means inscrutable or opaque, and Beethoven’s compositional strategies can be illuminated by means of comparison, since analogous devices are employed in different works. The notion of “transﬁguring” textures (“verklärende” ﬁguration) has been raised by Stefan Kunze, who observes that Beethoven’s use of small rhythmic subdivisions can be embodied in stationary or circling ﬁgures, promoting a quality of stasis or timelessness. For Kunze, the thrust of Beethoven’s variations on the Arietta in op. 111 is ultimately to “set free” the theme; what is “transcended” in the ﬁnal stages of the movement includes a sense of formal closure.29 Robert Hatten has discussed related aspects of Beethoven’s style under the category of “plentitude,” singling out as an example the exquisite Andante con moto ma non troppo from the String Quartet in B op. 130.30 For Hatten, “plentitude implies saturation or repleteness, and as such, the prototypical state of plentitude would be one of suffused, contented fulﬁllment.”31 He describes plentitude as “a typical strategy in Beethoven’s later variation movements, in which progressive rhythmic diminution often leads to a state of transcendent bliss.”32 To be sure, we can distinguish distinct types of textural saturation in this music, some of which are associated with intense energy or agitation rather than “contented fulﬁllment”; a character of plentitude conveying “transcendent bliss” or transﬁguration is often bound up with other qualities as well, such as lyric euphoria and a climactic treatment of register. In a recent discussion of the Arietta movement, Berthold Hoeckner juxtaposes two inﬂuential discussions of the work: Schenker’s analysis in his Erläuterungsausgabe of this sonata ﬁrst published in 1916,33 and the aforementioned episode 29

“Figuration in Beethovens Spätwerk: Zur Krise der instrumentalen Spielformel in der Musik um 1800,” in Festschrift Arno Forchert zum 60. Geburtstag am 29. Dezember 1985 (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1985), p. 167. 30 Interpreting Musical Gestures, Topics, and Tropes: Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2004), pp. 43–52. An expanded version of this study appeared as “Plentitude as Fulﬁllment: The Third Movement of Beethoven’s String Quartet in B , Op. 130,” in The String Quartets of Beethoven, ed. William Kinderman (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2006), pp. 214–33. 31 Interpreting Musical Gestures, p. 43. 32 Interpreting Musical Gestures, p. 249. 33 Die letzten fünf Sonaten von Beethoven: Kritische Ausgabe mit Einführung und Erläuterung [Sonate C moll Op. 111] (Vienna: Universal, 1916). The reprint of this publica-

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in Thomas Mann’s novel Doktor Faustus of 1947, in which the character Wendell Kretzschmar delivers remarks on the sonata that draw especially on Adorno’s thought. Hoeckner notes that Schenker repudiated hermeneutics, lashing out against the arbitrary detachment of detail on the part of commentators who would fear “that they could be deprived through analyses from the understanding of the whole and thus from the enjoyment of the artwork.”34 Thomas Mann’s use of the name “Kretzschmar” is itself signiﬁcant as an allusion to Hermann Kretzschmar, a commentator associated with the hermeneutic orientation that Schenker sometimes scorned. Nevertheless, Paul Bekker once wryly observed that it was “instructive, and not without an involuntary comic side effect, to observe how all those who repudiate hermeneutics—Schenker, Halm, Pﬁtzner, on down to the most recent generation with writerly ambitions—themselves become hermeneuts as soon as they start to speak seriously about music.”35 As Hoeckner observes, Schenker and Adorno both emphasize a particular focal pitch in their analyses. For Schenker this focal pitch is the F3 that is emphasized near the end of Variation 4 in the Arietta movement and that recurs prominently in the last measures of the piece. Schenker draws attention to this high F in part because he hears it as connected to the ensuing statement in the bass of the head motive of the Arietta theme beginning on F; this takes place in the mysterious modulating passage to E major, a passage whose long-sustained trill on D turns into a triple trill (Ex. 84). Schenker indeed does not avoid metaphorical description of this cadenza-like passage, beginning at the marking espressivo, ﬁve measures after the change of signature to three ﬂats. He writes of the ensuing section following the trills as follows: “Yet what a wonderland awaits us here! As in a dream, segments of the Arietta appear suspended, at ﬁrst spread out by themselves, later more integrated; in between—as in a dream—the structure of the key dissolves, yet despite the shifted foundation and temporal distance, one senses the connection of these measures and precisely that coherence that ties them so tightly to the reality of the Arietta and the variations.”36 Elaborating on Schenker’s point, one could observe that Beethoven’s earlier tion edited by Oswald Jonas (Vienna: Universal, 1971) omits Schenker’s introductory remarks, including his dismissal of hermeneutics. 34 Hoeckner, Programming the Absolute: Nineteenth-Century German Music and the Hermeneutics of the Moment (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002), p. 229. 35 Paul Bekker-Hofheim, “Was ist Phänomenologie der Musik?” Die Musik 17, no. 4 (1925), p. 246; quoted in Robert Snarrenberg, Schenker’s Interpretive Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), p. 1; cited here in an amended translation by Hoeckner in Programming the Absolute, pp. 229–30. 36 “Aber welch Wunderland harrt unser nun hier! Wie durch einen Traum geistern Takte der Arietta, zuerst einzeln und in Abständen, zuletzt auch geschlossener; zwischendurch reisst—wie eben im Traum—sogar die Brücke der Tonart, und dennoch, trotz verschobenem Boden, trotz Abständen, ahnt man einen Zusammenhang der Takte, eben jenen Zusammenhang, der sie einst in der Wirklichkeit der Arietta und der Variationen so eng aneinanderband.” Sonate C moll Op. 111 (Vienna: Universal, 1971), p. 91. My translation. Schenker’s language is sufﬁciently metaphorical as to necessitate considerable freedom in translation.

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Ex. 84 Piano Sonata op. 111/II, bars 100–121

emphasis on F3 and F2 in the second half of Variation 4 marks precisely that point where the variation structure is extended beyond the eight-bar framework that governs each half of the binary theme. Seen in this context, Beethoven’s accented dominant-seventh chord in Ex. 84 stands out for its simultaneous emphasis of both F2 and F3 in the octave F in the right hand, and this voicing of the dominantseventh chord is reafﬁrmed in the last measure before the onset of the longsustained trill on D. At this juncture, Beethoven has already fully prepared the cadence in C major that will be granted only twenty-ﬁve bars later, at the beginning of the recapitulatory Variation 5. The extraordinary passage with the trills and the dreamlike continuation noted by Schenker illustrates Beethoven’s interest in parenthetical enclosure, the interpolation of weighty passages at the threshold to an

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important cadence which is thereby interrupted and held in abeyance.37 With little modiﬁcation, the recapitulatory variation in the tonic C major could have directly followed the emphatic dominant-seventh sonorities emphasizing F. Instead, Beethoven positions the inner climax of the entire movement at this moment, introducing multiple trills, vast gaps in register, and wide-ranging modulations. The role of F in this mysterious, cadenza-like developmental passage has much to do with the articulation of the new key of E major through the use of the headmotive of the Arietta theme. Hence the three-note motive, with its characteristic long-short-long rhythm, heard initially as F–B –B in octaves in the bass, is echoed in the middle register to initiate the triple trill, and it reappears in the treble nine bars later, at the outset of the modulating espressivo passage. It is understandable that Beethoven would employ his headmotive in this context, just as the music penetrates new expressive regions. What is easily overlooked, however, is how his modiﬁcation of the headmotive in multiple voices seems to create the suspended texture involving multiple trills. After the beginning of the long trill on D, the additional voices set ablaze through trills are derived motivically through the headmotive of the Arietta theme. In the uppermost voice, this occurs through the reversal of the A -to-G motive as G to A , as A joins the trill already resonating on D.38 Simultaneously, the F in the middle register that initiates the headmotive is also followed by a gloriﬁcation of this same pitch as a trill. There is a sense here of intense introspection brought to sound, as the components of the dominantseventh chord of the new key of E major vibrate together, having been assembled in this conﬁguration through an enlargement—a still, suspended, yet intensely meditative vision—of the motives of the Arietta. In this sense, we can indeed regard Beethoven’s handling of this climactic passage as a transﬁguration of the Arietta, whereby astonishing ramiﬁcations display unsuspected potential in the original theme. Characteristically, several components of the music contribute to the overall effect: the surprising avoidance of the expected cadence in favor of an inward, interpolated passage; the ensuing modulation toward E major; the unfolding of simultaneous voices building up the harmony; the textural intensiﬁcation involving higher pitch registers; and ﬁnally, the saturation of texture produced by the multiple trills, which themselves represent in this context an outcome of a pervasive development scheme based on rhythmic diminution reaching back to the beginning of the movement. Hence we can see that the phenomenon of transﬁguration is not captured by the emphasis on a single focal pitch, such as Schenker’s F3, however important this pitch may be. So many factors interact in this music that even an approach as rich 37 I have discussed this technique in “Thematic Contrast and Parenthetical Enclosure in the Piano Sonatas, Op. 109 and 111,” in Zu Beethoven 3: Aufsätze und Dokumente, ed. Harry Goldschmidt (Berlin: Verlag Neue Musik, 1988), pp. 43–59. 38 The headmotive of the Arietta theme most obviously involves a falling fourth C–G or a falling ﬁfth D–G, as in the theme’s opening measures, yet this rhythmic motive also appears in conjunction with a falling half-step near the beginning of the second half of the theme.

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as Schenker’s easily relapses into an “arbitrary detachment of detail” through its singling out of individual pitches as particularly signiﬁcant. In this context, it is noteworthy that Schenker resorts in his discussion to a rather awkward metaphorical description, suggesting the “stillness” of the triple-trill passage to sound “as if the dream itself were listening” (“als würde der Traum selbst lauschen”).39 Thomas Mann’s approach to this movement banks heavily on hermeneutic interpretation, and the main weight of his interpretation falls on a different note, the C sharp that twice decorates the headmotive of the Arietta on dominant harmony near the end of the coda (Ex. 85). As Hoeckner reminds us,40 this motivic change was pointed out to Mann by Adorno, and its role was then developed and emphasized by Mann, whose ﬁctional spokesman Wendell Kretzschmar attaches various verbal tags both to the original three-note Arietta motive, and to the expanded, “leave-taking” ﬁve-note motivic form: C–C –D–G–G. Some reasons for Mann’s elaboration of this idea are clearly more literary than musical, while the matching of words to motives allows him to acknowledge Adorno’s assistance through incorporation of the word “meadowland” (“Wiesengrund”)—Adorno’s middle name—as one of Kretzschmar’s verbalizations of the motive in its original form. The notion of leave-taking (“Lebewohl”) indeed has deeper roots in Beethoven’s art, and not only in his Piano Sonata op. 81a, with its use of the “Lebewohl” motive in the opening movement. Setting aside for the moment Kretzschmar/ Adorno’s speculations about Beethoven’s last sonata as a “farewell to traditional art form,” we may concentrate here on the “humanizing effect” of this melodic expansion of the closing motive, echoing as it does through the streets of the ﬁctional town Kaisersaschern when the little crowd disperses after Kretzschmar’s lecture. Such decorative touches added to a familiar theme are not so unusual in Beethoven; a comparable example is offered by the subtle melodic inﬂections added to the main subject at the recapitulation of the ﬁrst movement of the Archduke Trio op. 97. Here, as in op. 111, the addition of appoggiaturas sensitively enriches the familiar theme. Kretzschmar’s strategy in elucidating op. 111 is to superimpose on the purely musical headmotive—encapsulated by him as “Dim-dada!”—a series of pregnant verbal formulations, which in the expanded ﬁve-note version scan “Nun ver-giss der Qual!”; “Gross war—Gott in uns”; “Alles—war nur Traum”; “Bleib mir— hold gesinnt.” (“Now for-get the pain!”; “great was—god in us”; “all things— were a dream”; “to me—do stay close.”) While the speciﬁc content of these verbal tags can be largely discounted, it is nevertheless striking to what extent the gist of Kretzschmar’s delivery resonates with the ethereal atmosphere of Beethoven’s last sonata. In this vein, it is worth asking how the added melodic inﬂection of the C cited by Kretzschmar/Adorno/Mann contributes to the movement in concrete musical terms. In the case of Schenker’s F, we recognized how that note indeed assumes im39

Sonate C moll Op. 111 (Vienna: Universal, 1971), p. 91. Programming the Absolute, pp. 229–30. Hoeckner reproduces a copy of the Arietta theme in Adorno’s hand, including his annotations to the two versions of the motive. 40

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Ex. 85 Piano Sonata op. 111/II, bars 153–177

continued

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Ex. 85 (continued)

portance in the larger musical unfolding of which it forms a part. Might the same be true of the C that is so lavishly dwelt upon in the memorable narrative of the eighth chapter of Mann’s Doktor Faustus? The fact that the inspiration for Mann’s discourse was an insightful scholar like Adorno encourages us to weigh this possibility. The climactic passage with the triple trill springs in mind (Ex. 84). Following this gesture, the uppermost voice continues its ascent to a crescendo extended over three measures, until the seemingly endless series of trills reaches its endpoint

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on the giddy height of high D, ﬁve octaves above the B in the left hand. This remarkable passage expressed entirely through trills peaks on the chromatic ascent from C through C to D. Although the context of Beethoven’s coda is quite different, the pitches added to the motive from the Arietta are also C and C , preceding the primary motive on the dominant: D–G–G. Beethoven’s prominent emphasis here on the dominant stems from his curtailing the thematic structure in the coda so that the main weight falls on the phrases corresponding to the end of the ﬁrst half of the Arietta. The “Dim-dada!” motive shouted out by Kretzschmar in his lecture recital and then matched to text in its leave-taking, expanded version is drawn from this part of the original theme, and only these phrases of the coda are emphasized through varied repetitions, with two statements of the D–G–G motive echoed by the twofold occurrences of the ﬁve-note form, with C and C preceding D–G–G. The ecstatic, yet contemplative, character of the end of the Arietta movement and its extraordinary sense of culmination owe much to the formal design of the movement as a whole, whereby each variation introduces new stages of development based on rhythmic diminution, contrapuntal activity, and registral expansion. The systematic intensiﬁcation of rhythm of the opening variations leads to the agitated, jazz-like idiom in 12/32 meter embodied in Variation 3. These opening variations thus lead to a thorough transformation of the slow, chorale-like theme, but not yet to a state of blissful plentitude. Variation 4 explores rhythmic textures expressed as tremolos and mysterious arabesques, while contrasting the low and high registers in each half of the variation. Its further rhythmic diminution involving chains of triplet thirty-second notes carries the process of subdivision so far that the following stage can only be expressed by an unmeasured rapid motion that can also stand for an inner stillness: the trill. If the cadenza-like interpolation develops the trill as a logical outcome of the large-scale process of rhythmic diminution embodied in the preceding variations, the ensuing recapitulatory Variation 5 signals the consolidation of the overall form. By bringing together components that had earlier been heard separately, this variation achieves a synthesis. The Arietta theme returns here in its original register, but the rhythm of the other parts of the texture recall Variations 1 and 4, enabling us to experience as a simultaneity what had earlier been heard successively. Being and Becoming are forged here into a single entity, as the enduring structure of the theme is blended with the dynamic succession of changing rhythmic textures. Hence the guiding idea of the last variation in the ﬁnale of op. 109 is magniﬁed here, expanded to the level of an entire movement. Whereas the principle of rhythmic diminution within that single ﬁnal variation of op. 109 had been used to gradually transform the theme, each variation in op. 111 brings a new stage in an analogous process. Differently than in op. 109, the reprise of the original theme is placed not at the end of the movement as a da capo repetition, but it is instead embodied here in a more central part of the design: the recapitulatory ﬁfth variation. Following the uncanny, drifting, modulating passage in the interpolated cadenza, this recapitulatory variation reestablishes a sense of momentum. Its unfolding displays a powerful directionality and climax structure.

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Beethoven’s treatment of the second half of Variation 5 gives much emphasis to the dominant, particularly after the melody passes to the right hand in the lofty high register in measure 153 (Ex. 85). Beginning in the following bar, he writes a long crescendo over ﬁve measures, a passage that reaches its outcome at the major-ninth chord on the dominant marked forte in measure 158. This climax on the major-ninth chord brings to sound a rich dissonance, as the high A is heard against G, F, and B in the other voices. In the ensuing moments, Beethoven outlines a twofold melodic descent from this high A, ﬁrst as a diatonic fall through G–F–E in bar 158 and then as a more emphatic chromatic version that reaches D at the end of bar 159, with that pitch sustained as a trill in the following bar. The end of the Arietta theme had closed with a melodic inﬂection rising from D to an accented G and then falling gently to E, the third of the tonic triad. Beethoven reproduces this familiar contour at the end of Variation 5, with the trill on D lifted to an accented high G sustained by a trill in bar 160. The prominent voicing of the third, E, in bar 161 already belongs to the next formal unit, however. In this instance, the end of the variation does not itself include a resolution to the tonic triad. That resolution is supplied only at the beginning of the incomplete ﬁnal variation that serves as coda to the movement. The tremolo texture in triplet thirty-second notes alternates here between E and C, with the metrically accented ﬁrst notes of each triplet group of the 9/16 meter shifting between those two pitches. Out of the gently pulsating movement of this ﬁguration, a larger triplet pattern emerges, unfolding once with each group of nine smaller notes. A mysterious, almost hypnotic, bell-like resonance results, as undulating intervals vibrate as parts of themselves on different temporal levels. Most remarkable is how the high trill on G is sustained, sounding through all of the next eleven bars, with a drop of an octave in bar 165. Like Variation 5, this ﬁnal half variation, with its “farewell” echoes of the phrase on the dominant, represents a synthesis of rhythmic and textural levels: a reprise of the original theme in the highest possible register combined with the ethereal passagework in triplet sixteenths from Variation 4, as well as with the sustained trill, which recalls the cadenza-like passage following the fourth variation. This exquisite texture is followed by just six concluding measures, in which the triplet thirty-second-note passagework is ﬁrst carried upward, touching the registral ceiling of the entire piece—high C—in bar 174, before echoes of the original opening motto from the Arietta bring the sonata to a quiet, understated close, opening into the ensuing silence. There is an unmistakable parallel here to the last variation of op. 109, in that a culminating effect arises from the use of a sustained trill sounding the ﬁfth and sixth scale degrees. In op. 111, it is as if the emphatic collision of G and A in the major-ninth chord of bar 158 is so decisively radiant as to preclude a decay of that sonority.41 Through the prolonged trill, these pitches continue to sound together, 41

Uhde describes this moment as the “goal of the entire movement” (“Zielpunkt des ganzen Satzes”), adding that it offers long-range orientation to the performer like a guiding lighthouse (“Schon wenn man das Adagio beginnt, sollte dieser ‘Leuchturm’ die Orientierung bestimmen”). Beethovens Klaviermusik, vol. 3 (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1971), p. 613.

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ringing throughout the ensuing passage. For the sensitive listener, there can be no resolution to this penetrating gesture, which continues to resonate in the memory. The rapport with silence at the end of op. 111, which has been noted by many commentators, is not a transition into blankness, but a shift into a mysterious space ﬁlled with after-resonances, most prominently the remembered echoes of the long culminating trill on G. In this context, surely neither Schenker’s F nor Kretzschmar’s C bear as much of the burden of expression as does the protracted trill on G. This gesture is essentially an intensiﬁcation of the accented melodic inﬂection from the very last bar of the Arietta. If each of the variations had revisited this telling gesture, the join between the recapitulatory ﬁfth variation and the incomplete sixth variation transforms the moment through a refusal of closure—omitting the expected, resolving shift to the tonic chord while releasing the energy of the unending trill. And although the tonic C major is later asserted—already at the outset of the ethereal, pianissimo texture of the ﬁnal half variation, and later with the deep tonic pedal point in bars 169–71, and the ﬁnal cadences—the sheer sonorous opulence of the coda stands apart, as a ﬁtting climax and, in Kretzschmar’s words, “end without any return.” In Adorno’s view, the “close of the Arietta variations has such a force of backward-looking, of leave-taking, that, as if over-illuminated by this departure, what has gone before is immeasurably enlarged.”42 This “backward-looking” quality is bound up with what we have recognized as a synthesizing, recapitulatory quality, whereby earlier stages in the movement are recalled and combined. At the same time, the overall formal trajectory is directional, and a sense of goal-directedness or even apparent inevitability is conveyed through the achievement of a texture of plentitude in the recapitulatory ﬁfth variation and the coda. There is an exhaustiveness to this procedure, in that the limits of register and execution are tested; nothing more could seem to follow the coda, after such climactic distillation of content drawn from the movement as a whole. Can all of this be taken to imply Beethoven’s awareness of a “unity lying behind the diversity of the phenomena of human existence,” in Martin Cooper’s formulation? The sense of a diversity of character here is far less than in the encyclopedic Diabelli Variations, but the agitated Variation 3 still provides an impressive large-scale contrast, while also serving as an indispensable middle stage in the overall framework of rhythmic development. If the last sections of the Arietta movement depended for their expressive impact mainly on Schenker’s F or Adorno’s C , it would be unjustiﬁed to speak of a transformation or “Verwandlung” in this work. Yet much more is involved, conveying a process of seemingly irreversible change combined with resistance to transience and decay. The “leave-taking” phrases resonate together with the long trill and the ethereal, transﬁguring texture in triplet thirty-second notes. This unprecedented, “over-illuminated” blending of elements indeed sounds like a metamorphosis, yet the individual components of

42

Beethoven: The Philosophy of Music, ed. Rolf Tiedemann, p. 175.

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the synthesis are not new, as we have seen, and even the C has a precedent in the earlier cadenza-like passage. The aging Beethoven’s preoccupation with variation form was clearly connected to “unity lying behind . . . diversity” as well as to the related idea of transformation or metamorphosis. The end of the Arietta movement of op. 111 achieves a unique balance between unity and diversity. If apparently divergent phenomena reveal themselves here as related manifestations, a successive blending of such phenomena nevertheless overﬂows a self-contained, linear narrative. Such a work is a tensional vessel for forward- and backward-looking processes, becoming and being, transformation and memory. In the performance of the variations, it is essential to sustain continuity between the still, contemplative aura of the theme and the gradual transformation in character effected by the intensiﬁcation of rhythm and expansion of register and contrapuntal texture in the ﬁrst three variations. The highly agitated character of Variation 3 leaves room, in the piano phrases at the beginning of its second half, for a subtle anticipation of the ethereal quality of later passages; the extroverted energy expressed in the jagged, accented rhythms of this variation is then reshaped in Variation 4 to become an even faster yet now suspended, inward pulsation. Important as well is an identity in tempo between the original theme and the recapitulatory ﬁfth variation and coda. As the theme is recaptured, so too are various developmental stages recalled from the intervening variations. The Arietta theme itself is one of the most sublime examples among Beethoven’s piano works of that hymn-like character that often inspired reﬂective slow movements surrounded by contrasting outer ones. Here, however, the inward vision is more sustained and far more afﬁrmative and ecstatic than in earlier slow movements; yet, this variation framework is not incompatible with dynamic processes, such as the system of rhythmic diminutions and the modulating cadenza preceding the recapitulatory ﬁfth variation. Being and Becoming are merged here into a uniﬁed structure. The uplifting and visionary quality of the second half of the Arietta derives not only from the transformation of the theme and from the culminating effect of synthesis and recapitulation, but also from the role of this movement as a transcendence of the turbulent Allegro movement and all it implies. In many respects, the Arietta strives toward perfection, whereas the Allegro is obviously imperfect; even the progression from the duple meter of the opening movement to the triple meter of the Arietta movement, with its many subdivisions in groups of three, is signiﬁcant in this connection. Various commentators have rightly perceived a philosophical and even religious dimension in this great work. As Alfred Brendel has pointed out, the dichotomy embodied in the two movements of op. 111 has been variously described in terms of “Samsara and Nirwana” (von Bülow), the “Here and Beyond” (Edwin Fischer), and “Resistance and Submission” (Lenz); Brendel also mentions the dichotomy of “Male and Female Principles” (of which Beethoven sometimes spoke) and that of the real and the mystical world.43 It is revealing in this connection to 43

“Beethoven’s New Style,” in Music Sounded Out, p. 71.

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compare op. 111 with some of Beethoven’s other works from the 1820s. In the Ninth Symphony, by contrast, the contemplative, inwardly absorbed slow variation movement leads to a reconfrontation with the “external world” in the form of the dissonant Schreckensfanfare and the ensuing setting of Schiller’s Ode to Joy in the choral ﬁnale. In op. 111, of course, the reﬂective modality governs the conclusion; there are few hints here of a strife-ridden “world background,” such as the music of war that haunts the Agnus Dei of the Missa solemnis. The conclusion of the preceding sonata, op. 110, for all its transcendental characteristics, projects a greater sense of an “absorption of the world” through its distortion of the fugal subject in the double-diminution passage and its ensuing emergence out of the fugal labyrinth in the closing passages of apotheosis. But any convincing assessment of op. 111 has to stress more than the remarkable power and coherence of Beethoven’s transformations of the Arietta, with their cumulative sense that the contemplative vision has become more real than the “external” world symbolized in the Allegro; crucial as well is the complementary relationship of the two movements. As we have seen, Beethoven’s use of parenthetical enclosure places a foreshadowing of the Arietta into the midst of the ﬁrst movement; in the recapitulation and coda this tentative foreshadowing grows into a transition to the Arietta itself. At the same time, in his coda Beethoven balances and transforms important passages heard earlier in the movement, such as the beginning of the slow introduction and the assertion of diminished sevenths that had cut off the lyrical second subject in the exposition. The symbolism projected in op. 111 thus has two principal moments: the acceptance and resolution of conﬂict embodied in the Allegro and transition to the Arietta; and the rich, dynamic synthesis of experience projected in the ensuing variations. Beethoven’s last piano sonata is a monument to his conviction that solutions to the problems facing humanity lie ever within our grasp if they can be recognized for what they are and be confronted by models of human transformation. Maynard Solomon has argued that “Masterpieces of art are instilled with a surplus of constantly renewable energy—an energy that provides a motive force for changes in the relations between human beings—because they contain projections of human desires and goals which have not yet been achieved (which indeed may be unrealizable).”44 Among Beethoven’s instrumental works op. 111 assumes a special position as an “efﬁgy of [the] ideal,” in Schiller’s formulation; and every adequate performance must reenact something of this process, reaching as it does beyond the merely aesthetic dimension to touch the domain of the moral and ethical.

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Beethoven, pp. 315–16.

10

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R “Das Moralische Gesetz in uns, u. der gestirnte Hıim ¯¯ el über uns” Kant!!!

This epigraph is an entry made by Beethoven in a conversation book at the beginning of February 1820: “The moral law within us, and the starry heavens above us.”1 Beethoven’s citation, with its enthusiastic attribution to Immanuel Kant, has been often re-cited and commented on. The conversation-book entry takes on new signiﬁcance, however, when considered in relation to the genesis of the composition that was occupying—or, rather, consuming—him at the time: the Missa solemnis. The issues raised are crucial to the structure and expression of the Mass, especially in its later movements, the Credo, Benedictus, and Agnus Dei. The symbolic ideas that surface here are not conﬁned to the Mass, moreover, but reemerge in other major compositions that he wrote between 1823 and 1825. These matters are so central to our investigation as to require more detailed scrutiny than we have given to much of Beethoven’s earlier music. The works he wrote from 1820 to 1826 are not large in number but they pose formidable aesthetic challenges. A richer context for discussion of the Missa solemnis can be gained if we consider not only the existing score, which was virtually complete by 1822, but also the compositional genesis of this great work. The sketchbooks show that when Beethoven copied down this quotation from Kant he had already worked intensely on the Mass for most of a year but was far from ﬁnished. At this point in the compositional process he had not yet devised one of the most impressive symbolic and structural musical elements of the Mass: the use of speciﬁc related sonorities to serve as a focal point of the musical setting in the Credo and Benedictus. Subsequently, after completing the Mass, he absorbed and implanted this network of referential sonorities into his next great choral orchestral composition, the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony, in the treatment of a text strikingly similar to the dictum from Kant cited above. A distinctive harmonic feature of the ﬁnished Credo is its use of the subdomi-

1

Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte, vol. 1, p. 235. According to the editors, this entry was copied not directly from the conclusion of Kant’s Critique of Practical Reason but from the article “Kosmologische Betrachtungen” by the astronomer Joseph Littrow, printed in the Wiener Zeitschrift on 20 January and 1 February 1820.

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Ex. 86 Missa solemnis op. 123, Credo

nant E triad in place of the tonic B as the ﬁrst vertical sonority of the movement (Ex. 86). An upward leap of an octave reaches to this high, sustained E chord, which resolves to the dominant of B in the second bar. The position of the E chord, with the third, G, uppermost, is noteworthy, as is its orchestration, employing the oboes and ﬂutes in the high register. Particularly arresting is the rhythm of the passage: the chord is prolonged for six beats, resolving to the F major triad only in the middle of the second bar. As a result, the introduction acts as a metrical unit of two bars anticipating in rhythmic augmentation the dotted rhythm of the “Credo” motif heard in bar 3. This rhythmic relationship, as well as the distinctive spacing of the initial chord and its unusual harmonic basis on the subdominant, all serve to bring the introductory gesture strongly into relief. Beethoven’s decision to place this introduction at the beginning of the Credo raises issues that concern the musical organization of the entire movement. For a closer examination of the Credo reveals that the initial E chord, in its original register and spacing, is treated not only as a ritornello but as an important thematic element throughout the movement. It assumes special prominence at the climax of the “Et vitam venturi” fugue and in the closing “amen” section. Sketches from the spring and early summer of 1820 record Beethoven’s ﬁrst use of this high, protracted E sonority as part of the concluding plagal cadence to “amen,” as well as his employment of a closely related progression at the earlier cadence to “amen” that immediately precedes the fugue.2 In sketches for the opening section of the Credo in the same sources the high sustained E chord is conspicuously absent, however. The evidence from the sketchbooks implies that in this instance Beethoven worked backward, by making this crucial sonority associated with the end of the movement serve also as an introduction and ritornello in the ﬁrst half of the Credo. The full musical signiﬁcance of the opening gesture of the Credo can be assessed, then, only in the context of the whole movement. 2 For detailed citations of the sketch sources, see my article ‘Beethoven’s Symbol for the Deity in the Missa solemnis and the Ninth Symphony.”

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We are dealing here with an outstanding example of Beethoven’s characteristic device of anticipation—the foreshadowing, early in the work, of important musical events to come. Another familiar example is the opening section of the ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony, where the Schreckensfanfare, the orchestral recitative passages, and the citation and rejection of the earlier movements are fully intelligible only in light of the following choral sections of the movement. In the Credo, by contrast, the anticipation of events to come is concentrated in the orchestral ritornello beginning with the opening E chord. Analysis of the broader role of this E sonority brings us into the midst of the musical architecture that embraces the entire movement, a formal symphonic organization quite unusual in settings of the Credo, with its lengthy doctrinal text. The form of the Credo falls into four main parts: the opening Allegro ma non troppo up to “descendit de coelis,” in B ; the section in slow tempo from the Incarnatus up to the Resurrexit, with a basic tonality of D; the Allegro molto beginning at “et ascendit in coelum” and leading into the recapitulation of the Credo in F major; and ﬁnally the fugue and coda on “et vitam venturi saeculi, amen,” in B . Within this framework the second section in slow tempo makes the strongest possible contrast to the rest of the movement, a contrast made even more startling by the use of modality—the Dorian mode in the Incarnatus and the Mixolydian (brieﬂy) in the Resurrexit, which is heard as unaccompanied vocal polyphony. Overlapping cadences and unity of key center link the internal episodes: the D Dorian of the Incarnatus is followed by D major at “homo factus est” and D minor in the Cruciﬁxus. Set apart by its archaic modality, by the entry of the vocal soloists, by the secondary key center of D, and by the absence of thematic material associated with the rest of the movement, this section represents an interpolation within the larger framework of the whole Credo. Surprisingly, the symbolic aspect of this musical setting has been overlooked by critics, who have conﬁned their attention to the conventional tone painting in the setting of the words “descendit” and “ascendit.”3 The more profound symbolism is expressed through the utter contrast—in texture, thematic material, register, and key—between all the music from the Incarnatus to the Resurrexit on the one hand, and the rest of the Credo on the other. The large interpolation in the musical form assumes a rhetorical or symbolic function, for it reﬂects musically the descent of Christ from heaven to earth, with his subsequent ascent after the cruciﬁxion and burial being embodied in the return and continuation of music heard earlier in the movement. This feature is of special interest in view of Beethoven’s enthusiasm for the dictum from Kant cited above, since it involves the association of a speciﬁc high sonority with heaven or the heavens which imparts a symbolic association to the larger musical context. In order to establish an audible musical relationship between descent and ascent, Beethoven employs a device prominent in other works from his later years— 3 See, for example, Kirkendale, “New Roads to Old Ideas in Beethoven’s Missa solemnis,” pp. 665–701.

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Ex. 87 Missa solemnis op. 123, Credo, bars 112–26

a grandiose interrupted cadence. The musical setting of the words “descendit de coelis” is a powerful seven-bar phrase, closing with an emphatic cadence in B in the highest register on the word “coelis.” The orchestra repeats the phrase, reaching the dominant of B in the last bar before the Adagio (Ex. 87). This time, however, the highest pitch, A, of the F major triad does not resolve upward to B ; instead, the cadence is cut off and the F major sonority altered to become the dominant of D. Here the full orchestral forces drop out, with a precipitous plunge in register for the Incarnatus, which is scored at ﬁrst only for low strings. The descent from heaven is thereby reﬂected in a sudden transformation of the musical texture. Then, throughout the ensuing slow movement, higher pitch registers are used sparingly; where they do appear in the solo ﬂute in the Incarnatus it is with special symbolic intent, to evoke the hovering of the dove. The orchestration is also lighter here than in the rest of the movement, due in part to the absence of brass and timpani. Only at “et ascendit in coelum” do the full orchestral forces return with the arrival at the F major chord that serves as the goal of the long series of rising scales (Ex. 88). This sonority is emphasized dynamically and sustained for

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Ex. 88 Missa solemnis op. 123, Credo, bars 197–202

four bars, but its importance extends well beyond the immediate musical context. To begin with, it is the same sonority, in an identical register and very similar orchestration, that served as the point of transition at the interrupted cadence in the “descendit” passage (cf. Ex. 87). The use of a matching sonority is symbolically ﬁtting, for this high F major chord with A at the top was there used for the word “coelis,” and on its return here, at the end of the rising scales, it is used for the same word, “coelum.” The ascent into heaven coincides with the resumption of the musical texture from the opening Allegro section of the Credo, with the F major chord serving as a point of reference back to the suspended, unresolved sonority at the end of “descendit de coelis.” But at this point the sonority assumes yet another function: it forms the beginning of an extended thematic unit, which is later repeated sequentially—with a parallel sonority—as the music for “cujus regni non erit ﬁnis,” the passage leading up to the recapitulation (cf. bars 202–21 and 240–63). This passage is decidedly developmental in character, owing to its modulations and persistent syncopations, a hallmark of Beethoven’s later development procedure. The F major sonority used for the word “heaven” is thus a cornerstone in the formal architecture of the Credo, linking its ﬁrst and third sections and initiating the development, while at the same time creating a symbolic role for the music that transcends any details of tone painting. In view of the formal importance of this F major chord, it is interesting to note that in Beethoven’s early drafts for the Credo the orchestral repetition of the phrase “et descendit de coelis” and the interrupted cadence are absent; other, unused attempts at a transition appear. It was later in the compositional process that Beethoven strengthened the link between the ﬁrst and third sections of the Credo—a link centered on a single, crucial sonority rooted in the broad formal structure of the music which at the same time served the symbolic function of relating the music more closely to the Mass text.

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Much the same procedure seems to have been at work in Beethoven’s decision, again late in the process of composition, to employ the E sonority as a unifying element for the entire movement. We are now in a position to examine the formal and symbolic implications of this chord, which occurs for the ﬁrst time in the introductory orchestral gesture at the very beginning of the Credo and recurs subsequently no fewer than eleven times. As we have said, this opening orchestral gesture is treated as a ritornello, preceding the “Credo” motif. As such, it appears three times in the movement, reﬂecting the threefold afﬁrmation of belief in the Trinity (as is well known, Beethoven emphasized this by adding two extra statements of “Credo” to the Mass text, before the words “in unum Dominum Jesum Christum” and “in Spiritum Sanctum”). At the beginning of the movement the orchestral ritornello and imitative statements of the “Credo” motif occupy ten bars, to the text “Credo in unum Deum.” On its second appearance (bar 34) the initial E chord is sustained for only two beats instead of six, so that the entire passage occupies nine bars, to the text “Credo in unum Dominum Jesum Christum.” The next appearance of the E chord occurs not as part of the ritornello but in the powerful seven-bar repeated phrase to “descendit de coelis” discussed above (see Ex. 87). It is this sonority, in fact, that resolves to the tonic of B three bars before the interrupted cadence. The E chord is thus directly linked here with the music of descent/ascent, with its unmistakably symbolic implications. On their third appearance, later in the movement, the ritornello and statements of the “Credo” motif assume the role of a recapitulation and are expanded to about 30 bars. Here the return and development of the “Credo” motif carries the music through the most doctrinal parts of the Mass text, where the words are rattled off syllabically, rendered inconspicuous by the many imitative entries of the “Credo” motif. The selective emphasis given the Mass text is indeed striking; beginning with the words “Credo in Spiritum Sanctum,” the last third of the text is covered in only 42 bars of music, whereas the ﬁve closing words, “et vitam venturi saeculi, amen” (“and the life to come, world without end, amen”), occupy 166 bars, comprising the fugue and the coda. Since the recapitulation has been in the dominant, F major, this third appearance of the orchestral ritornello is not at the original pitch level. The motif from the ritornello returns, however, as part of the emphatic cadence on the word “amen” that closes the section (bars 300–302), just before the “Et vitam venturi” fugue, and here it relates clearly to the E chord at the beginning of the movement. The rhythmic context is the same, with the chord sustained for six beats, as previously; once again, G is uppermost, and the chord appears in the same high register in similar orchestration. The correspondence in sonority is thus unmistakable, in spite of the new harmonization of the high G within the dominant seventh of F. Subsequently, yet another harmonization of this motif is heard as cadence to the ﬁrst part of the fugue. Only at the climax of the fugue and in the coda, however, is the full signiﬁcance

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Figure 4. Descending thirds in the fugue subject of the Credo of the Missa solemnis

of the E chord revealed. It is important at this point to consider the thematic material of the Credo, especially in the latter parts of the movement. For in the fugue and coda it becomes evident that the E chord is not merely a recurring harmony heard from the beginning but a sonority closely related to the thematic material on which much of the music is based. Like the Hammerklavier Sonata, the Credo of the Mass relies heavily on the interval of a descending third. This is nowhere more evident than in the fugue subject, which is based on a chain of seven descending thirds (the fourth inverted to form a rising sixth) outlining the tonic, subdominant, and dominant triads (see Fig. 4). The “Credo” motif is related to this conﬁguration of thirds. Most striking, however, is the parallel between the series of descending thirds passing through the subdominant on the one hand, and emphasis on an analogous harmonic progression through the subdominant on the other, which allows Beethoven to combine the harmonic progression from the orchestral ritornello with the motivic descending thirds of the fugue. This synthesis occurs as early as the crucial “et descendit de coelis” passage and later becomes the basis for the climax of the fugue. The fugue has an unusual two-part structure, with the second part undergoing a process of rhythmic intensiﬁcation created from diminution of the original subject, a procedure Beethoven used again, with some modiﬁcation, in the fugue of the Diabelli Variations. The climax occurs in the second part, where the longer note values of the original subject are superimposed on the complex texture of other voices treating a diminution of the subject, all over a sustained dominant pedal. Here the series of descending thirds is extended and rearranged as a rising sequence, leading to a climactic subdominant sonority, repeated four times, to the words “saeculi amen” (Ex. 89). This sonority, which may be regarded as the climax of the entire movement, is identical with the striking E chord of the orchestral introduction (cf. Ex. 86). The rhythmic context is also similar, since the chord is protracted for a bar and a half on each of its four appearances. In the fugue,

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Ex. 89 Missa solemnis op. 123, Credo, bars 402–7

however, it is gloriﬁed by the presence of motivic elements from the fugue subject, both in the original note values and in diminution. Just as this sonority serves as the goal and climax of the fugal development, its arrival also signals the dissolution of the fugue. The motif formed from the E chord and its harmonic resolution, treated sequentially, serves as transition to the coda, marked Grave, which immediately brings a return of the same E chord. It is now approached in the lower instruments by the upward leap of an octave derived from the opening orchestral ritornello. This motivic reminiscence of the beginning of the Credo is most prominent in the organ part, where it may have been added late in the compositional process, since it is absent from the autograph score. As in the analogous passage toward the end of the ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony, there follows an extended cadenza for the soloists, who sing a series of rising scales to the word “amen.” The scales pass into the lowest register of the orchestral texture in the strings, gradually rising to the highest register in the ﬂute. An emphatic fourfold repetition of the tonic triad of B to the choral “amen” then generates a second, more elaborate series of rising and descending scales (see Ex. 90). The descending scale pattern passes through two ﬁfths, from F to B , which is twice repeated, and from B to E , repeated once. This descending scale thus corresponds to the structure of the fugue subject; the descending thirds are here ﬁlled in with stepwise movement. Just as this descending scale reaches the subdominant E in the bass, the ascending scales in the winds come to rest on the high E chord that has played such an important role throughout the Credo. As the soprano and alto enter on G and E , four bars before the end, the ascending scales are heard again, in the orchestra, in rhythmic diminution, quietly rushing upward to the resolution of the plagal cadence on “amen” in the highest register. With this

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Ex. 90 Missa solemnis op. 123, Credo, bars 463–end

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high B major chord, and a ﬁnal reminiscence of the head of the fugue subject in the lower strings and timpani, the movement ends. We may now schematize the formal organization of the Credo, showing the appearances of the E sonority, as well as the F major chord associated with “coelis” (see Fig. 5). Let us now consider the symbolism inherent in the musical architecture of Beethoven’s Credo. Tovey once described the extreme contrasts of the Mass as “Beethoven enraptured at the thought of the Divine Glory, but immediately prostrated by the sudden consciousness of the nothingness of man.”4 This dichotomy applies particularly to the ﬁrst Allegro section of the Credo, which motivates abrupt contrasts that have posed difﬁculties for many listeners and critics. Subsequently, through the interpolation of the composite slow movement within a larger formal context, Beethoven achieves the musical equivalent of the disjunction between heaven and earth. A symmetry of form is created through the subsumption of the most doctrinal parts of the text into the recapitulation and through the development of the “Credo” motif. After the dominant recapitulation, the movement is crowned by the great fugue in B , the climax of which had been foreshadowed by the very ﬁrst chord of the Credo. In the coda, ﬁnally, this crucial sonority becomes the penultimate chord of the plagal cadence, arising out of the same thematic material that had generated the fugue. Those parts of the music associated with the godhead and eternal life—the references to the Trinity, the descent from and ascent into heaven, and the setting of the closing words “et vitam venturi saeculi, amen”—present a remarkably coherent formal structure spanning the entire movement. One moment in the creation of this formal structure has been documented by reference to the sketchbooks—Beethoven’s decision to employ, as an opening orchestral ritornello, the same high E sonority that was later to serve as the climax and plagal close of the movement. What is noteworthy is the manner in which Beethoven isolates and develops this particular sonority, treating it as a unifying element throughout the movement. Its role in the Mass also has symbolic implications, which are clariﬁed by the close musical afﬁnity between the Credo and another of the Mass movements, the Benedictus. The high chord that opens the Benedictus appears like a ray of light, breaking the darkness of the long descending progression of the Praeludium. Mellers has drawn attention to the similarity between the penultimate E chord of the Credo and this initial sonority of the Benedictus—a high G major chord in ﬁrst inversion (see Ex. 91, where it appears just before the Andante molto cantabile e non troppo mosso).5 The parallel is convincing, and is supported by features of the music not cited by Mellers, particularly the presence of the thematic material based on descending thirds. The beginning of the celebrated dolce cantabile theme in the solo violin, with its descending third and rising sixth, the thirds ﬁlled in by stepwise movement, is almost identical in structure to the fugue subject of the Credo. The G major chord, 4 5

Essays in Musical Analysis: Vocal Music, p. 167. Beethoven and the Voice of God, pp. 334, 342.

