The New Beethoven: Evolution, Analysis, Interpretation [Illustrated] 1580469930, 9781580469937

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The New Beethoven

Copyright © 2020 by the Editor and Contributors All rights reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation, no part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system, published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast, transmitted, recorded, or reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. First published 2020 University of Rochester Press 668 Mt. Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620, USA www.urpress.com and Boydell & Brewer Limited PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK www.boydellandbrewer.com ISBN-13: 978-1-58046-993-7 (print) ISBN 978-1-78744-812-4 (ePDF) ISSN: 1071-9989 ; v. 172 Cataloging-in-Publication data available from the Library of Congress.

Cover image: Portion of full-length statue depicting Beethoven by Thomas Crawford, 1856. Jordan Hall, New England Conservatory, Boston. Photo by Matthew Cron. Cover design: riverdesignbooks.com

For Lewis Lockwood: Scholar, Colleague, Friend

Contents Preface xi Chronological Bibliography of Books, Articles, Book Chapters, and Musical Editions by Lewis Lockwood xv Acknowledgments xxi Introduction 1 Jeremy Yudkin Part One: A Creative Life 1 Of Deserters and Orphans: Beethoven’s Early Exposure to the Opéras-Comiques of Monsigny Steven M. Whiting

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2 “A Really Excellent and Capable Man”: Beethoven and Johann Traeg 37 David Wyn Jones 3 A Four-Leaf Clover: A Newly Discovered Cello, the Premiere of the Ninth Symphony, Beethoven’s Circle of Friends in Bonn, and a Corrected Edition of the Song “Ruf vom Berge,” WoO 147 Michael Ladenburger 4 “Where Thought Touches the Blood”: Rhythmic Disturbance as Physical Realism in Beethoven’s Creative Process Bruce Adolphe 5 The Sanctification of Beethoven in 1827–28 Christopher Reynolds

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78 89

Part Two: Prometheus / Eroica 6 The Prometheus Theme and Beethoven’s Shift from Avoidance to Embrace of Possibilities Alan Gosman

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7 Beethoven at Heiligenstadt in 1802: Deconstruction, Integration, and Creativity William Kinderman

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8 “Mit Verstärkung des Orchesters”: The Orchestra Personnel at the First Public Performance of Beethoven’s Eroica Theodore Albrecht

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Part Three: Masses 9 “Aber lieber Beethoven, was haben Sie denn wieder da gemacht?” Observations on the Performing Parts for the Premiere of Beethoven’s Mass in C, Opus 86 Jeremiah W. McGrann 10 Heart to Heart: Beethoven, Archduke Rudolph, and the Missa solemnis Mark Evan Bonds 11 God and the Voice of Beethoven Scott Burnham

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228 244

Part Four: Quartets 12 “So Here I Am, in the Middle Way”: The Autograph of the “Harp” Quartet and the Expressive Domain of Beethoven’s Second Maturity M. Lucy Turner

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13 Meaningful Details: Expressive Markings in Beethoven Manuscripts, with a Focus on Opus 127 Nicholas Kitchen

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14 The Autograph Score of the Slow Movement of Beethoven’s Last Quartet, Opus 135 Barry Cooper

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15 Early German-Language Reviews of Beethoven’s Late String Quartets Robin Wallace

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Part Five: Explorations 16 Three Movements or Four? The Scherzo Movements in Beethoven’s Early Sonatas Erica Buurman

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17 Utopia and Dystopia Revisited: Contrasted Domains in Beethoven’s Middle-Period F-Major and F-Minor Works Barbara Barry

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18 Schooling the Quintjäger David B. Levy 19 Cue-Staff Annotations in Beethoven’s Piano Works: Reflections and Examples from the Autograph of the Piano Sonata, Opus 101 Federica Rovelli 20 Another Little Buck Out of Its Stable Richard Kramer 21 Beethoven’s Cavatina, Haydn’s Seasons, and the Thickness of Inscription Elaine Sisman

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448 466

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List of Contributors

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Index of Works by Beethoven

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General Index

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Figure P.1. Lewis Lockwood. Photo by Robert Goddyn.

Preface It is a great pleasure to write here briefly about my friend and colleague Lewis Lockwood, for whom, on the occasion of his ninetieth birthday, this book was conceived, planned, organized, edited, and produced over the last many years, and to whom it is dedicated. I have known Lewis since 1982, when he was at Harvard, and I arrived to take up a position at Boston University. Since then our paths have become much closer. While I was serving as chair of the Musicology and Ethnomusicology Department, I invited Lewis—after his retirement from Harvard—to assume the honorary position of Distinguished Senior Scholar at Boston University, a position he graciously accepted. He taught seminars for us and advised graduate students, and in 2014 he and I founded the Boston University Center for Beethoven Research, for which he continues to serve as Co-Director. A formal review of his life so far would include the following facts. He was born on what was most probably the same day as Beethoven’s birthday in 1930 and educated at the High School of Music and Art in New York City, where he studied the cello, an instrument that he still plays and for which he has a special fondness. He attended Queens College as an undergraduate and studied with one of the best-known scholars of Renaissance music, Edward Lowinsky. For graduate school he also had as teachers the leading lights of musicology at Princeton University—legends in the field, such as Arthur Mendel, Nino Pirrotta, and Oliver Strunk—and completed his dissertation on the sixteenth-century composer, Vincenzo Ruffo. (This was later published as The Counter-Reformation and the Masses of Vincenzo Ruffo [1970]). He played with the Seventh Army Symphony, also known as “Uncle Sam’s Orchestra,” overseas for a year and a half during the mid-1950s and then returned to the United States to take up his own appointment at Princeton, where he taught from 1958 to 1980. He edited the Journal of the American Musicological Society from 1964 to 1967 and served as president of the American Musicological Society from 1987 to 1988. In 1980 he was appointed to the Department of Music at Harvard University, where he was later named Fanny Peabody Research Professor. He was appointed an emeritus professor in 2002.

xii  ❧  preface

His career has been marked by important contributions in two very different fields. His work on Renaissance music culminated in his important book Music in Renaissance Ferrara, 1400–1505 (1984), which established the reputation of that city-state as one of the most important musical centers of the fifteenth century and which received the Marraro Prize of the Society of Italian Historical Studies and the Otto Kinkeldey Award of the American Musicological Society. The book was revised in 2008, and in that year Lockwood was also awarded the Paul Oskar Kristeller Lifetime Achievement Award from the Renaissance Society of America for his work in Renaissance Studies. A book of essays on music in Renaissance cities and courts was published in his honor in 1996. But he has also been described as “the leading American authority on Beethoven,”1 and his work on Beethoven is highly regarded throughout the scholarly world. His first book in this field was Beethoven: Studies in the Creative Process (1992), a highly influential work that brought the sketches and autographs of the composer under a new spotlight. In the same year he founded the yearbook Beethoven Forum, which ran for fourteen years. His biography, Beethoven: The Music and the Life (2003), was a finalist for a Pulitzer Prize in biography. This was followed by a book on the string quartets (2008) together with the members of the Juilliard Quartet and, more recently, by a book on the Beethoven symphonies (2015). A new book on the history of Beethoven biography, Beethoven’s Lives: The Biographical Tradition, is scheduled for publication at about the same time as this volume. His scholarship encompasses a broad range of articles, primarily focused on Beethoven’s creative process, and his largest project in this area was the work, carried out over seven years in collaboration with the music theorist Alan Gosman, on an edition of and commentary on one of the largest of Beethoven’s sketchbooks, the so-called Eroica Sketchbook. He has worked assiduously on the opus 69 Cello Sonata, with a facsimile of the first movement, edited by Lockwood and Jens Dufner of the Beethoven-Haus in Bonn, appearing in 2015. This is a work that has fascinated Lockwood since 1970, when his over-one-hundred-page groundbreaking article on the sonata appeared in the yearbook Music Forum. I have compiled (you will find it below) a chronological bibliography of Lewis Lockwood’s publications. I took awed note as I did this that—standing as a rebuke to mere mortals and a cautionary warning to young scholars— there are sixty-five items that have appeared over a period of sixty-three years: fifteen books, six as editor; a journal with a run of fourteen years; several

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musical editions, thirty-five articles in journals and conference proceedings, and twelve book chapters. He has received honorary degrees from the Università degli Studi di Ferrara, the New England Conservatory of Music, and Wake Forest University. He was elected to membership in the American Academy of Arts and Sciences in 1984, and in 2013 to the American Philosophical Society. In 2018 he was named a co-recipient, with Margaret Bent, of the Guido Adler Prize of the International Musicological Society, in the inaugural year of the Prize. And in the same year he was elected an honorary member of the Beethoven-Haus Association, only the second American scholar to have been so honored. Over his career he has taught a very large number of students, many of whom have themselves forged distinguished reputations as teachers and scholars. Not all of them, for a variety of reasons, were able to contribute to this book, but certainly a significant number are represented in these pages. But in addition to noting these striking academic achievements, it must be loudly acknowledged that the most remarkable of Lewis’s qualities is his profound humanity. This reveals itself in all his work, in his never forgetting that the subjects of his research were human beings, living often challenging lives, or—in the case of Beethoven—tragic and painful ones. This humanity can be sensed throughout his biography of the composer, in the many articles on Beethoven’s life and work, his moving comments on Beethoven symphony performances in the Lodz ghetto, his sympathy with and understanding of Beethoven’s nephew or his royal pupil or his friends. But for those of us who are fortunate enough to know Lewis personally, this aspect of him shines through every interaction, every conversation, every one of his expressions about people and their lives. And this is not to mention the manifold ways in which he has quietly helped and supported so many of us. I have said this about him before, but I would like to put it here in writing: Lewis Lockwood is a deeply thoughtful, sympathetic, and caring man. His humanity is palpable and instinctive. All the authors in this book and many others around the world who know him agree: he is, in the terminology of his (and my) people, both in his scholarship and in his life, a true mensch.

Note 1

Joseph Kerman, “Beethoven the Unruly,” New York Review of Books, February 27, 2003 (accessed May 24, 2020).

Chronological Bibliography of Books, Articles, Book Chapters, and Musical Editions by Lewis Lockwood “Vincenzo Ruffo and Musical Reform after the Council of Trent.” Musical Quarterly 43 (1957): 342–71. “A Note on Obrecht’s Mass ‘Sub tuum praesidium.’” Revue belge de musicologie 14 (1960): 30–39. As editor. Antonius Divitis: Missa “Quem dicunt homines.” Das Chorwerk 83 (Wolfenbüttel: Möseler, 1961). “A Continental Mass and Motet in a Tudor Manuscript.” Music & Letters 42 (1961): 336–47. As editor. Drei Motetten über den Text “Quem dicunt homines.” Das Chorwerk 94 (Wolfenbüttel: Möseler, 1964). “A View of the Early Sixteenth-Century Parody Mass.” In The Department of Music, Queens College of the City University of New York: Twenty-Fifth Anniversary Festschrift, edited by Albert Mell, 53–78. Flushing, NY: Queens College Department of Music, 1964. “A Dispute on Accidentals in Sixteenth-Century Rome.” Analecta Musicologica 2 (1965): 24–40. “On ‘Parody’ as Term and Concept in 16th-Century Music.” In Aspects of Medieval and Renaissance Music: A Birthday Offering to Gustave Reese. Annotated Reference Tools in Music, edited by Jan LaRue, 560–75. New York: Norton, 1966. “Computer Assistance in the Investigation of Accidentals in Renaissance Music.” Proceedings of the Tenth Congress of the International Musicological Society, Ljubiljana, 1967, 444–57. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1967. “A Sample Problem of Musica Ficta: Willaert’s Pater noster.” In Studies in Music History: Essays for Oliver Strunk, edited by Harold Powers, 161–82. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1968.

xvi  ❧  chronological bibliography of works by lockwood “Vincenzo Ruffo and Two Patrons of Music at Milan: Alfonso d’Avalos and Cardinal Carlo Borromeo.” In Il duomo di Milano: Atti del congresso internazionale, edited by Maria Luisa Gatti Perer, 2:23–34. Milan: La Rete, 1969. “The Autograph of the First Movement of Beethoven’s Sonata for Violoncello and Pianoforte, opus 69.” Music Forum 2 (1970): 1–109. The Counter-Reformation and the Masses of Vincenzo Ruffo. Studi di Musica Veneta. Venice: Universal, 1970. “On Beethoven’s Sketches and Autographs: Some Problems of Definition and Interpretation.” Acta Musicologica 42 (1970): 32–47. “Beethoven’s Unfinished Piano Concerto of 1815: Sources and Problems.” Musical Quarterly 56 (1970): 624–46. Reprinted in The Creative World of Beethoven: Studies by Eminent Scholars in Beethoven’s Style, Technique, Life, and Works, edited by Paul Henry Lang, 122–44. New York: Norton, 1971. “Music at Ferrara in the Period of Ercole I d’Este.” Studi musicali 1 (1972): 101–31. “Aspects of the ‘L’homme armé’ Tradition.” Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association 100 (1973–74): 97–122. “Beethoven’s Sketches for Sehnsucht, WoO 146.” In Beethoven Studies [vol. 1], edited by Alan Tyson, 97–122. New York: Norton, 1974. “‘Messer Gossino’ and Josquin Desprez.” In Studies in Renaissance and Baroque Music in Honor of Arthur Mendel, edited by Robert Marshall, 15–24. Kassel: Bärenreiter, and Hackensack, NJ: Boonin, 1974. As editor. Palestrina, Pope Marcellus Mass: An Authoritative Score, Backgrounds and Sources, History and Analysis, Views and Comments. New York: Norton, 1975. “Pietrobono and the Instrumental Tradition at Ferrara in the Fifteenth Century.” Rivista italiana di musicologia 10 (1975): 115–33. “The Beethoven Sketchbook in the Scheide Library.” Princeton University Library Chronicle 37 (1975–76): 139–53. “Dufay and Ferrara.” In Papers read at the Dufay Quincentenary Conference, Brooklyn College, December 6–7, 1974, edited by Allan Atlas, 1–26. Brooklyn, NY: Department of Music, School of Performing Arts, Brooklyn College of the City University of New York, 1976. “Josquin at Ferrara: New Documents and Letters.” In Josquin des Prez: Proceedings of the International Josquin Festival: Conference Held at the Julliard School at Lincoln Center in New York City, 21–25 June 1971, edited by Edward Lowinsky and Bonnie Blackburn, 1:103–37. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976. “Nottebohm Revisited.” In Current Thought in Musicology, edited by John Grubbs, 139–92. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1976. “Jean Mouton and Jean Michel: New Evidence on French Music and Musicians in Italy, 1505–1520.” Journal of the American Musicological Society 32 (1979): 191– 246. As editor. Vincenzo Ruffo: Seven Masses. 2 vols. Recent Researches in the Music of the Renaissance 32–33 (Madison, WI: A-R Editions, 1979).

chronological bibliography of works by lockwood  ❧ xvii “Beethoven’s Earliest Sketches for the ‘Eroica’ Symphony.” Musical Quarterly 67 (1981): 457–78. “Musicisti in Ferrara all’epoca dell’Ariosto.” In L’Ariosto: La musica i musicisti; Quattro studi e sette madrigali ariosteschi, edited by Maria Antonella Balsano, 7–29. Florence: Olschki, 1981. “‘Eroica’ Perspectives: Strategy and Design in the First Movement.” In Beethoven Studies, vol. 3, edited by Alan Tyson, 85–105. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982. Music in Renaissance Ferrara, 1440–1505: The Creation of a Musical Center in the Fifteenth Century. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984. As editor with Phyllis Benjamin. Beethoven Essays: Studies in Honor of Elliot Forbes. Harvard Publications in Music. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Department of Music, 1984. “Adrian Willaert and Cardinal Ippolito I d’Este: New Light on Willaert’s Early Career in Italy, 1515–1521.” Early Music History 5 (1985): 85–112. “Beethoven and the Problem of Closure: Some Examples from the Middle-Period Chamber Music.” In Beiträge zu Beethovens Kammermusik: Symposion Bonn 1984, edited by Sieghard Brandenburg and Helmut Loos, 254–72. Veröffentlichungen des Beethovenhauses in Bonn: Schriften zur Beethovenforschung 10. Munich: Henle, 1987. “Communicating Musicology: A Personal View.” College Music Symposium 28 (1988): 1–9. “On the Cavatina of Beethoven’s String Quartet in B-flat Major.” In Liedstudien: Wolfgang Osthoff zum 60. Geburtstag, edited by Martin Just and Reinhard Wiesend, 293–305. Tutzing: Schneider, 1989. “The Four ‘Introductions’ in the Ninth Symphony.” In Probleme der symphonischen Tradition im 19. Jahrhundert. Internationales Musikwissenschaftliches Colloquium Bonn 1989, Kongressbericht, edited by Siegfried Kross, 97–112. Tutzing: Schneider, 1990. “Beethoven’s First Symphony: A Farewell to the Eighteenth Century?” In Essays in Musicology: A Tribute to Alvin Johnson, edited by Lewis Lockwood and Edward Roesner, 235–46. Philadelphia: American Musicological Society, 1990. As editor with Edward Roesner. Essays in Musicology: A Tribute to Alvin Johnson. Philadelphia: American Musicological Society, 1990. “The Compositional Genesis of the ‘Eroica’ Finale.” In Beethoven’s Compositional Process, edited by William Kinderman, 82–101. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press in Association with the American Beethoven Society and the Ira F. Brilliant Center for Beethoven Studies at San Jose State University, 1991. “Performance and ‘Authenticity.’” Early Music 19 (1991): 501–12. Beethoven: Studies in the Creative Process. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992.

xviii  ❧  chronological bibliography of works by lockwood “The Element of Time in Der Rosenkavalier.” In Richard Strauss: New Perspectives on the Composer and His Work, edited by Bryan Gilliam, 243–58. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1992. “Text and Music in Rore’s Madrigal ‘Anchor che col partire.’” In Musical Humanism and Its Legacy: Essays in Honor of Claude V. Palisca, edited by Barbara Hanning and Nancy Baker, 243–51. Festschrift Series 11. Stuyvesant, NY: Pendragon, 1992. Founding editor. Beethoven Forum. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, and Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1992–2007. “Monteverdi and Gombert: The ‘Missa in illo tempore’ of 1610.” In De musica et cantu: Studien zur Geschichte der Kirchenmusik und der Oper; Helmut Hucke zum 60. Geburtstag, edited by Peter Cahn and Ann-Katrin Heimer, 457–69. Musikwissenschaftliche Publikationen 2. Hildesheim: Olms, 1993. “Music at Florence and Ferrara in the Late Fifteenth Century.” In La musica a Firenze al tempo di Lorenzo il Magnifico: Congresso internazionale di studi, Firenze, 15–17 giugno 1992, edited by Piero Gargiulo, 1–13. Quaderni della Rivista italiana di musicologia 30. Florence: Olschki, 1993. “A Problem of Form: The ‘Scherzo’ of Beethoven’s String Quartet in F Major, op. 59, no. 1.” In Beethoven Forum, vol. 2, edited by Lewis Lockwood, Christopher Reynolds, and James Webster, 85–95. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1993. “Beethoven before 1800: The Mozart Legacy.” In Beethoven Forum, vol. 3, edited by Glenn Stanley, 34–52. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1994. “Sources of Renaissance Polyphony from Cividale del Friuli: The Manuscripts 53 and 59 from the Museo Archeologico Nazionale.” Il saggiatore musicale 1 (1994): 249–314. “Reshaping the Genre: Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas from op. 22 to op. 28 (1799– 1801).” Israel Studies in Musicology 6 (1996): 1–16. “Film Biography as Travesty: ‘Immortal Beloved’ and Beethoven.” Musical Quarterly 81 (1997): 190–98. “Beethoven, Florestan, and the Varieties of Heroism.” In Beethoven and His World, edited by Scott Burnham and Michael P. Steinberg, 27–47. The Bard Music Festival 11. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000. Beethoven: The Music and the Life. New York: Norton, 2003. “Beethoven and His Royal Disciple.” Bulletin of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences 57 (2004): 2–7. As editor with Mark Kroll. The Beethoven Violin Sonatas: History, Criticism, Performance. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2004. “‘On the Beautiful in Music’: Beethoven’s ‘Spring’ Sonata for Violin and Piano, opus 24.” In The Beethoven Violin Sonatas: History, Criticism, Performance, edited by Lewis Lockwood and Mark Kroll, 24–46. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2004.

chronological bibliography of works by lockwood  ❧ xix “Beethoven’s Leonore and Fidelio.” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 26 (2006): 473–82. “Beethoven’s Moreel Besef Toen en Nu.” In Europees Humanisme in Fragmenten: Grammatica van een Ongesproken Taal, edited by Rob Rieman, 84–93. Tilburg: Nexus Instituut, 2008. With the Juilliard Quartet. Inside Beethoven’s Quartets: History, Performance, Interpretation. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008. As editor with Jonathan Del Mar and Martina Rebmann. Sinfonie No. 9, Op. 125: Autograph, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin—Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Beethoven-Haus Bonn, Bibliothèque nationale de France. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 2010. As editor with Alan Gosman. Beethoven’s “Eroica” Sketchbook: A Critical Edition; Transcription, Facsimile, Commentary. 2 vols. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2013. “Beethoven as Sir Davison: Another Look at His Relationship to the Archduke Rudolph.” Bonner Beethoven-Studien 11 (2014): 133–40. Beethoven’s Symphonies: An Artistic Vision. New York: Norton, 2015. Beethoven’s Lives: The Biographical Tradition. Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer, 2020.

Acknowledgments I would like to express my thanks to all the authors who contributed essays to this volume. Their eagerness to create new and exciting work was matched only by their enthusiasm for honoring Lewis Lockwood by their contributions. I am also most grateful to the senior editor of Eastman Studies in Music at the University of Rochester Press, Ralph Locke. It was nothing but a pleasure consulting with him on this volume. Finally, my ability to commission translations of two contributions, originally in German and Italian, respectively, was made possible by the generosity of the Harvard University Department of Music.

Introduction Jeremy Yudkin I have called this book The New Beethoven, because, as the commemoration of the composer’s birth reaches and then surpasses 250 years, we continue to find new things to say about the man, his life, and his remarkable works. For a couple of decades at the end of the twentieth century, it was assumed, naïvely, that everything about Beethoven had already been discovered, that commentary about his music had been exhausted, and that no further insights were possible. Over the past few years, however, with a burgeoning of further analysis and discussion, the establishment of a new international research group, and the founding of the new Center for Beethoven Research in Boston, Massachusetts, the future of Beethoven studies seems not just promising but bright with promise. Established scholars are publishing important new research, and young scholars are finding in Beethoven studies a vast landscape of intellectual and artistic opportunity. Since 1770 few other composers in the Western musical tradition have encompassed such a wide range of human experience. And Beethoven’s music was regarded as a touchstone by composers who came after him, from Mendelssohn, Wagner, and Brahms to Webern, Bartók, and Ornette Coleman. This inspiration has continued into modern times. The play 33 Variations by Moisés Kaufman, inspired by Beethoven’s “Diabelli” Variations, received its premiere in 2007. In 2015 the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra commissioned five contemporary composers each to write a piano concerto inspired by one of Beethoven’s five. The series ran for five years from 2015 to 2020. In 2016 the Pulitzer Prize-winning young composer Caroline Shaw premiered her Blueprint, a work for string quartet modeled on Beethoven’s String Quartet, op. 18, no. 6. Also in 2020 a global partnership was created, with Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony and pieces of new music performed on six continents and involving ten different orchestras. (And this is not to mention the recurring presence of Beethoven, and snippets of his music, in popular culture: Schroeder’s obsession in Peanuts cartoons; Walter Murphy’s

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“A Fifth of Beethoven” [1976], memorably interpolated into the soundtrack of Saturday Night Fever; the 1991 video game Dragon’s Lair II: Time Warp; and a 2015 episode of the science-fiction series Doctor Who.) Beethoven is regarded as an icon of global reach. Beethoven’s Ninth is performed with a chorus of ten thousand every New Year’s Eve in Japan. In China, as new conservatories, orchestras, concert halls, and opera houses are springing up around the country to celebrate the music of Western civilization, Beethoven remains the most popular composer by far. Beethoven’s music has been seen almost universally as a celebration of human worth and independence, symbolizing freedom and dignity. Witness the performances of the Ninth Symphony at the fall of the Berlin Wall, the singing of the “Ode to Joy” as a symbol of protest in Tiananmen Square, the conversion of the lyrics of that music to connote solidarity in Chile for protestors against the dictatorship of Augusto Pinochet, and “flash mob” performances of the music in town squares, railway stations, and public spaces around the world. This book represents today’s new Beethoven. I am confident that every generation will discover their own new Beethoven, and not just because growing young people will begin to experience the power and tenderness and transcendence in his music—though this is true. Research will continue; the thousands of pages of sketches and autograph manuscripts that have yet to be studied will gradually yield to analysis; and we shall gain new insights into the compositional process, performing practices, interrelations among works, and musical meanings of this extraordinary composer. For, as a twenty-first-century musician has said, “Beethoven’s voice is too powerful, and the influence he had on the evolution of musical language too immense, to be ignored.”1 Every one of the essays in this book exemplifies what I have written here; every one of them provides new insight and encourages new thinking. The range of topics is vast, including the circumstances of the first performances of the Eroica; the meaning of the dedication of the Missa solemnis; Beethoven’s relationships to friends in Bonn, a publisher, a poet, and other composers; the instruments he owned; new thoughts about performance; nuances of meaning and intention one can glean from close study of his manuscripts; his structural and organizational practices; reflections of his deafness in music; performing variants; changes among editions; the presence of the divine in his late works; revelations regarding the middle and late quartets; contemporary reviews of the late quartets; the significance of titles and inscriptions on some of Beethoven’s works; the legitimizing of an

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ungrammatical opening chord in the Seventh Symphony; new thoughts about the “Tempest” Sonata, the Prometheus works, and a late cello sonata; the world of F minor in the composer’s middle years; celebrations and musical tributes after his death; and a new way of looking at the Haydn/Mozart/ Beethoven axis in Beethoven’s String Quartet, op. 130. Works under discussion here reflect the richness of the composer’s oeuvre, from a tiny song setting to the Mass in C, the Eroica, the Missa solemnis, and the Ninth Symphony; from piano sonatas to string quartets and ballets; from overtures to variation sets; and from WoO 67 to opus 135. The authors, too, are varied, hailing from across the United States, Europe, and the Middle East, and including established senior scholars, distinguished performers, and younger researchers about to embark upon their careers. The book is divided into five parts. The first, “A Creative Life,” contains four essays that consider aspects of Beethoven’s personal experiences. Steven Whiting’s essay provides new insights into Beethoven’s exposure as a young man to the opéras-comiques of the prolific French composer PierreAlexandre Monsigny (1729–1817), who was one of the creators of this new genre. Whiting persuasively suggests that this early exposure may have influenced Beethoven’s later work. David Wyn Jones discusses the composer’s relationship with the leading Viennese music dealer Johann Traeg, whose catalogue listed many thousands of works, and reveals Traeg’s importance in disseminating Beethoven’s music in the early years of the nineteenth century. Michael Ladenburger’s essay has four parts, relating to a cello that may have formed part of the original “quartet set” given to Beethoven by Prince Lichnowsky, the early reception of the Ninth Symphony, Beethoven’s friends in Bonn, and an important correction to the edition of the song “Ruf vom Berge,” WoO 147 (1817). It is often wondered in which ways Beethoven’s terrible deafness might be manifested in his music. Bruce Adolphe suggests three possible passages: in the String Quartets, op. 95 and op. 135, and in the Piano Sonata, op. 110. The final essay in this section, by Christopher Reynolds, traces commemorations of the composer in the year after his death and shows how composers and poets and performers responded to this important event in the musical life of German-speaking lands. Part 2 groups essays that deal with the Prometheus/Eroica connection in the works of Beethoven. These include the Contredanse, WoO 14, no. 7; the finale of The Creatures of Prometheus, op. 43; the Piano Variations, op. 35; and the fourth movement of the Eroica Symphony, op. 55. These disparate works show Beethoven’s fascination with the Prometheus theme, and

4  ❧  introduction

Alan Gosman suggests that they all evince a kind of restraint that is loosened at the end of each work. William Kinderman analyzes the genesis of op. 35 and another contemporary piano work, the “Tempest” Sonata, in three sketchbooks that Beethoven used in 1802. And Theodore Albrecht traces the performers for and the circumstances of all the earliest performances of the Eroica Symphony, from reading rehearsals in late spring of 1804 to the first public concert with nearly fifty musicians in April of 1805. The Mass in C and the Missa solemnis are the focus of part 3. Jeremiah McGrann revealingly compares the performing parts for the first (unsuccessful) performance of the Mass in C in 1807 with the published version of the work in 1812. Mark Evan Bonds looks closely at the manifold meanings of the words of Beethoven’s dedication of the Missa solemnis to the Archduke Rudolph. And Scott Burnham shows how Beethoven grapples with musical ways of addressing or representing the divine in the Missa, comparing these attempts with similar struggles in the last movement of the Ninth Symphony. Part 4 is dedicated to the string quartets, with performers joining scholars to consider aspects of these crucial works. Nicholas Kitchen presents a remarkably compelling argument for the view that we should take seriously the varied and highly specific expression markings Beethoven wrote in his autograph manuscripts. Other work on the quartets includes the essay by Lucy Turner on the String Quartet, op. 74, in which she argues that the work, less well studied than many of the other quartets, must be taken not as foreshadowing some other style but on its own remarkable merits. Robin Wallace presents translations of and revealing commentary on a cornucopia of contemporary German reviews of the late quartets, while Barry Cooper compares the autograph manuscript of the slow movement of the last quartet, opus 135, with a set of parts that were copied out later by Beethoven himself and which differ in some important ways from the readings given in the autograph. Finally, in the last part of the book, part 5, our authors address crucial questions of style and interpretation. Erica Buurman looks at the “scherzo question” in Beethoven’s early sonatas. Why do some of these works have three movements and some four? Barbara Barry evokes the unique opposing polarities of expression in the F-major and F-minor works of Beethoven’s middle period. David Levy addresses the opening chord of the famous Allegretto in the Seventh Symphony and shows that it is designed not only to relate to the movement as a whole but also to send a message to music-theory traditionalists. Federica Rovelli demonstrates that, contrary to received opinion, corrections and emendations in the blank staves of autograph

introduction  ❧ 5

manuscripts do occur in piano scores, and she suggests possible reasons for this. Richard Kramer closely analyzes aspects of the Cello Sonata, op. 102, no. 2, and Elaine Sisman untangles the possible meanings of inscriptions on music, especially the title of the fifth movement of the String Quartet, op. 130, finding possible antecedents in Haydn’s The Seasons. This book makes Beethoven new again, for all of these essays shine new light on Beethoven as a composer fighting with all his strength to create unprecedented modes of expression through music, never to repeat himself, to reach out to future generations—to us—to appreciate what he was trying to lay before us. They shine new light on his relations with his friends and colleagues, with publishers, with music dealers, with his patrons, with musicians, with God. They shine new light on a large number of works, on the way the music was conceived, the way it was emended, the way it was presented to performers for them to animate. And they shine new light on Beethoven the man—the imperfect, damaged, remarkable man, who continues so vitally to enhance our lives two hundred and fifty years after he was born. And counting.

Note 1

Jonathan Biss, partner with the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra in the piano concerto project. http://www.jonathanbiss.com/projects/beethoven-5-concerto -commissioning-project-with-the-saint-paul-chamber-orch (accessed March 24, 2020).

Part One

A Creative Life

Chapter One

Of Deserters and Orphans: Beethoven’s Early Exposure to the Opéras-Comiques of Monsigny Steven M. Whiting As a member of the electoral court orchestra in Bonn from 1783 through (most of ) 1792, the adolescent Beethoven participated in performances of a wide variety of theatrical works, both spoken and lyric. His first stint in such a capacity was as rehearsal harpsichordist for the theatrical company directed by Gustav Friedrich Wilhelm Grossmann (1743–96). Hired by Elector Maximilian Friedrich in 1778, Grossmann had quickly assembled a versatile troupe, mainly out of Abel Seyler’s disintegrating company (of which he had been a member). Grossmann appropriated Seyler’s music director, Christian Gottlob Neefe (1748–98), after Seyler disbanded his troupe for good in August 1779. Neefe soon became court organist as well, and gave lessons to Beethoven; Beethoven assisted him in both the chapel and the theater. The earliest document relating to his participation is an endorsement by court steward Count Sigismund von Salm-Reifferschied (dated February 23, 1784) of a petition by Beethoven to receive a regular appointment—that is, to be paid for services he had been rendering for some time on a probationary basis: “The petitioner has been amply tested and found capable to play the court organ as he has done in the absence of Organist Neefe, also at

10  ❧  chapter one

rehearsals of the plays and elsewhere, and will continue to do so in the future” (my emphasis).1 After Max Friedrich’s death in April 1784, Grossmann’s troupe was let go with four weeks’ salary (Neefe remained as court organist), and for several years Maximilian Franz, the next elector, hired various theatrical troupes for Carnival seasons only. For Carnival 1785 the troupe of Grossmann’s rival Johann Heinrich Böhm was engaged, but we know little about what it performed, in which town it performed it, or whether it used the court orchestra.2 For Carnival 1786 Maximilian Franz engaged a “Französisches Hoftheater” formed from remnants of the French-language troupe that had been resident in Kassel. A Hoftheater presumably used the Hoforchester, which meant that Beethoven was probably playing.3 For Carnival 1787 Maximilian Franz seems to have hired Grossmann, but the engagement was quickly hamstrung by legal disputes between Grossmann and his partner, Christian Wilhelm Klos.4 Finally, in January 1789, Maximilian Franz reorganized the court theater under the musical direction of Joseph Reicha, and Beethoven played not harpsichord but viola in the orchestra, presumably until he left for Vienna in November 1792. With regard to Beethoven’s experiences with Grossmann’s troupe, Alexander Wheelock Thayer opined: “No comments need be made upon the influence which daily intercourse with it, and sharing in its labors, especially in the direction of opera, must have exerted upon the mind of a boy of twelve or thirteen years possessed of real musical genius.”5 Perhaps this observation—that no comments need be made—was true in Thayer’s time; but nowadays, when the theatrical repertoire in question has become less familiar, a few comments may be welcome, if they tell us something about the musical and dramatic procedures that Beethoven learned to take for granted (or at least to consider as feasible options) at a young age, not to mention the Lebensanschauungen to which he might have been exposed. In the repertoire of the electoral theater, opéras-comiques loomed large, whether in German translation or in their original French.6 Elsewhere I have broached the question of what Beethoven may have taken from stage works with music by André-Modest Grétry, of which he may have known as many as fourteen before he left for Vienna in November 1792.7 Among French composers whose stage works were offered in Bonn, the next in compositional importance was Pierre-Alexandre Monsigny (1729–1817). Beethoven almost certainly participated in performances of Le Déserteur, La Belle Arsène, Rose et Colas, and Félix, ou L’Enfant trouvé. The scores of three more works with music by Monsigny were held in the electoral library in Bonn, but no performances there are known.8 These seven works with music by Monsigny

beethoven's early exposure to monsigny  ❧ 11

are listed in table 1.1 in chronological order of their premieres in Paris, with notice of the original librettist and (in parentheses) the German translator (when known or applicable). Finally, documented performances in Bonn are noted. Any performances during Carnival 1786 were in French; the rest were in German. As table 1.1 indicates, the scores of Le Roi et le fermier, L’Isle sonnante, and Le Faucon were part of the electoral library but not performed (so far as we know) in Bonn. Members of the court orchestra did enjoy something like borrowing privileges, though, so Beethoven was free to pursue any curiosity he might have had about these three works. As we shall see, he would have had good reason to take a look at Le Roi et le fermier, Monsigny’s first collaboration with the librettist Michel-Jean Sedaine and in several respects a break-through work. Rose et Colas was one of the handful of operatic works that Grossmann staged before Neefe arrived in Bonn. Beethoven would have been just eight years old. It was not given again until Carnival 1786, this time in French. Rose et Colas (or to use the German title, Röschen und Colas) is the only one of these operas that Beethoven could have heard again in Vienna. Among Monsigny’s operas, it is hardly surprising that Le Déserteur enjoyed the greatest number of performances in Bonn because, as John Warrack noted, it “had a long and successful career on German stages.”9 Félix, ou L’Enfant trouvé, Monsigny’s last completed opéra-comique and the third of his major collaborations with Sedaine, had a strong dose of social satire and an inspiring plot. Beethoven may well have retained a memory of it because Félix was performed during the fourth season of the court theater as reconstituted by Elector Maximilian Franz (December 28, 1791–February 20, 1792), which was either the penultimate or the last season in which Beethoven played viola in the court orchestra. He left Bonn in early November 1792, and the fifth season of the court theater had barely begun.10

Le Roi et le fermier Based on Robert Dodsley’s 1736 comedy The King and the Miller of Mansfield, as translated into French twenty years later by Claude-Pierre Patu, Le Roi et le fermier was Michel-Jean Sedaine’s first full-length opéra-comique. As Sedaine would remember it, “In 1762 I achieved what I had believed impossible: to elevate the tone of this genre, even to put a king on the stage, in a three-act work that would take as long to perform as any five-act play at the Théâtre Français” (i.e., the Comédie-Française).11 What was bolder

12  ❧  chapter one Table 1.1. Opéras-comiques by Monsigny performed at court or held in score at the electoral library in Bonn Title

Premiere in Paris

Original librettist (translator)

Performances in Bonn

Le Roi et le fermier

Nov. 22, 1762

Michel-Jean Sedaine

Rose et Colas

March 8, 1764

Sedaine

L’Isle sonnante

Aug. 1767

Charles Collé

Le Déserteur

March 6, 1769

Sedaine (J. J. Eschenburg)

Le Faucon

Nov. 2, 1771

Sedaine

La Belle Arsène

Nov. 6, 1773

Charles-Simon Favart (J. André or Neefe)

March 9, 1780; Jan. 26, 1783; Feb. 1, 1786

Félix, ou L’Enfant trouvé

Nov. 10, 1777

Sedaine (J. André)

Jan. 22, 1792

April 9, 1779; Feb. 4, 1786 Dec. 9, 1779; May 28, 1780; April 6, 1783; by July 13, 1787

than putting said king on the stage was subjecting him to a lecture from his plain-spoken constable. Sedaine had offered the livret first to François-André Danican Philidor, who pondered it at length before declaring it “unfeasible.” Monsigny, by contrast, set it with alacrity—hence Sedaine’s lavish praise for the composer in the avertissement of the published livret: “I had to find a great artist, a skillful musician willing to have some confidence in me, and finally, a friend willing to risk a new genre in music.”12 There were problems with the censor in Paris, and a planned premiere at court fell through. For all we know, the factors militating against a premiere at Fontainebleau also forestalled performance at the electoral court. Still, Sedaine insisted on publishing the livret as he had written it, not as he had to change it for performance, lest he be accused of having wanted to stage reckless political discourse when he only intended that one see “what an English farmer, irritated by an unjust courtier, might say in such circumstances.”13 The fermier in Sedaine’s story is Richard, not only a land-holder but also a royal gamekeeper who has, thanks to his father’s foresight, received enough education to acquaint him with the world and to sharpen his independence of thought. The ostensible abduction of Richard’s fiancée, Jenny, by a maleficent local lord has set Richard’s feelings into jealous turmoil, but

beethoven's early exposure to monsigny  ❧ 13

now evening is approaching, a storm is brewing, and the king himself is hunting in the woods. Richard’s duty (and that of his guards) is to prevent poachers from taking advantage of the circumstances. Richard’s jealousy is soon allayed by Jenny herself, who explains how Lord Lurewel’s henchmen had diverted her flock into the courtyard of his castle and had sent her to Lurewel to ask for them back. (Jenny is an orphan who has been taken in by Richard’s family; her flock is all the dowry she has.) Jenny has not only resisted Lurewel’s unwanted advances: she has made a daring escape after Lurewel left off his seduction to join the hunt. Indeed, she is stout-hearted enough to appeal directly to the king, if need be, against the capricious aristocrat. “I shall throw myself at his feet: he will listen to me; he would not be king if he were not just” (“Je me jetterai à ses pieds, il m’écoutera; il ne seroit pas Roi s’il etoit pas juste”). The storm erupts full force in the entr’acte music, and in act 2 we find the king unhorsed, disarmed, and separated from his party. Richard finds him but has no reason to recognize him, so the king can pretend to be one of the royal retinue. On the basis of simple humanity, then, Richard offers hospitality and leads him to his abode, where his mother, his sister, and Jenny are waiting. Meanwhile, Lurewel and one of his courtiers, also lost in the storm, are discovered and arrested by Richard’s guards, who (mis)take them for poachers. The ensuing entr’acte music is, not without irony, an “air de chasse.” On the way home, as we later learn, Richard explains Lurewel’s attempted abduction and saves the stranger from falling into a pit. The third act, set in Richard’s humble dwelling, makes Jenny’s (and the author’s) key philosophical points about goodness and royalty. Soon the air of friendliness is such that Jenny invites the noble stranger to their wedding. Jenny, Richard, and the stranger each get an aria about what constitutes happiness: for Jenny, a life shared with one’s beloved; for Richard, a life lived in the country rather than in the corrupting city; for the stranger, who pretends to remember a lesson imparted in an opera to a king by his tutor, true happiness is to spread happiness to one’s subjects. It is a pithy statement of enlightened monarchy: Le Bonheur est de le répandre, De le verser sur les humains, De faire éclore de vos mains Tout ce qu’ils ont droit d’en attendre.14

14  ❧  chapter one (Happiness is to spread happiness, To pour it out upon other humans, To make bloom from your hands All that they have a right to expect from you.)

That tutor, Richard remarks, truly earned his wages. When Richard’s guards bring in their presumed poachers, Lurewel quickly reveals his identity, then his evil designs on Jenny (whom he imagines still locked up in his castle); finally, he recognizes the king, setting the stage for an elaborate septet that conveys the dénouement. Before the astonished peasants, the king questions Lurewel and sends him off in disgrace. He tries to ennoble Richard, who refuses the honor. He accepts the invitation to the wedding, and promises to assume responsibility for Jenny’s dowry. After his departure, Richard’s mother, ever the practical peasant, remarks, “If I’d known it was the king, I’d have cooked the chicken!” What in Monsigny’s treatment of the subject might have caught the attention of young Beethoven? To begin with, the overture connects to the opera by leaving the pattern of the Italianate sinfonia incomplete. There’s a Presto ma non tropo in E-flat major and parallel binary form, followed by an Andante Allegretto in C minor. Instead of a third movement, there is an Allegro in E-flat major, which is Richard’s despairing first aria, “Je ne sçais à quoi me résoudre” (“I don’t know what to do”). The overture figuratively places the spectator in the middle of the first scene. This structural precedent would be followed by Grétry seven years later in the overture to Lucile, and by Mozart nine years later in Ascanio in Alba. Another source of musical interest is the recurrent use of counterpoint to dramatic ends. The first example is the passacaglia-like G-minor duet in act 1, scene 6 for Richard and his sister, Betsy. Betsy is hurt that Richard has been gruff with her in front of the guards, and Richard, upon hearing that Betsy has intelligence of Jenny, is very eager to achieve a reconciliation. An equally humorous example comes in act 2, scene 4. Stumbling around in the dark after the storm, Lurewel and the courtier think they hear the king’s voice, which motivates a D-minor duet “à demi voix”: “Ah ciel! Ah si c’étoit le Roi” (Oh, heavens! What if it were the king?”). It is a through-composed piece of pseudo-ecclesiastical counterpoint for two hypocritical souls who, scared out of their wits, claim only to tremble for the safety of their king. Quite at odds with the symbolic implications of the texture, their diction takes on the patter style of commoners, thereby offering purely musical commentary on the difference between nobility of birth and nobility of character. (Two

beethoven's early exposure to monsigny  ❧ 15

quodlibet-like trios for the women in act 3 make similar use of light-hearted counterpoint.) Yet the most impressive feature in Monsigny’s score is surely the storm that connects acts 1 and 2. It begins to rise during the duet (act 1, scene 10) between Richard and Jenny, “Ah! Richard, ah mon cher ami” (“Ah, Richard. Ah, my dear friend”), forcing the duet several times out of its strophic form and into recitative, each time with more intense deployment of the usual orchestral devices (including precisely indicated swells and tremolandos), so that the resumption of the duet (and of musical structure per se) comes to express a denial of reality: “Jenny, qu’importe cet orage? / Ce nuage n’est qu’un passage” (“Jenny, what does the storm matter? That’s just a passing cloud”). Finally, the royal hunt hurtles by, with horns and galloping figures in the upper strings, notated in  time, while the lower strings continue in . Even the barking of the dogs seems to have its motivic counterpart. Finally, sister Betsy joins them, and they flee for shelter. With barely a cadence in B-flat major, the music plunges into the entr’acte proper, a G-minor orage in which the petites flûtes make their obligatory appearance. The storm music continues into the G-minor duet for two of Richard’s guards, which fills in what has “happened” between the acts. The ebbing storm carries us onward into scene 2, the entrance of the king with an E-flat-major “récitatif mesuré,” declaring that weather is no respecter of rank. Nor (to judge from the musical interjections between his phrases) is it any respecter of musical structure, since it has by now spilled across four discrete numbers. Beethoven would encounter other operatic storms in Grétry’s Zémire et Azor and Gluck’s Iphigénie en Tauride; but it is difficult when studying Monsigny’s entr’acte not to think of the Sturm in Beethoven’s Sixth, especially given its carefully staged incursion into the “merry-making of the peasants” and its dispersal into the song of thanks.

Rose et Colas Rose and Colas are the children, respectively, of Mathurin (a farmer) and Pierre (a vintner), and they are in love. Their fathers are not opposed to the match, although Pierre thinks they might be too young for marriage. As crafty peasants, though, the fathers bargain at such length over the nuptial happiness of their children that they risk driving them both away. The ninety-five-year-old wet-nurse of Mathurin helps bring the men to their senses, and they allow Nature to take its course. This paysannerie in one act was first performed in Bonn when Beethoven was a lad of eight years old,

16  ❧  chapter one

so it may be doubted whether he witnessed it. It may also be wondered how Grossmann’s troupe tackled the more complicated ensembles without a regular music director. Grossmann did have capable singers, and he may have availed himself of the expertise of Kapellmeister Andrea Luchesi or the concertmaster, Gaetano Mattioli, in rehearsing the C-minor “Trio Fuga,” which extends over two hundred measures. This trio may be considered the musical highlight of the show, and its dramatic context makes clear that its learned style and minor mode are not to be taken at face value. The two peasants have agreed in principle to let their children marry, but Pierre wants to delay the wedding until after his grapeharvest (vendange), even until Epiphany, to make the youngsters more eager to accomplish the work that he is growing too old to do. Pierre therefore urges that they begin the process of negotiation but drag it out week by week through a feigned quarrel (among other pretexts), thereby even increasing the affection of their children for each other. They are sealing their agreement with an embrace when they notice Rose entering. They immediately seem to pick a fight, and the first subject entry is Rose’s despairing “Mais, mais ils sont en courroux” (“But they’re really in a rage”). In their subject entries, the two fathers hurl opprobrium at each other and call off the wedding, while Rose goes over to a grieving countersubject. By the second exposition, while Rose sets the exasperated question “Pourquoi vous mettre en colère?” (“Why are you angering each other?”) to the subject, the fathers are using the countersubject to congratulate each other on how well their ruse is succeeding. Each takes care to resume his posture of rage when it is his turn to sing the subject. The pedal point is especially humorous in its effect. Mathurin is warning of dire consequences should Colas try to enter his house, but actually Colas is in the scene the whole time, rather like the low G, only in hiding. The whole ensemble is a marvelous example of buffo fugato, in which the learned style points a staged quarrel that the daughter takes seriously. The confusion and comic effect are only heightened by the breakneck tempo of the whole. Beethoven must have encountered serious fugues in C minor in the context of his service as organist at Bonn, but Monsigny may have been among his masters in the art of the humorous fugue.

Le Déserteur Alexis is a young soldier who hails from a French village close to the Flemish border. Shortly before his discharge, he is given a twenty-four-hour leave to

beethoven's early exposure to monsigny  ❧ 17

visit his home and his fiancée, Louise, on condition that he return to camp in time for a visit from the king. But the local duchess decides, for reasons never divulged, to make this leave the occasion for a cruel practical joke. A mock wedding between Louise and her oafish cousin Bertrand is staged just as Alexis is returning, and a child of the village is recruited to break the “news” to him. Alexis despairs so completely that he attracts the attention of four border guards; and, once he realizes that he can end his suffering through military execution if he declares his intention to desert, he does so, and the soldiers duly arrest him. Act 2 takes place in a military prison; the jailer is kindly; the only other prisoner seems to be a bibulous clown with the punning name Montauciel (Up to Heaven), who leavens Alexis’s tragic monologues. Louise and her father visit, and are amazed that Alexis is not cheered by the news that the whole wedding was a sham. They have no idea of the condemnation that Alexis has brought upon himself and that he is likely to be shot by evening. They soon discover the truth. While Alexis has a brief hearing before the judges, Louise’s father wants to appeal to Madame la Duchesse. Louise answers realistically: “Elle l’a mis dans la peine; elle ne sera pas là pour l’en tirer” (“She’s the one who put him into this difficult position; she won’t be there to pull him out of it”). After her father leaves, Louise asks the jailer whether the king might grant a pardon in such a case. Yes, the jailer replies, and no, it couldn’t hurt to throw herself at his feet and beg for grace. This already gives us a clear idea of the dénouement; it is only a question of delaying it until the end of act 3. And so act 2 closes with a comic duet for Montauciel and Bertrand, Louise’s cousin. Act 3 has another comic ariette for Montauciel, whose own elaborately demonstrated illiteracy will make him the convenient bearer of a letter of farewell from Alexis to Louise and her father. Then a soldier—one of the soldiers who arrested Alexis, with the punning name Courchemin (Shortcut)— arrives with an official packet, and he tells of a strange young woman who threw herself on the king’s mercy with a story so moving that even old soldiers were weeping. The king had granted the reprieve, and the girl had run off, turning down the gold offered by certain nobles in the king’s retinue because it would be too heavy for her to carry. Drums beat offstage; jailor and soldier exit. And drums invade the following monologue for Alexis. The executioners are approaching, but only Montauciel arrives, bottle in hand, for a last drink with Alexis. Alexis hands over his letter and bids Montauciel farewell. The soldiers enter together with Louise—at the end of her strength, shoes in hand, hair in disarray. She can only manage to say “Alexis, ta . . .” (“Alexis, your . . .”) before fainting in his arms. Alexis’s valedictory aria, “A

18  ❧  chapter one

Dieu, chère Louise” (“Adieu, dear Louise”), is cut short by recitative, in which he urges the soldiers to end his misery through execution. We witness the dénouement from the perspective of the slowly reviving Louise, who hears the offstage shouts of “Vive le Roi” and remembers the pardon she has brought to Alexis. She runs off, as her father and aunt run on to proclaim the royal pardon and jump for joy. This last entrance, tantamount to holding up a poster, must have been to allow enough time for the final scene-change to the public square, where a chorus celebrates the pardon of Alexis and the bravery of Louise. With its cliff-hanging resolution, Le Déserteur was nothing less than a rescue opera avant la lettre. Arthur Pougin called Le Déserteur Monsigny’s masterpiece and Sedaine’s as well.15 It was clearly a favorite of Grossmann’s. It was among the first operas he offered after securing Neefe’s services as music director in October 1779, and over the next two years he repeated it ten times in five different cities. In Bonn, the role of Alexis was created by Tobias Pfeiffer, drinking buddy of Beethoven’s father, Johann (they were both tenors), sometime lodger in the Beethoven household, and early teacher of the young Ludwig.16 Beethoven may have been involved in the performance on April 6, 1783, which celebrated the anniversary of Maximilian Friedrich’s elevation to the office of elector. The last performance in Bonn is known only from a letter of July 13, 1787 from Neefe to Grossmann, concerning an initiative taken the preceding May by Christoph Brandt, a member of the Hofkapelle.17 Brandt was hoping (prematurely, as it turned out) to persuade Elector Maximilian Franz to revive the court theater by mounting performances with an ad hoc troupe. Neefe reported that the house was full for Le Déserteur, empty for the other show, and that his wife took two roles, whereas he kept his distance from the undertaking. In Neefe’s metaphorical assessment, the child was scarcely born before it died. Beethoven, just returned from his first journey to Vienna, may have played in the orchestra. Beethoven’s very first exposure to this opera would have come before any staging in Bonn, if it is true that the carillon tower of the electoral palace intoned the overture on a daily basis, before it was destroyed in a fire one month after his sixth birthday.18 The overture is indeed one of the most innovative features of the opera, for it traces in advance the course of the drame to come. Its opening presents pastoral and military renditions of the same D-major melody—perhaps the very tune that sounded from the belfry in Bonn. Then come three episodes in Sturm und Drang style (D minor, Presto ma non tropo), alternating with pastorelle lamentations in D minor and A minor, respectively, both dominated by oboes and bassoons. The

beethoven's early exposure to monsigny  ❧ 19

mournfulness is dispelled by a military tattoo (a reference to the king visiting the camp?) and a striking motivic dialogue between falling thirds in the oboes and surging triadic gestures in the strings (representing Louise’s appeal to the king?).19 The initial section then returns in full. This very melody, in its military guise, will become the refrain of the act 3 finale, with the text “Oubliez jusqu’à la trace / D’un malheur peu fait pour vous: / quel plaisir! il a sa grace, / c’est nous la donner à tous” (“Forget every trace of a sorrow illsuited to you; what a pleasure! He has his pardon, which we should extend to all”). This was the earliest significant example of what a recent scholar has called the “ouverture à citation.”20 Not that the adolescent Beethoven would have worried about historical priority, but he certainly would have noticed that two more of Monsigny’s opéras-comiques—La Belle Arsène and Félix, both performed in Bonn—had overtures that anticipate the dénouement. And he would have found the same procedure adopted by Nicolas Dézède in Julie and in several operas by Grétry, all of them in Grossmann’s repertoire and frequently performed in Bonn: Le Magnifique, Le Jugement de Midas, Les Evénements imprévus, and Zémire et Azor.21 Add to these Beethoven’s repeated exposure to Mozart’s Entführung aus dem Serail, with its anticipation of Belmonte’s first aria amid the overture, and Don Giovanni, with its anticipation of the final scene at the beginning of the overture, and it is little wonder that three of the four overtures to Fidelio give foretastes of the opera to come and that the overture to Egmont ends with the same music that accompanies the conclusion and resolution of the play. Beethoven was thoroughly familiar with the procedure before he left Bonn. Also predictive of Beethoven’s practice in Egmont was Monsigny’s use of entr’acte music to suggest what was happening “between the acts.” The first musical number in Le Déserteur is Louise’s ariette “Peut-on affliger ce qu’on aime?” (“Can one afflict the person one loves?”). As we soon discover, Louise is thereby expressing her reluctance to go through with the sham wedding demanded by the duchess. Act 1 ends with Alexis denouncing the ostensibly perfidious Louise as a “monstre cruel” (“cruel monster”). The following entr’acte quotes Louise’s initial ariette, which contradicts Alexis’s denunciation, at the same time as that denunciation answers Louise’s rhetorical question in the negative. The music between acts 2 and 3 (marked “Andante amoroso”) anticipates the music Courchemin will sing (act 3, scene 6) to relate the encounter between the unknown girl and the king (also marked “Amoroso”); but in strict narrative sequence, Louise would obviously be throwing herself on the king’s mercy before Courchemin’s account of the

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moment, so this entr’acte indeed alludes to what is happening between the acts. As we have seen, Monsigny proceeded likewise with the entr’actes in Le Roi et le fermier (especially the orage after act 1). Grétry clearly learned from Monsigny’s example in Zémire et Azor, in which the music between acts 1 and 2 depicts Sander and Ali’s ride on the back of a cloud from Azor’s palace to their home in Hormuz (the setting of act 2), and the music between acts 3 and 4 suggests through quotation of Zémire’s aria “Rassure mon père” what would actually be happening at that moment.22 Equally striking is the mixture of “terror, pathos, and outrageous comedy” in Sedaine’s livret—a mixture possibly inspired by the model of Shakespeare.23 The most obvious examples come in the juxtapositions of Alexis’s death-row plight with Montauciel’s gallows humor in acts 2 and 3. But the mixture is illustrated with particular clarity by the special case of Monsigny’s contrapuntal numbers. One musical highlight of Rose et Colas was the C-minor Fuga conveying the twists and turns of a feigned altercation and the very real distress of a character directly affected by it. The C-minor fugue in Le Déserteur likewise unfolds at a breakneck pace (Prestissimo) but is deadly earnest. In act 2, scene 11, Louise bursts in, having learned the truth about Alexis’s condemnation. Her consternation, “O ciel, quoi? tu vas mourir!” (“Oh, heavens! Oh no! You are going to die!”) is conveyed with a jagged fugal subject: a conjunct ascent from C to A♭, plunging to B♮, then a sequential repeat starting from B♭. Each character has a different text to the same subject, and each takes a turn at launching an exposition. The episodes are more homophonic, with Louise and her father each declaring their guilt and Alexis trying to console them. The overall dramatic effect of the fugue is of three characters with their individual perspectives, all caught in the same impossible situation. Were it not for the tempo and the mode, one might almost glimpse a template for “Mir ist so wunderbar” in Fidelio. To this sublime ensemble there is a ridiculous counterpoise in Le Déserteur, at the end of act 2. Bertrand, the supposed spouse-for-a-day, has come to visit Alexis in prison but only finds the ever-tipsy Montauciel, who insists that he sing something. Bertrand, goodhearted simpleton that he is, sings “Tous les hommes sont bons” (“All men are good”), in the unlikely key of G minor. Montauciel thinks the song is sweet enough to send the devil back underground, and so he launches into his own paean to wine and love, “Vive le vin, vive l’amour” (“Long live wine, long live love”). The melody is quite different, but (suspiciously enough) in the same key, meter, and tempo as Bertrand’s song. When Montauciel insists that they sing together, Bertrand protests that he doesn’t know Montauciel’s

beethoven's early exposure to monsigny  ❧ 21

song. “Qui est-ce qui vous dit de chanter ma chanson? Dites la votre, et moi la mienne: c’est plus gai.” (“Who’s telling you to sing my song? Sing your own, and I’ll sing mine; that’ll be more fun.”) And lo, the songs fit as tightly together as a double-song by Irving Berlin. After the fugato tragedy, Monsigny gives us counterpoint in the service of comic relief. The only aristocratic character in Le Déserteur is Madame la Duchesse, and we have no reason to find her sympathetic. Her caprice sets the plot in motion, but we never see her, her motive is never explained, and she has no part in the dénouement. Indeed, Louise’s terse comment, quoted above (“She’s the one who put him into this difficult position . . .”), is the last reference to her at all.24 Not surprisingly, musical structures usually chosen for the lyrical utterances of characters of higher social status are here used for characters of inner nobility. In act 1, scene 7, Alexis, having just learned of the “wedding” between Louise and Bertrand, steps into the opera seria role of the noble soul in torment. He sings an out-and-out scena, “Infidèle, que t’ai-je fait?” (“Faithless one, what have I done to you?”).25 (Even the label is Italian: “Recitativo obligato.”) As Alexis swings back and forth between outrage and tenderness, it becomes ever clearer that the oboe symbolizes the imagined beloved—first at “Toujours chérie” (“Always beloved,” p. 53), then even more explicitly at “J’accours à sa voix, oui c’est elle, c’est ma Louise qui m’appelle” (“I run to her voice; yes, it’s her, it’s my Louise who’s calling me,” pp. 55–56). At this point, rage wins out, and the aria “Fuyons ce lieu que je déteste” (“Let us flee this place that I hate,” Allegro, , p. 57) soon becomes an ensemble, as Courchemin and three other soldiers observe Alexis’s attempted desertion and comment on his deranged state before arresting him in the coda. Once in prison at the beginning of act 2, Alexis has a tragic monologue in D minor, “Mourir n’est rien, c’est notre dernière heure” (“To die is nothing, it is [just] our final hour,” p. 84), that begins like a rage aria but is interrupted as he takes out the last letter from Louise and re-reads it; the oboes duly enter (“Viens, cher amant” [“Come, dear lover”], Andante amoroso, F major, p. 89). This, however, breaks off with the next wave of jealous rage, and Alexis reverts to recitative. The return to the A section is much compressed, rhythmically and structurally, and gains in urgency thereby. One can only wonder whether Beethoven remembered these scenes when drafting the monologue for the imprisoned Florestan at the beginning of act 2 in Fidelio. There, too, the oboe enters as Florestan’s delirious vision takes shape—of the angel who so resembles his wife—“ein Engel, Leonoren der Gattin so gleich” (“an angel, so like my wife Leonore”). Of

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course, neither prisoner yet imagines that the woman symbolized by the oboe will, through an act of bravery, become his salvation. In both Le Déserteur and Fidelio, the finale entails a sudden transformation of setting from prison cell to public square. Monsigny’s finale moves from D minor to D major, as the 1805 finale of Fidelio moves from C minor to C major. For all the differences between the two, the finale of Sedaine/ Monsigny’s rescue opera avant la lettre is a worthy precedent. An octet of principals and a four-part chorus are deployed over 162 measures, either in alternation, or with superimpositions, or blending with one another.26 Monsigny’s finale benefits from our sense of having come full circle, to a resolution forecast by the overture.

La Belle Arsène Unlike other Monsigny operas performed in Bonn, La Belle Arsène does not have a livret written by Sedaine, and it is set in the mid-sixteenth century, during the reign of Henri II and Catherine de’ Medici. On the basis of Voltaire’s moral tale in verse La Bégueule (“The prude”), published the year before,27 Charles-Simon Favart fashioned this comédie-féerie about a haughty beauty eventually tamed—through trials that begin with an enchanted garden in which her every wish is fulfilled and end in the wilderness with a collier interested only in the fulfilment of his own wishes. (The stay in the wilderness begins with another storm.) Having met her match in selfishness, Arsène humbly acknowledges her love for the knight Alcindor, who has been pining after her since the first scene. She conveniently faints so that the stage may be transformed into a wedding chamber. Her fairy-godmother Aline, who has arranged the trials, tells her she has brought her here to witness the wedding of Alcindor; then she will be returned to her collier. Arsène accepts this bitterly, before learning that she is Alcindor’s intended bride. Aline unites the two with a homily that alludes to the opening of Voltaire’s conte: “Un sage a dit: ‘Rien n’est plus périlleux / Que de quitter le bien pour être mieux’” (“A wise man has said, ‘Nothing is more dangerous than leaving what is good for what seems better’”). The premiere at court in Fontainebleau (November 6, 1773) had no success.28 Favart, feeling guilty for the failure and wanting to salvage at least some of Monsigny’s music, offered his collaborator a different libretto and invited him to fit to it as much of his score for Arsène as he could. Monsigny was not interested. Favart reluctantly revised the livret of Arsène, and the revision

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(now in four acts) was offered at the Comédie-Italienne on August 14, 1775. Here too the reception was cool, but a revival in May 1779 launched a run of performances that lasted several years. The performances in Bonn (starting on March 9, 1780) were thus riding the crest of this new vogue for the show. Beethoven may have participated in the second performance (January 26, 1783); for the third performance (in French), his services as harpsichordist would certainly have been needed. The musical highlights in Arsène are fewer than those in Le Déserteur. The overture starts by anticipating the refrain from the final scene, sung by Aline and her chorus, “A l’amour livrez vos cœurs” (“Surrender your hearts to love,” bottom of p. 102 in the short score).29 It then goes back to the characterizing ariette from act 1, scene 7, that launches the action: Arsène’s “Non, non, j’ai trop de fierté pour me soumettre à l’esclavage” (“No, no, I am too proud to submit to slavery,” p. 15). The secondary theme may refer to act 4, scene 4, Arsène’s duo with the collier, “Ayez un cœur sensible” (“Have a sympathetic heart,” p. 86). The storm music makes its appearance several pages later, albeit in D minor instead of C minor (Arsène’s “Où suis-je? quelle nuit profonde” [“Where am I? What a dark night”], on p. 70), followed by a clearer reference to “Ayez un cœur sensible.” The overture then repeats the refrain from the final scene before the bustling coda. It is hard to gauge the full impact of the orage that begins act 4, since the Bailleux score includes only the violin line, the voice(s), and the basso continuo. But it gives a convincing impression of the terror felt by Arsène, alone and exposed to the elements for what is probably the first time in her life. The highpoint of the storm comes with a tree-splitting lightning bolt, très fort, on D-flat major (p. 73). Several pages later, Arsène glimpses “un monstre” just before the storm ebbs; one must consult the libretto to learn that the monster is a bear crossing the stage.30 (Shakespeare’s Winter’s Tale comes to mind.)31 How that particular stroke of staging was managed in Bonn is anyone’s guess. But there seems to be little else in this score that might have made a lasting impression on the young Beethoven.

Félix, ou L’Enfant trouvé Monsigny’s last completed opéra-comique was premiered on November 24, 1777, at the Comédie-Italienne. Audiences were disconcerted by the acerbic social satire, and the work did not catch on until the 1790s.32 It was performed in Bonn during Carnival of 1792 (December 28, 1791, to February

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20, 1792), one of Beethoven’s last seasons in the orchestra. Reichard’s Taschenbuch für die Schaubühne reported that Bonn too needed time to warm to the opera; there as in Paris, the third-act trio was a success: Felix [sic]. The opera at first did not quite manage to please; from the second act onward, it pleased a great deal. Mademoiselle Willmann and Herr Müller sang their duet with much feeling, and the sweet, hearty trio had to be repeated. The last scene between Herr von Strahlheim and the wet-nurse was acted with animation by Herr Steiger and Madame Neefe. Herr Dardenne performed the role of legal scholar quite well.33

Herr von Strahlheim is the name given Sedaine’s character Gourville, as in Johann André’s German adaptation.34 In Le Roi et le fermier, the son of the house was united with the young lady whom his family adopted as an orphaned girl. In Félix, the daughter of the house is united with the young man whom her family adopted as a foundling. Félix has grown up amid three brothers and Thérèse, whom he has come to love as more than a sister. Those feelings are reciprocated. While Félix has been making the family farm thrive, the brothers have moved to the city, and taken up occupations reflected in various modifications to their family name:35 army captain (Morinville); lawyer (La Morinière); and abbé (St. Morin). All three are ruthless social climbers who convince their father to allow Thérèse’s betrothal to a local lord (Versac), who is looking to restore his fortunes through a hefty dowry; to them, she is a commodity in a transaction to move the family up another rung. As the opera begins, the family have gathered with Versac and the notary to draw up the marriage contract. Félix ducks the occasion by going for a walk, in woods made dangerous of late by bandits. Father Morin explains that payment of the whole dowry is contingent on the expiration of a thirtyyear statutory limit: His farm had been bought with funds acquired under obscure circumstances, and three more years must elapse before he can dispose of his wealth. The servant-girl, Manon, reports shots outside. Versac and two of the brothers run out (the abbé stays behind to pray for them); Thérèse worries about Félix. The men return with a M. de Gourville, who says his life has just been saved. A tall stranger, armed only with a walking-stick, has subdued his attackers but must have been wounded in the gunfire. Gourville also muses at the fatality that, twenty-seven years previously, he lost everything on the same road. Instead of explanation, there is a comic ensemble: Manon fends off the rude advances of Morinville,

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the other brothers vacillate between restraining and encouraging the flirtation, and Versac claims to have chased the robbers at least five hundred paces before losing his breath. The quintet is interrupted on a V7 chord by Morin, who (speaking) bids them to supper. In act 2, Félix declares his intention to leave. Father Morin approves the plan, without knowing its motive, and recounts the circumstances under which he found Félix. There had been a storm, the causeway by the pond had collapsed, and the countryside was flooded. Morin discovered a woman tangled in the branches of a willow, unconscious, with a babe in her arms. It was Félix’s wet-nurse. Morin took the baby to his hut, then rescued the nurse. Two leagues away they found a dame drowned in her carriage with a valise. They questioned the nurse repeatedly, but she spoke only German. Much later, they learned that she came from “Noussdorff.” “Un grand monsieur” had hired her and brought her to a noblewoman who engaged her to nourish her newborn; fifteen days later the catastrophe occurred. If Félix wants to learn more, the nurse still lives in the village. Morin offers a “petit sac”— fourteen years of wages for the work Félix has done. And he hands over the procès-verbal, signed by Morin’s pastor, of how he was found. Morinville (the army captain) interrupts with a letter for Félix to sign—a letter committing him to enlist in Morinville’s regiment. Morin has convinced himself of Gourville’s connection with the catastrophe that so redounded to his benefit. Knowing their father’s solemn vow to return everything should the owner present himself within thirty years, the brothers try to dissuade him from giving “their” inheritance (and with it Thérèse’s dowry) to this man they claim to have rescued. Morin will not be moved, so they plot to get rid of Gourville as soon as possible. Gourville retires to a bed-alcove but leaves the light burning. Unaware of his presence, Thérèse and Félix bid each other farewell. When Thérèse notices that Félix is bleeding, he describes his encounter with the bandits in the forest. Gourville, peering through the curtains, recognizes the man who saved his life. Félix gives Therèse the wages Morin paid him, so that she can support his nurse after Morin dies. Early the next morning, having visited the causeway, Gourville and Morin convince Félix to stay another day, because the wedding is no longer certain. Gourville asks about the yield of the farm. Morin answers that, when there are lots of poor people, there is no profit at all; in better years, it can yield two thousand écus. “And they are yours!” Morin feels sure that Gourville is the original owner of the money with which Morin bought the property. He produces the valise, and Gourville recognizes his monogram. Gourville is

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astonished by such probity. So are the sons, who protest their father’s honesty in a progressive ensemble—a “duo which continues as a trio and finishes as a quartet.” Morin sorely rues having sent his sons to the city to pursue any career other than farming. But will Gourville employ him as steward of the land he has returned? At this juncture comes the “sweet, hearty” trio, in which Félix and Thérèse promise not to abandon Morin, and Morin openly wishes that Félix were his actual son. Gourville enters with the notary and a new contract, whereby Gourville gives everything to Félix on condition that he marry Thérèse. Félix promptly gives everything back to Morin. The brothers, horrified, demand a reading of the contract. When Gourville’s noble titles are revealed, the lawyer recognizes the weakness of their position. The only thing missing is Félix’s nom de famille. He has none, Morin explains, because he is a foundling. The recognitions now come thick and fast. When the old nurse arrives, Gourville, questioning her in German,36 recognizes her as the wet-nurse hired twentyseven years previously, and she recognizes him. And so Gourville has been saved by his own son. A massive ensemble ensues, in which Thérèse despairs that Félix may no longer marry her because he is a nobleman; but this and all other difficulties are resolved amid general reconciliation. As this lengthy synopsis may suggest, there was much in this story to inspire Beethoven. Virtue is upheld, a family is restored, human failings are held up to ridicule and seem susceptible to improvement, and the boy gets the girl. As in Jean-François Marmontel’s libretto for Grétry’s Silvain, the last-minute revelation of nobility and thus of class difference between future bridegroom and bride is brushed aside in the interest of true love. There was just as much in Monsigny’s music to interest Beethoven. The very first ariette for Félix—“Non, je ne serai point ingrat” (“No, I shall not be ungrateful”)— is a turbulent statement in C minor with off-kilter phrasing—three-measure syncopated motives, punctuated with low unisons, riddled with dynamic contrasts—that plunges us straight into the heart of his psychological turmoil. After a more expository B section (in E-flat major), there is, instead of the expected repeat (da capo or dal segno), a new section in C major (adagio, triple time, with flutes and horns to the fore over pizzicato strings), as Félix describes the tender feelings he harbors for the daughter of his benefactor, “Et je séduirois sa fille?” (“And would I seduce the daughter?”). The section closes by prolonging the crucial dilemma, “Mais la quitter, ma douce amie?” (“But to leave her, my sweet friend?”). The dal segno repeat (from the first vocal entrance) is meant to answer this heart-rending question. It is a stunning opener.

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The next main character, Thérèse, has an equally striking ariette (act 1, scene 3): a da capo structure in which the A section—“Quoi! tu me quittes, tu t’en vas” (“What! You’re leaving me; you’re going away”)—is a Lamentabilé in A major and the B section an Allegro starting in F-sharp minor. Monsigny is pushing the received form to the maximum by introducing not only harmonic contrast but changes of tempo and meter. With the central characters thus introduced, the secondary characters, most of them caricatures, follow with numbers and/or dialogue that highlight their flaws: general dissoluteness (Versac), brutality (Morinville), legalistic pedantry (La Morinière), and pious hypocrisy (St. Morin). Sedaine practices the same economy with the main characters. In act 1, scene 11, Thérèse expresses her concern for Félix with an ariette—“Hélas! où peut-il être?” (“Alas, where can he be?”; allegro, , G minor)—that has an unusually short introduction, as though she were too agitated for anything longer than six measures. In the B section (B-flat major but with much unrest in the dynamics) she looks with trepidation to the morrow, when she will lose Félix and be stuck with Versac. With her dilemma thus starkly drawn, Sedaine gives her no further solo numbers. Likewise, Félix has no further solo numbers after the wistful Lamentabilé with which he opens act 2: “Il faut, il faut que je les quitte, / Ces lieux si chéris de mon cœur” (“I have to leave these places so dear to my heart”). Both characters participate in ensembles, but we need learn nothing more about them musically until the dénouement. Morin, by the way, goes without any solo number until act 3, scene 7, when he declares that, whatever his sons may think, he is doing the right thing by turning his property and possessions over to Gourville: “Il est dans le fond de mon âme” (“There is, in the depths of my soul”). This D-minor Largo has the variety of motive and affect (although not the structure) that one would otherwise associate with a noble character. The trio singled out in many a contemporary review follows. In D major, Félix assures Morin that he is doing the right thing—“Ne vous repentés pas mon pere / D’avoir rempli votre serment” (“Do not repent, my father, of having kept your oath”)—and that he will stay by his side to help him. Morin answers in unison texture: “Bien malheureux qui se repente / d’avoir fait ce qu’il a dû faire” (“Unhappy is the man who repents of having done what he had to do”). The melodic diction is simplicity itself. After a cadence in the dominant, both meter and tempo change (triple time, afectuoso amoroso [sic]) as Thérèse joins the ensemble in duet with Félix: working together, they will look after their father until the end of his days. The ensemble ends

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as a trio in the new tempo and meter. There is no musical return and no going back on this decision once taken. While Monsigny and Sedaine seem never to have adopted the “chainfinale” developed by Goldoni and Galuppi,37 the finales in Félix are nonetheless impressive for their length and complexity. The finale of act 1, motivated by the simple act of Manon’s calling the brothers to supper, turns into an aggressive flirtation (hunting horns are prominent in the orchestration) that grows from a trio into a quintet of 246 measures, as the other brothers and Versac all join in. The characters take turns with patter style that stands out against the fuller rhythms of the other parts. When the tempo and meter change (presto, ), a rough scene threatens to get even rougher, until (as previously noted) Morin interrupts them angrily with a spoken summons. The quintet does continue, but with everyone singing “à demie voix [sic].” Five characters pursue their individual perspectives, while leaving the stage and urging quiet upon each other—“Chut! suivons mon père” (“Shh! Let’s follow my father”)—to a pp close. Except for the dramatic situation and the key, the technique would bring to mind the end of act 1 in Fidelio, with its ppp dynamic and departing chorus. An audience hardly knows how to respond to either finale, especially since Monsigny’s finale has, until then, given every sign of driving to a raucous close. The act 3 finale—“Quoi, c’est son fils” (“My goodness, it’s his son”)— bursts attacca upon Gourville’s recognition of Félix as his son (the score does have a cautionary note that the orchestra should sound a unison ut beforehand). It too is massive, full of dramatic twists and turns as described above; but after some twenty pages, the music rears up on the dominant, “tous à demie voix” (“everyone mezza voce”) and continues in a hushed and hymnic amoroso intoned by the chorus: “Vivez ensemble longtems” (“Live together for a long time”). For the next eight pages Monsigny resorts again and again to subito f and subito pp statements of this final benediction before moving on to universal rejoicing, presto, ff, complete with a contredanse for the huntsmen and the ladies of the village. Such closing tactics may remind us how operatically Beethoven proceeds on the final pages of the Ninth Symphony, with his sudden braking of energy, poco adagio, at measures 810 and 832, and the penultimate maestoso (m. 916) before the clamorous final prestissimo. For all the musical differences, the rhetorical template would seem to have been set in Bonn. As already noted, this is another dénouement that is anticipated from the start; roughly the first half of the overture is a bar-for-bar anticipation of the finale, up through the V chord just before the hymnic amoroso.38

beethoven's early exposure to monsigny  ❧ 29

Conclusion What Patrick Taïeb called Monsigny’s “ouvertures à citation” attracted comment early on. The critic Castil-Blaze called attention to the “citing” technique in the overture to La Belle Arsène: You will tell me perhaps that Monsigny placed into the overture . . . every motive from the principal airs, in an order similar to that in which they appear in the opera, and that by these means he guides the listeners step by step, instills such confidence in the orchestral music that they will follow the heroine from the tourney [the trials at opening] to the scene with the collier. Fine: but I shall also have you observe in passing that all these diverse refrains, these musical dictums, which the composer has slipped into his potpourri for better or for worse, do not have any particular expression and do not become significant until after one has heard them several times with their words.39

True enough, perhaps, but it is precisely in a repertory system allowing repeat performances of each work that this condition is fulfilled, not to mention that the rehearsing musician is willy-nilly hearing multiple performances of each work with the words. So while audience members were perhaps making the intended connections from overtures to ariettes, Beethoven (consciously or not) may have been absorbing a lesson about how to suggest an outcome in an incipit.40 The lesson is manifest in three of the overtures written for his only opera, as it is in the Egmont music, where he also harked back to Monsigny’s tactic of using entr’acte music to suggest events taking place between the acts. One such entr’acte (in Monsigny’s Le Roi et le fermier) is a truly impressive storm that overspills the usual boundaries, in that it begins toward the end of act 1 and rages into the first scenes of act 2. With such a precedent, one may be forgiven for regarding the Sturm in the “Pastoral” as entr’acte music in a symphonic context. In some yet-to-be-written study of imitative counterpoint in opera, Monsigny will surely have a place for his witty applications of learned style to humorous ends. Whether or not Beethoven had the opportunity to study the two pseudo-ecclesiastical duets in Le Roi et le fermier, the scene of feigned fugal argument in Rose et Colas offered the same lesson, as did the contrapuntal combination of two discrete chansons in Le Déserteur. However, the C-minor fugal trio in that opera (act 2, scene 11) constitutes a non-comic, absolutely serious precedent—as three characters try to absorb the reality of Alexis’s impending death-sentence—for the canonic quartet in Fidelio. In this connection, it may be coincidental that the second acts of both operas

30  ❧  chapter one

begin with tragic monologues for imprisoned protagonists close to death, and that in both cases the oboe stands in as instrumental proxy for the imagined beloved, who will eventually secure the prisoner’s release. Still, it seems likely that Le Déserteur was indeed the first of the many “rescue operas” that Beethoven encountered on the way to Fidelio. One of the next—even if there was not a performance in Bonn, the score was in the elector’s library—would have been Grétry’s Richard Cœur-de-Lion, setting a libretto that Sedaine had first offered to Monsigny.41 Beethoven would compose variations on its “rescue song” some three years after his arrival in Vienna. If Beethoven had his eyes and ears open as he rehearsed and performed these opéras-comiques, he encountered, along with the music, any number of Enlightenment commonplaces: for example, the corrupting city vs. the “pure” countryside (Le Roi et le fermier and Félix) and nobility of character vs. nobility of birth (witness Lurewel in Le Roi et le fermier or the duchess in Le Déserteur or Versac in Félix). In one instance (Félix), a dénouement hinges on nobility of character coinciding with nobility of birth; but even then, the virtuous, hard-working orphan has been raised by a virtuous peasant . . . whose own sons have not turned out so well. Far be it from me to claim that a handful of adolescent impressions suffices to explain Beethoven’s later output and outlook. All that is claimed here is that, when we do try to explain this or that aspect of the mature Beethoven, we ought to remind ourselves of ideas (musical, rhetorical, sociopolitical, philosophical) to which he was exposed early on, so that, when we encounter them in his later career, we may greet them as old friends.

Bibliography Ballstaedt, Andreas. “Musik zu Egmont Op. 84.” In Beethoven: Interpretationen seiner Werke, edited by Albrecht Riethmüller, Carl Dahlhaus, and Alexander L. Ringer, vol. 1, 649–60. Laaber: Laaber, 1994. Betzwieser, Thomas. “Gustav Friedrich Wilhelm Großmann und die Anfänge einer ‘deutschen Schaubühne’ in Bonn (1778–1783).” In Beethoven und andere Hofmusiker seiner Generation: Bericht über den internationalen musikwissenschaftlichen Kongress Bonn, 3. bis 6. Dezember 2015, edited by Birgit Lodes, Elisabeth Reisinger, and John D. Wilson, 95–112. Schriften zur Beethoven-Forschung 29; Musik am Bonner kurfürstlichen Hof 1. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 2018. Charlton, David. Grétry and the Growth of Opéra-Comique. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986.

beethoven's early exposure to monsigny  ❧ 31 ———. “Sedaine’s Prefaces: Pretexts for a New Musical Drama.” In Michel-Jean Sedaine (1719–1797): Theatre, Opera and Art, edited by Mark Ledbury and David Charlton, 196–272. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000. Cook, Elisabeth. Duet and Ensemble in the Early Opéra-Comique. New York and London: Garland, 1995. Druilhe, Paule. Monsigny: Sa vie et son œuvre. Paris: La Colombe, 1955. Favart, Charles-Simon. La Belle Arsene: Comédie-féerie en quatre actes, en vers, mêlée d’ariettes. Paris: Prault, 1775. ———. Die schöne Arsene: Ein Singspiel in vier Aufzügen aus dem Französischen übersetzt. Frankfurt-am Mayn: André, 1776. “Kurfürstl. Cöllnisches Hoftheater zu Bonn.” Taschenbuch für die Schaubühne auf das Jahr 1793, 125–26. Gotha: Ettinger, 1792. Ledbury, Mark. “Sedaine and the Question of Genre.” In Michel-Jean Sedaine (1719–1797): Theatre, Opera and Art, edited by Mark Ledbury and David Charlton, 13–38. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000. Leux, Irmgard. Christian Gottlob Neefe (1748–1798). Leipzig: Kistner & Siegel, 1925. Lodes, Birgit, Elisabeth Reisinger, and John D. Wilson. The Operatic Library of Elector Maximilian Franz. https://www.univie.ac.at/opernbibliothek/. Accessed September 1, 2018. Maurer, Doris, and Arnold E. Maurer, eds. Dokumente zur Bonner Theatergeschichte 1778–1784: Hoftheater unter Gustav Friedrich Wilhelm Grossmann und Karoline Grossmann. Veröffentlichungen des Stadtarchivs Bonn 47. Bonn: Bouvier, 1990. Monsigny, Pierre-Alexandre. La Belle Arsène: Comédie-féerie en quatre actes par M. Paris: Bailleux, n.d. ———. Le Déserteur: Drame en trois actes. Paris: Hérissant, n.d. ———. Félix ou l’Enfant trouvé. Paris: Bailleux, n.d. ———. Ouverture de Felix: Arrangée pour le Clavecin ou Pianoforte avec accompagnement de violon par Mr. Cesar. Paris: Boyer, n.d. ———. Ouverture de la Belle Arsène: Arrangée pour le Clavecin ou Pianoforte avec accompagnement de violon par Mr. Cesar. Paris: Boyer, n.d. ———. Le Roi et le fermier. Paris: Hérissant, n.d. Pougin, Arthur. Monsigny et son temps: L’Opéra-Comique et la Comédie-Italienne; les auteurs, les compositeurs, les chanteurs. Paris: Fischbacher, 1908. Reisinger, Elisabeth, Juliane Riepe, and John D. Wilson, in collaboration with Birgit Lodes. The Operatic Library of Elector Maximilian Franz: Reconstruction, Catalogue, Contexts. Schriften zur Beethoven-Forschung 30. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 2018. Rüppel, Michael. Gustav Friedrich Wilhelm Grossmann, 1743–1796: Eine Epoche deutscher Theater- und Kulturgeschichte. Hanover: Wehrhahn, 2010. Schiedermair, Ludwig. Der junge Beethoven. Leipzig: Quelle & Meyer, 1925.

32  ❧  chapter one “Schreiben aus Cölln den 20sten Jenner 1785.” Ephemeriden der Litteratur und des Theaters 1 (1785): 216–22. Sedaine, Michel-Jean. Felix oder der Findling: Ein Schauspiel mit Gesang in drei Akten aus dem Französischen des Herrn Sedaine auf die Musik der Herrn Monsigni uibersezt von Johann André. Vienna, 1785; Cologne: Langen, 1790. ———. “Quelques réflexions inédites de Sedaine sur l’opéra comique.” In RenéCharles Guilbert Pixérécourt, Théâtre choisi, vol. 4, 501–16. Paris: Tresse, 1843. Taïeb, Patrick. L’Ouverture d’opéra en France de Monsigny à Méhul. Paris: Société Française de Musicologie, 2007. Thayer, Alexander Wheelock. Thayer’s Life of Beethoven. Revised and edited by Elliot Forbes. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1964. Paperback reprint, 1970. Voltaire. La Bégueule: Conte moral. Geneva, 1772. Warrack, John. German Opera: From the Beginnings to Wagner. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Whiting, Steven M. “Before the Fever Burned: Beethoven and Grétry in Bonn.” In Beethoven und andere Hofmusiker seiner Generation: Bericht über den internationalen musikwissenschaftlichen Kongress Bonn, 3. bis 6. Dezember 2015, edited by Birgit Lodes, Elisabeth Reisinger, and John D. Wilson, 271–89. Schriften zur Beethoven-Forschung 29; Musik am Bonner kurfürstlichen Hof 1. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 2018. ———. “Die Egmont-Musik: Goethe nach dem Original.” In Beethovens Orchestermusik und Konzerte, edited by Oliver Korte and Albrecht Riethmüller, 462–72. Beethoven-Handbuch 1. Laaber: Laaber, 2013. Woodfield, Ian. “Christian Gottlob Neefe and the Bonn National Theatre, with New Light on the Beethoven Family.” Music & Letters 93 (2012): 289–315.

