Beethoven Analysis 5 Last Sonatas

U
UNIVERSITY OF CINCINNATI
Date: April 15, 2009
I, Wei-Ya Lai ,
hereby submit this original work as part of the requirements for the degree of:
Doctor of Musical Arts
in Piano Performance
It is entitled:
Beethoven's Late Style in His Last Five Piano Sonatas
Student Signature:
Wei-Ya Lai
This work and its defense approved by:
Committee Chair:
Dr. David C. Berry
Prof. James Tocco
Dr. Jeongwon Joe
Approval of the electronic document:
I have reviewed the Thesis/Dissertation in its final electronic format and certify that it is an
accurate copy of the document reviewed and approved by the committee.
Committee Chair signature: Dr. David C. Berry

Beethoven’s Late Style in His
Last Five Piano Sonatas
A doctoral document submitted to the
Division of Graduate Studies and Research

of the University of Cincinnati
In partial fulfillment of the

requirement for the degree of
DOCTOR OF MUSICAL ARTS
In the Division of Keyboard Studies

of the College-Conservatory of Music
March, 2009
by
Wei-Ya Lai
B.M. Oberlin College 2003

M.M. Manhattan School of Music 2005
Committee Chair: David Carson Berry, Ph.D.

Abstract
This document intends to explore Ludwig van Beethoven‘s last five piano sonatas (Opp.
101, 106, 109, 110, and 111) focusing on their innovative and experimental elements, and
perceived difficulty. Through detailed historical study and theoretical analysis, this paper will
discuss the common traits that reach across all five sonatas as well as their correlations with
similar characteristics in the composer‘s other late works. Although each chapter will deal with a
singular subject, such as key relationships, sonata form, variation, and fugato technique, other
compositional aspects often taken for granted—e.g., lyricism, trills, modal harmony,
improvisations, the use of the extreme range of the keyboard, and German markings—will also
be considered. The document will conclude with a discussion of how Beethoven‘s thirty-two
piano sonatas, particularly the last five, influenced the development of nineteenth-century
keyboard composition.
iii
Copyright © 2009 by Wei-Ya Lai
All rights reserved
‘
iv
Acknowledgements
I would like to express my gratitude for help and kind support rendered by the following
members during the completion of my document: Dr. David Berry, Professor James Tocco and
Dr. Jeongwon Joe.
I would like to thank Dr. David Berry for his invaluable guidance and suggestions for the
document. His consistent generosity and contribution of theoretical and historical knowledge
made this project possible.
I also want to express my gratitude to my major teacher and mentor Professor James Tocco for
his excellent teaching and musicianship, constant support, and encouragement throughout my
master and doctoral studies.
Much appreciation goes to Dr. Jeongwon Joe for her comments and encouragement in this
document and during the years of the doctoral program.
I am grateful to all my teachers for guiding my studies and giving knowledge to enhance my
inner inspirations.
Finally, I want to thank my parents, Yung-Tian Lai and Hsiu-Jung Lin, for their unconditional
love and faith in me.
v
Table of Contents
Page
Abstract iii
Acknowledgements v
Table of Contents vi
List of Score Excerpts vii
Chapters:
I: Introduction 1
II: Fugue 14
III: Sonata 37
IV: Key Relationships 50
V: Variation 63
VI: Aspects of Character 79
VII: Musical Influence 107
VIII: Final Thoughts 129
Bibliography 132
vi
List of Score Excerpts
Number Page
2.1 Beethoven: Op. 101, Finale, mm. 91–98 30
2.5 Beethoven: Op. 106, Mvt. I, mm. 137–142 31
2.6 Beethoven‘s Sketch Book Vol. II for a finale in a sonata 31
2.13 Beethoven‘s sketch-books between 1819 and 1822, vol. 1, 78 34
2.14 Beethoven: Op. 109, Mvt. III, Var. 5, mm. 1–4 34
2.15 Beethoven‘s sketches for the fugal subject (Op. 106, Finale) 34
2.16 Beethoven: Op. 106, Finale, fugal subject, mm. 6–11 35
vii
3.4 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. II, mm. 1–8 49
4.4 Haydn: Hob. XVI: 52, Mvt. I, mm. 67–71 61
5.1 Beethoven: Op. 14/2, Mvt. II, mm. 13–20 74
5.4 Beethoven: Op. 109, Mvt. III, mm. 1–16 75
5.12 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. II, Rhythmic Contraction 77
5.13 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. II, Var. 6, mm. 14–16 77
viii
5.14 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. II, Var. 4, mm. 26–31 77
5.15 Beethoven: Op. 120, Var. 32 mm. 162–167 and Var. 33 mm. 1–2 78
6.1 Mozart: K. 397, mm. 1–5 101
6.2 Beethoven: Op. 2 No. 3, Mvt. I, mm. 221–227 101
6.3 Beethoven: Op. 2 No. 3, Mvt. I, mm. 231 101
6.6 Beethoven: Op. 102, No. 1, Mvt. II, mm. 7–12 103
6.7 Beethoven: Op. 106, Mvt. IV, mm. 11–14 103
6.9 Beethoven: Op. 132, Mvt III, mm. 31–34 104
6.10 Beethoven: Op. 106, Mvt. IV, mm 118–125 104
6.11 Beethoven: Op. 133, mm. 404–412 105
6.13 Beethoven: Op. 109, Mvt. III, Final Variation, mm. 32–34 105
7.2 Mendelssohn: Op. 6, Mvt. I, mm. 1–3 124
7.4 Mendelssohn: Op. 6, Mvt. III, mm. 1 124
7.6 Mendelssohn: Op. 106, Mvt. I, mm. 1–2 125
7.7 Brahms: Op. 1, Mvt. I, mm. 1–4 125
ix
7.8 Brahms: Op. 68, Mvt. IV, mm. 61–73 125
7.9 Beethoven: Op. 125, Mvt. IV, mm. 92–103 125
7.10 Schumann: Op. 14, Mvt. III, mm. 1–4 126
7.11 Schumann: Op. 14, Mvt. I, mm. 1–2 126
7.12 Schumann: Op. 14, Mvt. II, mm. 1–2 126
7.13 Schumann: Op. 14, Mvt. IV, mm. 1–2 126
7.14 Brahms: Op. 2, Mvt. II, mm. 1–2 127
7.15 Brahms: Op. 2, Mvt. III, mm. 1–2 127
7.16 Brahms: Op. 2, Mvt. I, mm. 1–2 127
7.20 Brahms: Op. 5, Mvt. I, mm. 89–91 128
x
Chapter 1: Introduction
The Three Periods
In the field of musicology, Johann Aloys Schlosser is often nothing more than a curious
footnote. He is said to have been born in Bohemia in 1790, to have worked at a Vienna
publishing firm in the 1820s, and to have been an admirer of Ludwig van Beethoven, a composer
who by that time was larger than life not only in the Austrian capital, but throughout Europe. On
26 March 1827, Beethoven passed away, and funerals were held for him in several cities. A few
months later, to capitalize on the public‘s thirst for knowledge, the little-known Schlosser
published the first biography of Beethoven, cobbled together from a series of interviews and
newspaper clippings. Although Schlosser‘s rivals attacked the book out of jealousy, the
biography sold well, and although the book is far from wholly reliable and does not meet the
standards of modern musicology, many of the anecdotes are consistent with Beethoven‘s
personality and work habits.1 As early as the mid-nineteenth century, however, Schlosser‘s effort
had some competition. In 1840, Anton Felix Schindler completed a biography that has been
dismissed as spurious, and in 1866, the American journalist and librarian Alexander Wheelock
Thayer published the first of several volumes that set the standard for research into Beethoven‘s
life and work.
Still, Schlosser left the music world with one idea that has never faded away— the
division of Beethoven‘s life and work into three periods.2 In 1852, Beethoven‘s biographer
Wilhelm von Lenz followed in Schlosser‘s footsteps; published in France, his book, Beethoven et
1
Johann Aloys Schlosser, Beethoven, trans. Reinhard G. Pauly (Portland: Amadeus Press, 1996), 9–20.
2
Ibid., 133–150.
1
ses trios style, cemented the three-period concept in history. But while the three periods
discussed by Schlosser and von Lenz is a good starting point for discussing Beethoven‘s life and
the evolution of his art, many scholars continue to quibble over details. Some musicologists, for
example, feel that some periods need greater subdivision, especially the early ones, and that the
length of each period should more closely align with Beethoven‘s work in different genres.3 Still,
the idea of three periods is not easy to dispel; many musicians continue to prefer this system of
classification even as American musicologist Joseph Kerman states that ―the three-period
framework is certainly in need of some refining.‖4 Moreover, any effort to ―refine‖ the three
periods involves the setting of new boundaries. Schlosser, for instance, suggested that
Beethoven‘s third period begins with the advent of his Symphony No. 5 in C Minor (1807–08);
today, the third period has been placed at least half a decade later.
But if we truly endeavor to understand Beethoven‘s life and work, we should study the
genres in which he wrote, and more significantly, the genres to which he repeatedly turned. The
only one genre which permeates his entire oeuvre is the piano sonata, a vehicle that defined
Beethoven‘s identity and individualism more than anything else. Beethoven not only advanced
the piano sonata, he advanced piano playing itself, and if we journey from the Piano Sonata No.
1 in F Minor, Op. 2/1 (1795) to the Piano Sonata No. 32 in C Minor, Op. 111 (1822), we can
trace the evolution of Beethoven‘s style. Furthermore, Beethoven used his piano sonatas not only
as an intimate medium of expression but as a laboratory for his compositional growth, and the
ideas pursued and solved in his piano sonatas often appear in his other works, notably his
symphonies, string quartets, and chamber music.
3
Joseph Kerman, ―Beethoven: the Three Periods,‖ Grove Music Online.
4
Ibid.
2
Since the thirty-two sonatas collectively reach across all three periods, however, it is
almost impossible to discuss them without a nod to Schlosser‘s system of classification. Most
pianists, for example, mark the Piano Sonata No. 28 in A Major, Op. 101 (1816) as the beginning
of Beethoven‘s third-period piano sonatas. Dedicated to his pupil, the pianist and baroness
Dorotea von Ertmann, Op. 101 reaches beyond Beethoven‘s previous efforts in the genre,
transcending the formal constraints he had mastered and reveling in a beauty that is unmistakably
Romantic.5 Similarly, the Piano Sonata No. 27 in E Minor, Op. 90 (1814) is often regarded as a
transitional work that straddles the second or ―heroic‖ period, and the third period; it is
characterized by greater compositional experimentation and personal introspection. But Op. 90
continues to be a source of disagreement among scholars. According to Kerman, the Piano
Sonata No. 27 belongs to the third period; its lyric quality and its ambiguous major-minor
tonality are closer to the last period than to the previous one. On the other hand, Maynard
Solomon claims that such classification ignores the fact that artistic transitions are hardly clean,
and that in Beethoven‘s case, ―the emergence of the new style was to be a slow and trying
process.‖6 Indeed, scholars who have studied the autographs of Opp. 90 and 101 largely agree
that Beethoven new style appears most clearly in the latter rather than the former. The early
twentieth-century German musicologist Georg Schünenmann, for one, observed changes in the
character of Beethoven‘s handwriting in both Op. 101 and the Sonata for Cello and Piano, Op.
102:
5
Also, ―the Sonata, Op. 101 begins as if in the middle of a musical paragraph; in other words, here is an
essay in, or at a least a movement towards, the open forms of the Romantic period, even if the harmonic language
retains the firmly closed nature of the classical style.‖ Charles Rosen, The Classical Style (New York: W. W. Norton
& Company, 1970), 403.
6
Maynard Solomon, Beethoven, 2nd ed. (New York: Schirmer Books, 1998), 281–296.
3
Beethoven‘s script becomes progressively more delicate. The cello sonatas Op. 102 show more careful
forming and joining of notes and, in general, lighter pressure on the paper. The stems of the notes are
smoothly, almost lovingly drawn, and even the spurs and dots of quavers lose their firm, thick, broad
up-down and cross-strokes.7
Both Joseph Kerman and Denis Matthews mark the year 1812 as a turning point in
Beethoven‘s life and the birth of a new style. In this year, the composer experienced poor health,
emotional stress, and great financial anxiety. On the order of his physician, he spent time at the
spas in Teplitz, Karlsbad, and Franzensbrunn;8 moreover, the impassioned love letter to the
mysterious ―Immortal Beloved‖ is believed to originate from this year as well.9 In September, he
penned several letters to his close friend Amalie Sebald, stating that, ―Since I left you yesterday,
I have become worse, and since yesterday evening up to now I have not been able to leave my
bed.‖10 Between 1816 and 1818, Beethoven continued to suffer from repeated illness due to a
catarrhal infection,11 and his increasing hearing loss led to him to cut ties with the rest of society.
By 1818, he was completely deaf and was forced to communicate only through writing, and he
had lost several of his aristocratic friends and patrons: Prince Kinsky was dead, and the generous
Prince Lobkowitz was bankrupt due to the financial crisis caused by the Napoleonic Wars. In
addition, after his brother‘s death in 1815, Beethoven constantly embroiled himself in legal
battles for the exclusive guardianship of his nephew, a time of stress that lasted four years
7
Georg Schünenmann, Musiker-Handschriften (1936): 74–74; quoted in Martin Cooper, Beethoven: The
Last Decade, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 195), 129.
8
Lewis Lockwood, Beethoven: The Music and the Life‖ (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2003),
334.
9
Denis Matthews, Beethoven (London: J. M. Dent & Sons Ltd, 1985), 48–51.
10
Beethoven, Beethoven’s Letters, tran. J. S. Shedlock (London: MCMXXVI, 1980), 136–138.
11
Cooper, 14.
4
(1816–20).12 As a result, the composer‘s ―third period‖ was greeted with markedly decreased
productivity, which makes the completion of the first two piano sonatas of the third period—i.e.,
the Piano Sonata No. 28 in A Major, Op. 101, and the Piano Sonata No. 29 in B-flat Major, Op.
106, ―Hammerklavier‖—all the more astonishing.
Compositional Background
Beethoven completed the first late sonata, Op. 101, in November 1816. Although the
opening movement is the shortest of all the opening movements of the piano sonatas, the
movement‘s lyric character sets the stage for Beethoven‘s late period; some pianists call this
sonata the ―most Romantic‖ of the thirty-two, and Richard Wagner regarded it as a paragon of
―endless melody.‖ 13 Marin Cooper offers an even more colorful interpretation, likening the first
measures of the sonata to ―an oasis in this wilderness, the escape into an ideal world.‖14 The
uniqueness of this sonata, as well as its ability to make such an emotional impression, may have
something to do with its dedicatee, the previously mentioned Baroness Dorothea von Ertmann.
Despite her status as an amateur pianist, Ertmann was one of Beethoven‘s favorite students, and
she displayed an uncanny understanding of her teacher‘s music. In 1808 or 1809, Johann
Friedrich Reichardt, a renowned violinist of the late eighteenth century, heard one of Ertmann‘s
performances of her teacher‘s music and following the concert, he made the following comment:
I have never seen such power and inmost tenderness combined, even in the greatest virtuosi….
Everything that is great and beautiful in art was turned into song with ease and expression. 15
12
Cooper, 16.
13
Newman, 527; Stewart Gordon, A History of Keyboard Literature (Belmont: Schirmer, 1996), 182.
14
Cooper, 147.
15
Johann Friedrich Reichardt, Vertraute Briefe auf einer Reise nach Wien (n.p., 1810), 296–298; quoted in
Cooper, 156.
5
In fact, Beethoven may have had her in mind as he marked each movement, calling for
detailed directions that require sentiment and casting them in his mother tongue rather than the
traditional Italian. At the head of the first movement, for example, the composer writes ―mit der
innigsten Empfindung‖ (―with the deepest feeling‖) and at the beginning of the finale appear the
words ―Geschwind, doch nicht zu sehr und mit Entschlossenheit‖ (―Fast, but not excessively, and
with determination‖). Additionally, the form and process of the sonata is slightly unconventional
for its time. After an intensely lyrical and tender first movement, Beethoven follows with a
march in triple meter (3/4 time), whose key, F major, is a flattened sixth to the tonic, and whose
melody, which consists of several angular leaps, almost suggests an athletic scherzo. After a
slow third movement, an improvisational-like passage serves as a transition to the finale, where
the development section borrows the fugato technique of the Baroque period to achieve one of
the most brilliant finishes among the thirty-two sonatas. In this vein, Op. 101 lays the
groundwork for Beethoven‘s late period, as much of this methodology appears again in the
―Hammerklavier‖ Piano Sonata, No. 29 in B-flat Major, Op. 106; the Piano Sonata No. 31 in A-
flat Major, Op. 110; the ―Choral‖ Symphony No. 9 in D Minor, Op. 125; and finally, the String
Quartets Opp. 131 and 132.
Indeed, the next piano sonata, Op. 106, was not far behind. Beethoven broke ground on this
Große Sonate für das Hammerklavier in the autumn of 1817, and in the spring of 1819, he
dedicated the finished score to his patron, the Archduke Rudolph. The forty-minute piece not
only marked a precedent for the length of solo compositions, but mirrors Beethoven‘s increasing
reliance on expansive forms to communicate his expressive ideas. In fact, during his work on the
―Hammerklavier,‖ Beethoven completed the first two movements of his next symphony, the
massive Symphony No. 9, and near the end of his efforts on Op. 106, he began the now
6
monumental Missa Solemnis in D Major, Op. 123. In addition, like Op. 101, both the
―Hammerklavier‖ and the ―Choral‖ Symphony (No. 9) switch the traditional location of the
scherzo and the slow movement,16 placing them second and third respectively.
The Piano Sonata No. 29 in B-flat Major, Op. 106 is not only the longest of the thirty-two
sonatas, but also one of the most important works in the keyboard repertoire. Although the
sonata boasts the conventional four-movement structure, similar to the piano sonatas of the
composer‘s first period, it unmistakably pioneers several aspects of his late style. The first
movement, for instance, employs its keys in a chain of thirds that stretches from the exposition to
the end of the development. Furthermore, the slow movement, which Wilhelm von Lenz called
―a mausoleum of the collective sorrow of the world, the greatest adagio for piano in all
literature,‖17 uses modal harmonies for its expressive aims, and like Op. 101, an improvisatory-
like passage at the end of the movement serves as a transition to a fugato finale. Despite its great
artistic merit, though, Op. 106 is rarely performed, mostly due to its technical difficulties and
Beethoven‘s challenging metronome markings. Even Charles Rosen, an expert on Beethoven‘s
piano sonatas, feels that the ―Hammerklavier‖ Sonata is ―more like a monument to be admired
than a work to be enjoyed.‖18
Upon completion of the ―Hammerklavier,‖ Beethoven‘s passion for the piano sonata
refused to dissipate, and the next three works, written over the span of three years (1820–22),
have consecutive opus numbers: the Sonata No. 30 in E Major, Op. 109; the Sonata No. 31 in A-
flat Major, Op. 110; and the Sonata No. 32 in C Minor, Op. 111. At first, Beethoven approached
16
Hugh Macdonald, ―Scherzo,‖ Grove Music Online.
17
Newman, 530.
18
Charles Rosen, Beethoven’s Piano Sonata (New Haven: Yale University Press), 218.
7
his last three piano sonatas as a single project; in a letter to the publisher Adolf Schlesinger,
dated 30 April 1820, Beethoven spoke of a grand plan, stating that: ―I am also very willing to sell
you some new sonatas, but at no other price than 40 florins each, thus perhaps a lot of three
sonatas for 120 florins.‖19 On 20 September 1820, the composer wrote to Schlesinger again:
―Everything will go more quickly in the case of the three sonatas—the first is quite ready save
for correcting the copy and I am working uninterruptedly at the other two.‖20
By the time Beethoven started to write the three-movement Op. 109, he had won the
lawsuit that gave him the full guardianship of his nephew, and while the beautiful flowing
quality of the first movement in E major seems to reflect the composer‘s relief, he nevertheless
continues to experiment with form and style. The first movement, for one, is far more rhapsodic
than previous efforts, as the secondary theme evokes the course of Romantic piano music with
fantasy-like textures. As a contrast, Beethoven follows with a prestissimo second movement in
sonata form, and for even greater variety, Beethoven closes the sonata with a slow movement in
variation form. If the finale‘s introspective character surprised listeners accustomed to thrilling
finishes, it soon had company; the aging Beethoven again turned to the slow variation form in
the finale of his two- movement Op. 111, and repeatedly in his late string quartets.21
In December 1821, Beethoven completed his Op. 110, a three-movement work that
continued the composer‘s Romantic innovations. The setting of the movements is reminiscent of
the ―Moonlight‖ Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp Minor, Op. 27/2, which he titled ―quasi una
fantasia‖; moreover, the decision to begin with a slow first movement and then proceed with a
19
Ludwig van Beethoven, New Beethoven Letters, trans. by Donald W. MacArdle (Oklahoma: University
of Oklahoma Press, 1957), 344–345.
20
Ibid, 355–356.
21
Newman, 533.
8
faster second movement follows in the footsteps of the Opp. 101 and 109 sonatas. Here, Op. 110
begins with a relatively gentle and compact sonata-allegro movement, succeeded by a faster
second movement in the form of a minuet and trio. The finale of Op. 110, however, is much freer
than any of the composer‘s previous finales for his piano sonatas. After an improvisational-like
slow opening, Beethoven alternates with two strikingly different sections—an aria and a fugue.
In addition, unlike the quiet close of the previous sonata, Op. 109, Beethoven in the last
measures casts the fugue subject in double diminution and finishes the work with splendor and
triumph.
Of the thirty-two piano sonatas, though, Op. 111 may have the most interesting history.
Despite its profound lyricism in the second movement, for example, the primary theme of the
first movement had laid in Beethoven‘s sketchbook since 1801. In fact, according to Gustav
Nottebohm, a nineteenth-century German editor who spent much of his career poring over
Beethoven‘s sketchbooks, this theme may have been intended for the finale of one of the Op. 30
violin sonatas.22 In 1822, however, this yet-unused theme became the primary melody of Op.
111‘s first movement, preceded by a slow introduction, and colored with a set of triplets on the
upbeat to give the music more direction and thrust. Still, this theme proved to be of great quality
and durability, as Beethoven freely casts the theme in stretto and augmentation throughout much
of the first movement‘s development section. The second movement, however, looks back to Op.
109, closing the sonata with a complex set of slow variations and an introspective character that
greatly contrasts with the youthful energy of Beethoven‘s first period piano sonatas. Indeed, on 3
July 1822, Beethoven‘s publisher Adolf Schlesinger wrote to Beethoven about his concerns
regarding the two-movement scheme, asking if a third movement had been left behind by the
22
G. Nottebohm., Ein skizzenbuch von Beethoven (Leipzig: Breitkofph & Hartel, 1865), 466–8; quoted in
Cockshoot, 171.
9
copyists. Ten days later, on 13 July 1822, Schlesinger complained that he had not yet received
the music that he had paid for, writing, ―Where was the rondo finale?‖23 Anton Schindler
claimed that Beethoven omitted the third movement due to other work, but scholars point out
that two-movement piano sonatas were not unheard of in Beethoven‘s oeuvre, most notably the
Piano Sonata No. 22 in F Major, Op. 54, the Piano Sonata No. 24 in F-sharp Major, Op. 78, and
the Piano Sonata No. 27 in E Minor, Op. 90. In addition, the slow theme-and-variations is not
only long, requiring seventeen minutes, but emotionally taxing; for listeners, it is difficult to
imagine if anything could follow it.
Reception
Given the level of technical experimentation and the intensely personal nature of the late
piano sonatas, it is little wonder that music critics of the time found Beethoven‘s efforts difficult
to understand. In order to explain how one of the greatest living composers had taken such an
inexplicable turn, journalists began to use Beethoven‘s hearing loss as a convenient explanation.
In 1823, a review in The Harmonicon of London states that:
Beethoven is not only still numbered amongst the living, but is at a period of life when the mind is
in its fullest vigor. Unfortunately, however, he is suffering under a privation that to a musician is
intolerable—he is almost totally bereft of the sense of hearing; insomuch that it is said he cannot
render the tones of his pianoforte audible to himself.
The Sonata, Op. 111, consists of two movements. The first betrays a violent effort to produce
something in the shape of novelty. In it are visible some of those dissonances the harshness of
which may have escaped the observation of the composer. The second movement is an Arietta,
and extends to the extraordinary length of thirteen pages…. We have devoted a full hour to this
24
enigma, and cannot solve.
23
Robert Taub, Playing the Beethoven Piano Sonatas (Portland: Amadeus Press, 2002), 238.
24
William Ayrton, ―Review of Music,‖ The Harmonicon 1 (August, 1823): 112, as quoted in Nicolas
Slonimsky, Lexicon of Musical Invective (London: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2000), 43.
10
In April 1824, in another review in The Harmonicon, music journalist William Ayrton remarks
that ―Beethoven‘s compositions more and more assume the character of studied eccentricity …
most of what he [Beethoven] produces is so impenetrably obscure in design that he puzzles the
critic as much as he perplexes the performer.‖25
Even if Beethoven‘s increasing deafness and isolation from society played a role in how
the early nineteenth-century public viewed him, his late works for a long time appeared
confusing and unapproachable. In fact, a generation later, Wilhelm von Lenz reported that
several critics and connoisseurs still could not grasp Beethoven‘s last period, including von Lenz
himself. For example, although he appreciated the beauty of the third movement of the
―Hammerklavier‖ sonata, von Lenz disliked the fugue in the finale. Beethoven‘s biographer also
complained about Op. 111, the last piano sonata, where the second movement is full of complex
mutations in rhythm and meter.26
As the nineteenth century progressed, though, opinions about Beethoven‘s late music
gradually began to change. Richard Wagner, for one, consistently proclaimed Beethoven‘s last
works as artistic models toward which all composers must strive.27 In the twentieth century,
some musicologists began to postulate that the composer‘s looking backward to a high Baroque
contrapuntal style must have sounded foreign to Vienna audiences in the 1820s, and that perhaps
accounts for the puzzling and cold receptions that his late music experienced.28 Moreover,
Donald Tovey and John Cookshoot add that Beethoven‘s fusion of Baroque fugal writing and the
25
Ayrton, The Harmonicon 1 (April, 1824); quoted in Slonimsky, 44.
26
William von Lenz, Beethoven et ses trios styles, Paris, 1855, quoted in Slonimsky, 49.
27
Scott Burnham, ―Beethoven,‖ Grove Music Online.
28
Cookshoot, 183.
11
Viennese classical idiom opened up a new world of dramatic expression and emotional intensity
for which some early nineteenth-century audiences were not yet ready.29 Some scholars argue
that the intensely personal nature of Beethoven‘s late music pushes the envelope even in modern
times. In the early twentieth century the literary journalist and Beethoven biographer J. W. N.
(John William Navin) Sullivan opined that Beethoven‘s late works are graphical realizations of
his life and state of mind in his last years.30 More recently, Maynard Solomon has stated that the
last movement of Op. 111, the Arietta, presents a struggle that, through subsequent variation and
transformation, eventually melts into ecstasy.31 Charles Rosen, too, has pointed out that the
difficulty in grasping Beethoven‘s late music is not confined to the lesser-known pieces in the