Figure 5. Formal outline of the Credo in the Missa solemnis

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Ex. 91 Missa solemnis op. 123, Benedictus, bars 106–21

on the other hand, is treated analogously with the E chord of the Credo as a referential sonority—it begins and closes the movement and appears repeatedly, always with the solo violin on high G. The highest pitch of the E chord from the Credo is retained in the Benedictus to become tonic in the new sonority, signaling the arrival of the divine messenger. From this sonority the violin solo emerges; thus the network of referential sonorities becomes closely identiﬁed with this very unusual feature of the orchestration in the Mass—the assignment of the single most prominent solo part not to one of the vocalists but rather to the violin. The violin solo of the Benedictus effectively symbolizes the absolute, ideal quality of the divine presence, using the high G major chord as a point of departure and return. In his sketches for this passage Beethoven contemplated an earlier entry of the solo violin in a lower register, followed by a gradual ascent in pitch. By eliminating this transition he highlighted the initial chord of the Benedictus by means of an astonishing disjunction in pitch. In a sense, this sudden upward shift in register is analogous to the sudden downward shift at the Incarnatus in the Credo,

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where Beethoven also contemplated, and rejected, a transition in sonority. At the end of the Credo, on the other hand, Beethoven emphasizes the high E chord in a different manner from the Benedictus, making it the goal of the long series of ascending scales beginning in the lowest register. In each case these high sonorities evoke celestial regions that transcend earthly existence; their symbolic importance is unmistakable. As we have seen, Beethoven’s interest in the “starry heavens above” is already reﬂected in a piece like the slow movement of the String Quartet in E minor op. 59 no. 2, from 1806. Another such example, from the period when the Missa solemnis was being composed, is his song Abendlied unterm gestirnten Himmel WoO 150, whose autograph score is dated 4 March 1820; here a high E major sonority in the piano begins and ends the piece, acting as a symbolic framing gesture. In the Missa solemnis this signiﬁcant image content is merged with the thematic and formal structure to shape an unconsummated symbol; there is no contradiction here between structure and expression, but rather an interdependence of the syntactic and semantic aspects of artistic meaning. The Agnus Dei of the Mass displays symbolism of a much less afﬁrmative nature. Beethoven sets the Agnus Dei in the “black” tonality of B minor, and underscores his setting of the “miserere nobis” with poignant chromaticism, syncopation, and dark orchestral textures. The shift to the 6/8 D major Allegretto vivace for the “Dona nobis pacem” brings a drastic contrast, as a prayer for peace is juxtaposed with the awareness of worldly strife. The series of themes employed in the “Dona” culminates in a moving phrase sung by the voices a cappella. In its contour and rhythm this intimate melody is reminiscent of his setting of “Nimm sie hin denn, diese Lieder” (“Take these songs to your heart then”) in the last song of An die ferne Geliebte. Beethoven exposes this fragile prayer to threats, initially in the form of the music of war embodied in the Allegro assai. The approach of the military procession in B motivates the return of the text “Agnus Dei, miserere nobis” which is sung “fearfully” (“ängstlich”) in recitative. This passage underscores the unfulﬁlled nature of our hopes for peace. Even after the D major music of the “Dona nobis pacem” is restored, the threats to peace never entirely recede from the horizon of the work. The agitated, hurly-burly presto orchestral episode at the heart of the movement may represent a threat to “inner peace”; this passage eventually leads into a powerful resumption of the bellicose trumpet-and-drum fanfares. (Plates 24–25 show Beethoven’s substantial revisions in the passage that ﬁrst juxtaposes the “Dona nobis pacem” in D major with approaching sounds of war in B major: the drum taps on F are written on the eighth stave from the top of each page. After making numerous preliminary sketches for this transition on other papers, Beethoven wrote out and revised fol. 18v of the score; on stave 12 his erasures wore a hole in the thick paper. Then he cancelled fol. 18v altogether, and replaced the original fol. 19 by the second leaf shown (p. 221). Two extra bars of music were written on each side of this leaf, so that the twelve bars of music originally contained on three pages could be compressed onto two.) While sketching the Agnus Dei Beethoven contemplated a symphonically con-

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ceived coda, only to reject that option at an advanced stage in composition.6 His decision was surely bound up with the open conclusion to the Mass, which is strangely shadowed by hints of the music of war in the form of distant drum rolls. In an inscription to one of his sketches Beethoven referred to the withdrawal of the sounds of war as a “sign of peace”; still, it is striking how close to the end of the movement the disquieting drum rolls appear. There is an almost epigrammatic quality to the end of the Missa solemnis. The chorus concludes with a concise statement of the lyrical phrase originally heard a cappella, but now heard with the support of the strings and winds. An orchestral echo of the vocal phrase “pacem, pacem” leads to the terse, four-bar conclusion in the full orchestra, played fortissimo. The end of the Mass is left ambiguous, since a prayer for peace is far from being its fulﬁllment. In the Missa solemnis the ultimate goal for human aspiration is located in a transcendental quest, as is reﬂected symbolically above all in the lofty referential sonorities of the Credo and the Benedictus.

S S S After the virtual completion of the Missa solemnis in the summer of 1822 Beethoven turned his energies in the autumn to the last of his dramatic overtures, Die Weihe des Hauses (The Consecration of the House) op. 124. Parts of the Missa solemnis, and especially the Gloria, reﬂect his professed admiration of Handel in their choral textures and rhetoric, but no other work displays this inﬂuence more clearly than Die Weihe des Hauses, in its lucid counterpoint, formal breadth, and festive solemnity. Beethoven’s lifelong admiration for Handel is amply documented; his extensive acquaintance with Handel’s music dates back at least to the 1790s, when he attended the musical gatherings at Baron van Swieten’s home and wrote his Twelve Variations for Violoncello and Piano on a theme from Handel’s Judas Maccabaeus WoO 45. When asked by a visitor in 1817 to name the greatest of past composers Beethoven is supposed to have placed Handel above all others. According to Schindler, whose testimony for once we can accept, Beethoven entertained a “long cherished idea of writing an overture speciﬁcally in the style of Handel,”7 an ambition ﬁnally realized in 1822 in Die Weihe des Hauses. Beethoven contemplated another overture, on B–A–C–H, in homage to the other great Baroque master, but that project did not advance beyond the stage of sketching. It is tempting to associate a conversation-book entry from 1820 concerning Beethoven’s intention to write variations on the “Dead March” from Handel’s Saul with the stately, majestic march in C major near the beginning of the Weihe des Hauses overture.8 The afﬁnity with Handel does not involve direct quotation but suggests a more generalized stylistic kinship. Beethoven’s piece opens with a slow section suggestive of French overture style that leads without break into an imposing double fugue. Fugues that begin with such paired entries of subject and 6

Cf. Drabkin, “The Agnus Dei of Beethoven’s Missa solemnis,” pp. 154, 156–57. Beethoven As I Knew Him, p. 324. 8 Cf. Göllner, “Beethovens Ouvertüre ‘Die Weihe des Hauses’ und Händels Trauermarsch aus ‘Saul’”; Bruner, “The Genesis and Structure of Beethoven’s Overture Die Weihe des Hauses, Op. 124,” pp. 33, 121–24. 7

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countersubject are characteristic of Handel but uncommon in Beethoven; a rare example is the fugue forming the penultimate variation in the Diabelli Variations. One of the quintessentially Beethovenian passages in op. 124 is the transition from the slow introduction to the double fugue, where a long ascent featuring a motivic rising fourth leads to a pivotal reversal of direction at the outset of the fugal Allegro, as the fourths are integrated into a stepwise descent in two voices. Beethoven’s control of the dynamics and orchestration, as well as the stringendo or acceleration in tempo, all act to heighten the dramatic impact of the emergence of the double fugue, whose insistent syncopations endow the theme with an exciting metrical tension. A few weeks after completing the overture in early October 1822 Beethoven’s thoughts turned to an unﬁnished major project that had been put aside about three and a half years earlier: the Diabelli Variations. In November the composer wrote to Anton Diabelli that “The fee for the variations would be 40 ducats at most, provided they are worked out on as large a scale as is planned. But if this does not materialize, then I would quote a smaller fee.”9 (In Beethoven’s own words, “im Falle sie so gross ausgeführt werden als die Anlage davon ist; sollte dies aber nicht statthaben.”) As Beethoven himself implies in this letter, the “Anlage,” or plan for the variations, was large; it included the twenty-three variations of Beethoven’s early draft. During the ﬁrst months of 1823 the piece was worked out on an even larger scale than Beethoven had planned, becoming in the process the biggest of all his compositions for piano. One of Beethoven’s guiding inspirations when he expanded the early draft of the Diabelli Variations shows a curious parallel with a formal device he used in the large-scale design of the Credo of the Missa solemnis: the occasional recapitulation of the work’s initial sonority in later passages. This is given a comic twist in the Variations. In the Mass, as we have seen, the high, protracted E chord assumes both formal and symbolic importance; its recurrences in the Credo are associated with a sublime vision of the celestial. Diabelli’s waltz, by contrast, is ﬁrmly rooted in the everyday world of the commonplace. Accordingly, in his early draft Beethoven was much concerned with the transformation and aesthetic improvement of the waltz, and he was attracted as well by the possibilities of caricature offered by Diabelli’s “cobbler’s patch.” In his late work on the Variations Beethoven introduced another kind of travesty as distinct from the examples we have discussed in Variations 13 and 21 (see chapter 9). Here he harps on the actual substance of the waltz itself—speciﬁcally those features of it that are particularly trite—and reproduces them in comically exaggerated form so that they become insufferable. It is this form of parody that is most important for the overall progression of the Variations, because Beethoven’s criterion for criticism is precisely the melodic outline of Diabelli’s theme. Most of the other variations thoroughly reshape the surface of the theme, and, though motivic materials from the waltz are exploited exhaustively, its affective model is left far behind. In these late parody variations, however, the waltz’s 9

Anderson, vol. 2, L. 1105.

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melodic outline and supporting context are restored—recapitulated, in a sense— and they stand out because of Beethoven’s consistent suppression of them in the other variations. Only in these added variations, furthermore, does the melodic outline reappear in its original register, which strengthens the thematic reference. Diabelli returns, as it were—the material is not Beethoven’s—but he returns in a different Stimmung, a kind of Lisztian transformation. When Beethoven returned to the Variations in 1822–23 he confronted a unique formal dilemma. He normally strove to endow the opening of any major work with a pregnant tension and signiﬁcance; the op. 120 Variations are the great exception, an outstanding example of a major work with origins in the commonplace. But these variations are not conﬁned to the possibilities of Diabelli’s theme per se. The nature of the theme in no way anticipates the scope and immensity of the Variations. How then was Beethoven to establish a relationship between the theme and variations such that the waltz was not rendered superﬂuous, a mere prologue to the whole? This implicit contradiction may have had something to do with Beethoven’s uncharacteristic decision to lay the work aside for several years. But in any case the apparent absurdity of building a monumental ediﬁce on such slight foundations had, by 1823, supplied an unexpected stimulus to his own imagination. By parodying the waltz theme directly, with its melodic contours intact, Beethoven made it into an indispensable foundation for the overall musical progression. In fact, in the work’s ﬁnal form, the supporting pillars of the total structure depend on the recapitulation of the melodic shape of Diabelli’s theme. Thus the listener’s ﬁrst impression of the theme is utilized in a manner not unlike that in Beethoven’s other variation sets, such as the C minor Variations WoO 80, in which a series of recapitulatory references to the theme embraces the work as a whole. In the Diabelli Variations, moreover, the last of these references presents an ideal point of departure for an evolutionary progression toward a ﬁnal, culminating experience. The project was, therefore, in a peculiar way, tailor-made to ﬁt the revolutionary aesthetic of Beethoven’s third period. A conspicuous characteristic of the waltz recalled in these added variations of 1823 is the repeated tonic chord with G at the top that opens the dance (Ex. 92); this G, repeated ten times in the ﬁrst four bars, continues as the highest note of the dominant-seventh chords in the next four-bar phrase. With their persistent emphasis on G, these repeated chords serve to underscore the waltz’s static harmonic scheme. It is not surprising that in most of his variations Beethoven should wish to depart from this aspect of the waltz. What is remarkable, however, is that in the variations added later he adopts and exaggerates precisely these features. We are now in a position to judge why Beethoven inserted a vigorous, majestic variation Alla marcia maestoso immediately after Diabelli’s waltz. The reﬁned third variation, originally planned as the ﬁrst, did nothing to smooth over the discrepancy between theme and variations, since it already transforms the theme so thoroughly. But in his singular solution of adding the march variation Beethoven achieved a sense of gesture, of grand anticipation—albeit tinged with irony, since the melodic contours of Diabelli’s theme are so clearly preserved (Ex. 93). This pointed reference to the waltz is unmistakable: Beethoven would not otherwise

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Ex. 92 Diabelli Variations op. 120, Theme

have allowed himself nine consecutive repetitions of the tonic triad in root position in the right hand, while the left solemnly spells out the descending fourth of the waltz, creating accented harmonic clashes with the treble. The grand gesture is simultaneously a parody of the theme. It is only after this opening march variation that the melodic outlines of Diabelli’s theme—with its falling fourth and ﬁfth and persistent emphasis on the dominant note G—are avoided. In some variations, such as the third and the eighth, the melodic line is reshaped as a descent from the third, E, of the tonic triad. In others, manifold changes in texture, harmony, and rhythm leave only a tenuous link between the melody and its successive transformations. It is therefore a signiﬁcant event when Beethoven ﬁnally recapitulates the melodic contour of the theme in Variation 15, the Presto scherzando, and then again in the paired variations that follow it. Variation 15, unlike the paired variations, also brings a return of the original register. Variations 16 and 17 were present in the draft of 1819, as we have seen; but Variation 15, like Variation 1, was an afterthought, added as the piece was nearing completion. Ex. 93 Diabelli Variations op. 120, Variation 1

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Ex. 94 Diabelli Variations op. 120, Variation 15

If the opening march variation is a mock-heroic gesture bearing the seeds of irony, this Presto scherzando (Ex. 94) is an even more obvious caricature. Its role as a miniature juxtaposed with two of the most massive variations (no. 14 and the pair nos. 16–17) reinforces its parodistic quality, as does its unusually static harmonic plan: the ﬁrst half actually closes on the tonic! Furthermore, its harmonic rhythm is rather peculiar in alternating the tonic triad with an augmented triad on the dominant. In its overall linear-harmonic structure it mimics the simple C(I)–D(V)–E(I)–D(V)–C(I) progression of Diabelli’s theme, and this is underscored by a capricious increase in spacing in the second half, which has provoked attempts at “correction” by solemn editors. This reference to the theme is broadened into a more general allusion in the pair of march variations, nos. 16 and 17, that immediately follows. The sequence of nos. 15–17 is counterpoised to the sequence of the theme and Variation 1, which is also a march (though admittedly of a rather different, more stilted character); and in a curious, elusive way this long-range correspondence draws Diabelli’s theme more closely into the fabric of the work. The waltz ﬁnds its ﬁnal reincarnation in Variation 25, in the guise of a German dance, with the rhythm of Diabelli’s bass shifted to the treble. Beethoven’s tonguein-cheek attitude is perhaps even more obvious here than in no. 15: monotony of rhythm, dissonant clashes between treble and bass, and aimlessness in the voiceleading conﬁrm his humorous intentions. At the end of the ﬁrst half he goes so far as to omit a bar before the cadence, causing the music to stumble prematurely back to the beginning (Ex. 95). This lumbering caricature of Diabelli’s theme is actually the ﬁrst of an unbroken succession of variations (nos. 25–33) leading to the coda and culmination of the work. In fact, a thread of continuity, tracing the path from banality to sublimity—from the world of Diabelli’s ditty to the world of the Arietta of op. 111—sounds through all these last nine variations. By extraordinary means, Beethoven ﬁrst obliterates his distorted image of the theme and then gradually recon-

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Ex. 95 Diabelli Variations op. 120, Variation 25

stitutes its essence in a series of variations that culminates in the last of the slow minor variations, the penultimate fugue, and the concluding minuet and coda. Through the three parody variations 1, 15, and 25 Beethoven has established a series of periodic references to the waltz that draw it more closely into the inner workings of the set, and the last of these gives rise to a progression that transcends the theme once and for all. This is the central idea of the Diabelli Variations. The artistic journey embodied in the great chain of variations is enormously wideranging, however, and Beethoven fully exploits the potential of the form to incorporate allusions to various musical styles. After the witty reference to Mozart’s Don Giovanni in Variation 22 (see chapter 9), the following variations, like Leporello, gain the capacity for disguise. No. 23 is an étude-like parody of pianistic virtuosity alluding to the Pianoforte-Method by J. B. Cramer, whereas no. 24, the Fughetta, shows in its intensely sublimated atmosphere an afﬁnity not only with the fugue of op. 110 but also with some organ pieces from the third part of J. S. Bach’s Clavierübung. In no. 25, as we have seen, the waltz is reincarnated as a humorous German dance, but this image is gradually dispersed in the series of interconnecting fast variations culminating in no. 28, in which harsh dissonances dominate every strong beat. The process of rhythmic intensiﬁcation from no. 25 to no. 28 merits detailed attention. Beethoven spreads the sixteenth-note motion drawn from the bass of the waltz parody (no. 25) over all the pitch registers in the ensuing variation (no. 26). The legato phrasing embraces paired groups of three sixteenths each, suggesting a meter of 6/16, but Beethoven retains the 3/8 meter (as well as the basic tempo) of no. 25. The rhythmic impulses of the triple meter thus fall on the second and fourth sixteenths of each group of six notes, with the phrasing extended

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over the bar lines throughout. This shifting pattern of metrical impulses imparts dynamic tension to the ﬁguration, enhancing the upbeat character of the ﬁrst half of each phrase. Then, in no. 27, Diabelli’s “cobbler’s patch” sequences of a rising semitone and a third become the basis for the ﬁguration in rhythmic diminution, expressed in rapid triplet sixteenth notes. Diabelli’s motif is written in steady quarter notes, but Beethoven compresses his motivic variant so radically that it appears no fewer than twenty-four times in the opening eight bars of the variation! The dissonant semitone relation derived from the theme infuses the music with an intense energy, generating a frenzied chain of imitative motivic entries driving into the highest register in the second half of the variation. This climactic passage is Beethoven’s ultimate parody of the “cobbler’s patch” sequences from the waltz. Variation 28 then carries Beethoven’s rhythmic development to yet another stage, as the process of foreshortening motivates a compression of the meter to shorter bars of 2/4 time, while reducing the basic content of the music to the dissonant semitone—now expressed in the multiple contrapuntal voices embodied in the accented diminished-seventh and augmented-sixth chords. After Variation 28 we enter a transﬁgured realm in which Diabelli’s waltz and the world it represents seem to be left behind. A group of three slow variations in the minor culminates in no. 31, an elaborate aria reminiscent of the decorated minor variation of Bach’s Goldberg set but also foreshadowing Chopin. The following energetic fugue in E is initially Handelian in character; its second part builds to a tremendous climax with three subjects combined simultaneously, before the fugue dissipates into a powerful dissonant chord. An impressive transition leads to C major and to the ﬁnal, most subtle variation of all: a Mozartian minuet, whose elaboration through rhythmic means leads in the coda to an ethereal texture that unmistakably recalls the fourth variation of the Arietta of op. 111, Beethoven’s last sonata, composed in 1822. The parallels between op. 111 and the ﬁnal Diabelli variation are structural in nature: they extend to the thematic proportions and to the use of an analogous series of rhythmic diminutions leading, in each case, to a suspended, ethereal texture. But the most obvious similarity surfaces in the concluding passages, outlining the descending fourth C–G that is so crucial to each work (Ex. 96a and b). Herein lies the ﬁnal surprise: the Arietta movement, itself inﬂuenced by the Diabelli project, served in turn as Beethoven’s model for the last of the Diabelli Variations. The ﬁnal allusion thus became a self-reference, a ﬁnal point of orientation within an artwork whose vast scope ranges from ironic caricature to sublime transformation of a commonplace waltz. Like the close of the Missa solemnis, that of the Diabelli Variations is ambiguous, and pregnant with implications. It ends, essentially, in the middle of the thematic structure, poised before an open door, which leads, if it leads anywhere, into the midst of the Arietta of op. 111. At the same time in these closing moments Beethoven looks back and across the entire vast cycle of variations and delicately recaptures the repeated stress on G in the waltz that had earlier provoked his scorn and stimulated his imagination. As Brendel observed, the following sentence from

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Ex. 96 (a) Diabelli Variations op. 120, Variation 33, bars 42–44

(b) Piano Sonata op. 111/II, coda

Kleist’s essay “On the Marionette Theater” suits the conclusion of the Diabelli Variations: “When perception has passed through inﬁnity, gracefulness reappears.”10 Beethoven produced only one important work for piano after the Diabelli Variations: the “Cycle of Bagatelles” op. 126, in 1824. He had long been interested in the genre of the bagatelle, a short, intimate piano piece making modest technical demands on the performer. The popular Für Elise WoO 59 is an example, and in his op. 33 from 1802 Beethoven had already published a group of seven bagatelles. Several other unpublished bagatelles from earlier years were revised and included in the eleven bagatelles of op. 119 that appeared in 1823, together with newly composed pieces, two of which were actually byproducts of the Diabelli Variations. As we have seen, even the ﬁrst movement of the Sonata op. 109 may originally have been conceived as a bagatelle. Beethoven’s sketchbooks bear witness to his keen interest in short, aphoristic pieces for piano. The Artaria 195 Sketchbook from 1820 contains draft versions of the bagatelles that were eventually issued as op. 119 nos. 7–11, a group of ﬁve small pieces that he wished to publish as a unit. However, his Leipzig publisher, Carl Friedrich Peters, emphatically declined to publish these bagatelles. Peters explained to Beethoven that he “imagined having cute little pieces” but was disappointed that they were “entirely too small” and claimed that “Not one person wants to believe that these are by you.”11 In response to this situation, Beethoven 10

Music Sounded Out, p. 53. Theodore Albrecht, ed. and trans., Letters to Beethoven and Other Correspondence (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1996), vol. 2, L. 313 (dated 4 March 1823). 11

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combined this group of ﬁve bagatelles with the other pieces used in op. 119. Additional short pieces that he composed in the sketchbook remained unpublished. While the Bagatelle in A major op. 119 no. 10 is the shortest piece Beethoven ever composed, two still shorter versions of this bagatelle are found in Artaria 195, alongside several other brief pieces that were ﬁrst published in 2003, in the ﬁrst edition of this sketchbook.12 As these pieces remind us, Beethoven’s tendencies toward artistic expansion and magnitude coexisted with a tendency toward extreme concision, suggesting at times an aphoristic and almost Webern-like compression and density. While opp. 33 and 119 are collections of individual pieces, op. 126 suggests an integrated cycle, as the sketches reveal; Beethoven took special pains in ordering this group of six pieces. Lyrical pieces in slow or moderate tempos alternate with more rapid, agitated ones, up to no. 6, in which a short, furious Presto frames a reﬂective Andante amabile e con moto. The bagatelles are characterized by directness of expression and use of three-part song form, yet the apparent simplicity is deceptive: almost all the reprise sections, for instance, vary the initial passages and offer signiﬁcant reinterpretations. In the middle section of no. 1, where the meter changes from 3/4 to 2/4 (bar 21) the music seems to turn inward, arresting the forward momentum through meditation on the motif from the preceding bar, now rhythmically elaborated to lead into a cadenza. In the ensuing recapitulation Beethoven places the head of the opening theme in octaves in the bass against a new chordal texture in the treble, which leads to an imitation of the theme in the highest register. The opening material of the bagatelle is compressed, and a cadential phrase with close motivic links to the theme appears in imitation in the ﬁnal bars. Beethoven thus conspicuously avoids a literal restatement: in the reprise the transformation in texture, broadening in register, and many other changes produce an effect of the theme being explored from a new, heightened perspective. This is not unlike the enhanced recapitulatory techniques used in the variation movements of Beethoven’s later years. The ﬁfth bagatelle, a quasi Allegretto in G major, evokes an atmosphere of childlike naïveté, especially in its middle section, beginning in C major. Here, as elsewhere, the effect of simplicity results from the utmost purity of the musical language: the parallel thirds in the treble (bars 17 ff.) derive from the bass of the ﬁrst section, while the return to the C major sonority in bar 20 is enhanced by means of the C in the tenor voice and the asymmetrical phrasing. The pedal on C contributes to the static, idyllic quality of the passage and sets off the more active continuation in bars 20–30, with its crescendo, modulation to G major, and expansion in register. The yearning character of the ascent into the high register carries over into the ensuing reprise of the opening, now stated in the upper octave. The framing device of the Presto in the ﬁnal bagatelle seems to draw attention 12

William Kinderman, ed., Artaria 195: Beethoven’s Sketchbook for the Missa solemnis and the Piano Sonata in E Major, Opus 109 (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2003).

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288 Ex. 97 Bagatelle op. 126 no. 6

to the boundary separating inward, subjective feeling from external reality—or art from life. The relation of his art to society was of course an important theme for Beethoven, one he addressed most explicitly in Fidelio, the Missa solemnis, and the Ninth Symphony. His aesthetic convictions were far removed from the doctrine of l’art pour l’art. In the case of op. 126 no. 6 we are reminded of Czerny’s account of Beethoven’s practice, after moving his listeners to tears through his improvisations, of bursting into loud laughter and mocking his hearers’ emotion, saying “You are fools!”13 The easy sentimentality that Beethoven scorned is indeed alien to his musical style, but depth of emotion is essential to it. And although the framing gesture of the Presto in the last bagatelle effects a bold contrast that is almost ominously like a kick downstairs, the music so enclosed in the Andante amabile e con moto assumes an intensely meditative character while transforming the material from the Presto. The beginning of the Andante amabile e con moto clearly derives from the opening gesture: the bass pedal on E and B comes from the sustained tremolos of the Presto, while the register of the treble line and the harmonic texture in thirds are outlined in its rapid eighth-note ﬁgures (Ex. 97). But in contrast to the Presto, the music of the Andante has taken on a contemplative quality, and in the course of the piece it undergoes a further evolution. Beethoven places the reprise section in the subdominant, A major, and arranges the pedal ﬁgure into a pattern of sixteenth-note triplets reminiscent of the Arietta movement of op. 111. The initial six-bar phrase now reappears in varied form, so that its disjunct intervals are ﬁlled in by conjunct motion, bringing the thematic proﬁle closer still to the initial Presto. Then, after the repetition of the second section of the form, the music reaches a climax on high C (bars 55–56), the registral ceiling of the bagatelle. The descent from this climax embraces three levels of experience as the adornments of art are progressively stripped away. In bar 64 the elaborate texture in sixteenths and sixteenth-note triplets is suddenly broken off to reveal the music from the beginning of the Andante, corresponding to bars 10–12 but with the pedal 13

Thayer-Forbes, p. 185.

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Ex. 98 Bagatelle op. 126 no. 6, bars 61–end

now placed initially on the dominant instead of on the tonic (Ex. 98). A varied sequence of these bars carries the progression into the low register, leading to an exact restatement of the framing gesture in presto tempo. Whereas previously the Presto had offered raw material out of which the Andante had been shaped, Beethoven now reverses the process: the Andante is dissipated into the frenetic activity of the Presto, whose fanfare of chords on the E tonic concludes the bagatelle. A humorous or ironic quality arises here through Beethoven’s juxtaposition of highly introspective music with a gesture more evocative of the common daylight of outward events. And, inasmuch as this passage implies humble or low origins for the work of art, like the use of Diabelli’s waltz in op. 120, it also embodies a universal breadth of experience that is typical of Beethoven.

S S S Beethoven’s main compositional preoccupation during 1823 was his Ninth Symphony in D minor op. 125, the grandest of his symphonies and most inﬂuential of all his works. The Ninth Symphony has become an unsurpassable model of afﬁrmative culture, embodying as it does a mythic narrative that depicts inescapable problems of modern life and envisages a potential solution. Broadly considered, the symphony seems to respond to the dualistic world picture that emerged from the collapse of older certainties. The process was double-edged. As the human mind came to construe the universe as impersonal, mechanistic, and soulless, expropriating higher consciousness to itself, it participated in the ultimate anthropomorphic projection. The mechanization of the world picture greatly aided the goals of natural science, but it also contributed to an increasing sense of existential isolation. For if, as Kant argued, we have access only to appearances, not to things-in-themselves, then the ultimate ground of the world lies beyond us, mysterious and unknowable.14 It is hardly coincidental that the early nineteenth century brought new sensitivity to the polarity between impersonal nature and the introspective individual human being. In Kant’s famous formulation this polarity was viewed positively, as a sublime contrast between “the starry heavens above us 14 An analysis of the dualistic world picture is offered by Richard Tarnas in the epilogue of his book The Passion of the Western Mind.

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and the moral law within us.” The familiar Romantic image of the wanderer confronting the elements, as in Caspar David Friedrich’s paintings, for instance, is less comforting and more mysterious, wrapped in an aura of opaque impressionistic landscape and archaic ruins. The closest musical counterpart to Friedrich is probably Beethoven’s Viennese contemporary Franz Schubert. In a work like Schubert’s Winterreise of 1827 the existential tension concentrated in the wanderer archetype absorbs tragic qualities, since the epistemological gap between the self and the external world seems absolute and unbridgeable. As Peter Gülke points out in his book on Schubert, the protagonist of Schubert’s earlier song cycle Die schöne Müllerin is rooted in concrete poetic images, which are largely withdrawn in the Winterreise.15 The wanderer ﬁgure of The Winter’s Journey is not “poetized” in descriptive terms but himself becomes the poet. His identity and background remain shadowy. Attention focuses on points of correspondence between his inward sensibility and outward natural objects such as the frozen stream, cold wind, circling crow, or howling dogs. As in Friedrich’s paintings this wanderer does not face us but peers into the unknown and unfathomable. The ultimate destination of the journey in Winterreise is identiﬁed with “the path from which no one has ever returned,” that is, death. Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony points to a way out of this dualistic dilemma, avoiding a tragic or solipsistic posture while safeguarding itself against the gravest risk of afﬁrmative art—the danger of a lapse into ideology, or even kitsch. As we have seen in connection with Beethoven’s Congress of Vienna works, the characteristic mark of kitsch is the presence of a false or overextended artistic pretence. Miraculously, this pitfall is avoided in Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. The very frequent use of the “Joy” theme in television commercials for beer or food introduces such an overextended pretence, since the supposed excellence of the proffered commodity is too facilely associated with an artistic exaltation taken out of context; as so often in advertisement, simpliﬁcation or even deception is the very point of the message. The same failure invests certain pieces by Beethoven himself, as we have seen in the case of Der glorreiche Augenblick, but the Ninth Symphony and its companion works of Beethoven’s last years earn our trust by paying dearly for their sustaining visions of perfection and aspiration. The narrative design of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony unfolds as a tensional balance containing powerful regressive elements that resist the utopian import of the choral ﬁnale and against which the meaning of the ﬁnale must be gauged. As Solomon has stressed, the vision of brotherhood in Schiller’s text is conditional; “alle Menschen werden Brüder” (“all men become brothers”) is expressed neither in the present, past, nor even the future tense, but in a process tense, implying what will happen “if.”16 The choral ﬁnale is placed as it were in the subjunctive, on the horizon of possible realization, not yet quite within our grasp. Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony is a great work of synthesis, at once retrospective and futuristic in orientation. Beethoven’s lifelong interest in Schiller’s famous 15 16

Franz Schubert und seine Zeit, pp. 236–39. “Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony: A Search for Order,” p. 30.

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poem began at Bonn; it probably predated by several years Fischenich’s letter of January 1793 reporting the young composer’s intention to set An die Freude, whose designation as an ode stems from Beethoven rather than from Schiller. Beethoven returned repeatedly to the poem, ﬁrst around 1798, and later during the initial labors on his opera Fidelio—two lines from Schiller’s An die Freude found their way into the text of the opera’s ﬁnale (see Plate 9). In the Petter Sketchbook of 1811–12 Beethoven made the following entries: “Freude schöner Götterfunken to be worked out as an overture”; “selected lines like Fürsten sind Bettler [princes are beggars] etc. not the whole”; “selected lines from Schiller’s Joy brought together into a whole.” As Otto Baensch suggested, these entries probably imply not a choral overture but rather a larger work, or “whole” (“Ganzen”) that would need to be preceded by an “overture.”17 By 1812 Beethoven apparently recognized the need to realize his long-desired setting of Schiller’s ode not as a song but as a major choral-symphonic work. At about this time Beethoven also contemplated a symphony “in D minor” as a possible companion to the Seventh and Eighth Symphonies, but it is not clear that the anticipated symphony was to have incorporated a setting of Schiller’s text. In 1815, while at work on the Cello Sonata op. 102 no. 2, he sketched the theme later used in the scherzo of the Ninth Symphony, and by 1817 he entertained thoughts of two new symphonies to be written for London. His most detailed notation of these plans is as follows: Adagio Cantique—Frommer Gesang in einer Sinfonie in den alten Tonarten— Herr Gott dich loben wir—alleluja—entweder für sich allein oder als Einleitung in eine Fuge. Vielleicht auf diese Weise die ganze 2te Sinfonie charakterisirt, wo alsdenn im letzten Stück oder schon im Adagio die Singstimmen eintreten. Die Orchester Violinen etc. werden im letzten Stück verzehnfacht. Oder das Adagio wird auf gewisse Weise im letzten Stücke wiederholt, wobei alsdenn erst die Singstimmen nach und nach eintreten—im Adagio Text griechischer Mithos Cantique Ecclesiastique—im Allegro Feier des Bachus. [Adagio Cantique—devout song in a symphony in the old modes—our Lord we praise you—alleluja—either by itself or as introduction to a fugue. The whole second symphony could perhaps be characterized this way, whereby the voices enter in the last movement or already in the Adagio. The orchestral violins, etc., will be multiplied tenfold in the last movement. Or the Adagio will be in this way repeated in the last movement, whereby only then the voices enter gradually—in the Adagio a text of a Greek myth Cantique Ecclesiastique—in the Allegro the celebration of Bachus.18]

Many special qualities of the Ninth Symphony are alluded to in this remarkable inscription. The notion of an “Adagio Cantique . . . in the old modes” relates to the slow sections of the choral ﬁnale as we know it, namely the Andante maestoso and especially the Adagio ma non troppo, ma divoto. In the end this sec17 18

Aufbau und Sinn des Chorﬁnales in Beethovens neunter Symphonie, pp. 44–45. Thayer-Forbes, p. 888.

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tion did serve as “introduction” to a fugue—it leads to the double choral fugue (see Plate 27) in which the “Joy” theme is combined with the main subject of the Andante, set to the words “Seid umschlungen Millionen” (“Be embraced, millions”). At this early stage Beethoven had not yet envisaged how a series of such interrelated symphonic and choral movements could be brought together into a whole. It was surely in response to this basic problem that he eventually resorted to the effective solution embodied in the completed work: the entry of the voices is delayed until the ﬁnale, or last main stage in the narrative progression between movements, with this ﬁnale in turn devised as a composite form embracing its own progression of four basic movements. The allusion in Beethoven’s inscription to “the celebration of Bac[c]hus” recalls his rudimentary sketches for a pastoral opera on Bacchus in the Scheide Sketchbook of 1815, as well as those verses of Schiller’s An die Freude that express Dionysian sentiments. However, Beethoven eventually excluded from the text such overtly Dionysian images as “the brimming cup [whose] foam to heaven mounts up.” Nor did he follow up the provocative remark contained in his sketches for the “Bacchus” opera: Dissonances perhaps [to be left] unresolved in the entire opera or [treated] entirely differently since in these uncultivated times our reﬁned music is unthinkable.19

The “uncultivated times” of mythic antiquity held no such musical consequences for the choral ﬁnale. Instead, Beethoven fused archaic and visionary aspects into a depiction of humanity and nature in the spirit of Rousseau and Goethe, afﬁrming the compatibility of civilized reﬁnement with mythic universality. Studies of the Artaria 201 Sketchbook by Robert Winter and Sieghard Brandenburg have indicated that Beethoven devised a melody for the Ode to Joy and a basic outline of the layout of the symphony by about October 1822.20 Nevertheless, he wavered in his intention to crown the work with the choral ﬁnale, and alternative sketches for an “instrumental ﬁnale” appear even at an advanced stage; the unused theme was eventually incorporated into the ﬁnale of his String Quartet in A minor op. 132, composed in 1825. Beethoven’s evolving plans for the intermovement narrative progression are clariﬁed by those entries in the Landsberg 8 Manuscript from 1823 that contain his sketches for the recitatives and quotations from earlier movements at the threshold of the choral ﬁnale. These entries make clear the reasons for the rejection of each of the preceding movements. The ﬁrst, for instance, is rejected because “it reminds us of our despair,” whereas the second “is not better, but only somewhat more cheerful,” and the third “is too tender,” too far removed from action. In the ﬁnished work Beethoven left this ﬁrst group of recitatives in a purely instrumental form, without text. As we have seen, this process of anticipating the later appearance of the human voice through accents and inﬂections of instru19

Nottebohm, Zweite Beethoveniana, p. 329. Winter, “The Sketches for the ‘Ode to Joy’”; Brandenburg, “Die Skizzen zur Neunten Symphonie.” 20

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ments alone had an exact counterpart in the Choral Fantasy op. 80, where Beethoven devised an introductory horn call to precede the main theme set to the text “Hört Ihr wohl” (“Hear ye well”), words that were subsequently suppressed while the musical motif remained. In a formal sense the treatment of the citations and the eventual discovery of the “Joy” theme in the Ninth Symphony are also reminiscent of several earlier works from the period 1815–18, including An die ferne Geliebte, the Cello Sonata op. 102 no. 1, the Piano Sonata op. 101, and most of all the Hammerklavier Sonata. In each of these the ﬁnale is reached as the outcome of a quest for new possibilities, a process that is underscored by a cyclic relationship to earlier parts of the work, often involving explicit quotation of foregoing passages at the threshold to the ﬁnale. In the Hammerklavier explicit quotation is not involved, but the three parenthetical glimpses of “other musics” in its transition are close, in their formal and symbolic function, to the threefold citations of preceding movements in the transition to the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth. Each of the four movements of the Ninth Symphony is conceived on a vast scale, and each expands the forms and textures of Beethoven’s earlier symphonic works. The closest counterpart to the opening Allegro, ma non troppo, un poco maestoso of the Ninth is the ﬁrst movement of the Eroica. As in the Eroica, the development and coda are unusually extended and closely interrelated, with the latter acting in part as a recapitulation of the former. The opening of the Ninth Symphony, however, has no parallel in Beethoven’s earlier symphonies: it is the outstanding example of a work that takes its origin from a rapport with silence. Beethoven showed a truly modernistic concern with the boundaries of art—the manner in which the artwork confronts the world. We have noted instances of this sensitivity in connection with the A major Piano Sonata op. 101, with its opening in medias res, and the last bagatelle of op. 126, with its startling transformation of the anaesthetic into the aesthetic. In the Ninth, the arrival of the main theme in D minor is delayed until the upbeat to bar 17. The opening passage presents a trajectory toward this event, disclosing an ongoing process rather than a ﬁxed and determined entity (Ex. 99). The hushed beginning, with its ambiguity of key, mode, and even rhythm, shows the impress of the journey out of the sphere of the inaudible into that of the audible. The seminal upbeat rhythm is ﬁrst heard sotto voce at the upbeat to bar 3; this rhythmic motif spreads itself over falling open fourths and ﬁfths on the dominant of D minor, while the wind instruments simultaneously build up the same harmonic sonority in the upper pitch registers. Only at bar 11 does Beethoven prescribe a crescendo, as a process of rhythmic diminution and motivic intensiﬁcation shapes the transition to the outbreak of the powerful principal theme, played fortissimo and in unison by the full orchestra. This vehement theme thus emerges as the dramatic outcome of the opening passage, and its musical continuation retains in turn a memory of the quiet, mysterious accents whence it arose. Not only does Beethoven soon restate the pianissimo opening before presenting a varied return of the theme, modulating to B , but in addition the second subject group is characterized by an unusually subtle interplay of dramatic and lyrical phrases. In the entire Classical repertory, as

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294 Ex. 99 Ninth Symphony op. 125/I

William Caplin has observed, there is no more complex formal structure within the second subject area of a sonata design.21 In part, this richness of hierarchical relationships is bound up with Beethoven’s far-reaching narrative design, which involves thematic forecasts and reminiscences in all four movements. The dolce theme in the ﬁrst movement, immediately before the change in key signature to B in bar 80, is the ﬁrst subtle foreshadowing of the “Joy” theme, and later episodes in D major, particularly the horn passage in the coda, may also be heard as anticipating the choral ﬁnale. The thrust from D minor into D major is a conspicuous feature of the symphony as a whole, and this modal tension is given unforgettable expression in the ﬁrst movement. At least as early as the op. 18 Quartets Beethoven showed a 21

“Structural Expansion in Beethoven’s Symphonic Forms,” p. 53.