Notes 1 Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, 70, rev. and ed. Forbes (translation slightly modified). The original German (from Schiedermair, Der junge Beethoven, 165) is as follows: “Supplikant auch nach vorgangener gnugsamen Erprüfung und gefundener sattsamen fähigkeit zu der Hof Orgel, welche er bei oft über­ kommender Abweßenheit des Organisten Neffe bald zu der Comoedienprob, bald sonsten ohnehin öfters tractiret, und führohin in solchem fall tractiren wird.” 2 The chief historical source here is an anonymous dispatch, “Schreiben aus Cölln den 20sten Jenner 1785,” 216–22. From this report it emerges that Böhm’s troupe was engaged in October 1784 to give four performances a week in Cologne; that from the beginning of November they played three times a week in Bonn and twice a week in Cologne; that the elector had hired them for

beethoven's early exposure to monsigny  ❧ 33 “the entire winter” (i.e., Carnival); and that they pleased the general audience more than they pleased the connoisseurs. A list of titles is given, organized by theatrical genre (Trauerspiele, Schauspiele, Lustspiele, etc.), but dates are given only for performances that had taken place by January 20, 1785. Two Operetten by Monsigny are listed as being in the repertoire—Arsène and Félix—but there are no specifics about any performance in Bonn. See also Reisinger, Riepe, and Wilson, The Operatic Library of Elector Maximilian Franz, 107. 3 Details of titles and dates are given in two issues (January 3 and January 10, 1786) of the Bönnisches Intelligenz-Blatt. I am grateful to John D. Wilson for sending scans of the relevant advertisements. 4 For details, and the disastrous professional consequences of the legal judgment for Grossmann, see Rüppel, Gustav Friedrich Wilhelm Grossmann, 357–67. 5 Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, rev. and ed. Forbes, 33. 6 Under Grossmann alone, the court theater offered 27 different opéras-comiques in German translation, along with 3 French tragedies and 36 different French comedies in German translation. Compare for Italian fare: 13 Italian comedies were adapted for performance in Bonn, and 10 opere buffe. For a slightly different count, see Betzwieser, “Gustav Friedrich Wilhelm Grossmann,” 103–4. Betzwieser does not include spoken theater in his tabulation, but his table does make clear that the opere buffe were each offered only within a single season; opéras-comiques were often repeated over two or three seasons. They tended to have a longer “shelf life.” 7 Whiting, “Before the Fever Burned,” 271–89. 8 The remains of the electoral operatic library, now preserved at the Biblioteca Estense Universitaria in Modena, are the subject of Reisinger et al., The Operatic Library of Elector Maximilian Franz, which I have only been able to examine briefly before submitting this essay. 9 Warrack, German Opera, 195. 10 Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, rev. and ed. Forbes, 98. 11 “En 1762 j’ai effectué ce que j’avais cru impossible, d’élever le ton de ce genre, et mettre même un roi sur la scène dans un ouvrage en trois actes qui occupât la scène aussi longtemps qu’une pièce à cinq actes au théâtre français.” Sedaine, “Quelques réflexions inédites,” 507. See also the discussion in Ledbury, “Sedaine and the Question of Genre,” 25. Translations are my own, unless otherwise indicated. 12 “Il falloit que je trouvasse un grand Artiste, un Musicien habile qui voulût bien avoir un peu de confiance en moi, enfin un ami qui voulût bien risquer un genre nouveau en musique.” Quoted in Charlton, “Sedaine’s Prefaces,” 243. 13 Ibid. 14 Monsigny, Le Roi et le fermier, 160–61. Here and in the following pages, the orthography and punctuation of text, the performance instructions (among

34  ❧  chapter one them Monsigny’s consistently misspelled qualifier “ma non tropo”), and the instrument names follow that of the early published scores and librettos. 15 Pougin, Monsigny et son temps, 129. 16 Tobias Friedrich Pfeiffer was a member of Grossmann’s troupe for its first Spielzeit (1778–79) and part of its second (he left the troupe on February 26, 1780). See the dispatches excerpted from the Dramaturgische Nachrichten 2 (1780) in Maurer and Maurer, Dokumente zur Bonner Theatergeschichte, 33; and Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, rev. and ed. Forbes, 61. 17 See Leux, Christian Gottlob Neefe, 92; and Woodfield, “Neefe and the Bonn National Theatre,” 292. 18 The fire took place on January 15, 1777. See Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, rev. and ed. Forbes, 40. Ludwig Schiedermair too referred to this carillon as one of Beethoven’s early musical impressions: “Als das Glockenspiel des Schloßturms die Melodie aus Monsignys Deserteur erklingen ließ, wird auch er ihr gelauscht haben” (“When the bells of the palace tower pealed the melody from Monsigny’s Déserteur, [Beethoven] too would have listened”). Schiedermair, Der junge Beethoven, 137. 19 These motives do not recur in the opera proper, so my associations are hypothetical. 20 Taïeb, L’Ouverture d’opéra en France, 111. As Taïeb shows, the “ouverture à citation” was far more common in opéras-comiques than in tragédies lyriques. His “Annexe 3” lists ten examples of quotation overtures from the repertoire of the Académie Royale de Musique between 1774 and 1812 (392). His “Annexe 4” lists sixty-seven examples from the Opéra-Comique between the years 1782 and 1814. Moving the early date back to 1760, one would find as many as eighty-six examples. 21 For specific dates, see Betzwieser, “Gustav Friedrich Wilhelm Grossmann,” 103–4; and Whiting, “Before the Fever Burned,” 274–75. 22 Le Déserteur was premiered on January 6, 1769; Zémire et Azor on November 9, 1771. The latter opera was given in Bonn on December 29, 1782, and March 6, 1783, which performances Beethoven could have witnessed, and on February 6, 1786, in which he participated. See Whiting, “Before the Fever Burned,” 280. Concerning the entr’acte music in Egmont, see Ballstaedt, “Musik zu Egmont Op. 84,” 650–52; and Whiting, “Die Egmont-Musik,” 462–72. 23 Ledbury, “Sedaine and the Question of Genre,” 28. Paule Druilhe also invokes the model of Shakespeare in Monsigny: Sa vie et son œuvre, 78. Ledbury underscores Sedaine’s provocatively noncommittal generic designation, “drame en trois actes” and points out that Sedaine refers to Shakespeare in a preface as early as 1764. The only French-language access to Shakespeare then available was via Pierre-Antoine de La Place’s eight-volume collection Le Théâtre anglois (Paris, 1745–49), which included prose renderings of ten plays and summaries of the rest.

beethoven's early exposure to monsigny  ❧ 35 24 In act 3, scene 2, Louise’s father says they tried to tell Madame la Duchesse about the situation, but she was not at home. 25 It will be useful to consult the score, Le Déserteur, starting on p. 52. Following references are to pages in that score. 26 Cook, Duet and Ensemble, 165–66. Cook calls this “the most ambitious mixed ensemble encountered” in her study of thirty-nine opéras-comiques. 27 Voltaire, La Bégueule. The tale is best known for its opening lines, which have become proverbial: “Dans ses écrits, un sage Italien  / Dit que le mieux est l’ennemi du bien.” 28 The following information is drawn from Pougin, Monsigny et son temps, 162– 65, 174. 29 A short score of La Belle Arséne (comprising first violin part, voice part, and bass line) was published by Bailleux without the overture, which is available only in a contemporary arrangement for keyboard. The short score is available at https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k1165044s/f1.image. The overture arrangement is at https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b9057887j?rk=21459;2 (accessed September 1, 2018). 30 “Elle aperçoit un ours qui traverse le Théâtre pour regagner le forêt.” La Belle Arsene, 26. There is no such direction in the German translation: Die schöne Arsene, 73. 31 “Exit [Antigonus], pursued by a bear.” Act 3, scene 3. 32 Pougin, Monsigny et son temps, 175–81. According to Pougin (Monsigny et son temps, 293–94), it was fear of losing his eyesight that encouraged Monsigny to cease composing at the age of forty-eight. He would live to be eighty-eight. 33 “Felix, Op. wollte anfänglich nicht recht behagen; vom zweiten Akt an gefiel sie sehr. Demois. Willmann und Hr. Müller sangen ihr Duett mit viel Empfindung, und das süße herzige Terzett mußte wiederholt werden. Die letzte Scene zwischen Herrn von Strahlheim und der Amme ward von Herrn Steiger und Madam Neefe lebhaft gespielt. Hr. Dardenne machte die Rolle des Rechtsgelehrten recht gut.” “Kurfürstl. Cöllnisches Hoftheater zu Bonn,” 125– 26. The same source documents a post-Easter season from May 1 to June 30. The next pre-Advent season began in October 1792, and Beethoven may have played in the first few performances before leaving for Vienna. See Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, rev. and ed. Forbes, 98. 34 Felix oder der Findling (Vienna, 1785). André’s adaptation was also printed in Cologne by Langen in 1790. 35 It is a pity that André found no similar German equivalents. He simply identified each son by his profession. 36 In footnotes, Sedaine supplies a French “translation” of their conversation. In André’s German adaptation, the language common to Strahlheim and the wet nurse is Dutch.

36  ❧  chapter one 37 Charlton, Grétry and the Growth of Opéra-Comique, 116–17; Cook, Duet and Ensemble, 161. 38 The rest of the overture quotes Morinville’s swaggering ariette, “Je t’attends à la caserne” (“I expect you at the barracks”; act 2, scene 5), transposed from D to C major. 39 Quoted in Taïeb, L’Ouverture d’opéra en France, 108: “Vous me direz peut-être que Monsigny a placé dans l’ouverture de La Belle Arsène tous les motifs de ses airs principaux, dans un ordre semblable à celui qu’ils ont dans l’opéra, et que par ce moyen il conduit les auditeurs pas à pas, les met dans la confidence de sa symphonie au point qu’ils suivent l’héroïne depuis le tournoi jusqu’à la scène du charbonnier. D’accord: mais je vous ferai observer en passant que tous ces divers refrains, ces dictons musicaux, que le compositeur a enfilés tant bien que mal dans son pot-pourri, n’ont eu une expression particulière, et ne sont devenus significatifs qu’après on les a entendus plusieurs fois réunis aux paroles.” 40 From this it would have taken a few more creative steps to arrive at a teleological approach to instrumental works, in which motivic shapes of finales might be gradually divulged in preceding movements. 41 Pougin (Monsigny et son temps, 194) reproduces what survives of the text of the letter covering Monsigny’s return of Sedaine’s manuscript. Monsigny, almost blind in one eye, wrote: “Je ne puis faire votre pièce, prenez Grétry” (“I cannot do your play; take Grétry”).

Chapter Two

“A Really Excellent and Capable Man”: Beethoven and Johann Traeg David Wyn Jones On June 18, 1794, eighteen months after he had arrived in Vienna, Beethoven wrote a letter to his friend in Bonn, Nikolaus Simrock. As well as playing the horn in the court orchestra, Simrock had for some years run a business selling a variety of goods, including carpets, books, stationery, and wine. Music came to be a central feature in his life, with Simrock offering his services as a copyist and as a seller of publications from elsewhere in Europe and of musical instruments. The previous year he had expanded his business to include the engraving of printed music, tentative beginnings of an accelerating process that was to make Simrock one of Europe’s leading music publishers.1 Beethoven had heard from his brother Carl, that Simrock was planning to engrave the composer’s Eight Variations on a Theme by Count Waldstein (WoO 67), and Beethoven was irritated that he had not been consulted, pointing out that it might have compromised any plans he had to offer the work to Artaria in Vienna. More constructively, Beethoven suggested to Simrock that he should think about having an agent in Vienna to sell his forthcoming publications: “If so, I would willingly undertake to recommend to you one whom I know to be a first-rate man.”2 Two months later, on August 2, the subject matter emerged in a second letter to Simrock. Beethoven had agreed that Simrock could, after all, publish

38  ❧  chapter t wo

the variations: he had read the proofs, was very complimentary about the quality of the engraving, and promised some further compositions. In addition he wrote, “Regarding an agent [Commissionaire] I have looked around and have found a really excellent and capable man. His name is Traeg. All you have to do is to write to him, or to me, indicating the terms you would like. He requires a discount of a third from you.”3 In many ways Johann Traeg was the obvious choice. He was the leading music dealer in Vienna, selling manuscript performing parts and printed music from dedicated premises in the Singerstrasse in the inner city. Arriving in Vienna from Goscheim in southern Germany, probably in 1779, he had first established himself as a copyist before amassing a substantial stock of music in manuscript from which copies were prepared on demand; gradually this stock was complemented by printed music acquired from elsewhere in German-speaking lands, notably from André in Offenbach, Gombart in Augsburg, and Götz in Mannheim. Establishing a business understanding with another firm, Simrock in Bonn, was, therefore, an entirely natural development. In the same year that Beethoven mediated the relationship between the two, Traeg himself began issuing printed music. At first, it was on a very limited scale: two printed items in 1794, four in 1795, four again in 1796, and seven or eight in 1797.4 By the following year Traeg’s total stock—manuscript music, printed music issued by various publishers, plus some publications of his own—had become so large that it had become difficult to manage. Much of that year was devoted to preparing a printed catalogue of the material, ostensibly to encourage sales, but also to help Traeg and his workers locate material in the shop. Published in February 1799, the Verzeichniß alter und neuer sowohl geschriebener als gestochener Musikalien, welche in der Kunst- und Musikalienhandlung des Johann Traeg, zu Wien, in der Singerstrasse Nr. 957. (“Catalogue of old and new, manuscript as well as printed, musical works that are available in the art and music shop of Johann Traeg in Vienna, in the Singerstrasse no. 957”) lists over 14,000 works. Future supplements were promised, but only one materialized, in 1804. By this time Johann Traeg had been joined by his son, also Johann, who took over the business following his father’s death in 1805.5 Although Traeg was clearly a central figure in musical commerce in Vienna during the years when Beethoven was establishing himself as a major creative presence in the city, the relationship between the two is only fleetingly evident in biographical accounts of the period. This essay will explore two complementary aspects: the role that Traeg played in making Beethoven’s

beethoven and johann traeg  ❧ 39

music known in Vienna up to 1805 (the year of Traeg’s death) and the consequences of the deal between Traeg and Simrock that the composer helped to set up in 1794. Identifying imported publications from elsewhere in Europe, whether by Simrock or others, in Traeg’s 1799 catalogue is a reasonably easy task. Traeg uses two abbrevations to identify the form of individual items: “g” (“geschrieben”) for manuscript copies and “st” (“Stich”) for printed material; the latter is often replaced with more specific information about the place of publication, from which the name of the publisher can be inferred, for instance “a” for Augsburg (usually the firm of Gombart), “b” for Bonn (Simrock), “l” for Leipzig (usually Breitkopf & Härtel), “o” for Offenbach (always André), and “w” for Vienna (Traeg himself and others such as Artaria). Over forty Simrock publications are identified in this way, including works by Bornhardt, Mozart, Müller, and Weigl, as well as Beethoven. When it comes to the supplementary catalogue of 1804, tracing the likely origins of publications is a more tortuous process, since that catalogue abandons the labeling system that distinguished between manuscript and printed items, as well as the single letters that pointed to the place of publication. The wording of the entry, particularly if it includes an opus number, gives a lead to a likely printed source; but even more useful, especially when there is more than one likely candidate for the source, is the indicated price, which often varied between publishers. As Beethoven’s letter of August 2, 1794, indicates, Traeg is known to have negotiated discounts from other publishers, but he sold the published item at the original cover price, and these are the ones usually quoted in both catalogues. The music of Beethoven features significantly in Traeg’s two catalogues. There are fifty-two items in total, which are listed in table 2.1. The list is divided into two parts: works with opus numbers and works without opus numbers (WoO). Only one entry eluded identification: the “2 son” listed at the very end. For each item the list indicates the page number from the relevant catalogue, followed by the nature of the item: either a manuscript copy prepared by Traeg, or a printed publication by Traeg, or an item published by another firm and sold by Traeg. For the last named, the list identifies the likely published source; where it is conjectural, it is preceded by a question mark; where there is more than one possible source, both are given, with the more likely of the two presented first. Although Traeg often advertised material in the columns of the Wiener Zeitung, it was never a comprehensive process; however, the dates of advertisements for individual items are given under the relevant heading.

Table 2.1. Music by Beethoven listed in Traeg’s catalogues of 1799 and 1804 Item

Year of Traeg catalogue and page

Traeg manuscript

Traeg print

Print from other publisher

Works with opus numbers Three Piano Trios, op. 1

1799: 134

Bonn: Simrock, 1797/Vienna: Artaria, 1795

Three Piano Sonatas, op. 2

1799: 148

Bonn: Simrock, 1798/Vienna: Artaria, 1796

String Trio, op. 3

1799: 80

Serenade, op. 8

1804: 378

Three String Trios, op. 9

1799: 80

Three Piano Sonatas, op. 10

1804: 404

Bonn: Simrock, 1801/Vienna: Eder, 1798

Clarinet Trio, op. 11

1804: 400

Bonn: Simrock, 1801/Vienna: Mollo, 1798

Three Violin Sonatas, op. 12

1804: 401

Bonn: Simrock, 1800/Vienna: Artaria, 1798–99

Piano Sonata, op. 13

1804: 404

Bonn: Simrock, 1800/Hoffmeister, 1799

Two Piano Sonatas, op. 14

1804: 404

Bonn: Simrock, 1800

MS copy Bonn: Simrock, 1802/Vienna: Artaria, 1797 WZ, July 21, 1798

(continued)

Table 2.1—continued Quartet after op. 14, no. 1

1804: 375

Bonn: Simrock, 1802/Vienna: Kunst-und Industrie-Comptoir, 1802

Piano Concerto, op. 15

1804: 399

Bonn: Simrock, 1802/Vienna: Mollo, 1801

Wind Quintet, op. 16

1804: 400

Bonn: Simrock, 1802

Horn Sonata, op. 17

1804: 401

Bonn: Simrock, 1801–2/Vienna: Mollo, 1801

Six Quartets, op. 18

1804: 375

Bonn: Simrock, 1802

Piano Concerto, op. 19

1804: 399

Vienna: Hoffmeister and Leipzig: Bureau de Musique, 1801. Traeg ad: WZ, Oct. 4, 1802

String Quintet after op. 20

1804: 373

Vienna: Hoffmeister and Leipzig: Hoffmeister et Kühnel, 1802

Symphony, op. 21

1804: 368

Vienna: Hoffmeister and Leipzig: Bureau de Musique, 1801. Traeg ad: WZ, Oct. 4, 1802

(continued)

Table 2.1—continued Piano Sonata, op. 22

1804: 404

Vienna: Hoffmeister and Leipzig: Bureau de Musique, 1802. Traeg ad: WZ, Oct. 4, 1802

Violin Sonata, op. 23

1804: 401

Bonn: Simrock, 1802–3/Vienna: Mollo, 1802

Violin Sonata, op. 24

1804: 401

Bonn: Simrock, 1802–3/Vienna: Mollo, 1802

Serenade, op. 25

1804: 378

Bonn: Simrock, 1802

Piano Sonata, op. 26

1804: 404

Bonn: Simrock, 1802

Marche funebre from op. 26

1804: 413

Bonn: Simrock, 1802/Vienna: Cappi, 1802

Two Sonatas, op. 27

1804: 404

Bonn: Simrock, 1802/Vienna: Cappi, 1802

Piano Sonata, op. 28

1804: 404

Bonn: Simrock, 1802/Kunst- und Industrie-Comptoir, 1802

String Quintet, op. 29

1804: 373

Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1802. Traeg ad: WZ, Jan. 22, 1803

Piano Duet after op. 29

1804: 403

Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1802

(continued)

Table 2.1—continued Three Violin Sonatas, “op. 33” (recte op. 30)

1804: 401

Bonn: Simrock, 1803/Vienna: Kunst- und Industrie-Comptoir, 1803

Piano Variations, op. 34

1804: 409

Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1803

Piano Variations, op. 35

1804: 409

Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1803. Traeg ad: WZ, Nov. 16, 1803

Lied: “Adelaide,” op. 46

1799: 192

Rondo, op. 51 no. 1

1804: 404

Variations: “Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen,” op. 66

1799: 142 & 1805: 409

MS copy (from Artaria edition?) Bonn: Simrock, 1798/Vienna: Artaria, 1797 WZ, Sept. 22, 1798

Works without opus numbers (WoO) Twelve Minuets for Orchestra, WoO 7

1799: 115

Six Ländler for Piano, ?from WoO 14

1804: 414

?Bonn: Simrock, 1803

Six Contredanses, 1804: 415 ?from WoO 15

?Bonn: Simrock, 1803

Variations: “Se vuol Ballare,” WoO 40

Vienna: Artaria, 1795

1799: 140

MS copy

(continued)

Table 2.1—continued Variations: “Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen,” WoO 46

1804: 409

?Vienna: Cappi, 1802

Variations: March 1799: 157 by Dressler, WoO 63

Mannheim: Götz

Variations: “Air Suisse,” WoO 64

1804: 409

Bonn: Simrock, c. 1798

Variations: “Venni amore,” WoO 65

1799: 157

Variations: “Es war einmal ein alter Mann,” WoO 66

1799: 158 and 1804: 409

Bonn: Simrock, 1793

Variations: Theme by Waldstein, WoO 67

1799: 145

Bonn: Simrock, 1794. Traeg ad: WZ, Jan. 21, 1795

Variations: “Menuett à la Viganò,” WoO 68

1804: 409

Bonn: Simrock, 1797

Variations: “Quant’ è più bello,” WoO 69

1799: 158

WZ, Dec. 30, 1795

Variations: “Nel cor più non mi sento,” WoO 70

1799: 158

WZ, March 23, 1796

Variations: “Mich 1799: 158 brennt ein heißes Fieber,” WoO 72

WZ, Nov. 23, 1798

MS copy

WZ, July 7, 1802

(continued)

beethoven and johann traeg  ❧ 45 Table 2.1—concluded Variations: “Kind, 1804: 409 willst du ruhig schlafen,” WoO 75

Bonn: Simrock, 1800

Variations: “Tändeln und Scherzen,” WoO 76

1804: 409

Bonn: Simrock, c. 1802

Variations: own theme, WoO 77

1804: 409

WZ, Aug. 12, 1801

Unidentified works “2 Son.” [for piano]

1804: 404

Sources: Dorfmüller, Gertsch and Ronge, Ludwig van Beethoven: Thematischbibliographisches Werkverzeichnis;). Weinmann, Die Anzeigen des Kopiaturbetriebes Johann Traeg; Weinmann, Johann Traeg: Die Musikalienverzeichnisse von 1799 und 1804. Notes: The cited page numbers from the 1804 catalogue are the editorial ones provided by Weinmann. Abbreviation: WZ = Wiener Zeitung

The importance of Traeg’s shop for the dissemination of Beethoven’s music in Vienna is immediately apparent: most of his output up to the first years of the nineteenth century could be purchased from the shop, making it, rather than the individual outlets of publishers such as Artaria, Eder, Hoffmeister, Kunst- und Industrie Comptoir, and Mollo, the most convenient place to do so. But only a small minority of the works by Beethoven that were sold by Traeg were actually published by him: only seven in total (six sets of variations and the op. 9 String Trios); instead, most of the items consisted of material acquired from other publishers, in Vienna and elsewhere. Although there is little or no direct evidence, it would seem unlikely that Viennese publishers would offer the same discount to Traeg as publishers from elsewhere, or, if they did, it would not be as generous; likewise for Traeg, there would be little point in him selling publications from elsewhere if the work could be purchased more cheaply from individual firms in Vienna. As table 2.1 reveals, the best-represented non-Viennese firm for Beethoven’s music in the Traeg catalogues is Simrock of Bonn, the likely (or possible) source for

46  ❧  chapter t wo

thirty of the fifty-two items. These publications are all derivative editions (Nachdrücke), their musical texts taken from authentic first editions issued by Artaria and Cappi without the permission of the publisher or, apparently, the composer. While Beethoven scholarship has focused narrowly on authentic editions, the part played by the carefree, sometimes elusive, workings of musical commerce in promoting Beethoven’s music in Vienna has been undervalued. In the case of the Traeg–Simrock relationship it resulted in a stronger presence for Beethoven’s music in Vienna than the output of any one of the authentic publishers. Indeed for the potential purchaser of Beethoven’s music in the city at the time, many works, including the op. 1 Piano Trios, the op. 18 String Quartets, the First Piano Concerto, and most of the piano sonatas, were available in two editions, one published in Vienna, the other imported from Simrock, and with identical or nearly identical musical texts. Since no correspondence between Beethoven and Simrock survives for the period from the summer of 1794 to the spring of 1803, it is impossible to know whether the composer facilitated Simrock’s acquisition of musical texts (manuscript or printed) from Vienna; Beethoven’s letter of August 2, 1794 certainly indicates a willingness to remain in touch, and this arrangement remains a possibility. Alternatively, Beethoven would have discovered the Simrock publications on visits to Traeg’s shop. If he was once more irritated—as he had initially been when he discovered Simrock’s plans to print the Waldstein variations—he would also have recognized that it was a fact of musical life that had obvious benefit for his emergent popularity, in Vienna as well as back in Bonn. In addition to the clear quantitative contribution to Beethoven’s reputation, Traeg’s business outlook also hints at a qualitative change in the composer’s reputation in the 1790s. The 1799 catalogue contains a two-paragraph foreword that explains the layout of the catalogue and its value for potential purchasers. Entirely reasonably, Traeg maintains that “there is not a catalogue of our best masters, such as Joseph Haydn, W. A. Mozart etc., that has more material than this catalogue.”6 Beethoven is not explicitly mentioned as a “best master,” probably because the amount of music in the catalogue (sixteen entries only) by a composer still in his twenties was not then equal to that of Haydn and Mozart. Yet there is testimony that Traeg already regarded the quality of Beethoven’s music with a similar reverence. Some of Traeg’s advertisements in the Wiener Zeitung for music by Haydn and Mozart contain evaluative comments on the music itself, something that was rarely accorded to the works of Dittersdorf, Eybler, Krommer, and dozens more. For instance, an advertisement for manuscript parts for Mozart’s Quintet for

beethoven and johann traeg  ❧ 47

Piano and Wind Instruments (K. 452) has the comment, “According to the judgment of connoisseurs, this Quintet is one of the greatest masterpieces,”7 while an advertisement for the André publication of Haydn’s Symphony no. 94 identifies it as the symphony “with the famous Andante in which the timpani stroke makes such a great impact.”8 Beethoven was twice given this special treatment: the Variations on “Quant’ è più bello” (WoO 69), advertised in 1795, were described as “light, flowing, and consistently innocent,” and when the three trios of op. 9 were published by Traeg in 1798, he assured potential purchasers that he had spared neither time nor money in ensuring that “the intrinsic value of these excellent works” was matched by the printed presentation.9 At the end of the 1790s Beethoven had not yet joined Haydn and Mozart as a “best master” in quantitive terms, but there was a sense that he soon would. This was the beginning of a process that was to gather momentum in the early years of the new century. Johann Traeg died on September 5, 1805, just fourteen months after the publication of the supplementary catalogue. Although his son assumed responsibility for the firm, and it remained in business until 1818, it gradually lost its central presence in musical commerce in the city and, as a result of that, in Beethoven’s career too. As regards Simrock, his trajectory was very much an upwards one. On May 18, 1805, a few months before Traeg’s death, the Wiener Zeitung contained an advertisement for some two dozen new items of music available from Traeg’s store by, among others, Förster, Gluck, Paer, and Sterkel.10 But the list is headed by the “Kreutzer” Sonata for Violin and Piano, op. 47, this time an authorized first edition published by Simrock in Bonn, issued with the full co-operation of the composer. In just over ten years Simrock had established himself as one of the leading publishers in Europe, still based in Bonn, but with a branch in Paris, run by his brother. As a family business it continued to flourish throughout the nineteenth century, the publisher of major works by Brahms, Bruch, Dvořák, Mendelssohn, Schumann, Spohr, Johann Strauss (the younger), and others. One of Beethoven’s forgotten achievements had been to help Nikolaus Simrock at the beginning of this commercial venture, when he introduced him to Johann Traeg, “a really excellent and capable man.”

Bibliography Beethoven, Ludwig van. Briefwechsel Gesamtausgabe. Edited by Sieghard Brandenburg. 7 vols. Munich: Henle, 1996–98.

48  ❧  chapter t wo ———. The Letters of Beethoven. Edited and translated by Emily Anderson. 3 vols. London: Macmillan, 1961. Brandenburg, Sieghard. “Die Gründungsjahre des Verlags N. Simrock.” Bonner Geschichtsblätter 29 (1977): 28–36. Dorfmüller, Kurt, Norbert Gertsch, and Julia Ronge. Ludwig van Beethoven: Thematisch-bibliographisches Werkverzeichnis. 2 vols. Munich: Henle, 2014. Edge, Dexter. “Mozart’s Viennese Copyists.” PhD diss., University of Southern California, 2001. Jones, David Wyn. The Symphony in Beethoven’s Vienna. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006. ———. “‘What Noble Simplicity, What Strength and, Certainly, Melody This Music Has’: Handel’s Reputation in Beethoven’s Vienna.” Händel-Jahrbuch 63 (2017): 73–86. November, Nancy. Cultivating String Quartets in Beethoven’s Vienna. Woodbridge: Boydell, 2017. Ottendorf, Walther. Das Haus Simrock: Beiträge zur Geschichte einer Kulturtragenden Familie des Rheinlandes. 2nd revised ed. Edited by Ingrid Bosch. Bonn: Stadtmuseum, 2003. Weinmann, Alexander. Die Anzeigen des Kopiaturbetriebes Johann Traeg in der Wiener Zeitung. Wiener Archivstudien 6. Vienna: Ludwig Krenn, 1981. ———. Johann Traeg: Die Musikalienverzeichnisse von 1799 und 1804 (Handschrift und Sortiment). Beiträge zur Geschichte des alt-Wiener Musikverlages 2/17. Vienna: Universal Edition, 1973. ———. Verlagsverzeichnis Johann Traeg (und Sohn). 2nd ed. Beiträge zur Geschichte des alt-Wiener Musikverlages 2/16. Vienna: Universal Edition, 1973.

Notes 1

For accounts of Simrock’s early career as a music dealer and publisher see Brandenburg, “Die Gründungsjahre des Verlags N. Simrock in Bonn,” 28–36, and Ottendorf, Das Haus Simrock, 13–29, 115, 118. 2 Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 1:23 (no. 15); The Letters of Beethoven, 1:15–16 (no. 10). 3 Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 1:26 (no. 17); The Letters of Beethoven, 1:18 (no. 12) (amended). 4 Weinmann, Verlagsverzeichnis Johann Traeg (und Sohn), 17–21. 5 Facsimiles of the 1799 and 1804 catalogues are in Weinmann, Johann Traeg: Die Musikalienverzeichnisse von 1799 und 1804. Complementary volumes are Weinmann, Verlagsverzeichnis Johann Traeg (und Sohn) and Weinmann, Die Anzeigen des Kopiaturbetriebes Johann Traeg. For Traeg’s activities as a

beethoven and johann traeg  ❧ 49 copyist and music dealer with particular reference to Mozart, see Edge, “Mozart’s Viennese Copyists,” 749–997; for a discussion of symphonies in the two catalogues see Jones, The Symphony in Beethoven’s Vienna, 11–27; for string quartets, see November, Cultivating String Quartets, 61–75; and for the presence of Handel’s music in the catalogues, see Jones, “‘What Noble Simplicity, What Strength and, Certainly, Melody This Music Has,’” 74–78. 6 “[K]ein Verzeichniß von unsern besten Meistern, als Joseph Haydn, W.  A. Mozart etc. so viel ausweisen kann, als dieses Verzeichniß.” Weinmann, Johann Traeg: Die Musikalienverzeichnisse von 1799 und 1804, “Vorbericht.” 7 Wiener Zeitung, February 19, 1794: “Nach dem Urtheile der Kenner ist dieses Quintett eines der größten Meisterstücke.” Weinmann, Die Anzeigen des Kopiaturbetriebes Johann Traeg, 43. Translations are my own, unless otherwise indicated. 8 Wiener Zeitung, May 30, 1795: “Mit dem berühmten Andante worin der Paukenschlag so grosse Wirkung macht.” Weinmann, Die Anzeigen des Kopiaturbetriebes Johann Traeg, 50. 9 Wiener Zeitung, December 30, 1795: “Sie sind leicht, fließend, und durchaus naïf.” Weinmann, Die Anzeigen des Kopiaturbetriebes Johann Traeg, 54; August 1, 1798: “daß er keinen Fleiß und keine Kosten gesparet hat, um das Aeusserliche dem innerlichen Werth dieses vortrefflichen Werks nur einigermaßen gleich zu machen.” Weinmann, Die Anzeigen des Kopiaturbetriebes Johann Traeg, 68. 10 Weinmann, Die Anzeigen des Kopiaturbetriebes Johann Traeg, 108.

Chapter Three

A Four-Leaf Clover: A Newly Discovered Cello, the Premiere of the Ninth Symphony, Beethoven’s Circle of Friends in Bonn, and a Corrected Edition of the Song “Ruf vom Berge,” WoO 147 Michael Ladenburger

A Recently Discovered Cello Formerly Owned by Beethoven In 2008 a cello formerly owned by Ludwig van Beethoven resurfaced (see fig. 3.1). Since then it has been on loan to the Beethoven-Haus. According to Aloys Fuchs in 1846, the instrument was in Vienna after the composer’s death, in the possession of P. Wertheimber [sic], a descendant of Samson Wertheimer (1658–1724), who was court factor (purveyor to the royal household, banker, and financial adviser) to Emperor Leopold I.1 (Leopold I was himself a gifted

Figure 3.1. Cello, Italian, c. 1730–40. Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, photo by Michael Ladenburger.

52  ❧  chapter three

Figure 3.2. Large seal on button of cello. Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, photo by Michael Ladenburger.

composer.) Samson Wertheimer held the same post for Leopold’s successors, Emperor Joseph I and Charles VI, as well as for the electoral palatinate and the electors of Mainz, Trier, and Saxony; he was, moreover, the chief rabbi of Hungary. A few years ago it became known that Beethoven, in addition to the string quartet instruments exhibited in the Beethoven-Haus since 1890 (and thought to belong together as a set), owned another violin and a second cello. On the basis of two seals carrying the initials “LvB” found on this “new” cello, one can conclude that this instrument was once part of the original string quartet set presented to Beethoven around 1800 by Prince Lichnowsky, as a gift in recognition of his first six string quartets, his op. 18. The seal on the button is the large seal that the composer frequently used; the one on the rib below the endpin is his less frequent small seal (see figs. 3.2 and 3.3). The other two instruments that formed part of this original set (one of the violins and the viola at the Beethoven-Haus)2 differ somewhat from them in that the large seal is located at the upper end of the back plate, just below

a four-leaf clover  ❧ 53

Figure 3.3. Small seal on rib of cello. Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, photo by Michael Ladenburger.

the foot of the neck. In addition, both have the initial “B” incised in the back plate, a mark that our instrument lacks—perhaps having been obliterated in the course of a later repair. Another violin, also originally part of this set, was presented to the Beethoven-Haus by Gerda Taussig for a token purchase price.3 This violin was presumably built by the Salzburg violin maker Johann Joseph Schorn around 1720. It, too, exhibits the large seal as well as the incised initial on the back plate. Among the four instruments in the Beethoven-Haus are a violin and a cello which are not part of the original Lichnowsky set and which lack the seal but do have the initial. In addition, the cello has a strip of parchment below the end-button with Beethoven’s signature.4 The “new” cello exhibits a non-authentic slip of paper with the following printed text: “Petrus Guarnerius Cremoneniz / Fecit Anno 17[12].” The numbers in brackets were entered by hand and re-traced at a later time. A second slip dates from a repair: “ANTON FISCHER  / WIEN  / Reparirt 18[45].” The repair was likely connected to the sale of the instrument. The

54  ❧  chapter three

back-center joint has been pasted over on the inside, and thus secured, with a lining strip of parchment cut from a larger, previously inscribed sheet. It may have been added when the size of the instrument was reduced. Its text, containing the date 1745, bears no relation to the instrument. The paper slip reading “Petrus Guarnerius” matches the indication “Peter Quanieri” found in Beethoven’s estate inventory. The Viennese violin maker and accredited expert, Martin Stoss, was responsible for this designation. But he describes it as a particularly valuable instrument: a description that clearly does not apply to the instrument in question. In 1846 Aloys Fuchs likewise gave the year as 1712 but named “Andreas Guarnerius” as the maker. At the same time, he noted that it was not the most valuable instrument. This is not a case, therefore, of a simple confusion with the separately transmitted cello with the paper slip “Andreas Guarnerius 1675,” which Beethoven presumably did not own until around 1812. Despite these inconsistencies, the cello presented here obviously comes from Beethoven’s estate and was part of the Lichnowsky set. According to the expert opinion of Benjamin Schröder, the instrument was built around 1730–40, likely in Milan, in proximity to the circle of Giovanni Granzino. It made use of young, inferior wood (unflamed maple, beech, and spruce with knotholes). Compared with the cello that until 2004 was deemed part of the string quartet set, it is, as mentioned earlier, the less valuable instrument. It was originally considerably larger, and was scaled down, as were many others, both in height (by about 5–6 cm) and width. Today it measures 73.5 cm in height; the standard Stradivari measure was 75 cm. The reduction was carried out before Beethoven received the instrument and reflected the changing musical demands expected from the cello, which had hitherto been almost exclusively a continuo instrument but was now, not least owing to Beethoven himself, emancipating itself to become a solo instrument. Sound ideal and playing techniques had changed, and greater flexibility was desired. The scroll of the instrument is old, probably south German. It originally belonged to another instrument. Unlike many other instruments, Beethoven’s retained the original neck because it had been furnished early on with a specific mechanism (an adjustment screw, Stellschraube) that allowed the neck angle to be adjusted (see fig. 3.4). This device was invented in 1823 by the Viennese violin maker and leading guitar maker Johann Georg Staufer (also Stauffer), who introduced his Arpeggione in the same year. The adjustment screw eliminated the need for repairs due to weather conditions (such as different levels of humidity in summer or winter). It also offered new musical opportunities.

a four-leaf clover  ❧ 55

Figure 3.4. The “Staufer mechanism” on Beethoven’s cello. Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, photo by Michael Ladenburger.

Joseph Linke, then cellist of the Schuppanzigh Quartet and highly esteemed by Beethoven, recommended Staufer’s innovation in an article cowritten with the guitarist Vincenz Schuster and the music critic and composer Friedrich August Kanne. The article, “Wichtige Erfindung für das Violoncell” (“An important invention for the cello”), was published in a Viennese music magazine.5 “How much this [the new mechanism] facilitates playing heavily scored ripieno parts, when the strings can be quickly tightened and positioned higher or lower! When accompanying the fortepiano, the player is in a position to quickly adjust his instrument in order to allow for a softer treatment [Tractament]. And he can just as quickly return to the tension which provides the appropriate power for playing in the orchestra, the theater, or the church.”6 Beethoven had written his 1815 Cello Sonatas, op. 102, for Linke and his employer, Countess Marie Erdödy, a close friend of Beethoven. The article indicates the clear distinction between a more filigree chamber music sonority and a stronger orchestral sound, a distinction that at the time was taken into account even when making instruments. The Schorn violin mentioned earlier is decidedly a chamber music instrument.

56  ❧  chapter three

For orchestral playing or for a soloist in a violin concerto, a stronger-sounding orchestral violin was used. Incidentally, the connecting link for this whole “scene” of stringed instrument makers and musicians was Franz Rzehaczek (1758–1840), a clerk in the royal Bohemian court chancellery and an under-employed official who was able to amass the most important private collection of stringed instruments of his time. He served as best man at the wedding of Ignaz Schuppanzigh (who became his brother-in-law in 1811), as well as the weddings of Staufer, Linke, and Beethoven’s copyist Wenzel Schlemmer.7

Miscellanea Regarding the Premiere of the Ninth Symphony Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony is widely discussed, and the number of performances for formal and festive occasions is legion, posing an enduring threat to the spiritual content of the work. The reviews of the first performance, in Beethoven’s self-organized concert (Akademie) of May 7, 1824, that were published in contemporary musical magazines as well as the reviews of the work’s original edition give the impression that the composition enjoyed broad approval—if not always an immediate and complete understanding— from the start. The early reception of the work itself has been treated in the scholarly literature many times and at length. Let me just briefly recall it here, adding a tangential aspect that shows how fundamentally divided the audiences of the concerts of May 7 and 23, 1824, truly were. Beethoven had admirers, but he also had bitter enemies, and, on more than one occasion, the latter made him consider leaving Vienna. Two days after the premiere, Carl Czerny sent a report about the concert to Friedrich Wieck in Leipzig. He judged it from the position of a knowledgeable admirer and a patriot: The large, select audience showed an indescribable but dignified and appreciative enthusiasm and proved that it feels and understands true, great art to a greater degree than any other in the world and that taste has not softened as much as some malcontents want to claim, who—it seems to me—deplore Rossini-ism more or less for the same reason that wigmakers deplore Titus haircuts. The large orchestra covered itself with glory and sweat, and Umlauf conducted alongside Beethoven with a fire and dedication that makes him worthy of respect both as a man and as an artist.8

a four-leaf clover  ❧ 57

On June 8, Czerny briefly referred to the “youthful spirit, and as much power, innovation, and beauty as ever sprung from the head of this original man” but went on to mention the lack of understanding on the part of conservative listeners: “although, to be sure, he occasionally makes the superannuated wigs shake their heads.”9 In 1842, in his memoirs, he reminded his readers that Beethoven had already encountered strong resistance in his first years in Vienna: “For in that time all of Beethoven’s compositions were completely misunderstood by most of the public and were attacked most bitterly by all the partisans of the older Mozart-Haydn school.”10 Even a connoisseur such as Louis Spohr asserted that, with respect to the Ninth Symphony, the composer lacked aesthetic refinement and a sense of beauty.11 The sculptor Anton Dietrich, a personal acquaintance of Beethoven’s, expressed a viewpoint rooted in patriotism: “We have never had a finer evening in the theater; the house was full, except for the boxes; Beethoven was received with an enthusiasm and jubilation such as I have never heard before; he himself conducted; it was divine to see how he animated everything with expression and feeling; in the orchestra the best artists of Vienna participated with the utmost engagement and intensity.”12 We know from other reports that this assessment is subjective and highly embellished. Franz Lachner, for example, deemed the composer’s effort in the rehearsals “nothing but bothersome, owing to his already advanced deafness at the time.”13 A private assessment by Joseph Carl Rosenbaum,14 the husband of Joseph Haydn’s protégée, the singer Therese Gassmann, strikes altogether different tones. Rosenbaum confided to his diary on the very day of the premiere: “Beautiful, but boring—not very full . . . in the K.[ärntnertor] Th[eater]— many boxes empty15—nobody from the court. Large personnel, little effect—B-fans made noise; most remained quiet; many didn’t wait [to the end].”16 As an almost daily opera- and concert-goer, Rosenbaum had a significant basis for comparison. Singing more or less the same tune are two as yet unpublished private communications that were exchanged within the von Erggelet banking family immediately after the premiere. Although they are only individual opinions, they are valuable complements to our image of the success of the concert, especially since they derive from the composer’s wider circle. Baroness Josefa von Erggelet, a former piano pupil of Mozart, was the older sister of Joseph Henikstein, likewise devoted to music, and the widow of Johann Fidel Erggelet, whose ancestors had been musical instrument builders in Waldshut. On the evening of the premiere she wrote to her son, Rudolph (1800–1882), later the director of the Austrian National Bank and a partner

58  ❧  chapter three

in the trading company Henikstein et Comp., who was at the time in Milan. In a postscript we read [in French]: “Write a few lines of thanks to Bridi in a letter you will address to me that I can show him. Tonight Betthofen [sic] will give a concert in the theater where he will present new symphonies; unfortunately, I cannot go, having been otherwise committed a long time ago.”17 The “Bridi” referred to in the letter is Giuseppe Antonio Bridi, partner in the firm of Bridi, Parisi, and Company in Vienna, who, in 1818, as a business partner of Thomas Broadwood in London, facilitated the transport from Trieste to Vienna of the piano presented to Beethoven as a gift. But, for present purposes, the main interest in this letter is the clear indication that the Baroness Josefa had heard that new symphonies (plural!) were to be played at that evening’s concert and that she regretted not being free to attend. Rudolph was an expert: he composed music himself in the 1820s— mostly piano works but also, in 1825, a Grand Symphony in E-flat Major. Four days later another family member by the name of Wilhelm, presumably Wilhelm Ritter von Henikstein, also a partner in the firm of Henikstein et Comp., wrote to Rudolph from Vienna: “The concert recently (Bethhoven’s [sic] new symphony) bombed, although all Germanomaniacs applauded wildly and screamed that it was a great success. Wayna sat in a box with his family as early as six o’clock. He, B[eethoven], gained nothing from it; for subscription seats in the boxes were not available, and the orchestra seats plus fourth and fifth balconies couldn’t yield enough for him to make any profit, since he had to pay 1,000 Viennese florins to the [theater] administration and 800 florins for copying expenses.”18 The Wayna referred to was the Viennese merchant and financier Joseph Edler von Wayna (1777– 1848), who, since 1821, had been one of the directors of the Privileged Austrian National Bank, in which Beethoven owned eight shares. Wayna, in his capacity as director of the Merchant Society (Kaufmännischer Verein) of Vienna, had, on October 1, 1819, together with Joseph von Henikstein, signed the document that made Beethoven an honorary member of the society.19 In February 1824 Wayna was also among the signers of a petition of Viennese patrons of the arts requesting that Beethoven have his new works (op. 123 and op. 125) premiered in Vienna. Some of Beethoven’s business transactions were handled by the firm of Henikstein—among them the payments by Prince Nikolaus Galitzin for the late string quartets and a manuscript copy of the Missa solemnis. Wilhelm von Henikstein mentioned Beethoven once again on May 26, 1824, in a letter to Rudolph von Erggelet in Genoa: “Jacques Frank has excellent insights every day. He said recently that he thought it unfair of our

a four-leaf clover  ❧ 59

dear Lord—if He intended to rob someone of one of his senses—to have taken away from Beethoven the sense of hearing but left to the ‘King of the Night’ [Nachtkönig] the sense of smell.”20 (The “kings of the night” were the men who had to empty the latrines at night time.) The reference is to Johann Jacob Ritter von Franck (Beethoven also spelled the name “Frank”), owner of the wholesale firm of Franck & Comp. He was married to Anna Maria Graumann, a sister of Dorothea von Ertmann, a pianist whom Beethoven favored highly. Franck was the conduit for the royalties paid by the music publisher Schott for the String Quartet, op. 131, and arranged for the shipment of the engraver’s copy to Mainz.21

Franz Anton Ries Shows Young Beethoven the Way: Beethoven’s Bonn Circle of Friends Franz Anton Ries (1755–1846) played a well-known role as the violin teacher of the fourteen-to-fifteen-year-old Beethoven and as a caring mentor after his mother’s death. (Franz Anton was the father of Ferdinand Ries, who became a friend and student of Beethoven.) And this was the case even though Ries had been a paid member of the Bonn court orchestra of Elector Maximilian Friedrich only since 1775.22 But Ries also supported his ambitious young colleague in ways not yet sufficiently noted. There is a striking parallelism in the circumstances of Ries’s first visit to Vienna and that of Beethoven eight years later. In 1779 the superb twenty-three-year-old violinist was given a half-year paid leave of absence in order to further develop his talent in Vienna. Electoral documents tell us more about the background of this trip. Ries was not the first to request a paid leave of absence and have it granted by the elector, who was very generous in this regard. On May 13, 1775, his sister, the soprano Anna Maria Ries, and his brotherin-law, the violinist Ferdinand Trever (sometimes spelled Drewer), had been granted a four-month leave with their salary paid in advance.23 On April 30, 1779, Ries was granted “the requested six-month leave and disbursement of both quarterly advance payments, by the grace [of the elector].”24 Neither the date of departure nor the return date is known, though Dieter Haberl—to whom we are indebted for having determined the dates of Beethoven’s first journey to Vienna—was able to date Ries’s transit through Regensburg on February 11, owing to a notation in the Regensburg Diarium of February 15, 1780: “Leaving via the Stone Bridge: [February 11] by ordinary post to Nuremberg, 8:30 in the morning . . . Mr. Ries, Musicus from

60  ❧  chapter three

Vienna.”25 Counting back six months, Ries would have left Bonn around the end of August or the beginning of September. Haberl has identified possible travel companions.26 Had he returned home via the direct post-route, Nuremberg–Würzburg–Frankfurt–Wiesbaden–Koblenz, he would have arrived in Bonn on February 16 or 17. It is also conceivable that he made a detour to Augsburg and Wallerstein (although he may have done so on the outward-bound trip) to hear the orchestra there, whose members had collegial contacts with the Bonn court orchestra. Anton Janitsch, whom Ries was to meet—and eventually did meet—in Vienna, had been an intermittent member of the Wallerstein orchestra.27 The well-informed—though much later—entry on Ries in the Neues Universal-Lexikon der Tonkunst: Für Künstler, Kunstfreunde und alle Gebildeten reports: “In 1779 he made an artistic journey to Vienna, where he quickly found employment in the private orchestra of Count Palfy [sic] and performed as a soloist in alternation with Janitsch, a violin virtuoso of great renown at the time. On orders of the Elector Max Friedrich of Cologne, he had to return to his native city after a relatively short sojourn in Vienna and was appointed first violinist of the Cologne court orchestra in 1780.”28 The intermediary for Ries’s trip to Vienna was probably the violinist and cellist Ignaz Willmann, who is frequently mentioned in the Mozart literature, albeit with some questionable biographical data.29 After two years as concertmaster in Monschau, a center of cloth making and part of the duchy of Jülich (located 30 km to the south of Aachen), Willmann quit his position, whereupon, on March 16, 1767, the mayor of Monschau, Daniel Theodor de Berghes, wrote him an elaborate letter of recommendation, in which he praises his impeccable conduct and requests free travel for Willmann, whom he says is above suspicion. He states that Willmann intended “with his beloved wife and child to return to Vienna in Austria, this being their home country.”30 It is rather unlikely that Willmann left Monschau under false pretenses, but whether he explicitly intended to travel to Bonn or traveled via Bonn because it was on the way, the fact is that he settled there. On April 10, 1767, he was appointed to the position of violinist in the court orchestra at a salary of 400 fl. The position had become available due to the death— as early as November 21, 1766—of Conrad Rovantini (who was married to a cousin of Beethoven’s mother). After seven years in Bonn Willmann moved on, at first going on extended travels with his family. In 1777 he settled in Vienna and may have served there as the intermediary for his former colleague Ries. In the 1780s Willmann became music director for Count Johann Leopold Pálffy-Erdöd. He was thus well connected in both Bonn and

a four-leaf clover  ❧ 61

Vienna (he was once a neighbor of the Beethoven family, and Beethoven’s grandfather was the godfather of one of his children), and he seems to have cultivated contacts in his later places of activity as well.31 Immediately after Ries returned from his successful sojourn in Vienna— probably still in February 1780—he sent a request for a pay raise to 500 fl., initially to the first minister Caspar Anton von der Heyden, called Belderbusch, and then sent another one, almost identical in content, directly to the elector. To Belderbusch he wrote: Most Revered, Right Honorable Freiherr, Most gracious Lord, Above all [I] offer my most obedient gratitude for the gracious permission to travel for half a year and hope thereby to have made myself more capable for the highest service to his Electoral Grace. Your Revered Excellence has graciously permitted me to present my request in writing. It will not be unknown to your Grace that I have furthered my talent and art to such a degree that I could earn thereby, in other locations and especially in Vienna, more than 1,000 fl. a year. So far I have declined [such offers] so that I may show that I prefer the highest service of His Electoral Grace, if only his Highness would by his grace grant me an annual salary of at least 500 fl., which is not even half of what I could receive in other locations, where my salary and capabilities would daily improve. Your most Revered Excellence will not take it amiss if I don’t let slip the right moment to make my fortune.32

In his letter to the elector, Ries raises the stakes: “If Your Electoral Grace deems my abilities too small for the requested salary, Your Grace, I trust, will no longer detain me and prevent me from making my fortune elsewhere. The most opportune offer, even though I am in demand in several places, may not remain available to me much longer.”33 Ries had clearly returned from Vienna with greater self-confidence and must have had a concrete job offer, either in Vienna (possibly from Count Pálffy) or in one of the places he had visited on his journey.34 Since a note in the documents from May 1780 indicates that Ries asked “for a gracious resolution to his request, humbly submitted two months ago,”35 we can place the undated letter to Belderbusch in early March and the likewise undated letter to the elector shortly before May 2. On May 2, 1780 he was granted 400 fl., which, when compared with the previous 112 imperial thalers (Reichstaler) (= 168 fl.), more than doubled his salary. That he was not granted the higher request had to do with a general principle at court, namely, the calculation of the income of entire families.

62  ❧  chapter three

In Ries’s case his father Johann, his sister Anna Maria, and her husband Ferdinand Drewer had to be taken into account: all three had relatively high salaries. A marginal note on the request states that concertmaster Cajetan Mattioli, as Ries’s direct superior, was to be included in the decision-making and that “above all, the comisarius has to itemize what [income] the Ries family, i.e., father, daughter, and son, enjoys.”36 The fact that Ries remained in Bonn, even though he could have earned double the salary elsewhere, does not mean that he had overplayed his hand and did not really have an offer. There were probably personal reasons: a sickly father but also the opportunity to work at an enlightened court in a very good orchestra. In 1783 Neefe recorded in his “News about the Bonn Court Orchestra” in a collegial vein: “Herr Ries .  .  . plays ably and pleasantly and has performed in Vienna to applause.”37 Since Beethoven was Ries’s violin student during 1785 and 1786, i.e., the years directly before his first Viennese trip, one automatically thinks of Ries as a possible initiator of the 1787 trip. Ries knew from direct exposure and personal experience how important a sojourn in Vienna would be for Beethoven’s musical development but also for his future position at court, and what the proper timing would be. He had the necessary standing in the court orchestra to make such a proposal. A year before Ries’s journey, Joseph Reicha, the concert director and thus his supervisor, had himself been able to gain positive experiences in Vienna—once again together with Anton Janitsch. Concrete evidence, however, for the prehistory of Beethoven’s leave of absence does not exist. Willmann was probably involved in the matter. The network, in any event, was still intact, as can be gleaned from the fact that Beethoven, on his return trip to Bonn, shared a coach from Vienna to Munich with the Willmanns. That, of course, was no accident. Willmann had contacts with Mozart: His oldest daughter Maximiliana Valentina Walburga (b. 1769) was a piano student of Mozart, as was Josepha Gabriela Pálffy (b. 1765), the daughter of Count Johann Leopold Pálffy—Willmann’s (and briefly) Ries’s employer—and of Maria Gabriela, née Countess Colloredo, the sister of the Salzburg archbishop, Hieronymus Colloredo-Waldsee, who was Mozart’s employer from 1772 to 1781. On March 7, 1787, Maximiliana Valentina Walburga Willmann performed Mozart’s Piano Concerto in C Major, K. 503, in the Kärntnertor Theater.38 One may assume that Beethoven was in the audience. Ferdinand Count Waldstein, whose name is frequently and incorrectly invoked in the literature, did not come to Bonn until 1788 and was responsible only for initiating Beethoven’s second journey to Vienna. It goes without saying that Beethoven’s first journey had to be approved by the Habsburg prince

a four-leaf clover  ❧ 63

elector (installed in 1784) as well. That the student–teacher relationship of Beethoven and Mozart did not really materialize may indicate that the preliminary contacts to Mozart were not made at the highest level, by the elector himself. During 1779 the situation surrounding Ries’s own Viennese journey had been different: Archduke Maximilian Franz had already been mentioned as a candidate but had not yet been voted in as coadjutor and designated prince elector of Cologne. Ries’s journey was in a sense less “obvious,” even though Vienna must naturally have seemed a desirable travel destination for any musician. Non-musicians, too, made their way from Bonn to Vienna to pursue their studies, even before the installation of the new Habsburg prince elector. In 1771 Johann Heinrich Crevelt began to study medicine with Gerard van Swieten, the father of Gottfried van Swieten, who would play such an important role in Mozart’s and Beethoven’s lives. Carl Wilhelm Nose and Pasqual Joseph Ferro did likewise in 1775. Crevelt and Ries were among the founders of a reading club (Lesegesellschaft) that Nose joined later. When Beethoven was about to leave for Vienna in 1792, Nose wrote him a farewell poem in his album that—surely not coincidentally—invoked Mozart: Oh Friend, when in the middle of a quiet night Away from us, through music’s magic might You’ll be entranced in gentle phantasies, And exaltation makes you tremble through and through, Mozart’s genius will hover over you And will applaud you with a smile.39

As late as 1815, Crevelt still belonged to the close circle of friends that included Ries and Nikolaus Simrock. At the same time as Crevelt, Joseph Vitalian Lomberg studied in Vienna and then taught constitutional law at the Bonn academy.40 Franz Anton Ries was important for Beethoven for another reason also: he served as the link to Johann Peter Salomon, previously Ries’s own violin teacher, and also as the fixed star within Beethoven’s Bonn circle of friends. Ries’s two sons, Ferdinand and Hubert, were part of this circle until their deaths, as were Franz Gerhard Wegeler and Nikolaus Simrock. In 1791 Carl Ludwig Junker (in his report on the Bonn court orchestra, often cited owing to its remarks about Beethoven’s piano playing) quoted Simrock, to the effect that they all loved each other “fraternally, as members of a society.”41 And this was long after they had all ceased to be colleagues in the court orchestra. We can also infer this close relationship from the following facts:

64  ❧  chapter three

Simrock was godfather to Franz Anton Ries’s third child; the contrabassist and copyist Johann Baptist Paraquin was godfather to Ries’s ninth child; and Franz Gerhard Wegeler’s academic teacher and later colleague, the professor of medicine Claudius Rougemont, stood godfather to two of his children. Moreover, Eleonore Breuning, before her marriage to Wegeler, became godmother to Ries’s youngest daughter, who was of course named after her. Letters recently acquired by the Beethoven-Haus, which will be published separately, demonstrate the close ties not only within the Ries family but also within the Bonn circle of friends in general. All three letters are addressed to Hubert Ries, youngest child of Franz Anton Ries; one is written by his brother Ferdinand, the other two by Wegeler. A seemingly inconspicuous formulation by Wegeler reveals the depth of the ties within the group—ties that Beethoven shared until his death. At age eighty-one, Wegeler writes to Hubert Ries and refers to Franz Anton Ries not as “your father” but as “the father.” Evidently Franz Anton Ries, although only ten years older than Wegeler, was a father figure for many outside his immediate family.42

Beethoven’s Wish for a New Edition of One of His Songs The song “Ruf vom Berge” (“Wenn ich ein Vöglein wär’”), WoO 147, appeared first as a music supplement in a volume of poems by Friedrich Treitschke, published in 1817 by the firm of B. Wallishauser: a book—and not a music—publisher. Beethoven’s reaction to this first edition, the engraver’s copy for which is no longer extant, and for which Beethoven had obviously not received a proof sheet, was as follows: In early June, i.e., shortly after publication of the collection of poems, he asked Treitschke: My Best! My Thoughtiest and Endeavorest! Will you please send the manuscript of the song in A to Steiner in Our Pater Lane:43 there are some engraving errors. After corrections have been made, you can have the manuscript right back from Steiner—if you want it. Your friend Beethoven. My thanks for the copy of your poems.44

In a note of June 9, 1817, which I believe was addressed not to Treitschke himself but to an employee of the Steiner publishing house (we don’t

a four-leaf clover  ❧ 65

know his name, but Beethoven usually called him the “non-commissioned officer”)45—there is much punning as well as a serious request: The thoughts and endeavors of Hr. v. Treischke [sic]46 are directed to the duty of immediately delivering the manuscript to the non-commissioned officer of the L . . . G . . . [Lieutenant-General = Steiner]’s office, so that the engraved page, scratched [bitten] full of errors, may immediately be rescratched [engraved] as it ought to be, and, indeed, all the more, as otherwise the thoughts and endeavors will be frightfully scratched and beaten. Given in the Our-Father Little Lane of the [most] unfatherly of all publishers. On June 9, 18[17].47

Either Treitschke did not think it important enough to pass the manuscript on, or Steiner did not regard a new edition as financially advantageous. At any rate, no new edition was published. At the time Steiner was not only Beethoven’s main publisher (in 1817 he published the first editions of the Piano Sonata in A Major, op. 101, and the Eighth Symphony, op. 93—the latter in score, parts, and piano reductions, and in no fewer than five arrangements), but he also served the composer as a substitute bank. Beethoven had invested a substantial amount with Steiner and simultaneously arranged for a credit, at altogether advantageous terms for himself. The autograph, long lost, resurfaced in 2004, and was acquired by the Beethoven-Haus on June 20, 2018.48 Here we can fulfill Beethoven’s wish, albeit after a delay of over two hundred years, to replace the faulty original edition with a corrected new edition. The manuscript (in Beethoven’s hand) indeed reveals notable differences. It was not yet available for the volume of the new Beethoven Gesamtausgabe edited by Helga Lühning.49 Several conjectures put forward in the critical report can now be confirmed. The title page of the autograph (see fig. 3.5) contains an annotation that is directly related to the letter cited above: For Herr v. Treitschke, Esquire [the next two lines retraced at a later time with a stronger quill], first poet and endeavorer from the banks of the Vienna [River] unto the Amazon River—From L. v. Beethoven, the 13th , winter month, 1816.50

66  ❧  chapter three

Figure 3.6. Beethoven, “Ruf vom Berge,” WoO 147, autograph, p. 4. BeethovenHaus, Bonn.

At the bottom of the page Aloys Fuchs added (in ink): “Appeared in print as a newspaper supplement in the year 1817.”51 To its right, in a different hand (and in pencil): “No. 119.” This numbering cannot be related to anything.52 The heading on page 2 reads “Ruf vom Berge / von einem aus der Tiefe” (the song title). The song is notated on a small-format double leaf measuring 16 × 19.7 cm. Papers of this approximate size were used for albums.53 It is wove paper, that is, letter paper. The nine staves and three system brackets are lithographed. Each staff measures 5.5–6 mm., and the total span of the page is 115.5–117 mm. The water mark is GEBR KIESLI[NG]. It is located edgeways on folio 1r; there is no counter mark (fig. 3.6). The song is printed here for the first time according to the musical notation of the autograph manuscript (ex. 3.1). The notation is very meticulous, despite the absence of the  meter indication. Beethoven left out things he deemed unimportant, such as the text of verses 2–5 and full-measure rests in the vocal part. The autograph, after all, served only to provide a correct

a four-leaf clover  ❧ 67 Example 3.1. Beethoven, “Ruf vom Berge,” WoO 147, in the version intended by the composer.

# #3 &# 8

Etwas lebhaft

∑

∑ œ œ œ œ

# #3 œ &# 8œ

œ œ

## & # œJ

œ œJ R

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? ### 38 œ

p dolce

8

### œœ &

{

∑

œj œj

œœ œœ

œ œ J J flög’ œ. ich œ.

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œ

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∑

œ. œ œ œ. œ œœœ

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? œœ

œ

j œ

U œ

j j œ œ œJ

œ œJ œj œj œ R J Vög - lein wär’ und auch zwei œ œ œœ œ œ œ œœ ‰ œœ œœ œœ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ J

œœ œ J ‰ J

Wenn ich ein

œœ œ J ‰ œJ 1

œ J

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#œ J

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œœ

zu

œ.

dir

U œ

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œ

U œ

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œ œ # # œœ œ œ &# œ œ œ ? ### œ œ œ

œ

##6 œ & # œJ œJ #œJ J

11b

#œ œ # # œœ œœ œ œ &#

∑

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œœ

œœ œœ # œœ

œ œ

œ nœ œœ

œœ œœ œœ

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œœ œœ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ nœ œ œ œ œ R J J J J

∑

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bleib’ ich all - hier

{

∑

œœ

œœ œœ

nicht

13a

## œ œ & # œJ J J

œ œ

œ nœ R J kann sein, œ nœ œ œ

œ J

j j œ œ œJ

∑

(2 ) Wenn ich ein

œœ œ œ œ œ œj ‰ œœJ œœœœ œœ œ ‰ œœ J J J ∑

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U ∑

œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ U œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œœ # œœ œ œ n œœ œœ œœ œ œœ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœ œ œ J J

(6 ) ch nur bin fest - ge- bannt,wei-ne all- hier

{

decresc. rit.

? ### œœ œœ œœ œœ

U œœ œœ œœ œ œ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œœ œ œœ œ œœ œœœ œœœ œœœ œœ œœ œ œ J J J °

reading of the music. For a new edition, everything else can be taken from the first printing. Let us briefly summarize here the divergences from the notation of the new Beethoven Gesamtausgabe. Measure 3: legato slur in the right hand. m. 9: staccatos in the right hand (they apply, of course, to the left hand as well). m. 11b: decrescendo instead of crescendo. (The engraver of the first edition must have overlooked the first syllable.) Additional ritardando. (Beethoven has divided the decrescendo and

68  ❧  chapter three

the ritardando into individual syllables and stretched them over several measures via extension dashes. m. 15b: additional ritardando due to a page turn, stretched out until the final chord. In mm. 10 and 11b Beethoven at first made a few mistakes. In m. 10 there is one slur too many and premature notation of the vocal part of m. 11a. In m. 11b he at first wrote “Wohl” in the vocal part (i.e., the beginning of the sixth stanza) but noticed his mistake immediately, smudged the still-wet ink, and wrote over it the correct “Ich,” the fourth line of the sixth stanza. As Aloys Fuchs’s annotation on the title page indicates, he knew this manuscript. But he did not transfer the notation exactly into the copyist’s copy that was made for and annotated by him.54 This copy diverges from the autograph in a few instances. The legato slur in m. 3 as well as the staccato in m. 9 and the ritardando indications in the sixth stanza are missing. The decrescendo in m. 11b, however, is correctly notated. There is no reason to think that the indications missing in the copy might have been added to the autograph at a later time. The divergences in the copy include a g♯2 instead of a c♯2 in the penultimate measure of the right hand, clearly due to inattentiveness on the part of the copyist, since there was no correction—such as an erasure—at this spot. The penultimate word in the copy reads “keiner” instead of “weine,” undoubtedly a misreading by the copyist. Lühning’s presumption that the decrescendo in this copy was due to a reading error of the copyist, linking the second syllable of “Vi-de” incorrectly, is not borne out. Both the decrescendo and the ritardando of the sixth stanza represent an interpretive morendo, an image of the sorrow felt by the lonely, abandoned lover.55 Translation from the German by Traute M. Marshall.

Bibliography Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung. Leipzig, 1798–1848. Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung mit besonderer Rücksicht auf den österreichischen Kaiserstaat. Vienna, 1817–24. Beethoven, Ludwig van. Briefwechsel Gesamtausgabe. Edited by Sieghard Brandenburg. 7 vols. Munich: Henle, 1996–98. ———. Lieder und Gesänge mit Klavierbegleitung. Edited by Helga Lühning. Beethoven Werke, XII/1 [Vocal Music, vol. 1]. Munich: Henle, 1990. Bernsdorf, Eduard, ed. Neues Universal-Lexikon der Tonkunst: Für Künstler, Kunstfreunde und alle Gebildeten. 3 vols. Offenbach: André, 1861.

a four-leaf clover  ❧ 69 Braubach, Max. “Die Mitglieder der Hofmusik unter den vier letzten Kurfürsten von Köln.” In Colloquium amicorum: Joseph Schmidt-Görg zum 70. Geburtstag, edited by Siegfried Kross and Hans Schmidt, 26–63. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 1967. ———, ed. Die Stammbücher Beethovens und der Babette Koch. Facsimile. 2nd ed. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 1995. Clive, Peter. Beethoven and His World: A Biographical Dictionary. New York: Oxford University Press, 2001. Les Collections Aristophile, Catalogue no. 7. Auction Ader Nordmann. Paris: Adermann-Nordmann, 2018. Cramer, Carl Friedrich, ed. Magazin der Musik. Hamburg: Musicalische Niederlage, 1783–89. Haberl, Dieter, “Beethovens erste Reise nach Wien—die Datierung seiner Schülerreise zu W. A. Mozart.” Neues musikwissenschaftliches Jahrbuch 14 (2006), 215– 55. ———. Das Regensburger Diarium (Intelligenzblatt) als musikhistorische Quelle. Stadt­ archiv Regensburg, Regensburger Studien 19. Regensburg: Stadtarchiv, 2012. Junker, Carl Ludwig. “Noch etwas vom Kurköllnischen Orchester.” Musikalische Korrespondenz der teutschen Filarmonischen Gesellschaft 47 (November 23, 1791): 373–76, and 48 (November 30, 1791): 380–82. Speyer: Heinrich Philipp Bossler, 1791. Köpp, Kai. “Beethovens Violoncello—ein Geschenk des Fürsten Lichnowsky? Zur Provenienz der Streichquartettinstrumente Beethovens.” In Beethovens Werke für Klavier und Violoncello: Bericht über die Internationale Fachkonferenz Bonn, 18.– 20. Juni 1998, edited by Sieghard Brandenburg, Ingeborg Maass, and Wolfgang Osthoff, 305–53. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 2004. Kopitz, Klaus Martin. “Beethovens Berufung nach Kassel an den Hof Jérôme Bonapartes: Eine Spurensuche.” Die Tonkunst 5 (2011): 326–35. Kopitz, Klaus Martin, and Rainer Cadenbach. Beethoven aus der Sicht seiner Zeitgenossen in Tagebüchern, Briefen, Gedichten und Erinnerungen. 2 vols. Munich: Henle, 2009. Lachner, Franz, “Erinnerungen an Schubert und Beethoven.” In Vor den Coulissen: Original-Blätter von Celebritäten des Theaters und der Musik, edited by Josef Lewinsky, vol. 2, 1–10. Berlin: Hofmann, 1882. Lorenz, Michael. Stauffer Miscellanea. http://michaelorenz.blogspot.com/2014/03 /stauffer-miscellanea.html. Accessed July 19, 2018. Meichsner, Anna von. Friedrich Wieck und seine beiden Töchter Clara Schumann, geb. Wieck, und Marie Wieck. Leipzig: Matthes, 1875. Pisarowitz, Karl Maria. “Die Willmanns: Der restituierte Roman einer potenzierten Musikerfamilie.” Mitteilungen der Internationalen Stiftung Mozarteum 15 (1967): 7–12.

70  ❧  chapter three “Salomons Tod in London von einem Mitgliede der Bonner Lesegesellschaft.” Vaterländische Chronik der Königlich-Preussischen Rhein-Provinzen im Allgemeinen und der Stadt Köln insbesondere; In Verbindung mit mehreren Freunden der Geschichtsund Alterthumskunde, edited by Johann Wilhelm Brewer, 2, no. 1. Cologne: Heberle, 1826: 93–97. Spohr, Louis. Lebenserinnerungen. Kassel: Wigand, 1860–61. Reprint, Tutzing: Schneider, 1968. Steblin, Rita. “New Biographical Information about the Piano Manufacturer Joseph Franz Ries.” Ries-Journal 5 (2018): 39–55. Tyson, Alan. “Salomon’s Will.” In Studien zur Musikgeschichte des Rheinlandes III, edited by Ursula Eckart-Bäcker, 43–45. Beiträge zur Musikgeschichte des Rheinlandes 62. Cologne: Arno Volk, 1965. Wolfshohl, Alexander. “Lichtstrahlen der Aufklärung”: Die Bonner Lese-Gesellschaft— Geistiger Nährboden für Beethoven und seine Zeitgenossen. Edited by Michael Ladenburger and Nicole Kämpken. Begleitpublikationen zu Ausstellungen des Beethoven-Hauses 27. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 2018.

Notes

1 2

3 4 5 6

The four topics covered here are intentionally those that reflect the concerns of Lewis Lockwood as musician and scholar: the cello, the Ninth Symphony, and the editing of both text and music. His careful attention to—and active participation in—the work of the Beethoven-Haus is also honored here. Aloys Fuchs, “In Betreff der Beethoven’schen Instrumente,” Wiener allgemeine Musik-Zeitung 6 (1846): 594. The violin is numbered Mö 10, 2 and the viola Mö 10, 3 in the collection of the Beethoven-Haus, Bonn. For the complicated transmission history of Beethoven’s stringed instruments, see Köpp, “Beethovens Violoncello,” 305– 53. His strongly based assumption that the cello that has been exhibited in the Beethoven-Haus since 1893 was not originally part of the set has thus been confirmed. Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, Mö 18. Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, Mö 10, 1 and Mö 10, 4. Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung mit besonderer Rücksicht auf den österreichischen Kaiserstaat, February 8, 1823, cols. 89ff. Kanne was the editor of this publication at the time. “Wie sehr wird hierdurch das Spiel in stark instrumentirten Ripien-Sachen erleichtert, wenn die Saiten augenblicklich stärker angespannt, und höher oder tiefer gelegt werden. Beym Accompagniren zum Fortepiano ist der Spieler nun schnell im Stande, seinem Instrumente diejenige Richtung zu geben, welche ein sanfteres Tractament zulässt. Eben so schnell kann er dasselbe nun auch

a four-leaf clover  ❧ 71 wieder zu derjenigen Spannung bringen, welche im Orchester, im Theater oder in der Kirche die gehörige Stärke gibt.” 7 Lorenz, Stauffer Miscellanea. 8 “Das zahlreiche, gewählte Publikum, zeigte einen unbeschreiblichen, aber würdevoll ehrenden Enthusiasmus und bewies, dass es wahre, grosse Kunstwerke fühlt und versteht, wie wohl kein anderes in der Welt in grösserem Grade, und dass der Geschmack noch nicht so verzärtelt ist, wie einige Uebelgelaunte behaupten wollen, die wie mich dünkt, auf den Rossinismus ungefähr aus demselben Grunde schimpfen, aus welchem die Perrückenmacher den Titusköpfen gram sind. Das grosse Orchester bedeckte sich mit Ruhm und Schweiss und U m l a u f dirigirte an Beethoven’s Seite mit einem Feuer und einer Hingebung, die ihn als Mensch wie als Künstler gleich achtungswerth macht.” See von Meichsner, Friedrich Wieck und seine beiden Töchter, 27–30, quoted in Kopitz and Cadenbach, Beethoven aus der Sicht seiner Zeitgenossen, 1:198–99. 9 “Obschon er freylich manchmahl die bejahrteren Perücken auch zum Schütteln verleitet.” Ibid., 1:200. 10 “Denn in jener Zeit wurden Beethovens Compositionen vom größern Publikum gänzlich verkannt, u. von allen Anhängern der ältern MozartHaydnschen Schule mit der größten Bitterkeit bekämpft.” Ibid., 1:201. 11 Spohr, Lebenserinnerungen, 1:180. 12 “Wir haben noch keinen schönern Abend im Theater verlebt das Haus war voll bis auf die Logen, Beethoven ist mit Enthusiasmus und Jubel empfangen worden, wie ich es noch nicht gehört habe, er hat selbst dirigirt, ganz göttlich war es anzusehn wie er mit Ausdruck und Empfindung alles belebte, im Orchester waren die ersten Künstler von Wien die mit ungeheurer Teilnahme und Eifer mitwirckten.” Anton Dietrich, Nachschrift zu einem Brief von Wilhelm August Rieder an Leopold Kupelwieser in Rom, Vienna, 24.6.1824, quoted in Kopitz and Cadenbach, Beethoven aus der Sicht seiner Zeitgenossen, 1:252. 13 “Wegen seines damals schon weit vorgeschrittenen Gehörleidens nur störend.” Lachner, “Erinnerungen an Schubert und Beethoven, 10, quoted in Kopitz and Cadenbach, Beethoven aus der Sicht seiner Zeitgenossen, 539. 14 He was the main actor in the theft of Haydn’s skull in 1809. 15 “Schön, aber langweilig—nicht sehr voll .  .  . ins K.[ärntnertor] Th[eater]— Viele Logen leer.” The reason was that no tickets for the boxes could be sold, since subscriptions covered all the performances at the theater. 16 “Vom Hofe Niemand. Bey den großen Personale wenig Effect—B-Anhänger lärmten, der grössere Theil blieb ruhig, viele warteten nicht ab.” Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Vienna, Cod. Ser. no. 203, vol. 10, fol. 129r, quoted in Kopitz and Cadenbach, Beethoven aus der Sicht seiner Zeitgenossen, 2:740. 17 “Ecrivez quelques lignes en remercimens á Bridi, dans une lettre que vous m’addresseréz, que je puisse lui montrér. Betthofen done ce soir un concert

72  ❧  chapter three

18

19 20

21 22

23

au theatre, ou il fais atendre des nouvelles Symphonies; malhereusement je ne puis y allér, etant engagé depuis longtems.” (All orthography as in the original.) Autograph letter in private possession. “Das Concert neulich (Bethhovens neue Sinphonie) ist durchgefallen, obwohl alle Deutschthümmler schröckl.[ich] applaudi[erten] u. schreien, es habe außerord.[entlich] gefallen,—Wayna saß schon um 6 Uhr mit seiner Familie in einer Loge.—Er B.[eethoven] hat nichts dabey gewonnen, denn die Logen warn nicht ab[onnement]. suspendu u. das Parterre—4t u. 5t Stock können nicht so viel tragen, daß er was gewinnen konnte, indem er f 1 [tau]sen[d] WW [Wiener Währung] an die Direction u. 800 f WW. für die Copiatur zahlen mußte.” Autograph letter in private possession. In fact, Beethoven retained a small profit of 300 Viennese florins (or 420 fl. according to other sources), as Joseph Bernard reported in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung of July 1, 1824, cols. 441–42. Bernard cites the copying expenses at 700 Viennese florins. The repeat performance on May 23 resulted indeed in a considerable deficit, for which, however, Beethoven was not charged. Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, NE 277. “Jaques Frank hat täglich excellente Gedanken,—neulich sagte er, er fände es ungerecht vom lieben Gott, wenn er schon einen Menschen eines Sinnes berauben wollte, daß er dem Beethoven das Gehör genommen, und dem Nachtkönig den Geruch gelaßen hat.” Autograph in private possession. Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, NE 240. So-called expectancies, i.e., unpaid service with the hope of a permanent paid position, were quite common at the time for children of court musicians and administrators. Beethoven’s father had to wait no less than thirteen years until his petition for a salary of his own was granted. Called into court service while still a child, Franz Anton Ries finally asked “most devotedly that a salary be graciously added” on November 23, 1774. 100 Thalers were accorded on March 23, 1775, to be doled out “15 Thalers every quarter until further appropriation” (Landesarchiv Nordrhein-Westfalen, Duisburg, Kurköln II 470, documents nos. 56 and 57). On March 8, 1779, following the death of the cellist Johann Joseph Magdefrau, Ries received a raise as a share of the nowavailable budget in the amount of 15 Thalers, thus bringing his quarterly pay to 28 Thalers, 2 Albus, 6 Stüber, the basis of his travel budget. It is noteworthy that Ries was not listed in the court calendars as a member of the court orchestra until 1780. Landesarchiv Nordrhein-Westfalen, Duisburg, Kurköln II 470, document no. 58. A typical example of these requests is that of the violinist Christoph Brandt of May 12, 1773, who “had always wished nothing more eagerly than to make himself ever more capable in his service” and now requested a six-month leave of absence, because he had the opportunity to travel with a friend to Berlin and “expected to find great support there from very experienced masters of music.”

a four-leaf clover  ❧ 73 He would strive “to be most worthy of the gracious grant through much improved capability” (document no. 49). In the same year, Beethoven’s relative the violinist Franz Georg Rovantini received a leave of two years in order to further his training with Johann Peter Salomon in Rheinsberg. See Clive, Beethoven and His World, 294. On May 18, 1774, the violinist Ignaz Willmann was likewise granted advance payments for two quarters “if and when the same will in fact begin his planned trip” (document no. 55). Willmann was to play an important role in Beethoven’s first trip to Vienna in 1787. See also Haberl, “Beethovens erste Reise nach Wien,” 215–55. 24 “Gebethene sechs monatliche Erlaubnus, und beyder Quartalien Vorschus in Gnaden hiermit.” Landesarchiv Nordrhein-Westfalen, Duisburg, Kurköln II 482, fol. 55r. The related request has not survived. 25 Regensburger Diarium, February 15, 1780, p. 52. See Haberl, Das Regensburger Diarium, 164. I would like to express my thanks to Dieter Haberl for looking through the Diarium once again for a—non-existent—notation regarding the trip from Bonn. 26 Dieter Haberl has graciously identified some of the potential travel companions of Ries. Under the rubric “Arriving and departing gentlemen and passengers” in the Regensburgisches Diarium of August 24, 1779, on page 267, is the notation: “Arriving via the Stone Bridge: August 15 via the post, respecting the title: two brothers, the barons of Höiden, one a canon, the other chamberlain of the Cologne Elector, from Bonn, all three lodging in the White Lamb Inn.” In the edition of the Regensburg Diarium printed a week later (August 31, 1779), we read on page 276: “Leaving via the wooden bridge . . . The 25th: Paul Ziegler steers a Gemsel to Vienna, in it two titled gentlemen, the brothers von Hörde, cavaliers from Westphalia, party of three.” That is, the party changed on August 25 from a post coach to a small but fast ship (Gemsel) and traveled with about eighteen other passengers down the Danube to Vienna. Paulus Ziegler was a well-known boatman or skipper in Regensburg. The persons mentioned are the following. Carl Leopold Freiherr von der Heyden, called Belderbusch zu Monzen und Streversdorf (1749–1826), nephew of the first minister to the elector, Caspar Anton von Belderbusch. The former had been appointed ambassador to the French court on January 16, 1779, when he was urged to leave Bonn on account of an affair with the Countess Taxis, a great-niece of the Elector Maximilian Friedrich. Yet Carl Leopold continued to be involved with the electoral academy in Bonn, founded in 1776 and raised to the status of university in 1786. In 1779 he was vice president of the court council and governor of the Falckenburg region. Clemens Vincenz Franz Johann Elisabeth Nikolas von der Heyden (1754–1821), called Belderbusch zu Streversdorf und Monzen (court calendar 1779, p. 102), was numbered among the knights of the estates of the archbishopric and electorate of Cologne. He had become a canon in Speyer in 1763 but resided mostly in Bonn. Ferdinand

74  ❧  chapter three

27 28

29

30 31

32

Friedrich Freiherr von Hörde zum Schwarzenraben (1710–80), knight deputy of the estates of the duchy of Westphalia and Drost since 1780, and his brother, Franz Ludwig von Hörde zu Eringerfeld, an adjunct of the former, were titled privy councilors. Both traveling parties consisted of three persons, even though only two are named. The third must have been a less prominent person. It could have been Ries who was the third unnamed traveler, enjoying a special travel opportunity. We currently have no further information regarding Ries’s activities in Vienna. The author plans a separate study of this topic. “1779 machte er eine Kunstreise nach Wien, wo er alsbald in der Privatkapelle des Grafen Palfy [sic] angestellt wurde und abwechselnd mit Janitsch, einem damals sehr bekannten Violinvirtuosen, als Konzertspieler auftrat. Nach dem Willen des Churfürsten Max Friedrich von Köln jedoch mußte er nach verhältnismäßig nur kurzem Aufenthalte in Wien wieder in seine Vaterstadt zurückkehren und 1780 erhielt er in der Hofkapelle daselbst die Stelle eines ersten Violinisten.” Bernsdorf, Neues Universal-Lexikon, 3:338. The birth data (1739 in Wolfach, in the margraviate of Baden) provided by Pisarowitz most likely belong to a different person. Max Braubach once mentions Vienna as the birthplace of Willmann, without giving a source. See Pisarowitz, “Die Willmanns,” 7–12, and Braubach, “Die Mitglieder der Hofmusik,” 57. The name of Willmann’s wife, Maria Elisabeth, née Erdmannsdorf, also seems to indicate an Austrian descent. “Nebst seiner Frau Geliebste und Kindt Nacher [= nach] wien in östereich als ihrem Vatterlandt rückzukehren.” Landesarchiv Nordrhein-Westfalen, Duisburg, Kurköln II 482, fol. 40. Klaus Martin Kopitz suggests that Willmann, who was employed in Kassel from 1805 to 1808—jointly with Beethoven’s former Bonn friend, Karl August von Malchus—might have paved the way for the offer of the King of Westphalia, Jérôme Bonaparte, to Beethoven to come to Kassel as court Kapellmeister. See Kopitz, “Beethovens Berufung,” 326–35. “Hochwürdig Hochgebohrner freyHerr Gnädigster Herr Herr: Für allem erstatte unterthänigsten Dank für die halbjährige gnädigste erlaubnis zu Reisen, und hoffe durch dieselbe gelegenheit mich zum höchsten Dienst Sr kurfürstlichen Gnaden fähiger gemacht zu haben. Eurer Hochwürden Excellence haben mir in hohen Gnaden erlaubt, meinen antrag schriftlich zu presentiren. Er wird höchstdieselben nicht unbekant seyn, daß ich mein Talent, und Kunst würcklich schon so weit gebracht, daß ich an anderen orden [= Orten], und besonders zu wienn durch daßelbe jahrlichs mehr als Tausend Gulden gewinnen kann, dieses aber hab ich bis heran ausgeschlagen um zu zeigen, daß ich die höchste Dienste Sr kurfürstlichen Gnaden dergestalt vorziehe, wenn mir hochst dieselben nur wenigstens ein jahrliges gehald von fünfhundert gulden im gnaden zulegen lassen, welches noch lang nicht die halbscheid [= Hälfte]

a four-leaf clover  ❧ 75

33

34

35 36

37 38 39

40 41 42

desjenigen ist, welches ich an einem anderen orden bekommen kann, wo sich meine Verdiensten an Geld und fehigkeiten [= Fähigkeiten] täglich verbessern werden. Eüwer Hochwürden Excellence werden mir nicht ungnädig nehmen, wenn ich den Zeitpunckt meines glücks nicht aus händen gehen laße.” Landesarchiv Nordrhein-Westfalen, Duisburg, Kurköln II 482, fol. 71v. “Wenn Ewer kurfürstliche Gnaden meine Fähigkeit für das gebettene gehald zu g[e]ring halten, so werde Höchstdieselben mich doch nicht länger aufhalten, und mich von meinem Glück welches ich andernorts machen kann, verhindern. Der vortheilhafteste Platz, wie wohl man mich an mehreren orten verlangt, möchte mir nicht länger offenbleiben.” Ibid., fol. 72. Since we do not know Ries’s way stations, we have to depend on assumptions. One possibility would be the Thurn und Taxis Kapelle in Regensburg, where Joseph Touchemoulin had been employed since 1761. Prior to that Touchemoulin had been a violinist in the Bonn court orchestra for several years, followed by one year as music director (Hofkapellmeister), before he left, owing to a salary cut enacted on Elector Maximilian Friedrich’s accession to the throne. His position was taken up by Beethoven’s grandfather. Another possibility is the orchestra of Prince Kraft Ernst of Oettingen-Wallerstein, in Wallerstein. In addition to musical contacts between the members of the two orchestras there were also political ones between the courts. Prince Kraft Ernst’s younger brother, Count Friedrich Karl Alexander, held the position of a junior deacon in the Cologne cathedral chapter. His youngest brother, Count Philipp Carl, was a canon there. “G[nädi]ste Resolution auf seine schon vor zwey Monat un[ter]th[äni] gst übergebene Bittschrift.” Landesarchiv Nordrhein-Westfalen, Duisburg, Kurköln II 482, fol. 69r. “Vor allem hat der comisarius die Verzeichnüs zu geben, was die Familie Ries, nemlich Vatter, tochter[,] sohn genießen.” Ibid., fol. 68 (the official decision is on fol. 67v). Such a listing of salaries is preserved there, as well (fol. 69v). “Son” here refers to the son-in-law. “Herr Ries . . . spielt fertig und angenehm, und hat sich in Wien mit Beyfall producirt.” Cramer, Magazin der Musik, 1/1 (March 1783), 384. See Haberl, “Beethovens erste Reise,” 215–55, at 241–42. “Freund wenn einst bey stiller Mitternacht  / fern von Uns, der Tonkunst ZauberMacht  / Dich in sanfte Phantasien senkt,  / Hochgefühl dein Weesen gantz durchbebt / Mozart‘s Genius dich überschwebt / Und dir lächelnd seinen Beyfall schenkt.” Braubach, Die Stammbücher Beethovens, 31 and 140ff. My thanks to Alexander Wolfshohl for pointing out the studies of Crevelt, Nose, Ferro, and Lomberg in Vienna, as well as for his critical reading of this manuscript. Junker, “Noch etwas vom Kurköllnischen Orchester,” col. 380. These important letters will be published elsewhere.

76  ❧  chapter three 43 The name of the small street was Paternoster-Gasse (Paternoster Lane: “Our Father Lane,” after the Lord’s Prayer). 44 “Bester! Dichtester und Trachtester! Schicken sie gefälligst das Manuskript des Liedes in A zu Steiner im Pater-Unser gassel, es sind einige Fehler in den ge­stochenen, sie können nach Verbesserung der Fehler—im Fall etwas daran liegt, das Manuskript sogleich von Steiner erhalten.—Ihr Freund Beethoven. Meinen Dank für das Exemplar ihrer Gedichte.” Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 4:63–64 (no. 1128). The original has not survived. [Editor’s note (JY): An explanation is needed here for Beethoven’s strange form of address. “Thoughtiest and Endeavorest” are attempted English renderings of the traditional Lutheran translation of a phrase in Hebrew (from the Old Testament). King James has it thus: “And the Lord saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth. And that every imagination of the thought of his heart was only evil continually” (Genesis 6:5). In German the passage reads “Da aber der Herr sah, daß der Menschen Bosheit groß war auf Erden, und alles Dichten und Trachten ihres Herzens nur böse war immerdar” (“. . . and all the thoughts and endeavors of his heart were always and only evil”). The German phrase lives on in ordinary speech, with a subliminal negative connotation, given the biblical origin. So, for fun, Beethoven is making superlatives out of nouns. But Beethoven, who loved all kinds of play on words, especially puns, is employing yet one more layer of word play, for Dichten also means to write poetry, and Dichter is a poet (as is Treitschke, to whom the letter is addressed). So “Dichtester” conveys the double meaning of “Thoughtiest” and “Poetest.” Finally, dicht as an adjective can also mean “compact.”] 45 Contrary to the attribution in Beethoven, Briefwechsel, the note was probably addressed to the Steiner employee. In contrast to other letters to Treitschke, it has no personal salutatory address to Treitschke, mentions him only in the third person, and uses the insider shorthand “G . . . L . . .” for “Generalleutnant” (“Lieutenant-General,” i.e., Steiner himself ), which was understandable only to the members of a small circle of friends known as the “Paternostergäßler.” Treitschke was not a part of this circle. Moreover, this kind of punning and word-play would not have been suitable to address to a person who was himself a poet. 46 Beethoven often had trouble with spelling, especially with this name. 47 “Des Hr. v. Treischke [sic] Dichten u. Trachten ist in Kenntniß gesezt, das Manuscript sogleich dem Unteroffizie[r]s des G — — l l — — t Amtes mitzugeben, damit das Gestochene, welches von Fehlern zerstochen, sogleich wieder, wie es seyn muß, gestochen werden kann, u zwar um so mehr, weil sonst auf das Dichten u. Trachten ganz erschrechlich gestochen u. gehauen wird werden.—Gegeben im Vater-unsergäßel des unväterlichen Verlags alle[r] Verleger.—am 9-ten Juni 18[17].” Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 4:67–69 (no. 1130). Autograph, fragment, Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, Bodmer, HCB BBr 64.

a four-leaf clover  ❧ 77 [Ed. (JY): Note the continued play on words with the name of the lane, and the alliteration of “Vater-unsergäßel des unväterlichen Verlags alle[r] Verleger.”] 48 Les Collections Aristophile, Catalogue no. 7, Auction Ader Nordmann, Paris, June 20, 2018, lot 1109. The acquisition was made possible thanks to the generous support of the Ministry of Culture and Science of North Rhine-Westfalia, the Federal Governor’s Commissioner for Culture and Media, and the Cultural Foundation of the German Federal States (Kulturstiftung der Länder). 49 Beethoven, Lieder und Gesänge mit Klavierbegleitung. 50 “Für seine / Wohlgebohrn / H: v. Treischke [sic] / Ersten Dichter u Trachter Von den Ufern der Vien / bis zum Amazonen Fluß.— / von L v. Beethoven / am 13ten WinterMonath / 1816.” [Angled brackets indicate text cancelled by the writer.] 51 “Ist als Zeitungsbeilage im J.[ahr] 1817 gedrukt erschienen.” This information is not correct; it was a supplement to a volume of poems, not a newspaper. 52 It is neither in Aloys Fuchs’s hand nor related to his collection. Information kindly communicated by Clemens Brenneis. 53 Stammbuch Beethovens, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Vienna, Cod. 15259, 15.2 × 19.8 cm; Stammbuch der Babette Koch, Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, BH 185, 13.7 × 20 cm. 54 Benedictine Monastery, Göttweig, Music Archive. 55 For fifty-seven years the Beethoven-Haus has owned, in addition to the item described above, an unusual autograph copy of the song (Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, NE 34), made for the Giannattasio del Rio family, written in pencil on the spur of the moment and not at home, on paper ruled by Beethoven himself. He notated only the melody, whose opening deviates slightly from the final version (mm. 1 and 3: a–b–c♯ instead of a–a–b).