piano or chamber repertoire; even masterworks recognized by the larger public, such as the
Symphony No. 9 and the Missa Solemnis, continue to challenge even the most trained listener.32
This document intends to explore the composer‘s last five piano sonatas focusing on their
innovation, experimentation, and perceived difficulty. Through detailed historical study and
theoretical analysis, this paper will discuss the common traits that reach across all five sonatas as
well as their correlations with similar characteristics in the composer‘s other late works.
Although each chapter will deal with a singular subject, such as key relationships, sonata form,
variation, and fugato technique, other compositional aspects often taken for granted—e.g.,
lyricism, trills, modal harmony, improvisations, and German markings—will also be considered.
This document will conclude with a discussion of how Beethoven‘s thirty-two piano sonatas,
29
Ibid., 182–183.
30
J. W. N. Sullivan, Beethoven (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Inc, 1927), 249.
31
Solomon, 420.
32
Charles Rosen, The Classical Style (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1997), 386.
12
particularly the last five, influenced the development of nineteenth-century keyboard
composition. Although the young Beethoven looked up to the late Classical masters—
specifically, Haydn, Mozart, and C. P. E. Bach—he later emerged as a towering figure himself,
one that cast a long shadow over an entire epoch of Western music. His influence was arguably
more widespread than that of any other individual composer in the Romantic period; his piano
works presided over the keyboard for several generations, even if the late style was yet to be
fully understood.
13
Chapter 2: Fugue
In Beethoven‘s later years, the combinations of fugue and other genres became
increasingly prevalent in his music. His formal study of polyphony began during his youth in
Bonn with his first important teacher, Christian Gottlob Neefe (1748–98). Born and raised in
Leipzig, Neefe grew up amidst the lingering influence of Johann Sebastian Bach (1685–1750),
who had spent the last part of his career in the city as a composer and teacher at Saint Thomas. In
his late twenties, Neefe became the head of an operatic troupe, and in 1779 he took his group to
Bonn, where he settled and became an organist at the local court. Neefe began teaching
Beethoven in 1780 or 1781;33 upon recognizing the boy‘s talent, he introduced him to the music
of Bach.
Although Bach was highly respected as an organist and composer in his time, his music
was considered ―old-fashioned.‖ The ―galant‖ style‘s light accompaniments, pleasant melodies
and regular phrasing reacted against the complexity of the high Baroque. As a result, Bach‘s
music was not widely available; only twelve editions of his works were published between his
death (1750) and Beethoven‘s time, which included The Art of Fugue, the Musical Offering, and
the third part of the Clavierübung.34 Nevertheless, Neefe held Bach as an essential part of his
protégé‘s training, which is made clear in Neefe‘s public notice of his precocious student,
published on March 2, 1782 in C.F. Kramer‘s Magazin der Musik:
Louis van Beethoven [sic]…a boy of eleven years and of most promising talent. He plays the
clavier very skillfully and with power, reads at sight very well, and—to put it in a nutshell—he
plays chiefly The Well-Tempered Clavichord of Sebastian Bach, which Herr Neefe put into his
33
Maynard Solomon, Beethoven (New York: Schirmer Books, 1977), 33–34.
34
For an overview of Bach editions in the eighteenth century see Martin Zenck, Die Bach-Rezeption des
späten Beethoven (Stuttgart: F. Steiner Verlag Wiesbaden, 1985), 6.
14
hands. Whoever knows the collection of preludes and fugues in all the keys—which might almost
be called the non plus ultra of our art—will know what this means. So far as his duties permitted,
Herr Neefe has also given him instruction in through-bass. He is now training him in composition
and for his encouragement has had nine variations for the pianoforte, written by him on a march—
by Ernst Christoph Dressler—engraved at Mannheim. This youthful genius is deserving of help to
enable him to travel. He would surely become a second Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart were he to
35
continue as he has begun.
The ability to play Bach‘s fugues did not translate into his first compositions—the Classical style
was inescapably strong—but Neefe and the Baroque master had planted a seed that would bear
fruit in the composer‘s late years.
Upon arriving in Vienna in November 1792, Beethoven began counterpoint and
composition studies with the most prominent person in the city—Franz Joseph Haydn. As a
composer, Haydn served as a superb model, but a teacher, he was too busy to care about
classroom assignments.36 Out of two-hundred forty-five counterpoint exercises submitted, only
forty-two were addressed. Even these were highly erratic—the elder composer often missed
mistakes, and in his attempts to correct one error, he sometimes made another or altered the
exercise to fit his solution. The personal side of their relationship was even more complicated. In
August 1793, Beethoven secretly began studies with Johann Schenk, and in November 1793,
through correspondence with the Elector Maximilian Franz of Bonn, Haydn discovered that
Beethoven had not always honest with him. Beethoven was not forthright about his court income
from Bonn, and most of the compositions that Haydn proudly sent to the elector as proof of his
protégé‘s progress had already been performed in Bonn.37 In 1794, after his second visit to
35
Ibid., 34, translated from Cramer‘s Magazin der Musik; for the original German see TDR, 1: 150 and
Schiedermair, 161f.
36
Gustav Nottebohm, Beethoven’s Studien. Beethoven’s Unterricht bei J. Haydn, Albrechtsberger und
Salieri (Leipzig & Winterthur: Rieter-Biedermann, 1873), vol. 1, pp. 21–43; quoted in John Cockshoot, The Fugue
in Beethoven’s Piano Music (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1959), 16–17.
37
Alexander Wheelock Thayer, Ludwig van Beethoven’s Leben, rev. and edited by Elliot Forbes (Princeton,
N. J.: Princeton University Press, 1967), 144–145.
15
London Haydn passed Beethoven on to Johann Georg Albrechtsberger (1736–1809), the
Kapellmeister at Saint Stephen‘s in Vienna who was well-known as a theorist and teacher.
According to Gustav Nottebohm (1817–82), one of the first Beethoven scholars, the
composer‘s time with Albrechtsberger ―enriched him with new forms and means of expression
and … effected a change in his mode of writing.‖38 Although Beethoven was an advanced
student, the teacher may have felt that Beethoven‘s previous instruction was lacking, for he
decided to begin at square one. He started with the basic principles of counterpoint, progressing
through imitation, canon, two-part fugues, three-part fugues, four-part fugues, double fugues,
and even triple fugues. Nottebohm states that Beethoven had little difficulty with canon and
imitation, but sometimes had trouble with fugue.39 Yet Beethoven‘s early works, dating from his
time in Vienna, reveals a surprising level of comfort with counterpoint. Imitation appears fairly
frequently in the ―Pathetique‖ Piano Sonata in C minor, Op. 13; as well as the Symphony No. 1
in C Major, Op. 21; and Beethoven‘s mastery of canon is demonstrated in the seventh variation
of the Fifteen Variations with Fugue, Op. 35.40 Still, Beethoven avoids the use of fugue or fugato
passages until the Alla Fuga Finale of the Op. 35 Variations, and even in this case the fugue‘s
answer is not correct—at least according to Nottebohm.41
It was not until Beethoven‘s late period that his interest and skill in counterpoint truly
blossomed. During this time, there is considerable evidence that Beethoven had been studying
music of the recent past. For examples, in the letter dated 29 July 1819, Beethoven mentioned
38
Nottebohm, Beethoven Studien (Leipzig, 1873), 201; trans. by Lockwood, 83.
39
Cockshoot, 17–25.
40
Ibid.
41
Nottebohm, Beethoven’s Studien; quoted in Cockshoot, 27.
16
that he had access to the archduke‘s music library, where he pored over the scores of Bach and
Handel.42 Moreover, after Beethoven‘s death, excerpts of Handel‘s The Messiah were found
alongside sketches for the Missa Solemnis and the Piano Sonata in E Major, Op. 109.43 In
addition, his postmortem library included Bach‘s The Art of Fugue and Handel‘s Keyboard
Suites, Julius Caesar, Alexander’s Feast and numerous English oratorios.44
But Beethoven‘s interest in ―old music‖ was not singularly due to his search for new
material or influences; he was increasingly aware of the growing significance of J.S. Bach. In
1802, Johann Nikolaus Forkel, one of the founders of modern-day musicology, published the
first book on Bach, an eighty-two page work which claimed Bach to be the greatest figure in
Western music to that point in time. Meanwhile, many publishers began to release new editions
of Bach‘s music, including the Well-Tempered Clavier, The Art of Fugue, the Goldberg
Variations, and even some volumes of motets. In 1818, Bach‘s Mass in B Minor became
available, and in a letter dated 13 July of the same year, Beethoven requested a copy from the
publisher Hans Georg Nägeli.45
Not surprisingly, counterpoint became a crucial element of Beethoven‘s late works. A
journey through Beethoven‘s third period finds a high degree of canonic and fugal writing in the
Diabelli Variations; the Cello Sonata in D Major, Op. 102/2; the Missa Solemnis; the String
Quartets Opp. 131–133; the ―Choral‖ Symphony No. 9; and the last five piano sonatas. In these
pieces, Beethoven employs fugal writing in three distinct ways. The first is motivic development,
42
Cooper, 40.
43
Douglas Johnson, Alan Tyson, and Robert Winter, The Beethoven Sketchbooks: History, Reconstruction,
Inventory (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), 525.
44
Thayer, 1069–1070.
45
Ludwig van Beethoven, Briefwechsel Gesamtausgabe, vol. 4 (München: G. Henle Verlag, 1996), 201.
17
a process that Beethoven builds to great momentum in the finale of the Piano Sonata No. 28 in A
Major, Op. 101; the first movement of the ―Hammerklavier‖ Piano Sonata No. 29 in B-flat
Major, Op. 106; and the first movement of the Piano Sonata No. 32 in C Minor, Op. 111. The
second approach is the creation of a fugato structure within the variation form, as in the fifth
variation of the finale to the Piano Sonata No. 30 in E Major, Op. 109, and the penultimate
variation of the Diabelli Variations, Op. 120.
The third approach is to treat the fugue as an entirely separate movement. In the finale of
the ―Hammerklavier‖ Sonata, for instance, Beethoven writes “Fuga a tre voci con alcune
licenze” (―fugue in three voices, with some license‖), and in the finale to the Piano Sonata No.
31 in A-flat Major, Op. 110, he writes “Fuga” after the opening ―Arioso.‖ Not to be outdone, the
Grosse Fuge, Op. 133 (which was originally intended to be the finale of the String Quartet No.
13 in B-flat Major, Op. 130), is an enormous double fugue that takes up 750 measures. Of
course, a fugal texture in a finale was not a new device for classical composers; Haydn, for one,
had brought back the Baroque technique in his string quartets. But the finale of the Piano Sonata
in A Major, Op. 101 marks the first time that Beethoven turned to the fugue into his piano
sonatas.
Motivic Development
Beethoven‘s thirty-two piano sonatas form the core of his oeuvre; no other genre spans
the entirety of his career, and no other form reflects his development as a composer over the
thirty years of his active compositional life. In this vein, the finale to the Piano Sonata No. 29 in
A Major, Op. 101, is a great debut for Beethoven‘s fusions of sonata and fugues. The fugue
begins in the development section; after a short introduction (mm. 81–90), it begins at the pickup
18
to m. 91 and continues until m. 195 where a dominant preparation, supported by series of
ascending arpeggios, creates tension and climax before the beginning of the recapitulation in m.
200. The subject (Example 2.1) is closely related to the primary theme (Example 2.2); it is seven
bars long and has three important motives— a falling third (motive ―a‖), a rising sixteenth with a
drop of fifth (motive ―b‖), and a combination of an octave leap followed by descending stepwise
motion in octaves (motive ―c‖). In fact, a comparison of Examples 1 and 2 reveals that the first
half of the subject is exactly the same as the primary theme, and the stepwise motion of motive
―c‖ very much resembles the stepwise motion in the primary theme (mm. 5–7).
The development section of the Op. 101 finale is interesting for many reasons. On the
one hand, Beethoven follows a conventional way of writing fugues. The whole section can be
divided into an exposition, a middle passage which alternates between episodes and entries of the
subjects, and a stretto-like coda. Similar to Bach‘s fugues, the exposition contains four entries
that proceed from the bottom up—bass, tenor, alto, and soprano—and at the second entry of the
subject, Beethoven introduces a countersubject that becomes an integral part of the structure. In
addition, the sequential passages of the episodes are all derived from the subject and they all
modulate from one key to another. To wit, the sequences in mm. 129–134 are derived from
motive ―c‖ (Example 2.3). Motive ―c‖ begins in the soprano line (mm. 129–130), continues in
the alto and tenor lines in parallel sixths (mm. 131–132), and then returns to the soprano line
(mm. 133–134). Meanwhile, the key center wanders from F major to G minor (mm. 132–133),
and returns to F major (mm. 134–135). At measure 136, the subject enters in an incomplete form,
and here, the key center shifts to A minor.
On the other hand, Beethoven may treat the fugal writing in a more liberal manner. In
Op. 101, Beethoven turns away from the traditional exposition of the Baroque fugue, where the
19
second entry of the subject usually tonicizes the dominant. Instead, the second entry of the fugue
in the development of the Op. 101 finale moves to the relative major—C major. In addition, the
next entry in the alto line in m. 105 shifts to the subdominant, D minor, instead of staying in the
dominant or returning to the tonic. Beethoven also takes great liberties in the final section (mm.
176–182). Here, the four-part stretto (Example 2.4) unfolds in the same order as the entries in the
exposition: bass, tenor, alto, and soprano. Instead of presenting four complete subjects, however,
the stretto gives only parts of them. The soprano line is the most literal, and the alto line starts
the subject twice, once in m. 177, and again in m. 179. The bass entry begins with the subject for
two measures (mm. 176–178), but then sits on a long pedal in E major. In doing so, it anticipates
the dominant pedal point (mm. 190–195) and the dominant preparation (mm. 195–199) that will
herald the return to A major. As a result, the bass entry not only creates tension through its
motivic modification, but it signals the end of the development through its static harmonies.
Each of Beethoven‘s piano sonatas has something special about it, but there is little
argument that the ―Hammerklavier‖ Sonata in B-flat Major, Op. 106, is the most epic. Not only it
is the longest sonata, requiring over forty minutes in performance, but it is one of the most
breathtaking examples of Beethoven‘s late fugal technique. Beethoven employs fugue in two of
the four movements: the first movement‘s development section, and the finale; and the former is
among the best examples of Beethoven‘s mastery of counterpoint. Similar to the development
section of the finale of Op. 101, the development section of the ―Hammerklavier‖ first movement
begins with an introduction (mm. 124–136) followed by a fugato section (mm. 137–176). Unlike
Op. 101, where the subject enters in each voice, in turns—much like the exposition of a Bach
fugue—the development section of Op. 106 treats the subjects in canonic style. Immediately
20
after the statement of the first subject, Beethoven responds with the answer in the second
measure, placing it a fifth lower in the bass, and overlapping the first subject (Example 2.5).
This canonic technique becomes Beethoven‘s vehicle for treating the fugue, and in this
movement, he presents each of the four canonic entries differently. The second one (mm. 146–
152) occurs in the dominant key, following the convention of the traditional fugue. In the third
entry, Beethoven expands the three-voice texture into four voices; the alto and bass lines run in
parallel tenths, and the soprano and tenor lines follow suit in parallel tenths one measure later
(mm. 156–161). The fourth and final entry is also in four voices but in different combinations,
starting with the two upper voices in thirds, followed one measure later and a fifth lower by the
two lower voices in thirds (mm. 166–172). The episodes in the fugato section are similar to the
previous canonic entries. For example, the episode after the second entry (mm. 153–155) begins
with the same sequential passage derived from the end of the second entry. In addition, in the
episode from mm. 173–176, where the four voices are divided in thirds or sixths, the upper two
and lower two voices mimic the writing of the preceding entry.
The form of the ―Hammerklavier‖ first-movement development section is much more
complicated than the development of the Op. 101 finale. The Op. 106 development is enormous,
totaling 102 measures in length, which approximates the length of the entire first movement in
Beethoven‘s early piano sonatas. But this large canvas enables Beethoven to display his grasp of
motivic development and harmonic manipulation. In addition to the intense canonic writing,
Beethoven uses the primary theme and closing themes as devices for modulation, traveling
through the keys of C minor, B-flat major, E-flat major, D major, and B major (mm. 177–200
and 201–213). In m. 214, Beethoven returns to the canonic writing of the development and
21
makes an amazing modulation from B major to B-flat major that sets up, in measure 227, the
recapitulation of the first movement.
Not to be outdone, Beethoven‘s last piano sonata, No. 32 in C Minor, Op. 111, also
employs fugue as a developmental mechanism. The composer‘s sketchbook reveals the
fascinating progress of themes and fugal textures in the Op. 111 first movement; in fact,
according to Nottebohm, as early as 1801, Beethoven had intended to use the primary theme of
the first movement in the finale of a different sonata.46 At that time, Beethoven was finishing the
Op. 30 violin sonatas (Example 2.6), and although Beethoven did not indicate the clef and key
signature, one can infer that the music is in the bass clef and in C minor, since it closely
corresponds with the first theme in the Op. 111 first movement. A comparison of this sketch to
the Op. 111 theme reveals a striking similarity, with the exception of Beethoven‘s addition of
triplets on the upbeat for a more energetic opening. In other words, the thirty-second notes create
perpetual motion and a dramatic effect that leads to the tonic on the downbeat (Example 2.7).
Much like the start of a traditional fugue, the theme begins without accompaniment; in his
sketch, Beethoven not only writes out the first statement of the theme, but ruminates on the
possibilities of the theme as a fugal entrance in the third measure (Example 2.6), an idea that
comes to fruition in the Op. 111 first movement. The three notes (G-Bb-F#) comprise the second
entrance in the dominant, and the notes C-E-flat-B in the treble clef essentially comprise the third
entrance, again in the tonic key.
In the first movement of Op. 111, Beethoven creates four quasi-fugal entries of the
subject in the exposition—mm. 29, 35, 39, and 43. In the first entry, Beethoven varies the theme
in different registers, touch, and tempo (Example 2.8). For example, in m. 30, he places the first
46
G. Nottebohm., Ein skizzenbuch von Beethoven (Leipzig: Breitkofph & Hartel, 1865), 466–8; quoted in
Cockshoot, 171.
22
sequence in a choral texture marked “poco ritenente.” By contrast, the next fragment (m. 31)
returns to the original tempo with a two-hand crescendo that begins from the extremes of both
registers in contrary motion. In addition, Beethoven inserts sixteenth notes in the middle voice to
enhance the dramatic nature of the passage.
From the second to the fourth fugal entries (mm. 35–47), Beethoven uses the same
countersubject, and within each entry, he employs the subject as a developmental device,
elaborating upon it in sequences of sixteenth notes to keep the motion moving forward
(Examples 2.9–2.11). In this vein, the subject in each entry is extended with sequences derived
from it. Meanwhile, from a larger vantage point, the three fugal entries (mm. 35, 39, and 43)
begin a series of sequences that build the momentum and prepare for the arrival of the secondary
theme (m. 50). Beethoven also maintains tension through modulation; the second fugal entry is
in C minor, and the last two entries modulate to E-flat major and A-flat major respectively. This
harmonic process also serves as a transition to the secondary theme in A-flat major (m. 50).
Another example of Beethoven‘s masterful handling of sequence and key occurs in mm. 76–81,
where the subject begins on the third beat of the left hand, accompanied by an augmentation of
the subject in the right hand. This canonic texture then evolves into a series of sequences and
passes through the keys of C minor, G minor, and F minor (Example 2.12).
Fugato Structure within the Variation Form
But Beethoven hardly limits the contrapuntal techniques of his late piano sonatas to
development sections; he also displays a particular fondness for the variation genre.
Beethoven‘s fusion of fugue and variation form is not new to his third period; his Fifteen
Variation with Fugue, Op. 35 presents an Alla Fuga finale that serves as a model for later plans.
23
Compared to the finale of Op. 35, the fugato variation in the finale of his Piano Sonata in E
Major, Op. 109, is on a smaller scale, consisting of only forty measures that are placed between
the Adagio variation and the finale. The theme of this variation first appears in the first of three
sketchbooks (1819–22).47 When placed next to the final version, this sketch is more closely
related to the opening theme of the movement; despite differences in register, rhythm, and meter,
it has the same melodic contour (Example 2.13). The overlapping of the second entry on the first
voice discloses Beethoven‘s contrapuntal intentions for the variation, but in the final version, the
texture becomes more stretto-like. Here, the length is compressed into two measures and the
canonic writing overlaps at least four different times. In addition, the syncopations in the left
hand highlight the fugato texture and bring its attention to the listener‘s ear (Example 2.14).
In terms of structure, however, the fifth variation of the Op. 109 finale is unique in
Beethoven‘s oeuvre. It is neither similar to the development section of the Op. 101 finale, which
resembles a Bach fugue, nor does it anticipate the first movement of Op. 111 where each fugal
entry modulates to different keys. In the fifth variation of the finale of Op. 109, Beethoven
presents a highly imitative and stretto-like texture that relies heavily on the complete overlapping
of statements, particularly in mm. 1–4, 9–10, 25–27, and 33–35. Other times, Beethoven simply
juxtaposes a few elements of the opening theme into sequential passages in different voices. For
example, in the first sequential passage (mm. 12–15), the rising thirds in half notes are derived
from the bass line in the first measure, and the middle voice here derives from the middle voice
in the second measure. Beethoven is also fond of inversion; in contrast to the ascending contour
of the opening theme (mm. 17–18, 21–22, 25–27, 33–35), he introduces a descending melodic
contour that he employs as a primary thematic element in the second half the variation.
47
Nottebohm, 462; quoted in Cockshoot, 169.
24
Fugue as an Entirely Separate Movement
The last category of Beethoven‘s late contrapuntal writing concerns the Finales of the
―Hammerklavier‖ Sonata, Op. 106, and the Piano Sonata No. 31 in A-flat Major, Op. 110, where
Beethoven marks ―fugue‖ at the beginning of each movement. In the ―Hammerklavier,‖ after
five measures of the introduction, Beethoven writes “Fuga a tre voci con alcune licenze” to
indicate the beginning of this section. When he pored over Beethoven‘s sketchbooks, Nottebohm
discovered a few figures closely related to the subject of this fugue (Example 2.15).48 Compared
to the final version (Example 2.16), sketch ―a‖ displays the basic outline for the subject—the
opening leap of a tenth, followed by a descending-scale sequential passage. Meanwhile, the
syncopation that emphasizes the second beat in the first measure comes from sketch ―b.‖ The last
figure, sketch ―c,‖ reveals the crucial role that trills play in not only the final version of the
subject, but also in the stretto section of an important episode (mm. 107–117).
The entire fugue consists of 385 measures (mm. 6–390), which includes an exposition,
middle sections that alternation with episodes, and a coda. Beethoven employs a variety of
methods to sustain the listener‘s interest and unity to this long movement. For example, in mm.
84–95, he augments the subject in the left hand, and in mm. 100–106, he follows it with an
incomplete augmented entry in the right hand. Also, in the stretto portion, he presents it in both
its natural form and its inversion (Example 2.17). Beethoven borrows his most interesting device,
however, from the distant past, specifically the late medieval and early Renaissance periods.
Within a period of fifteen measures, Beethoven twice presents the subject in a ―crab canon‖ in
mm. 143–148 (Example 2.18) and mm. 152–158. As shown in the aforementioned examples, a
crab canon involves a direct statement of the theme by its retrograde. Such canons were favored
48
Nottebohm, ―Skizzen zur Sonata, Op. 106,‖ Zweite Beethoveniana, 136; quoted in Cockshoot, 71.
25
among early masters such as Guillaume Machaut and Guillaume Dufay, who infused their music
with numerology. As a result, the appearance of this technique is decidedly rare in the standard
tonal era, and outside of Beethoven‘s ―Hammerklavier‖ sonata, and perhaps J.S. Bach‘s The
Musical Offering, the ―crab canon‖ was a lost art until the twentieth century, when Schoenberg
consulted early music for ideas in giving cohesion to his twelve-tone system.49
Beethoven writes “Fuga a tre voci con alcune licenze” (―fugue in three voices, with
some license‖) at the beginning of the fugue. Indeed, there are several places where he did not
always follow the convention to write the fugue. For example, the coda (mm. 357–390) begins
with the fragments of the subjects in stretto, very similar to the end of a Bach fugue, but from
measures 359–370, Beethoven inserts one of his compositional signatures: an eleven-measure
dominant trill. This device—which appears also in his ―Waldstein‖ Piano Sonata, No. 21 in C
Major, Op. 53; his Piano Sonata No. 30 in E Major, Op. 109; and his Piano Sonata No. 32 in C
Minor, Op. 111—functions as an important pedal point. Beethoven also takes considerable
freedom with an independent episode (mm. 75–83), where he spins new thematic material into a
series of sequences. In terms of the connection between the new material and the subject of the
fugue, both figures share the same melodic contour at the beginning of each section—the leap of
a tenth in the principal motive in the right hand (m. 84, from B-flat to D) and the leap of a tenth
in the fugue subject.
In another episode in mm. 240–268, which Beethoven titles “sempre dolce e cantabile,”
a passage of long quarter notes creates an unusual character within the fugue, so much so that
49
William Drabkin, ―Retrograde,‖ in Grove Music Online.
26
some theorists and musicologists consider this section as a new subject.50 In fact, the opening of
the section (mm. 240–245) resembles an exposition of a fugue (as the subject appears in three
