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. Bülow, 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 matinées and soirées; 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 "Zwölf 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 Pathétique," 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—
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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 "Pathétique."
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:—
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 æsthetic 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 composées
et dediées
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:—[97]
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And another—
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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):—
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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 Pathétique" 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 kürze Menuetten" (to the new sonatas quite short Minuets); and also, a little further on, "Die Menuetten zu den Sonaten ins künftige nicht länger 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 & Härtel'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 Stück" (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 δαιμων 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'être 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 "Pathétique" (Op. 13) does not merely throw the listener into the right mood for the Allegro, but the opening phrase—
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is afterwards made use of in the development section—
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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
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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
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are expanded, commencing at bar twenty-four, into a melodious phrase. Also in the Prelude which follows (No. 14)
| becomes | ||
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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)—
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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 Æsthetics.
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 'Pathétique,'" 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 Müller 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. Müller 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. Müller. 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. Müller'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.