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Ex. 99 (continued)

marked tendency to enhance the moment of recapitulation; in some later pieces, such as the ﬁrst movement of the Eighth Symphony, he tended to diffuse or broaden its impact. The ﬁrst movement of the Ninth Symphony provides one of the most compelling instances of a recapitulation conceived as a dramatic reinterpretation of the opening of a work. The structural downbeat marking the recapitulation occurs at a return not of the main theme but of the opening passage, which

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is now utterly transformed through the impact of the powerful rhythmic arrival. Instead of the faint, barely audible sonic vibrations heard at the outset, we hear a blazing fortissimo in the full orchestra on the sonority of D major, but with the third, F , in the bass. As Heinrich Schenker pointed out, this D major tonality is not real but only apparent;22 the unstable position of the chord allows it to be heard in retrospect as dominant of G minor. Beethoven has intensiﬁed here the effect of tragic irony evident in a passage from the recapitulation of the ﬁrst movement of the Appassionata Sonata, in which a single emphatic fanfare of chords is heard unexpectedly in the tonic major in place of the tonic minor. Instead of securing a breakthrough into the major, the music is now drawn with renewed strength into the darkness of the minor, with unmistakable expressive overtones of “Verzweiﬂung,” or despair. Unlike the corresponding passages in the Fifth Symphony, the recapitulation remains rooted in the tonic minor; as in the exposition, however, much harmonic stress is laid on the Neapolitan degree, a semitone above the tonic. Beethoven reserves the major mode of D for the dolce passage for horn and other winds beginning in bar 469 of the coda, with its remarkable development of bars 3–4 of the main theme, but the music soon reverts to the minor, reapproaching, with a prominent slowing in tempo, that great pivotal cadence that had initiated the fugato passage of the development (cf. bars 218 and 513). There is an abysmal, almost funereal character to this impressive passage, in which the chromatic bass gradually comes to dominate the entire orchestral texture, leading to the emphatic reassertion of the main theme at the close. As in the Hammerklavier Sonata, Beethoven places the scherzo before the slow movement, and he gives it a somewhat parodistic role in relation to the opening Allegro. The falling fourths and ﬁfths from the outset of the ﬁrst movement are mimicked in the opening fanfare of the scherzo, and Beethoven at once highlights the timpani in F, which are to assume a marked prominence. The tuning of the timpani on F is linked to the modulatory plan, with its move from the tonic D minor to C major in the exposition and to F major in the development. This scherzo is in a fully developed sonata form, like that of the Piano Sonata op. 31 no. 3, and it also incorporates an important trio in D major, the key of the choral ﬁnale. Beethoven adds weight to the opening section of the scherzo by treating it as a fugal exposition, with thematic entries spaced four bars apart. The basic fourbar theme is virtually identical to Beethoven’s 1815 sketch; but by 1823 he had discovered extraordinary rhythmic and metrical means of developing his idea. The heart of the scherzo lies in its development, in the passages marked “Ritmo di tre battute” (“rhythm of three bars”)—Beethoven’s acknowledgment of what some recent theorists have termed “hypermeter.” He ﬁrst shortens the four-bar phrases beginning with the characteristic dotted rhythm to groups of three bars, which he then skillfully manipulates. The music passes from E minor into A minor, with the motivic tag sporting the dotted rhythm placed on E. At this moment the timpani vividly interject the head motif on F, pulling the music into the 22

Beethovens Neunte Sinfonie, pp. 96–97.

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key of F major. This driving, galloping movement is one of Beethoven’s most fascinating essays in metrical manipulation and rhythmic intensiﬁcation, not the least in the stringendo il tempo passage that pushes the music over the threshold into the alla breve duple meter of the trio. Beethoven would not have intended the designation “Presto” at the climax of the stringendo il tempo to apply strictly to the trio, which assumes a relaxed, pastoral character while repeating over and over the same conﬁguration of notes that coalesces into the “Joy” theme in the ﬁnale. The closing passage of the trio, in which tonic and dominant are incessantly reiterated over a pedal in the bass, sounds reminiscent of the ﬁrst movement of the Pastoral Symphony. Beethoven’s decision not to repeat the entire trio and scherzo, as in the Seventh Symphony, was probably dictated by considerations of overall length, but he does bring back the stringendo il tempo passage leading to a brief recall of the trio, which is framed by abrupt reafﬁrmation of the climactic Presto gesture. The contemplative Adagio molto e cantabile is in B major, a conspicuous secondary tonality in the outer movements. In the Adagio, as so often in Beethoven, the ﬂat sixth serves as a key of inward reﬂection whose contemplative mood is eventually to be shattered at the later emergence into “action,” when the tonic minor is reasserted. B major shares two pitches with D minor—D and F; the crucial semitone that joins these triads is B –A—precisely the initial pitches of the introduction played in the bassoons and immediately imitated in the clarinets. This opening gesture foreshadows the second theme of this double-variation movement, marked Andante moderato, whose vocal aura, linear contour, and initial key of D major all presage in turn the “Joy” theme of the ﬁnale. Slow variation movements employing two themes are characteristic of Haydn but uncommon in Beethoven. The most analogous earlier example is the Andante of the Fifth Symphony, which not only displays a similar shift in key to the overall tonic at the secondary theme but also assigns to it a similar narrative function— that of preﬁguring the principal subject of the ﬁnale, just as in the Ninth Symphony. In both slow movements we glimpse the ﬁnale from afar, as it were, as the thematic foreshadowing combines with an anticipation of the key that is to be triumphantly attained in the ﬁnal stages. The main theme of the Adagio has a serene, hymn-like character; its lyric breadth is enhanced by exquisitely scored echoing of the string phrases by the woodwinds. As in the Archduke Trio and the Arietta movement of op. 111, successive returns of the theme are enhanced by ﬁgurative elaboration; at the same time the recapitulatory effect of these variations is set off by excursions to D major and G major at the appearances of the secondary theme. Beethoven even interpolates a further modulatory development after the G major episode, which culminates in a transparent texture for horn and winds and ﬁnally a solo for horn in C major, Neapolitan to the B major tonic of the ensuing recapitulatory variation of the main subject. Here the theme unfolds in a broad 12/8 meter, as sixteenth notes yield to triplet sixteenths and ultimately to trills in the violins, while the winds sound the sustained original version of the theme against this embroidered texture.

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Beethoven does not grant his theme closure in the tonic B but twice interrupts the imminent cadence by disruptive fanfares with trumpets and drums. These seem to evoke a call to action and contribute to a strangely disquieting atmosphere in the coda. The inﬂections of the minor mode and the low tremolos in triplets beginning seven bars from the conclusion disturb the serenity; even the ﬁnal cadence is undermined by being completed in a weak rhythmic position, in the second half of a bar. The stage has thus been set for a pivotal event of potentially catastrophic impact.

S S S That event, of course, is the “terror fanfare,” or Schreckensfanfare, the frenzied presto passage that arises out of the dissonant combination of the tonic triads of the slow movement and the symphony as a whole—B major and D minor. The Presto should follow the Adagio without much pause (certainly not after an interruption to bring out the chorus and soloists!). For the impact of this shocking passage is to destroy the peaceful contemplation of the Adagio, precipitating a crisis in the inner workings of the artwork itself. How is it to continue? The ensuing review of the earlier movements implies not only their insufﬁciency but also in some sense their continued valid presence at the threshold of the ﬁnale: these stages in the narrative design have not been forgotten, but what can succeed them? As in the last piano sonatas, the artistic quest leads to the discovery of a seemingly simple, eminently lyrical tune, which supports an unsuspected wealth of development. Perhaps no other work, not even Fidelio or the Missa solemnis, carries such important social and political connotations as the ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony. As we have seen, the work as a whole embraces numerous transformations in character and embodies a narrative pattern unusually rich in its foreshadowings and reminiscences of themes. These qualities are, of course, typical of Beethoven’s music in general; a work such as the Piano Sonata in A op. 110 displays a somewhat analogous narrative design compressed into much smaller dimensions. What is unusual in the choral ﬁnale is Beethoven’s incorporation of a more radical type of transformation, from instrumental into vocal music. Only in the Choral Fantasy had he attempted anything similar. A guiding principle of both pieces is the adoption of a concerto-like plan exploiting the capacity of instruments to evoke vocal expression. Thus, in the Choral Fantasy, the horn motif implying “Hear ye well?” prefaces the main theme in the solo piano, setting up the later vocal presentation of the theme. In the Ninth Symphony it is the recitative in the low strings that evokes vocal expression without yet requiring words. Here, as in the Choral Fantasy, Beethoven decided to remove the text he originally contemplated for the initial recitatives. The vocal recitative is thus conﬁned to “O friends, not these sounds! let us create more pleasant and happier ones!” (“O Freunde, nicht diese Töne! sondern lasst uns angenehmere anstimmen, und freudenvollere”). Which “sounds” are meant? In the most immediate sense, it is the preceding Presto, or “terror fanfare,” that the baritone seeks to negate. In the broader context, a continuation to the sequence of movements has been sought and discovered; yet this progression had reached

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a crisis in the passage leading up to the Schreckensfanfare. The initial series of instrumental variations lacks the strength to sustain the musical development of the “Joy” theme and eventually breaks down, as does the ﬁrst fugue in op. 110. At this juncture, as in the disquieting passage near the end of the slow movement, Beethoven alludes or reverts to musical textures drawn from earlier passages. Thus the triplet-sixteenth ﬁgures of the Adagio recall the more rapid vibrating string textures from the outset of the opening Allegro. Now, just before the return of the Schreckensfanfare, he makes subtle reference to the succession of movements. First he stresses in bars 201–2 in the full orchestra the falling fourth A–E, the pitches around which the music of the ﬁrst movement had come into focus. This strident gesture is given an inward, lyrical response in the ensuing passage, marked poco ritenente and slowing to poco adagio. The orchestration, featuring ﬂutes and oboes, the expressive appoggiaturas, and the ritardando all relate to the earlier focus of inward lyricism in the symphony as a whole, the Adagio molto e cantabile. The intervallic contour, however, with its fall through a ﬁfth and stepwise ascent to the third degree, relates audibly to the “Joy” theme (Ex. 100a and b). This is one of those gripping narrative moments in Beethoven’s music that looks backward and forward at one and the same moment, creating a connective bond between the reﬂective contemplation of the Adagio and the archetypal symbol of the “Joy” theme. But only when Beethoven gathers together his full orchestral forces in the main tempo of Allegro assai is the imminent turning point sufﬁciently prepared. The extreme collision of lyrical, idealistic music with the dissonant fanfare motivates the emergence of the human voice to render explicit what had up to this point remained implicit. We should now reassess the implications of Beethoven’s narrative succession of movements. After the tragic and parodistic modalities of the ﬁrst two movements, the Adagio turned inward, to a contemplative mood. Such subjectivity is by its very nature private and ultimately passive; it does not intrude into the public sphere of social activity, which can be engaged artistically only through the seemingly universal archetypes of shared human experience. It is the function of Beethoven’s choral ﬁnale to depict such symbolic archetypes, and in so doing to provide a potential model for the transformation of society. There is evidence that Beethoven himself may have regarded the project in these terms. In 1820 Beethoven’s acquaintance Friedrich Wähner made the following entry in a conversation notebook: “Philosophie und Musik sollen leben! Den Plato müssen Sie in der deutschen Übersetzung von Schleiermacher lesen. Sie müssen, ich bringe ihn Ihnen. Er und der Schelling sind die Grössten!” (“Long live philosophy and music! You have to read Plato in the German translation by Schleiermacher. You must, I’ll bring it to you. He and Schelling are the greatest!”).23 We have already seen the relevance of Schelling’s thought to Beethoven’s artistic enterprise, but have yet to consider the role of Plato, whose Republic may well have inﬂuenced the choral ﬁnale, as Baensch has suggested. One of Plato’s fundamental points in The Republic concerns the need for com23 Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte, vol. 1, p. 350. Earlier editors and commentators attributed this entry to Beethoven’s erudite friend August Friedrich Kanne.

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Ex. 100 Ninth Symphony op. 125/IV (a) bars 203–7

mon human experience as the basis for common action, based on agreement about ends and means. In Book 5 Socrates asks “Is there any worse ill for a state than to be divided or a greater good than being united?,” whereas in Book 9 he claims that “the best is for everyone to be ruled by a wise and godlike power, if possible seated in his own heart; if not, let it act upon him from without; in order that we may all be, as far as possible, like one another and friends, being all guided

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by the same pilot.” Plato is, however, extremely guarded about the conditions under which such harmony can be achieved. The centerpiece of the entire dialogue is Socrates’ paradoxical solution to the political dilemma: Till philosophers become kings, or those now named kings and rulers give themselves to philosophy truly and rightly, and these two things—political power and philosophic thought—come together, and the commoner minds, which at present seek only the one or the other, are kept out by force, states will have not rest from their troubles, dear Glaucon, and if I am right, man will have none. Only then will this our republic see the light of day.24

We need not accept all of Baensch’s analogies between Plato’s philosophers and guardians and Beethoven’s shaping of speciﬁc sections in his choral ﬁnale, but the general relevance of The Republic seems almost inescapable, even if it was merged in Beethoven’s conception with a variety of other inﬂuences. As Baensch reminds us, the ageing Beethoven who arranged his text from Schiller’s early poem was a seasoned artist who contemplated the material from a retrospective and elevated point of view, with the beneﬁt of critical insight presumably derived in part from Schiller’s own later writings, such as the Aesthetic Letters.25 The need for a “selection of lines” from Schiller’s ode was already speciﬁed in Beethoven’s sketch inscription from around 1812. In the end he removed all the most obvious references that mark the Ode to Joy as a gloriﬁed drinking song, while preserving a series of powerful and direct images with universal social connotations. In a letter to Johann Kanka from the period of the Congress of Vienna, Beethoven once compared his artistic enterprise to the political sphere by indulging in one of his characteristic puns. He wrote, “I shall not say anything to you about our monarchs . . . I much prefer the empire of the mind, and I regard it as the highest of all spiritual and worldly monarchies.”26 His experience with political art at that time seemed to conﬁrm this implied dissociation between politics and art. Yet in the Ninth Symphony, completed a decade later, Beethoven produced a work that ﬁlls the gap, bridging the apparently impassable gulf between artistic truth and political relevance. According to the Schillerian concept embraced by Beethoven, as we have seen, freedom is manifested in a resistance to despair or suffering, modalities associated in this case with the ﬁrst movement or with the Schreckensfanfare. The message of the Ninth Symphony is positioned between the “negative” and “positive” concepts of freedom associated, for instance, with John Locke and John Stuart Mill on the one hand and with Karl Marx on the other. The former tradition has regarded liberty as a matter of individual rights based particularly on the right to property; the latter replaced the emphasis on isolated individuals and their abstract rights by a collectivist view, whose basic insight into “man as an ensemble of social relations” retains a core of validity, despite the disastrous authoritarian misapplications of the principle in this century. Some recent com24

Plato’s Republic, ed. and trans. I. A. Richards, p. 97. Aufbau und Sinn. 26 Anderson, vol. 1, L. 502. 25

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mentators have recognized the shortcomings of both concepts of liberty, and seen “the formation of the common will in a rational discussion” as the basis of social freedom, a proposal not easily realized in a contemporary consumer society that encourages the pursuit of security rather than social responsibility.27 The relevance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony to calls for a revitalized ethical consciousness in politics (such as Michael Harrington’s “visionary gradualism”) has a double aspect, since it is rooted not merely in the social accessibility of the work but also in the challenge of an “unconsummated symbol” that resists facile appropriation. As Herbert Marcuse argued in his book Eros and Civilisation, the Schillerian “aesthetic education of mankind” involves a rejection of the tyranny of reason over sensibility; the sway of a merciless rationalization of means is thereby held in check. In his Schiller setting in the Ninth, Beethoven achieved an interpenetration of the rational and sensuous in a composite design with universal social implications, a work whose adequate performance contributes to the formation of a common will through an integrated process of artistic symbolization. Robert Winter has shown how painstakingly Beethoven labored to devise the “Joy” theme itself; the memorable shape of this famous tune, with its conjunct vocal motion and circular pattern, was the product of sustained reﬂection.28 The heritage of “popular” style stemming from some of Haydn’s symphonic ﬁnales or Mozart’s Zauberﬂöte, as well as Beethoven’s extensive experience with folk song, may have helped prepare him for the task, but most important, as Richard Kramer has noted, is the emblematic or symbolic role of the theme “as a purge to the troubled music of earlier movements.”29 The emblematic character of the tune invites ﬁgurative decoration more than thoroughgoing transformation, and Beethoven’s initial choral variations, like the preceding three instrumental variations, remain close to the original theme. Only at the section in B major and 6/8 meter does he transform the hymn-like theme into a parodied version, whose displaced accents conﬁrm their humorous effect at the hasty cadences. The unforgettable vividness of this scherzo section owes much to the Shakespearean juxtaposition of a comic military march with the solemnity of the grand pause on the words “und der Cherub steht vor Gott” that immediately precedes it (the juxtaposition of key contributes substantially to this, too). Following the incomplete orchestral variation and choral variation with tenor solo in B is an exciting double fugue for orchestra, which leads to the most emphatic presentation yet of the “Joy” theme: a recapitulatory variation for full chorus and orchestra in the tonic D major. Bee27 See Árnason, “The Discourse of Freedom,” Rechtstheorie 19 (1988), pp. 491–501 (the quotation is from p. 499); a classic study of related issues is Isaiah Berlin’s Four Essays on Liberty from 1969. 28 “The Sketches for the ‘Ode to Joy.’” 29 Review of Beethoven, Performers, and Critics, in Journal of Music Theory 27 (1983), p. 301. Küthen attempts to explore the emblematic ramiﬁcations of the “Joy” theme in two articles, which deserve consideration, even if his proposal of a Mozartian model for the theme is not accepted: “Schöpferische Rezeption im Finale der 9. Symphonie von Beethoven” and “Mozart—Schiller—Beethoven: Mozarts Modell für die Freudenhymne und die Fusion der Embleme im Finale der Neunten Symphonie.”

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thoven then incorporates the slow Andante-Adagio section, whose archaic, modal qualities and religious text suggest the “Cantique Ecclesiastique” of his early plan. What remains is the brilliant combination in a double choral fugue of the “Joy” theme with the “Seid umschlungen Millionen” subject from the slow section (see Plate 22), as well as the weighty ﬁnal sections that reiterate earlier parts of the text. The overall form of the choral ﬁnale combines aspects of concerto and sonata form with the basic chain of variations and the suggestion of a four-movement design encapsulated in a single movement. Concerto-like features include the “double exposition” of instrumental followed by choral variations, as well as the cadenza in B major for the vocal soloists near the conclusion. The analogy with sonata form lies in the developmental character of the variations in B and of the ensuing orchestral fugue, in relation to which the following choral variation acts like a decorated recapitulation; the later double choral fugue also serves a recapitulatory function by restoring the tonic key of D major while synthesizing the two main themes. At the same time, the following overall sequence may be seen as outlining a “multimovement” plan: (1) the theme and initial variations in D major; (2) the 6/8 scherzo section with “Turkish” orchestration; (3) the archaic Andante–Adagio passages featuring trombones and modal tendencies; (4) the ﬁnal sections beginning with the choral double fugue. The choral ﬁnale is the most celebrated single example in Beethoven of a composite form that successfully blends the possibilities of different genres. It was an important progenitor of later efforts along these lines, ranging from Liszt’s symphonic poems to Bruckner’s grandiose symphonic ﬁnales. The enhanced orchestral and vocal forces and the formal grandeur of Beethoven’s Ninth helped point the way to Wagner’s later works, as well as to the monumental compositions by Mahler and Schoenberg from the beginning of this century. For Beethoven himself, the single most decisive compositional model for the choral ﬁnale was his own Missa solemnis. Its inﬂuence is felt particularly in those parts of the choral ﬁnale that have a religious text, such as the pivotal phrase “und der Cherub steht vor Gott,” the setting of which forms the ﬁrst great climax of the movement. Beethoven’s treatment here of the modulation from D to B and the ensuing military processional music recall the Agnus Dei of the Mass, despite the different expressive connotations of the Alla marcia section in 6/8 in the symphony. At the same time, the setting of “Gott” as a long-protracted sonority, with A at the top, corresponds with the climax on the dominant of B in the Credo. In orchestration and register the two sonorities are nearly identical, with the rise to high A motivated by the word “God” in the symphony and “heaven” in the Mass. But their placement within the larger formal context of each work is also closely parallel. We have already seen that in the Credo this chord occurs at an interrupted cadence, involving a drastic downward shift in register for the earthbound music of the Incarnatus. In the symphony the corresponding cadence, to B , is completed, but there is a very similar disjunction in register, at the appearance of the “Turkish” music in B and its parodied version of the hymn-like “Joy” theme. Beethoven thus concentrates aspects of both these passages from the Mass into his setting of “vor Gott” in the symphony (Ex. 101; cf. Ex. 87).

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Ex. 101 Ninth Symphony op. 125/IV, bars 326–30

A similar process of concentration based on the network of referential sonorities from the Mass can be observed in Beethoven’s setting of the very last line of his text in the Adagio ma non troppo, ma divoto, “Über Sternen muss er wohnen” (“Above the stars he must dwell”), often regarded as the climax of the entire symphony. The ﬁrst section of the Adagio has brought a drop in register, a shift motivated by the text “Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen?” (“Do you fall on your knees, millions?”). In its rhythm, texture, orchestration, and thematic material this passage bears comparison to the Preludium of the Benedictus in the Mass. There follows a long, gradual ascent in the music which sets the last three lines of text: Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt? Such’ ihn über’m Sternenzelt Über Sternen muss er wohnen. [Do you sense the Creator, world? Seek him above the canopy of stars Above the stars he must dwell.]

The rise in pitch is accomplished only gradually, the music twice falling back earthward before its long, melodic ascent continues chromatically to reach F , the leading note of the tonic G minor, at “über’m Sternenzelt.” At this point the long ascending progression reaches its goal, arriving at the very same E sonority that had played so crucial a role in the Credo (Ex. 102; cf. Exx. 86, 89, 90). As in the Credo, this chord assumes a symbolic importance in relation to the idea of a divine presence above the stars. The sonority is repeated eight times, to accompany each syllable of the text. It seems static and immutable, becoming in effect an audible monolithic symbol; even when it is transmuted to a diminished seventh in the orchestra and moments later to a minor ninth chord, the high G is retained. In its controlling idea the entire passage is thus remarkably close to that in the Missa solemnis, using the same symbolic contrast in register and even an identical referential sonority. One measure of the signiﬁcance of this passage is the continuing sway of its high register over some following sections of

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Ex. 102 Ninth Symphony op. 125/IV, bars 643–50

the choral ﬁnale, where Beethoven reuses parts of his earlier text. He seems to have ﬁxed the monolithic setting of “Über Sternen muss er wohnen” only late in the compositional process; a sketch for the passage is found in a conversation book from early April 1824, just a few weeks before the ﬁrst performances.30 As Solomon has pointed out, Beethoven himself alluded to the symbolic character of this passage in an inscription on an earlier sketch, where he wrote: “The height of the stars [can be pictured] more by way of the instruments.”31 The symbolism is therefore literal and explicit, but it nevertheless retains an idealistic character since it depicts boundlessness and inﬁnitude, concepts that by their very nature are incapable of direct representation. An afﬁnity with Kant can be felt here in the consistent use of a musical symbol associated with the naturalistic realm of phenomena to stand for the Deity. Kant argued that we cannot have knowledge of God, even when his existence is posited as the guiding moral ideal of the summum bonum (the highest good). “The starry heavens above me, and the moral law within me”: this dictum from Kant, embraced by Beethoven, gives expression, in terms not of speculative or received doctrine but of concrete experience, to the relationship between eternal, inﬁnite nature on the one hand and man’s subjective inwardness on the other. This polarity resonates throughout the Mass, and especially in its later movements. The passages we have discussed from the Credo and the Benedictus allude emphatically to the heavens as a symbol of perfection and a goal for spiritual aspiration. Other passages of restless, questioning character, such as the fragile prayer for peace juxtaposed with threats of war in the Agnus Dei, may be associated with the Kantian notion of the moral law and its inevitable conﬂict with earthly realities. In these instances the Mass text is not simply afﬁrmed in its literal content but is in30

Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte, vol. 6, pp. 19–20. “Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony: A Search for Order,” Beethoven Essays, p. 25. The inscription is transcribed in Nottebohm, Zweite Beethoveniana, p. 186. Also see Ludwig Nohl, Beethovens Leben, vol. 3, p. 395. 31

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terpreted by means of universal images, thereby imposing a broader humanistic perspective on the received doctrines. The Kantian vision of the heavens is thus absorbed, in the Mass, into a transcendental musical symbol, secular in its naturalism yet sacred in its role as a focus for the awe and devotion of humankind. In the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony this symbolic musical gesture reappears, and its universality and independence of religious dogma are afﬁrmed through its association with Schiller’s text. It provides a climax to the choral ﬁnale, and to the entire symphony, through its effective depiction of a fundamental aspect of human experience: our confrontation with the inﬁnitude and mystery of creation. At the same time the idea retains close links with Beethoven’s instrumental idioms in works such as the last piano sonatas and the great variation movement of his next major composition, the String Quartet in E op. 127. These connections remind us of the central position of the choral ﬁnale in Beethoven’s art in general, as well as of the presence in his instrumental music of layers of symbolic and associative meaning beyond the reach of a merely formalistic aesthetic. The triumph of the Ninth Symphony took time. Although the work received enthusiastic accolades when ﬁrst performed in Vienna on 7 May 1824, together with the Kyrie, Credo, and Agnus Dei of the Mass and the Overture to Die Weihe des Hauses, the quality of the performance cannot have been very satisfactory, and Beethoven was disappointed and even embittered about the ﬁnancial return. A second performance that month was poorly attended. As Karl-Heinz Köhler has written, “the shining hour of music history in which the Ninth Symphony began its victorious march around the globe came amid summer lightning storms of hypersensitivity, misunderstandings, and pettiness.”32 One of the “shining hours” commemorated by Beethoven’s Ninth was the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, when Leonard Bernstein conducted the work with a crucial change of text, changing “Freude” (“joy”) to “Freiheit” (“freedom”). It has sometimes been speculated that this was the text that the young Schiller originally intended and that he was discouraged by censorship from publishing the poem in this form in 1785, four years before the outbreak of the French Revolution. The known use of the poem as a Revolutionary or Masonic ode supports this interpretation, but no documentary evidence for a change in text has been uncovered. Beethoven’s own convictions, like Plato’s, or Schiller’s at a more advanced age, were better represented by “Freude,” with all due acknowledgment of the liberating effects of the “efﬁgy of [the] ideal.” For one protection against the possible ideological misuse of “brotherhood” in the Ninth Symphony is its explicit precondition of a state of “Freude,” the character of which is inextricably interwoven into the narrative design of the symphony as a whole. Beethoven, like Plato, was no advocate of unbridled freedom without responsibility, but he despised tyranny, and he would presumably have approved of Bernstein’s decision. The Ninth Symphony is a magniﬁcent refutation of Plato’s skepticism about the social and political value of art, and an enduring monument to the compatibility of beauty and truth. 32

“The Conversation Books: Aspects of a New Picture of Beethoven,” p. 154.

11

R The Galitzin Quartets: 1824–1825

R The composition of Beethoven’s last important group of works, the ﬁve ﬁnal quartets, is bound up with a commission from the Russian prince and amateur cellist Nikolaus Galitzin in St Petersburg. Beethoven had already been thinking of composing quartets (and had received an enquiry from Carl Friedrich Peters about one) prior to Galitzin’s request, but the prince seems to have acted as the major catalyst. In November 1822 Galitzin wrote to Beethoven requesting the composition of as many as three new quartets. Beethoven accepted the proposal in January 1823; but the actual composition of the ﬁrst of these new quartets was delayed for more than a year by other projects, notably the Ninth Symphony. On 29 November 1823 the prince wrote to Beethoven: I am really impatient to have a new quartet of yours, nevertheless, I beg you not to mind and to be guided in this only by your inspiration and the disposition of your mind, for no one knows better than I that you cannot command genius, rather that it should be left alone, and we know moreover that in your private life you are not the kind of person to sacriﬁce artistic for personal interest and that music done to order is not your business at all.1

In the end Galitzin’s patience was richly rewarded. He had meanwhile subscribed to Beethoven’s Missa solemnis and organized its ﬁrst complete performance, which was given in St Petersburg on 7 April 1824. A few weeks later, after the ﬁrst performance of the Ninth Symphony in Vienna in May, Beethoven was ﬁnally able to begin sustained work on the Quartet in E major op. 127. It became his chief preoccupation between June 1824 and February 1825; as the sketches show, his most concentrated work took place in the late summer and autumn of 1824. Like so many of his pieces of these years, op. 127 was to assume large dimensions and display original, even unprecedented features. It is a pivotal composition among the masterpieces of his last creative period, one in which structural and symbolic aspects from his two great choral-orchestral works are absorbed into the sphere of chamber music. 1

Thayer-Forbes, p. 924.

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New light on the genesis of this quartet has been shed by Brandenburg, who reassessed the sketch sources ﬁrst examined by Nottebohm more than a century ago.2 Nottebohm was especially impressed by the immense quantity of sketches for the second movement—a great set of variations on a slow theme of sublime character. The overall design of the ﬁnished quartet still adheres to the traditional four-movement plan, but Brandenburg has pointed out that Beethoven considered including two additional, alternative movements—a character piece in C major entitled “La gaieté” that was evidently planned at one point as the second movement, and a slow introduction to the ﬁnale in the key of the Neapolitan, E major. These preliminary plans show how Beethoven’s attempts to shape the work as a cyclic whole were already anticipating elements akin to those of his later C minor Quartet op. 131, which has seven interconnected movements. The quartet opens with a thematic statement suggestive of a motto: a six-bar Maestoso segment featuring rising melodic fourths leads to a sustained trill. Only then, at the Allegro, does Beethoven strike a more intimate tone: teneramente, sempre piano e dolce (Ex. 103). This thematic juxtaposition embodies a shift from a receptive, distanced gesture in the Maestoso to the more direct and spontaneous character of the Allegro. The massive, chorale-like setting of the Maestoso contributes to its solemn intensity, as does the unusual rhythmic structure. Beethoven sustains the tonic throughout the ﬁrst and third bars, changing the harmony only at the accented syncopated chords in bars 2 and 4. Consequently, the rhythmic structure of the two-bar groups falls into a pattern of 5 ⫹ 3 eighth notes; the metric pulse, however, unfolds in quarter notes. A challenge in performance is to avoid making the syncopated changes in harmony sound like downbeats, while realizing the six-bar motto as a single uniﬁed gesture. In voicing the chords it is necessary to convey the imposing linear ascent that is shared between the voices: the cello rises from E to F in bar 2, whereas the next step, to G in bar 3, is given to the violins, and the following one, to A in bar 4, to the cello. Each of the six bars stresses a rising step, until C, the sixth degree above the tonic, is attained and elaborated as a trill at the end of the motto. The rhythmic pattern of short and long notes in each second bar of the motto may be a subtle foreshadowing, in augmentation, of the relentless iambic rhythm of the second movement, the scherzo (Fig. 6). Beethoven adjusts this pattern in the penultimate bar of the Maestoso to emphasize the subdominant—the ﬁrst nontonic chord to be heard on a downbeat. The rhythmic and harmonic context of this A chord enhances its impact as both culmination of the Maestoso and point of transition into the lyric continuation. The signiﬁcance of the opening motto is far-reaching and extends well beyond its twofold return in the development. The monolithic gesture of the Maestoso serves not merely as introduction to the ﬁrst movement but as preface to the work as a whole. Beethoven reverses the rising linear progression of the Maestoso in the ensuing 2

Brandenburg, “Die Quellen zur Entstehungsgeschichte von Beethovens Streichquartett Es-Dur Op. 127,” pp. 221–76; Nottebohm, “Skizzen zum zweiten Satz des Quartetts Op. 127,” Zweite Beethoveniana, pp. 210–20.

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310 Ex. 103 String Quartet op. 127/I

Allegro, which is based on a stepwise descent starting on C in the ﬁrst violin and A in the cello, two octaves lower; this relaxes the tension of the motto. The basic character of the Allegro is intimate, despite the occasional eruption of vigorous passages, notably in the middle of the development. The texture is contrapuntal, above all in the ﬁrst half of the development, where an impressive chain of canons probes the thematic substance from within before an agitated, fortissimo—and still canonic—continuation leads dramatically to the last, curtailed appearance of the Maestoso, in C major. Kerman described these passages as “one of Beethoven’s most extraordinary conceptions for a development section, comparable only to the ﬁrst-movement development in the Quartet in B , op. 130.”3 The climactic canonic passage leading to the Maestoso in C major opens a dimension with symbolic implications, one that is deepened further in the following variation movement, the Adagio, ma non troppo e molto cantabile (see Plates 23 and 24). Before we examine this relationship in detail, however, it is important to assess the formal analogy between the slow movement of the quartet and the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony, the work Beethoven completed immediately before op. 127. The Adagio movement in the quartet, in A major, contains ﬁve variations on its broadly lyrical theme, with an episode in D major/C minor and a coda. Both of the last two variations have a recapitulatory character and follow passages in foreign keys. After the hymn-like third variation in the ﬂat submediant, E major, the fourth variation brings a return to the tonic and the original version of the theme, which is animated rhythmically by the substitution of sixteenth notes for eighth notes in the melody and by trills in the accompaniment. This variation also restores the 12/8 meter of the theme, after changes in meter in the second and 3

The Beethoven Quartets, p. 206.

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Figure 6. Rhythmic patterns in the String Quartet op. 127

third variations. The recapitulatory variation is then followed by the mysterious episode in the subdominant, a passage Beethoven sketched and revised more than almost any other, entering changes even into the autograph score. A ﬁnal halfvariation in the tonic and a coda of the same length complete the design. The halfvariation, while not strictly recapitulatory in function, remains audibly close to the original melodic shape of the theme, which is decorated in ﬂowing sixteenth notes in the violin, in a texture reminiscent of the second variation of the principal theme in the slow movement of the Ninth Symphony. In the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth, as we have seen, the basic framework of ten variations on the “Freude” theme encloses two main episodes: the double fugue for orchestra in B (the ﬂat submediant); and the slow section in G (the subdominant), set to the last two stanzas of the text, beginning “Seid umschlungen Millionen.” Each of these passages is followed by a variation of recapitulatory character in the tonic, D major. After the orchestral fugue, Variation 9 brings an emphatic return to the original melodic shape of the “Freude” theme, heard in the full chorus and orchestra. Subsequently, after the slow section in G, a double fugue for chorus and orchestra combines the head of the “Freude” theme with the setting of “Seid umschlungen Millionen.” In both quartet and symphony, therefore, the penultimate variation recapitulates the theme after a contrasting section in the submediant, while the ﬁnal variation again restores the tonic key and the basic thematic material after an episode in the subdominant. The relationship between these works is by no means conﬁned to their tonal plan, however, and bears on the actual character and thematic substance of the E major variation in the quartet, which Kerman has described as the “spiritual crown” of the entire work.4 Martin Cooper suggested in this regard that the rising third C –E at the beginning of the variation acts like a pedestal, lifting the ensuing passage above the preceding music in a manner similar to the rising third at the beginning of the slow movement of the Hammerklavier Sonata.5 The image of 4 5

The Beethoven Quartets, p. 216. Beethoven: The Last Decade, pp. 428–29.

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the pedestal is especially apt in this case, in view of the aspirational character of the music. There is a parallel here with a speciﬁc passage in the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony, as well as with a related movement in the Missa solemnis. The corresponding passage in the symphony is the second part of the slow section in G, set to the last stanza of the text, from “Ihr stürzt nieder” to “Über Sternen muss er wohnen”; this is the passage that is itself so strongly reminiscent of parts of the Missa solemnis and which exploits a vivid contrast in register between the earthbound music of “Ihr stürzt nieder” on the one hand and, on the other, a gradual but inevitable rise in pitch to symbolize the divine presence above the stars. The climax at the words “Über Sternen muss er wohnen” reaches the high, monolithic E major chord with G at the top, the same sonority that Beethoven used, with similar symbolic implications, in the Credo of the Mass. In his chamber works Beethoven tends to employ the key of E major in music associated with the heavens, as in the slow movement of the second Razumovsky quartet and the song Abendlied unterm gestirnten Himmel. As we have seen, he is supposed to have conceived the slow movement of the Razumovsky quartet “while contemplating the starry heavens and thinking of the music of the spheres.” In fact, as Warren Kirkendale has pointed out,6 there is a musical kinship between that movement and the Benedictus of the Missa solemnis, in which the descent of the solo violin from high G symbolizes the arrival of the divine messenger. Yet another related piece is the Adagio of the op. 127 quartet. The theme of the Adagio, like that of the Benedictus, is characterized by iambic rhythm in 12/8 meter, and the similarities of the two themes extend to their melodic proﬁles and even to their instrumentation, in view of the role of the solo violin in the Benedictus. In the light of the character and probable associations of the Adagio theme, then, it is not surprising that Beethoven should have included a variation evoking the contemplation of the heavens as a centerpiece, set apart by the sudden modulation to E major. In the Ninth Symphony the rise in pitch from “Ihr stürzt nieder” to “Über Sternen muss er wohnen” is from the E above middle C to the G two octaves higher. This is exactly the compass of the melodic ascent in the E major variation in the quartet, regardless of the difference in key (Ex. 104). Whereas in the symphony the ﬁnal part of this ascent into the highest register is abrupt and reserved for the orchestra, in the quartet the ﬁrst violin gradually rises to the high G, which is the goal and endpoint of the progression. The E is still part of the pedestal that introduces the variation. From it the ﬁrst violin ascends, and, as in the passage in the symphony, the melody falls earthward momentarily before rising again. In the ﬁfth bar of the variation (bar 63) the repetition of the ﬁrst phrase in the cello substitutes G for G , foreshadowing the turn to the ﬂat sixth two bars later. The climax itself involves an emphatic shift to a C major chord in root position with the ﬁrst violin on high G in the eighth bar of the variation (bar 66). This is the moment corresponding in the symphony with the arrival on the E major chord at “Über Sternen muss er wohnen,” where the same high G is reached 6

“New Roads to Old Ideas in Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis,” pp. 690–91.

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Ex. 104 String Quartet op. 127/II, bars 57–72

through a similar turn to the ﬂat sixth in the larger tonal context of G minor. Since this ascending melodic progression to the climax is built directly into the structure of the variation in the quartet, it is restated, with some modiﬁcation and intensiﬁcation, in the second half of the variation. The treatment of high G as the goal and endpoint for each half is reminiscent of the Benedictus of the Mass, where the same pitch provides a consistent point of return for the solo violin. It is indicative of the scope of Beethoven’s variation procedure in his ﬁnal years that even the symbolic “Blick nach oben” is assimilated here into the variation form. We are now in a position to return to the ﬁrst movement to reconsider the third and last appearance of the opening Maestoso motto, which appears in C major (bars 135–40). Beethoven sets apart this presentation of the Maestoso by intensifying the dynamics to fortissimo and by harmonic means, avoiding the turn to the subdominant that characterized its earlier appearances. As a consequence the sonority of C major is stressed three times, in a chorale-like conﬁguration with the broadest possible spacing, in which the ﬁrst violin ascends to high G for the last statement. What is striking here is the parallel with the threefold articulation of C major in Variation 3 of the ensuing Adagio. There are no further appearances of the motto, which has puzzled some commentators. But the signiﬁcance of the

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Maestoso goes beyond its role in the ﬁrst movement: like the opening motto of op. 110, it preﬁgures momentous events to come, pointing toward the symbolic climax of the Adagio, one of the weightiest and most perfectly conceived of all Beethoven’s slow movements. The following Scherzando vivace strikes a note of ironic detachment and grim humor after the contemplative experience of the variations. The transition from the end of the Adagio is reminiscent of the shift in op. 101 from the opening Allegretto ma non troppo to the Vivace alla Marcia—a movement similar in its rhythm and counterpoint to this scherzo. One is reminded as well of the scherzo of the Hammerklavier Sonata, and still more of that of the Ninth Symphony. After the opening pizzicato fanfare—as Kerman notes, “there are no timpani in a string quartet!”7—the movement unfolds contrapuntally, even fugally. Beethoven originally sketched the principal motifs in even eighth notes, only later introducing the jagged upbeat rhythm that permeates the scherzo sections. The fugal texture is interrupted periodically by sudden ﬁts and starts, massive unison passages, and recitative-like gestures; a strong disruptive energy infuses the whole. The Scherzando vivace assumes a crucial role in the whole quartet by bringing together forces of rhythmic tension and dramatic qualities that are largely absent from the other movements. The trio arises out of an acceleration of the rhythm of the scherzo. This whirlwind Presto contains the swiftest and hardest-driven music in the quartet and exposes some of its sharpest contrasts. The shadowy opening section in E minor soon yields to a loud, somewhat coarse dance parody over a heavily accented pedal in D major; this juxtaposition is then repeated to lead through different keys, three times in all. The alternation could seemingly continue indeﬁnitely, but Beethoven breaks the pattern by repeating a melodic ﬁgure from the dance parody in the ﬁrst violin in the high register. The trio dissolves into silence before the scherzo reemerges softly in the same high register. As in the Ninth Symphony Beethoven recalls the trio in curtailed form just before the end of the movement. Rhetorically, the device is handled with special subtlety: after cutting short the beginning of the Presto, he ﬁrst restates the pianissimo transition to the trio and then caps the movement with an emphatic fortissimo cadence based on the seminal upbeat rhythm. As we have seen, Beethoven made sketches for an introductory slow movement in E major preceding the ﬁnale. In the end, he reduced the introduction to four unison bars, which preface the principal theme and return in somewhat extended form at the beginning of the development. The crux of the gesture is the semitone G–A , an interval of outstanding importance. The main theme is characterized by a linear motion passing from G through A to an A , an expressive dissonance that is resolved through the further rising step B –C that forms the peak of the melody. The ambiguity in Beethoven’s phrasing—two occurrences of the initial triadic motif are joined to A , while the third statement contains the climactic A —lends 7

The Beethoven Quartets, p. 230.