voices); and later, Beethoven employs stretto (mm. 249–252 and mm. 260–263). But Beethoven
departs from this episode in a striking fashion, in mm. 269–284: he employs a double fugato,
combining the new theme and the original subject. To be fair, there are different opinions about
whether this section is truly independent; Cockshoot, for instance, consider the new theme to be
simply a countersubject. After all, in a double fugue, the two subjects should be approximately
the same length, and the new subject should continue to appear throughout the rest of the
movement. Here, however, neither case happens; the new material is much shorter than the
original subject, and Beethoven never uses the new material again.51
But as ingenious as Beethoven‘s devices are in the ―Hammerklavier‖ fugue, the finale of
Beethoven‘s Piano Sonata No. 31 in A-flat Major, Op. 110, shows Beethoven at the height of his
creativity. The pairing of slow and fast movements has no precedent in Beethoven‘s earlier piano
music. The final movement begins with a slow introduction (―Adagio ma no troppo‖ and
―Recitativo‖) before the first ―Arioso,‖ connects to the fugue (―Allegro ma non troppo‖), returns
to the ―Arioso,‖ and then closes with the fugue. The first fugue contains three cycles of entries
(mm. 26–45, 45–87, and 87–114), and almost all of the entries are either in the tonic or the
dominant, the exception being the first entry of the third cycle, which ventures into the
subdominant, D-flat major (mm. 87–91). After the second ―Arioso,‖ Beethoven marks
“L’inversione della Fuga” at the beginning of the second fugue, to remind the performer to be
50
Donald Francis Tovey, A Companion to Beethoven’s Pianoforte Sonatas (London: Royal Schools of
Music, 1931), 239; Lockwood, 383; and Cooper, 175.
51
Cockshot, 86–87. He disagrees with Tovey‘s analysis in which Tovey claims that ―thus established in the
mid-course of a fugue, whether in present or destined combination with the Subject, deserve the title of Second or
Third Subject, to distinguish them from the ordinary countersubjects of the Exposition.‖ Cockshot claims that ―this
surely misleads by suggesting for a theme an exaggerated importance not intended by the composer and
misunderstands its function in the fugue as a whole.‖
27
aware of its relationship to the previous fugue. Here, Beethoven presents the subjects of the first
fugue in inversion, but he presents them as completely new material in a new exposition.
In the second fugue, the alto line begins with the first entry, the soprano line follows with
the answer, and the bass line gives the third entry in the tonic again. In the middle section of this
fugue, Beethoven draws upon a wealth of ideas to manipulate the material, including inversion,
augmentation, stretto, diminution, and double diminution. In mm. 152–160, for example,
Beethoven begins with an exciting stretto passage: the soprano line states the subject in
augmentation, in dotted quarter notes, and the other two voices respond with entries in
diminution and similar fragmentary figurations in eighths and sixteenth notes (Example 2.19).
By m. 168, the double diminution intensifies the texture, and four measures before the final
section (mm. 170–173), Beethoven presents another stretto passage. Here, he combines the
double diminution of the subject with its inversion in augmentation (Example 2.20), and this
contrapuntal climax heralds a recapitulation in the following measure (m. 174) of the fugue
subject in its original form and tonic key.
Beethoven‘s appropriation of fugal technique in his last five piano sonatas encompasses
more than formal structures or intellectual stimulation. Very often, the care and complexity of his
fugato writing creates moments of great emotional impact. Tovey, for one, feels that Beethoven
turned to the fugue as a means to give his sonata-form movements a more dramatic edge.52 In a
letter to the violinist Karl Holz, a close friend of his, Beethoven wrote, ―To write a fugue is no
great art. When I was a student, I made dozens of them. But the fancy wishes also to assert its
privileges, and today a new and really poetical element must be introduced into the traditional
52
Tovey, 233.
28
form.‖53 With one of the greatest imaginations in music history, Beethoven scarcely dismissed
any possibility for expression, and while his fugues will justly be of great interest to the theorist,
their real power lay in the concert hall.
53
A. W. Thayer, The Life of Ludwig van Beethoven, vol. 2 (New York: The Beethoven Association, 1921),
365.
29
Score Excerpts: Fugue
Example 2.1 Beethoven: Op. 101, Finale, mm. 91–98
30
Example 2.5 Beethoven: Op. 106, Mvt. I, mm. 137–142
Example 2.6 Beethoven‘s Sketch Book Vol. II for a finale in a sonata
31
Example 2.8 Beethoven, Op. 111: Mvt. I, mm. 29–32
32
33
Example 2.13 Beethoven‘s sketch-books between 1819 and 1822, vol. 1, 7854
Example 2.14 Beethoven: Op. 109, Mvt. III, Var. 5, mm. 1–4
Example 2.15 Beethoven, sketches for the fugal subject (Op. 106, Finale)
54
Nottebohm, p. 462, quoted in Cockshoot, 169.
34
Example 2.16 Beethoven: Op. 106, Finale, fugal subject, mm. 6–11
35
36
Chapter 3: Sonata
Although the term ―sonata‖ has circulated widely during the past five centuries, its
structure and content has changed over the course of time. Throughout its development, the
sonata has adapted different forms and textures from a variety of sources, and its characteristics
at any one point reflected the aesthetic outlook of the time. This chapter will briefly outline the
origin of the keyboard sonata, Beethoven‘s inheritance of the tradition, and the innovations and
experimentation of his late works.
The word ―sonata‖ comes from the Latin ―sonare,‖ meaning ―to sound‖—that is, to make
sound, as in to play an instrument. In the thirteenth century, the word ―sonnade‖ began to be
used as a reference to music written for and performed on instruments.55 In the early Baroque
period, composers of instrumental music began to use the terms ―canzone‖ and ―sonata‖
interchangeably, and indeed, both genres shared many similarities. Both possessed contrasting
sections in different meters and tempos, relied on an imitative contrapuntal texture, and almost
always concluded with a repetition or recapitulation of the opening section. Gradually, the sonata
began to separate from the canzona, and in the early eighteenth century, well-known composers
such as Corelli, Vivaldi, and Telemann had established the sonata as an important solo and
chamber work. In 1732, the composer and scholar J.G. Walther, in his dictionary of musical
terms, gave the sonata a clear definition that reflected the far-reaching influence of these
composers; specifically, he wrote that ―the sonata is a piece for instruments, especially the violin,
of a serious and artful nature, in which adagios and allegros alternate.‖56
55
Sandra Mangsen, ―Sonata,‖ Grove Music Online.
56
Ibid.
37
Although the violin was the highest-profile instrument of the middle and high Baroque,
rapid changes in instrument construction and technology began to create competition in other
families, especially woodwinds and the keyboard. In 1696, Johann Kuhnau (1660–1722)
published the first collection of keyboard sonatas, colorfully titled Frische Clavierfrüchte (Fresh
Keyboard Fruit); the volume contained seven sonatas for either harpsichord or organ, and each
consisted of several movements (often from three to six) and always featured an alternation of
fast and slow tempi.57 A generation later, the Italian-born Domenico Scarlatti (1685–1757),
working for the royal family in Spain, penned more than 555 sonatas, mostly in one-movement
binary forms, some of which can be paired in two. Having spent his life outside the mainstream
of European musical development, Scarlatti ensured an irregular posthumous reputation for his
music. Although his sonatas were highly praised, especially by English music historian Charles
Burney, some of them were startlingly experimental, and they continued in and out of print in
various collections over the next two hundred years.58
As a result, despite Scarlatti‘s contributions, the classical piano sonata did not reach its
first stage of maturity until the 1740s, with the work of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach (1714–88).
Committed to the Empfindsamkeit movement, or ―sentimental‖ style, Bach began the process of
freeing the keyboard sonata from the limitations of the dance suite.59 The German composer and
theorist Johann Mattheson, in his treatise Der vollkommene Capellmeister (The Perfect Chapel
Master [Hamburg, 1739]), wrote ―For some years now composers have been writing sonatas for
keyboard to great acclaim, but they do not yet have the right form, wishing to be moved rather
57
Stewart Gordon, A History of Keyboard Literature (Belmont: Schirmer, 1996), 49.
58
Robert Pagano, ―Giuseppe Domenico Scarlatti,‖ Grove Music Online.
59
Christoph Wolff, ―Bach,‖ Grove Music Online.
38
than to move; that is to say, they aim more at the touch of fingers than to touch the heart.‖60
Bach, however, began to change this—he specified his late sonatas for the fortepiano, which
allowed for greater dynamic possibilities than the harpsichord, and he divided his sonatas into
three separate movements in a fast-slow-fast pattern, with the middle movement always
changing to a related key. Still, Bach was not limited in his formal imagination: he employs a
variety of forms, including sonata form, rondo form, and dance forms such as the minuet; and in
his slow movements, his recitative and cadenza-like passages give the performer great
opportunities for individual expression.61
Among Joseph Haydn‘s (1732–1809) fifty-two piano sonatas, most are in three
movements, either fast-slow-fast, or containing a fast movement, a slow movement, and a minuet
in any variety of order; some sonatas contain two and four movements, too. Elaine Sisman writes
that while Haydn‘s keyboard works were significant on their own, in their own time, they also
functioned as a point of entry through which Haydn transformed the symphony and the string
quartet. Indeed, throughout Haydn‘s active career, the sonata and the symphony are the only two
instrumental genres in which he constantly worked, a characteristic that his student Beethoven
later shared with him.62 Coincidently, in their final years of life, despite still writing a number of
piano pieces, they both stopped composing piano sonatas.63 Another similarity between
Beethoven and Haydn‘s piano sonatas is that the majority of Beethoven‘s piano sonatas are in
60
Ibid.
61
Kathleen Dale, Nineteenth-Century Piano Music (London: Oxford University Press, 1954), 12.
62
Elaine Sisman, Haydn’s Solo Keyboard Music in Robert L. Marshall (Ed.), Eighteenth-Century
Keyboard Music (New York: Routledge), 271.
63
Haydn wrote little instrumental music in his final years (1795–1809) in Vienna, mainly because his
patron Prince Nicolaus II was in favor of large religious works for chorus and orchestra. Beethoven‘s remaining
years (1824–1827) were mainly devoted to the string quartets. James Webster, ―Haydn: Vienna, 1795–1809,‖ Grove
Music Online; Joseph Kerman, ―Beethoven: 1824–1827,‖ Grove Music Online.
39
three movements, although, like Haydn, some are in two or four movements; meanwhile, all of
Mozart‘s piano sonatas are in three movements.
Beethoven‘s experimentation in the piano sonata also greatly influenced his achievements
in other genres. In his first period, several of his sonatas consisted of four movements, a
structural plan more often associated with the string quartet or the symphony. Not surprisingly,
perhaps, his early sonatas suggest several instances quartet-like writing. For example, the
opening measures of the second movement of the Piano Sonata in A Major, Op. 2/ 2 are in four-
part writing ―with a relatively static sustained melody; and a pizzicato-like moving bass, not only
marked staccato but also painstakingly written with rests between each note.‖64 Similar texture
appears at the beginning of the second movement of the ―Pastoral‖ Piano Sonata in D Major, Op.
28 as well. Other places such as mm. 8–9 of the first movement of the Piano Sonata in E Major,
Op. 14/1, and mm. 47–49 of the first movement of the Piano Sonata in G Major, Op. 14/2 also
exhibit quartet-like writing.65 It is worth noting that Beethoven later arranged Op. 14, No. 1 for
string quartet, although in the more comfortable key of F major instead of the original key of E
major.
But Beethoven‘s four-movement sonatas were not merely imitations of Haydn; they also
gave him room for experimentation. For example, the second movement of the Piano Sonata in
D Major, Op. 10/3, features a middle section so haunting, dramatic, and touching—almost
―orchestral,‖ in fact—that many musicians regard it as the most profound slow movement
64
Gordon, 150.
65
Ibid, 160–165
40
Beethoven wrote before 1800.66 For the Piano Sonata in E-flat Major, Op. 27/1, Beethoven adds
to the title the words “quasi una Fantasia” (―like a fantasy‖) in order to distinguish this short
work from the typical expectations of a four-movement sonata. In fact, the idea of combining
two genres might be inspired from Mozart‘s Fantasia in C Minor, K. 475, which serves as an
introduction to the composer‘s own Piano Sonata No. 14 in C Minor, K. 457.67 But Beethoven‘s
Op. 27/1 is an even further departure from the norm—the first movement has three tempo
changes (Andante, Allegro, and Tempo I), an attacca subito connects all the movements, a
cadenza-like passage precedes the last movement, and the material from the Adagio movement
returns in this last movement before the final presto.68
In Beethoven‘s later years, his penchant for experimentation grew more intense, and in
his attempt to transcend the limitations of traditional forms, he increasingly turned to an
improvisational character. To wit, the second theme of the first movement of the Piano Sonata
No. 30 in E Major, Op. 109, consists of several virtuosic and cadenza-like passages full of
arpeggios in sixty-fourth notes, running up and down the entire range of the keyboard. The Piano
Sonata No. 28 in A Major, Op. 101, is even more daring—the third movement acts as a prelude
to the fourth movement, and in doing so, recalls the opening theme of the first movement and
ushers in a passage of arpeggios and trills to be executed with great freedom. Beethoven also
employs juxtaposition as a means of creating greater dramatic contrast. For example, the two
themes of the first movement of Op. 109 (Example 3.1) could not be more different, specifically
in the areas of tempo (Vivace and Adagio espressivo), meter (2/4 and 3/4), melodic contour
(static and wide range use of the entire keyboard), rhythm (regular and fantasia-like
66
Ibid, 157.
67
68
Gordon, 163.
41
improvisatory passages), and harmony (steady, mostly alternating tonic and dominant, verses
chromatic and diminished chords). Curiously, in the first movement of the String Quartet in B-
flat, Op. 130 (Example 3.2), the confrontation of themes with different tempi occur even more
frequently than in the first movement of Op. 109.
On the surface, the pairing of Arioso and fugue is fairly conventional in the Baroque era,
but in the context of the evolving keyboard sonata—as in Beethoven‘s Piano Sonata No. 31 in A-
flat Major, Op. 110—it is a marked departure, and Beethoven takes full advantage of this
unusual form. The Arioso is essentially an operatic scene; the keyboardist must imitate an
orchestral introduction (mm. 1–3), a recitative (m. 4), and a passage using Bebung technique,
that is, ―a vibrato obtained on the clavichord by alternately increasing and decreasing the
pressure of the finger on the key.‖69 The effect was described in the C. P. E. Bach‘s Essay on the
True Art of Playing Keyboard Instrument, 1753. Although the technique was possibly used on
clavichord of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, in the eighteenth-century, it was often used
in the pieces of a tragic character. The use of Bebung in the nineteenth century was limited and
eventually died out, as did most of the ornaments in general. When it was applied, it appeared as
important longer notes in declamatory singing. In Op. 110 here, Beethoven showed his
acquaintances with the outdated style and used it in the recitative section in.70 The American
pianist and music theorist Charles Rosen likens this technique to the vocal effect of sobbing.71
The pulsating accompaniment (mm. 6–7) leads to an Arioso dolente, entitled Klagender Gesang
(―Song of Lamentation‖) in A-flat minor. Here, the principal melodic gesture is a descending line
69
Edwin M. Riping, ―Bebung,‖ Grove Music Online.
70
Edwin M. Riping, ―Bebung,‖ Grove Music Online; and David Montgomery, Franz Schubert’s Music in
Performance (Pendragon Press, 2003), 127–131.
71
Rosen, 226.
42
with a vocal quality reflecting pain and sorrow. In contrast to this line, the subject of the fugue
boasts rising fourths in an ascending line and in the minor key‘s parallel key, A-flat major. The
depression in the previous Arioso, however, has not fully dissipated; the Arioso interrupts the
fugue, this time in G minor. The dramatic modulation created by the dominant seventh of A-flat
major becomes an augmented sixth, resolving on the second inversion of G minor. As Tovey
indicates, it does not encourage us to recognize G minor as the #vii. ―The purport here is to
produce surprise and a break away into something remote from the key of the Fugue but near in
pitch to the Arioso. Nothing could suit this purpose better than the drop of a semitone.‖72 This
lower semitone reflects Beethoven‘s marking Ermattet klagend (―exhausted, plaintive‖), and the
broken phrases and rhythms reinforce the marking Perdendo le forze, dolento (―losing energy,
sadly‖). This tragic character persists until the arrival of the second fugue, marked poi a poi di
nuovo vivente (―little by little with renewed vigor‖) and wieder auflebend (―again reviving‖),
which symbolizes ―the gathering of confidence after illness or despair.‖73
These startling contrasts occur not just within a movement, and between the primary and
secondary themes, but also among the movements. The two-movement scheme of the Piano
Sonata No. 32 in C Minor, Op. 111, for instance, lays the groundwork for a battle between both
musical and extramusical forces. Beethoven pits the following against one another: the driving
Allegros con brio ed appassionato and the serene Adagio molto semplice e cantabile (Examples
3.3 and 3.4); sonata form with fugal technique and variation form; chromatic harmony and
diatonic harmony; and C minor and C major.
72
Donald Francis Tovey, A Companion to Beethoven’s Pianoforte Sonatas (London: Royal Schools of
Music, 1931), 267–268.
73
Denis Matthews, Beethoven Piano Sonatas (London: British Ariel Music, 1986), 54.
43
Beethoven also makes great contrasts with extremity of length in his late years. In his
early years, Beethoven inherited the classical tradition as established by Haydn and Mozart; the
Piano Sonata in F Minor, Op. 2/1, the first sonata with an opus number and dedicated to Haydn,
employs a very conventional three-movement form. In his middle period, Beethoven expended
sonata form through tight control of motivic elements, surprising modulations, and developing
codas—aspects done to perfection in his famous ―Waldstein‖ Piano Sonata, No. 21 in C Major,
Op. 53, and his ―Appassionata‖ Piano Sonata, No. 23 in F Minor, Op. 57. In his late years,
Beethoven began to think on an even more epic scale; the ―Hammerklavier‖ Piano Sonata, No.
29 in B-flat Major, Op. 106, reaches symphonic proportions, not just because of its length—it
takes 45 minutes to perform—but it literally contains a world. Within the sonata‘s orchestral
framework, Beethoven reflects upon his development as a composer, returning to the four-
movement tradition of Haydn, invoking the fugal and linear polyphonic textures of the Baroque
era, and anticipating the tonal plan of descending thirds that becomes one of the most important
characteristics of the Romantic period. Another instance of Beethoven‘s expansion of length is
the second movement of the Piano Sonata No. 32 in C Minor, Op. 111, which consists of thirteen
pages of music and requires seventeen minutes to perform, an unusual length for a slow
movement. Naturally, Beethoven‘s innovations in length are also manifested itself in other
genres; for example, the original last movement of the String Quartet No.13 in B-flat Major, Op.
130, was so big and heavy that after the first performance of the work, Beethoven replaced it
with a shorter and lighter final movement, and published the Große Fuge separately as Op. 133.
Of course, Beethoven‘s late piano sonatas are not just exercises in grandeur; there are
also passages of simplicity and brevity where Beethoven removes all ornaments and leaves the
structure to speak for itself. In the classical period, the development section became a place
44
where the composer could work out the issues in his thematic material in combination,
juxtaposition, and sequential passages in order to achieve a grand culminating statement. In three
of Beethoven‘s late piano sonatas—Opp. 101, 106, and 111—he employs fugal technique in the
development sections, and the texture and counterpoint can grow quite complex. Beethoven also
employs compression; in the development section of the first movement of the Piano Sonata No.
31 in A-flat Major, Op. 110, numbers only sixteen measures, and the melodic line is assembled
through a series of four descending sequences derived from the opening motive of the work.
The compression of the development sections are established by focusing on the
harmonic development instead of thematic development. A closer look at the development
section of the first movement of Op. 110 reveals much more than a journey from middle C (m.
40) to the C an octave lower at the beginning of the recapitulation (m. 56). Although the entire
section is based on one motive, Beethoven treats the textures and accompaniments of each
sequence differently. In doing so, he deemphasizes the thematic aspect of the development
section, and intensifies the harmonic aspect. At the beginning (mm. 40–43), Beethoven combines
the opening motive (mm. 1–2) with the accompaniment derived from mm. 5–11 in F minor. The
second sequence, with its ascending and descending scale in the left hand, modulates to D-flat
major. The third sequence starts in D-flat major and travels to B-flat minor, and in the last
sequence, the motive is harmonized in both B-flat minor (m. 54) and with the E-flat dominant
seventh (m. 55), which, as the dominant of A-flat major ushers in the return of the tonic and the
recapitulation (m. 56).
Beethoven also takes a threadbare approach to thematic development in the first
movement of his Piano Sonata No. 30 in E Major, Op. 109. Here, too, the development section is
rather brief, only thirty measures in length. Similar to Op. 110, it is based entirely on one motive
45
and concentrates on modulations to different keys, specifically G-sharp minor, D-sharp minor, F-
sharp major, and B major (the last being the dominant of the home key of E major). Curiously,
the texture is even thinner than Op. 110, as the entire development possesses the same texture
throughout without a single change in accompanimental pattern or voice leading.
As mentioned previously, Beethoven‘s piano sonatas served not only as models for other
pianist-composers to follow, but also as stepping stones to experimentation in other genres.
Because the piano sonata was the singular genre in which Beethoven worked throughout his
career, it provides the Beethoven scholar with an ideal starting point for investigating the
composer‘s development at any one time. An analysis of Beethoven‘s sonatas reveals not just his
innovations in length, idiom, texture, and juxtaposition, but also a broader view of where
Beethoven wished his music to go. In many ways, Beethoven‘s late piano sonatas, like his late
string quartets, look well beyond the revolutionary world of the early nineteenth century.
46
Score Excerpts: Sonata
47
48
Example 3.4 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. II, mm. 1–8
49
Chapter 4: Key Relationships
In the late eighteenth century, with the rise of interest in music from the middle class and
amateur performers, many books were published on topics such as composition, performance
practice, dictionaries and critical analysis. However, A. B. Marx (1795–1866), one of the most
influential theorists in the nineteenth century who codified sonata form,74 complains that
manuals he studied mostly concentrate on teaching of harmony and thoroughbass at the expense
of other aspects of composition, such as form and melody.75 Analysis of pieces at the time was
essentially built on the harmonic-cadential action. ―The typical harmonic late-eighteenth century
analysis of what was later to be called sonata form consisted of a harmonic plan laying out key
areas in a standard two-part arrangement: I – V : ‫ ׀‬: V– I.‖76
Beethoven adhered to what his predecessors had done. The large –scale harmonic
organization in an allegro-sonata movement is based on a dialectic in which ―the dominant
opposes (or even negates) the tonic: the dominant and tonic, that is, enter into a rational,
contrastive musical logic homologous with other oppositions between dissonance and
consonance, tension and resolution etc.‖77 During Beethoven‘s early years in Vienna, he began to
experiment with tonic-dominant substitution in a few pieces. In the first movement of his Piano
Sonata in A Major, Op. 2/2, the secondary theme starts in the dominant minor, and the closing
74
In 1837–1838, Marx published the first two volumes of his most famous and influential text, Die Lehre
von der musikalischen Komposition. See Senna Pederson, ―A. B. Marx,‖ Grove Music Online.
75
A. B. Marx, Die Lehre von der musikalischen Komposition, Vol. I, p. vi; quoted in Birgitte Moyer,
Concepts of Musical Form in the Nineteenth Century, with Special Reference to A.B. Marx and Sonata Form (Ph.D.
diss., Stanford University, 1969), 19.
76
Moyer, 7.
77
Michel Huglo, ―Tonality: Practice: The Classical Period,‖ Grove Music Online.
50
theme, closely following convention, modulates to its dominant, E major.78 Other similar
modulations–with the secondary theme starting in the dominant minor and modulating to the
dominant in the closing area in the exposition–occur in the fourth movement of the Piano Sonata
in F Minor, Op. 2/1 and the first movement of the Piano Sonata in C Major, Op. 2/3.79
In his middle period, just after the dawn of the nineteenth century, Beethoven began to
employ the mediant and the submediant as surrogates for the dominant in the secondary theme.
In the first movement of his Piano Sonata in G Major, Op. 31/3, Beethoven employs modulation
by common tone (m. 57), using the F-sharp major chord (the dominant of B major) to replace the
D major chord (the dominant of G major), and thus shifts the key area from the tonic G major to
the mediant B major. In the famous ―Waldstein‖ Piano Sonata, No. 21 in C Major, Beethoven
not only replaces the dominant with the mediant in the exposition, but he calls upon the
submediant in the secondary theme of the recapitulation. In other words, the tonic key, C major,
serves as an axis where the secondary group in the exposition is in E major and the secondary
group in the recapitulation is in A major.
In Beethoven‘s later years, he begins to modulate by the interval of a third rather than a
fifth; this phenomenon is especially evident in his late piano sonatas, the choral Symphony No.
9, and the String Quartets Opp. 127 and 130.80 William Grady Harbinson provides a detailed list
which demonstrates Beethoven‘s use of subdominant in the exposition and recapitulation of the
tonal area: 81
78
Charlse Rosen, The Classical Style (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1997), 382.
79
William Grady Harbinson, Beethoven and Schubert: A Comparative Analysis of the Structural
Subdominant in Selected Sonata-Form Movements (Ph.D. diss., Florida State University, 1982), 103.
80
Ibid., 383.
81
Harbinson, 103–140.
51
Exposition (Secondary Area):
Piano Sonata, Op. 106, Mvt. I VI

