The "Sonata Erotica" is noticeable, generally, for its charm, poetry, and spontaneity. The first movement, an Allegro moderato, is in sonata-form. The second, in the key of the relative minor, entitled Fantasie, has in it more of the spirit of Beethoven than of Emanuel Bach. The Finale is in rondo form; the middle section consists of a playful Duettino, containing free imitations.

The next sonata (1777), in D flat, opens with a graceful Allegretto, and closes with a Tempo di Minuetto, which, for the most part, points backward rather than forward. The slow movement, Adagio sostenuto, is, however, of a higher order than either of these. It has Beethovenish breadth and dignity, yet lacks the power of the Bonn master: those magic touches by which the latter makes us feel his genius, and secures gradation of interest up to the very close of a movement. This Adagio, however, were the date of its composition unknown, might pass for a very clever imitation of Beethoven's style.

In 1784, Rust wrote two sonatas, one in F sharp minor, the other in B flat minor. The latter consists of three movements, and the music, especially in the Adagio in E flat minor, bears traces of the great Bach; still there are passages which sound more modern even in this very Adagio, which points so clearly to him as the source of inspiration. The modern element, however, admits of explanation, for Haydn and Mozart, at the time in which the sonata was written, had appeared in the musical firmament. But in the works we are about to mention, the composer suggests Beethoven, Weber, and even Schumann. In writing about Clementi, we were compelled frequently, and at the risk of wearying our readers, to call attention to foreshadowings of both the letter and spirit of Beethoven. The cases of Clementi and Rust, however, are not quite parallel. With the former it was mere foreshadowing; with exception of a few passages in which there was note resemblance between the two composers, the music still bore traces of Clementi's mode of thought and style of writing. But with Rust, there are moments in which it is really difficult to believe that the music belongs to a pre-Beethoven period.

The sonata[92] in D minor (1788) opens with a vigorous yet dignified Allegro; the graceful Adagio is of eighteenth century type; it is in the key of the relative major, but closes on the dominant chord of D minor, leading without break to a final Allegro, full of interesting details. The movement concludes with an impressive poco adagio coda, in which Rust makes use of the principal theme of the opening movement. We will venture on one quotation, although a few bars, separated from the context, may convey only a feeble impression—

[Music illustration]

The sonata in D major, composed six years later, opens with an interesting Allegro. The second movement, in B minor, bears the superscription "Wehklage" (Lamentation). Rust's eldest son, a talented youth, who was studying at Halle University, was drowned in the river Saale, 23rd March 1794. Matthisson, the "Adelaide" poet, sent to the disconsolate father a poem entitled "Todtenkranz fuer ein Kind," to which Rust sketched music, and on that sketch is based this pathetic movement, which sounds like some tone-poem of the nineteenth century. Here is the impressive coda:—

[Music illustration]

There follows a dainty, old-fashioned Minuet, and a curious movement entitled "Schwermuth und Frohsinn" (Melancholy and Mirth);[93] though after the "Wehklage" these make little impression.

During four years (1792-96), Rust was occupied with a sonata in C minor and major. The work is a remarkable one. It opens with an energetic Recitativo in C minor, interrupted for a few bars by an Arioso Adagio in C major. Then comes a Lento in six-four time based on the celebrated Marlbrook song, a dignified movement containing, among other canonic imitations, one in the ninth. It leads by means of a stringendo bar to a brilliant Allegro con brio, a movement of which both the music and the technique remind one of Beethoven's bravoura style. A second section of the sonata commences with the recitative phrase of the opening of the work, only in A minor. This leads to a highly characteristic Andante, which Dr. Rust, the editor, in a preface to the published sonata, likens to the "mighty procession" in Lenau's Faust. The Finale consists of an animated Allegro, with a clever fugato by way of episode; there is still an Allegro maestoso, which, except for its length and the fact that it contains a middle section, Cantabile e religioso, we should call a long coda. The whole, evidently programme-music, is a sonata worked out somewhat on Kuhnau lines.

Now, was Beethoven acquainted with Rust's music? Dr. Prieger, in the pamphlet mentioned above, remarks as follows:—"During the years 1807-27 Wilhelm Karl Rust (b. 1787, d. 1855), the youngest son of our master, was in Vienna, and had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of Beethoven, who was pleased with his playing, and recommended him as teacher. Among Rust's lady pupils were Baroness Dorothea Ertmann and Maximiliane Brentano, both of whom belonged to Beethoven's most intimate circle of friends, and had been honoured by having works dedicated to them. The younger Rust was gifted with an extraordinary memory, and therefore it seems more than probable that he occasionally performed some of his father's works in that circle. On the other hand, we have Beethoven's energetic nature holding aloof from anything which might influence his own individuality."

There, in a few words, is the answer to our question. And it is about the only one we can ever hope to obtain. Rust was altogether a remarkable phenomenon, a musician born, as it were, out of due time. If Beethoven, as seems quite possible, was acquainted with his music, then Rust exerted an influence over the master quite equal to that of Clementi. It almost seems as if we ought to say, greater.



CHAPTER VII

LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN

Bach's forty-eight Preludes and Fugues and Beethoven's thirty-two Sonatas tower above all other works written for the pianoforte; they were aptly described by the late Dr. Hans v. Buelow, the one as the Old, the other as the New Testament of musical literature. Each fresh study of them reveals new points of interest, new beauties; they are rich mines which it is impossible to exhaust. Bach seemed to have revealed all the possibilities of fugue-form; and the history of the last seventy years almost leads one to imagine that Beethoven was the last of the great sonata writers. To this matter, however, we will presently return. In speaking of the various composers from Kuhnau onwards, we have tried to show the special, also the earliest, influences acting on them; and we shall still pursue the same course with regard to Beethoven. When he went to Vienna in 1792 he found himself in the very centre of the musical world. Haydn, though past sixty years of age, was at the zenith of his fame; and Beethoven, for a time, studied under him. Mozart had died in the previous year, so his name was still in everybody's mouth. The early works of Beethoven give strong evidence of the influence exerted over him by these two composers. Then Prince Lichnowsky, the friend and pupil of Mozart, and Baron van Swieten, the patron and friend of both Haydn and Mozart, were among the earliest to take notice of the rising genius and to invite him to their musical matinees and soirees; and one can easily guess what kind of music was performed on those occasions. But the little story of Beethoven remaining at van Swieten's house, after the guests had departed, in order to "send his host to bed with half a dozen of Bach's Fugues by way of Abendsegen" reminds us of another strong, and still earlier, influence. At Bonn, under the guidance of his master, Christian Gottlob Neefe, Beethoven was so well-grounded in the "Well-tempered Clavier," that already, at the age of twelve, he could play nearly the whole of it. But, if we are not mistaken, he also made early acquaintanceship with the sonatas of Emanuel Bach. For in 1773 Neefe published "Zwoelf Klavier-Sonaten," which were dedicated to the composer just named. In the preface he says: "Since the period in which you, dearest Herr Capellmeister, presented to the public your masterly sonatas, worked out, too, with true taste, scarcely anything of a characteristic nature has appeared for this instrument.[94] Most composers have been occupied in writing Symphonies, Trios, Quartets, etc. And if now and then they have turned their attention to the clavier, the greater number of the pieces have been provided with an accompaniment, often of an extremely arbitrary kind, for the violin; so that they are as suitable for any other instrument as for the clavier." Then, later on, Neefe acknowledges how much instruction and how much pleasure he has received from the theoretical and practical works of E. Bach (we seem to be reading over again the terms in which Haydn expressed himself towards Bach). May we, then, not conclude that young Beethoven's attention was attracted to these "masterly sonatas," and also to those of his teacher Neefe? This is scarcely the moment to describe the Neefe sonatas.[95] In connection, however, with Beethoven, one or two points must be noticed. In the third of the three sonatas which Beethoven composed at the age of eleven, the last movement is entitled: Scherzando allegro ma non troppo, and twice in Neefe do we come across the heading, Allegro e scherzando (first set, No. 5, last movement; and second set, No. 1, also last movement). Then, again, No. 2 of the second set opens with a brief introductory Adagio, one, by the way, to some extent connected with the Allegro which follows. In the 2nd of the above-mentioned Beethoven sonatas (the one in F minor) there is also a slow introduction; the young master, no mere imitator, anticipates his own "Sonate Pathetique," and repeats it in the body of the Allegro movement. Lastly, no one, we believe, can compare the Neefe variations with those of Beethoven in the 3rd sonata (in A) without coming to the conclusion that the pupil had diligently studied his teacher's compositions, which, we may add, were thoroughly sound, full of pleasing cantabile writing, and, at times, not lacking in boldness. Let us venture on one quotation of only four bars from Sonata 1, in G, of the second set of six: it is the opening of a short Adagio connecting the Allegro with an Allegro e scherzando—

[Music illustration]

The enharmonic modulation from the second to the third bar reminds one of E. Bach, who was so fond of such changes; also of a similar one in the "Pathetique."