Chapter Four

“Where Thought Touches the Blood”: Rhythmic Disturbance as Physical Realism in Beethoven’s Creative Process Bruce Adolphe There are many passages in Beethoven’s music where his use of rhythmic disturbances—including obsessive and extended syncopation or repetition, fragmentation, and dislocation—conveys an unprecedented musical realism. I propose that during the creative process Beethoven sought and found rhythmic and harmonic parallels to his physical suffering, particularly his experience of tinnitus. Whereas music before Beethoven certainly expressed emotional conditions through dissonance, harmonic tension, and rhythmic patterns, Beethoven’s dislocated and disruptive rhythms go beyond the compositional norms of his time. This is realistic music, perhaps more realistic physically and emotionally than anything written before Janáček, who wrote that his musical ideas must “come out of the depths where thought touches the blood.”1 It may seem odd to quote Janáček when discussing Beethoven, but the connection is telling. Certainly Janáček was not the first composer to feel that “a chord is a being come alive: a blood-stained flower of the musical

rhy thmic disturbance as physical realism  ❧ 79

art.”2 Janáček expressed in words the intense association of tones to emotion, and emotion to the body. Similarly conveying the sense that music itself has physicality, Beethoven said of ideas, “I could seize them with my hands.”3 As early as 1806, Beethoven wrote in the margins of his sketchbook for the “Razumovsky” Quartets: “Let your deafness no longer be a secret—even in art.”4 Surely, this proclamation must be taken seriously, and while no musical manifestation of his deafness can be definitively proved, the challenge to discover passages that musically proclaim Beethoven’s struggle with aspects of deafness is worth investigating. The Vivace of opus 135 can be heard as a depiction of the physical manifestations of tinnitus as well as the struggle to hear high-pitched sounds, a common symptom of partial deafness. While the common conception of tinnitus is a ringing in the ears, there are other presentations of the disorder: Tinnitus may manifest itself in other ways than the familiar ringing, hissing and buzzing noises in the ear. Some experience, instead, a thumping sound in the same rhythm as their heartbeat. This is called pulsatile tinnitus. People suffering from this so-called pulsatile tinnitus often or always hear their own pulse hammering in their ear. . . . Pulsatile tinnitus may result because some people are more aware than others of the noises in their bodies.5

In the Vivace of opus 135, the E♭ (mm. 17–23) that interrupts the joyful F-major music may be heard as a depiction of the tinnitus that tormented Beethoven (see ex. 4.1). This seems to be the lower-pitch version of the ringing-in-the-ear kind of tinnitus that Smetana also portrayed in the finale of his String Quartet no. 1 in E Minor, “From My Life.” It also represents a phenomenon known as “sudden, brief, unilateral, tapering tinnitus,”6 a type of tinnitus that arrives suddenly in one ear only and gradually disappears after a minute or less. The E♭ that arrives suddenly, accented on a weak beat, in all four voices, is played nine times in a diminuendo leading to a pianissimo E♮ that allows the music to return to a restorative F major. The way in which the E♭ pulsates and abates suggests the throbbing and subsiding or “tapering” of actual physical sensations in the body as they would be experienced in sudden, brief, unilateral, tapering tinnitus. The momentary chromatic remnants in the inner voices are also “realistic,” suggesting residual discomfort from the experience of tinnitus. Later in the same movement there is a notable passage—from measure 143 to measure 192—that may also represent an aspect of Beethoven’s struggle with deafness (see ex. 4.2). Beginning at measure 143, the solo in the first violin in the highest register is nearly drowned out by the incessant roaring of the three lower strings.

80  ❧  chapter four Example 4.1. Beethoven, String Quartet in F Major, op. 135, mvt. 2, Vivace, mm. 1–32.

° b3 & 4

Vivace

Violin I

Violin II

Viola

Violoncello

3 &b 4 B b 43

? 3 ¢ b4

Œ

Œ ˙

œ

˙

p

Œ

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p

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p

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8 œ ˙ ° b Œ & œ œ. œ. œ. pp . œ. œ. ˙ œ ˙ œ &b . œ. œ. œ. œ. pp œ. œ œ. œ œ œ Bb œ œ œ . . œ. œ. pp œ. œ. œ œ œ ? b œ. Œ Œ ¢ œ. œ. œ. pp . 16 œ. œ. œ ° b œ ™ & b>˙ ™ œ œ. œ. œ. ™ ∑ &b b>˙ ™ ∑ œ. ™Œ B b œ œ. œ. b˙ ™ b˙ b˙ œ > dim. œ . œ œ. ? ™ Œ œ . b˙ ™ b˙ b˙ œ ¢ b > dim.

œ ˙ œ œ œ œ

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dim.

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b˙ œ Œ b˙ p

b˙ œ Œ b˙

b˙

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b˙

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dim.

œ

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dim.

dim.

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p

b˙ p

b˙ p

Œ b˙

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pp

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pp

n˙

pp

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(continued)

The high-pitched solo is in a range that would be hard to hear for a partially deaf person; as Beethoven wrote, “If I am a little remote from them, I do not hear the high tones of instruments and voices.”7 The other three instruments repeat a single measure of music in octaves forty-seven times, unchanged, in a manner that powerfully suggests pulsatile tinnitus, mentioned above, a disorder in which the sufferers hear “their own pulse hammering” in the ear in

82  ❧  chapter four Example 4.2. Beethoven, String Quartet in F Major, op. 135, mvt. 2, Vivace, mm. 143–66.

œ ˙™ œ œ . œ. ° ### 3 œ œ œ œ Violin I & 4 œ. sf sf sf ff ### 3 Violin II & 4 œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. ff # # 3 Viola B # 4 œ . œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. ff ?# # 3 Violoncello ¢ # 4 œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. ff 148 œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ° ### œ œ œ œ œ & sf ## & # œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. B ### œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ . œ . œ . œ . œ . ?# # ¢ # œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. ˙™ œ 154 œ. œ. œ. œ œ œ ° ### œ. œ. œ & sf

## & # œ. œ œ œ œ B ### œ . œœœœ ?# # ¢ # œ. œ œ œ œ

œ

œ

œ

œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ (continued)

In the first movement of opus 95, the polyrhythm that appears only in measures 35, 37, 104, and 106, with its unyielding rhythmic units (triplet eighths against four sixteenths) that are gridlocked and static but fraught with agony, is much like a sudden attack of tinnitus, which may pulsate in a way suggested strongly by the first violin in this passage (see ex. 4.3).8 This rhythmic construction—its dramatic impact intensified by

86  ❧  chapter four Example 4.3. Beethoven, Piano Sonata in A-flat Major, op. 110, mvt. 3, Adagio ma non troppo, m. 5.

{

# ## Kr œ ™ œ œ œ œ œR ™ œR œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Ô &# cœJ

5

Adagio

w ? #### c w w w

tutte le corde

sempre tenuto

°

œœœœœœœœœœœ œ œœ œ œ œ

ritar

dimin.

w w w w

-

dando

cantabile

una corda

*

simplicity and introverted, dreamlike nature of this metrically dislocated musical gesture transports the listener to another temporal space, and thus a sense of memory is evoked. What was torturous when experienced is now a distant recollection, the ringing still pure but abstract rather than suffered. 1 “The types of tinnitus most commonly reported by patients involve the perception of pure tones.”10

This remarkable and unique episode in the Adagio is rhythmically dislocated on multiple levels: as in a recitativo (or cadenza), it is without meter; the repeated A♮ is notated with decreasing time values (from a dotted eighth note to sixteenth notes, to thirty-seconds) and yet there is also a ritardando. The sense that we are engaged in a memory is enhanced by the specific pedal markings as the repeated note finally yields to a melodic imperative, concluding the “Recitativo” with a formal cadence that seems all the more archaic after the mystical experience of the repeated-note memory. Beethoven’s declaration that his deafness would no longer be a secret, even in art, dares us to wonder, to investigate. To do so, we necessarily confront the age-old question of whether music ever speaks beyond itself, beyond the notes. As a composer, I know that secrets can be locked in musical syntax, that there are musical parallels to private thoughts and lived experiences. I freely admit that it is possible to describe the music I have analyzed above with entirely different scenarios that would have the ring of truth. The E♭ in opus 135 may be diverticulitis rather than tinnitus, or it may just be an E♭ that threatens to destabilize the key of F major, sending it to B-flat major. But there must be a real story there, one that is actually correct rather than merely possible, one that we may never know. The Romantic image of Beethoven as a suffering artist tends to overshadow the reality of Beethoven

rhy thmic disturbance as physical realism  ❧ 87

as a suffering human being who was an artist. His deafness and its related disorders cry out from the page for us to hear.

Bibliography Audiology Associates. “The Four Different Types of Tinnitus.” www.audiologyassociates .com/the-4-different-types-of-tinnitus/. Accessed March 10, 2018. Harvard’s Women’s Health Watch. “Tinnitus: Ringing in the Ears and What to Do about It.” September, 2011. www.health.harvard.edu/diseases-and-conditions /tinnitus-ringing-in-the-ears-and-what-to-do-about-it. Janáček, Leoš. Janáček’s Uncollected Essays on Music. Edited and translated by Mirka Zemanová. New York: Boyars, 1993. Jander, Owen, “‘Let Your Deafness No Longer Be a Secret—Even in Art’: SelfPortraiture and the Third Movement of the C-Minor Symphony.” In Beethoven Forum, vol. 8, edited by Lewis Lockwood, Christopher Reynolds, and Elaine Sisman, 25–70. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2000. Kerst, Friedrich, and Henry Edward Krehbiel. Beethoven: The Man and the Artist, as Revealed in His Own Words. New York: Huebsch, 1905. Kopitz, Klaus Martin, and Rainer Cadenbach. Beethoven aus der Sicht seiner Zeitgenossen in Tagebüchern, Briefen, Gedichten und Erinnerungen. 2 vols. Munich: Henle, 2009. Oron Yahav, Yehudah Roth, and Robert A. Levine. “Sudden Brief Unilateral Tapering Tinnitus: Prevalence and Properties.” Otology & Neurotology 32 (2011): 1409–14. Dos Santos, Rosa Maria Rodrigues, T. Sanchez, R. Bento, and M. de Lucia. “Auditory Hallucinations in Tinnitus Patients: Emotional Relationships and Depression.” International Archives of Otorhinolaryngology 16, no. 3 (2012): 322–27. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4399702/. Sismanis, Aristides. “Pulsatile Tinnitus.” Otolaryngologic Clinics of North America 36 (2003): 389–402. Thayer, Alexander Wheelock. Thayer’s Life of Beethoven. Revised and edited by Elliot Forbes. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1967.

Notes

1

I would like to thank Benjamin Lebwohl, MD, MS, Director of Clinical Research, The Celiac Disease Center and Director of Quality Improvement, Division of Digestive and Liver Diseases, at Columbia University, for his medical input. Leoš Janáček, “How Ideas Came About,” in Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 69–79.

88  ❧  chapter four 2 3

Leoš Janáček, “Crossroads,” in Janáček’s Uncollected Essays, 97–102. Kopitz and Cadenbach, Beethoven aus der Sicht seiner Zeitgenossen, 2:798; Kerst and Krehbiel, Beethoven: The Man and the Artist, 29. 4 Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Mendelssohn 15. See Jander, “‘Let Your Deafness No Longer Be a Secret—Even in Art,’” 25–70. 5 Sismanis, “Pulsatile Tinnitus,” 389–402. 6 Yahav Oron, Roth, and Levine, “Sudden Brief Unilateral Tapering Tinnitus,” 1409–14. 7 Kerst and Krehbiel, Beethoven: The Man and the Artist, 111. 8 On tinnitus see Harvard’s Women’s Health Watch, “Tinnitus: Ringing in the Ears and What to Do about It.” 9 Audiology Associates, “The Four Different Types of Tinnitus.” 10 Dos Santos, Sanchez, Bento, and de Lucia, “Auditory Hallucinations in Tinnitus Patients.”

Chapter Five

The Sanctification of Beethoven in 1827–28 Christopher Reynolds To the readers of the weekly Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, Beethoven’s death on March 26, 1827 was announced at the end of the monthly report from Vienna. The reviewer came to the end of his comments about a concert held on March 22, at which Beethoven’s “Sanft, wie du lebtest,” a vocal quartet with string accompaniment, had premiered. He praised the harmonies of the work for breathing “the blessed peace of a better world,” and then quoted its text: “Gentle, as you lived, have you completed, too holy for the pain! No eye cries at the heavenly spirit’s homecoming!” Words such as this, with their deeply felt melancholy, must be doubly grasped in the blink of an eye, because we fear that we shall lose the creator of such melodies.—It has happened! On the evening of the 26th, at ten minutes before six, Beethoven went on to his eternal rest; painless, after hours of continual agony.1

By the time this account was published in the April 25 issue, Beethoven had been buried for over three weeks, and the commemorative round of concerts and events was well underway. The extraordinary public response to Beethoven’s death began in Vienna with the prescribed rituals of public grief, but these soon gave way to a year of organized tributes throughout Europe. Whether out of grief for his loss or from a desire to help define how he would be remembered, the tributes came from all corners of the artistic world: performers gave concerts (both public and private), sculptors chiseled, poets mused, critics expounded, publishers published, and composers composed.

90  ❧  chapter five

My intent in examining how musicians and others in German-speaking lands and in England responded to Beethoven’s death is not to chronicle the creation of the mythical Beethoven (though I will briefly examine some early manifestations of this), it is not to trace the reception history of early works as opposed to late (though issues of repertoire will figure prominently), and it is not to show how composers who survived Beethoven honored him with new compositions (though instances of musical citation and allusion will arise); rather, I hope to show how all of these issues were interrelated, how poets, performers, and composers had common responses to Beethoven’s death and to life after Beethoven. 1 The praise that orators and poets heaped upon Beethoven at his funeral and in the weeks that followed struggled for images capable of honoring the genius they had just lost.2 Grillparzer’s eulogy depicted a saintly figure, a pure soul in a harsh world: He fled the world because, in the whole range of his loving nature, he found no weapon to oppose it. He withdrew from mankind after he had given them his all and received nothing in return . . . But to the end his heart beat warm for all men, in fatherly affection for his kindred, for the world his all and his heart’s blood. Thus he was, thus he died, thus he will live to the end of time.3

The portrayal of Beethoven in Christ-like terms, latent in this oration, was more overtly articulated by Gabriel Seidl in his poem “Beethoven.” Evidently printed and distributed at the graveside, it circulated widely. It was publicly read in Vienna on May 3, 1827, at an event held to raise funds for the erection of a tomb for Beethoven; and the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung published it on the front page of the May 30 edition. Seidl concludes: We have come to commemorate his death, our sacred tears, alas, all that is left to us. We have seen him—the veil of the tomb is ripped asunder—and the funeral rite becomes a feast of life! He lives! He who claims he is dead lies! . . . He lives! For his life is his music; no god will ever uproot that from the world’s breast . . .

the sanctification of beethoven in 1827–28  ❧ 91 He lives! You saw him, heard him, and now hear him once more. My dull wreath will fade; the one celebration worthy to honor him he has created himself through his own song!4

Grillparzer’s oratorical evocation of eternal life for Beethoven had been anticipated by Beethoven’s friend Karl Peters, who had conveyed a similar message directly to Beethoven in the conversation book for April 1823: “Even if you don’t believe in it [religion], you will be glorified . . . You will arise with me from the dead—because you must.”5 Moreover, the story of Beethoven’s final moments of suffering may have struck readers as biblical because it recalled depictions of Jesus’s death, with darkness, a final cry, and then the temple veil being torn in two. The much-publicized drama of Beethoven’s death recounted darkened skies, thunder, lightning, and a final defiant cry. Near the conclusion of his poem, “L. van Beethoven’s Death, 26 March 1827,” Friedrich August Kanne described the scene: “Then lightning strikes through the veil of clouds, / And suddenly thunder follows noisily / . . . Beethoven’s spirit hurries heavenward!”6 Musical memorials for Beethoven began immediately. Within hours of his death, the violinist Schuppanzigh and others performed the Adagio of his Piano Trio in G, op. 1, no. 2. I have listed this performance and those that followed through the year in table 5.1. Among the works performed at his funeral were his Equale for four trombones, which alternated with texted arrangements of two of them, and an arrangement for winds of the “Marcia funebre sulla morta d’un eroe” from his Piano Sonata, op. 26.7 This march probably also received a vocal performance underlaid with a poem by Alois Jeitteles entitled “Beethovens Begräbnis,” a version that was soon published. Viennese musicians observed not only Beethoven’s birthday, but the obvious markers of the calendar as well, performing concerts at approximately one week after the death and funeral, and again at a distance of one month and one year. Anniversary concerts occurred in at least four cities, with four in Vienna alone, counting the concert that Schubert gave of his own works on the exact death date, the one public concert that Schubert gave in his life. In the late 1820s Mozart was the only other composer honored with anniversary concerts, either for his birthday or death day, and occasionally for both, as in Berlin in the winter of 1827–28.8 Beethoven’s death also spurred a dramatic increase in performances of his works. To indicate the magnitude of the increase, I have counted the works, primarily from those reviewed in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung and The Harmonicon in tables 5.2 and 5.3 (these journals admittedly record an

Table 5.1. Musical memorials for Beethoven in 1827

Week of death March 26, Vienna: Piano Trio in G, op. 1, no. 2, Adagio March 29, Vienna, Funeral service and burial: Miserere (Equale); Seyfried, Libera me; Piano Sonata, op. 26, mvt. 2 (arranged; also texted?) April 1, Vienna, private concert by J. N. Hummel: improvisations on works by Beethoven One week after April 3, Vienna, memorial service for Ludwig van Beethoven in the Augustinerkirche: Mozart, Requiem; Miserere; Seyfried, Libera me April 5, Vienna, Concert spirituel “by way of opening a subscription for a monument”: Symphony no. 6; Missa solemnis, Kyrie; Vogler, Missa pro defunctis, Dies Irae, Sanctus, Benedictus; Castel, Semiramis Overture April 5, Vienna, Todtenfeier at Karlskirche: Cherubini, Requiem One month after April 26, Vienna, Todtenfeier at Augustinerkirche: Cherubini, Requiem April 30, London, “Tribute of Respect to the Memory of the Composer” at the third of the Royal Academic Concerts: Symphony no. 3, mvts. 1 and 2; remainder of scheduled concert May 3, Vienna, Musikalisch-declamatorische Akademie in the large Land­ ständischen Saale for the erection of a tomb for Beethoven: Symphony no. 5; Seidl, “Beethoven” (poem); Violin Concerto; “Adelaide”; Piano Concerto no. 3; Christ on the Mount of Olives, final chorus Miscellaneous Spring 1827, Darmstadt: Todtenfeier: Mozart, Requiem June 16, Zerbst: final work performed at a two-day festival as Todtenfeier: Symphony no. 5 July 11, Leipzig, Gedächtnissfeier: Symphony 3, March; Genast, poem; Fidelio Late summer, 1827, Magdeburg, Todtenfeier: Mozart, Requiem; Piano Concerto no. 3; Ah, perfido!; Egmont Overture

(continued)

Table 5.1—concluded October 18, Leipzig, third winter concert dedicated to the memory of Beethoven: Piano Sonata, op. 26, mvt. 2 (arranged for winds); Seyfried, Libera me; Miserere (Equale); Ah, perfido!; “Sanft, wie du lebtest,” op. 118; “Adelaide”; Symphony no. 5 Birthday December 16, 1827, Vienna, second Gesellschafts-Concert der Musikfreunde des österreichischen Kaiserstaates: Symphony no. 9, mvt. 1; Pacini, Amazilia, aria and chorus; Mayseder, Violin Variations; Symphony no. 9, mvt. 2; Seyfried, Hallelujah for chorus and orchestra One year after March 20, 1828, Vienna, third Concert spirituel as Weihopfer: Symphony 4; Christ on the Mount of Olives March 23, Vienna, private concert in the Musik-Verein: String quartet, op. 135; Variations on a Theme from Handel’s Judas Maccabeus for Piano and Cello; Der Wachtelschlag; Trio for Strings, op. 8 March 23, Paris, concert of the Société des Concerts, “Consacré à la mémoire de L. V. Beethoven”: Symphony no. 3; Mass in C, Benedictus; Piano Concerto no. 3, mvt. 1; Fidelio quartet; Violin Concerto; Christ on the Mount of Olives March 26, Vienna, Musik-Verein: Schubert’s concert of his own works, including “Auf dem Strom” March 26, Berlin, Gedächtnissfeier, directed by C. Möser at one of his musical soirées: Symphony no. 3, March; Coriolanus Overture; Quintet in C Major; Symphony no. 5 March 26, Berlin, private concert (reviewed in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung): Miserere (Equale); Langbein, poem; Piano Sonata, op. 26, mvt. 2, text by Jeitteles; “Beethoven’s Heimgang,” op. 127, mvt. 2, texted with LvB’s own words; “Sanft, wie du lebtest,” op. 118; Fidelio, aria; “Busslied”; Piano Trio (Mendelssohn on piano); Fidelio, duet; String Quartet in A major; Fidelio, trio and canon March 29, Vienna, Jahresfeier of the burial, gathering at the grave: trombone movement (= Equale?) Late March or early April, Zurich, Ehren Concert: J. Lips, poetic prologue; Symphony no. 6; Ah, perfido!; “Adelaide”; Egmont Overture and incidental music Note: Composers other than Beethoven are identified by name; all other works identified only by title are by Beethoven. This list is drawn primarily from the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung and The Harmonicon.

94  ❧  chapter five

incomplete list of concerts, but it is one that is extensive enough to indicate some trends). Table 5.2 lists performances from the year preceding his death and table 5.3 those from the year after, for both complete and partial performances of his works. Counting just the number of works mentioned (and not repetitions of individual works), these journals list 33 different works in the year before Beethoven’s death and 47 in the year after. When repeat performances throughout Europe are included, the figures leap from 81 performances in the year before to 177 in the year after. As striking as it is to note this expanded Beethovenian presence in European concert halls, these figures mask a still greater increase in German and Austrian cities. The figures for England alone are remarkably constant, since works by Beethoven were staples in concerts of the Philharmonic Society and in regional music festivals. Thus the 27 performances in the year preceding his death grew only slightly to 32 in the year after.9 In contrast, performances in German-speaking lands grew by more than 150 percent, from 54 to 136. Paris has little place in these calculations, because through most of the 1820s there was barely a tradition of performing Beethoven in public. Yet even in Paris, Beethoven’s death spurred performances, thanks to the foundation in March, 1828, of the Société des Concerts du Conservatoire, the group designed to perform the music of contemporary, or in Beethoven’s case overlooked, composers.10 The organizer and conductor François Habeneck concentrated on middle-period works, conducting Symphonies no. 3 and no. 5, the Violin and Third Piano Concertos, Christ on the Mount of Olives, portions of Fidelio and the Mass in C, and the Egmont and Coriolanus Overtures. In the space of four concerts, the Fifth Symphony was performed three times. The performance “bounce” that Beethoven’s works received as a result of his death was nowhere stronger than in Vienna, the city renowned for enjoying Rossini, and, in spring 1828, for its infatuation with Paganini. The selection of Beethoven’s works doubled—from 14 to 29 different compositions—while the frequency of performances almost tripled, from 16 to 42. But in fact, the pace of performances had already begun to accelerate six or seven weeks before Beethoven died, with five separate concerts that included the Ninth Symphony, the Gloria of the Missa solemnis, and the Consecration of the House Overture. From the same time comes an uncharacteristically positive critique of the Ninth Symphony, which was performed on March 15. The Vienna correspondent for the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung first admits that he has come to know the work through having heard it performed in several places, then goes on to laud it as “one of the greatest, most

Table 5.2. Beethoven’s works performed in public, April 1826 through March 1827, as reported primarily in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung and The Harmonicon

Work

Cities of performance (number of performances)

Symphony no. 1

London

Symphony no. 2

London

Symphony no. 3

Berlin, London, Stuttgart, York, Zurich

Symphony no. 4

Vienna

Symphony no. 5

Birmingham, Leipzig, London (3), Munich

Symphony no. 6

Berlin, London (3), York

Symphony no. 7

London, Leipzig, Vienna

Symphony no. 8

Leipzig

Symphony no. 9

Berlin (2), Bremen, Leipzig, Prague, Vienna

Wellington’s Victory

Berlin

Egmont, incidental music

Berlin

Prometheus Overture

Demmin, London (2)

Egmont Overture

Kassel, London (3)

Fidelio Overture

Demmin, Leipzig, Vienna (2)

Namensfeier Overture

Vienna (2), York

Consecration of the House Overture

Vienna (2), York

Piano Concerto no. 3

Königsberg

Fidelio Aria Aria + Scene

Braunschweig, Vienna, Weimar Leipzig Leipzig

Christ on the Mount of Olives Duet Trio Final Chorus

Demmin, Frankfurt, Nuremberg, Zurich London London Birmingham, Frankfurt

Mass in C Major

Demmin, Graz

Choral Fantasy

Demmin, Weimar (continued)

96  ❧  chapter five Table 5.2—concluded The Ruins of Athens March with chorus

Vienna

Missa solemnis Gloria

Vienna

Mass selection (xx)

London

Piano Trio, op. 1 no. 2, Adagio

Vienna

Septet, op. 20

London

String Quintet, op. 29

London (2)

Piano Trio, op. 70

Vienna

String Quartet, op. 127

Vienna

String Quartet (xx)

Frankfurt

Ah! perfido!

Königsberg, London, Zurich

Tremate empi

Leipzig

Quartet “Sanft, wie du lebtest,” op. 118

Vienna

Adelaide, op. 46

Vienna

Mignon, op. 75

Vienna

“Lied aus der ferne,” WoO 137

Vienna

Miserere (Equale)

Vienna

Piano Sonata, op. 26, mvt. 2 (texted/arr.)

Vienna

Note: Works identified by “(xx)” are listed in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung or The Harmonicon by genre but not by title. Works in boldface were composed in the last decade of Beethoven’s life.

complicated art works of all time . . . Each person is wonderfully surprised by so many original combinations and turns, by never-heard instrumental effects . . . and one’s admiration is more and more transformed into reverence and amazement at such a colossal creation.”11 Since the review did not appear until the April 25 issue, it seems probable that it was written—or rewritten—in light of Beethoven’s death, a death reported two columns earlier in the same report. This critical about-face is all the more telling because

Table 5.3. Beethoven’s works performed in public, April 1827 through March 1828, as reported primarily in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung and The Harmonicon

Work

Cities of performance (number of performances)

Symphony no. 1

Leipzig, London, Norwich, Paris

Symphony no. 2

Berlin, Bremen, London, Zurich

Symphony no. 3 March

Berlin, London, Paris (2) Berlin (2), Leipzig, Nuremberg, York

Symphony no. 4

Berlin (2), London, Vienna (2)

Symphony no. 5

Berlin, Leipzig, Liverpool, London (2), Vienna (2), Zerbst

Symphony no. 6

London, Vienna (2), York, Zurich

Symphony 7 Mvt. 1 Mvt. 2

Bremen, London Weimar Paris

Symphony no. 8

London

Symphony no. 9 Mvt. 1 Mvts. 1 and 2

Leipzig, Stuttgart Vienna Vienna

Symphonies (xx)

Leipzig (6), Magdeburg

Wellington’s Victory

Königsberg, Nuremberg, Vienna (2), York (2), Zurich

Egmont, Overture + Incidental

Kassel, Leipzig, Zurich

Prometheus Overture

Berlin, Norwich, Vienna, Weimar, Worcester

Egmont Overture

Berlin, London (2), Magdeburg, Vienna (2)

Fidelio Overture

Berlin (2), London, Vienna (2)

Namensfeier Overture

Vienna

Consecration of the House Overture

Leipzig, Vienna (3), York

Leonore Overture no. 1, op. 138

Vienna (continued)

Table 5.3—continued Leonore Overture

Berlin

Coriolanus Overture

Berlin

The Ruins of Athens Overture

Vienna

King Stephen Overture

Zurich

Overture (xx)

Leipzig (2), Vienna

Piano Concerto no. 3 Mvt. 1

Magdeburg, Vienna Paris

Piano Concerto no. 5

Vienna (2)

Triple Concerto

Magdeburg

Violin Concerto

Paris, Vienna

Fidelio Aria Aria + Scene Duet Trio Quartet

Berlin (3), Leipzig, Munich Berlin Bremen Berlin Berlin Paris

Christ on the Mount of Olives Choruses Final chorus

Leipzig, Paris, Strasbourg, Vienna Hull, Norwich, Oxford Vienna (3)

Mass in C Major Benedictus

Vienna Paris

Choral Fantasy

Nuremberg, Vienna

Missa solemnis Kyrie

Vienna

Hymn

Leipzig (3)

Variations on Handel’s Judas Maccabeus

Vienna

Piano Trio, op. 8

Vienna

Piano Trio (xx)

Berlin

String Quartet, op. 18 no. 1

Berlin

String Quartet, op. 18 no. 5

Berlin, London

Septet

Berlin, London (2), Vienna, Zurich

String Quintet, op. 29

Berlin, London (continued)

the sanctification of beethoven in 1827–28  ❧ 99 Table 5.3—concluded String Quartet, op. 127

Vienna

String Quartet, op. 135

Vienna

Ah! perfido!

Königsberg, Leipzig (2), London (3), Magdeburg, Zurich

Tremate empi

London

Quartet “Sanft, wie du lebtest,” op. 118

Berlin, Leipzig (2), Nuremberg

Adelaide, op. 46

Berlin, Leipzig, Stuttgart, Vienna (2), Zurich

Busslied

Berlin

Der Wachtelschlag

Vienna

Miserere (Equale)

Berlin, Leipzig, Nuremberg, Vienna (2)

Equale

Leipzig

Piano Sonata, op. 26, mvt. 2 (arr. for winds)

Leipzig

Piano Sonata, op. 26, mvt. 2 (texted)

Berlin, Nuremberg

String Quartet, op. 127, Adagio (texted)

Berlin

Note: Works identified by “(xx)” are listed in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung or The Harmonicon by genre but not by title. Works in boldface were composed in the last decade of Beethoven’s life.

the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung tended to print negative reviews of the Ninth; indeed, in the year preceding Beethoven’s death, none of his works performed in Vienna had received any praise in the pages of that journal. I interpret both the change in tone and the increase in the number of concerts that programmed Beethoven’s works in Vienna during his final weeks as a kind of musical and public preparation for his death, responses characterized in our day as rituals of “anticipatory grief ” by psychologists who study death and dying.12 Vienna certainly had warning that Beethoven’s death was

100  ❧  chapter five

imminent as early as January, when the local Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung correspondent wrote of it.13 By the end of February, Beethoven himself knew he was dying, and in early March, Johann Nepomuk Hummel hurried from Weimar to Vienna to reconcile himself with Beethoven. If more people heard more Beethoven in the year after he died, the works offered them were also more likely to be from before 1814. Wellington’s Victory received one performance the year before his death and seven the year after; and the Third Piano Concerto was programmed once the year before his death as opposed to eight performances of various concertos the next year. In contrast, the Ninth Symphony dropped from six performances the year before to just two complete renditions and two partial ones the year after. Certain trends remained consistent. English and French musicians completely avoided late Beethoven. And in most of Europe, Beethoven’s death had little impact on the sustained popularity of the oratorio, Christ on the Mount of Olives, with four complete renditions both the year before and the year after, plus at least as many performances of single movements. But in Vienna performances of Christ on the Mount of Olives assumed a new prominence, especially in the programming of the final fugal chorus. Starting with Beethoven’s memorial concert on May 3, 1827, three concerts beginning with a C-minor symphony concluded with this C-major chorus. These are listed in table 5.4, which is a representative list of concerts that included a symphony by Beethoven and a concluding chorus. While mixing symphonic and choral works on a program was absolutely normal in this period—whether for concerts spirituels with sacred music or secular concerts with opera arias—the plans for such concerts in Vienna often differed from those in other cities. In London the Philharmonic Society routinely began each half of a concert with a symphony and ended with an overture (often by Weber, Spohr, or Cherubini); in between came a selection of arias, concerto movements, or chamber music. Table 5.5 shows the less favored alternative: concerts of instrumental music alone, in this case concerts from a first-anniversary series of three Beethoven symphonies performed in Berlin in March and April 1828. Beethoven’s death altered existing Viennese customs in a small but telling way. For years concerts that began with a symphony had finished with a chorus, often fugal and in many cases in the same key as the opening symphony. The concern for tonal unity attained a pedantic consistency in the 1822 concert that began with the Sixth Symphony and then progressed to an arrangement of the Mozart F-Minor Fantasy and the Gloria of the Cherubini Mass in F. In table 5.4 most of the finales I have been able to examine are either

Table 5.4. Examples of programs including symphony plus chorus, 1820–28, organized by city

Date

Program

Vienna 1820, March 24

LvB, Sym. no. 3; Rossini, Duet; Kreutzer, VC.; Preindl, Hymn for 4 Voices; Haydn, “Sturmchor”

1822, Jan. 2

LvB, Sym. no. 7; Stadler, Chorus from Tiedge’s Urania; B. Romberg, Vars. for Cello on a Russian Theme; Schubert, Ov.; Mozart, Don Giovanni, 2nd half of act 2 finale

1822, Spring

LvB, Sym. no. 6, Albrechtsberger, “Alleluia”; Mozart, Phantasie in F min., arr. Seyfried; Cherubini, Mass [in F] for 3 voices, Gloria

1824, Jan. 5

LvB, Sym. no. 2; Rossini, Aria; B. Romberg, Capriccio for Cello on a Swedish Folksong; LvB, Egmont Ov.; Mozart, choral fugue, “Dir, Herr der Welten” [“Dir, Seele des Weltalls”]

1824, May 7

LvB, Consecration of the House Ov.; LvB, Missa solemnis, Kyrie, Credo, Agnus; LvB, Sym. no. 9

1824, May 23

Similar plan to May 7

1826, April 27

LvB, Sym. no. 4; Eybler, Requiem, Dies Irae; Méhul, Timoleon Ov.; Méhul, Moses, fugal chorus

1827, March 1

Mozart, Sym. no. 41; Eybler, Die Hirten an der Krippe, Chorus of Angels; C. P. E. Bach, Chorale; LvB, Namensfeier Ov.; Handel, Israel in Egypt, chorus; LvB, Missa solemnis, Gloria

1827, March 15

Vogler, Samori Ov. in D maj.; Mozart, Il Davide penitente, trio and chorus; LvB, Sym. no. 9

1827, May 3

LvB, Sym. no. 5; Seidl, “Beethoven” (poem); LvB, VC.; LvB, “Adelaide”; LvB, PC no. 3; LvB, Christ on the Mount of Olives, final chorus

1827, Nov. 4

LvB, Sym. no. 6; Simon Mayer, operatic duet; Carl Czerny, Concert Vars. for Piano and Orchestra; Haydn, chorus “Hin ist alle meine Kraft”; Mozart, choral fugue, “Herr der Welten” [“Dir, Seele des Weltalls”] (continued)

Table 5.4—concluded 1828, Feb. 22

Krommer, Sym. in C min.; Krommer, Trio; arias of Rossini, Pacini, Mozart; LvB, Christ on the Mount of Olives, final chorus

1828, March 3

LvB, Sym. no. 5; Pacini, operatic duet; Kalkbrenner, PC in D min.; Wolfram, Bezauberte Rose Ov.; LvB, Christ on the Mount of Olives, final chorus

Berlin 1828, April 30

LvB, Sym. no. 5; LvB, Coriolanus Ov.; LvB, Missa solemnis, Kyrie, Credo; J. S. Bach, Mass in A min., Credo; C. P. E Bach, Heilig for 2 choirs and Angel Choir

Leipzig 1828, March

Mozart, Sym. no. 40, mvts. 1 and 2; LvB, Christ on the Mount of Olives; Intermission; Mozart, Sym. no. 40, mvts. 3 and 4; LvB, Christ on the Mount of Olives

London 1827, Feb. 19

LvB, Sym. no. 3; Rossini, Mosé in Egitto, aria; Hummel, PC; Spohr, Faust, Scena; Weber, Der Freischütz Ov.; Intermission; Haydn, Sym. in C maj.; Weber, Oberon, scene; Mayseder, String Quartet; Mozart, Le nozze di Figaro, trio “Cosa sento”; Mozart, Idomeneo Ov.

Paris 1828, March 23

LvB, Sym. no. 3; LvB, Mass in C, Benedictus; LvB, PC no. 3, mvt. 1; LvB, Fidelio, Quartet; LvB, VC; LvB, Christ on the Mount of Olives

1828, Dec. 21

LvB, Sym. no. 5; Vogt, Air varié for oboe; LvB, Mass in C, Gloria; LvB, Romance in G maj. for Violin and Orchestra; Rossini, aria; LvB, Coriolanus Ov. + Christ on the Mount of Olives, final chorus

Notes: Abbreviations: LvB = Beethoven; Ov. = Overture; PC = Piano Concerto; Sym. = Symphony; Vars. = Variations; VC = Violin Concerto

the sanctification of beethoven in 1827–28  ❧ 103 Table 5.5. Examples of programs including symphony without chorus in Berlin, 1828 Date

Program

1828, March 5

Weber, Oberon Ov.; LvB, Septet; LvB, Sym. no. 4

1828, March 26

LvB, Sym. no. 3, March; LvB, Coriolanus Ov; LvB, Quintet in C; LvB, Sym. no. 5

1828, early April

Spohr, Faust Ov.; Lenss, Septet; LvB, Sym. no. 6

1828, mid-April

Fesca, Ov.; Mozart, Quintet in G; Haydn, “Drum Roll” Sym.; LvB, Septet (3 mvts.); LvB, Sym. no. 7

Note: Abbreviations: LvB = Beethoven; Ov. = Overture; PC = Piano Concerto; Sym. = Symphony; Vars. = Variations; VC = Violin Concerto

fugal or contain a fugal section. Once Beethoven died and concerts devoted more space to his music, the Fifth Symphony became matched with the closing chorus of Christ on the Mount of Olives, creating a frame spanning C minor to C major that was repeated in both Vienna and Paris. Perhaps the influence of the Ninth Symphony contributed to the success of this pairing; which is to suggest that in the years in which the Ninth was difficult to perform and yet more challenging to apprehend, a pastiche begun by the familiar Fifth Symphony and closing with the finale of Christ on the Mount of Olives recreated Beethoven’s aims on a more approachable level. This impulse is perhaps also evident in the concert given in Vienna on the first birthday after his death (see table 5.1). Each half began with a movement from Ninth Symphony (movements 1 and 2), but the concert ended with Seyfried’s Hallelujah. But whatever the musical motivation for programming the Fifth together with Christ on the Mount of Olives may have been, in the year after Beethoven’s death there were other reasons why a concert that celebrated the victory of Christ would take precedence over one whose theme was the brotherhood of man and the fatherhood of God. While Viennese concert programming may have been influenced by the bringing together of orchestra and chorus that Beethoven required in his Ninth Symphony, the reverse is more consequential: Viennese concert traditions potentially influenced the conception of the Ninth. However radical the idea to compose a symphony that culminated in a chorus with a fugue,

104  ❧  chapter five

it can be seen as a logical extension of Viennese concerts spirituels. Even the choice of text can be compared in spirit to the text of a secular work such as Mozart’s masonic cantata, Dir, Seele des Weltalls, which was performed in a version probably completed by Abbé Vogler. Beethoven designed a symphony that could only be performed at the end of a concert, unlike his previous eight, which in Vienna usually came first. 1 Given the extraordinary outpouring of musical performances and journalistic commentary that followed the death of Beethoven, it is not at all surprising that composers, a group that had particular reason to mourn Beethoven’s passing, should honor him in their way: with new compositions. If his death provided Beethoven’s first biographers with a chance to define the Beethoven that they knew, it did so as well for composers. From the numerous composers who paid musical homage to Beethoven in the year that followed Beethoven’s death, I will consider three who quoted, alluded to, or otherwise responded to specific works of Beethoven; namely, Schubert, Spohr, and Mendelssohn.14 Hearing the works of Beethoven in the compositions of his successors is an age-old pastime. The Appendix presents a partial but representative listing of these claims for Schubert and Mendelssohn (this appendix has three sections: one for each composer and a bibliography). In this study the utility of such a list is in the overall pattern of identifications. For Schubert and Mendelssohn, as well as for other composers not included, the alleged musical debts are to much the same repertoire heard in concerts of the time. Schubertian echoes of the early symphonies of Beethoven (especially no. 2), of Fidelio, and of the E-Minor Piano Sonata, op. 90, have been detected on several occasions, and Charles Rosen is not alone in hearing “numerous reminiscences of Beethoven’s op. 28 and op. 31 in the last three piano sonatas [of Schubert].”15 One of the first to identify Beethoven as a source of Schubert’s motivic ideas was Robert Schumann. In an 1838 review of Schubert’s Grand Duo in C Major for two pianos, op. 140, Schumann argued that Schubert had really intended this work to be a symphony: The Duo . . . seems to me under Beethoven’s influence . . . We hear the string and wind instruments, tuttis, a few solos, the mutter of drums; and my view is also supported by the broad symphonic form, even by its reminiscences of Beethoven’s symphonies, such as, in the second movement, that of the Andante

the sanctification of beethoven in 1827–28  ❧ 105 of Beethoven’s Second, and in the last, that of the finale of Beethoven’s A-major symphony.16

One of the most remarkable tributes Schubert paid to Beethoven was in “Auf dem Strom,” for tenor, piano, and horn. In his insightful study of this song, Rufus Hallmark persuasively argued that (1) Schubert almost certainly composed “Auf dem Strom” for a concert on the first anniversary of Beethoven’s death (the manuscript is dated March 1828) and (2) the poem about death and separation that Schubert set had been written by Ludwig Rellstab for Beethoven to set, and Anton Schindler possibly passed the song on to Schubert.17 As Alfred Einstein realized long ago, both Rellstab’s poem and Schubert’s setting strongly recall Beethoven’s An die ferne Geliebte.18 Thirdly, Hallmark argued, one of Schubert’s motives alludes strongly to the funeral march from Beethoven’s Third Symphony. Stanzas 2 and 4, set as contrasting sections in C-sharp minor, begin with a melody that Hallmark described as “a quotation” of the Beethoven march.19 With this song Schubert commemorated Beethoven, recalling the departed composer by citing the Eroica funeral march; but perhaps, in his orchestration that required the presence of a horn, he also alluded to the repeated performances on trombones of Beethoven’s Equale at the funeral service a year earlier.20 Another probable anniversary work comes from Louis Spohr, who was no particular fan of Beethoven’s. Spohr began composing his Third Symphony in February 1828 and finished it by mid-March, in time for it to be premiered in Kassel on Easter, which in 1828 fell on April 6, just ten days after the anniversary. The other works on this concert included Leonardo Leo’s Miserere for double choir (1739) and Beethoven’s Ninth.21 Spohr’s Third Symphony is exceptionally Beethovenian. Like many minor-mode symphonies composed in the wake of Beethoven’s Fifth, it adopts what Anthony Newcomb has called an “end-accented plot archetype”22 that progresses from a first movement in C minor through to a weighty finale in C major; and, like the “Pathétique” Sonata, it opens with an introduction marked “Grave,” music that returns in the middle of the first movement. Moreover, the main theme of the first movement plainly derives from the only movement of the Fifth Symphony that Spohr liked, the Scherzo. As shown in example 5.1, Spohr makes sequential the idea Beethoven had merely repeated at the same pitch. For the finale Spohr partially departs from his normal practice of ending with a frivolous, good-humored movement. His heavier sonataallegro conclusion takes as a principal theme an idea derived from the finale of Beethoven’s Second Symphony (see ex. 5.2).

the sanctification of beethoven in 1827–28  ❧ 107

In stark contrast to Spohr’s inability to comprehend the music Beethoven composed after about 1810, Felix Mendelssohn embraced Beethoven’s final works as quickly as he could get to know them. In the two months following Beethoven’s death, Mendelssohn wrote the B-flat-Major Piano Sonata that Julius Reitz, the editor of Mendelssohn’s complete works, published much later, long after Mendelssohn’s death, as opus 106, a truly unfortunate choice of opus numbers precisely because the beginning is so evocative of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in B-flat Major, op. 106. To judge from the citations of indebtedness assembled in the Appendix, Mendelssohn first began to emulate late Beethoven in 1826 in the E-Major Piano Sonata, op. 6. Already in 1835 Schumann had commented on the resemblance of this work to Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in A Major, op. 101, portraying the resemblance positively: “this [similarity] is not because of weak unoriginality [geflissent­ liches Nachahmen] but because of spiritual affinity [geistiges Verwandtsein].”23 The Appendix further indicates that Mendelssohn began to study Beethoven’s late works in earnest about the time of Beethoven’s death. With his thorough training in not only the music of Mozart and Haydn, but also that of Bach, Mendelssohn had the ideal background to pursue the compositional paths Beethoven had taken in his final decade. The earliest and strongest musical descendant of Beethoven’s last quartets is the Quartet in A Major, op. 13, that Mendelssohn finished in October 1827 at the age of eighteen. Only a few months later, Mendelssohn described to a friend his enthusiasm for opus 130 and opus 131, considerably earlier than other Germanic composers voiced such admiration.24 In the twentieth century many observers heard in the various movements of the quartet distinct resemblances to Beethoven’s Quartets, opp. 95, 130, and 131, and above all, to the String Quartet in A Minor, op. 132. From the outset Mendelssohn adhered to the model of opus 132 in matters of form, mood, and motive.25 A slow introduction, largely pianissimo, concludes with a measure that begins pianissimo and then crescendos into an Allegro. This section begins forte on a seventh chord (dominant in Mendelssohn, diminished in Beethoven) and with sixteenth notes propelling forward. The first entrances of thematic material of the two Allegros have many similarities. For the second movement, Adagio non lento, marked “cantabile,” the influence of Beethoven’s F-Minor Quartet, op. 95, has been identified in such features as the alternation between slow homophonic sections and fugal writing. Like the “Heiliger Dankgesang” of opus 132, this movement is centered on F. And Mendelssohn’s use of recitative in the quartet has, in Benedict Taylor’s view, a “direct model” in op. 132.26 But Mendelssohn also recalled

108  ❧  chapter five Example 5.3. Felix Mendelssohn, String Quartet in A Major, op. 13, mvt. 1, mm. 24–27. Allegro vivace Vn II

Vla

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Fespress. œ œ œ . . œ œ œ œ. œ ˙ &�

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œ dim.

˙

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w

p

Example 5.4. J. S. Bach, St. John Passion, aria “Es ist vollbracht”: (a) mm. 1–2; (b) mm. 12–13. Viola da a) gamba sola

&

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Viola da gamba

� & �

Alto

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b)

Molt’ adagio

� ‰ ≈ œr œj œ œ

Œ

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r j ≈ œ œj œ j œ œ œ œ �œ

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nacht,

Beethoven’s final quartet, opus 135, and its use of the three-note motive and three-word question (“Muss es sein?”) that prefaced the finale and then became the main melodic material. Mendelssohn prefaced his quartet with an entire song, “Frage.” The three-note motive that set the question, “Ist es wahr?,” becomes the source of the three-note motive that frames the quartet, appearing in measures 12–15 of the opening movement and again at the end of the finale.27 For the principal Allegro theme in A minor of the first movement, Mendelssohn chose motives with strong associations with Beethoven as well as Bach. As I proposed in Motives for Allusion, Mendelssohn’s quartet is one of twenty-one works composed between ca. 1750 and 1846 that apparently derive thematic material from the music Bach wrote for the final words of Jesus in his St. John Passion.28 Mendelssohn’s theme (shown in ex. 5.3) takes the two motives of Bach’s aria for alto with obbligato viola da gamba, “Es ist vollbracht” (ex. 5.4a), and assigns them to separate parts, just as Bach had done in his aria (ex. 5.4b), though with the obvious difference of a contrapuntal overlap.

the sanctification of beethoven in 1827–28  ❧ 109 Example 5.5. Beethoven, Sonata for Piano and Cello in A Major, op. 69, mvt. 1, mm. 107–11.

&

���

Allegro ma non tanto Piano

�

œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ � ˙

œ

Cello

?

œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ .

Example 5.6. C. P. E. Bach, Concerto for Cello and Orchestra in A Minor, Wq. 170 (H. 432), mvt. 1, mm. 28–31.

œ œ œj œ ˙ �˙

Allegro assai j œ

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 œ.

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Mendelssohn’s inclusion of this theme in this Beethovenian quartet may have been spurred by three of Beethoven’s compositions that include it: his Piano Concerto no. 3 in C Minor of 1799–1800 (movement 1, mm. 260–67), the Sonata for Cello and Piano, op. 69, of 1807–8 (movement 1, mm. 108–34), and the Sonata for Piano, op. 110, of 1820 (movement 3, mm. 9–11), where it appears prominently as the “Arioso dolente.” Of these three the one with the strongest affinity to Mendelssohn’s String Quartet is Beethoven’s Cello Sonata, op. 69. Both have first-movement Allegros, which share the motive between voices in a call-and-response fashion and which are extended and repetitive: Beethoven has ten statements in the space of twenty-seven measures, Mendelssohn has ten statements in nineteen measures (compare the beginnings of these in exx. 5.3 and 5.5). Among the other composers who composed versions of this theme, Felix and Fanny Mendelssohn were particularly active; like two others, Prince Louis Ferdinand and C. P. E. Bach, they lived in Berlin. C. P. E. Bach’s Cello Concerto in A Minor (from ca. 1750) has a main theme that is close to Mendelssohn’s, including the fast tempo (ex. 5.6). Later in his life, Bach returned to the theme several times, including for the aria, “Wende dich zu meinem Schmerzen,” in his Passion-cantata, Die letzten Leiden des Erlösers, from 1769. Also known as Der Tod Jesu and Der sterbende Jesus, this cantata was C. P. E. Bach’s most popular and most widely circulated composition. 1

110  ❧  chapter five

The three composers that I have considered all paid private homage to Beethoven by deriving inspiration from specific compositions of his, but they did so with very different aims. The choices of source material reflect their own musical values, their own ideas of what was worthy in Beethoven. Schubert, ill and in the final months of his life, composed an anniversary Lied that commemorated both Beethoven’s death and his funeral, drawing on the funeral march of the Third Symphony and An die ferne Geliebte. He set a text about death to a variant of Beethoven’s melody in a manner reminiscent of the simple texting of Beethoven’s instrumental works that he had heard a year before at the funeral. Most conventionally of the three, Spohr adapted symphony themes for a new symphony that followed a Beethovenian minorto-major plan. Mendelssohn, the youngest, also modeled an entire work on Beethoven, but he chose as his models works that were just appearing in print. Although Mendelssohn and Schubert employed similar allusive methods, they did so with diametrically opposed results. Schubert communicated as much about his own mortality as about Beethoven’s, while Mendelssohn, aged eighteen, chose instead to depict one who had been victorious over death. In this sense Mendelssohn’s quartet adumbrates the message he would return to more obviously in the “Reformation” Symphony. In the year after Beethoven died, the different resonances that I read in the tributes of Spohr, Schubert, and Mendelssohn each had a separate impetus. Spohr’s preference for early Beethoven accords with the choices of concert repertoire around Europe. Schubert, in his funereal borrowing from the Eroica march, took as his model one of the most popular concert movements of the year: the two nineteenth-century journals I have examined mention five performances of the march. And the use of a theme that is prominently used in Beethoven that is drawn from Bach’s Passion (and C.  P.  E. Bach’s cantata) on the death of Jesus accords with the religious imagery that began to circulate already at Beethoven’s funeral. This message endured. Richard Wagner was not alone in seeing Beethoven as a musical priest, redeemer, and saint. Thomas Mann, in Doctor Faustus, has the young composer Adrian Leverkühn listen to a lecture in which Beethoven is portrayed as Christ, raging against his sleeping maids with the words of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, “Could you not watch one hour with me?”29 And in the past generation, several scholars have identified moments in works from Beethoven’s final decade that seem explicitly to refer to Christ, as David B. Levy does, in suggesting that the Cavatina of opus 130 evokes “the weeping and agony of the Garden of Gethsemane,”and as Wilfrid Mellers had before him, recognizing in the same movement “Passion

the sanctification of beethoven in 1827–28  ❧ 111

music.”30 Musically, the concerts in 1827–28 that paired the Fifth Symphony with the final chorus of Christ on the Mount of Olives had more in mind than simply a tonally closed program. The words of the final chorus would have been readily perceived by many listeners as referring to Beethoven rather than (or, as well as) Christ: “Praise him, you choirs of angels, loudly in holy sounds of rejoicing. Let the universe sing thanks and glory . . .” In the many memorial concerts to Beethoven, in the increase in the number of Beethoven’s works programmed in regular concert series, in the many works composed that derived formal or motivic ideas from Beethoven, audiences and composers throughout Europe took literally the final line of Johann Gabriel Seidl’s poem, “Beethoven”: “The one celebration worthy to honor him he has created himself through his own song!”31 For composers this observation may have had added significance because it is also precisely the message of Beethoven’s song cycle, An die ferne Geliebte, which concludes by telling the distant beloved that the way in which the couple can be united is for her to sing his own songs back to him. Schumann took this literally, when, for the tenth anniversary of Beethoven’s death, he quoted from An die ferne Geliebte in his C-Major Fantasy for Piano. The many concerts organized in the year after Beethoven’s death were one aspect of this attempt to diminish the sting of his death by demonstrating the enduring vitality of his music. If it is unsurprising that most audiences preferred to hear early or middle-period Beethoven, then perhaps it is also to be expected that most composers would turn to earlier works for inspiration for pieces they wrote in the aftermath of his death. And if poets and orators could speak of Beethoven in religious terms, musicians could find ways to do so as well. The combination in concerts of Beethoven’s Fifth with the final chorus of Christ on the Mount of Olives, Schubert’s anniversary evocation of music heard at Beethoven’s funeral, and Mendelssohn’s allusion to an idea that had previously appeared, among other places, in works of Beethoven, C. P. E. Bach, and Bach’s St. John Passion—these are all instances of a broadly shared need to apotheosize Beethoven. Poets wrote, orators orated, performers concertized, and composers composed. All nurtured and sustained his musical spirit while they grieved his physical absence.

112  ❧  chapter five

Appendix: Citations of Musical References to Beethoven in Works by Schubert and Mendelssohn: Representative List of Works Composed ca. 1816–33 Works by Schubert and Mendelssohn are listed in chronological order. Authors who have identified works by Beethoven as sources of ideas in works by Schubert and Mendelssohn are identified in parentheses following the work by Beethoven. These authors and their studies are identified in the bibliography that follows. When more than one writer is listed, the writers are listed in chronological order according to date of publication. When more than one work by Beethoven has been identified as a source, those works are listed in chronological order. The articles and books cited below are all from before about 1995; that is, from before the time at which allusion studies became more common. Keys are major unless followed by “m” for minor. Schubert

Beethoven

Symphony no. 4 in Cm (1816)

String Quartet in Cm, op. 18, no. 4 (Mies) Egmont Overture, op. 84 (Newman 1983)

“Die Forelle” (ca. 1817)

Coriolanus Overture, op. 62 (Deutsch, Cone)

Piano Sonata in Em (1817)

Piano Sonata in Em, op. 90 (Cone)

Piano Sonata in E-flat (1817)

Piano Sonata in A-flat, op. 10, no. 1 (Brinkmann)

Symphony no. 6 in C (1817–18)

Piano Sonata in C#m, op. 27, no. 2 (Peyser)

Piano Sonata in Fm (1818)

Piano Sonata in Fm, op. 57 (Whaples)

Symphony [no. 7], “Unfinished” (1822)

Symphony no. 2 (Chusid)

Octet in F (1824)

Septet in E-flat, op. 20 (Laciar, Shamgar, Geck)

Grand Duo in C, Piano 4 Hands (1824)

Symphony no. 2 (Schumann 1838; many) Symphony no. 5 (Einstein)

the sanctification of beethoven in 1827–28  ❧ 113 Piano Trio in E-flat, “Archduke,” op. 97 (Cairns) Symphony no. 7 (Schumann 1838, Frimmel, many) “Diabelli” Variations, op. 120 (M. Brown) Eight Variations on an Original Theme (1824)

Symphony no. 7 (Radcliffe 1982, Shamgar)

Piano Sonata in D, op. 53 (1825)

Symphony no. 2 (Radcliffe 1982)

Symphony in C, “Great” (1825)

Symphony no. 7 (Abraham, Carner) Symphony no. 9 (Hollander, Shamgar)

Introduction and Rondo in Bm for Violin and Piano (1826)

Sonata for Violin and Piano in Am, op. 47 (Rosen 1971)

“Der Kreuzzug” (1827)

Symphony no. 7 (Carner)

“Auf dem Strom” (1828)

Symphony no. 3 (Hallmark) An die ferne Geliebte (Einstein, Hallmark)

Rondo in A, Piano 4 Hands (1828)

Piano Sonata in Em, op. 90 (Cone, Radcliffe 1982)

Piano Sonata in Cm (1828)

Piano Sonata in Cm, op. 13 (Rosenberg) Piano Sonata in D, op. 28 (Rosen 1980) Piano Sonata in E-flat, op. 31, no. 3 (Brinkmann, Rosen) 32 Variations in Cm, WoO 80 (Cone, Brendel)

Piano Sonata in A (1828)

Piano Sonata in D, op. 28 (Rosen 1980) Piano Sonata in G, op. 31, no. 1 (Rosen 1971, Cone, Radcliffe 1982)

Piano Sonata in B-flat (1828)

Piano Sonata in D, op. 28 (Rosen 1980) String Quartet in B-flat, op. 130 (Cone)

114  ❧  chapter five Mendelssohn

Beethoven

Symphony no. 1, op. 11 (1824)

Symphony no. 5 (Todd)

Piano Sextet in D, op. 110 (1824)

Symphony no. 5 (Todd)

Concerto for Two Pianos, op. 110 (1824)

Piano Concerto no. 3 (Todd)

Octet, op. 20 (1825)

Symphony no. 5 (Todd)

Capriccio in F#m, op. 5 (1825)

Piano Sonata in C, op. 2, no 3 (Todd) Piano Sonata in C#m, op. 27, no. 2 (Todd) Piano Sonata in Dm, op. 31, no. 2 (Todd)

Piano Sonata in E, op. 6 (1826)

Piano Sonata in E-flat, op. 81a (Godwin) Piano Sonata in Em, op 90 (Godwin) Piano Sonata in A, op. 101 (Schumann 1835, many)

Trumpet Overture, op. 101

Symphony no. 6 (Todd)

Sieben charakteristische Stücke, op. 7 (1826–27)

Piano Sonata in F m, op. 2, no 1 (Todd) Piano Sonata in C, “Waldstein,” op. 53 (Todd)

“Acceleration” Fugue, op. 7, no. 5 (ca. 1827)

Piano Sonata in A-flat, op. 110 (Todd)

Fantaisie sur une chanson irlandaise (1827)

Piano Sonata in E, op. 109 (Godwin) Piano Sonata in A-flat, op. 110 (Godwin)

Piano Sonata in B-flat, op. 106 (1827)

Piano Sonata in B-flat, op. 106 (Newman, Todd, many)

String Quartet no. 2 in Am (1827)

Piano Sonata in Dm, op. 31, no 2 (Brinkmann) Symphony no. 7 (Godwin) String Quartet in Fm, op. 95 (many) String Quartet in B-flat, op. 130 (Godwin, Radcliffe 1967)

the sanctification of beethoven in 1827–28  ❧ 115 String Quartet in C#m, op. 131 (Godwin) String Quartet in Am, op. 132 (many) Meerestille und glückliche Fahrt, overture Leonore Overtures (Todd) (1828) String Quartet no. 1 in E-flat (1829)

String Quartet in E-flat, op. 74 (Krummacher, Brinkmann) String Quartet in E-flat, op. 127 (Krummacher, Brinkmann)

Symphony in D, “Reformation” (1829–32)

Symphony no. 9 (Todd)

Symphony no. 4 in A, “Italian” (1831– 33)

Symphony no. 7 (Abraham, Carner)

Bibliography Abraham, Gerald. A Hundred Years of Music. London: Duckworth, 1938. Brendel, Alfred. Musical Thoughts and Afterthoughts. London: Robson, 1976. Brinkmann, Reinhold. “Wirkungen Beethovens in der Kammermusik.” In Beiträge zur Beethovens Kammermusik: Symposion Bonn, edited by Sieghard Brandenburg and Helmut Loos, 79–110. Munich: Henle, 1987. Brown, Clive. Louis Spohr: A Critical Biography. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984. Brown, Maurice. Schubert: A Critical Biography. New York: St. Martin’s, 1958. Cairns, David. “Schubert: Promise and Fulfillment.” In Responses: Musical Essays and Reviews, 194–208. London: Secker and Warburg, 1973. Carner, Mosco. “A Beethoven Movement and Its Successors.” Music & Letters 20 (1939): 281–91. Chua, Daniel K. L. “Beethoven’s Other Humanism.” Journal of the American Musicological Society 62 (2009): 571–645. Chusid, Martin. “Beethoven and the Unfinished.” In Franz Schubert: Symphony in B Minor (“Unfinished”), 98–110. New York: Norton, 1971. Cone, Edward. “Schubert’s Beethoven.” Musical Quarterly 56 (1970): 779–93. Deutsch, Otto Erich. Schubert: Memoirs by His Friends. Translated by Rosamond Ley and John Nowell. London: Adam and Charles Black, 1958. Einstein, Alfred. Schubert: A Musical Portrait. New York: Oxford University Press, 1951. Frimmel, Theodore. “Beethoven und Schubert.” Die Musik 17 (1925): 401–16.

116  ❧  chapter five Fulton, R., and D.  J. Gottesman. “Anticipatory Grief: A Psychosocial Concept Reconsidered.” British Journal of Psychiatry 137 (1980): 45–54. Geck, Martin. Von Beethoven bis Mahler: Die Musik des deutschen Idealismus. Stuttgart and Weimar: Metzlersche and Poeschel, 1993. Gibbs, Christopher. “Performances of Grief: Vienna’s Response to the Death of Beethoven.” In Beethoven and His World, edited by Scott Burnham and Michael P. Steinberg, 227–85. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000. Godwin, Joscelyn. “Early Mendelssohn and Late Beethoven.” Music & Letters 55 (1974): 272–85. Golomb, Uri. “Mendelssohn’s Creative Response to Late Beethoven.” Ad Parnassum 4 (2006): 101–19. Hallmark, Rufus. “Schubert’s ‘Auf dem Strom.’” In Schubert Studies: Problems of Style and Chronology, edited by Eva Badura-Skoda and Peter Branscombe, 25–46. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982. Hollander, Hans. “Die Beethoven-Reflexe in Schuberts grosser C-Dur-Sinfonie.” Neue Zeitschrift für Musik 126 (1965): 183–85. Holoman, D. Kern. The Société des Concerts du Conservatoire, 1828–1967. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004. Köhler, Karl-Heinz, Grita Herre, and Dagmar Beck, eds. Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte. Vol. 3. Leipzig: VEB Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1983. Krummacher, Friedhelm. Mendelssohn—der Komponist: Studien zur Kammermusik für Streicher. Munich: W. Fink, 1978. ———. “Synthesis des Disparten: Zu Beethovens späten Quartetten und frühen Rezeption.” Archiv für Musikwissenschaft 37 (1980): 99–134. Laciar, Samuel L. “The Chamber Music of Franz Schubert.” Musical Quarterly 14 (1928): 515–38. Levy, Daniel B. “‘Ma però beschleunigend’: Notation and Meaning in Ops. 133/134.” Beethoven Forum 14, no. 2 (Fall 2007): 129–49. Mann, Thomas. Doctor Faustus: The Life of the German Composer Adrian Leverkühn. Translated by Helen Lowe-Porter. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1948. Mellers, Wilfrid. Beethoven and the Voice of God. London: Faber and Faber, 1983. Republished, London: Travis & Emery, 2007. Metzer, David. “Repeated Borrowing: The Case of ‘Es ist genug.’” Journal of the American Musicological Society 71 (2018): 703–48. Mies, Paul. “The Orchestral Music of Beethoven’s Contemporaries.” In The New Oxford History of Music, vol. 8, edited by Gerald Abraham, 157–205. London: Oxford University Press, 1982. Newcomb, Anthony. “Once More ‘Between Absolute and Program Music’: Schumann’s Second Symphony.” 19th Century Music 7 (1984): 233–50. Newman, William. “The Beethoven Mystique in Romantic Art, Literature, and Music.” Musical Quarterly 69 (1983): 354–87.

the sanctification of beethoven in 1827–28  ❧ 117 ———. “Some 19th-Century Consequences of Beethoven’s ‘Hammerklavier’ Sonata, op. 106.” Piano Quarterly 17 (1969): 12–17. Peyser, Herbert F. “The Epic of the Unfinished.” Musical Quarterly 14 (1928): 639– 60. Radcliffe, Philip. Mendelssohn. London: Dent, 1967. ______. “Piano Music.” In The New Oxford History of Music, vol. 8, edited by Gerald Abraham, 325–75. London: Oxford University Press, 1982. Rando, Therese A. “Understanding and Facilitating Anticipatory Grief in the Loved Ones of the Dying.” In Loss and Anticipatory Grief, edited by T.  A. Rando, 97–130. Lexington, MA: Lexington Books, 1986. Reynolds, Christopher Alan. Motives for Allusion: Context and Content in NineteenthCentury Music. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003 Rosen, Charles. The Classical Style: Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven. London: Faber and Faber, 1971. ———. The Romantic Generation. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995. ______. Sonata Forms. New York: Norton, 1980. Rosenberg, Richard. Die Klaviersonaten Ludwig van Beethovens: Studien über Form und Vortrag. Olten and Lausanne: Urs Graf, 1957–58. Schumann, Robert. Neue Zeitschrift für Musik 3, no. 52 (December 29, 1835): 207– 8; 8, no. 45 (June 5, 1838): 177–79. ______. “[Schubert]: Last Compositions.” In Robert Schumann: On Music and Musicians, edited by Konrad Wolff, translated by Paul Rosenfeld, 114–18. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983. Shamgar, Beth. “Three Missing Months in Schubert’s Biography: A Further Consideration of Beethoven’s Influence on Schubert.” Musical Quarterly 73 (1989): 417–35. Solomon, Maynard. Beethoven Essays. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988. ______. Memories of Beethoven: From the House of the Black-Robed Spaniards. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995. Taylor, Benedict. “Cyclic Form, Time, and Memory in Mendelssohn’s A-Minor Quartet, Op. 13.” Musical Quarterly 93 (2010): 45–89. Thayer, Alexander Wheelock. Thayer’s Life of Beethoven. Revised and edited by Elliot Forbes. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1964. Temperley, Nicholas. “Beethoven in London Concert Life, 1800–1850.” Music Review 21 (1960): 207–14. Todd, R. Larry, “A Mendelssohn Miscellany.” Music & Letters 71 (1990): 52–64. Tovey, Donald Francis. Essays in Musical Analysis. Vol. 1, Symphonies. London: Oxford University Press, 1935. Vitercik, Gregory John. The Early Works of Felix Mendelssohn. Philadelphia: Gordon and Breach, 1992.

118  ❧  chapter five Werner, Eric. Mendelssohn: A New Image of the Composer and His Age. Translated by D. Newlin. London: Collier-Macmillan, 1963. Whaples, Miriam K. “Style in Schubert’s Piano Music from 1817 to 1818.” Music Review 35 (1974): 260–80.

Notes 1

Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 29, no. 17 (April 25, 1827), cols. 288–89. My translation. 2 Many have written about the activities in Vienna after Beethoven’s death. See especially Gibbs, “Performances of Grief,” 227–85. 3 This translation is by O.  G. Sonneck, published in Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, rev. and ed. Forbes, 1057–58; see also Solomon, Memories of Beethoven, 110. 4 The translation is from Solomon, Memories of Beethoven, 111. 5 Translation from Solomon, Beethoven Essays, 28. See also Koehler, Herre, and Beck, Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte, 3:158–59. Despite the biblical sound of Peters’s phrase “You will arise with me from the dead—because you must,” I have found no passage that suggests he is quoting or alluding. Grillparzer had begun his oration by linking Beethoven and Goethe as the two pillars “of the fatherland’s full spiritual bloom.” Although Goethe died on March 22, 1832, his funeral was not until March 26 of that year, the fifth anniversary of Beethoven’s death. 6 The translation is from Gibbs, “Performances of Grief,” 271. 7 See Ibid., 242–43. 8 See Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 30, no. 3 (January 16, 1828), col. 43, and its report of concerts in Berlin in December 1827: “Mozart’s Sterbetag, der 5te December, wird auch diessmal von einem eifrigen Musikfreunde, dem Hrn. Geh. O. B. Rath, Dr. Crelle, durch die Privat-Aufführung des Requiem’s gefeyert.” 9 London audiences heard far more of Beethoven than any other composer, as documented by Temperley, “Beethoven in London Concert Life,” 207–14. 10 See the comprehensive study of Holoman, The Société des Concerts du Conservatoire. 11 Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 28, no. 17 (April 25, 1827), cols. 286–87. 12 See for instance, Rando, “Understanding and Facilitating Anticipatory Grief,” 97–130, and Fulton and Gottesman, “Anticipatory Grief,” 45–54. 13 January report, Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 28, no. 8 (February 21, 1827), col. 139. 14 For a list of memorial works composed after his death, see Gibbs, “Performances of Grief,” 246–47.

the sanctification of beethoven in 1827–28  ❧ 119 15 Rosen, Sonata Forms, 286. 16 Schumann, “[Schubert]: Last Compositions,” in Robert Schumann: On Music and Musicians, 114–18, at 116; the original is in Neue Zeitschrift für Musik 8, no. 45 (June 5, 1838): 177–79. 17 Hallmark, “Schubert’s ‘Auf dem Strom,’” 25–46. 18 Einstein, Schubert: A Musical Portrait, 302–3; Hallmark, “Schubert’s ‘Auf dem Strom,’” 40. 19 Hallmark, “Schubert’s ‘Auf dem Strom,’” 41. 20 I discuss this further in Reynolds, Motives for Allusion, 125–26. 21 See Clive Brown, Louis Spohr, 190. 22 Newcomb, “Once More ‘Between Absolute and Program Music,’” 233–50. 23 Robert Schumann: On Music and Musicians, 210; the original is in Neue Zeitschrift für Musik 3, no. 52 (December 29, 1835): 207–8. 24 Quoted in Krummacher, Mendelssohn—der Komponist, 71–72. Friedrich Kuhlau composed his String Quartet in A Minor, op. 122, in 1831, very much in the style of late Beethoven; see Brinkmann, “Wirkungen Beethovens in der Kammermusik,” 80–81. 25 Among many who have written about this quartet’s debts to Beethoven, see Godwin, “Early Mendelssohn and Late Beethoven,” 272–85; Rosen, The Romantic Generation, 569–82; Krummacher, Mendelssohn, der Komponist, 161–66 and 309–18; Vitercik, The Early Works of Felix Mendelssohn, 227–29; and Golomb, “Mendelssohn’s Creative Response to Late Beethoven,” 101–19. 26 Taylor, “Cyclic Form, Time, and Memory,” 45–89, at 75. 27 As Taylor observed, “the ‘recitatives’ of the quartet can be related back to the song’s demand in m. 15, ‘Sprich!,’ following the second statement of ‘Ist es wahr?’” (ibid., 75). 28 Reynolds, Motives for Allusion, 147–61. David Metzer discusses a related case of what he calls “repeated borrowings,” concerning several twentieth-century works that cite Bach’s chorale motive “Es ist genug.” See Metzer, “Repeated Borrowing,’” 703–48. 29 Mann, Doctor Faustus, 58. 30 See Levy, “‘Ma però beschleunigend,’” 129–49, at 147, and Mellers, Beethoven and the Voice of God, 287. See also, among others, Chua, “Beethoven’s Other Humanism,” 571–645, esp. 627–37. 31 The translation is from Solomon, Memories of Beethoven, 111.

Part Two

Prometheus / Eroica

Chapter Six

The Prometheus Theme and Beethoven’s Shift from Avoidance to Embrace of Possibilities Alan Gosman Beethoven’s fascination with the Prometheus theme between 1800 and 1803 is evidenced by four works: the Contredanse, WoO 14, no. 7; the finale of The Creatures of Prometheus, op. 43; the Piano Variations, op. 35; and the fourth movement of the Eroica Symphony, op. 55. The theme provides Beethoven with the materials for remarkably distinctive works and an outpouring of creativity. Scholarship on the four pieces inevitably recognizes the extent of Beethoven’s thematic exploration. In a book chapter entitled “Recurring Ideas,” Barry Cooper writes, “[Beethoven] was particularly good at finding different and unexpected ways of developing such material.”1 Cooper concludes, “Thus his reuse of earlier ideas, far from being a sign of a limited imagination, is an indication of his extraordinary ability to discover hidden possibilities in them.”2 This is true, but the narrative of Beethoven’s triumph in continuing to find developmental possibilities makes it easy to overlook another part of the story—the extent to which Beethoven, in the Prometheus finale and the Piano Variations, largely avoids pursuing certain types of obvious musical development and possibilities. Different types of developmental restraint help to define each of these early works. An important element of the drama that connects each of these pieces is that toward the end, at a coda, the music

124  ❧  chapter six

escapes the restraints that have largely controlled what has come before. The end of each piece introduces a new path that can be taken with old material. And when Beethoven returns to the Prometheus theme in successive works, the developmental space that was opened up at the end of one work energizes a new exploration of the theme in the next. Beethoven composed The Creatures of Prometheus from 1800 to 1801, in between his First and Second Symphonies. Lewis Lockwood writes of opus 43 that “[i]t was deliberately tailored to the conventions of theater music, which [at this time] had no need of the developmental types of discourse that were expected in the symphony.”3 Even so, Beethoven’s aversion to significantly varying the recurring material is astonishing, especially given the amount of repetition found in the movement. The finale is composed as a seven-part rondo with four refrains separated by three episodes. Perhaps more than any other form, seven-part rondos have the potential for excessive repetition, and for this reason they are much less common than five-part rondos.4 When composers are faced with four refrains, their efforts to avoid repeating the same music over and over is typically an important aspect of the movement. The third movement of Beethoven’s Violin Sonata in E-flat Major, op. 12, no. 3, provides a vivid example. This movement is a sonata-rondo, but it must navigate the four-refrain challenge, just as one would expect a formally simpler seven-part rondo such as opus 43’s finale to do. Example 6.1 presents the violin sonata’s first three refrains and the opening of refrain 4. Example 6.1a shows refrain 1, which is in rounded binary form. The opening eight-measure theme is presented in turn by each instrument. A middle section begins in measure 17, followed by a dominant harmony prolongation from measures 24 to 31. The refrain concludes with the violin and piano presenting the melody together. Refrain 1 thus presents the opening theme three times. If the subsequent refrains were to do likewise, the opening theme would be stated twelve times in total and would risk dragging down the movement with excessive repetition. Beethoven takes advantage of the first refrain’s cadential design to avoid this potential problem. Refrain 1’s rounded binary is punctuated by three perfect authentic cadences, all in the home key of E-flat. Beethoven can, and does, use all three of these cadences as later refrain stopping points. Example 6.1b presents the second refrain. The piano and violin reverse the order of their entries, and, following the second perfect authentic cadence, Beethoven omits the remainder of refrain 1’s material. The result is that refrain 2 is less than half the length of the first one: sixteen measures instead

Example 6.1b. Beethoven, Sonata for Violin and Piano in E-flat Major, op. 12, no. 3, mvt. 3, refrain 2, mm. 79–94. 78 . . œ œ. œ. œ œ. œ. b b 2 œ. œ. œ . œ. œ . œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ b œ œ & 4 S S S p

b 2 &bb 4

œ œ œœœœ œœ œœœœœ œœœœœœ œ p ? bb 2 Œ œ. ‰ œ. œ œ œ œ b 4 J . . . . œ. b & bb

84

b &bb

œ

S

œ. œ.

œ œœœ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ œn œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. . œ. ? b œ b b œ œ œ b œ œ.

œ. œ. œ œ. œ œ. œ. œ œ œ œ . œ

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b &bb œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœœœœ œ. œ. œ œ. œ. bb œ œ & b S ? b œ œ œ œ bb . œ. . . . œ. œ. œ .

90

Œ

œœœœœœœ œ œœœœœœœœ œœ œœœ œ œ œ S

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S

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œ œ œ. . œ. .

œ œ

Example 6.1c. Beethoven, Sonata for Violin and Piano in E-flat Major, op. 12, no. 3, mvt. 3, refrain 3, mm. 163–70.

b & b b 42

163

œ œ œœœ œ œ œœ œ œœ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

. . œ œ. œ. bb b 2 œ œ œ. œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ & 4 p ? b b 2 œ. ‰ œ. œ œ ‰ j œ. œ b 4 œ J . . œ. œ . œ. œ. œ. œ. . . œ.

œ

œ. œ. œ œ. œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. J S S

œ œ œ j œ. œ . œ. œ œ. œ. œ. . œ. . œ. . œ. .

Example 6.1d. Beethoven, Sonata for Violin and Piano in E-flat Major, op. 12, no. 3, mvt. 3, refrain 4, first four bars, mm. 226–29.

. œ. b 2 ‰ œ œ œJ ‰ ‰ œ œ J ‰ ‰ œ œ œ. œ œ œ. œ œ œ. œ n œ b & b 4 p

226

b 2 œ . . &bb 4 œ. œ. œ œ. œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ S p ? b b 42 ∑ ∑ ∑ ∑ b

Example 6.2. Beethoven, The Creatures of Prometheus, op. 43, finale, refrain 1, mm. 1–16.

b 2 &bb 4‰

Allegretto

Flauti

Oboi

Clarinetti in B

Fagotti

... b b 2 ‰ ‰œœ œ œ b & 4 p œ. œ. œ. 2 & b 4 ‰ ‰œ œ œ p œ. œ. œ. ? b b 42 ‰ ‰ œ œ œ b p

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&

Timpani in Es B

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Violino I

Violino II

Viola

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(continued)

Example 6.2—concluded

9

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the

prometheus

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Example 6.4. Beethoven, The Creatures of Prometheus, op. 43, finale, episode 2, mm. 67–82. 67 # & 42 .. ‰ ú ∑ p ú ? # 2 .. ‰ 4 p∑

Allegretto

Oboi

Fagotti

Corni in Es

Violino I

Violino II

Viola

Violoncello e Basso

& 42 .. ‰

. # & 42 .. œJ π # & 42 .. œj . π B # 42 .. ‰

∑

œ œ #œ œ œ ú ∑ ∑ œ œ #œ œ œ ú ∑ ∑

... . œ œ. œ œ œ # œJ S

j œ. œ. œ. œ. # œ. Sœ

∑

œ. J j œ.

œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ œœ œœ π . ? # 2 .. ‰ ‰ œ œ. œ. œ. œ. œ 4 π

... œ œ œ# œ œ œ œ œ œ ∑ cresc. .∑ œ œ œ# œ œ œ œ œ œ ∑ ∑ cresc. 71

. . . ‰ œœ œ p∑. . . œ ‰ œœ p∑

∑S

‰ œœ œ œ œœ œ œœ ∑ . œ. œ. . œ. S. p cresc. . . œ. . œ. # œ. œ . . œ. œ. œ. œ œ œ œ . œ. œ. œ. # œ J œ œ œ J p S cresc. S . j j œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ. # œ. . # œ. œ. œ. œcresc. œ. . ... S S p. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. p cresc. . . œ. œ. œ œ. œ œ . . œ œ œ . œ œ œ. œ. œ œ œ S p cresc. ∑

∑

œ. . œ. # œ. œ œ. 79 œ. œ. œ. œ. œ. # œ J J cresc. S j œ œ œ j œ. œ. œ. . # œ. . # œ. œ. œ. œcresc. . S œ. œ. œ. B # .. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. œ œ œ J cresc. .. . ? # .. ‰ ‰ œ. œ. œ. œ. œ œ ‰ œ œ. œ. œ. œ. œ œ œ œ. œ. n œ. . . . . # . œ. 75 œ. œ # œ. œ # œ œ œ. & .J J S # j. & .. œj œ œ. # œ. œ. # œ. œ œj . . S .

(woodwinds omitted)

.. œœœ . ∑. S œœœ

cresc.

œ. œ. œ

œ

œ. œ. œ S œ. œ. œ. œ. œ œ œœ œ. œ. œ

œ

S

œ Œ ‰ .. œ Œ ‰ .. ∑ ..

œ

‰ ..

œ ‰ .. œœ. œœ. œœ. .. œ ‰. .

. œ. œ. œ œ Œ .. p

œ œ. œ. p. œœ. œœ. œœ. œœ. p œ œ S p

œ Œ .. œœ. œœ. œœ. ‰ .. œ Œ . .

(see ex. 6.4, mm. 71–74 and 79–82). Counting the repeats, these measures are heard four times. Beethoven follows the binary form with two more eight-measure phrases. Astoundingly, the second half of each phrase again presents the cadential measures. As a result, episode 2 has a total of six perfect authentic cadences in G, and the same four measures comprise half of the entire episode. Following the cadential stagnation of episode 2, refrain 3 enters. It adds a few embellishments and some altered instrumentation but is otherwise the

132  ❧  chapter six

same as the previous refrains. Most of refrain 4 also replicates the previous refrains. It is hard to imagine Beethoven designing a movement that is more reliant on repetition and resistant to variation as this one. Why is Beethoven content with the limited musical materials at hand? Programmatically, these repetitions can be heard as expressing an essential element of the Prometheus story’s conclusion in the ballet. In the scenario, prior to the opus 43 finale, Prometheus has already taken his creatures—a rudimentary man and woman—to Apollo. Apollo’s followers present them with music, drama, and dance to humanize them. The result is a utopian situation for which typical contrasts, variations, and development are unnecessary. Beethoven’s music basks in the celebratory moment with repeat after repeat, expressing little interest in dramatic development for 182 measures. Although repetition and lack of development are dramatically justifiable given the situation, by the fourth refrain it is natural to wonder if this rather static utopian scene is musically sustainable for so long. The blissful celebration begins to fall victim to its own repetitiveness. But then, at measure 183—nearly the last moment before the conclusion of the seven-part rondo form—Beethoven rescues the scene from being weighed down by the movement’s static nature. Beethoven hints at new possibilities of freedom and expression. During the repeat of the second part of refrain 4, at what would have been the eighth presentation of the fermata B♭ dominant-seventh chord, Beethoven replaces the expected B♭ bass note with a B♮. This leads him to expand the final phrase of refrain 4 by five measures. The dance is finally granted the possibility of musical development. The ramifications of this late escape from the strict eight-measure structure of the refrain are immediate. The coda that follows builds upon this sudden exploratory interest, and Beethoven now transforms the Prometheus theme, reimagining both its harmony and melody. The string part for this transformed theme is given in example 6.5. The repeat of the theme at measure 227 adds embellishments and avoided cadences that stand in stark contrast to the token changes to the refrain’s theme through most of the movement. Beethoven’s musical transformations at the end of refrain 4 and the coda hint at a further level of musical realization and, by extension, human realization. Beethoven’s music moves from the joyous but somewhat static celebration of Prometheus’s gifts to humanity to a vibrant exploration of what a composer can do with these gifts—here in the finale’s coda, but also continuing through the Piano Variations, op. 35, and the Eroica Symphony, op. 55. Beethoven’s Piano Variations, op. 35, treat the Prometheus theme both as an arrival and as the generator for the set’s variations. Beethoven does not

134  ❧  chapter six

start with the theme, opting instead to approach it gradually, first from an opening tonic chord, then with the theme’s bass line, and finally by adding voices over the course of the a due, a tre, and a quattro sections. In terms of the Prometheus myth, when the theme arrives, we seem to have arrived at the celebratory scene from op. 43. But now, the Prometheus theme is no longer a dance that resists exploration. Instead, it is reconceived as the launching point for exploring the theme’s possibilities through variation. Although the Piano Variations more than compensate for the developmental absence that was apparent through much of the opus 43 finale, they have their own developmental limitation. The work, bound to the key of E-flat, largely avoids the musical tension that comes from contrasting keys. Other than the coda of variation 15, which I will also consider, only variation 6, shown in example 6.6, escapes from E-flat major. Variation 6 reharmonizes the E-flat melody in the key of C minor. But faithfulness to the melody and the decision to end the variation with a perfect authentic cadence force the variation to conclude back in E-flat. Since the melody ends with an E-flat, it can be part of an imperfect authentic cadence in C minor, as happens leading into measure 17, or a perfect authentic cadence in E-flat major, as happens leading into measure 25. Beethoven’s decision to modulate back to E-flat major leaves the establishment of C minor unfulfilled.5 Although invariability of key through most of a variation set is not surprising, it is not something that Beethoven always adopted. The Six Variations on an Original Theme, op. 34, which were composed in 1802 and submitted for publication alongside opus 35, experiment with a completely different key structure. In this work the theme and the final variation are in F major, but none of the other five variations is in the home key. Each variation is in its own key, and the keys are connected by descending thirds. A striking similarity between the finale of The Creatures of Prometheus and the op. 35 Variations is that they both withhold a type of developmental exploration until the final coda. In opus 43, Beethoven avoids using anything more than minimal embellishment until the measures just prior to the coda. In opus 35, apart from variation 6, he largely avoids key contrast until the end of the variations. Example 6.7 reproduces the last variation’s coda. Beethoven returns to the C minor of variation 6 at the coda—probably the moment in the form that the listener least expects a key other than the home key of E-flat.6 Even more surprisingly, Beethoven makes no effort during the passage to depart from C minor and re-establish E-flat major. The coda ends in C minor rather than returning to the home key as one would expect.

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The last five measures prolong a dominant G-major chord, even though the fugue that follows begins not in C minor, but in E-flat major. The progression from V/vi to I, connecting the end of this coda and the beginning of the fugue, is an occasional substitute for a typical dominant– tonic relationship. It can be found through the eighteenth century with powerful effect, including in Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto no. 3, where it leads from the second to the third movement, and in Haydn’s Symphony no. 103 (“Drumroll”), where it leads from the first movement’s slow introduction to the Allegro. It is also heard in the first movement of Beethoven’s own Violin Sonata, op. 24 (“Spring”), leading from the development to the recapitulation. But as part of the coda of the op. 35 Variations, this half cadence seems particularly at odds with a coda’s usual function, which is to re-establish the tonic. According to William Caplin, one function of a coda can be the realization of unrealized implications.7 But the variation 15 coda of opus 35 does not realize unrealized implications. Instead, it reminds the listener of, and reinforces the unrealized implications of establishing C minor. This unconventional half cadence in C leaves these implications hanging again, and amplifies the lack of key diversity throughout the variation set. Variation 15’s final measures are marked “coda,” but present a better study in how not to compose a coda. These measures are more representative of a transition to a key that never materializes. The finale of the Eroica Symphony, op. 55, the next work based on the Prometheus theme, follows an opening path familiar from the Piano Variations. In both works, the bass line of the theme is followed by music leading to the entry of the Prometheus theme. But in the symphony, Beethoven introduces a key change as soon as the Prometheus theme has been heard, transforming the theme from arrival to departure point. And, quite strikingly, the music following the theme pursues the same modulatory possibility previously prepared by opus 35’s coda. Beethoven composes a transition section, reproduced in example 6.8, with the now familiar goal of the dominant harmony of C minor. The symphony’s half cadence is also followed by a fugue, but now it fulfills the modulatory expectation which was not realized in the Piano Variations. The symphony’s fugue begins in C minor at measure 117.8 From this point on, the symphony exhibits an exploration of keys far beyond anything found in the variations or fugue of opus 35. The presence of competing keys is apparent from the symphony’s opening measures. Beethoven’s first sketch of the Eroica finale introduces a degree of

the

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theme and beethoven’s shift  ❧ 139

Example 6.9. Beethoven, Eroica sketchbook, p. 30, staves 6/7, mm. 12–17, sketch of mvt. 1, end of the development into the recapitulation.