Piano Sonata, Op. 111, Mvt. I bVI
String Quartet, Op. 127, Mvt. I bVI
Recapitulation (Principle Area):
Piano Sonata, Op. 106, Mvt. I I to bVI

Piano Sonata, Op. 109, Mvt. II I to bVI
Piano Sonata, Op. 110, Mvt. I I to bVI and IV
String Quartet, Op. 127, Mvt. I I to IV
String Quartet, Op. 135, Mvt. IV I to IV
Recapitulation (Secondary Area):
Piano Sonata, Op. 106, Mvt. I bII, then I

Piano Sonata, Op. 111, Mvt. I iv/iv, then i
String Quartet, Op. 130, Mvt. I bIII, then I
String Quartet, Op. 135, Mvt. IV VI, IV, then I
In the examples above, one notices that Beethoven‘s modulation in thirds occurs in the
exposition of the sonata-movements in his late works. In addition, the primary theme of the
recapitulation in the piano sonatas, Opp. 106, 109, and 110 modulate in thirds as well. Beethoven
has been very experimental and creative in the secondary area of the recapitulation: the key areas
he modulates are varied from piece to piece, from Neapolitan, to bIII, to iv/iv.
The relationship of the third plays an important role, which not only occurs on a large-
scale structure, but also on a small in the first movement of his monumental ―Hammerklavier‖
Piano Sonata, No. 29 in B-flat Major, Op. 106, as detailed below:82
82
Robert Taub, Playing the Beethoven Piano Sonatas (Oregon: Amadeus Press, 2002), 204.
52
Exposition:
B-flat major Opening theme (m. 1); down a third to
G major Second theme group (m. 45); down a third to
Development:
E-flat major Opening of the fugato section (m. 124); down a third to
B major End of development (m. 201)
Recapitulation:
B-flat major Recapitulation (m. 227); down a third to
G-flat major Subsidiary theme in the first group (m. 248)
Although all of these examples modulate by a third, each of them receives a different
treatment, and as a group, they create strikingly individual effects. For example, after the
transition between the first and secondary group in mm. 35–38 (Example 4.1), Beethoven
resumes the opening theme. In the meantime, the sequence in the transition does not rise in
tessitura as expected, but rather remains on D. Beethoven colors this same pitch in various ways:
the first octave in D stays as part of the B-flat major chord; the second octave in D is left without
harmonic support; and the rest are harmonized with D major chords, as the dominant preparation
to G major. To create even more subtle key changes, Beethoven turns to one of his
aforementioned favorite techniques—the common tone modulation. Even though the modulation
progresses to the submediant—that is, from B-flat major to G major—Beethoven still uses the
dominant preparation from mm. 38–50 to establish the new key. Another example of Beethoven
modulation by thirds occurs at the beginning of the development section. Here, Beethoven writes
three sequential passages to move from G major to E-flat major (Example 4.2), but they, too, all
create diverse effects. The first sequence is a little ambiguous—it starts in a G major chord that
sounds like either the tonic in G but also serves as the dominant of C minor. The next two are
more straightforward—the second sequence remains in C minor, and the last sequence begins
with a B-flat dominant seventh that resolves to the tonic E-flat major.
53
The modulation to B major at the end of the development (Example 4.3) is one of the
most shocking moves in Beethoven‘s oeuvre. In mm. 196–200, a four-bar dominant preparation
on the D-major chord serves as the dominant of either G major or minor. The listener rightfully
anticipates a resolution on G (most likely minor), the closest relative to the tonic of B-flat major,
and thus the easiest harmonic transition to set up the beginning of the recapitulation. Suddenly,
however, Beethoven plunges into a sweetly lyrical theme in B major (m. 200), whose chilling
remoteness from the tonic threatens the very foundation of the movement‘s form. On the other
hand, we can recognize B major as enharmonically the Neapolitan chord/key area of the tonic B-
flat major. To be fair, Rosen points out that this pull of the harmonic rug from underneath the
listener‘s feet is not the first of its kind in the piano literature. 83 In fact, the harmonic progression
(V/vi to flat VII) before returning back to the tonic is similar to Haydn‘s trick in his Piano Sonata
in Eb Major, No. 52, where a series of half cadences on the dominant G major of C minor (V/vi)
shifts to E major (flat VII) before returning back to the expected tonic of E-flat major (Example
4.4).
Given Beethoven‘s brief study with Haydn, one may logically assume that Beethoven
was aware of Haydn‘s piano sonatas, but their harmonic experimentation could not be more
individual. In the aforementioned passage of the ―Hammerklavier‖ Sonata, Beethoven creates
contrast not only in key relationships, but also in tempo, texture, and dynamics. The section
before the big D major chord near the end of the exposition (mm. 177–196) is very fragmented,
full of big chords marked ff, and consisting of several modulations to different key areas.
Meanwhile, the beginning of the B-major section (mm. 201–208) features a beautiful theme
83
Charles Rosen, Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), 220.
54
derived from the closing theme in the exposition; marked cantabile, it requires both hands and
soft touch in the upper register to create an ethereal and dreamy atmosphere. In Haydn‘s piano
sonata, however, the recurring idea is less complicated; the material in the new key, which
occurs after the pause in m. 69, has already been presented at the beginning of the development
section. Needless to say, Haydn‘s decision is far less revolutionary in thematic enrichment and
far less dramatic in emotional impact than Beethoven‘s.
In addition to the ―Hammerklavier,‖ Beethoven infuses two of his other late piano
sonatas with modulations in thirds in the secondary areas—specifically, the second movement of
the Piano Sonata No. 31 in A-flat Major, Op. 110, and the first movement of the Piano Sonata
No. 32 in C Minor, Op. 111. Still, the contrast between the tonic keys and the new keys are not
as surprising as the ones in the ―Hammerklavier.‖ Both secondary areas in Opp. 110 and 111
travel from a minor key to its submediant major, but both modulations occur within their related
keys. In Op. 110, Beethoven progresses from F minor to D-flat major, while in Op. 111, he
journeys from C minor to A-flat major. To wit, in Op. 110 (Example 4.5), the first section ends
in the tonic on Fs in octaves without a new chord in m. 40. Since the common tone between the F
minor chord and D-flat major chord is F, the last F in this measure (m. 40) is tied over.
Meanwhile, in the left hand, a D-flat enters in the next measure, implying the tonic of D-flat
major. To disguise this sudden change of key, Beethoven distracts the listener with a chromatic
passage in the right hand at the beginning of the new section (mm. 42–47); as a result, the
ambiguous tonality in the right hand is scarcely noticed, and Beethoven continues as before, but
in a completely new key.
In Op. 111, Beethoven employs fugal entries in different keys to modulate from C minor
to A-flat major. As discussed in the previous chapter (Examples 2.9–2.11), the subjects in C
55
minor, E-flat major, and A-flat major, which occur in mm. 35, 39, and 43, respectively, serve as
a developmental device. Together with the driving sixteenth notes of the countersubject, these
subjects create a perpetual motion that lays the groundwork for the arrival of the secondary
theme. In the recapitulation, however, Beethoven deviates from the tonic, choosing to cast the
secondary theme in the tonic‘s parallel major, C major—a trick that, to be fair, Beethoven
borrows from his earlier and more famous ―Appassionata‖ Piano Sonata, No. 23 in F Minor, Op.
57 (1805). But while both the coda of Opp. 111 and 57 have similar textures—specifically, the
last two measures, which feature two half notes and a whole note accompanied by the sixteenth
notes (Examples 4.6 and 4.7) — Op. 111 ends with an unexpected Picardy third (C major chord)
which not only dispels the stormy and brooding minor key with a ray of bright sunshine, but
prepares the key of the second movement.
In the Classical era, most composers followed an unwritten set of rules regarding key
relationships in multi-movement works. For example, a piece in a major key would usually
feature one of the middle movements (often the slow one) in the subdominant, although the
dominant or parallel minor was also acceptable. If the piece was in a minor key, however, the
middle movement was usually in the relative major. That is to say, all nine of Mozart‘s piano
sonatas (K. 279, 281, 283, 284, 309, 311, 330, 332, 333, and 533) are written in major keys and
most of their second movements take place in the subdominant; three sonatas, in particular K.
284, 545, and 576, have their second movements in the dominant. There are also a few unique
cases, such as the famous last movement of the Piano Sonata in A Major, K. 331, where
Mozart‘s logically casts his Rondo Alla Turca in the parallel minor (A minor).
Haydn‘s sonatas, however, have more variety; among his late piano sonatas (No. 43–52),
three of them are in two movements, and all of the second movements are in the same key as the
56
first movements. On the other hand, the subdominant still occurs more often as the key center of
the middle movements, specifically No. 45 in E-flat Major, No. 46 in A-flat Major, and No. 50 in
C Major. The most unusual one is the Sonata No. 52 in E-flat Major, where the second
movement is in the surprisingly remote key of E major. This semitone key affinity did not seem
to be imitated or followed until the finale of Beethoven‘s Piano Sonata No. 31 in A-flat Major,
Op. 110, where the pairs of Arioso and fugue are cast in A-flat minor-major, G minor-major, and
A-flat major. Moreover, Beethoven reinforces the semitone relationship with specific emotional
directions, such as ―exhausted‖ in the second Arioso and ―revival‖ in the second fugue. After the
second fugue, the modulations between the key of the leading tone to the tonic create great
dramatic tension, which paves the way for the triumphant return of the subject in its original
form.
In terms of key to the middle movements of Beethoven‘s piano sonatas, they are all either
in the subdominant, parallel major or minor, or a key that has a third relationship with the tonic.
That is to say, he chooses convention over experimentation in most of the cases. All of the
examples in the first category were written during his early years in Vienna. Coming readily to
mind are the Piano Sonata in A Major, Op. 2/2; the Piano Sonata in G Major, Op. 14 /2; and the
Piano Sonata in B-flat Major, Op. 22; but the most famous example is a middle period work: the
―Waldstein‖ Piano Sonata, Op. 53. The second category, too, is found mostly through his first
period, the sole exceptions being the Piano Sonata in G Major, Op. 79, and the first of the last
three works, the Piano Sonata in E Major, Op. 109. The most notable middle movements,
however, belong to the third category. Here, seven of the piano sonatas boast middle movements
in a key that has a third relationship with the tonic: four of these sonatas are in a minor key, and
their middle movements travel to the submediant major—specifically, the Piano Sonata in C
57
Minor, Op. 10, No. 1; the ―Pathetique‖ Piano Sonata in C Minor, Op. 13; the ―Tempest‖ Piano
Sonata in D Minor, Op. 31/2; and the ―Appassionata‖ Piano Sonata in F Minor, Op. 57. The
three sonatas in a major key, on the other hand, feature middle movements that journey to the
mediant (Op. 2/3 in C Major) and the submediant (Op. 7 in E-flat Major and Op. 101).
With great composers, of course, there are exceptions to every rule, but with Beethoven,
exceptions are not always what they seem. At first, the third movement of the ―Hammerklavier‖
Piano Sonata, No. 29 in B-flat Major, Op. 106, seems startlingly unusual—Beethoven appears to
casts the movement in F-sharp minor, an augmented fifth away from the tonic key of B-flat
major. But if one takes into account the possibility of an enharmonic key signature, the ―real‖
key of the movement, G-flat minor, is simply the lowered submediant minor of B-flat; the
enharmonic key signature is simply a reading convenience for the performer, for F-sharp minor
is easier to peruse than G-flat minor.84 Another example that looks rather strange on paper is the
famous ―Moonlight‖ Piano Sonata in C-sharp Minor, Op. 27/2; although the second movement is
written in D-flat major, its enharmonic equivalent, C-sharp major, is simply the parallel major of
the principal key. Thus, the long range harmonic plan—from C-sharp minor in the first
movement to C-sharp major in the second movement and back to C-sharp minor in the finale—
falls neatly in the second category of Beethoven‘s piano sonatas, where the middle movement is
in a parallel major or minor key.
Likewise, Beethoven achieves his extraordinary harmonic effects not through new
theories, but rather extensions of old ones. Even the most remote modulations take place with
tried and true methods, such as the sequence. For example, one needs look no further than the
opening of the development section of the first movement of the ―Hammerklavier,‖ Op. 106. In
84
Kathleen Dale, Nineteenth-Century Piano Music (London: Oxford University Press, 1954), 31.
58
addition, when Beethoven wishes for a more subtle change of tone color, one of his favorite
procedures is the aforementioned common-tone modulation. In doing so, Beethoven often
chooses notes common to either the dominant or tonic notes for the old and new keys, doubles
the common tone by octave, and shifts the chords through changes in the inner voices.85 In
Example 4.1, for instance, the common tone is D, serving as part of the tonic chord of B-flat
major, and as part of the dominant chord of G major; in Example 4.5, the common tone is F,
which is part of the tonic chord of both F minor and D-flat major. Other times, as in Example
4.3, Beethoven juxtaposes the two keys so that the listener immediately recognizes both of them.
In this vein, Beethoven transcends the conventions established by Haydn and Mozart,
emphasizing the remote key as an important structural point, not just as another stop in a
transitional journey. As a result, the arrival at the new key not only accompanies a change in
thematic material, but heightened emotional intensity and greater dramatic expression.
85
Donald Francis Tovey, Beethoven (London: Oxford University Press, 1944), 40.
59
Score Excerpts: Key Relationships
60
Example 4.4 Haydn: Hob. XVI: 52, Mvt. I, mm. 67–71
61
62
Chapter 5: Variation
The variation is one of the oldest forms in the genre of instrumental music. Its principle is
based on simultaneous contrast of repetition and various modifications. The earliest published
sets of variations, or diferencias, were Luis de Narváez‘s Delphin de música, 1538; while
Antonio de Cabezón (1510–1566) was the first well-known composer who wrote variations for
keyboard, with some published in Luis Venegas's Libro de cifra nueva, 1557. In the late
sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, the English virginalists such as William Byrd (1540–
1623) and John Bull (1562–1628) wrote variations on popular or dance tunes.86
In the Baroque period, composers were in favor of writing chaconne and passacaglia
which belong to ground-bass or ostinato variations. Both genres were built up of an arbitrary
number of comparatively brief units, usually of two, four, eight or sixteen bars with changes in
textures, rhythms, and figurations.87 Also, composers such as Johann Jacob Froberger (1616–
1667) combined variation technique with the suite, in which the courante, sarabande, and gigue
were the variations based on the materials from the opening movement, allemande.88 J.S. Bach
wrote most of the sets of variations in the earlier and later years of his career. His Goldberg
Variations BWV 988 (1741) was regarded as one of the most distinguished theme and variations
in the keyboard literature.
In the Classical period, Haydn was the first to combine the variation technique with
ternary, sonata and rondo forms, the first to introduce the variation form in a multi-movement
work, and according to renowned German theorist Heinrich Christoph Koch, the first to write a
86
Elaine Sisman, ―Variations,‖ Grove Music Online.
87
Ibid.
88
John Gillespie, Five Centuries of Keyboard Music (New York: Dover Publications, Inc., 1965), 43–44.
63
slow movement in variation form.89 In fact, after 1780, most of Haydn‘s slow movements are
variations, the notable exceptions being ―The Hen‖ Symphony, No. 83 in G Minor; Symphony
No. 98 in B-flat Major; and Symphony No. 99 in E-flat Major.90
Beethoven preferred to follow closely in the footsteps of his Classical predecessor Haydn.
His odd-numbered symphonies—Nos. 3, 5, 7, and 9—each contains variation movements.
(Coincidently, these are his most popular symphonies to the public.)91 The Fifth and Seventh
Symphonies each present a slow, march-like second movement in alternate variation form, and
the Ninth Symphony boasts two variation movements: the beautiful, slow third movement,
marked Adagio molto e cantabile; and the finale, where variations upon ―Ode to Joy‖ contribute
to an increasingly powerful humanistic statement. Likewise, several of Beethoven‘s chamber
works feature variation movements, notably the Piano Trios, Opp. 1/3 and 97, as well as the
String Quartets, Opp. 18, 74, 127, 131, and 135.
In terms of piano sonatas, however, Haydn did not explore the variation form very
seriously in his keyboard works.92 The only variation movements that come to mind are the first
movements of the Piano Sonata No. 58 in C Major, Hob. XVI: 48, and the Piano Sonata No. 56
in D Major, Hob. XVI: 42, where the melodies are highly ornamented and improvisational in
character;93 and the second movement of the Piano Sonata No. 59 in E-flat Major, Hob. XVI: 49,
where the opening A section (of its ternary form) returns in a decorative version. Mozart is
89
Koch, Versuch einer Anleitung zur Composition, iii, 1793, 314; quoted in Sisman, ―Variations,‖ Grove
Music Online.
90
Elaine Sisman, ―Variations,‖ Grove Music Online.
91
Ibid.
92
Elaine Sisman, Haydn and the Classical Variation (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993), 186.
93
Ibid, 189–191.
64
similarly selective; among his piano sonatas, beside the first movement of the Piano Sonata in A
Major, K. 331, the only one that employs a slow variation movement is the Piano Sonata in D
Major, K. 284, and here the movement in question is not a conventional theme-and-variations,
but a rondo-variation form, where the returning A section is varied twice.
Beethoven alone penned twenty-two variations for solo keyboard and five variation
movements in his piano sonatas: No. 10 in G major, Op. 14/2; No. 12 in A-flat major, Op. 26;
the ―Appassionata,‖ No. 23 in F Minor, Op. 57; No. 30 in E Major, Op. 109; and No. 32 in C
Minor, Op. 111 (his final one). Most of the variation movements in these works are slow
movements; in addition, the second movement of his ―Waldstein‖ Piano Sonata, No. 21 in C
Major, Op. 53, was originally a variation movement, but after absorbing the criticism of a friend
who claimed the movement made the sonata too long, Beethoven wrote a new slow movement
and issued the variation movement separately as his Andante Favori in F Major, WoO 57.94 The
only example where the variation form is placed in the first movement is in Op. 26 (which, in
this placement, takes after Haydn‘s Piano Sonata in D Major, Hob. XVI: 42, and Mozart‘s Piano
Sonata in A Major, K. 331).95
In terms of the location of the variation movement in the piano sonata, Beethoven‘s
choices differ somewhat from his work in other genres. In his early and middle period, his piano
sonatas feature the variation movement in the first half of the piece, as in the first movement of
Op. 26 and the second movements of Op. 14/2, and Op. 57. Meanwhile, his other notable early
and middle-period works all call for the variation form in the finale, as in the Violin Sonata No. 6
in A Major, Op. 30/1; the String Quartet No. 10 in E-flat Major, Op. 74; and the ―Eroica‖
94
William Newman, The Sonata in the Classic Era, 3rd ed. (New York: W. W. Norton &
Company, Inc., 1983), 521.
95
Stewart Gordon, A History of Keyboard Literature (Belmont: Schirmer, 1996), 162.
65
Symphony, No. 3 in E-flat Major, Op. 55. It is not until his late period that Beethoven moves the
variation form to the last movement in his piano sonatas, although the finales of the Opp. 109
and 111 are arguably among the finest he wrote.
While the concept of a multi-movement work offers an exceptional showcase for contrast
and variety, problems with length can produce limitations. As an independent work, the variation
form can expand into as many as twenty or thirty statements, but in a piano sonata, the number of
variations is often sharply reduced. In Beethoven‘s case, his two best-known variation sets—the
Variations and Fugue on an Original Theme, in E-flat Major, Op. 35; and the Diabelli Variations,
Op. 120—boast fifteen and thirty-three variations respectively, while the variation movements in
his piano sonatas feature only three to five variations.
Nevertheless, like most of the music in his late years, the variation movements in his piano
sonatas undergo a great expansion of form, not in the number of variations, but in size and
length. To wit, the variation movements in Op. 14/2 and Op. 57 are five minutes in length, and
the one in Op. 26 takes eight minutes to perform. On the other hand, it takes thirteen minutes to
play through the finale of Op. 109 and seventeen minutes to complete the finale of Op. 111.
Shortly after the composition of Op. 111, English critic William Ayrton stated his confusion
about its finale: ―The second movement is an Arietta, and extends to the extraordinary length of
thirteen pages…We have devoted a full hour to this enigma, and cannot solve.‖96 Similarly, the
variation movements in the two of his late string quartets—Opp. 127 and 131—and the third
movement of his Symphony No. 9 in D Minor, Op. 125, require thirteen or fourteen minutes to
perform.
96
William Ayrton, ―Review of Music,‖ The Harmonicon 1 (August, 1823): 112, as quoted in Nicolas
Slonimsky, Lexicon of Musical Invective (London: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2000), 43.
66
Beethoven also looked to his Classical predecessors for advice on themes. Like Mozart,
Beethoven keeps the themes of the variation movements in his piano sonatas relatively simple,
which enables him to highlight the contrast between the primary melody and its subsequent
elaborations.97 In fact, while Beethoven‘s compositional technique grew more complex with age,
his themes became more straightforward and unpretentious.
To wit, the themes of the variation movements in Op. 14/2 and Op. 26 are in rounded
binary form, where the first strains return in decoration. In the second movement of Op. 14/2,
Beethoven varies the texture in different registers and in mm. 13–20, he adds accents on the
weak beats for rhythmic variety and unpredictability (Example 5.1). Similarly, the first
movement of Op. 26 features a theme whose first strophe, from mm. 20–34, is sent to different
registers while the texture becomes thicker with octaves in both hands (Example 5.2). In
Beethoven‘s middle and late periods, the themes are still in a two-part form, but they do not
include a restatement of the A section.
The last period is foreshadowed in particular by the theme of the second movement of Op.
57 (Example 5.3). Although the rhythmic variety of the melody resembles that of the early-
period themes, the chordal texture and the two-part form with repeats in each strophe paves the
way for the themes in the variation finales of Opp. 109 and 111. Moreover, the variation
movement of Op. 57 ends with a thematic restatement, a technique Beethoven uses again in Opp.
109 and 111.98
The finale of Op. 109 presents a theme marked Andante molto cantabile ed espressivo,
six variations on the theme, and a return of the theme. The melody is tranquil in a chordal
97
Sisman, Grove Music Online.
98
Robert Taub, Playing the Beethoven Piano Sonatas (Portland: Amadeus Press, 2002), 173.
67
texture, and consists of two strains, each eight measures in length (Example 5.4). The harmony is
nothing more than alternations between the tonic and the dominant, with the exception of a
German augmented-sixth chord in mm. 7–8 and a pair of secondary dominant chords in the first
half of the second strain. Similar to Op. 109, Beethoven marks the theme for the finale of his Op.
111 Adagio molto semplice e cantabile as well as Arietta (Example 5.5). Elaine Sisman remarks
that the themes in the variation movements of these sonatas foreshadow the hymn-like Adagio in
the finale of the Ninth Symphony.99
The Op. 109 finale is a splendid example of the emerging character variation in the early
nineteenth century. Instead of merely decorating the theme, each variation takes a much more
individual and profoundly reinterpreted view of the original theme.100 Twenty-century
musicologists such as Robert U. Nelson have categorized variations according to the constant
element in a set, such as melody, harmony, and bass. Nelson claimed that during the Classical
era, most composers favored the ornamental variation, and but by the early nineteenth century,
the character variation became the vehicle of choice. In Beethoven‘s keyboard works, he favored
the ornamental technique of the late eighteenth century, but as one might expect, there are quite a
few exceptions to the rule. For example, the Six Variations on an Original Theme in F Major,
Op. 34, and the Fifteen Variations and a Fugue on an Original Theme in E-flat, Op. 35, display
the influence of bass ostinato and constant harmony.101 Moreover, in his late years, Beethoven
99
Sisman, Grove Music Online.
100
Taub, 190; Kerman, 124.
101
Robert Nelson, The Technique of Variation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1949), 108;
Sisman, Ibid.
68
became fond of the character variation, most notably the Diabelli Variations, Op. 120; the late
String Quartets; and the finale of the Piano Sonata No. 30 in E Major, Op. 109.102
As mentioned previously, each variation in Op. 109 takes certain elements of the theme
and creates a whole new world. In the first variation, the triple meter and the accompaniment
pattern in the left hand gives the impression of an erstwhile waltz or mazurka (Example 5.6). The
bass is very simple, and by the second half of the second strain, it is closer to the original theme.
The tune here is mostly new, although by the second half of the second strain, the melodic
outline again resembles the theme more closely.
The second and third variations are double variations, but this is nothing new. The tradition
of infusing double variation into a multi-movement work came from Haydn (as one might
expect); he wrote twenty-one movements in double variation, as well as several in the
independent keyboard set Andante con Variazioni.103 In the second variation of Beethoven‘s Op.
109, two different variations are altered with the repeat. The first idea (mm. 1–8) has an ethereal
quality, marked leggiermente and built upon broken chords. The second idea (mm. 9–16)
presents the motive of a falling third in the opening two notes of the theme and constructs rising
sequences in a lyrical dance style for four measures. Although the second half of the variation
has the same texture and patterns as in the first half, Beethoven startles with the listener with a
harmonic surprise. Amidst the key of E major, where D-sharp acts as the leading tone,
Beethoven introduces a D-natural in m. 25. At first, the foreign pitch is introduced alone as an
unusual sonority, but in the next measure, it is harmonized by a dominant ninth chord (Example
5.7).
102
Kerman, Beethoven, 124.
103
Reicha modeled the description in his Traité de haute composition musicale, ii, 1826, on Haydn,
although it does not tally with Haydn‘s actual practice; quoted in Sisman, ―Variations,‖ Grove Music Online.
69
In the third variation, titled allegro vivace, Beethoven‘s second idea is a variation derived
from the first idea: the repeats are variations of the variation.104 In other words, the only
differences between mm. 1–4 and 9–12 are the arpeggio-like and scale-like passages in the right
