IN the year 1816 Beethoven was prevailed upon, after repeated entreaties, to make arrangements for the publication of a complete edition of all his pianoforte Sonatas. His determination to undertake this task was influenced by the consideration of three important and indeed necessary objects; viz. 1st, To indicate the poetic ideas, which form the groundwork of many of those Sonatas; thereby facilitating the comprehension of the music, and determining the style of its performance; 2ndly, To adapt all his previously published pianoforte compositions to the extended scale of the pianoforte of six and a half octaves; and, 3dly, To define the nature of musical declamation.

On this last topic, Beethoven went beyond the generally received idea. He maintained that poetical and musical declamation were subject to the same rules. "Though the poet," he used to say, "carries on his monologue, or dialogue, in a progressively marked rhythm, yet the declaimer, for the more accurate elucidation of the sense, must make cÆsuras and pauses in places where the poet could not venture on any interpunctuation. To this extent, then, is this style of declaiming applicable to music, and it is only to be modified according to the number of persons co-operating in the performance of a musical composition.

Of this principle Beethoven intended to make a practical application in the new edition of his works, according as the subjects might require, and space permit, such illustration; and it may be confidently assumed that Beethoven's musical compositions would thereby have formed a new era.

Touching the poetic idea, it is well known that Beethoven did not, in his musical writings, confine himself to the rules established by preceding composers, and that he, indeed, frequently disregarded those rules when the existing idea on which he worked demanded another sort of treatment, or rather an entirely new mode of development. This style of composition adopted by Beethoven has frequently called forth the remark, that his Sonatas are mere operas in disguise.

Ries, in his "Notices," p. 77, observes that "Beethoven, in composing, frequently imagined for himself a definite subject," which is merely saying, that Beethoven imbued his mind with poetic ideas, and under the influence of their inspiration his musical compositions were created.

That the great master did not execute the important task he undertook in 1816 was, it must be acknowledged, an irreparable loss to the musical art, and in particular to his own music. How much would the Pastoral Symphony suffer, or even the Eroica, if heard without any comprehension of the ideas which the composer adopted as his themes! How gratifying both to performer and hearer is the light cast on the design of the composition, by the mere hint of the sentiments Beethoven has, in his Sonata Op. 81, thus expressed:—"Les adieux," "L'absence," and "Le retour."[110]

The circumstances which caused Beethoven to relinquish his design of publishing the new edition of his Sonatas were—1st, the uneasy state of mind into which he was thrown by the lawsuit commenced between him and his sister-in-law; and, 2ndly, the impossibility of coming to a satisfactory arrangement with Hofmeister, the music-dealer in Leipzig, who was to publish the work. From Beethoven's correspondence with A. Diabelli, who was his confidential adviser on this subject, I perceive that the composer wished the publication to be brought out in parts, each part to contain two of the old Sonatas, and one recently composed. For each of these new productions, taken one with another, Beethoven required the remuneration of forty ducats. Hofmeister, on the other hand, proposed to pay the composer at the rate of one ducat per sheet.

I once asked Beethoven why he had not affixed to the different movements of his Sonatas an explanation of the poetic ideas they expressed, so that these ideas might at once present themselves to the mind of the intelligent hearer? His answer was, that the age in which he composed his Sonatas was more poetic than the present[111] (1823), and that at the former period such explanations would have been superfluous. "At that time" (continued he) "every one perceived that the Largo, in the third Sonata in D, Op. 10,

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painted the feelings of a grief-stricken mind, with the varying tints in the light and shade, in the picture of melancholy in all its phases; there was then no need of a key to explain the meaning of the music. So in the two Sonatas, Op. 14, every one, at the time when they were composed, immediately recognised the conflict of two principles, or a dialogue between two persons, exactly as is intended in the treatment of the subject, &c." On another occasion, I requested him to furnish me with the keys to two Sonatas, that in F minor, Op. 57, and that in D minor, Op. 29. His answer was, "Read Shakspeare's Tempest."

In 1823, Beethoven was more earnestly disposed than he had previously been to superintend an edition of his entire works, including the Symphonies. He received proposals from publishers in all parts of the continent, accompanied by advantageous conditions. That he did not then come to an arrangement, which would have enabled him to enter upon this undertaking, was the fault of his brother Johann, to whom none of the proposed terms appeared sufficiently liberal. He suggested to Beethoven the idea of bringing out the publication on his own account, showing, by calculations on paper, the vast profits which would accrue from the speculation. M. Andreas Streicher cordially seconded the recommendation of this mode of publishing; but he differed somewhat from Beethoven's brother in his estimate of the profits. The documents of a lawsuit some centuries ago would not have composed a more bulky volume than did the manuscripts, occupied with the calculations made, the consultations held, and the determinations formed, during the agitation of this publishing scheme. But the parties engaged in these discussions and decisions forgot that they had to deal with the irresolute Beethoven—who, whenever business was the question, would be for one thing to-day and another to-morrow; and against whose expressed wish it was often necessary to do many things for his advantage. The mere prospect of great sums of money (though seen only on paper) captivated Beethoven, and he began to indulge in dreams of bettered circumstances, of living in elegant style, and keeping his carriage and horses. He was so elated by these pleasing illusions that he began to fancy himself already rich; an idea not calculated to dispose his mind to the gigantic labour then in contemplation.[112] Never were the visits of him whom he called his "pseudo-brother" so welcome as at this time. Beethoven often accompanied his brother in a carriage airing; and, on one occasion, an effort of patience enabled him to go with his brother's family on a drive to the Prater. Assuredly no event could seem too improbable for belief, after two such heterogeneous elements as the "Gutsbesitzer" (landowner) and the "Hirnbesitzer" (brainowner) had been seen riding together in the same carriage.[113]