[& bbb] ú

#œ

[? bbb]

œ aœ

ú Nœ

nœ

ú

œ

ú

œ

œ

ú

œ

Example 6.10. Beethoven, Eroica sketchbook, p. 71, staves 4 to 8/9. 4

5

¢

&b

b •ú

œ œ. œ œ œ œ Nœ œ œ œ #œ œ œ Nœ œ œ Nœ aœ œ œ Nœ œ J aœ. ú ú œ œ in 3en etc dopo ú

¢? • ú ¢

b

b • œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ Nœ œ & b œ œ œ œ Nœ œ œ #œ œNœ œ ú ƒ ¢? b • ú ú 7 b ú ú ú ú ú ú 2 œ œ œ œ œ ¢ • #œ œ aœ œ .. Œ 8 & b

6

9

¢? b • bb

h#h

ú

ú

ú

œ

.

oder

œ œ

œ œ

œ œ

œœ

œ

ú œ. œ U ú ! J ú . œ n œ N œ œ #œ. œ . a œ etc J J attaca J J g moll ú Vi= [→st. 16] ú ú œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ n œœ N œœ œœ œ Œ

ú

jnœ. œ nœ. œ œ. œ J J œ [Œ ]

œ Œ

It is a return on a much larger scale, in which Beethoven revisits his wellused Prometheus theme.11 Each of the three large Prometheus-theme movements rethinks the ingredients that allow humanity to realize its potential. The finale of The Creatures of Prometheus is a celebration of the attainment from the start, content to generally repeat the opening musical materials, but with the hint during the coda that variation and transformation can contribute to further development. Variation and transformation are central to the Piano Variations, op. 35. Again, a coda hints that a further level of achievement can be explored, this time with contrasting keys. The finale of the Eroica, beginning with a fiery passage on the dominant of a non-tonic key—G minor—confronts this new challenge of incorporating musical material that seems radically outside of the Prometheus theme. The inclusion of G minor into the symphony’s identity is also apparent in the Alla Marcia section of the movement (mm. 211–57). Early sketches for this movement are focused on the introduction of these G-minor elements. A concept sketch that starts on p. 71, staff 4 of the Eroica sketchbook, the beginning of which is reproduced in example 6.10, uses text as a shorthand

140  ❧  chapter six Table 6.1. Four sections in op. 55, movement 4, separating the Poco Andante from the alternating tonic–dominant theme Poco Andante (measures 349–96) 1. Transition to A-flat (measures 396–403) 2. A-flat section to V/G (measures 404–19) 3. G minor section (measures 420–30) 4. Presto opening (measures 431–35) Alternating tonic–dominant theme (measures 435–47)

placeholder for some of the E-flat sections, while displaying the notes for the G-minor sections, making the role of the new key particularly pronounced. The conclusion of the finale also grapples with G minor to an extent not possible in the earlier works. The sketches suggest that Beethoven found the last seventy-eight measures of the fourth movement—that is, everything following the two Poco Andante presentations of the theme—the most challenging to write. In his “Eroica” Variations, op. 35, he was satisfied with a ten-measure passage following the theme that crescendos to the end. This conclusion is as firmly grounded in the tonic as one could desire. The final version of the symphony arrives at this alternating tonic–dominant theme at measure 435, but only following a long search. In the final version of the symphony, four sections separate the symphony’s Poco Andante section from the alternating tonic–dominant theme (see table 6.1). The sketches for this passage in the symphony, from pages 81–91 of the Eroica sketchbook, show Beethoven experimenting with the role, if any, of G minor, and even questioning whether the Presto opening should return. On page 81, and again on page 82, Beethoven does not go to G minor at all. Example 6.11a shows the latter sketch. The A-flat section returns to E-flat major for an eleven-measure passage and then proceeds to the Presto opening, again in E-flat. The alternate version on page 83, shown in example 6.11b, takes the radical step of transposing the third section to G minor, as in the final version. However, to smooth out the move back to E-flat major, Beethoven introduces a two-measure retransition toward the end of staff 2 and omits the Presto opening, instead proceeding directly to the E-flat theme that alternates tonic and dominant. Beethoven’s next continuity draft, not shown here, shortens the retransition from G minor to E-flat major from two measures down to one. Then, on page 88, Beethoven eliminates the retransition altogether, as shown in example 6.11c. There is no need for it,

the

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theme and beethoven’s shift  ❧ 143

because the Presto opening is reintroduced, now beginning in G minor. The modulation back to E-flat major (both in this sketch and in the final version) occurs within the Presto opening, rather than before it. In these sketch pages, Beethoven realizes an ending commensurate with the scale of his symphony and commensurate with the search for possibilities that has occupied him over the three Prometheus works. Interestingly, these works present a continuum of how much the tonic is threatened by G, as a key or as a chord. In The Creatures of Prometheus the second episode is in G major. The section’s possible independence from the rest of the work is evidenced by its appearance as part of WoO 14’s Contredanse 11. The retransition from it to E-flat major occurs smoothly by descending-fifth sequence. In the Piano Variations, the only variation that is not in E flat is variation 6 in C minor. But the final variation, no. 15 in E-flat major, has a coda which unexpectedly returns to C minor, and ends with five measures on its dominant harmony, which is G major. At the juncture between the last variation and the Finale alla Fuga, Beethoven leaves this G chord hanging and proceeds directly to the tonic E-flat. And a significant element of the identity of the symphony’s fourth movement is that it contends with the presence of G minor at the opening, during the Alla Marcia section, and leading up to the closing Presto. The Prometheus theme has itself been transformed: from an insular theme intended in opus 43 to largely resist development and variation to a theme that builds its character and strength through development, variation, and a connection to that which is different. The symphony’s conclusive celebration arrives at measure 435 and inhabits a much shorter and later position than in The Creatures of Prometheus. Human potential is not completely defined by the gift from Prometheus. Instead, this potential relies on what the individual or group does with the gift. This idea aligns with Stephen Rumph’s opinion that Viganò’s Prometheus libretto “served Beethoven less as a program than as a springboard into a broader intellectual tradition” of Universalgeschichte, which “traces the education of humanity from an instinctual harmony with nature to a state of rational freedom.”12 John Eliot Gardiner has said that in the Fifth Symphony Beethoven has reached for “the blazing sunshine” that is “within the grasp of man, if only he takes it.”13 The same may be said of the Eroica Symphony and even the musical journey within all of the Prometheus works. And while no other Beethoven works incorporate the Prometheus theme, Beethoven continues to build upon the ideas and compositional techniques that develop through these works. The end of the Eroica Symphony’s finale

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is not the end of the story, but continues to influence what comes next. A few pages after his last sketch of the Eroica Symphony’s finale, Beethoven embarks on his first opera project, Vestas Feuer. And in what, for him, was the uncharted territory of opera composition, Beethoven latches onto the harmonic successes he worked out for the conclusion of his symphony. As Lewis Lockwood and I point out in our commentary to Beethoven’s Eroica sketchbook, the opera Vestas Feuer opens by tracing the symphony’s familiar path, beginning in G minor and modulating to E-flat major.14 The modulation occurs in the orchestra in measures 53–60 and is quite similar to the striking Presto opening that Beethoven has just worked out for the end of his symphony. Both passages are reproduced in example 6.12. They both move from G minor to the dominant of E-flat in preparation for a theme. And each modulatory passage reworks the opening material. Beethoven’s reuse of the Eroica finale’s harmonic and formal material paves the way for his next great musical exploration: his first opera. The Prometheus-themed works continue to impact Beethoven’s output, and, somewhat paradoxically, announce an opportunity to break away from what has been composed previously. Beethoven again reaches for the blazing sunshine from the Prometheus works to illuminate a new exploratory path.

Bibliography Caplin, William E. Classical Form: A Theory of Formal Functions for the Music of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven. New York: Oxford University Press, 1998. Cooper, Barry. Beethoven and the Creative Process. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990. Gardiner, Sir John Eliot. Beethoven’s “Empire of the Spirit.” Keynote address presented at the conference “Utopian Visions and Visionary Art: Beethoven’s ‘Empire of the Mind’—Revisited,” sponsored by the Internationales Forschungszentrum Kulturwissenschaften and the Musik und Kunst Privatuniversität der Stadt Wien, Vienna, Austria, March 15, 2017. Lockwood, Lewis. Beethoven’s Symphonies: An Artistic Vision. New York: Norton, 2015. ———. Beethoven: The Music and the Life. New York: Norton, 2003. ———. “The Compositional Genesis of the ‘Eroica’ Finale.” In Beethoven’s Compositional Process, edited by William Kinderman, 82–101. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, in association with the American Beethoven Society and the Ira F. Brilliant Center for Beethoven Studies, San Jose State University, 1991. Reprinted in Beethoven: Studies in the Creative Process, 151–66. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992.

146  ❧  chapter six Lockwood, Lewis, and Alan Gosman, eds. Beethoven’s “Eroica” Sketchbook: A Critical Edition; Transcription, Facsimile, Commentary. 2 vols. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2013. Rumph, Stephen. Beethoven after Napoleon: Political Romanticism in the Late Works. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004.

Notes 1 Cooper, Beethoven, 73. 2 Ibid., 74. 3 Lockwood, Beethoven’s Symphonies, 43. 4 I am distinguishing between seven-part rondo (ABACADA) and sonata-rondo. See Caplin, Classical Form, 235. 5 It is unusual for a binary section to end in one key the first time it is heard and in another key when the section is repeated. Given this, it is intriguing that Beethoven also presents a modulation during a repeated section in the theme for the second movement of the Eroica Symphony. In the later work, measures 1–8 end in C minor and measures 9–16 end in E-flat major, the same keys and order found in opus 35. In addition, variation 6 of opus 35 makes use of F minor as does the “Marcia funebre” theme, which returns in F minor in measure 31. 6 Although there are other instances where Beethoven’s codas begin away from the home key (e.g., the third movement of the Sonata, op. 12, no. 1), it is a startling effect in each case. 7 Caplin, Classical Form, 187. 8 Beethoven’s decision to have a C-minor entrance for this fugal passage might have made him rethink the key of the second movement’s fugal passage. Initially, Beethoven planned the second movement’s fugue (beginning at m. 114 of the final version) in C minor. All of the sketches in the Eroica sketchbook utilize this key, but at some time after these sketches he revises the passage to begin in F minor, just as we know it today. It is interesting that there are different compositional histories for the role of C minor in the opus 35 fugue and the first two fugal passages of the symphony. In opus 35, Beethoven’s variation 15 coda prepares for a fugue in C minor, but he composes the fugue in E-flat major. In the second movement of opus 55, Beethoven initially composes the fugue in C minor, but then rewrites it to be in F minor. In the last movement of the symphony, the fugue beginning at m. 117 is in C minor. 9 Beethoven may have preserved the tonic chord at the beginning of opus 35 by relocating it to the opening of the first movement’s introductory measures. Initially, he sketched the first movement to begin with dominant chords, so the decision to use tonic chords to open the first movement required more

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consideration than one might assume. With this revision, the op. 35 Variations seem to be established as the starting point for the entire symphony and not just for the movement based on the Prometheus theme. See Lockwood and Gosman, Beethoven’s “Eroica” Sketchbook, 1:42–44, which provides further discussion of the opening to the symphony’s outer movements. 10 Lockwood and Gosman, Beethoven’s “Eroica” Sketchbook, 30 in the pagination of the sketchbook proper. 11 Ibid., 1:42. 12 Rumph, Beethoven after Napoleon, 66. 13 Gardiner, “Beethoven’s ‘Empire of the Spirit.’” 14 Lockwood and Gosman, Beethoven’s “Eroica” Sketchbook, 1:59–60.

Chapter Seven

Beethoven at Heiligenstadt in 1802: Deconstruction, Integration, and Creativity William Kinderman Beethoven’s sojourn in the village of Heiligenstadt near Vienna from May until October 1802 marks a pivotal phase in his artistic creativity that coincided with his despair over his incurable deafness. Until recently the biographical circumstances have been better understood than the artistic ramifications. On the advice of his doctor Johann Adam Schmidt, and in response to alarm over his loss of hearing, Beethoven moved into seclusion in this village of four hundred inhabitants, whose thermal spa was already known to the Romans two millennia earlier. The moving Heiligenstadt Testament, dated October 6 and 10, vividly conveys Beethoven’s depressive and suicidal thoughts, which he held at bay in favor of renewed commitment to his art. Our understanding of the chronology of the compositional projects that occupied him at Heiligenstadt can be made more precise through reevaluation of the surviving sketchbooks. This clarification gives us enhanced insight into Beethoven’s creative process. The term “deconstruction,” which is associated particularly with Jacques Derrida, can be applied not only to literary criticism but also to music analysis.1 Deconstruction implies not a fixed methodology but a dynamic approach to examining cultural works, an approach that in Lawrence Kramer’s words is “exemplified in other-voicedness, keep[ing] discourse circulating and

beethoven at heiligenstadt in 1802  ❧ 149

thaw[ing] frozen positions. . . [as] a sign of life.”2 An investigative attitude resistant to a priori structures and conventions is proposed. This general notion of deconstruction may be adduced to describe Beethoven’s innovative treatment of compositional materials, as is well documented in the succession of three sketchbooks he used during the half-year he spent in the countryside: the Kessler sketchbook, which was nearly filled with entries when he arrived in Heiligenstadt; the Wielhorsky sketchbook, whose musical contents are closely interwoven with Kessler; and the Eroica sketchbook, a source that he seems to have begun using as early as October 1802, shortly before his return from Heiligenstadt to Vienna. As we shall see, Beethoven’s process of deconstruction is wedded to an integrative impulse, and this interaction enhances the aesthetic boundaries of his music. At this time Beethoven was especially occupied with the composition of works for piano, including the Prometheus or “Eroica” Variations in E-flat Major, op. 35, and the so-called “Tempest” Sonata in D Minor, op. 31, no. 2. The present essay focuses especially on these two pieces. Each of these piano works in turn became important to Beethoven’s subsequent labors on symphonies. The Prometheus Variations served as a springboard for the Eroica Symphony and particularly its finale, which was composed soon thereafter, in 1803. The first movement of the “Tempest” Sonata, on the other hand, displays some striking affinities to the Ninth Symphony, which was finished more than two decades later. The contents of the Kessler sketchbook are revealing in relation to this connection between sonata and symphony. The following essay is divided into two parts. The first part discusses aspects of the compositional genesis of these pieces and examines how Beethoven changed the initial ideas that he sketched. In the second part some guiding principles are discerned in Beethoven’s working method, ideas that enable broader insights into the aesthetics of his creativity. 1 When Beethoven settled into his summer lodgings in Heiligenstadt in May 1802, he had recently completed several projects, including the Second Symphony and the Violin Sonatas, op. 30. His ballet music, The Creatures of Prometheus, op. 43, had by then received more than twenty performances in Vienna. His work on the piano sonatas eventually published as op. 31 was motivated by a request from the publisher Hans Georg Nägeli in Zürich, which probably reached Beethoven before the end of May. It is likely that Beethoven drew upon some existing sketches in turning his attention to

150  ❧  chapter seven

these sonatas, but it seems clear that his work in the Kessler sketchbook on the first two sonatas, the G-major Sonata, op. 31, no. 1, and the “Tempest” Sonata in D Minor, op. 31, no. 2, dates from his time at Heiligenstadt.3 The Kessler sketchbook, like the Wielhorsky and Eroica sketchbooks, has been published in transcription. In his edition of Kessler, Sieghard Brandenburg erred on the side of caution in identifying musical material related to the genesis of the “Tempest” Sonata, listing only a much-discussed draft for its first movement found on folio 65v and entries connected to the finale found on folio 95r and 95v.4 As Barry Cooper observed, material related to all three movements can be identified in more than one section of the sketchbook. The distribution of these sketches is unusual. The entries related to the “Tempest” Sonata near the end of the sketchbook preceded Beethoven’s sketches for this piece on folio 65v and 66r; Cooper notes correctly that “the sketch on fol. 90v is a main source of the D-minor sonata, and the one on fol. 65v .  .  . a replacement for it.”5 As Beethoven ran out of space in Kessler, he utilized remaining blank spaces on earlier pages of the book, which explains why some later entries appear much earlier in the manuscript. This sequence of events is demonstrated by the content of the sketches and confirmed through the presence of multiple folds Beethoven made in the original sketchbook, folds that are partially visible in the published facsimile. Similar folds have been found in the Eroica sketchbook and other Beethoven manuscripts.6 Beethoven’s work in the Kessler sketchbook on his pair of innovative variation sets for piano, the Variations in F major, op. 34, and the Prometheus Variations in E-flat major, op. 35, slightly precedes the entries for the op. 31 Sonatas. These variation sets occupied Beethoven after he completed the “Tempest” Sonata, as is shown by the Wielhorsky sketchbook. Wielhorsky begins with entries for the last of the three sonatas, op. 31, no. 3, and continues with extended entries for opus 34 and especially opus 35, sketches that are intimately interconnected with the material for the Prometheus Variations contained in Kessler. While working on opus 35, and having run out of space in Kessler, Beethoven copied and reworked material from this sketchbook while composing in Wielhorsky.7 On October 18, 1802, shortly after his return to Vienna from Heiligenstadt, Beethoven announced to Breitkopf & Härtel that he had completed these two variation sets (opus 34 and opus 35) in “a really completely new manner” (“eine wirklich ganz neue Manier”).8 What the “completely new manner” entails has often been debated by commentators. One viewpoint, espoused by Glenn Stanley, is that “the ‘wirklich ganz neue

beethoven at heiligenstadt in 1802  ❧ 151

Manier’ was not really as new as Beethoven wanted his publisher to believe” and that these works “are the last in a line of experiments in the variation” up to this time, whereby Beethoven’s earlier variations sets—such as his Eight Variations in F on the trio “Tändeln und Scherzen” from Franz Süssmayr’s Soliman II, WoO 76—are seen as anticipating innovations of the Prometheus Variations.9 Even if specific techniques are adumbrated in such earlier compositions, it is hard to deny the overall impression of originality in these pieces from 1802, to which Beethoven pointedly assigned opus numbers, after having withheld opus numbers from his numerous earlier variation sets based on borrowed themes. There was another nudge to which Beethoven probably responded with his reference to a “new manner” and in his shaping of the sonatas and variations alike. In soliciting works for his “Répertoire des Clavecinists” project, Nägeli explicitly called for ambitious contributions, and he later articulated this desire as follows: “piano solo works on a demanding large scale, showing many departures from the ordinary sonata style. These pieces should be characterized by expansiveness, richness, and fullness. Contrapuntal sections will be united with artistic pianistic offerings.”10 Beethoven rose to the occasion in his two variations sets as well as his new sonatas. On folio 88v, next to motivic sketches for the theme of opus 34, he wrote “jede V:[ariation] in einer andern Taktart” (“each variation in a different meter”), an idea that he eventually expanded by varying not only the meters but the keys in each successive variation. With the Prometheus Variations, a path to innovation might have seemed less immediately obvious, given Beethoven’s own earlier, extensive use of the contredanse in E-flat major associated with the glorification of Prometheus in his ballet music Die Geschöpfe des Prometheus, op. 43. Although this theme was indeed Beethoven’s own, it was already familiar to Viennese audiences. As a line-dance with English associations, the contredanse was regarded as politically progressive: because of its exchange of partners, the contredanse reflected the erosion of class divisions around the turn of the nineteenth century. From the beginning of the sketches starting on folio 82v in “Kessler,” Beethoven employed a striking new point of departure in his composition of these variations: he used just the isolated bass of the theme, or basso del tema, as the basis for the first section. Sketches for the beginning of the work on folio 82v and again on folio 85v precede sketches in string quartet score on folios 89r and 89v; it is tempting to see in these latter sketches one point of origin for the first variations on the basso del tema in the finale of the

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Eroica Symphony, with its use of an orchestration of strings.11 The strippeddown, fragmentary character of the basso del tema provokes thought. The awkward, stiff quality of the bass heard by itself may reflect the crude status of the clay figures or proto-human “creatures” in the ballet, who have yet to experience an awareness of creativity or any appreciation of the actions and sacrifices of Prometheus on their behalf. Starting with such an elemental vision, Beethoven builds up from the basso del tema an unfolding transformative musical progression leading to the theme itself. From this beginning, the entire movement becomes a metaphor for creativity. On the pages of Kessler immediately following his initial sketches for the variation sets opp. 34 and 35, Beethoven made entries for the op. 31 sonatas for Nägeli. Sketches for all three movements of the G-Major Sonata, op. 31, no. 1, are found scattered through folios 91v–96v, with a rhythmic idea related to its first movement written in string quartet score on foliof 88v. The initial draft for the first movement of the “Tempest” Sonata in D Minor, op. 31, no. 2, is written on folio 90v. The tremolo texture on the open fifth D-A in the bass at the outset of this draft shows an affinity to the beginning of the Ninth Symphony, a work completed more than twenty years later; the subsequent draft on folio 65v contains recitative passages, which in the finished sonata invite comparison to the recitative “O Freunde, nicht diese Töne!” in the Ninth. Possibly related to this first draft on folio 90v as ideas for subsequent movements are a draft in F major for a “min[uetto]” and “tri[o]” on folio 91r and a short sketch featuring perpetuum mobile figuration in  meter on folio 91v. Other sketches probably related to the evolution of the finale and carrying the designation “Sonat[a] 2 da” are found on folios 95r and 95v, but these are written in A minor, not D minor. Let us consider in this context Beethoven’s subsequent sketches for the second movement of the “Tempest” Sonata, which have received scant attention. As we have seen, once the last sections of Kessler were filled up by sketches, Beethoven found remaining open space by leafing back to folio 65v, where he entered a draft for the first movement that is unequivocally a blueprint for the work as we know it. The facing page, folio 66r, was at that point also largely unused, apart from an earlier notation at the top of the page for the finale of the Violin Sonata in A Major, op. 31, no. 1. Some of the sketches in B-flat major and in  (or ) meter that Beethoven entered on this page can be confidently associated with the genesis of the slow movement of the “Tempest” Sonata.12 Cooper provides comments on the first sketch on folio 66r in B-flat major and in  meter, which has the words “alla menuetto” written beside

beethoven at heiligenstadt in 1802  ❧ 153 Example 7.1a. Kessler sketchbook, fol. 65v, staves 3 and 4.

Example 7.1b. Kessler sketchbook, fol. 66r, staves 3 and 4.

b3 &b 4

? bb 43 œ œ ≈ œ œ ≈ œ

œ œ

œ œœœœœ œ Œ œ Œ

œ œ

œ ≈œ œ ≈

œ œ

œ œœœ œ œ #œ œ Œ

alla menuetto

it. He rejects the connection between the “alla menuetto” designation and the notated music, claiming, “this is surely no minuet—least of all a fast Beethovenian one—for its opening theme, bounding unevenly up the keyboard, would sound distinctly comical, if not ludicrous, played in minuet time.”13 In fact, though, this sketch does indeed display the character of a minuet, and its motives, registral contrasts, and rhetoric of dialogue reward attention in relation to other sketches. Beethoven’s sketch is shown in example 7.1b; the beginning of the related draft of the first movement written on the facing page in the sketchbook is shown in example 7.1a. Both sketches are shown according to Brandenburg’s transcription. Noteworthy in the “alla menuetto” sketch is the triadic arpeggiation of chords rising from the bass octave B♭ in measures 1–2 and then from F in measures 5–6, a motivic shape paralleling the initial ascending motive of the first movement, although the harmonic position of these chords is now in root position, and not in first inversion. Also comparable to

154  ❧  chapter seven Example 7.2. Kessler sketchbook, fol. 65v, staves 3 and 4. Kessler sketchbook, fol. 66v, staves 12 and 13.

b6 &b 8 ? bb 68

œ

‰ œ J

œ

œœ

œ

œ J

œ

œœ

œ

œjœ œœ œ nœ bœ œ

J

œœ

œ œœ œ œ œ œœ

J

J

œ

the first movement is the answering phrase in the treble, which descends by step from the fifth degree. The placement of this pair of motives in dialogue and their sequential treatment relates conspicuously to the beginning of the first movement of the “Tempest” Sonata, both in its draft version on folio 65v and in the finished work. In Beethoven’s sketches for these two movements, the calligraphy, ink, and spatial positioning match closely; the sketch of this “alla menuetto” is written in the second system (staves 3–4) directly to the right of the corresponding draft for the outset of the first movement, marked “Sonata 2da.” Beethoven has transformed here the motivic material from the outset of the first movement while setting forth his sketch for the ensuing movement in B-flat major, a movement in triple meter suggestive of a minuet. Despite his notation “alla menuetto,” another sketch in B-flat major and in  meter lower on this same page (staves 8/9) is marked “ad[a]g[io],” establishing the tempo Beethoven retained for this movement in the finished work. Even more important is the sketch for the opening of the projected movement found toward the bottom of the page (staves 12/13), written in the same ink and calligraphy as the entry for the “ad[a]g[io]” above. Instead of the rising broken chord including all of the triadic pitches, Beethoven retains here only a dotted quarter note on B♭; following a rest, he then writes a double-dotted figure spanning the third D–F beginning a tenth higher (ex. 7.2). As in his initial “alla menuetto” sketch, this motivic idea is restated on the dominant; the continuation includes a stepwise descending figure comparable to the last notated measures of the “alla menuetto” entry. Beethoven thereby modified his initial idea such that the “alla menuetto” character was obscured and became unrecognizable. Any animated “bounding up the keyboard” has vanished. Instead, we are made aware of a conspicuous registral gap, the span of a rising tenth from B♭ to D, with this wide intervallic distance emphasized by the slow tempo of Adagio. We can see here how Beethoven gradually conceived the outset of the Adagio as we know it, since these exact pitches, with a double-dotted rhythm

beethoven at heiligenstadt in 1802  ❧ 155

marking the figure in the isolated higher register, are employed at the outset of the finished movement. To be sure, Beethoven later altered the notation of the initial B♭, changing the dotted quarter to a dotted half, so that the answering motive is placed at the outset of a new measure. His sketch on folio 66r remained just a rough outline of was what was to come. Nevertheless, the Kessler sketchbook reveals a striking antecedent version, a distinctive context out of which Beethoven’s compositional ideas took root. 1 In the case of the Prometheus Variations, as with the Adagio of the “Tempest” Sonata, Beethoven’s creative process advanced through a process of critical assessment, involving the removal, even the negation, of material. The introductory variations take shape in a space in which the preexisting upper-line melody is withheld. Only gradually does the work unfold from the basso del tema, progressing with an addition of voices through a due, a tre, and a quattro presentations, thereby making the ultimate arrival of the theme with its bass a more consequential event. As Beethoven certainly knew, Prometheus was the ancient Greek Titan-God of forethought.14 The fundamental idea of using the basso del tema in this way was a brilliantly productive insight rich in implications. Beethoven’s sketches reveal further aspects of this process. In a recent essay on Beethoven’s opus 34 and opus 35, which builds on Christopher Reynolds’s work, Joanna Biermann observes that Beethoven’s first plan using the basso del tema in opus 35 lacked two important subtleties of the final version, thus depriving us of two of the most impressive aspects of this introduction: 1) the bass was planned originally to rise from the bass to the top register, but then to fall back to the middle register; this would have deprived us of the direct registral confrontation of the basso and the tema that seems so significant; and 2) for the accompaniments in the a due, a tre and a quattro Beethoven used “not contrapuntal elaborations of the theme but already the theme itself.” This would have robbed us of the cumulative effect of the three sections with their sense of process towards achieving the theme, had Beethoven not changed his concept.15

An inspection of Beethoven’s revisions to his drafts shows how he distanced the contrapuntal accompaniments to the basso del tema from the contredanse theme. The process was thematic but also rhythmic; in the first half of the a due section he removed sixteenth-note motion that anticipated the

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theme that was included in the draft in Kessler on folio 85v. In that draft, the a tre version was to have begun with the same motivic figure as the a due; Beethoven subsequently reshaped its motives to bring them more effectively into relief, beginning in a higher register. In the a quattro, on the other hand, he improved his draft version by curtailing longer chains of sixteenth notes and replacing these with an energetic three-note upbeat figure of two sixteenths moving to an eighth; since this motive appears in just a single measure of the theme (m. 7, but on the beat), the resulting anticipation of the contredanse is subtle but effective. This compositional strategy is linked to Beethoven’s dynamic plan for the entire opening section, with the a quattro section conveying a lively forte character, while accents are placed on the long notes of the basso del tema, thereby setting into relief the lyrical dolce quality of the ensuing “Tema.” At the top of folio 82v of Kessler, at the outset of the sequence of sketches for opus 35, Beethoven entered a sketch for variation 3 of the final version, here labeled “No I,” a variation idea in which the aforementioned robust rhythmic figure of two sixteenths moving to an accented eighth is prominent. In his final shaping of the introductory sequence of the a due, a tre, and “A Quattro” sections, Beethoven not only created gradual progress toward the theme itself but also offered vivid anticipation of its subsequent developmental possibilities. The initial full-voiced fortissimo E-flat chord preceding the hushed pianissimo basso del tema already succinctly forecasts something of this dynamic context. The urgency of the accented notes of the basso del tema in the “A Quattro” section, reinforced by the sixteenth-note texture generated by the robust three-note figure, provides an effective preparation for the contredanse, but also points beyond, as befits the Promethean character. In the Adagio of the “Tempest” Sonata, as in the opening section of the Prometheus Variations, Beethoven interrogated the genre expectations of his compositional point of departure, here again a dance type, as is implied by the designation “alla menuetto.” The rhythmic swing of the minuet was supplanted by a searching concentration on terse motivic figures in contrasting registers marked by silences, in a slow tempo. Nevertheless, some traces of the original conception remain, and can be recognized through examination of the manuscript sources. Beethoven’s compositional process here calls to mind what literary critics have named “deconstruction”: the critical examination of a model such that its qualities are dissected and transformed. Such deconstruction involves not destruction but a critical, sometimes ironic reassessment of fixed assumptions or established norms. While deconstructing the contredanse or the

beethoven at heiligenstadt in 1802  ❧ 157

“alla menuetto,” Beethoven does not fail to integrate the music on other, less conventional lines, thereby expanding the expressive resources of his art. The introductory section of the Prometheus Variations provides an impressive example. This kind of open, probing attitude is also found in other pieces Beethoven sketched in Kessler and composed during the summer of 1802 at Heiligenstadt, such as the delicious parody of Italian opera idioms embodied in the Adagio grazioso of the Piano Sonata in G Major, op. 31, no. 1.16 Finally, let us consider the aesthetic complexity and mysterious darkening of character of the Adagio of the “Tempest” Sonata in its final version. Although the Adagio is set in a major key and evolved at first in relation to minuet style, it evokes a reflective, somewhat ominous atmosphere. The main theme is meditative, its continuity impeded by a play of registral contrasts; the principal three-note figure generates striking harmonic dissonances. The main theme is characterized by empty spaces: gaps in register and gaps in sound. The biographical context also merits reflection. Might this extraordinary music perhaps be linked to Beethoven’s experience of his hearing loss? The transitional zones between themes are punctuated by terse rhythmic interjections, strange gestures evocative of drum beats. In Beethoven, such drumrolls can be disquieting owing to their association with the strife of warfare. In the Heiligenstadt Testament, Beethoven laments his loneliness (“I am utterly alone”) and his being “forced . . . to become a philosopher.” In the addendum of the document, he bids farewell, alluding to his “withered and blighted” hope of attaining a cure for his deafness. The text ends with a fervent prayer: Oh Providence, grant me but one day of unalloyed joy. It has been so long since I have felt the intimate reverberations of true joy. When, oh when, Divine One, shall I feel them again in the Temple of Nature and Mankind. Never? No, that would be too cruel.17

This passage may bear relevance to Beethoven’s Adagio. The sonata contains one bright oasis, a melody that might be regarded as a moment of “unalloyed” or “true joy”: the second subject of the slow movement (mm. 31–38). This theme stands out for its sensitive textures and shaping. The melody is marked dolce and exhibits a flowing accompaniment and gentle rhythmic swing. Only here does the otherwise-suppressed minuet character of the music receive gracious heartfelt expression. The lyrical potential of doubledotted figures and ornamental flourishes from the opening theme come to

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fruition. Despite its slow tempo marking, this melodic subject invites comparison to decorated minuets in Beethoven’s piano music, such as the Tempo di menuetto, moderato (variation 33) that closes the “Diabelli” Variations, op. 120. Beethoven frames the exquisite dolce theme in the slow movement of the “Tempest” Sonata by transitions bearing the ominous drumroll figures, whereas the absence of a development section in the musical design further emphasizes this gracious slow minuet. Even writers hesitant to indulge in descriptive commentary have been touched by the melodic inspiration of this theme. In his rather formalistic analysis otherwise dismissive of the alleged Shakespearean connection to The Tempest, Donald Francis Tovey writes about this theme that “it will do you no harm to think of Miranda,” Prospero’s compassionate young daughter.18 Shakespeare’s Miranda, gazing at shipwrecked passengers on the island, marvels, “How beauteous mankind is!” The utopian thrust and purity of her character are at one with Beethoven’s “intimate reverberations of true joy” in his Adagio. His choice of words in the Heiligenstadt Testament (“So lange schon ist der wahren Freude inniger widerhall mir fremd”—“It has been so long since I have felt the intimate reverberations of true joy”) stresses an acoustical or musical embodiment of joy, a sublime echo heard in response to yearning.

Bibliography Beethoven, Ludwig van. Briefwechsel Gesamtausgabe. Edited by Sieghard Brandenburg. 7 vols. Munich: Henle, 1996–98. ———. Kesslersiches Skizzenbuch. Edited by Sieghard Brandenburg. 2 vols. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 1976–78. Biermann, Joanna Cobb. “Beethoven’s ‘New Path’ and the Variation Cycles op. 34 and 35.” In Beethoven: Studien und Interpretationen, vol. 7, edited by Magdalena Chrenkoff, 269–81. Kraków: Akademia Muzyczna w Krakowie, 2018. Cooper, Barry. Beethoven and the Creative Process. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990. Hatten, Robert. “Beethoven’s Italian Trope: Modes of Stylistic Appropriation.” Beethoven Forum 13 (2006): 1–27. Johnson, Douglas, Alan Tyson, and Robert Winter. The Beethoven Sketchbooks: History, Reconstruction, Inventory. Edited by Douglas Johnson. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1985. Kramer, Lawrence. Music as Cultural Practice, 1800–1900. Berkeley and London: University of California Press, 1990.

beethoven at heiligenstadt in 1802  ❧ 159 Krims, Adam. “Disciplining Deconstruction (for Music Analysis).” 19th Century Music 21 (1998): 297–324. Lockwood, Lewis, and Alan Gosman, eds. Beethoven’s “Eroica” Sketchbook: A Critical Edition; Transcription, Facsimile, Commentary. 2 vols. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2013. Mies, Paul, “Beethovens Werke über seinem Kontretanz in Es-Dur.” Beethoven-Jahrbuch 1 (1954): 80–102. Reynolds, Chrisopher. “Beethoven’s Sketches for the Variations in E-flat op. 35.” In Beethoven Studies, vol. 3, edited by Alan Tyson, 47–84. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982. Stanley, Glenn. “The ‘wirklich gantz neue Manier’ and the Path to It: Beethoven’s Variations for Piano, 1783–1802.” In Beethoven Forum, vol. 3, edited by Glenn Stanley, 53–79. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1994. Tovey, Donald Francis. A Companion to Beethoven’s Pianoforte Sonatas. London: Associated Board of the Royal Schools of Music, 1931.

Notes 1

For an assessment of studies applying the notion of “deconstruction” to music, see Krims, “Disciplining Deconstruction for Music Analysis),” and the sources cited therein. 2 See Kramer, Music as Cultural Practice, 213. 3 See Johnson, Tyson, and, Winter, The Beethoven Sketchbooks, 126 and 128; and Cooper, Beethoven, 178. 4 See Beethoven, Kesslerisches Skizzenbuch, 2:28. The music examples in the present article are drawn from Brandenburg’s edition. 5 Cooper, Beethoven, 186. 6 Alan Gosman devotes a chapter to “Page Folds in Landsberg 6” in the edition he prepared together with Lewis Lockwood of that sketchbook. See Lockwood and Gosman, Beethoven’s “Eroica” Sketchbook, 1:14–19. I noted such page folds marking fols. 65–66 of the Kessler sketchbook while examining the original manuscript in the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Vienna in June 2017. Conspicuous vertical folds can be seen in the facsimile edition of the sketchbook, two-thirds of the way across both fol. 66r and fol. 67v. 7 This process is outlined in detail in Reynolds, “Beethoven’s Sketches.” 8 See Kesslerisches Skizzenbuch, 1:126 (no. 108). 9 See Stanley, “The ‘wirklich gantz neue Manier,’” 53–79, esp. 73–78; quotation from 78. 10 “Klavier-Solos in grossem Styl, von grossem Umfang, in mannigfaltigen Abweichungen von der gewöhnlichen Sonaten-Form zu thun. Ausführlichkeit, Reichhaltigkeit, Vollstimmigkeit soll diese Produkte auszeichnen.

160  ❧  chapter seven Contrapunktische Sätze müssen mit künstlichen Klavierspieler-Touren verwebt seyn,” cited in Kesslerisches Skizzenbuch, 1:16. The announcement with this text by Nägeli was printed in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung in August 1803. The surviving correspondence between Nägeli and Beethoven is incomplete, and Nägeli probably expressed his desire for innovative, demanding contributions when requesting sonatas from Beethoven in 1802. 11 See in this regard Mies, “Beethovens Werke über seinem Kontretanz in Es-Dur,” 85. 12 In his edition of the sketchbook, Brandenburg does not associate these entries with opus 31, no. 2. 13 Cooper, Beethoven, 191. 14 The name carries literally that meaning: Προμηθεύς = “Fore-Thought.” 15 Biermann, “Beethoven’s ‘New Path,’” 269–81, at 277; the quotation stems from Reynolds, “Beethoven’s Sketches,” 52. 16 See in this context Hatten, “Beethoven’s Italian Trope,” 1–27. 17 My translation. For the original German text, see Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 1:123 (no. 105). 18 Tovey, A Companion, 121.

Chapter Eight

“Mit Verstärkung des Orchesters”: The Orchestral Personnel at the First Public Performance of Beethoven’s Eroica Theodore Albrecht

Beethoven played it [his new Symphony] for me recently, and I believe that heaven and earth will tremble when it is performed. —Ferdinand Ries, Vienna, to Nikolaus Simrock, Bonn, October 22, 18031

By the time that Ferdinand Ries penned these words, Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony had been developing in the composer’s mind and on paper for over a year. As a result of his successful Akademie at the Burgtheater on April 2, 1800, Beethoven had been commissioned by Vienna’s court theaters to compose a ballet, Die Geschöpfe des Prometheus (The Creatures of Prometheus), which premiered at the Burgtheater on March 28, 1801. It was a typical half-evening ballet, customarily paired with a comic Singspiel or other light entertainment.2 Prometheus was, however, the first major score in which Beethoven could compose passages to showcase specific orchestral musicians, something that his teacher Haydn had often done. Thus it features solos for flutist Joseph Prowos (b. 1752–53; d. 1819), oboist Georg Triebensee

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(1746–1813), clarinetist Johann Stadler (1755–1804), basset-hornist Anton Stadler (1753–1812), bassoonist Franz Czerwenka (1745–1801), harpist (and imperial family music mistress) Josepha Müllner (1768–1843), timpanist Anton Eder (ca. 1753–1813), and cellist Joseph Weigl, sr. (1740–1820). Indeed, Haydn had composed his Cello Concerto in C for this same Weigl nearly forty years before. Beethoven seems to have avoided composing any solos for concertmaster Giacomo Conti (1754–1805), who had been a subject of contention in connection with his benefit Akademie at the Burgtheater on April 2, 1800.3 Beethoven’s Creatures of Prometheus enjoyed a respectable run through the end of August 1802.4 Thereafter, Beethoven may have received the orchestral parts, but in any case he made a suite from the ballet available to his colleague Ignaz Schuppanzigh (1776–1830), who conducted the summer morning concerts in the Augarten.5

Beethoven’s Symphony no. 1½ (Prometheus) With newspaper and journal coverage of such events still sporadic, we might never have known about this development, except that on January 22, 1803, Beethoven’s arrogant and presumptuous younger brother Carl, who often served as his business agent, wrote from Vienna to the publisher Breitkopf & Härtel in Leipzig, offering the unperformed Symphony no. 2 in D and Piano Concerto no. 3 in C Minor. He then continued, “I also have an Overture from the ballet Prometheus and a martial scene, a Pastorale, and the Finale from the same which, as concert pieces, have very often been received with uncommon applause in the Augarten concerts here, an honor that has heretofore never been accorded to ballet music.”6 If these four movements were performed as a suite, the suite would have begun with the overture of the ballet, op. 43, whose adagio opening chords are a telescoped version of the introduction to Beethoven’s own Symphony no. 1 of 1800. The ensuing Allegro molto con brio of the overture is likewise reminiscent of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 1, making motivic and melodic use of tonic, dominant, and “filler” notes in between. Carl’s description of a “martial scene” accords with no. 8 (Allegro con brio) of the ballet, featuring a march in rondo-like alternation with other themes. The pastorale that Carl mentions is now no. 10 of the ballet (Allegro). The finale, no. 16 of the ballet (Allegretto–Allegro molto–Presto), was characterized in the scenario as “Danze festive,” a series of variations on a contredanse on whose theme

orchestral personnel at the first performance of

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Beethoven started to sketch variations in his Wielhorsky sketchbook at about the same time that the suite was being performed at the Augarten. Eventually those sketches became the large-scale set of Piano Variations, op. 35, and ultimately the finale for the Eroica Symphony.7 Indeed, this putative suite from Prometheus, made up of the four movements mentioned by Carl and lasting about twenty-two to twenty-five minutes in performance, might be regarded as a Symphony no. 1½, with its first movement looking back to Symphony no. 1, and with its finale looking forward to—and possibly even inspiring—the finale of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 3.

Beethoven in 1802–3 By late 1802, Beethoven had at least two more or less regular sources of support and affiliation in Vienna. One of them was Prince Franz Joseph Maximilian von Lobkowitz (1772–1816), who had commissioned the String Quartets, op. 18 (as two groups of three), in 1799 and 1800.8 Another was the Theater an der Wien, where Beethoven, probably in October 1802, had signed a contract with Emanuel Schikaneder to compose an opera and, in anticipation of that event, had the orchestra and chorus at his disposal for benefit concerts of his own.9 Beethoven had begun sketching a rough outline for the Symphony no. 3 on pages 44–45 of the Wielhorsky sketchbook in fall 1802—the first three movements only after extensive sketches for variations on the finale from Prometheus.10 After that, he concerned himself briefly with Italian vocal ensembles and then began sketching the oratorio Christus am Ölberge, op. 85, premiered on his Akademie of Holy Tuesday, April 5, 1803, along with the Symphony no. 2 in D and the Piano Concerto no. 3 in C Minor.11 Already here, as with his score to Prometheus in 1801, Beethoven wrote specific passages for specific orchestral musicians, but now for the musicians of the Theater an der Wien’s orchestra. In the introduction to Christus he wrote exposed timpani beats for timpanist Ignaz Manker (ca. 1765–1817), depicting Christ’s anguished heartbeats. And in the coda of the first movement of the Piano Concerto, he wrote a short dialogue between the solo piano and timpani—for himself and Manker. Beethoven composed the introduction to Christus last, and from the opening unprecedented E-flat-minor ascending broken chord, it is a somber but virtuosic tone poem for an orchestra whose strengths he already knew and was anxious to test.

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Beethoven in 1803–4 Only in late May or early June 1803, did Beethoven return to the Symphony in E-flat for continuous work in Landsberg 6—the famous Eroica sketchbook.12 On October 22, 1803, when describing the symphony to Simrock as shaking heaven and earth, Ries had also written, “Lobkowitz wants to have it for half a year and will pay four hundred gulden [for the right].”13 Once Beethoven was finished sketching, he could begin entering the music into a full score (now presumed lost), probably early in 1804, and he began sketching the opera Leonore/Fidelio for the Theater an der Wien. By the time he began scoring the symphony, Beethoven already knew the theater’s orchestral musicians well. Anton Dreyssig (b. 1753–54; d. 1820) was the flutist for whom Mozart had written the flute part in Die Zauberflöte a dozen years before. Franz Stadler (1760–1825) and Franz Rosenkranz (1760–1807) were a well-matched pair of oboists who had been brought from Prague by the fall of 1802. In fact many of the orchestra’s woodwind players were from Bohemia and probably brought a distinctive sound to the ensemble. Another such Bohemian was principal clarinetist Joseph Friedlowsky (1777–1859), for whom Beethoven would compose many solos, and for whom Schubert would write the extensive clarinet obbligato in Der Hirt auf dem Felsen, D. 965, just before his death. Still another Bohemian was principal bassoonist Valentin Czejka (1769–after 1834); he and Friedlowsky would later enjoy exposed passages in the finale of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 4. In mid-February 1804, the Theater an der Wien changed hands, and the new proprietor Baron Peter von Braun added a third full-time hornist to the section that already included high hornist Benedict Fuchs (1765– 1828) and low hornist Franz Eisen (1771–1822). The additional musician was Michael Herbst (1778–1833), who had played in Braun’s own house Kapelle. Herbst was neither a high hornist nor a low hornist but instead had a strong middle register that Beethoven so notably incorporated into his scoring of the Eroica Symphony.14 Another prominent performer was timpanist Ignaz Manker (ca. 1765– 1817), for whom Beethoven had already written in the music for Christus am Ölberge and the Piano Concerto no. 3. Thus Beethoven must have relished the idea of scoring his new symphony with the virtuosity of the Theater an der Wien’s orchestra in mind.15 While he was making headway scoring his Symphony no. 3 and sketching the opera, Beethoven also began sketching the Triple Concerto in C Major, op. 56, a lighter work to show off the talents of Prince Lobkowitz’s most

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prominent musicians, violinist Anton Wranitzky (1761–1820), and especially cellist Anton Kraft (1749–1820), with himself as pianist. Its almost furtively whispered thematic opening for cellos and contrabasses immediately shows off the sections led by Nikolaus Kraft (1778–1853) and Anton Grams (1752–1823).

Copying Underway On June 18, 1804, copyist Wenzel Sukowaty submitted a massive bill to Lobkowitz, representing fourteen months of copying work. The Triple Concerto, op. 56 (recognizable in the bill because its finale was designated “Alla Polacca”), had been copied relatively recently.16 Three items before the concerto was the symphony. The order of the details in Sukowaty’s bill suggests that he first copied the finale of the symphony and then its first movement. Beethoven seems to have had the middle movements copied elsewhere (possibly at the Theater an der Wien) and then presented the bill to Wranitzky, Lobkowitz’s Kapellmeister.17 The head music copyist of the Theater an der Wien was Benjamin Gebauer, whom Alan Tyson termed Beethoven’s “Copyist C.”18 One of his assistants during these years was probably trumpeter Peter Gläser, who became a fine copyist in his own right.19 Likewise, Wenzel Schlemmer (1758–1823), later Beethoven’s preferred copyist because of the accuracy of his copying and proofreading, also worked for the Theater an der Wien. It is often difficult to identify other copyists, who probably came from the ranks of orchestra and chorus members seeking to supplement their income. In the case of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 3, Otto Biba detected no fewer than eight copyists who had worked on its surviving orchestral parts from 1804 to 1806, and another four copyists within the next few years, for a total of twelve copyists working on sixteen parts.20

Reading Rehearsals at the Lobkowitz Palace, c. June 10–11, 1804 Since the 1980s, it has been known that in late May or early June 1804, Prince Lobkowitz hosted two reading rehearsals of the Symphony no. 3 and the Triple Concerto.21 His own small instrumental Kapelle, resident in Vienna, consisted of:

166  ❧  chapter eight Violins Wranitzky, Anton (Kapellmeister) Cartellieri, Anton Schreiber, Anton (also a fine violist)22

Violas Kolbe, Valentin (also an oboist) Cellos Kraft, Anton (father) Kraft, Nikolaus (son)23

For a performance of Salieri’s opera Angiolina (1800) at Lobkowitz’s palace on Saturday, June 9, his Kapellmeister Wranitzky supplemented this ensemble with twenty-one musicians: four violins, two violas, two contrabasses, two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets, and timpani. Each hired musician was paid two florins for a rehearsal and three florins for the performance. On his bill submitted to the prince on Monday, June 11, Wranitzky added: Item: Rehearsal of Beethoven; his Symphony and Concerto; Same orchestra with a third horn added therefore: 22 persons @ 2 fl. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 fl Extra for the first contrabass . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 fl.

Item: For the same—rehearsal of Beethoven: 22 persons @ 2 fl. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 fl. Extra for the contrabass; plus instrument cartage for two times . . . 3 fl.24

The prince approved the expense the same day, June 11, 1804.25 Wranitzky’s listing of Beethoven’s two reading rehearsals after the Angiolina performance on June 9, 1804, suggests that they took place very shortly before he submitted the bill on June 11. But were the Theater an der Wien’s musicians available during this time? On Saturday evening, June 9 (presumably the time for the performance of Angiolina at Lobkowitz’s palace), the Theater an der Wien was performing Die zwei Grenadiere, a spoken

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comedy with no music. Therefore the orchestral musicians would have been free to perform Angiolina at Lobkowitz’s at that time. On Sunday evening, June 10, the theater performed a comedy, Harlekin als Skelett, and hosted a troupe of rope dancers on a double bill. On Monday evening, it reprised Die zwei Grenadiere, but added Die Scheidewand, a oneact opera that did not require a large orchestra. In any case, Beethoven’s two reading rehearsals would probably have taken place during daytime rehearsal periods (lasting about three hours each) when there were no orchestral rehearsals at the theater.26 Therefore it appears likely that twenty-one or twenty-two orchestral musicians from the Theater an der Wien played a performance of Salieri’s Angiolina at the Lobkowitz palace on Saturday evening, June 9 (with a rehearsal probably during the day on the previous Thursday or Friday), and then played two reading rehearsals of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony and Triple Concerto (with violinist Anton Wranitzky, cellist Anton Kraft, and pianist-conductor Beethoven as soloists) during the day on Sunday, June 10, and Monday, June 11. It is even possible that Wranitzky handed the bill for the orchestral musicians’ services to Prince Lobkowitz on Monday in time for them to be paid by his cashier that same day. If the musicians were, as suggested above, from the Theater an der Wien, we can fairly confidently add the names of some the most likely members of the orchestra to have played at the Eroica rehearsals in addition to two members of the prince’s own Kapelle:27 Violins (4, for a total of 7) Clement, Franz 3 unidentified Violas (2, for a total of 3) Blumenthal, Joseph 1 unidentified [Cellos (2) Kraft, Anton Kraft, Nikolaus]28 Contrabasses (2) Grams, Anton 1 unidentified

168  ❧  chapter eight Flutes (2) Dreyssig, Anton Kaiser, Peter Oboes (2) Stadler, Franz Rosenkranz, Franz Clarinets (2) Friedlowsky, Joseph Rüttinger, Christoph Bassoons (2) Czejka, Valentin Hatwig, Otto Horns (3) Fuchs, Benedict Eisen, Franz Herbst, Michael Trumpets (2)29 Fibich, Johann (?) Gläser, Peter (?) Timpani Manker, Ignaz

The string sections therefore consisted of approximately seven violins, three violas, two cellos, and two contrabasses. When these are added to the fourteen winds and timpani, the result is an orchestra of about twenty-eight players. It is possible that some of Beethoven’s friends or even colleagues from the Burgtheater or Kärntnertor Theater joined in out of curiosity and that their number might even have included Prince Lobkowitz himself, who was reputedly a good amateur violinist.30 Even for a reading rehearsal, this orchestra, probably under Anton Wranitzky’s direction,31 would indeed have made heaven and earth tremble (as Ferdinand Ries had predicted) inside Prince Lobkowitz’s hard-surfaced music room, which measures about 48 feet long, about 24 feet wide, and about 30 feet high.32 But Ries also provides the only anecdote to come from those reading rehearsals:

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In [the] Allegro [first movement], Beethoven plays the horn a mean trick. Several bars before the theme re-enters in the second part, Beethoven has the horn suggest it, while the two violins are still holding a chord on the second. To anyone who does not know the score it always gives the impression that the horn player has miscounted and entered too early. During the first rehearsal of this Symphony, which went appallingly, the horn player did come in correctly. I was standing next to Beethoven and, believing the entry wrong, said: “That damned horn player! Can’t he count?—It sounds infamously false!” I believe that I was very close indeed to getting my ears boxed.—Beethoven did not forgive me for a long time.33

Summer through December 1804 By August, Benjamin Gebauer and his associates had made a clean manuscript copy of the score—the copy that is now in the archive of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde with Beethoven’s changes and other annotations on the battle-scarred cover.34 Over the summer and fall,35 Lobkowitz evidently took the orchestral parts with him to his Bohemian estates and had them played there, partly with his own musicians (including his Kapellmeister Anton Wranitzky) and partly with musicians hired from Prague.36 One such performance took place in Raudnitz around October 18–19, 1804, when Lobkowitz hosted the musical Prince Louis Ferdinand of Prussia, who spent several days there.37 On July 21 and October 20, 1804, Beethoven had written to Lobkowitz, and on October 20 to Anton Wranitzky,38 doubtless discussing the Symphony no. 3 and the Triple Concerto, and arranging for Lobkowitz’s exclusive use of them and ultimate receipt of the dedications (when published as opp. 55 and 56). On October 26, Lobkowitz, still in Raudnitz, sent instructions to pay Beethoven 700 fl. (gulden), and on November 3, 1804, the composer received that sum.39 On October 29, 1804, Lobkowitz, by now in Eisenberg, sent instructions to add 80 gold ducats—equivalent to another 360 florins (gulden)—to the 700 florins already authorized, and Beethoven received the additional sum on November 5, 1804.40 Sometime in December 1804, with Prince Lobkowitz now back in Vienna, a private performance of the Eroica Symphony under Beethoven’s direction took place at the prince’s palace. It was probably at this performance (or a rehearsal for it) that Ferdinand Ries remembered:

170  ❧  chapter eight Here [at Lobkowitz’s palace] it happened that Beethoven, who was himself conducting, once threw the whole orchestra out of rhythm in the second part [after the repeat sign] of the first Allegro, where it runs on so long in half-notes on the off-beat, that they had to start all over again from the beginning.41

Semi-Private Performance in the Banking House of Fellner & Co., Sunday Morning, January 20, 1805 The banking firm of Fellner & Co. had its Commerzial- Leih- und Wechselstube (Commercial Lending and Exchange Office) at Hoher Markt no. 551, on the northeastern side of the large square at the corner with Krebsgasse.42 To its south was another large building (dating from the mid-1790s) owned by Prince Johann von Schwarzenberg, bordering on Judengasse. In around 1801, Fellner had had two small buildings that he owned facing the Hoher Markt demolished,43 and by about 1803–4 he had erected a single new building next to Schwarzenberg’s in their place.44 Fellner’s son-in-law Joseph Würth was also a partner in the firm and an accomplished amateur violinist.45 As a friend (and in-law) of Prince Lobkowitz’s, Schwarzenberg may have suggested to either Würth or Fellner that concerts in the large business hall of their new building might show the facility off to a small invited public.46 It is also quite possible that Würth may have had such an idea himself. To this end, in Lent and Advent 1804, he sponsored a series of concerts, led by Franz Clement (1780–1842), the popular new concertmaster at the Theater an der Wien.47 In April 1804, Breitkopf & Härtel’s Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung reported: Sunday Concert of Herr von Würth . . . The bankers Herrn [sic] von Würth and Felsern [sic] have assembled a very select group (almost entirely dilettantes)48 at their place every Sunday morning to perform pieces, for the most part limited to full-scaled symphonies, overtures, and concertos, in a truly superior manner. Up to now, the overtures to Mozart’s Zauberflöte, Don Juan, Figaro, Idomeneo, Die Entführung aus dem Serail, and Titus, as well as Cherubini’s Wasserträger and Lodoiska, Winter’s Tamerlan and Das unterbrochene Opferfest, as well as several overtures by ‘a certain’ Count [Wenzel] Gallenberg and one by Eberl have been given. . . . Among the symphonies, I shall merely mention Mozart’s in C major and G minor. The difficult fugal finale of the former was performed with fire and precision.49

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These concerts hearken back to Baron Kees’s amateur series in the Augarten in the 1790s and look forward to the Liebhaber Concerte in 1807– 8, where the string players (except the contrabasses) were largely amateurs under professional leadership, and the winds were almost entirely professionals.50 Similarly, they look further forward to the amateur orchestras of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde and concerts spirituels, led by Franz Xaver Gebauer (1784–1822) and Ferdinand Piringer (1780–1829).51 On December 16, 1804, the third Sunday in Advent, the Viennese correspondent to the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung reported that the concerts “at Herr von Würth’s” had begun again with Mozart’s Symphony in C, K. 551, and Cherubini’s Medea Overture, presumably on December 2, with violinist Franz Clement (who also conducted) playing a concerto by Pierre Rode. An overture in E minor by Clement was found to be “worthless.” The second concert (presumably December 9), featured the monothematic overture to Démophon by Johann Christoph Vogel (1756–86); Cherubini’s Lodoïska Overture; and Haydn’s Symphony in E-flat, no. 103 (“Drumroll”). Oboist Friedrich Ramm, visiting from Munich, played a concerto in F by Cannabich.52 In the next report, dated Monday, January 28, 1805, the correspondent confined his comments concerning the Würth concerts to Beethoven’s Symphony in C (no. 1, op. 21) and Anton Eberl’s Symphony in E-flat, op. 33. In between was a half-column commentary on Beethoven’s “very new” Symphony in E-flat, noted as very long and difficult, full of passages (many of them “bizarre”—a favorite descriptor at the time), worthy of the talented spirit of its composer, but through which the unity of the work is almost lost, and so on.53 There is no mention of chronology or performers. The next report from Vienna is dated Sunday, February 17, and, without specifying dates, mentions Mozart’s symphonies in G Minor (no. 40), E-flat (no. 39), and D (no. 38, “Prague”), given to great applause, and another by Friedrich August Kanne that was found wanting. Beethoven’s student, Ferdinand Ries, played his master’s Piano Concerto no. 3, and pianist Magdalena Kurzböck (1770–1845) played Mozart’s Piano Quartet in G Minor with Clement (violin), Joseph Mayseder (1789–1863, viola), and Kraft (presumably Nikolaus, 1778–1853, cello). The overtures said to have been performed on these recent concerts included those to Cherubini’s Anacréon, Gluck’s Alceste, Mozart’s Don Giovanni and Idomeneo, and Méhul’s Stratonice.54 The Viennese correspondent’s final report of concerts “at Herr von Würth’s,” dated Friday, April 5, likewise does not specify dates but, from the

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five overtures named, must cover five or six Sundays, extending back as far as March 3 or possibly even February 24. The music performed included “several” Haydn symphonies. Marie Bigot de Morogues played a Mozart piano concerto in B-flat; Friedrich Hradetzky (b. ca. 1766–69; d. 1846) an unidentified horn concerto; and Magdalena Kurzböck a Mozart piano concerto in C (presumably K. 467) with new cadenzas by Eberl. Catharina Koželuch played a piano concerto in C by her father, Leopold, but it failed to please. A symphony by Peter von Winter with obbligato violin, clarinet, horn, and bassoon also did not meet expectations. The overtures were to Cherubini’s Die Gefangene and Der portugiesische Gasthof, Winter’s Das unterbrochene Opferfest, Righini’s Tigrane, and Mozart’s Die Entführung aus dem Serail. Hummel was represented by a sacred work as well as variations for full orchestra. On the next Sunday—Palm Sunday, April 7—“Haydn’s Seven Words [concluded] these interesting concerts, which have provided connoisseurs and music-lovers with such excellent and abundant pleasure.”55 1 The concerts “at Würth and Fellner” have had a frequent though shadowy presence in the Beethoven literature since Ur-Thayer in 1872, when the American biographer knew to call the banking house “Fellner u. Comp. am Hohenmarkt.” Otherwise, he briefly summarized or quoted the sundry news stories in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, as given in more detail above. Thayer’s same account appeared in Riemann’s edition in 1910, retaining “Fellner u. Comp. am Hohenmarkt.” When the edition of Thayer’s biography by Henry Edward Krehbiel appeared in 1921, the account remained intact, but the identifier “Fellner & Co. on Hoher Markt” had been omitted. When Elliot Forbes re-edited Thayer-Krehbiel three decades later, he added more of the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung report from February 13, 1805 (concerning Beethoven’s new Symphony no. 3), but still omitted the correct name of Würth’s banking firm.56 In the 1980s, more documentary details began to appear from the Lobkowitz archives, published by Reinhold Brinkmann (1984),57 Tomislav Volek and Jaroslav Macek (1986),58 Macek alone (1988),59 again Volek and Macek (1988),60 and Jana Fojtiková and Volek (1988),61 as well as Macek again in Pulkert and Küthen (2000).62 Almost all of it was new information, inconsistently edited, with duplications, contradictions, and questions left unanswered, but tantalizing nonetheless.

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Wranitzky’s Akademie Bill to Lobkowitz of January 23, 1805 Two of the many documents concerning the reading rehearsals at Lobkowitz’s palace in June 1804, have been discussed above. But a third document originating with the prince’s Kapellmeister Anton Wranitzky helps greatly to clarify the dating and nature of the concerts at Fellner & Co. in January 1805. It specifies: Music Disbursements for the Akademie held on January 23, 180563 2 contrabasses 2 violoncellos 10 violins 3 violas 2 oboes 2 flutes 2 clarinets 4 horns 4 bassoons 2 trumpets 1 timpani ________ 34 persons—rehearsal and performance @ 5 fl. per person . . . . . . . . . .170 fl. Extra rehearsal for playing solo 1 clarinet, 1 bassoon, 1 horn @ 4 fl. each . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 fl. Bill from Beethoven, for transporting and adjusting the piano 10 fl. Grams, for his contrabass cartage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 fl. Katl and Joseph, instrumental servants, together . . . . . . . . . . 5 fl. ____ Total 198 fl.

Approved: Vienna, January 28, 1805 F[ranz] J[oseph] Prince von Lobkowitz mp64

When it was first published, this bill was thought to have answered the problem of dating the performance of the Eroica at Würth’s concerts: January 23, 1805. In 1991, however, Peter Schleuning pointed out that Würth’s concerts were on Sunday mornings, and that January 23, 1805, was a

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Wednesday. Therefore, he reasoned, still on the basis of the document above, that the date of the true “premiere performance” must have been at Würth’s on Sunday, January 20, 1805, with an additional performance at Prince Lobkowitz’s on Wednesday, January 23, the date on Wranitzky’s bill.65 Even so, there were still unexplained problems within the document itself, mostly concerning numbers of personnel, but also reflecting upon dates and repertoire: 1. The bill included four horns, and the Eroica Symphony calls for only three. 2. The manuscript bill included four bassoons, a line entirely omitted from the printed transcription in Volek and Macek. 3. The bill charged for an extra rehearsal for “solo” clarinet, horn, and bassoon, which had nothing to do with Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony. 4. Wranitzky’s reckoning included a bill from Beethoven for transporting his piano (presumably the Érard) to and from the concert venue and having it tuned. 5. The bill was not for two concerts, but for one, and that concert had had a paid rehearsal before it.

The problem of item (3)—the extra rehearsal for the clarinet, bassoon, and horn solos—is possibly the easiest to solve. The Viennese report in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung that included the Eroica Symphony at Würth’s Sunday morning concert series was dated Monday, January 28, 1805. The next report from Vienna was dated Sunday, February 17, and the final report on the Würth concerts was dated Friday, April 5. This last mentions a symphony by Peter von Winter with obbligato violin, clarinet, horn, and bassoon. These must be the instruments mentioned in Wranitzky’s January 23 bill: an extra rehearsal for clarinet, bassoon, and horn, with either Wranitzky himself or Würth’s concertmaster Clement (unpaid) to complete the concertino quartet in Winter’s symphony, which would not get performed, presumably, until after the newspaper report dated February 17. Therefore, the inclusion of an extra rehearsal for the solo winds on Wranitzky’s January 23 bill is entirely independent of the Eroica Symphony. As for item (1)—the four horns specified in Wranitzky’s bill—they were still a relative rarity, but were a hallmark of several Cherubini overtures, which—as noted above—had been included on Würth’s Sunday morning concert series: Les Deux Journées (Der Wasserträger), Médée, Lodoïska, La Prisonnière, L’Hôtellerie portugaise, and Anacréon. Of these, at least the Deux Journées, Médée, and Anacréon overtures are scored for four horns.66 Looking ahead, excerpts from Cherubini’s Anacréon would be performed on Clement’s benefit concert of Palm Sunday, April 7 (which included the

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Eroica Symphony), so it seems likely that Cherubini’s overture to Anacréon and Beethoven’s new symphony might have been programmed together at Würth’s already on January 20. The matter of item (2)—the four bassoons on Wranitzky’s bill—may be cleared up in a similar way, but by figuring likely personnel rather than likely repertoire. Nothing in the repertoire under discussion requires four bassoons, so Wranitzky probably meant the customary two bassoons. The total of thirty-four paid musicians, however, leaves an extra two unaccounted for. The obvious “missing” musicians would be trombones—not needed for Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony, but three trombones would be needed for Cherubini’s Anacréon overture. A convenient extra trombonist might have been found in the violist Joseph Glöckl or Glöggl (1739–1806), who had played at the Theater auf der Wieden, the Theater an der Wien, and court theaters for many years, was still active, and also doubled on trombone!67 1 Concerning problem (5), in 1991, Peter Schleuning concluded on the basis of Wranitzky’s bill of January 23, 1805, that two concerts were reflected here, but he neglected to consider possible scheduling conflicts on days other than Sundays.68 Würth’s concerts were on Sunday mornings (when there would have been no conflicts). Similarly, a full-scale concert at Prince Lobkowitz’s palace, using Theater an der Wien orchestral personnel, could not have taken place on the evening of Wednesday, January 23 (as Schleuning suggested), because there was a performance of Die Schneiderhochzeit, a Singspiel by Ignaz von Seyfried (and presumably conducted by him) at the theater that night.69 Moreover, the bill itself clearly specifies one concert and a rehearsal preceding it. One element of chronological clarification may be found in a letter that Georg August Griesinger wrote to the publisher Gottfried Christoph Härtel in Leipzig. Griesinger (1769–1845) had come to Vienna in 1799 as the tutor and steward in the service of the Saxon ambassador, Count von Schönfeld. Shortly afterward, he began to represent Härtel in negotiations with Haydn and other composers. For a time, he seemingly reported or at least compiled the Viennese reports to Härtel’s Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, including the ones cited extensively above. On January 26, 1805, Griesinger wrote to Härtel about Beethoven: “I [recently] saw him once in the Theater. I congratulated him on the immense applause that his Symphony had received at Lobkowitz’s and other places

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where it has been performed. ‘Now Härtel will get it,’ was his answer.” On February 13, 1805, Griesinger wrote again: I can assure you that the Symphony has been heard with uncommon applause in two Akademien at Prince Lobkowitz’s and at an active music-lover’s called Wirth [sic]. From both admirers and detractors, I hear that it is a work of genius. Everyone says: “This is more than Haydn and Mozart; the symphonic poem has been brought to a higher standpoint!” . . . A week after the performance of the Beethoven symphony at Wirth’s, a new [symphony] by Eberl was given, and two weeks later, one by Kanne. They . . . were complete failures.70

Therefore, on January 26, Griesinger mentioned only a performance of the Eroica Symphony at Lobkowitz’s that had taken place in the past, but on February 13, he mentioned not only that performance at Lobkowitz’s, but also a performance at Würth’s that had taken place more recently. On the basis of this, it seems highly unlikely that there were two semi-private performances of the still-unknown Eroica Symphony only three days apart— on January 20 and 23. Instead, it is much more likely that one such performance took place at Lobkowitz’s palace in December 1804, and that a second performance took place under Würth’s auspices in the exchange hall at Fellner & Co. on Sunday morning, January 20, 1805, with a brush-up rehearsal by a combination of Lobkowitz’s string players and the complementary musicians from the Theater an der Wien, probably during the day on Saturday, January 19.71 This, in turn, helps to explain problem (4), Beethoven’s bill for transporting and tuning his own piano for the performance. Beethoven had presumably played regularly on a satisfactory piano at Prince Lobkowitz’s palace. But while Fellner & Co.’s bank may have had an instrument that was adequate for other performers, it may not have been so for the exacting Beethoven, who probably intended to improvise in addition to playing a rehearsed concerto, as was customary in the day. As for the concerto, it would surely have been the Triple Concerto with violinist Anton Wranitzky and cellist Anton Kraft. If they had not played the concerto and symphony in the month or so since the Lobkowitz performance in December, 1804, a brush-up rehearsal on Saturday, January 19, would have been in order. At any rate, it appears that Beethoven himself initially paid for the transportation and adjustment of the piano, and if he paid when the instrument was brought back to his apartment later on Sunday, or even on Monday, January 21, he might not have presented his own bill to Wranitzky for reimbursement until Tuesday,

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January 22, or even Wednesday, January 23. This could easily account for the date of January 23 on Wranitzky’s bill to Lobkowitz. From what we have been able to observe and determine above, the program on Sunday morning, January 20, for which Würth would probably have reimbursed Lobkowitz,72 probably included: Cherubini, Overture to Anacréon Beethoven, Symphony no. 3 in E-flat Beethoven, improvisation Beethoven, Triple Concerto in C, with Beethoven (piano), Wranitzky (violin), and Anton Kraft (cello)

The number of musicians to be paid for the Akademie at Fellner & Co. on January 20, 1805, is essentially the sum of Lobkowitz’s six strings plus a complement of about twenty-eight musicians, largely from the Theater an der Wien: Violins (10) Clement, Franz (concertmaster, Theater an der Wien, and Würth’s customary conductor and contractor) Wranitzky, Anton (Lobkowitz’s concertmaster and contractor) Cartellieri, Anton Schreiber, Anton (also an accomplished violist) 6 unidentified professionals Violas (3) Blumenthal, Joseph Siegel, Anton Kolbe, Valentin (also an oboist) Cellos (2) Kraft, Anton (father) Kraft, Nikolaus (son) Contrabasses (2) Grams, Anton 1 unidentified professional

Flutes (2) Dreyssig, Anton

178  ❧  chapter eight Kaiser, Peter Oboes (2) Stadler, Franz Rosenkranz, Franz Clarinets (2) Friedlowsky, Joseph Rüttinger, Christoph Bassoons (2) Czejka, Valentin Hatwig, Otto Horns (4) Fuchs, Benedict Eisen, Franz Herbst, Michael Hradetzky, Friedrich (low hornist who would solo in a later concert) Trumpets (2) Fibich, Johann (?) Gläser, Peter (?) [Trombones (2 or 3) Hörbeder, Franz [Sr.] Segner, Leopold Glöckel/Glöggl, Joseph (also a violist)]73

Timpani (1) Manker, Ignaz

By this time, Franz Clement would have scheduled his upcoming benefit concert at the Theater an der Wien for Palm Sunday, April 7, 1805. He and Beethoven, with Prince Lobkowitz’s permission and Wranitzky’s cooperation, had probably already projected a first public performance of the new and difficult Symphony no. 3 for this date with the Theater’s orchestra enlarged by Lobkowitz’s professionals. The Akademie on January 20 would provide a trial performance, six weeks in advance.

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But Würth’s concerts at Fellner & Co. involved amateurs, at least in the violins, violas, and cellos. Neither a list of participants nor even their precise number has survived, but it may be helpful to examine the surviving personnel list from the Liebhaber Concerte (Amateur Concerts) from the winter of 1807–8,74 likewise conducted by Clement, since many of the amateur musicians in 1807–8 may already have been active by 1805. Many of the names, especially of the paid musicians from the Theater an der Wien (TadW in the list below), will already be familiar from the previous discussions: First Violins Franz Clement (TadW), Count von Nariskin, Franz von Cerrini, Johann Nepomuk Zizius, Conradin Kreutzer, Joseph von Würth, Heinrich Lang, Franz Chimani, Ferdinand Piringer, Mayer, Saucek, Anton Sieber, and Garon (for a total of 13). Second Violins Joseph Mayseder (Schuppanzigh Quartet), Leopold Würth, Franz Friedenheim, August von Gimnich/Gymnich, Gottlieb Demuth, Haager, Bernhard Beck, Adam von Münsterfeld, Joseph Kissling, Richter, Ignaz Türck, Maurer (for a total of 12). Violas Anton Schreiber (Lobkowitz, TadW), Joseph von Ohmayer, Ignaz Franz Mosel, Ignaz Zwerger, Eder, Joseph Spangler, Sigismund von Ranffy (for a total of 7). Cellos Anton and/or Nikolaus Kraft (Lobkowitz, TadW), Dr. Franz Hildenbrand, Joseph Zohner, Franz Rabel, Mack, Dolezaleck (for a total of 6 or 7). Contrabasses Anton Grams (TadW), Joseph Melzer/Mölzer (Kärntnertor Theater), Joseph Bartha/ Partha (TadW to 1806, then Kärntnertor Theater), Anton Pollak (Lobkowitz?)— (for a total of 4). Flutes Count Hrzan, Baron Bernhard von Knorr (both amateurs). Oboes Anton Stadler, Stephan Fichtner (both TadW). Clarinets Velsern (amateur), Joseph Friedlowsky (TadW).

180  ❧  chapter eight Bassoons Valentin Czejka, Engelbert Ehrlich (both TadW). Horns Benedict Fuchs, Michael Herbst (both TadW), third for Eroica unspecified, probably Friedrich Hradetzky (Kärntnertor Theater). Trumpets Anton Michel, Clemens Trnka (both TadW). Timpani Ignaz Manker (TadW).

Within the strings were several amateur players who, by 1805, were already or soon would be associated with Beethoven: Violins Kreutzer, Conradin (1780–1849), peripatetic composer; student in Vienna, 1804– 10, partially with Albrechtsberger. Piringer, Ferdinand (1780–1829), law student, government official, and an excellent amateur violinist. Later reorganized Vienna’s concerts spirituels. Würth, Joseph, banker, amateur violinist, not a noble; host and sponsor of the concerts of 1804–5. Würth, Leopold, presumably related to Joseph. Zizius, Johann Nepomuk (1772–1824), lawyer, government official, wealthy bachelor, good amateur violinist, host of salon concerts and balls. In 1802–3, advised Beethoven in the legal dispute with Artaria over the String Quintet, op. 29. Viola Ignaz Franz Mosel (1772–1844), government official; played violin, viola, and cello. In 1808, after the Liebhaber Concerte were over, wrote a survey of music in Vienna, praising timpanist Eder, but lamenting timpanist Manker’s dynamics.75 Cello Doležálek, Johann Emanuel (1780–1858), had come to Vienna to study law, ca. 1800; then studied with Albrechtsberger.

It is not known to what extent the amateur string players, who may have numbered as many as twenty-five to thirty, would have been invited to join with the professionals, who probably numbered around thirty-five. In the case of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 3, the number of amateurs integrated into

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the ensemble on Sunday, January 20, was probably limited to those (including the seven specified above) who could have negotiated the parts within one or two readings (the rehearsal, probably on Saturday, January 19) and played them reasonably well at the semi-private performance.76 Thus, the Akademie at Fellner & Co. on Sunday morning, January 20, 1805, probably included at least forty-two musicians.

The First Public Performance of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 3 in E-flat at Clement’s Benefit Performance, Palm Sunday, April 7, 1805 On Palm Sunday, April 7, 1805, Clement gave a concert for his own benefit at the Theater an der Wien. The Theater’s Zettel (poster) announced “Eine grosse musikalische Akademie, mit Verstärkung des Orchesters” (“A grand musical concert, with augmentation of the orchestra”). The program, which began at 7 p.m., included: Cherubini, Overture to Anácreon [sic] Nasolini, Scene from Cleopatra (Mlle. Müller) Clement, Violin Concerto in D (Herr Clement) Haydn, Der Sturm (chorus) Intermission Beethoven, New Grand Symphony in D-sharp [sic] dedicated to Prince Lobkowitz; the composer will conduct. Cherubini, Trio from Anácreon [sic] (Mlle. Milder, Mlle. Müller, Herr Demmer) Clement, Improvisation on the Violin Cherubini, Quartet from Anácreon [sic] (Mlle. Milder, Mlle. Müller, Herr Demmer, Herr Maier)77 Clement, New Overture78

At the same time on April 7, at the Burgtheater, was a performance of Haydn’s popular Die Schöpfung (The Creation) for the benefit of Antonio Salieri’s favorite project, the Tonkünstler-Societät, the society to provide pensions to widows and orphans of musicians largely employed by the two court theaters. Salieri guarded the Societät’s two Lenten and two Advent concerts territorially. If Clement or Beethoven had ever hoped to engage the Kärntnertor Theater’s low hornist Friedrich Hradetzky for Clement’s Akademie, they would have given up on the idea,79 and would have worked with the Theater an der Wien’s customary part-time fourth hornist Michael

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Sack for the Cherubini numbers, and perhaps even used him to double the third horn part in the Beethoven symphony.80 Beethoven conducted his own symphony, but Ignaz von Seyfried might have directed virtually everything else on the program except perhaps Clement’s overture that concluded it.81 Immediate preparations for the concert would have included two rehearsals at three hours each, depending upon other activities within the theater— either as two single rehearsals on Friday, April 5, and Saturday, April 6, or one double rehearsal, probably on Saturday, with the first rehearsal lasting from about 9 a.m. to 12 noon, then an hour’s break for dinner, followed by a second rehearsal lasting from about 1 p.m. until 4 p.m. If it was a double rehearsal on Saturday, they would have wanted to finish the second rehearsal as early as possible, because Die Familie auf Isle de France, an opera by Rudolphe Kreutzer, was scheduled for that evening.82

The Augmented Orchestral Personnel on April 7, 1805 In 1805 (see the Appendix), the Theater an der Wien’s orchestra numbered twelve violins (including the concertmaster), six violas, four cellos, four contrabasses, two each of flutes, oboes, clarinets, and bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, three trombones, and timpani, for a total of forty-three players. In addition, the head copyist Benjamin Gebauer (1758–1846) played oboe and viola, and the personnel manager Joseph Rabe (b. ca. 1748–49; d. 1828) had been an accomplished timpanist and still played auxiliary percussion.83 The Verstärkung (augmentation) would have included Lobkowitz’s six string players, including Kapellmeister Anton Wranitzky, who probably acted as concertmaster, at least during Clement’s concerto. Although Lobkowitz’s violist Anton Schreiber and cellist Nikolaus Kraft were probably already on loan to the orchestra, two contrabassoonists in his military Harmonie, Ignaz Raab (b. ca. 1766–69; d. 1838) and Anton Pollack (ca. 1774–1848), also doubled on the contrabass and could have brought the number in that section up to five or six for the concert. Another cellist occasionally hired by Lobkowitz was Vincenz Hauschka (1766–1840), who otherwise occupied a responsible government position. He was one of the very few people in Vienna with whom Beethoven used the familiar “du.” Also among the professionals in the Verstärkung were surely Beethoven’s friend Ignaz Schuppanzigh (1776–1830), leader of Vienna’s most prominent string quartet as well as the summer concerts in the Augarten, and Schuppanzigh’s student Joseph Mayseder (1789–1863), who would sit

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principal second violin at the Liebhaber Concerte in 1807–8 and, soon thereafter, be engaged by the court theaters for various prominent positions. Other than additional players unknown, whom Clement might have invited, the augmented orchestra, as determined here, would have included a total of about sixteen violins (presumably divided equally), six violas, seven cellos, and five or six contrabasses for a total of about thirty-four string players, therefore favoring a darker—more “romantic”—balance, while still allowing brilliance on top. Beethoven’s Symphony no. 3 in E-flat would have required eight woodwinds and six brass and timpani, bringing the known total to about forty-eight orchestral players, most of them professionals.84

Conclusion Beethoven had known the Theater an der Wien’s orchestra since the winter of 1802–3, and in the Symphony no. 3 he had written with its most accomplished musicians in mind. These would have included flutist Anton Dreyssig, oboists Franz Stadler and Franz Rosenkranz, clarinetist Joseph Friedlowsky, bassoonist Valentin Czejka, high hornist Benedict Fuchs, low hornist Franz Eisen, and the new middle-range hornist Michael Herbst. He would also have considered timpanist Ignaz Manker and the string section leaders from concertmaster Clement down to principal cellist Nikolaus Kraft and especially principal contrabassist Anton Grams. In addition to the regular orchestra of forty (not counting trombones, which would have been used in the Cherubini overture), the Verstärkung for the Eroica Symphony probably included violinists Ignaz Schuppanzigh and Anton Wranitzky, cellists Anton Kraft and Vincenz Hauschka, plus three or four additional Lobkowitz musicians, bringing the total to at least fortyseven or forty-eight players, whose names we now know and can reasonably associate with the Eroica Symphony’s premiere. Of these forty-eight musicians, roughly twenty-eight had played Beethoven’s Symphony repeatedly since the first two reading rehearsals at Prince Lobkowitz’s palace on June 10–11, 1804. Given the additional rehearsals and semi-private concerts documented above,85 the first public performance of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony on April 7, 1805, probably represented the eighth time that over half of that augmented orchestra had played the work. In any case, it was surely the best-rehearsed public premiere of any of Beethoven’s major orchestral works and—“mit Verstärkung des Orchesters”—perhaps heaven and earth did tremble when it was performed.86

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Appendix: Theater an der Wien, Vienna (TadW): Orchestra Personnel, ca. 1805 (with possible additions of April 7, 1805) Concertmaster Clement, Franz (b. Vienna, November 17, 1780; d. Vienna, November 3, 1842), supplemented Ferdinand Gebler (1751–1807) as concertmaster by November 15, 1802, and replaced him by April 1805.

First Violins (5) Gebler/Göbler, Ferdinand (b. Schulkenau, German Bohemia, ca. 1751; d. Vienna, October 23 [or 21], 1807). Former concertmaster; returned to section playing by April 1805. Blumenthal, Casimir von (b. Pressburg, 1788; d. 1849), younger brother of violist Joseph. Reportedly joined the TadW orchestra in 1803. Blumenthal, Leopold von (b. 1790), youngest brother of violist Joseph. Reportedly joined the TadW orchestra in 1803. Merk, Karl (b. Petersdorf [Perchtoldsdorf ], Lower Austria, ca. 1767; d. Vienna, March 22, 1823). Joined TadW orchestra between 1801 and 1808. Schausperger/Schausberger, Alois (b. possibly Haag, Lower Austria, ca. 1783; d. Vienna, March 1, 1809). Joined TadW orchestra between 1801 and 1808.

Second Violins (5) Kessler, Erasmus (b. Berchtesgaden, December 19, 1768; d. Vienna, February 19, 1858). Member by 1795. Prügel, Franz (b. Vienna, ca. 1767; d. Vienna, December 4, 1836). Member by ca. 1795. Pamer [Pammer], Michael [?] (b. Vienna/Neulerchenfeld, March 8, 1782; d. Vienna, September 4, 1827). Joined TadW orchestra between 1801 and 1808. His daughter Maria (b. 1807–9) would work briefly as Beethoven’s chambermaid before ca. 1822. Oefferl, Joseph (b. Vienna, 1770). Joined TadW orchestra between 1801 and 1805. Griesbacher/Griessbacher, Joseph (b. Mariahilf, Vienna, 1779; d. 1820s?). Cellist in 1801, violinist by 1808.

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Additional Violins Wranitzky, Anton (1761–1820), Lobkowitz Kapellmeister. Cartellieri, Anton (1772–1807), Lobkowitz violinist and composer. Schuppanzigh, Ignaz (1776–1830), quartet leader and Augarten orchestra conductor. Mayseder, Joseph (1789–1863), Schuppanzigh’s student and a violinist in the court theaters. Kreutzer, Conradin (1780–1849), ambitious student. Piringer, Ferdinand (1780–1829), accomplished amateur.

Violas (4) [Schreiber, Anton] (b. Jaromirsch, Bohemia, 1766–67; d. Vienna?, after 1830). Lobkowitz musician, probably “loaned” to TadW after the death of Ossowsky (October 10, 1802). Blumenthal, Joseph von (b. Brussels, November 1, 1782; d. Vienna, May 9, 1850). Joined the TadW orchestra in 1803. Hofmann, _____ (dates unknown), active throughout period from 1801 to 1808. Gebauer, Benjamin (b. Fischstein, Silesia, ca. 1758; d. Vienna, September 20, 1846), oboist and copyist, transferred to viola section by 1808.

Additional Violas Kolbe, Valentin, Lobkowitz violist. Glöggl, Joseph (1739–1806), retired violist and trombonist.

Cellos (4) [Kraft, Nikolaus] (b. Esterháza, December 14, 1778; d. Eger, May 18, 1853). Son of cellist Anton Kraft. Lobkowitz musician, probably “loaned” to TadW after Willmann’s health declined (1802). Willmann, Maximilian (b. Bonn, September 21, 1767; d. Vienna, March 7, 1813). Member since ca. 1798; principal in declining health with consumption. Lang [Leng/Läng, Anton?] (ca. 1779–1832). Joined TadW orchestra between 1801 and 1808. Dönst, Joseph (dates unknown). Joined TadW orchestra between 1801 and 1808. Not to be confused with Joseph Valentin Dont (1776–1833), cellist at the Kärntnertor Theater.

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Additional Cellos Kraft, Anton, father (1749–1820), Lobkowitz (formerly Esterházy) cellist; one of Europe’s foremost virtuosi on the instrument. Doležálek, Johann Emanuel (1780–1858), accomplished amateur. Hauschka, Vincenz (1766–1840), professional-level amateur; “du” friend of Beethoven’s.

Contrabasses (4) Grams, Anton (b. Markersdorf, Bohemia, October 29, 1752; d. Vienna, May 18, 1823). Recruited from Prague to supplement Pischelberger in 1802. Pischelberger, Friedrich (b. Vienna, ca. 1738–39 or 1741; d. Vienna, January 19, 1813). Principal since 1791; sight failing by 1802. Förster, Franz (b. Wilhelmsthal, Prussian Silesia, ca. 1769–73; d. Vienna, May 28, 1841). Member of the orchestra by 1801. Bartha/Parta, Anton Joseph (b. Brzeznitz, Bohemia, ca. 1768–69; d. Vienna, January 27, 1818). Member by June 1801 and until late 1806.

Additional Contrabasses Raab, Ignaz (b. ca. 1766–69; d. 1838), Lobkowitz Harmonie. Pollack, Anton (ca. 1774–1848), Lobkowitz Harmonie.

Flutes (2) Dreyssig, Anton (b. Oberleitensdorf, Bohemia, ca. 1753–54; d. Vienna, June 20, 1820). Principal flutist since 1791. Kaiser, Peter (b. Vienna, ca. 1750–54; d. Vienna, April 25, 1823). Member from 1801 until ca. 1808.

Oboes (2) Stadler, Franz (b. Lewin, near Leitmeritz, Bohemia, March 22, 1760; d. Vienna, c. May 22, 1825). Recruited from Prague in 1802. Rosenkranz, Franz (b. Prague, 1760; d. Vienna, December 8, 1807). Recruited from Prague in 1802.

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Clarinets (2) Friedlowsky, Joseph (b. St. Margareten near Prague, July 11, 1777; d. Vienna, January 14, 1859). Principal; recruited from Prague in 1802. Rüttinger (Joseph) Christoph (b. Würzburg, July 28, 1776; d. Vienna, November 21, 1830). Member from c. June 1804.

Bassoons (2) Czejka, Valentin (b. Prague, 1769; d. after 1834). Principal; recruited from Prague in 1802. Hatwig, Otto (b. Grulich [Králicky], Bohemia, May 18, 1766; d. Vienna, November 18, 1834). Member by ca. 1797–98; transferred to contrabass section in 1806 or 1807.

Contrabassoon (1) Raab, Ignaz (b. Hohlen, Kreis Leitmeritz, Bohemia, 176669; d. Vienna, July 4, 1838). Probable Lobkowitz band musician and copyist; entered court service, April 1810; or Pollack, Anton (b. Janowitz, Bohemia, ca. 1774; d. Vienna, March 6, 1848). Probable Lobkowitz band musician and copyist; entered court service, March 1808.

Horns (3 or 4) Fuchs, Benedict (b. Vienna, ca. 1765; d. Vienna, December 4, 1828), high hornist. Member by June 1801.87 Eisen, Franz (b. Vienna, 1771; d. Vienna, February 7, 1822), low hornist. Member by June 1801. Herbst, Michael (b. Vienna, September 24, 1778; d. Vienna, October 15, 1833), middle-range hornist. Joined the orchestra shortly after February 15, 1804. Nickel, Mathias (b. Vienna, 1753–54; d. Vienna, February 21, 1821). Probably part-time member by June 1801; or Sack, Michael (b. Neustift, Vienna, September 11, 1768; d. Vienna, September 9, 1847). Probably part-time member by June 1801.

Trumpets (2) Fibich/Füby, Johann (b. Gauwitsch, Lower Austria, ca. 1763–64; d. Vienna, March 12, 1816). Left TadW orchestra between 1801 and 1808.

188  ❧  chapter eight Gläser, Peter (b. Oberleitensdorf, Bohemia, 1776; d. Vienna, December 21, 1849). Left TadW orchestra between 1801 and 1808; became copyist. Michel, Anton (b. Post [Postelberg, Bohemia?], ca. 1749; d. Vienna, December 1, 1821). Joined TadW orchestra between 1801 and 1808. Trnka, Clemens (dates unknown). Joined TadW orchestra between 1801 and 1808.

Trombones (3) Hörbeder, Franz [Sr.] (b. Steyer, Upper Austria, ca. 1759–60; d. Vienna, July 6, 1841). Member by 1795. Rust [Johann the elder?] (b. ca. 1757; d. 1806 or later). Hornist by ca. 1798; trombonist by 1801; left ca. 1806. Segner, Leopold (b. Schwechat, November 3, 1762; d, Vienna, October 10, 1834). Member probably since August 1803.

Timpani Manker, Ignaz (b. Gols, Hungary, ca. 1765; d. Vienna, December 4, 1817). Joined by January 1803.