Beethoven wrote thirty-two sonatas, and in the following table the opus number of each work is given, also the date of its publication; some have a title, and the greater number a dedication:—

Sonata Published Dedicated to

Op. 2 No. 1 (F minor) 1796. Haydn. " No. 2 (A) " " " No. 3 (C) " " Op. 7 (E flat) 1797. Countess Babette Keglevics. Op. 10 No. 1 (C minor) 1798. Countess Browne. " No. 2 (F) " " " No. 3 (D) " " Op. 13 (C minor, "Sonate Pathetique") 1799. Prince Charles Lichnowsky. Op. 14 No. 1 (E) " Baroness Braun. " No. 2 (G) " " Op. 22 (B flat) 1802. Count Browne. Op. 26 (A flat) " Prince Charles Lichnowsky. Op. 27 No. 1 (E flat) " Princess Liechtenstein. " No. 2 (C sharp minor) " Countess Giulietta Guicciardi. Op. 28 (D) " Joseph de Sonnenfels. Op. 31 No. 1 (G) 1803. " No. 2 (D minor) " " No. 3 (E flat) 1804. Op. 49 No. 1 (G minor) 1805. " No. 2 (G) " Op. 53 (C) " Count Waldstein. Op. 54 (F) 1806. Op. 57 (F minor) 1807. Count Brunswick. Op. 78 (F sharp) 1810. Countess Theresa of Brunswick. Op. 79 (G) " Op. 81A (E flat; "Das Lebewohl, die Abwesenheit, das Wiedersehn") 1811. Archduke Rudolph. Op. 90 (E minor) 1815. Count Moritz Lichnowsky. Op. 101 (A) 1817. Baroness Dorothea Ertmann. Op. 106 (B flat) 1819. Archduke Rudolph. Op. 109 (E) 1821. Maximiliane Brentano. Op. 110 (A flat) 1822. Op. 111 (C minor) 1823. Archduke Rudolph.

The autograph of the last sonata does not bear any dedication, but, from a letter of Beethoven (1st June, 1823) to the Archduke, it is evident that it was intended for the latter.[96]

The fanciful name of "Moonlight" to Op. 27 (No. 2), the appropriate publisher's title of Op. 57, and the poetical superscriptions of Op. 81A, have, without doubt, helped those sonatas towards their popularity. It does not always happen that the most popular works of a man are his best; but these in question justly rank among Beethoven's finest productions. The last five sonatas are wonderful tone-poems; yet, with the exception, perhaps, of Op. 110, in A flat, as regards perfection of form and unity of conception, not one equals Op. 27 (No. 2), Op. 31 (No. 2), and Op. 57. Apart from any aesthetic considerations, the digital difficulties of the last five sonatas prevent their becoming common property. The brilliant technique of Op. 53 has proved a special attraction to pianists, and it has therefore become widely known. With this one sonata Beethoven proved his superiority, even in the matter of virtuosity, over the best pianists of his day.

In order to be able to enter fully into the spirit of the music of great composers, it is necessary to know the history of their lives. Beethoven's is fairly well known. But it may be worth while to refer, briefly, to the principal men and women to whom the master dedicated his pianoforte sonatas.

Of the thirty-two, as will be seen from the above table, eight have no dedication.

In the year 1792 Beethoven left Bonn and went to Vienna. There he studied counterpoint under Haydn, yet the lessons proved unsatisfactory. But the fame and influence of the veteran master no doubt prompted the young artist to dedicate to him the three sonatas, Op. 2. The title-page of the oldest Vienna edition runs thus:—

Trois Sonates pour le Clavecin Piano-forte composees et dediees A Mr. Joseph Haydn Docteur en musique par Louis van Beethoven.

There was perhaps more of sarcasm than respect in the "Docteur en musique"; Beethoven is related to have said that he had taken some lessons from Haydn, but had never learnt anything from him. Nevertheless he paid heed to his teacher's music. There are in the sonatas one or two reminiscences of Haydn, which seem to us curious enough to merit quotation. One occurs in the sonata in C minor (Op. 10, No. 1). We give the passage (transposed) from Haydn, and the one from Beethoven:—

[Music illustration: "Letter V," Pohl, No. 58.[97] HAYDN.]

[Music illustration: Op. 10, No. 1. BEETHOVEN.]

And another—

[Music illustration: "In Native Worth" (Creation). HAYDN.]

[Music illustration: Op. 31, No. 1. BEETHOVEN.]

While speaking of reminiscences, a curious one may be mentioned. The theme of the slow movement of Beethoven's sonata in A (Op. 2, No. 2) strongly resembles the theme of the slow movement of his own Trio in B flat (Op. 97):—

[Music illustration: Op. 2, No. 2.]

[Music illustration: Trio, Op. 97. Andante.]

In Op. 111, again, the second subject of the Allegro recalls a phrase in the Presto of the Sonata in C sharp minor.

Haydn, as the most illustrious composer of that day, stands first; but the next name worthy of mention is Count Waldstein, a young nobleman who had been a guide, philosopher, and friend to Beethoven during the Bonn days. The well-known entry in the young musician's Album just before his departure for Vienna shows in what high esteem he was held by Waldstein. Count Ferdinand Waldstein died in 1823.

Prince Charles Lichnowsky was one of the composer's earliest patrons after the latter had settled in Vienna. The Prince, descended from an old Polish family, was born in 1758, and, consequently, was, by twelve years, Beethoven's senior. He lived mostly in Vienna. In 1789 he invited Mozart to accompany him to Berlin; and the King's proposal to name the latter his capellmeister is supposed to have been suggested by the Prince. Lichnowsky was also a pupil of Mozart's. His wife, Princess of Thun, was famous for her beauty, her kindly disposition, and for her skill as a musician. Beethoven had not been twelve months in Vienna when he was offered rooms in the Prince's house. It was there that the pianoforte sonatas Op. 2 were first played by their author in presence of Haydn. Beethoven remained in this house until 1800. In 1799 the "Sonate Pathetique" was dedicated to the Prince, and in the following year the latter settled on him a yearly pension of 600 florins. In the year 1806 there was a rupture between the two friends. At the time of the battle of Jena, Beethoven was at the seat of Prince Lichnowsky at Troppau, in Silesia, where some French officers were quartered. The independent artist refused to play to them, and when the Prince pressed the request, Beethoven got angry, started the same evening for Vienna, and,—anger still burning in his breast,—on his arrival home, he shattered a bust of his patron. The composer's refusal to play to the French officers was grounded on his hatred to Napoleon, who had just won the battle of Jena. Beethoven, however, became reconciled with the Prince before the death of the latter in 1814. It should be mentioned that Beethoven's first published work, the three pianoforte Trios, was dedicated to Prince Lichnowsky.

The Archduke Rudolph (1788-1831) was one of the master's warmest friends, and one of his most devoted admirers. His uncle was Max Franz, Elector of Cologne, to whose chapel both Beethoven and his father had belonged. The Archduke was the son of Leopold of Tuscany and Maria Louisa of Spain; his aunt was Marie Antoinette, and his grandmother the famous Maria Theresa. He is supposed to have made the acquaintance of Beethoven during the winter of 1803-4, and then to have become his pupil. The pianoforte part of the Triple Concerto (Op. 58), commenced in 1804, and published in 1807, is said to have been written for him.

Concerning the Countess Giulietta Guicciardi, for whom Beethoven entertained a hopeless passion, and the Countess Theresa of Brunswick, to whom he is said to have been secretly engaged for some years, there is no necessity to enter into detail. Everyone has probably heard of the famous love-letters, and of the discussion as to which of these two they were addressed. Maximiliane Brentano was a niece of the famous Bettine Brentano.

The Baroness Ertmann was an excellent performer on the pianoforte, and is said to have been unrivalled as an interpreter of Beethoven's music. Mendelssohn met her at Rome in 1831, and in a letter describes her playing of the C sharp minor and D minor Sonatas.

We must now turn to the sonatas, yet neither for the purpose of analysis nor of admiration. We shall briefly discuss how far Beethoven worked on the lines established by his predecessors, and how far he modified them. And, naturally, the question of music on a poetic basis will be touched upon.

The number of movements of which Beethoven's sonatas consist varies considerably: some have two, some three, others four. The three very early sonatas dedicated to Maximilian, Archbishop of Cologne, have only three movements (the second opens with a brief Larghetto, which, however, really forms part of the first movement). But the four Sonatas Op. 2 (Nos. 1, 2 and 3) and Op. 7 all have four movements—an Allegro, a slow movement, a Scherzo or Minuet and Trio, and a final Allegro or Rondo. There are examples in later sonatas of similar grouping; but it is an undeniable fact that in some of his greatest sonatas—Op. 31 (No. 2), Op. 27 (No. 2), Op. 53, Op. 57—he reverts to the three-movement sonata so faithfully adhered to by Emanuel Bach, Haydn, Mozart, and Clementi. And there is evidence that the omission of the Minuet or Scherzo in Op. 10 (Nos. 1 and 2), in Op. 13, and in others named above, was the result of reflection and not caprice.