In these visionary hopes of fortune so readily indulged by the great Beethoven, it is easy to recognise the youth whose character is summarily sketched in the Second Period. To be rich, or at least in easy circumstances—to ride in his carriage—to be no longer obliged to stroll through fields and meadows to collect ideas and compose for the sake of earning a livelihood,—such was the flattering picture he loved to draw, and the contemplation of which often made him descend from his lofty heaven of art to cling eagerly to more earthly objects; and then sublime poetry was suddenly metamorphosed into common prose. But, thanks to the blundering management of his advisers, Beethoven remained poor! Made rich, by any means whatsoever, he would probably have been little disposed to make great sacrifices for art in the vigour of life; at all events, he would not have applied himself very laboriously to study, had he been in the enjoyment of any considerable share of the good things of this world.

As, however, it is not always our own wisdom that prompts to great objects, and brings, as it were, light out of darkness, so the stupid perversity which dictated the arrangements for the projected new edition of Beethoven's works probably conferred a benefit on musical art. To speak more plainly, in the discussions on this publishing plan, the great master did not limit his attention to the mere business part of the question, the details of which, though on every occasion fresh painted in glowing colours, often disgusted him. Then would he look upon the getting-up of the work—the dull material—as mere dust in the balance; whilst to exercise his musical art—to him the spiritual part of the enterprise—wholly occupied his imagination. When this feeling happened to prevail, he would describe to all who chanced to be near him the improvements he proposed to make in reference to the subject, conception, and execution in many of his early works. Some of these improvements owe their birth to a jocose observation made by Dr. Bach at one of the conferences held on the subject of the publication. Beethoven declared that many of his works did not admit of the slightest alteration, and that, consequently, in reference to them he could not establish any right of property in a second edition. Dr. Bach replied, "That the right would be sufficiently established by making the composition commence with the accented instead of the unaccented part of a bar, and vice versÂ; and further, by changing white notes into black and black into white." This remark, intended purely in jest, inspired Beethoven with a thousand new ideas, and gave an impulse to his fancy, the results of which soon after supplied the master-keys of many of his greatest works.[114]

Beethoven, who knew my antipathy to accounts, did not trouble me with any of those pecuniary calculations, which indeed were to himself not much more intelligible than hieroglyphics. He consulted me only on the artistical part of the all-important question—was he to grow rich, or remain poor? I often thought that he might have read in my soul the answer which told him what was best for his own interest, and that of the world of art. For my part, I never had a doubt as to the course which was most advisable for him to adopt; but I did not wish to awaken him too early from a dream which I well knew would speedily be succeeded by others. I however turned to useful account the conversations I had with Beethoven on this topic, for I carefully noted down all the remarks he made on his works, in reference to subject, conception, and performance. These remarks came to me the more opportunely as I was then employed in the orchestra of the Josephstadt Theatre to lead several of his Symphonies, each of which he previously went over with me at home, strongly impressing on my attention whatever had reference to those three essential points; thus initiating me into the soul and spirit of his orchestral compositions, as he had already introduced me to a just comprehension of nearly the whole of his pianoforte Sonatas. These are instances of good fortune which few have had the happiness to enjoy.

The new perceptions thus acquired were to me an intellectual property, which I have ever since regarded as the dearest and most inestimable legacy of my immortal friend and instructor. They have imparted, not only to myself, but to others, whom, for their kindred feeling for Beethoven's music, I thought worthy of a participation in my good fortune—a thousand pleasurable sensations and exalted enjoyments which nothing else in the whole domain of music could have power to create; for it has already been remarked that Beethoven's collected chamber-music, and especially the greater part of his pianoforte Sonatas, comprise a fund of musical poetry more deep and inexhaustible than can be found even in his other works. That Nature is chary in her gifts of that organization which possesses the susceptibility necessary for appreciating such elevated compositions, is not the fault of Beethoven. That fact serves only to confirm the truth of the maxim, that in art the great is not for all, and all are not for the great.[115]