Auxiliary Percussion/Personnel Manager Rabe, Joseph (b. Oberleitensdorf, Bohemia, ca. 1748–49; d. Vienna, May 30, 1828). Timpanist, 1791–1802.

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———, trans. and ed. Letters to Beethoven and Other Correspondence. 3 vols. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1996. Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung. Leipzig, 1804–5. Bauer, Anton. 150 Jahre Theater an der Wien. Vienna: Amalthea, 1952. Beethoven, Ludwig van. Briefwechsel Gesamtausgabe. Edited by Sieghard Brandenburg. 7 vols. Munich: Henle, 1996–98. ———. Kniga eskizov Betkhovena za 1802–1803 gody, issledovanie i rasshifrovka [Edition and transcription of the Wielhorsky sketchbook]. Edited by Natan L’vovich Fishman. 3 vols. Moscow: Glinka Museum and State Publishing House, 1962. ———. Symphonie No. 3, Es-dur (Eroica), Op. 55. In Ludwig van Beethovens Werk: Vollständige kritisch durchgesehene überall berechtigte Ausgabe, vol. I/3. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, ca. 1864. ———. Symphonie Nr. 3, Es-Dur, Op. 55, “Eroica.” Facsimile. 4 vols. Edited by Otto Biba. Vienna: Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, 1993. ———. Symphonie Nr. 3, Es-Dur, Opus 55, Sinfonia eroica. Edited by Bathia Churgin. Beethoven Werke, I/3 [Symphonies, vol. 3]. Munich: Henle, 2013. Behsel, Anton, ed. Verzeichniß aller in der kaiserl. königl. Haupt- und Residenz-Stadt Wien inner denen Linien befindlichen numerirten Häuser. Vienna: Carl Gerold, 1829. Biba, Otto. “Beethoven und die ‘Liebhaber Concerte’ in Wien im Winter 1807/08.” In Beiträge ’76–’78: Beethoven-Kolloquium 1977; Dokumentation und Aufführungspraxis, edited by Rudolf Klein, 82–93. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1978. ———, ed. “Eben komme ich von Haydn . . .” Georg August Griesingers Korrespondenz mit Joseph Haydns Verleger Breitkopf & Härtel 1799–1819. Zurich: Atlantis, 1987. Böckh, Franz Heinrich, ed. Merkwürdigkeiten der Haupt- und Residenz-Stadt Wien. Vienna: B. Ph. Bauer, 1822/23. Bory, Robert. Ludwig van Beethoven: His Life and His Work in Pictures. Zurich and New York: Atlantis, 1960. Brauneis, Walther. “‘. . . Composta per festiggiare il sovvenire di un grand Uomo’: Beethovens ‘Eroica’ als Hommage des Fürsten Franz Joseph Maximilian von Lobkowitz für Louis Ferdinand von Preußen.” Jahrbuch des Vereins für Geschichte der Stadt Wien 52–53 (1996–97): 53–88. Brinkmann, Reinhold. “Kleine ‘Eroica’-Lese.” Österreichische Musikzeitschrift 39 (1984): 634–38. Burnham, Scott. Beethoven Hero. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995. Clive, Peter. Beethoven and His World: A Biographical Dictionary. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2001. Czeike, Felix, ed. Historisches Lexikon Wien. 6 vols. Vienna: Kremayr & Scheriau, 1992–2004. Dorfmüller, Kurt, Norbert Gertsch, and Julia Ronge, eds. Ludwig van Beethoven: Thematisch-bibliographisches Werkverzeichnis. 2 vols. Munich: Henle, 2014.

190  ❧  chapter eight Fishman, Nathan L. “Das Moskauer Skizzenbuch Beethovens aus dem Archiv von M. J. Wielhorsky.” In Beiträge zur Beethoven-Bibliographie: Studien und Materialien zum Werkverzeichnis von Kinsky-Halm, edited by Kurt Dorfmüller, 61–67. Munich: Henle, 1978. Fojtiková, Jana, and Tomislav Volek. “Die Beethoveniana der Lobkowitz-Musiksammlung und ihre Kopisten.” In Beethoven und Böhmen: Beiträge zu Bibliographie und Wirkungsgeschichte Beethovens, edited by Sieghard Brandenburg and Martella Gutiérrez-Denhoff, 219–58. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 1988. Grosbauer, Joseph Johann, ed. Vollständiges Verzeichniß aller in der in der k. k. Hauptund Residenz-Stadt Wien inner denen Linien befindlichen numerirten Häuser, derselben Eigenthümer, Strassen, Gässen, Plätze und Schilder. Vienna: Joseph Gerold, 1805. Hof- und Staats-Schematismus. Vienna, 1800–1808. Johnson, Douglas, Alan Tyson, and Robert Winter. The Beethoven Sketchbooks: History, Reconstruction, Inventory. Edited by Douglas Johnson. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1985. Kinsky, Georg, and Hans Halm. Das Werk Beethovens: Thematisch-bibliographisches Verzeichnis seiner sämtlichen vollendeten Kompositionen. Munich: Henle, 1955. Klein, Rudolf. Beethovenstätten in Österreich. Vienna: Elisabeth Lafite, 1970. Kopitz, Klaus Martin, and Rainer Cadenbach, eds. Beethoven aus der Sicht seiner Zeitgenossen. 2 vols. Munich: Henle, 2009. Krzeszowiak, Tadeusz. Theater an der Wien: Seine Technik und Geschichte 1801–2001. Vienna: Böhlau, 2002. Landon, H.  C. Robbins. Beethoven: A Documentary Study. New York: Macmillan, 1970. Lockwood, Lewis, and Alan Gosman, eds. Beethoven’s “Eroica” Sketchbook: A Critical Edition; Transcription, Facsimile, Commentary. 2 vols. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2013. Macek, Jaroslav. “Franz Joseph Maximilian Lobkowitz. Musikfreund und Kunstmäzen.” In Beethoven und Böhmen: Beiträge zu Bibliographie und Wirkungsgeschichte Beethovens, edited by Sieghard Brandenburg and Martella Gutiérrez-Denhoff, 147–202. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 1988. ———. “Die Musik bei den Lobkowicz.” In Ludwig van Beethoven im Herzen Europas: Leben und Nachleben in den Bömischen Ländern, edited by Oldřich Pulkert and Hans-Werner Küthen, 171–216. Prague: České Lupkové Závody, 2000. ———. “Die Uraufführung von Beethovens ‘Sinfonia Eroica.’” In Ludwig van Beethoven im Herzen Europas; Leben und Nachleben in den Bömischen Ländern, edited by Oldřich Pulkert and Hans-Werner Küthen, 253–74. Prague: České Lupkové Závody, 2000. Messner, Robert. Die innere Stadt Wien im Vormärz: Historisch-topographische Darstellung. 3 vols. Vienna: Verein für Geschichte der Stadt Wien, 1996.

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Morrow, Mary Sue. Concert Life in Haydn’s Vienna. Stuyvesant, NY: Pendragon, 1989. Mosel, Ignaz von. “Uebersicht der gegenwärtigen Zustandes der Tonkunst in Wien.” Vaterländische Blätter für den österreichischen Kaiserstaat 1, no. 7 (1808): 53–54. Pulkert, Oldřich, and Hans-Werner Küthen, eds. Ludwig van Beethoven im Herzen Europas: Leben und Nachleben in den Bömischen Ländern. Prague: České Lupkové Závody, 2000. Rehrig, William H., ed. The Heritage Encyclopedia of Band Music: Composers and Their Music. 3 vols. Westerville, OH: Integrity, 1991. Schleuning, Peter. “Die Uraufführungsdatum von Beethovens ‘Sinfonia eroica.’” Die Musikforschung 44 (1991): 356–59. Schönfeld, Johann Ferdinand von. Jahrbuch der Tonkunst von Wien und Prag. Vienna: Schönfeld, 1796. Reprint. edited by Otto Biba. Munich: Emil Katzbichler, 1976. Senner, Wayne M., Robin Wallace, and William Meredith, eds. The Critical Reception of Beethoven’s Compositions by His German Contemporaries. Vol. 2. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2001. Thayer, Alexander Wheelock. The Life of Ludwig van Beethoven. 3 vols. Edited by Henry Edward Krehbiel. New York: Beethoven Association and G. Schirmer, 1921. ———. Ludwig van Beethovens Leben. Translated by Hermann Deiters, edited by Hugo Riemann. 5 vols. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1910. ———. Ludwig van Beethoven’s Leben. Vol. 2. Translated by Hermann Deiters. Berlin: Weber, 1872. ———. Thayer’s Life of Beethoven. Revised and edited by Elliot Forbes. 2 vols. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1964 and 1967. Tyson, Alan. “The 1803 Version of Beethoven’s Christus am Ölberge.” Musical Quarterly 56, no. 4 (1970): 551–84. Reprinted in The Creative World of Beethoven, edited by Paul Henry Lang, 49–82. New York: W. W. Norton, 1971. ———. “Notes of Five of Beethoven’s Copyists.” Journal of the American Musicological Society 23, no. 3 (Autumn 1970): 439–71. Volek, Tomislav, and Jaroslav Macek. “Beethoven’s Rehearsals at the Lobkowitz’s.” Musical Times 128 (1986): 78–79. ———. “Beethoven und Fürst Lobkowitz.” In Beethoven und Böhmen: Beiträge zu Bibliographie und Wirkungsgeschichte Beethovens, edited by Sieghard Brandenburg and Martella Gutiérrez-Denhoff, 198–218. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 1988. Vollständiges Auskunftsbuch, oder einzig richtiger Wegweiser in der kaiserl. königl. Haupt- und Residenzstadt Wien. Vienna: Gerold, 1804–5. Wegeler, Franz Gerhard, and Ferdinand Ries. Beethoven Remembered: The Biographical Notes of Franz Wegeler and Ferdinand Ries. Translated by Frederick Noonan. Arlington, VA: Great Ocean, 1987. ———. Biographische Notizen über Ludwig van Beethoven. Coblenz: Baedecker, 1838.

192  ❧  chapter eight Weinzierl, Stephan. Beethovens Konzerträume: Raumakustik und symphonische Aufführungspraxis an der Schwelle zum modernen Konzertwesen. Frankfurt am Main: Erwin Bochinsky, 2002. Wiener Zeitung. Vienna, 1804–22. Wiener Zeitung: Intelligenzblatt. Vienna, 1816, 1819. Ziegler, Anton. Addressen-Buch von Tonkünstlern, Dilettanten, Hof- Kammer- Theater- und Kirchen-Musikern . . . in Wien. Vienna: Anton Strauss, 1823.

Archival Materials Seyfried, Ignaz (Ritter) von. “Journal des Theaters auf der Wieden/an der Wien, 1795–1829.” Handschriften-Sammlung, Wiener Stadt- und Landesbibliothek/ Wienbibliothek, Vienna, 84958 Jb. Theater-Zettel, Burgtheater, 1801–2. Bibliothek, Österreichisches Theatermuseum, Palais Lobkowitz, Vienna. Theater-Zettel, Theater an der Wien, 1803–6. Bibliothek, Österreichisches Theatermuseum, Palais Lobkowitz, Vienna.

Notes 1 Son of the Bonn concertmaster Franz Ries (1755–1846), with whom Beethoven had studied in his youth, Ferdinand (1784–1838), in turn, was then Beethoven’s student in Vienna. Similarly, music publisher Simrock (1751– 1832) had been second (low) hornist in the electoral orchestra in Bonn, and Beethoven had taken at least some horn lessons with him. The original German reads: “Beethoven spielte sie mir neulich und ich glaube Himmel und Erde muß unter einem zittern bei ihrer Aufführung.” The entire passage in English: “He [Beethoven] wants to sell you the Symphony for 100 gulden. In his own opinion it is the greatest work that he has yet written, Beethoven played it for me recently, and I believe that heaven and earth will tremble when it is performed. He is very much inclined to dedicate it to Bonaparte, but because Lobkowitz wants to have it for half a year and will give 400 [for the right], then he will entitle it ‘Bonaparte.’ Leipzig has already offered 180 gulden for these two works, but because his brother [Carl] is conspiring with them, he does not want to sell them the works. Therefore, I ask that you answer me immediately concerning the Symphony.” The other work that Ries mentioned was the Violin Sonata, op. 47 (“Kreutzer”). See Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 1:190–92 (no. 165); Albrecht, Letters to Beethoven, 1:119–22 (no. 71). Translations are my own, unless otherwise indicated.

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At its premiere, Prometheus was preceded by Johann Schenk’s popular Singspiel Der Dorfbarbier, which had been premiered on October 30, 1796. At its second performance on April 11, 1801, it was preceded by another Singspiel, Der Marktschreier. Despite its old-fashioned subject (over which the composer probably had little control), Beethoven’s Prometheus was performed as a halfevening ballet twenty-eight times through the end of August 1802. TheaterZettel, Burgtheater, 1801–2 (thanks to librarian Othmar Barnert). 3 Paul Wranitzky, well known as a fine orchestra builder but also as a firm disciplinarian, had been transferred from the Burgtheater’s orchestra to the Kärntnertor Theater in 1795. Beethoven knew and admired him and hoped to engage him as concertmaster for his Akademie at the Burgtheater on April 2, 1800. The orchestral musicians, accustomed to the lax discipline of Giacomo Conti, refused to play under Wranitzky, and Beethoven was forced to work with Conti, who never forgave him the affront. See Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 3 (October 15, 1800), cols. 42 and 49–50. 4 The contract for the commission may have specified the court theaters’ exclusive use of the work for eighteen months after delivery, the period’s end possibly coinciding with the final performance on August 29, 1802. 5 From the 1790s, the garden building in the Augarten (today a porcelain factory) was the venue for summer concerts, usually held on Thursdays at 7:00 or 7:30 in the morning. The sun would be up well before that time, and the concerts were over by the time temperatures rose, with afternoon highs often reaching 95–98 degrees Fahrenheit. The larger hall of the building measured ca. 80 feet long, 38 feet wide, and 24 feet high. The smaller hall was ca. 64 feet long, 38 feet wide, and 23 feet high. Both were used for concerts and balls, depending upon the expected size of the audience. In 1800 the orchestra was placed in the center of the hall, against one wall, without any stage or elevation, because the halls were used as a restaurant at other times of day. The large hall’s seating capacity may have been as many as 250. See Weinzierl, Beethovens Konzerträume, 88–92 and 170–72. 6 Albrecht, Letters to Beethoven, 1:90–92 (no. 52); Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 1:148–51 (no. 125). Of the three Beethoven brothers, government official Carl (1774–1815) was by far the best writer, with Ludwig second and apothecary Johann (1776–1848) a distant third. On May 6, 1803, Ries had written Simrock, “Charl [sic] Beethoven is the biggest skinflint in the world, . . . his good brother makes the greatest enemies because of him”; and on September 13, 1803, “All the publishers in Vienna fear him worse than fire. Because he is so terribly rude, none will have anything to do with him.” See Albrecht, Letters to Beethoven, 1:100–101 and 114–15 (nos. 58 and 67); Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 1:162 and 180–81 (nos. 136 and 155).

194  ❧  chapter eight 7 8 9

10 11

12 13

See Albrecht, “The Fortnight Fallacy,” 263–84 and specifically the time-line on 277–78, placing the sketches for the op. 35 Variations as beginning by midSeptember 1802 and continuing through c. mid-October 1802. See Albrecht, Letters to Beethoven, 1:54–55 and 61 (nos. 29 and 32). On November 23, 1802 Beethoven’s brother Carl wrote to the publisher Johann André in Offenbach: “My brother . . . writes only oratorios, operas, etc.” See Albrecht, Letters to Beethoven, 1:84–85 (no. 49); Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 1:134–35 (no. 113). Some of these would be used exclusively for the Piano Variations, op. 35, others exclusively for the finale of the Symphony no. 3 in E-flat, and others for both works. See Beethoven, Kniga eskizov. Fishman was not only a musicologist but also a professional pianist and conductor, well acquainted with the practical aspects of music making. His chronological conclusions (that Beethoven began to compose Christus in November 1802) were summarized in his article “Das Moskauer Skizzenbuch Beethovens,” 61–67, and seconded in Albrecht, “The Fortnight Fallacy,” 275–78. From 1970, however, the paper and ink expert Alan Tyson chose to believe Beethoven’s later hyperbole (often taken out of context) that he had composed Christus very quickly, in as little as two weeks. Tyson offered that opinion in his “1803 Version,” 551–84, and summarized it in his chapter on the Wielhorsky sketchbook in Johnson, Tyson, and Winter, The Beethoven Sketchbooks, 130–36. Since that time, however, Beethoven scholarship has grown, with a new complete edition of his correspondence, a completed edition of his conversation books, and a major collection of recollections by his contemporaries, all of which (cumulatively) support a more practical and less sensational compositional chronology for Christus extending back to November 1802. Unfortunately, the new catalogue of Beethoven’s works (Dorfmüller, Gertsch, and Ronge, Ludwig van Beethoven: Thematischbibliographisches Werkverzeichnis, 1:537–48, and specifically 541 and 548) does not mention or take into consideration Nathan Fishman’s pathbreaking 1978 article. For a transcription of and commentary on this sketchbook, see Lockwood and Gosman, Beethoven’s “Eroica” Sketchbook. See Albrecht, Letters to Beethoven, 1:119–23 (no. 71); Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 1:190–92 (no. 165). In the original the phrase is “auf ein halb Jahr.” In the Biographische Notizen of 1838, Ries wrote, “Prince Lobkowitz later bought this composition from Beethoven for his own use for several years [auf einige Jahre].” Often quoted as fact, this lengthy time frame (inconsistent with common practice, as expressed in Ries’s letter of October 22, 1803) was either a slip of the pen on Ries’s part or a misreading by Wegeler, who edited the entire volume. See Wegeler and Ries, Biographische Notizen, 78–79; trans. Noonan in Wegeler and Ries, Beethoven Remembered, 68–69.

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14 Hence Beethoven’s annotation on the cover of the fair copy of the score: “N.B. The third horn is written in such a manner that it may be played by either a primario [high hornist] or a secundario [low hornist].” 15 See also Albrecht, “Beethoven’s Portrait,” 1–26. A fine new critical edition of the Eroica by Bathia Churgin has recently appeared in the new complete edition: Symphonie Nr. 3, Beethoven Werke, I/3 (2013). 16 The dating suggests that this copying must have been finished shortly before the reading rehearsals of June 10–11, 1804. See also Fojtiková and Volek, “Die Beethoveniana,” 234–35 (facsimile of the bill) and 228 (partial transcription). The title page of the first edition of the concerto is reproduced in Pulkert and Küthen, Beethoven im Herzen Europas, 196. 17 Albrecht, Letters to Beethoven, 1:135–38 (no. 81); Fojtiková and Volek, “Die Beethoveniana,” 227–29; and Volek and Macek, “Beethoven und Fürst Lobkowitz,” 212–13. 18 For Copyist C, see Tyson, “Notes of Five of Beethoven’s Copyists,” especially 452–56; and Albrecht, “Benjamin Gebauer,” 7–22. Gebauer copied much of the manuscript score of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 3 (Eroica), now preserved in the archive of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, Vienna. 19 In 1824, as head copyist at the Theater in der Josephstadt (where Anton Schindler was then concertmaster), Gläser would supervise much of the copying work for the premiere of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 9, which took place at the Kärntnertor Theater on May 7, 1824. 20 See Beethoven, Symphonie Nr. 3, ed. Biba, vol. 4 (commentary), 43–46. 21 Brinkmann, “Kleine ‘Eroica’-Lese,” 634–38; Volek and Macek, “Beethoven’s Rehearsals,” 78–79. 22 See Albrecht, “First Name Unknown,” 10–18. 23 Reproduced in Pulkert and Küthen, Beethoven im Herzen Europas, 492. 24 The contrabassist (who is identified on a parallel charge for the Fellner & Co. concert of January 20, 1805) was the Theater an der Wien’s principal contrabassist Anton Grams (1752–1823). He would have been responsible for supervising the cartage of at least the contrabass and timpani from the Theater an der Wien to Lobkowitz’s palace and back. 25 In addition, between the expenses for the two Beethoven rehearsals there was a copying expense for music by Haydn and Beethoven totaling 39 fl. 44 kr. (evidently supplemental to Sukowaty’s large copying bill), but the particulars seem not to have survived. 26 Seyfried, “Journal,” June 6–11, 1804; and Bauer, 150 Jahre Theater an der Wien, 276. 27 Wranitzky’s bill lists only the instruments and numbers, as published in Albrecht, Letters to Beethoven, 1:135–38 (no. 81). The possible names of the musicians are supplied from Albrecht, “Beethoven’s Portrait,” 1–26. See also Volek and Macek, “Beethoven und Fürst Lobkowitz,” 209–10 and

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28 29 30

31

32

33

34

198 (facsimile); Volek and Macek, “Beethoven’s Rehearsals,” 78–79; and Brinkmann, “Kleine ‘Eroica’-Lese,” 634–38. Autograph in the Státni Oblastní v Litoměřcích, Pobočka Žitenice, LÚÚ 1804, Nr. 254, Karton 907. Reproduced in Pulkert and Küthen, Beethoven im Herzen Europas, 188. Both, as noted above, members of Prince Lobkowitz’s Kapelle, so not requiring a separate payment. Between the personnel lists of 1801 and 1808 the trumpet section was in flux, so that the precise identity of the trumpeters in 1805 remains uncertain. They would have needed at least two more first violin parts, two more second violin parts, two more viola parts, and two more parts for cello/contrabass beyond those needed for the initial reading rehearsals, therefore a total of eight (longer) string parts and fourteen (shorter) parts for the other instruments. See Beethoven, Symphonie Nr. 3, ed. Biba, vol. 3 (orchestra parts). This volume is devoted to color reproductions of the surviving orchestral parts from this period: three violin 1, three viola, and one each of basso, flute 1, flute 2, oboe 1, oboe 2, clarinet 1, clarinet 2, bassoon 1, bassoon 2, and horn 1. For a listing of Vienna’s most accomplished amateurs on stringed instruments in the Liebhaber Concerte of 1807–8, see Biba, “Beethoven und die ‘Liebhaber Concerte,’” 82–93. If Ries was standing close enough to Beethoven to comment about the horn during the first movement, then someone else must have been conducting— most logically Lobkowitz’s concertmaster and Kapellmeister Anton Wranitzky. Given the following sequence of events at Fellner & Co. and the Theater an der Wien, it seems most probable that the theater’s concertmaster Franz Clement was among the musicians hired in June 1804. This view comes from this author’s observations of the hall (empty and with audience) and from Weinzierl, Beethovens Konzerträume, 85–87, 122, and 131 (citing Volek and Macek, “Beethoven und Fürst Lobkowitz,” 210–11 and 214–15), and 147–49 (three-dimensional diagram of the Eroica-Saal). Wegeler and Ries, Biographische Notizen, 78–79; trans. Noonan in Wegeler and Ries, Beethoven Remembered, 68–69 (translation slightly emended). Ries was speaking figuratively here. In any case, the operative word is beinahe (“close to”); Ries did not really receive an Ohrfeige (“box on the ear”). In at least one recent case, however, a writer takes “poor Ries’s boxed ear” literally, as an indication that the student’s “misapprehension” had “moved . . . Beethoven to violence.” See Burnham, Beethoven Hero, 13. As late as the 1960s, the Neapolitan-born and trained Frank G. Sturchio (1894–1971) often threatened his universityaged students with a box on the ear without any sense of danger or violence, and Ries’s anecdote must be viewed in such a context. See “Sturchio, Frank G.,” in Rehrig, The Heritage Encyclopedia of Band Music, 2:737–38. A facsimile of this score is Beethoven, Symphonie Nr. 3, ed. Biba. Because of its messy cover with its multitude of annotations and even a scratched-through

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and torn title, this copyist’s score is often mistaken for Beethoven’s autograph score, whose title page Ries described as torn in two in a fit of Beethoven’s rage. 35 Lobkowitz probably left for Bohemia between June 11 and July 21, 1804. He was in Eisenberg by the end of July, and his presence there on August 7 was reported in the Wiener Zeitung 66 (August 18, 1804): 3336. He arrived back in Vienna between October 30 and December 8, 1804, in time to take part in Emperor Franz’s Immaculate Conception procession from (and back to) St. Stephan’s Cathedral, with music by Salieri on December 8; see Wiener Zeitung 99 (December 12, 1804): 5039–41. Despite the caveats above concerning inconsistencies, the summer months are well covered in Macek, “Die Uraufführung,” 264–70. 36 See Brauneis, “‘. . . composta per festiggiare il sovvenire di un grand Uomo,’” 53–88. 37 Payer, “Miscelle,” 28, quoted in Kopitz and Cadenbach, Beethoven aus der Sicht seiner Zeitgenossen, 2:561–63 (alphabetized under L for Louis Ferdinand). According to Payer, Louis Ferdinand asked to have the symphony performed two more times—the second soon after the first, the third after an hour’s pause. 38 All three letters are lost. 39 Albrecht, Letters to Beethoven, 1:147 (no. 88); Volek and Macek, “Beethoven und Fürst Lobkowitz,” 199 (facsimile of receipt) and 213 (brief discussion). Autograph in the Státni Oblastní v Litoměřcích, Pobočka Žitenice. 40 Albrecht, Letters to Beethoven, 1:148 (no. 89); Volek and Macek, “Beethoven und Fürst Lobkowitz,” 200 (facsimile of receipt) and 213 (brief discussion). Autograph presumably in the Státni Oblastní v Litoměřcích, Pobočka Žitenice. 41 Wegeler and Ries, Biographische Notizen, 79; trans. Noonan in Beethoven Remembered, 68–69. The passage described was probably that shown in the Breitkopf & Härtel Gesamtausgabe, Symphonie No. 3, Es-dur (Eroica), Op. 55, from p. 16, measure 2, through p. 17, measure 8. 42 Imperial Baron Andreas von Fellner was director of the banking firm of Fellner und Comp. In the Handlungs-Societät (corporation), his public partners were his son Baron Franz Xaver von Fellner and his son-in-law Herr Joseph Würth; and his silent partner was his son Baron Johann Michael von Fellner. Each of the partners was legally empowered to direct the firm. In 1805 Andreas (representing the firm) was a deputy in the priv. Grosshandlungs-Gemium (ImperialLicensed Wholesalers/Bankers Association). During the Austrian national bankruptcy of 1811, Fellner encountered financial difficulties and sold his building to Simon Georg Sina (1753–1822), a Greek Orthodox banker with roots in Albania and Macedonia and large holdings in Hungary. By late 1815 or early 1816, Fellner had gone bankrupt, and his property was auctioned on c. July 1, 1816. In 1820 and 1822, however, Barons Xavier [sic] and Joseph von Fellner (presumably his sons) were still reported to be traveling to Ofen (Buda-Pest) on business. See Vollständiges Auskunftsbuch (1804), 15; (1805),

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44 45 46

47

48

15; Hof- und Staats- Schematismus, 1800, 154; ibid., 1805, 173 and 175; the Intelligenzblatt 112 (April 21, 1816), 873; “Angekommen in Wien” (“Arrivals in Vienna”), Wiener Zeitung 12 (January 17, 1820), 47; and no. 115 (May 20, 1822), 459; and “Sina,” in Czeike, Historisches Lexikon Wien, 5:232. Fellner also owned several other adjacent buildings: no. 543 in the Pressgasse; nos. 544, 545, and 546 in the Krebsgasse; nos. 547 and 548 in the Berghof; no. 549 in the Krebsgasse; and no. 550, which immediately adjoined (and would be combined with) the original 551. See Grosbauer, VollständigesVerzeichniß, 17; and Behsel, Verzeichniß, 16. While Fellner’s new building was under construction, he relocated his business next door, in Schwarzenberg’s building, no. 552. Vollständiges Auskunftsbuch (1805), 15. Würth’s wife was the former Freyin (Baroness) Theresia von Fellner. Würth himself seems not to have been noble, or even from the baronial class. Robert Messner’s accurate map of Vienna (reflecting ca. 1846) indicates that the Fellner building facing Hoher Markt was ca. 120 feet long, with a depth of ca. 45 feet to its Hof (central courtyard). Therefore, if Fellner’s business hall occupied perhaps a third of the building’s front onto Hoher Markt, it may have been ca. 40 feet long and (allowing for thickness of walls), ca. 40 feet deep. See Messner, Die innere Stadt Wien, 2:75–77; and Behsel, Verzeichniß, 16. For an illustration of Fellner’s new building, see Klein, Beethovenstätten, 47. The word Haus as well as the phrase “bei Herrn von Würth” (“at Herr von Würth’s”) have led some earlier writers to believe that these concerts took place in the intimate setting of Würth’s actual residence. The banking house was called Fellner und Comp., not “Würth und Fellner.” Würth was musical and organized these events, while senior partner Fellner (not known to be musical) seems to have regarded the concerts as good publicity. All of the reports concerning these concerts are summaries of the events. Clement is not mentioned until the second report, Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 6, no. 32 (May 9, 1804), cols. 545–46. This report says that the concerts continued until the end of Lent. Easter Sunday was on April 1 in 1804, so the last Sunday morning concert would have been on Palm Sunday, March 25. Male dilettantes or amateurs in the 1790s favored melodic instruments, most commonly the violin, flute, clarinet, or cello, with viola as an alternative for chamber music. (The instrument most favored by women was the piano, as being appropriate to virtually every domestic or social situation.) There were very few amateurs on other orchestral instruments. Thus the contrabasses and the rest of the winds of any “amateur orchestra” of this nature would have been played by professionals. By the 1820s men were playing a wider variety of orchestral instruments, but even the best amateur orchestras still needed considerable professional help in the winds if they presumed to perform in public.

orchestral personnel at the first performance of

49

50

51 52 53 54 55 56

57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67

eroica  

❧ 199

See Schönfeld, Jahrbuch der Tomkunst; Böckh, Merkwürdigkeiten; and Ziegler, Addressen-Buch, all passim. Allgemeine musikalische Zeiting 6, no. 28 (April 11, 1804), cols. 467–68. The most recent “dated” report from Vienna had been a one-column item dated February 12, 1804. The total number of overtures alone suggests that at least a dozen such concerts had taken place since Epiphany, therefore on January 8, 15, 22, and 29; February 5, 12, 19, and 26; and March 4, 11, 18, and 25 (Palm Sunday). The Mozart symphonies mentioned are nos. 40, K. 550, and 41, K. 551. Biba, “Beethoven und die ‘Liebhaber Concerte,’” 82–93; and Albrecht, Letters to Beethoven, 1:197–99 (no. 128). The orchestra, under the direction of Franz Clement (Theater an der Wien), consisted of about fifty-five players, noted with the January 20, 1805, orchestra, above. Piringer already appears among the amateurs in the Liebhaber Concerte. See Biba, “Beethoven und die ‘Liebhaber Concerte,’” 82–93. Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 7, no. 15 (January 9, 1805), cols. 241–44. Ibid., 7, no. 20 (February 13, 1805), cols. 321–22. Ibid., 7, no. 22 (February 26, 1805), cols. 350–52. Ibid., 7, no. 29 (April 17, 1805), cols. 468–70. See Thayer, Beethoven’s Leben, 2:273–75; Thayer, Beethovens Leben, trans. Deiters, ed. Riemann, 2:458–59 (the business was only indexed under “W”); Thayer, The Life of Ludwig van Beethoven, ed. Krehbiel, 2:42–43 (the business was again only indexed under “W”); Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, rev. and ed. Forbes, 374–75 (the business was not indexed under either W or F). Brinkmann, “Kleine ‘Eroica’-Lese,” 634–38. Volek and Macek, “Beethoven’s Rehearsals,” 78–79. Macek, “Franz Joseph Maximilian Lobkowitz,” 147–202. Volek and Macek, “Beethoven und Fürst Lobkowitz,” 203–18, and 198–201 (facsimiles). Fojtiková and Volek, “Die Beethoveniana,” 219–58. Macek, “Die Musik bei den Lobkowicz,” 171–216; and Macek, “Die Uraufführung,” 253–74. Volek and Macek, “Beethoven und Fürst Lobkowitz,” 213–15 (transcription) and 201 (facsimile). My translation is based directly on the facsimile. The abbreviation “mp” (with or without periods) stands for the Latin manu propria, indicating that the document was signed by his “own hand.” Schleuning, “Die Uraufführungsdatum,” 356–59. Cherubini’s opera Lodoiska is also scored for four horns, but its overture uses only two. Glöggl’s son Franz Xaver (1764–1839) was Kapellmeister at Linz Cathedral. While visiting his brother Johann in Linz in Fall 1812, Beethoven called on Franz Xaver frequently and composed for him the three Equale for four

200  ❧  chapter eight trombones, WoO 30, to be used on All Souls’ Day, November 2, 1812. See Kinsky and Halm, Das Werk Beethovens, 469–71, and Dorfmüller, Gertsch, and Ronge, Beethoven: Thematisch-bibliographisches Werkverzeichnis, 2:77–80. 68 Schleuning, “Die Uraufführungsdatum,” 357. 69 Seyfried, “Journal,” January 23, 1805. 70 Biba, “Eben komme ich von Haydn,” 234–37. 71 There was, however, a performance of Grétry’s opera Raoul der Blaubart at the Theater an der Wien on the evening of January 19. This would mean that the contrabasses and timpani were transported to Fellner’s and back on both Saturday and Sunday, probably being accommodated in Grams’s fee for contrabass cartage and in the services of stagehands Katl and Joseph, as Wranitzky specified. 72 Since there are confusions elsewhere in the bill, its date of Wednesday, January 23, probably reflects the date of the extra rehearsal (probably during the day, rather than evening) of Wranitzky or Clement (violin) along with the other soloists (clarinet, bassoon, and horn) for the upcoming Peter von Winter symphony, or it might have been due to the unrelated rehearsal for soloists on that date. Lobkowitz is acting as a contractor for Würth’s January 20 concert at Fellner and Co., and Wranitzky is acting as Lobkowitz’s agent or representative in coordinating all personnel and related services for Lobkowitz to pay. In turn, Würth will reimburse Lobkowitz for his expenses. The instruments and numbers are in Albrecht, Letters to Beethoven, 1:135–38 (no. 81); the possible names of the musicians are supplied from other sources, including Albrecht, “Beethoven’s Portrait,” 1–26. See also Volek and Macek, “Beethoven und Fürst Lobkowitz,” 209–10 and 198 (facsimile); Volek and Macek, “Beethoven’s Rehearsals,” 78–79; and Reinhold Brinkmann, “Kleine ‘Eroica’-Lese,” 634–38. Autograph in the Státni Oblastní v Litoměřcích, Pobočka Žitenice, LÚÚ 1804, Nr. 254, Karton 907. 73 The trombones appear in brackets here because they would not have played in Beethoven’s symphony. 74 Biba, “Beethoven und die ‘Liebhaber Concerte,’” 82–93; and Albrecht, Letters to Beethoven, 1:197–99 (no. 128). 75 Mosel, “Uebersicht,” 54. 76 If additional string players were invited to participate on Sunday morning, January 20, then extra parts would have had to be copied to accommodate them. 77 All four soloists would figure prominently in Beethoven’s opera Fidelio (Leonore), at its first performances at the Theater an der Wien, beginning on November 20, 1805. The Zettel for the premiere is widely reproduced. See Bory, Ludwig van Beethoven, 112.

orchestral personnel at the first performance of

eroica  

❧ 201

78 Theater an der Wien, Zettel (courtesy Othmar Barnert). The Zettel is illustrated in Krzeszowiak, Theater an der Wien, 47 and transcribed in Morrow, Concert Life, 330. 79 Even so, Salieri cannot have been happy that his three benefit concerts on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, April 7–9, 1805, had direct competition from benefit concerts at the Theater an der Wien: Clement on Sunday, Constanze Mozart on Monday, and the financially needy employees of the theater on Tuesday. Salieri’s anger and resentment over such (largely unavoidable) scheduling conflicts reached a crisis in connection with Beethoven’s famous marathon concert at the Theater an der Wien on December 22, 1808, and with Clement’s benefit on the following evening. See Morrow, Concert Life, 329–31. 80 Beethoven, Symphonie Nr. 3, ed. Biba, vol. 1. The title page is also legibly reproduced in Bory, Ludwig van Beethoven, 108. Beethoven’s annotation reads: “N.B. The third horn is so written that it may be played by either a primario [high hornist] or a secundario [low hornist].” 81 Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 7, no. 31 (May 1, 1805), col. 501. 82 Seyfried, “Journal,” April 6, 1805. 83 Mozart had written the muted timpani part for him in the scene with trials by fire and water in Die Zauberflöte in 1791. 84 Clement’s next benefit concert on December 23, 1806, featured Beethoven’s Violin Concerto, written for him. Its Zettel also noted “mit Verstärkung des Orchesters.” The program included an overture by Méhul, Beethoven’s new Violin Concerto for Clement, an aria by Mozart, the overture and a chorus from Handel’s Ode for St. Cecilia’s Day, re-orchestrated by Mozart, a new overture by Cherubini, a new vocal quartet by Cherubini, violin improvisation by Clement, and another chorus from Handel’s Ode for St. Cecilia’s Day, reorchestrated by Mozart. See Landon, Beethoven: A Documentary Study, 192. 85 Therefore the Sunday morning private performance sponsored by banker Joseph Würth on January 20, 1805, cannot be termed an actual Uraufführung. 86 Epilogue: On February 12, 1805, three weeks after Würth’s concert, Beethoven’s brother Carl wrote to Breitkopf & Härtel: “At first, before he had yet heard the Symphony, my brother believed that it would be too long if the first part [exposition] of the first movement were repeated, but after several performances he found it just as disadvantageous if the first part were not repeated.” (See Albrecht, Letters to Beethoven, 1:158–60 [no. 98]; Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 1:245–46 [no. 212].) In a performance of the first movement (without repeat) that lasts just under fourteen minutes, the exposition takes roughly three minutes to play once. Therefore, the same performance with the exposition repeated would take about seventeen minutes. On Tuesday, April 9, 1805, the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung’s correspondent (probably Georg August Griesinger) reported on Franz Clement’s concert, only two days before. During the course of the evening, he noted, he had heard “the new Beethoven

202  ❧  chapter eight Symphony in E-flat, conducted by the composer himself and performed by a very well-populated [gut besetzten] orchestra.” The correspondent’s primary complaint about the symphony, as it had been in January, was that it was too long. (See Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 7, no. 31 [May 1, 1805], cols. 500–502. For an English translation of the portion of this report pertinent to the symphony, see Senner, Wallace, and Meredith, The Critical Reception, 2:17–18.) On Sunday, February 20, 1820, the orchestra of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde performed Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony at a midday concert in the Grosser Redoutensaal. As usual, Beethoven did not attend, but later that day, an unknown writer jotted in his conversation book: “[It was] well done, but the violins [were] too weak.” Beethoven then asked something, which may have been about whether the orchestra took all the repeats. The writer replied, “Not for the allegro [the first movement].” (See Albrecht, Beethoven’s Conversation Books, 1:271.) And three years later, in spring 1823, Beethoven composed the first movement of his Symphony no. 9 in D Minor—without an exposition repeat. (In the third movement of Symphony no. 9, Beethoven wrote an extensive low horn solo [sometimes as part of the orchestral ensemble] for Friedrich Hradetzky, who had played an unidentified concerto in the final group of Würth’s concerts during Lent 1805.) 87 Four horns would have been required for Cherubini’s overture. For the Eroica the fourth horn may have “augmented” the section by doubling the third horn part.

Part Three

Masses

Chapter Nine

“Aber lieber Beethoven, was haben Sie denn wieder da gemacht?” Observations on the Performing Parts for the Premiere of Beethoven’s Mass in C, Opus 86 Jeremiah W. McGrann The performing parts for the premiere of Beethoven’s Mass in C had received little attention before the new complete edition in 2003 detailed their existence and contents.1 In his 1959 article “Beethoven in Eisenstadt” Johann Harich confirmed the existence of forty-four parts then in the Esterházy archives and mentioned their untidy appearance: “The number of entries, corrections, and interpolations in his [Beethoven’s] own hand in the parts is enormous. There is not a single one in which such things could not be found.”2 The parts are now in fact complete, since the Esterházy holdings can be supplemented by two later discoveries: The National Széchényi Library, Budapest, houses four additional choral parts, which include the important master copies for the tenor part and a portion of the bass part; and James

206  ❧  chapter nine

Armstrong found the missing timpani part in Eisenstadt while preparing his yet-to-be-published catalogue of the Esterházy music archive. Forty-nine parts now exist, a number which agrees with an inventory of the Esterházy holdings made in 1809, just two years after the premiere.3 These parts, along with what remains of Beethoven’s autograph manuscript, together with a complete score (delivered with the parts to Prince Esterházy in 1807) and the first edition published by Breitkopf & Härtel in 1812, constitute the extant primary sources for the Mass in C.4 Of these, only the parts can help us understand what happened at the premiere on September 13, 1807. Beethoven, at least, thought it went well, or so he reported in 1808 when he offered the work to Breitkopf & Härtel for publication: “Also it has been performed in several locations with great applause, among others at Prince Esterházy’s in Eisenstadt for the nameday of the princess.”5 Two eyewitnesses recorded other reactions. Joseph Rosenbaum, a former official of the Esterházy court, noted blandly in his diary: “[T]o Mass . . . with unsuccessful music by Bethowen [sic].”6 A more damning criticism came from the prince himself, when he wrote to Countess Zielinska: “Beethoven’s Mass is unbearably ridiculous and detestable, and I am not convinced that it can ever be performed properly; I am angry and ashamed.”7 Whether because of the perceived novelty of its style or the musicians’ inability to perform it properly, the premiere clearly did not have the intended effect.8 The performing parts are important for three reasons: they document the difficulties that developed when the parts were being copied; they reveal late compositional changes made by Beethoven along with the original readings they replaced; and they allow us to see how Beethoven altered his perception of the work between the premiere in 1807 and the version published in 1812. It is clear that Beethoven rushed to complete the work. Just six weeks before the name-day festivities in September, he wrote to a worried Prince Esterházy, promising to deliver the Mass by August 20; he blamed events earlier in the year—contract negotiations in April, ill health extending into the summer—for the delay.9 Preparing the score and parts required an unusually high number of copyists: six for the score and thirteen for the parts.10 The copyists were Joseph Klumpar with Wenzel Schlemmer and his assistants. While Schlemmer’s work for Beethoven dates back to 1799, Klumpar was the composer’s preferred copyist in the years around 1807, and he had the major responsibility for the Mass.11 Sieghard Brandenburg has speculated that Klumpar was also Beethoven’s servant.12 We know that Beethoven travelled

observations on the performing parts for op. 86  ❧ 207

to Eisenstadt with a “Diener” on September 10 and stayed until September 16,13 three days after the premiere, giving the two of them time to tidy up the score and parts and, more importantly, time to transfer any changes and additions from the premiere into another score, which Beethoven retained as a working copy.14 It is clear that Beethoven’s autograph no longer served such a purpose. The critical report in the new complete edition presents the complexities of Klumpar’s and Schlemmer’s work. The present study will examine the most prominent changes and additions found in the parts.15 While Beethoven made numerous small pitch corrections and added dynamics, tempo, and other performance markings—mainly to achieve a complete, consistent, and correct reading—what follows is a discussion of those locations where ideas were altered, because of either a copyist’s error or the composer’s reconsideration. They allow us to uncover the original versions of passages that Beethoven rewrote and provide a better sense of the preparation for the premiere and what happened at the premiere. Joseph Klumpar had sole responsibility for copying the score and a master set of parts up through the Gloria.16 In the Gloria he made the same error repeatedly in the flute parts: he had flute 2 doubling flute 1 at measures 123–29, 186–88, and 207–10. Beethoven, in proofreading Klumpar’s work, canceled those passages for flute 2. In his autograph Beethoven had indicated these measures for flute 1 alone, notating only upward stems on the note heads, and not upward and downward stems as he did when he wanted to indicate a due. Klumpar copied the passages correctly in the Eisenstadt score, duplicating Beethoven’s upward-only stems, but he reinterpreted this as a due for the parts.17 Beethoven crossed out all the incorrect passages in flute 2 and replaced them with rests. Klumpar made a similar mistake in measures 375–79, the final cadence of the movement, but with a different result. In the Eisenstadt score he notated the passage for flute 1 alone with upward stems, omitting any continuation of flute 2 after measure 374. Presumably this reflected Beethoven’s autograph, the extant portion of which goes up to only measure 205 in the Gloria. Excluding flute 2 in these final measures was an error, whether through Beethoven’s or Klumpar’s lack of attention. Klumpar mitigated the error in the parts; he again had flute 2 double flute 1 as in the previous locations. In this instance Beethoven did not cancel flute 2 but instead rewrote it as a counterpoint to flute 1. While Beethoven may have failed to include a passage for flute 2 in his autograph (if the Eisenstadt score is an accurate reflection), Klumpar’s mistake, in adding it in the part as doubling flute 1,

208  ❧  chapter nine Example 9.1. Beethoven, Mass in C, Gloria, mm. 375–79, final cadence, flutes: (a) Eisenstadt parts, 1807; (b) first edition, 1812. Allegro

a Fl

&c

œ

œ Œ œ Œ

Allegro ma non troppo

b Fl

&c

œ

œ Œ œ Œ

œ œ œ Œ œ Œ

œ œ

œ œ œ Œ œ Œ

œ œ Œ

Œ

w w w w

œ œ Œ œ œ Œ

allowed the composer to correct the omission. Beethoven did not similarly correct the Eisenstadt score. Example 9.1 shows the passage as corrected by Beethoven in the Eisenstadt parts (ex. 9.1a) and how Beethoven later rewrote it for the first edition (ex. 9.1b) to strengthen the contrary motion. The most extensive change in the Gloria affected the “Qui tollis” section in the clarinet parts. Beethoven decided to switch from clarinets in C to clarinets in B-flat at the “Qui tollis.” In his autograph he had designated clarinets in C at the start of the movement and had notated their music appropriately at sounding pitch into and through the “Qui tollis.” His autograph breaks off shortly before the “Quoniam,” but in copying the Eisenstadt score, Klumpar entered the entire movement for clarinets in C, presumably reproducing what was in the lost autograph. Beethoven changed the clarinet designation only after Klumpar had finished copying the Gloria and begun work on the Credo. Luckily, to make the correction in the parts Klumpar could simply remove one bifolio (folios 4 and 5), which contained the remainder of the movement at pitch, and replace it with a new bifolio with the transposed reading for B-flat clarinets.18 Once the bifolio was replaced, the only evidence of the mistake remained the original “Qui tollis” portions on folio 3v, now canceled. Beethoven later added a note in the margin of the Eisenstadt score: “Nb: Clarinetti in B hier müßen die Clarinet: Stimmen ùm einen Ton höher geschrieben werden.” Similarly at the beginning of the “Quoniam” where the clarinet had also been written at pitch, Beethoven wrote “Nb: hier werden die Clarinetten ebenfalls ùm einen Ton höher geschrieben jedoch mit dieser Vorzeichnung [key signature of D major].” Beethoven did not add a similar warning in his autograph. The reason for the change is hard to pin down. The entire movement is playable by clarinets in C, though the F-minor “Qui tollis” is perhaps easier for B-flat clarinets, which also

observations on the performing parts for op. 86  ❧ 209

supply a slightly warmer tone to the expression. The clarinets then had to remain in B-flat for the C-major “Quoniam,” as the music does not allow time to switch instruments. While Klumpar had sole responsibility for copying the Mass up to the Credo, his role then changed. In the wind parts and three of the four master parts for the strings, he began copying the Credo to the end of the “Et incarnatus” section and stopped. He could have continued into the “Et resurrexit,” but there is no evidence in anything that survives that he did. There was a clear and deliberate interruption in the process of copying. The reason: Beethoven had decided to rewrite measures 102–30, just before the “Et incarnatus.” What can be recovered of the original version is shown in example 9.2, with measure numbers corresponding to the final version beneath.19 The passage is now twenty-nine measures long but was originally twenty-six measures in length. Beethoven expanded the passage, altered the harmonic transition at measures 109–11, and reworked the orchestration, eliminating some blatant text painting in the strings. As mentioned, the original reading was three measures shorter than the final version, and the difference centers on the antiphonal play on the text “descendit de coelis” at measure 102 and again at measure 118. In its final reading, there are two dialogues between men’s and women’s voices at each location: T/B, S/A, T/B, S/A. For the original reading, one can derive the chorus only from the orchestral accompaniment, as the vocal parts show no evidence of an earlier layer and were presumably copied after rewriting the instrumental parts. The original orchestration allows at best a single interchange between men and women (m. 103 followed by m. 106 and m. 120 followed by m. 121 in the transcription). In other words, the two dialogues were originally a single statement and response. Beethoven also redesigned the harmonic shift from C major to C minor in measures 109–11. In the final version the music arrives on a strong, authentic C-major cadence in measure 109 and then modulates by reducing the orchestra to a single descending line in the bassoon, which introduces the flat mediant, E♭, in measure 110. In the original version the cadence is weaker: the lower strings (viola, cello, contrabass) hold a dominant pedal into measure 109, and the move to the minor is more abrupt and pronounced: in a running eighth-note passage the lower strings introduce both the flat submediant and the flat mediant (A♭ and E♭) immediately in measure 109. In recomposing the whole section, Beethoven re-voiced the oboes and brass, but more significantly, he eliminated the sixteenth-note descents in the strings in measures 107–8 and measure 123, which overtly depicted the

https://doi.org/10.1017/9781787448124.012 Published online by Cambridge University Press

Example 9.2—continued & &

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

∑

Œ Œ bœœ bœœ œ œœ

∑

ff

Œ Œ œœ

& ?

&

ff

∑ p

&

∑

˙ ˙

∑

∑

∑

∑

(a2)

Œ Œ œ

∑

(a2)

Œ Œ œ

?

° & ¢& B

Œ Œ bœ p & Œ Œ œ q

? b˙ 111

œ œ œ pro pter nos

œ œ œ 112

˙

œ œ œ

˙

œœ ˙

b˙ ˙

œ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

˙

œ œ bœ œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ

ho

m

˙ 113

nes

et

˙ pro

œ bœ œ b˙ 114

11

pter

œ

no stram sa

œœ œ œ œ 116

œ ˙

l

˙ 117

œ œ œ

œ œ Œ bœ œœ œ Œ Œ tem

œ

œœ

œ œ œ œ œ œ

œœ œ œ œ œ

Œ Œ

œ

œ

œœ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ

Œ Œ œ

œ

œ œ œ Ten Sop bœ œ œ œ Œ Œ œ œ œ Œ

de

œ Œ œ bœ œ 118

œœ

œœ œ b œœ œ

f 120

(continued)

œ

Œ Œ

scen d t de

b ank

scen d t de

œ 122

œ

œ

observations on the performing parts for op. 86  ❧ 213

“descendit” of the text. By doing so, he also slowed the pace by eliminating the eighth notes in viola and cello/bass both here and at the end of the section in measures 109–10. Finally, he removed the oboe at measure 125 (probably with flute above, doubling violin 1 and viola), which descends melodically at the end of the section. Altogether, by adding measures to lengthen the dialogue in the voices, by adjusting the harmonic transition, and by eliminating sixteenth- and eighth-note patterns, Beethoven slows and smooths the approach to the “Et incarnatus.” The changes created a mess in the parts. Klumpar had begun them but clearly stopped at the “Et resurrexit.” When Beethoven rewrote measures 102–30, for whatever reason, Klumpar did not make the corrections; rather, Schlemmer and his assistants (copyists 3, 4, 6, and 11) were delegated the task. They fixed the wind and string masters, except for violin 1, which Schlemmer started from the beginning of the movement.20 Schlemmer’s team salvaged what they could of Klumpar’s work and rewrote isolated measures, but they had to cancel passages, remove pages, and sew pages together to produce usable parts. Klumpar did not copy the Credo score now in Eisenstadt, but there was likely a working score in his hand from which the parts were copied.21 With Beethoven’s decision to rewrite this passage, the alterations the score would have needed would have made it so untidy that copyists 3 and 4, Schlemmer’s assistants, were probably told to produce a new, clean, and neat version to deliver to Prince Esterházy. Klumpar had made another copying error in the Benedictus, this time in the voices. In the solo parts and the master parts for the chorus, pages again had to be sewn together and passages crossed out. The Benedictus is in binary sonata form, without development. Klumpar, for some reason, copied the exposition twice and then continued with the recapitulation. He did this repeatedly for each of the vocal registers. The easiest fix was simply to link the end of the first exposition to its recapitulation by adding “Vi-de” signs, sew the redundant pages together, and cross out the unneeded passages that remained visible, thus eliminating the double exposition. The instrumental parts copied by Schlemmer and his assistants show no sign of such an error. Had Klumpar misread some mark as a repeat sign in Beethoven’s score? The loss of Beethoven’s autograph for this portion of the Mass limits our ability to explain this peculiar mistake. Beethoven did recompose one passage for the soloists in the Benedictus, at measures 92–94. Example 9.3 recovers what he scratched out. Eliminated was a fauxbourdon-like, parallel descent in the soprano, alto, and tenor. He

observations on the performing parts for op. 86  ❧ 215 Table 9.1. Dynamic renderings of “Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi” in the Eisenstadt parts, the Eisenstadt score, and the Breitkopf & Härtel first edition m. 3 Agnus Dei qui tollis Eisenstadt parts

cresc

Eisenstadt score Breitkopf print

cresc

f

p

f

p

f

p

m. 10 Angus Dei qui tollis Eisenstadt parts

cresc

Eisenstadt score Breitkopf print

f

p

f

p

f

p

m. 24 Agnus Dei qui tollis Eisenstadt parts

f

Eisenstadt score Breitkopf print

cresc

f

p

f

p

m. 67 Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi Eisenstadt parts

cresc

ff

Eisenstadt score

f

Breitkopf print

f

supplies a rhetorical climax to the three statements. He may have changed it for the 1812 print, thinking that the forceful Eisenstadt reading of forte in m. 24 could diminish the impact of the extended forte contrapuntal passage on “peccata” in mm. 28–32. At the recurrence of the “Agnus Dei” within the “Dona” (m. 67), Beethoven broadened the dynamic range in the vocal parts. He added ff at the climactic measure 71, wanting the voices to sound out above the

https://doi.org/10.1017/9781787448124.012 Published online by Cambridge University Press

Example 9.4. Beethoven, Mass in C, Agnus Dei, mm. 108–45, voices, Eisenstadt parts.

Allegro ma non troppo 108

S

° C &

Tu i

∑

˙

f

∑

˙

pa

&C

A

∑

˙

pa

˙ &C ˙ ‹ pa f

T

B

¢

?C

sf

∑

-

-

˙

˙

sf

˙ -

-

-

˙

-

∑

˙

w

˙

f

-

∑

˙

˙

sf

-

w -

-

-

-

pa

-

œ œ œ œ ˙

-

-

w

˙

-

cem

-

∑

∑

∑

cem

-

cem pa

-

pa

˙

œ œ Œ Ó œ œ

œ œ Œ Ó

-

œ œ œ Œ Ó

-

-

˙ œ œ œ pa

-

∑

∑

cem

-

œ ˙ Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

cem

˙

-

œ œ w

œ Œ Ó

f

œ

∑

∑

cem

œ Œ Ó - cem

118 So i

p

˙

do - na

do - na

˙

do - na

∑

∑

∑

p

-

no

-

œ w

do - na

˙

no

œ w

do - na

œ ˙

p

œ w

do - na

œ ˙

#˙

p

œ ˙

no

œ w

do - na

no

-

-

observations on the performing parts for op. 86  ❧ 217

orchestra. He left the dynamic level forte in the score and the Breitkopf print, and, in both, the crescendo must be implied from the instrumental parts. While these variants reshade the dynamics, an extended passage sounded quite different at the premiere. Example 9.4 transcribes in modern clefs the voices in measures 108–45, based on the Eisenstadt parts. There are two things to note: first, the sf added in some but not all of the vocal parts at the two imitative passages (starting in m. 108 and m. 132); second, the assignment of measures 118–21 and 142–45 to the soloists. The Eisenstadt materials show some ambivalence about both. The Eisenstadt score lacks a solo marking for the first “dona nobis pacem,” and at the second, the designation appears abbreviated as a tentative “So” in a different hand and ink than the rest of that page, thus probably a later addition. In the Breitkopf print these passages lack any solo designations and have been dutifully sung by the chorus ever since. At the premiere, these passages were unambiguously sung by the soloists, since the choral parts have rests. The sforzato markings are in some but not all of the vocal parts. Those in the solo soprano, solo tenor, and choral master for the tenors are in Beethoven’s hand and were copied into the duplicate tenor parts, but not elsewhere. The lack of uniformity among the parts leaves open the question of what was actually done at the performance, but Beethoven’s repeated additions of sf substantiate this reading. In the Breitkopf print there are no accents in the voices, but a wedge accent (>) appears on the third beat in the first violins.23 In the Eisenstadt parts a single accent does appear in the first violins, but only in measure 107 and not thereafter. Such accents in the voices, always on the third beat, while dramatic, seem strange, as they throw off the pronunciation and verbal stress; it turns the two-syllable “pa-cem” into a pseudo three-syllable “pa-A-cem,” which is anything but peaceful-sounding. As revised in the printed version, Beethoven sets up a dichotomy between an unaccented, though forte, call for peace in the voices and the off-setting third-beat accents now consistently transferred to violin 1. Some general observations about this movement result from these details. Overall, the performance of the Agnus Dei in Eisenstadt had a greater and more varied sense of drama. It is closer to its later sibling the Fifth Symphony, not only in a formal device—here returning to the C-minor “Agnus” within the C-major “Dona,” just as the retransition in the last movement of the Fifth echoes the C-minor of the preceding scherzo—but also in expressive force. By 1812 Beethoven had toned down the movement slightly. Not only is there less dynamic range in the voices, and the sf accents, having been

Table 9.2. Beethoven, Mass in C: comparison of tempos and meters in the different sources Kyrie A

[no tempo marking]

B

Andante con moto 

C

Andante con moto 

D

Andante con moto assai vivace quasi Allegretto ma non troppo 

AGA

Andante con moto assai vivace quasi Allegretto ma non troppo 

Hess

Andante con moto assai vivace quasi Allegretto ma non troppo 

Gloria “Gloria”

“Qui tollis”

“Quoniam

A

Allegro con brio



no marking

B

Allegro con brio



Andante mosso 

Allegro ma non troppo



C

Allegro con brio



Andante mosso 

Allegro



D

Allegro



Andante mosso 

Allegro ma non troppo



AGA

Allegro con brio



Andante mosso 

Allegro ma non troppo



Hess

Allegro con brio



Andante mosso 

Allegro ma non troppo





score not extant

Credo “Credo

“Et incarnatus”

“Et resurrexit”

“Et vitam”

 Adagio  Adagio

 Allegro   Allegro



Vivace





Vivace



Vivace





Vivace



Allegro con brio

 Adagio

 Allegro   Allegro ma non troppo   Allegro ma non troppo



Allegro con brio

 Adagio   Adagio



Vivace



B

Allegro con brio

C

Allegro

D

Allegro con brio

AGA Hess

(continued)

observations on the performing parts for op. 86  ❧ 219 Table 9.2—concluded Sanctus “Sanctus”

“Pleni”

“Benedictus”

Allegro

“Osanna”

B

Adagio



Allegretto ma non troppo



Allegro



C

Adagio



Allegro

Allegretto ma non troppo



Allegro



D

Adagio



Allegro

Allegretto ma non troppo



Allegro



AGA

Adagio



Allegro

Allegretto ma non troppo



Allegro



Hess

Adagio



Allegro

Allegretto ma non troppo



Allegro



Agnus Dei “Agnus Dei”

“Dona”

Coda

Allegro ma non troppo



Andante con moto



B

Poco Andante



C

Poco Andante



Allegro ma non troppo



Andante con moto



D

Poco Andante



Allegro ma non troppo



Andante con moto tempo da Kyrie



AGA

Poco Andante



Allegro ma non troppo



Andante con moto tempo del Kyrie



Hess

Poco Andante



Allegro ma non troppo



Andante con moto tempo del Kyrie



Abbreviations: A = Beethoven’s autograph; B = Eisenstadt score; C = Eisenstadt parts; D = Breitkopf first edition; AGA = Alte Gesamtausgabe; H = Willy Hess Eulenburg edition

eliminated in the voices, are shifted to less prominence in the accompaniment, but the plea for mercy and peace has become less demanding, more penitent, and a request more often made by the choral congregation than by individuals. Between 1807 and 1812 Beethoven also rethought a number of tempo markings throughout the work. Table 9.2 collects the tempos and meters from the various sources (variants within the parts are excluded). Two changes are striking. The most controversial is the opening of the Gloria, a

220  ❧  chapter nine

change Beethoven specifically pointed out to Breitkopf & Härtel in a letter of July 17, 1812: You will have received the corrected proof of the Mass—At the beginning of the Gloria I have written instead of   time signature and [a] change of the tempo; and that is the way it [the tempo] was indicated at first. A bad performance at which the tempo was taken too fast [geschwind] induced me to do this.24

Emily Anderson gives a different reading here: “.  .  . I have altered  to  time signature, thus altering the tempo and that is the way the time was indicated at first.”25 There is only a slight difference between her reading (“altered the time signature, thus changing the tempo”) and mine (“written a different time signature and [a] change of tempo”), but the conjunction makes clear that two separate alterations were required at the beginning of the Gloria. This point has been obscured both by Anderson’s translation and by later editions of the Mass. Beethoven asked Breitkopf to change both the time signature and the tempo marking, and the publisher did change both. The  of Eisenstadt becomes alla breve in the first edition, and the “Allegro con brio” of Eisenstadt becomes a simple “Allegro” in the print.26 As for the tempo marking, it was originally “Allo con brio” in the print before the publisher burnished away “con brio” and wrote out “Allegro.” Upon close examination, the original “Allo con brio,” though faint, still shows through (see fig. 9.1). Later editions, the original Gesamtausgabe and Willy Hess, joined the new alla breve meter with the original Allegro con brio, thus negating the composer’s clearly stated intent to slow the tempo. While Beethoven wanted a slower pace, alla breve would seem to speed it up. As Sandra Rosenblum has correctly pointed out, a change to alla breve has other implications besides tempo. Theorists of the day ascribed certain expressive values to the use of this meter.27 The definition of alla breve in Sulzer’s Allgemeine Theorie der schönen Künste speaks of how it makes a song “einfacher und ernsthafter” (“simpler and more earnest”), which would correspond with Beethoven’s desire for a slower approach.28 An overlooked result of the change to cut time is its affect upon the rhythmic declamation of the text. By shifting from a four-beat to a two-beat measure (with the second beat weak), the musical stress and the verbal stress synchronize to a greater degree and produce a smoother flow on both levels (see fig. 9.2). There is no question that Beethoven wanted a slower tempo, and, with the change to cut time, he also achieved a greater agreement between musical and textual stresses.

observations on the performing parts for op. 86  ❧ 221

Figure 9.1. Beethoven, Mass in C, first edition, p. 11, showing altered tempo marking at beginning of Gloria.

Figure 9.2. Comparison of word stress between  and alla breve meters.

A second tempo change that provokes interest is perhaps the oddest marking for any Beethoven movement. The Kyrie’s simple “Andante con moto” in Eisenstadt has become the all-encompassing “Andante con moto assai vivace quasi Allegretto ma non troppo” in the first edition. It offers a grab-bag of possibilities, but Beethoven’s careful yet verbose calibration of the tempo resonates with comments he wrote to Breitkopf & Härtel on January 16, 1811, concerning the German text that they were going to include in the print (in addition to the Latin text): The translation of the Gloria I consider very suitable, but that of the Kyrie not so good. Although the beginning “tief im Staub anbeten wir” is very appropriate, yet several expressions, such as “ew’gen Weltenherrscher” and “Allgewaltigen” seem to fit the Gloria better. The general character of the Kyrie . . . is heartfelt resignation, deep sincerity of religious feeling, “Gott erbarme dich unser,” yet without on that account being sad. Gentleness is the fundamental characteristic of the whole work. And here the expressions “Allgewaltiger” and so forth do not seem to convey the meaning of the whole work. Apart from “Eleison erbarme dich unser”—cheerfulness pervades this Mass. The Catholic goes to church on Sunday in his best clothes and in a joyful and festive mood. Besides, the Kyrie

222  ❧  chapter nine Eleison is the introduction to the whole work. If such strong expressions were used here, few would be left for those portions where really strong expressions are required.29

In his verbal interplay between “heartfelt resignation,” “gentleness,” “cheerfulness,” and a “joyful and festive mood,” one senses the essential expressive interplay between “Andante” and “con moto” in the original tempo marking. That Beethoven later felt he needed to qualify this with “assai vivace quasi Allegretto ma non troppo” reinforces a lighter character, just as Beethoven in his letter seems to move the mood away from a heavier, repentant reading of “Kyrie eleison” to something more festive, more vivace. Some final brief observations on other tempo markings. (1) In the “Quoniam” of the Gloria,  meter appears in both the parts (not the score) and the print, but here again Beethoven has slowed the tempo down—what was heard as Allegro in 1807 has become Allegro ma non troppo in 1812. (2) In the “Et resurrexit” of the Credo, the origin of Allegro ma non troppo in the old Gesamtausgabe and Hess editions is unknown; none of the primary sources have it. (3) All alla breve signatures in the Eisenstadt parts (the “Et vitam” in the Credo and the “Dona nobis” in the Agnus Dei) have become  in the Breitkopf print. A whole set of metric changes seems suspicious. Is this an engraver’s oversight? Beethoven’s oversight? If the publisher corrected the entire print as per Beethoven’s corrected proof, then  is what he intended. Again, modern editions conflate the sources, choosing the alla breve of Eisenstadt at “Et vitam” and the  of Breitkopf at “Dona nobis pacem.” Altogether, then, what happened at the premiere? On the way to producing a workable text, both Klumpar’s copying mistakes and Beethoven’s recompositions sent an orderly process awry. I believe Beethoven intended Klumpar to copy the entire Mass in score and parts, and he may have done so or nearly done so. Both Klumpar and Schlemmer were in fact paid for more folios than now exist—Klumpar in particular.30 There should be around sixty more folios in the orchestral parts by Klumpar. Were these pages that Klumpar initially copied and then Schlemmer removed? My earlier speculation that there were additional parts is disproved by the discovery of the 1809 inventory with its confirmation that the set of parts used at the premiere is in fact complete.31 What remains is the possibility that more of Klumpar’s initial work was removed, and in this discrepancy is evidence that there may have been more changes by Beethoven than we can now see. Klumpar’s reliability as a copyist comes into question in the Eisenstadt materials. Alan Tyson quotes Georg Schünemann’s assessment of Klumpar

observations on the performing parts for op. 86  ❧ 223

as “an extraordinarily exact transcriber” of Beethoven’s handwriting.32 And for the sections of the Eisenstadt score which Klumpar copied this is true. Klumpar was less accurate or less knowledgeable when transferring a score into the practical realm of performing parts. Some of the flaws in the Eisenstadt parts—the flute parts in the Gloria, the vocal parts in the Benedictus—are simply copyist errors and—at least for the Benedictus— hard to understand. It is difficult to unravel the time sequence and the interrelationship between Klumpar’s work and Schlemmer’s. The Eisenstadt parts reveal a give and take between the two copyists. The changes made by Schlemmer in the instrumental parts of the Credo appear only in the revised version in Klumpar’s copy of the voices; the Benedictus error made by Klumpar does not appear in the instrumental parts by Schlemmer’s workshop. There was not a straight line from Beethoven’s autograph to a working score to the parts. Beethoven’s compositional changes clearly complicated the process. While many occurred while the parts were being copied, some could have been made after Beethoven heard the Mass, such as the alteration of the soloists’ passage in the Benedictus. After the premiere, there seems to have been a consistent impulse in Beethoven’s editing of the Mass for publication: a softening of tone. Changes in tempo tend to slow down the fast sections or lighten the mood. The Agnus Dei in particular had a more varied and dramatic reading in Eisenstadt than has since been heard. As we move further away from the idea of a single text for a piece of music—a Fassung letzter Hand, an Urtext—performing parts, often overlooked or undervalued in that search for an authoritative text, provide opportunities to delve into the sonic reality behind the work. The performing parts for the premiere of Beethoven’s Mass in C offer a chance to re-hear and rethink this work—not as a different piece but through a different reading, heard on a certain day in September 1807.

Bibliography Beethoven, Ludwig van. Briefwechsel Gesamtausgabe. Edited by Sieghard Brandenburg. 7 vols. Munich: Henle, 1996–98. ———. The Letters of Beethoven. Edited and translated by Emily Anderson. 3 vols. New York: W. W. Norton, 1961. ———. Messe C-Dur, Opus 86. Edited by Jeremiah W McGrann. Beethoven Werke, VIII/2 [Sacred Music, vol. 2]. Munich: Henle, 2003.

224  ❧  chapter nine ———. Missa C Major. Edited by Willy Hess. London: Ernst Eulenburg, [1964]. Dorfmüller, Kurt, Norbert Gertsch, and Julia Ronge. Ludwig van Beethoven: Thematisch-bibliographisches Werkverzeichnis. 2 vols. Munich: Henle, 2014. Harich, Johann. “Beethoven in Eisenstadt.” Burgenländische Heimatsblätter 21 (1959): 168–88. Radant, Else, ed. “The Diaries of Joseph Carl Rosenbaum 1790–1820.” Haydn Yearbook 5 (1968): 1–158. Rosenblum, Sandra P. Performance Practices in Classic Piano Music. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1991. Schindler, Anton. Biographie von Ludwig van Beethoven. 1st ed. Münster: Aschendorff, 1840. Sulzer, Johann Georg. Allegemeine Theorie der schönen Künste. 4 vols. 2nd edn. 1792– 99. Reprint, Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1970. Tyson, Alan. “Notes on Five of Beethoven’s Copyists.” Journal of the American Musicological Society 23, no. 3 (Autumn 1970): 439–71.

Notes

Note on the title: “But, my dear Beethoven, what have you done now?” This well-known remark was reported by Anton Schindler as Prince Esterházy’s comment to Beethoven at a reception following the premiere of the Mass. See Schindler, Biographie, 77–78. 1 Beethoven, Messe C-Dur. In his 1964 edition of the Mass in C, Willy Hess chose the score in Eisenstadt as his primary source, but he does not mention the parts and seems not to have consulted them. Beethoven, Missa C Major, ix. 2 Harich, “Beethoven in Eisenstadt,” 180: “Die Zahl von eigenhändigen Eintragunen, Verbesserungen und Einschaltungen in den Stimmen ist ungeheuer. Es gibt keine einzige, worin diese nicht zu entdecken wären.” Translations are my own, unless otherwise indicated. 3 Personal communication from James Armstrong, November 13, 2008, confirming the discovery of the timpani part and the listing of forty-nine parts in the 1809 inventory. 4 Concerning the extant primary sources, see Beethoven, Messe C-Dur, 165; also Dorfmüller, Gertsch, and Ronge, Beethoven: Thematisch-bibliographisches Werkverzeichnis, 1:553–58. Beethoven’s autograph in the Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, BH 68, consists of the complete Kyrie and the first 205 measures of the Gloria. 5 “[A]uch wurde sie an Mehreren Orten, unter anderm auch bey Fürst Esterhazi auf den NamensTag der Fürstin mit vielem Beyfall gegeben in Eisenstadt.” Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 2:15 (no. 327, dated June 8, [1808]).

observations on the performing parts for op. 86  ❧ 225 6 7

Radant, “The Diaries,” 138. Harich, “Beethoven in Eisenstadt,” 179. “La messe de Beethoven est insuportablement ridicule et detestable, je ne sui pas convainçu qu’elle puisse meme paroitre honêtement: j’en suis colerè et honteux.” 8 A major problem that must have affected the premiere was the presence of only one of the five altos at the rehearsal the day before. Harich, “Beethoven in Eisenstadt,” 174. 9 Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 1:321 (no. 291, dated July 26, [1807]). 10 Beethoven, Messe C-Dur, 215. 11 Tyson, “Notes,” 459. Tyson mistakenly believed that Schlemmer supervised the overall work on the Mass in C, and he identified Klumpar as his assistant. This cannot have been the case, since they were paid separately. Harich mistakenly thought that all of Klumpar’s work was done by Schlemmer. See his “Beethoven in Eisenstadt,” 180. 12 See Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 1:328, n. 4. While there is no direct proof for this, work as a servant-copyist was a practicable employment opportunity at the time. In 1811 Beethoven stated he was going to hire a man who could copy to be his servant. See Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 2:231 (no. 541) and Letters of Beethoven, 1:349 (no. 340). 13 Harich, “Beethoven in Eisenstadt,” 175. 14 This is the proposed source V in the Stemma for the Mass in C. See Beethoven, Messe C-Dur, 165, 217–19, 224. 15 I shall not deal with Beethoven’s additions of figured bass throughout the organ part. On this point see Beethoven, Messe C-Dur, xii, 192. 16 The master set included all the woodwind and brass parts, the vocal soloists, the organ, one each of violin 1, violin 2, viola, and cello/contrabass, from which duplicate copies were made, as well as a single master copy for the choral soprano, alto, tenor, and bass parts, from which duplicates were made. 17 In the other winds, both primo and secondo instruments are playing, so Klumpar may have presumed the flutes as being in unison, although there is no such marking in Beethoven’s autograph. In measure 207, Klumpar did not keep the duplication exact: he dropped the initial high F an octave lower for flute 2. 18 For the structure of the clarinet parts, see Beethoven, Messe C-Dur, 178–79. 19 Readings are recoverable for the measures shown; blank measures, such as in violin 1, indicate places where the original reading cannot be retrieved. I have not seen the timpani part, discovered in 2008. (The transcription includes uncorrected errors in the original.) 20 Beethoven, Messe C-Dur, 184–85. See the description of violin 1 c. 21 Source V. See Beethoven, Messe C-Dur, 217–19, 224. 22 The Eisenstadt score, with its comparatively shorter Agnus Dei, is broken into five small gatherings, with four copyists (including Klumpar and Schlemmer)

226  ❧  chapter nine each responsible for a different section. See Beethoven, Messe C-Dur, 273. This contrasts with the single hand and larger gatherings of the earlier movements and suggests a degree of haste in preparing the score of the final movement for delivery. 23 The > accents are in each of mm. 107–13 and then only in m. 132 (the beginning of a new page in the Breitkopf print) and m. 137 at the end of the passage. 24 Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 2:275 (no. 586): “Die Korrektur von der Messe werden sie erhalten haben—ich habe beym Anfang des gloria stat C ¢ Takt und verändrung des Tempo geschrieben, so war es anfangs angezei[g]t, eine schlechte Aufführung, wobey man das Tempo zu geschwind nahm, verführte mich dazu.” The neuter “es” refers to the tempo and not the masculine “Takt.” Anderson’s use of “time” in her translation is ambiguous. 25 The Letters of Beethoven, 1:378 (no. 375). 26 The Eisenstadt score shows alla breve signs, but close inspection shows that the vertical lines were added in a different ink, probably at some later point. Beethoven’s autograph and the Eisenstadt parts show  meter. 27 Rosenblum, Performance Practices, 308. 28 Sulzer, Allgemeine Theorie, 1:72. 29 “[D]ie Ubersezung zum gloria scheint mir sehr gut zu paßen zum Kyrie nicht so gut obwohlen der Anfang ‘tief im Staub anbeten wir’ sehr gut paßt, so scheint mir doch bey manchen Ausdrücken wie ‘ew’gen Weltenherrscher’ [‘] Allgewaltigen’ Mehr zum gloria tauglich. der allgemeine charakter . . . in dem Kyrie ist innige Ergebung, woher innigkeit religiöser Gefühle ‘Gott erbarme dich unser’ ohne deswegen Traurig zu seyn, sanftheit liegt dem Ganzen zu Grunde, hier scheint mir die Ausdrücke Allgewaltiger nicht im sinne des Ganzen obwohlen ‘eleison erbarme dich unser’—so ist doch heiterkeit in Ganzen, Der Katholike tritt sonntags geschmückt festlich Heiter in seine Kirche das Kyrie Eleison ist gleichfalls die Introdukzion zur ganzen Messe, bey so starken ausdrücken würde wenig übrig bleiben für da, wo sie wirklich stark seyn Müßen[.]” Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 2:176 (no. 484). English translation in The Letters of Beethoven, 1:309 (no. 294). 30 Brandenburg prints both Klumpar’s and Schlemmer’s detailed bills found in the Esterházy Acta. Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 1:328, n. 3. Klumpar copied 40½ Bogen (bifolios) of score, 108 of orchestral parts, and 140 of vocal parts. 108 bifolios of orchestral parts would be 216 folios, and I count 152 folios in the parts, not including the recently discovered timpani part, which I have not seen, and not including completely blank folios (blank on both recto and verso) at the end of some parts. That leaves some 64 folios unaccounted for, a sizeable difference, even with slight miscalculations. There are similarly some 19–20 folios unaccounted for in Klumpar’s voice parts. The figures given by Klumpar for the score and by Schlemmer for the vocal parts (152 Bogen) tally precisely with what still exists. Schlemmer lumped score and orchestral parts

observations on the performing parts for op. 86  ❧ 227 together as 206 Bogen or 412 folios, of which the current tally comes close at 387 folios. 31 Beethoven, Messe C-Dur, 172. 32 Tyson, “Notes,” 456, 459. Schünemann was describing the now lost Stichvorlage, or fair copy, of the Fifth Symphony, which he thought was copied by Schlemmer, but which Tyson identified from surviving photographs as Klumpar’s work.

Chapter Ten

Heart to Heart: Beethoven, Archduke Rudolph, and the Missa solemnis Mark Evan Bonds

Beethoven’s relationship to Archduke Rudolph of Austria (1788–1831) has long played a major role in biographies of the composer and rightly so. He was by far Beethoven’s most important patron from 1809 onward. Along with Princes Lobkowitz and Kinsky, he was a signatory to the annuity agreement that persuaded the composer to remain in Vienna, but in the end it was Rudolph alone who fulfilled his financial obligations.1 Small wonder, then, that Beethoven should dedicate some of his most important works to him, including the Piano Concertos, opp. 58 and 73 (“Emperor”), the Piano Sonata, op. 81a (“Les Adieux”), the Violin Sonata, op. 96, the Piano Trio, op. 97 (“Archduke”), the Piano Sonatas, opp. 106 (“Hammerklavier”) and 111, the Missa solemnis, op. 123, and the Grosse Fuge, op. 133. The relationship was both deepened and complicated by Rudolph’s familial connections to the very center of power at the Habsburg court—he was the youngest brother of the Emperor Franz I—and by the fact that he was also Beethoven’s student in composition. Exactly when the archduke’s lessons with Beethoven began is unclear, but they brought the two men into close contact repeatedly over a long period of time and made for a considerably

beethoven, archduke rudolph, and the

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more intense association between patron and artist than was normally the case.2 Lewis Lockwood in particular has brought out the multifarious nature of the relationship, both personally and professionally, harmonious at times, dissonant at others.3 From the middle of the nineteenth century onward, however, most critics have tended to idealize the relationship between the two, in no small part because it offers the attractive image of a royal personage and a bourgeois subject engaged in a common endeavor: the craft of musical art. The surviving correspondence, along with certain particulars of the Piano Sonata, op. 81a, and of the Missa solemnis, have helped elevate the perception of the relationship to the level of friendship and even, in the eyes of some, deep affection.4 The sonata in particular is generally regarded as the most transparently autobiographical of the composer’s works. Its subtitle (Beethoven preferred the German “Das Lebewohl” to the French “Les Adieux”) and three movement titles—“Das Lebewohl,” “Abwesenheit,” and “Das Wiedersehen” (“The farewell,” “Absence,” and “The reunion”)—align with the events of 1809–10, when Rudolph was forced to leave Vienna in the face of the invading French army in early May 1809, followed by his eventual return in January 1810. Beethoven’s inscription on the autograph manuscript of the first movement reads: “Wien am 4ten May 1809 / bei der Abreise S Kaiserl. Hoheit / des Verehrten Erzherzogs / Rudolph” (“Vienna, on the 4th of May 1809, on the departure of His Imperial Majesty, the Honored Archduke Rudolph”), and he inscribed a copyist’s score of the finale, in turn, with the words “Vien 1810 am 30ten jenner / Geschrieben bey der Ankunft / Seiner kaiserl. Hoheit / Des Verehrten Erzherzogs Rudolf / von / Ludwig van Beethoven” (“Vienna 1810 on the 30th of January, written on the arrival of His Imperial Majesty, the Revered Archduke Rudolph, by Ludwig van Beethoven”).5 On the basis of the chronology of the sources, however, it now seems fairly certain that these movement titles were appended to the work after the fact. Poundie Burstein in particular has questioned the traditional perception of this sonata as a token of deep affection for the archduke. Building on the work of Susan Kagan, Burstein summons considerable evidence to show that Beethoven’s relationship with his patron-student, while cordial, was “not so close that being apart from each other for a few months would cause either one of them intense sadness, contrary to what is suggested by the standard programmatic explanations of op. 81a.”6 Indeed, the composer’s correspondence suggests quite the opposite: that Beethoven viewed his lessons with the archduke as a drain on his time and energies and that he was, as Burstein puts it, “not much saddened when his student was out of

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town.”7 In one particularly revealing note to himself on a sketch leaf from October 1810—just a little more than eight months after Rudolph’s return to Vienna—Beethoven memorialized his thoughts on the matter: 8 October 1810—It should be clear enough to you for all time that the requirement to be near the Archduke always puts you in the most tense state, hence the gout-like constraint when staying with him in the countryside. There is always a tense relationship, and this is not suitable for a true artist, for the artist can be a servant only to the muse he worships.8

Nor does the situation seem to have changed much over the next decade. In 1818 the composer wrote to Ferdinand Ries (his former pupil by this time) that “my unfortunate connection to this Archduke has brought me close to beggardom; I can’t see myself starving, I have to give in. So you can reflect on how I suffer in this situation!”9 Burstein makes a convincing case that Beethoven’s reasons for dedicating op. 81a to the archduke—and by implication other works as well—had more to do with finances than with friendship. Quite aside from the annuity and lesson fees, Rudolph was in a position to help the composer realize his lifelong dream of a permanent appointment of some kind, ideally at the Habsburg court in Vienna. While the image of Beethoven as a Kapellmeister runs counter to the popular image of him as a fiercely independent artist, his desire to secure a court appointment—and with it a reliable source of income—is well documented throughout his entire career, even into the 1820s.10 When in 1812 the archduke declined his right of succession to become Archbishop of Olmütz (Olomouc), where Beethoven had hoped to secure a stable and highly desirable post, the composer was by his own admission beside himself, for the decision dashed his expectations for a long-term improvement in his financial situation. In a remarkable letter to Breitkopf & Härtel of February that year, he confessed that he could not hide his feelings on the matter: For now I can write only what is absolutely necessary. You say that good humor sparkles in my last letter; artists have to be able to throw themselves often into anything and everything, and so this, too, might have been affected, for I am precisely not in good humor at the moment. The incident with the archduke has fatal consequences for me. If Heaven will only give me patience until I go abroad, then I shall be in a condition once again to find myself within myself.11

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Given the financial and professional implications of his relationship to the archduke, however, Beethoven had little choice but to comport himself with deference, and the string of dedications to Rudolph would continue, most famously with the Missa solemnis, op. 123. Beethoven had begun work on the Mass in early April 1819 in anticipation of Rudolph’s enthronement as Archbishop of Olmütz in 1820 but did not actually complete it until early 1823. The autograph of the Kyrie, written sometime between April 1819 and March 1820, bears the oft-quoted inscription “Von Herzen—Möge es wieder—zu Herzen gehn!” (“From the heart—May it return—to the heart!”).12 The date of the inscription itself is unclear, but as Birgit Lodes has argued, this expression of hope was almost certainly intended for the eyes of Rudolph alone. Its absence from all other sources of the Missa solemnis, as Lodes observes, is striking: these include not only the first edition (issued by Schott of Mainz in March or April of 1827) but also the fair copy (Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Wien, A21) and the Stichvorlage (Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, NE 269), both of which were reviewed and corrected by the composer himself.13 The words “Von Herzen,” moreover, as Lodes points out, had a particular resonance in Beethoven’s dealings with the archduke. They occur often enough for her to have identified them as a “keyword” (Schüsselwort) in their friendship.14 When the composer wrote to Rudolph on March 3, 1819 to congratulate him on his impending elevation to archbishop, for example, he set to music a brief four-part harmonization of the word Erfüllung (“fulfillment”), adding that this was something he “now wished to sing gladly from his heart”—von Herzen.15 In the same letter he assured Rudolph that the “Hammerklavier” Sonata, op. 106, “has long been intended entirely from my heart for Your Imperial Majesty.”16 In a letter of August 30 of that same year, the composer congratulated him on the bestowal of an imperial honor, adding that his wishes “come from the heart—and need not be belabored.”17 But these assurances of heartfelt emotion—and others like them—were conveyed, as Lodes emphasizes, exclusively in private communications. Indeed, the inscription at the head of the Missa solemnis would not become public knowledge until 1860, when Wilhelm von Lenz transmitted a mangled version of it that he had received from the violinist Karl Holz (“von Herzen ist’s gekommen, zum Herzen soll’s dringen”).18 From that point on, the inscription—or some version of it—would be quoted almost without exception in accounts of the Missa solemnis and routinely cited as evidence of the composer’s desire to communicate his deepest personal feelings to

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others through his music, even in a work—or more telling still, especially in a work—whose text had been set to music countless times before. What has gone largely overlooked in all this is the thoroughly stock nature of Beethoven’s inscription to the archduke. It was widely used during the composer’s lifetime in two contexts that converge in the Missa solemnis: music and religion. Throughout the eighteenth century and well into the nineteenth, German-language writers routinely referred to music as “the language of the heart” (die Sprache des Herzens), a “language” that operated outside the conventions of verbal semantics and syntax and for that very reason was considered all the more effective in expressing emotions in ways and to a degree that words could not. Spiritual faith, too, was something that words alone could not fully convey: it was in the end a matter of the heart, surpassing all understanding.19 Music and religious faith thus merged in the theme of heartfelt communication. “Von Herzen” by itself conveys sincerity, spontaneity, and wholeness. Something said “von Herzen” is expressed with conviction, artlessness, and wholeheartedness. When such a statement is received in the same way, it has gone “zum Herzen,” to the recipient’s heart. When combined, the two phrases in succession create a dynamic that is at once unaffected, mutual, and all-encompassing. The phrase as a whole (“From the heart, may it go to the heart”), or some variation of it, transcended the Catholic–Protestant divide in Germanspeaking lands, appearing in devotional tracts of both faiths. It appeared with noticeable frequency in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung of Leipzig, a journal Beethoven is known to have followed fairly closely, to judge from his letters to its publisher, Breitkopf & Härtel, who also issued many of the composer’s own works. (In 1801 he had written to the firm expressing concern about the journal’s reviews of his music, and in 1809 he reminded them to renew his complimentary subscription.)20 Beethoven and the archduke alike would in any case have been well aware of the phrase and its resonances, as it appeared in many sources. Representative examples from the realms of both music and religion that use some variant of it include the following (with boldface emphasis added in each case).

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1752 Johann Joachim Quantz, Versuch einer Anweisung die Flöte traversiere zu spielen (Berlin: Johann Voß), 138. Um nun ein Adagio gut zu spielen, muß man sich, so viel als möglich ist, in einen gelassenen und fast traurigen Affect setzen, damit man dasjenige, so man zu spielen hat, in eben solcher Gemüthsverfassung vortrage, in welcher es der Componist gesetzet hat. Ein wahres Adagio muß einer schmeichelnden Bittschrift ähnlich seyn. Denn was nicht vom Herzen kömmt, geht auch nicht leichtlich wieder zum Herzen. To play an Adagio well, one must put oneself as much as possible into a sober and almost somber affect, so that one plays what is before one in the same frame of mind as that in which the composer wrote it down. A true adagio must be like a flattering entreaty. For what does not come from the heart likewise does not go readily once more to the heart.

1780 Johann Matthias Schröckh, Christliche Kirchengeschichte (Leipzig: Engelhart Benjamin Schwickert), 7:153. . . . und das ist es doch eigentlich, was Lieder der christlichen Andacht empfehlen soll, wenn man wünscht, daß sie vom Herzen kommen, und wieder zum Herzen gehen mögen. And this is indeed what should commend songs of Christian devotion: that they might come from the heart and in turn go to the heart.

1802 K. W. Frantz, “Ueber Gemüthsstimmung in musikalischer Hinsicht: Ein psychologish-ästhetischer Versuch,” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 4, no. 41 (July 7), cols. 662–63 (emphasis in original). Oft musiciren wir sogleich nach dem Essen; zuweilen halb im Schlafe. Wie kann da der Zweck der Musik erreicht werden! Wir bleiben ohne Wärme und Rührung; und wie können wir also im Herzen der Zuhörer die Gefühle wecken und beleben, deren Erregung der Komponist bezweckt hat, da wir selbst nicht von ihnen durchdrungen sind? Nur das, was von Herzen kommt, geht zu Herzen.

234  ❧  chapter ten We often make music right after a meal, sometimes half-asleep. How can the purpose of music be realized like that! We remain without warmth and emotion. And how, then, can we arouse and animate in the hearts of listeners those emotions whose arousal the composer has intended if we ourselves are not permeated with them? Only that which comes from the heart goes to the heart.

1802 Johann Karl Friedrich Triest, “Ueber reisende Virtuosen,” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 4, no. 48 (August 23), col. 773. Was zu Herzen gehen soll, muss von Herzen kommen, es mögen Worte oder musikalische Töne seyn. What is meant to go to the heart must come from the heart, be it words or musical tones.