hand and clearly marked dynamic contrasts (Example 5.8 and Example 5.9). The next two
variations have an even more distinct character: the fourth variation evokes a pastoral-like
atmosphere with an opening sixteenth-note figure that follows from one voice to another
(Example 5.10), and the fifth variation is a march where Beethoven makes a sharp break with the
simplicity of the previous variations, calling upon the fugato technique.105 (Example 5.11)
The final variation of the Op. 109 finale is a double variation by continuous development.
Compared to the double variations in the second and third variations, the final variation is neither
an alternation of two ideas nor a variation within a variation.
As Tovey says, this variation ―steadily increases its resources as it pursues its course, until the
end of it has no resemblance to the beginning.‖106 As one might expect, this approach has a
parallel, albeit on a larger scale, in another late Beethoven work: the slow variation movement of
the String Quartet No. 14 in C-sharp Minor, Op. 131.107
The final variation in the Op. 109 finale opens with the primary melody in the original
tempo and rhythm with a dominant pedal in the soprano and tenor voices. But instead of
disappearing into the background, the dominant pedal pushes forward, moving from voice to
voice throughout the variation. In addition, the note values of the pedal increase in speed from
104
Donald Francis Tovey, A Companion to Beethoven’s Pianoforte Sonatas (London: R.A.M., 1931), 253.
105
Details described in Chapter 2.
106
Tovey, 253.
107
Ibid, 254.
70
quarter notes, to eighth notes, to triplets, to thirty-second notes, and finally in m. 12 to trills
which last for twenty-three measures until the return of the original theme marked cantabile.
The two finales in Opp. 109 and 111 are similar in many ways. The technique of
continuous development and increasingly smaller rhythmic values, which creates a sense of
forward motion, also appears in the finale of Op. 111. To wit, the theme of Op. 111 finale
employs mostly dotted eighth notes, but the first variation alternates the main statement in eighth
and sixteenth notes, the second variation alternates the statement in sixteenth and thirty-second
notes, and the third variation alternates the statement in thirty-second and sixty-fourth notes
(Example 5.12). Also, near the end of the movement of Op. 111, a long dominant trill in the high
register of the keyboard creates an atmosphere of dreamy transcendence. As the distinguished
Beethoven scholar Lewis Lockwood notes, Beethoven‘s expressive intimacy is unmatched for
his time, and is something that ―few composers before or after him ever quite achieved.‖108
Likewise, as with the finale of Op. 109, Beethoven saves the greatest emotional impact for
the end, where the return of the original theme brings a sense of closure to the work. But while
the theme in the finale of Op. 109 is restated in its entirety, the theme in the finale of Op. 111
presents the opening motive (C-G-G) in sequences that are also inverted (G-C-C) in the left hand
(Example 5.13).
The key relationships of the Op. 111 finale not only share much in common with the Op.
109 finale, but with several other works by Beethoven. In the Op. 109 finale, all of the variations
are in the same key, E major. In the Op. 111 finale, all the variations are also in the same key, C
major—except the brief episode in the fourth variation, where Beethoven calls upon the flat
108
Lockwood, Beethoven, 309.
71
mediant of the tonic, E-flat major. The intrusion of a foreign key into a variation movement is
not only new to Beethoven, but unprecedented in the entire literature, and it is a technique to
which Beethoven returns in the slow variations movements of the String Quartet No. 12 in E-flat
Major, Op. 127, and the String Quartet No. 14 in C-sharp Minor, Op. 131, as well as the slow
third movement of the Ninth Symphony.109 But the most striking parallels occur with another
keyboard work which Beethoven was finishing at the same time: the Diabelli Variations, Op.
120. Both the Op. 111 finale and the Diabelli Variation share variation form, the key of C major,
the thematic motive of a falling fourth (C to G) answered by a falling fifth (D to G), and a final
variation with ethereal passages that, in Tovey‘s opinion cited previously, is quite unlike other
music of the time.
The possibility of cross-pollination between the two works merits serious discussion. The
falling fourth and fifth figures do not appear in earlier sketches of the Op. 111 Arietta theme,
raising the likelihood that the melodic outline of Anton Diabelli‘s theme contributed to the birth
of the Arietta. At the same time, the peaceful conclusion of the Op. 111 finale may have
influenced the similar closing of the Diabelli Variations. 110 Most importantly, however, the
modulation in the fourth variation of the Op. 111 finale, from C major to E-flat major,
unquestionably resembles the conclusion of the penultimate variation of the Diabelli Variations,
where Beethoven detours into E-flat major before returning to the home key of C major
(Example 5.14 and Example 5.15). Both passages feature one of Beethoven‘s favorite harmonic
tricks, the common-tone modulation, for it creates a striking ethereal effect; according to Tovey,
109
William Kinderman, ―Beethoven,‖ in Nineteenth-Century Piano Music, ed. R. Larry Todd (New York:
A Division of Macmillan, Inc., 1990), 80.
110
Matthews, Beethoven, 101.
72
this specific example of the Diabelli Variations is one of the most mysterious moments in
Beethoven‘s music.111
Thus, Beethoven‘s melodic treatment, harmonic innovation, and formal development
make the Diabelli Variations and Opp. 109 and 111 true landmarks in the keyboard literature.
Moreover, his experimentation in each work paved the way for his approach to the variation
form in other genres. As discussed previously, the modulation to a foreign key in an episode in
variation form is not just an unusual one-time idea, but a technique that would bear fruit. In
addition, the character variations which appear in Op. 109 and the Diabelli Variations
foreshadow the popularity of the character variations in the Romantic era.
Beethoven‘s most important contribution, however, may be the elevation of the slow
movement to a more hallowed status. While the concept of the slow movement and a variation
slow movement are again nothing unprecedented in the repertoire, Beethoven‘s manipulation of
them testifies to the central role that lyricism came to occupy in his art. That is, while the second
period was full of fire and heroism, the third period became Beethoven‘s time to reflect upon his
career as a composer and a musician and to inside himself. His expansion of the variation form in
terms of scale and length, not to mention the crafting of a finale in a slow variation form were
merely the technical means to say something more significant that some of his contemporaries
yet had the means to understand.
111
Donald Francis Tovey, Beethoven (London: Oxford University Press, 1944), 127.
73
Score Excerpts: Variation
Example 5.1 Beethoven: Op. 14/2, Mvt. II, mm. 13–20
74
Example 5.4 Beethoven: Op. 109, Mvt. III, mm. 1–16
75
76
Example 5.12 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. II, Rhythmic Contraction
Example 5.13 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. II, Var. 6, mm. 14–16
Example 5.14 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. II, Var. 4, mm. 26–31
77
Example 5.15 Beethoven: Op. 120, Var. 32 mm. 162–167 and Var. 33 mm. 1–2
78
Chapter 6: Aspects of Character
In the late eighteenth century, the fledgling field of musicology began to spark interest in
the music of the past. For example, Baron Gottfried van Swieten began to pursue the music of
the Baroque period with increasing fascination. His aristocratic title and his position as head of
the Imperial Library in Vienna enabled him to influence many of his friends and patrons.
Furthermore, in 1802, Johann Nikolaus Forkel‘s biography of J. S. Bach began a movement of
great awareness in not only the late composer‘s contributions to European music, but the
contributions of his entire era. The two giants of the Classical period, Haydn and Mozart, were
particularly affected by van Swieten. When van Swieten had become Vienna‘s Ambassador to
Berlin in 1770, he was a leader of the Gesellschaft der Associirten (an association of noble
patrons), which sponsored performances of oratorios and cantatas. Between 1796 and 1801,
Haydn collaborated on all three of his oratorios with van Swieten: The Seven last Words, The
Creation, and The Season. The Gesellschaft was also devoted to Baroque Music.112 In 1777,
Mozart once wrote: ―Every Sunday at noon I go to Baron van Swieten‘s, where nothing but
Handel and Bach is performed.‖ 113 In 1788 and 1789, Mozart also made arrangements of
Handel‘s Acis and Galatea, and Messiah for these concerts. It then is noteworthy to indicate that
the late works of Haydn and Mozart reveal an increasing fascination with counterpoint.114
Similarly, as Beethoven aged, his music, too, began to look more and more to the past; in fact,
the composer‘s journeys back in time surpassed even those of his predecessors.
112
James Webster, ―The Sublime and the Pastoral in The Creation and The Seasons,‖ in The Cambridge
Companion to Haydn, ed. Caryl Clark (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 150–151.
113
Robert W. Gutman, Mozart (New York: Harcourt Brace & Company, 1999), 634 and 682–683.
114
Edward Olleson, ―Gottfried van Swieten,‖ Grove Music Online.
79
Many of the most interesting characteristics of the late piano sonatas are rooted in the art
of bygone eras. The appearance of improvisational-like passages, for example, mirrors the works
of the great keyboard composers of the late Renaissance and Baroque. The trill, too, is an
important ornament of these time periods, now employed with increasing sophistication.
Although Beethoven has sometimes been criticized as an inept melodist, his concern for lyricism
deepened throughout the late period.115 Lastly, while Beethoven‘s appropriation of the church
modes is directly inspired from early music, these too are by no means obvious, and their
manifestations are often accompanied by rhetorical reinforcements such as special expressive
directions or formal structure. In the following sections, I will demonstrate how Beethoven
incorporated such aspects of character into his works.
Improvisation
In 1792, on a stipend from his hometown of Bonn, the young Beethoven moved to
Vienna to study counterpoint and composition, as well as to try his luck as a freelance keyboard
performer. His reputation as a pianist quickly grew; his brilliant and powerful technique
immediately distinguished his playing from the delicacy and sweetness of previous virtuosos.
Johann Baptist Cramer, a German-English pianist and contemporary of Beethoven, remarked
that, ―No man in these days has heard extemporare playing unless he has heard Beethoven.‖116
At the same time, Beethoven amazed the Viennese salons with his ability to improvise. Another
contemporary, Joseph Gelinek is reported to have said, ―Ah, he is no man; he‘s a devil. He will
115
Joseph Kerman, ―Beethoven,‖ in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie
and John Tyrrell (New York: Macmillan, 2001), 121.
116
Johann Baptist Cramer to Samuel Appleby, ca. 1799–1800; quoted in Robert Taub, Playing the
Beethoven Piano Sonatas (Portland: Amadeus Press, 2002), 58.
80
play me and all of us to death. And how he improvises!‖117 Likewise, Beethoven‘s pupil Carl
Czerny left detailed descriptions of Beethoven‘s extraordinary concerts and their effects on the
audience:
In whatever company he might chance to be, he knew how to produce such an effect upon every
hearer that frequently not an eye remained dry, while many would break out into loud sobs; for
there was something wonderful in his expression in addition to the beauty and originality of his
ideas and his spirited style of rendering them. After ending an improvisation of this kind he would
burst into loud laughter and banter his hearers on the emotion he had caused in them. ―You are
fools!‖ he would say…. ―Who can live among such spoiled children!‖ he would cry. 118
Not surprisingly, Beethoven often sought to create the impression of spontaneous
creation in his compositions. Some of his most notable improvisatory-like passages occur in his
early works, such as the first movement of his Piano Sonata No. 3 in C Major, Op. 2/3, and the
first movement of his Cello Sonata in F Major, Op. 5/1.119 The Piano Sonata in C Major, Op. 2/3
in particular, evokes the feeling of a concerto. In the first movement, mm. 97–109, for example,
the right hand‘s sixteenth-note arpeggios and the left hand‘s long sustained chords moving from
B-flat to D, closely resemble the development section of a late Classical keyboard concerto.120 A
similar improvisatory texture appears, too, at the beginning of the coda; here, after four measures
of long descending slow arpeggios, a rising and falling pattern of diminished seventh chords lead
to a six-four chord in C major, followed by a fermata and a lengthy written-out cadenza (mm.
118–232).
The Piano Sonata Op. 2, No. 3 also betrays its influences; in mm. 221–227 of the first
movement, the slow ascending and descending arpeggios may remind the listener of the
117
Czerny, ―Recollections from My Life,‖ MQ 42 (1956): 304; quoted in Solomon, Beethoven, 79 and
Taub, 58.
118
A. W. Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, vol. 1, Ed. Elliot Forbes (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1964; rev. ed., 1967), 185.
119
―Beethoven, Ludwig van: Works,‖ Grove Music Online.
120
81
introduction to Mozart‘s Fantasy in D Minor, K. 397 (Examples 6.1 and 6.2). On the other hand,
the Piano Sonata Op. 2, No. 3 does some foreshadowing as well; in the first movement, at m.
231, the cadenza-like passage of sixteenth figurations in ascending motion later appears in mm.
142–147 of the first movement of Beethoven‘s Fifth Piano Concerto. Not only are both patterns
surprisingly alike, they even begin on the same notes in the same register and reach the first high
note near the same pitches on the keyboard (Examples 6.3 and 6.4). When it comes to
improvisation in Beethoven‘s late compositions, however, Maynard Solomon notes that,
―Beethoven did not abandon his search for a multiplicity of musical syntheses—rather, he
expanded it.‖121 As a result, improvisatory passages in the late piano sonatas appear with
increasing frequency, and if one takes into account different textures and functions, one can
divide these passages into three categories: cadenza-like, recitative, and linking movements.
A) The Cadenza-Like Passage
Beethoven‘s late sonatas abound with cadenza-like passages, most notably at m. 33 in the
third movement of the Piano Sonata No. 28 in A Major, Op. 101; at m. 112 in the second
movement of Piano Sonata No. 29 in B-flat Major, Op. 106, ―Hammerklavier‖; and in the
secondary theme of the first movement of the Piano Sonata No. 30 in E Major, Op. 109. In the
third movement of Op. 101, the last principal chord of the last measure (m. 33) is built on the
dominant of A minor with a fermata (Example 6.5). Instead of adding one more chord to resolve
the tonic for the end of the movement, however, Beethoven writes a short cadenza on the second
beat of the measure in order to connect this movement to the last movement without a break. In
this way, the third movement acts as a slow introduction to the finale, a scheme that Beethoven
121
Maynard Solomon, Beethoven, 2nd ed. (New York: Schirmer Books, 1998), 385.
82
used in some of his earlier sonatas, such as the Piano Sonata No. 13 in E-flat Major, Op. 27/1;
the ―Waldstein‖ Piano Sonata No. 21 in C Major, Op. 53; and in the ―Les Adieux‖ Piano Sonata
No. 26 in E-flat Major, Op. 81a.122 The Op. 101 transition, though, invokes previously stated
material. This decision not only underscores Beethoven‘s goal of raising the standards and
profile of absolute music, but also gives his sonata a sense of return and completeness that will
become a vital trait of nineteenth-century music.
Beethoven also surprised his listeners with new locations for his improvisatory-like
passages. In the eighteenth-century, most composers restricted such passages to the slow
movement of a sonata, where they had more freedom to be expressive. In his late sonatas,
however, Beethoven expanded these rhapsodic elements to other movements. In the second trio
of the scherzo movement to the monumental ―Hammerklavier‖ Piano Sonata, No. 29 in B-flat
Major, Op. 106, Beethoven makes a sudden change from a Presto in 3/4 time (mm. 1–81) to a
Prestissimo (m. 81–111) in 2/4 time. In order to heighten the spontaneous feel of this passage,
Beethoven varies the first phrase and upon the climax in m. 112—a dominant F on the downbeat
with a fermata—he writes a sweeping F-major cadenza that runs from the bottom to the top of
the keyboard before settling back on the opening material of the scherzo movement.
Similarly, in the first movement of Piano Sonata No. 30 in E Major, Op. 109, Beethoven
borrows from the improvisatory-like sonatas of Domenico Scarlatti, frequently alternating
primary and secondary themes with vastly different tempos. While Beethoven was not the first to
imitate Scarlatti—in Mozart‘s Violin Sonata in C Major, K. 303, the young composer switches
between Adagio non troppo and Molto allegro in the first movement123—the rhapsodic writing in
122
Martin Cooper, Beethoven (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985), 151–152.
123
Donald Francis Tovey, A Companion to Beethoven’s Pianoforte Sonatas (London: R.A.M., 1931), 243.
83
the Op. 109 first movement secondary theme is unprecedented.124 Rather than begin in a slow
tempo and move to a fast tempo, Beethoven opens with a whirling Vivace and applies the brakes
in the secondary theme, marked Adagio espressivo. Moreover, the proportion between the
primary and secondary themes is unbalanced; the secondary theme is much longer than the
primary theme. To wit, the first theme consists of only two four-bar phrases in 2/4 meter, and the
second theme area is seven measures long in 3/4 meter. In other words, the fantasia-like
secondary melody acts not as a refreshing contrast in the structure of the sonata form; rather, it is
the highlight of the movement, and its chromatic lines and unstable harmony reinforce the
improvisatory-like feeling of the music.
B) Recitative
The second category of Beethoven‘s improvisational writing is the recitative-like passage.
The use of recitative-like passages is not new to the piano sonata; in fact, such writing can be
found in the sonatas of C. P. E. Bach, whose music inspired the First Viennese School.
Beethoven‘s first recitative-like keyboard writing appears in his ―Tempest‖ Piano Sonata in D
Minor, Op. 31/2, where at the beginning of the first movement recapitulation he inserts two four-
bar passages of marked Recitative to precede each Largo phrase. In his Piano Sonata No. 31 in
A-flat Major, Op. 110, the mature composer goes even further. At the beginning of the third and
final movement, a marked Recitativo passage (m. 4) foreshadows the dramatic tempo changes to
come throughout the entire movement—Adagio ma non troppo, più adagio, andante, adagio,
ritardando, meno adagio, and adagio again before the return to the opening tempo Adagio ma
non troppo.
124
Ibid.
84
In his final years, Beethoven wrote recitative-like passages in his String Quartet in C-sharp
Minor, Op. 131; his String Quartet in A Minor, Op. 132; the Grosse Fuge in B-flat Major, Op.
133; the String Quartet in F Major, Op. 135; and the lengthy vocal-instrumental finale to his
―Choral‖ Symphony No. 9 in D Minor, Op. 125. The Opp. 125 and 133 are especially notable, as
each one recalls the manner of J.S. Bach‘s Well-Tempered Clavier, using improvisation as a
prelude to a fugue.125 Moreover, in the finale of Symphony No. 9, the recitative passages not
only prepare the entrance of the choir, but create tension and drama through timely interruptions
of the cyclic recollections of previous movements.126
C) Linking Movements
The third category of improvisatory passage in Beethoven‘s piano sonatas involves those
that serve as links between movements. Very often, the passage quotes a fragment from a
previous movement, thus invoking a cyclic quality to the entire piece. The first such cyclic
improvisatory passage occurs early in Beethoven‘s oeuvre, in the Piano Sonata No. 13 in E-flat
Major, Op. 27/1, appropriately titled ―Sonata quasi una fantasia.‖ Here, before the Presto section
at the very end of the final movement, Beethoven recalls a short theme from the third movement.
At the beginning of his late period, in the Piano Sonata in A Major, Op. 101, Beethoven expands
this idea even further. He finishes the Op. 101 slow third movement with two phrases of the first
movement opening theme, after which the texture breaks apart, as if the aging composer has
trouble holding onto a memory (Example 6.5). At this point, the music launches into a short
cadenza marked Presto that, through exciting closing trills, leads straight into the finale.
125
Joseph Kerman, ―Beethoven: Late-period Works,‖ Grove Music Online.
126
Tovey, 263.
85
Beethoven‘s employment of improvisation to link movements, however, is not restricted to
his piano sonatas. In his Cello Sonata in C Major, Op. 102/1, for example, the end of the Adagio
movement is followed by the opening material of the first movement, but this time in the
piano.127 In addition, very much like Op. 101 piano sonata, a dominant trill provides a harmonic
thrust to the finale (Example 6.6). The Op. 106 sonata provides another case study in
Beethoven‘s technique. Here, a section marked Largo connects the third movement Adagio with
the fugal finale, but the passage is highly improvisational. To wit, Beethoven intones the pitch F
throughout the entire gamut of the keyboard, from low to high; he makes frequent tempo changes
within the Largo, including markings of Allegro and Vivace; he writes running passages of
thirty-second notes; and through fast tremolos, he evokes the vibrato-like bebung technique of
the eighteenth century, a device that changes the tonal color within the same chords.
Although this Largo passage in the ―Hammerklavier‖ sonata is today considered an
introduction to the finale, the sheer length of it made Beethoven consider it as an independent
unit. In fact, for a London edition, Beethoven wrote to the publisher that this improvisatory
Largo could be omitted.128
The Trill
Like other vocal and instrumental embellishments, the trill has its roots in the tradition of
improvisation. Unlike in the Baroque period, where vocalists and instrumentalists were free to
ornament textures as they pleased, the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries oversaw an expansion
of control by the composer. For example musicologist Kenneth Kreitner writes that, in the
127
Rosen, 216.
128
Cooper, 164.
86
Classical and Romantic periods, ―The attitudes towards the role, function and usage of
ornaments underwent a radical transformation. An aesthetic in which almost all music involved
an element of free ornamentation gradually gave way to one in which, for the most part,
composers expected ornaments to be introduced only where specifically marked.‖129 In other
words, as composers became more specific with their intentions, performers became more
faithful to the score, and the number of commonly used ornaments sharply declined. As one of
the easiest embellishments to add, the trill retained great popularity even in the eighteenth and
nineteenth centuries, and while Beethoven employed trills throughout his compositional career,
he turns to them with increasing frequency in his late music, especially in his late piano
sonatas.130 Below I will survey three kinds used by him: the introductory, sforzando, and static
trills.
A) The Introductory Trill
The first kind of trill in Beethoven‘s late sonatas is an introductory link to a new section or
movement. As mentioned previously, the dominant trills in the Piano Sonata No. 28 in A Major,
Op. 101, and the Cello Sonata in C Major, Op. 102/1, both lead to their respective finales.
Similar writing also is found in the finale of Op. 106 ―Hammerklavier‖ sonata, where, in the
introduction to the entrance of the fugal subject, three trills on the pitches of A, C, and F
establish the key of F major (Example 6.7). In addition, the fugal subject itself contains a trill on
the second beat of its first measure, an ornament that, in the ensuring contrapuntal puzzle, helps
the listener to recognize the subject more easily. In the first movement of the Piano Sonata No.
129
Kenneth Kreitner, et. al, ―Ornaments,‖ Grove Music Online.
130
Cooper, 423.
87
32 in C Minor, Op. 111, for example, the written-out dominant thrill connects the introductory
Maestoso to the main body marked Allegro con brio ed appassionato (Example 6.8).
Additionally, in Beethoven‘s other late works, trills often serve as the harbinger of a new section.
The slow third movement of the String Quartet No. 15 in A Minor, Op. 132, for instance,
employs the trill as a device to link its double variations, a scheme similar to the third movement
Adagio of the Symphony No. 9. Specifically, the first theme of the double variations, a choral
hymn-like Molto adagio in 4/4 and F major, contrasts greatly with the second theme, an Andante
in 3/8 and D major that features wide leaps in the lower strings and a long sustained trill on the
pitch A in the first violin (Example 6.9).131
B) The Sforzando Trill
The second category of trill demonstrates Beethoven mastery of tension. Unlike the
composers and performers of the Baroque and early Classical periods, Beethoven does not use
the trill merely for decorative purposes. As demonstrated by the trill in the fugal subject of the
finale of Op. 106 (―Hammerklavier‖), Beethoven‘s trills, especially in his late music, function
more as an accent on a key note of a phrase. Furthermore, Beethoven‘s marking of sforzando on
the trill, as seen in the ―Hammerklavier‖ sonata and the Grosse Fuge, Op. 133, expands the
possibilities for expression. In Op. 106 for instance, Beethoven first adds sforzando on the trill in
the second and third fugal entries in mm. 25 and 35 respectively. At this point, a host of
successive trills increases the tension, followed by a rhythmically displaced subject in which the
trill with a sforzando falls on the downbeat instead of the second beat (mm. 48–57). The climax
takes place on a series of fugal entries in augmentations in stretto tailed by an episode of
overlapping trill motives (mm. 118–125; Example 6.10). Beethoven creates similar drama in the
131
Cooper, 423.
88
Opus 133; although the trills do not appear until the variation episodes of the second fugue, they
take place with sforzandi increasingly closer to one another as the music reaches the climax
(mm. 357–400). This section then ends furiously with trills on the principal motives, all
accompanied with sforzandi, appearing in an alternation of high and low registers (Example
6.11). As Marin Cooper notes, while this aggressive writing is unusual for its time, it paves the
way for the heavy drama of the New German School, particularly with Wagner, Richard Strauss,
Max Reger, and even Arnold Schoenberg.132
C) The Static Trill
In contrast to the violent character of the sforzando trill, the static trill is a long sustained
embellishment that creates a more peaceful or ethereal atmosphere. In his late sonatas, the most
interesting examples of the static trill take place in the last variations of the finales of both the
Opp. 109 and 111. At the beginning of the final variation of Op. 109, for example, the dominant
pedal begins in quarter notes, moving gradually to eighth notes, triplets, sixteenths, thirty-second
notes, and lastly, trills. These trills begin in the inner voices while the theme sounds in the
soprano, and a counter melody sounds in the bass (mm. 12–16). At this point, a sustained
dominant trill moves to the bass in the left hand and theme breaks into arpeggios in the right
hand (mm. 17–24). The sonority of following section (mm. 25–35) is highly unique—the theme,
now in syncopated eighth notes, is accompanied by running thirty-seconds and a long dominant