In the year 1831, when I wrote the musical notices then inserted in the supplement to the Wiener Theater Zeitung, I alluded in No. 2 of those notices to Beethoven's Symphony in A major. In that article I casually mentioned that Beethoven intended to give the keys to many of his instrumental compositions, in the manner of the Pastoral Symphony. The impression produced by this article was precisely such as was to be expected: it excited a mere transitory sensation, and was soon forgotten, like everything which departs from the boundaries of common routine, and approaches the region of ideality. Several years have elapsed since that time: I am so much the older, and so much the less vain, and I am now the better enabled to see how frequently well-meant observations, nay positive truths, are disregarded, even when they come from high authority. Of course the actual authority in this instance was Beethoven alone. It has already been shown in the narrative of his life, how he was prevented from executing this as well as many other important undertakings which he had planned. If I now venture to publish some of the remarks which I noted down from his own mouth, in reference to the subject, conception, and performance of his works; or try to describe some of the vivid impressions which his instructions have left on my mind; I do so in the just expectation that the value of these communications will be first tried and afterwards judged. I do not apprehend that I can in any degree be accused of arrogant pretension in taking upon myself the performance of this task, because it is known to many persons, that, in my intimate relations with Beethoven, during the most important interval of his life, I must necessarily have become possessed of many important facts: it will also be recollected that, though thirteen years have elapsed since his death, I have not been prompted by any feeling of ostentation to communicate those facts to the public. To speak candidly, I should not even now think of parting with any portion of my friend's intellectual legacy, were it not from the firm conviction that the present is the right moment for so doing; for the sensual music of the day, and the overstretched mechanical dexterity of modern pianoforte playing, bid fair to thrust the intellectual compositions of Beethoven into the shade, if not to consign them entirely to oblivion.[116] Moreover, it must be borne in mind that Beethoven's instrumental music has undergone a metamorphosis, occasioned in some measure by the composer himself; but chiefly by the spirit of the age, which is daringly opposed to every thing great and elevated, and even hesitates not to profane that which is most sacred.

With respect to Beethoven's share in the metamorphosis of his instrumental music, and particularly of his Symphonies, it is necessary first to acquaint the reader that this metamorphosis relates wholly and solely to metronomising, or the regulation of time by means of the metronome.

Those who have read Matheson's "Vollkommener Kapell-meister" are aware that that great writer on music laid down, a century ago, the following principle[117]—"That the tempo of a great musical composition depends on the manner in which it is set for orchestra and chorus; for the greater the number of singers and players, the slower should be the tempo, on the simple principle that masses always move slowly." If intelligibility be the most essential condition in the performance of a musical composition, it is self-evident that the direction for the tempo can only be conditional; and that, consequently, an Allegro vivace, with an orchestra of one hundred and twenty performers, must become very considerably modified from the same Allegro vivace originally metronomised by the composer for an orchestra of sixty. That which, in the latter case, is, as it were, a condition of the intended effect, ceases to be such in the former case, because the object may already be obtained, À priori, through the two-fold power being communicated. The fuller orchestra should therefore take a less rapid time than that specified for the more limited number of performers.

Unluckily this important principle in the conducting of an orchestra is but too seldom recognised, even by those who are regarded as authorities in orchestral direction. I have had frequent occasion to remark this neglect, occasioned by ignorance in the performance of Beethoven's works; and in those cases the effect was, of course, a true offspring of the cause, and exhibited a total misconception of the real spirit of the compositions. To perform Beethoven's music, without regard to meaning and clearness, is hunting to death the ideas of the immortal composer. This mode of performance naturally arises out of the manifest ignorance of the sublime spirit of those works. It is at the same time the cause of their profanation, and consequently of their having too soon fallen into disuse; for the dignity and deep expression of many of the movements are sacrificed when a moderate rhythm is converted into the rhythm of dancing-time, especially if to this accelerated time be added the clang of a superabundant number of instruments. Hence may be traced the principal cause of that metamorphosis which suffices to convert a composition of lofty poetic feeling into a common prosaic piece[118]—a transformation which the performers may literally be said to work out by the sweat of the brow. Such a perverted mode of execution must render it impossible for the most attentive listener to feel the sublimity of the composer's idea.[119]

Beethoven lived to see this transformation of his works. On one occasion, when he was present at a performance of his Symphony in A major, by the orchestra of the great music meeting in Vienna, he was very much displeased at the too rapid time taken in the second movement, the Allegretto. However, upon reflection, he acknowledged that the conductor had duly observed the metronomic sign affixed to the movement, but that he had not attended to Matheson's doctrine. In one of the musical articles which I wrote for the Wiener Theater Zeitung, in alluding to the Symphony in A major, I related the above fact in the following words:—"At a performance of this Symphony, in the latter years of Beethoven, the composer remarked, with displeasure, that the allegretto movement was given much too fast, by which its character was entirely destroyed. He thought to obviate for the future all misconception of the tempo, by marking the movement by the words Andante, quasi Allegretto, with the metronomic sign quarter note = 80.; and I find a memorandum to this effect in his note-book, which is in my possession. Beethoven complained generally of the misunderstanding of the tempi at the concerts of the great Vienna Musical Society, and especially that the task of principal conductorship on those occasions was always consigned to the hands of dilettanti, who were unused to direct and govern large masses of performers. These causes of dissatisfaction led Beethoven one day to make the important declaration, that he had not composed his Symphonies for such vast orchestras as that usually assembled for the Vienna Musical Society;[120] and that it never was his intention to write noisy music. He added, that his instrumental works required an orchestra of about sixty performers only; for he was convinced that it was by such an orchestra alone that the rapidly-changing shades of expression could be adequately given, and the character and poetic subject of each movement duly preserved.[121] That this declaration was dictated by sincere conviction will be readily admitted when I acquaint the reader that Beethoven was anxious to have his works performed in their true spirit, at the Concerts Spirituels, the orchestra of which contained something like the number of performers he had specified; and that he did not interest himself about their performance at the great music meeting. If double the amount of sixty performers displeased Beethoven, what would he have said of three or four times that number, no unusual orchestral occurrence at our music-festivals? What would he have said had he heard his Symphonies and Overtures performed by an orchestra increased by repieni, the only one admissible at Oratorios, and in which, noise is paramount? Even M. Ries has had the Symphonies performed by such an orchestra, at the Lower Rhine music-festival; to this I was myself on one occasion a witness. Had Beethoven been present, he would doubtless have exclaimed, "My dear pupil, how little do you understand me!" A few movements only of Beethoven's Symphonies (for example, the last of that in A major, and the last of the ninth Symphony) are suited to an orchestra in which the number of performers amounts to three or four times sixty.