1803 Anonymous, “Recensionen: Briefe an Natalie, etc.,” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 5, no. 52 (September 21), col. 855. Nur was vom Herzen kömmt, gehet zum Herzen, und dies giebt den natürlichen Ausdruck. Only that which comes from the heart goes to the heart, and this gives it a natural expression.

1805 G. C. Grosheim, Ueber den Verfall der Tonkunst (Göttingen: Heinrich Dieterich), 30–31. Man verbanne vor allen Dingen solche Sachen, deren Zweck es ist, nur Bewunderung zu erregen, und ertheile nur solchen Produkten und ihren Produzenten ein Bravo, die das, was vom Herzen kam, wieder zum Herzen gehen lassen. One should prohibit above all those pieces whose purpose is solely to arouse adulation, reserving a “bravo” instead exclusively for those products and their producers who allow what comes from the heart to go to the heart.

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1805 Friedrich Guthmann, “Ueber Abweichung vom Takt,” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 7, no. 22 (February 26), cols. 348–49. Der Redner wird im Fortgang seiner Rede bald feuriger, bald ernster; der Gegenstand erfüllt seine Seele immer mehr, je länger er sich mit ihm beschäftigt; seine Worte werden leiser und lauter, seine Sprache wird leidenschaftlich— er spricht vom Herzen zum Herzen. Eben so der Spieler. In the course of his address the orator will at times become more fiery, at times more serious. The object of his talk will fill his soul more and more the longer he engages with it. His words become softer and louder, his speech becomes passionate: he speaks from the heart to the heart. It is the same with the performer.

1808 Anonymous, “Etwas über die Aufführung von Lieb und Treue. Leiderspiel . . . vom Hrn. Kapellm. Reichard . . . ,” Intelligenz-Blatt zur Allgemeinen musikalische Zeitung, no. 6: 22. Acclamationen, die vom Herzen kamen, weil der Gesang zum Herzen ging, zeugten von einem eben so empfänglichen, als gerechten Publikum. Acclamations that came from the heart because the song went to the heart testified to a public that was as sensitive as it was fair-minded.

1808 Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust (Tübingen: Cotta), 34. [Wagner, Faust’s servant, asks him how to persuade others. Faust answers:] Wenn ihr’s nicht fühlt, ihr werdet’s nicht erjagen, Wenn es nicht aus der Seele dringt . . . Doch werdet ihr nie Herz zu Herzen schaffen, Wenn es euch nicht von Herzen geht. If you do not feel it, you shall never capture it, If it does not press out of the soul . . . Yet you shall never create something that goes from heart to heart If it does not come from your heart.

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1808 Johann Heinrich Campe, Wörterbuch der deutschen Sprache (Braunschweig: Schulbuchhandlung), 2:679. Was vom Herzen kömmt geht zum Herzen. What comes from the heart goes to the heart.

1809 Anonymous, review of “Quatuor pour 2 Violons, Alto et Violoncelle . . . par Felix Radicati. Op. 15 . . . ,” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 11, no. 37 (July 14), col. 588. Das Melodische—diese Sprache des Gefühls, die vom Herzen zum Herzen geht, und in der Musik ewig die Hauptsache seyn wird . . . The melodic—this language of feeling that goes from heart to heart and will always be the principal thing in music . . .

1810 Anonymous, review of “Trois Duos pour deux Violons, composés par A. Matthaei. op. III . . . ,” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 12, no. 46 (August 15), col. 744. . . . und es ist ein alter wahrer Satz, dass nicht zum Herzen geht, was nicht vom Herzen gekommen ist. . . . and it is an old, true saying, that nothing goes to the heart that does not come from the heart.

1813 Theodor Körner, Der grüne Domino: Ein Lustspiel in einem Aufzuge (Vienna: Wallishauser), 122–23. Oft sei’s ein kaltes Spiel, oft nur Galanterie, Doch wenn man wahrhaft liebt, wird Alles Poesie. Ob es vom Herzen kommt, das magst Du leicht verstehn: Denn was vom Herzen kommt, muß Dir zum Herzen gehen.

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Though it often be cold play, often mere gallantry, When one truly loves, all is poetry. You’ll easily grasp if it comes from the heart, For what comes from the heart must go to your heart.

1812 Franz Horn, Die schöne Litteratur Deutschlands während des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts (Berlin and Stettin: Friedrich Nicolai), 205. Es ist ein gar altes, aber keinesweges zu verachtendes Wort, daß, was von Herzen kommt, auch wieder zu Herzen geht . . . It is an old saying but by no means one to be disdained, that what comes from the heart goes in turn to the heart . . .

1814 E. T. A. Hoffmann, “Ueber einen Ausspruch Sacchini’s, und über den sogenannten Effect in der Musik,” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 16, no. 29 (July 20), col. 482 (emphasis in the original). Nur das Tongedicht, das wahr und kräftig aus dem Innern hervorging, dringt wieder ein in das Innere des Zuhörers. Der Geist versteht nur die Sprache des Geistes. Only that composition that emanates truly and powerfully from the interiority [of the composer] penetrates to the interior of the listener. The spirit understands only the language of the spirit.

1819 Anonymous, “Nachrichten. Wien. Uebersicht des Monats November,” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 21, no. 1 (January 6), col. 8. Unschuld und Grazie war Dem. Wranitzky als Pamina; ihr gefühlvoller Gesang kam vom Herzen und drang zu aller Herzen. Mademoiselle Wranitzky, as Pamina, was innocence and grace; her emotional singing came from the heart and penetrated all hearts.

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1819 Anonymous, “Nachrichten. Dresden,” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 21, no. 22 (June 2), col. 387. Der Gesang soll aus dem Herzen kommen und zum Herzen gehen. Singing should come from the heart and go to the heart.

1819 J. C. H., “Einige Worte über die musikalische Bildung der jetzigen Zeit,” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 21, no. 34 (August 25), col. 573. . . . wie selten da der fromme Blick, der nur zu fragen scheint, ob, was vom Herzen kommt, denn auch wieder zu Herzen gehe? . . . how seldom do we see there [on the stage] the pious gaze that seems only to ask if what comes from the heart might then also go the heart?

1819 Claus Harms, Daß es mit der Vernunftreligion nichts ist (Kiel: Akademische Buchhandlung), 80. Durch den Verstand zum Herzen; was vom Herzen geht, das geht wieder zum Herzen; der Prediger muß den ganzen Menschen ergreifen. Through reason to the heart; what goes from the heart also goes in turn to the heart; the preacher must grasp the entire person.

1823 Carl Maria von Weber, letter to Johann Gabriel Seidl, Vienna, November 3 (Carl-Maria-von-Weber-Gesamtausgabe: Digitale Edition, http:// weber-gesamtausgabe.de/A042164 (Version 4.0.0, January 20, 2020). Haben Sie herzlichen Dank für Ihre tiefgefühlten, mich ehrenden, und innig erfreuenden Weisen. Was vom Herzen kom[m]t, geht auch wieder zum Herzen . . . Heartiest thanks for your deeply felt verses that have honored me and given me inner joy. What comes from the heart likewise goes to the heart . . .

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1825 Carl Seidel, Charinomos: Beiträge zur allgemeinen Theorie und Geschichte der schönen Künste (Magdeburg: Ferdinand Rubach), 1:40–41. Die Musik . . . ist die Kunst der Seele. Sie ist Sprache des Herzens, der Empfindung, die obgleich an sich dunkel und wortlos, dennoch mächtig beredt ist, weil sie vom Herzen kommt, und nur wieder zum Herzen geht . . . Music . . . is the art of the soul. It is the language of the heart, of sentiment, which in spite of being dark and wordless is nevertheless powerfully eloquent, because it comes from the heart and simply goes back to the heart . . .

The fact that Beethoven’s inscription was a variation on a stock phrase does not in itself undermine its sincerity: those who use clichés often employ them in all candor, and it would be petty to take Beethoven to task for a lack of verbal originality. His application of this particular phrase to a work of sacred music dedicated to an archbishop, moreover, was doubly appropriate given the convergence of liturgy and music in the person of Rudolph. By the same token, it cannot be read unequivocally (as it so often has been) as an original statement from the depths of his soul. The timing of this message to the archduke is also significant. At some point in early 1820—which is to say, within the window of time in which he is known to have been at work on the Kyrie of the Missa solemnis—he became aware of rumors that questioned his devotion to his patron. Feeling the need to undermine the veracity of such talk before it reached the archduke’s ears, he wrote on April 3 to Rudolph—by now enthroned in Olmütz—with a request to ignore any such reports: By the way, I ask that Your Imperial Highness pay no attention to various things I have heard here [in Vienna], things which could be called gossip and which some even believe could be of service to you. If Your Imperial Highness calls me one of his most valued objects, then I can say with confidence that Your Imperial Highness is to me one of my most valued objects in the universe. Though I am no courtier, I believe that Your Imperial Highness knows me well enough to know that my concern is not one of cold interest but rather one of true inner loyalty that has at all times bound me to Your Highness and inspired me.21

Under these circumstances, the need for a compelling avowal of sincerity would have been all the more pressing. Beethoven claims not to be a courtier—he writes Hofmann, underlining the first syllable to emphasize Hof (“court”) in the word’s German equivalent—but his affirmation of loyalty

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to his patron is skillfully crafted and worthy of a Castiglione. His artful formulation uses the archduke’s praise (“If Your Imperial Highness calls me one of his most valued objects”) as the foundation for his own, which raises the stakes to pay even higher tribute to the archduke (“one of my most valued objects in the universe”). The inscription on the Missa solemnis, by contrast, achieves its effect through its straightforwardness: it is simple, direct, and in its own way sublime: the rhetoric of the court has given way to the rhetoric of sincerity. And herein lies the challenge of gauging declarations of sincerity, for they, too, necessarily operate within the framework of rhetoric. In this particular case, the inscription uses the devices of both parallelism (“from . . . to . . .”) and epistrophe (“. . . the heart . . . the heart”). The artfulness of the expression calls into question its declared artlessness. Artfulness is of course by no means incompatible with sincerity, but we should at the very least be aware of its presence in judging the motivations of its users. What is distinctive about Beethoven’s inscription is its formulation in the optative mood. In keeping with the rhetoric of dedications—they, too, operate within their own rhetorical framework—he could not openly presume the desired response of his patron, nor could he claim credit for the quality of his work. He could, however, assert his sincerity, and avowals of sincerity had long been the stock-in-trade in dedications of all kinds.22 By couching his thoughts in the form of a wish, Beethoven accommodates dedicatory prescription (humility) and proscription (presumptiveness) alike and does so, moreover, by evoking the combined realms of faith and music in a way that is doubly appropriate for both the work and its dedicatee. Like all relationships of any depth, that between Beethoven and Archduke Rudolph cannot be reduced to simple binaries. And as the inscription of the Missa solemnis reminds us, the same evidence can be interpreted from contrasting perspectives to produce readings that are both contradictory and equally valid.

Bibliography Appel, Bernhard R., and Armin Raab, eds. Widmungen bei Haydn und Beethoven: Personen—Strategien—Praktiken; Bericht über den Internationalen musikwissenschaftlichen Kongress, Bonn, 29. September bis 1. Oktober 2011. Bonn: BeethovenHaus, 2015.

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Beethoven, Ludwig van. Briefwechsel Gesamtausgabe. Edited by Sieghard Brandenburg. 7 vols. Munich: Henle, 1996–98. ———. The Letters of Beethoven. Edited and translated by Emily Anderson. 3 vols. London: St. Martin’s Press, 1961. ———. Missa solemnis, Op. 123: Autograph Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin Preussischer Kulturbesitz. Edited by Hans-Joachim Hinrichsen and Martina Rebmann. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 2016. Bonds, Mark Evan. “The Court of Public Opinion: Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven.” In Beethoven und andere Hofmusiker seiner Generation: Bericht über den internationalen musikwissenschaftlichen Kongress Bonn, 3. bis 6. Dezember 2015, edited by Birgit Lodes, Elisabeth Reisinger, and John D. Wilson, 7–24. Schriften zur Beethoven-Forschung 29: Musik am Bonner kurfürstlichen Hof 1. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 2018. Burstein, L. Poundie. “‘Lebe wohl tönt überall’ and a ‘Reunion after So Much Sorrow’: Beethoven’s op. 81a and the Journeys of 1809.” Musical Quarterly 93 (2010): 366–413. Dorfmüller, Kurt, Norbert Gertsch, and Julia Ronge. Ludwig van Beethoven: Thematisch-bibliographisches Werkverzeichnis. 2 vols. Munich: Henle, 2014. Hiemke, Sven. Ludwig van Beethoven: Missa solemnis. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 2003. Kagan, Susan. Archduke Rudolph, Beethoven’s Patron, Pupil, and Friend: His Life and Music. Stuyvesant, NY: Pendragon Press, 1988. Lenz, Wihelm von. Beethoven: Eine Kunststudie. 4 vols. Kassel: Ernst Balde; Hamburg: Hoffmann & Campe, 1855–60. Lockwood, Lewis. “Beethoven as Sir Davison: Another Look at His Relationship to the Archduke Rudolph.” Bonner Beethoven-Studien 11 (2014): 133–40. Lodes, Birgit. Das Gloria in Beethovens Missa solemnis. Tutzing: Hans Schneider, 1997. ———. “‘Von Herzen—möge es wieder—zu Herzen gehn’: Zur Widmung von Beethovens Missa solemnis.” In Altes im Neuen: Festschrift Theodor Göllner zum 65. Geburtstag, edited by Bernd Edelmann and Manfred Hermann Schmid, 295– 306. Tutzing: Hans Schneider, 1995. Ronge, Julia. “Beethoven liest musiktheoretische Fachliteratur.” In Beethoven liest, edited by Bernhard R. Appel and Julia Ronge, 17–33. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 2016. Solomon, Maynard. Beethoven. 2nd ed. New York: Schirmer Books, 1998.

Notes 1 2

See Solomon, Beethoven, 193–94. Susan Kagan suggests that the lessons may have started as early as 1803–4; see her Archduke Rudolph, 13. Julia Ronge, however, points out that no lessons

242  ❧  chapter ten can actually be documented before 1810; see her “Beethoven liest musiktheoretische Fachliteratur,” 21. 3 See Lockwood, “Beethoven as Sir Davison.” See also Kagan, Archduke Rudolph, 13–37; and Lodes, Das Gloria in Beethovens Missa solemnis, 322–34. 4 For a rehearsal of such views see Burstein, “‘Lebe wohl tönt überall,’” 367–68. 5 Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Wien, A 1 (first movement) and BeethovenHaus, Bonn, NE 274 (finale). Transcriptions from Dorfmüller, Gertsch, and Ronge, Beethoven: Thematisch-bibliographisches Werkverzeichnis, 1:505–6. Translations are my own, unless otherwise indicated. 6 Burstein, “‘Lebe wohl tönt überall,’” 368. 7 Ibid., 371. 8 Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, Bodmer, HCB Br 275, verso, as transcribed by Ronge, “Beethoven liest,” 28: “1810 am 8ten Oktober—Deutlich genug für immer sey es dir, daß das nahe seyn müssen um den E[rz]H[erzog] dich immer in den gespantesten Zustand versetzt, daher das gichtsche krampfhafte eben der aufenthalte bey ihm aufm Lande es bleibt immer ein gespanntes Verhältniß was sich nicht für eines wahren Künstler schickt, denn dieser kann nur diener seiner angebeteten Muse seyn.” Neither Kagan nor Burstein cites this note. For an image of this document, see https://www.beethoven.de/sixcms/detail .php?&template=dokseite_digitales_archiv_en&_dokid=ha:l148&_seite=1-2 (accessed March 4, 2020). 9 Beethoven to Ferdinand Ries, March 5, 1818, in Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 4:178 (no. 1247): “durch meine unglückliche Verbindung mit diesem Erzherzog bin ich beynahe an den Bettelstab gebracht, darben kann ich nicht sehn, geben muß ich, so können sie nach denken, wie ich bey dieser Lage noch mehr Leide!” Emphasis in the original. Emily Anderson, in her translation of this letter, renders the conclusion of this passage rather confusingly as: “I can’t see people starving. I must help them. So you can imagine that I suffer even more in this way.” See The Letters of Beethoven, 2:760. 10 See Bonds, “The Court of Public Opinion.” 11 Beethoven to Breitkopf & Härtel, February 28, 1812, Briefwechsel, 2:245–46 (no. 555): “für heute kann ich nichts weiter als das nöthigste schreiben, Gute Laune sagen sie leuchtete aus meinem Briefe, der Künstler muß oft sich in alle werfen können, und so kann auch diese erkünstelt gewesen seyn, ich bin es eben jezt nicht, das Ereigniß mit dem Erzherzog Rudolf hat fatale Folgen für mich, wenn mir nur der Himmel Geduld giebt, bis ich die Fremde erreicht, so bin ich wieder im Stande mich selbst in mir selbst zu finden.” 12 Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteilung, Mus. ms. autogr. Beethoven 1. For a facsimile of the complete autograph score and commentary on the chronology of its sources, see Beethoven, Missa solemnis. 13 Lodes, “‘Von Herzen—möge es wieder—zu Herzen gehn,’” 297–301. 14 Ibid.

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15 Beethoven to Archduke Rudolph, March 3, 1819, Briefwechsel, 4:245 (no. 1292): “Erfüllung, Erfüllung mögte ich nun von Herzen gern singen.” The incipit is now known as WoO 205e. On this and other correspondence with the Archduke concerning the Missa solemnis, see Hiemke, Ludwig van Beethoven, 15–44. 16 Briefwechsel, 4:246 (no. 1292): “schon lange aus meinem Herzen I.K.H. ganz zugedacht ist.” Emphasis in the original. 17 Beethoven to Archduke Rudolph, August 31, 1819, Briefwechsel, 4:312 (no. 1327): “sie kommen von Herzen—u. sind nicht nöthig gesucht zu werden.” 18 Lenz, Beethoven, 4:145: “It came from the heart, and it should penetrate the heart.” 19 Hiemke, Ludwig van Beethoven, 65, calls the formulation “thoroughly commonplace” (“durchaus gängig”) but does not consider its deeper implications or its use in writings on religion. 20 Letter of April 22, 1801, Briefwechsel, 1:69 (no. 59); letter of August 8, 1809, Briefwechsel, 2:77 (no. 395). 21 Beethoven to Archduke Rudolph, April 3, 1820, Briefwechsel, 4:385–86 (no. 1378): “übrigens bitte ich I.K.H. manchen Nachrichten über mich kein gehör zu verleihen, ich habe schon manches hier Vernommen, welches man Geklatsche nennen kann, u. womit man Sogar I.K.H. glaubt dienen zu können, wenn I.K.H. mich eine ihrer werthen Gegestände nennen, so kann ich zuversichtlich sagen, daß I.K.H. einer der mir Werthesten Gegenstände im Universum sind, bin ich auch kein Hofmann, so glaube ich, daß I.K.H. mich haben so kennen gelernt, daß nicht bloßes kaltes Interesse meine sache ist, sondern wahre innige Anhänglichkeit mich allzeit an Höchstdieselben gefesselt u. beseelt.” Emphasis in the original. Sieghard Brandenburg (Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 4:386, n. 4) points to the archduke’s chamberlain, Count Ferdinand Troyer, as the probable source of the gossip, possibly on grounds of jealousy toward Beethoven. 22 See the essays in Appel and Raab, Widmungen bei Haydn und Beethoven.

Chapter Eleven

God and the Voice of Beethoven Scott Burnham I begin by apologizing to Wilfrid Mellers for inverting the title of his 1983 book Beethoven and the Voice of God. My parody ends there, for Mellers’s book has indeed been inspirational for this essay: he brings so much to bear upon Beethoven, and he is unfailingly earnest and imaginative throughout. But whereas Mellers traces Beethoven’s own earnest and imaginative attempts to find the voice of God throughout his compositional career, I wish to explore what happens to Beethoven’s voice when he attempts to address or represent the Deity. So while Mellers traces a path that starts with the op. 2 piano sonatas and culminates in the later piano music and the Missa solemnis, I shall restrict myself mostly to the Ninth Symphony and the Missa solemnis, those late works whose texts invite the composer to stage encounters with God.

Deus Omnipotens The Mass text gives Beethoven ample opportunities to address God, as in this passage from the Gloria, which calls out to God with three different appellations: “Domine Deus” (“O Lord God”), “Rex coelestis” (“King of the heavens”), and “Deus pater omnipotens” (“God, all-powerful Father”). In Beethoven’s earlier Mass in C, op. 86, from 1807, the tenor soloist sings these three names of God, which are followed by a flash of divine power in the form of a forte choral echo of “Deus omnipotens,” accompanied by a blast of brass (mm. 89–99).1

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What happens in the Missa solemnis is of a different order entirely (see mm. 176–90). In measure 185, Beethoven unleashes a greatly sustained fff blast of orchestral “all-power” on the word “omnipotens,” a sound that includes the first use in the entire work of the three trombones. The result is sonically overpowering, but the effect of overwhelming transcendence is also projected by the sustained harmony on the beginning of the word “omnipotens,” a B-flat seventh chord that is reinterpreted as an augmented sixth resolving to the dominant of D. The way this chord is set up by the overall harmonic and linear progression of the passage is also crucial to its stunning effect: E♭ moves to its dominant, B♭, on “Domine Deus,” then B♭ moves to its chromatic mediant D (with F♯ on top) on “Rex coelestis,” then bare Gs on “Pater” move into a full dominant-seventh sonority on B♭ for “om-,” which resolves enharmonically as an augmented-sixth chord to octave As and Ds for “-nipotens.” The D-major sonority on “Rex coelestis” is already an arresting intensification, but the fully scored dominant-seventh/ augmented-sixth chord, sustained for over three measures, projects the searing sound of time stopped at a dynamic moment in its compelling flow. For this is a harmony that demands linear resolution (either as a dominant seventh or as an augmented sixth) but instead is frozen in flight and at its loudest possible dynamic. The result is a potent sonic image of eternity personified in a single figure, namely God. The staging of this event is reinforced by the rising soprano line, which goes up chromatically from F on “Rex” to F♯ on “-lestis” and “Deus,” then to G on “pater,” to A♭ (G♯) on “om-,” and finally to A on “-nipo,” before dropping to D for “-tens.” The augmented sixth’s double-leading-tone construction—one pushing upward, one pushing downward and to the same pitch class—is like no other sonority in the Classical book of chords, and Beethoven deploys it to remarkable effect in its resolution to octave As, for those As are maximally energized by absorbing all the sonic energy of that remarkable harmony. This combination of directed harmonic progression and laser-beam octaves offers both brilliance and intensity: the sonic magnificence of the all-powerful, whose commanding authority resounds with the cadential octaves on the dominant and tonic of D—all that sound is grounded back into the keynote of the entire Mass. Another, perhaps even more blindingly brilliant appearance of the Deity emerges in the finale of the Ninth Symphony, when the Cherub stands before God (“und der Cherub steht vor Gott”). After these words appear at the end of the stanza, Beethoven repeats them, giving them their own muscular cadence in D (mm. 321–24). Then, as though to make sure we know we are standing before God, he lifts the action up a valence tonally, tonicizing

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the dominant of D, with G♯ moving to A in measures 325–26, a move that he confirms in the next two measures. But then he undermines this stability with the electrifying effect of the tonicized A becoming a radiant third, as the bass falls to F (forming an incomplete dominant). The bottom drops out, and we are suddenly aware of just what it means to be standing before the throne of God: this sudden vastness is sublime. Beethoven seizes upon a harmonic way to decenter us as though with an epiphany: the solid ground we worked so hard to attain—the tonicized A—suddenly becomes a beam of light in a great space: we are made aware of something greater than we are, and all around us. In both these instances, Beethoven’s voice finds both its loudest register and its most striking harmonic effects. These moments of sublime sound are further profiled by leading immediately to an opposition. In the Ninth, the radiant God-music is followed by the darkness of a contrabassoon’s low B♭, as if to say “you cannot bear the light of God.” The march that follows will soon lead to another kind of sublimity, but it begins as though with the lowlier deportment of a street march. In the Missa’s Gloria, soloists call out to the Son of God, Jesus Christ (“Domine fili unigenite”), and they do so with music that is much more lyrical, more personal. The Missa solemnis trades throughout on this sharp opposition between the divine and the human, between the impersonal, invulnerable Deus and the intimate and vulnerable Jesu Christe, or between the sublime appearance of God and the human act of imploring God for mercy. The choral opening of the Kyrie emphasizes both the immensity of the Deity (with the word “Kyrie” as sung by the tutti chorus) and the more human-scaled address to the Lord (sung by the soloists), as though to say, with the chorus, “O LORD!” and then, with the soloists, “Please, Lord. . . .”

Gloria Unbound There are other sonic signs of sublime transcendence in this Mass. I would argue that Beethoven uses the IV/IV (subdominant of the subdominant, or major chord on the flat-seventh scale degree) as a kind of decentering harmony that signals the presence of the sublime. A straightforward example from the Gloria occurs on the phrase “in gloria Dei patris,” right before the fugue begins on those same words. Starting in measure 354, the D-major progression consists of I (“in Gloria”), IV (“Dei”), IV/IV (“Pa-”), IV (“-tris”), V (“Amen”). Beethoven’s IV/IV can be analyzed as a supernumerary chord

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that serves to prolong the subdominant before it moves to the dominant. But the way Beethoven emphasizes the IV/IV agogically (five full beats, on the “pa” of “patris”), as well as the chord’s outsider status as a non-diatonic harmony (C major, in the context of D major), contributes to an effect of superhuman sonic presence.2 In the final measures of the Gloria (from the upbeat of m. 547), Beethoven brings on the IV/IV after the final dominant harmony of the movement and before a greatly prolonged subdominant, which then resolves directly to the tonic D major. This progression from IV/IV to IV to I makes for a kind of super-plagal cadence, in which the plagal move from C to G leads to the final plagal move from G to D. In both these cases, the IV/IV comes on as a decentering experience, but one that is embedded within a cadential progression, whether “authentic” or “plagal.” In yet another spot, at the peroration of the fugue, Beethoven even finds the IV/IV/IV. In measure 488, the chorus sings the fugue theme in octaves, but the sopranos soon stick on the pitch G as the harmony collects underneath them on the IV/IV (C). The following series of “Amens” prolongs this IV/IV with moves to an F-major harmony (IV/IV/IV), after which the IV/IV moves directly to I–V–I in D. Amid all this choral noise, then, Beethoven manages to squeeze in some extra transcendence, building ecstasy upon ecstasy. Taking in the larger context of these harmonic instances, the entire last section of the Gloria builds intensification upon intensification, finds more energy, more “glory,” just when one might be forgiven for thinking that the action had reached its highest level of intensity. The last section begins with the extended fugue on the words “In gloria Dei patris, Amen.” This is already interesting, because in many Classical-era Masses, more text than just this final line is used for the culminating fugue in the Gloria (such fugues typically begin with “cum sancto spiritu,” as in Beethoven’s earlier Mass). When the Gloria fugue commences in the Missa solemnis, Beethoven has already set all of the Gloria text, so the fugue actually comes on as an extra setting of the final line. He delivers two minutes of intense fugal writing for the chorus (mm. 360–427), after which the soloists sing that same final line, while the chorus quietly intones the previous line (“cum sancto spiritu”). This is then followed in measures 435–40 by an extraterritorial harmonic sequence in which (as Tovey writes) the listener “knows only that he is being whirled through a vast distance, but loses all consciousness of time.”3 A powerful stretto with augmentation is next, followed by more “Amen”s from the soloists (while the chorus quietly brings back “Quoniam tu solus sanctus”); then

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comes the full chorus on “In gloria Dei patris” (including the IV/IV/IV), and then even more “Amen”s, with the sopranos driving up to a high A that is sustained for six full measures (starting in m. 513). Things should definitely end here, but they don’t. Instead, Beethoven somehow finds even more energy. Switching the meter from four to three and jumping the tempo to presto in measure 525, he produces a kind of accelerated galloping at the very point when we might have thought we were hearing the final cadence. What follows only increases in intensity, with a hyper-dramatic linear and harmonic progression (up to high B in the sopranos!) that projects a kind of hysterically forced praise, or perhaps something like speaking in tongues, in which the high musical register is a sign of ecstatic possession. And all this is concluded by that hectic shout at the very end.4 Back at the very beginning of the Gloria, Beethoven animates the orchestral texture with an upward thrust, as though moved by a mighty wind. From this first rising wind to that last hectic shout, Beethoven’s voice continues to jump over itself, leaping from height to height, finding ever greater degrees of ecstatic energy. Rarely do we encounter an artist letting go like this, throwing everything overboard in a desperate reach for the beyond.

Vitalized Words, Electric Anticipations An odd detail of Beethoven’s text setting in both the Gloria and Credo is also worth noting, as it can be connected to his general quest to rise to the occasion of divine tidings by means of some strikingly marked emphasis. In two distinctive cases, a normally insignificant part of speech is granted inordinate musical weight. In the Credo (m. 188), the sonic emphasis on the “Et” following the lengthy Crucifixus section is arresting: after a gradually achieved quiescence on the words “et sepultus est” (“and was buried”), the tenors belt out the word “Et” on a high G, with octave and unison support in the strings. The word is somewhat isolated from the continuation of its phrase (“resurrexit tertia die secundum scripturas”) by two quick beats of silence. This treatment elevates the word “Et” from its simple grammatical use as a coordinating conjunction to something like the hinge of this entire movement. Jesus was crucified, suffered, died, and was buried. AND he was resurrected. It is hard to imagine a more galvanizing treatment of the word “and,” a word that can be both simple and exalted, as mundane as the link between items in a list and as momentous as the difference between Death

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AND the Life To Come. It is also important to note that Beethoven’s powerful emphasis on the “Et” in measure 188 is the culminating instance of his more general treatment of the word “et” throughout the “Et incarnatus est” section of the Credo text. This includes the relative isolation of the whispered “Et” at the outset of “Et incarnatus est” (m. 125), the similarly isolated “et” beginning the phrase “et homo factus est” (m. 144), and the isolated repetitions of “et” before “sepultus est” (mm. 179–80). These quieter versions of “et” encourage a sense of breathless mystery, as the story of Christ moves through its stages from incarnation through suffering to death and burial. The final “et” of this section, heralding Christ’s resurrection, is the clarion call of salvation. Related to the elevation of “Et” is the unusual (whole-note) length of the word “In” at the outset of Beethoven’s “In gloria Dei patris” fugue in the Gloria (m. 360). The fact that “In” is a lowly preposition, a kind of linguistic upbeat that would normatively be set with a quarter note in this context, serves to highlight its presence here as something like an anticipation. The weight of its whole note also allows it to function effectively as the head of the fugue subject, clearly marking each entrance. But beyond that obvious role, I would like to associate the length of “In” with some of the other electrifying anticipations that Beethoven deploys at many moments in both the Ninth Symphony and the Missa solemnis. Perhaps the most memorable anticipation of all occurs after the image of the starry canopy in the finale of the Ninth, right after the biggest structural dominant in the entire symphony, thus forming—like the “Et” in the Credo—another huge hinge point in the total design. In measure 654, a powerful unison D in the clarinets, trumpets, second violins, and altos (who sing the word “Seid”) begins the culminating double fugue, a half measure ahead of the rest of the chorus and orchestra. Also notable in the same movement is the anticipation in the bass trombone and lower strings that leads into the contemplative middle section (m. 594), after the rousing choral “Ode to Joy” that culminates the first large section of the finale’s form. Thus two of the most significant formal articulations of the entire finale are marked by striking anticipations. Moreover, the central core of the first movement’s development section is riddled with anticipations, which start at the upbeat to measure 218 and continue, now as syncopations over every measure line, all the way to measure 253. What is the effect of these electric anticipations? They come on with the suddenness of insight: a flooding in of sound that takes us unawares, acting as the first sign of an ecstatic state.

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Leaps of Faith Sonic power, decentered harmonies, electric anticipations, and the effect of leaping from height to height—these are ways in which Beethoven pushes his voice to engage with God. But how about believing in God in the first place? How is Beethoven’s composer-persona heard to come to his faith? For there are signs in the Ninth and in the Missa solemnis that Beethoven did not come easily to his faith. Commentators, beginning with Adorno, have spoken of the Beethovenian “muss,” the willed imperative of his music. He may thus be heard to will his faith into being. At the outset of the Credo, we hear the springing into life of the opening E-flat-major sonority, as though flung into existence; it is then pulled up by the bootstraps into the next chord, F, with B♭ next, as the resolving tonic. The progression is straightforward: IV–V–I. But to begin on the subdominant! This is the sound of faith as Muss, willing itself to tonic. A two-measure, four-note Credo motive follows in the basses and is ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 6–2–5; 4–2–5–1. answered by the tenors, on the following scale degrees: 1– The leaps get successively larger into the first note of the tenor response, and they consistently switch directions: down a third, up a fourth, down a fifth; up a seventh into the tenor phrase, then down a third, up a fourth, down a fifth. The two parallel phrases are well balanced in their completion of a dominant–tonic periodic statement: the falling fifth to tonic at the conclusion of the tenor phrase rhymes with the falling fifth to dominant at the end of the bass phrase. Thus the word “Credo” (“I believe”) sounds four times, fully inhabiting the rhetorical space of a cadential phrase. Then the entire chorus joins in, with all voices moving up chromatically for “patrem omni­ potentem,” from G, through A♭ and A♮, to B♭ (including a high B♭ in the sopranos), which is sustained from measures 20 to 24. The declaration of belief thus re-creates the tonal world in nuce, or, perhaps better, that tonal world is invested with belief, and the all-powerful object of this belief is once again made manifest as the result of voices pushing upward to a sublimely sustained sonority. Richard Taruskin humorously refers to the Gloria and the Credo as the “talky” parts of the Mass.5 In the Credo, this is especially true about two thirds of the way through, when the word “Credo” returns, along with a lot of text (confirming belief in the Holy Spirit, with some qualifications about what that mysterious entity is, as well as belief in one holy catholic and apostolic church, and the confession of one baptism for the remission of sins).6 Setting this much discursive text is challenging (some composers simply

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dispense with parts of it), but Beethoven hits upon a brilliant solution. He brings his Credo motive back to underpin this section—with the effect of a large-scale recapitulation—while the rest of the chorus rapidly intones all the items of the text, often on the same pitch, as though seized with rapture (mm. 267–89). Thus he turns a text-setting challenge into yet another sign of ecstatic belief. The Credo text ends with the words “et expecto resurrectionem mortuorum, et vitam venturi saeculi, amen” (“and I await the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come, amen”). As he did in the Gloria, Beethoven gets through all the text before revisiting the last line, here “et vitam venturi saeculi, amen,” in a fugal setting. But he now offers not one, but two fugues on that final line. The repeated notes of the first fugue’s subject (beginning in m. 309), as well as its leisurely tempo, all seemed to Warren Kirkendale (one of the great early exegetes of the Missa solemnis) to suggest that “Life everlasting is envisioned .  .  . as peace, removed from the bustle and noise of life on earth.”7 Kirkendale also points out that some early German critics panned this fugue as “matt und schleppend.” But things begin to heat up about a minute and a half later, when Beethoven inverts the fugue subject (m. 337), moves to a dramatically rising stretto (m. 352), and brings the fugue to a striking crossroad by breaking into B-flat major with an arresting harmonic move from the subdominant to the dominant of D major (G major to A major, heard twice in mm. 369–72), reminiscent of the dramatic move at the outset of the Credo. And now Beethoven begins a second fugue on the same words but with a thoroughgoing diminution that speeds everything up to an astonishing degree. Almost impossible to sing and barely possible to follow as a listener, the fugue has a sheer density of activity which staggers the imagination. Here, if anywhere, Beethoven succeeds in creating music that seems to be speaking in tongues, music in an ecstatic state. Or given the notion of the “world to come,” perhaps we are hearing a kind of time machine, whirling us into the future. A fitting characterization of this music can be found in the Greek notion of ilinx, or whirlpool, a maelstrom-like whirling and swirling, a kind of “frenzied . . . self-abandonment,” according to Roger Moseley, whose recent book Keys to Play introduced me to the term, and who relates such music to Nietzschean ecstasy.8 The effect is not unlike that of the Grosse Fuge, composed a few years later, in which Beethoven also pushes his compositional voice to a state of frenzied distortion. But to do so with words and human voices sharpens the radical extremity of this musical maelstrom.

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A striking example of musically distorted speech can be heard in the convulsive choral “Amen,” articulated in chains of rising sixths (mm. 395–98). When would anyone say “Amen” in that kind of voice? And these are far from Beethoven’s final Amens. There are more Amens at the climax of the choral fugue (mm. 422–32), more Amens sung by the soloists (mm. 439–58), followed by two choral Amens, sung with crescendo-to-diminuendo dynamics, and then two more momentous Amens (mm. 463–64), whose staccato blasts of sound seem to want to raise the very vaults of the cathedral. Only then do we get the ethereally extended plagal cadence that sets the final Amen. Beethoven’s striking profusion of Amens seems to acknowledge the great spiritual resonance of the word and its similar-sounding versions in Hebrew, Arabic, Greek, and Latin: the word that means “so be it,” or simply, “in truth.” If God is Truth, “Amen” is the witnessing word. And thus Beethoven’s Credo has moved from its opening leap of faith to an ecstatic witness of faith. As he did in the Gloria movement, Beethoven also piles intensification upon intensification in his Credo, in a feverish attempt to get beyond himself, to get to God. Beethoven also stages an elaborate process of coming to faith in the finale to the Ninth Symphony. He created the Ninth at the same general time of life as the Missa solemnis: they were completed about a year apart, and they were premiered less than a month apart (the Missa solemnis in St. Petersburg, on April 18, 1824; the Ninth Symphony in Vienna, on May 7, 1824). Mellers likes to think of both the Gloria and Credo movements of the Missa solemnis as “encapsulated” choral symphonies, thus tracing a musico-formal kinship between these works.9 One wonders what Schiller would have thought of the way in which Beethoven deployed his 1785 poem “An die Freude,” how he takes this “Ode to Joy” out of the hands of Schiller’s brotherhood, throws over half of it overboard, and moves one of the remaining choruses into the realm of religious mystery, staging more of a theodicy than a morally elevated drinking song (or “geselliges Lied,” as it is classified by scholars of poetry). Perverting a famous line from A. E. Housman, we might say that “Beethoven does more than Schiller can, to justify the ways of God to Man.”10 For many have heard the Ninth as staging a spiritual quest. If so, the central epiphany has to do with the presence of God above the stars. Let us follow Beethoven’s gradual apprehension of the Deity in the culminating scene of the finale’s middle section, on the words: “Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen? Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt? Such’ ihn über Sternenzelt, über Sternen muss er wohnen!” (“Do you fall in worship, you millions? World,

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do you sense the Creator? Seek Him above the star canopy; above the stars must He dwell.”) The scene begins in measure 627 with an instrumental prelude. Kirkendale relates this to the convention of an organ praeludium in the Benedictus of the Mass and thus to the act of kneeling at the Consecration of the Host.11 And indeed, the music seems to bow down in G minor (with a sweet admixture of major, perhaps to mark the sweetness of devotion) on the words “Ihr stürzt nieder” (“Do you fall in worship?”). The upper line then begins to rise slowly with the word “Millionen” (“you millions”), as though enunciating the upward inflection of a spoken question, an inflection also marked by pausing on the dominant of G minor in the harmony. Resolving that dominant, the upper line continues to rise from B♭ into a growing premonition of the presence of God at the words “Ahnest du den Schöpfer” (“Do you sense the Creator?”). Beethoven stages a small harmonic epiphany here: the bass moves under our feet from G to F, and then to B♭, revealing B-flat major as a warming presence within G minor. Thus a very typical move from minor to relative major (i to V/III to III) is harnessed here to express a gradual Ahnung, or premonition. The next word—“Welt”—is set with a rhythmic anticipation, as well as a C-major triad, achieved by fiat with a bootstrap move from the B-flat harmony. This powerful C-major sound is the first of three monolithic harmonies that mark the willing of faith. Unlike the questioning inflection of the music underlying “Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen?,” this question (“Ahnest du den Schöper, Welt?”) ends with a musical exclamation, as though to mark a spirit rising with a lurch toward something greater than itself. Beethoven sets “Such’ ihn über” (“Seek him above”) with an upward leap of a sixth, from G to E, followed by a resolution to F on the “Sternen-” of “Sternenzelt” (“star canopy”). The second half of “Sternenzelt” (“-zelt”) falls on the next monolith, a D-major triad, also achieved by fiat (and thus reinforcing Schiller’s rhyme of “-zelt” with “Welt”). Then comes the last and crucial leap, after a brief silence, to the final monolith, a high-register, third-heavy E-flat-major triad, for the words “über Sternen muss er wohnen” (“above the stars must He dwell”). This great cry of faith from the height of Beethoven’s most extended, most exalted harmonic monolith thus far seems both an expression of faith and a plea for faith: “He must live there!” One could hear this outburst as an attempt to overwhelm doubt by sheer sonic force. The repeated notes are striking, as is the strained choral scoring of the triad, consisting of pairs of upper-register E♭s and Gs in both men’s and women’s voices. This isolated declamation, as though shouting into the starry darkness, is the quintessential staging of God and the Voice of Beethoven.12

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Putting this remarkable sound back into its larger context, we remember that this extended harmony is the fourth of four harmonic stations, B-flat, C, D, and E-flat, a procession that began with the word “Ahnest” (“sense”). These harmonies form the willed ascent to the stars and to faith in the Creator. A rising melodic line can also be traced that moves from the E1 on “nieder” all the way to the G2 at “wohnen.” But Beethoven’s impassioned E-flat-major monolith is not the last word. After this resounding outburst comes the great mystery. First, a diminishedseventh harmony quietly gathers, a ghostly nimbus of the choral shout on E-flat major: the pitches E♭, G, and B♭ morph into E♮, G, B♭, and C♯. Next, the bass drops to A, creating a dominant seventh of D with a minor ninth, scored with a quietly pulsing texture, like the twinkling stars. With this shift, the chorus sings the selfsame words (“über Sternen muss er wohnen”) with sopranos on the same upper G, but now with remarkably different effect, as though to say that one can assert one’s faith at the top of one’s voice, but the actual presence of God can be comprehended only as a mystery. In Beethoven’s hands, Schiller’s star canopy becomes a potent, multivalent symbol that has been understood in various ways. We could hear it, with Maynard Solomon, as the sound of “deus absconditus,” the absent God;13 we could hear it as a great Question Mark, an aporia of faith, or perhaps as a great Mystical Merger (think of the medieval mystic Meister Eckhart, who famously said: “The eye with which I see God is the same with which God sees me”); or we could reach a kind of compromise, with the realization that God is impossibly remote and yet as eternally present as the fixed stars, benevolently twinkling when seen through our earthly atmosphere. Beethoven’s extended moment of mystical presence also plays a crucial role in the tonal structure of the finale. For it is soon heard to function as the harmonic fulcrum of the entire movement (if not the entire symphony), when D major spills into our consciousness with that electric anticipation in the clarinets, second violins, trumpets, and altos. This is the unimpeachable D major that the entire symphony has been reaching for, ecstatically marked by the culminating and synthesizing combination of the “Ode to Joy” theme with the great trombone theme (“Seid umschlungen, Millionen!”: “Be embraced, you millions!”) of the middle section. The ecstasy continues and is almost unbelievably intensified at the very end of the symphony, where the first eight notes of the “Ode to Joy” theme are sped up as though in a frenzy (mm. 920–24), and then, as though moving even faster, are blurred into repetitions of the A and F♯ only (mm. 928–35). This is the very apotheosis of

god and the voice of beethoven  ❧ 255

the ecstatic, the whirling ilinx at the end of the Ninth, only brought to rest with a final falling fifth. 1 Faced with God, Beethoven takes his voice beyond the normatively human, through various intensifications: with almost grotesque distortions, as in the frenzied “Amen”s of the second “Et vitam venturi” fugue in the Mass; or by having it leap beyond itself, as in the move from monolithic D major to monolithic E-flat major in the Ninth; or by decentering itself, with an extraterritorial harmony that plays subdominant to the subdominant (IV/IV); or by hovering on a mysterious harmony poised between full tides of awesome sound, as when contemplating the stars; or by losing itself in ecstasy, reciting the Creed as if in tongues; or by traveling beyond human speed into the whirling world to come. Some of these same traces of distorting, of exceeding, of decentering, and of ecstasy occur throughout his later music, notably in parts of the “Hammerklavier” Sonata and the Grosse Fuge, where again we hear the ilinx and are faced with staggeringly unreconciled contrasts. In these other contexts, Beethoven seems to be constructing a new theater of subjectivity, juxtaposing extremes of the human, the superhuman, and even the subhuman.14 In the Missa solemnis and the Ninth Symphony, he is raising his voice toward God, trying somehow to project his voice beyond itself. These are the bravest of his spiritual adventures, touched always by the dissonant agony of creation, that hoarse shouting of the human animal awed by its own consciousness and driven by the miracle of its own will. To hear this happen can be one of the most touching experiences we can have with Beethoven, because when Beethoven wills his Voice to say the very name of God, he is more human than ever.

Bibliography Burnham, Scott. “Intimacy and Impersonality in Late Beethoven.” In New Paths: Aspects of Theory and Aesthetics in the Age of Romanticism, edited by Darla Crispin, 69–84. Collected Writings of the Orpheus Institute 7. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2009. Kinderman, William. “Beethoven’s Symbol for the Deity in the ‘Missa solemnis’ and the Ninth Symphony.” 19th Century Music 9 (1985): 102–18.

256  ❧  chapter eleven Kirkendale, Warren. “New Roads to Old Ideas in Beethoven’s ‘Missa solemnis.’” Musical Quarterly 56 (1970): 665–701. Mellers, Wilfrid. Beethoven and the Voice of God. London: Faber and Faber, 1983. Republished, London: Travis & Emery, 2007. Moseley, Roger. Keys to Play: Music as a Ludic Medium from Apollo to Nintendo. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2016. Solomon, Maynard. “The Ninth Symphony: A Search for Order.” In Beethoven Essays, 3–32. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988. Taruskin, Richard. The Oxford History of Western Music. Vol. 1. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. Tovey, Donald Francis. Essays in Musical Analysis: Concertos and Choral Works. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989.

Notes 1

This essay is based on a talk I gave at Stanford University in 2017. Because my essay refers to numerous musical passages from large-scale choral works with soloists and orchestra, I have decided not to include an unwieldy profusion of music examples in the text but simply to refer to measure numbers throughout. 2 In a personal communication, David Crook observed that the harmony I refer to here as the IV/IV can also be heard as reaching back to a fairly common Renaissance modal harmony and thus also figures as an archaic harmonic feature of Beethoven’s treatment of the Mass. 3 Tovey, Essays, 279. 4 Mellers develops a view of the Gloria as portraying the “incomprehensible otherness” of God, in the face of which the “Amen”s in the fugue are “frenzied rather than joyful” and the culminating fugue subject in octaves “is desperately hopeful rather than jubilant.” Mellers, Beethoven and the Voice of God, 313–15. 5 Taruskin, Oxford History, 1:655. 6 “Credo in spiritum sanctum, Dominum et vivificantem, qui ex patre filioque procedit, qui cum patre et filio simul adoratur et conglorificatur, qui locutus est per Prophetas. Credo in unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam. Confiteor unum baptisma in remissionem peccatorum,” etc. 7 Kirkendale, “New Roads,” 684. 8 Moseley, Keys to Play, 30. 9 Mellers, Beethoven and the Voice of God, 356–57. 10 “.  .  . malt does more than Milton can, to justify the ways of God to man.” From “Terence, this is Stupid Stuff,” in A. E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad, first published in 1896.

god and the voice of beethoven  ❧ 257 11 Kirkendale, “New Roads,” 687. 12 William Kinderman interprets this E-flat triad, along with other prominent manifestations of the same harmony in the Missa solemnis and the Ninth Symphony, as a symbolic sonority for God. See Kinderman, “Beethoven’s Symbol for the Deity,” 102–18. 13 Solomon, “The Ninth Symphony,” 30. 14 I develop this notion in regard to the Grosse Fuge in Burnham, “Intimacy and Impersonality.”

Part Four

Quartets

Chapter Twelve

“So Here I Am, in the Middle Way”: The Autograph of the “Harp” Quartet and the Expressive Domain of Beethoven’s Second Maturity M. Lucy Turner Descriptions of Beethoven’s second maturity have broadly resisted the generalizations that fit more easily onto the Classicism of his early period and the enigmatic writing of his late period.1 Often, the work of the composer’s middle period has been divided into the heroic style and “other.” This “other” stands in contrast to the heroic and is often itself considered dualistically. The tendency is to describe Beethoven’s middle-period works that do not fit neatly into the heroic style of this period either as an echo of his early Classicism or as prefiguring the revered late style.2 The poet T. S. Eliot eloquently addressed this special difficulty of being in an artistic middle. “So here I am, in the middle way,” wrote Eliot in 1940, Trying to learn to use words, and every attempt Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure Because one has only learnt to get the better of words

262  ❧  chapter t welve For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which One is no longer disposed to say it.3

It is thus that we encounter Beethoven in 1809 in the midst of his second maturity. Composed in the middle of this year, the String Quartet, op. 74, known as the “Harp,” has been problematic for critics and scholars. Nicholas Marston has observed and chronicled the “twofold mutation in its perception” from its being regarded as part of the innovation of the three op. 59 String Quartets to its being more aligned with the Classical approachability of the earlier op. 18 Quartets.4 In short, the placement of opus 74 within this dichotomy of the “other middle style” has proven challenging over the work’s two-hundred-year history. The attempt to apply the soothing constraints of a duality is perhaps a natural critical response to the confusion of the thing that Eliot was describing—the struggle of creating new things with old tools. This is the inherent quality of middle-ness. In this essay, I suggest that the expressive variety found in the String Quartet, op. 74, belongs to a poetic aesthetic of the middle period that is both inward and retrospective, although not retrogressive.5 This aesthetic, related to the ideas of fantasia and the “characteristic” style that Elaine Sisman explores in the Piano Sonatas, opp. 78, 79, and 81a (likewise products of 1809),6 is, I argue, valuable not only in its use of the earlier practices of Haydn or in its echoes that may be found in Beethoven’s later works, but in its autochthonic expressivity. It is worth reconsidering the teleological orientation toward the late style, facilitated by the historian’s gaze, that allows us to see the composer’s whole life laid out before us in a straight line. Manuscript sources allow us a way to cast off this teleological orientation and encounter the composer face to face, so to speak, as he was in the “middle way” of 1809. This is not to argue for an ahistorical view of Beethoven’s music but for a non-linear historicization in which the significance of a given work is not dependent only on its contribution to a later “culmination” of creative effort. One way in which manuscripts facilitate these face-to-face encounters is by providing insight into the state of Beethoven’s creative process. The sketches for the op. 74 “Harp” Quartet are found primarily in the sketchbook known as Landsberg 5, which has been published in facsimile by Clemens Brenneis and subsequently discussed by Lewis Lockwood and Nicholas Marston.7 The autograph for opus 74, located in the Biblioteka Jagiellońska in Kraków, has yet to be published in facsimile. It provides a rare view of Beethoven’s

the autograph of the “harp” quartet  ❧ 263

compositional considerations as the quartet neared completion.8 It is to this source that we now turn our attention.9 The autograph consists of twenty-five leaves made up primarily of bifolia. Table 12.1 shows the construction of this manuscript and the distribution of materials. The physical condition of the manuscript itself suggests some aspects of compositional process, namely the separation (or lack thereof ) between certain movements. After the end of the first movement on folio 8r, folio 8v contains written notes by the composer concerning the dedication of this work as well as his upcoming “Egmont” project and other matters. The second movement begins on folio 9r, the beginning of gathering C. One can imagine Beethoven finishing the first movement and setting the gathering aside on his writing desk, where he then uses the blank leaf on the back to make notes to himself. The second and third movements appear to have been composed together. The second movement ends, and the third movement begins, within gathering D. Like the first movement, the fourth appears to have been completed separately. Folio 19r marks both the first page of the fourth movement and the beginning of a new gathering. The remnants of two leaves in the binding between folios 18 and 19 suggest that gathering E was originally a standard four-leaf gathering, like those before it. But the two leaves remaining in this gathering after the end of the third movement were not used for the beginning of the fourth movement: they were cut out.10 Vestigial binding holes in the fourth-movement bifolium (gathering F), as well as a loose thread between folios 21 and 22, suggest the possibility that the fourth movement may even have been bound separately at an earlier point in time. Among the most heavily revised moments in the first movement at the autograph stage is the cadenza-like coda. Lockwood observes that the idea for this passage appears to be the result of “old-fashioned ‘sudden inspiration’” at the sketch stage, first materializing after two ideas for the coda were written out without this virtuoso flourish.11 In folio 7r of the autograph,12 we see that Beethoven changed his mind about the distribution of the pizzicato arpeggios among the three lower voices in staves 2–4, 6–8, and 10–12 (mm. 221–31) as well as about the exact contour of some of the sixteenthnote passages in the first violin in staves 5, 9, and 13 (mm. 225–31; see fig. 12.1). These revisions show the level of effort required to bring this passage into its final state. This coda is also perhaps the clearest example in the quartet of the presence of fantasia, in the sense that Sisman uses it, as a “principle that enables one to hear the piece in the act of its own creation.”13 The idea of

Table 12.1. Foliation of the autograph of Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 74 (“Harp”), Biblioteka Jagiellońska, Kraków, Berol. Mus. ms. autogr. Beethoven, Mendelssohn 14 Gathering Folio

Contents, notes

A

1

Movement 1

2

”

3

”

4

” ”

B

C

D

E

5

”

6

”

7

”

8

8r movement 2; 8v text only

9

Movement 2

10

”

11

”

12

”

13

13r movement 2; 13v movement 3

14

Movement 3

15

”

16

”

17

”

18

”

(continued)

Table 12.1­—concluded F

19

Movement 4

20

”

21

”

22

” ”

G

23

”

24

Loose inserted leaf: 24r movement 4, mm. 170–76; 24v blank

25

25r blank; 25v illegible pencil text and musical sketch

Figure 12.1. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 74 (“Harp”), autograph, fol. 7r (mvt. 1, mm. 219–35).

266  ❧  chapter t welve

Figure 12.2. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 74 (“Harp”), autograph, fol. 19r, staves 9–12 (mvt. 4, mm. 10–15).

improvisation, integral to this concept of fantasia, is embodied by the first violin’s cadenza-like sixteenth notes. The lower three voices function at first almost like a single stringed instrument of enormous range, undergirding these violinistic flights of fancy with pizzicato arpeggios. Then, in measure 232, the second violin emerges with a new melody, as if suddenly finding its footing; the viola follows suit. This two-measure melody is then repeated three more times, ascending by step each time. This repetitive process, in which a musical idea is repeated sequentially, is likewise included in the idea of fantasia.14 Furthermore, the process of “integrating dissimilarities,” which Lockwood describes as a key feature of the movement, has something of the act of creation about it.15 Not only does one “hear the piece in the act of its own creation,” but one is invited to participate in the process.16 We can understand the autograph of this movement as documenting a similar, perhaps parallel, procedure: The late-stage revisions of the coda reveal aspects of Beethoven’s own process of fantasieren. The fourth movement is more heavily revised than the previous three movements and shows greater evidence of multiple layers of composition. Lockwood notes that the finale for this quartet underwent more drastic changes in the sketches than the other movements, a trend that continued into the autograph stage of composition.17 Even a detail of the shape of the theme continue to be worked out at the autograph stage, with the two quarter notes of measure 11 being originally written as half notes, taking up two measures (see fig. 12.2). The coda likewise evinces considerable effort, particularly in measures 170–76, the point at which the rhythmic and melodic profile of the theme returns most closely. As seen in figure 12.3a, the counterpoint of the lower three voices was recomposed so thoroughly that several measures had to be deleted. The corrected version is inserted using a separate leaf (see fig. 12.3b). This concerted working-out of the shape of the nearest reincarnation of the theme indicates strong awareness in communicating a sense of the theme’s transformation.

the autograph of the “harp” quartet  ❧ 267

Figure 12.3a. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 74 (“Harp”), autograph, fol. 23r (mvt. 4, mm. 158–78).

The layers of composition in this theme-and-variations finale are similarly revealing. As in other Beethoven autographs, the initial layer of composition is done in brown pen with a relatively thin, well-defined stroke. Thereafter we see a layer of pencil that has been overwritten by dark pen for permanency. Here this second layer takes on new significance. Instead of being used for relatively small corrections or forgotten markings, it comprises a significant portion of the notation. We see it primarily in variations 2, 3, and 5 and in the coda. In these sections accompanimental figures were added in pencil overlaid by pen to the melody lines that comprise the first layer. In the theme and in variations 1, 4, and 6, most of the writing is done in a single layer (although not completely without revision). This difference suggests that some variations may have been conceived homophonically, allowing for a layered compositional approach, while others were conceived polyphonically, necessitating that all voices be notated at once.18

268  ❧  chapter t welve

Figure 12.3b. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 74 (“Harp”), autograph, fol. 24r (mvt. 4, mm. 170–76).

Analyses of this movement have often grouped the variations in different ways. In his Schenkerian analysis, Marston proposes three different groupings: 1-3-5, 2-4-6; 1-2, 3-4, 5-6; and 1-3, 4-6.19 On the basis of dynamic levels, Sisman suggests theme-1, 2-3, 4-5, 6-coda.20 The layers of composition seen in the autograph manuscript, however, suggest groupings of theme-1-4-6 and 2-3-5-coda on the basis of their texture (homophonic or polyphonic). Musical texture comes to the fore in Beethoven’s late-stage compositional process, thus suggesting its importance to the composer’s conception of these variations. That each of these groupings—Marston’s, Sisman’s, and my own—is musically justifiable reveals the surprising multivalence of Beethoven’s “conventional” set of variations. Even the theme contributes layer of ambiguity to the movement: the weakened downbeat of the theme adds to the broader sense of uncertainty even at the point at which a musical idea should be most clearly defined.21 All of this—the compositional effort evidenced in

the autograph of the “harp” quartet  ❧ 269

the sketches and autograph for this finale as well as the movement’s various possible interpretations—makes problematic the interpretations of various critics and scholars who have described this movement as thoroughly straightforward.22 Scholars have approached the stylistic conundrum of opus 74 in their own ways, particularly in terms of the work’s perceived prospective or retrospective nature. Marston looks forward as he connects the arc of opus 74 (in which the key of D-flat in the first-movement introduction reappears in variation 6 of the finale, for example) to the Piano Sonata, op. 109, which sees a not dissimilar arc across its movements.23 The implication is that this process in opus 74 in fact prefigures certain late-style concerns (of which motivic or formal unity is certainly one). Sisman asserts that the finale of opus 74 “contributes another example of confronting Classical models and, while overtly alluding to them, inventing its own decorum.”24 Elsewhere Marston describes Beethoven “invoking and confronting the mature Haydn head-on.”25 Of course, none of these interpretations precludes any of the others: Beethoven “confronts” Haydn and his Classical models in order to depart from them. This process of confrontation, an essential component of the aesthetic of the “middle” style, is as visible in the autograph as it is audible in performance. It may not be, as Webster has it, “maintain[ing] the inherent musical characteristics previously developed in the genre” so much as it is holding them up to the light for appraisal.26 Opus 74 conducts this appraisal on its own terms. The presence of a coda in a sonata-form movement (as in the first movement) is thoroughly typical. But Beethoven’s use of this coda not for formal closure but for fantastic departure recasts the form as something more characteristic than conventional. Similarly, the finale may be on its surface a Classical variation form, but in opus 74 we find in it a vehicle for ambiguity and transformation. The compositional effort in evidence in the autograph manuscript for this quartet suggests that, even if the composer was not aware of these issues in our terms, he was carefully renegotiating his relationship to Classical forms and conventions. This renegotiation exemplifies the particular way in which the autograph manuscript of opus 74 vividly records Beethoven in his “middle way.”

270  ❧  chapter t welve

Bibliography Manuscript Source Beethoven, Ludwig van. “Quartetto per due violini viola e violoncello,” 1809. Biblioteka Jagiellońska, Kraków, Berol. Mus. ms. autogr. Beethoven, Mendelssohn 14.

Publications Beethoven, Ludwig van. Ein Skizzenbuch aus dem Jahre 1809 (Landsberg 5). Edited by Clemens Brenneis. 2 vols. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 1992–93. Bonds, Mark Evan. “Irony and Incomprehensibility: Beethoven’s ‘Serioso’ String Quartet in F Minor and the Path to the Late Style.” Journal of the American Musicological Society 70 (2017): 285–356. Burnham, Scott. Beethoven Hero. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995. Eliot, T. S. “East Coker.” In Four Quartets. New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1943. D’Indy, Vincent. “Beethoven.” In Cobbett’s Cyclopedic Survey of Chamber Music, edited by Walter Willson Cobbett, 83–106. London: Oxford University Press, 1929. Johnson, Douglas, Alan Tyson, and Robert Winter. The Beethoven Sketchbooks: History, Reconstruction, Inventory. Edited by Robert Winter. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1985. Kerman, Joseph. The Beethoven Quartets. New York: Norton, 1966. Kinderman, William. “Contrast and Continuity in Beethoven’s Creative Process.” In Beethoven and His World, edited by Scott Burnham and Michael P. Steinberg, 193–224. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000. Lockwood, Lewis. “Beethoven, Florestan, and the Varieties of Heroism.” In Beethoven and His World, edited by Scott Burnham and Michael P. Steinberg, 27–47. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000. ––––––. “Beethoven’s ‘Harp’ Quartet: The Sketches in Context.” In The String Quartets of Beethoven, edited by William Kinderman, 89–108. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2006. ––––––. Beethoven: The Music and the Life. New York: Norton, 2003. Marston, Nicholas. “Analysing Variations: The Finale of Beethoven’s String Quartet op. 74.” Music Analysis 8 (1989): 303–24. ––––––. “‘Haydns Geist aus Beethovens Händen’? Fantasy and Farewell in the Quartet in E-flat, op. 74.” In The String Quartets of Beethoven, edited by William Kinderman, 109–31. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2006.

the autograph of the “harp” quartet  ❧ 271 ––––––. “Review Article: Landsberg 5 and Future Prospects for the Skizzenausgabe.” In Beethoven Forum, vol. 6, edited by Glenn Stanley, 207–33. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998. Nottebohm, Gustav. Zweite Beethoveniana. Leipzig: Peters, 1887. Sisman, Elaine R. “After the Heroic Style: Fantasia and the ‘Characteristic’ Sonatas of 1809.” In Beethoven Forum, vol. 6, edited by Glenn Stanley, 67–96. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998. ––––––. “Conclusion: Beethoven and the Transformation of the Classical Variation.” In Haydn and the Classical Variation, 235–62. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993. Webster, James. “Traditional Elements in Beethoven’s Middle-Period String Quartets.” In Beethoven, Performers, and Critics: The International Beethoven Congress, Detroit 1977, edited by Robert Winter and Bruce Carr, 94–133. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1980.

Notes 1

2 3 4 5 6 7 8

I use the terms “middle period” and “second maturity” here interchangeably, although the latter term, attributable to Lewis Lockwood (Beethoven: The Music and the Life, xix) has the advantage of avoiding the implication that this period is some sort of way station and instead suggesting that these works are the product of a fully fledged and self-sufficient creativity. This distinction is germane to the argument at hand. Mark Evan Bonds’s article on irony in the String Quartet, op. 95, is an example of work that considers a middle-period work as a harbinger of late style. See Bonds, “Irony and Incomprehensibility.” Eliot, “East Coker,” 16. Marston, “‘Haydns Geist.’” Lewis Lockwood has described the style of opus 74 as centered on “the quiet subtlety and beauty of ideas that belong to a contemplative mind.” See Lockwood, “Beethoven, Florestan, and the Varieties of Heroism,” 38. Sisman, “After the Heroic Style,” 67–96. See Beethoven, Ein Skizzenbuch aus dem Jahre 1809; Lockwood, “Beethoven’s ‘Harp’ Quartet,” 89–108; and Marston, “Review Article,” 207–33. Nicholas Marston has written about the autograph for opus 74, known also as Mendelssohn 14, in his review of Clemens Brenneis’s edition of the sketchbook Landsberg 5. As part of his admirable analysis, which seeks to establish a continuous process between the sketches and the autograph for this work, Marston likewise includes a table of the physical structure of the autograph in his review article of Landsberg 5. In addition to page numbers, foliation, and some notes

272  ❧  chapter t welve on content, he also gives information on paper type and watermarks. Marston, “Review Article,” 222. 9 I wish to extend my thanks to the Special Collections Department of the Biblioteka Jagiellońska and especially to Małgorzata Krzos for generously allowing me access to this manuscript. 10 Marston describes this physical separation between movements in the manuscript as a “rupture.” Marston, “Review Article,” 223–26. 11 Lockwood, “Beethoven’s ‘Harp’ Quartet,” 104. 12 Biblioteka Jagiellońska, Kraków, Berol. Mus. ms. autogr. Beethoven, Mendelssohn 14; Ludwig van Beethoven, “Quartetto per due violini viola e violoncello,” 1809. 13 Sisman, “After the Heroic Style,” 76–83. Marston, however, suggests that the perception of fantasia in opus 74 rests primarily in “the quartet’s belonging to a small group of ‘private’ works in E-flat,” although he also acknowledges the significance of the slow introduction in the first movement in promoting a general sense of fantasia in the work. See Marston, “‘Haydns Geist,” 21–22. 14 Sisman, “After the Heroic Style,” 70–71. 15 Lockwood, “Beethoven’s ‘Harp’ Quartet,” 97. 16 Sisman, “After the Heroic Style,” 76. The slow introduction to Beethoven’s Piano Trio, op. 70, no. 2, also in E-flat, suggests a similar process in its juxtaposition of imitative counterpoint, highly improvisatory piano writing, and fragmentary motivic material. 17 There is evidence of compositional work continued from the sketches in the coda of the first movement also. See Lockwood, “Beethoven’s ‘Harp’ Quartet,” 107. 18 Beethoven’s note to himself, in a sketchbook of 1810, that he should “become accustomed to drafting all parts at the same time, as they appear in my head” (“Sich zu gewöhnen gleich das ganze alle Stimmen wie es sich zeigt im Kopfe zu entwerfen”), might in light of this be interpreted as a sort of polyphonic turn in his compositional process. The note is transcribed in Nottebohm, Zweite Beethoveniana, 281. Translations are my own, unless otherwise indicated. 19 Marston, “Analysing Variations,” 306. 20 Sisman, “Conclusion,” 243. 21 Ibid., 242. 22 Among these interpretations are James Webster’s assertion that this movement consists of “a plain set of variations exquisitely poised, perfectly articulated,” Joseph Kerman’s description of it as “conspicuously light” and “lucid in the extreme,” and Vincent d’Indy’s claim that the finale “adds no element of novelty” to the quartet. See Webster, “Traditional Elements,” 122; Kerman, The Beethoven Quartets, 166–67; and d’Indy, “Beethoven,” 97. 23 Marston, “Analysing Variations,” 320–21. 24 Sisman, “Conclusion,” 246.

the autograph of the “harp” quartet  ❧ 273 25 Marston, “‘Haydns Geist,’” 125. Marston also proposes interpreting opus 74 as Beethoven’s farewell to the recently deceased Haydn, although he leaves open the question of the exact nature of this valediction. Ibid., 125–29. 26 Webster, “Traditional Elements,” 98.

Chapter Thirteen

Meaningful Details: Expressive Markings in Beethoven Manuscripts, with a Focus on Opus 127 Nicholas Kitchen There is an enormous amount of valuable information in manuscript pages that is lost in each stage of transfer to printed editions. My colleagues and I in the Borromeo Quartet each read the full score while playing quartets together. This method, made possible by computers and page-turning pedals, has caused a profound change in the quality of our work. When four people view the full score all the time while playing and in every discussion, the communal logic that emerges has a completely new set of possibilities. What was an unexpected bonus was that the computer made it possible to consult digital versions of primary sources, including manuscripts, during rehearsals. Studying original sources has been inspiring in our work with Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Brahms, Bartók, Schoenberg, and many others. But in regard to Beethoven, working from the manuscript has brought an extensive new set of expressive markings under our purview.

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Expressive Markings in the Manuscripts that Are Not Represented in Print The three categories of expressive marks in Beethoven’s manuscripts that are not represented in print are staccato, dynamics, and swells.1

1. Staccato: Four Types of Staccato Dot:

Figure 13.1. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, viola, m. 191. Small-line staccato:

Figure 13.2. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, viola, m. 199. Medium-line staccato:

Figure 13.3. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, first violin, m. 39. Long-line staccato:

Figure 13.4. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, cello, m. 121.

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(Of course, Beethoven’s writing is not always extremely neat, so distinguishing among these four categories can sometimes be challenging.) These four types of staccato are almost always reduced in printed editions to just one type—either a dot for everything or a line for everything— though in rare and limited instances two are used. Beethoven does not hesitate to have different types of staccato happening simultaneously, and he also seems to relish using varied progressions of staccato markings, so eight notes in a sequence may start with one type of staccato and end with another. Sometimes, however, he marks an un-differentiated “sempre staccato.” I have come to believe that what is being asked for, as the length of the staccato increases, is greater energy in the initial articulation. This does not mean it will be louder, just more energized in the bite of the articulation. In fact, often Beethoven uses long-line staccato in pianissimo (see, for example, fig. 13.61). A related expressive marking under the heading of staccato is portato, which has dots under slurs. Beethoven is exquisitely precise in his notation of the dots underneath these slurs. In score after score, passage after passage, the dots are perfectly formed. This display of consistent precision with portato makes me conclude that he must have been largely consistent in his markings of the other types of staccato as well. Portato:

Figure 13.5. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, first violin, m. 25.

2. Dynamics My observation is that Beethoven has a systematic way of marking his dynamics that includes far more distinctions than we are accustomed to seeing in print. His system of marking involves putting one or two lines on the stem of the letter “p” in piano, pianissimo, or pianississimo. In forte, he creates distinctions by adding more letters to the “f ” (“fo,” “for,” “forte”). With “ff” he adds “mo,” thus: “ffmo.” He also uses the same device with “pp,” thus: “ppmo.”

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Figure 13.6. “Spectrum” of Beethoven’s manuscript dynamic markings assembled by author.

Figure 13.6 shows the dynamic markings used by Beethoven, from ppp to fff, arranged into a “spectrum” of possibilities. This results in a spectrum of twenty-two dynamics. I show the complete list below (slashes represent the number of lines Beethoven drew on the stems of the “p.”). ppp// ppp/ ppp pianissimo ppmo pp// pp/ pp p// p/ p mezzo piano mezzo forte poco forte f fo for forte ff ffmo fortissimo

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I read the lines on the stems of the “p” as adding emotional intensity: one line makes it more emotionally intense and two lines makes it much more emotionally intense. In forte, adding more letters gives some indication of greater importance for that moment in the music. Emotional intensity plus heightened importance are connected to “ppmo” and “ffmo.” The full words “pianissimo” and “fortissimo” are used rarely but correspond with moments where the special intensity and importance must go beyond even “ffmo” or “ppmo.” One such case that is easy to understand is in Beethoven’s String Quartet, op. 59, no. 2, fourth movement, measure 372, where the second violin, viola, and cello have “ffmo,” and the first violin has “fortissimo” (see fig. 13.7). It is already unusual to have in this measure three instances of “ffmo,” and it is appropriate to the musical arrival that comes just as the piece is about to end. In the first violin the rare use of the whole word “fortissimo” (this is the only place in the entire piece the whole word is used) marks the outrageous intensity of this moment from which the piece spins to its electrifying final chords.

Figure 13.7. Beethoven, String Quartet in E Minor, op. 59, no. 2, mvt. 4, m. 372.

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3. Expressive Swells It seems to be important to Beethoven whether a swell pair is connected, forming a diamond shape, or disconnected, with space between the swell up and the swell down. This gives two types of swell: Closed, forming a diamond shape:

Figure 13.8. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, cello, mm. 49–51.

Open:

Figure 13.9. Beethoven, Piano Sonata in G Major, op. 79, mvt. 2, mm. 5–6.

To make the closed pair, Beethoven employs a very distinct way of writing the four lines to form a closed diamond shape. In multi-measure swell pairs he often has to wind the lines around notes in order to connect them, and he goes to considerable effort to make them unbroken. I think the meaning of these swell marks is to ask for a surge in emotional intensity along with the dynamic level: the connected pairs are a surge of emotional intensity up and down as a single event; the disconnected swells are a surge of emotional intensity up as one event and down as another, separate event. (All of the swell events seem to benefit from a subtle stretching of time in the playing.) In the first movement of opus 127, at measure 216, when the swell goes across a page turn, Beethoven goes to great lengths to add a clarification in words that the swell pairs should be regarded as closed (see fig. 13.10). He instructs his copyist: “[In pencil] Nb: [In ink] alle 3 täkte worunter dies Zeichen [] in eine Reihe.” (“NB: All 3 measures under which [is] this sign [] in one line.”2 And notice the effort Beethoven exerts to connect the swells a little earlier in the movement (see fig. 13.11). Whereas here is a mixture of open and closed swells (see fig. 13.12).

Figure 13.10. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, mm. 215–16.

Figure 13.11. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, mm. 207–10.

Figure 13.12. Beethoven, Piano Sonata in G Major, op. 79, mvt. 2, mm. 1–14.

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Figure 13.13. Beethoven, String Quartet in B-flat Major, op. 130, mvt. 5, mm. 59–61.

Figure 13.14. Beethoven, String Quartet in A Minor, op. 132, mvt. 1, mm. 84–88.

And here is a passage (fig. 13.13) using both closed and open swells in the cello part of opus 130. And here is one in opus 132 with both closed and open swells in all the parts (fig. 13.14). Let us first look at Figure 13.13. In this coda section of the movement there have been four instances of the enormously expressive E♭–F motive within five measures (with F arriving on the third quarter). Three of these E♭–F figures are in the first violin, but when Beethoven chooses to put the figure in the cello, he chooses a marking which allows the F to get a separate expressive swell down, preceded by a separate swell up. This is a way of calling for distinct energy on the F instead of making it more linked to the E♭. It

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becomes a way of featuring this very touching moment of exchange with the first violin. In opus 132 (fig. 13.14), measure 84 features a single expressive surge up and down that fills the harmonic pivoting that occurs during this bar. In measures 86–87 the separate swells are designed to give more impact to the harmony of measure 87 (the A♭ supporting 4–3 motion in the second violin, creating a diminished harmony headed to G7). In opus 79, the separate slurs heighten the separateness of the upward-moving bars (mm. 1, 3, and 5) from the downward moving bars (mm. 2, 4, and 6). The closed swell pairs in measures 13 and 14 make a surge of expression within one melodic figure. 1 All these expressive marks can be found across a range of Beethoven manuscripts, starting with opus 30,3 and in the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times that they are used between 1802 and Beethoven’s death, they do not change in their form. For example, we never see a three-underline “pp”; we do not see “fort.” There is also remarkable consistency about the way Beethoven writes other dynamic markings. For example, he almost always writes “cres” or “dimin.” In the whole of opus 130, including opus 133 and the two manuscripts of the alternate finale movement, there is not a single exception. In opus 131 there is a single case (Biblioteka Jagiellońska, Kraków, Mus. ms. autogr. Beethoven, Artaria 211, p. 99, staff 6, m. 1, first violin) where Beethoven writes “crescen,” and it seems he does this to fully cover a “dimin” marked beneath. In opus 132 there is a single case (Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Mus. ms. autogr. Beethoven Mend.-Stift. 11, p. 59, staff 1, first violin, m. 5) where the first violin has “dim” instead of “dimin.” In opus 135, in the three movements of score and the four movements of parts, there is not a single instance of any mark written differently than “cres” or “dimin.” In the piece we are exploring now, opus 127, Beethoven uses the marking “cres” 329 times with no variation. He uses the marking “dimin” 76 times. There is a single instance in the entire piece where “diminuendo” is written (movemen 1, m. 274) and a single instance where “dim” is written (movemen 3, m. 264). I do not see “dim” as indicating anything different, but I think the “diminuendo” communicates an invitation to give special focus to the octave leap that sets up the “goodbye” phrase of the movement (see fig. 13.15).4

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Figure 13.15. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, m. 274.

In evaluating whether these variations in the prevailing dynamic markings are meaningful, we should note that in general Beethoven seems to go to some lengths to avoid any unnecessary writing.5 He will employ “come sopra” at the earliest possible moment to avoid writing out a repetition of any music. So when certain markings are this consistent, and he seems loath to make any unnecessary strokes, why would he so frequently add lines and letters to dynamics or bother with different staccato marks, if all these distinctions were not significant?6 It is also worth noting that even though these markings were not included in the printed editions of his works, he continued to use them, and their use increased over time. If he was wasting pen strokes on meaningless marks, he wasted more and more of them throughout the course of his work.7 As to my experience of reading from the manuscript, I have found different types of inspiration. First, of course, is the general but palpable inspiration that comes from reading directly from the handwriting of such a vigorous person engaged in such an intense working process—the ferocious scrawls and corrections. Then there is a deeper kind of understanding that comes from comparing all the musical material that was crossed out or scraped out and what it was replaced with. This extends to comparisons with what was changed after the manuscript stage. But the most serious engagement results from considering the special expressive markings in the manuscript, because

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what one is absorbing is a very well-defined system employed by Beethoven for nearly half of his life (from 1802 onward) and used in a majority of his greatest works. The question must arise as to why Beethoven did not insist on having these markings transferred into print. They are transferred frequently but inconsistently into the work of his copyists. And in some rare instances a few marks make it into print. The type of mark that makes it most frequently into early editions is the connected expressive swell. But if one has become accustomed to the level of detail of the expressive markings in the manuscript, the overall scale of inaccuracy and incompleteness in the transfer to the copy and eventually to print is enormous—even overwhelming.8 The fair copy (Stichvorlage or engraver’s copy) that Beethoven made in his own hand of the Fantasia for Piano, op. 77, is very telling in this regard. This manuscript is full of all the special expressive marks discussed in this paper. See, for example, pages 6, 11, and 24 of this manuscript, which are reproduced as figures 13.16, 13.17, and 13.18.

Figure 13.16. Beethoven, Fantasy for Piano, op. 77, p. 6, mm. 28–39, illustrating “pp/,” a closed swell pair, “pp//,” and medium-line staccato.

Figure 13.17. Beethoven, Fantasy for Piano, op. 77, p. 11, mm. 86–105, illustrating “pp/,” “ppp/,” medium-line staccato, small-line staccato, and dot.

Figure 13.18. Beethoven, Fantasy for Piano, op. 77, p. 24, mm. 239–47, illustrating the precise dots of portato, “p//,” “pp//,” and long-line staccato.

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Beethoven’s dissatisfaction with copyists and printers for their failure to notice the distinctions between dots and strokes can be documented. One letter that touches on this subject is the letter of August 15, 1825 to Karl Holz, in which Beethoven reacts to Holz’s and Linke’s copying of the parts for opus 132.9 Beethoven emphasizes the need for making distinctions between dots and strokes. He illustrates the difference between short-line staccatos and dots as well as the difference between long- and medium-line staccatos (see fig. 13.19).10 Obviously Beethoven wanted a difference between

Figure 13.19. Portion of letter from Beethoven to Karl Holz, August 15, 1825.

Figure 13.20. Beethoven, Violin Sonata in F Major, op. 24 (“Spring”), mvt. 1, mm. 38–50.

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dots and strokes. It is astounding that this distinction is not conveyed in the printed scores that we play from. Observe a page from the “Spring” Sonata (fig. 13.20). One can clearly see the small-line staccato markings in the first system in the piano part, the medium-line staccato markings on the quarter notes in the first system in the violin part, and the distinction between the lines and dots in the third system. Yet every edition I have seen has undifferentiated dots throughout. (Some editions these days have switched everything from dots to strokes, but there is still no distinction made between the two, let alone any attempt to differentiate among the four different types of staccato that Beethoven annotated in his manuscripts.) Figure 13.21 shows two score systems of the first movement of opus 127, mm. 139–47. You see here all the categories of staccato used with almost dizzying variety (including non-portato dots in staff 5, first violin, m. 1). Table 13.1 gives a synopsis of all these markings. This section prepares the immensely fragmented set of sequences that sets up the recapitulation in measure 167. Here we are looking at a highly refined system of articulation that simply did not make it into the printed score. Beethoven never even came close to having this level of detail represented in the material that he dealt with during his lifetime (or that we deal with to this day). And this failure is in almost all works, all movements. It is enormous. And yet Beethoven continued, in all his autograph scores, from 1802

Figure 13.21. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, mm. 139–47.

288  ❧  chapter thirteen Table 13.1. All the staccato marks in just six measures of Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat, op. 127, mvt. 1, mm. 141–46 Measure

First violin

141 142

1 SLS

143

3 SLS

144

4 dots

145

1 SLS, 2 dots

146

Second violin

Viola

Cello

3 dots

3 MLS

4 SLS, 2 MLS

3 MLS, 3 LLS 2 SLS, 1 LLS (alternate reading: 3 MLS)

6 SLS

1 SLS

1 MLS, 2 SLS, 3 MLS (alternate reading: 6 MLS)

3 MLS 1 SLS

6 MLS

4 MLS, 2 LLS

Abbreviations: LLS = long-line staccato; MLS = medium-line staccato; SLS = smallline staccato.

until his death in 1827, to mark these details with great care and precision. As he said once to a contemporary regarding his op. 59 String Quartets: “Oh, they are not for you, but for a later age!”11 For the “Rasumovsky” Quartets, the later age came about twenty-five years after they were written.12 Perhaps now, nearly two hundred years after the composer’s death, the time has come for all his expressive markings to be understood as well.

The Expressive Markings in Opus 127 There has been little scholarly work on expressive markings in Beethoven’s manuscripts. In his first Beethoveniana volume,13 Nottebohm discussed the fact that editions do not show the variety of staccato marks visible in the manuscripts, and he referred to the 1825 letter to Karl Holz that has been mentioned above. In 1957 Paul Mies suggested that some of the variety of Beethoven’s staccato marks grew out of his way of hearing the music in the process of writing.14 Mies believed that although there was a kind

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of impulsive expressive content in these marks, it was not necessary to put them into print, since the varied marks were all aiming at a basic staccato category: all dots and strokes were basically interchangeable and all indicated “staccato.” However, William Newman, in his book on playing Beethoven,15 lamented the fact that prevailing editorial approaches have resulted in the reduction of Beethoven’s extremely varied drawing of staccato signs to a single type of sign in print. Newman suggested three types of signs: dot, stroke, and wedge. But he also mentioned the idea that Beethoven employed a technique of a graduated spectrum between dots and wedges. Barry Cooper has argued that there is a clear distinction between dots and lines,16 but Jonathan Del Mar insists that the staccato marks are all “varying lengths of the same thing” and takes the view that all marks that are not under portato slurs are “without exception” line staccatos and not dots.17 A simple glance at figure 13.21 will throw this view into some doubt. Having discussed expressive markings generally, I shall now consider the manuscript markings as they fit into the dramatic sequence of the four movements of opus 127. First I shall look at all four movements as an overview, and then I shall analyze the markings in the first movement in detail and discuss how much of the material is clear and how much raises difficult questions. In conclusion, I shall share a few of my personal observations about how the markings are helpful to me and my colleagues in the Borromeo Quartet in bringing the score to life.18 The expressive markings in the manuscript of opus 127 seem to highlight the dramatic sequence of the work. They create a set of sign-posts within the larger composition. In general, the forte marks seem to “flag” an event as an energetic highlight. The piano marks seem to ask for an emotional depth that will give a special quality to a passage. These piano marks seem to be used often in transitions, at the beginning or end of a certain idea, or to mark a sudden change in affect. Beethoven uses the marks in all instruments, but many times he chose to put the distinctive marking just in the first violin part.

First Movement At the beginning of the first movement of opus 127, the “fo” in the first violin communicates the impact of the opening (see fig. 13.22). Notice the missing “f ” in the cello and in measure 2 the missing staccato mark. In measure 22 (see fig. 13.23), the “fo” in the cello communicates an audacious gesture.

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Figure 13.22. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, mm. 1–2.

Figure 13.23. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, mm. 22–23.

In measure 63 the “for” in the first violin conveys the sense that this cadence has a special importance in summing up the previous music (see fig. 13.24). (It will be “topped” by the cadence at measure 229 that is one marking higher in intensity for the second violin, the viola, and the cello.) Notice here also the variety of staccato marks and beaming.19

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Figure 13.24. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, mm. 63–64.

In measure 74 (see fig. 13.25) note the “pp//” in the second violin (one must look closely to see the second line), viola, and cello. This mark heightens the expressive energy of the transition to the G-major maestoso chords. In measure 113 (see fig. 13.26) the “pp//” in the cello gives special emphasis to the start of the process that will lead to the moment of highest intensity in the movement at measure 121. Notice also the beaming in the other three parts.

Figure 13.25. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, mm. 72–74.

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At measure 121 (see fig. 13.27) the “ffmo” in the first violin marks the highpoint of rambunctiousness in the movement. This high energy will be sustained all the way to measure 139. Notice also the staccato marks in the cello part. At measure 133 (see fig. 13.28) the special 1–3–[2] eighth-note beaming in the first violin creates a sense of off-beat excitement to prepare for the following “ff” C-major maestoso chords. (These are the only maestoso chords that are “ff.”)

Figure 13.26. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, mm. 112–14.

Figure 13.27. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, mm. 120–21.

Figure 13.28. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, mm. 133–34.

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Note here, in measure 229 (fig. 13.29), the use of “for” for the first violin and “fo” for the second violin, viola, and cello. (How likely is that the composer would write “fo” three times through random variation?) This moment is parallel to the cadence at measure 63, but here the dynamic has been brought up one more level in the second violin, viola, and cello. Notice also the long-line staccato marks in measure 229 and the beaming in measure 230. Beethoven writes “pp//” in the viola and cello right before the end of the movement (m. 280, fig. 13.30). The marking gives heightened emotion to this “sweet goodbye” gesture, although it is not present in the violins.

Figure 13.29. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, mm. 229–30.

Figure 13.30. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, mm. 280–82.

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Second Movement At the opening of the second movement, the “pp/” just in the first violin part (m. 2) highlights the mystery of the opening and the introduction of the theme (fig. 13.31). In measure 10 (fig. 13.32) the “pp/” in the viola and cello at the start of the second part of the main theme gives special importance to the accompaniment of this new material. Like the last gesture of the first movement, it is not marked in the other parts. Notice also the carefully drawn portato dots.

Figure 13.31. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 2, mm. 1–2.

Figure 13.32. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 2, mm. 9–11.

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In mm. 24–27 (fig. 13.33) note the abundance of closed swells. At measure 38 (fig. 13.34), Beethoven writes “pp//” in all four parts to add a sense of heightened expectation in the transition into the Andante con moto.

Figure 13.33. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 2, mm. 24–27.

Figure 13.34. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 2, m. 38.

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The “pp//” in measure 43 (fig. 13.35) and the “p//” in m. 46 (fig. 13.36) and m. 56 (fig. 13.37) all give a special refreshing subito effect. Note the care in beaming in these examples. Note also in measure 46 the tied sixteenth notes in the first violin and the eighth notes in the second violin to notate the same rhythmic figure and in measure 56 the decision slur. Decision slurs are slurs where the redirecting of the curve of the slur gives us a sense of Beethoven making a renewed decision about how much music to include under the slur.

Figure 13.35. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 2, m. 43.

Figure 13.36. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 2, m. 46.

Figure 13.37. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 2, m. 56.

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Now let us look at measures 73 and 74 (fig. 13.38). In these measures there is very special voicing with an extremely high cello part. Beethoven seems to relish the inversion of the normal registers of the instruments, and the double-stopped Cs on the viola are marked “fo” to provide the foundation for the group’s sound. Notice also the extra crescendo continuation marks in the first violin and the missing “cres” in the cello in measure 73, and the careful placement of the reverse swell in all parts in measure 74. At measure 76 (fig. 13.39), with the transformation into , Beethoven marks the first violin part “pp//”—another transition where the “pp//” supports the extraordinarily heightened emotion. Notice also the carefully drawn portato dots in the second violin and viola and the fact that they are missing in the cello.

Figure 13.38. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 2, mm. 73–74.

Figure 13.39. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 2, m. 76.

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At measure 95 (fig. 13.40), at another emotionally heightened transition, the second violin, viola, and cello are marked “pp//.” Notice also the trill terminations without accidentals in the second violin (see below for comments on this issue). At measure 115 (fig. 13.41) the first violin is marked “for” at a moment of full flowering and warmth. On the final note of the movement (fig. 13.42), the markings are “pp//” for the first violin and viola, “pp” for the second violin, and “pp/” for the cello. Here again we see the use of special dynamics to give a special “goodbye” energy to the moment. I cannot explain why there are slight variations between the parts here, but it is clear that Beethoven exerted great effort to get all of the marks into the space between the notes. Notice also all of the carefully formed portato dots.

Figure 13.40. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 2, m. 95.

Figure 13.41. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 2, m. 115.

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Figure 13.42. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 2, m. 126.