Among sketches for the Sonatas, Op. 10, Beethoven writes: "Zu den neuen Sonaten ganz kuerze Menuetten" (to the new sonatas quite short Minuets); and also, a little further on, "Die Menuetten zu den Sonaten ins kuenftige nicht laenger als von 16 bis 24 Takte" (in future the Minuets to the sonatas not to exceed from 16 to 24 bars). Then, again, there are two sketches for a movement of the Minuet or Scherzo kind, which were almost certainly intended for the Sonata No. 1 in C minor. One of these was afterwards completed, and has been published in the Supplement to Breitkopf & Haertel's edition of Beethoven's works. Both these were finally rejected, yet Beethoven made still another attempt. There is a sketch for an "Intermezzo zur Sonate aus C moll," and at the end of the music the composer writes: "durchaus so ohne Trio, nur ein Stueck" (exactly thus without Trio, only one piece). So the Minuets were to be short; then the limit of length is prescribed; and, lastly, an Intermezzo without Trio is planned. The composer proposed, but his [Greek: daimon] disposed; the Sonata in C minor finally appeared in print with only an Adagio between the two quick movements.

Schindler, in reference to the proposal made by Hoffmeister to Beethoven to edit a new edition of his pianoforte works, tells us that had that project been carried out, the master, in order to get a nearer approach to unity, would have reduced some of his earlier sonatas from four movements to three. And he adds: "He would most certainly have cut out the Scherzo Allegro from the highly pathetic sonata for Pianoforte and Violin (Op. 30, No. 2; the first and third have only three movements), a movement in complete opposition to the character of the whole. He always objected to this movement, and, for the reason just assigned, advised that it should be omitted. Had the scheme been carried out, a small number of Scherzos, Allegros and Menuets would have been 'dismissed.' In our circle, however, objections were raised against this proposal; for among these Scherzos, etc., each of us had his favourite, and did not like the idea of its being removed from the place which it had long occupied. The master, however, pointed to the three-movement sonatas—Op. 10 in C minor, Op. 13, Op. 14, Op. 31 (Nos. 1 and 2), Op. 57, and others. The last sonatas—Op. 106 and Op. 110—which contain more than three movements must be judged in quite a different manner" (Life of Beethoven, 3rd ed. vol. ii. pp. 215-16).

Schindler's statements have sometimes been called in question; the above, however, bears on it the stamp of truth.

But how came it to pass that Beethoven's first four sonatas—Op. 2 (Nos. 1, 2, and 3) and Op. 7—have four movements? That is a question easier to ask than to answer. Schindler's remark that he followed custom is difficult to understand. In our introductory chapter we spoke of twenty sonatas containing four movements written probably about the middle of the eighteenth century, also of one of Wagenseil's for clavier with violin accompaniment; yet among the known sonatas of that period, these form a minority. Woelfl's Sonata in B flat (Op. 15) has four movements: Allegro, Andante, Scherzo Allegro, and Finale (theme and variations), but that work appeared shortly after Beethoven's Op. 2.

Even Haydn, who is said to have introduced the Minuet into the Symphony, remained faithful to the three-movement form of sonata. Beethoven, however, wrote six sonatas consisting of two movements. This change in the direction of simplicity is striking, for in his quartets the composer became more and more complex. It seems as if he were merely intent on exhibiting strong contrast of mood: agitation and repose, or fierce passion followed by heavenly calm; we are referring especially to the Sonata in E minor (Op. 90) and to the one in C minor (Op. 111). The two sonatas of Op. 49—really sonatinas written for educational purposes—may be dismissed; also Op. 54, in the composition of which the head rather than the heart of the master was engaged. Even Op. 78, in F sharp, in spite of the Countess of Brunswick, to whom it was dedicated, does not seem the outcome of strong emotion; and therefore we do not take it now into consideration. The two sonatas (Op. 90 and 111) mentioned above are strong tone-poems, and the master having apparently said all that he had to say, stopped. The story, already related, about having no time to complete Op. 111 must not be taken seriously. Nevertheless, we do not for one moment imagine that Beethoven was thus reducing the number of movements, in accordance with some preconceived scheme.

The D minor (Op. 31, No. 2) and the F minor (Op. 57) sonatas, not to speak of others, form the apotheosis of the sonata in three movements as established, though not invented, by Emanuel Bach. To say that Beethoven was the perfecter of the sonata is true, but it is scarcely the whole truth. The E minor appears a first great step in the process of dissolution; the C minor, a second. They were great steps, because they were those of a very great man. The experiments as to number of movements of which we spoke in our introductory chapter were interesting; and with regard to the number, and also the position of the Minuet before or after the slow movement, those experiments acquired additional interest, inasmuch as Beethoven seems for a time to have been affected by them. The two works named are, however, of the highest importance; in them, if we are not mistaken, are to be found the first signs of the disappearance, as it were, of the sonata of three movements, and, perhaps, of the sonata itself, into the "imperceptible." After Op. 90 Beethoven wrote sonatas in four movements, but that does not affect the argument, neither does the fact, that after Beethoven are to be found several remarkable sonatas with the same number. The process of evolution of the sonata was gradual; so also will be that of its dissolution. The title of "sonata" given by Beethoven to his Op. 90 and Op. 111 does not affect the music one jot; under any other name it would sound as well. You might call the "Choral Symphony" a Divertimento, and the title would be considered inappropriate; or a Polonaise, and the name would be scouted as ridiculous; but the music would still remain great and glorious. Yet taking into consideration the meaning of the term "sonata" as understood by Emanuel Bach, Haydn, and Beethoven himself, it can scarcely be the right one for these tone-poems in two sections. The sonata-form of the first movement in each case may have suggested the title. The two early sonatas Op. 27 (Nos. 1 and 2) are both styled sonata, but with the addition quasi una fantasia. And in neither case was the first movement in sonata-form; the one in E flat does not even contain such a movement. There are other signs of the process of disintegration in the later sonatas. Op. 109, in E, is peculiar as regards the form of the movements of which it is composed; and the fugues of Op. 101, 106, and 109—a return, by the way, to the past—show at least an unsettled state of mind. The sonata in A flat (Op. 110) was probably the germ whence sprang the sonata in B minor of Liszt—a work of which we shall soon have to speak.

Beethoven departed from the custom of his predecessors Haydn and Mozart, and the general practice of sonata-writers before him, in the matter of tonality. In a movement in sonata-form the rule was for the second subject to be in the dominant key in the exposition section, and in the tonic in the recapitulation section, if the key of the piece was major; but if minor, in the relative major or dominant minor in the exposition, and in the tonic major or minor in the recapitulation. Thus, if the key were C major, the second subject would be first in G major, afterwards in C major; if the key were C minor, first in E flat major, or G minor, afterwards in C minor or major. In a minor movement the second subject is found more often in the relative major than in the dominant minor. The first and third movements of Beethoven's Sonata in D minor (Op. 31, No. 2) illustrate the latter; in each case the second subject is in A minor.

In major keys, besides that of the dominant, Beethoven chose the mediant (E) in his sonata in C (Op. 53); and in the recapitulation it occurs first in the sub-mediant (A), and only afterwards, in varied form, in the orthodox tonic. Then in the B flat sonata (Op. 106) the second subject occurs in the sub-mediant (G). In the last sonata in C minor, the second subject is neither in the relative major, nor in the dominant minor, but in the major key of the sub-mediant. Once again, in the sonata in D major (Op. 10, No. 3) a second theme is introduced in the key of the relative minor before the dominant section is reached. With regard, indeed, to the number of themes and order of keys, some other movements of the Beethoven sonatas show departures from the orthodox rules.

In the important matter of the repeat of the first section of a movement in sonata-form, we find the master, for the most part, adhering to the custom delivered unto him by his predecessors. And yet there were two strong reasons why he might have been tempted to depart from it. The repetition was a survival from the old dance movements in binary form. E. Bach, Haydn, and Mozart not only repeated, but introduced various kinds of ornaments, and even harmonic changes; and they expected performers to do the same. Beethoven, however, allowed no such licence—one, indeed, which in the hands of ordinary pianists would be calculated to spoil rather than to improve the music. Part, then, of the raison d'etre of the repeat ceased to exist. But a still stronger temptation to suppress it must have been the programme or picture which Beethoven had in his mind when he composed. The repeat, now become almost an empty form, must have proved at times a fetter to his imagination. In many ways he was bold; but in this matter strangely conservative. It was only in the sonata in F minor, Op. 57, that he first ventured to omit the repeat. It is not to be found in the opening movements of Op. 90 or Op. 110, yet in his last sonata (Op. 111) the composer almost seems as if he wished to atone for his previous sins of omission. He had evidently not settled the question one way or the other; but the fact that in three of his most poetical works he departed from custom, deserves note. Before his time the repeat, like the laws of the Medes and Persians, seemed irrevocably fixed.

Beethoven added important introductions or codas, or even both, to some of the movements of his sonatas. Codas are to be found in the sonatas both of Haydn and Mozart, but not introductory movements; the idea of the latter, however, did not originate with Beethoven. The Grave which opens the "Pathetique" (Op. 13) does not merely throw the listener into the right mood for the Allegro, but the opening phrase—

[Music illustration]

is afterwards made use of in the development section—

[Music illustration]

and, later on, it occurs in double augmentation.

The maestoso which ushers in the Allegro of the last sonata contains foreshadowings which are better felt than explained.