His own observations, coupled with accounts received from various places, describing the ineffective performance of the Symphonies in consequence of mistaken ideas of their tempi, induced Beethoven, in the winter of 1825-26, to investigate the cause of the errors. This he did in my presence, and he ascertained that the metronomic signs in the printed scores were faulty, in fixing the tempi too quick; and, indeed, he declared that many of those metronomic signs were not authorised by him. I may here mention that the Symphonies, from No. 1 to No. 6 inclusive, were published before the invention of Maelzel's metronome; and it is only to the 7th and 9th Symphonies that the metronomic signs can, with positive certainty, be said to have been given by Beethoven. Whether or not he metronomed the 8th Symphony (the score of which was only lately published) I cannot positively determine. I do not recollect having heard him speak of metronoming that Symphony, though a great deal of conversation passed between us on the subject of the composition itself.

The same may be said in reference to his Sonatas. Only to those published since Maelzel's invention have the metronomic signs been affixed by Beethoven's own hand. These do not exceed four in number; viz., Op. 106, 109, 110, and 111. Those who have added metronomic indices to the other Sonatas, in the various editions that have been published, prove, by the result of their labour, that they were as little acquainted with the spirit of Beethoven's music as are the inhabitants of this world with the transactions going on in the moon or in Saturn. That piano-forte virtuosi, even of the highest rank, should have presumed to act the part of interpreters and law-givers in Beethoven's music[122] is a matter of regret:[123] and all true admirers of the great master, who may wish to form a just notion of his Sonatas, either as to conception or execution, should be earnestly warned not to listen to their performance by any virtuoso who has laboured all his life on difficult passages, having only in view to improve the mechanical power of the fingers; unless, indeed, it be merely bravura movements; of which, thank Heaven, there are but few among these compositions. Beethoven truly remarked, "that a certain class of piano-forte performers seemed to lose intelligence and feeling in proportion as they gained dexterity of fingering." What can such bravura players make of the melodies of Beethoven, so simple yet so profoundly imbued with sentiment? Precisely what Liszt[124] makes of Schubert's songs—what Paganini made of the Cantilena in Rode's concerto—and what Rubini makes of Beethoven's "Adelaide." All these, it must be acknowledged, are tasteless perversions of beautiful originals—violations of truth and right feeling in all those points in which such offences can be most sensibly felt.

To point out only one example of the injury inflicted on Beethoven's music by professional metronoming, I may mention the metronomic signs of the two Sonatas (Op. 27) in the recently published Vienna and London editions; the very sight of them occasions surprise: but to hear these Sonatas played according to the metronomic signs affixed to them, leads one to wish that all piano-forte metronomers were put under the ban.[125] But even this is not the only cause of complaint against these perverters of all truth in expression. Are they not the very men who by their frivolities, romantic and unromantic, have latterly given to the taste for truly good and classic composition that unhealthful direction which threatens soon to bring all genuine music under the dominion of the superficial—if, indeed, it has not already submitted to that authority? Is not their handiwork (art, it cannot be called) directed solely to the object of pleasing the multitude, and on that account must they not descend to the level of vulgar taste? Since Hummel's death there perhaps exists not, in Germany especially, any professor of the piano-forte, F. Mendelssohn Bartholdy excepted, who, fired by enthusiasm, keeps in view the honourable object of elevating his hearers to the standard of his own high feeling—a duty which Art demands from all her devotees, whether professors or dilettanti.

The Sonata in c sharp minor, Op. 27, (called the Moonlight Sonata), is metronomed as follows in the edition lately published by T. Haslinger, of Vienna:—

In the London edition of Beethoven's piano-forte works, edited by J. Moscheles, the same Sonata has affixed to it the following metronomic directions:—

In the Vienna edition of the Sonata in E flat major, the metronomic directions are as follow:—

In the London edition the different movements of the same Sonata are thus marked:—

What a Babel of confusion as to the right feeling, and what confusion also in regard to the conception of Beethoven's sacred legacy to posterity is thus exhibited![126] and similar inconsistencies are apparent throughout all his works in these new editions.[127] Who does not with deep regret feel that such gross neglect amounts almost to profanation of the works of the great master? Are, then, these divine compositions to be converted into show pieces for the performance of professional piano-forte players? Nevertheless, I am bound to admit that some of the tempi, as marked in the new London edition, approximate more nearly to the composer's original intention.