trill in the middle voice. Like many passages in his late sonatas, Beethoven‘s writing here sounds
ahead of its time. Charles Rosen notes that Liszt was influenced by the different levels of
132
Cooper, 172 and 424.
89
sonorities in this passage,133 and Marin Cooper points out that ―it would be tempting to speak of
impressionistic effects, of sonorities used for their own sakes, if the passage were not so soberly
thematic and organic, so logical.‖134
The Use of the Extreme Range of the Keyboard
In the early nineteenth century, the flamboyant Czech pianist Jan Ladislav Dussek
persuaded London piano builder John Broadwood to extend the range and sonority of the
keyboard, and one of Broadwood‘s improved six-octave grands was eventually obtained by
Beethoven in 1817.135 As a result, it is little wonder that some passages in the late piano sonatas
push the accepted dimensions of the pianoforte. In his late piano sonatas, Beethoven‘s ventures
into the extreme high and low registers of the keyboard often have structural importance. In the
middle part of the development section of the first movement of the Piano Sonata No. 30 in E
Major, Op. 109, Beethoven writes passages where the two hands move in contrary motion away
from the center of the keyboard (mm. 26–40). After the hands arrival in their extreme registers in
m. 41, however, the two voices remain far apart on the keyboard until much of the restatement of
the first theme of the recapitulation (Example 6.12).
Similarly, in the last movement of Op. 109, the last measures in the final variation
anticipate the restatement of the original theme with a fusion of extreme register and
embellishment that creates a uniquely ethereal atmosphere (Example 6.13). Not to be outdone, in
the second movement of the Piano Sonata No. 32 in C Minor, Op. 111, Beethoven writes another
133
Rosen, 234.
134
Cooper, 184.
135
Edwin M. Ripin, ―Pianoforte,‖ Grove Music Online; Howard Allen Craw, ―Jan Ladislav Dussek,‖
Grove Music Online.
90
passage of contrary motion (mm. 118–119) where the two voices finish more than five octaves
apart (Example 6.14). Once again, however, such unusual writing has a purpose; it builds an
inner harmonic tension that paves the way for the following episode in the relative major key, E-
flat major.
Lyricism
Although the music of Beethoven‘s middle period is well known for its tight motivic
structure, driving rhythm, and heroic qualities, the introspective turn of his late works produced
music of an extraordinarily vocal quality.136 While this singing approach begins in the late piano
sonatas, it seeps into the composer‘s other late works as well. One of Beethoven favorite ways to
open the slow movement in his late multi-movement works is a hymn-like melody with a
chorale-like texture, a methodology found in his Piano Sonata No. 29 in B-flat Major, Op. 106;
his Piano Sonata No. 30 in E Major, Op. 109; his Piano Sonata No. 32 in C Minor, Op. 111; his
String Quartet in A Minor, Op. 132; and the ―Ode to Joy‖ theme in the finale of his Symphony
No. 9 in D Minor, Op. 125. His variation movements, too, are infused with an intense singing
quality, notably in the String Quartets in E-flat Major, Op. 127, Op. 131 in C-sharp Minor, and
Op. 135 in F Major, as well as the piano sonatas Opp. 109 and 111. The aging composer also
gives more weight and gravitas to his first movement through highly introverted cantabile
themes, such as in the Piano Sonata No. 28 in A Major, Op. 101; the Piano Sonata No. 30 in E
Major, Op. 109; and the Missa Solemnis in D Major, Op. 123.
Unlike previous composers, however, Beethoven is not content to let the music speak for
itself; through detailed rhetorical markings, Beethoven directs the performer toward an operatic
approach that transcends the accepted limitations of instrumental music. At the beginning of his
136
Kerman, ―Beethoven,‖ Grove Music Online.
91
Op. 111 finale, for example, the composer writes: ―Arietta: Adagio molto semplice e cantabile.‖
As the diminutive form of the Italian ―aria,‖ the word ―arietta‖ suggests an intimate vocal work,
perhaps a chamber opera or chamber cantata, and in the context of an instrumental variations
piece, the term reinforces the song-like character of the theme.137 In addition, while the word
―semplice‖ warns the performer not to overplay the melody, the word ―cantabile‖ implies a
careful and nuanced emotionalism. In the Piano Sonata No. 31 in A-flat Major, Op. 110,
Beethoven makes even more unusual markings, calling the slow third movement an ―arioso,‖
and writing directions in both Italian and German. Unlike the word ―arietta,‖ the term ―arioso‖ is
rarely seen in instrumental music, but Beethoven‘s decision is hardly whimsical; strictly
speaking, an ―arioso‖ is a lyrical song in the middle or at the end of a recitative, 138 and in the
third movement, the operatic writing is clear—a recitative-like passage (mm. 4–6) followed by a
song-like passage (mm. 9–25). Moreover, the curious juxtaposition of Italian and German
markings, namely ―arioso dolente‖ and ―Klangender Gesang‖ reflects the composer‘s growing
feelings of nationalism or even internationalism; that is, German music and Italian music are
equally important and equally expressive.
Beethoven‘s fascination with Italian opera takes another turn in one of his late non-
keyboard works, namely his String Quartet in B-flat Major, Op. 130. Here, at the head of the
fifth movement, the composer writes ―Cavatina: Adagio molto espressivo,‖ setting the stage for a
highly dramatic procession that is only sixty-six measures long. As a descendant from
eighteenth-century Italian opera, the word ―cavatina‖ signifies a short aria without a ―da capo‖ or
a return to the beginning. Depending on the context, the cavatina may occur as an independent
137
Tim Carter, ―Arietta,‖ Ibid.
138
Julian Budden, ―Arioso,‖ Ibid.
92
piece or as an interruption in a recitative. 139 In the fifth movement of Op. 130, the imitation of
human utterance is particularly vivid throughout, especially in mm. 42–48. After a sequence of
agitated triplets in the lower strings (mm. 40–41), the first violin enters with a fragmentary line
marked beklemmt (German for oppressed, weighed upon, suffocated, straitened, anxious). The
grave atmosphere and psychological tension here not only supersedes the more intimate and
lyrical ―arioso‖ and ―arietta‖ movements in Opp. 110 and 111 piano sonatas, but foreshadows the
darker aspects of nineteenth-century Romanticism.
Naturally, such moments of intense emotion beg the question of parallels in the composer‘s
life. In the case of the Op. 130 string quartet, Beethoven‘s close friend, the violinist Karl Holz,
claimed that ―the Cavatina was composed amidst tears of grief; never had his music reached such
a pitch of expressiveness, and the very memory of this piece used to bring tears to his eyes.‖140
As Maynard Solomon indicates, instead of converting grief into public display, as shown in the
Marcia funebre of the Eroica Symphony, Beethoven ―openly permitted himself to acknowledge
music‘s power to represent depths of suffering and of fear‖ in the contrasting section of the
Cavatina, marked Beklemmt.141 In addition, scholars such as Martin Cooper believe that the
beklemmt section, with its broken fragmental figurations, is a musical depiction of Beethoven‘s
failing heart.142 Furthermore, the movement was written during a tense episode in the
relationship between Beethoven and his nephew Karl in the summer of 1825. In a letter to his
nephew, Beethoven wrote pleadingly, knowing that he was rapidly approaching the last months
of his life:
139
Colin Timms, ―Cavatina,‖ Ibid.
140
Cooper, 378.
141
Maynard Solomon, Late Beethoven (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 238–240.
142
Cooper, 381.
93
Not a word more. Only come to my arms, you won‘t hear a single word (of reproach). For God‘s
sake don‘t abandon yourself to misery…. Si vous ne viendres pas, vous me tueres surement. 143
Moreover, in the Classical period, the theme-and-variations was mostly a vehicle for
technical and compositional display, but in Beethoven‘s late music, the form became medium for
some of his most profound utterances. As mentioned previously, it is difficult to follow the
Arietta of Op. 111 with another movement, and the same can be said, too, of the ecstatic finale of
Op. 109. Maynard Solomon opines that Beethoven‘s depth of expression in the variation form
has scarcely been matched, 144 and Marin Cooper suggests that the finale of Op. 111 is the perfect
ending to Beethoven‘s work in the genre of the piano sonata:
The simplicity and static quality of the Arietta suggests a spirit completely at rest, at peace with
itself, not so much resigned to suffering as willingly accepting and transfiguring it into something
that is indistinguishable from joy. 145
German Markings
In the nineteenth century, the rise of nationalism led many European composers to abandon
the traditional use of Italian terminology and adopt the words of their native tongue. As with so
many other aspects of his late music, Beethoven anticipates this change as well. Initially, his first
attempt at the vernacular appears to be nothing more than a bit of programmatic content, but
Beethoven‘s choice of language and the subsequent squabble with his publisher suggests
something deeper. In 1810, upon completion of his Piano Sonata No. 26 in E-flat Major, Op.
81a, Beethoven wrote the German word ―Lebewohl‖ (―farewell‖ or ―goodbye‖) over the opening
three-note motive of the first movement. Curiously, however, Beethoven‘s publisher printed the
143
Ibid, 379.
144
Solomon, 395.
145
Cooper, 200.
94
first edition of the sonata with the composer‘s words in French, writing on the title page: ―Sonate
caractéristique: Les adieux, l’absence, et le retour‖ (―Character Sonata: Farewell, Absence, and
Return‖). Naturally, Beethoven was not happy with this, and he protested this decision several
times, insisting that the titles should read, ―Das Lebewohl, Abwesenheit, and Wiedersehen.‖146
This experience, though, did not dissuade the composer in his future work; as previously
mentioned, the marking of ―Klangender Gesang‖ in the Piano Sonata No. 31 in A-flat Major,
Op. 110 reflects a nationalistic overtone that becomes increasingly common in his late music.
In 1819, Beethoven‘s penchant for German titles reached a new zenith with the longest of
his piano sonatas, the forty-minute Sonata No. 29 in B-flat Major, Op. 106, nicknamed the
―Hammerklavier‖ Sonata. But Beethoven‘s interest in the word Hammerklavier over the Italian
pianoforte can be traced back three years earlier to his work on the Sonata No. 28 in A Major,
Op. 101. At the time, a fervent patriotism was sweeping Vienna, as the Austrian Empire was
fresh off the fierce battles of the final Hundred Days of the Napoleonic Wars. In 1816, possibly
through his 21-year-old student Anton Schindler, Beethoven learned of a society that wished to
purify the German language and purge social behavior of any French influence.147 Beethoven
wrote to his publisher, Sigmund Steiner, about this movement on January 23, 1817:
After a personal examination of the case and after hearing the opinion of our council we are
resolved and hereby resolve that from henceforth on all our works, on which the title is German
instead of pianoforte Hammerklavier shall be used. Hence our most excellent L[ieutenant]
G[eneral] and his Adjutant and also all other whom it may concern, are to comply with these
orders immediately and see that they are carried out.
Instead of Pianoforte
Hammerklavier-
This is to be clearly understood once and for all-
Issued etc., etc.,
146
Alexander Thayer, The Life of Ludwig van Beethoven, ed. Henry Krehbiel, vol. 2 (New York: The
Beethoven Association, 1921), 161.
147
Cooper, 147.
95
By the G[eneralissim]o
On January 23, 1817.148
In Op. 101, while the composer marked the tempo in Italian, he wrote his expressive
directions in German. Thus, while the Italian terms maintain a sense of tradition, the German
words reflect a more personal and sentimental feeling. Indeed, Beethoven‘s expressive directions
would grow in size and scope; for instance, the first movement of the Piano Sonata No. 31 in A-
flat Major, Op. 110 is marked ―Etwas lebhaft und mit der innigsten Empfindung,‖ (Somewhat
lively and with the deepest feeling) while at the beginning of the finale, Beethoven indicates
―Geschwind, doch nicht zu sehr, und mit Entschlossenheit‖ (Fast, but not excessively, and with
determination). The inner two movements of Op. 110, however, harken back to the past; while
the expressive directions are still in German, they are more or less straightforward translations
from the Italian. In the second movement, for example, Beethoven writes ―Lebhaft.
Marschmäßig‖ (Lively. Moderate march) along with the Italian marking ―Vivace alla marcia.‖
Moreover, in the third movement, he writes ―Langsam und sehnsuchtsvoll‖ (Slow and full of
yearning) and the Italian ―Adagio, ma non troppo, con affetto.‖ Here, the word ―Sehnsucht‖
(yearning) refers to a more profound and specific emotion than the general word ―affetto.‖149
The Modes
As mentioned earlier, Beethoven had a special affection for Bach and Handel in his late
years, incorporating the sophisticated high Baroque fugato technique into much of his works. He
148
Beethoven‘s order was carried out only in the titles of the pianoforte sonatas, Opp. 101, 106, and 109;
Beethoven Letters, 654.
149
Ibid, 148.
96
also developed a profound fascination with the works of the early Baroque and the Renaissance:
as noted by musicologist Warren Kirkendale, Beethoven made dozens of his own copies and
hand transcriptions of sixteenth-century and seventeenth-century music, and the composer‘s
conversation books and Anton Schindler‘s biography both disclose the many animated
conversations regarding early music in Beethoven‘s artistic circle. In fact, Schindler notes that
such gatherings were more than just talk: ―The musical treats in van Swieten‘s house‖ included
performances of preferably ―music by Handel, Seb. Bach, and the great masters of Italy back to
Palestrina‖150 Indeed, the composer‘s involvement with early music was quite varied and time
consuming. According to Kirkendale, Beethoven carefully wrote out sacred vocal pieces such as
Palestrina‘s Pueri Hebraeorum and Gloria Patri, William Byrd‘s three-part canon Non nobis
Domine, as well as Gottlieb Muffat‘s Versetl sammt 12 Toccaten.151 Moreover, in the composer‘s
conversation book of December 1819, Joseph Czerny and Beethoven discussed Gioseffo Zarlino,
the greatest theorist in the sixteenth century. Even more significant, in January 1820, the German
publisher Carl Peters told Beethoven that Heinrich Glarean‘s 1547 treatise Dodecachordon could
easily be found in the Imperial Library—a treatise that introduced a new modal system, adding
the Ionian and Hypoionian modes with finals on C, and the Aeolian and Hypoaeolian modes with
finals on A.152
Given this activity, it is little wonder that much of Beethoven‘s late music borrows the
church modes of the Renaissance and early Baroque. In the spring of 1819, Beethoven declared
his wish to write ―a whole symphony in the old modes,‖ which eventually became the Missa
150
Anton Schindler, Beethoven as I Knew Him, 1840, p. 25, quoted in Warren Kirkendale, Fugue and
Fugato in Rococo and Classical Chamber Music (Durham: Duke University Press, 1979), 211.
151
Kirkendale, 211–212.
152
Beethoven, Ludwig van, Konversationshefte, ed. Karl-Heinz Köhler, 11 vols, Leipzig, 1986–2001,
quoted in Lockwood, 367.
97
Solemnis, Op. 123. The sketches of Op. 123 show the composer thinking consciously about these
old scales; in a fragment from the Kyrie movement, for instance, he writes: ―Elee‖ (eleison?) and
―dor‖ (Dorian?).153 More often than not, however, Beethoven preferred to employ modal
harmony at significant moments in the text. In the Adagio of the Credo movement, a section with
the title ―Et incarnatus est de spiritu sancto ex Maria virgine‖ (and became incarnate by the
Holy Ghost of the Virgin Mary) Beethoven uses the Dorian mode to set up a bright contrast with
the work‘s home key of D major in the next section, ―Et homo factus est.‖ 154
Sometimes, Beethoven calls attention to his invocation of mode through the crafting of
textures that remind the listener of a liturgical service. In the finale of the ―Choral‖ Symphony
No. 9 in D Minor, Op. 125, for example, the Andante maestoso section sounds as if it was ripped
from the pages of a Mass: the music proceeds with the first versicle (male chorus) and response
(full chorus), the second versicle (male chorus) and response (full chorus), and then the hymn
itself. The excerpt is full of references to Gregorian chant: a mostly syllabic setting, unison
singing, and a responsorial exchange between the ensembles. Moreover, the unison writing,
although unusual for the late Classical and early Romantic periods, is not a singular occurrence;
Beethoven also uses this technique in the Gloria movement of his Missa Solemnis (mm. 281–
283), as well as later in the finale of his Symphony No. 9 (mm. 611–618).155 While the
Symphony No. 9 produced some of the most laudatory reactions to his music, Beethoven also
endured the wrath of early nineteenth-century critics who had yet to understand his synthesis of
the church modes and his experiments with major-minor tonality:
153
Winter, 270.
154
Cooper, 245–247.
155
Cooper, 232 and 337–338.
98
While we are enjoying the delight of so much science and melody, and eagerly anticipating its
continuance, on a sudden, like the fleeting pleasure of life, or the spirited young adventurer, who
would fly from ease and comfort at home to the inhospitable shores of New Zealand or Lake
Ontario, we are snatched away from such eloquent music, to crude, wild and extraneous
harmonies….156
To be sure, Beethoven‘s absorption of the modes mostly appear in his choral music, but
elements of modal harmony, while rare, do occur elsewhere in his late works. In the variation
movement of his String Quartet No. 15 in A Minor, Op. 132, Beethoven writes, ―Heiliger
Dankgesang eines Genesenen an die Gottheit, in der lydischen Tonart‖ (―Holy song of
thanksgiving of a convalescent to the divinity, in the Lydian mode‖). Appropriately, the music
consists of a hymn-like texture, highly passionate lyricism for a variation movement, and of
course, the Lydian mode. The appearance of modal harmony in his piano sonatas, however, is
even more subtle. In the slow movement of the ―Hammerklavier‖ Sonata, Op. 106, for instance,
only the most serious cadences are modal.157 Furthermore, while the second fugue in the finale of
Op. 110 begins in G major—shifting to G minor after only two and a half lines—there are
overtones of Lydian and Phrygian modes, especially in the first two fugal entrances (mm. 136–
144).158
On one level, of course, Beethoven‘s borrowing of old ideas to create new music is a
practical one; after all, composers are always looking for something different, and the distance of
time, much like physical distance, can create the impression of the exotic. On another level,
however, Beethoven‘s appropriation of past idioms is thoroughly Romantic, invoking a bygone
era that can inspire nostalgic thoughts or construct a fantasy whereby such times are remembered
156
Quarterly Musical Magazine and Review, London, 1826, quoted in Slonimsky, 44–45.
157
Cooper, 269.
158
Mosonyi, 62.
99
with more fondness than they should be. In the end, these characteristics pushed Beethoven‘s
music forward more than even he probably knew.
100
Score Excerpts: Aspects of Character
Example 6.1 Mozart: Fantasie, K. 397, mm. 1–5
Example 6.2 Beethoven: Op. 2 No. 3, Mvt. I, mm. 221–227
Example 6.3 Beethoven: Op. 2 No. 3, Mvt. I, mm. 231
101
102
Example 6.6 Beethoven: Op. 102, No. 1, Mvt. II, mm. 7–12
Example 6.7 Beethoven: Op. 106, Mvt. IV, mm. 11–14
103
Example 6.9 Beethoven: Op. 132, Mvt III, mm. 31–34
Example 6.10 Beethoven: Op. 106, Mvt. IV, mm 118–125
104
Example 6.11 Beethoven: Op. 133, mm. 404–412.
Example 6.13 Beethoven: Op. 109, Mvt. III, Final Variation, mm. 32–34
105
106
Chapter 7: Musical Influence
Although Romantic composers continued to cultivate the large-scale piano sonata, they felt
obliged to follow certain structures and formal conventions that had been handed down from the
Classical period (with the notable exception of Liszt). As a result, the piano sonata became the
means by which to measure one‘s technical savvy, while the character piece became the vehicle
for one‘s personal creativity and imagination. In 1839, Schumann noted that most of the piano
sonatas written by younger composers were little more than a ―study in form…hardly born out of
a strong inner compulsion…. [It] seems that the form has run its course.‖159 In fact, composers
such as Mendelssohn, Schumann and Brahms, all wrote their piano sonatas in the earlier years of
their careers, and given their respect of tradition, it is little surprise that these works are heavily
influenced by their predecessors.
Nevertheless, Beethoven‘s piano sonatas introduce many compositional aspects that
became standard fare in Romantic music, notably longer melodic lines, richer chromatic
harmony, rapid and extreme shifts between harmonic regions, and cyclic tendencies.160 The
purpose of this chapter is to discuss the most important characteristics of Beethoven‘s piano
sonatas, particularly the late ones, and how they influenced keyboard writing in the early
Romantic period.
159
John Rink, ―Sonata: 19th Century, After Beethoven,‖ Grove Music Online.
160
Ibid.
107
Historical Background
While Beethoven‘s nine symphonies set the bar for large forms in the Romantic period, his
thirty-two piano sonatas were enormously influential in the genre of small forms. The continuing
growth of the publishing industry and the rise of the middle class after the Napoleonic Wars
enabled the circulation of Beethoven‘s works in many countries. In addition, while the piano
sonata in the Classical period was a feature of the private concert, the rise of the keyboard
virtuoso in the Romantic period made the piano sonata a public genre. Before 1850, Beethoven‘s
piano sonatas appeared only occasionally on recitals, but in the second half of the nineteenth
century, they became standard fare. In 1836, for example, the 25-year-old Franz Liszt played
Beethoven‘s monumental ―Hammerklavier‖ Piano Sonata No. 29 in B-flat Major, Op. 106,
which scholars have postulated as possibly the first public performance of the work. By 1861,
however, all of the composer‘s thirty-two sonatas had been played in public and some leading
soloists had committed all of them to memory.161
Thematic Similarities
As mentioned previously, many of the early Romantic piano sonatas in the traditional
repertoire owe a great deal to Beethoven. Felix Mendelssohn, for one, wrote three piano sonatas
in his teenage years—the Sonata in G minor, Op. 105 (1821), the Sonata in E major, Op. 6
(1826), and the Sonata in B-flat major, Op. 106 (1827). Each sonata is a testament not only to
Mendelssohn‘s artistic precocity, but to his ability to synthesize significant musical influences.
For example, there are striking thematic similarities between Mendelssohn‘s Op. 6 and
Beethoven Piano Sonata No. 28 in A Major, Op. 101; the opening of Mendelssohn‘s sonata
161
William Newman, The Sonata in the Classic Era, 3rd ed. (New York: W. W. Norton &
Company, Inc., 1983)12–13, and 532.
108
shares the same meter, tempo and mood with Beethoven‘s sonata, and even their melodic outline
and rhythm in their opening phrases resemble each other (Examples 7.1 and 7.2). As a young
music critic in 1834, Robert Schumann recognized a ―reflective sadness‖ in the first movement
of Mendelssohn‘s Op. 6 that echoed the first movement of Beethoven‘s Op. 101:162
We often see him, in fancy, leaning towards Beethoven, and looking up to him as to a saint…In the
first movement of the sonata reminds us of the thoughtful melancholy of Beethoven‘s last A major
sonata—though the last movement recalls Weber‘s manner—yet this is not caused by weak
unoriginality, but rather by intellectual relationship.163
The form and function of the movements in both pieces, too, are analogous—the first
movements are cast in sonata form, the second movements are marches or minuets with trio, the
third movements are slow and expressive, and the finales are fast and virtuosic. Additionally,
both composers open their second movements in a comparable fashion—each melody is set in
the right hand, each one starts from E, each decorates the texture with a neighboring figure, and
each returns to the E, and then leaps to a C. The opening bass lines and the opening alto lines,
too, have the same notes, and the harmonic progressions in both movements each begin with a
simple dominant-to-tonic alternation (V-I-V-I) (Examples 7.3 and 7.4). As one might expect,
both composers are fond of cyclic elements for purposes of artistic unification, but here, they
pursue separate paths. In Beethoven‘s Op. 101, the opening material of the first movement serves
as a link between the third and fourth movements, and true to most cyclic works, most of the
music returns in its original form. In Mendelssohn‘s Op. 6, however, the returning material
appears near the end of the finale with greater contrast, variety, and complexity.
162
Newman, 300–301.
163
Robert Schumann, Music and Musicians, vol. 2; trans. Fanny Ritter (New York: E. Schuberth & co.,
1880), 252–253.
109
But if Mendelssohn‘s Op. 6 is a homage to Beethoven, his Op. 106 may be even more so. It
is difficult, of course, to ignore the similarity in opus numbers regarding Beethoven‘s renowned
―Hammerklavier‖ Piano Sonata No. 29 in B-flat Major, Op. 106 and Mendelssohn‘s Piano
Sonata in B-flat Major (1827); although Mendelssohn‘s sonata is a youthful work, it carries an
opus number reflective of a later effort. This numbering similarity, it turns out, was a conscious
decision—though one made by someone other than Mendelssohn. After his sudden death in
1849, one of Mendelssohn‘s German contemporaries, the composer, conductor, and cellist Julius
Rietz, accepted the responsibility of editing his complete works. Upon the assignment of opus
numbers to works published posthumously, Rietz felt that the early Sonata in B-flat bore such a
striking resemblance to Beethoven‘s famous ―Hammerklavier‖ that it deserved to have the same
opus number. Evidence, too, suggests that Mendelssohn could not escape the influence of the
―Hammerklavier.‖ In 1827, a few months before the completion of his B-flat sonata, he
performed the ―Hammerklavier‖ sonata at a private party, 164 and in a letter to his older sister
Fanny, bearing the date 8 November 1825, the young Mendelssohn pretended to be Beethoven:
I am sending you my Sonata in B-flat (Op. 106) as a present on your birthday, with my heartiest
congratulations. I did not write the sonata out of thin air (nicht des blauen Dunstes willen). Play it
only if you have ample time, which is indispensable for it….165
Not surprisingly, then, Mendelssohn‘s Op. 106 and Beethoven‘s Op. 106 have a great deal
in common. Both of them share a four-movement scheme—the first movements are in sonata
form, the second movements are light scherzos, the third movements are slow and expressive,
and the last movements are fast finales. Like the similarities between Mendelssohn‘s Op. 6 and
164
In February 1827 in Stettin. See Berliner allgemeine musikalische Zeitung (hereafter BamZ) 4 (1827):
83; quoted in R. Larry Todd, ―Piano Music Reformed: The Case of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy,‖ in Nineteenth-
Century Piano Music, ed. R. Larry Todd (New York: Schirmer Books, 1990), 186.
165
Eric Werner, Mendelssohn: A New Image of the Composer and His Age, tran. Dika Newlin (London:
Collier-Macmillan Limited, 1963), 108–109.
110
Beethoven‘s Op. 101, the openings of Mendelssohn‘s Op. 106 and Beethoven‘s Op. 106 are
somewhat identical in terms of the tempo, rhythm, character, texture, harmony, and melodic
outline (Examples 7.5 and 7.6). Both of the first-movement primary themes are in B-flat major
and both movements place the secondary themes in the submediant. In addition, the key of
Mendelssohn‘s second movement, B-flat minor, is same the key as Beethoven‘s trio section of
his second movement. Also, each third movement wanders far from the tonic of the overall
work; in Beethoven‘s case, it is F-sharp minor, an augmented fifth in B-flat major, while