At times the codas of Haydn are interesting,—as, for example, the one at the end of the first movement of his "Genziger" Sonata in E flat,—yet they do not present the thematic material in any new or striking light. With Beethoven it is different. In the Sonata in E flat (Op. 7) not only is there contrapuntal working, but the principal theme, just at the close, is, as it were, rounded off, completed. Similar treatment may be seen in the first movement of the Sonata in D (Op. 10, No. 3) (here the effect is intensified by contrary motion); also in the Allegro of Op. 13, and other sonatas; the opening movement of Op. 57 offers a striking illustration.

The coda to the first movement of the "Waldstein" Sonata (Op. 53) is on a most elaborate scale: it is almost as long as the development section. In the latter, only fragments of the principal theme had been worked, but in the coda it appears in complete form; fierce chords seem to retard its progress, and a sinking, syncopated figure is opposed to it, counteracting its rising, expanding nature. But it works its way onward and upward, until, as if exhausted by the effort, two descending scales lead to a quiet delivery of the second theme, which had not been heard during the development section. Then principal theme is given for the last time; it has overcome all obstacles, and proclaims its victory in loud and powerful chords. The Presto which closes the "Appassionata" (Op. 57) is one of Beethoven's grandest codas, and all the more wonderful in that it follows a movement of intense storm and stress. It is a coda, not merely to the last movement, but to the whole work: it recalls the first, as well as the third movement. The coda of the first movement of the C minor Symphony displays similar intensity; there, however, we have an expression of strong will; here, one of savage despair. The coda of the first movement of the "Adieux" Sonata (Op. 81A) is another memorable ending. The farewell notes sound sad in the opening Adagio, while in the Allegro which follows they are again plaintive, or else agitated. But in the coda, though still sad, they express a certain tenderness, and the lingering of friends loth to part. Whatever the special meaning of the music, the point which we here wish to emphasise is, that the coda presents thematic material, already amply developed, in quite a new light.

In the matter of structure, Beethoven may be said, in the main, to have followed Haydn and Mozart, but the effect of his music is, nevertheless, very different. By overlapping of phrases; by very moderate use of full closes; by making passages of transition thoroughly thematic; by affinity and yet strong contrast between his principal and second themes; by a more organic system of development; by these and other means Beethoven surpassed his predecessors in power of continuity, intensity, and unity. Then, again, his conception of tonality was broader, and his harmonies were more varied; the fuller, richer tone of the pianoforte of his day influenced the character of his melodies; while the consequent progress of technique, as exhibited in the works of some of his immediate predecessors and contemporaries, enabled him to present his thoughts with greater variety and more striking effect than was possible to either Haydn or Mozart.

Once more, Beethoven seemed to be elaborating some central thought; Haydn and Mozart (with few exceptions), to be deftly weaving together thoughts so as to obtain pleasing contrasts. In a similar manner, the first and last movements of a sonata with Beethoven are of kindred mood, though perhaps of different degree. Haydn and Mozart seem again to be aiming at contrast; after a dignified opening Allegro and a soft, graceful slow movement, they frequently wind up with a Finale of which the chief characteristics are humour, playfulness, and merriment, so that the listener may part company from them in a pleasant frame of mind.

We have been comparing the composer, and to his advantage, with Haydn and Mozart. But the latter, however, sometimes come within near reach of the former; and had the means at their disposal been similar, they might possibly have equalled him. And, on the other hand, Beethoven's inspiration was sometimes at a comparatively low ebb. Speaking generally, however, the comparison, we believe, stands good.

John Sebastian Bach devoted the greater part of his life to the art of developing themes. His skill was wonderful, and so, too,—considering the restrictions of the fugue-form,—was the imagination which he displayed. In Beethoven the old master seems to live again, only under new and more favourable conditions. Bach was brought up in the way of the fugue, Beethoven of the sonata; and, it may be added, from these, respectively, neither ever departed. From early youth onward, our composer was a deep student of Bach, and assimilated some of his predecessor's methods. One special feature of Beethoven's mode of development was to take a few notes, or sometimes merely a figure, from his theme, and to expand them into a phrase; as, for instance, in the opening movement of the sonata in C minor (Op. 10, No. 1), in which

[Music illustration]

forms the material for the closing phrase of the exposition section. And the opening figure of the Finale of the same sonata is employed in a similar manner at the commencement of the second section of the movement. The Rondo of Op. 10, No. 3, furnishes good illustrations. Now let us turn to Bach. In the 13th Fugue of the "Well-tempered Clavier," the closing notes of the subject

[Music illustration]

are expanded, commencing at bar twenty-four, into a melodious phrase. Also in the Prelude which follows (No. 14)

[Music illustration] becomes [Music illustration]

And some magnificent examples might be culled from the noble Preludes in E flat and B flat minor (Book 1, Nos. 8 and 22). Again, another special feature of Beethoven is the extension of a phrase by repetition of the last clause,—a method too familiar to need quotation. But let us give one illustration from Bach (Book 1, Fugue 6)—

[Music illustration]

The 8th Prelude of Book I has been already mentioned to illustrate one point, but there are other Beethovenisms in it.

These comparisons must not be misunderstood; study of Bach strengthened Beethoven's genius. We are not speaking of bald imitation, not even of conscious imitation. He not only received the message of the old master, as a child, but while he was a child; and that no doubt helped him more than all the works of his predecessors from Emanuel Bach upwards. It appealed to him strongly, because it was based on nature. Bach's Fugues are living organisms; they are expansions of some central thought. Development reveals the latent power, the latent meaning of the themes; were it merely artificial, no matter how skilful, it would be letter, not spirit. A clever contrapuntist once conceived the bold idea of competing with Bach; he wrote a series of Preludes and Fugues in all the keys, and displayed wonderful skill in all the arts of counterpoint, canon, and fugue, while in the matter of elaborate combinations he actually surpassed Bach (we refer here only to the "Well-tempered Clavier"). But the result was failure; the laborious work was wasted. Klengel had mistaken the means for the end; he had worked as a mathematician, not as a musician. Beethoven felt the true secret of Bach's greatness, and his own genius taught him how to profit by it. Next to the necessity of having something of importance to say, something which development will enhance, the great lesson which Beethoven learnt from Bach was unity in variety, the "highest law in all artistic creation," as Dr. H. Riemann well remarks in his Catechism of Musical AEsthetics.

Very many, probably the greater number, of Beethoven's sonatas rest upon some poetic basis. Bombet, in his Life of Haydn, tells us how that composer sometimes "imagined a little romance, which might furnish him with musical sentiments and colours"; and the titles which he gave to many of his symphonies certainly support that statement. At other times the romance was already to hand, as in the case of the 32nd sonata, which was inspired by Haydn's dear friend, Frau von Genziger. Of the poetic basis underlying some of Beethoven's sonatas we have fair knowledge. Schindler, in the second edition of his Biography of Beethoven, gives a few extracts from the Conversation Books (Conversations Hefte), in which, on account of the master's deafness, questions or answers were written down by those holding conversation with him. Beethoven read, and, of course, replied viva voce. We have not, it is true, his words, yet it is possible, at times, to gather their purport from the context. For instance, there is a conversation (or rather one half of it) recorded, which took place in 1823 between the composer and Schindler. The latter says: "Do you remember how I ventured a few years ago to play over to you the Sonata Op. 14?—now everything is clear." The next entry runs thus:—"I still feel the pain in my hand." A footnote explains that after Schindler had played the opening section of the first movement, Beethoven struck him somewhat roughly on the hand, pushed him from the stool, and, placing himself on it, played and explained the sonata. Then Schindler says: "Two principles also in the middle section of 'Pathetique,'" as if the teacher had called upon him to give illustrations from other sonatas of what he had explained concerning Op. 14. But there is another record of a conversation which took place between Beethoven and Schindler in the very month (March, 1827) in which the composer died. "As you feel well to-day," says the disciple, "we can continue our talk concerning the poetic basis ("wieder etwas poetisiren") of the Trio in B flat." And after some remarks about Aristotle's views of tragedy, and about the Medea of Euripides, we come across the following:—"But why everywhere a superscription? In many movements of the sonatas and symphonies, where feeling and one's own imagination might dictate, such a heading would do harm. Music ought not, and cannot, on all occasions give a definite direction to feeling." Beethoven must have been alluding to some scheme of his for indicating the nature of the contents of his works, and its boldness seems to have astonished Schindler. It is possible that Beethoven, conscious that his end was not far distant, carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, and desirous of giving all possible help to the right understanding of his music, went far beyond the modest lines by which he was guided when writing his "Pastoral" Symphony.[98] But let us return to the conversation.