The fashion of the day tends to preclude any one from attempting to play one of Beethoven's Sonatas who has not for a year together practised the hand and finger-spraining exercises of modern performers. What is now-a-days thought of a simple Allegro, as written by Mozart or Beethoven? It is converted into a Presto; and so other movements are accelerated in gradation. And, truly, this is the method whereby the works of these great masters, already become antiquated, are accommodated to modern taste!

It is not yet very long since an assiduous practice of the Studies of Aloys Schmidt and of John Cramer used to smooth the way of the intelligent pianist to the most difficult works of Beethoven; and if greater mechanical dexterity of fingering was required to make the path more secure, the Studies of Hummel, Moscheles, or Kalkbrenner were found sufficient. But what would the practice of these exercises now avail?[128] They would not enable the student to play the first three Sonatas of Beethoven according to the newest fashion. What, then, it may be asked, becomes of feeling and expression which ought to have room to develop themselves, so that in certain passages the tone may seem, as it were, to sing and reverberate? Where now is feeling—where expression, and, indeed, where opportunity for the manifestation of any sensibility? Let Beethoven's piano-forte works be played according to the new metronomic directions, and it will soon be perceived that no more opportunity is left for feeling and expression than the most rapid fingering affords; and that this rule extends even to the execution of the Adagio.

In this state of things the best advice that can be given to the piano-forte practitioner is—Shun all metronomic directions, be they given by whom they may[129]—turn from them as you would from the misleading lights of ignes-fatui—set to work with the right spirit and the preliminary knowledge for the task, and apply to all the works of Beethoven the composer's words—"No metronome, &c."[130] Thus you will with certainty attain the wished-for object, and be spared the mortification of renouncing your own feelings to substitute those of another in their stead.

Moreover, while examining the metronomic signs affixed to his works by their different editors, Beethoven discovered that the metronomes themselves vary one from another; an inconvenience which has been greatly increased since Beethoven's time, by numerous counterfeits. He perceived, for example, that the fourth movement of the Symphony in C minor was deprived of all dignity when performed in the accelerated time indicated thus half note = 84.; and that, in the fourth movement of the Symphony in B flat major, the metronomic sign was a decided contradiction to the Italian words "Allegro ma non tanto;" whilst the movement, if performed in accordance with the metronomic direction, would be a mere mass of confusion, such rapid time being incompatible with a sufficiently clear and distinct execution of the semiquaver passages by the bow instruments. He now saw the necessity of directing his attention to a more careful adaptation of the metronomic signs, so as to give a slower time to most of the allegro movements. But excessive occupation, added to the different strokes of adverse fortune which have been detailed in the biographical portion of the present work, prevented him from entering upon this important task. Besides, he called the metronoming a mere "business" matter, and this view of the labour tended to increase his distaste for it. The publishers of his latter works must be aware how dilatory he was in determining the metronomic signs which were frequently obtained from him only after repeated correspondence. An example of this is proved by his letters of the 16th and 30th of April, 1819, addressed to M. Ries in London.[131] Moreover, when it happened that Beethoven metronomed the same work twice over, he marked the tempi differently each time. A striking example of this occurred with respect to the ninth Symphony, which he first metronomised for the publisher, and then several months afterwards for the Philharmonic Society of London.[132] In the latter instance he made the signs for every movement differ from those which he had adopted in the former case; making the tempi sometimes quicker and sometimes slower; and when I accidentally found the copy of the first metronomising which he had marked for the Messrs. Schott, he answered impatiently, "Better no metronome![133] He who has correct feeling has no need of it; and to him who does not possess that feeling it is equally useless, for he runs astray, and the whole orchestra with him." This truth is confirmed by frequent experience. If it were recognised by every orchestral director, together with old Matheson's maxim, the works of Beethoven and other great masters would never be brought down from their lofty elevation, and we should secure their purity and imperishability, which is the common duty of us all.[134]

I was much gratified to observe M. Habeneck's judicious regulations of time in the performance, under his direction, of Beethoven's works at the Conservatory in Paris. An impression of the very contrary was conceived by Beethoven himself; for, during his lifetime it used to be said, that in Parisian orchestras the over-rapid performance of his quick movements made them resemble quadrilles and gallopades. It is however possible, that in France, as in Germany, this error may be traced to the incorrect metronomising which was held to be unquestionable authority, until M. Habeneck discovered the root of the evil, and proved that the Rossinian "effetto! effetto!" was no longer to be held identical with the dignity and grandeur of Beethoven's poetic music.