Mendelssohn chooses E major, a tritone away from the tonic.
Mendelssohn‘s cyclic technique in his Op. 106 is also notable, resembling Beethoven‘s
methodology in his Symphonies No. 5 and No. 9. In the Symphony No. 5, the horn theme of the
third movement scherzo returns before the recapitulation in the finale, and in Mendelssohn‘s Op.
106, the principal theme of the second movement scherzo also comes back right before the
recapitulation in the finale. The rhetorical reinforcements of each passage are also remarkably
alike; both cyclic returns began pianissimo, and each is marked crescendo near the entrance of
the recapitulation. In particular, Beethoven infuses great drama at the end of his third-movement
scherzo through two measures of crescendo (mm. 207–208) from pianissimo to fortissimo at the
arrival of the recapitulation (m. 209). On the other hand, the excitement in Mendelssohn‘s Op.
106 is achieved through five measures of accelerando (mm. 86–90) immediately preceding the
advent of the recapitulation, and the crescendo marked on the third measure of the recapitulation
allows for a gradual revelation of the familiar thematic material. Additionally, in his Op. 106,
Mendelssohn adapts the opening melody of the sonata as a transitional passage from the slow
third movement to the finale. This piquant recollection of earlier material from the first and
second movements corresponds closely to Beethoven‘s cyclic potpourri at the beginning of the
111
finale to his Symphony No. 9, where fragments of melodies and themes from each of the first
three movements return with eerie foreboding and nervous suspense.
Still, Mendelssohn was hardly the only nineteenth-century composer who could not escape
the influence of Beethoven. For example, the primary theme in Johannes Brahms‘s Piano Sonata
No. 1 in C Major, Op. 1 is even more closely related to the opening of the ―Hammerklavier‖ than
Mendelssohn‘s Op. 106. Both melodies share the same characteristics in rhythm and tempo, and
each opens in a heroic idiom, calling for full chords in both hands. In addition, the first four
measures of each passage is constructed in segments of 2+2, each segment separated by rests
(Example 7.7). But the thematic similarities between Beethoven and Brahms extend far beyond
the genre of the keyboard. Following a slow chorale-like introduction, the principal theme of the
Allegro in the finale of Brahms‘ Symphony No. 1 in C Minor closely imitates the character and
contour of Beethoven‘s ―Ode to Joy‖ in the famous Symphony No. 9 (Examples 7.8 and 7.9).
Both themes are intensely lyrical, both proceed in mostly stepwise motion, both are introduced
nobly by the strings, and the second half of their opening phrases are almost identical. To this
end, Brahms freely acknowledged the observations of his critics: ―Yes indeed, and what‘s really
remarkable is that every jackass notices it at once.‖166 It is also worth noticing how Beethoven
and Brahms each manipulates their dignified melodies and how important each theme becomes
over the course of the movement. Brahms initially presents his theme in a variation pattern, first
played by the strings in m. 62, then in a second statement by the flute in m. 78, and finally in a
full tutti statement in m. 94. In m. 118, however, Brahms abandons his ―Ode to Joy‖ melody and
introduces a secondary theme in G major. Beethoven, too, subjects his melody to the variation
166
Max Kalbeck, Johannes Brahms, 4 vols. (Vienna and Leipzig: Wiener Verlag; Berlin: Deutsche
Brahms-Gesellschaft, 1904–1914), vol. 3, pt. I, p. 109 and vol. 1, pp. 171–172, quoted in Mark Bonds, After
Beethoven (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1996), 1.
112
form, but unlike his successor, he clings to his dignified theme through the heart of the
movement. He introduces the opening fanfare-like material in mm. 208–215 and baritone‘s
recitative in mm. 216–236, and then proceeds with the variations in the full choir.167
The American literary critic Harold Bloom attributes these differences to Brahms‘
attempt to define his individuality in the midst of a time where composers felt unable to avoid
the shadow of Beethoven. That is, Brahms does not endeavor to imitate Beethoven, but rather
confront him, ―misread‖ him, and then blaze his own creative path. Bloom claims that, ―A strong
artist like Brahms could not evade the legacy of his precursor. He could overcome it only by
confronting directly those works that were the principal sources of his anxiety.‖168 Bloom further
notes that ―Beethoven‘s theme‖ in the finale of Brahms‘ Symphony No. 1 decreases in
importance over the course of the movement, allowing the great climax of the symphony to
occur with the chorale-like theme first articulated in the slow introduction to the finale.169
Nevertheless, the likenesses between Brahms‘s Piano Sonata No.1 and Symphony No.1 were too
great for his contemporaries to ignore. The renowned nineteenth-century conductor and pianist
Hans von Bülow, for one, stated that Brahms‘ First Piano Sonata was really ―Beethoven‘s thirty-
third sonata‖ and Brahms‘ First Symphony was really ―Beethoven‘s Tenth.‖170
Cyclic Tendencies
Although cyclic tendencies had been developed by Beethoven, such as in his Piano Sonata,
Opp. 13 and 101, this compositional aspect became a significant feature in the instrumental
167
Ibid., 148–174.
168
Kalbeck ,1–8.
169
Ibid., 1–8.
170
Hans von Bülow, Hans von Bülow: Briefe und Schriften, ed. Marie von Bülow, 8 vols. (Leipzig:
Breitkopf & Härtel, 1895–1908); quoted in Newman, 329.
113
music of the Romantic period.171 Through select symphonies and keyboard works, Beethoven
demonstrated that the cyclic return of themes could be a powerful emotional tool in absolute
music, generating in the listener feelings of completing a journey or of experiencing the
nostalgic. As mentioned previously, while Mendelssohn‘s Piano Sonata in B-flat Major, Op.106
shares thematic material in common with Beethoven‘s own Op.106, it borrows cyclic ideas from
Beethoven‘s Symphonies No. 5 and No. 9. But while Beethoven‘s cyclic references are clearly
stated and easily identifiable, later nineteenth-century composers began to cultivate more
sophisticated techniques. In works of increasing length and complexity, the cyclic idea became
an important device not for unification, but also for creation, development, and contrast.
Composers such as Franz Schubert, Robert Schumann, and Johannes Brahms not only
appropriated Beethoven‘s cyclic tendencies, but they arguably pushed them farther than
Beethoven himself could have imagined.
Finished in November 1822, Schubert‘s Fantasie in C Major, Op. 15, known more
popularly as the Wanderer Fantasy, D. 760, expands upon the cyclic principles explored by
Beethoven in his Op. 101. All four movements of the work are based upon Schubert‘s song ―Der
Wanderer,‖ as the entire piece grows out of a singular rhythmic figure from the song stated at the
very beginning of the first movement. Schubert also borrows Beethoven‘s idea to link
movements together, as seen in Op. 101, but here, Schubert unites all four movements together
into an unbroken composition. In Schumann‘s Piano Sonata No. 3 in F Minor, Op. 14 (1836), for
example, the theme of the slow third movement (marked Andantino de Clara Wieck, for his
future wife) appears in each of the other three movements, including the ones that precede its
171
Hugh Macdonald, ―Cyclic Form,‖ Grove Music Online; ―Cyclic Form,‖ Oxford Dictionary of Music .
114
first full statement (Examples 7.10–7.13). At the very opening of the piece, the first-movement
primary theme mimics Clara‘s melody; it takes place in the left hand, it descends in stepwise
motion, and it contains the exact same pitches. The opening melodic outline of the second
movement scherzo, too, clearly resembles the theme of the slow third movement, and the theme
of the finale is a long rising line in stepwise motion—that is, an inversion of Clara‘s melody.
In addition, Brahms makes complex cyclic references in his second and third piano sonatas.
In his Piano Sonata No. 2 in F-sharp Minor, Op. 2, the four-note motive in the second movement
is pervasive throughout the entire piece. This motive appears as a part of the descending pianistic
figurations in the openings of both the first and last movements, and after its first full statement
in the second movement, it reoccurs as a major theme in the third movement scherzo (Examples
7.14–7.17). In his Piano Sonata No. 3 in F minor, Op. 5, Brahms begins to show not only cyclic
tendencies, but reflections of what Franz Liszt calls ―thematic transformation.‖ The secondary
theme of the first movement, cast in D-flat major, gives birth to the beautiful D-flat theme of the
Andante movement (Examples 7.18 and 7.19), and after the third movement scherzo, this
Andante theme is subsequently transformed in the Intermezzo movement (Examples 7.20 and
7.21).
Liszt, of course, was not only the brainchild behind thematic transformation, but he is
perhaps its most notable master. In fact, his channeling of Beethoven‘s cyclic technique arguably
gave birth to the symphonic poem, a single-movement orchestral work in which the four
movements of a traditional symphony are miniaturized and blended into one seamless whole.
Liszt‘s greatest achievement in thematic transformation, however, takes place in his famous
Piano Sonata in B Minor (1853). Although the thirty-minute work was attacked by many
115
conservative voices, including Brahms and the critic Eduard Hanslick,172 the Sonata in B Minor
is highly unique in the keyboard literature. While Beethoven in his late years took liberties with
sonata form, as evidenced by the cyclic reference between the last two movements of the Piano
Sonata No. 28 in A Major, Op. 101, Liszt‘s Sonata in B minor is amazingly innovative. To wit,
the musicologist and Liszt scholar Alan Walker writes of the work ―Not only are its four
movements rolled into one, but they are themselves composed against a background of a full-
scale sonata scheme – exposition, development and recapitulation. In short, Liszt has composed
‗a sonata across a sonata.‘‖173
To make this concept work, Liszt strives toward a thematic interdependency whereby he
introduces not new melodies, but changed melodies. For example, the well-known virtuosic
octave theme (m. 8) first morphs into a lyrical song marked cantando espressivo (m. 153), and
much later, it serves as the principal subject for a fugue (m. 450). Moreover, the entire structure
functions on two levels, proceeding either as a four-movement sonata without pause or an entire
singular movement in sonata-allegro form. In fact, the pianist Louis Kentner opines that Liszt
deserves more credit than Hans von Bülow gave Johannes Brahms, writing that Liszt ―reaches
out towards late Beethoven, and makes the boldest bid made by any nineteenth-century
composer to continue where Beethoven had left off.‖174
172
Kenneth Hamilton, Liszt, Sonata in B Minor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 71.
173
Alan Walker, ―Liszt, Franz,‖ Grove Music Online.
174
Louis Kentner, ―Solo Piano Music (1827–1861),‖ in Franz Liszt: the Man and his Music, ed. Alan
Walker, reprint (London: Redwood Burn Limited), 1976.
116
Programmatic Content
The Romantic period freed artists from the perceived imaginative constraints of the
Enlightenment, and while music was arguably the last of the arts to join the movement,
composers had been pushing in a more poetic direction for decades. One of the most significant
outcomes of this push was a philosophy where content governed form, and to describe his
compositional intentions, Franz Liszt used the term ―programmatic music.‖ Still, Liszt was well
aware that what he championed had been extant for at least a century; one of the best examples
in the literature, for example, is Antonio Vivaldi‘s cycle of four violin concertos known as The
Four Seasons, Op. 8, completed in 1723. By definition, the term ―program music‖ implies ―a
preface added to a piece of instrumental music, by means of which the composer intends to
guard the listener against a wrong poetical interpretation, and to direct his attention to the
poetical idea of the whole or a particular part of it.‖ 175 In the eighteenth century, during the
height of the Enlightenment, the instrumental works of Haydn and Mozart made the case that,
unlike Vivaldi‘s The Four Seasons, music stands on its own without external prompts. This line
of thought holds that music is ―absolute,‖ expressive in a general sense and existing not to
describe something or tell a story, but rather for its own sake.
In his early years, Beethoven followed largely in the footsteps of Haydn and Mozart,
whose symphonies, piano sonatas, and chamber music assisted in the development of absolute
music. In his middle period, however, Beethoven began to experiment with specific meaning,
selecting titles that would give the listener a clue to the composer‘s artistic intentions. The most
well-known example of Beethoven‘s programmatic music, of course, is the ―Pastoral‖
Symphony No. 6 in F Major, Op. 68, where, through the headings of each of the five
movements, Beethoven takes the listener on a journey through the countryside that includes a
175
Roger Scruton, ―Program Music,‖ Grove Music Online.
117
peasant dance, a thunderstorm, and a shepherd‘s horn. At the same time, however, the composer
began to infuse his piano sonatas with equally detailed content. While the first two piano sonatas
to receive nicknames—the ―Pathetique‖ Piano Sonata No. 8 in C Minor, Op. 13, and the
―Moonlight‖ Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp Minor, Op. 27/2—received their titles from other
sources, Beethoven‘s ―Tempest‖ Piano Sonata No. 17 in D Minor, Op. 31/2, came about through
the composer‘s suggestion that the performer should read Shakespeare‘s play The Tempest while
learning the piece.176 Similarly, upon the completion of his Piano Sonata No. 26 in E-flat Major,
Op. 81a, ―Les Adieux,‖ Beethoven affixed a brief heading to each of the three movements—
Lebewohl (―Farewell,‖), Abwesenheit (―Absence‖), and Wiedersehen (―Return‖)—in an effort to
describe the departure of his patron Archduke Rudolph, who was compelled to flee Vienna upon
the arrival of Napoleon‘s French army.
Although the presence of programmatic intentions in Beethoven‘s early and middle period
piano sonatas is rather overt or straightforward, the poetic content in the late sonatas is more
difficult to grasp. Many of Beethoven‘s external suggestions are merely symbolic or
metaphorical. While the late piano sonatas do not boast any titles, the last two sonatas—the
Piano Sonata No. 31 in A-flat major, Op. 110 and the Piano Sonata No. 32 in C Minor, Op.
111—contain evidence of meaning beyond the notes on the page. Here, the proof lies not at the
beginning of the piece, but rather within, as the composer uses his native tongue to communicate
the particular emotion that the performer should impart to the audience. In Op. 110, Beethoven is
rather general; in the G minor Arioso, the word ermattet (―exhausted‖) appears, and in the
second fugue in A-flat major, the words wieder auflebend (―again reviving‖) can be found. The
Piano Sonata, Op. 111, however, promises a much more involved listening experience.
176
Scruton, ―Program Music,‖ Grove Music Online.
118
To begin with, Op. 111 is another example of Beethoven‘s favorite subject—the procession
for struggle to triumph, or the journey from darkness to light. Like many of the works written in
his heroic period, such as the famous Symphony No. 5 in C Minor, Op. 111 begins in the minor
key and ends in the major key, but here, Beethoven‘s appropriation of this idea is slightly
different. In the aforementioned Symphony No. 5, the entire piece may be thought to have a
protagonist—a hero, perhaps—who, after a number of personal battles that weave their way
through the first three movements, emerges victorious and celebratory. In Op. 111, however, the
conflict is not external, but internal; according to Wilhelm von Lenz, the composer‘s personal
biographer, Op. 111 is not a display of volcanic conflict, but rather a personal journey from
resistance to resignation.177 To be sure, the first movement of the sonata bristles with an
energetic and driving character and recalls much of Beethoven‘s heroic period. Unlike the
Symphony No. 5, though, Op. 111 does not finish with exuberant passages. On the contrary, the
second movement is calm and peaceful, and closes with an air of meditation and quietude. Some
scholars think that historical circumstances may have played a role; while the fierce battles of the
Napoleonic Wars served as a backdrop for Beethoven‘s heroic period, the aftermath of the
conflict brought about a larger desire to return to peace and stability.178 In this vein, the second
movement of Op. 111 mirrors the concerns of the people of Vienna—that is, a search for
tranquility after years of bloodshed. Op. 111 may also reflect Beethoven‘s personal yearnings; on
the sketches of one its contemporaries, the Missa Solemnis, the aging composer wrote: ―Plea for
177
Ceraldine Lueth, Beethoven Solo Piano Literature (Colorado: Maxwell Music Evaluation Books, 1992),
219.
178
Maynard Solomon, Beethoven (New York: Schirmer Books, 1977), 293.
119
inner and outer peace,‖ which may carry not only religious significance, but an internal
longing.179
Naturally, Beethoven‘s embrace of programmatic content spawned many imitators in the
nineteenth century, and as with cyclism, these composers also took Beethoven‘s ideas to new
heights. Several piano sonatas of the Romantic period, for example, reference literature and
songs. For example, each of the slow movements in Brahms‘ three piano sonatas carries variable
degrees of extramusical associations. In his Piano Sonata No. 1 in C Major, Op. 1, the theme of
the second movement is based on an old German Minnelied from the medieval era; moreover,
the young composer writes the folk text Verstohlen geht der Mond (―Talking is the moon‖) right
at the theme‘s opening statement. Conversely, in the slow movement of his Piano Sonata No. 2
in F-sharp Minor, Op. 2, Brahms‘ borrows the melody of a Winterlied (―Winter Song‖) written
by the medieval Swiss nobleman Count Kraft von Toggenburg and sets it as a theme for several
variations. The Andante of the Piano Sonata No. 3 in F Minor, Op. 5 is more pictorially
suggestive; here, Brahms quotes a line from a poem by the nineteenth-century German poet Otto
Inkermann, known more widely by his pen name, C. O. Sternau: ―der Abend dämmert, der
Mondlicht scheint‖ (―the evening dawns, the moonlight glistens‖). Moreover, Brahms may have
called upon another melody that was not his own; in 1862, the critic Adolf Schubring suggested
that the theme of the movement‘s coda in D-flat (marked Andante molto) is based on a folk tune
that was very popular at the time.180
Not to be outdone, Schumann‘s early Fantasy in C Major, Op. 17 also endeavors to follow
in Beethoven‘s footsteps. In fact, Schumann originally penned the piece for the dedication of a
179
Gustav Nottebohm, Zweite Beethoveniana (Leipzig: Rieter-Biedermann, 1887); quoted in Solomon,
Beethoven, 342.
180
Walter Frisch, ―Brahms: From Classical to Modern,‖ in Todd, 316–322; Kirby, 229.
120
Beethoven monument in Bonn, giving it the name ―Grand Sonata.‖ The original titles for the
three-movement work also reflect the young composer‘s extramusical thoughts: ―Ruins,‖
―Triumphal Arch,‖ and ―Starry Crown,‖ once named Palmen (―palm‖). Schumann‘s fondness for
his future wife also shines through; in the coda of the first movement, there are telling thematic
references to Beethoven‘s only song cycle An die ferne Geliebte, Op. 98 (―To My Distant
Beloved‖). In addition, in a letter to his publisher Carl Friedrich Kistner, dated 19 December
1836, Schumann mentions that the sonata‘s third and final movement contains a quotation from
the brooding second movement of Beethoven‘s Symphony No. 7 in A Major, writing that, ―In
the Palmen appears the Adagio from the A-major Symphony.‖ For reasons still unknown,
however, Schumann later changed his mind. In 1887, Schumann‘s cataloguer Hermann Erler
printed this letter, but noted that before his death, the composer decided to remove the reference
to Beethoven‘s Symphony No. 7 in the sonata‘s manuscript. 181 As a result, subsequent editions
of the Fantasy in C major have omitted this musical quotation.
Fugue
As discussed previously, Beethoven‘s exploration of fugue or the fugato technique is one
of the most distinguishing characteristics of his late piano sonatas. Curiously, though, his
appropriation of this Baroque practice did not inspire many nineteenth-century keyboard
composers. Many of them considered the fugue more suitable for smaller works, and the
Romantic obsession with large-scale pieces often placed fugue on the sidelines.182 The
181
Robert Schumann, Robert Schumanns Briefe. 2d. ed. F. Gustav Jansen (Leipzig, Breitkoph und Härtel,
1904), 421; quoted in Anthony Newcomb, ―Schumann and the Marketplace: From Butterflies to Hausmusik‖ in
Nineteenth-Century Piano Music, 295–296.
182
Dale, 127–133.
121
occurrence of fugue in a keyboard sonata in the Romantic period is rare, and to this end, only
two examples are worth mentioning: Franz Schubert‘s Wanderer Fantasy, D. 760, whose fourth
and final movement has a fugal beginning, and Liszt‘s Piano Sonata in B minor, whose Allegro
energico theme reappears in m. 450 as a three-voice fugue, a contrapuntal delight abandoned a
mere forty-six measures later.183 To be fair, the fugal technique does appear in many smaller and
perhaps lesser-known keyboard works, such as Schumann‘s Impromptus on a Theme by Clara
Wieck, Op. 5, the Four Fugues, Op. 72 and the Seven Pieces in Fughetta Form, Op. 126;
Mendelssohn‘s Six Preludes and Fugues, Op. 35; and Liszt‘s Prelude and Fugue on the theme
BACH, first written for organ, and then arranged for piano by the composer himself.
But if nineteenth-century composers were reluctant to engage the fugue as a compositional
technique in their keyboard sonatas, they were more interested in writing character pieces instead
of the piano sonata. Although Beethoven‘s piano sonatas were tremendously influential
throughout the Romantic period—published in several editions and countries and performed as
conventional recital repertoire—the sonata as a genre lost its leading position.184 Did nineteenth-
century composer find Beethoven‘s achievements in the piano sonatas too high to meet, or did
they feel that the genre was no longer suitable for the artistic goals of the Romantic period?
Whatever their reasons, these same composers still held Beethoven in great esteem, and their
imitations and extensions of his ideas testify to the ideals to which they wished to aspire. For
even if the piano sonata was—as the twentieth-century American musicologist William Newman
183
Kirby, 222; Gordon, 229-230 and 326; Dale, 122–135.
184
Kirby, 138.
122
notes—a ―conservative facet of Romantic music history,‖185 it cast a shadow as long as its most
recent master.
185
Newman, quoted in John Rink, ―Sonata: 19th Century, After Beethoven,‖ Grove Music Online.
123
Score Excerpts: Musical Influence
Example 7.2 Mendelssohn: Op. 6, Mvt. I, mm. 1–3
Example 7.4 Mendelssohn: Op. 6, Mvt. III, mm. 1
124
Example 7.6 Mendelssohn: Op. 106, Mvt. I, mm. 1–2
Example 7.7 Brahms: Op. 1, Mvt. I, mm. 1–4
Example 7.8 Brahms: Op. 68, Mvt. IV, mm. 61–73
Example 7.9 Beethoven: Op. 125, Mvt. IV, mm. 92–103
125
Example 7.10 Schumann: Op. 14, Mvt. III, mm. 1–4
Example 7.11 Schumann: Op. 14, Mvt. I, mm. 1–2
Example 7.12 Schumann: Op. 14, Mvt. II, mm. 1–2
Example 7.13 Schumann: Op. 14, Mvt. IV, mm. 1–2
126
Example 7.14 Brahms: Op. 2, Mvt. II, mm. 1–2
Example 7.15 Brahms: Op. 2, Mvt. III, mm. 1–2
127
128
Chapter 8: Final Thoughts
While Beethoven‘s late works, particularly the last five piano sonatas, laid the groundwork
for nineteenth-century music, their intellectual complexity and emotional profundness continued
to fascinate scholars and performers well into the twentieth century. One hundred years after the
composer‘s death, Heinrich Schenker‘s analysis, which emphasizes music‘s ―structural levels,‖
―finds resonance with prevailing attitudes toward coherence in Beethoven‘s music.‖186 Schenker
also committed himself to the critical editions of Beethoven‘s last five piano sonatas (although
Op. 106 was excluded because he could not access the composer‘s original manuscript); these
were titled Die letzten fünf Sonaten von Beethoven: Kritische Ausgabe mit Einführung und
Erläuterung, published between 1913 and 1921.187 At the same time, Sir Donald Tovey
repeatedly referred to Beethoven‘s music in his theory of aesthetics, whereby the quality of a
composition is the byproduct of its construction. Even one hundred and fifty years later,
Beethoven‘s life continued to be the subject of further studies. In 1985, a trio of British
academics—Alan Tyson, Douglas Johnson, and Robert Winter—released The Beethoven
Sketchbooks, a scrupulous examination of Beethoven‘s rough drafts that pores over watermarks,
pencil scratching, ink blots, and coffee stains in an effort to support or discard numerous theories
regarding the composer‘s thought processes. In 1996, Theodore Albrecht of Kent State
University (Ohio) sought to present another side of Beethoven‘s many correspondences. He
published three volumes of letters written to the composer.188 Also, The Critical Reception of
Beethoven’s Compositions by His German Contemporaries, published in 1999 for the first
186
Scott G. Burnham, ―Beethoven,‖ Grove Music Online.
187
Maynard Solomon, Beethoven (New York: Schirmer Books, 1977), 510.
188
Ibid.
129
volume and in 2001 for the second volume, include reviews, reports, essays, and notes found in
German-language periodicals published between 1783 and 1839.189
Given their historical importance and significance in the keyboard literature, it is with little
surprise that Beethoven‘s thirty-two piano sonatas have been the subject of several volumes,
notably by Robert Taub and Charles Rosen. A few books focus, of course, on a specific sonata,
such as British theorist Nicholas Marston‘s Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in E, Op. 90, which
dissects the sketches of Op. 90, or Indiana University professor Joanna Goldstein‘s A Beethoven
Enigma, which discusses the various interpretations and performance practices of the Piano
Sonata No. 32 in C Minor, Op. 111. Still, fairly or unfairly, Beethoven‘s late style and his last
five piano sonatas have not received as much attention as other aspects of his oeuvre, such as his
symphonies or the works in his middle period.
As demonstrated throughout this document, Beethoven‘s last five piano sonatas continue to
be daunting to the theorist, the musicologist, and the performer. Their daring innovations and
synthesis of past and present were not only radical for their time, but difficult to follow. In these
sonatas, Beethoven lives in several centuries at once—his church modes recall the distant
harmonies of the Renaissance; his fugal writing harkens back to the high Baroque; his Classical
forms maintain a strong link to Haydn and Mozart; his natural flow of movements and
employment of cyclicism for unification and emotional impact usher in the Romantic period; and
his juxtaposition of contrasting elements for a personal artistic statement anticipates the
individuality of the twentieth century.
Needless to say, Beethoven will be a source of inexhaustible study for generations to come.
To this end, this document hopes to inspire scholars and performers, teachers and students, in
189
Wayne M. Senner, ed., The Critical Reception of Beethoven’s Compositions by his German
Contemporaries, 2 vols. (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1999– 2001).
130
their quest to grasp Beethoven‘s late years and why his final works, despite their difficulties,
persist in the repertoire. Through a study of one genre that spanned his entire life—the piano
sonata—secrets that lay hidden in the last string quartets, final choral works, and even the
Symphony No. 9 may be unearthed and finally comprehended. Although Beethoven‘s
methodology has not been fully understood yet, the music will remain, universal and timeless, a
chronicle of the human condition, a mirror to how the composer experienced life, and his eternal
wish for all of mankind to join him.
131
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List of Score Excerpts vii