"Good!" says Schindler, "then you will next set about writing an angry sonata?" Beethoven would seem to have declared even that possible, for Schindler continues: "Oh! I have no doubt you will accomplish that, and I rejoice in anticipation." And, then, as if remembering that his master was an invalid, and that it would not be right to excite him by prolonging the argument, he added, probably in a half-jocular manner: "Your housekeeper must do her part, and first put you into a towering passion." The above extracts show pretty clearly that the poetic basis of his music was a subject which Beethoven took pleasure in discussing with his friends. Beethoven's back was, however, at once up if he found others pushing the matter too far. Of this we will give an instance. In the year 1782 Dr. Christian Mueller of Bremen organised concerts among the members of his family, and, already at the beginning of the nineteenth century, Beethoven's name figured on the programmes. A friend of the family, Dr. Carl Iken, who took part in the musical proceedings, was an ardent admirer of Beethoven's music, and he ventured to draw up explanations and picture-programmes of the master's works; and these were read out before the performances of the works in question. It seems, indeed, that he was the first who felt impelled to give utterance to the poetical feelings aroused by Beethoven's music. Dr. Iken's intentions were of the best, and he may often have succeeded in throwing his audience into the right mood. A poetical programme, if not too fantastic, would often prove of better effect than the most skilful of analyses. These "Iken" programmes so delighted Dr. Mueller that he sent several of them to the master at Vienna. Beethoven read, but his anger was stirred. He sent for Schindler, and dictated a letter to Dr. Mueller. It was a friendly but energetic protest against such treatment of his or anyone else's music. He drew attention to the erroneous opinions to which it would give birth. If explanations were needed, he declared, let them be limited to the general characteristics of the compositions,[99] which it would not be difficult for cultured musicians to furnish. Thus relates Schindler, and there seems no reason to doubt his word. It is to be hoped that Dr. Mueller's letter will one day be discovered. It was not the plan to which Beethoven objected, but the manner in which it was carried out.

Before quitting this subject, let us refer to one or two sonatas concerning which there are well authenticated utterances of the master. Schindler once asked him for the key to the Sonatas in D minor (Op. 31, No. 2) and F minor ("Appassionata"), and Beethoven replied: "Read Shakespeare's Tempest." The reply was laconic. Beethoven, no doubt, could have furnished further details, but he abstained from so doing, and in this he was perfectly justified. Then Schindler, growing bold, ventured a further question: "What did the master intend to express by the Largo of the Sonata in D (Op. 10, No. 3)?" And the latter replied that everyone felt that this Largo described the condition of the soul of a melancholy man, with various nuances of light and shade. Beethoven's quiet, dignified utterances deserve special attention in these days of programme-music. It is perhaps well that he did not carry out his idea of furnishing the clue to the poetic idea underlying his sonatas. It would, of course, have been highly interesting to know the sources of his inspirations, but it is terrible to think of the consequences which would have ensued. Composers would have imitated him, and those lacking genius would have made themselves and their art ridiculous. Berlioz went to extremes, but his genius saved him; and Schumann, a true poet, though inclined to superscriptions, kept within very reasonable lines.

It was undoubtedly this poetic basis that so affected the form of Beethoven's sonatas. The little romances by which Haydn spurred his imagination were as children's tales compared with the deep thoughts, the tragic events, and the masterpieces of Plato, Shakespeare, and Goethe, which in Beethoven sharpened feeling and intensified thought. The great sonatas of Beethoven are not mere cunningly-devised pieces, not mere mood-painting; they are real, living dramas.

In aiming at a higher organisation, he actually became a disorganiser. "All things are growing or decaying," says Herbert Spencer. And in Beethoven, so far as sonata and sonata-form are concerned, we seem, as it were, to perceive the beginning of a period of decay.



CHAPTER VIII

TWO CONTEMPORARIES OF BEETHOVEN

I. Weber

The two greatest contemporaries of Beethoven were, undoubtedly, Carl Maria von Weber and Franz Schubert, and both wrote pianoforte sonatas. Many other composers of that period—some of them possessed of considerable talent—devoted themselves to that branch of musical literature: Steibelt (1764-1823), Woelfl (1772-1812), J.B. Cramer (1771-1858), J.N. Hummel (1778-1837), F.W.M. Kalkbrenner (1788-1849), and others. Of these, the first three may be named sonata-makers. The number which they produced is positively alarming; but it is some consolation to think that a knowledge of their works is not of essential importance. Steibelt's sonata in E flat (dedicated to Mme. Buonaparte) was given once at the Popular Concerts in 1860, and Woelfl's "Ne plus Ultra" sonata, several times between 1859 and 1873; not one, however, of the 105 said to have been written by J.B. Cramer has ever been heard there.[100] Most of these works justly merit the oblivion into which they have fallen; some are quite second, or even third rate; others were written merely as show pieces,[101] and are now, of course, utterly out of date; and many were written for educational purposes, or to suit popular taste (sonatas containing variations on national and favourite airs, light rondos, etc.).[102]

Cramer's studies have achieved world-wide reputation, and, as music, they are often interesting. Also in his sonatas are to be found many serious, well-written movements; musical taste has, however, so changed since the rise of the romantic school, that it is doubtful whether they would be now acceptable even as teaching pieces.

Hummel's few sonatas have suffered at the hand of time; but, though the music be mechanical, and therefore cold, there is much to interest pianists in the two sonatas in F sharp minor (Op. 81) and D major (Op. 106). These were written after the composer's appointment at Weimar in 1820. His two early sonatas (Op. 13, in E flat, and Op. 20, dedicated to Haydn) are not easy, yet not so difficult as the two just mentioned.

Steibelt and Woelfl both measured themselves with Beethoven in the art of improvisation. The former was so ignominiously defeated that he never ventured to meet his rival again. Woelfl, however, fared better. With his long fingers he could accomplish wonders on the instrument; but only so far as technique was concerned did he surpass Beethoven.

Carl Maria v. Weber (1786-1826) in early youth studied the pianoforte under two able court organists, J.P. Heuschkel[103] and J.N. Kalcher,[104] both of whom he always held in grateful remembrance. Under the direction of the latter he wrote some pianoforte sonatas, which, according to the statement of his son and biographer, M.M. v. Weber, were accidentally destroyed. Later on he studied under Vogler and other masters. He became a famous pianist, and at Berlin, in 1812, composed his 1st Sonata in C (Op. 24). No. 2, in A flat (Op. 39), was commenced at Prague in 1814, and completed at Berlin in 1816. No. 3, in D minor (Op. 49), was also written at Berlin, and in the same year. No. 4, in E minor (Op. 70), occupied the composer between the years 1819 and 1822; it was written at Hosterwitz, near Dresden, during the time he was at work on his opera Euryanthe.

Weber and Schubert are both classed as contemporaries of Beethoven, yet the latter was also their predecessor. Of Schubert we shall speak presently. As regards Weber, it should be remembered that before he had written his sonata in C (Op. 24) Beethoven had already published "Les Adieux" (Op. 81A). The individuality of the composer of Die Freischuetz was, however, so strong, that we meet with no direct traces of the influence of Beethoven in his pianoforte music.

The Weber sonatas have been described by Dr. P. Spitta as "fantasias in sonata-form," and this admirably expresses the character of these works. Weber followed the custom of his day in writing sonatas, but it seems as though he would have accomplished still greater things had he given full rein to his imagination, and allowed subject-matter to determine form. Like his great contemporary, of whom we have next to speak, Weber, in spite of Vogler's teaching, was not a strong contrapuntist; he relied chiefly upon melody, harmonic effects, and strong contrasts. His romantic themes, his picturesque colouring, enchant the ear, and the poetry and passion of his pianoforte music, both intensified by grand technique, stir one's soul to its very depths; yet the works are of the fantasia, rather than of the sonata order. We have the letter rather than the true spirit of a sonata. Place side by side Weber's Sonata in A flat (the greatest of the four) and Beethoven's D minor or "Appassionata," and the difference will be at once felt. In the latter there is a latent power which is wanting in the former. It seems as if one could never sound the depths of Beethoven's music: fresh study reveals new beauties, new details; the relation of the parts to the whole (not only of the sections of a movement, but of the movements inter se), and, therefore, the unity of the whole becomes more evident. We must not be understood to mean that Weber worked without plan, or even careful thought; but merely, that the organic structure of his sonatas is far less closely knit than in those of the Bonn master; there is contrast rather than concatenation of ideas, outward show rather than inner substance. The slow movements (with exception of those of the 1st and 2nd Sonatas, which have somewhat of a dramatic character) and Finales are satisfactory, per se, as music: the former have charm, refinement; the latter, elegance, piquancy, brilliancy. Now, in these sonatas, the opening movements seem like the commencement of some tragedy: in No. 2 there is nobility mixed with pathos; in No. 3, fierce passion; and in No. 4, still passion, albeit of a tenderer, more melancholy kind. But in the Finales it is as though we had passed from the tragedy of the stage to the melodrama, or frivolity of the drawing-room; they offer, it is true, strong contrast, yet not of the right sort, not that to which Beethoven has accustomed us.

Throughout the four sonatas we detect the hand of a great pianist. In the first, the element of virtuosity predominates; the first and, especially, the last movement (the so-called Perpetuum mobile) are show pieces, though of a high order. In the other sonatas the same element exists, and yet it seldom obtrudes itself; the composer is merely using, to the full, the rich means at his command to express his luxuriant and poetical thoughts. In his writing for the instrument Weber recalls Dussek,—the Dussek of the "Retour a Paris" and "Invocation" sonatas. The earlier master was also a great pianist, and filled with the spirit of romance; still he lacked the force and fire of Weber. Then, again, Dussek, in early manhood, passed through the classical crucible, whereas Weber was born and bred very much a la Bohemienne; he developed from within rather than from without. It is easier to criticise than to create. If we cannot place the sonatas of Weber on the same high level as those of Beethoven, we may at least say that they take very high rank; also, that in the hands of a great pianist they are certain to produce a powerful impression.

