The three movements of this sonata which Beethoven called a fantasie-sonata, are not arranged in the order commonly followed. Usually sonatas begin with an allegro or some quick movement, and pass over to a slow movement—an adagio or andante—and end in a quick movement. The content here treated could not allow this form, and hence it commences with what is usually the second movement. Its order is 1. Adagio, 2. Allegretto, 3. Finale (presto agitato).
(My rule with reference to the study of art may or may not be interesting to others; it is this:—always to select a masterpiece, so recognized, and keep it before me until it yields its secret, and in its light I am able to see common-place to be what it really is, and be no longer dazzled by it. It requires faith in the commonly received verdict of critics and an immense deal of patience, but in the end one is rewarded for his pains. Almost invariably I find immediate impressions of uncultured persons good for nothing. It requires long familiarity with the best things to learn to see them in their true excellence.)
This sonata is called by the Austrians the “Moonlight Sonata,” and this has become the popular name in America. It is said to have been written by Beethoven when he was recovering from the disappointment of his hopes in a love-episode that had an unfortunate termination. (See Marx’s “L. v. Beethoven, Leben und Schaffen.” From this magnificent work of Art-Criticism, I have drawn the outlines of the following interpretation.) The object of his affection was a certain young countess, Julia Guicciardi; and it appears from Beethoven’s letter to a friend at the time (about 1800) that the affection was mutual, but their difference in rank prevented a marriage. When this sonata appeared (in 1802) it was inscribed to her.
Adagio.
The first movement is a soft, floating movement, portraying the soul musing upon a memory of what has affected it deeply. The surrounding is dim, as seen in moonlight, and the soul is lit up by a reflected light—a glowing at the memory of a bliss that is past. It is not strange that this has been called the Moonlight Sonata, just for this feeling of borrowed light that pervades it. As we gaze into the moon of memory, we almost forget the reflection, and fancy that the sun of immediate consciousness is itself present. But anon a flitting cloudlet (a twinge of bitter regret) obscures the pale beam, or a glance at the landscape—not painted now with colors as in the daytime, but only clare-obscure—brings back to us the sense of our separation from the day and the real. Sadly the soft gliding movement continues, and distant and more distant grows the prospect of experiencing again the remembered happiness. Only for a passing moment can the throbbing soul realize in its dreams once more its full completeness, and the plaintive minor changes to major; but the spectral form of renunciation glides before its face, and the soul subsides into its grief, and yields to what is inevitable. Downward into the depths fall its hopes; only a sepulchral echo comes from the bass, and all is still. Marx calls this “the song of the renouncing soul.” It is filled with the feeling of separation and regret; but its slow, dreamy movement is not that of stern resolution, which should accompany renunciation. Accordingly we have
Allegretto.
The present and real returns; we no longer dwell on the past; “We must separate; only this is left.” In this movement we awake from the dream, and we feel the importance of the situation. Its content is “Farewell, then;” the phrase expressing this, lingers in its striving to shake off the grasp and get free. The hands will not let go each other. The phrase runs into the next and back to itself, and will not be cut off. In the trio there seems to be the echoing of sobs that come from the depth of the soul as the sorrowful words are repeated. The buried past still comes back and holds up its happy hours, while the shadows of the gloomy future hover before the two renunciants!
This movement is very short, and is followed by the
Finale (Presto agitato).
“No grief of the soul that can be conquered except through action,” says Goethe—and Beethoven expresses the same conviction in the somewhat sentimental correspondence with the fair countess. This third movement depicts the soul endeavoring to escape from itself; to cancel its individualism through contact with the real.