Third Movement In the second measure of the Scherzo (fig. 13.43), notice the bright-eyed mischief encouraged by the “pp//” in the cello. And note also the mediumline staccato marks. The gesture in measures 60–65 (fig. 13.44) is a sudden blast and then a surprise jump to softness. This one features “ff” to “pp//” for all four parts. The da capo version will be “ffmo” to “pp.” Notice the use of repetition symbols to avoid unnecessary rewriting and that two of them are forgotten in the cello. In measure 90 (fig. 13.45) the “sempre fo” in all four instruments encourages heartiness. Notice also the 3–3, 2–4 beaming in the viola. In measure 121 (fig. 13.46), the “fo” in the first violin at the cadence encourages an extra element of summation at this moment. Notice also the disparate beaming in the other parts.

Figure 13.43. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 3, mm. 1–4.

Figure 13.44. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 3, mm. 60–66.

Figure 13.45. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 3, mm. 90–91.

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Figure 13.46. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 3, mm. 121–22.

In figure 13.47, at the transition into the trio (mm. 137–40), the mystery is heightened by the “pp//” in the first violin and the “sempre ppmo” in the second violin, viola, and cello. At measure 148, the single “fo” in the first violin, followed by “pp//,” shows the intensity of the spike of the first gesture. In measure 166 (fig. 13.48) the “fo” for the first violin marks the notes before the first ending.

Figure 13.47. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 3, mm. 137–49.

Figure 13.48. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 3, m. 166.

Figure 13.49. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 3, mm. 168–69.

Figure 13.50. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 3, mm. 201–2.

Figure 13.51. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 3, mm. 235–36.

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In measures 168, 202, and 236 (figs. 13.49, 13.50, 13.51) there are three rambunctious “ff” passages. Looking at what was crossed out or modified, one can guess at older plans for this section. It seems that in the first place measure 168 was marked “f ” for all four instruments (the second “f ” seems to be added later); measure 202 was marked “fo” for all four instruments, to be replaced with “ff” (this is easy to see); and at measure 236 there may also have been an earlier “f ” with the second “f ” added later, but it is a little hard to tell. This is one of those cases where the revisions provide a really interesting perspective on the options that Beethoven may have considered for this passage. Looking at the larger landscape of the movement, we see that the main section of the movement (Scherzando vivace) and its return have a skipping character, with lots of spiky, fragmented, and energetic sounds. The trio, in between these main sections, alternates between a fantastic, quicksilver energy—very smooth and fast and “pp//”—and careening loud dance music: measure 174 in D-flat, measure 208 in G-flat, and measure 244 in B-flat (positioning us for return to the home key of E-flat). The passages at measure 168, measure 202 and measure 236 are all preparatory intensifications, leading into the dance music. (The first two are six measures long, and the third is eight measures long.) If indeed Beethoven initially marked the first and third of these passages “f,” why would he have initially marked the second one “fo”? I believe there is a reason: in all three of these passages the first violin has the main melodic pitch group that will lead to the start of the dance music on the third degree of the tonic harmony for each of the three dance music sections. For the first and third passages Beethoven has plenty of room to use the other instruments in whatever way he pleases, without inverting the order of registers, but in G-flat major, unless he is willing to have the first violin start the dance music on the E string, which would make it rather shrill, he is forced to have the second violin play above the first violin just for these introductory measures. I think that Beethoven was satisfied with this solution but decided the passage needed a slightly different energy to be effective. This made him put “fo” in all four instruments. I can easily imagine that, stimulated by the thought of the effect a little extra energy had for the G-flat passage, he thought of what it might do for all three passages, so he changed them all to “ff.” The transition from the trio to the return of the scherzo (fig. 13.52) is given special intensity with “pp//” in the second violin, viola, and cello and “sempre ppmo” in the first violin. The repeat of the main material is written out by Beethoven not as a da capo but using as much “come sopra” as he can.

Figure 13.52. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 3, mm. 270–74.

Figure 13.53. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 3, mm. 331–36.

Figure 13.54. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 3, first violin, mm. 360–61.

Figure 13.55. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 3, first violin, mm. 391–92.

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At measures 331–36 (fig. 13.53) the second surprise blast and jump to softness is marked “ffmo” to “pp” this time instead of “ff” to “pp//,” which suggests that it is a little more exclamatory than the first instance. The marking is only in the first violin because of the continuing “come sopra” marking in operation for the other instruments. At measure 361 (fig. 13.54) the “sempre fo” is given as before. At the cadence at measure 392 (fig. 13.55) Beethoven again uses “fo.” Notice also the careful beaming (6, 2, 4).

Fourth Movement At measure 23 (fig. 13.56) the “fo” in the first violin encourages a vigorous treatment of the phrase. At m. 37 (fig. 13.57) the “pp//” in cello and viola makes a special feature of the theme appearing in the cello. At measure 73 (fig. 13.58) the music builds to a rowdy “ffmo” in the first violin. In the movement this music appears four times. Beethoven marks only the initial one with “ffmo.” The closing ideas that start at measure 81 (fig. 13.59) are given a highlight by the marking “for” in the first violin. Let us also look at how the marking “pp//” is used to direct attention to important moments in this movement. The harmonic turn at measure 93 evokes a “pp//” in the cello (fig. 13.60). The first violin gets a special “pp//” in measure 107 (fig. 13.61) and in measures 109–10 also is given long-line staccato markings within the “pp//” marking. This musical material, recognized by the opening repeated quarter notes, pair of rising eighths, and then a descending quarter-note scale, made its appearance at measure 55. There it is in B-flat major but forte, and it has a boisterous and triumphant swagger. At measure 107 the material is in C major and set with this intensified expression of “pp//,” which makes it a mischievous contradiction of the material in its initial form. With this charged and delicate dynamic it not only reaches up to the highest register of the violin (note the “in 8va” marking), but, at this moment of extreme height, also has the longest and most energized staccato marks. The emotionally charged dynamic and the high-energy staccato combine to make this rendition of the material a gleeful parody of the theme in its first form. The parody is all the more delightful because it is answered by both the cello and viola growling out the same theme in forte, with both of them using the open C string (as low as those instruments can go.)

Figure 13.56. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 4, m. 23.

Figure 13.57. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 4, m. 37.

Figure 13.58. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 4, mm. 72–75.

Figure 13.59. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 4, mm. 81–82.

Figure 13.60. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 4, m. 93.

Figure 13.61. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 4, mm. 107–10.

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Figure 13.62. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 4, mm. 143–44.

The “pp//” in the first violin at measure 143 (fig. 13.62) helps focus the transition to the following A-flat-major section. In measures 183–84 (fig. 13.63) the “pp/” in the viola and the following “pp//” in the violins prepare the return to the home key of E-flat. In measure 255 there is a “pp//” in the first violin at the transition to allegro comodo (see fig. 13.64). Notice also the portato dots.

Figure 13.63. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 4, mm. 180–93.

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Figure 13.64. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 4, mm. 254–57.

The defining feature of the first part of the coda is the marking “ppmo.” All four instruments have “sempre ppmo” in measures 261–62 (fig. 13.65). Then in measure 265 (fig. 13.66) again all four instruments have “sempre ppmo” and in measure 269 “ppmo” (fig. 13.67). This is a powerful encouragement to make the whole section absolutely glow with special heightened emotional intensity, and the “ppmo” marking also highlights the importance of the section in the overall sequence of the music.

Figure 13.65. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 4, mm. 261–62.

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Figure 13.66. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 4, m. 265.

Figure 13.67. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 4, m. 269.

In measure 284 (fig. 13.68) both violins are marked “fo” to sum up a very exciting crescendo. Notice also the beaming in the first violin (4–2–6). (“Siml” stands for simile.) In measures 289 and 290 (fig. 13.69) the “ff” passage displays unusual beaming in the first violin (3–6–9, 3–6–6–3) and varied beamings in all four

Figure 13.68. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 4, m. 284.

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Figure 13.69. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 4, mm. 289–90.

parts. This encourages a certain jaggedness in the gesture. Actually, the overall variety in the beaming in the allegro comodo section of this movement is remarkable. Beethoven did seem to devote a lot of attention to beaming, which gives us some sense of his view of the underlying note groupings.

Figure 13.70. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 4, mm. 292–99.

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In the passage from measures 292 to 299 (fig. 13.70), various “pp//” marks encourage a marvelous shimmer in the last moment before the quick rise to the “f ” and “ff” that finish the whole work. 1 All these special expressive marks act like signposts for us as we in the Borromeo Quartet perform opus 127. Often the marks confirm slight variations and goals for mood changes that I and other musicians would express instinctively anyway, but it is very valuable to compare one’s own instincts with markings that Beethoven himself makes. When Beethoven chooses to ramp up the intensity of the second cadence in the first movement (m. 229), for example, but opts out of a second rise to “ffmo” in the last movement, these indications register to me as very sophisticated pieces of advice on interpretive pacing. I not only welcome them: I relish them and feel deeply fortunate to be able to study them, a study which can be provided only by looking closely at the manuscript itself.

The Expressive Marks in the Manuscript of the First Movement of Opus 127 An analysis needs to be made of the level of clarity in the expressive marks in the manuscript of opus 127. What is the ratio of clear markings to unclear or ambiguous ones? My goal here is to establish some probabilities for accuracy versus simple carelessness. To examine this question I have counted all of the expressive marks in the first movement of opus 127, using the first movement as a kind of sample to start to evaluate the larger issue. I have created three categories: clear, missing (obvious omissions), and mis-drawn (markings that are difficult to read or seem to be mistakes). Once again, my counting is only for the first movement. Although I have made every effort to be accurate, I cannot imagine that a few inadvertent errors might not have not crept in. Besides, different people might count some items differently. But I am confident that the number of potential errors is low.

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Staccato Marks Long-line staccato Clear 53 Missing 0 Mis-drawn 3

Medium-line staccato Clear 229 Missing 25 Mis-drawn 45

Short-line staccato Clear 135 Missing 2 Mis-drawn 6

Dot Clear Missing

37 0

Totals Clear 454 Missing 27 Mis-drawn 54

Conclusion: 5 out of 6 staccato marks are clear.

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Portato Dots Clear 26 Erased 2 Mis-drawn 1

Portato is a frequently used marking in all Beethoven manuscripts. Though there is one carelessly drawn dot here (m. 185, second dot), Beethoven is nearly perfect in the precision of his marks.

Dynamics ffmo ff for fo f Missing f

1 7 2 7 65 2

p p/ p// pp pp// missing p

96 2 1 6 6 3

Totals “p” “f ” “ff ” “pp” “pp//” “fo” “for” “p/” “p//” “ffmo”

95 65 7 6 6 7 2 2 1 1

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Notice that of the five missing dynamics, four are in the cello, one of them being in the very first measure of the movement. sf missing sf

64 3

Crescendo and Diminuendo cres missing cres dimin missing dimin

65 3 21 5

Totals of cres and dimin clear missing

86 8

(Omissions are most common in the cello part.) Diminuendo 1

This is a unique marking that prepares the last phrase of the movement. “cres” and “dimin” continuation lines

149

In this composition, Beethoven always draws the continuations with two short parallel lines, and they are quite accurately lined up with each other. One could imagine these lines being drawn without care, falling randomly during the course of a crescendo or diminuendo, but the making of double lines and putting them in parallel requires focus, and I find that Beethoven often uses a higher number of them in a certain instrumental part in a way that coincides with musically interesting voicing.

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Expressive Swells Reverse swell of one measure Missing reverse swell of one measure Reverse swell of two measures Missing reverse swell of two measures

20 1 3 1

(Both missing marks are in the cello part.) Two-measure closed-swell pairs 11 Missing 4

Three-measure closed-swell pairs 6 Missing 1

Four-measure closed-swell pairs 8 Missing 4

Altogether there are twenty-five closed-swell pairs, with nine swell pairs that seem to be missing. Of the nine that are missing, six are in the cello, two are in the viola, and one is in the second violin. Once again it is the cello that has the most omissions.

Beaming Beethoven seems to lavish a lot of attention on the beaming of notes within measures. This takes time, and I believe that his choices suggest how he might have felt about the phrasing of the notes. In the first movement of opus 127 they are almost exclusively eighth-note groupings. 6 eighth-note beaming 2–4 eighth-note beaming 2–2 eighth-note beaming 4–2 eighth-note beaming 2–2–2 eighth-note beaming 1–3–2 eighth-note beaming 2–3–1 eighth-note beaming

98 48 39 31 22 2 1

expressive markings in beethoven manuscripts  ❧ 319 2–1–3 eighth-note beaming 2–1–2–1 eighth-note beaming

1 1

Other Expression Marks dolce dol

4 2

It is possible that there is a slightly greater intensity to the “dolce” asked for by the whole word than by the abbreviation. teneramente 1 tenute 12 tenu 1 tenù 1 tenut 1 horizontal lines 3

The horizontal line mark in the second violin part in measure 238 is hard to explain, but it seems to support the “tenute” ideas at work in the section.

Slurs Missing slurs 11 Unclear slurs 4

(Unclear slurs are slurs where the initial note or the termination note are questionable.) Line-end slurs sent and caught Line-end slurs sent and not caught Line-end slurs not sent but caught

32 10 6

This category is an interesting window into Beethoven’s attention to detail. What I am counting is how much accuracy there is when a slur (or a tie) needs to connect from the end of one line to the beginning of the next. Out of forty-eight instances of this “sending” and “catching,” thirty-two

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were completed, and sixteen were not completed. Beethoven seems to have a slight preference for “sending”: out of the sixteen incomplete pairs there are ten incomplete “sends” compared with six incomplete “catches.” Decision slur 26

This is where Beethoven takes an existing slur and decides to extend it, or sometimes seemingly decides to extend it while he is writing it. When counting these, some choosing is necessary as sometimes the irregular path of the slur is simply a result of the composer’s trying to avoid already existing markings or notes.

Trills Trill with no termination Trill with termination and accidentals Trill with termination and no accidentals

4 8 3

There is a lively debate about whether Beethoven might have expected players to add terminations to trills when they are not marked. One approach says that he would mark the termination only if it required adjustment by accidentals and that therefore he would have expected us to add terminations even when they are not marked. In this first movement—and even more in the second movement—there are places where he marks the termination but makes no adjustment with accidentals. This suggests that he did mark a termination when he wanted it and that when it is not marked he did not want it.

Conclusion I believe that the statistics that result from counting the expression marks in this movement of opus 127 demonstrate a great deal of clarity and intentionality on Beethoven’s part. It seems therefore that all these marks should be represented in printed editions. If I or any other musician were presented with music that had the pitches and rhythms of opus 127 with no expressive markings at all, we would have in our hands sufficient material to create a powerful musical experience. If we had to feel our way toward the most

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effective dynamic treatment and the most effective use of articulations, as we do with Bach scores, we would do it, and I am confident that both the effort and the result would be worthwhile. But how marvelous it is that Beethoven has lavished such care in leaving such detailed expressive instructions in his scores. With either old editions or new editions, we benefit from the basic content of the notes and some of the composer’s markings. But what I have presented here represents an assertion that not only in opus 127 but also in the majority of his great works Beethoven has given us even more information than we presently get to work with. My essay is an attempt to chart what I have experienced, and what I have experienced is that the detailed markings in the manuscript are extremely coherent and that their high level of detail is truly helpful to the performer, even more helpful than what has come down to us in print. I sincerely believe that we would all benefit from bringing these extensive expressive markings in the manuscripts into our conversations about these pieces. This can happen only if efforts are made to incorporate them into easily read editions. I have made some efforts in this regard (see my edition of opus 127), but I hope that others may join me. I expect that others will have different interpretations of the marks than the ones I have put forward. These lively and productive arguments can happen in connection with every marking that Beethoven has left us, and such a debate would be a benefit to us all. Above all, of course, I love the beauty that is shared when Beethoven’s opus 127 is played and heard as a piece of music. I hope that this essay will add to our comprehending, evaluating, and using all of the details that Beethoven has left us in his marvelous creation.

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Appendix 1: Online Resources for the Autograph Manuscript Scores of Beethoven’s Opus 127 Movement 1: https://jbc.bj.uj.edu.pl/dlibra/publication/390103/edition/370905 /content?ref=desc (accessed March 23, 2020). Movement 2: https://jbc.bj.uj.edu.pl/dlibra/publication/390102/edition/370904 /content?ref=desc (accessed March 23, 2020). Movement 3: https://jbc.bj.uj.edu.pl/dlibra/publication/390103/edition/370905 /content?ref=desc (accessed March 23, 2020). Movement 4: https://www.beethoven.de/sixcms/detail.php?id=&template=dokseite _digitales_archiv_en&_eid=&_ug=&_werkid=129&_dokid=wm34& _opus=op.%20127&_mid=Works%20by%20Ludwig%20van%20Beethoven &suchparameter=werkidx:x:x129&_sucheinstieg=werksuche&_seite (accessed March 23, 2020).

Appendix 2: Sources of the Figures Figures 13.1–5, 8, 10–11, 15, 21–30: Biblioteka Jagiellońska, Kraków. Berol. Mus. ms. autogr. Beethoven, Mendelssohn 13. Reproduced with permission. Figures 13.9, 12: Germany, Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, Bodmer, HCB  BMh  1/41. Reproduced with permission. Figures 13.16–18: Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, Bodmer, HCB Mh 8. Reproduced with permission. Figure 13.19: Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, Bodmer, HCB BBr 22. Reproduced with permission. Figure 13.20: Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Musiksammlung, Vienna, Mus. Hs.16447. Reproduced with permission. Figures 13.31–42: Biblioteka Jagiellońska, Poland, Kraków, Mus. ms. autogr. Beethoven, Artaria 206, 207. Reproduced with permission. Figures 13.43–55: The Juilliard School, New York, Lila Acheson Wallace Library, Juilliard Manuscript Collection, 27 B393ps op. 127sc. Reproduced with permission. Figures 13.56–70: Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, BH 72. Reproduced with permission.

Bibliography Beethoven, Ludwig van. Beethoven: The Thirty-Five Piano Sonatas. Edited by Barry S. Cooper. Vol. 1. London: Associated Board, 2007.

expressive markings in beethoven manuscripts  ❧ 323 ———. Briefwechsel Gesamtausgabe. Edited by Sieghard Brandenburg. 7 vols. Munich: Henle, 1996–98. ———. The Letters of Beethoven. Edited and translated by Emily Anderson. 3 vols. London: Macmillan, 1961. ———. New Score and Parts for Beethoven’s String Quartet in E♭ Major, Incorporating All the Expressive Markings from the Composer’s Autograph Manuscript of the Work. Edited by Nicholas Kitchen. https://www.bu.edu/beethovencenter/publications -by-the-center/. Accessed March 26, 2020. ———. Streichquartett in Es Op. 127: Urtext. Munich: Henle, 2003. Del Mar, Jonathan. “Punkte and Striche in Beethoven (and Mozart).” 2011. https:// fibo.fi/site/assets/files/4006/del_mar-article.pdf. 2011. Accessed March 23, 2020. Lockwood, Lewis. Beethoven: The Music and the Life. New York: Norton, 2003. Mies, Paul. Textkritische Untersuchungen bei Beethoven. Munich: Henle, 1957. Newman, William S. Beethoven on Beethoven: Playing His Piano Music His Way. New York: Norton, 1991. Nottebohm, Gustav, Beethoveniana: Aufsätze und Mittheilungen. Leipzig: Rieter-Biedermann, 1872. Thayer, Alexander Wheelock. Thayer’s Life of Beethoven. Revised and edited by Elliot Forbes. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1964.

Notes

1

I would like to thank Jeremy Yudkin for his marvelous help in editing this paper and preparing it to appear in this volume. Not only was Jeremy extremely precise in understanding and helping to focus the meaning and language of every point, but he was also highly sensitive to where further explanation or a deeper look into the background materials might be meaningful to the reader. It was also stimulating in the best possible way to collaborate with him in a lively evaluation of every part of the paper. I feel a deep appreciation for having had the opportunity to work closely with him. I am also very grateful to Lewis Lockwood, who discussed my ideas with me and encouraged me to take a trip to the Beethoven-Haus in Bonn to discuss them further with scholars there to and read materials in the Beethoven-Haus library. This trip and other opportunities, arising from my presenting a paper on opus 131 for the Center for Beethoven Research at Boston University, have allowed me to do a great deal of research and to have stimulating discussions with scholars such as Julia Ronge, Jens Dufner, Christine Siegert, Helen Greenwald, Sean Gallagher, Stratis Minakakis, Barbara Barry, David Levy, Alan Gosman, Lucy Turner, Charles Brauner, Patricia Brauner, and many others. I thank them all. Throughout this article all measure numbers given are those from the Henle Urtext edition: Beethoven, Streichquartett Op. 127: Urtext.

324  ❧  chapter thirteen 2

I am grateful to Dr. Michael Ladenburger, former custos at the BeethovenHaus in Bonn, for his help in transcribing this annotation. 3 Here is a list of the works in which all three of these categories of markings are found (I list the opus numbers in reverse numerical order because the marks are used even more abundantly in the later music): opp. 135; 134; 133; 132; 131; 130; 127; 126; 125; 123; 121; 120; 111; 109, 102, no. 2; 102, no. 1; 101; 98; 97; 96; 95; 93; 92; 90; 83; 82; 79; 78; 77; 74; 73; 72; 70, no. 2; 69; 68; 67; 62; 61; 60; 59, no. 3; 59, no. 2; 59, no. 1; 57; 53; 35; 34; 33; 30, no. 3; 30, no. 2; 30, no. 1. In a few of these manuscripts the use of special dynamics is very limited compared with the use of varied staccato markings and expressive swells. Thus, in the first movement of opus 69 there is just one use of these special dynamics—“sempre ffmo” in the piano in m. 253—though the placement of that dynamic is extremely potent musically. But I have not seen any Beethoven manuscript that does not employ varied expressive swells and varied staccato marks in abundance. 4 Beethoven’s consistency is notable in comparison with, for example, Mendelssohn. In the first pages of the manuscript of the first movement of Mendelssohn’s Octet, op. 20 (Library of Congress, Washington, DC, Performing Arts Reading Room, Madison LM 113, ML30.8j op. 20), one sees the markings “crescendo,” “cresc,” “cresc al,” “cresc molto,” “Crescendo,” “Cresc,” “dimin,” and “dim,” all within just the exposition of the first movement. But, as we have seen, Beethoven is extraordinarily consistent. 5 A few words here about punctuation. As you read my text above about dynamics, you will notice that the punctuation of the sentences themselves follows some of the markings. For example, I had to put a comma after “crescen,” and I had to add a period after “dimin.” The issue of punctuation is in fact something that needs a little attention. When you look carefully at the autograph manuscripts, you will notice that Beethoven has a variety of punctuation after his dynamics. He will sometimes have no punctuation, sometimes a period, and sometimes a colon (see, for example, fig. 13.15). I myself have not found a meaning in these distinctions, and in the text of this paper I am choosing not to specify which punctuation is present. Thus, even though in figure 13.15 the “dimin” in the second violin has a period, and the “dimin” in the viola has a colon, in this essay I am simply writing “dimin” for both. Perhaps the reader will now object that it is just this sort of distinction that I am pointing to when I search for the meaning of one line on the stem of “p” instead of two or the number of letters after “f.” So let me answer this objection as clearly as I can: it is observable that in his autograph manuscripts Mozart also puts lines on his dynamic markings. But I have seen no meaningful correlation between Mozart’s underlines and any expressive content of the music. Nor have I seen any with Beethoven’s punctuation. On the other hand, with Beethoven’s lines on the stem of “p” or the letters added to “f,” I have found not just occasional

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6



but systematic connection to musical expressive content. So in this essay I have chosen not to distinguish among different types of punctuation. But even if I cannot determine any meaning to the punctuation, someone else might. Therefore in my edition of opus 127 I have preserved with great care every distinction of punctuation used by Beethoven, just in case some meaning may eventually be discovered. There are countless other examples of Beethoven’s care in distinguishing dynamic markings, staccato markings, and swells. He used them in copying out parts and in editing his own manuscripts. Consider the parts that Beethoven wrote out himself of opus 135, which employ these expressive markings in abundance. And when Beethoven went over the score of his Ninth Symphony with a red crayon, he made ample use of these markings. The third movement is a particularly good place to observe this. (The manuscript is reliably viewable online at http://beethoven.staatsbibliothek-berlin.de/digitale-abbildungen/3 -satz/ [accessed March 23, 2020]. A full list of autograph manuscripts available online can be found at the Boston University Center for Beethoven Research website: https://www.bu.edu/beethovencenter/beethoven-autographs-online/ [accessed March 23, 2020].) Folio numbers given for movements 1–3 (Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Beethoven, L. v., Mus. ms. autogr., Artaria 204) are those marked in the upper right-hand corner of each recto, and measure numbers are counted from the beginning of each page.

Third Movement Folio 92 (mm. 1–4) closed swell pair m. 2 Folio 92v (mm. 5–9) closed swell pair m. 2; closed swell pair m. 3 Folio 93 (mm. 10–14) closed swell pair m. 2; closed swell pair m. 3 Folio 93v (mm. 15–19) closed swell pair m. 1 (also notice in m. 5 in ink the p// for the timpani only) Folio 94v (mm. 24–28) “pp//” m. 1 Folio 96 (mm. 39–43) seven long-line staccatos m. 5 Folio 96v (mm. 44–46) closed swell pair m. 3 Folio 97 (mm. 47–49) closed swell pair m. 1 Folio 97v (mm. 50–52) closed swell pair m. 2; closed swell pair m. 3

326  ❧  chapter thirteen Folio 98 (mm. 53–55) closed swell pair m. 2 Folio 101v (mm. 82–85) “pp//” m. 1 Folio 104 (mm. 101–2) closed swell pair m. 1; closed swell pair m. 2 Folio 104v (mm. 103–5 [first half ]) closed swell pair m. 1 Folio 105 (mm. 105 [second half ]–107) closed swell pair m. 3 Folio 105v (mm. 108–9) two closed swell pairs m. 1 Folio 106 (mm. 110–11) closed swell pair m. 1 Folio 106v (mm. 112–13) p// m. 2 Folio 107v (mm. 117–20) “pp//” m. 4 Folio 112 (mm. 145–47) closed swell pair m. 1; closed swell pair m. 2 Folio 113 (mm. 151–52) “pp/” m. 2 Folio 113v (mm. 151–52) “sempre ppmo” m. 153 “sempre ppmo” m. 1



Here are some interesting expressive marks in the other movements:



First Movement

Folio 8v to folio 9: vividly drawn closed swell pairs reaching across the page break Folio 32: vividly drawn closed swell pairs as well as a note at the base of the page that refers to the sign of the “diamond” closed swell pair Folio 45v: “fo” as correction with red crayon, staff 9, m. 4 Folio 48v “sempre ffmo” marked in ink at the beginning of last phrase of movement: staff 1 and 9 (flute and violins), m. 6

expressive markings in beethoven manuscripts  ❧ 327



Second Movement





Folio 54v: vivid closed swell pairs and another note including sign of “diamond” closed swell pair Folio 71v and folio 72: multiple interwoven expressive swell pairs and a red crayon mark and secondary drawings that seem to encourage making the swell reach across the page break in addition to clarifying that the swell pairs are closed Folio 87: red crayon “fo” progresses to Folio 89: “for” in ink, and red crayon progresses to Folio 90 “for” in ink and red crayon for Bass only

Fourth Movement

In the introduction of the last movement with its double-bass recitatives, there is a distinct progression through the levels of the dynamic markings. The dynamics escalate in intensity, moving from “f ” to “fo” to “for” to “ff ” and finally to “ffmo,” though this last “ffmo” is finally pulled back to “ff.” (For this section of the manuscript [Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Mus. ms. autogr., Beethoven, L. v., Artaria 205] page numbers are visible at the upper right-hand corner of each recto.)

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Page 2: the bass recitative begins “f ” Page 7: the bass recitative resumes, now marked with the red crayon “fo” before continuing to “ff ” Page 10: the bass recitative resumes again, now progressing to “for,” in ink Page 14: the bass recitative reaches “ff ” Page 17: the bass recitative concludes, and the orchestra punctuates the ending with two chords before the main section of the last movement begin with the main theme in the cellos. These punctuation chords were originally marked “ffmo,” but the red crayon corrects them to “ff.”

It is easy to imagine the reader asking at this point, “If these expressive marks were important to Beethoven, why would he not insist that they be included in the printed publications? His dissatisfaction—even occasional fury—about mistakes is so much in evidence. Why can we not find complaints from him about the omission of these markings?” In fact, Beethoven’s dissatisfaction about the lack of accuracy regarding staccato marks is easy to find (for example, on the copyist’s copy of the first violin part of the second movement of the Seventh Symphony, where the copyist has not distinguished between staccato dots and staccato lines, Beethoven writes in big letters in red crayon, “These are

328  ❧  chapter thirteen the [droppings] of an ass who has left his mark here”), but the practical effect of this dissatisfaction was minimal. Regarding the other categories of marks, a thorough attempt to articulate an answer would require an additional article, but I shall begin briefly to address the issue here. I believe Beethoven had a system that was his own, the one that is in evidence in the manuscripts consistently between 1802 and 1827. (The autograph manuscripts of most of the works from before that time are no longer extant.) Regardless of anything else, this system must have been of value to him personally. I think he employed it after he had established most of the features of the composition, and I think he added the marks in successive passes over the manuscript as he shaped and refined his image of a convincing rendition of the details of the piece. Certain copyists reflected these marks with fair accuracy (opus 131), some with moderate accuracy (opus 111), and some with terrible inaccuracy (opus 127). He continued to use the wider spectrum of marks even in correcting copyists’ copies, but I think he decided upon a threshold for correction of proofs and prints. He would insist on details up to a certain level, but he must have known that insisting beyond that level would have been to his disadvantage—perhaps in holding up publication—or would have been to no purpose. But we must remember that even though he was not seeing these marks go into print, he continued to use them and with increasing frequency. Beethoven used all these expression marks—regularly and consistently—for the last twenty-five years of his life. His autograph manuscripts of nearly every work during this period include them, and, as we have seen, Beethoven also corrected the professional copyists’ copies, including the expression marks. They are also present in the fair copy of opus 77 that he made himself as an engraver’s copy directly for the publisher and in the parts for opus 135 that Beethoven wrote out himself, also for a publisher. (See further discussion of this latter situation below.) His expression marks are often notated during correction with his red crayon (opus 125 is particularly vivid), or are put in forcefully at a later time with a different pen: see his autograph manuscript of the second movement of opus 111, for example. He even included them in the corrections he sent by letter to his publishers. See, for example, the letter to Ferdinand Ries, from March 8, 1819, Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, Wegeler 13, which can be viewed at: https:// da.beethoven.de/sixcms/detail.php?id=15129&template=dokseite_digitales _archiv_en&_eid=1507&_ug=Friends%20in%20Vienna&_dokid=b196& _mid=Text&suchparameter=&_seite=1 (accessed March 29, 2020). See also Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 4:248–51 (no. 1294), and The Letters of Beethoven, 2:806 (no. 940), although not even the editions of the letters reproduce these expressive markings accurately. So perhaps these marks were his personal planning of the expressive landscape, a way for him to envisage details of the work in performance. We must

expressive markings in beethoven manuscripts  ❧ 329 also remember that many musical works in that period continued to circulate in manuscript, even after music publishing had become established as a profitable venture (though only as recently as the 1780s). Beethoven’s own involvement with his inner circle of performers and dedicatees meant that first performances, especially, tended to be from manuscript. So his obsession with detailed expression marks may have been to ensure that at least the first (and other pre-publication) performances of his works were played with attention to the details of expression he envisioned. One interesting case of transmission of this kind of manuscript accuracy is the writing-out of the parts for opus 132 by Linke (cellist in the Schuppanzigh Quartet) and Holz (second violinist). In these parts the special expression marks (including open and closed swells and lines through the stems of “p”s) are very accurately represented in the first few pages of the first violin part and then dwindle in number, apparently corresponding to the copyists’ exhaustion at the task. These kinds of marks also made it into the copy made by Rampl (one of Beethoven’s professional copyists) that was sent to Prince Galitzin. There is a mixture of consistency and inconsistency across these sources, but the detailed markings are clearly present. These copies may be viewed at https://da.beethoven.de/sixcms/detail .php?&id=15243&template=dokseite_digitales_archiv_en&_eid=1510& _ug=String%20instruments&_werkid=134&_dokid=wm965&_opus=op .%20132&_mid=Works&_seite=1-2 and https://da.beethoven.de/sixcms/detail .php?&id=15243&template=dokseite_digitales_archiv_en&_eid=1510& _ug=String%20instruments&_werkid=134&_dokid=wm55&_opus=op. %20132&_mid=Works&_seite=1-3 (both accessed March 29, 2020). In short, my guess is that if circumstances had permitted Beethoven to have all his expressive markings represented in the printed editions, he would have done so, but by then the works were out of his inner circle, out into the world, and he could control them less. The situation with opus 135 is a curious one. Beethoven wrote out a score, but he also made parts from this score to send to his publisher. This might be a good opportunity to see if the expression marks are consistent between the score and the parts, but unfortunately Beethoven’s copies are quite inaccurate. The special expression marks are visible in both manuscripts in abundance, and there are places where they agree with each other clearly. But there are many inconsistencies of every type, including of rhythm, of pitches, and even of missing measures. We need only to look at the first measure of the piece to see that in the score the viola phrase is slurred, whereas in the part there is no slur. After this, inconsistencies of rhythm (dotted sixteenths versus straight sixteenths) show indecision in the form of erasures and replacements (again, one need look no further than the first page to see this). At mm. 80 and 83, there is no way to reconcile the differences between the score and the parts, particularly with regard to the violins. In the second movement, despite Beethoven’s careful

330  ❧  chapter thirteen mapping out of measures before filling them in, he actually omits a crucial measure of music in the first violin (m. 98). In the third movement, in m. 50, there is a problem with the pitches in violins 1 and 2 that is extremely difficult to resolve. In the beginning of the last movement, at m. 3, I believe the swell up in the viola part is probably a mistake. In four instances of Beethoven’s writing of the figure, two in the score and two in the parts, three of them are swells down. I think the swell up is one of many mistakes in these parts. There are important consistencies between the special marks in the score and the special marks in the parts, but in a situation of such low accuracy, I think the case cannot provide the benefit of a real check of consistency. And besides, consistency would not prove or disprove intent—a desire to mold the expressive details that may have varied from one circumstance to the other. Finally, despite all of this, there are, in fact, some examples of early prints that do transmit some of these detailed markings. The first edition (Artaria, 1796) of the Piano Sonatas, op. 2, shows evidence of great care in the engraving of closed swells and in the distinction among three different kinds of staccato. See, for example, op. 2, no. 3, mvt. 1 for closed swells, brace 3, mm. 4–6 (mm. 52–54), and long-line staccato, brace 5, mm. 5–6 (mm. 70–71): https://da.beethoven.de/sixcms/detail.php?&id=15288&template=dokseite _digitales_archiv_en&_eid=1510&_ug=Pieces%20for%20two%20hands& _werkid=2&_dokid=T00056988&_opus=op.%202&_mid=Works&_seite=1 -33; and op. 2, no. 3, mvt. 1, medium-line staccato, small-line staccato, and dot, brace 1, mm. 1–5 (mm. 72–76): https://da.beethoven.de/sixcms/detail .php?&id=15288&template=dokseite_digitales_archiv_en&_eid=1510& _ug=Pieces%20for%20two%20hands&_werkid=2&_dokid=T00056988& _opus=op.%202&_mid=Works&_seite=1-34 (both accessed March 29, 2020). 8 Regarding modern scholarly editions, the Henle Urtext editions have certainly won the trust of most musicians as being the most carefully prepared. But in every volume of the Henle Beethoven editions there is a foreword that explains that Beethoven’s inconsistent use of staccato has been regularized, that dynamic abbreviations such as “ppmo” have been standardized to the normal usage, and that signs for swells, whether open or closed, have all been printed as open swells. The Henle editions have many valuable features, but their editorial policy is more or less the opposite of what I am suggesting here. 9 Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 6:137–38 (no. 2032). 10 “Es ist nicht gleichgültig [notes with strokes] u. [notes with dots] wo [dot sign that is hard to see] über der Note darf kein [long stroke and shorter stroke] statt dessen stehen u. so umgekehrt.” (“It is not indifferent [notes with strokes] or [notes with dots] where above the note is [dot signs that are hard to see] there cannot be [long stroke and shorter stroke] and also the reverse.”) On the basis of a very close reading of the original letter, which is held at the

expressive markings in beethoven manuscripts  ❧ 331 Beethoven-Haus (Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, Bodmer, HCB BBr 22), this text differs slightly from that given in Beethoven, Briefwechsel. 11 See Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, rev. and ed. Forbes, 409. 12 See Lockwood, Beethoven, 312. 13 Nottebohm, Beethoveniana, 107–25. 14 Mies, Textkritische Untersuchungen bei Beethoven, 83–95. 15 Newman, Beethoven on Beethoven, 139–46. 16 Beethoven: The Thirty-Five Piano Sonatas, 1:12. 17 Del Mar, “Punkte and Striche in Beethoven (and Mozart)”. 18 I have prepared a new edition of opus 127 that presents the music and all the markings from Beethoven’s autograph manuscript in modern, clearly legible form. This new edition is published online at the website of the Boston University Center for Beethoven Research: http://www.bu.edu/beethovencenter /publications-by-the-center/ (accessed March 23, 2020). 19 It is difficult to give a verbal explanation of how a player should respond to beaming, but the beaming reveals some kind of view of underlying structure in Beethoven’s mind, a subtle division that can be reproduced in performance.

Chapter Fourteen

The Autograph Score of the Slow Movement of Beethoven’s Last Quartet, Opus 135 Barry Cooper

Beethoven’s Autograph Scores as Text In 1970 Lewis Lockwood published a seminal article drawing attention to the sometimes complex relationship between Beethoven’s sketches and his autograph scores.1 The article demonstrated that any assumption that Beethoven made his sketches for a work and then wrote out the score with no further sketching would be misguided and that autograph scores were sometimes complex documents containing layers of revision. Since then, however, very late changes that Beethoven made in his autograph scores have tended to attract far less attention than those he made earlier in his compositional process during preliminary sketching. This is probably because early changes are generally far more radical, as illustrated by Lockwood’s study of the genesis of the Eroica Symphony,2 which shows plans for a symphony very different from the one that finally emerged. The starting point for a work, as revealed by such sketches, is always of great interest, whereas late changes made at the autograph stage are mostly of small details—textures, figuration, added articulation or dynamics, an added or deleted repeat sign, or occasionally

the autograph score of the slow movement of opus 135  ❧ 333

an added or deleted measure. Such changes may seem less significant, but they are of much concern to editors and performers alike. Many are found in the autograph scores themselves, which almost always show changes from their earliest state, sometimes even with whole pages replaced. The text is often altered further in corrected copies or proofs, a famous case being the slow movement of the “Hammerklavier” Sonata, where Beethoven added an extra introductory measure only after the score had been sent to the printers.3 Nevertheless, the final stage of an autograph score represents a distinctive layer within the compositional process of a work: all earlier changes in sketches, which were made at various stages, and those within the autograph score have been accomplished, while any revisions in corrected copies and proofs are yet to come. The version has its own value, regardless of what changes might be made later. Several autograph scores have been studied in detail, usually in connection with a published facsimile of the manuscript. Early examples from the Beethoven bicentenary year are Lockwood’s discussion of the Cello Sonata, op. 69, and Joel Lester’s of the Kyrie of the Missa solemnis.4 Each of these is an examination of the autograph of a single movement. More recent studies of Beethoven’s autograph scores include a second investigation by Lockwood of the first movement of opus 69; Martha Frohlich’s work on the Piano Sonata, op. 28; Sieghard Brandenburg’s study of the Piano Sonata, op. 101; and Hans-Joachim Hinrichsen’s commentary on the Missa solemnis.5 The last three were all published alongside facsimiles of multi-movement autographs and are inevitably less detailed than the first two studies mentioned. In all these cases the emphasis is placed on alterations within the autograph rather than any differences between it and later sources, which are mentioned sparingly if at all. Differences between autograph scores and later sources, such as copyist scores corrected by Beethoven and first editions overseen by him, are noted mainly in the textual commentaries of critical editions. But there the emphasis is on obtaining a final text, and each change is noted individually, with no detailed overview of all the changes, which are usually fairly minimal.6

The Slow Movement of Opus 135: The Autograph Score A particularly interesting autograph score, where changes were made both within it and shortly after its completion, is that of Beethoven’s last string quartet, opus 135 in F major. This was composed during the months of July

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to October 1826, a period of intense turmoil for Beethoven: his nephew Karl attempted suicide on August 6 and spent some time recovering in hospital. All four movements had apparently been conceived before the suicide attempt, for a note in Beethoven’s conversation book around July 24 mentions “ob es muss sein,” which sparked the canon “Es muss sein” and the finale of the quartet, while a reference to the canon being sent off dates from about August 1.7 None of Beethoven’s anguish from Karl’s suicide attempt is therefore discernible in the quartet itself, but the mental disruption appears to have affected his progress on the work, for he set it aside for a time in August to turn to a less demanding project, the preparation of a pianoduet version of his “Grande Fugue” (normally known today as the Grosse Fuge).8 He also made plans to take Karl to recuperate at Gneixendorf, near Linz, where his brother Johann had a large country estate. Hence the quartet, which Beethoven had hoped to finish before his departure from Vienna, was not ready in time, as he explained in a letter to the publisher Moritz Schlesinger in Paris, dated September 29 by Beethoven’s friend Tobias Haslinger, the intermediary in Vienna: “Ich benachrichtige Sie eiligst, dass die Abgabe des Quartetts bis jetzt unmöglich war, in längstens aber 14 Tagen erfolgen wird.” (“I inform you in great haste that the delivery of the quartet was not yet possible, but will follow in 14 days at the most.”)9 Thus the score was apparently not quite finished, though probably well under way, at that date. The letter must have been written at the latest on the previous day, for Beethoven and Karl departed for Gneixendorf on September 28. In Gneixendorf Beethoven finished the score but found that there were no reliable copyists in the vicinity, and so he copied out a set of parts himself to send to Schlesinger to serve as the printer’s copy or Stichvorlage. Normally he would send a score, presumably because it was easier to check a copyist’s score than a set of parts; but as he was the copyist on this occasion he could check every note as he copied it. He knew that a set of parts was more convenient for an engraver preparing printed parts, as he explained when he finally sent the set to Schlesinger on October 30,10 having taken rather longer to prepare it than the fourteen days promised earlier. The score has since been dispersed to several locations (the second movement is missing) but the set of parts survives intact,11 enabling us to see how reliable Beethoven was as a copyist and how far he could resist the temptation to make compositional revisions not present in the score when writing out the parts. There is currently no detailed account of either score or parts, and the relationship between them is therefore ripe for exploration. There are, of course, other cases where two versions of a Beethoven work survive. Sometimes this is due

the autograph score of the slow movement of opus 135  ❧ 335

to extensive revisions being made at a later date, as with the String Quartet, op. 18, no. 1, and the three versions of Fidelio. On other occasions a second autograph was written out shortly after the first, intended as both a revision and a clarification, when the original score or Urschrift had become too full of alterations, as with the finale of the Piano Sonata, op. 110, and the first movement of the Piano Sonata, op. 111. It is rare, however, to find Beethoven acting as his own copyist, making a second copy (either score or set of parts) from his original score purely for use as the Stichvorlage for publication, as in opus 135, though there is a precedent in Group XIII of his folksong settings, where he prepared one for the publisher George Thomson when his copyist was ill.12 Of the four movements in opus 135, the slow third movement is particularly suitable for detailed comparison of the two autographs (score and parts), for it is a compact movement and the last slow movement Beethoven ever wrote. It is also significant in being originally designed as a final, eighth movement of the previous quartet, opus 131, to which it is thematically related (the relationship is particularly apparent between the main theme, measures 3–4, of the slow movement of opus 135 and the secondary theme, measures 21–25, of the finale of opus 131). Thus the composition of the movement can be divided into four separate phases: sketches designed for the end of opus 131; sketches for the slow movement of opus 135; the autograph score of opus 135; and the autograph parts of opus 135. The sketches for the movement when it belonged with opus 131 have been explored by Robert Winter, and these and all the sketches intended for opus 135 have been thoroughly examined by Laura Kathryn Bumpass.13 Bumpass does not discuss the autograph score or parts, however, making only brief references to the scores of the first and last movements. Unlike the scores of these outer movements, which are housed with other Beethoven materials in Bonn and Berlin, respectively, that of the slow movement is, uniquely for a Beethoven manuscript, preserved in the Musée Royal de Mariemont, Belgium.14 The museum is dedicated to the collection assembled by Raoul Warocqué (1870–1917), a Belgian industrialist, philanthropist, and collector. Unlike most collectors, who aim for specialization, Warocqué preferred to have specimens of many different types of artwork from across the world, and his collection includes statues, porcelain, books, and letters, as well as this Beethoven manuscript, which he obtained from Karl Ernst Henrici of Berlin in 1913.15 He also acquired two Beethoven letters and a few manuscripts written by other composers such as Chopin and Schumann. The Beethoven manuscript consists of six folios, of which the last

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is blank apart from a few faint and tiny sketches in pencil. The paper is ruled with ten staves, like the autographs of Beethoven’s other late quartets apart from opus 127,16 so that a space could be left below each four-staff system for brief sketch ideas or revisions. Because of this extra space, the cello part uses down-stems almost throughout, to leave more room for dynamics in the viola. The stem direction of the other parts varies according to whatever Beethoven found most convenient. The movement consists of a two-measure introduction, a ten-measure theme in D-flat, four variations (the second in C-sharp minor), and a twomeasure coda, making fifty-four measures altogether. As in most of his late works that contain a variation movement, the variations are not numbered in the autograph (the only exception among movements in the late works is in the Piano Sonata, op. 109, though numbered variations appear in many of the early works up to the “Kreutzer” Sonata, op. 47). The variations join together seamlessly, so no internal double bars are necessary, but in the score Beethoven adds one after the theme and one after variation 1 (as he does in the variation movement in the autograph score of the String Quartet in E-flat, op. 127). In the parts, however, double bars appear inconsistently: after the theme and variation 3 in the first-violin part; after variations 1, 2, and 3 in the second-violin part; after only the theme in the viola; and after only variation 2 in the cello. Thus the double bars here have no obvious significance, unlike in some of Beethoven’s other works,17 though they reveal that he was intermittently thinking in terms of a multi-sectional movement. The final double bar is his customary m-type, on all four staves of the score and in all separate parts except the cello, where, unusually, there is just a single measure line. Again this has no significance for performance. A transcription of the final version of the score is shown in example 14.1, which contains no editorial additions except measure numbers and the keysignature change in the lower parts in measure 32 (shown in brackets). The original beaming has been retained, though not the original stem direction unless it is significant (as in double stopping in the cello part). As can be seen, the score is not always fully notated, with many slurs obviously missing (e.g. m. 8, first violin), and often the dynamics are shown for only one or two of the four instruments (e.g. mm. 7–9). The manuscript shows a number of alterations, and in many cases the original version has been erased or obscured by the later version. One clear revision, however, is the deletion of two fully scored measures between measures 9 and 10 (see transcription). The theme (mm. 3–12) is in what is sometimes called sentence structure, with the first two measures followed by a modified repeat, then a four-measure

the autograph score of the slow movement of opus 135  ❧ 337

continuation concluding with a cadence; this cadence is here echoed twice in additional measures (mm. 11–12). The two deleted measures would have created an echo of measures 9–10 before the double echo of the cadence. They were canceled at an early stage, before Beethoven had added dynamic and articulation marks, and they clearly illustrate his habit of writing the actual notes long before adding the diacritics. The cancellation shows that Beethoven had trouble deciding on the length of the theme, and the sketches confirm this indecision. A draft in the Kullak sketchbook (fol. 46v), made when the theme was still associated with opus 131, shows a four-measure repeat of the entire continuation phrase (mm. 7–10) rather than just a repetition of its last measure or two, and it is followed by three unused variations with the same twelve-measure structure.18 Another draft (Artaria 216, pp. 99–102), still associated with opus 131, shows just the basic eight-measure theme plus two unused variations, the last of which adds a two-measure echo (not two one-measure echoes as in the final version).19 Later sketches generally show a ten-measure theme that roughly corresponds to the final version; the twelve-measure theme incorporating the two deleted measures does not appear, but there are several attempts at revising the final cadence of the theme, one or two of which might imply this version.20 In the score, however, Beethoven left two blank measures (later canceled with large Xs) in each of the variations, corresponding to the two deleted measures in the theme. In the first variation, one blank measure appears after measure 20 and the other after measure 21; in the remaining variations, however, the two blank measures appear together, after measures 32 and 42 and in the coda after measure 53. From the evidence of the spacing it seems clear that he did not draw all the bar lines first and then fill in most measures while leaving others blank; the blank measures were evidently created as he wrote out the autograph, as an insurance against the possibility of reinstating the cancelled passage between measures 9 and 10, which would then need corresponding measures in each of the variations. The measure between measures 20 and 21 actually contains the first violin part of what would have been needed to fill the gap (not shown in the transcription—see figure 14.1; the notes are an octave below the first violin part of m. 19). It is clear, therefore, that Beethoven did not finally decide to jettison the two extra measures of the theme until after he had reached the end of the autograph score. In the theme and first variation there are a few alterations in the autograph score, but the original versions have been thoroughly obliterated. The first discernible original thoughts apart from those in the deleted measures appear in

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Figure 14.1. Beethoven, String Quartet in F Major, op. 135, mvt. 3, autograph score, fol. 2r (mm. 16–22). Copyright Musée Royal de Mariemont, reproduced by kind permission.

the second half of measure 17, where the second violin and viola originally had the same rhythm as the cello (as in m. 18); but Beethoven then erased the eighth-note rest and doubled the length of the following note, creating briefly a 36 chord. The next visible change appears at the start of variation 2 in C-sharp minor (see figure 14.2). It is puzzling that the three lowest instruments were all written an octave higher than later intended, so that Beethoven had to add “in 8va Bassa.” It looks as though he was planning at first to have the first violin in the bass or middle of the texture, but he soon abandoned this plan and added an 8va bassa sign to move the other three parts beneath the first violin, inserting his customary loco mark where the 8va bassa indication ceases to apply. Perhaps the first violin was considered instead for upward transposition: in one of the latest drafts it is marked “in 8va” but with sixteenth-note figuration in the viola and pizzicato notes in the cello;21 and in the score the first note was initially an octave higher before being deleted. When Beethoven added the 8va bassa transposition, he also

the autograph score of the slow movement of opus 135  ❧ 339

Figure 14.2. Beethoven, String Quartet in F Major, op. 135, mvt. 3, autograph score, fol. 2v (mm. 23–27). Copyright Musée Royal de Mariemont, reproduced by kind permission.

altered one note in the cello part (m. 24, note 2), changing the chord from root position to a more unorthodox second inversion. A few further alterations were made. In measure 26 Beethoven altered the spacing of the last chord to create better part-writing for the second violin and viola. In measures 33–36 he made substantial erasures and revisions in the second violin part, but none of the original version is visible except for the last two notes of measure 36: these were altered at a late stage from eighth note and quarter note (lightly crossed out) to quarter note and eighth note (squeezed in beside the deleted notes). The viola part was also revised at this point, with the earlier version erased. Two pairs of notes in the first violin in measure 43 were initially given portato marks, but these marks were then smudged out, signifying immediate cancellation, and they do not appear on the corresponding notes in measure 44. Instead Beethoven inserted a tenuto indication in all four places in measures 43–44 (see ex. 14.1), with the first pair marked “tenute” in the plural, indicating that both notes were to be sustained. Some minor revisions of a similar level of detail were made in the rest

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of the movement, but by and large the initial score remained intact, with no major alterations such as appear in the outer movements, where blank versos indicate the places where Beethoven had to recopy whole pages.22 Copying out a set of parts from the score of the slow movement should therefore have posed little difficulty, as long as Beethoven remembered to add the missing slurs and dynamics and could decipher what he had written (there are places where his handwriting is not entirely clear).

Beethoven as Copyist In any work from Beethoven’s time, if two sources differ, the differences are the result of any one (or more) of eight possible causes,23 and it is usually possible to tell which one applies. The eight are: i. Simple miscopying, often from an unclear original and usually creating an unsatisfactory reading; ii. Degeneration, where the copyist omits some usually minor notational detail; iii. Amplification, where additional marks such as slurs intended all along are inserted; iv. Correction, where the copyist attempts to restore a correct reading from a faulty original; v. Revision, where the composer makes an artistic refinement (or in a few cases makes a change for more practical reasons such as a different performing context); vi. Notational change to aid clarity, where the sound is unaffected, such as a clef change; vii. Unauthorised distortion of the composer’s intentions by scribal alteration; viii. Faulty memorization, as appears to occur in some of Czerny’s quotations of themes from Beethoven’s works.

How far Beethoven relied on his memory when writing out the set of parts for the slow movement of opus 135 cannot be ascertained, but the precision of the copying indicates that he clearly had the score in front of him and could check anything he was unsure of. Thus there are no cases where the last category (faulty memorization) is identifiable. The previous category (unauthorized distortion) obviously cannot apply when the composer himself is making the copy. Of the remaining six, the first two, miscopying and degeneration, will create an inferior text, whereas the other four—amplification, correction, revision, and notational change—should result in an improved version. All six types can be detected in a comparison of the score and parts for this movement, and the comparison also reveals how accurate

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a copyist Beethoven was. The copied parts are strikingly clean, showing no sign of the deleted measures in the score and almost no alterations within the set except when an elementary mistake was made, such as the first violin line being copied into the viola part at mm. 23–26 before being crossed out and replaced by the viola line. There are only two cases of simple miscopying left uncorrected, but both are significant. The alteration Beethoven had made in measures 17 (see above and Figure 14.1 1) was not completely clear, and although he read it correctly when preparing the second violin part, he seems to have misread the viola. Here he restored the rest and the eighth note following, in place of the quarter note, perhaps through half-remembering his original version and noticing the rest in the cello. The result provides a bare fourth between the first and second violins on the fourth beat, which is rather ugly and harmonically unsatisfactory as well as being uncharacteristic of Beethoven’s normal style. Here, therefore, the version in the score is preferable to the one copied into the parts, although the latter was reproduced by Schlesinger in the first edition and can be heard in modern performances. The other case of miscopying occurs in the viola in measure 31, where the penultimate note, G♯, was placed slightly too low in the score after some erasures, and Beethoven copied it as F♯. This obviously creates an unacceptable discord, and it is surprising that he did not notice it; it is the kind of error typically made by a copyist who is not thinking about the sound. Schlesinger did notice it, however, and attempted to correct it. Unfortunately he substituted E♯. Although this fits harmonically, it doubles, at the octave below, an existing E♯ in the first violin (doubled leading notes were generally avoided by composers except for special purposes), and creates unsatisfactory parallel octaves with the first violin. Once again, therefore, the version in the score is the correct reading, although Schlesinger’s faulty version is still heard in modern performances. Degeneration, which is often the most common cause of variants, occurs far more frequently here than miscopying, and there are about forty cases altogether. The first of them occur as early as measure 3, where Beethoven omitted the p in each of the three lower parts. Although an obvious omission, Schlesinger did not restore the signs but even omitted “sotto voce” from the first violin part, leaving a crescendo in measure 2 that might be presumed to continue for several measures. In measures 10–11 Beethoven omitted the tie in the first violin part; this may have been a deliberate revision, but since the ties in the second violin and viola parts were preserved, it is probably another case of textual degeneration. Schlesinger did not help by preserving

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the tie in the second violin part but omitting the one in the viola part. The other cases of degeneration are of missing slurs and dynamics and the two tenuto marks in measures 44. Many of the omissions were so obvious that Schlesinger was able to reinstate them (e.g. the cello slur in m. 9), though with others he failed to do so (e.g. the cello slurs in mm. 7 and 8). The small errors in the set of parts and thence in Schlesinger’s edition may not seem to be of much importance, but they are likely to be of great interest to performers, and the autograph score makes a vital contribution to establishing the best text to perform, despite its deficiencies. The main deficiency of the autograph score, as noted earlier, is the absence of numerous slurs and dynamic marks, especially for the lower parts. Their absence was largely a time-saving device, for Beethoven knew they could be amplified when a Stichvorlage was prepared. This amplification duly happened when he wrote out the parts, and over ninety notational elements were added, including nearly all the missing dynamics in the lower instruments, the key signatures in measure 32, and most of the missing slurs. Only a small handful remained missing, including the slur in measure 19 (notes 1–2) and the portato in measure 26, both in the cello part, both of which were inserted in Schlesinger’s edition. One curious anomaly is that in measure 32 the score omits pp for the second violin and cello, whereas the manuscript parts omit the marking only in the viola. Apart from omissions, Beethoven’s original score in its final version showed very few actual errors still in need of correction. The first clear case is not until measure 42, where he accidentally halved the intended note values in the second violin and viola on beats 4 and 5, leaving the measure one beat short. He realised the error when writing out the violin part and wrote it correctly, but he copied out the faulty version in the viola, and it was left to Schlesinger to put it right. In measure 45 Beethoven carelessly drew a slur across a repeated note in the second violin part, but he corrected this in the set of parts that served as the Stichvorlage. At the end of measure 51 the first violin soars up to a high B♭, but in the autograph score the last two notes in this measure are short of one leger line, resulting in only a G♭. It seems improbable that Beethoven ever intended such a weak climax, especially as the G♭ would clash with the G♮s in the cello, and so this must be a scribal error, which was written out correctly in the Stichvorlage. Compositional revisions were mostly decided on before Beethoven wrote out the instrumental parts, for there are few signs of alteration within them. Many of the revisions found in the instrumental parts are very minor, involving the lengthening or shortening of slurs, such as the viola slur in measure

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7, which was written across all three notes in the instrumental part instead of just the first two. More significant is the cello line in measure 23, which had already been lowered by an octave through the “in 8va Bassa” marking in the score; it was now written an additional octave lower in the separate instrumental part, until the point marked “loco,” intensifying the gravity at the start of this extra slow variation. There is a curious change in the first violin part in the third note of measure 27, where Beethoven wrote C (sharp is in the key signature) instead of D. This is possibly a copying error, since D would match the figure as it appears in the following measure; but it is more probably a revision. The corresponding G in the next measure also shows signs of alteration, being written a semitone lower but then being amended back to G. Thus it seems Beethoven was paying close attention to this passage rather than just copying it absent-mindedly. In measure 36 the last two notes of the second violin part, where Beethoven had reversed the rhythm to quarter note and eighth note in the score (see above), were now restored to their original reading (it is possible that he simply copied the early version of the score before he had amended it, but this seems less likely). The viola rhythm was also altered slightly at this point in the Stichvorlage part, and further slight revisions to the viola part were made in measures 38 and 39. The most substantial revision, however, occurs in measure 50, where the score shows a diminished-seventh chord in the second half of the measure, whereas the parts show a D-flat-major chord: the lower two parts remained the same but the first violin has no natural, while the second violin has a D-flat arpeggio. The early version creates a kind of harmonic tautology, in which the chord does not change essentially between the second half of measure 50 and the first half of measure 51.24 Beethoven soon noticed the flaw and made the changes before beginning to write out the instrumental parts, which show no sign of alteration at this point. With the harmony at the start of measure 51 now different from that of the previous measure, he no longer needed registral contrast in the first violin, and so the first five notes of measure 51 were raised by two octaves to the same register as the previous measure. The score shows a faint pencil sketch on the blank staff beneath measures 50 and 51, evidently representing the revised version that was then written out in full in the Stichvorlage. As in the cases noted in Lockwood’s 1970 article, therefore, the relationship between sketch and autograph is not straightforward, with sketching taking place after the autograph score had been written. In addition to making corrections and revisions when writing out the parts, Beethoven also made some notational changes. The marking “più

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adagio” at measure 23, also found in the sketches,25 could be ambiguous, suggesting “more at ease” and therefore with less strict tempo, rather than simply slower. It could even be considered faster than the initial “assai lento, cantante e tranquillo” (which Schlesinger—without authorization—altered to “Lento assai e cantante tranquillo”), on the assumption that adagio was faster than lento.26 All ambiguity was removed in the final version when Beethoven changed it to “più lento,” indicating simply “more slowly.” This can therefore be considered a notational change, not a conceptual one. Another significant notational change occurred in measure 32, where in the score the first violin ends with two tied eighth notes. Two tied eighth notes do not necessarily mean the same for Beethoven as a quarter note (as is evident near the opening of his “Grande Fugue,” starting at m. 26), but here no special effect was intended, so he substituted a quarter note in the separate part. This was therefore once again a notational change, not a conceptual one, but it clarifies his intentions. A similar change was made to the second violin at the end of measure 52, where three sixteenth notes (the first two tied and all three slurred) were replaced by a dotted eighth note in the separate part; this could be classed as a correction rather than a notational clarification. A few other notational changes were made when Beethoven copied out the parts—such as insignificant alterations of beaming, the addition or omission of a few cautionary accidentals, and the replacement of 8va signs with leger lines in measures 44 and 46—but none of these is significant.

Conclusions The autograph score of the slow movement of opus 135, though little studied in the past—not least because of its unusual location—contains a wealth of fascinating details, demonstrating that even today close examination of autograph scores can lead to important new insights. It was evidently created with much less trouble than many of Beethoven’s other autographs, as is indicated by the relatively small number of alterations within it. Variation structures were typically easier to set up than more complex designs, for once the opening measures of each variation were conceived the shape of the rest would generally follow with only the details to be worked out. This situation is clearly evident in the score and the preceding sketches. The structure of the theme, together with the number of variations, determines with considerable precision the size of the movement, and the extra two measures considered for the theme would have

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meant an extra two measures in each of the variations—a plan abandoned only after Beethoven had reached the end of the movement. Because the Stichvorlage was prepared by Beethoven himself rather than a copyist, it shows more substantial differences from the autograph score than is normal; therefore the score retains an independent status as a distinctive stage in the compositional process. Yet it does not fully represent the movement as Beethoven envisaged it at the time, since it contains large numbers of omissions, and so it would not make sense to perform it exactly as it stands. To understand it as Beethoven intended it at that stage, all the corrections, amplifications, and notational clarifications found in the set of parts would need to be incorporated—but not the revisions, which belong to a separate stage. If such a preliminary version were performed, audiences with only a general familiarity with the movement might not notice the differences from the familiar one. Professional quartet players and others with an intimate acquaintance with the movement, however, would surely be surprised to find how many slight changes Beethoven made during what should have been routine copying work.27 It is noteworthy that theoretical concepts can be brought to bear to understand some of these revisions, for example with the original version of measure 50 showing a theoretically unsound harmonic tautology that Beethoven decided to eliminate in the set of parts. A similar approach can be applied to cases of miscopying. Since most of Beethoven’s music is in line with contemporary theoretical norms of harmony, melody, and tonality, departing from them only for special effects, it stands to reason that in doubtful passages the more orthodox reading will in most cases be correct. Consequently, the bare fourth in measure 17 and the doubled leading note in measure 31 of the published version, both of which would be condemned by orthodox theorists, are clearly the result of miscopying rather than a bizarre departure from the norms. An understanding of harmonic theory is therefore essential in the assessment of such situations. As a copyist, Beethoven obviously had the advantage of being able to decipher ambiguous and barely legible passages, and mistakes in these are very rare. Where the score is unclear, it can be assumed that what he wrote in the separate parts reflects the reading intended, and the transcription of the score has been made on this basis. Beethoven’s copying was far from perfect, however, for in addition to occasional miscopying he made about forty omissions of details, and not all could be restored by Schlesinger for the first edition, which Beethoven was unable to proofread before his death.

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Finally, as an added bonus, it is clear that the classification of variants into eight categories, which has never before been applied systematically to a pair of sources in this way, can prove to be a useful and watertight system. It not only is theoretically robust but works in practice, covering every variant found here, where six of the eight categories are relevant. It reveals, for example, that by far the most common type of variant in this particular case is amplification of missing details, while degeneration through omission of similar details is also common, as are minor notational changes. Although it is sometimes impossible to be absolutely certain whether a change between the score and the set of parts is due to artistic revision or miscopying, or whether an omission of a detail is intentional, even here there is usually a strong balance of probabilities, and one or other explanation is certainly true for every variant. The system could therefore be applied equally well to other sources.

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Bibliography Beck, Dagmar, ed. Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte. Vol. 10. Leipzig: VEB Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1993. Beethoven, Ludwig van. Briefwechsel Gesamtausgabe. Edited by Sieghard Brandenburg. 7 vols. Munich: Henle, 1996–98. ———. Klaviersonate A-Dur Opus 101: Faksimile nach dem Autograph im Besitz des Beethoven-Hauses Bonn. Edited by Sieghard Brandenburg. Munich: Henle, 1998. ———. Piano Sonata, Op. 28. Facsimile of the Autograph, the Sketches, and the First Edition: With Transcription and Commentary by Martha Frohlich. Bonn: Beeethoven-Haus, 1996. ———. Sinfonie No. 9, Op. 125: Autograph Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin—Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Beethoven-Haus Bonn, Bibliothèque nationale de France. Edited by Lewis Lockwood, Jonathan Del Mar, and Martina Rebmann. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 2010. Bumpass, Laura Kathryn. “Beethoven’s Last Quartet.” Vol. 1, “Background and the Autograph Materials”; vol. 2, “Transcriptions.” PhD diss., University of Illinois, 1982. Cooper, Barry. “Beethoven and the Double Bar.” Music & Letters 88 (2007): 458–83. ———. Beethoven’s Folksong Settings. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994. ———. “Sources and Editions.” In A Performer’s Guide to Music of the Classical Period, edited by Anthony Burton, 91–101. London: Associated Board of the Royal Schools of Music, 2002. Del Mar, Jonathan, ed. Ludwig van Beethoven: Symphony No. 9 in D Minor op. 125. Critical Commentary. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1996. Dorfmüller, Kurt, Norbert Gertsch, and Julia Ronge. Ludwig van Beethoven: Thematisch-bibliographisches Werkverzeichnis. 2 vols. Munich: Henle, 2014. Hinrichsen, Hans-Joachim. “Beethovens Werkstatt: Einführung zu Werk und Autograph.” In Ludwig van Beethoven, Missa solemnis op. 123: Autograph Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin Preussischer Kulturbesitz, edited by Hans-Joachim Hinrichsen and Martina Rebmann, 15–27. Facsimile ed. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 2016. Lester, Joel. “Revisions in the Autograph of the Missa solemnis Kyrie.” Journal of the American Musicological Society 23 (1970): 420–38. Lockwood, Lewis. “The Autograph of the First Movement of Beethoven’s Sonata for Violoncello and Pianoforte, op. 69.” Music Forum 2 (1970): 1–109. ———. “Beethoven’s Earliest Sketches for the Eroica Symphony.” Musical Quarterly 67 (1981): 457–78. ———. “On Beethoven’s Revision of the First Movement of the Cello Sonata in A Major, opus 69.” In Ludwig van Beethoven, Sonata for Violoncello and Piano op. 69, 1. Movement: Facsimile of Autograph NE 179 in the Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, edited by Jens Dufner and Lewis Lockwood, 37–54. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 2015.

the autograph score of the slow movement of opus 135  ❧ 353 ———. “On Beethoven’s Sketches and Autographs: Some Problems of Definition and Interpretation.” Acta Musicologica 42 (1970): 32–47. Noorduin, Marten. “Beethoven’s Tempo Indications.” PhD diss., University of Manchester, 2016. Playford, John, ed. An Introduction to the Skill of Musick. 12th ed. London: Playford, 1694. Facsimile edited by Franklin B. Zimmerman. New York: Da Capo, 1972. Stroh, Patricia. “Beethoven Auction Report (2008), Including an Addendum for 2007 on the Schram Collection Beethoven Letter.” Beethoven Journal 23 (2008): 33–35. Winter, Robert. Compositional Origins of Beethoven’s String Quartet in C sharp Minor, op. 131. Ann Arbor, MI: UMI, 1982.

Notes 1 Lockwood, “On Beethoven’s Sketches,” 32–47. 2 Lockwood, “Beethoven’s Earliest Sketches,” 457–78. 3 Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 4:278–79 (no. 1309). 4 Lockwood, “The Autograph,” 1–109; Lester, “Revisions,” 420–38. 5 Lockwood, “On Beethoven’s Revision,” 37–54; Piano Sonata op. 28; Klaviersonate A-Dur Opus 101; Hinrichsen, “Beethovens Werkstatt,” 15–27. 6 See, for example, Del Mar, Ludwig van Beethoven: Symphony No. 9 in D Minor op. 125. The complete autograph has since been published in facsimile: Beethoven, Sinfonie no. 9, with brief commentaries by Lewis Lockwood, Jonathan Del Mar, and Martina Rebmann; but there is no detailed discussion of either the changes within the autograph or variants between it and later sources. 7 See Beck, Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte, 10:63 and 70. 8 The title “Grande fugue tantôt libre, tantôt recherchée” was approved by Beethoven and printed on the title page of the first edition. 9 My translation. The recently discovered letter is not in Beethoven, Briefwechsel, but was auctioned at Sotheby’s, London, on May 15, 2008. See Stroh, “Beethoven Auction Report,” 33–35. 10 Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 6:303–4 (no. 2224). 11 See Dorfmüller, Gertsch, and Ronge, Beethoven: Thematisch-bibliographisches Werkverzeichnis, 1:890–91. The parts, together with an exemplar of Schlesinger’s original edition (both score and parts), are in the BeethovenHaus, Bonn, Bodmer, HCB BMh 6/46. They can be viewed online on the Beethoven-Haus digital archive: http://www.beethoven-haus-bonn.de /sixcms/detail.php?template=startseite_digitales_archiv_en (accessed March 11, 2020).

354  ❧  chapter fourteen 12 Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 4:174 (no. 1244); see Cooper, Beethoven’s Folksong Settings, 29. 13 Winter, Compositional Origins; Bumpass, “Beethoven’s Last Quartet.” 14 The manuscript is catalogued as Aut. 1085/2c. 15 Dorfmüller, Gertsch, and Ronge, Beethoven: Thematisch-bibliographisches Werkverzeichnis, 1:891. 16 Winter, Compositional Origins, 194. 17 See Cooper, “Beethoven and the Double Bar,” 458–83. 18 Winter, Compositional Origins, 183 and 273–74. 19 Ibid., 321–23. 20 They are discussed and transcribed in Bumpass, “Beethoven’s Last Quartet,” 1:200–203; 2:232–34, 240–41, 260–62, though without reference to the autograph score. 21 Ibid., 2:266. 22 Ibid., 1:39; see also Dorfmüller, Gertsch, and Ronge, Beethoven: Thematischbibliographisches Werkverzeichnis, 1:890–91. 23 See Cooper, “Sources and Editions,” 91–101, at 97. 24 The concept of tautology in harmonic progression and the need for its avoidance are explained with particular clarity by Henry Purcell. See Playford, An Introduction, 102. 25 Bumpass, “Beethoven’s Last Quartet,” 2:266. 26 Karl Holz recommended an eighth-note speed of 92 in the  Adagio in opus 131 but only 72 in the Assai lento in opus 135: see Noorduin, “Beethoven’s Tempo Indications,” 302–3. 27 The change at m. 50 is the one most likely to be noticed by performers.

Chapter Fifteen

Early German-Language Reviews of Beethoven’s Late String Quartets Robin Wallace It has often been asserted that works like the late string quartets were nearly incomprehensible to Beethoven’s contemporaries, who judged them defective due to the composer’s deafness and other physical infirmities. It is the much later writings of Wagner, Adorno, and others that have often been treated as the starting point for our modern understanding of these works. K. M. Knittel, for example, quotes Sir George Grove as saying that Beethoven’s “late works, especially the quartets—had been ‘misunderstood and naturally unappreciated’ at the time of their composition.”1 “Without exception,” Knittel writes, “all [early] critics posited a connection between the musical characteristics of the third period and Beethoven’s deafness and failing health, although the exact nature of the relationship depended on the writer.”2 She cites Wagner, who, writing under the influence of Schopenhauer, first suggested that Beethoven’s deafness gave him an advantage: “the more he ‘lost touch with the outer world,’ as a result of these ‘natural’ endowments [his unusually thick skull and the protection it provided], ‘the clearer-sighted did he turn his gaze upon the world within.’ In Wagner’s view, deafness itself provided Beethoven protection.” By further cutting him off from the external world, it allowed his inner imagination to flourish.3 According to Adorno, meanwhile, “Beethoven’s music came into its fullest realization only in the works from the final decade of the composer’s life”— those that exhibit the Spätstil, or late style, in which “the composition no

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longer obeys the basic law of compositional unity. Instead, its “‘fissures and rifts’ . . . are the only remaining evidence of a creative subject who can no longer unify and claim mastery of his material.”4 Adorno’s view of Beethoven’s late style is reflected in much recent musicological writing, and has even been given a religious twist by Daniel Chua. Of the section of the Cavatina movement of opus 130 that Beethoven marked “beklemmt,” or “oppressed,” Chua writes that Beethoven offers a view of the face of an Other: “Adorno’s ‘imponderably delicate aura of the other’ turns out to be the indelible law of the transient particular: the ‘formal law of freedom’ is undone by the absolute command of an ephemeral glance . . . Could this, then, be the face of God in Christ, reflected in the countenance of the Other?”5 In light of all this later theorizing, a modern reader could certainly be forgiven for concluding that Beethoven’s contemporaries either misunderstood his late music or saw little value in it. The presentation here of nearly all of the earliest reviews of Beethoven’s late quartets should help set the record straight.6 Yes, contemporary critics and audiences were sometimes baffled by these works—as, indeed, are those who first encounter nearly any great work of art. It is clear, though, that they recognized the late quartets as something extraordinary, that they understood it would take time to get to know them better, and that they saw the level of imagination, compositional virtuosity, and broadly comprehensible meaning in these works to be fully comparable to that of Beethoven’s earlier music. The latter point requires some further explanation, since it is perhaps the most misunderstood of all. It is now generally recognized—despite those who still hold to various forms of musical absolutism—that the communication of meaning through music was seen from the first as one of Beethoven’s great strengths. What is perhaps less clear to modern readers is the kind of meaning his music was held to convey. Music is not a code for transmitting linguistic messages, although it is sometimes approached that way. The meaning of a piece of music can only be grasped through experience, even though one person (or early critic) might describe it in a vastly different way from another. Nevertheless, as Mendelssohn famously said, the meaning of music is less, not more, ambiguous than that of words. Throughout his life, Beethoven seems to have made his listeners aware of this paradoxical fact, and it surfaces in the reviews of his late music with particular clarity. These writers were not seeking to decode Beethoven’s music. Rather, they were challenging their readers to engage with it, and assuring them that something akin to Mendelssohn’s unambiguous meaning would emerge. To know this music was to understand the profound truths it conveyed.

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One particularly lengthy document that has been omitted from this collection is Friedrich Rochlitz’s essay “On the Occasion of,” written on the occasion of the publication of the Quartet in C-sharp Minor, op. 131. Most of the essay does not address the music directly, but at the end, Rochlitz wrote that after a friend assembled the parts for the quartet (the score was not yet available), “out of all of it, what became truly clear to him and spoke to his heart was so little that he could not put it into words. He believed only that he could surmise more than he understood, that the deep shaft, so troublesome to traverse, was as rich in veins of gold as any that Beethoven had discovered and excavated.”7 Likewise, in his review of opus 127, Ludwig Rellstab, after describing the isolation produced by Beethoven’s deafness, wrote: No one should believe from what has been said, though, that . . . the most recent work of Beethoven was not commensurable with our understanding. No, thank heaven, there is still enough of a connection between him and us that we have a common language for our emotions, even if they are not always comprehensible in their last and finest interrelationships—and where, strictly speaking, is that ever the case with even two people?8

Even spoken language is an imperfect vehicle for emotions, but to Rellstab, music, by its nonverbal nature, could communicate profoundly with anyone who was willing to engage with it. What it could communicate was usually described by these writers in terms of visual images. Thus Gottfried Weber wrote of opus 127: One unintentionally falls into the master’s sphere of influence, where one continually notices more lines and figurations that take hold of the soul, so that one cannot let go of them. The uncomfortable harmonies are then the white streaks of the Milky Way, known only by telescope, or rather not known, which is all the same. It is enough that stars of all magnitudes celebrate their quiet, solemn progress through the expansive, magical horizon, and one joyfully recognizes the creative genius in darkness and light.

This is not a precise description, but one designed to invite the listener into the secrets of the music—a journey that, like looking through a telescope, can reveal pictures previously unseen. Reviewers of Beethoven’s late music often spoke of the imagery it created in just this way: as a visual plane that added depth and richness to the musical experience.

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Speaking of opus 135, Adolf Bernhard Marx gave a good summary of the nature of that experience: The content of the last works appears to be most intimately connected with Beethoven’s subjectivity and his peculiar situation. One understands how this sequence of ideas can appear confused and insane to a coldly unreceptive spectator who stays only on the outside—while in the breast of a sympathetic, compassionate friend, the deepest, innermost soul of the tone poet flows forth in the full abundance of its emotions, recollections, and sufferings.

It appears that Marx and other critics of his time believed that Beethoven’s personal life, communicated through his music and allowed to resonate with sympathetic listeners, spoke of commonly shared human experience in ways that no medium but music could convey. It is fair to say, then, that they fully recognized the unique depth and expressive power of the late quartets, even if they were not fully prepared to say that they understood them. There is no hint in any of their writings that they found this music defective or in any way diminished by Beethoven’s deafness. Indeed, Rellstab quoted Homer to describe the kind of mythic awe that came from sharing an era with a man like Beethoven. But mythologizing aside, what he and others seem to have sensed in Beethoven’s late quartets was an expression of their common humanity. The following pages contain their tributes to that humanity and are thus as good a starting point as any for seeing Beethoven as his contemporaries saw him: an artist whose greatness lay not in transcending the world but in embracing it.

Reviews of Opus 127, String Quartet in E-flat Major “News. Vienna. Musical Diary of the Month of March,” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 27, no. 15 (April 13, 1825): col. 2469 Miscellaneous. In the course of this month a new quartet in E-flat by our Amphion Beethoven was produced for the first time at Mr. Schuppanzigh’s subscription concerts. Opinions on it are divided, and perhaps the smallest number—the reviewer will not make an exception of himself—understood and completely grasped it. It is, one might say, worked out symphonically and

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put together in a most artful way, it needs to be heard often, and the performers as well must study it precisely together down to the smallest detail.

“General Musical Informer,” Allgemeine Theaterzeitung und Unterhaltungsblatt für Freunde der Kunst, Literatur und des geselligen Lebens 18, no. 51 (April 28, 1825): 212 Our ingenious Beethoven has once again bequeathed to the musical world a string quartet, which had already been long anticipated, and which was finally produced by Messrs. Schuppanzigh, Holz, Weiß, and Linke in the subscription quartet concerts by the first mentioned. This quartet is of the same type as all classical compositions in the more exalted style; they cannot be as comfortably understood as many others, which for precisely that reason find a larger public, to which the former cannot lay claim. Furthermore, Mr. Schuppanzigh had to hasten his performance if he wanted to give the delayed quartet within the time promised, and thus was not able to have as many rehearsals as were needed, and as were usually held for earlier quartets by Beethoven, as the numerous musicians and amateurs living in Vienna can attest. The result of this performance was the open acknowledgment of almost all those who heard it, professors as well as amateurs, that they had understood little or nothing at all of the course of the tone poem, and that indeed a jealous cover of mist seemed intent on obscuring the latest star of this musical creative genius. Then a steadfast friend of art arranged for a new production of the quartet by the men named above, with the first violin part given to Mr. Professor Böhm, since he had in the meantime played the new quartet for a small group of connoisseurs with particular success. This professor now played the marvelous quartet before the same quite numerous company of artists and connoisseurs twice on the same evening in such a way that nothing was left to be desired, the cover of mist disappeared, and the magnificent artistic structure shone forth in blinding glory.10 Although Professor Böhm had an easier time of it, since he had heard this composition played by a master, even if imperfectly, in such a way that one must recognize the artist entrusted with Beethoven’s spirit,11 he nevertheless gave an extensive boost to his reputation by the thrice repeated performance of this uncommonly difficult quartet. Such artistic competitions are the greatest gain for art, especially when, as was the case this time, the loser is not defeated, since every unbiased person must acknowledge that Mr. Schuppanzigh could not have played this composition better in such a short time. Whether he could and should have kept this production from being thrown together in such

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haste is another question, which someone better informed may answer if he is so inclined.

Ludwig Rellstab,12 “Free Essays: On Beethoven’s Most Recent Quartet,” Berliner allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 2, no. 21 (May 25, 1825): 165−66 I have often actively imagined what impression must have been made upon the contemporaries of great poets and musicians when a new work of a genius, whose right to immortality could already be confirmed in its own time, when perhaps a Wallenstein, a Don Juan, was announced, and everyone awaited the great manifestation with respectful eagerness. Now I have experienced this emotion as well. I know what it is like for us when an immortal spirit in our midst has created something that will survive for centuries, and hands it over to us as an undeserved gift, since he himself still walks in our midst as a mortal being, who has organs and needs like our own. It takes effort to persuade oneself of the truth; one scarcely believes that one is a witness, a companion of the extraordinary, at which later generations will be astonished. May those to whom the great creations of a Göthe, Schiller, Mozart, Haidn, Beethoven were more than once delivered directly from the workshop recall the impression, and then grant a friendly recognition to the enthusiasm of one born later—then others may still smile ironically. —For my part, I can often scarcely persuade myself that something great can happen so close to us, that we can be the living witnesses of deeds and works that far outlast our small existence and will be towering, glowing peaks of world history. With this doubtful astonishment I have watched the great events of the time pass by me, and thus did I consider the great productions of the geniuses in art and knowledge who came to live by our sides. Father Homer, who knew and felt everything that moves the human heart, expresses this after Hector and Ajax have fought, and sings of the Trojans as they lead their defender back to the walls of Ilium—“And they scarcely believed that he lived.”13 So I scarcely believed that it was true and possible that I would be refreshed, revived, and uplifted by an inspirational draft from the divine spring directly at the source. The solemn emotion permeated everyone present. Only those who were capable of understanding immortal works of the great man with true exaltation and devotion had come together. A deep, expectant, and pensive silence prevailed in the room, where four outstanding artists had come together to bring Beethoven’s most recent work to life for us. God be thanked that that motley, thoughtless crowd that hears

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Beethoven and Rossini promiscuously, with equal enchantment or, even better, with equal madness, was far away. On the contrary, one was aware of being in a gathering that consisted of friends. Indeed, to me there was something deeply moving in the fact that his brother and his other close relatives were present, and felt fortunate and proud just to be able to bear the great name. It was as though they took the place of the poet himself, whom a sublimely severe injury excluded from the paradise into which he led us. Just as the garment, the sword of a great man is already a relic for us, should not those whom nature placed so near to him also stand with us in the radiance of his works? Indeed, the person of a great man is only his image—for who grasps the spirit! Is it also near to one who understands him from a distance—and what would the body be to him who does not discern the spirit? No one probably expects me to express a judgment about the work here— or even an opinion. In any case, my impression was such that I have only emotional thanks to express, no presumptuous criticism. Just let this much be said: the entire work is the expression of the most noble soul, of the purest enthusiasm for art itself, no trace of anything being there to please anyone other than himself. Genius sought only to realize itself—anything else was indifferent, was nothing. And so we wish to accept it as well. Such works cannot and may not be otherwise. What may appear strange, dark, confused in them finds its clarity and necessity in the soul of the creator, and there we must look for instruction. Whoever is capable of entering into the soul of the man who for fourteen pain-filled years has stood alone within the world of life and joy; whoever is capable of imagining himself without that sense from which arises the most noble, purest spiritual enjoyment; whoever understands that even the most powerful genius succumbs and must succumb to finite determinations; will also wish that even for Beethoven, aural memory must become weaker, the lively colors of the tones gradually fade. Much in his heavenly imagination is thus probably otherwise than in our earthly ear that hears only with difficulty. And without presuming a right, a voice for ourselves, we may step back in humility and say that a genius who has suffered an essential change and disturbance of his organization must conceive and create differently than he who still stands and walks powerfully and unimpaired in the fresh, lively world of the senses. And because of this, we do not wish to lay hands with undue haste on whatever appears strange and incomprehensible to us, but rather to acknowledge that, where there is no exact common measure, no accurate evaluation can take place. —No one should believe from what has been said, though, that for this reason perhaps the most recent work of Beethoven was not commensurable with

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our understanding. No, thank heaven, there is still enough of a connection between him and us that we have a common language for our emotions, even if they are not always comprehensible in their last and finest interrelationships—and where, strictly speaking, is that ever the case with even two people? —And in this language Beethoven has spoken to us in an astonishing and deeply gripping way. These are serious words that he has to say to us; they are the calm expressions of the pain against which a deeply wounded, but just as powerfully hopeful soul has struggled. It is the manly grief of a Laokoon that winds throughout the whole work with a secret thread, even when, in a deep scherzo, it seems to mock itself, and for that very reason grips our breast all the more deeply and convulsively. —You, lofty genius, who has given us something so divinely blessed, should you alone be the one who suffers? No, from such a spring flows eternal strengthening and elevation, and you will sustain, comfort, and elevate yourself, even if the ray of light of the sweet sounds that you marvelously create will never again penetrate the mute, soundless night of your earthly life.

J. Adrien-Lafasge, Caecilia 5, no. 18 (August 1826): 145−4614 Accustomed to not speaking about something until I am precisely familiar with it, I often find myself hesitating to call attention to pieces of music that have been transmitted to me, preferring to allow the announcement of a work to be delayed, rather than to pronounce a premature judgment that would mislead those who wished to rely on it, and could either provide the composer and publisher an undeserved advantage or give them undeserved blame. This was particularly the case for me in considering the present quartet. Since it is not written in score,15 it was necessary for me to hear it declaimed in order to be able to take account of it. At the first performance, due to mistakes on the part of the players, everything, I admit, emerged so confusedly that no one was able to discover even one of the beauties that we are accustomed to finding so abundantly in Beethoven’s other works. The parts abound in difficulties that at first glance seem insurmountable; the violoncello part embarrassed one of the foremost players in the capital. — Once these difficulties are surmounted, though, one also finds in this quartet everything that distinguishes the best pieces in this genre. Even more than in his other works, Beethoven has summoned up richness of modulation, the most beautiful forms of accompaniment—in short, all the depths of harmony. Nothing is ordinary in this work, so rich in harmonic surprises, where the composer seems to invent new tonalities with the voice-leading.

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We must therefore warn amateurs who want to practice this quartet (and everyone who wants to lay claim to being educated musically should acquire it) not to be frightened off by the effect, which at first is odd, but in fact is only original. A work like this can only be grasped, by players and listeners alike, after several repetitions. I know a piece by Feska that I have already heard repeatedly but have not yet fathomed, and yet I am almost certain that it is good. In Vienna, very accomplished quartet players are supposed to have abandoned this quartet as all too difficult. Later, however, after they took it up again and studied it, they declared it the most perfect work of this great composer. —True artists will no more acknowledge pieces as unperformable than our gallants acknowledge unclimbable fortifications or unbeatable enemies. Perhaps I will yet return to Beethoven in a proper article, in order to characterize the uniqueness of this magnificent talent in particular, to which purpose his Missa solemnis for double choir will serve me as text. Paris, June 1826

Gottfried Weber, Caecilia 5, no. 20 (November 1826): 239−4316 (Reviewed with arrangement for piano four hands) In accordance with the value of the work and its master, public voices both native and foreign have already expressed themselves sufficiently concerning the worth and unique qualities of the present composition in itself, including recently in this journal (p. 145 above).17 All judgments about it are in agreement that this, like all more recent compositions of Beethoven, goes far beyond what is customary, while in general, often and with sufficient praise, the fantasy that blows through this tone poet’s more recent works is called colossal, gigantic, sometimes also eccentric and so forth. As much as our feelings, as well as our conviction, may far prefer Beethoven’s earlier muse to his present one, in both a technical and an aesthetic sense, we are not therefore so one-sided as not to recognize and to honor the grandiose ardor of this last one, and the mastery that still always gleams through the often singular breadth and abundance. For not every crossing is a real step forward. Thus, in any event, it is most interesting to see a great master testing the boundaries of what is possible and admissible in the realm of art, to see him extending his flight close to these and even perhaps beyond them,18 as though to test what our ear can ultimately bear, what sharply corrosive clashes the musical ear can ultimately

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accustom itself to understanding and enduring, through what involved tonal mazes it learns to find its way to the end and then even to take pleasure. In the process, he also shames narrow-minded pedants and champions of theoretical rules, whose miserable trading in laws and prohibitions is in reality refuted and rendered invalid by the actions of highly accredited masters. Now it is unnecessary, considering the aforementioned general recognition already publicly accorded to the work in question, to say even more about it here, or perhaps to enumerate details from it, which can always give only a completely inadequate idea of the whole, whose value in just this instance lies primarily in the totality of the outpouring, —or perhaps to give a dry anatomical description of the framework of the whole, and, according to customary review procedure, to enumerate fully that it modulates into X major for so and so many measures, going from there by means of the Y chord into Z minor, in   meter, here pianissimo, there forte, etc. etc.—from all of which nobody can form a conception of the essence of the work; —or perhaps to paraphrase what we felt during our consideration of the work in a poetic image—all of which is in any case not our style and manner. If everything of this kind is not at least exhausting in itself, particularly here, and also superfluous, due to the recognition already publicly accorded; —there remains for us only to say a few words about the style and manner of the edition of the work. In this regard it is first and foremost gratifying that it is also given to us in score, in which form it is both accessible for study and also a most rewarding aid and facilitation for performance, particularly in view of the significant difficulty of execution (which we nevertheless would not want to call as completely superhumanly difficult as other public reports have described it). In any case, examination of the score will serve to reassure many players in many cases, and to remove occasional doubts as to whether this or that passage was incorrectly written or incorrectly understood: doubts which, for example, may easily arise from passages of the kind illustrated earlier and from many similar ones. — — The large octavo format of the score is pleasant and comfortable; engraving, printing and paper praiseworthy. The quartet was engraved twice in individual parts: once at the principal firm in Mainz, once expressly for the branch in Paris. It goes without saying that both editions are fully identical, except that for Paris it was found necessary to add the epithet Grand to the title. The arrangement for pianoforte four hands was prepared by the estimable arranger with insight and taste, and is as a whole less difficult to perform than the work in its original form, so that many passages that are not easy as

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a violin quartet, and that in any case will seldom be heard with full clarity and unambiguously, emerged for us much more decisively and clearly on the pianoforte, which has fixed pitches and is in many regards easier to handle.