II. Schubert

The other great contemporary of Beethoven was Franz Schubert, born in 1797, the year in which the former published his Sonata in E flat (Op. 7). Then, again, Schubert's earliest pianoforte sonata was composed in February 1815, while Beethoven's Sonata in A (Op. 101) was produced at a concert only one year later (16th February 1816). It is well to remember these dates, by which we perceive that Beethoven had written twenty-seven of his thirty-two sonatas before Schubert commenced composing works of this kind. But though here and there the influence of the Bonn master may be felt in Schubert, the individuality of the latter was so strong, that we regard him as an independent contemporary. The influence of Haydn and Mozart, plus his own mighty genius, seem almost sufficient to account for Schubert's music. The new edition of the composer's works published by Messrs. Breitkopf & Haertel contains fifteen sonatas for pianoforte solo. The first four—

No. 1, in E (1815), No. 2, in C (1815), No. 3, in A flat (1817), and No. 4, in E minor (1817),

had hitherto only been known by name.

In following the career of a great composer, his first efforts, however humble, however incomplete, are of interest; but from a purely musical point of view the Minuets of Nos. 2 and 3 are the most attractive portions of these sonatas; we catch in them glimpses of that freshness and romantic beauty which characterise Schubert's later productions.

In moments of strong inspiration, Schubert worked wonders, yet the lack of regular and severe study often makes itself felt. Though colouring may enhance counterpoint, it will not serve as a substitute for it. Then there is, at times, monotony of rhythm; and this, to a great extent, was the result of little practice in the art "of combining melodies."

While on the subject of Schubert's failings, we may as well complete the catalogue. In the later sonatas we meet with diffuseness; and sometimes a stroke of genius is followed by music which, at any rate for Schubert, is commonplace. It seems presumption to weigh the composer in critical balances, and to find him wanting; but he stands here side by side with Beethoven, and the contrast between the two men forces itself on our notice. Both were richly endowed by nature. By training, and the power of self-criticism which the latter brings with it, Beethoven was able to make the most of his gifts; Schubert, on the other hand, by the very lavish display which he sometimes made, actually weakened them. There is no page of musical history more touching than the one which records how the composer, after having written wonderful songs, grand symphonies, and other works too numerous to mention, made arrangements to study with S. Sechter, one of the most eminent theorists of the day. The composer paid the latter a visit on the 4th November 1828; but within a fortnight, Schubert was no longer in the land of the living. When too late, he seems to have made the discovery which, perhaps, his very wealth of inspiration had hidden from him up to that moment, namely, that discipline strengthens genius. One may point out faults in Schubert's art-works, yet his melodies and harmonies are so bewitching, his music altogether so full of spontaneity and inspiration, that for the time being one is spellbound. Schumann was fairly right when he described Schubert's lengths as "heavenly."

Three more sonatas were produced in the year 1817, the first in the unusual key of B major; and here we find a marked advance in conception and execution. It opens with an Allegro, the total effect of which, however, is not satisfactory; the principal theme has dramatic power, and what follows has lyrical charm, but the development section is disappointing. The Adagio seems like an arrangement of a lovely symphonic movement; the orchestra, and not the pianoforte, must have been in the composer's mind when he penned it. The lively Scherzo, with its quiet Trio, is a little gem. The clear-cut, concise form of such movements saved Schubert from all danger of diffuseness; and in them, as Mozart remarked to the Emperor Joseph, who complained of the number of notes in his opera, Die Entfuehrung, there are "just as many as are necessary." The sonata in A minor (Op. 164), which consists of three movements, is short and delightful from beginning to end. In the opening Allegro the second subject occurs, by way of exception, in the major key of the submediant. There is much to admire in the 3rd, in E flat, especially the Minuet and Trio; yet the music is not pure Schubert. About six years elapsed between this and the next sonata, in A minor (1823). Schubert had already written his B minor Symphony, and though the first two movements of the sonata will not compare with those of the former in loftiness of conception, there is a certain kinship between the two works. In both there are fitful gusts of passion, a feeling of awe, and a tone of sadness which tells of disappointed hopes, of lost illusions. The Finale, though fine, stands on a lower level. During the years 1825-26, Schubert wrote, besides one in A major (Op. 120), three magnificent sonatas: one in A minor, dedicated to the Archduke Rudolph (Op. 42), another in D (Op. 53), and a third in G (Op. 78). In these three works we have the composer's ripest efforts. The first movement of the 1st, in A minor, is well-nigh perfect. That opening phrase—

[Music illustration]

haunts one like a sad dream; and the development section, long, though not monotonous, is full of it. Without sacrificing his individuality, Schubert has here caught something of Beethoven's peculiar method of treating a theme,—that is, of evolving new phrases from its various sections. The coda, again, has penetrating power, and the fierce concluding phrase sounds like the passionate resistance of a proud artist to the stern degrees of fate. The tender melody and delicate variations of the Andante, the bold Scherzo, with its soft Trio, and the energetic Finale are all exceedingly interesting; yet they do not affect us like the first movement, in which lies not only the majesty, but the mystery of genius. The sonata in D has a vigorous opening Allegro,—a long, lovely, slow movement,—a crisp Scherzo, but a peculiar Finale, one which Schumann qualifies as comical (possirlich). The sonata in G contains some of the composer's most charming, characteristic music. The opening moderato e cantabile is a tone-poem of touching pathos. The sad principal theme is supported by such soft, tender harmonies, that its very sadness charms. In the development section it assumes a different character. Melancholy gives place to passion, at times fierce; then calm returns. The coda is one of the most fascinating ever penned by Schubert. The slow movement and Menuetto form worthy companions; but with the Finale the composer breaks the spell. Schumann says: "Keep away from it; it has no imagination, no enigma to solve."

The last three sonatas (in C minor, A, and B flat) were composed in September 1828, not three months before the death of the composer. In the opening theme of No. 2, determination and confidence are expressed, while in the Scherzo and Rondo there is even sunshine, though now and again black clouds flit across the scene. But in the Adagio, and in all the movements of the other two sonatas, the mood is either one of sadness, more or less intense, dark despair, or fierce frenzy. Music can express both joy and sorrow, though the latter seems more congenial to it. Mournful strains are an echo, as it were, of the "still, sad music of humanity." Grief, too, sharpens the imagination; and music produced under its influence stirs a sensitive soul more powerfully than the brightest, merriest sounds. But these three sonatas, though they contain wonderful thoughts and some of Schubert's grandest, and most delicate harmonic colouring, fall short of perfection. They are too long, not because they cover so many pages, but because there is a lack of balance; at times, indeed, the composer seems to lose all sense of proportion. Then, again, the weakness of Schubert in the art of development is specially felt; the noble themes, on the whole, lose rather than gain by the loose, monotonous, and, in some places, even trivial treatment to which they are subjected. And what is more fatal than a lack of gradation of interest? In a truly great work of art, be it poem, tragedy, sonata, or symphony, the author carries his readers or audience along with him from one point to another,—he gives no time for rest or reflection; and when he has worked them up to the highest pitch, he stops, and there is an awakening, as it were, from some wonderful dream. If afterwards the work be analysed, the pains with which it was built up can be traced; the powerful effect which it produced will be found due, not alone to the creative power, the imagination of the author, but also to his dialectic skill and to his critical faculty. It is all very well to talk of great works as the fruits of hot inspiration and not cold intellect. A masterpiece is the outcome of both; the one provides the material, the other shapes it. Schubert was an inspired composer, but most of his works, especially those of large compass, show that he was mastered by moods, not that he was master of them. It may be said that many who can appreciate beautiful music have not the bump of intellect strongly developed, and would not therefore be affected by any such shortcomings; that they would simply enjoy the music. That is very likely, but here we are analysing and comparing; and neither the beauty nor even grandeur of the music, nor the effect which it might produce on certain minds, concerns us. There are many persons who have had no technical training, but who possess a true sense of order, proportion, and gradation; and such instinctively feel that Schubert's sonatas, in spite of their many striking qualities, are not so great as those of Beethoven. We have referred more than once to the Popular Concert catalogue, which is a very fair thermometer of public taste. One can see how seldom the Schubert sonatas are performed in comparison with those of his great contemporary. But to refer specially to the three last sonatas now under notice. The one in B flat (No. 3) was played by Mr. Leonard Borwick, it is true, on the 3rd February 1894, but the previous date of performance was 16th January 1882. No. 2, in A, was last given in 1882, and No. 1 has not been heard since 1879.

The Allegro of the C minor sonata opens with a bold theme, and an energetic transition passage leads to the dominant of the relative major key. Of the soft second theme Schubert seems so fond, that he is loth to quit it; he repeats it in varied form, and still after that, it is heard in minor. This unnecessarily lengthens the exposition section, which, in addition, has the repeat mark. The development section is rather vague, but the coda is impressive: the long descending phrase and the sad repeated minor chords at the close suggest exhaustion after fierce conflict. The theme of the Adagio, in A flat, partly inspired by Beethoven, is noble, and full of tender, regretful feeling; the opening and close of the movement are the finest portions. The Minuet and Trio are effective, but the final Allegro is hopelessly long, and by no means equal to the rest of the work.