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tension to the tune. Its expressive character, however, is relaxed, even folk-like. As in the ﬁrst movement, a lyrical rather than a dramatic sensibility permeates the whole. The broad ﬁrst subject group shows a ternary design; in the quiet thematic restatement beginning in the cello the opening phrases are absorbed into a contrapuntal texture. The humorous character of the second subject group arises from repeated detached notes, surprising accents, and massive fortissimo chords, accompanied by triplet ﬁguration in the ﬁrst violin. In the following transition Beethoven emphasizes motifs containing a falling semitone, repeatedly using the step A –G, the inversion of the crucial G–A semitone. At this point the introductory gesture is recalled, and its unison assertion of G–A marks the beginning of a concise development based on a contrapuntal combination of the two main themes. The most remarkable formal aspect of Beethoven’s ﬁnale is surely its recapitulation in the subdominant, A major. Indeed, the length of this “false” reprise— thirty-two bars—must exceed any other in the entire Classical quartet repertoire, as Kerman has observed.8 Its effect, however, is completely different from the familiar device of a “false” recapitulation. Beethoven showed a general tendency during his last decade to reshape the traditional relationship between development and recapitulation in his sonata forms, and his use of nontonic recapitulations is but one aspect of this tendency. The ﬁnale of op. 127 is not an isolated example. The ﬁrst movement of the A minor Quartet op. 132, for instance, contains a recapitulation in the dominant, as does the Credo of the Missa solemnis. In op. 127, by contrast, placement of the recapitulation in the subdominant has a softening effect, casting the theme in a new light, and the procedure might also be heard as a vast formal expansion of the subdominant stress within the theme itself. At the subdominant reprise the tune begins in the highest register of the viola, above a trill in the ﬁrst violin. As the theme unfolds Beethoven introduces subtle changes and new touches in scoring. The material of the ensuing “true” recapitulation in the tonic is also treated in ever new ways. The repetition of the opening phrase, for instance, is heard doubled in the second violin and viola, with motivic imitations and decorations in the ﬁrst violin in an ethereal high register. The second subject group, on the other hand, is transposed in virtually unchanged form to the tonic. What follows is one of Beethoven’s most magical codas. This Allegro commodo in 6/8 time is reached through a transformation of the repeated notes from the end of the recapitulation, which coalesce into trills. Transformed as well is the main theme itself: stripped of the repetition of its ﬁrst bar and broadened in rhythmic contour, it becomes less droll and more expressive, even coyish. It is now enhanced by an accompanying texture of triplet sixteenth notes (Ex. 105). Remarkable is the series of key changes through falling major thirds, from C major to A major to E major. The harmonic energy for these modulations comes from the semitone motif in the theme. Indeed, the entire series results directly from Beetho8

The Beethoven Quartets, pp. 236–37.

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Ex. 105 String Quartet op. 127/IV

ven’s development of these rising semitones (the last group is extended to effect the return of the tonic, E major): C major: F–F –G–A

A major: D –D –E –E

E major: A–B –B–C–D –D –E

The keys of these modulations are of much importance in the work as a whole. C major and E major were, of course, the keys of the additional movements that Beethoven sketched, and they are prominent in the ﬁnished quartet as well. One recalls the C major Maestoso in the ﬁrst movement, the A Adagio with its memorable central variation in E major, and the enormous A recapitulation in the ﬁnale. But entirely apart from their relationship with earlier movements, these tonal excursions through the circle of major thirds represent new and extraordinary aesthetic ramiﬁcations that derive strictly from the thematic structure. This is one of those passages in late Beethoven in which we can hear structure as we can in the work of no other composer. In the remainder of the coda Beethoven sounds echoes of the rising semitone, accompanied by the pulsating triplet sixteenth motion. He had employed a similar suspended texture over pedal points in some of his last piano works, such as the Arietta movement of op. 111 and the coda of the Diabelli Variations. In no other quartet, however, had he achieved this kind of closing transﬁguration of the basic thematic substance. By contrast, the brilliant, exhilarating coda in the major mode of the ﬁnale in the Quartetto serioso in F minor op. 95 is problematic, since it blithely ignores the dramatic tensions of the work up to that point. The coda of the ﬁnale in op. 127 is most deeply grounded in the musical structure precisely when it appears most visionary and fantastic. There is no contradic-

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tion here between imagination and reason, but an irreducible synthesis of feeling and thought. Out of this tensional balance between expression and structure arises a spirit of high comedy that is neither Haydnesque nor Mozartian but close to a blend of both. In the closing moments of the quartet ﬁnale Beethoven conveys this quality of reﬁned gaiety above all through his treatment of the mischievous, unsettling A . The thematic outline is distilled one last time, as the music reaches A in the cello, and A in the ﬁrst violin, before the rising semitone to B sets the stage for the emphatic ﬁnal cadence. Op. 127 was one of the last compositions whose performance Beethoven witnessed, and its early performance history is of special interest. The ﬁrst hearing, led by Schuppanzigh on 6 March 1825, was not satisfactory, producing only a “weak succès d’estime,” in the words of the violinist Joseph Böhm, the leader of the quartet concerts in Vienna during Schuppanzigh’s long absence from the city. Böhm reported: When Beethoven learned of this—for he was not present at the performance—he became furious and let both performers and the public in for some harsh words. Beethoven could have no peace until the disgrace was wiped off. He sent for me ﬁrst thing in the morning—In his usual curt way, he said to me. “You must play my quartet”—and the thing was settled.—Neither objections nor doubts could prevail; what Beethoven wanted had to take place, so I undertook the difﬁcult task.—It was studied industriously and rehearsed frequently under Beethoven’s own eyes: I said Beethoven’s eyes intentionally, for the unhappy man was so deaf that he could no longer hear the heavenly sound of his compositions. And yet rehearsing in his presence was not easy. With close attention his eyes followed the bows and therefore he was able to judge the smallest ﬂuctuations in tempo or rhythm and correct them immediately. At the close of the last movement of this quartet there occurred a meno vivace, which seemed to me to weaken the general effect. At the rehearsal, therefore, I advised that the original tempo be maintained, which was done, to the betterment of the effect. Beethoven, crouched in a corner, heard nothing, but watched with strained attention. After the last stroke of the bows he said, laconically, “Let it remain so,” went to the desks and crossed out the meno vivace in the four parts.9

Böhm performed the quartet several times subsequently, with notable success. His own report about the initial performance by Schuppanzigh was reafﬁrmed in an article on 28 April in Bäuerle’s Theaterzeitung, which included the following words of praise for Böhm’s interpretation: . . . then a steadfast patron of art and noble connoisseur brought about a new performance of this quartet by the above named man [Schuppanzigh] with the substitution for ﬁrst violin of Herr Prof. Böhm, since this group in the meantime had played the new quartet for a small group of art lovers with particular success. This professor now performed the wonderful quartet, twice over on the same evening, 9

Thayer-Forbes, pp. 940–41.

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for the same very numerous company of artists and connoisseurs in a way that left nothing to be desired, the misty veil disappeared and the splendid work of art radiated its dazzling glory.10

S S S This was but the ﬁrst of several successful performances of the Galitzin Quartets during Beethoven’s ﬁnal years. These works did not come into existence as wholly isolated endeavors of the solitary deaf composer but were heard by small yet devoted audiences. The broader public interest in such challenging music was severely limited, and few performances of the last quartets followed during the next decades. As with the Hammerklavier Sonata and the Diabelli Variations, appreciation and critical recognition of the quartets has grown through a long and gradual process. The second quartet, in A minor, occupied Beethoven until July 1825; it was eventually published with the deceptively high opus number 132. This work has often been regarded as forming a “triptych” together with the two quartets that followed it, op. 130 in B major and op. 131 in C minor. Paul Bekker advanced this notion in 1912, arguing that the three middle quartets differ strikingly from the preceding work in E and the ﬁnal Quartet in F major op. 135.11 The justiﬁcation for such a grouping rests not in the increasing number of movements in each quartet (ﬁve in op. 132, six in op. 130, seven in op. 131) but rather in their motivic structure: for each prominently displays intervallic relationships highlighting the semitones from the leading note to the tonic and from the lowered sixth degree to the dominant. This conﬁguration is heard in the cello at the outset of op. 132, and variants of these intervals appear in the fugue subject that begins op. 131 and in the Grosse Fuge, the original ﬁnale of op. 130. Deryck Cooke traced such patterns in all ﬁve of the last quartets, but he tended to overemphasize the “unifying” role of these relationships in pieces in which sharp individuality of character is the most prominent feature.12 Curiously, Beethoven’s engagement with this intervallic pattern in his sketches surfaces in entries for the slow introduction to a projected piano sonata for four hands that he never completed; the motivic material and sequential pattern, transposed from C minor to E major, found its way into the scherzo of op. 127 (Ex. 106a and b). This sketch, from about August 1824, reveals that the basic intervallic conﬁguration so prominent in the last quartets arose during Beethoven’s reﬂection on another project altogether, in a different key. The topos in question stems from the Baroque, and it was familiar to Beethoven in part from some of Mozart’s C minor works, such as the Fugue for two pianos that Beethoven had copied out in score many years earlier. Studies of Beethoven’s manuscripts have helped clarify various afﬁnities between these quartets, particularly afﬁnities connected to their extension beyond the conventional classical framework of four movements. As Sieghard Brandenburg has 10

Ibid., p. 941. Beethoven, pp. 532–34. 12 “The Unity of Beethoven’s Late Quartets,” pp. 30–49. 11

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Ex. 106 a. Autograph 11/2, fol. 5v

b. String Quartet op. 127/III, bars 2–4

shown, Beethoven already envisioned such an expansion of the formal design during his composition of op. 127.13 During the process of composition, this quartet was envisioned in as many as six movements, including a character piece in C major entitled “La gaieté,” planned at one point as the second movement, and a slow introduction to the ﬁnale in the key of the Neapolitan, E major. In the end, Beethoven retained the four-movement plan for op. 127, but his ﬂirtation with such an expansion of the narrative chain of movements bore fruit in the following trilogy of quartets in A minor op. 132, in B major op. 130, and in C minor op. 131. (Despite its misleading opus number, op. 132 was the second in order of composition.) The A minor Quartet is usually regarded as having ﬁve movements, but Beethoven himself regarded it as having six, since he counted the recitative transition to the ﬁnale as a separate movement.14 The B major Quartet employs a six-movement design, including the multisectioned fugal ﬁnale, whereas the unique design of the C minor Quartet embraces seven movements. Yet we now know from studies of the autograph manuscripts and sketchbooks that each of these pieces was originally conceived on a still larger scale. In different ways, Beethoven ultimately limited the size of each of these huge works by rearranging or abridging his material. The A minor Quartet op. 132 was initially larger because of its inclusion of the Alla danza tedesca movement in penultimate position, which was replaced only at the autograph stage by the concise march-like intermezzo, the Alla Marcia, assai vivace.15 The following Quartet in B major absorbed the Alla danza tedesca 13 “Die Quellen zur Entstehungsgeschichte von Beethovens Streichquartett Es-Dur Op. 127,” Beethoven-Jahrbuch 10 (1983), pp. 221–76. 14 This is clear from Beethoven’s letter to his nephew Karl of 11 August 1825, where he expresses concern about the possible loss of the autograph score of the third to sixth movements, which Karl Holz had removed from Beethoven’s lodging for purposes of copying. See Beethoven Briefe, vol. 6, L. 2029. 15 See in this connection Sieghard Brandenburg, “The Autograph of Beethoven’s String Quartet in A Minor Opus 132,” in The String Quartets of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven: Studies of the Autograph Manuscripts, ed. Christoph Wolff (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Department of Music, 1980), pp. 278–300.

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(which was transposed for this purpose from A major to G major), yet the piece as a whole was eventually curtailed through Beethoven’s removal of the Grosse Fuge (Great Fugue) in favor of the substitute ﬁnale. Even the C minor Quartet op. 131 was to have been capped by a resolving section in D major at the end of the ﬁnale—material that Beethoven withheld from this quartet but that formed the nucleus for the Lento assai in that key in his ﬁnal Quartet in F major op. 135.16 Thus, in writing each of these works, Beethoven conceived material that spilled over beyond the composition immediately at hand. His fertility of invention refused to be contained within the boundaries of the singular work. The incorporation of the Alla danza tedesca as the fourth of six movements of op. 130 marked a decisive development in the genesis of the A minor and B major Quartets. To judge from the sketches, Beethoven may have remained undecided for several months about what movement would follow the great slow movement of op. 132, the “Heiliger Dankgesang eines Genesenen an die Gottheit, in der lydischen Tonart” (“Holy Song of Thanks of a Convalescent to the Godhead, in the Lydian Mode”). The “Dankgesang” was composed at Beethoven’s summer lodgings in Baden near Vienna in May of 1825, following his sustained period of illness beginning in mid-April. By July op. 132 was ﬁnished in the autograph, in a version with the Alla danza tedesca as its fourth movement. Only in August did Beethoven settle on a six-movement plan for the following Quartet in B , in which the Alla danza tedesca found its new home. Another connection of this kind exists between rejected thematic material for the ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony and the ﬁnale of the A minor Quartet. Beethoven repeatedly weighed the option of an instrumental ﬁnale, even while he was composing the choral ﬁnale of the symphony.17 In turn, the abandoned theme for a “ﬁnale instromentale” in the Ninth was transposed from D minor to A minor and incorporated into the quartet as the main theme of its rondo ﬁnale. The parallel can be extended: like the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth, the ﬁnal movement of op. 132 is introduced by a passionate recitative transition. A violin recitative is heard here above tremolo textures in the other strings, suggesting an almost operatic setting. The most poignant phrases stress a descending semitone ﬁgure that rises sequentially at the breathless, destabilizing accelerando passage, with a crescendo from pianissimo to fortissimo within just two bars. This climactic gesture could hardly be more extreme: a piercing, syncopated diminished-seventh chord with the ﬁrst violin on high F yields at the Presto to a cadenza-like fall through three octaves before it resumes the earlier recitative 16 See Robert Winter, The Compositional Origins of Beethoven’s Opus 131 (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982), pp. 121–24, 167–74, 206–9; also Laura Bumpass, “Beethoven’s Last Quartet” (Ph.D. diss., University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, 1982), vol. 1, pp. 222–24. 17 Cf. Sieghard Brandenburg, “Die Skizzen zur Neunten Symphonie,” in Zu Beethoven: Aufsätze und Dokumente, vol. 2, ed. Harry Goldschmidt (Berlin: Verlag Neue Musik, 1984), esp. pp. 128–29; and Gustav Nottebohm, Zweite Beethoveniana: nachgelassene Aufsätze (Leipzig: Peters, 1887), pp. 180–81.

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texture, which had been torn asunder by the force of this dissonant interjection (Ex. 107b). This passage represents a turning point within the narrative design of the whole quartet, linking the ﬁrst and last movements. Near the outset of the opening movement, at the ﬁrst juxtaposition of the contrasting tempi Assai sostenuto and Allegro, Beethoven had already exposed the F–E relationship in the strikingly similar way; Kerman ﬁttingly referred to the gesture as “a scream.”18 The 6–5 scale step is fundamental to the emblematic four-note conﬁguration played in the cello in the ﬁrst moments of the piece (Ex. 107a). The A minor Quartet shows its Janus face at once, as the understated ﬂatness of the contrapuntal cantus ﬁrmus yields without transition to this painfully impassioned continuation. The mysterious objectivity of the slow music is pitted against the emotional force of the Allegro. In tonal music unstable tones, or dissonances, are inherently more expressive than consonances. The latter provide the stable framework against which dissonances make their mark. In this sense, musical structure ﬁnds its very raison d’être in relation to the tensional pressure that is exerted against it. An old rule of thumb in the voicing of dissonances speciﬁes that these should be played louder than consonances, since the “passions should be generally aroused by dissonances.”19 This principle was subsumed into Beethoven’s entire treatment of contrasts and dynamics in his music, but the beginning of op. 132 offers a particularly striking example. At the shocking Allegro interruption in bar 9, the ﬁrst violin swoops through two octaves in a driving rhythm, outlining a diminished-seventh chord, and the gesture is underscored by the intensiﬁcation to forte and the strong downbeat after the double bar. The controlling idea of the violin gesture is the semitone step F–E, involving a consistent treatment of register. In the last bar of the Assai sostenuto, the ﬁrst violin plays these notes as a rising semitone, as the faster pacing in quarter notes is introduced. The crescendo marking in this bar is easily misunderstood, since it does not connect directly to the dynamic level of forte in the next bar—the sharp contrast remains largely unmediated, and a real transition is not accomplished. Here, as often in his later works, Beethoven is concerned with nonadjacent connections, whereby even powerful contrasts can be subsumed into larger continuities. At the end of the second bar of the Allegro, after the cadenza-like “scream,” the ﬁrst violin returns to these same pitches with the 18 The Beethoven Quartets (New York: Norton, 1966), p. 244. Kerman writes that “The violin arpeggio in bar 9—prolonging that F—is like a scream; the premature tonic chord in bar 10 is like a hand clapped over the mouth.” 19 The larger context of this quotation, from Daniel Gottlob Türk’s Clavierschule of 1789, is as follows: “Good taste has made it a rule that dissonances or dissonant chords must generally be struck with more force than consonant ones, for the reason that the passions should be generally aroused by dissonances.” Translated by R. H. Haggh as School of Piano Playing (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1982), p. 340.

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Ex. 107 a. String Quartet op. 132, beginning

falling semitone F–E in the same register. The dynamic level here of piano corresponds with the intensity of sound at the earlier crescendo from pianissimo. Thus the two-bar violin ﬂourish is essentially parenthetical, with the resumption of the musical discourse occurring as the crucial semitone is recaptured.20 To regard such passages as emblematic of “shattered subjectivity,” as does Susan McClary, seems wide of the mark, since so many audible features of the music bridge its disruptive contrasts.21 The prolonged E in the ﬁrst violin in the third bar of the Allegro corresponds in its extended duration to the long notes of the Assai sostenuto; the repeated ﬁgures stressing the falling half step F–E in dotted rhythm in bars 14–15 recall the descending half steps heard in all the 20 For a discussion of parenthetical structures in Beethoven’s later music, see my essay “Thematic Contrast and Parenthetical Enclosure in the Piano Sonatas, op. 109 and 111,” in Zu Beethoven, vol. 3, ed. Harry Goldschmidt and Georg Knepler (Berlin: Verlag Neue Musik, 1988), pp. 43–59. 21 Susan McClary, Conventional Wisdom: The Content of Musical Form (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), p. 119.

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Ex. 107 (continued) b. String Quartet op. 132, transition to beginning of finale

voices in that section. By later placing an adagio bar before a recall of the “scream” in the ﬁrst violin at bar 22, Beethoven restated the pairing of contrasting tempi, while the violin elongates the F–E semitone as two whole notes in bars 23–24. To understand such “unpredictable shifts of musical thought” as part of “an ultimately integrative process,” as does Robert Hatten, is not to denature the

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music.22 On the contrary, it is as if an enlarged subjectivity enabled us to confront shock and dislocation without any sacriﬁce of the integrity of the artistic form. Although the piercing violin gesture assumes unusual importance in the ﬁrst movement, its reincarnation at the threshold to the ﬁnale surpasses these passages in intensity (Ex. 107b). The syncopated fortissimo in all four instruments employing double stops and with the ﬁrst violin on high F goes beyond the similar interjections in the ﬁrst movement. Beethoven even employs an accelerando here, as well as a crescendo from pianissimo to fortissimo. Here again, the F–E semitone is the crux of the matter, and modulations in preceding phrases of the recitative help bring this long-range pitch relationship sharply into relief. Unlike the ﬁrst movement passages, however, Beethoven leaves the dissonance on F unresolved in the two higher registers before the music, regaining composure in the middle register, broadens to poco adagio. The highest F at the presto outbreak and the F on the downbeat at the resumption of the recitative texture four bars later are both left hanging; the pitch of resolution, E, is denied. At the poco adagio, at last, the semitone ﬁgure emerges as the outcome of this extreme passage. Then, in the ensuing Allegro appassionato, which is played attacca, these same pitch relations are recaptured in the same registers (see Fig. 7). The second violin takes from the ﬁrst the F–E semitone, now treated as an ostinato, and Beethoven emphasizes the point by including two bars of accompaniment before the expressive main theme begins to unfold in the ﬁrst violin (Ex. 107b). As the theme is restated an octave higher, this semitone ﬁgure migrates upward as well, initially reiterating the F–E scale step before shifting to other scale degrees. After all of the eight-bar phrases of the theme are restated, the continuation pits the highest F against E in consecutive two-bar phrases, starting in bar 35. Beethoven not only recalls the ﬁrst movement in his recitative-transition, but allows this passage to take on special importance in the narrative design of the whole quartet. Motivic echoes of the dissonant F–E scale step of the recitative sound throughout the closing Allegro appassionato. These remind us that in the quartet Beethoven has inverted the function of the recitative in the Ninth: instead of opening up utopian possibilities, this recitative forces a renewed confrontation with the music of pathos that was already heard in the opening gestures of the ﬁrst movement. This brief but weighty passage of recitative with its catastrophic climax and transition to the Allegro appassionato is seldom rendered adequately in performance. Particularly challenging is the need to convey convincingly the expressive duplication of the unresolved hanging Fs in the Presto, the distillation of the F–E relationship at the poco adagio, and the assimilation of this motive into the accompaniment and the melody of the rondo ﬁnale. The psychological process of transition demands a rigorous shaping of the small motivic units in order that these be heard in relation to one another, even when they are not directly juxtaposed in the temporal unfolding of the music. Here, as often in Beethoven, but 22 Robert Hatten, Interpreting Musical Gestures, Topics, and Tropes: Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004), p. 270.

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Figure 7. The F-E semitone in the Presto and ﬁnale theme of op. 132

especially in his later music, a close attention to such nonadjacent connections is essential. The serious, and even agonizing expressive character of the A minor Quartet was probably a factor in Beethoven’s choice of the Alla Marcia, assai vivace to serve as a contrasting buffer zone between the “Heiliger Dankgesang” and the recitative and ﬁnale. We know when Beethoven seems to have ﬁrst considered this juxtaposition of movements. In a musical sketch entered into a conversation book on 27–28 May 1825, he writes the end of the “Dankgesang,” marked “Dor[isch]” (“Dorian”), followed by the Alla marcia on the reverse of the same page.23 Yet in other sources from this period, such as on the very ﬁrst page of the Moscow Sketchbook, entries for the “Heiliger Dankgesang” are juxtaposed instead with the Alla danza tedesca, which is written in the key of A major.24 Beethoven weighed these two alternatives. After having ﬁrst decided to use the Alla tedesca in op. 132, he changed his mind and restored the Alla marcia. It has been suggested that Beethoven was motivated here by a desire for metric contrast: the second and last movements and parts of the third movement are in triple time, as is the Alla tedesca, whereas the movement chosen is a march, in duple time.25 In this context, his emphasis on dotted rhythms recalls the march-like motivic ﬁgures of the ﬁrst movement, while the prominent descending step in alternate bars also links this subject to the main theme of the rondo ﬁnale. Figure 8 shows several of the conspicuous motivic relations shared between the ﬁrst, fourth, and ﬁfth movements of op. 132. Recognition of the shared afﬁnities between the outer movements of op. 132 helps us to reassess the narrative design of the quartet as a whole, in which the “Heiliger Dankgesang” assumes such a prominent position. The shocking F3 at the Presto is undoubtedly a gesture of negation and despair targeted at speciﬁc 23

Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte, vol. 7, ed. Karl-Heinz Köhler and Grita Herre (Leipzig: VEB Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1978), p. 287; also see Brandenburg, “The Autograph of Beethoven’s String Quartet in A Minor, Opus 132,” p. 284. 24 This sketchbook has been published in facsimile and transcription, with a commentary by Elena Vjaskova, as Ludwig van Beethoven: Moscow Sketchbook from 1825 (Moscow: Gnesins Musical Academy of Russia, 1995). 25 See the comments by Marius Flothuis and Lewis Lockwood in relation to Brandenburg’s study of op. 132 in The String Quartets of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, p. 301.

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Figure 8. Motivic relations in the Quartet in A Minor, op. 132

earlier passages in the quartet. As Greg Vitercik has observed, this is the same high f as is heard at the conclusion of the “Heiliger Dankgesang.” As Vitercik puts it, this “wrenching F111 [⫽ F3] in the ﬁrst violin . . . recalls, as in a nightmare, the breathlessly poised F111 [in] the last bar of the ‘Dankgesang.’”26 The “Dankgesang” movement consists of a ﬁve-part form: three sections based on the Lydian chorale in duple meter are wrapped around two lively, highly decorated tonal sections marked “Neue Kraft fühlend” (“feeling new strength”). Of the ﬁve phrases making up the Lydian cantus ﬁrmus, it is the ﬁrst that strongly emphasizes the E–F semitone that we have discussed in the outer movements. The last section of the form of the “Dankgesang,” moreover, is based just on this ﬁrst phrase. Signiﬁcantly, the passage leading to the climax of this Molto adagio emphatically restates the opening phrase in the highest register (Ex. 108). The enormous intensiﬁcation of sonority in this passage, fortiﬁed by canonic imitations of the accented notes of the hymn, contributes to the impact of music “beside whose strength the Neue Kraft pales,” in Kerman’s formulation.27 It is revealing in this connection to compare the design of the A minor Quartet with one of the most impressive of Beethoven’s middle-period works in the minor mode, the Piano Sonata in F minor op. 57 (“Appassionata”). Its tragic character is connected to the use of a tonal plan with conspicuous parallels to op. 132. Whereas the turbulent outer movements are in F minor, the contemplative slow movement is a set of variations on a serene, chorale-like theme in D major marked Andante con moto. The motivic semitone ﬁgure D to C assumes outstanding importance in the outer movements, in conjunction with a character of tragic strife. This is a counterpart to the F–E semitone relation that is so decisive in the quartet. In both pieces, moreover, Beethoven employs the ﬂat sixth degree as the tonality for a lyrical theme in the ﬁrst movement and as the tonic of the slow movement in the middle of the entire work. (In op. 132, of course, this slow move26

“Structure and Expression in Beethoven’s Op. 132,” Journal of Musicological Research 13 (1993), p. 249. 27 The Beethoven Quartets, p. 260.

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Ex. 108 String Quartet op. 132/III, bars 179–95, climax of final Molto adagio section

ment is set not in F major, but in the Lydian mode, an F mode without B ). Thus the expressive polarity at the heart of each composition exploits a 6–5 semitone relation as a source of dissonance and pathos as well as the instability of an internal tonic in a ﬂat sixth relation to the overall minor tonic key. In accordance with this compositional strategy, both works contain a particular moment of tragic reversal when the serenity or spirituality of the slow movement is shattered. In the Appassionata, this occurs at the end of the Andante con moto, at the harmonic substitution of an arpeggiated diminished seventh beneath the cadential D , a note that now becomes a crucial dissonance in the context of F minor. In the Quartet in A minor, the corresponding moment of catastrophic setback comes at the fortissimo outbreak in the recitative preceding the ﬁnale. Yet, unlike in the Appassionata, this negating gesture is set at a distance from its target—the ethereal ﬁnal passages of the “Heiliger Dankgesang”—separated as these are from the recitative by the Alla marcia, assai vivace. This circumstance points to the greater complexity of the quartet compared to the sonata. One aspect of the complexity lies in the role of modal contrast in the work, particularly the placement of the second and fourth movements as well as the coda of the ﬁnale in A major. The polarity of major and minor in op. 132 is emphasized through Beethoven’s decision to maintain A as tonic in four of the ﬁve movements of the quartet. Several audible long-range connections between movements are bound up with this modal contrast. The exquisite sound texture of the Presto coda re-

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calls the trio of the second movement, while its stress on F in the cadential phrase recalls once more not only the ostinato accompaniment of the main theme of the ﬁnale, but also the expressive poignancy of this note in the ﬁrst movement. The inﬂections of pain in the opening Assai sostenuto are not entirely forgotten, and even the prominent tonal stress on F throughout the quartet—from the second subject of the ﬁrst movement to the Lydian “Dankgesang”—resonates faintly in this telling melodic detail. Another challenging aspect of op. 132 is the design of the “Heiliger Dankgesang” itself, especially its split into the radical duality of the Lydian hymn and “Neue Kraft fühlend.” In an insightful essay, Kevin Korsyn has probed in detail how aspects of “feeling new strength” are assimilated into the ﬁnal modal section to support the climactic passages we have discussed, enabling the Lydian music to attain closure for the ﬁrst time. Yet he ultimately regards it as a matter of interpretation whether this interpenetration be regarded as a “coalescence . . . [or] a mere coexistence of opposites.” Korsyn asks: “Does Beethoven fuse opposites or simply narrate the impossibility of their convergence?”28 The same question could be asked of other contrasts in this quartet. The notion of a Classical resolution of tensions is put to the test here, as it will be in different ways in the following quartets. Adorno claimed in this regard that “something in [Beethoven’s] genius, probably the deepest thing, refused to reconcile in the image what is unreconciled in reality.”29 Yet Beethoven actually goes far toward “reconciling what is irreconcilable” through his handling of the “Heiliger Dankgesang” in the Lydian mode together with the animated, dance-like tonal sections marked “feeling new strength.” If these drastically opposed idioms are at ﬁrst juxtaposed, suggesting two independent beginnings, they are also partly integrated in the ﬁnal section. Regarding the quartet as a whole, one difference of interpretation lies in the extent to which listeners acknowledge what Kerman describes as “the creation of a psychological progress perhaps more arresting than in any other work.”30 Daniel Chua, for instance, perceives substantial relationships between the parts of the quartet, asserting that “what happens in the last three movements of the work is nothing less than an expansion of the ﬁrst 30 bars of the quartet into 661 bars; the fusion of the movements and the ﬁssures in their contrast trace exactly the same semiotic, harmonic, thematic, and gestural patterns presented at the beginning.”31 Yet after making this rather ambitious claim, he insists at the same time that the work “negates Enlightenment thinking itself” in delivering a “devastating critique” that contains “no psychological linear progres28

See Korsyn, “J. W. N. Sullivan and the Heiliger Dankgesang: Questions of Meaning in Late Beethoven,” Beethoven Forum 2 (1993), p. 173. 29 See Adorno, “Late Work without Late Style” in Beethoven: The Philosophy of Music: Fragments and Texts, ed. Rolf Tiedemann, trans. Edmund Jephcott (Oxford: Polity Press, 1998), p. 152. 30 The Beethoven Quartets, p. 267. 31 The “Galitzin” Quartets of Beethoven, p. 159.

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sion.”32 A problem with this argument lies in its unreasonable denial of a psychological dimension in the narrative design of the music. Expression and structure are not in contradiction here, as more balanced discussions of the quartet have recognized.33 A comparison can be made with the Piano Sonata in A major, op. 110, composed in 1820–22.34 Like op. 132, the genesis of the sonata was connected to Beethoven’s recovery from sickness, in this instance an even more prolonged illness.35 Both works display powerful binary oppositions that are associated with sickness and revitalization, death and life. Beethoven’s title, “Holy Song of Thanks to the Godhead from a Convalescent,” implies a serious loss of life energies on the part of the grateful convalescent, and related gestures elsewhere in op. 132, such as the recitative preceding the ﬁnale, show that a sense of foreboding is not conﬁned to the slow movement. As Kerman has stressed, a quality of anguish or suffering seems deeply embedded in the quartet. In the ﬁnale of the sonata, a counterpart to the pairing of Lydian “Dankgesang” and “new strength” is embodied in the duality of the Arioso dolente and fugue. Mournful stanzas of the arioso in the minor mode are juxtaposed with the hopeful, aspiring music of the fugue, whose subject features a series of rising perfect fourths set in the major. After the ﬁrst fugal section is abruptly broken off, the lament returns in an even more despairing version in the remote key of G minor. This second presentation of the Arioso dolente, with its sighing vocal rhetoric reminiscent of Pamina’s “Ach, ich fühl’s,” in the same key, seems destined to end, as does that aria, in unmitigated despair. Only at the last possible moment does the miraculous turning point occur, like an evasion of death: at the ﬁnal framing cadential gesture in G minor, Beethoven substitutes the unexpected, and in the immediate context of the arioso, even incongruous sonority of the major (bar 5 of Ex. 109). That event signals the beginning of an extended transition, whereby the fugue subject returns in inversion, and only very 32 Ibid, pp. 160, 161. It seems implausible that “exactly the same . . . patterns” are traced in these three movements. 33 See in this vein the aforementioned studies by Kerman, Korsyn, and Vitercik, the title of whose study, “Structure and Expression in Beethoven’s Op. 132,” itself afﬁrms that aesthetic synthesis which Chua is prone to reject. There is good reason to believe that a synthesis of expression and structure remained fundamental to Beethoven’s art throughout his life. 34 For discussion of the compositional genesis of op. 110, see my studies “Contrast and Continuity in Beethoven’s Creative Process,” in Beethoven and His World, ed. Scott Burnham and Michael P. Steinberg (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), pp. 215–18; and Artaria 195: Beethoven’s Sketchbook for the Missa solemnis and the Piano Sonata in E Major, Opus 109, vol. 1 (commentary) (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2003), pp. 26–31. Earlier studies placed the beginning of Beethoven’s work on the sonata in late 1821. 35 See in this regard my study “The Evolution of Beethoven’s Late Style: Another ‘New Path’ after 1824?” Beethoven Forum 8 (2000), pp. 83–84. Radcliffe draws a parallel between the ﬁnale of op. 110 and the “Heiliger Dankgesang” of op. 132 in Beethoven’s String Quartets, p. 115.

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Ex. 109 Piano Sonata op. 110/III, end of second arioso section

gradually, through a process of contrapuntal and rhythmic development, does the music recapture the tonic key and ultimately reach a climax of lyric euphoria in the high register. This transition in op. 110 might also have carried the inscription “Feeling New Strength”; Beethoven wrote a similar message above the music: “nach u. nach sich neu belebend” (“gradually coming anew to life”). In fact, op. 110 and op. 132 are not alone in absorbing into music such a dialectical expression of the polarity between death, as a termination of striving and outcome of depressive forces, and life, as a vitalization of energies culminating in joyful abandon. This symbolic dimension surfaces in Beethoven’s instrumental music at least as early as the Piano Sonata in D major op. 10 no. 3, and it is found in major works including the Eroica Symphony, the Egmont music, and the Missa solemnis, as we have seen. The duality stands at the very center of Beethoven’s only opera, Fidelio, where it was emphasized through the expansion in 1814 of Florestan’s aria in the dungeon, where the prisoner, close to death, is sustained through his delirious vision of the “angel of freedom,” Leonore. Of all his instrumental works in this vein, the Quartet in A minor contains perhaps the most challenging narrative design, one whose implications can be cautiously explored. In answer to Korsyn’s question, Beethoven seems in the “Heiliger Dankgesang” to narrate the possibility of a partial convergence of opposites, achieving thereby the revitalization of the implied subject. And although the despairing recitative retracts this promise, the ﬁnale ultimately restores it. The passage leading to the coda hammers out the crucial F3 on downbeats, with the theme in the cello in a high, strained position, as the tempo accelerates to presto. This extraordinary passage becomes the gateway to an A major never previously attained.

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Here may lie the reason the second and fourth movements—the two dance movements in the major—“are experienced in a curious and unique way as subsidiary,” as Kerman says. Various commentators have noted a ﬂatness or static quality in the second movement, the Allegro ma non tanto, and Vitercik writes about its “obsessive clarity” and “endless permutations” of the counterpoint of bars 5–6 such that “the mesmerizing insouciance of these repetitions comes dangerously close to trivializing that counterpoint, reducing it to the level of a parlor trick.”36 Furthermore, the trio of this movement, with its innocent tone, blocklike sectional construction, and collage-like reuse of scraps of music Beethoven wrote thirty years earlier, is just as provocative as the Alla marcia, assai vivace in standing aloof from the serious character of the other three movements. The second and fourth movements in A major are handled in a somewhat parodistic manner, while the coda of the ﬁnale is reserved as the true destination for the psychological progress of the work as a whole. In his later years, Beethoven was especially interested in such techniques of parody, and his music with rustic connotations, such as the musette in the trio of the second movement, can harbor deeper meanings. In its texture, meter, and key, this musette anticipates the coda of the ﬁnale of op. 132. Here too, the Piano Sonata in A op. 110 offers a revealing parallel. Its second movement, a humorous scherzo-like Allegro molto, alludes to a folk song, Ich bin lüderlich, du bist lüderlich (I Am Dissolute, You Are Dissolute). That very passage is recalled near the end of the fugal ﬁnale of op. 110, where a texture of double diminution helps point the way toward the closing passages of resolution. In both works, an energy drawn from the commonplace helps enable the positive conclusion in the tonic major. Beethoven seems to convey thereby that an openness to experience is an indispensable condition for the sustaining vision of fulﬁlled life.

S S S As we have seen, the Quartet in A minor shows points of contact with certain earlier works by Beethoven, particularly the Ninth Symphony and the Piano Sonata in A major op. 110. At the same time, it displays qualities of nonlinear temporality that are particularly innovative. Even immediate, dramatic gestures—such as the violin “scream” at the Presto preceding the ﬁnale—seem to be embodied in a formal network stretching over the work as a whole, and the timing of such events is not always coordinated with their expressive meaning in a singular continuity. Yet conﬂicts and gaps in this music need not be understood as “devastating critique”; they can assume a range of signiﬁcance reaching far beyond their immediate context. Special devices—such as the controlled use of the very highest register— help to articulate long-spanned connections between movements. In yet another way, the parodistic character of the second and fourth movements broadens the aesthetic scope of the work. Boldest of all is how Beethoven captures a remote or timeless ethos in the Lydian hymn of the “Dankgesang,” yet the impulse is not antiquarian but essentially modernistic; older models are sought in order to be tested and strained to their limits. 36

“Structure and Expression in Beethoven’s Op. 132,” p. 246.

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In approaching the Quartet in B major, we shall focus on the original version of this work with the Grosse Fuge as ﬁnale.37 Without recounting in detail the circumstances that led to the composition of a new ﬁnale, we should note that this was no straightforward substitution, as with the replacement of the Andante favori as slow movement of the Waldstein Sonata, the reassignment of the ﬁnale of the Violin Sonata in A major op. 30 no. 1 to the Kreutzer Sonata, or the substitution of the march-like fourth movement of the A minor Quartet op. 132 for the Alla danza tedesca that Beethoven redeployed in turn as the fourth movement of op. 130. An analogy might also be made to the severing of the magniﬁcent overture Leonore No. 3 from Fidelio, but the case of the Grosse Fuge remains unique. There are good reasons for regarding the original version of the B Quartet with the Grosse Fuge as the most deﬁnitive one, and it is this form of the work that pushes most strongly toward new aesthetic perspectives. Of all Beethoven’s compositions, the original B Quartet is perhaps the most heavily end-weighted, with a diverse series of shorter and lighter movements followed by a colossal fugal essay. One commentator has even suggested an analogy to the sequence of free and strict pieces from the Baroque, such as Bach’s preludes and fugues, whereby the fugal ﬁnale balances all of the preceding ﬁve movements.38 Without the rest of the quartet, moreover, the Grosse Fuge is effectively orphaned, and the beginning of its elaborate “Ouvertura” loses the point. The Grosse Fuge is a ﬁnale in search of the work, with which it has now, in modern performances, often been reconciled. In May 1825, while he was composing op. 132, Beethoven made the notation on fol. 6r of the “de Roda” sketchbook, “letztes Quartett mit einer ernsthaften und schwergängigen Einleitung” (“last quartet with a serious and weighty introduction”), which can only refer to op. 130, the last of the three quartets included in the commission from Prince Galitzin. Eight pages later, on fol. 13v, amid the ﬁrst sketches for the slow introduction to the ﬁrst movement of op. 130, and while he was still working on the ﬁnale of op. 132, Beethoven made an entry for “letztes Stück des quartetts in B” (“last movement of the quartet in B ”) includ37

For a detailed account defending the role of the Grosse Fuge as a suitable ﬁnale, see Klaus Kropﬁnger, “Das gespaltene Werk Beethovens Streichquartett Op. 130/133,” in Beiträge zu Beethovens Kammermusik Symposion Bonn 1984, ed. Sieghard Brandenburg and Helmut Loos (Munich: Henle, 1987), pp. 296–335; see also Kropﬁnger’s articles “Streichquartett B-Dur op. 130,” “Fuge B-Dur für Streichquartett ‘Grosse Fuge’ op. 133,” and “Bearbeitung der ‘Grossen Fuge’ op. 133 für Klavier zu 4 Händen op. 134,” in Beethoven: Interpretationen seiner Werke, ed. Albrecht Riethmüller, Carl Dahlhaus, and Alexander Ringer (Laaber: Laaber, 1994), pp. 299–316, 338–47. Also see in this regard Stefania M. de Kennessey, The Quartet, the Finale and the Fugue: A Study of Beethoven’s op. 130/133 (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1984), and Richard Kramer, “Between Cavatina Ouverture: Opus 130 and the Voices of Narrative,” Beethoven Forum 1 (1992), pp. 165–89. A discussion favoring the substitute ﬁnale is offered in Barry Cooper, Beethoven and the Creative Process (Oxford: Clarendon, 1990), pp. 197–214. 38 See Barbara R. Barry, “Recycling the End of the ‘Leibquartett’: Models, Meaning and Propriety in Beethoven’s Quartet in B-Flat Major, Opus 130,” Journal of Musicology 13 (1995), pp. 364–65.