Let us hope that among the musicians of France there will speedily arise some few who, unfettered by the bonds of fashion, and devoid of egotism, will turn with a pure and deeply poetic spirit to the piano-forte works of Beethoven, and draw freely from the ever-living waters of that sacred well which the Muses have consecrated. Much has already been done in France by Franz Liszt, who so thoroughly comprehends the spirit of Beethoven. But the efforts of one individual are insufficient for the wide diffusion of important principles. The advantage which may be derived from Beethoven's piano-forte compositions is yet almost wholly unknown to French pianists, as I have had frequent opportunities to observe, and nothing has so greatly contributed to create this unfortunate ignorance as the absurdly refined mechanism of piano-forte playing, which, years ago, Beethoven justly feared would banish all truth of feeling from music. In a letter which he addressed to Ries, dated July 26th, 1823, he alludes to certain "Allegri di Bravura, which demand too much mechanism of fingering, and therefore he does not admire them." Indeed, the only piano-forte compositions of Beethoven which have hitherto obtained attention from the French, and I may add, from most of the German pianists, are such as afford scope for the display of mechanical dexterity. Compositions of this class being precisely those which are characterised by an exuberant freedom of fancy, are inferior in poetic spirit to his other piano-forte works. These latter are, however, far more difficult to comprehend and to perform than those which merely demand a greater degree of digital dexterity. That cheval de bataille for fleet-fingered pianists, the Sonata, Op. 57, is, of all Beethoven's Sonatas, (without accompaniments) after Op. 30, the only one on which they take their full revenge; and I affirm, with a thorough conviction of being correct, that, out of a hundred pianists whose talent is swayed by the dominion of fashion, it would be difficult to find two who know anything of these Sonatas, with the exception of Op. 57. Of the Sonatas, from Op. 2 to Op. 30 inclusive, there are but few that have the honour of being known to the legion of fashionable piano-forte players. The gods whom this legion worship have no place among the Immortals; and if we estimate their productions by the standard of art, they must be ranked on a level with those musical idols of the day whose chief merit is that they set the feet of the multitude in motion.

The limited knowledge of Beethoven's Sonatas in Germany may be attributed to the circumstance of our teachers placing those works at too early a period before their pupils. They forget that, for a due comprehension of the highest style of art, a sum of knowledge and experience, a certain degree of mental maturity, are required, without which all endeavours to force a taste for the most elevated objects will be vain, or possibly productive of disgust. The study of Beethoven's music should be earnestly entered upon, after the mind has been cultivated by a course of education at once philosophic and elegant: without such a preparation, the study will infallibly be harassing and disagreeable, even to those who possess more than common susceptibility for musical poetry. Music is the offspring of deep feeling, and by deep feeling alone can its genuine beauties be comprehended and enjoyed.

Now, with regard to the Sonatas, I have further to observe that the hints which I received from Beethoven on the subject of their composition, and the proper style of their performance, had direct reference to only a few of those compositions. Still, no doubt, many persons will be gratified by what I have to communicate. To the intelligent lover of music these hints will afford matter for reflection, whereby he may not only more thoroughly comprehend the works in question, but also, by the help of the key thus obtained, open for himself a path to the knowledge of other compositions of the like kind, imbued with the like soul and spirit.

Among the most rich in materials, and, unfortunately, among the least known, are the two Sonatas comprised in Op. 14. The first is in E major, and the second in G major. Both these Sonatas have for their subject a dialogue between a husband and wife, or a lover and his mistress. In the second Sonata, this dialogue, with its signification, is very forcibly expressed, the opposition of the two principal parts being more sensibly marked than in the first Sonata. By these two parts Beethoven intended to represent two principles, which he designated the entreating and the resisting. Even in the first bars the contrary motion marks the opposition of these principles.

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By a softly gliding transition from earnest gravity to tenderness and feeling, the eighth bar introduces the entreating principle alone.

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This suing and flattering strain continues until the middle part is taken up in D major, when both principles are again brought into conflict, but not with the same degree of earnestness as at the commencement. The resisting principle is now relaxing, and allows the other to finish without interruption the phrase that has been begun.

In the following phrase—

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both approximate, and the mutual understanding is rendered distinctly perceptible by the succeeding cadence on the dominant.

In the second section of the same movement the opposition is again resumed in the minor of the tonic, and the resisting principle is energetically expressed in the phrase in A flat major. To this succeeds a pause on the chord of the dominant, and then in E flat the conflict is again resumed till the tranquil phrase

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comes in as it were like a preparation for mutual concord, for both repeat several times the same idea, resembling an interrogation, beginning slowly, and with lingering pauses, then over and over again in rapid succession. The introduction in the tonic of the principal motivo renews the conflict, and the feelings alternate as in the first part; but, at the conclusion of the movement, the expected conciliation is still in suspenso. It is not completely brought about until the end of the Sonata, when it is clearly indicated, and as it were expressed, on the final close of the piece, by a distinctly articulated "Yes!" from the resisting principle.

musical notation

Then was not Beethoven justified in saying, that the poetic idea which had stimulated his imagination in the composition of this work was quite obvious? In fact, is not the explanation of every individual phrase perfectly natural? Of this let any one convince himself, by comparing the above indication of the design with the Sonata itself.

But the reality and certainty of the composer's intention is fully obtained only on the performance of the piece, the difficulty of which, be it observed, is much greater than it is generally believed to be. For example, words directing the quickening or retarding of the time, such as accelerando, ritardando, &c., do not, in their ordinary acceptation, convey an adequate idea of the wonderfully delicate shading which characterized Beethoven's performance; and on this account he would have experienced great impediments had he proceeded with his intended revisal of many other works in the like style. This obstacle he clearly foresaw.