IV: Key Relationships 50

VI: Aspects of Character 79

VII: Musical Influence 107

VIII: Final Thoughts 129

2.1 Beethoven: Op. 101, Finale, mm. 91–98 30

2.2 Beethoven: Op. 101, Finale, mm. 1–4 30

2.3 Beethoven: Op. 101, Finale, mm. 129–134 30

2.4 Beethoven: Op. 101, Finale, mm. 176–182 31

2.5 Beethoven: Op. 106, Mvt. I, mm. 137–142 31

2.6 Beethoven‘s Sketch Book Vol. II for a finale in a sonata 31

2.7 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. I, mm. 19–21 32

2.8 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. I, mm. 29–32 32

2.9 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. I, mm. 35–37 32

2.10 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. I, mm. 39–40 33

2.11 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. I, mm. 43–44 33

2.12 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. I, mm. 76–81 33

2.13 Beethoven‘s sketch-books between 1819 and 1822, vol. 1, 78 34

2.14 Beethoven: Op. 109, Mvt. III, Var. 5, mm. 1–4 34

2.16 Beethoven: Op. 106, Finale, fugal subject, mm. 6–11 35

2.17 Beethoven: Op. 106, Finale, mm. 294–300 35

2.18 Beethoven: Op. 106, Finale, mm. 143–148 35

2.19 Beethoven: Op. 110, Finale, mm. 152–160 36

2.20 Beethoven: Op. 110, Finale, mm. 170–174 36

3.1 Beethoven: Op. 109, Mvt. I, mm. 1–13 47

3.3 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. I, mm. 17–24 48

3.4 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. II, mm. 1–8 49

4.1 Beethoven: Op. 106, Mvt. I, mm. 35–38 60

4.2 Beethoven: Op. 106, Mvt. I, mm. 124–130 60

4.3 Beethoven: Op. 106, Mvt. I, mm. 197–201 60

4.4 Haydn: Hob. XVI: 52, Mvt. I, mm. 67–71 61

4.5 Beethoven: Op. 110, Mvt. II, mm. 39–48 61

4.6 Beethoven: Op. 57, Mvt. I, mm. 257–261 62

4.7 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. I, mm. 150–158 62

5.1 Beethoven: Op. 14/2, Mvt. II, mm. 13–20 74

5.2 Beethoven: Op. 26, Mvt. I, mm. 20–26 74

5.3 Beethoven: Op. 57, Mvt. II, mm. 1–16 74

5.4 Beethoven: Op. 109, Mvt. III, mm. 1–16 75

5.5 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. II, mm. 1–8 75

5.6 Beethoven: Op. 109, Mvt. III, Var. 1, mm. 1–6 76

5.7 Beethoven: Op. 109, Mvt. III, Var. 2, mm. 25–28 76

5.8 Beethoven: Op. 109, Mvt. III, Var. 3, mm. 1–4 76

5.9 Beethoven: Op. 109, Mvt. III, Var. 3, mm. 9–12 76

5.10 Beethoven: Op. 109, Mvt. III, Var. 4, mm. 1–2 76

5.11 Beethoven: Op. 109, Mvt. III, Var. 5, mm. 1–4 77

5.12 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. II, Rhythmic Contraction 77

5.13 Beethoven: Op. 111, Mvt. II, Var. 6, mm. 14–16 77

6.1 Mozart: K. 397, mm. 1–5 101