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ing the notation “Fugha” (“fugue”). As Klaus Kropﬁnger has stressed, this evidence implies that Beethoven was concerned from an early stage in the genesis of op. 130 with a complex and ambitious project.39 However, it was not until 24 August 1825 that Beethoven informed his nephew and Karl Holz that the new quartet would have six movements, and he added in the letter to his nephew that the piece would be “completely ﬁnished in at most 12 days.”40 His prediction was overly optimistic, and the quartet continued to occupy him until December of 1825. According to Barry Cooper’s evaluation of the sketches, Beethoven’s plans for the quartet remained unsettled for a time after the ﬁrst two movements had been sketched, and the fourth and ﬁfth movements—the Alla danza tedesca and Cavatina—were included only after the fugue had begun to assume large dimensions.41 By about late August, Beethoven evidently began to work on the Cavatina and fugue simultaneously. The sketches show that Beethoven only gradually altered the intervallic structure of the Cavatina to incorporate some of its striking melodic features, whereas the main fugal subject had been devised earlier, while he was a work on the E Major Quartet op. 127. One guiding factor in his labors was surely the thematic motto heard at the outset of the entire quartet, in adagio tempo, which preﬁgures musical events in the work as a whole (Ex. 110). For instance, Beethoven recalls this opening, with its falling semitones from B to A , when he introduces the change of key to D major for the third movement, the Andante. Rudolph Reti even proposed that the outer notes of the motto—G and E —are coordinated with the keys of Beethoven’s fourth and ﬁfth movements, in G major and E major respectively.42 Despite a difference in tonality, the rising sixth B –G and third G–(A )–B that begin the Cavatina also display an audible motivic kinship to the notes of this opening motto. The Adagio molto espressivo of the Cavatina develops a lyric strain that was latent in the Adagio ma non troppo in the ﬁrst movement. That this opening Adagio is more than a slow introduction made clear from its return in later passages of the ﬁrst movement, including the repetition of the exposition of the sonata form. Beethoven’s initial idea was to juxtapose just the ﬁrst four bars of the Adagio with the Allegro in running sixteenth notes. This is essentially the procedure carried out later in the exposition (bars 21–24) and in the coda, which is based entirely on this pair of contrasting themes.43 The contrapun39

See Kropﬁnger, “Streichquartett B-Dur op. 130,” pp. 301–4. Kropﬁnger rejects Barry Cooper’s argument in his chapter “Planning the Later Movements: String Quartet in B ﬂat, Op. 130,” in Beethoven and the Creative Process, where he maintains that Beethoven had no early intention of writing a fugal ﬁnale and that “the Große Fuge can be seen as something of an intrusion into the quartet, rather than the germ from which the work sprang” (p. 214). 40 Beethoven Briefe, vol. 6, L. 2042, 2043. 41 Beethoven and the Creative Process, pp. 197–214. 42 The Thematic Process in Music (London: Faber & Faber, 1961), pp. 228–29. Reti considers the D tonic of the third movement to substitute for the D in the theme. The tonic of Beethoven’s fourth movement is mistakenly given as G minor in Reti’s book. 43 The “de Roda” Sketchbook contains a draft for the movement without the intervening bars 5–14. See Cecilio de Roda, “Un quaderno de autograﬁ di Beethoven del 1825,”

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Ex. 110 String Quartet op. 130/I, beginning

tal passage Beethoven added to lengthen the initial Adagio was by no means the only major revision he made during the compositional process. As Elena Vjaskova has observed, the astonishing development section of the ﬁrst movement was originally conceived on very different lines, as a double fugato reminiscent of the ﬁrst movement of the Piano Sonata in C minor op. 111.44 In revising these early plans, Beethoven introduced elements of whimsy and unpredictability—qualities not absent from the movements to come. At the beginning of the development section as we know it, he repeatedly juxtaposes short fragments of the music in the two contrasting tempos. The continuation then brings an uncanny motivic dialogue played against an ostinato in the middle voices that is derived from an appoggiatura ﬁgure in the Adagio (Ex. 111). This dialogue highlights both the headmotive from the Allegro, with its rising fourth, and a variant of the lyrical second subject, with its initial ascending interval now widened to an octave and the continuation compressed into eighth notes instead of quarters. These motives communicate in a weirdly inconsistent fashion, reserving the right to disappear at will into the ostinato background. The lyrical octave ascent in the cello in the third bar of the Allegro seems to inﬂuence the rising headmotive in the ﬁrst violin three bars later, where the fourth is expanded to an octave. Just after the change in key signature to G major the corresponding bass entry is blended into the ostinato ﬁgure. Curiously, the direction of resolution of these motives into the ostinato background can initiate an inversion in the direction of the prevailing appoggiatura ﬁgure: the F –G ostinato of bars 11–12 thus becomes G–F three bars later. Such relationships heighten the effect of temporal stasis—the trance-like suspension characteristic of this remarkable episode—which reveals one possible synthesis of apparently incompatible themes. Rivista Musicale Italiana 12 (1905), p. 596. Kropﬁnger comments on the role of the Adagio in this movement in “Zur thematischen Funktion der langsamen Einleitung bei Beethoven,” in Kropﬁnger, Über Musik im Bilde, vol. 1, ed. Bodo Bischoff and others (Cologne: Verlag Christoph Dohr, 1995), pp. 213–29. 44 Ludwig van Beethoven: Moscow Sketchbook from 1825, p. 68.

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Ex. 111 String Quartet op. 130/I, Development, bars 104–27

Beethoven reserves his supreme exercise in paradox for the coda. After recalling the beginning of the Adagio ma non troppo in slightly varied form, he dovetails the Allegro and Adagio phrases into one another to form a new continuity (Ex. 112). The chromatic ascent that originates in the Adagio as A–B rises to B–C and C –D in the following Adagio excerpts, before ﬁnding a further continuation in the Allegro tempo of the cadential passage. These interdependent Adagio and Allegro sections which make up the coda are held in perfect balance, and Beethoven’s manipulation of the music in contrasting tempos creates a mutually interlocking parenthetical structure. The excerpts interrupt one another, and are themselves interrupted. It becomes difﬁcult, if not impossible, to say what is actually “parenthetical” under such circumstances. The apparent contradiction is transcended (aufgehoben) in the achievement of the composite theme.

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Ex. 112 String Quartet op. 130/I, coda, bars 214–end

This most radically dissociated movement introduces Beethoven’s most controversial single work: the original, or “Galitzin,” version of the B Quartet with the Grosse Fuge (Great Fugue) as ﬁnale. The Grosse Fuge is the largest and most difﬁcult of all Beethoven’s quartet movements, dubbed “das Monstrum aller Quartett-Musik” in Schindler’s derogatory formulation. As is well known, Bee-

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thoven eventually decided at the urgings of Karl Holz and the publisher Matthias Artaria to write a substitute ﬁnale for this quartet, separating the Grosse Fuge for publication as op. 133. Consequently, the B Quartet has usually been performed without the Grosse Fuge, and debate about the virtues of the two ﬁnales has continued to this day without any clear resolution. In 1963 Warren Kirkendale argued for an interpretation of the Grosse Fuge as Beethoven’s “Art of the Fugue,” as a compendium of fugal devices presumably inspired in part by one of Beethoven’s teachers from his early Vienna years, Johann Georg Albrechtsberger.45 In accordance with this view, Kirkendale found it entirely ﬁtting to regard the Grosse Fuge as a work in its own right, divorced from the quartet. Other writers have found Kirkendale’s argument overstated and have stressed the character of the Grosse Fuge as a ﬁnale, as well as pointing to the many motivic and textural threads that connect it with the earlier movements. In his book Beethoven and the Creative Process Barry Cooper has concluded on the basis of sketch sources that since the Grosse Fuge can be seen as something of an intrusion into the quartet, rather than the germ from which the work sprang, Beethoven’s decision to replace it with a different movement, more in line with the others and with the ﬁnale he had intended while writing them, must seem entirely justiﬁed.46

Nevertheless, during 1826 the B Quartet was discussed, rehearsed, performed, and even engraved in its original version with the Grosse Fuge as ﬁnale. The ﬁrst rehearsal of the quartet took place on Tuesday, 3 January 1826, in Beethoven’s apartment, and many further rehearsals following before the work was premiered place in a concert on 21 March. The conversation books used by the deaf composer during these weeks are astoundingly informative about the B Quartet, and especially about the fugue. Beethoven’s violinist friend Karl Holz told the composer that “everything will go easily, except for the fugue” and that this “last movement must be practiced at home,” for which reason the players needed to take the parts with them.47 Several entries refer to the difﬁculty of the Grosse Fuge, and on one occasion, Schuppanzigh quipped that “Holz has fallen asleep, since the last movement has made him kaput.”48 Various other topics are discussed, but the recurrent theme is the formidable challenge of the Grosse Fuge, especially involving the bowing, clarity, and ensemble of the sections in swift tempo involving triplets and leaps in register. Holz comments in this vein that the difﬁculties would be overcome with practice, while “the novelty of playing such passages makes at ﬁrst for greater obstacles than are really there.”49 In a conversation book from more than a half year later, September 1826, Holz 45

“The ‘Great Fugue’ Op. 133: Beethoven’s ‘Art of the Fugue,’” pp. 14–24. P. 214. 47 Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte, vol. 8, ed. Karl-Heinz Köhler and Grita Herre (Leipzig: VEB Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1981), pp. 243, 245. 48 Ibid., p. 246. 49 Ibid., p. 250. 46

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tells Beethoven that “You could have easily made 2 [works] out of the B Quartet.”50 This remark was presumably connected to Beethoven’s decision to write a new ﬁnale, as urged by the publisher, with Holz’s support; Beethoven’s ﬁrst sketches for the substitute ﬁnale date from about this time. In a general way, of course, Holz’s comment touches on a conspicuous feature not only of op. 130, but of all of the middle three of the late quartets. These works expand the cycle of movements beyond the conventional framework that had with few exceptions served Beethoven adequately throughout his career.51 Various reasons have been proposed to explain Beethoven’s willingness to provide a new ﬁnale: they include the extra fee; his recognition of the difﬁculties experienced by the players and listeners (in spite of his comment “Cattle! Asses!,” when he heard the fugue had not been well received); his depressed and possibly conciliatory state of mind by the autumn of 1826, when the substitute ﬁnale was written; and even the changing aesthetic perspective brought about by his experience in composing the last two quartets, opp. 131 and 135. No one of these explanations seems compelling in itself; a proper assessment of the issue must rest primarily on aesthetic grounds, on our analysis of the music. Still, it is worth noting that Beethoven once before had authorized puzzling changes in a piece that culminates similarly in an astonishing and extremely difﬁcult fugue—the Hammerklavier Sonata. In a letter to Ries of 1819 Beethoven suggested that, “should the sonata not be suitable for London,” it might be published without the Largo, or without the fugue but with the scherzo as ﬁnale, or even that the ﬁrst movement and scherzo might form the entire sonata.52 This patently destructive attitude toward the sonata can be at least partly explained as a willingness to allow arrangement for additional proﬁt of a work that was being properly printed in Vienna. The motive of arrangement for additional proﬁt would seem to apply as well to the case of the third “Galitzin” Quartet. One problem with Cooper’s evaluation of the genesis of op. 130 is his tendency to identify selected preliminary sketches with the composer’s “intention” without taking sufﬁcient account of the larger aesthetic context. Beethoven’s sketches often represent the barest shorthand for very much more; one challenge in interpreting them is to conjure something of this missing context, and not to take them merely at face value, which risks conveying a misleading impression of their function and content. Cooper’s “completion” of the ﬁrst movement of Beethoven’s Tenth Symphony displays some shortcomings of his approach: the outcome might more accurately be described as an elaboration by the editor on motifs from Beethoven’s sketchbooks than as Beethoven’s “symphony,” since too little material survives to permit a proper realization. By identifying Beethoven’s “intention” in op. 130 with unrealized ﬁnale sketches that are “not unlike the substitute ﬁnale,” Cooper comes to regard the 50

Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte, vol. 10, ed. Dagmar Beck (Leipzig: Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1993), p. 185. 51 One exception is the Sixth Symphony, with its use of ﬁve movements. 52 Anderson, vol. 2, L. 939.

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Grosse Fuge as “something of an intrusion into the quartet,” but this reasoning fails to take sufﬁcient account of the provisionary nature of the sketches and the evolving nature of intention as commitment to an artistic process. For another example, let us consider Beethoven’s sketches for the Arietta theme in the ﬁnal movement of his sonata op. 111. Many of these sketches contain dance-like entries in 3/8 time akin to the world of Diabelli’s waltz; the slow, chorale-like setting of the Arietta theme surfaces only in advanced sketches.53 Would it then be correct to speak of the Arietta theme as representing “something of an intrusion into the sonata”? On the contrary, the work of art we know as op. 111 ﬁrst came into existence only after very extensive sketching by Beethoven. The existence of sketches does not guarantee ipso facto the existence of the work. The aesthetic problems raised by the “Galitzin” version of the B Quartet have been reassessed by Richard Kramer, who looks beyond the analysis of thematic relationships to address the narrative implications of Beethoven’s pairing of the Cavatina and the Grosse Fuge. For all its radical features, the B Quartet bears comparison with a number of other compositions from Beethoven’s later years. A sequence of shorter inner movements—two dance movements surrounding the exquisite Andante con moto—leads up to the Cavatina in penultimate position. Then, in direct juxtaposition to the heartfelt, lyrical, even operatic expression of the Cavatina, the transition to the ﬁnale annihilates this frame of reference. As Kramer points out, the moment of narrative intervention is the octave G that begins the “Ouverture” to the fugue, a note that does not yet belong to the preview of themes to follow (Ex. 113): “Wrenched from the pathos of the Cavatina, its graceless grace notes wrest the two middle-register Gs from that famous simultaneity with which the Cavatina expires and inﬂate them to an expanse of four octaves.”54 As in the Ninth Symphony or the Hammerklavier Sonata, we encounter here a turning point in the work as a whole, a moment of crucial narrative signiﬁcance. According to Holz, Beethoven said that the mere thought of the Cavatina brought him to tears; the ensuing “Ouverture” seems to reject such sentiment in a way somewhat reminiscent of Czerny’s report, many years earlier, about Beethoven’s mocking laughter in response to the listeners who wept at his improvisations. An analogous moment is perhaps the passage from the 20th to the 21st variation— from the Andante to the Allegro con brio—in the Diabelli Variations, where an inward sanctuary of reﬂection is rudely ﬂooded by the glaring light of ordinary reality. The transition to the Grosse Fuge lacks the parodistic dimension of the Diabelli Variations, but it dispels the preceding lyrical music with equal vehemence. The parade of fugal themes in the “Ouverture” anticipates the main sections of the great ﬁnale in reverse order. As Kramer points out, this sequence proceeds from the clearest thematic statement to the most obscure—the gapped form of the subject that serves as countersubject in the huge opening section in B . Conversely, 53

The sketches for the Arietta movement are discussed and transcribed by William Drabkin in “A Study of Beethoven’s Opus 111 and Its Sources.” 54 “Between Cavatina and Ouverture,” p. 178.

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Ex. 113 (a) String Quartet op. 130/V, bars 61–end

(b) Grosse Fuge op. 133

the main sections of the fugue unfold with a sense of progress from the obscure to the coherent; the most basic form of the subject is withheld until the ﬁnal passages. The most emphatic assertion of this principal fugue subject in the tonic B occurs only in the closing section marked Allegro molto e con brio, where it is prefaced by brief reminiscences of two of the other main sections (now recalled in the proper order). In the Grosse Fuge Beethoven combines smaller movements into a composite form using variation technique, while employing unusually elaborate rhetorical devices of premonition and reminiscence. In these respects the quartet ﬁnale bears comparison to the choral ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony. Various thematic, harmonic, and structural relationships link the Grosse Fuge to the earlier movements of op. 130, but these do little to negate the impression of powerful, even bewildering contrasts. As with some of Beethoven’s comic pieces, the integrity of this quartet resides in a tension between eccentricity and normality. The music shows us that more lurks behind the surface of things than might appear. Near the end of the fourth movement, the Alla danza tedesca, for instance, Beethoven juggles the measures of the dance in a free retrograde pattern, delightfully subverting our expectations. In the ﬁrst movement, the most balanced, integrated, and hence “normal” thematic presentation proves to be the coda— paradoxically, the passage that shifts gears most of all. In this context the Grosse Fuge provides a much more compelling culmination than the substitute rondo ﬁnale. The rondo, with its milder manners and Haydnesque character, sounds anticlimactic after the extraordinary chain of movements leading up to the Cavatina, whereas the fugue opens new territory, heightening the character of unpredictability that had invested the quartet from the outset, while broadening its expressive

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range to the utmost. As Kramer writes, the Grosse Fuge both reconciles and renounces “all those disparate musics in op. 130.”55 Beethoven’s severing of the Grosse Fuge from op. 130 raises fundamental questions about the role of the ﬁnale in his late style. Solomon compares the removal of the quartet fugue to Beethoven’s concern, as reported by Czerny, that to close the Ninth Symphony with a choral ﬁnale was a mistake. A principle of “alternative narrativity” may be at work here. In the choral ﬁnale or the Grosse Fuge, though not in the substitute ﬁnale, the modalities of earlier movements seem to be superseded and annulled; an organic relationship is thereby overstepped. Yet, as Solomon writes about the Ninth Symphony, “The earlier movements are not wholly rejected; they are found insufﬁcient to stand unsupported against evil.”56 Beethoven’s doubts about his most radical ﬁnales may have been connected to the ultimately unfulﬁlled nature of their depiction of the sublime, whose tensional structure harbors an ethical core.

55 56

Ibid., p. 188. “Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony: The Sense of an Ending,” p. 151.

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R With the completion of the B Quartet in November 1825 Beethoven at last fulﬁlled Galitzin’s commission. As so often, his artistic response followed his own laws, quite apart from Galitzin’s request for three quartets. For near the end of the year he began to sketch yet another quartet: this was the work in C minor op. 131, which he reportedly considered his greatest, because “there is less lack of fantasy than ever before.” Beethoven labored on the C minor Quartet until July 1826. It was followed by only two pieces: the ﬁnal Quartet in F major op. 135 and the substitute rondo ﬁnale of the B Quartet op. 130, both completed at Gneixendorf during the autumn of 1826. The Quartet in C minor is perhaps the most fully realized of all Beethoven’s intrinsically musical narrative designs. In op. 131 he merges tendencies from some of his earlier works to forge a unique seven-movement sequence without any breaks between movements. The large-scale rhythmic continuity is only one aspect of the integrated network of relationships that holds together these seven movements, which are explicitly numbered in the score. In approaching this quartet it is helpful to recall some of the compositional strategies from Beethoven’s earlier pieces that have been brought into play. As early as the fantasy sonatas op. 27 Beethoven had shifted the overall dramatic weight from the ﬁrst to the last movements of the sonata cycle, and in the E Sonata he had recalled the slow movement in the ﬁnale. His later compositional style tends to explore further this reversal of the classic aesthetic sequence, in part through his resourceful use of anticipation, quotation, recitative, and other rhetorical devices. In both the C major Cello Sonata and A major Piano Sonata op. 101, as we have seen, the lyrical opening movement is recalled at the threshold of the ﬁnale. In the Hammerklavier Sonata and Ninth Symphony a series of musical possibilities is glimpsed or reviewed before the discovery of the ﬁnale. Such directional tendencies also surface in the last sonatas, as well as in the original version of the B Quartet, with the Grosse Fuge as ﬁnale. In several pieces, including the D major Cello Sonata, the Hammerklavier Sonata, the A Sonata op. 110, the Gloria and Credo of the Missa solemnis, and of course the B Quartet, fugue is treated as the culmination of an extended cyclic form rich in contrast. The fugal subjects often display a uniﬁed structure elabo342

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Ex. 114 String Quartet op. 131/I

rating a single crucial interval. In the Gloria and in op. 110 these themes are based on a series of ascending fourths; the Credo fugue subject elaborates a chain of descending thirds, a framework that also lurks beneath the surface of the fugal subject in the Hammerklavier Sonata. In the C minor Quartet, by contrast, Beethoven inverts the position of the fugue, treating it as the point of departure instead of the outcome of the work. The fugue subject in op. 131 is more dissonant and harmonically ambiguous than the subjects of his fugal ﬁnales, including even the Grosse Fuge, a fact only partly explained by its being in the minor mode. An extraordinary feature of this fugue subject is the way Beethoven has adapted the basic trope recorded in his early C minor sketch for the four-hand sonata: the motivic ﬁgure outlining 5– 6–1–7 (G–A –C–B). In op. 131 he arranges these steps so as to emphasize the drooping ﬂat sixth degree, A in C minor: 5–7–1– 6 (G –B –C –A) (Ex. 114). A is heard as crux of the theme, partly on account of its strong rhythmic position and accent, which are underscored as well by the crescendo; the second half of the phrase responds to the primacy of this sensitive pitch by gently decorating the downward resolution of the A to G . This dissonance contributes to the atmosphere of bleak melancholy at the outset of the fugue, and to the expressive tension throughout. But most impressive are the far-reaching consequences that the initial gesture and its fugal development hold for the quartet as a whole. Beethoven infuses a profound instability into his fugue subject, and follows up the implications with sure instinct. Because of the stress on A and the positioning of the turn ﬁgure in bar 3 on F , the subject displays a strong drift to the subdominant; it is poised, as Kerman notes, half in the subdominant, half in the tonic.1 Beethoven sustains this tension by placing the fugal answer in the subdominant, so that its sensitive accented pitch becomes D, the Neapolitan degree a semitone above the tonic C . In the closing moments of the fugue this semitone D–C is emphasized in the most striking manner, with a subdominant entry in the cello answered in stretto in the ﬁrst violin, which then returns to the crucial D in the following bar for added emphasis (Ex. 115). Why does Beethoven single out these pitches, even deleting the turn ﬁgure from the original subject in order to further highlight the Neapolitan degree, D? An an1

The Beethoven Quartets, p. 296.

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swer to this question is supplied moments later, as he ﬁrst distils the content of the music to a soft, pianissimo octave on C , before shifting the octave motif up a semitone to D to initiate the second movement, the gentle Allegro molto vivace. The music carries its own continuity within itself; the expressive tension within the fugue implies a further musical continuity that lies paradoxically beyond its

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conﬁnes, one that is to inhabit the tonality so clearly prepared by the opening movement: D major. This is an unusually resourceful example of Beethoven’s practice in some earlier intermovement transitions of anticipating the music to come. Several of the closest parallels are found in the piano sonatas. In the Waldstein, for example, the high G that forms the melodic peak of the rondo theme has already been sounded at the very end of the slow Introduzione and serves as a harmonic and melodic pivot between the two movements. Structurally, an even closer comparison can be made in the Hammerklavier Sonata, with the B major modulation in the development of the ﬁrst movement; here the preceding series of harmonic descending thirds is followed by a modulation to the key a third below, as the energy generated by the chain of falling thirds is transferred to the level of the tonal plan. In op. 131 there is an analogous pivotal shift from harmonic to tonal structure in service of the ﬁrst transition between movements; yet much more is at work here than an application of the structural intensity forged in the Hammerklavier Sonata to the problem of a transition between movements. A more revealing analogy is offered by the ﬁrst movement of the A Sonata op. 110, which shows some surprising latent similarities to op. 131. That comparison, in turn, offers a context in which to survey the broader signiﬁcance of the narrative designs in many of Beethoven’s compositions. An analysis of the ﬁnal six bars of the ﬁrst movement of op. 110 entails consideration of threads of connection that reach across the entire work. The passage is at once a reminiscence and a foreshadowing (Ex. 116). The motif in thirds in the left hand ﬁve bars from the end, for instance, recalls a passage near the beginning of the recapitulation. At the cadence Beethoven retains the original polyphonic texture, register, and upper melodic outline of the motto from the very beginning of the sonata—now reduced to the rising and falling semitones C–D and D –C—while simultaneously preparing the sonority and spacing that is to begin the Allegro molto, namely the third C–A , which is about to be reharmonized in F minor in the ensuing scherzo-like movement. At the same time, the penultimate dissonant diminished-seventh chord containing F (bar 115) foreshadows the climactic dissonant sonority that will be resolved into the closing A chord at the very end of the concluding fugue. Ex. 116 Piano Sonata op. 110/I, bars 110–end

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But we have not yet considered the aspect of Beethoven’s coda that points most provocatively toward what is to come. In the alto voice, three bars from the close, he preﬁgures the fugue subject on the dominant, with the succession of ascending fourths—E –A and F–B —broken off at the dissonant F of the penultimate chord. The rhythmic conﬁguration of this foreshadowing, with the ﬁrst note augmented, corresponds to the fortissimo bass entry beginning on the dominant of C minor in the middle of the ﬁrst fugue, where the pattern is written in longer note values. This incomplete presentation of the fugal subject is in keeping with the general character of the ﬁrst movement—suggestive of expectation or unfulﬁlled yearning. But such verbal formulations are not in themselves precise enough to do justice to the music. Beethoven’s anticipation of the fugue is not conﬁned to a single passage in it, and therein lies much of the special poetic power of his coda. This foreshadowing relates speciﬁcally, though not literally, to the C minor passage in the fugue; at the same time, the dissonant breaking off of the thematic allusion is connected to the ﬁnal cadence of the entire work. In one concentrated gesture, therefore, Beethoven recalls two earlier passages of the ﬁrst movement, while preparing the transition into the scherzo and also preﬁguring at least three passages to be heard much later in the ﬁnale. These relationships are not speculative, but speciﬁc; to a great extent they are empirically veriﬁable and can be conﬁrmed through analysis and conveyed in adequate performance. The character of this passage evokes both closing and preparation, anticipation and reminiscence, promise and failure. But any of these pairs of concepts describes the music only partially; what is involved here is a single moment whose content forces us to contemplate the entire design. The interdependence of form and psychology, or of structure and expression, in such passages draws attention to a narrative dimension in music, the existence of which some scholars have sought to deny. Carolyn Abbate has discussed the “collapse of the analogy between music and narrative,” arguing that music has no past tense and is mimetic, “trap[ping] the listener in present experience and the beat of passing time, from which he cannot escape.” In her view, temporally separated recurrences of musical units, whether as motivic recall or large-scale recapitulation, form part of what in literature would be described as the “artiﬁce of discourse,” not the “story”; such repetition, seen in terms of formalist aesthetics, is “structure, architecture, hence stasis: time frozen.”2 In Beethoven’s later works, however, the progression of musical events often creates tension between a linear, temporal unfolding on the one hand and a cyclic juxtaposition of contrasting modalities in successive movements on the other. The former is largely teleological in character, the latter immanent, based more on complementarity than on resolution or transformation. In the ﬁnale of the Ninth Symphony, for instance, the recitative passages and recall of earlier movements take on such a twofold temporal function: they operate teleologically, to underscore the role of the choral 2

“What the Sorcerer Said,” pp. 230, 228, 229; material from this article has been incorporated into her Unsung Voices: Opera and Musical Narrative in Nineteenth-Century Music, pp. 30–60.

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ﬁnale as a transcendence of the preceding movements, and they also serve immanently, to afﬁrm the continuing, valid presence of earlier modalities at the threshold of the ﬁnale. The subsequent allusions to the ﬁrst movement later in the choral ﬁnale contribute vitally to its “dynamically open” quality and to its symbolic, archetypal import. We cannot consign such relationships to an abstract, atemporal status or regard them as mere “artiﬁce”; they are too fundamental to the artistic meaning. On the other hand, use of the narrative concept in no way denies the immediacy of music, although it does encourage attention to musical relationships that transcend a linear, temporal succession, thereby liberating the listener from mere conﬁnement to “present experience and the beat of passing time.” In the present study I have attempted to explore not only successive musical events and their expressive connotations but also the precise nature of their interconnection. It is regarding the linkage or integration of a series of musical modalities that certain recent writers, such as Jean-Jacques Nattiez, have underestimated the possibilities of music. For Nattiez, an “instrumental work is not in itself a narrative”; the narrative is regarded as inevitably a construction by the listener, who imaginatively ﬁlls in gaps left between the musical events. With pieces such as Beethoven’s op. 110 or op. 131, however, the situation is actually the opposite: it is the work that seems more fully integrated than any single hearing or interpretation of it, and the work’s structure that embodies the narrative thread. Nattiez’s view that “in the discourse of music, it is only a question of a play of forms and the reactions which they provoke” betrays the severely reductionist attitude underlying his position. What I have termed a “narrative design” embracing the musical process as a whole does not arise from “the plot imagined and constructed by the listeners from functional objects,” as in Nattiez’s model, but involves instead the recognition of a conﬁguration of audible elements inherent in the work of art, a conﬁguration whose relationships are to a great extent empirically veriﬁable and which need to be assessed in context. Nattiez confesses that “on the level of the strictly musical discourse, I recognize returns, expectations and resolutions, but of what, I do not know.”3 But this is an evasion of the central critical task: to confront the work of art on its own terms. By assuming a priori an excessively abstract concept of music, Nattiez erects an illegitimate ontological barrier between the listener or interpreter and the work, prematurely closing the investigation into artistic meaning. Closely connected to these questions is the issue of musical analysis involving an assumption of organic unity or artistic autonomy, an issue that has come under attack for its alleged “tautology.”4 In principle, there is no reason why the analysis of artistic unity should divorce works from their contexts or impose conventional strictures on the music. The problem lies rather in a failure to distinguish between a rich, synthetic unity, whereby perceived relationships are carefully 3

“Can One Speak of Narrativity in Music?” pp. 249, 244, 249, 245; this article also appears in French as “Peut-on parler de narrativité en musique?” 4 See the introduction to Analyzing Opera: Verdi and Wagner, ed. Abbate and Parker, esp. pp. 2–3; and Abbate and Parker, “Dismembering Mozart,” pp. 187–95.

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tested against the sound of a work, and a merely schematic, analytical unity, whereby a piece is made to conform to a system external to it.5 There is no problem with the concept of musical unity, provided that what is involved is a synthetic unity embracing contrast and diversity and not merely the reduction of a work to conform to an analytical system. Such reduction is a mere caricature of analysis. Some recent critiques directed at this simpliﬁed notion of analysis risk what Milan Kundera, in his book Immortality, has dubbed “imagology”—the easy, up-to-date fashioning of systems of ideals and anti-ideals. The severing of structure from expression points in this same unpromising direction. Recognition of the interdependence of structure and expression is essential if we are to appreciate the narrative continuity in Beethoven and to confront aesthetic dimensions that reach into the symbolic, mythic, or paradoxical. This brings us back at last to Beethoven’s C minor Quartet, one of the richest of all narrative musical designs. For the opening Adagio of op. 131 not only presages the key of the ensuing Allegro molto vivace and supplies its initial octave motif; it also plots the tonal plan for the entire sequence of following movements and offers harmonic and motivic substance that is reincarnated in the powerful, raging Allegro ﬁnale, in sonata form. The opening fugue surveys keys directly related to C minor—E major, A major, and B major—while also touching on the dominant minor and emphasizing the Neapolitan and subdominant, as we have seen. The tonalities of the succeeding movements, passing from D major in no. 2 to B minor, A major, E major, and G minor in nos. 3–6 respectively, roughly correspond to the tonal regions explored in the fugue. The diversity of keys is thus integrated, and may even be heard to follow from the restless, searching melancholy of the opening fugue. Only two of Beethoven’s earlier quartets had gone beyond the standard Classical practice of conﬁning the tonic keys of movements to a pair of tonalities. The E Quartet op. 74 of 1809 introduces a third key (C minor) in the scherzo. The B Quartet op. 130 employs three main tonalities in addition to the tonic: D major in the Andante, G major in the Alla danza tedesca, and E major in the Cavatina. The use of six keys in op. 131 represents a signiﬁcant innovation, yet this expansion of tonal resource is grounded more than ever in the structure and character of music heard at the outset of the work. The opening fugue sets into motion a process that reaches its climax and resolution only after the cyclic return to the original key of C minor in the ﬁnal movement. The end of the Adagio ma non troppo e molto espressivo in op. 131 thus assumes a narrative signiﬁcance no less impressive than the corresponding coda in op. 110. This passage foreshadows the ensuing Allegro molto vivace, while simultaneously distilling essential relationships from the outset of the fugue that 5 The difference between such synthetic and analytical concepts of unity might be compared to Kant’s famous distinction between synthetic and analytic judgments in sec. 4 of the introduction to the Critique of Pure Reason: the former predicates something connected to, yet not contained in, the subject; in the latter, the predicate is already contained in the subject, yielding a tautology.

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reemerge with a vengeance in the ﬁnale. The projection here of harmonic tensions into the tonal structure has no counterpart in op. 110, and represents one of the most profound aspects of Beethoven’s conception. Each of the following movements adapts itself in different ways to the larger musical continuity. Beethoven’s modiﬁcation of sonata procedure in the Allegro molto vivace, and especially the disruptive gestures in the coda, act to undercut the formal autonomy of this scherzo-like movement. A short recitative-like transition then introduces the central set of variations in A major, marked Andante ma non troppo e molto cantabile. Like the variations in op. 109, these transformations of the theme take the form of a brilliant chain of revelations; some of the variations even undergo a change in character as they proceed. Thus it is that Beethoven links this slow movement with the sharply contrasting scherzo in presto tempo that follows. At the heart of the Andante, and the entire quartet, is the hymn-like sixth variation, the Adagio ma non troppo e semplice. In the midst of this contemplative music, at the beginning of the second half of the variation, the cello intrudes with a lively motif in sixteenth notes in the bass (Ex. 117). Initially this cello ﬁgure threatens to disrupt the discourse of the other instruments; when the passage is repeated in varied form, the intrusive motif is echoed by the ﬁrst violin and then continued without pause as an ostinato in the cello. What follows Ex. 117 String Quartet op. 131/IV, Variation 6, bars 195–206

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is an elaborate cadenza-like passage for each of the four instruments in turn (reminiscent of the vocal cadenzas for four soloists in the Credo of the Missa solemnis and the Ninth Symphony!), as well as a compressed but gloriﬁed recapitulation of the original theme preceded by thematic excerpts in C major and F major (the most distant tonal relations from C minor in the entire quartet). The ﬁnal bars of this movement are delicately poised, enveloped in a mood of reminiscence; there is no strong sense of closure. Beethoven labored on this passage more than any other in the quartet, sketching it over and over.6 What he achieved is yet another moment of pregnant narrative signiﬁcance: the repeated pizzicato As in the ﬁrst violin allude to the hymn-like sixth variation, but the rising octaves in the middle instruments recall the end of the ﬁrst movement, while the E octave in the second violin very subtly foreshadows the register of the opening treble phrase of the comic scherzo that follows. The scherzo theme is anticipated by a cello ﬁgure played forte, in the same register—and with almost the same notes—as the earlier intrusion of the cello motif in the Adagio variation. As Kerman has pointed out, these two gestures are related to one another.7 The situation is somewhat reminiscent of the apparent quotation of “Ich bin lüderlich” in the double-diminution passage in the second fugue of op. 110. An attitude of rapt contemplation in the hymn variation is infused with a raw but vital energy that enriches the music as it is assimilated into it. In the scherzo we can discern another thread of connection pointing to the penultimate movement, the G minor lament. For this naively playful scherzo sports one exceptionally curious feature: a propensity to backtrack from its dominant, B major, and guide the music instead into G minor (Ex. 118). Hence the thematic fourth F –B is repeated in all four instruments, and G–B is tried out as well. Only at the Molto poco adagio does Beethoven reach the goal of this little episode: at the restoration of the presto tempo each of the instruments gingerly takes up the head of the theme in G minor, pianissimo, and a proper continuation is ventured for four bars before the passage is discontinued and the theme reasserted forte in the tonic E major. In all, Beethoven takes us through this striking passage ﬁve times, impressing it on the memory and sensibility. Toward the end of the presto, both the scherzo and trio seem to fade into a rareﬁed ether. The trio is curtailed on its third appearance to just a pair of phrases, whereas the scherzo migrates into the highest register, sul ponticello and pianissimo. A sudden shift back to earth, marked da capo per l’ordinario, initiates the abrupt concluding passage, with its shocking and yet subtly prepared pivot from the scherzo’s close on E to the heavy bald octaves on G (Ex. 119). It is this turn to G that those hesitating phrases in the scherzo had been hinting at. Every movement of this quartet yields up a part of its own autonomy in the interest of the work as a whole. The sombre Adagio quasi un poco andante is even positioned parenthetically, for the fortissimo octaves on G actually serve to prepare the Allegro ﬁnale more than the Adagio. For that reason the slow movement 6 7

Cf. Winter, The Compositional Origins of Opus 131, pp. 232–38. The Beethoven Quartets, p. 327.

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Ex. 118 String Quartet op. 131/V, bars 20–39

requires a pedestal, a soft G minor chord which sounds like an intake of breath before the lyrical, recitative-like phrases that follow. The music has a retrospective air that harks back to the opening fugue. Now, after the enormous detour of the four intervening movements, Beethoven can ﬁnally reapproach head-on the tonal foundations of the quartet, with the slow music of no. 6 placed in a normal dominant cadential relationship to the tonic key. This last juncture between movements brings the tonal and formal process full circle, and it signals that fact at the powerful structural downbeat on a unison C that begins the Allegro. The link between the fugue and closing Allegro is direct and tangible, involving a massive reinterpretation of musical substance in the new environment of the ﬁnale. In this respect some earlier critics, such as Tovey, have been rather too cautious in assessing the extent of the kinship. Beethoven’s own compositional model for this kind of transformation was his C minor Sonata op. 27 no. 2, in which the primary theme of the ﬁnale arises from a drastic reinterpretation of the placid arpeggios of the Adagio—the substance of one movement is virtually transformed into another. The ﬁrst movement of the Tempest Sonata shows how Beethoven Ex. 119 String Quartet op. 131/V, bars 489–end

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could absorb such a technique into a single movement, by juxtaposing a slow, suspended, harmonically ambiguous version of the triadic ﬁgure with a decisive reinterpretation of it in a faster tempo, wherein formal expansion is achieved by means of sequential repetition of the motif. If no other work realizes this principle quite so impressively as the C minor Quartet, the reason may lie in a unique combination of factors. One is Beethoven’s postponement, as in op. 101, of the ﬁrst forceful cadence in the tonic key until the beginning of the ﬁnale. Another is his delaying of the most energetic rhythmic activity until the last movement; for in spite of its swift, vivacious character, the presto scherzo is too light in tone and straightforward in its formal construction to rival the ﬁnale in this respect. Beethoven holds in reserve an arresting anapestic rhythm in alla breve time and allows it to dominate broad expanses of the ﬁnale. Yet another resource that has been held back is the sonata form itself, which is crowned by an overpowering recapitulation and a weighty coda. At the outset of the ﬁnal Allegro the silences are hardly less important than the notes (Ex. 120). The music unfolds in two-bar units, and the strong downbeats fall initially on the fortissimo unison C s and the corresponding unison octaves that follow on B in bar 3 and on C in bar 5. These unisons stand like a forbidding arch commanding the gateway to the ﬁnale, brutally contradicting the soft unison octaves on C and D that had opened the dreamlike path from the fugue to the inner movements. Pauses place these octaves into high relief, even as Beethoven begins to reinterpret the seminal motivic material from the fugue in this new context. Out of the C unison shoots the broken triad spanning G –C ; the outward expansion of these notes to A–B generates the rhythmic motif in bars 2–3 which is restated to close on C two bars later. The same notes that formed the head of the fugue subject are now reshaped into a ﬁerce cadential gesture. In turn, the impact of that gesture seems to set into motion the stamping anapaestic rhythmic ostinato that begins in bar 5. Even the head of the ensuing theme in the ﬁrst violin is a strict, stepwise elaboration of the ascending fanfare spanning C to A. Beethoven settles any doubts about a relationship with the fugue by soon making direct allusion to the entire fugue subject, including its turn ﬁgure, in an expansive passage of 19 bars. The theme is repeated in double counterpoint and resolved ﬁrmly into C minor. This referential passage is introduced by a pair of legato phrases in the ﬁrst violin that act as transition from the driving rhythmic

Ex. 120 String Quartet op. 131/VII

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Ex. 121 String Quartet op. 131/VII, bars 288–95

opening of the Allegro to the explicit reference to the fugue. In this ﬁnale the allusions to the fugue are not merely retrospective; they bring a drastic transformation in character based on structural reinterpretation. In the coda, for instance, where Beethoven refers to the fugue subject for the last time, he provides a powerful new fortissimo continuation that derives the anapaestic rhythm from that thematic allusion (Ex. 121). A large number of such correspondences exist in the ﬁnale. In the development Beethoven exploits musical relationships identical to those of the fugue to produce an effect of ﬁery brilliance. The ﬁrst half of the development is based on contrapuntal sequences in which an enormously extended rising bass is divided between the instruments. At the midpoint of the development the powerful drift of this ascending bass is transferred to the fanfare motif from the beginning of the movement. The fanfare is thereby destabilized, and rises to reach D major, the Neapolitan degree so important in the fugue. But most unforgettable is Beethoven’s treatment of the recapitulation, which emerges out of a protracted measured trill in all four instruments (Ex. 122). As in the corresponding passage in the ﬁrst movement of the Appassionata Sonata, the rhythmic drive from the development is concentrated into a kind of stationary vibration. The stark effect of the beginning of the movement is left far behind, as the tonal space is now ﬁlled out by the multiple trill. The effect is spectacular, and involves more than rhythmic pulsation and textural embellishment, since the double trill in the two violin parts prolongs G –A and B –C , those crucial pitches from the fugue that dominate the ﬁnale as well. Nowhere else in the work do these notes sound so brilliantly. As in the last sonatas, the trill has here become a structural device and a radical means of heightening the musical tension. In the recapitulation inherited traits from the fugue—the harmonic color of the subdominant and Neapolitan—become increasingly prominent. The subject that alludes to the fugue is recapitulated in F minor; the soaring, lyrical second subject returns in D major (an unprecedented yet eminently ﬁtting procedure in this special case). The coda, on the other hand, opens a window on a speciﬁc moment in the fugue, namely the concluding passage we have discussed in connection with the transition to the second movement. At this point Beethoven is no longer so much concerned to emphasize D; it is the diminished-seventh harmony supporting A that becomes the focus of the reminiscence (Ex. 123). The diminished sonority appeared repeatedly in the last moments of the ﬁrst movement, as the ﬁnal har-

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Ex. 122 String Quartet op. 131/VII, bars 145–62

monization of the pivotal note of the fugue subject; and while the A at the end of the fugue was about to be reinterpreted in D major, this A must now be resolved downward to G as part of the imminent cadence in C minor. Beethoven grants the resolution from A to G very reluctantly. The music lingers wistfully over the A, as the referential theme is extended through an entire octave and brought to rest on this pitch for no less than ﬁve full bars. Moments later the descending fourth outlined by C –B–A–G is reiterated in the anapaestic rhythm in slightly decorated form as C –B–A–G –A–F –G . That motif, in turn, is repeated seven times, passing from voice to voice as the tempo slows to Poco Adagio; Beethoven writes semplice and espressivo over the ﬁnal entries in the ﬁrst and second violins. Only at the “Tempo I” indication six bars before the close is the resolution to G ﬁrmly accomplished, inasmuch as the stable ﬁfth G –C is sustained for four bars in the ﬁrst violin and viola, balancing and resolving the protracted diminished seventh supporting A that was heard earlier in the coda. The ﬁnal six-bar segment provides the completion of a vehement cadential progression that had been broken off 35 bars earlier to make room for the ﬁnal reminiscence of the fugue. For the cadence had already been fully prepared, fortiﬁed by exciting rhythmic strettos on the Neapolitan—the ultimate assimilation of that important harmonic inﬂection into the tonic key of C . The thirty-ﬁve-bar passage

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Ex. 123 String Quartet op. 131/VII, bars 352–67

beginning at “Ritmo di due battute” is parenthetical. This last important example of parenthetical enclosure in Beethoven’s music undercuts the triumphant conclusion and considerably deepens the expressive power of the coda. In his excellent study of this quartet Kerman suggested that “the mood of the C -minor Finale heightens and puriﬁes the famous C minor mood of Beethoven’s early years.”8 It is interesting in this regard that one basic motivic quarry for Beethoven’s last quartets relates to the sketch for the abandoned four-hand sonata— a sketch actually notated in C minor. Beethoven’s unique design in the C minor Quartet is framed by a double cycle of paired movements. The impressive gravity of the slow fugue yields to a seemingly unbounded ﬂight of imagination in the Allegro molto vivace and the following inner movements, whereas the second Adagio prefaces a deﬁant reconfrontation in the ﬁnale with the strife-ridden C minor tonality. By holding fast to the memory of the fugue Beethoven’s closing Allegro brings about a synthesis of contemplation and action; in Schiller’s terms, an unblinkered awareness of suffering is merged with a capacity to resist these feelings and therefore not accept them as permanent and irremediable. The note of triumph at the end of the C minor Quartet is momentary, however, and scarcely conceals the profound duality of the coda, which reﬂects in turn the deep tensional interdependence of the outer movements. The fugue and ﬁnale thus act like stern outer columns framing a fantastic range of diverse inner episodes; of these, the scherzo, with its apotheosis of play, represents the most extreme contrast, the humorous antipode to the serious and perhaps even tragic character of the C minor music. It is revealing that Beethoven contemplated but then rejected an additional closing passage to the ﬁnale that 8

The Beethoven Quartets, p. 341.

