III
As to sonatas, those for violin and piano are treated elsewhere. There are too many to be discussed in this chapter. There are fewer for the cello and the best of these may here be mentioned. Skill in playing the violoncello was slower to develop than that in playing the violin. This was probably because the viola da gamba with its six strings was easier to play and was more in favor as a solo instrument. The baryton was a kind of viola da gamba with sympathetic strings stretched under the fingerboard, and even as late as the maturity of Haydn this instrument was in general favor. But the tone of the viola da gamba was lighter than that of the violoncello, and so by the beginning of the eighteenth century the cello was preferred to the gamba for the bass parts of works like Corelli’s in concerted style. Little by little it rose into prominence from this humble position. Meanwhile the immortal suites for the violoncello alone by Bach had been written. Bach was probably advised in the handling of the instrument by Abel, who was a famous gamba player; so that it seems likely that these suites were conceived for the gamba as much as for the cello.[84] The last of them, however, was written especially for the viola pomposa, an instrument which Bach invented himself. This was a small cello with an extra string tuned to E, a fifth above the A of the cello.
Among composers who wrote expressly for the cello were Giorgio Antoniotti, who lived in Milan about 1740, and Lanzetti, who was 'cellist to the king of Sardinia between 1730 and 1750. Later the Italians A. Canavasso and Carlo Ferrari (b. 1730) became famous as players, and Boccherini also was a brilliant cellist.
However, the cello sprang into its present importance as a solo instrument largely through the Frenchman Jean Louis Duport (1749-1819), whose understanding of the instrument led him to a discovery of those principles of fingering and bowing which have made modern virtuosity possible. His Essai sur le doigter du violoncelle et la conduite de l’archet was truly an epoch-making work. That a new edition was issued as recently as 1902 proves the lasting worth and stability of his theories.
Frederick William II, King of Prussia, to whom Mozart dedicated three of his string quartets, was a pupil of Duport’s. Mozart’s quartets, written with an eye to pleasing the monarch, give special prominence to the cello. Hence through Duport we approach the great masters and their works for the cello.
Beethoven wrote five sonatas for cello and piano. The first two, opus 5, were written in 1796, while Beethoven was staying in Berlin, evidently with the intention of dedicating them to Frederick William II, and for his own appearance in public with Duport. They are noticeably finer, or more expressive works, than the early sonatas for violin, opus 12; perhaps because the cello does not suggest a style which, empty of meaning, is yet beautiful and effective by reason of sheer brilliance. The violin sonatas, all of them except the last, are largely virtuoso music. The cello sonatas are more serious and on the whole more sober. This may be laid to thoroughly practical reasons. The cello has not the variety of technical possibilities that the violin has, nor even in such rapid passages as can be played upon it can it give a brilliant or carrying tone. By reason of its low register it can be all too easily overpowered by the piano. Only the high notes on the A string can make themselves heard above a solid or resonant accompaniment. Hence if the composer desires to write a brilliant, showy sonata for pianoforte and cello, he can do so only by sacrificing all but the topmost registers of the cello. Even at that the piano is more than likely to put the cello wholly in the shade.
To write effectively for the combination, therefore, and in such a way as to bring out the variety of resources of the cello, limited as they may be, one must not write brilliantly, but clearly, in a transparent and careful style. Of such a style these early sonatas of Beethoven offer an excellent example, though the music itself sounds today old-fashioned and formal.
The best of the first sonata, which consists of a long slow introduction, an allegro, and an allegro vivace, all in F major, is the last movement. This is in mood a little scherzo, in form a rondo. Particularly the chief subject is delightfully scored for the two instruments at the very opening. The second sonata, in G minor, begins like the first with a long slow introduction, in which the piano has some elaborate figuration. There follows an allegro molto, rather a presto, in 3/4 time, the opening theme of which has almost the spontaneous melodiousness of Schubert. The pianoforte has a great deal of work in triplets, which are high on the keyboard when the cello is playing in its lower registers, and only low when the cello is high enough to escape being overpowered. This constant movement in triplets will remind one of the first pianoforte sonata. The final rondo is on the whole less effective than the rondo of the first sonata. Toward the end, however, there is considerable animation in which one finds cello and piano taking equal share. The piano has for many measures groups of rapid accompaniment figures against which the cello has saucy little phrases in staccato notes. Then the cello takes up the rolling figures with great effect and the piano has a capricious and brilliant melody in high registers.