M. Ries, alluding to the Sonate PathÉtique, p. 106 of his Notizen, makes the following remarks on the performance of Beethoven:—"In general, he played his own compositions in a very capricious manner; he nevertheless kept strictly accurate time, occasionally, but very seldom, accelerating the tempi. On the other hand, in the performance of a crescendo passage, he would make the time ritardando, which produced a beautiful and highly striking effect. Sometimes in the performance of particular passages, whether with the right hand or the left, he would infuse into them an exquisite, but altogether inimitable expression. He seldom introduced notes or ornaments not set down in the composition." Yes, it may truly be said that the expression was inimitable! What the Sonate PathÉtique became under the hands of Beethoven—though he left much to be desired on the score of pure execution—can only be conceived by those who have had the good fortune to hear it played by him. Yet it required to be heard over and over again before one could be convinced that it was a work, by name at least, already well known. In short, all music performed by his hands appeared to undergo a new creation. These wonderful effects were in a great degree produced by his uniform legato style, which was one of the most remarkable peculiarities of his playing.[135]

All the pieces which I have heard Beethoven himself play were, with few exceptions, given without any constraint as to the rate of the time. He adopted a tempo-rubato in the proper sense of the term, according as subject and situation might demand, without the slightest approach to caricature. Beethoven's playing was the most distinct and intelligible declamation, such, perhaps, as in the same high degree can only be studied in his works. His old friends, who attentively watched the development of his genius in every direction, declare that he adopted this mode of playing in the first years of the third period of his life, and that it was quite a departure from his earlier method, which was less marked by shading and colouring; thence it appears that his perceptive sagacity had then discovered a sure method of throwing open, to the unlearned as well as the initiated, a door to the mysterious workings of his imagination. In the performance of his quartett music he wished the same rules to be observed as in playing his Sonatas; for the Quartetts paint passions and feelings no less than the Sonatas. Among the latter, however, there are several in which a strict observance of time is indispensable; scarcely permitting, much less demanding, any deviation from regularity. Those compositions require to be played in what is termed the bravura style; they are Op. 106, 111, 57, and some others.

I will now, as far as verbal description may permit, endeavour to convey an idea of the manner in which Beethoven himself used to play the two Sonatas contained in Op. 14. His wonderful performance of these compositions was a sort of musical declamation, in which the two principles were as distinctly separated as the two parts of a dialogue when recited by the flexible voice of a good speaker.

He commenced the opening Allegro with vigour and spirit, relaxing these qualities at the sixth bar, and in the following passage:—

musical notation

Here a slight ritardando made preparation for gently introducing the entreating principle. The performance of the phrase—

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was exquisitely shaded, and to the following bars:—

musical notation

Beethoven's manner of holding down particular notes, combined with a kind of soft gliding touch, imparted such a vivid colouring, that the hearer could fancy he actually beheld the lover in his living form, and heard him apostrophising his obdurate mistress. In the following groups of semiquavers—

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he strongly accented the fourth note of each group, and gave a joyous expression to the whole passage, and at the succeeding chromatic run he resumed the original time, and continued it till he arrived at this phrase,—

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which he gave in tempo andantino, beautifully accenting the bass, and the third notes of the upper part of the harmony, as I have marked them in the two last bars of the subjoined example, thereby rendering distinct to the ear the separation of the two principles. On arriving at the ninth bar,—

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he made the bass stand out prominently, and closed the succeeding cadence on the dominant in the original time, which he maintained without deviation to the end of the first part.

In the second part Beethoven introduced the phrase in A flat major, by a ritardando of the two preceding bars. He attacked this phrase vigorously, thus diffusing a glow of colour over the picture. He gave a charming expression to the following phrase in the treble by strongly accenting and holding down longer than the prescribed time the first note in each bar,—

musical notation

musical notation

whilst the bass was played with gradually increasing softness, and with a sort of creeping motion of the hand.

The passage next in succession was touched off brilliantly; and in its closing bars the decrescendo was accompanied by a ritardando. The following phrase was begun in tempo andante:—

musical notation

At the fifth bar there was a slight accellerando, and an increase of tone. At the sixth bar the original time was resumed. Throughout the remainder of the first movement Beethoven observed the same time as that which he had taken in the opening bars.

Various as were the tempi which Beethoven introduced in this movement, yet they were all beautifully prepared, and if I may so express myself, the colours were delicately blended one with another. There were none of those abrupt changes which the composer frequently admitted in some of his other works, with the view of giving a loftier flight to the declamation. Those who truly enter into the spirit of this fine movement will find it advisable not to repeat the first part: by this allowable abridgment the gratification of the hearer will be unquestionably increased, whilst it may possibly be diminished by the frequent repetition of the same phrases.

It would lead me too far to describe circumstantially the principal points in all the three movements of this Sonata; and so with others. The shades of expression are so various and important that I can only lament the impossibility of conveying any adequate idea of them by words. Perhaps it is only by the publication of a new edition of these and other compositions, that the manner in which Beethoven did or would have executed them can be rendered perfectly obvious to the performer, as well as their right comprehension facilitated to those lovers of the art whose cultivated perception may enable them to recognise poetic ideas clothed in a musical garb.