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would have unambiguously resolved the basic motivic complex to D major, thereby replacing the notes C –B –A–G by the enharmonic equivalents in the major, D –C–B –A . As Robert Winter has pointed out, he used the sketched theme as the basis for the Lento assai of his last quartet, op. 135.9 He even gave the tune a title in his sketchbook: “sweet song of peace.” In the passionate ﬁnale of the C minor Quartet this serene inspiration could ﬁnd no place.

S S S Beethoven’s artistic explorations of the 1820s have often captured the imagination of commentators, stimulating much discussion of the challenging aesthetic and moral issues encapsulated in the title of J. W. N. Sullivan’s 1927 centennial study, Beethoven’s Spiritual Development. With the passage of time, a consensus has emerged that sees Beethoven’s later sonatas and quartets not as wayward productions of a deaf eccentric, as some early critics had seen them, but as some of the richest contributions ever made to musical art. The startling innovations of the last quartets may be said to center on musical symbolism in the A minor quartet, paradoxical contrast in the B major, and narrative design in the C minor. The individuality of these works is just as marked as that of Beethoven’s early opuses of piano sonatas and the op. 18 and Razumovsky Quartets, regardless of the presence of shared motivic ﬁgures. The uniqueness of the last quartets is outwardly manifested in the growing number of movements, culminating in the seven-movement design of op. 131. But no less striking is their expressive scope, which embraces moods ranging from whimsy and mocking humor to the sublime interiority of the slow movements—the Adagio of op. 127, the Cavatina of op. 130, and the “Heiliger Dankgesang.” The last quartets are bold, visionary works that seem to open a new creative period rather than close an old one. The relationship of this superb artistic production to Beethoven’s biography, on the other hand, is more contradictory than ever. A safe, neatly rounded portrait of Beethoven’s last year can be purchased only at the cost of truth, and we shall be compelled to settle for an “open” conclusion, not unlike those compositions whose endings point provocatively into the silence beyond. Disorder, conﬂict, and misery in his life were on the ascent just as his artistic development was attaining new heights. The tragic climax in his biography coincided almost exactly with the completion of his splendid Quartet in C minor: in the middle of the summer of 1826, in a desperate act of misguided self-assertion, his beloved nephew Karl attempted suicide. Problems had been brewing for years and were doubtless connected to Beethoven’s caring yet stubborn, overbearing, and suspicious conduct toward his young relative, whom he regarded as his “son.” His possessiveness toward his nephew was coupled with hostility toward Karl’s mother, Johanna van Beethoven, whom Beethoven dubbed “The Queen of the Night.” As Karl grew to maturity, conﬂict with his uncle became more frequent. Part of this escalating tension may have 9 The Compositional Origins of Beethoven’s Opus 131, pp. 121–24, 167–74, 206–9; see also Bumpass, Beethoven’s Last Quartet, vol. 1, pp. 222–24.

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been connected to Beethoven’s reluctance to recognize Karl’s need for independence. Matters came to a head during the ﬁrst half of 1826, when Karl was living in separate lodgings and attending the Polytechnic Institute. Thayer writes that “there were violent scenes, evidently in Karl’s rooms, which deeply embittered him,” and he quotes Karl’s response to Beethoven’s reproaches: “You consider it insolence if, after you have upbraided me for hours undeservedly, this time at least, I cannot turn from my bitter feeling of pain to jocularity.”10 Karl’s behavior toward his uncle may have been manipulative; according to Holz, he said he could wrap his uncle around his ﬁnger. Karl seems also to have fallen into debt, though apparently not to a very serious extent. On 6 August 1826 Beethoven’s distraught nephew discharged two bullets toward his head, wounding himself with the second shot, which grazed the bone. When asked by the police why he shot himself, Karl said that Beethoven “tormented him too much.” According to Schindler and Holz, the impact on Beethoven of Karl’s suicide attempt was shattering; Schindler wrote that “he soon looked like a man of seventy.” From this point, the concern with Karl assumed an even more dominating role in Beethoven’s affairs. Since suicide was an offence against the Church, there were penal aspects to be reckoned with after Karl’s release from the hospital, and these especially distressed Beethoven. At the same time Beethoven’s friends had persuaded him to enroll Karl in the military, a solution that inevitably meant separation from the boy, which Beethoven found very difﬁcult to accept. An interim solution was for Beethoven to accept the invitation of his brother Johann to visit the latter’s Wasserhof estate at Gneixendorf, near Krems, one day’s journey from Vienna. Johann had invited him previously, and Beethoven had always refused to come, partly because of his dislike of Johann’s wife, Therese. Beethoven’s relationship with his brother showed strains resulting from their very different outlooks on life. When Johann had a calling card printed with the word “Gutsbesitzer,” or “landowner,” Beethoven retorted by dubbing himself “Hirnbesitzer,” or “brainowner” (Beethoven’s description of his brother as a “brain eater,” on the other hand, touches on a common trait, since brain soup was one of Beethoven’s favorite dishes). In any event, Beethoven had long hesitated to visit his brother. Even very shortly before, he had replied to Johann: I will not come. Your brother??????!!!! Ludwig

Now, however, with the pressing need to ﬁnd a haven of refuge where Karl would be put at a distance from both the authorities and his mother, Beethoven consented to travel to Gneixendorf. The visit was supposed to be brief but was prolonged at Beethoven’s insistence throughout the autumn. His conﬂicts with Karl continued there; even more bitter disputes ensued with his brother. Already seriously ill at Gneixendorf and faced with the prospect of losing close contact with 10

Thayer-Forbes, p. 993.

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his nephew, Beethoven may have sensed that his options were closing, time growing short. Finally, on 28 November 1826, he set out with Karl for Vienna in an open wagon. Inadequately clothed in the inclement weather, he arrived at his apartment in the Schwarzspanierhaus with pneumonia. During December Beethoven’s condition deteriorated rapidly, with worsening symptoms of jaundice due to the progress of liver disease, swollen feet, and dropsy. The accumulating ﬂuid in his body was tapped and drained four times. After the last operation on 27 February 1827, the end was near. When Beethoven’s physician Dr Wawruch promised him relief with the coming of spring, Beethoven replied, “My day’s work is ﬁnished. If there were a physician who could help me ‘his name shall be called Wonderful!’” Wawruch confessed that “This pathetic allusion to Handel’s Messiah touched me so deeply that I had to confess its correctness to myself with profound emotion.”11 Beethoven survived in agony for one more month; he died during a thunderstorm on 26 March 1827.

S S S The Quartet in F major op. 135 is the last work Beethoven ﬁnished, apart from the substitute ﬁnale of op. 130; both pieces were begun at Vienna and completed at Gneixendorf. Some writers have perceived in these works a weakening in Beethoven’s creative powers or at least in his ambition and have associated this perceived decline with the depressing impact of Karl’s suicide attempt. Yet the musical quality of both pieces, and especially the F major Quartet, remains very high. There is admittedly a retrospective character to the last quartet: it is mainly an essay in Haydnesque wit, not a bold, expansive composition like the other late quartets. As we have seen, such humorous pieces were a lifelong interest with Beethoven, and F major was quite often the chosen key, at least in other genres: one thinks of the piano sonatas op. 10 no. 2 and op. 54, the middle movement of the Pastoral Symphony, and the Eighth Symphony. In 1826, with his third quartet in this key, Beethoven capped his musical legacy with another masterpiece in the same vein. It is just possible that this was indeed his artistic response to the grim events of 1826: Beethoven’s way was to respond to adversity with humor. Even his nephew Karl referred to this reﬂex in complaining that he could not turn from his “bitter feeling of pain to jocularity,” as his uncle wished. In his last years Beethoven’s passion for verbal puns took on a new and poignant intensity which frequently found musical expression in the form of canons. Beethoven and his colleagues were alert to punning opportunities, ranging from the typical B–A–C–H topos to Karl Holz’s jokes on Handel as “Hendl” (roast chickens) in “Zäh-Dur” (“tough-major,” or “very tough,” but sounding like “C major”).12 While at work on the Missa solemnis Beethoven used the rhythm of the “Credo” motif for a canon concluding “Weidmann, Weidmännchen, Eselchen!” (“Huntsman, little hunter, little 11

Ibid., p. 1038. The references to “Hendel” in “Zäh-Dur” and to “Kühl, nicht lau” (see below) are discussed in Platen, “Über Bach, Kuhlau und die thematisch-motivische Einheit der letzten Quartette Beethovens,” pp. 152–53. 12

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ass!”).13 The Danish composer Friedrich Kuhlau was honored by a canon to the words “kühl, nicht lau” (“cool, not lukewarm”), a piece that begins with the notes B–A–C–H and is linked in turn to the genesis of motivic conﬁgurations important in the last quartets.14 In 1825 Beethoven even published in the journal Cäcilia a satirical “Lebensbeschreibung” (“biographical sketch”) of Tobias Haslinger that describes Haslinger’s ﬁctitious study with the theorist Albrechtsberger, culminating in the loftiest achievements in the art of making “musical skeletons.” Beethoven appended to his story two humorous canons, the second of which, with its text “Hoffmann! Hoffmann! Sei ja kein Hofmann, ja kein Hofmann!“ (“Hoffmann! Hoffmann! Don’t be a courtier, indeed not a courtier!,” i.e. an obsequious person), is apparently his homage to E. T. A. Hoffmann.15 Quite possibly it was Holz’s sense of humor that helped endear him to Beethoven, who by 1825 had tired of the company of the more dreary and sometimes surly Schindler. Holz’s name, meaning “wood,” became the subject of numerous jokes by the composer. Beethoven dubbed him “Best Mahogany,” “Best Splinter from the Cross of Christ,” and “Best lignum crucis.” He once observed to Holz that “wood is a neuter noun,” adding: “So what a contradiction is the masculine form, and what other consequences may be drawn from personiﬁed wood?” Holz occasionally ventured jokes on his own name and was known to others in Beethoven’s circle, such as Kanne and Schuppanzigh, as “der Hölzerne” (“the wooden one”).16 Characteristic of such humor is delight in the incongruous pairing of apparently incompatible elements: the sacred and the profane, the serious and the absurd, the obvious and the obscure. Pretensions are mocked; an unexpected depth and signiﬁcance is perceived in seemingly trivial circumstances. The readiness to draw connections knows no bounds and no taboos; a free association of ideas is the point. This Shandian streak in Beethoven surfaces as early as the 1790s, in his descriptions of his friend Zmeskall as “dearest Baron Muck-cart Driver” or “garbage man,” but it is most generously documented near the end of his life, which is ﬁlled with little episodes worthy of Tristram Shandy. The year 1826 was particularly rich in jokes and humorous canons. Early that year Beethoven met the old-fashioned Abbé Maximilian Stadler—who had no use for any music after Mozart—at Steiner’s music shop. Before departing Beethoven knelt before the abbé and asked for his blessing, which Stadler granted, mumbling “Nutzt’s nicht, so schadt’s nix” (“If it does no good, ’twill do no harm”). Beethoven kissed the abbé’s hand to complete the solemn farce, to the great amusement of the bystanders. He tossed off a canon presumably in connection with this event, with the following text: 13 See Schmidt-Görg, ed., Ludwig van Beethoven: Ein Skizzenbuch aus den Jahren 1819/20, p. 45. 14 Platen, op. cit., pp. 152–53. 15 See Canisius, Beethoven, pp. 146–53. 16 Cf. Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte, vol. 8, pp. 122, 172, and the facsimile after p. 176; and vol. 9, p. 300.

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Signor Abbate! I’m ailing I’m ailing I’m ailing I’m ailing! Holy Father hasten, give to me thy benediction, give me thy blessing, thy blessing! Go to the devil, unless you hasten, go to the devil, unless you hasten, go to the devil!17

Shortly thereafter, on 6 February, Beethoven wrote to Stadler alluding to “your blessing very soon.” In the same letter he praises the abbé for publishing a letter defending the authenticity of Mozart’s Requiem, adding, “I have always counted myself among the greatest admirers of Mozart and shall remain so until my last breath——.” Beethoven’s unusual punctuation here recalls similar devices in Laurence Sterne. For the protracted dash following the words “letzten Lebens Hauch” (literally, “life’s last breath”) is no ordinary mark of punctuation but acts as a symbol for Beethoven’s very last breath, a breath drawn for Mozart!18 A recently discovered letter from the same year contains further examples of Beethoven’s fun with puns, as Küthen has observed. In it Beethoven addresses his physician Dr Anton Braunhofer in grandiose terms as “honored master and practitioner of the cure”; his expression “Ausüber der Aeskulapsie” plays on the expression “ausübender Arzt” (“practicing physician”), while adapting the term “Aesculapian” (“healer”) as a noun, meaning “healing” or “cure.” In the same paragraph Beethoven asks “what else you have decided about my corpse,” continuing “my back is still not entirely in its old condition, I hope meanwhile it will still not be necessary to bend it, indeed never.”19 His allusion to “bending” does not refer merely to a physical condition. It is an assertion of his proud refusal to defer to royalty, recalling the famous incident at Teplitz in 1812 when Goethe supposedly bowed to the royal carriage while Beethoven refused to make any such gesture of servility. The German word “beugen” means not only to bend but to humble oneself, to submit. Beethoven underscores his principled position by ﬁrst expressing the hope that he need not yield, before then rejecting the mere possibility of submission through the underlined words “ja nie” (“indeed never”). In the summer of 1826 an incident occurred that is bound up with the genesis of the F major Quartet op. 135. After the première of the B Quartet by Schuppanzigh’s quartet on 21 March 1826, interest arose in arranging a performance by a different quartet at the house of a certain Ignaz Dembscher. Dembscher, however, had not subscribed for Schuppanzigh’s concert, and he was subsequently forced by Beethoven to pay up in order to receive performance parts for the work. 17

Thayer-Forbes, p. 988. See Küthen, “Mozart—Schiller—Beethoven: Mozarts Modell für die Freudenhymne und die Fusion der Embleme im Finale der Neunten Symphonie,” pp. 110–12; a facsimile of the letter of 6 February 1826 (Anderson, vol. 2, L. 1468) is reproduced on p. 111. Beethoven omits the grammatically essential verb “bleiben” from the end of his sentence to underscore his symbolic breath for Mozart. 19 This letter was published by Anna Maria Russo in Nuova rivista musicale italiana 25 (1991), pp. 74–82, and in The Beethoven Newsletter 6 (1991); Küthen’s important corrections to the transcription of the letter, with their clariﬁcation of Beethoven’s puns, appear in The Beethoven Newsletter 7 (1992), p. 30. 18

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Dembscher queried “Muss es sein?” (“Must it be?”), and Beethoven, highly amused, sketched a canon to the words “Es muss sein! ja ja ja ja! Heraus mit dem Beutel!” (“It must be! yes yes yes yes! Out with your wallet!”);20 the canonic motif, in turn, found its way into the ﬁnale of Beethoven’s last quartet. This canon predates Beethoven’s main work on the quartet. In the meantime, around the second week of August, Beethoven submitted the C minor Quartet to the publisher Schott, writing on the copy “Zusammengestohlen aus Verschiedenem diesem und jenem” (“Put together from pilferings from one thing and another”). This is yet another example of his ironic humor. He entered the inscription in response to the publisher’s requirement that the quartet be an original one. What may have amused Beethoven is the thought that this most integrated of compositions would appear to the uninitiated as a confused potpourri, particularly with the suggestion to that effect from himself. Such a misunderstanding did indeed ensue. Beethoven was obliged to write reassuringly to the alarmed publisher on 19 August that “as a joke I wrote on the copy that it was put together from pilferings. Nevertheless, it is brand new.”21 A ﬁnancial dispute arose around this time between Beethoven and Moritz Schlesinger, the publisher of op. 135. When the fee seemed smaller than expected, Beethoven remarked, in reference to the religion of the publisher and the modest length of the piece, that he would send a “circumcised quartet.” This triple pun unexpectedly associates publisher, fee, and quartet under the category of “circumcision,” meaning the removal of a piece: Schlesinger’s sending of “circumcised ducats” meant that “he shall have a circumcised quartet. That’s the reason why it is so short.”22 On 13 October Beethoven announced the completion of the work in yet another humorous letter to Haslinger, whom he addressed in music as “First of all Tobiases.” Beethoven was doubtless guided in his composition of the F major Quartet by the preexisting material that he took into its third and fourth movements: the theme of the Lento assai sketched for op. 131; and “Der schwergefasste Entschluss” (“The Difﬁcult Decision”) motto, inspired by Ignaz Dembscher’s earlier discomﬁture, with the related canon on “Muss es sein?,” “Es muss sein!” The urbane wit of the ﬁrst 20 This story stems from Karl Holz and is related in Thayer-Forbes, pp. 976–77, which also reproduces the canon. It dates from the beginning of August 1826 (cf. Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte, vol. 10, pp. 63, 317, 353. Schindler’s account that the phrases “Must it be?,” “It must be!” arose from the exchange between Beethoven and his housekeeper (Beethoven As I Knew Him, pp. 337–38) is supported by a forged entry in a conversation book (Beck and Herre, “Anton Schindlers ﬁngierte Eintragungen,” p. 83) and must be dismissed. The connection to the Dembscher canon does not exclude other interpretations of Beethoven’s motto, however. Rainer Cadenbach, editor of the edition of the quartet for the new Gesamtausgabe, proposes that “Must it be?” questions the need for a ﬁnale to follow the Lento assai. For another interpretation, see the study by Christopher Reynolds cited in n. 25, below. 21 Thayer-Forbes, p. 983, note 21. 22 Thayer-Forbes, p. 1009, note 44; cf. also Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte, vol. 10, pp. 49, 354–55.

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movement neatly complements the unbuttoned humor of the ﬁnale. The animated scherzo, on the other hand, represents an antipode to the serenely uniﬁed slow movement, especially in its trio, which contains one of the most startling climaxes in all Beethoven’s music. The subtlety of the ﬁrst movement is readily illustrated by comparison of the opening theme and its subsequent appearances in the recapitulation and coda. Beethoven begins with the Haydnesque device of an off-balance, harmonically ambiguous gesture, followed by a lucid continuation; the end of the ﬁrst theme is so fashioned that it can act in slightly varied form as the ﬁnal cadence at the end of this Allegretto. He exploits the ambiguous opening motif, on the other hand, to introduce a sly, “false” recapitulation in the development section. All ambiguity seems to vanish as the stable phrases of the theme are played in the tonic F major, but a harmonic detail is then reinterpreted to facilitate modulation to A minor, opening up a new dramatic section of development. The scherzo opens with a kind of triple rhythmic counterpoint between syncopated voices whose registral position is shufﬂed in subsequent phrases. Within this unusual texture melodic considerations are of secondary importance, and the primary voice simply glides over the major third spanning F–G–A. An interruption of uncouth, repeated E s is pitted against these rhythmic phrases, and the voices gradually converge to move in step as they approach the cadence in F major. In the trio a rising turn ﬁgure spanning a third launches shooting scales into the high register in the ﬁrst violin. The dance gains in intensity as these gestures are successively repeated in the keys of F major, G major, and A major, tonalities corresponding to the melodic steps of the scherzo, as Roger Sessions has observed.23 Then comes the shattering climax (Ex. 124). The turn becomes a revolving cam, repeated incessantly and fortissimo in the lower instruments and second violin; above this the ﬁrst violin plays a rustic dance parody with sharp accents and enormous skips in register. There is an almost frightening character to the passage; an apocalyptic vision emerges, supplanting the rustic humor of the earlier music. Normality is restored only very gradually, as the revolving conﬁguration softens to an almost inaudible triple pianissimo after nearly ﬁfty repetitions of the motif. Beethoven then lowers the pitches F and G of the turn ﬁgure to F and G, pointing ominously to the derivation of the turn, and hence the entire disruptive episode, from the smooth, gliding pitches heard at the outset of the scherzo. After this unusually dynamic scherzo with its explosive trio, the “sweet song of peace” is all the more moving; the two inner movements form a contrasting pair and share a thematic proﬁle that features conjunct stepwise motion. In this Lento assai, cantante e tranquillo, Beethoven retains the key of D major from his sketch and develops the theme as a series of variations that are so closely integrated that the form is often overlooked. The ﬁrst two bars belong to the pedestal that accomplishes the change in key and provides the tonal foundation for the sublime theme that follows. The theme consists of eight bars, with two bars of cadential echoes. Each of the four variations adheres strictly to this design, whereby 23

The Musical Experience, pp. 49–50.

Ex. 124 String Quartet op. 135/II, bars 133–91

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the last variation is extended into a coda of two bars to balance the pedestal at the beginning. Beethoven merges this scheme with aspects of sonata form: the theme and ﬁrst variation are joined organically into a continuity, while the second variation, with its unison motion, turn to the minor, and brief modulation to E major, brings a marked contrast. The third variation is a decorated recapitulation of the theme, with canonic imitation between cello and ﬁrst violin, and the last variation brings an exquisite climax in the highest register, while subtly resolving aspects of the variation in the minor. This is the most delicate and uniﬁed of all Beethoven’s variation movements. Then comes the ﬁnale, “The Difﬁcult Decision,” whose double motto, “Must it be?,” “It must be!,” is printed at the head of the score. Beethoven had employed a pairing of interrogative and declarative motifs before, though without providing verbal cues such as are given here. A notable example is the rondo ﬁnale of his D major Piano Sonata op. 10 no. 3, where the ascending motivic ﬁgure of a semitone and third is eventually resolved into a descending form in the coda. According to an account by Schindler which may not be historically trustworthy but still merits critical consideration in this context, Beethoven is supposed to have associated the movement with the overcoming of melancholy; Richard Rosenberg implausibly extended this notion by underlaying the main form of the motif, in its interrogative, ascending version, with the words “Noch traurig?” (“Still sad?”).24 In view of its source, this account must be regarded with utmost skepticism; still, the general association seems not atypical of Beethoven. In any event, the fact that the verbal formula proposed by Rosenberg does not apply to the coda underlines its very limited relevance to the speciﬁc musical context. In op. 135 there is no such ambiguity; Beethoven seems to spell out the association in speciﬁc terms. Nevertheless, the movement offers pitfalls for interpretation. The almost operatic, exaggerated, parodistic treatment of the interrogative motif in the Grave, ma non troppo tratto is one such trap. To hear this music merely literally, as an expression of tragic pathos, may be tantamount to mistaking Beethoven’s entreaty of a blessing from Abbé Stadler for an earnest gesture. The relation of the motifs to Dembscher’s discomﬁture is not binding for an interpretation, of course, but in this case the character of the Allegro seems very much like gaiety and quite remote from philosophical quandary. This is not to deny the possibility of multiple interpretations, which are sometimes at the heart of Beethoven’s comic impulse, as we have seen. Christopher Reynolds, for instance, has argued for a reading of “Muss es sein?,” “Es muss sein!” as a pun on the note “Es,” or E , an important pitch in this ﬁnale and in the quartet as a whole. Such an interpretation is plausible but partial; it does not come close to exhausting the associations of the music.25 For Paul Bekker, writing in 1912, the movement conveys “less an intrinsic gaiety than a humor won through reﬂection.”26 But Bekker takes the mock pathos of the Grave sections too seriously, missing the parodistic 24

Die Klaviersonaten Ludwig van Beethovens, vol. 1, p. 108. See Reynolds, “The Representational Impulse in Late Beethoven, II: String Quartet in F major, Op. 135.” As we have seen, Beethoven sometimes indulged in compound musical 25

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Ex. 125 String Quartet op. 135/IV

dimension that surfaces at once in the opening Grave and even more clearly when Beethoven brings back the Grave at the end of the development. The blustering character is reinforced there through unusually crude scoring and exaggerated dynamics, before Beethoven once again dissolves the question into the unbridled high spirits of the Allegro. As Kerman rightly observed, Beethoven captured “something like the essence of gaiety” in this last movement of his last quartet.27 Conﬁrmation of this view can be sought through analysis of the one main theme for which Beethoven did not supply a verbal tag. This is the second subject, the ethereal “fairy march,” which appears in A major in the exposition and in F major in the recapitulation, before it is played pianissimo and pizzicato in the coda (Ex. 125). In the passage just preceding it, the afﬁrmative “It must be!” motif reaches a crisis, as the music slows to poco adagio and comes to rest on ambiguous chropuns such as the canon on “Kühl, nicht lau” WoO 191, employing the opening notes B–A–C–H (see note 12 above); another example is the variant “lau es,” a veiled allusion to the name “Laura Esther” employing the interval A–E (“A” and “Es” in German musical terminology). 26 Beethoven, p. 555. 27 The Beethoven Quartets, p. 367.

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Figure 9. Motives in the String Quartet op. 135

matic harmonies reminiscent of “Must it be?” The “fairy march” then carries the day, allowing the revitalized motto “It must be!” to bring the quartet to its joyous conclusion. Signiﬁcant in this respect is the rhythmic and intervallic kinship between “Must it be?” and the head of the ethereal march. Beethoven’s musical question consists of a falling third in dotted rhythm followed by a diminished fourth—F–D–G , as it appears most emphatically in the opening Grave. What he has done is to absorb this conﬁguration into the contour and rhythm of his second subject, whose controlling intervals correspond audibly to “Must it be?,” though notated in a different tempo. A comparison of the two motifs is shown in Figure 9. The rhythmic shape of the melodic progression from F through the repeated Cs to D in the second half of the second bar recalls the falling third F–D in dotted rhythm from the Grave; the ensuing turn ﬁgure leading to G in the Allegro replaces the dissonant diminished fourth D–G from the Grave with a stable rising fourth leading from D through F to G. Beethoven goes beyond his own verbal tags in resolving the musical tensions in this enchanting closing passage. Thus closes the F major Quartet, a ﬁtting end to Beethoven’s career and one of the ﬁnest examples of his humor in music. The study of Beethoven’s biography has abundantly conﬁrmed his propensity to regard the world around him in an ironic or comic light. This capacity may have been reinforced by the increasing discrepancy between his artistic sensibility and his ability to function in the everyday world. Already in the Bonn period, Helene von Breuning commented on Beethoven’s “raptus”; in 1801 Beethoven described himself as “absentminded”; his selfabsorption and disregard of the outer social world became appreciably greater in his period of depression after 1812, and after the complete erosion of his hearing around 1818. His “penchant for sarcastic wit” and “withdrawal from the world around him” were also noted by Gerhard von Breuning, who was in frequent contact with the composer during the last months of his life.28 By 1821, as we have seen, it was possible for Beethoven to be arrested as a tramp. Some of the most colorful stories illustrating the perception of him by ordinary citizens stem from his stay at Gneixendorf. On one occasion an avid music lover who encountered him at a business ofﬁce mistook him for an “idiot” (“Trottel”) and was shocked to learn of his error. Beethoven’s habit of shouting and wildly gesticulating while 28

Memories of Beethoven, ed. Solomon, p. 44.

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composing on his outings was reason enough for him to be taken as a madman. One farmer related how Beethoven’s behavior twice frightened a pair of young oxen, causing them to stampede. None of the absurdities in Beethoven’s jokes could quite mirror the precarious dialectic of his own art and life, an experience that may account in part for his love of the dictum “art is long, life is short.” Art offered something seemingly permanent, a bulwark of enduring meaning posited against the inevitable transience of life. At the same time, even trivial events could be transformed into artistic coinage, opening nourishing lines of connection between life and art. It is this quality of universality and challenging breadth of experience that must explain in part the continued vitality of Beethoven’s music today. Beethoven’s artworks are above all vessels of tensional synthesis, whose ultimate task remains ever unfulﬁlled. The challenge to criticism lies in the need to apprehend this uneasy blend of the rational and sensuous while curbing schematic methodology or arbitrary speculation. A network of internal relationships sustains, modiﬁes, or even deﬁnes the expressive character; form and psychology become interdependent, if not indistinguishable. An engagement with the immanent temporality of the work is the prerequisite not only of satisfactory performance but also of adequate analysis, which properly resembles an imagined performance, not merely an exercise in structural dismemberment or the mechanical rehearsal of a priori percepts. Useful analysis may build on the results of such systematic investigations, but it cannot end with them. For the real purpose of talking about music is to hear more in the music. What is to be heard is often underestimated; slick, technically ﬂuent performances frequently fail to convey adequately the character of the works. In some cases, as in Beethoven’s humorous pieces, for instance, such dynamic qualities as surprise, imbalance, and even disorientation need to be felt and communicated. An excessively literalistic approach, which pays homage to the notation but fails to probe its contextual meaning, is hopelessly inadequate here. It is more appropriate to stress the humanity of this music—those elements of dramatic character and narrative symbolism that inspire so many of these pieces, from the Joseph Cantata to the last quartets. As we have seen, Beethoven’s art does not stand aloof from concerns of life, it does not lose itself in abstraction. On the contrary, the principle of self-determination embodied in this music gives it the strength to confront provocatively the boundary separating the potential from the actual, or art from life. The same resilient, life-afﬁrming attitude characterized Beethoven’s response to the inevitability of death, as reﬂected, for instance, in his canon of 11 May 1825 on “Doctor bar[s] the door to death. A note helps too in time of need,” with its pun on Note (“note”) and Noth (“need,” as in extreme emergency, before impending death).29 A conversation book from about this time records a variant of the idea: “My doctor helped me, for I could write no more notes [Noten], but now I write notes [Noten] which help me out of my need [Nöthen].”30 Less than two 29 In addition to its publication in standard editions of Beethoven’s letters, this canon is reproduced with a facsimile of the manuscript in Ludwig van Beethoven, ed. Joseph

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years later notes could no longer help him, but Beethoven retained his taste for comic irony until the end. It is entirely typical, and deserving of respect, that the composer on his deathbed recited the common closing line of classical comedy: “Plaudite, amici, ﬁnita est comoedia” (“Applaud, friends, the comedy is over”).31

Schmidt-Görg and Hans Schmidt, p. 30; and in Hans Bankl and Hans Jesserer, Die Krankheiten Ludwig van Beethovens, Pathographie seines Lebens und Pathologie seiner Leiden, pp. 42–43. 30 Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte, vol. 7, pp. 256, 405. 31 See Breuning, Memories of Beethoven, ed. Solomon, p. 102.

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R Selected Bibliography

R For Works Cited, see below, pp. 000–00; for a more detailed annotated survey of writings on Beethoven up to 1977, see the bibliography in Maynard Solomon’s Beethoven (New York: Schirmer, 1977, new ed., 1998). The following list is highly selective and emphasizes studies that have appeared since the 1980s.

I. Basic Sources A new complete edition was begun in 1961 (Beethoven-Werke [Munich: G. Henle Verlag]) but has been slow to reach publication, with some volumes and critical reports still outstanding. The standard collected edition thus remains Beethovens Werke: Vollständige, kritische durchgesehene Gesamtausgabe, 25 vols. (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1862–65; 1888). Noteworthy are the many recent Breitkopf & Härtel editions, such as the symphonies, edited by Clive Brown and Peter Hauschild, which had appeared by 2005. Works omitted from the old Gesamtausgabe are listed in Willy Hess, Verzeichnis der nicht in der Gesamtausgabe veröffentlichten Werke Ludwig van Beethovens (Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1957). Hess subsequently edited the Supplemente zur Gesamtausgabe, 14 vols. (Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1959–71). The most comprehensive published collection of Beethoven’s letters in English remains Emily Anderson, trans. and ed., The Letters of Beethoven, published in three volumes in 1961 (reprinted in 1985). Two editions of letters appeared in 1996: the long-awaited complete edition of letters in German, issued through the Beethoven-Haus at Bonn, appeared as Ludwig van Beethoven: Briefwechsel: Gesamtausgabe, 7 vols., ed. Sieghard Brandenburg and others; and an edition of Letters to Beethoven and Other Correspondence, 3 vols., ed. and trans. Theodore Albrecht, that supplements the Anderson edition (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1996). The standard catalogue of Beethoven’s works is Georg Kinsky and Hans Halm, Das Werk Beethovens: Thematisch-bibliographisches Verzeichnis (Munich: Henle, 1955). Also see Kurt Dorfmüller, ed., Beiträge zur Beethoven-Bibliographie (Munich: Henle, 1978). A revised, updated version of the Kinsky-Halm catalogue is currently being prepared for Henle Verlag under the editorial direction of Norbert Gertsch and Kurt Dorfmüller. The comprehensive edition of the conversation books used by the deaf composer during his last decade is Karl-Heinz Köhler, Grita Herre, and Dagmar Beck, eds., Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte, 11 vols. (Leipzig: VEB Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1968–2001). An earlier collected publication edited by Georg Schünemann (Berlin: Max

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Hesses Verlag) was broken off after three volumes in 1943; its readings often differ from those of the Leipzig edition. Another important primary source is Beethoven’s Tagebuch, or diary, from the years 1812–18. Maynard Solomon published an edition of the Tagebuch in German and in English translation, with commentary, in Beethoven Studies, vol. 3, ed. Alan Tyson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982). This edition was reprinted in Solomon’s Beethoven Essays (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1988); the German text was reissued as Beethovens Tagebuch in a handsome volume with an introduction by Sieghard Brandenburg (Mainz: v. Hase & Koehler Verlag, 1990). The standard catalogue of Beethoven’s musical sketchbooks is Douglas Johnson, Alan Tyson, and Robert Winter, The Beethoven Sketchbooks: History, Reconstruction, Inventory (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1985). Since this study does not survey all of Beethoven’s sketches on loose papers, it is supplemented by Hans Schmidt, “Verzeichnis der Skizzen Beethovens,” Beethoven-Jahrbuch 6 (1969), pp. 7–128. A new edition of The Beethoven Sketchbooks is needed to take into account new sources and interpretations that have emerged during the last decades. The famous biography by Anton Schindler was most recently edited by Donald W. MacArdle and translated by Constance S. Jolly as Beethoven as I Knew Him (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1966). Research has shown Schindler to be an unreliable witness and has exposed a substantial number of entries in the conversation books as Schindler’s forgeries. The forged entries are listed in Dagmar Beck and Grita Herre, “Anton Schindlers ﬁngierte Eintragungen in den Konversationsheften,” in Zu Beethoven: Aufsätze und Annotationen, vol. 1, ed. Harry Goldschmidt (Berlin: Verlag Neue Musik, 1979), pp. 11–89. Some well-known studies, such as Arnold Schmitz’s inﬂuential book Beethovens “Zwei Prinzipe”: ihre Bedeutung für Themen- und Satzbau (Berlin and Bonn: Ferd. Dümmlers Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1923), are seriously undermined by their reliance on the dubious interpretations offered by Schindler. It is a delicate matter to assess the reliability of various witnesses like Carl Czerny, Franz Gerhard Wegeler, Ferdinand Ries, Jean Francois-Nicolas Bouilly, Bettina Brentano, and others, whose reports of events were written down long after the fact, and, in the case of Bouilly and Brentano, are preserved in stylized accounts. Czerny’s autobiographical notes, entitled Erinnerungen aus meinem Leben (Memories from My Life), date from 1842; Ries’s Biographische Notizen (Biographical Notes), published together with those of Franz Gerhard Wegeler, a friend of Beethoven’s youth, appeared in 1838. Czerny, Wegeler, and Ries seem generally trustworthy, although the dates Ries supplies are sometimes faulty. On Ries, see Alan Tyson, “Ferdinand Ries (1784–1838): The History of his Contribution to Beethoven Biography,” 19th-Century Music 7 (1984), pp. 209–21. Jos Van der Zanden’s recent argument that Ries came to Vienna no earlier than the beginning of 1803 would reduce his credibility, but as Katherine Syer observes, Van der Zanden’s argument is speculative and hard to reconcile with evidence relating to the genesis of Beethoven’s Marches for Piano Duet op. 45, including one of the composer’s letters (Van der Zanden, “Ferdinand Ries in Vienna: New Perspectives on the Notizen,” Beethoven Journal 19 [2004], pp. 51–65, published in German as “Ferdinand Ries in Wien: Neue Perspektiven zu den Notizen,” Bonner Beethoven-Studien 4 [2005], pp. 191–212); see also Syer, “A Peculiar Hybrid: The Structure and Chronology of the ‘Eroica’ Sketchbook (Landsberg 6),” Bonner Beethoven-Studien 5 (2006), pp. 159–81. A collection of source material about Beethoven from his contemporaries is Beethoven aus der Sicht seiner Zeitgenossen: Gespräche, Aufzeichnungen, Berichte und Erinnerungen, 2 vols., edited by Klaus Martin Kopitz and Rainer Cadenbach (Munich: Henle, 2008).

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The classic biography by the nineteenth-century American scholar Alexander Wheelock Thayer appeared in editions by Deiters and Riemann (1866–1917) and Krehbiel (1921); a revised and updated edition appeared as Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, edited by Elliot Forbes (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1964). For new material on Thayer, see Grant W. Cook, “Alexander Wheelock Thayer: A New Biographical Sketch,” Beethoven Journal 17 (2002), pp. 2–11; and especially Luigi Bellofatto, “Alexander Wheelock Thayer: Neue Quellen zu Person und Werk,” Bonner Beethoven-Studien 5 (2006), pp. 7–69. Thayer’s work served as a foundation for the important interpretative biography Beethoven by Maynard Solomon (New York: Schirmer, 1977; new rev. ed., 1998). A concise survey of the life and works is The New Grove Beethoven by Joseph Kerman and Alan Tyson (London: Macmillan, 1981). More recent general studies of Beethoven include Konrad Küster, Beethoven (Stuttgart: DVA, 1994), Barry Cooper, Beethoven, Master Musicians Series (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), Klaus Kropﬁnger, Beethoven (Weimar: Metzler, 2001), and Lewis Lockwood, Beethoven: The Music and the Life (New York: Norton, 2003).

II. Yearbooks, Journals, Collections of Criticism Three important scholarly series issued since the 1970s are the Beethoven-Jahrbuch, issued by the Beethoven-Haus at Bonn; Beethoven Studies, edited by Alan Tyson; and Zu Beethoven: Aufsätze und Annotationen, edited by Harry Goldschmidt. The last issue of the Beethoven-Jahrbuch appeared in 1983. Collections of essays have been issued by the Beethoven-Haus under other titles, such as Beiträge zu Beethovens Kammermusik (1987), Beethoven und Böhmen (1988), and Beethoven: Zwischen Revolution und Restauration (1989), Beethoven und die Rezeption der Alten Musik: Die hohe Schule der Überlieferung (2002), and Der “männliche” und der “weibliche” Beethoven (2003). The three volumes of Beethoven Studies appeared between 1973 and 1982; the three volumes of Zu Beethoven were published between 1979 and 1988. The Beethoven Newsletter (now Beethoven Journal), published since 1986 by the American Beethoven Society, now contains some longer, detailed studies characteristic of primary research. A French counterpart is Beethoven: La revue de l’ABF Association Beethoven France et Francophonie. Another periodical in existence since 1999 is Arietta, published by the Beethoven Piano Society of Europe. For an overview of such publications, see William Meredith, “Beethoven ‘Yearbooks,’ Beethoven Periodicals, and the Future of Beethoven Forum,” Beethoven Journal 16 (2001), pp. 82–87. The 1990s saw the emergence of several new scholarly publications devoted to Beethoven. A major German publication project was Beethoven: Interpretationen seiner Werke, edited by Carl Dahlhaus, Albrecht Riethmüller, and Alexander Ringer (Laaber: Laaber Verlag, 1994). A monograph series issued by the University of Nebraska Press, North American Beethoven Studies, began in 1991 with the appearance of Beethoven’s Compositional Process, edited by the present writer. A new yearbook, Beethoven Forum, ﬁrst appeared in 1992; eight volumes were issued up to 2000. From 2002 until 2008, Beethoven Forum continued as a journal published by the University of Illinois Press. Beginning in 1999, the Beethoven-Haus has issued Bonner Beethoven-Studien, with ﬁve volumes in print up to 2006. Two other collections of Beethoven essays appeared in 2000: The Cambridge Companion to Beethoven, ed. Glenn Stanley, and Beethoven and His World, ed. Scott Burnham and Michael P. Steinberg (Princeton: Princeton University Press).

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The valuable pioneering source studies by Gustav Nottebohm, and the interpretations of Paul Mies (Beethoven’s Sketches, London: Oxford University Press, 1929, based entirely on Nottebohm’s work) are now largely superseded by research done since the 1960s. Some of these works are listed in the bibliographies of The Beethoven Sketchbooks by Douglas Johnson, Alan Tyson, and Robert Winter; in addition to these three scholars, the studies by Sieghard Brandenburg, Barry Cooper, William Drabkin, Joseph Kerman, Richard Kramer, and Lewis Lockwood among others are worthy of mention. Brandenburg’s uncollected studies have examined the sources of a number of Beethoven’s major works. Lockwood’s collected essays appeared as Beethoven: Studies in the Creative Process (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992); he is also general editor of the series Studies in Musical Genesis and Structure, published by Oxford University Press, which has issued studies of the Diabelli Variations, by the present writer (1987), and of the Appassionata Sonata, by Martha Frohlich (1991). Also see the aforementioned collection of essays, Beethoven’s Compositional Process, published by the University of Nebraska Press (1991), and Barry Cooper’s book Beethoven and the Creative Process (Oxford: Clarendon, 1990). The Beethoven-Haus is committed to a series of sketchbook editions, but no such publications were issued between 1978 and 1993, when the Landsberg 5 Sketchbook, transcribed and edited by Clemens Brenneis, appeared. On the sketches for Beethoven’s Tenth Symphony, see Barry Cooper, “Newly Identiﬁed Sketches for Beethoven’s Tenth Symphony,” Music and Letters 66 (1985), pp. 9–18; and Robert Winter, “Of Realizations, Completions, Restorations and Reconstructions: From Bach’s The Art of Fugue to Beethoven’s Tenth Symphony,” Journal of the Royal Musical Association 116 (1991), pp. 96–125. Most recent Beethoven scholarship has been done in English- and German-speaking countries, but an inﬂuential contribution to Beethoven sketch research was the edition of the socalled Wielhorsky Sketchbook by Natan L’vovich Fishman that was published in Moscow in 1962 (Kniga eskizov Betkhovena za 1802–1803 gody). For a discussion of the Beethoven studies of Fishman and some other scholars in the former Soviet Union, see Larissa Kirillina, “Recent Russian Beethoven Scholars,” Beethoven Newsletter 7 (1992), pp. 10–16. An ongoing publication project devoted to Beethoven’s creative process is the Beethoven Sketchbook Series published by the University of Illinois Press. The ﬁrst edition in the series is Artaria 195: Beethoven’s Sketchbook for the Missa solemnis and the Piano Sonata in E Major, Opus 109, issued in three volumes in 2003, with a color facsimile, transcription, and commentary by the present author. Several other editions are in preparation. Another current focus for related work is the collaborative research project in “genetic criticism” (critique génétique) between the University of Illinois and the Centre nationale de la recherche scientiﬁque (CNRS) in Paris.