The next sonata, opus 69, in A major, was not written until twelve years later. A different Beethoven speaks in it. The first theme, announced at once by the cello alone, gives the key to the spirit of the work. It is gentle (dolce) in character, but full of a quiet and moving strength. After giving the first phrase of it alone the cello holds a long low E, over which the piano lightly completes it. There is a cadenza for piano, and then, after the piano has given the whole theme once again, there is a short cadenza for cello, leading to a short transition at the end of which one finds the singing second theme. This is first given out by the piano over smooth scales by the cello, and then the cello takes it up and the piano plays the scales. Nothing could be more exquisite than the combination of these two instruments in this altogether lovely sonata, which without effort permits each in turn or together to reveal its most musical qualities. Sometimes the cello is low and impressive, strong and independent, while the piano is lively and sparkling, as in the closing parts of the first section of the first movement. Again the cello has vigorous rolling figures that bring out the fullest sonority the instrument is capable of, while the piano adds the theme against such a vibrant background, with no fear of drowning the cello, as in the first portions of the development section.
The scherzo is the second movement, and here again each instrument is allowed a full expression of its musical powers. The style is light, the rhythm syncopated. There is fascinating play at imitations. And in the trio the cello plays in rich double-stops. There is but a short adagio before the final allegro, only a brief but telling expression of seriousness, and then the allegro brings to full flower the quiet, concealed, so to speak, and tranquil happiness of the first movement.
Finally there are two sonatas, opus 102, which are in every way representative of the Beethoven of the last pianoforte sonatas and even the last quartets. The first of these—in C major—Beethoven himself entitled a ‘free sonata,’ and the form is indeed free, recalling the form of the A major pianoforte sonata, opus 101, upon which Beethoven was working at the same time. In spirit, too, it is very like the A major sonata, but lacks the more obvious melodic charm. The sonata begins with an andante, in that singing yet mystical style which characterizes so much of Beethoven’s last work, and the andante does not end but seems to lose itself, to become absorbed in a mist of trills, out of which there springs a vigorous allegro vivace, in the dotted march rhythm which one finds in the later pianoforte sonatas. After this, a short rhapsodical adagio brings us back to a bit of the opening andante, which once more trills itself away, seems to be snuffed out, as it were, by a sudden little phrase which, all unexpected, announces the beginning of the final rondo.
The second of the two, in D major, is more regular in structure. There is an allegro con brio in clear form, an adagio, and a final fugue, following the adagio without pause. In both these sonatas every trace of the virtuoso has disappeared. Both are fantasies, or poems of hidden meaning. Because of this mysteriousness, and also because the lack of all virtuoso elements seems to leave the combination a little dry, the sonatas are not quite so satisfactory as the opus 69.
Besides the sonatas Beethoven wrote three sets of variations for cello and piano, only one of which—on the air Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen from Mozart’s ‘Magic Flute’—has an opus number. These are early works and are without special interest or value.
It is remarkable how little chamber music has been written for pianoforte and cello by subsequent composers. By Schumann there is only a set of five short pieces, in Volkston, opus 102. Some of these are charming, but all are, of course, slight. Schumann uses the cello in very high registers, notably in the first, third, and fourth. In the second part of the third he even writes sixths for the cello in such high registers. The low registers are rather neglected, so that the set is monotonous in color.