The first movement of the sonata in A has a characteristic principal theme, and one in the dominant key of bewitching beauty. The coda gives a last reminiscence of the opening theme; but its almost defiant character has vanished away; for it is now played pianissimo. Schubert, in the importance of his codas, recalls Beethoven; each, however, made it serve a different purpose. The latter, at any rate in his Allegro movements, gathers together his strength, as if for one last, supreme effort. Schubert, on the other hand, seems rather as if his strength were spent, and as if he could only give a faint echo of his leading theme. The coda of the first movement of the sonata in A minor (Op. 42) offers, however, one striking exception. The Andantino and Scherzo of the A sonata are well-nigh perfect, but the Rondo, in spite of much that is charming, is of inferior quality and of irritating length. The 3rd sonata, in B flat, the last of the series, the sonate-testament, as Von Lenz said of Beethoven's Op. 111, has wonderful moments, yet it contains also lengths which even Schumann would scarcely have ventured to style "heavenly." We refer particularly to the first and last movements; the Andante and Scherzo are beyond criticism.

These sonatas were written as Schubert was about to enter the Valley of the Shadow of Death. His spirit was still strong, but his flesh must have been weak. To turn away from them on account of any imperfections, would be to lose some of Schubert's loftiest thoughts, some of his choicest tone-painting.



CHAPTER IX

SCHUMANN, CHOPIN, BRAHMS, AND LISZT

After Beethoven, the first composer of note was Robert Schumann, one of the founders of the so-called romantic school. In one of his letters he refers to Beethoven's choral symphony "as the turning-point from the classical to the romantic period." By reading, Schumann had cultivated his imagination, but his musical training was irregular; and, indeed, when he first commenced composing, practically nil. If his soul was stirred by some poem, or tale, or by remembrance of some dear friend, he sought to express his thoughts and feelings, and on the spur of the moment. In a letter he writes: "I have been all the week at the piano, composing, writing, laughing, and crying, all at once. You will find this state of things nicely described in my Op. 20, the 'Grosse Humoreske,' which is already at the printer's. You see how quickly I always work now. I get an idea, write it down, and have it printed; that's what I like. Twelve sheets composed in a week!" And thus short-tone poems, or a long piece, such as the "Humoreske," of irregular form, were the result. Now that was not the way in which he composed his two sonatas. He was two years, off and on, at work on the first, in F sharp minor (Op. 11), and eight on the other, in G minor (Op. 22). One may therefore conclude that the fetters of form were a source of trouble to him. And he can scarcely have felt very enthusiastic over his task; in 1839, after both sonatas were completed, he declared that "although from time to time fine specimens of the sonata species made their appearance, and, probably, would continue to do so, it seemed as if that form of composition had run its appointed course."

Of the two sonatas, the one in F sharp minor is the more interesting. The Aria is a movement of exquisite simplicity and tenderness, and the Scherzo, with its Intermezzo alla burla, has life and character. But the Allegro, which follows the poetical introduction, and the Finale are patchy, and at times laboured. It must not, however, be supposed that they are uninteresting. The music has poetry and passion, and the strong passages atone for the weak ones. There were composers at that time who could produce sonatas more correct in form, and more logical in treatment, yet not one who could have written music so filled with the spirit of romance.

The Sonata in G minor resembles its predecessor both in its strong and its weak points. Considered, however, as a whole, it is less warm, less intense. It is unnecessary to describe the two works in detail, for they must be familiar to all musicians, and especially pianists. A sympathetic rendering of them will always give pleasure; but in a history of evolution they are of comparatively small moment. It is interesting to compare them with the Fantasia in C (Op. 17), a work in which Schumann displayed the full power of his genius.

Chopin was another composer whose spirit moved uneasily within the limits of the sonata. The first which he wrote (we do not reckon the posthumous one in C minor)—the one in B flat minor—is an impressive work. There is a certain rugged power in the opening movement, and the Scherzo is passionate, and its Trio tender. The picturesque March owes much of its effect to its colouring and contrasts; while the extraordinary Finale sounds weird and uncanny. In the hands of a great interpreter the music makes a powerful appeal; yet as a sonata it is not really great. It lacks organic development, unity. The Sonata in B minor, though attractive to pianists, is an inferior work. The first movement, with exception of its melodious second theme, is dry, and the Finale belongs to the bravoura order of piece. The Scherzo is light and graceful. The slow movement is the most poetical of the four, though spun out at too great length. The real Chopin is to be found in his nocturnes, mazurkas, and ballads, not in his sonatas.

Among modern sonatas, the three by Brahms (C, Op. 1; F sharp minor, Op. 2; and F minor, Op. 5) claim special notice. With the exception of the Liszt Sonata in B minor, which, whatever its musical value, at least opens up "new paths" in the matter of form, the Brahms sonatas are the only ones since Schumann which distinctly demand detailed notice. The composer followed ordinary Beethoven lines; with exception of the Intermezzo of the 3rd Sonata, the number and order of movement resemble those of many a Beethoven sonata; while there is enlargement, not change in the matter of form. Brahms studied the special means by which his great predecessor, in some instances, sought to accentuate the unity between various sections of a sonata; he steeped his soul in the romantic music of Beethoven, Schubert, Chopin, and Schumann, and, in addition, trained his intellect to grasp the mysteries of counterpoint, and to perceive the freer modern uses to which it was put by the classical masters. Brahms' early acquaintance with Liszt opened up to him, too, the resources of modern technique. And thus, possessing individuality of his own, in addition to these inheritances and acquirements, Brahms wrote sonatas, which, though in the main on old lines, are no mere imitations, pale reflexes of his predecessors.

The 1st Sonata, in C (Op. 1), has for its opening theme one which has been said to resemble the opening theme of Beethoven's Op. 106. It will be well to look on this picture (Beethoven)—

[Music illustration]

and on this (Brahms)—

[Music illustration]

There is resemblance in the matter of rhythm, but the up-beat in Beethoven constitutes a marked difference; and, besides, the succession of notes differs in each case. Brahms's theme, already at the eighth bar, recommences in a key a tone lower; a similar proceeding, by the way, is to be found in Beethoven's Sonata in G (Op. 31, No 1). After a few points of imitation, and digression through various keys, we meet with a new theme in A minor, the soft, tender character of which contrasts well with the bold opening one. But unity amid diversity is Brahms' aim; and here the contrast does not prevent a certain kinship between them—one, however, which can be felt rather than explained.[105] Of another pianissimo phrase, still in A minor, much use is afterwards made. The prominence given in the exposition section to the subject-matter styled "secondary," and still more so in the development section, is peculiar; this feature had certainly not been copied from Beethoven, who, as a rule, made his first theme of first importance. Brahms concludes his exposition section in the opening key of the movement,—a return to early methods; Beethoven adopted a similar course in the first movement of his Op. 53. Brahms' development section is comparatively short. Of counterpoint we get a good illustration in the combinations of both first and second themes; of colour, in the presentation of the mournful minor theme in the major key; and of originality, in the bars leading to the recapitulation. In this last instance, the idea of gradually drawing closer together the members of a phrase was borrowed from Beethoven, but not the manner in which it is carried out. In the earlier master it often stands out as a special feature; here we have, besides, counter rhythm, and ambiguous modulation. When the principal theme returns, it is clothed first with subdominant, then with tonic minor harmony. The movement concludes with a vigorous coda evolved from the opening theme. Five bars from the end, the first two bars of that theme are given out in their original form; and then, as if repetition were not sufficient, a thematic cadence is added, in which the notes are given in loud tones, in augmented form, and, in addition, with slackened tempo (largamente). The slow movement (Andante) was, we believe, one of Brahms' earliest efforts at composition; it is said to have been written by him at the age of fourteen. It consists of a theme with variations; and the former is based on an old German Minnelied. The words of the folk song are written beneath the notes, as if to put the listener into the right mood.[106] We need not dwell on the variations, in which Beethoven and Schubert are the prevailing influences, though not to any alarming extent. The music is by no means difficult; for Brahms, indeed, remarkably easy. The movement opens in C minor, but closes in C major. A Scherzo follows (E minor, six-eight time; Allegro molto e con fuoco); it has a trio in C major. The Scherzo, with its varied rhythm, is full of life; the Trio, interesting in harmony, and also in the matter of rhythm. The Finale (another Allegro con fuoco; the young composer has mounted his fiery Pegasus) opens in C, in nine-eight time, thus—

[Music illustration]

a metamorphosis, in fact, of the opening theme of the sonata. And later on we have a similar re-presentation of subject-matter from the first movement. This Finale is musically and technically attractive, yet scarcely on the same high level as the first movement. But the age of the composer must be taken into consideration; for quite a young man, it is a wonderful production.