IV. Analysis and Criticism For a collection of early reviews of Beethoven’s music up to 1830, see Stefan Kunze, ed., Ludwig van Beethoven: Die Werke im Spiegel seiner Zeit: Gesammelte Konzertberichte und Rezensionen bis 1830 (Laaber: Laaber Verlag, 1987). Also see Robin Wallace, Beethoven’s Critics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), and the bibliographical overview of writings compiled by Donald W. MacArdle (Beethoven Abstracts [Detroit: Information Coordinators, 1973]). Recent discussions of Beethoven’s relations with aesthetic

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currents of early Romanticism include Dahlhaus’s Ludwig van Beethoven and the review of his book by John Daverio, “Dahlhaus’s Beethoven and the Esoteric Aesthetics of the Early Nineteenth Century,” in Beethoven Forum 2 (1993), as well as Scott Burnham’s article on A. B. Marx in 19th-Century Music 13 (1990), and Maynard Solomon, “Beethoven: Beyond Classicism,” in The Beethoven Quartet Companion, ed. Robert Winter and Robert Martin (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), pp. 59–75. On Beethoven’s attitudes toward nature, religion, and Freemasonry, see Arnold Schmitz, Das romantische Beethovenbild: Darstellung und Kritik (Berlin and Bonn: Dümmler, 1927), esp. pp. 86–93, among other studies. Among many works devoted to aspects of Beethoven reception, a classic study is Leo Schrade, Beethoven in France: The Growth of an Idea (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1942); also see Beate Angelika Kraus, Beethoven-Rezeption in Frankreich von ihren Anfängen bis zum Untergang des Second Empire (Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 2001). Hans Heinrich Eggebrecht’s Zur Geschichte der Beethoven Rezeption has been republished in a volume containing two additional essays (Laaber: Laaber Verlag, 1994). See also Ruth A. Solie, “Beethoven as Secular Humanist: Ideology and the Ninth Symphony in NineteenthCentury Criticism,” in Explorations in Music, the Arts and Ideas: Essays in Honor of Leonard B. Meyer, ed. Eugene Narmour and Ruth A. Solie (Stuyvesant: Pendragon Press, 1988), pp. 1–42, and David Dennis, Beethoven in German Politics, 1870–1989 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996). The Beethoven myth has attracted attention in various recent studies, including Rainer Cadenbach, Mythos Beethoven: Ausstellungskatalog (Laaber: Laaber Verlag, 1986), Alessandra Comini, The Changing Image of Beethoven: A Study in Mythmaking (New York: Rizzoli, 1987), and Elisabeth Eleonore Bauer, Wie Beethoven auf den Sockel kam: Die Entstehung eines musikalischen Mythos (Stuttgart and Weimar: Metzler, 1992). An outstanding older critical survey of Beethoven’s music is Walter Riezler’s Beethoven, trans. G. D. H. Pidcock (London: M. C. Forrester, 1938). The valuable critical commentaries by Donald Francis Tovey are scattered in part through the volumes of his Essays in Musical Analysis; also see his unﬁnished posthumous Beethoven monograph (London: Oxford University Press, 1944) and his somewhat schematic Companion to Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas (London: Associated Board of the Royal Schools of Music, 1931), as well as Joseph Kerman’s essay “Tovey’s Beethoven,” in Beethoven Studies, vol. 2, ed. Alan Tyson. A stimulating discussion of Beethoven’s style focusing on the Hammerklavier Sonata is found in Charles Rosen’s The Classical Style: Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven (London: Faber, 1971). Dieter Rexroth’s Beethoven: Monographie (Mainz: Schott, 1982) consists mainly of a biographical summary, reprinting familiar documents bearing on Beethoven’s life and work, although some original commentary is offered in the last chapters, devoted to the piano sonatas, variations, and Fidelio.

1. Beethoven’s Creative Periods An excellent summary of critical thought about Beethoven’s evolving style periods from Wilhelm von Lenz to recent scholarship is found in Solomon’s chapter “Beethoven’s Creative Periods” in his Beethoven Essays. Early Years: Since Ludwig Schiedermair’s Der junge Beethoven of 1925, the most intensive research has been done by Kerman and Johnson. Kerman’s edition of the so-called Kafka Sketchbook (Ludwig van Beethoven: Autograph Miscellany from Circa 1786 to 1799 (The “Kafka” Sketchbook), London, 1970) and Johnson’s edition of the “Fischhof” Miscellany in

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“Beethoven’s Early Sketches” (Ph.D. diss., 1978; pub. Ann Arbor: UMI, 1980) have made most of Beethoven’s early working papers available in transcription, offering a new platform for criticism. There is a shortage of good analytical writing on many of the early works. Middle Years: A substantial analytical literature has accumulated on individual movements that have been interpreted as reﬂecting a turning point in Beethoven’s compositional style. See, for instance, Dahlhaus’s discussion of the ﬁrst movement of the Tempest Sonata op. 31 no. 2 in his Ludwig van Beethoven monograph and other publications, or the various studies of the ﬁrst movement of the Eroica Symphony cited below. The notion of Beethoven’s “new way” risks being overworked in some commentaries. Numerous earlier scholars, including Romain Rolland and Arnold Schmitz, have written about the relationship of Beethoven’s “heroic” style to French revolutionary currents; certain of these ideas are absorbed into Michael Broyles, The Emergence and Evolution of Beethoven’s “Heroic” Style (New York: Excelsior, 1987). Beethoven’s stylistic evolution at the threshold of the nineteenth century still poses challenges to analytical criticism. The indispensable balance between normative categories of musical form and character on the one hand, and the particular qualities of individual works on the other, was grasped more surely in the nineteenthcentury writings of E. T. A. Hoffmann or A. B. Marx than in those later studies from Hugo Riemann to the present in which either the allure of theory pursued for its own sake or an indulgence in programmatic interpretation has predominated. For a discussion of Marx’s analyses and their later reception see Wulf Arlt, “Zur Geschichte der Formenlehre und zur Beethoven-analyse im 19. Jahrhundert: Adolph Bernhard Marx,” in Beethoven ’77: Beiträge der Beethoven-Woche 1977 veranstaltet von der Musik-Akademie Basel, ed. Friedhelm Döhl (Zürich: Amadeus, 1979), pp. 21–44. Another recent study focusing on several of the middle-period works is Peter Gülke, “. . . immer das Ganze vor Augen,” in Studien zu Beethoven (Stuttgart: Metzler/Bärenreiter, 2000). Later Years: Insightful discussions of Beethoven’s “late style” are found in Riezler’s Beethoven and Martin Cooper’s Beethoven: The Last Decade (London: Oxford University Press, 1970). Concise summaries of his late style are found in Brendel’s “Beethoven’s New Style,” in Music Sounded Out (London: Robson, 1990), and in chapter 4 of my Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations (Oxford: Clarendon, 1987). Also see Kevin Korsyn, “Integration in Works of Beethoven’s Final Period” (Ph.D. diss., Yale University, 1983), and “J. W. N. Sullivan and the Heiliger Dankgesang: Questions of Meaning in Late Beethoven,” Beethoven Forum 2 (1993), pp. 133–74. A reassessment of Beethoven’s political orientation in his music after 1809 is attempted in Stephen Rumph, Beethoven after Napoleon: Political Romanticism in the Late Works (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004). Another recent study is Michael Spitzer, Music as Philosophy: Adorno and Beethoven’s Late Style (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006). For discussions of Beethoven’s philosophical and poetic ideas in his later years, see Maynard Solomon, Late Beethoven: Music, Thought, Imagination (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), and Birgit Lodes, “‘So träumte mir, ich reiste . . . nach Indien’: Temporality and Mythology in Op. 127/I,” in The String Quartets of Beethoven, ed. William Kinderman (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2006), pp. 168–213.

2. Selected Critical Studies by Genre Symphonies: For a listing of older surveys by Grove and others, see Solomon’s Beethoven (New York: Schirmer, 1977). The Nine Symphonies of Beethoven by Anthony Hopkins

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(London: Heinemann, 1981) is a clear but very basic guide. The Eroica Symphony has received very intense analytical attention, from Heinrich Schenker, “Beethovens Dritte Sinfonie zum erstenmal in ihrem wahren Inhalt dargestellt,” Das Meisterwerk in der Musik: ein Jahrbuch von Heinrich Schenker, iii (Munich, 1930; repr. Hildesheim and New York: Georg Olms Verlag, 1974); Walter Riezler, Beethoven, pp. 247–81; Ernest Newman, The Unconscious Beethoven (London: Leonard Parsons, 1927), pp. 120–36; and David Epstein, Beyond Orpheus (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1979), pp. 111–38, among others. Especially important are the four essays by Lewis Lockwood brought together in his Beethoven: Studies in the Creative Process. Also see Martin Geck and Peter Schleuning, “Geschrieben auf Bonaparte”: Beethovens “Eroica”; Revolution, Reaktion, Rezeption (Reinbeck bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1989); Scott Burnham, Beethoven Hero (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995); and Thomas Sipe, Beethoven: Eroica Symphony (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). Discussions of the Fifth Symphony are offered by Lawrence Kramer, Music and Poetry: The Nineteenth Century and After (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1984), pp. 234–41; and Kerman, “Taking the Fifth,” Das musikalische Kunstwerk: Geschichte—Ästhetik—Theorie: Festschrift Carl Dahlhaus zum 60. Geburtstag, ed. Hermann Danuser, Helga de la Motte-Haber, S. Leopold, and N. Miller (Laaber: Laaber Verlag, 1988), pp. 483–91, who offers a critique of Schenker’s analysis. On the Sixth Symphony, see Rudolf Bockholdt, Ludwig van Beethoven: VI. Symphonie F-Dur, op. 68 Pastorale (Munich: Fink Verlag, 1981), and Richard Will, Characteristic Symphony in the Age of Haydn and Beethoven (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). On the Ninth Symphony, see Solomon’s outstanding essay “The Ninth Symphony: A Search for Order,” in Beethoven Essays. Leo Treitler offers a pair of articles on this work in his Music and the Historical Imagination (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1989): “History, Criticism, and Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony” and “‘To Worship that Celestial Sound’: Motives for Analysis.” A challenging older study is Otto Baensch, Aufbau und Sinn des Chorﬁnales in Beethovens neunter Symphonie (Berlin and Leipzig: Walter de Gruyter, 1930); also see Johannes Bauer, Rhetorik der Überschreitung: Annotationen zu Beethovens Neunter Symphonie (Pfaffenweiler: Centaurus, 1992). The design of the choral ﬁnale is given renewed scrutiny in “The Form of the Finale in Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony” (in Beethoven Forum 1, pp. 25–62) by James Webster, who ﬁnds that the analyses of Schenker and Tovey, far from being opposed, “ideally complement each other” (p. 44). Other writings on the Ninth include David Levy, Beethoven: The Ninth Symphony (New York: Schirmer, 1995), and Esteban Buch, Beethoven’s Ninth: A Political History, trans. Richard Miller (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003). String Quartets: A ﬁne critical study is Kerman, The Beethoven Quartets (New York: Norton, 1966); also see Philip Radcliffe’s useful volume, Beethoven’s String Quartets (London: Hutchinson, 1965; 2nd ed., 1978). More recent analytical studies include Bruce Campbell, Beethoven’s Quartets Opus 59: An Investigation into Compositional Process (PhD dissertation, Yale University, 1982); Lini Hübsch, Ludwig van Beethoven: Rasumowsky-Quartette (Munich: Fink Verlag, 1983); David L. Brodbeck and John Platoff, “Dissociation and Integration: The First Movement of Beethoven’s Opus 130,” 19th-Century Music, vii (1983), pp. 149–62; Robert Winter, The Compositional Origins of Beethoven’s Opus 131 (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1982); and John Edward Crotty, “Design and Harmonic Organization in Beethoven’s String Quartet, Opus 131” (Ph.D. diss., University of Rochester, 1986). Also see The Beethoven Quartet Companion, ed. Robert Winter and Robert Martin (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994). The entire ﬁrst version of Beethoven’s

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Quartet op. 18 no. 1 is printed in Beethoven Werke: Abteilung VI, Band 3, Streichquartette 1, ed. Paul Mies (Munich: Henle, 1962), 124–50. Mozart’s inﬂuence on Beethoven’s op. 18 no. 5 and op. 132 is assessed in Jeremy Yudkin, “Beethoven’s ‘Mozart’ Quartet,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 45 (1992), pp. 30–74. The most recent and comprehensive collection of essays is The String Quartets of Beethoven, ed. William Kinderman (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2006). Solo Piano Music: For an overview of earlier writings, see William S. Newman, The Sonata in the Classic Era, 2nd ed. (New York: Norton, 1972), who counted more than ﬁfty books devoted to the sonatas alone. More recent contributions to this vast and ever growing literature include Newman’s Beethoven on Beethoven: Playing His Piano Music His Way (New York: Norton, 1988) and my chapter “Beethoven” in Nineteenth-Century Piano Music, ed. R. Larry Todd (New York: Schirmer, 1990), pp. 55–96. Collections of my essays on the sonatas, with translations into several languages, have appeared as booklets accompanying Alfred Brendel’s recordings (10 CDs, Philips Classics Productions, 1996), and Daniel Barenboim’s live performances and master classes (6 DVDs, EMI Classics, 2006). Critical evaluation of recordings, together with analytical description, is offered in Joachim Kaiser’s Beethovens 32 Klaviersonaten und ihre Interpreten (Frankfurt: Fischer, 1975). For a discussion of rhetorical features of Beethoven’s piano music, see George Barth, The Pianist as Orator: Beethoven and the Transformation of Keyboard Style (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992). Schenker prepared critical editions with analysis of all the last sonatas except the Hammerklavier in Die letzten Sonaten von Beethoven: Kritische Ausgabe mit Einführung und Erläuterung, 4 vols. (Vienna: Universal, 1913–21; new ed. 1971). The best detailed survey of all the piano music is Jürgen Uhde, Beethovens Klaviermusik, 3 vols. (Stuttgart: Reclam, 1968–74), a work unfortunately overlooked in some recent bibliographies in English. Also see Uhde’s collaborative book with Renate Wieland, Denken und Spielen (Kassel and New York: Bärenreiter, 1988), which is important as well for its discussion of Adorno’s Beethoven criticism. This book is reviewed by the present author in 19th-Century Music, 15 (1991), pp. 64–68. Uhde and Wieland offer detailed discussion of Adorno’s stimulating writings on Beethoven that reached publication only in 1993 (Theodor W. Adorno, Beethoven: Philosophie der Musik: Fragmente und Texte: Fragment gebliebener Schriften, vol. 1, ed. Rolf Tiedemann (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp); trans. by Edmund Jephcott as Adorno, Beethoven: The Philosophy of Music (Oxford: Polity Press, 1998). Other studies of the sonatas include Kenneth Drake, The Beethoven Sonatas and the Creative Experience (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994), Charles Rosen, Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas: A Short Companion (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), and the collection of interviews of András Schiff with Martin Meyer, Beethovens Klaviersonaten und ihre Deutung “Für jeden Ton die Sprache ﬁnden. . .”: András Schiff im Gespräch mit Martin Meyer (Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 2007). There is no adequate modern survey in English of Beethoven’s numerous sets of piano variations. For a recent overview of classical variation procedures, see Elaine Sisman, Haydn and the Classical Variation (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1993), who devotes her ﬁnal chapter to Beethoven’s transformation of the classical variation. Intense scrutiny of the genesis of the op. 35 Variations is offered by Christopher Reynolds in “Beethoven’s Sketches for the Variations in E Op. 35,” Beethoven Studies, vol. 3, pp. 47–84. On the Diabelli Variations, see my aforementioned study and Brendel’s essay “Must Classical Music Be Entirely Serious? 2: Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations,” in Music Sounded Out.

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Chamber Music with Piano: For an overview of the genre of the piano trio, see Basil Smallman, The Piano Trio: Its History, Technique, and Repertoire (Oxford: Clarendon, 1990). A study of Beethoven’s trios is the German conference report Beethovens Klaviertrios: Symposion München 1990, ed. Rudolf Bockholdt and Petra Weber-Bockholdt (Munich: Henle, 1992), which includes valuable essays by Stefan Kunze on op. 70 no. 1, and by Peter Cahn on op. 70 no. 2. Also see Seow-Chin Ong, “Source Studies for Beethoven’s Piano Trio in B-ﬂat Major, Op. 97 (‘Archduke’)” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1995). A discussion of the violin sonatas is contained in Max Rostal, Ludwig van Beethoven: Die Sonaten für Klavier und Violine (Munich: Piper, 1981; Eng. trans. by Horace and Anna Rosenberg, New York and Gloucester, 1985). The most recent collection of studies devoted to the violin sonatas is The Beethoven Violin Sonatas: History, Criticism, Performance, ed. Lewis Lockwood and Mark Kroll (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2004). Concertos: A useful general study is Leon Plantinga, Beethoven’s Concertos: History, Style, Performance (New York: Norton, 1999). On the Violin Concerto, also see Robin Stowell, Beethoven: Violin Concerto (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). Also see Hans-Werner Küthen’s critical reports in the new complete edition: Beethoven: Werke, III/3, Klavierkonzerte, 2 vols. (Munich: Henle, 1984 and 1996). Fidelio: Noteworthy are the studies of Willy Hess, most recently Das Fidelio-Buch: Beethovens Oper Fidelio, ihre Geschichte und ihre drei Fassungen (Winterthur: Amadeus, 1986); Winton Dean, “Beethoven and Opera,” in The Beethoven Companion, ed. Denis Arnold and Nigel Fortune (London: Faber, 1971; and New York: Norton, 1971, as The Beethoven Reader), pp. 331–86; and Michael Tusa, “The Unknown Florestan: The 1805 Version of ‘In des Lebens Frühlingstagen,’” Journal of the American Musicological Society 46 (1993), pp. 175–220. Also see Irving Singer, Mozart & Beethoven: The Concept of Love in Their Operas (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1977), Ludwig van Beethoven: Fidelio, ed. Paul Robinson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), Von der Leonore zum Fidelio, ed. Helga Lühning and Wolfram Steinbeck (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2000), and Berthold Hoeckner, Progamming the Absolute: Nineteenth-Century German Music and the Hermeneutics of the Moment (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002), pp. 12–50. Works for the Congress of Vienna: Especially useful is the collection of essays Beethoven: Zwischen Revolution und Restauration (Bonn: Beethovenhaus, 1989), with contributions by Küthen, Michael Ladenburger (“Der Wiener Kongress im Spiegel der Musik,” pp. 275–306), and Thomas Röder (“Beethovens Sieg über die Schlachtenmusik, Opus 91, und die Tradition der Battaglia,” pp. 229–58). Recent studies include Nicholas Cook, “The Other Beethoven: Heroism, the Canon, and the Works of 1813–14,” 19th-Century Music 27 (2003), pp. 3–24; and Nicholas Mathew, “Beethoven and His Others: Criticism, Difference, and the Composer’s Many Voices,” Beethoven Forum 13 (2006), pp. 148–87. Missa solemnis: See the Cambridge Handbook Beethoven: Missa solemnis by William Drabkin, published in 1991, and studies by Drabkin, Kirkendale, and others listed in the Works Cited. Wilfrid Mellers’s Beethoven and the Voice of God (London: Oxford University Press, 1983) contains an extensive but highly speculative discussion. Also see Theodor W. Adorno, “Alienated Masterpiece: The Missa Solemnis,” Telos 28 (1976), pp. 113–24. For a thorough study of the Gloria, see Birgit Lodes, Das Gloria in Beethovens Missa solemnis (Tutzing: Schneider, 1997). The compositional genesis of the Missa solemnis is ex-

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plored in detail in the commentary volume of my edition of Artaria 195: Beethoven’s Sketchbook for the Missa solemnis and the Piano Sonata in E Major, Opus 109 (2003). Lieder: A valuable overview is contained in Hans Boettcher, Beethoven als Liederkomponist (Augsburg: Benno Filser, 1928). A classic essay is Kerman’s “An die ferne Geliebte,” in Beethoven Studies, vol. 1, pp. 123–57; also see Lockwood’s “Beethoven’s Sketches for Sehnsucht (WoO 146),” in the same volume, pp. 97–122.

3. Specialized Analytic Approaches Many analyses of Beethoven’s music focus on motivic relationships, thematic structure, rhythmic and metrical phenomena, or harmonic and tonal structure; the most convincing studies do not lose sight of the relations of these and other musical elements to one another. The method of analyzing motivic relationships and derivations in Beethoven’s music has a venerable tradition; the studies of Walter Engelsmann, Rudolph Réti, and Deryck Cooke, among others, illustrate this approach. Also see Kurt von Fischer, Die Beziehungen von Form und Motiv in Beethovens Instrumentalwerken (Strasbourg and Zürich: Heity, 1948). Authors who have seen in Beethoven a continuation of older rhetorical traditions include Erich Schenk, “Barock bei Beethoven,” in Beethoven und die Gegenwart: Festschrift Ludwig Schiedermair zum 60. Geburtstag, ed. Arnold Schmitz (Berlin and Bonn: Dümmler, 1937), pp. 177–219; and Warren Kirkendale, “New Roads to Old Ideas in Beethoven’s Missa solemnis,” Musical Quarterly 56 (1970), pp. 665–701. See also Wolfgang Osthoff, “Das ‘Sprechende’ in Beethovens Instrumentalmusik,” in Beiträge zu Beethovens Kammermusik: Symposion Bonn 1984, ed. Sieghard Brandenburg and Helmut Loos (Munich, 1987), pp. 11–40. Erwin Ratz, in his Einführung in die musikalische Formenlehre (Vienna: Universal, 1968), emphasizes phrase structure and form, an approach adapted by William E. Caplin in studies such as “Structural Expansion in Beethoven’s Symphonic Forms,” in Beethoven’s Compositional Process, pp. 27–54, and in his book Classical Form: A Theory of Formal Functions for the Instrumental Music of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998). Also see in this regard Warren Darcy and James Hepokoski, Elements of Sonata Theory: Norms, Types, and Deformations in the Late-EighteenthCentury Sonata (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006). For a stimulating and lucid analysis of rhythmic and metrical tension in the Sonata op. 10 no. 3 and the Fifth Symphony, see Andrew Imbrie, “‘Extra’ Measures and Metrical Ambiguity in Beethoven,” Beethoven Studies, vol. 1, pp. 45–66. A discussion of the controversial problems of tempo and interpretation in Beethoven is offered by Rudolf Kolisch, Tempo und Charakter in Beethovens Musik, ed. Regina Busch, in Musik-Konzepte 76/77 (Munich, 1992); a version published in English as “Tempo and Character in Beethoven’s Music” appears in Musical Quarterly 77 (1993), pp. 90–131 (only part 1 was published at the time of writing; an earlier version appeared in Musical Quarterly in 1943). For an alternative to Kolisch’s system concerning the relationship of tempo and character see Uhde and Wieland, Denken und Spielen, pp. 231–45, esp. pp. 232 and 242, where Uhde asks “Why shouldn’t certain analogous structural details take on a qualitatively different character in different works?” Also see on this point Peter Gülke, “Zum Verhältnis von Intention und Realisierung bei Beethoven,” Musik-Konzepte 8: Beethoven: Das Problem der Interpretation (Munich, 1979), pp. 34–53. The most inﬂuential analyses that emphasize linear, harmonic, and tonal coherence in Beethoven’s music are those of Heinrich Schenker. Some analysts, including Roger Kamien

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and Carl Schachter, have offered revealing studies along these lines; a convincing application of principles derived from Schenker is found in Kevin Korsyn’s “Integration in Works of Beethoven’s Final Period” (Ph.D. diss., Yale University, 1983). Leo Treitler and Joseph Kerman have drawn attention to the risk, in the work of Schenker and some of his followers, of a totalizing attitude that locates the artwork in a self-contained matrix of relationships, while downgrading other important features of artistic character and meaning. Some of the attendant ideological problems are discussed by Michael Russ, “On Schenkerism: A Closed Circle of Elite Listeners?,” Music Analysis 12 (1993), pp. 266–85. As Russ observes (p. 271), analysts such as Patrick McCreless have been able to absorb Treitler’s critique, acknowledging the limited and potentially limiting scope of Schenker’s approach. The notion of the work of art as a merely closed and uniﬁed system is decidedly un-Beethovenian and needs to be balanced against the richly dramatic, rhetorical, and contrast-laden elements of his musical style. Thrasybulos Georgiades was not wrong to perceive in the discontinuities of the Viennese Classical style an embodiment of human freedom (Musik und Sprache [Berlin, Göttingen, and Heidelberg: Springer Verlag, 1954, pp. 90 ff., 115 ff.]); clearly, an adequate critical system needs to take proper account not merely of “structure” but of the wit, spontaneity, and spirit of this music. A promising approach that gives attention to gestural aspects of music and the relation of analysis to performance is developed by Robert Hatten in Musical Meaning in Beethoven: Markedness, Correlation, and Interpretation (1994), and Interpreting Musical Gestures, Topics, and Tropes: Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert (2004). Also see his recent essay “Beethoven’s Italian Trope: Modes of Stylistic Appropriation,” Beethoven Forum 13 (2006), pp. 1–27.

4. Other Critical Approaches Humor, Irony, and Paradox: A worthy older study of Beethoven’s musical humor is Theodor Veidl, Der musikalische Humor bei Beethoven (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1929); also see Arnold Schering, Humor, Heldentum, Tragik bei Beethoven: Über einige Grundsymbole der Tonsprache Beethovens, ed. Helmuth Osthoff (Strasbourg/Kehl: Librairie Heitz, 1955). The topic of paradox is explored by Sylvia Imeson, “The time gives it proofe”: Paradox in the Late Music of Beethoven (New York and Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1996); other relevant studies include Brendel’s “Must Classical Music be Entirely Serious?,” in Music Sounded Out, and the present author’s article (with its paradoxical title) “‘Beethoven’s High Comic Style in Piano Sonatas of the 1790s’ or ‘Beethoven, Uncle Toby, and the Muck-Cart Driver,’” Beethoven Forum 5 (1996), pp. 119–138 (published in German as “Beethoven, Onkel Toby und der ‘Dreckfahrer,’” Bonner Beethoven-Studien 2 [2001], pp. 95–114). Critical evaluation of Beethoven’s verbal humor is offered by, among others, Martin Cooper, in Beethoven: The Last Decade. See also Rey M. Longyear, “Beethoven and Romantic Irony,” Musical Quarterly 56 (1970), pp. 647–64; reprinted in The Creative World of Beethoven, ed. Paul Henry Lang (New York: Norton, 1971), pp. 145–62. Symbolism, Myth, and Narrative: Critical studies touching on issues of myth, symbolism, and narrative include the aforementioned essays by Solomon and Treitler on the Ninth Symphony and Floros’s book Beethovens Eroica und Prometheus-Musik (Wilhelmshaven: Heinrichshofen’s Verlag, 1978). Debate on the subject of narrative in music has been intense. See my discussion of studies of music and narrative by Anthony Newcomb, Carolyn Abbate, and Jean-Jacques Nattiez in “Integration and Narrative Design in Beethoven’s

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Piano Sonata in A major, Opus 110,” Beethoven Forum 1, pp. 111–45; and Richard Kramer’s essay “Between Cavatina and Ouverture: Opus 130 and the Voices of Narrative” in the same volume, pp. 165–89. Also see the ongoing discussion concerning the Orpheus “program” in the Andante con moto of Beethoven’s Fourth Concerto: Owen Jander, “Beethoven’s Orpheus in Hades,” 19th-Century Music 8 (1984), pp. 195–212; Edward T. Cone, “Beethoven’s Orpheus—or Jander’s?,” 19th-Century Music 8 (1984), pp. 283–86; and Joseph Kerman, “Representing a Relationship: Notes on a Beethoven Concerto,” Representations 39 (1992), pp. 80–101. A stimulating symposium on music and narrative with contributions by Lawrence Kramer, Fred Everett Maus, Patrick McCreless, and others appeared in the Indiana Theory Review 12 (1991); many examples discussed in that volume are drawn from Beethoven.

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R

Index of Beethoven’s Compositions

R This list includes all Beethoven’s works with opus numbers, and those without opus numbers (WoO, Hess, or uncatalogued), that are mentioned in the book. Opus and WoO (“Werk ohne Opuszahl”) numbers are taken from Georg Kinsky and Hans Halm, Das Werk Beethovens: Thematisch-bibliographisches Verzeichnis (Munich: Henle, 1955). Hess numbers refer to works not contained in the old complete edition; they are listed in Willy Hess, Verzeichnis der nicht in der Gesamtausgabe veröffentlichten Werke Ludwig van Beethovens (Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1957). Also see The New Hess Catalog of Beethoven’s Works, edited, updated, and translated with a new foreword by James F. Green (West Newbury, Vt.: Vance, 2003). There is no fully comprehensive catalogue of Beethoven’s numerous unfinished or fragmentary works, although an attempt was made in a little-known thematic catalogue compiled by Giovanni Biamonti by 1968. See in this regard the Web site www.unheardbeethoven .org. Page numbers in bold type indicate detailed discussion. For a list of works by categories, see “Beethoven, Ludwig van: Works” in the general index.

Opus: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Three Trios for Piano, Violin, and Cello in E major, G major, and C minor, 34, 221 Three Piano Sonatas in F minor, A major, and C major, 34–41, 76, 89, 98, 164, 204, 235 String Trio in E major, 33 String Quintet in E major (revision of the Octet op. 103), 47, 81 Two Sonatas for Piano and Cello in F major and G minor, 55–56, 156 Sonata for Piano in D major, four hands, 34 Piano Sonata in E major, 34–35, 56, 159, 204 Serenade for Violin, Viola, and Cello in D major Three Trios for Violin, Viola, and Cello in G major, D major, and C minor, 32, 33, 41, 63, 66, 251 Three Piano Sonatas in C minor, F major, and D major, 41–46, 64, 101, 106, 147, 156, 236, 364 Trio for Piano, Clarinet (or Violin), and Cello in B major, 48 Three Sonatas for Piano and Violin in D major, A major, and E major, 35, 82 Piano Sonata in C minor (Sonate Pathétique), 31, 56–60, 66, 77, 161, 251 Two Piano Sonatas in E major and G major, 65, 67–68, 81, 82

397

398 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55

index of beethoven’s compositions Piano Concerto no. 1 in C major, 34, 47, 74, 76 Quintet for Piano and Wind Instruments in E major, 48–55 Sonata for Piano and Horn in F major, 81 Six String Quartets in F major, G major, D major, C minor, A major, and B major, 28, 34, 46, 56, 63–70, 72, 106, 141 Piano Concerto no. 2 in B major, 34, 47 Septet in E major, 47–48, 224 Symphony no. 1 in C major, 34, 47, 62–63, 92 Piano Sonata in B major, 67, 81, 158, 204 Sonata for Piano and Violin in A minor, 81 Sonata for Piano and Violin in F major (“Spring”), 81 Serenade for Flute, Violin, and Viola in D major, 47 Piano Sonata in A major, 81, 100 Two Piano Sonatas “quasi una fantasia” in E major and C minor, 81–82, 209, 216, 342, 351 Piano Sonata in D major, 61n, 82 String Quintet in C major, 81 Three Sonatas for Piano and Violin in A major, C minor, and G major, 35, 82–83, 334 Three Piano Sonatas in G major, D minor (“Tempest”), and E major, 61, 83–87, 88, 145, 204, 236, 298, 351 Song, An die Hoffnung (1805 version), 121, 155 Seven Bagatelles for Piano, 236 Six Piano Variations in F major on an Original Theme, 20, 27, 31, 51, 87–88, 95, 100 Fifteen Piano Variations and Fugue in E major (“Eroica” or “Prometheus”), 31, 61, 79–80, 95, 96, 102–3, 236 Symphony no. 2 in D major, 47, 61, 88–92, 179, 181 Piano Concerto no. 3 in C minor, 73–81, 188; Pl. 6 Trio for Piano, Clarinet or Violin, and Cello in E major (arrangement of op. 20) Two Preludes through the Twelve Major Keys for Piano or Organ, 21 Romance for Violin and Orchestra in G major Serenade for Piano and Flute in D major (arrangement of op. 25) Nocturne for Piano and Viola in D major (arrangement of op. 8) Music for Viganò’s ballet Die Geschöpfe des Prometheus (“The Creatures of Prometheus”), 88, 94–96, 103, 131 Fourteen Variations for Piano, Violin, and Cello in E major Three Marches for Piano Duet in C major, E major, and D major Song, Adelaide, 24, 33–34 Sonata for Piano and Violin in A major (“Kreutzer”), 106–7 Six Songs to Poems by Gellert, 109, 163 Two Piano Sonatas in G minor and G major, 34, 67 Romance for Violin and Orchestra in F major Two Rondos for Piano in C major and G major, 34 Eight Songs, 21–23 Piano Sonata in C major (“Waldstein”), 28–30, 81, 107, 108–10, 113, 117–18, 146, 160, 179, 204, 347 Piano Sonata in F major, 107–8, 147, 360 Symphony no. 3 in E major (“Eroica”), 4, 20, 69, 72, 73, 93–106, 123, 131, 133, 141, 153, 211, 218, 219, 232, 295

index of beethoven’s compositions 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81a 81b 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95

399

Concerto for Piano, Violin, and Cello in C major, 108 Piano Sonata in F minor (“Appassionata”), 28, 60, 68, 81, 107, 109–13, 132, 140, 219, 225, 298, 326–29, 355 Piano Concerto no. 4 in G major, 132, 135–40, 144, 153, 172, 219 Three String Quartets (“Razumovsky”), in F major, E minor, and C major, 52, 102, 106, 124, 132–35, 159, 236, 280 Symphony no. 4 in B major, 132, 143, 144, 158, 179, 203 Violin Concerto in D major, 28, 74, 132, 140–43 Overture to Collin’s Coriolanus in C minor, 101, 144–45, 171, 251 Trio for Piano, Violin, and Cello in E major (arrangement of op. 4) Sonata for Piano and Cello in E major (arrangement of op. 3) Scene and Aria, “Ah perfido!” 153 Twelve Variations for Piano and Cello on “Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen” in F major, 56 Symphony no. 5 in C minor, 9, 74–75, 81, 111, 135, 140, 146–47, 148–53, 176, 219, 298, 299 Symphony no. 6 in F major (“Pastoral”), 81, 146–49, 193, 299, 360 Sonata for Piano and Cello in A major, 156, 185, 204, 206 Two Trios for Piano, Violin, and Cello in D major (“Ghost”), and E major, 156–57, 206 Sextet for Wind Instruments in E major, 47 Fidelio (Leonore), 11, 24–28, 29, 31, 89, 109, 113–31, 132, 144, 189, 202, 290, 293, 332, 334; Pls. 8, 9, 11 Piano Concerto no. 5 in E major, 137, 140, 157–58, 225 String Quartet in E major (“Harp”), 157, 350 Six Songs to Poems by Goethe and Others, 168, 169 Six Variations for Piano in D major Fantasia for Piano, 155 Piano Sonata in F major, 159 Piano Sonata in G major, 159 Fantasia for Piano, Chorus, and Orchestra in C minor/C major (“Choral Fantasia”), 22, 155, 295, 298 Piano Sonata in E major (“Lebewohl”), 4, 28, 157, 159–61 Sextet for Horns and String Quartet in E major, 47 Four Ariettas and a Duet Three Songs to Poems by Goethe, 162–68, 184; Pl. 12 Music to Goethe’s Egmont, 162, 170–71, 202 Oratorio, Christus am Oelberge (“Christ on the Mount of Olives”), 94, 176 Mass in C major, 145–46, 157, 176 Trio for Two Oboes and English Horn in C major, 47 Song, Das Glück der Freundschaft Polonaise for Piano in C major Piano Sonata in E minor, 202–4 Wellingtons Sieg (“Wellington’s Victory”), 4, 14, 105, 191, 192–98, 201, 219; Pls. 15–16 Symphony no. 7 in A major, 75, 176–81, 198, 219 Symphony no. 8 in F major, 172, 176, 181–83, 295, 360 Song, An die Hoffnung (1815 version), 155, 204 String Quartet in F minor, 171–72, 225

400 96 97

index of beethoven’s compositions

Sonata for Piano and Violin in G major, 35, 184–88, 219 Trio for Piano, Violin, and Cello in B major (“Archduke”), 68, 172–76, 218, 238, 243, 258, 299 98 Song Cycle, An die ferne Geliebte, 210–15, 218, 219, 280, 295 99 Song, Der Mann von Wort 100 Song, Merkenstein (duet version; solo song is WoO 144) 101 Piano Sonata in A major, 159, 204, 208, 216–18, 344, 354 102 Two Sonatas for Piano and Cello in C major and D major, 202, 204–9, 216, 218, 293, 295, 342 103 Octet for Wind Instruments in E major, 47, 81 104 String Quintet in C minor (arrangement of op. 1 no. 3), 221 105 Six National Airs Varied for Piano with Flute or Violin Accompaniment, 222 106 Piano Sonata in B major (“Hammerklavier”), 172, 179, 208, 217, 219, 223–32, 233, 238, 247, 274, 295, 298, 313, 316, 339, 342, 343, 345; Pls. 17–20 107 Ten National Airs Varied for Piano with Flute or Violin Accompaniment, 222 108 Twenty-five Scottish Songs, with Piano, Violin, and Cello Accompaniment, 221–22 109 Piano Sonata in E major, 6, 164, 239–45, 251, 253, 262, 263; Pls. 22–23 110 Piano Sonata in A major, 10, 60, 176, 208, 242, 246–51, 266, 286, 300, 316, 331–32, 342, 345–47, 348, 349, 350 111 Piano Sonata in C minor, 60, 76, 172, 242–43, 245, 246, 251–65, 285, 288, 297, 316, 332, 334, 339 112 Meeresstille und glückliche Fahrt (“Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage”), for Chorus and Orchestra, 204 113 Incidental Music to Kotzebue’s Die Ruinen von Athen (“The Ruins of Athens”), 172, 193 114 March with Chorus from Die Ruinen von Athen 115 Overture in C major, Zur Namensfeier 116 Terzet with Orchestra, Tremate, empi, tremate 117 Incidental Music to Kotzebue’s König Stephan (“King Stephen”), 172 118 Elegischer Gesang for Four Voices and String Quartet, 221 119 Eleven Bagatelles for Piano, 239–40, 286–87 120 Thirty-three Variations for Piano on a Waltz by Anton Diabelli in C major, 10, 88, 187, 223, 233–39, 248, 280–86, 289, 318; Pl. 21 121a Variations for Piano, Violin, and Cello on “Ich bin der Schneider Kakadu’ 121b Opferlied for Soprano, Chorus, and Orchestra, 163 122 Bundeslied for Voices, Chorus, and Wind Instruments 123 Missa solemnis in D major, 10, 11, 31, 134, 201, 211, 213, 219, 223, 232, 234, 237–39, 240, 248, 251, 252, 266, 266–79, 288, 304–7, 308, 312, 315, 350; Pls. 24–25 124 Overture in C major, Die Weihe des Hauses (“The Consecration of the House”), 281–82, 309 125 Symphony no. 9 in D minor, 10, 11, 14–15, 20, 75, 85, 89, 153, 155, 219, 220–22, 230, 239, 247, 266, 270, 288, 289–307, 311–12, 320, 339, 341, 346–47, 350; Pl. 27 126 Six Bagatelles for Piano, 287–89 127 String Quartet in E major, 134, 308–18, 319, 333, 356; Pls, 28–29 128 Arietta, Der Kuss 129 Rondo à Capriccio for Piano, 34

index of beethoven’s compositions 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138

401

String Quartet in B major, 68, 174, 203, 219, 224, 310, 319–20, 332–41, 342, 348, 356 String Quartet in C minor, 72, 82, 135, 153, 309, 338, 342–45, 347, 348–56, 361 String Quartet in A minor, 68, 203, 206, 315, 318–31, 332 Grosse Fuge for String Quartet in B major, 208, 219, 224, 336–41, 342 Grosse Fuge for Piano, Four Hands (arrangement of op. 133) String Quartet in F major, 338, 342, 356, 358, 360–66 Cantata, Der glorreiche Augenblick (“The Glorious Moment”), 4, 191, 198–202, 219, 292 Fugue for String Quintet in D major, 81 Leonore Overture no. 1 in C major, 113

WoO 1 6 14 17 25 32 36 37 45

Ritterballett (“Knight’s Ballet”), 159 Rondo for Piano and Orchestra in B major, 47 Twelve Contredances, 88, 96 Eleven Dances, 233 Rondino for Wind Instruments, 47 Duet for Viola and Cello “with Two Eyeglasses Obbligato,” 32 Three Quartets for Piano and Strings in E major, D major, and C major, 21, 39 Trio for Flute, Bassoon, and Piano in G major, 21 Twelve Variations for Piano and Cello on a Theme from Handel’s Judas Maccabeus, 56, 281 47 Three Piano Sonatas (Kurfürsten), in E major, F minor, and D major, 17 57 Andante favori (original slow movement of the “Waldstein” Sonata op. 53), 54, 108–9, 332 59 Piano Piece in A minor (Für Elise), 168, 288 62 String Quintet in C major (fragment; piano transcription of Hess, 41), 81 63 Nine Variations for Piano on a March by Dressler, 17, 20–21 65 Twenty-four Variations for Piano on Righini’s “Venni Amore,” 31 71 Twelve Variations for Piano on a Russian Dance from Wranitzky’s Das Waldmädchen, 32 80 Thirty-two Variations in C minor for Piano on an Original Theme, 144–45, 283 87 Cantata on the Death of Emperor Joseph II 18, 19, 24–31, 109, 128–29, 144, 218 94 “Germania” for Bass, Chorus, and Orchestra (closing song for Treitschke’s pasticcio Singspiel Die gute Nachricht), 191, 201 95 Die verbündeten Fürsten (“Ihr weisen Gründer . . . “), Chorus with Orchestra, 191, 201 100 Vocal Piece, Lob auf den Dicken, 236 118 Two Songs, Seufzer eines Ungeliebten and Gegenliebe, 22, 155 134 Song in Four Versions, Sehnsucht (“Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt” from Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister), 162, 204 140 Song, An die Geliebte (two settings), 168 146 Song, Sehnsucht (Reissig), 204 149 Song, Resignation, 221 150 Song, Abendlied unterm gestirnten Himmel, 163, 280 152–58 One Hundred Forty-Three Folk-Song Settings, 221–22 162 Canon, “Ta ta ta,” 181–82

index of beethoven’s compositions

402 163 166 168 170 178 180 182 183 189 191 192 193 196

Canon, “Kurz ist der Schmerz, ewig ist die Freude,” 123 Canon, “Kurz ist der Schmerz, ewig ist die Freude,” 123 Two Canons, “Das Schweigen” and “Das Reden,” 221 Canon, “Ars longa, vita brevis,” 61 Canon, “Signor Abate!” 361–62 Canon, “Hoffmann! Sei ja kein Hofmann!” 361 Canon, “O Tobias!” 246 Canon, “Bester Herr Graf,” 236 Canon, “Doktor sperrt das Thor dem Todt,” 369 Canon, “Kühl, nicht lau,” 361, 367n Canon, “Ars longa, vita brevis,” 61 Canon, “Ars longa, vita brevis,” 61 Canon, “Es muss sein,” 362–63