With regard to the second Sonata in E major (Op. 14), the subject of which is similar to that of the second, I shall confine myself to the description of Beethoven's manner of performing a very few passages. In the eighth bar of the first allegro movement—

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as well as in the ninth bar, he retarded the time, touching the keys more forte and holding down the fifth note, as marked above. By these means he imparted to the passage an indescribable earnestness and dignity of character.

In the tenth bar—

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the original time was resumed, the powerful expression being still maintained. The eleventh bar was diminuendo and somewhat lingering. The twelfth and thirteenth bars were played in the same manner as the two foregoing.

On the introduction of the middle movement—

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the dialogue became sentimental. The prevailing time was andante, but not regularly maintained, for every time that either principle was introduced a little pause was made on the first note, thus:—

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At the following phrase—

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a joyous character was expressed. The original tempo was taken, and not again changed till the close of the first part.

The second part, from this passage

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forward, was characterised by an increased breadth of rhythm, and augmented power of tone, which, however, was further on shaded into an exquisitely delicate pianissimo; so that the apparent meaning of the dialogue became more perceptible without any over-strained effort of imagination.

The second movement Allegretto was, as performed by Beethoven, more like an Allegro furioso; and, until he arrived at the single chord—

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on which he made a very long pause, he kept up the same tempo.

In the Maggiore, the tempo was taken more moderately, and played by Beethoven in a beautifully expressive style. He added not a single note; but he gave to many an accentuation which would not have suggested itself to any other player. On the subject of accentuation I may state, as a general remark, that Beethoven gave prominent force to all appoggiaturas, particularly the minor second, even in running passages; and in slow movements his transition to the principal note was as delicately managed as it could have been by the voice of a singer.

In the Rondo of the Sonata to which I am here referring, Beethoven maintained the time as marked until he arrived at the bars introducing the first and third pauses. These bars he made ritardando.

The two Sonatas in Op. 14, the first Sonata (F minor) in Op. 2; the first Sonata (C minor), Op. 10; the Sonate pathÉtique (C minor), Op. 13; the Sonata quasi Fantasia in C sharp minor, Op. 27, and some others, are all pictures of feeling; and in every movement Beethoven varied the time according as the feelings changed.

I will now endeavour to make the reader acquainted with the effect which Beethoven intended should be given to particular phrases or whole movements of his Symphonies. That orchestral music does not admit of such frequent changes of time as chamber music, is, of course, an understood fact. But it is equally well known that in orchestral performances the greatest and most unexpected efforts may be produced by even slight variations of time.

Passing over the first Symphony, I shall proceed to notice the second. In the first movement the prescribed time must not be altered, and it must by no means be taken faster than is understood by the direction allegro. By too fast a tempo the intrinsic dignity of the movement would be utterly lost.

The second movement, Larghetto, requires a frequent change of measure. The first tempo is kept up to the phrase—

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where the time is gradually quickened, by which the character of the movement acquires a greater degree of warmth and spirit.

The passage immediately following—

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is like the echo of a very melancholy wail, and is given more slowly than the original time, which is resumed only with the succeeding cadence. The same variation of time should be observed on the repetition of the same phrases in the second part of the movement.

To afford at a glance an idea of the right mode of playing these phrases, and to show that their accurate performance is perfectly practicable by a well-trained orchestra, I subjoin the whole in a connected form, together with the requisite marks for the changes of the tempi:—

musical notation

musical notation

musical notation

This Allegretto is continued until the theme is taken up in C minor. The first Larghetto time is then resumed.

I recommend orchestral directors to try on the piano this fragment as far as the A minor passage, and they will be convinced of the deep expression produced by the variations of the tempi as I have marked them. The phrase in C major ff likewise demands a deviation from the original time, and if slightly accelerated will be found to acquire additional power and effect.[136]

The style of performance above described will be found to infuse into this long movement a degree of grace, dignity, and feeling, which is not attainable if the tempo be kept uniform. By the variation the orchestra is kept constantly on the stretch, but the performance will be found easy if it be conducted with steadiness and decision.

I do not recollect anything remarkable with regard to the manner of performing the other movements of this Symphony. The tempi as marked may be adhered to.

I have already observed that Beethoven marked the second movement of the A major Symphony with the direction Andante, quasi Allegretto. But at the part in C major the time may be somewhat quickened, which will be found to produce an extremely pleasing effect, forming likewise a fine contrast to the mysterious character of the introduction. The passage in A minor, which prepares the conclusion, demands, particularly in those parts where the violins answer the wind-instruments, little breaks of the time, which the subject and the declamation render indispensable. The right colouring is thus given to the back-ground of the picture, and the deepest impression produced on the hearer.

Concerning the Symphonia Eroica, Beethoven wished that the first movement should be taken in more moderate time than is indicated by the direction, allegro con brio, which in the course of performance is usually converted into a presto. This detracts from the elevated character of the composition, and transforms it into a concertante display. On the contrary, a perfectly tranquil movement should prevail from beginning to end, even in the loudest parts. The tempo should be somewhat retarded in this phrase:—

musical notation

and this measure should be maintained to the following pianissimo passage,—