The 2nd Sonata (Op. 2) is in F sharp minor. The Allegro non troppo ma energico is a movement which in its subject-material breathes the spirit of Chopin: the weird, stormy opening in the principal key may claim kinship with the opening of the Polish composer's "Polonaise" in the same key; while a certain strain in the melodious second subject brings to one's mind a Chopin Nocturne, also in F sharp minor; in neither case, however, is there anything amounting to plagiarism. The exposition section is not repeated. The development is clever, though, perhaps, somewhat formal. Again here, the secondary theme occupies, apparently, chief attention; but it is supported by a bass evolved from a principal motive. And in transition passages of the exposition, and also in the recapitulation section and coda—

[Music illustration]

in one or other shape, makes itself heard; so that, though outwardly subordinate, its function is important: it binds together various portions of the movement, and thus promotes union. The Andante which follows, consists, as in the 1st Sonata, of a theme with variations. There is nothing novel either in the theme or its mode of treatment. Certain chords, cadences, figures, suggest Schubert—an idol whom Brahms has never ceased to worship; and, in one place, the three staves, and a few passages, show the influence of Liszt, the pianist par excellence of the days in which this sonata was written; but the movement has, in addition to romantic charm, individuality. It commences in B minor; then after a short expressive passage in major, an arpeggio chord leads directly to the Scherzo; the following shows the outward connection between the two movements—

[Music illustration: Commencement of Andante theme.]

[Music illustration: Scherzo.]

This bright, clever Scherzo, with its soft Schubertian trio, need not detain us. The final Allegro is preceded by a short introduction, in which the chief theme and other material of the Finale are set forth. The connection between this and the earlier movements of the sonata is not evident, like the one, for instance, already noticed, between the Andante and the Scherzo; with research, and possibly some imagination, relationship might, however, be traced. We are far from asserting that movements of a sonata ought to be visibly connected; after all, the true bond of union must be a spiritual one. But if an attempt be made in that direction, surely the opening and closing movements are those which, by preference, should be selected. In his Op. 28 Beethoven seems to have evolved the themes of all four movements from the first; in Op. 106 and Op. 109, connection is clear between the first and last movements. Such an experiment was safe in the hands of Beethoven, and Brahms has never allowed it to become a mannerism; but second-rate composers, and superficial listeners run the danger of mistaking the shadow for the substance. To this matter we shall, however, soon return. Many references have been made to the composers who have influenced Brahms, yet we cannot resist naming one more. The opening section of this Allegro Finale reminds one more than once of the corresponding section in Clementi's fine Sonata in B minor. The music of this concluding movement is clever.

The 3rd sonata (Op. 5) is in F minor. The Allegro opens with a wild, sinister theme, and one which even casts a shadow over the calm, hope-inspiring strains afterwards heard in the orthodox key of the relative major. The tender melodies and soft chromatic colouring which fill the remainder of the exposition section show strong feeling for contrast. Again, storm and stress alternate with comparative calm in the development section. The Andante expressivo bears the following superscription:—

Der Abend daemmert, das Mondlicht scheint Da sind zwei Herzen in Liebe vereint Und halten sich selig umfangen.

—Sternau.

And it offers a delightful tone-picture. The moon "o'er heaven's clear azure spreading her sacred light," the calm of evening, and happy, though ever-sighing, lovers: 'tis a scene to tempt poet, painter, and musician. The last, however, seems to have greatest advantage; music by imitation and association can describe scenes of nature; and it can paint, for are not its harmonies colours? But the musician can do what is possible to neither poet nor painter,—he can make a direct appeal to the emotions in their own language. The soft, dreamy coda—which, with its Andante molto, its Adagio, and widened-out closing cadence, seems to indicate the unwillingness of the lovers to part—has Schubert colouring and charm. The reminiscence, at the commencement of this movement, of the middle movement of the "Pathetique" cannot fail to attract attention. Then, again, the opening of the Scherzo[107]—

[Music illustration]

sounds familiar. It must surely have been this movement in which someone pointed out to the composer a reminiscence of Mendelssohn. "Anyone can find that out," was the rough-and-ready reply of Brahms. But if Mendelssohn be the prevailing influence in the Scherzo, Schubert has his turn in the Trio. The fourth movement is an Intermezzo, entitled "Rueckblick" (Retrospect). The opening phrase, and indeed the whole of the short movement, carries us back to the picture of the lovers. Some change has taken place: have the lovers grown cold? or has death divided them? The themes are now sad, and clothed in minor harmonies. The Finale, perhaps, shows skill rather than inspiration; with regard to some of the subject-matter, it is, like the previous movement, also retrospective.

Liszt's sonata in B minor, dedicated to Robert Schumann, was evidently written under the special influence of Beethoven's later sonatas,—perhaps more particularly the one in A flat, Op. 110. There is by no means unanimity of opinion among musicians with regard to Liszt's merit as a composer; some consider that his genius has not yet been properly recognised; others, that he will not for a moment bear comparison with any one of the great masters who preceded him, and who wrote for the pianoforte. Among his works which have specially given rise to discussion stands this B minor Sonata, which has proved a stumbling-block, both on account of its form and its contents. It would simplify matters if the one could be discussed without the other; this, however, is not possible.

We have hitherto considered the sonata of three movements as typical, and from that type Liszt's work differs; yet not "so widely, as on a first hearing or reading may appear." Thus wrote Mr. C.A. Barry in a remarkably interesting analysis of the sonata which he prepared some years back for Mr. Oscar Beringer. He remarks further: "All the leading characteristics of a sonata in three movements are here fully maintained within the scope of a single movement, or, to speak more precisely, an uninterrupted succession of several changes of tempo, thus constituting a more complete organism than can be attained by three distinct and independent movements."

The idea of passing from one movement to another without break dates from Emanuel Bach, nay, earlier, from Kuhnau; and Beethoven occasionally adopted it, and with striking effect. The wretched habit at concerts of applauding between the movements of a sonata establishes a break where—at any rate in certain sonatas of Beethoven—the composer certainly imagined an uninterrupted succession. The second movement of the "Appassionata" breaks off with an arpeggio chord of diminished seventh, and the Finale starts on the same chord. Yet surely after the final tonic chord of the opening Allegro there should be no break, but only a brief pause. A fermata in the middle of a movement does not constitute a break, neither need it at the end. In Beethoven's sonatas we find many movements, outwardly independent, yet inwardly connected; those of the D minor and F minor may be named by way of illustration. The composer, however, in one or two of his works, revived, to some extent, the plan adopted in the suites of early times, of evolving various movements from one theme. Such outward connection may help to strengthen a bond of union already existing, but it will not establish it. The question, then, of Liszt's "more complete organism" depends, after all, on the contents of the music. So, too, when, in addition to uninterrupted succession, Liszt makes the one theme of the slow introduction the source whence he derives the principal part of his tone-picture, everything depends on the quality and latent power of this fertilising germ. Discussion of form per se is an impossibility. This Liszt sonata stands, however, as a bold attempt to modify a form which, as we have seen, Schumann thought exhausted (was it for that reason that Liszt dedicated the work to him?), and one in which so many soulless compositions were written during the second quarter of the present century. "La sonate," says Charles Soullier in his Nouveau Dictionnaire de Musique Illustre "est morte avec le dix-huitieme siecle qui en a tant produit." Is Liszt's sonata a Phoenix rising from its ashes? Shall we be able to say "La sonate est morte! Vive la sonate!" Time will tell. Hitherto Liszt's work has not borne fruit.



CHAPTER X

THE SONATA IN ENGLAND

In previous chapters we have been occupied with Italy and Germany. Without reference to those countries a history of the pianoforte sonata would be impossible. Italy was the land of its birth; Germany, that of its growth, and, apparently, highest development. During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries England furnished notable composers for the harpsichord. William Byrd and Dr. John Bull are not only among the earliest, but at the time in which they flourished, they were the greatest who wrote for a keyboard instrument. At the beginning of the seventeenth century English music was indeed in a prosperous state; it was admired at home, and its merits were acknowledged abroad. H. Peacham, in his Compleat Gentleman, published in the reign of James I., says of Byrd: "For motets and musicke of piety, devotion, as well as for the honour of our nation, as the merit of the man, I preferre above all others our Phoenix, Mr William Byrd, whom in that kind I know not whether any may equall. I am sure none excell, even by the judgement of France and Italy, who are very sparing in their commendation of strangers, in regard of that conceipt they hold of themselves. His 'Cantiones Sacrae,' as also his 'Gradualia,' are mere angelicall and divine; and being of himselfe naturally disposed to gravity and piety his veine is not so much for light madrigals or canzonets; yet his 'Virginella,' and some others in his first set, cannot be mended by the first Italian of them all." Then at the end of the seventeenth century came Purcell, a genius who seemed likely to raise English music still higher in the estimation of foreign musicians. But, alas! he departed ere his powers were matured; by his death English art sustained a grievous loss, and from that time declined. The history of instrumental music during the eighteenth century is dull, and, so far as the pianoforte sonata is concerned, of little or no importance. Nevertheless, a brief survey of that century will be attempted, after which reference will be made to a few sonata composers of the century now drawing to a close. Just as we referred to the sonatas for strings and harpsichord before commencing the history of the clavier-sonata proper, so here a few remarks will be made concerning the sonata before Dr. T.A. Arne—the first composer, so far as we can trace, who wrote a work of that kind for the harpsichord alone.