Hess: 15 34 41 97 115 142

Piano Concerto in D major (fragment and sketches), 140 String Quartet in F major (arrangement of Piano Sonata in E major op. 14 no. 1), 67–68 String Quintet in C major (fragment. See also WoO 62), 81 Wellingtons Sieg for piano (arrangement of op. 91), Pl. 15 Opera, Vestas Feuer (sketches), 115 Song, Wonne der Wehmut (first version; based on Weimar MS), 169

Uncatalogued Opera on Bacchus (sketches), 294 Opera on Macbeth (sketches), 157 Overture on B-A-C-H (sketches), 219, 281 Piano Concerto in F major (sketches for op. 93, first movement), 182 Requiem Mass in C minor (sketches), 219 Song, Jubelgesang (sketches), 158 Song, Östreich über Alles (sketches), 158 Tenth Symphony (sketches), 219, 341 Trio for Violin, Cello, and Piano in F minor (fragment and sketches), 220 Two Piano Pieces, in G major and C major, 287 Two Piano Pieces in A major (preliminary versions of op. 119 no. 10), 287

R General Index

R Abbate, Carolyn, 346 Abert, Hermann, 55 Adorno, Theodor Wiesengrund, 12, 53, 191, 251, 255, 258–60 Albrechtsberger, Johann, 34, 220, 339, 361 Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, 206, 208 Amenda, Karl Friedrich, 63, 69 Árnason, Vilhjálmur, 8n, 305n Arnim, Bettina Brentano von, 168–70 Arnim, Ludwig Achim von, 168 Artaria, Matthias, 339 Artaria & Co. 81 Ashman, Mike, 130 Augsburg, 20 Bach, C. P. E., 17, 18, 155 Bach, Johann Sebastian, 3, 17–18, 21, 107, 159, 219, 230, 232, 237, 244, 248, 281, 286–87, 360, 367n Clavierübung, 286 Goldberg Variations, 287 Musical Offering, 21 Well-Tempered Clavier, 17, 159 Baden, 210, 246 Badura-Skoda, Paul, 227n Baensch, Otto, 291, 302 Baroque style, 13, 56, 144, 230, 243–44, 248, 281–82 Bartók, Béla, 219 Beethoven, Caspar Anton Carl van (brother), 190, 211 Beethoven, Johann van (father), 18–20 Beethoven, Johanna van (sister-in-law), 239, 358

Beethoven, Karl van (nephew), 211, 219, 358–59 Beethoven, Ludwig Maria van (brother), 19 Beethoven, Ludwig van arrangements of his own works, 47, 67–68, 100, 221, 340 authority, attitude toward, 4–5, 33, 66, 93, 94–95, 104, 198–202, 247, 359–60 Bonaparte, attitude toward, 93, 105, 155, 158 character, 19–20, 32–34, 47–48, 56–57, 61–62, 81, 94, 119–21, 145–46, 162, 169, 176, 183–84, 189–90, 201, 210–11, 222–23, 235, 238–39, 246–47, 288, 308, 317, 356–58, 358–61, 366–68 concerts, 34, 47, 48, 54, 74, 144, 146, 153–55, 162, 184, 189, 192–93, 198, 219, 307, 308, 317–18, 337, 360 conversation books, 6, 181, 200, 223, 224, 240, 266, 279, 306, 337–38, 367 creative periods, 71, 93, 213, 216, 218–19, 245–46, 356 creative process, 3, 19, 24–25, 31, 49–50, 69–73, 93, 202, 238–39, 290–93, 318–20, 367–68 crises, 61, 70–71, 93–94, 155–56, 158–59, 183–84, 189–90, 210–11, 239, 245–46, 320, 357–58, 367–68 deafness, 69–73, 209, 218, 223, 317 death, 358, 368 diary (Tagebuch), 189, 209, 210 education, musical, 17–18, 24, 33, 34

403

404

general index

Beethoven, Ludwig van (continued) father, relationship with, 18, 19–20 finances, 32–33, 155–56, 189–90, 238–39, 338, 361 folk-songs, use of, 132, 133–34, 204, 221–22, 246–47, 303 foreshortening, technique of, 35–41, 60, 82, 98, 110, 137, 144 friends, relationships with, 18, 19, 23–24, 32–33, 61, 63, 69, 71, 156, 159–61, 168–69, 183–84, 359, 368 Goethe, relationship with, 162–71, 204, 360 Haydn, relationship with, 17, 24, 33, 39, 41, 47, 59, 62–63, 64–65, 68, 82, 92, 94–95, 145–46, 157, 183, 317, 358 Heiligenstadt Testament, 69, 93 Hirsch, Carl Friedrich, 220 humor and jokes, 32–33, 41, 43, 46, 62, 65, 82–83, 92, 94, 147, 174, 221–23, 227–28, 234–36, 246–47, 283–84, 288–89, 303, 356–57, 358–61, 364–68 illnesses, 69, 71, 219–20, 245–46, 320, 357–58, 368. See also deafness Immortal Beloved, relationship with, 81–82, 183–84, 189–90, 210–13, 245 improvisation, 34, 48, 49, 54, 72, 155, 288 lawsuits, 81, 156, 239 literary influences, 18–19, 22–23, 64, 123–24, 144, 157, 162–63, 168–71, 176 mother, relationship with, 20 musical influences, 17–18, 33, 39, 47–55, 58–59, 63, 65, 67–68, 73–74, 113–17, 124–25, 132, 145–46, 147, 150, 159, 244, 248 myth, influence of, 8, 93–96, 101, 102–06, 136–40, 289, 292 nephew (Karl), relationship with, 211, 219, 356–57 parody, of Catholic mass, 222–23, 358–59 patronage, 4–5, 32–33, 145–46, 156, 218 philosophical influences, 6–11, 16, 19, 56–57, 162, 169–70, 190, 266–67, 289–91, 299–302, 304–07

pianist, 17, 33, 34, 48, 54, 74–76, 155 popularity, 5, 47–48, 94, 176, 189, 191, 192–93, 209, 289, 307 projected works, 15, 47, 81, 115, 140, 182, 219, 220, 292, 318–19 publishers, relationships with, 33, 81, 145–46, 198, 220, 233, 239, 246, 337, 338, 359, 361 sketches and manuscripts, 3, 36–37, 64, 66, 71–72, 74, 95, 112, 132–33, 155, 157, 162, 168, 176, 182, 184–86, 211, 212, 220–21, 227, 233–34, 239–40, 266–68, 278, 280, 282, 286–87, 291–92, 309, 318–20, 332–34, 343, 355; Pls. 6, 9, 19–20, 21, 24–25, 27, 28–29 suicidal impulses, 69, 94, 190 teachers, relationships with, 17–19, 24, 33–34; Pl. 2 timpani, special use of, 74–76, 119, 140–43, 278–79, 296 travels, 16, 32, 47, 48, 55–56, 132, 176, 183, 357 women, relationships with, 22–24, 81, 159, 168–70, 183–84, 189–90, 210, 222–23, 239, 356, 357 Beethoven, Ludwig van: Works

piano music Sonatas op. 2 no. 1 in F minor, 35–39 op. 2 no. 2 in A major, 34, 39–41, 98, 204 op. 2 no. 3 in C major, 34, 76, 163, 235 op. 7 in E major, 34–35, 56, 159, 204 op. 10 no. 1 in C minor, 41–43 op. 10 no. 2 in F major, 43–44, 147, 358 op. 10 no. 3 in D major, 44–46, 64, 101, 106, 156, 364 op. 13 in C minor (Sonate Pathétique), 13, 56–60, 66, 77, 161, 251 op. 14 no. 1 in E major, 67–68, 81 op. 14 no. 2 in G major, 65, 81, 82 op. 22 in B major, 67, 81, 158, 204 op. 26 in A major, 81, 100

general index op. 27 no. 1 in E major, 81, 209, 195, 342 op. 27 no. 2 in C minor (“Moonlight”), 81–82, 209, 351 op. 28 in D major (“Pastoral”), 61n, 82 op. 31 no. 1 in G major, 61, 83–84, 119, 204 op. 31 no. 2 in D minor (“Tempest”), 61, 84–86, 351–52 op. 31 no. 3 in E major, 61, 86–87, 296 op. 49 no. 1 in G minor, 34, 67 op. 49 no. 2 in G major, 34, 67 op. 53 in C major (“Waldstein”), 28–30, 81, 107, 108–10, 113, 117–18, 146, 160, 179, 204, 347 op. 54 in F major, 107–8, 147, 360 op. 57 in F minor (“Appassionata”), 28, 60, 68, 81, 107, 109–13, 132, 140, 219, 225, 298, 326–29, 355 op. 78 in F major, 159 op. 79 in G major, 159 op. 81a in E major (“Lebewohl” or “Les Adieux”), 4, 28, 157, 159–61 op. 90 in E minor, 202–04 op. 101 in A major, 159, 204, 208, 216–18, 342, 352 op. 106 in B major (“Hammerklavier”), 172, 179, 208, 217, 219, 223–32, 233, 238, 247, 274, 295, 298, 313, 316, 340, 341, 345, 347; Pls. 17–20 op. 109 in E major, 6, 164, 239–45, 251, 253, 262, 263; Pls. 22–23 op. 110 in A major, 10, 60, 176, 208, 242, 246–51, 266, 286, 300, 316, 331–32, 342, 345–47, 348, 349, 350 op. 111 in C minor, 60, 76, 172, 242–43, 245, 246, 251–65, 285, 288, 297, 316, 332, 334, 339 Three Sonatas in E major, F minor, and D minor (Kurfürsten [“Electoral”] Sonatas) WoO 47: 17

Variations op. 34 in F major, 20, 27, 31, 51, 87–88, 95, 100

405

op. 35 in E major (“Eroica” or “Prometheus”), 31, 61, 79–80, 95, 96, 102–03, 236 op. 120 in C major (Diabelli), 10, 88, 187, 223, 231–37, 248, 282–88, 291, 318, 342; Pl. 21 WoO 63 in C minor (Dressler), 17, 20–21 WoO 65 (Righini), 31 WoO 71 (Wranitsky), 32 WoO 80 (32 Variations in C minor), 144–45, 283

Miscellaneous Duet Sonata op. 6: 34 7 Bagatelles op. 33: 236, 286, 287 2 Preludes through the Twelve Major Keys op. 39: 21 Rondo in C major op. 51 no. 1: 34 Fantasia op. 77: 155 11 Bagatelles op. 119: 239–40, 288–89 6 Bagatelles op. 126: 289–91 Rondo à capriccio op. 129: 34 Andante favori WoO 57: 54, 108–09, 332 Für Elise WoO 59: 168, 288

chamber music For Strings

Trio in E major op. 3: 33 Quintet in E major op. 4: 47, 81 Trio in G major op. 9 no. 1: 32, 33, 63 Trio in D major op. 9 no. 2: 32, 33, 63 Trio in C minor op. 9 no. 3: 32, 33, 41, 63, 66, 251 Quartet in F major op. 18 no. 1: 63–64 Quartet in G major op. 18 no. 2: 63, 64–65 Quartet in D major op. 18 no. 3: 65 Quartet in C minor op. 18 no. 4: 66–67 Quartet in A major op. 18 no. 5: 67–68 Quartet in B major op. 18 no. 6: 28, 68–70

general index

406

Beethoven, Ludwig van: Works: Chamber Music: For Strings (continued) Quintet in C major op. 29: 81 Quartet in F major op. 59 no. 1 (“Razumovsky”), 102, 132–34, 236 Quartet in E minor op. 59 no. 2 (“Razumovsky”), 124, 132, 134–35, 278 Quartet in C major op. 59 no. 3 (“Razumovsky”), 132, 135, 159 Quartet in E major op. 74 (“Harp”), 157, 348 Quartet in F minor op. 95: 171–72, 225 Quintet in C minor op. 104 (from Piano Trio op. 1 no. 3), 221 Quartet in E major op. 127: 134, 308–18, 319, 333, 356; Pls, 28–29 Quartet in B major op. 130: 68, 174, 203, 219, 224, 310, 319–20, 332–41, 342, 348, 356 Quartet in C minor op. 131: 72, 82, 135, 153, 309, 338, 342–45, 347, 348–56, 361 Quartet in A minor op. 132: 68, 203, 206, 315, 318–31, 332 Grosse Fuge op. 133: 208, 219, 224, 336–41, 342 Quartet in F major op. 135: 338, 342, 356, 358, 360–66 Fugue for Quintet in D major op. 137: 81 Duet for Viola and Cello WoO 32: 32 Quartet in F major Hess, 34 (from Piano Sonata op. 14 no. 1), 67–68

With Piano

Trio in E major op. 1 no. 1: 34 Trio in G major op. 1 no. 2: 34 Trio in C minor op. 1 no. 3: 34, 221 Cello Sonata in F major op. 5 no. 1: 55–56, 156 Cello Sonata in G minor op. 5 no. 2: 55–56, 156 Clarinet Trio in B major op. 11 (“Gassenhauer”), 48 Violin Sonata in D major op. 12 no. 1: 35, 82

Violin Sonata in A major op. 12 no. 2: 35 Violin Sonata in E major op. 12 no. 3: 35 Quintet in E major op. 16: 48–55 Horn Sonata in F major op. 17: 81 Violin Sonata in A minor op. 23: 81 Violin Sonata in F major op. 24 (“Spring”), 81 Violin Sonata in A major op. 30 no. 1: 107, 334 Violin Sonata in C minor op. 30 no. 2: 35, 82 Violin Sonata in G major op. 30 no. 3: 82–83 Violin Sonata in A major op. 47 (“Kreutzer”), 106–07 12 Variations for Cello and Piano (Mozart) op. 66: 56 Cello Sonata in A major op. 69: 156, 185, 204, 206 Trio in D major op. 70 no. 1 (“Ghost”), 156–57, 206 Trio in E major op. 70 no. 2: 156–57 Violin Sonata in G major op. 96: 35, 184–88, 219 Trio in B major op. 97 (“Archduke”), 68, 172–76, 218, 238, 243, 258, 299 Cello Sonata in C major op. 102 no. 1: 202, 204, 206, 216, 218, 293 Cello Sonata in D major op. 102 no. 2: 202, 204–09, 218, 342 Quartet in E major, WoO 36: 21 Quartet in D major, WoO 36: 21 Quartet in C major, WoO 36: 21, 39 Trio in G major, WoO 37: 21 12 Variations for Cello and Piano (Handel) WoO 45: 56, 281

For Winds or Winds and Strings

Septet in E major op. 20: 47–48, 224 Serenade in D major op. 25: 47 Sextet in E major op. 71: 47 Sextet in E major op. 81b: 47 Trio in C major op. 87: 47 Octet in E major op. 103: 47, 81 11 Dances (“Mödlinger Dances”) WoO 17: 233 Rondino in E major WoO 25: 47

general index

orchestral music Symphonies Symphony no. 1 in C major op. 21: 34, 47, 62–63, 92 Symphony no. 2 in D major op. 36: 47, 61, 88–92, 181 Symphony no. 3 in E major op. 55 (“Eroica”), 4, 20, 69, 72, 73, 93–106, 123, 131, 133, 141, 153, 211, 218, 219, 232, 295 Symphony no. 4 in B major op. 60: 132, 143, 144, 158, 179, 203 Symphony no. 5 in C minor op. 67: 9, 74–75, 81, 111, 135, 140, 146–47, 148–53, 176, 219, 298, 299 Symphony no. 6 in F major op. 68 (“Pastoral”), 81, 146–49, 193, 299, 360 Symphony no. 7 in A major op. 92: 75, 176–81, 198, 219 Symphony no. 8 in F major op. 93: 172, 176, 181–83, 360 Symphony no. 9 in D minor op. 125 (“Choral”), 10, 11, 14–15, 20, 75, 85, 89, 153, 155, 219, 220–22, 230, 239, 247, 266, 270, 290, 291–309, 313–14, 322, 341, 343, 348–49, 352; Pl. 27

For Solo Instrument(s) and Orchestra Piano Concerto no. 1 in C major op. 15: 34, 47, 74, 76 Piano Concerto no. 2 in B major op. 19: 34, 47 Piano Concerto no. 3 in C minor op. 37: 73–81, 188; Pl. 6 Triple Concerto in C major op. 56: 108 Piano Concerto no. 4 in G major op. 58: 132, 135–40, 144, 153, 172, 219 Violin Concerto in D major op. 61: 28, 74, 132, 140–43 Piano Concerto no. 5 in E major op. 73 (“Emperor”), 137, 140, 157–58, 225 Choral Fantasia op. 80: 22, 155, 295, 300

407

Rondo for Piano and Orchestra in B major WoO 6: 47

Overtures Coriolan op. 62: 101, 144–45, 171, 251 Egmont op. 84: 162, 170–71, 202 Fidelio op. 72b: 118, 202 Leonore no. 1 op. 138: 118 Leonore no. 2 op. 72a: 118, 119 Leonore no. 3 op. 72a: 118, 119, 332 Prometheus op. 43: 62 Die Weihe des Hauses (“The Consecration of the House”) op. 124: 281–82, 309

Miscellaneous 12 Contredances WoO 14: 88, 96 Wellingtons Sieg (“Wellington’s Victory”) op. 91: 4, 14, 105, 191, 192–98, 201, 219; Pls. 15–16

music for the stage Opera Fidelio (Leonore) op. 72: 11, 24–28, 29, 31, 89, 109, 113–31, 132, 144, 189, 202, 290, 293, 332, 334; Pls, 8, 9, 11

Ballet Die Geschöpfe des Prometheus (“The Creatures of Prometheus”) op. 43: 88, 94–96, 103, 131 Ritterballett WoO 1: 159

Incidental Music Egmont op. 84: 162, 170–71, 202 Die Ruinen von Athen (“The Ruins of Athens”) op. 113: 172, 193 König Stephan (“King Stephen”) op. 117: 172

choral music Choral Fantasia op. 80: 22, 155, 295, 300 Christus am Oelberge (“Christ on the Mount of Olives”) op. 85: 94, 176 Mass in C major op. 86: 145–46, 157, 176

general index

408

Beethoven, Ludwig van: Works: Choral Music (continued) Meeresstille und glückliche Fahrt (“Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage”) op. 112: 204 Elegischer Gesang op. 118: 221 Opferlied op. 121b: 163 Missa solemnis in D major op. 123: 10, 11, 31, 134, 201, 211, 213, 219, 223, 232, 234, 237–39, 240, 248, 251, 252, 266, 268–81, 290, 306–9, 310, 314, 317, 352; Pls. 24–25 Der glorreiche Augenblick (“The Glorious Moment”) op. 136: 4, 191, 198–202, 219, 292 Joseph Cantata WoO 87: 18, 19, 24–31, 109, 144, 218 “Germania” WoO 94: 191, 201 Chor auf die verbündeten Fürsten (“Ihr weisen Gründer . . .”) WoO 95: 191, 201

vocal music With Orchestra “Ah perfido!” op. 65: 153

With Piano An die Hoffnung (“To Hope”) op. 32: 121, 155 Adelaide op. 46: 24, 33–34 6 Songs (Gellert) op. 48: 109, 163 8 Songs op. 52: 22–24 Mollys Abschied op. 52 no. 5: 22, 23 Das Blümchen Wunderhold op. 52 no. 8: 22, 23 Kennst du das Land? op. 75 no. 1: 169 An den fernen Geliebten op. 75 no. 5: 168 3 Songs (Goethe) op. 83: 162–68; Pl. 12 Wonne der Wehmut (“Bliss in Sorrow”) op. 83 no. 1: 162–68, 184 Wonne der Wehmut Hess, 142 (first version; based on Weimar MS), 169 Sehnsucht (“Yearning”) op. 83 no. 2: 162, 204

Mit einem gemalten Band op. 83 no. 3: 162–63 An die Hoffnung (“To Hope”) op. 94: 155, 204 Song Cycle An die ferne Geliebte (“To the Distant Beloved”) op. 98: 210–15, 218, 219, 280, 295 2 Songs, Seufzer eines Ungeliebten and Gegenliebe WoO 118: 22, 155 Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt (Goethe) WoO 134: 162, 204 An die Geliebte WoO 140: 168 Sehnsucht (“Yearning”) (Reissig) WoO 146: 204 Resignation WoO 149: 224 Abendlied unterm gestirnten Himmel WoO 150: 163, 280

Miscellaneous Variations on National Songs op. 105 and op. 107: 222 Folksong Settings op. 108 and WoO 152–58: 221–22 Sweet Were the Hours op. 108 no. 3: 222 canons and musical jokes, 32, 181–82, 234–37, 246–50, 358–61, 367–68 projected works, 15, 47, 81, 115, 140, 182, 219, 220, 292, 318–19 Beethoven, Ludwig van (grandfather), 19 Beethoven, Maria Josepha van (grandmother), 19 Beethoven, Maria Magdalena van (mother), 20 Beethoven, Nikolaus Johann van (brother), 357 Beethoven, Therese van (sister-in-law), 357 Bekker, Paul, 95, 255, 318, 364 Bergson, Henri, 13n Berlin, Isaiah, 303n Berlin, 18, 47, 48, 56 Berlin Wall, 307 Berlioz, Hector, 13, 147 Bernstein, Leonard, 307 Birchall, Robert, 222 Birkenstock, Antonie von. See Brentano, Antonie von

general index Birkenstock, Johann Melchior Edler von, 168 Bismarck, Otto von, 113 Blom, Eric, 83n Boettcher, Hans, 121, 165n Böhm, Joseph (violinist), 317 Böhm, Joseph Daniel (medal maker, artist, and sculptor), x Bonaparte, Jerôme, 155 Bonaparte, Napoleon, 93, 96, 104, 105, 155, 158, 176 Bonn, 16–19, 22, 31, 32, 33, 47, 291 Pl. 1 Bouilly, Jean-Nicolas, 113, 115–17, 130 Brahms, Johannes, 5, 24 Brandenburg, Sieghard, 182, 184n, 240, 292, 309, 320n Braunhofer, Dr. Anton, 360 Breitkopf & Härtel, 146, 156, 159 Brendel, Alfred, 35, 83, 107, 213, 216, 233, 251, 264, 285 Brentano, Antonie, 168, 183–84, 210, 245; Pl. 13 Brentano, Clemens, 168 Brentano, Elisabeth (Bettina). See Arnim, Bettina Brentano von Brentano, Franz, 168, 183, 245 Brentano, Maximiliane, 245 Breuning, Eleonore von, 18 Breuning, Gerhard von, 366 Breuning, Lenz von, 18 Breuning, Maria Helene von, 18, 366 Breuning, Stephan von, 18, 23 Brinkmann, Reinhold, 52 Broch, Hermann, 191–92, 202 Browne, Count and Countess, 32 Broyles, Michael, 144 Bruckner, Anton, 13, 304 Bruner, Carol, 279n Brunsvik, Josephine. See Deym, Countess Josephine Brunsvik, Therese, 159 Bülow, Hans von, 112, 223, 247, 264 Bumpass, Laura Kathryn, 356n Bürger, Gottfried August, 22–23 Burnham, Scott, 14n, 104, 122 Burton, Anthony, 157 Butor, Michel, 233

409

Cäcilia (music journal), 201, 359, Pl. 16 Cadenbach, Rainer, 361n Canisius, Claus, 94n, 359n Caplin, William E., 294 Cherubini, Luigi, 113, 116, 150 Chopin, Frederic, 285 Chua, Daniel, 328 Chytry, Joseph, 4n, 7, 11, 15 Classical forms, 17, 34, 58, 187 expansion of, 45, 54, 96, 172–73, 223, 233, 275, 281, 293–94, 304, 342 Collin, Heinrich Joseph von, 144, 157, 158 commonplace, artistic importance of the, 10, 133–34, 192, 213, 216, 246–47, 249–50, 281–82, 285–86, 288–89, 331, 350, 359, 367 Congress of Vienna, 189, 198–202 Cook, Nicholas, 201 Cooke, Deryck, 318 Cooper, Barry, 94, 222, 333, 338–39 Cooper, Martin, 98, 236, 246, 311 Cramer, Johann Baptist, 41, 284 Cramer’s Magazin der Musik, 17 critical method, 6, 12–14, 62, 218–19, 367–68 Czerny, Carl, 12, 61, 63, 109, 134, 155, 157, 162, 222, 288, 341 Dahlhaus, Carl, 105, 250 Danuser, Hermann, 13n Dean, Winton, 125 Dembscher, Ignaz, 360–61, 364 Deym, Countess Josephine Brunsvik, 121, 159, 183n Diabelli, Anton, 233, 280–81 Dische, Irene, 233 Dittersdorf, Karl, 48 Dobrowein, Isaiah, 113n Drabkin, William, 279n, 339n Dragonetti, Domenico, 193 Dresden, 119 Duport, Jean Louis, 56 Einstein, Alfred, 198 Enlightenment, 3, 6, 15, 19, 115, 95–96, 128–30, 202, 302–03, 306–07 Erdödy, Countess Marie, 156

410

general index

Ertmann, Baroness Dorothea von, 159 Esterházy, Prince Nikolaus (the younger), 145–46 Feuerbach, Ludwig, 122–23 Fischenich, Bartholomäus Ludwig, 15, 16 Fischer, Edwin, 264 Flimm, Jürgen, 130 Floros, Constantin, 95, 101 Forte, Allen, 6 Franz I, Emperor, 198–200 freedom, in art, 3–5, 8, 10–12, 31, 104, 113–14, 118–30, 170–71, 302–03, 307 Freemasonry, 19 French military occupations, of Bonn, 32; of Vienna, 114, 158 French Revolution, 115, 130 Freud, Sigmund, 20 Friedrich, Caspar David, 290 Friedrich Wilhelm II, King, 56 Frimmel, Theodor von, 247n Frohlich, Martha, 111 Fuchs, Alois, 94 Gadamer, Hans-Georg, 10, 12 Galitzin, Prince Nikolaus, 308, 332, 342 Galliver, David, 115, 125 Gaveaux, Pierre, 115 Gebauer, Franz Xaver, 235 Gellert, Christian Fürchtegot, 109, 163 gender roles in Fidelio, 122–24 Giannatasio del Río, Fanny, 210 Gleichenstein, Baron Ignaz von, 156 Gluck, Christoph Willibald, 140, 150n Gneixendorf, 342, 357, 366 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 6, 94n, 162–71, 202, 204, 236, 292, 360 Egmont, 162, 170–71 The Sorrows of Young Werther, 94n Wilhelm Meister, 162, 169 Wonne der Wehmut (“Bliss in Sorrow”), 162–68 Goldschmidt, Harry, 183n Göllner, Theodor, 279n Greth, Carl, 23–24 Grétry, André Ernest Modeste, 48 Guicciardi, Countess Giulietta, 81 Gülke, Peter, 150n, 290

Haibel, Jakob, 48 Halm, August, 255 Handel, Georg Friedrich, 3, 18, 56, 201, 237, 279–80, 285 Judas Maccabaeus, 56 Messiah, 358 Saul, 279 Hanslick, Eduard, 5 Harrington, Michael, 303 Haslinger, Tobias, 246, 359, 361 Hatten, Robert, 254, 323–24 Haydn, Franz Joseph, 5, 13, 17, 24, 33–36, 39, 41, 47, 62–65, 68, 73, 88, 92, 145–46, 157, 183, 317, 340 The Creation, 73, 94–95 “Drumroll” Symphony (no. 103), 157 Schöpfungsmesse, 146 String Quartet in C major op. 33 no. 3: 58n String Quartet in G major op. 33 no. 5: 63 “Surprise” Symphony (no. 94), 65 Symphony in C major (no. 97), 47 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 7, 9, 123 hermeneutics, 255–61 heroism, 93–96, 104–06, 115–16, 122–31, 135, 170–71 Herre, Grita, 23 Hiller, Johann Adam, 17, 185–86 Hippocrates, 61 Hoeckner, Berthold, 124, 254–55 Höfel, Blasius, 190 Hoffmann, E. T. A., 4, 9, 12, 170, 359 Hölderlin, Johann Christian Friedrich, 7, 105 Holz, Karl, 337, 338, 339, 357, 358–59 d’Honrath, Jeanette, 23–24 Horne, William, 98 Howell, Standley, 181n Hübsch, Lini, 132n Humboldt, Wilhelm von, 14, 122–23 humorous and comic music, 5, 43–44, 46, 65, 82–83, 86, 91–92, 102, 119, 147, 174–75, 181, 227–28, 234–37, 280–84, 289, 316–17, 355, 362, 364–66 Illuminism, 19 Ingolstadt, 19 integration, artistic, 13, 148–53, 323, 325–30, 346–48, 367

general index

411

irony, musical, 43, 83, 281–82, 285, 289, 364–65 Isis, Temple of, 8

Kunze, Stefan, 254 Küthen, Hans-Werner, 61, 74, 222, 303n, 360

Jahn, Otto, 16 Jander, Owen, 137 Jeitteles, Alois, 211 Jena, 7 John, Kathryn, 181n Johnson, Douglas, 39, 47, 48, 74n Joseph II, Emperor, 16

Langer, Susanne, 4, 71, 191 Larsen, Jens Peter, 146 Lenin, Vladimir, 113 Lenz, Wilhelm von, 108, 218, 229, 264 Lesegesellschaft, 19 Levin, Rahel, 176 Levine, James, 130 Lichnowsky, Count Moritz von, 236 Lichnowsky, Prince Karl von, 32, 34 Lichtenberg, Georg Christoph, 236 Lindenschmit, Wilhlem von, 24 Liszt, Franz, 5, 82, 136, 223, 281, 304 Littrow, Joseph, 266n Lobkowitz, Prince Joseph, 32, 144, 154, 156, 218 Locke, John, 303 Lockwood, Lewis, 49, 104n, 106, 140n, 157 London, 34, 198, 221, 291, 338 Lucchesi, Andrea, 18 Lühning, Helga, 162n

Kanka, Johann Nepomuk, 302 Kanne, Friedrich August, 299n, 359 Kant, Immanuel, 5, 6–8, 14, 266, 289–90, 306–07, 348n Critique of Judgment, 7, 8 Critique of Practical Reason, 266n Critique of Pure Reason, 6, 348n Karlsbad, 169, 183 Kaufman, Moisés, 233 Keglevics, Countess “Babette” (Odescalchi), 159 Kerman, Joseph, 63, 66, 125, 133, 137, 211, 310, 311, 314, 315, 321, 326, 328, 329, 331, 365 Kinsky, Georg, 229 Kinsky, Prince Ferdinand Johann Nepomuk, 32, 146, 156, 218 Kirkendale, Warren, 238n, 312, 337 kitsch, 81–82, 191–202, 290 Kleist, Heinrich von, 286 Klopstock, Friedrich Gottlieb, 18 Knecht, Justin Heinrich, 147 Köhler, Karl-Heinz, 307 Kolodin, Irving, 85n Königsberg, 7 Korsyn, Kevin, 328, 330 Kotzebue, August von, 172 Kramer, Lawrence, 150 Kramer, Richard, 5n, 66, 303, 339, 341 Kretzschmar, Hermann, 150, 255 Kreutzer, Rodolphe, 106–07 Kropfinger, Klaus, 333 Krumpholz, Wenzel, 61 Kuffner, Christoph, 155 Kuhlau, Friedrich, 359 Kundera, Milan, 348 Kunstvereinigung, 3, 8, 248

Mahler, Gustav, 13n, 304 Malfatti, Therese von, 168 Mälzel, Johann Nepomuk, 181, 192–93 Mann, Thomas, 130, 255, 258, 260 Mannheim, 17 Marcuse, Herbert, 303 Marie Antoinette, Queen, 16 Marpurg, Friedrich Wilhelm, 17, 66 Marston, Nicholas, 229–30 Marx, Adolf Bernhard, 14, 208, 246n Marx, Karl, 302 Mason, Daniel Gregory, 172 Mathew, Nicholas, 201 Matthews, Denis, 474 Matthisson, Friedrich von, 33 Mattila, Karita, 130–31 Maximilian Franz, Elector, 16, 20, 33 Mayr, Simone, 116 McClary, Susan, 322 Méhul, Étienne, 116 Mellers, Wilfrid, 5–6, 249n, 251, 275 Mendelssohn, Felix, 169, 218 Meredith, William, 240n

412

general index

metaphor in music, 29–31, 36, 96–98, 102–3, 105, 118, 124, 255, 266–68, 304–07, 312–13 Metternich, Prince Clemens von, 198 Meyerbeer, Giacomo, 193 Mielitz, Christine, 119 Mill, John Stuart, 302 Misch, Ludwig, 193 Moore, Julia, 238–39 Moscheles, Ignaz, 56, 192 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 5, 9, 13, 16–18, 21, 34, 39, 35, 37, 41, 47, 48–55, 56, 57, 62–63, 67–68, 69, 72, 73–74, 81, 88, 114–16, 124–25, 135, 136, 153, 157, 285, 303, 317, 318, 329, 360 Piano Concerto in E major K271: 47, 116 Violin Sonata in C major K296: 21, 39 Piano Sonata in A major K331: 81 Violin Sonata in G major K379: 21 Violin Sonata in E major K380: 21 Fugue in C minor for Two Pianos K426: 318 Quintet for Piano and Winds in E major K452: 48–55 Piano Sonata in C minor K457: 41, 88 String Quartet in A major K464: 63, 67–68 String Quartet in C major K465: 135 Piano Concerto in D minor K466: 47 Piano Concerto in C major K467: 74 Piano Concerto in E major K482: 51–54 Piano Concerto in C minor K491: 41, 47, 73–74 Piano Concerto in C major K503: 47, 136 String Quintet in E major K614: 47 Così fan tutte, 114–15, 124 Don Giovanni, 114, 116, 125, 126, 213, 257 Idomeneo, 126 “Jupiter” Symphony in C major, 153 Le Nozze di Figaro, 114 “Prague” Symphony in D major, 88 Requiem, 360 Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute), 56, 114, 116, 126, 103, 278, 303, 329 Mussorgsky, Modest, 135

narrative design in music, 10–11, 14, 93–106, 123, 128–31, 218–19, 232, 242–43, 290–91, 298–307, 342, 346–48 Nattiez, Jean-Jacques, 347 nature, organicist concept of, 8–9 Naue, Johann Friedrich, 123 Neate, Charles, 73 Neeb, Johannes, 16 Neefe, Christian Gottlob, 17–19; Pl. 2 Newman, Ernest, 73, 181 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 162, 177 Nohl, Ludwig, 168, 306n Nottebohm, Gustav, 35n, 36n, 72, 101n, 155n, 185–86, 309, 306n Oppersdorf, Count Franz von, 155 Orpheus myth, 136–40 Paer, Fernando, 116 Paisiello, Giovanni, 48 parenthetical structures, 13, 240–41, 242–43, 252, 256–57, 267–75, 335–36, 354–55 Paris, 93, 113–14, 115–16 Paul, Jean. See Richter, Jean Paul Pederson, Sanna, 122–23 performance difficulties of Beethoven’s music, 24, 217, 223, 317–18, 338 Peters, Carl Friedrich, 286 Petersburg, St, 308 Pfitzner, Hans, 255 Plantinga, Leon, 74 Platen, Emil, 174, 358n Plato, 11, 299–302, 307 The Republic, 299–302 Prague, 47, 48, 183 programmatic interpretation, limitations of, 5, 14, 93, 105 Prometheus myth, 94–96, 101–2, 104, 106, 131, 232 Radcliffe, Philip, 133–34, 172n, 329n Ramm, Friedrich, 54, 55 Rank, Otto, 20 Raphael (Raffaelo Santi), 9 Ratz, Erwin, 18, 224n Razumovksy, Count Andreas, 132 Reicha, Anton, 61

general index Reichardt, Johann Friedrich, 154–55 Reign of Terror, 113, 115, 130 Rellstab, Ludwig, 81 Reti, Rudolph, 333 Reynolds, Christopher, 211, 361n, 364 rhetoric, musical, 4, 24–25, 29–31, 66, 137, 140, 268–70, 314–15, 364–65 Richter, Jean Paul, 10, 44, 170 Riemann, Hugo, 66 Ries, Ferdinand, 19, 34, 66, 98, 112, 156, 158, 210, 338 Ries, Franz, 18, 19 Riezler, Walter, 4, 10–11, 132, 174, 183 Robinson, Paul, 131n Rochlitz, Friedrich, 169 Röckel, Joseph August, 190 Rode, Pierre, 184 Rolland, Romain, 150n Romantic style, 153, 157, 179, 204, 213, 216–18, 289–90 Romberg, Bernhard, 193 Rosen, Charles, 55, 212n, 224, 240 Rosenberg, Richard, 107, 364 Rossini, Gioacchino, 188 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 292 Rudolph, Archduke, 3, 156, 159, 161, 184, 218, 237–38 Rumph, Stephen, 201–02 Russo, Ann Maria, 360n Said, Edward W., 124 Salieri, Antonio, 16, 48 Schelling, Friedrich, 7–9, 299 System of Transcendental Idealism, 7 Schenk, Johann, 34 Schenker, Heinrich, 254–58, 263, 296 Scherf, Horst, 246 Schering, Arnold, 5–6 Schikaneder, Emanuel, 115 Schiller, Charlotte, 15 Schiller, Johann Christoph Friedrich, 3–4, 6–9, 11–12, 14–15, 56–57, 121, 123– 24, 155, 162, 169, 265–66, 264–66, 290–91, 299, 302–03, 307, 355 Aesthetic Letters, 7, 11, 14–15, 265–66, 276–77 An die Freude (“Ode to Joy”), 14–15, 121, 155, 264–66, 290–91, 302–03, 307

413

Die Jungfrau von Orleans, 123–24 Über das Pathetische, 56–57 Über naive und sentimentale Dichtung, 162 Wilhelm Tell, 14 Schindler, Anton, 176, 181–82, 190, 279, 336, 361n, 364 Schleiermacher, Friedrich, 299 Schlesinger, Adolf, 239 Schlesinger, Moritz, 361 Schlösser, Louis, 73n Schmitz, Arnold, 150 Schnabel, Artur, 14 Schneider, Eulogius, 16 Schoenberg, Arnold, 219, 304 Schopenhauer, Arthur, 190 Schröder-Devrient, Wilhelmine, 131 Schubert, Franz Peter, 72, 142, 143, 157, 163, 179, 203, 290 Heine Songs, 163 Piano Sonata in B major D960: 143 Die schöne Müllerin, 290 Symphony in C major (“The Great”), 142 Winterreise, 290 Schumann, Clara Wieck, 212, 223 Schumann, Robert, 9, 13, 158, 212, 218 Fantasy in C major op. 17: 212 Piano Concerto in A minor op. 54: 158 Schuppanzigh, Ignaz, 32, 236, 317, 360 Scott, Marion, 132 Sessions, Roger, 362 Seyfried, Ignaz von, 116 Shakespeare, William, 5, 64, 157, 162, 303 Hamlet, 157 Macbeth, 157 Romeo and Juliet, 64, 106 Simrock, Nikolaus, 19, 33 Socrates, 300, 302 Solomon, Maynard, 6, 14, 19–20, 71, 93–94, 168, 176, 184, 190, 197–98, 265, 306, 341 Sonnleithner, Joseph von, 116 Spohr, Ludwig, 123n, 193 Stadler, Abbé Maximilian, 181, 359, 364 Staehelin, Martin, 184n Starke, Friedrich, 239 Steibelt, Daniel, 48

414

general index

Steiner, Sigmund Anton, 246 Sterne, Laurence, 43, 235, 359–60 Strauss, Johann, 9–10 Streicher, Andreas, 190 Streicher, Nanette, 190, 222–23 structuralist analysis, limitations of, 6, 14 Sturm, Christoph Christian, 8 Sturm und Drang (Storm and Stress), 42, 56 sublime, aesthetic of the, 8–10, 92, 109, 124, 134, 190, 243, 251, 257–65, 275–78, 285–86, 304–07, 312–14, 341 Sullivan, J. W. N., 356 Süssmayr, Franz X., 48 Swieten, Baron Gottfried van, 18, 32, 279 Syer, Katherine, 94 symbolism, musical, 4, 5–6, 10–11, 15, 31, 95–106, 117–18, 122–31, 147–48, 150–54, 163, 170–71, 194–96, 219, 236, 263–65, 266–79, 304–07, 310–13, 364–66 synthesis of the rational and sensuous, 7–8, 14–15, 73, 169–70, 302–03, 367–68 Tarnas, Richard, 289n Tellenbach, Marie-Elisabeth, 183n Temesvár (Timisoara), 23, 24 Teplitz, 176, 360 Thayer, Alexander Wheelock, 193, 210 Thompson, Randall, 172 Thomson, George, 221 Tiedge, Christoph August, 121, 155, 176 Tolstoy, Leo, 107 Tomaschek, Wenzel Johann, 193 Tovey, Donald Francis, 48, 83, 109, 111, 249, 275, 351 tragic character in music, 10, 44, 45–46, 56–57, 64, 81, 82, 100–01, 109–13, 144–45, 229, 251, 289–90, 296, 325–28, 330, 355 transformation in music, 104, 233, 243–45, 254–64, 303, 330, 351 Treitschke, Georg Friedrich, 73, 155n, 202

Trémont, Baron de, 158 Tyson, Alan, 94, 132, 109n, 158, 221 Uhde, Jürgen, 13n, 86, 112, 159, 222, 232 Ulibischeff, Alexander, 105, 150 Unger, Max, 168 unity, artistic, 13, 148–53, 325–30, 346–48, 367 Varnhagen von Ense, Karl August, 176 Vienna, 5, 16, 198, 246; Pls, 5, 9 Viganò, Salvatore, 94, 95 Vitercik, Greg, 326 Vjaskova, Elena, 334 Wagner, Richard, 5, 7, 9, 144, 176, 218, 304 Parsifal, 7 Tristan und Isolde, 120–21 Wähner, Friedrich, 276 Walden, Edward C., 169n Waldstein, Count Ferdinand, 16, 18, 69 Wallace, Robin, 176n Warrack, John, 48 Watteau, Antoine, 9 Wawruch, Dr. Andreas, 358 Weber, Carl Maria von, 176, 222 Webern, Anton, 287 Wegeler, Franz, 18, 23, 69, 71 Weigl, Joseph, 48 Weimar, 14, 16, 169 Weissenbach, Alois, 198 Welsch, Wolfgang, 10n, 191–92 Wieck, Clara, 212 Wieland, Renate, 13n Wiener Neustadt, 247 Wiener Zeitschrift, 266n Wiener Zeitung, 198 Winkelmann, Johann Joachim, 9 Winter, Peter von, 48 Winter, Robert, 292, 303, 350n, 356 Zmeskall, Baron Nikolaus von Domanovecz, 32–33, 104n, 171, 174, 190, 224