Mendelssohn wrote some Variations concertantes, opus 17, for piano and cello, and two sonatas, opus 45 in B-flat, and opus 58 in D. The piano predominates in the variations. The second and fourth are hardly more than piano solos; but in others the cello is effectively handled. The third, the fifth with its pizzicato, which, by the way Mendelssohn stood in a fair way to overwhelm entirely by a noisy piano, and the eighth, with its long held note, later its wide rolling figures and powerful sixths, account in a measure for the wide popularity which this work once enjoyed among cellists. But the life has gone out of it. Of the sonatas little can be said but that they are generally well scored, and that they display the qualities of the cello in its various registers. The piano is less well treated, for Mendelssohn had, after all, little instinct for a variety of pianoforte effects. The theme in the last movement of the first sonata has something of a vigorous swing. The chief theme of the first movement of the second sonata, too, though it will irritate those to whom Mendelssohn’s mannerisms have become distressing, has a breadth of line, and rises up quite manfully to its high point. But the second theme rather proves that there can be too much of a good thing. The allegretto is not dangerously fascinating, but it has a sort of charm. Mendelssohn’s treatment of the cello is generally suited to the salon. He brings out many of its qualities, but in a way which seems to accentuate the shortcomings of the instrument. In his hands the cello is a sentimental singer with a small voice.
With Brahms the cello is more an instrument of mystery and gloom. His fondness for low notes here causes him to write constantly for the two lower strings, and his sonatas may suffer in the opinion of some by the lack of a more vehement expression which is in some measure possible to the upper strings. The first sonata, opus 38, is in E minor and is more acceptable to the unfamiliar ear than the later one in F major, opus 99. But the tone of the great part of the E minor sonata is gloomy, though the second theme of the first movement has warmth and the allegretto quasi menuetto a certain light movement. The F major sonata was probably written with the playing of Robert Hausmann (b. 1852) in mind. Mr. Fuller-Maitland finds in it a ‘mood of wild energy such as is not frequent in Brahms’ later works.’ For all the gloominess of the first and the sternness of the second of these sonatas there is a splendid dignity in both which must ever give them a firm place in the literature for the violoncello. It may be that they lose in grace because Brahms has so carefully shunned any brilliant display; but on the other hand what they lose in grace is more than made up by what they gain in virility. The sentimental qualities in the cello have been so much emphasized that without these sonatas of Brahms, and those of Beethoven, one might well believe that it had none other than a sugary voice.
Great Violoncellists: Jean Gerardi, David Popper, Pablo Casals.
Among more modern sonatas only two stand out with any prominence. One of these is by Grieg. It is in A minor, full of passion and swing. No doubt it owes its prominence to the charm of the Norwegian material out of which Grieg has made it. There are incisive rhythms that make one aware of the strength of the cello. The piano is a little too prominent in certain parts. Grieg has favored its brilliance. But nevertheless the sonata is a manly and refreshing work.
A sonata for cello and piano in F major, opus 6, by Richard Strauss has been gratefully adopted by cellists. Musically it is neither profound nor interesting, though there is no lack of technical skill, as in the fugal parts of the first movement, and though there are some passages of great beauty. The second theme of the first movement is what one might call luscious; there is a glorious theme in the last movement contrasting with the light motives which generally predominate; and the climax of the slow movement is passionate. The pianoforte is not well handled, and there is a sameness in rhythms; but the balance between the two instruments is remarkably well kept. In the development of second theme material in the first movement there are passages in which the cello is made boldly and passionately to sing, and the use of its very low notes in the climax of the slow movement, as well as the light figures in the last, leave no doubt as to the variety which is in spite of all possible to it.
There remains only to mention the sonata by Max Reger, opus 78, two sonatas by Emanuel Moór, one by Guy Ropartz in G minor, two by Camille Saint-Saëns, opus 32 and opus 123, as among those which make a partial success of the extremely difficult combination.
If excellent music for cello and piano is so rare, music for the viola and piano is almost entirely wanting. The two instruments do not go well together. Practically the only example of the combination in the works of the great masters is furnished by Schumann’s Märchenbilder, which are but indifferent music. York Bowen, an English composer, has considered it worthy of the sonata, and has written two for it, one in C minor and one in F major. Mr. Benjamin Dale has also written some agreeable pieces, including a suite and a fantasy.