Ignaz Xaver von Seyfried, “Vienna in the Year 1825,” Caecilia 3, no. 12 (October 1825): 241−47 (excerpted) The greatest concern is instilled by the fact that, in general, the quiet, tranquil enjoyment of art, of the frequent coming together of artists and significant dilettantes in order to make music, where there is less concern for the production itself than for what is produced, is falling ever more into decline and decay. Quartet entertainments have almost entirely ceased. Even those given by Schuppanzigh leave us cold in the end, part of the blame for which can be ascribed to the fact that newly learned works went rather poorly due to insufficient rehearsals, while older ones, despite the admirable ensemble playing, lost more than they won through great arbitrariness and the frequent use of tempo rubato. For this reason the artist Joseph Böhm, supported by Schuppanzigh’s associates, gave a good performance of the new, masterly quartet of Beethoven, a work written entirely in the spirit of his new symphony and written after it, to a select audience at the request of the author, who was rightfully displeased with the earlier performance, and gained a new advantage for art.19 I am all the more glad to be silent about the remaining concerts, since I do not wish to supply a diary and thus have neither the obligation to dispose tediously of what is tedious nor, what is even less agreeable, to attend the abundant productions of this sort. Style of these concerts, listenership, invitations by the concert givers to the paying public, distribution of the free tickets to the friends of music who do not pay, all of this moves in such cases, with mediocre talents, in eternal uniformity, to speak with Schiller, and never has anything to offer. Whoever wants to make a good concert in Vienna without great personal exertion must have a very celebrated name. Unanimous applause is easier to win. I have probably said enough already, but does not one cause of this ruin lie in the very fact that nowadays everything is discussed so broadly and extensively? Whoever loves the truth keeps his precious secret and reveals it to his best friend only with great embarrassment; only the dandy or the fool bestows his confidence on all his acquaintances, and thereby annihilates step by step the fleeting fire in his breast. Thus I wish humbly to beg Polihymnia’s forgiveness for having chattered so much about her; may she grant me her

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best gift, receptivity for the beautiful, understanding, and heartfelt love of the works of her chosen ones, so that I may not forsake the true path.

v.d. O. . .r, “Review,” Berliner allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 4, no. 4 (January 24, 1827): 25−27 One must become accustomed, with the most recent works of this great musical artist, to reserving one’s judgment after the first three to six hearings; not, perhaps, because it is Beethoven, the celebrated one, from whom the work comes, and as such he already evokes a good opinion by himself, or because other celebrated men will publicly judge his work favorably and laudatorily, —but rather because one customarily will find it no small problem to grasp the work’s spirit when it begins if one was ready at the beginning to decide against it, even believing that one held the proof in one’s hands, daring to explain individual passages as harmonic nonsense or as outbreaks of a strange mood that aims to do forbidden things just for the sake of novelty, or deliberately to make an impression or to be disconcerting. —For all that, just such works by Beethoven are difficult going. As soon as one just knows that a new Beethoven has approached the simple hearth of the house, one pushes back all one’s favorite inclinations, probably indeed all one’s professional transactions, in order at first to hear only whether the wind that wishes to blow upon the willing ship of the soul, and on its sail, the emotions, blows northeast or southwest. —And behold, after the first playthrough, one rises unwillingly, has heard nothing, though having seen everything; has felt nothing, though elasticity of feeling was not lacking—I would rather go walking high up on the lakeside; at least there I know what I’m seeing, and if I feel, I know that I feel, and I hear that I am hearing something. Of what use to me is the Example 15.1. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 2, mm. 39–41, slightly inaccurate combination of the first and second violin parts. [Andante con moto] œ œ œ œ bœ bb b b c ‰ ≈ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ b œ œœ œ œ œ n œ b œ n œ œ & [] œ œ œ. œ nœ œ p

b & b bb n œ b œ

œ œ œr

that certainly resounds up on the mountain, and however it goes after that? It would not have occurred to me again, if the uppermost branches of the

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beech tree did not continually rock so companionably and affably in the evening breeze and in freedom. —And from my two hours of effort, I have nothing further to enjoy! —Does this reward our effort; is this the thanks that Beethoven gives his performers for their exertions? Why does the man only write this way, and not otherwise! How many ugly passages I had to assimilate, contrary to the ear and to all beauty! The man takes useless trouble, he is finished and no longer knows anything. —He is deaf and can no longer hear; can he play the violin? I can scarcely believe; how ponderously high everything lies, how clumsy it sounds; he should learn to play the violin, etc. One returns home. —For all that, the passage is beautiful, that must be true, and one knows from this that He wrote it, something like this by somebody else — — How did that cadence go, quite unusually animated. —So gigantic. — And an unusual finale theme: Example 15.2. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 4, mm. 5–12, reduction to two staves with added double bar at the end. [Finale]

b & b b [C] œ œ œ œ ú ? b b C ww b[ ] ú

b &bb œ œ œ œ ? b b œœ Œ œ œ œ b ú ú. ú

ú

œ

ww ú

œœ ú œ ú

œ œ œœ œœ

œ œ úœú œ Óú

œ

ww ú

œ œ ú œ ú

œœ œœ œœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ œ bœ œ

úú . . w

œœ œ

œú œ œœ Œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ œ

and it seems to be capably worked out, how inevitably do the voices flow, as though it were nothing, and yet there they are. And the knocking countersubject:

368  ❧  chapter fifteen Example 15.3. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 4, mm 111–14, slightly inaccurate transcription of the cello part. [Finale]

? C œ œ œ œ [] f f

œ œ bœ œ œ f f

bœ œ œ bœ S

œ œ nœ œ f f

The thing does seem worth the effort. —One must hear it more often. Once again, then. —One must go through it à quatre mains20 as well, one movement a week quite regularly. — Thus, one unintentionally falls into the master’s sphere of influence, where one continually notices more lines and figurations that take hold of the soul, so that one cannot let go of them. The uncomfortable harmonies are then the white streaks of the milky way, known only by telescope, or rather not known, which is all the same. It is enough that stars of all magnitudes celebrate their quiet, solemn progress through the expansive, magical horizon, and one joyfully recognizes the creative genius in darkness and light. The pompous little Maestoso at the beginning, which from time to time strikes again into the sensible, quiet round dance of the first movement, is like a promise of the sweetness and novelty that the first movement will bestow. The theme: Example 15.4. Beethoven, String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, mvt. 1, mm. 7–10, first violin part. [Allegro]

b & b b [43] œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ

œ œ œ œ œ

ú

nœ

is a blessed embrace full of youth and grace, a sound of nature, which does not die out and which brings forth significant things, and still moves scarcely perceptibly through the most heterogeneous ideas that follow. The restful Adagio lies nearly still, like a lake that has life within it. Upon it moves that lovely Andante already mentioned, as rich and fresh as clusters on the shore. Another side of the region is traveled through (return of the Adagio) and even more worked-out pictures of this motion swim up and down in the

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longer Andante, which concludes the second part. A baroque scherzo at least entertains the players, just as in general such pieces of music by this composer can very often be called the most entertaining, which correspond least to the everyday demands of what one calls stereotypically beautiful. It is well known, however, that these so-called beauties of music not infrequently awaken satiety and boredom, those two principal enemies of pieces of music, which Beethoven quite particularly flees and avoids. Where he is not beautiful, at least he is interesting. A Presto in E-flat minor interrupts the antique scherzo with an overpowering, strange melody that one fears almost as much as one loves it. — This much is certain: that Beethoven, in this piece of music, has given something even grander than in his four last grand quartets, which is saying a lot. The voice-leading is admirably self-sufficient in each of the four voices. To be sure, harsh and striking conflicts with the harmony arise at several passages from this almost single-minded voice-leading, which raise doubts particularly “when seen.” Often the passages and ideas of the movements are tightened up to the point that we perceive them as unlovely, and one nevertheless cannot get free from them, and would not want to miss these either. What power does this spirit exercise upon others! How similar are his works in this regard to those of a celebrated German poet. But where will that lead? Many of these and similar reflections, however, must fade when one imagines oneself within the individual life and tone poetry of this spirit, who in any case does not have the intention of composing in this manner, but whose spirit and inspiration bring him upon paths that can be compared to those of John in the Apocalypse. This musical language was certainly most naturally suited to his subjectivity; he is certainly surprised when even his admirers begin to call out: “non plus ultra!”21 —For him this piece of music is certainly more charming and more valuable than his loveliest youthful perceptions. He may himself be surprised if in critical journals isolated passages are displayed that by themselves look like monsters, as if one were cut out the head of the seated boy from Raphael’s Transfiguration, and say: this head is not beautiful. —Herein one must cede the field to Beethoven, as a great tone poet, simply because he considers it good to color his bright points thus, and not otherwise. What else can we do? —Cease to enjoy his creations? —Who, indeed, could do that! He has gained too much access to the souls of his contemporaries, and will gain even more in later generations. What good are our words, if he is working magic? He does not let himself be disturbed; he does not once write a counter-critique, in which he could demonstrate ad oculos22 that a marshy region that engenders foggy forms is also a landscape, that the

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creaking of a primeval tree tossed by a storm is also a music, that the useless, perhaps evil plans of a brooding night conversation between two robbers in a decayed stone fortress, their desolate laughing and bellowing, is also the material for a scherzo etc. etc. Stop playing Beethoven; this advice must be given to everyone who is dissatisfied with his unloveliness, even if satisfied with his beauties.

S., “Brief Evaluations,” Allgemeine Musikzeitung zur Beförderung der theoretischen und praktischen Tonkunst für Musiker und für Fruende der Musik überhaupt 1, no. 38 (November 10, 1827), cols. 303−4 This quartet is one of the last works of the now deceased celebrated master of notes van Beethoven, and for this reason alone a noteworthy appearance. But it may be significant in another regard as well. The judgments about the last works of this master are, in general, very diverse, indeed often self-contradictory. Some say that one can find nothing more beautiful and magnificent than precisely the quartet mentioned here; it is the most elevated thing that musical art can produce. Others, on the other hand, say no, everything here is unclear, everything chaotic; there is not even any clear idea to bring out; indeed, the generally accepted rules are sinned against in every measure; the composer, who is, after all, deaf, must indeed have been mad when he called this piece of music to life. One must not offer something like this to ignorant people; they certainly do not know what to make of it. It is certainly also tied up with so endlessly many difficulties that it can hardly be accurately performed, etc. Now, when one hears these judgments that are so diverse and so contradictory, hears them often even from acknowledged artists, how should one respond? In our opinion, it follows quite naturally from this that something quite out of the ordinary is to be sought here, but that it is worth the effort once again to inquire, to search and to examine how the matter actually stands. This much is certain when it is said that something is by Beethoven: people come from all over to hear something, to be able to pass judgment on it. Indeed, even those very people who would be glad to find fault always come back again and again to hear what they have already heard, in order to be sure of themselves. Many, however, are brought by repeated hearing to the point where they judge more leniently; indeed, many are even completely converted by it, and from being fault-finders they become passionate adherents. Whoever is even somewhat familiar with the musical impulse that has taken shape in bigger and smaller cities in Germany will certainly have

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had such and similar experiences with pieces by Beethoven. What necessarily follows, however, from such experiences? Incontestably, that a certain something is to be found there that is of significance. Where there is nothing, one seeks nothing. But this is also certain: Beethoven’s music, particularly the most recent, is not easy to understand. Whoever hears it for the first time usually does not know how to find one’s way around, does not yet know how to pass judgment. Therefore, one must necessarily hear it several times and examine it precisely. However, it strongly invites one to do this, and one gladly returns to it on one’s own. For this purpose, however, it is also good to hear it in various forms, since in this way much becomes clear for the first time. Everything said here applies completely to the work by Beethoven announced here. We strongly wish that no one may allow himself to judge hastily either for or against it without examination. Let him study it with all the diligence that opportunity allows him. If it is played as a quartet, he can follow the very appropriately arranged score. The arrangement for keyboard four hands is also very well done. The publishers have fitted out the work magnificently, as it deserves. It will bring everyone joy to possess it in his music collection.

“Brief Notices,” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 30, no. 17 (April 23, 1828), col. 28423 (Reviewed with arrangement for keyboard and soprano voice) Beethoven’s remarks in a letter from Baden near Vienna on September 17, 1824, which will certainly be interesting to many, have already been printed in the 24th book of Cäcilia, p. 311.24 Worthy of note is the artist’s expression: “It seems to me as if I had scarcely written a few notes.” —The song is taken from his quartet Adagio, no. 127, in A-flat major,25 and a passable text has been underlaid to it. If the strange blending together of the notes can be brought off far more delicately and fluently on stringed instruments than is possible on the fortepiano, with good declamation, elevated by the charm of the voice, it will nevertheless bring about a distinctive effect in this form and in such a combination.

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Ignaz Xaver von Seyfried, “Beethoven’s Return Home,” Caecilia 10, no. 39 (1829): 18926 (Reviewed with arrangement for keyboard and soprano voice) Beethoven’s return home is a delicate little flower strewn on the transfigured singer’s grave, since it is based on one of his own melodies, or rather sprung from it. The theme from the Adagio of the violin quartet opus 127, transposed from A-flat to E-flat due to the more suitable range, is underlaid with the following, thoughtfully chosen, unrhymed stanza: “His spirit turned away from the bonds of dust and rose up to the light, to the breast of God the father; there is granted what faith and presentiment promised him, high above the stars’ utmost power, and all his painful longing—there it is stilled. He shares with God the eternal joy of creating! And rich as nature his world animates him from the breath of sound, an eternal spring invites form to form from the earthly bud, purest beauty delights the spirit kingdom!” —And even if the pianoforte accompaniment—dispensing with passionate expression—cannot realize what the feeling tone poet set down in his melancholy string quartet that speaks to the heart, this trifle, declaimed by a feeling soprano with emotion and warmth, remains an elegy for the unforgettable one, a friendly, welcome gift. — The memorable letter, from Baden near Vienna, September 17, 1824, so beautifully characteristic of the departed one, printed before the work, and also contained in the sixth volume of Caecilia, can hardly be read without great emotion.

Review of Opus 130, String Quartet in B-flat Major “News. Vienna,” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 28, no. 19 (May 10, 1826): cols. 310−1127 (Mentioned: song “Adelaide,” op. 46, and Trio for Piano, Violin, and Cello, op. 97) On the 21st, in the association hall, an evening entertainment arranged by Mr. Schuppanzigh at the conclusion of this year’s subscription quartets, wherein appeared: 1. From Haydn’s quartets, the variations on the folksong.28

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2. Marie, poem by Castelli, set to music by Weiss,29 sung by Mr. Hoffmann. Not significant. Grand Trio by Beethoven (in B-flat), declaimed by Mssrs. Halm,30 Schuppanzigh, and Linke. The pianoforte player would have done better to let his virtuosity sparkle less, and to remain truer to his task. 4. Beethoven’s Adelaide, sung by Mr. Hoffmann. 5. The most recent quartet by Beethoven in B-flat (the third among the last ones), consisting of the following movements: a. Allegro moderato;31 b. Presto; c. Scherzo Andantino;32 d. Alla danza tedesca; e. Cavatina; f. Fuga. The first, third, and fifth movements are serious, gloomy, mystical, but also at times bizarre, rough, and capricious; the second and fourth full of mischief, good cheer, and roguishness. Here the great composer, who, particularly in his most recent works, has seldom known how to find appropriate limits, has expressed himself unusually briefly and convincingly. The repetition of both movements was demanded with stormy applause. But the reviewer does not dare to interpret the sense of the fugal finale; for him it was incomprehensible, like Chinese. If the instruments in the regions of the south and north poles have to struggle with gigantic difficulties; if each of them is differently figured and they cross over each other per transitum irregularem amid countless dissonances; if the players, not trusting themselves, probably also do not play completely accurately, then the Babylonian confusion is certainly complete. There then exists a concert at which Moroccans might possibly enjoy themselves—those who, during their presence at the Italian opera here, found nothing pleasing but the instruments harmonizing in empty fifths, and the customary preluding by all the instruments at once.33 Perhaps so much would not have been written down if the master were also able to hear his own creations. But we do not wish thereby to pronounce a negative judgment prematurely; perhaps the time is yet to come when that which at first glance appeared to us dismal and confused will be recognized as clear and pleasing in form.

Review of Opus 131, String Quartet in C-sharp Minor v. Weiler, “On the Spirit and Interpretation of Beethoven’s Music. On the Occasion of the Advertisement of His Posthumous Quartets,” Caecilia 9, no. 33 (1828): 45−5034 (Reviewed with String Quartet in A Minor, op. 132, and String Quartet in F Major, op. 135; mentioned: Symphony no. 2, op. 36; “Pastoral” Symphony,

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op. 68; String Quartet in B-flat Major, op. 18, no. 6; String Quintet in C Major, op. 29) With the tiresome superficiality that, as in the domain of art generally, ever more determines the judgment of the great majority in music as well, one believes oneself to be giving Beethoven his due if one grants that his first quartets are a completely good work that, played with a sober sensibility, can be declaimed with pleasure. One believes oneself to be judging the later ones most indulgently if one regards them with consternation, putting off a definite judgment to future times. Those who are most comfortable with this explain candidly, with a fair degree of compassion, that one can see from these later works that the composer, sick in spirit, was incapable of giving the appropriate direction to his ideas. One also sees from them that the composer could no longer consult his own hearing, but rather had to rely too much on his not completely reliable calculation; —and things of this kind that appear compassionate amount more to concealed or loveless judgments. We have nothing to do with this class of compassionate judges, —we advise them, rather, to set aside tranquilly the three quartets advertised here.— We wish to take this opportunity, though, to speak a word on the spirit and sensibility of Beethoven’s music, and this may then also be the criterion for what we believe to be a correct judgment of the present works. All of Beethoven’s tone poems are the product of an excited imagination. To them belong all degrees and shadings that spread through this immense domain. Memories of happiness, of composure, of the most tender, delicate emotion, alternate with the expression of firm seriousness, of deep melancholy, of impetuously excited passion. How the true genius brings all of this to living representation constitutes the incomprehensible, has its foundation in the endlessness of poetic genius, —and this it is that, in narrow-minded judgments, is called incomprehensible, extravagant. Among the means of which Beethoven makes use, this much is unmistakable: that his melodies grip us with an individual charm, which often makes one unsure whether their magic lies in the individual construction of the phrases, or in the glaze of the exchange of harmonies. —It is certain, however, that both are at his unlimited command. —It is further unmistakable that all ideas are individual to him, and in the highest degree original. —The greatest masters do not stand above him in novelty and inexhaustibility. —One can maintain reliably that, in every one of his musical phrases, one hears something not yet heard, and with no master will one have less success in the game, often taken too far, of straining after reminiscences of foreign ideas or repetitions of his own.

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Just as the character of Beethoven’s tone poems is represented in these general outlines, there are also genuine individualities that distinguish their details. The beautiful exchange of the fundamental idea with the transitional melody should be considered here (Beethoven is pre-eminently rich in the latter; among a hundred examples, the Symphony in D may be cited)—these long-sustained phrases, which can be compared to a breath arising deep within the breast and swelling (particularly in the long middle movements, for example the theme of the Adagio in the Quintet in C)—this increase of power and concentration of the themes toward the end of the movement (a noteworthy illustration of this is provided by the first and last movement of the second of the quartets advertised here)—this perfect working out of the fundamental idea, without the exchange of harmonies being affected or excessively repetitious. At those times when Beethoven leaves the domain of unspecified emotions and loses himself in that of painting specific subjects, he can most easily be misunderstood. I point here to all the movements of the “Pastoral” Symphony, to the movement under the inscription la malinconia in one of the first six quartets,35 to the middle movement in the second of the quartets advertised here, designated as the thanks of one healed from an illness. I am completely unable to comprehend why the expression of a named emotion should excite aesthetic annoyance; it is only to be seen thereby that the play does not degenerate into frivolity, the painting into distortion. One must, however, acknowledge the painting as successful when it portrays a subject worthy of artistic portrayal, and when the means do not lead to vulgarity. Thus, the murmuring of the brook in the accompaniment figure, as it is brought about in the Andante of the “Pastoral” Symphony, is very effective at portraying the total impression of a happy mood in God’s free nature, —even if the figure, treated in isolation, has no aesthetic value. It is the same with the expression of natural sounds in general. Beethoven’s description of the melancholic is aesthetically true, and thus masterly—how, sunk in gloomy melancholy, scarcely capable of coherent ideas, he boils up to momentary happiness, soon sinking back, though, into the previous dullness. Every time I am gripped with compassion for the states of mind being described, as often as the image is brought before my soul by Beethoven’s tone poem. The expression of the thanks offered to the godhead, and of the reviving happiness of the convalescent, is just as worthy. —The significance of the concluding movement of the third of the advertised quartets is less clear, even though the inscription designates doubt and the resolution that

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follows from it. In general, I am least able to convince myself of the value of this movement (but only of this one). With this fundamental view of Beethoven’s music, I find great pleasure in the present three quartets, and no less than in the earlier and earliest works of this master—since the memory of deep feeling and the excitement of a living imagination proceed from them. That which lies on a deep foundation, however, needs to be created deeply as well. Thus, it is less easy to fathom classic works than their undoubted excellence suggests. How often did the Mozart quartets have to be heard and practiced before their value was generally acknowledged? And—is it not perhaps this longer and more frequent practice that gives Beethoven’s older music the allegedly decisive preference over the more recent? . . . This much is certain: that for Beethoven’s music, at least his recent music, complete success cannot be expected at the first delivery. The best virtuosos will not understand at once how to come to terms with them as a whole, even if each one has mastered his own part. Nowhere is it less permissible than in Beethoven’s music to neglect the expression of the whole and to be satisfied if the details are successful. For it is precisely that expression of the whole that is the means whereby the one idea lying within the poet is reproduced as a whole. Thus the noteworthy observation that many virtuosos who are significant solo players are incapable of declaiming a quartet with the appropriate sensibility. This will be done successfully, on the other hand, by a union that, with no individual presumption, aims to realize the pure reproduction of an ingenious fantasy as it appeared to the soul of the tone poet. Such a union will not regret treating the first delivery as a fleeting preparation, using the second and following ones as the means to a proper understanding, thus looking forward, after an effort carried on con amore, to that success that will reward them with frequent and easily repeatable enjoyment. Only in this manner is it possible to establish what one might be tempted to regard as a deficiency of the work of art, —the close connection of the individual parts, in which one only misses the context now and then because an individual middle voice fails to make clear the context that would ideally be present by bringing out a connecting phrase, emphasizing an accent. In this manner, hasty judgments will be corrected. In any case, the classical times will confer that justice that Mozart first found after his death, and which Durante36 and Händel have found again after a century.

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Reviews of Opus 132, String Quartet in A Minor B., “Brief Evaluations,” Allgemeine Musikzeitung zur Beförderung der theoretischen und praktischen Tonkunst für Musiker und für Fruende der Musik überhaupt 2, no. 6 (January 19, 1828), cols. 47−4837 (Reviewed with String Quartet in F Major, op. 135) The friends of the deceased Beethoven receive here two quartets that will be welcome to them. One finds here the same difficult harmonies, the same singular leaps and the same attractive passages as in the other last works of this master. We do not need to point out these features more closely; whoever is not a stranger in the musical world recognizes them and knows what he has to expect here. It is to be hoped that a time will one day come when judgments about Beethoven are more secure and more settled. We do not want to repeat here what has already very often been said, particularly recently, for and against his works. One may judge as one wants; it is always an established truth that Beethoven is a great star in the musical heaven, whose works we must study with all diligence.

Adolf Bernhard Marx,“Evaluations,” Berliner allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 5, no. 49 (December 3, 1828): 467−6838 (Reviewed with String Quartet in F Major, op. 135) Beethoven’s most recent quartets reach so far above the sphere of his and all other compositions in this genre, and also, until now, so rarely find players who are perfectly prepared for them, that is seems more advisable to prepare the way for them with individual reflections, rather than a genuine evaluation. It is to be hoped that time and space will be found to follow these with a more penetrating assessment of these noteworthy phenomena in the succession from the earlier quartets of Haydn on. —There are two points, in particular, that will help us to achieve our purpose. The first glance through the scores shows, in all four voices, such free, always self-sufficient treatment, almost always self-contained and beautiful in itself, as has not prevailed in instrumental compositions with any tone poet since Sebastian Bach. They are no longer four happy brothers in art

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who make music for us for their, and our, enjoyment; they are four deeply affected creative spirits who soar up into magnificent freedom and wondrous sympathy in a brotherly embrace intertwined fourfold. If the performers do not constitute an equal union of noble, equal, free, brotherly spirits, no perfect manifestation of the work of art is conceivable, nor is full satisfaction for the players to be hoped for. No small amount of training is required of every player in order to master his part technically and give it suitable tone, power, delicacy, and facility. In addition to these outward conditions, a deep sensibility is required to grasp it inwardly, with deepest soul in their own innermost soul. True artistic training, and long practice for the most highly trained and gifted, are all required before one voice accommodates itself freely and flexibly to the others, and does not appear to give up anything of its own content if it risks everything so as never to disturb the free progress of the others. —Heightened artistic training will make the conditions of such playing easy, as the conditions for declaiming Haydn’s quartets no longer strike our generation as difficult. May whoever now employs greater care, effort, and time on the new works of Beethoven know them to be repaid in advance by the conviction that he is one of the first to join himself to a step forward in art in which all artists and the public must follow him. Now, this freest unfolding, most delicate design of all four voices discharges a sea of emotions, full of the play of the most variegated, delicate forms, an outpouring rising up from the heart of the singer long alone— separated from humanity in bleak deafness—easily upsetting and confusing the hearer’s most receptive, open soul. A similar effect is often brought about by the pictures of Rubens. Confronted by his Lion Hunt or his Sanherib,39 the more practiced eye needs a while to begin to analyze the abundance of figures and then grasp all the details and the way they are all united in a richly abundant, always consummate whole. Among our poets, it is probably only Heinr. v. Kleist who perhaps gives us a similar image of overflowing emotion, for which no word, no trait, no flood is sufficient. One will find a very wholesome emotional preparation for Beethoven’s last works in this most lovely, great-hearted singer—for example, in a monologue that, while it has absolutely no object in common with this music, nevertheless proclaims the most heartfelt subjective kinship. It is the outpouring of love of the Count vom Strahl, after he has harshly tormented Käthchen von Heilbronn for the sake of his and her honor.40 How much more favorable, to be sure, is the position of the richly abundant painter and poet compared to that of the musician! The one moment

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retained by the former rests before us unchanged, waiting quietly until our helplessness and weakness have come to terms with the artist. The language of the poet is also so familiar to the most preoccupied reader that he can pick up the thread again at any moment; that the coldest, most superficial reader, to whom the full life of the poet can never be disclosed, must nevertheless find points of contact in a hundred individual traits. Thanks be to the blind leaders of the musical public in our journals of entertainment, and to the lazy musicians who leave the musical direction of the public to them, for the fact that the tone poet must first await a new strengthening of the devotion of the people to artists in order to find spirits and hearts open to new ideas. —It is not for Beethoven’s sake, however, but rather for their own sake, that players and listeners may go to meet these works with the quiet, humble knowledge that they will not, for now, understand them completely, that only their ineptitude is to blame for every passage that they do not understand, and that Beethoven could not have arrived at it without sacrifice. Whoever approaches the last disclosures of Beethoven with this sensibility is worthy and able to hear them, and sooner or later to understand them.

Review of Opus 135, String Quartet in F Major Adolf Bernhard Marx, “Evaluations,” Berliner allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 6, no. 22 (May 30, 1829): 169−70 (Mentioned: String Quintet in C Major, op. 29; String Quartet in C Major, op. 59, no. 3) The most recent quartets of Beethoven, and specifically that named here, are currently the weightiest, but at the same time most difficult, task for all good quartet associations. The deep sighs and grumbling of those few who do not even want to understand Beethoven are becoming ever fainter amid the cries of general admiration, and it is interesting to perceive how even the Parisian public is turning to the thoughtful German composer with respect and admiring interest41—naturally proclaiming its interest with incomparably more emphasis and éclat than the more introverted German public. The latter never likes to acquiesce in outward, indeterminate admiration, and if so many friends of art and artists among us still seem to bristle at

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Beethoven’s most recent works, this arises precisely from the dissatisfaction, in itself noble, with any interpretation that does not penetrate to the depths. With a spirit so completely distinctively consummate there in fact also exists, in between perfect comprehension and superficial scanning, the possibility of perfect misunderstanding. The present work can illustrate this. When, for example, in the Vivace from p. 16 on, the figure Example 15.5. Beethoven, String Quartet in F Major, opus 135, mvt. 2, repeated figure in the second violin part beginning at mm. 143–44.

       [Vivace]

is repeated in thrice-doubled octaves by the second violin, viola, and violoncello more than fifty times in succession as accompaniment to an upper melody that is just as striking, this must appear baroque, indeed repugnant, if one fails to recognize a higher idea, which imparts meaning and context to all the strange, often apparently contradictory traits. Beethoven himself, in his last period, himself admitted (as was maintained in this journal more than five years ago) that he could not easily compose a piece without a specific representation, without a clearly thought-out fundamental idea.42 As soon as one has recognized this, it spreads a bright light over the whole, and one perceives the consistency, the unity, the harmony of those traits that had previously appeared inharmonious. The content of the last works appears to be most intimately connected with Beethoven’s subjectivity and his peculiar situation. One understands how this sequence of ideas can appear confused and insane to a coldly unreceptive spectator who stays only on the outside— while in the breast of a sympathetic, compassionate friend, the deepest, innermost soul of the tone poet flows forth in the full abundance of its emotions, recollections, and sufferings. Accordingly, the present quartet appears to us to be a melancholy recollection of a past, happier time. In the disconnected melismas from which the first movement is woven, one believes that one is perceiving now sighs for that past time, now a flattering retreat into self-deception, now a true “täium vitä,”43 the disgruntled sloughing off of life, of life’s burden. Who does not feel, after understanding this movement, that the gaiety of the second is forced: “let us be young again, and stroll on in unencumbered happiness and foolishness!” This gaiety presses toward wildness, toward the edge of ruin, not toward pleasure, toward the natural, unforced pleasure of youth. It

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leads only to irresistible recollection, to the unrestrained, most melancholy and delicate lament of the third part. The fourth then expresses renunciation, “self surrender,” with its mixture of deepest pain and seemingly apathetic passing, which can even take on the countenance of happiness—and thereby, while never overcoming the harsh question—surmounts it. Example 15.6. Beethoven, String Quartet in F Major, op. 135, beginning of an introductory inscription by Beethoven that precedes the fourth movement. The text translates into English as “Must it be?”

? 32 œ . œ b ú Ó [] J [Grave]

Muss es sein?

Perhaps this interpretation will be further strengthened if the reader pursues the individual traits on his own, rather than by our developing them to that point. Mr. Schlesinger would win himself many thanks if he were to continue with score editions. Among older works, he has first released the C-Major Quintet. The grand C-Major Quartet would certainly be one of the most welcome gifts.44

Bibliography Adelson, Robert. “Beethoven’s String Quartet in E flat Op. 127: A Study of the First Performances.” Music & Letters 79 (1998): 219–43. Allan, Seán. The Plays of Heinrich von Kleist: Ideals and Illusions. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Beethoven, Ludwig van. Briefwechsel Gesamtausgabe. Edited by Sieghard Brandenburg. 7 vols. Munich: Henle, 1996–98. Chua, Daniel K. L. “Beethoven’s Other Humanism.” Journal of the American Musicological Society 62 (2009): 571–645. Dahlhaus, Carl. “La malinconia.” In Ludwig van Beethoven, edited by Ludwig Finscher, 200–211. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1983. Fétis, F. J. Biographie universelle des musiciens et bibliographie générale de la musique. 2nd ed. 8 vols. Paris: Firmin-Didot, 1860–65. Gingerich, John M. “Ignaz Schuppanzigh and Beethoven’s Late Quartets.” Musical Quarterly 93 (2010): 450−513.

382  ❧  chapter fifteen Gordon, Peter E. “The Artwork beyond Itself: Adorno, Beethoven, and Late Style.” In The Modernist Imagination: Intellectual History and Critical Theory, edited by Warren Breckman et al., 77–98. New York: Berghahn Books, 2009. Knittel, K.  M. “Wagner, Deafness, and the Reception of Beethoven’s Late Style.” Journal of the American Musicological Society 50 (1988): 49–82. Kraus, Beate Angelika. Beethoven-Rezeption in Frankreich: Von ihren Anfängen bis zum Untergang des Second Empire. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 2001. Pederson, Sanna. “A. B. Marx, Berlin Concert Life, and German National Identity.” 19th Century Music 18 (1994): 87−107. Rochlitz, Friedrich. “Auf Veranlassung von: 1. Grand Quatuor—pour deux violons, alto et violoncelle, comp.—par Louis van Beethoven. OEuvr. 131. Mayence, chez les fils de B. Schott. 2. Grand Quatuor—en partition.” Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 30, nos. 30 and 31 (July 23 and 30, 1828), cols. 485–95 and 501–9. Thayer, Alexander Wheelock. Thayer’s Life of Beethoven. Revised and edited by Elliot Forbes. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1967.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

The reviews in this chapter appear also on the website of the Boston University Center for Beethoven Research, at https://www.bu.edu/beethovencenter/ publications-by-the-center/. Knittel, “Wagner,” 50. Ibid., 57. Ibid., 66–67. Gordon, “The Artwork,” 80–81. Chua, “Beethoven’s Other Humanism,” 627. Only a few announcements and one extremely long essay have been omitted, and one item has been shortened, since it mostly discusses other music. Rochlitz, “Auf Veranlassung von: 1. Grand Quatuor.” By a “friend” Rochlitz probably meant himself. Translations are my own, unless otherwise indcated. The reviews and the relevant portions of the concert reports pertaining to the late quartets are quoted in full below, along with full citations of the sources. Opus 127, the first of the five epochal “late quartets,” was written in 1824−25 and was first performed by a quartet led by Ignaz Schuppanzigh on March 6, 1825. On the circumstances surrounding this performance and the more successful ones by Joseph Böhm and the other three members of Schuppanzigh’s quartet (Karl Holz, Franz Weiss, and Joseph Linke) that followed, see Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, rev. and ed. Forbes, 937−42. See also Adelson, “Beethoven’s String Quartet,” 219–43, and Gingerich, “Ignaz Schuppanzigh,” 468−79, which also includes details of the performances by an ensemble led by Joseph Mayseder that quickly followed.

early reviews of beethoven's late string quartets  ❧ 383 10 See Gingerich, “Ignaz Schuppanzigh,” 471–72, for details on the chronology of these performances. 11 In other words, Böhm had the advantage of having heard Schuppanzigh perform the quartet as well as that of having more rehearsal time. 12 This report by the well-known critic Ludwig Rellstab (1799−1860) appeared between the two sections of his “Travel Report” on a recent visit to Vienna (Berliner allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 2, no. 20 (May 18 1825): 162−63, and no. 21 (May 25 1825): 169, respectively), and presumably reflects his reaction to hearing opus 127 at one of the original performances, probably one of those led by either Böhm or Mayseder. 13 The original review contained this footnote. “Il., VII, 310. — — — ἀελπτέοντες σόον εἶναι.” 14 This report is dated Paris, June 1826, and refers to the Parisian edition of opus 127, issued by Schott simultaneously with the one issued at Mainz in June 1826. In the title for the article it is incorrectly listed as “Oeuvre 129.” The author is Juste-Adrien Lenoir de Lafage (1805−1862), who at this time was a teacher of solfège and singing in Paris. He later wrote extensively on theoretical topics and contributed articles to Revue musicale, Tablettes universelles, Gazetta musicale di Milano, and many other journals. With A.  E. Choron, he published an encyclopedia of music. His compositions include both instrumental and vocal works, the latter primarily sacred. See Fétis, Biographie universelle, 5:160−62. 15 The original review contained this footnote: “The score is also now in press. The Editor.” 16 This review refers primarily to the Mainz editions of opus 127. 17 See the previous review. 18 The original review contained this footnote: “If we say too much here, whether further steps forward would truly constitute desirable progress, or whether steps backward from here would constitute genuine progress in the right direction—this may be answered by the following examples.” The author then quotes mm. 107–17 of the first movement in full score and mm. 5–13, 90–97, and 248–53 of the last movement in a reduction to two staves. 19 See n. 9. 20 French for “with four hands”—that is, at one piano with two players. 21 Late classical Latin: “a point beyond which it is impossible to go; a peak of artistic achievement.” 22 Latin: “to the eyes.” 23 This and the following review refer to an anonymous arrangement of the theme of the second movement of opus 127 for soprano with piano accompaniment, published by Schott in June 1827 with the title “Beethovens Heimgang.” The text is by Fr. Schmidt. Page 1 of the edition features a lithographic reproduction of the conclusion of a letter written by Beethoven to the publisher, dated

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24 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32 33

34

35

September 17, 1824 (Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 5:368 [no. 1881]), in which Beethoven promises to send the manuscript of the quartet and states movingly that he is not yet ready to die, despite recent ill health, because a great deal of creative work remains for him to do. The letter had also been printed in Caecilia after the notice of Beethoven’s death and a description by Anton Schindler of his final hours (Caecilia 6 [1827], 309−11). Although the quartet as a whole is in E-flat major, the second movement, marked “Adagio, ma non troppo e molto cantabile,” is in the key of the subdominant, A-flat. Issues of the journal Caecilia appeared at irregular intervals; sometimes the month and year of publication are indicated, sometimes just the year. This is a description of the first performance of opus 130, which took place on March 21, 1826. Written in 1825−26, this was the third of the late quartets in order of composition. The current finale had not yet been written at the time of this performance, and the Grosse Fuge, published as opus 133, was performed instead. For further details, see Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, rev. and ed. Forbes, 974−75. In other words, the second movement of the “Emperor” Quartet, op. 76, no. 3, which consists of variations on the tune “Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser.” This was actually not a folk song, but a melody composed by Haydn. Franz Weiss (1778−1830) was at that time violist of the Schuppanzigh quartet. Anton Halm (1789−1872) later arranged the Grosse Fuge for piano four hands. On Beethoven’s dissatisfaction with this arrangement, see Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, rev. and ed. Forbes, 975. Actually Adagio ma non troppo—Allegro. Actually Andante con moto ma non troppo. This is apparently an early version of the often-told anecdote about an Eastern sage who attends a Western orchestra concert and finds nothing as pleasing as the tuning up of the orchestra before the program begins. It is intriguing to find that the story goes back at least to Beethoven’s time. This review refers to the first editions of these three quartets. The reviewer wrote signed articles in both Caecilia and the Allgemeine musikalishe Zeitung, including once for the latter as the correspondent from Mannheim (Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 16, no. 22 [June 1, 1814], cols. 373−77). His signature sometimes includes the first initial G. It is possible that he is Johann Georg Vollweiler (1770−1847), cellist in the Mannheim orchestra and a noted composer and teacher. This refers to the fourth movement of op. 18, no. 6, in B-flat major. Technically the designation “La malincolia” refers only to the Adagio introduction, which returns later in the movement. For more on this unusual movement, see Dahlhaus, “La malinconia,” 200−211.

early reviews of beethoven's late string quartets  ❧ 385 36 Francesco Durante (1684−1755) was an important Neapolitan composer of church music whose works continued to be studied and performed well into the nineteenth century. 37 The quartet that was published as opus 132 was the third of the late quartets, having been written in 1825, before opus 131. The work was published, in score and parts, by Maurice Schlesinger in Paris and Adolph Martin Schlesinger in Berlin in late 1827. Opus 135, the last of the late quartets, was written in late 1826 and was also published by the Schlesinger firms in August 1827 in Paris (parts only) and in Berlin (score and parts) in the fall of the same year. 38 This review refers to the Schlesinger editions of opus 132 and opus 135, both of which were released in September 1827. The latter is incorrectly listed here as Beethoven’s 235th work. 39 A footnote in the original reads: “Released in splendid lithographs by the Schleissheimer Gallery.” 40 The play Das Käthchen von Heilbronn, by Heinrich von Kleist (1771−1811), presents a sentimental idealization of womanhood so extreme that it has sometimes been taken for a parody, but it was his most popular play during his lifetime (see Allan, The Plays of Heinrich von Kleist, 178−96). The speech by the Count vom Strahl to which Marx alludes occurs at the beginning of the second act. 41 Marx was probably aware of the founding, in 1828, of the Société des Concerts des Conservatoire, which, under the direction of Antoine Habeneck, played a crucial role in popularizing Beethoven’s symphonies in Paris. It is likely that during the nineteenth century these works were more frequently and better performed in Paris than in any other city. The reception of Beethoven in France is treated exhaustively in Kraus, Beethoven-Rezeption. Kraus provides tables showing the exact frequency of these performances (110−11, 126−27). In light of Marx’s comments on the infrequency with which Beethoven’s orchestral works were peformed in Berlin, it is particularly interesting to see that between 1828 and 1848 the Fifth Symphony was performed in Paris forty times, the Sixth thirty-five times, and the Seventh thirty-three times. See Pederson, “A. B. Marx, Berlin Concert Life, and German National Identity,” 87−107. 42 Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, rev. and ed. Forbes, 620, records the recollection by Beethoven’s friend Charles Neate that the composer once told him, “I always have a picture in mind, when I am composing, and work up to it.” 43 This Latin phrase is presumably a misprint for “taedium vitae”: weariness of life. 44 This presumably refers to op. 59, no. 3, the last of the “Razumovsky” Quartets.

Part Five

Explorations

Chapter Sixteen

Three Movements or Four? The Scherzo Movements in Beethoven’s Early Sonatas Erica Buurman Several major studies been devoted to the development of the scherzo movement from the eighteenth-century minuet, in which Beethoven played a significant role.1 Much less attention has been given to Beethoven’s addition of the scherzo movement to the keyboard sonata and related genres. His use of the four-movement cycle in his Piano Trios, op. 1, and Piano Sonatas, op. 2, a design previously associated primarily with the symphony and the string quartet, is considered representative of his desire to treat the sonata (solo or accompanied) as a grand and serious genre. Four-movement sonatas had precedents in larger works of the London Pianoforte School, though they were not yet standard within the Viennese tradition. Beethoven’s decision to compose his earliest Viennese sonatas in four movements exemplifies his characteristic striving for innovation, even though he returned to two- and three-movement designs in many later sonata works. Beethoven’s inclusion of the interior dance movement in the sonata cycle has rarely been considered in the context of the views of contemporary music criticism. Neither has this issue been examined in the early sonata sketches, even though there have been many sketch studies devoted to Beethoven’s sonatas, including a recent survey of the creation of all the piano sonatas.2 Yet both of these contexts—music criticism and

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Beethoven’s compositional process—can cast light on the composer’s reasons for using the four-movement cycle in his early Viennese works as well as on his decision to abandon this design in later keyboard works. Since he sometimes used the terms “minuet” and “scherzo” interchangeably in the sketches (notably in the case of the Eroica Symphony),3 the focus here will be on both types of movement that function as an interior dance-type movement.

Scherzos in Sonata Works: Aesthetic Issues Beethoven’s use of the four-movement cycle in his early sonatas is rarely considered to be a controversial innovation, especially since this became the established structure for the nineteenth-century sonata. According to Anton Schindler, however, Beethoven later felt dissatisfied with his use of the four-movement cycle in some of the early sonatas. Schindler claimed that Beethoven’s doubts over the role of the scherzo movement in the early sonatas surfaced in 1823, when it was proposed that a complete edition of Beethoven’s works be published (after a similar proposal in 1816 had not come to fruition): Beethoven said that he was wondering whether this edition might achieve a greater unity if some of the four-movement sonatas from an earlier time, when sonatas with multiple movements were common, should be reworked to a three-movement form. He definitely wished to delete the Scherzo allegro from the highly emotional sonata in C minor for violin and piano, opus 30 [no. 2], because of its incompatibility with the character of the work as a whole. He was always unhappy with this movement and wanted to do away with it.4

Such thinking on Beethoven’s part appears to be at odds with the prevailing notion, in much criticism of the past two centuries, of the integrity of his instrumental works. Beethoven has often been credited with having raised the multi-movement cycle from its eighteenth-century manifestation as a collection of independent contrasting movements to a psychologically coherent entity.5 This innovation is often considered to have emerged in the middle period, though A. B. Marx considered the Piano Sonata, op. 2, no. 1, to be the first example of a cycle whose movements trace a coherent psychological journey from beginning to end.6 There are in fact reasons to be sceptical about Schindler’s anecdote, which was absent from his original 1840 Beethoven biography, appearing only in the third, expanded edition

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of 1860. This circumstance, combined with the fact that there are no other corroborating sources, means that the report cannot be taken at face value, especially since Schindler is known to have fabricated many other details of the composer’s life. Nevertheless, Beethoven’s alleged misgivings about the scherzos in his early four-movement sonatas chime closely with the views of some eighteenth-century critics regarding minuet movements within the symphony cycle. The four-movement cycle (fast–slow–minuet–fast) was not yet universally accepted as standard template for symphonies in the late eighteenth century: as late as 1793, Heinrich Christoph Koch described the symphony as being a work in three movements in a fast–slow–fast sequence, though he concluded his description with a brief remark that many composers also include a minuet and trio.7 As Gretchen Wheelock has observed, some critics (particularly from north Germany) did not approve of minuet movements in symphonies, regarding them as being at odds with the genre’s otherwise serious nature.8 In his 1789 Klavierschule, Daniel Gottlob Türk described minuets and trios as “certainly quite inappropriate” in the context of a symphony, though he acknowledged that composers sometimes add one or even two such movements to the standard three-movement scheme.9 Comic minuets were particularly frowned upon: according to one writer in the Musikalisches Wochenblatt, where minuets provoke laughter, “there can no longer be any question of whether minuets are appropriate in lofty symphonies.”10 The multi-movement sequence was more flexible in late eighteenthcentury sonata works than in symphonies, and minuets could be included in both two- and three-movement cycles, usually functioning as a finale. (Mozart’s two-movement Violin Sonata in E Minor, K. 304/300c, and his three-movement Violin Sonata in F, K. 377/374e, both conclude with a Tempo di Menuetto.) Minuet movements in sonatas apparently did not provoke the same outspoken objections from north German critics as symphonic minuets, though. Eighteenth-century composers generally treated dance movements differently in sonatas from those in symphonies, in line with the intended performance context for both genres. Whereas the symphony was a concert work typically performed for a large audience, the sonata was meant to be performed only within small gatherings. Composers consequently used a narrower expressive framework in sonatas than in public works, avoiding strong contrasts that might appear overblown in an intimate setting. The sonata was furthermore characterized by many theorists as expressing the innermost feelings of the soul, thus requiring sensitivity and

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expressive flexibility in performance.11 Schindler used this latter line of reasoning to explain why Beethoven apparently wished to delete scherzos and minuets from early sonata works only, rather than from works on a larger scale, including quartets and quintets. The deletion of interior dance movements from sonatas would have been done “for the purpose of achieving unity of character,” something which was not necessary in works intended for performance in front of larger audiences.12 (Schindler evidently considered quartets and quintets to be public genres, even though the culture of chamber music concerts was still in its infancy in Beethoven’s day.) Beethoven’s Violin Sonata in C Minor, op. 30, no. 2, however, portrays a particularly wide range of expressions across its four movements. The sparkling C-major scherzo, which Schindler singled out as a movement Beethoven later wished to remove from the sonata, has some obviously comic moments. Measures 27–34 stand out in particular: after a move to A minor, this passage features insistent offbeat accents in both instruments, where the piano plays nothing but tonic and dominant chords and the violin repeats the note E for a full eight measures (see ex. 16.1). Most editions, following the first Viennese edition, instruct the violinist to play most of this passage with an open string and a stopped string together, thereby exaggerating the brashness of the violin’s line. After a two-bar decrescendo the C-major main theme suddenly returns at a pianissimo dynamic, and the furious outburst of the previous passage ends as abruptly as it began. The scherzo, which appears as the third movement in the piece, stands out as a moment of levity in contrast with the stormy outer movements, both in C minor, and the expansive A-flat-major Adagio cantabile second movement. Even if Beethoven did not consider revising the work as Schindler claimed, he must have been sensitive to the fact that he was pushing the limits of contemporary musical taste by juxtaposing such strongly contrasting characters within a sonata.

From Four Movements to Three: Discarded Scherzo Movements Beethoven never did remove a scherzo from a completed work, despite having made significant revisions in other cases (most famously that of the String Quartet, op. 130, whose original Grosse Fuge finale was replaced after the work had received its first public performance). Nevertheless, his sketches reveal that he vacillated over the issue of whether to include a scherzo during the composition of several early sonata works. Previous sketch studies have

t he scher zo movements in beethoven’s early sonatas  ❧ 393 Example 16.1. Beethoven, Violin Sonata in C Minor, op. 30, no. 2, mvt. 2, mm. 27–34.

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revealed two cases where Beethoven sketched a scherzo movement during the composition of a sonata but ultimately discarded it from the finished work. The first of these is the Piano Sonata, op. 10, no. 1, in C minor, which is Beethoven’s first Viennese keyboard sonata to abandon the four-movement cycle. Sketches for the Piano Sonatas, op. 10, survive only in a fragmentary state on loose leaves of paper, since they predate the period when Beethoven began to use bound sketchbooks. Nevertheless, sketches for these sonatas (ca. 1796–98) give an insight into Beethoven’s intentions regarding the scherzo movements, as Gustav Nottebohm first identified.13 During the course of work on the C-Minor Sonata, op. 10, no. 1, Beethoven sketched two different triple-meter movements in C minor (WoO 52 and WoO 53, both published posthumously as bagatelles) that were evidently being considered as possible scherzo movements for the sonata. These sketches indicate that he had a change of heart about the overall sequence of movements during the course of the sonata’s composition. Verbal comments among the opus 10 sketches provide further indications of the composer’s developing views on the inclusion of scherzo movements

394  ❧  chapter sixteen

in these sonatas. On folio 82r of the Kafka Miscellany (one of the two main collections of the composer’s early sketch leaves), Beethoven noted the following: “Zu den neuen Sonaten ganz kurze Menuetten. Zu der aus dem c moll bleibt das presto weg” (“In the new sonatas very short minuets. In the one in C minor the Presto stays out”).14 This comment indicates that he was now considering the roles of the minuet movements in all these sonatas. The “Presto” evidently refers to the movement now known as the Bagatelle, WoO 52 (marked “presto”), which Beethoven had now decided to remove from op. 10, no. 1. He also clearly had concerns about the appropriate lengths for the minuet movements, as indicated in his comment about “very short minuets,” and in another note on folio 102r of the Kafka Miscellany: “Die Menuetten zu den Sonaten inskünftige nicht länger als von höch[stens] 16 bis 24 T[äkte]” (“The minuets in the sonatas in future no longer than 16 to 24 measures at the most”).15 The abandonment of the scherzo movement was not the only way in which the Piano Sonata, op. 10, no. 1, diminished in size during the sketching process. As William Drabkin explains, two drafts for the finale’s development section in the Fischhof Miscellany are much more substantial than that in the finished version, as they include a quotation of the second subject (which also occurs in the coda).16 By removing the quotation of the second subject, thereby shortening the development by at least twenty measures, Beethoven settled on a finale that is less monumental in scope than the version represented in the Fischhof Miscellany. Drabkin speculates that the shortening of the finale and the rejection of the scherzo movement were interconnected. Beethoven may have decided that the trimmed version of the finale was too insubstantial as a conclusion for a four-movement work, and therefore removed the scherzo (rather than compose an entirely new finale).17 The second case of an apparently abandoned scherzo movement is that of the “Waldstein” Sonata, op. 53, whose sketches are contained within Landsberg 6 (the so-called Eroica sketchbook) of 1803–4.18 Beethoven’s major structural revision to this sonata, replacing the original Andante slow movement with the shorter Introduzione that precedes the finale, is very well known. Before the sonata was published, Beethoven had presented the original version to several of his close friends, one of whom (according to Ferdinand Ries) suggested that the work was too long. The composer initially responded angrily to the suggestion, but eventually decided that the friend was right and scaled down the sonata by removing the lengthy slow movement (later published as a separate work and commonly known as the

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From Three Movements to Four: Scherzos Added at a Later Compositional Stage Beethoven’s sketches from very early stages of composition also reveal cases where he changed his mind over whether to include a scherzo movement in a sonata work. In the early stages of composing a multi-movement work, he frequently sketched a brief plan outlining the projected movements in the work as a whole. Such multi-movement plans sometimes indicate only basic features of individual movements, such as their projected key and meter, and sometimes they deal with only part of a work (for example, just the later movements).22 They nevertheless provide an insight into Beethoven’s conception of the work’s overall shape at a particular point in the compositional process. In the case of works whose number of movements is flexible, such as sonatas, multi-movement plans can also indicate how many movements were planned from the outset. A multi-movement plan for the Violin Sonata in C Minor, op. 30, no. 2, made at the beginning stage of composition, indicates that Beethoven’s initial conception for this work was different from what ended up as the fourmovement structure of the finished version. Beethoven sketched the initial plan on folio 51r of the Kessler sketchbook, amid work on the original finale of op. 30, no. 1. The plan includes a sketch for the first movement, which is explicitly labelled “Sonata 2da,” from staves 3 to 4 (ex. 16.3a), followed by sketches for two other movements that were evidently also intended for the C-Minor Sonata. A relatively lengthy sketch for the finale (“l’ultimo pezzo”) begins on staves 9–10 (Ex. 16.3b). There is no sign of the A-flatmajor Andante cantabile slow movement, though a twelve-bar sketch for a “Menuett[o] con Var[iazioni]” in E-flat on staves 15–16 appears to represent an early conception of a possible interior movement (ex. 16.3c). Nottebohm’s transcription of the sketches for op. 30, no. 2, on this page omits the Menuetto, perhaps because he did not recognize it as belonging with the sonata.23 The position of this sketch alongside preliminary ideas for the outer movements suggests, however, that the Menuetto formed part of Beethoven’s early plan for the work. Sieghard Brandenburg tentatively identifies the sketch as a projected interior movement of op. 30, no. 2, in his transcription and facsimile edition of the Kessler sketchbook.24 As an interior movement, a theme and variations in the relative major would fulfil the function of a slow movement, even if its main theme was a Tempo di Minuetto. It is unlikely, however, that Beethoven would have intended to pair such a movement with an actual triple-meter dance movement, as this

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The sketches reveal that several possibilities were sketched for interior movements as work on the sonata progressed. The Menuetto variations movement in E-flat was quickly abandoned, since there are no further sketches for it in the Kessler sketchbook. Several isolated sketches with material presumably intended for a slow movement then appear intermittently among sketches for the first movement. These include a sketch with the main theme of the Andante cantabile in G major instead of A-flat (fol. 54r) and several other brief sketches in A-flat major (on fols. 55r, 56r, and 57v). The first sketch for the scherzo movement of the finished work appears on folio 60v, among sketches for the first and second movements. Throughout the sketching process, Beethoven’s basic conception of the first and last movements remained unchanged from the preliminary multi-movement plan shown in example 16.3. Apparently the sonata’s outer pillars were established before he had a clear idea of the material of the interior movements. A similar process can be observed in Beethoven’s sketches for the Piano Sonata in A-flat Major, op. 26 (1800–1801), whose preliminary sketches have been discussed in numerous studies, beginning with Nottebohm’s 1877 article for the Musikalisches Wochenblatt.25 Beethoven’s multi-movement plan for this work, on page 56 of the sketchbook Landsberg 7, shows a more detailed conception of the outer movements than the interior movements. The plan in the sketches is headed “Sonate pour M–” and includes the entire variation theme of the first movement in a form virtually identical to that in the finished version, as well as a brief draft of a finale theme notated in piano score that has the appearance of having already been tested under the fingers. The finale theme represented in the sketch is not the one that was eventually used, but it already has the  meter and perpetuum mobile character of the finished version. Beethoven’s conception of the inner movements is represented only by a verbal comment in between the sketches for the first movement and the finale: “Menuetto o qualche altro pezzo characteristica come p[er] E[sempio] una Marcia in as moll e poi / questo” (“Menuetto or some other character piece such as a march in A-flat minor and then / this”). The “this” refers to the finale sketch that follows immediately on the next staff. Beethoven’s verbal comment indicates that his initial plan was to have either a minuet or “some other character piece” as the sole interior movement. At this stage, therefore, opus 26 was apparently planned as a three-movement work, whereas the finished work has both a scherzo and a “Marcia funebre” slow movement. The first sketches for the “Marcia funebre” appear on page 57, directly opposite the multi-movement plan, indicating that Beethoven quickly

the scher zo movements in beethoven’s early sonatas  ❧ 399

settled upon the funeral march as an interior movement. Beethoven almost always sketched movements in the order in which they appear in the finished work, which suggests that the “Marcia funebre” was initially planned as the second movement of the sonata, whereas it the third movement in the finished work. The sonata’s scherzo movement (Scherzo, Allegro molto, ) was first sketched much later in the sketchbook, starting on page 158. Sketches on page 183 for the Bagatelle, op. 33, no. 7 (an A-flat-major Presto in ), also suggest that this was at one point being considered as an alternative scherzo for opus 26, since further sketches for opus 26 appear on the immediately preceding pages. Since the scherzo movement was absent from the preliminary multi-movement plan and was sketched out of sequence with its appearance in the finished work, Beethoven seems to have decided to include this movement only after the rest of the work was starting to take shape. In any case, the scherzo in the finished work represents the most significant difference between Beethoven’s initial conception of the sonata and its final version. The basic outline of the rest of the sonata, by contrast, remained largely unchanged throughout the process of composition. The Sonata in E-flat Major, op. 31, no. 3, is the only one of the opus 31 sonatas to consist of four movements. Sketches for op. 31, no. 3, survive in incomplete form on the first eleven pages of the Wielhorsky sketchbook of 1802–3,26 and they evidently continue work on the sonata that was begun elsewhere, since the first two pages of sketches already show fairly advanced versions of the first, second, and last movements. No sketches survive for the sonata’s Menuetto third movement, either in Wielhorsky or elsewhere. This suggests that Beethoven may at first have had a three-movement structure in mind for the sonata and only later decided to add a minuet to the cycle. Barry Cooper proposes, alternatively, that Beethoven had planned from an early stage to include a moderately paced minuet to provide contrast between the  Allegretto vivace second movement (headed “Scherzo”) and the Presto con fuoco finale but that he left its composition to another time.27 The incomplete state of the sketches makes it impossible to determine the point at which Beethoven decided upon a four-movement structure. Whether or not a minuet movement was planned from the outset, the surviving sketches in Wielhorsky suggest that the interior dance movement was the last aspect of the sonata’s overall design to emerge during the compositional process, as was also observed in the sketches for the sonatas discussed above.

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Conclusions It seems, therefore, that for some of Beethoven’s early sonatas the scherzo movement was the most flexible aspect of the work’s multi-movement design during the process of composition. This is most obvious in sonatas where a scherzo was sketched but ultimately omitted from the finished work, as seems to have been the case with op. 10, no. 1, and the “Waldstein” Sonata. Beethoven’s multi-movement plans, sketched at a preliminary stage of composition, also suggest that he originally envisaged some of his fourmovement sonatas as three-movement works. Even where his conception of the outer movements was established at a very early stage, his decision whether or not to include a scherzo alongside an interior slow movement sometimes emerged only later, as was apparently the case with the Piano Sonata, op. 26, and the Violin Sonata, op. 30, no. 2. For some works, the thematic material of the interior dance movement was also the last part of the cycle to emerge in concrete form: the Menuetto of the Piano Sonata, op. 31, no. 3, for instance, was evidently sketched at a different stage from the other three movements. With this evidence in mind, it is worth returning to Schindler’s claim that Beethoven later considered removing some of the scherzo movements from his early sonatas. As noted above, his claim cannot be taken at face value, since Schindler is not a trustworthy source of information about Beethoven’s views of his own works. Nevertheless, the sketches indicate that the composer sometimes changed his mind about whether or not to include a scherzo at a relatively late stage. Schindler’s singling out of the scherzo of the Violin Sonata, op. 30, no. 2, also gains some plausibility in light of the fact that this movement was apparently absent from Beethoven’s initial conception of the sonata, as suggested by the multi-movement plan in the Kessler sketchbook. In combination, Schindler’s claim and Beethoven’s sketches serve as a reminder that the scherzo was not yet a firmly established part of the sonata cycle by the turn of the nineteenth century, despite the bold statement of Beethoven’s Piano Trios, op. 1, and Piano Sonatas, op. 2. Some critics of the late-eighteenth century were still expressing doubts about the suitability of minuet movements in symphonies, let alone in sonata works. Beethoven’s supposed unhappiness with some of the early scherzo movements may well have been fabricated by Schindler. Even so, his account at the very least suggests that Schindler himself found the scherzo movements in some of Beethoven’s early works to be aesthetically problematic. The composer’s sketches ultimately suggest that the subsequent removal of scherzo

the scher zo movements in beethoven’s early sonatas  ❧ 401

movements from some of the early sonatas would be less radical than the removing or replacing of other parts of the cycle, since these were the movements over which he vacillated the most during the process of composition.

List of Beethoven’s Sketchbooks Cited Eroica sketchbook. Biblioteka Jagiellońska, Kraków, Landsberg 6. Kafka Miscellany. British Library, London, Add. 29801. Kessler sketchbook. Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, Vienna, A 34. Landsberg 7 sketchbook. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Landsberg 7. Wielhorsky sketchbook, Glinka Museum, Moscow, F. 155 no. 1.

Bibliography Baker, Nancy Kovaleff, and Thomas Christensen, eds. Aesthetics and the Art of Musical Composition in the German Enlightenment: Selected Writings of Johann Georg Sulzer and Heinrich Christoph Koch. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. Beethoven, Ludwig van. Autograph Miscellany from 1786 to 1799. Edited by Joseph Kerman. 2 vols. London: British Museum, 1970. ———. Kesslerisches Skizzenbuch. Edited by Sieghard Brandenburg. 2 vols. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 1978. ———. Kniga eskizov Betkhovena za 1802–1803 gody, issledovanie i rasshifrovka [Edition and transcription of the Wielhorsky sketchbook]. Edited by Natan L’vovich Fishman. 3 vols. Moscow: Glinka Museum and State Publishing House, 1962. Buurman, Erica. “Beethoven’s Compositional Approach to Multi-Movement Structures in his Instrumental Works.” PhD diss., University of Manchester, 2013. Cooper, Barry. The Creation of Beethoven’s 35 Piano Sonatas. Abingdon: Routledge, 2017. Diepenthal-Fuder, Petra. Menuetto oder Scherzo? Untersuchungen zur Typologie lebhafter Binnensätze anhand der frühen Ensemble-Kammermusik Beethovens. Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1997. Drabkin, William. “Early Beethoven.” In Eighteenth-Century Keyboard Music, edited by Robert L. Marshall, 394–424. 2nd ed. New York and London: Routledge, 2003. Gmeiner, Josef. Menuett und Scherzo: Ein Beitrag zur Entwicklungsgeschichte und Soziologie des Tanzsatzes in der Wiener Klassik, Tutzing: Schneider, 1979.

402  ❧  chapter sixteen Kerman, Joseph, et al. “Beethoven, Ludwig van.” Grove Music Online. http:////www.oxfordmusiconline.com/grovemusic/view/10.1093/gmo /9781561592630.001.0001/omo-9781561592630–e-0000040026. Accessed August 31, 2018. Koch, Heinrich Christoph. Versuch einer Anleitung zur Composition. Vol. 3. Leipzig: Böhme, 1793. Lockwood, Lewis. “Beethoven’s Earliest Sketches for the Eroica Symphony.” Musical Quarterly 67 (1981): 457–78. ———. “The Beethoven Sketchbooks and the General State of Sketch Research.” In Beethoven’s Compositional Process, edited by William Kinderman, 6–13. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1991. Lockwood, Lewis, and Alan Gosman, eds. Beethoven’s “Eroica” Sketchbook: A Critical Edition; Transcription, Facsimile, Commentary. 2 vols. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2013. Luxner, Michael. “The Evolution of the Minuet/Scherzo in the Music of Beethoven.” PhD diss., University of Rochester, 1978. Marx, Adolf Bernhard. Ludwig van Beethoven: Leben und Schaffen. 2 vols. Berlin: Otto Janke, 1859. Nottebohm, Gustav. “Ein Skizzenbuch aus dem Jahre 1800.” Musikalisches Wochenblatt 8 (1877): 469–72, 481–83, 493–95. ———. Ein Skizzenbuch von Beethoven. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1865. ———. Zweite Beethoveniana. Leipzig: Peters, 1887. Russell, Tilden A. “Minuet, Scherzando, and Scherzo: The Dance Movement in Transition, 1781–1825.” PhD diss., University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 1983. Schindler, Anton. Beethoven as I Knew Him. Edited by Donald W. Macardle. Translated by Constance S. Jolly. London: Courier, 1966. Spazier, Johann Gottlieb Karl. “Über Menuetten in Sinfonien.” Musikalisches Wochenblatt 2 (1792): 91–92. Türk, Daniel Gottlob. School of Clavier Playing, or Instructions in Playing the Clavier for Teachers and Students. Translated by Raymond H. Haggh. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1982. Wegeler, Franz, and Ferdinand Ries. Remembering Beethoven: The Biographical Notes of Franz Wegeler and Ferdinand Ries. Translated by Frederick Noonan. London: André Deutsch, 1988. Wheelock, Gretchen. Haydn’s Ingenious Jesting with Art: Contexts of Musical Wit and Humor. New York: Schirmer Books, 1992.

the scher zo movements in beethoven’s early sonatas  ❧ 403

Notes 1

See Luxner, “The Evolution of the Minuet/Scherzo in the Music of Beethoven”; Gmeiner, Menuett und Scherzo; Russell, “Minuet, Scherzando, and Scherzo”; Diepenthal-Fuder, Menuetto oder Scherzo? 2 Cooper, The Creation of Beethoven’s 35 Piano Sonatas. 3 Some of the earliest sketches for the Eroica scherzo are labelled “Menuetto.” See Lockwood, “Beethoven’s Earliest Sketches for the Eroica Symphony.” 4 Schindler, Beethoven as I Knew Him, 402–3. 5 See especially Joseph Kerman’s notion of the “symphonic ideal” in Kerman et al., “Beethoven, Ludwig van.” 6 Marx, Ludwig van Beethoven, 1:126. 7 Koch, Versuch einer Anleitung zur Composition, 3:301–2 and 316. 8 Wheelock, Haydn’s Ingenious Jesting with Art, 45. 9 Türk, School of Clavier Playing, 531. 10 Spazier, “Über Menuetten in Sinfonien,” 92, cited in Wheelock, Haydn’s Ingenious Jesting with Art, 45. 11 Johann Georg Sulzer, for instance, states in his Allgemeine Theorie der schönen Künste (1771–74) that “there is no form of instrumental music that is more capable of depicting wordless sentiments than the sonata.” Trans. in Baker and Christensen, Aesthetics and the Art of Musical Composition in the German Enlightenment, 103. 12 Schindler, Beethoven as I Knew Him, 403. 13 Nottebohm, Zweite Beethoveniana, 31–33. 14 British Library, London, Add. 29801, fols. 39–162. See Beethoven, Autograph Miscellany from 1786 to 1799, 2:293. Translations are my own, unless otherwise indicated. 15 See Cooper, The Creation of Beethoven’s 35 Piano Sonatas, 48–50. 16 Drabkin, “Early Beethoven,” 367. 17 Ibid. 18 Biblioteka Jagiellońska, Kraków, Landsberg 6. See Lockwood and Gosman, Beethoven’s “Eroica” Sketchbook. 19 Wegeler and Ries, Remembering Beethoven, 89. 20 Cooper, The Creation of Beethoven’s 35 Piano Sonatas, 123. See also Lockwood and Gosman, Beethoven’s “Eroica” Sketchbook, 1:15–16. 21 The autograph score of opus 53 is preserved in the Beethoven-Haus, Bonn (HCB Mh 7), and can be viewed online at https://www.beethoven.de/sixcms /detail.php?id=15112/ (accessed August 31, 2018). The autograph score of the Bagatelle, WoO 56, is preserved in the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris (Département Musique, MS-29), and can be viewed online at https://gallica .bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b7400224z (accessed August 31, 2018).

404  ❧  chapter sixteen 22 Lewis Lockwood classes sketches of this type as “movement-plans,” which he defines as overviews of “entire works or movements, in outline” (see his “The Beethoven Sketchbooks and the General State of Sketch Research,” 8). I use the term “multi-movement plan” to refer specifically to plans for entire multi-movement works. For a detailed survey of this type of sketching see my PhD dissertation, “Beethoven’s Compositional Approach to Multi-Movement Structures in his Instrumental Works.” 23 Nottebohm, Ein Skizzenbuch von Beethoven, 22–23. 24 Beethoven, Kesslerisches Skizzenbuch, 1:22. 25 Nottebohm, “Ein Skizzenbuch aus dem Jahre 1800.” The relevant sketches are transcribed on pp. 481–82. Landsberg 7 is preserved in the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin. 26 Glinka Museum, Moscow, F. 155 no. 1. See Beethoven, Kniga eskizov. 27 Cooper, The Creation of Beethoven’s 35 Piano Sonatas, 110.

Chapter Seventeen

Utopia and Dystopia Revisited Contrasted Domains in Beethoven’s Middle-Period F-Major and F-Minor Works Barbara Barry As these utopian and dystopian fictions remind us, we rely on works of fiction, in any medium, to help us understand the world and what it means to be human. —Janet Murray

Shaping events into conceptual narratives has long been the business of historians. Until well into the twentieth century, the contours of social development, market forces, and ideology were described along historical time-lines. The ups and downs of human affairs—in Lear’s pithy phrase “who’s in, who’s out”1—are the fiber of history, chronicled in Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and Yuval Harari’s Brief History of Humankind, just as the ups and downs of nature’s affairs are mapped out in Stephen Hawking’s Brief History of Time.2 Along the time-lines of chronology are reference points and markers that enable us to collate fragmented, often indecipherable events in

406  ❧  chapter seventeen

the present into recognizable patterns, and extrapolate probable courses of action into the future. In musical works, similarly, such identifiable patterns help us distinguish normative features of style and structure from digressive action. But chronology is not the only way of looking at time and events. Like Newtonian physics and relativity theory, which offer alternate descriptions of space, cyclical time offers an alternative view of chronology, by reading history, in Isaiah Berlin’s phrase, “against the current.”3 Instead of viewing stylistic musical features as characterizing a particular slice of chronological time, cyclical time focuses on how they recur at subsequent periods of time. This repositions the perspective from time-strands to time-curves. The linear view, for example, regards dissonance in late nineteenth- and early twentiethcentury music as such an identifiable feature, a litmus test of the weakening and subsequent dissolution of tonality as an organizational system. The cyclical view, on the other hand, sees dissonance as conflicted action that appears in many periods of music, and in each instance, challenges premises of order and propriety. For example, Julian Johnson, describing musical modernity, regards abrasive textures and harmonic dissonance as endemic not just to twentieth-century Expressionism but also as the imprint of innovation in many periods from Monteverdi to Cage.4 These two different temporal frameworks may reveal different perspectives on Beethoven’s F-major and F-minor works. From the viewpoint of linear time, significant F-major and F-minor works, in the genres of string quartet, piano sonata, and symphony, were written in close proximity of time following the Eroica Symphony. The Eroica challenged existing premises of a symphony and transformed every aspect of structural design, including defining a distinctive rhythmic profile for each movement and deploying digression and restitution over a large span. Technical mastery and expressive projection, though, were not limited to this symphony: as conceptual models, they became energizing forces in Beethoven’s compositional thinking, forming a template of design and narrative action that would be addressed in different ways and in different expressive domains in the ensuing F-major and F-minor works. From the perspective of cyclical time, on the other hand, strategic features in the F-major and F-minor post-Eroica works were revisited at later stages of Beethoven’s compositional output, readdressing their tonal and expressive features from later perspectives. What was the background for these expressive domains? One element would have been precedents from the works of earlier composers, providing a ground plan of identifiable features that could be modified by new

beethoven’s middle-period f-major and f-minor works  ❧ 407

interpretations. Models form an intrinsic part of the development of many composers, enabling them to use selective elements of an existing work and reconfigure them. Leonard Ratner notes: “Composition itself was largely a matter of paraphrase, of adaptations from models, wherein felicity of invention marked the difference between the commonplace and the special.”5 Adaptation was often a kind of “free composition,” understanding how a structural movement was built from principles of musical action, such as presentation, digression, and return, and applying those principles in new ways. But composers also used direct models: Beethoven’s A-Major Quartet, op. 18, no. 5, closely follows Mozart’s A-Major “Haydn” Quartet, K. 464, as a way of demonstrating the composer’s ability to use Mozart’s finely contoured phrasing and clarity of structural articulation.6 Retaining Mozart’s order of movements, tonal design, and variation-form slow movement, Beethoven modifies the model’s graceful contours by an expanded dynamic range, liberally sprinkled with sforzandi and big leaps across the range. Mozart had used such leaps as dramatic characterization in Donna Elvira’s vengeful aria “Ah, chi mi dice mai” in Don Giovanni and Fiordiligi’s “Come scoglio” in Così fan tutte but hardly ever as part of stylistic vocabulary in the string quartet and certainly not in the sophisticated design of K. 464. In reworking its classical parameters, Beethoven’s incisive rhythms, intervallic leaps, and unexpected key changes intrude into the elegant surface of the recreated Mozartian model so that, in addition to incorporating stylistic and formal aspects of the model work, the composer adopts a re-tooling that pushes the parameters of the model in unexpected ways. Modeling, then, both direct and indirect, provides a repository of gestures and conceptual plans that can be modified in striking new realizations. Creative remodeling was of especial importance in the string quartet, often referred to as the “connoisseur’s form,” for which discerning listeners expected a composer to demonstrate a high level of compositional art.7 Beethoven’s first set of quartets, opus 18, would inevitably be compared to those of his teacher Haydn as well as to those of Mozart. Attempting to “measure up” to Haydn was an intentional tactic to gain recognition in the major instrumental forms of sonata and symphony, as well as string quartet, to which genres Haydn had contributed such substantial achievements. Beethoven had invited such a comparison with his first set of piano sonatas, opus 2, dedicated to Haydn, and in particular, the first sonata, op. 2, no. 1, in F minor. Using a key that Haydn had not used as the principal key of a sonata, Beethoven displays a bold use of range and rhythmic momentum that differentiates his style from Haydn’s, showing Beethoven as a composer

408  ❧  chapter seventeen

of striking originality. In the string quartet, where arguably even more was at stake, Beethoven uses a different tactic in demonstrating both connection to and differentiation from Haydn. The opus 18 set opens with the substantial F-Major Quartet.8 Using the same key as Haydn’s last completed quartet, op. 77, no. 2, Beethoven also “borrows” material from Haydn, such as the opening turn figure, and sharpens its focus by incisive motivic rhythm and dynamic juxtaposition, thus deliberately positioning himself as a successor— and as a challenge to—Haydn, the widely acclaimed master of the string quartet. F major was to play a crucial role in Beethoven’s string quartets: as the first quartet of opus 18, as the first of the middle-period quartets, op. 59, no. 1, and as the last quartet, opus 135. Additional resources for composition with expressive character can be found in the works of theorists and composer-theorists like Rameau, whose writing formed part of a shared tradition of tonal characterization. This tradition was not an exclusively academic discipline, as in contemporary university “music cultures,” but filtered into general awareness through the popularity of music journals in London, Paris, and Leipzig.9 From at least the beginning of the eighteenth century, with the comprehensive description of keys in Johann Mattheson’s treatise Das neu-eröffnete Orchestre of 1713,10 up to the early part of the nineteenth century, with François-Henri-Joseph Castil-Blaze’s Dictionnaire de musique moderne of 1821,11 theorists ascribed a particular expressive character to each key. Such descriptions often have a considerable degree of consistency, since music theorists would borrow from one another as an ongoing tradition. Mattheson, for example, drew on the seventeenth-century treatise by Athanasius Kircher, Musurgia universalis, modifying and amplifying the older theorist’s writing by including more contemporary eighteenth-century aspects of temperament as well as the instruments used in the different contexts of church, chamber, and opera. Theorists framed their descriptions of tonal characteristics primarily within two sets of parameters: major/minor keys on the one hand and sharp/ flat differentiation on the other. Instrumental characterization of major and minor keys was strongly influenced by vocal genres, in particular by opera, whose affective musical gestures were “sound pictures”—expressive sonic images mimetic of the contours of body language conveying each emotion.12 Major keys depicted the “upward” range of this contour, from openness to joy, while the minor keys described the “downward” contour from inward reflection to profound melancholy. Embedded in this major/minor orbit were the expressive characters of sharp and flat keys. Sharp keys were

beethoven’s middle-period f-major and f-minor works   ❧ 409

considered more brilliant by contrast with the softer hues of flat keys. The specific emotional color of a particular key depended in turn on its degree of “sharpness” or “flatness”: the greater the number of sharps or flats in the key, the more intense the expressive character. Heinrich Christoph Koch, in his Versucheiner Anleitung zur Composition of 1787, describes the connection between the tonal character of keys on the major/minor axis and the more intense character of keys with more sharps or flats: The individuality or difference between transposed keys is, of all instruments, most noticeable on the violin. This instrument shows most markedly that this key is brighter, this key softer, that one key corresponds more to the expression of joy, another more to sorrow. For example, F minor is far more suited than A minor or E minor to arouse deep sorrow or to express the sound of lament.13

In his comprehensive account of the characteristics of specific keys, Mattheson describes F major as: Capable of expressing the most beautiful sentiments in the world, whether these be generosity, steadfastness, love, or whatever else stands high on the list of virtues; all this it does in such a natural way and with such incomparable facility that nothing has to be forced.14

These characteristics of calm and cheerfulness are in turn reiterated by CastilBlaze in 1821 and by William Christian Müller in his Versuch einer Aesthetik der Tonkunst in 1830.15 F minor had an even greater consensus as characterizing gloom, mournfulness, deep sorrow, and grief. Christian Friedrich Daniel Schubart (1739–91) infused the rationalist explanations of Koch and the French theorist AndréErnest-Modest Grétry (1741–1813) with a more personalized, Romantic view of the emotional qualities of keys. Schubart’s Ideen zu einer Aesthetik der Tonkunst, written while he was in prison for ten years, may have appealed to Beethoven for the author’s Florestan-like incarceration as much as for his colorful depiction of keys.16 Schubart describes F minor as “deep depression, funereal lament, groans of misery, and longing for the grave.” While it may be difficult to determine how familiar Beethoven was with Schubart’s emotive imagery, the instrumental introduction to Florestan’s recitative at the beginning of act 2 of Fidelio uses harsh colors of bassoon and horn, volatile dynamics, and dislocated motivic fragments as the sonic painting of constraint and despair (ex. 17.1).

410  ❧  chapter seventeen

In a remarkable reflection on this precise passage, Carl Ludwig Seidel writes in 1828: In the introduction to Florestan’s aria in the dungeon, this key clearly depicts for us—even without words—the cold horror of the site and the prisoner’s longing for the grave. [In] Fidelio, Act II, in F minor, with its purest dominant of C major, there lies more clearly than in any other key a presentiment of unspeakable dénouement beyond the grave.17

Affective gestures in eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century music do not depict emotional domains simply through major and minor keys. As “painting” or “picturing” imagery, they are analogues of colors in painting, with particular emotional connotations. Goethe’s Theory of Colors, published in 1810—though widely discussed from the 1790s onward—provides a reference point for such an analogy of expressive picturing in sound.18 Goethe takes issue with the descriptions of color in Newton’s Opticks, first published in 1704,19 the most meticulous and famous treatment of the subject in the eighteenth century. Goethe disagrees both with Newton’s explanations and his method of mathematical definition and experimental verification. Proposing his own alternative descriptions of color, Goethe refutes Newton’s purely physical premises by saying that color is not limited just to its scientific components, and he proposes a more holistic approach, including expressive and symbolic dimensions. For Goethe, color was perceptual as well as physical. Reason, he maintains, is not a purely intellectual faculty, as Newton contends, but is infused with feeling, as if the work of Goethe the scientist is interpreted from the perspective of Goethe the poet.20 The Theory of Colors highlights the paradigmatic shift from explanation to interpretation and from concept to percept: how rational design in many areas of life and art is inflected by expressive association, where the structures of physical existence are mediated by the imprints of experience and memory. This view connects to the expanded perception notable in early nineteenth-century art and literature, crossing boundaries between material reality and the elusive world of dreams and between sound and space, where poetry acquires sonority and “all art constantly aspires to the condition of music.”21 In this extended context, tonal characterization acquires additional dimensions: existing descriptions of major and minor key characteristics may be enhanced by other sensory modalities and by metaphoric connotations of color; and new expressive domains in general are opened up.22

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412  ❧  chapter seventeen

Striking examples of both existing and innovative tonal characterization can be found in Beethoven’s use of F minor. Modeling F-minor characteristics of inwardness and melancholy in existing paradigms—which may be called “first-order structures”—Beethoven transforms their expressive elements in new configurations, as “second-order structures.”23 This can be seen by comparing two movements in F minor: Haydn’s Andante and Variations, Hob. XVII:6, for keyboard and the slow movement of Beethoven’s String Quartet, op. 59, no. 1, both as “first-order structure” and as “second-order structure” (exx. 17.2 and 17.3). Much hinges on how a movement opens: how it projects expressive character, whether the opening is direct or digressive, and how the composer combines what David Lewin has described as reasonable horizons of probability with unexpected courses of action.24 Haydn sets the andante tempo with left-hand slurred eighth-note pairs. Over this figure, the right hand presents the descending F-minor triad followed by the repeated dotted figure that will characterize much of the theme—the gesture of melancholy as dying fall. In the repeat of the opening, two variants are introduced: the texture is inverted, with the accompanying figure in the right hand and the dotted rhythm in the left. Harmonic direction toward the end of the first part of the theme is inflected, via a passing supertonic, to the relative major, A-flat major. As textural variant, the opening returns toward the end of the theme as a dialogue of tessituras: the right hand crosses over the left-hand accompanying figure into the bass tessitura, answered in the right hand’s upper register by a descending dotted appoggiatura. This variant climaxes in the most powerful gesture of the theme, a sforzando flat supertonic, G♭, leading in turn to the cadence, with a falling octave on F in the left hand making the closing frame. Cited within classical paradigms of symmetry and restraint, the expressive gestures of Haydn’s theme depict the plangent, inward character of F minor. While Beethoven’s opening uses similar elements of two-measure balanced phrases, a passing move to the relative major and the inversional repeat of the opening, he repositions them in what can be described as opposite folds of musical space. The first of these spatial directions is inward: the first violin outlines a downward curve, using descending appoggiaturas, as may be seen in measure 1 in the first violin and in measure 9 in the cello. The first of these spatial directions is inward: the first violin contour outlines a downward curve, underscored by descending appoggiaturas; but what gives the movement its expressive gravity is a series of opening phrases that reinterpret the expressive appoggiatura as a gesture of closure, in measures 17–20. By

beethoven’s middle-period f-major and f-minor works  ❧ 415

means of rising and falling appoggiaturas, these gestures shape an expressive narrative that is implicative of closure. While harmonic closure only occurs at the end of the first section (m. 16), the subtle implication of opening and closing in the initial appoggiaturas becomes an essential part of the movement’s expressive contour.25 The second direction is space-opening, where a cluster of pitch functions stems from the unharmonized opening pitch C, connecting the contrasted functions of tonic and dominant. The reinterpretation of C articulates the “staging posts” of the second subject in each section of the sonata movement: as C minor in the exposition (cello, m. 24), as the relative major, A-flat major, in the development (cello, m. 46), and at the return to F minor in the recapitulation (cello, m. 97). In each case, the cello carries the thematic material in its upper register counterpoised by thirty-second-note figuration in the first violin, so that pitch, texture, and tessitura all become aspects of identity and reference in the movement. But what may be the most fascinating aspect of the complementary opposite folds of musical space is the connection between the two subjects. While the first one folds inwardly and the second subject opens out triadically, an examination of the pitch-frames of the two subjects reveals the second one as a variant of the first. Example 17.4 shows the opening in F minor with the second subject in F minor in the recapitulation. The lower system of example 17.4 also shows how the descending appoggiatura is intrinsic both to expressive character and to structural design. By contrast with the traditional interpretation of F-minor inwardness and melancholy, Beethoven creates a virtually unprecedented projection of F minor as confrontation in fast movements using strongly profiled concise motives, as in the first movements of the “Appassionata” Sonata, op. 57, and the String Quartet, op. 95. Having launched this confrontational domain in his first piano sonata, op. 2, no. 1, as a challenge to Haydn, the post-Eroica F-minor works project an even more intense motivic profile, with extreme dynamic contrast and dislocation of continuity, as characteristics of eruptive “dark energy.” Opposed tessituras, implicit in the op. 59, no. 1 slow movement and there smoothly contoured, are now polarized in Beethoven’s confrontational F-minor movements, where conflicted zones of action are impelled by fierce, driving rhythm. This eruptive energy in the F-minor works, though, is underpinned by powerful structural constraints. In the first movement of the “Appassionata” Piano Sonata, op. 57, it is grounded in two ways: by a strongly articulated sonata form and by a motivic matrix based on two chromatic semitones:

beethoven’s middle-period f-major and f-minor works  ❧ 417

juxtaposed throughout the movement; and as opposed tessituras, between the low register of the minor-key second-subject variant (m. 51) and, ten measures later, the top of the upper register. The D♭–C semitone, on the other hand, has the long-range function of pulling the extreme tessituras and dissonant tonal domains back to F minor at two essential points of structural articulation: in the approach to the recapitulation and at the transition to the coda (see ex. 17.5b and 5c). The “dark-energy” F minor of the “Appassionata” also breaks out in the “Storm” movement of the Sixth Symphony (“Pastoral”) in F Major (1808). The driving energy, opposed tessituras, and confrontational dynamics of the first movement of the “Appassionata” may also be heard in the violent energy of the “Storm” as the dislocation of nature. Sonority thrusts forward in massive blocks: a repeated sixteenth-note skirl in cellos and basses rumbles beneath the massive fortissimo onslaught of wind and brass, vertically aligned for maximum impact, while offbeat sforzandi punctuate the first violins’ shrieking figure (mm. 43, 47, and 51–55). These are powerful sonic images of ruptured nature as counterpart to the fierce deluge of Lear’s storm: Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!27

Open, diatonic language in the “Pastoral”’s major-key movements, and especially the preceding evocative “By the Brook” (in B-flat major), is first overshadowed then disrupted by the storm. The storm is at the center of the continuum that first interpolates disruption into the work’s diatonic sound world is superseded by the transition to the F-major finale: from threatening energy to ordered nature and from rupture to restitution. The “Pastoral” may be seen as the key to the opposite sides of F major and F minor: order and process on the one hand and dislocation on the other. As well as being opposites, though, the two dimensions of musical and human nature coexist in a complementary interaction, where one of these predominant areas is frequently intersected by the other. Central to the meta-vision of the “Pastoral” is the rupture of Edenic nature. The threat of dislocation and the recalibration of order occur in both the F-major and F-minor works: in the F-major works as interpolation and restitution and in the F-minor works by

420  ❧  chapter seventeen

significant contributions to the genres of symphony and piano concerto, the Eroica and the “Emperor” can be regarded as heralding works that open up new expressive domains and models of structure. The following summary lists the F-major and F-minor instrumental works in the years after the Eroica. [1804: Symphony no. 3 in E-flat Major, op. 55 (Eroica)] 1804: Piano Sonata, op. 54, F major 1805: Piano Sonata, op. 57 (“Appassionata”), F minor 1806: String Quartet, op. 59, no. 1 (“Razumovsky”), F major 1808: Symphony no. 6, op. 68 (“Pastoral”), F major

As eruptive “dark energy,” F minor was not limited to instrumental music. In 1804 Beethoven began work on Fidelio, with the first version being completed in 1805. Like the Piano Sonata, op. 54, and the “Appassionata” Sonata, op. 57, as well some extraneous leaves of the F-Major Quartet, op. 59, no. 1, the “Dungeon” scene of Fidelio, which opens act 3 in the first version and act 2 in the revised 1814 version, was sketched in the Mendelssohn 15 sketchbook of 1804–5.30 While the sketchbooks are primarily reservoirs of ideas and stages of compositional thinking, the presence of sketches for F-major and F-minor works in different genres in Mendelssohn 15 may indicate, among other issues, Beethoven’s working on how to project contrasted characterizations of connection and disjunction: between F-major openness in the first string quartet of opus 59 and the “Pastoral” Symphony, and F-minor dislocation in the “Appassionata” Sonata and the “Dungeon” scene in Fidelio. The opposite realms of F major and F minor were not just Beethoven’s modification of existing expressive gestures and the tonal models of openness and introspection: they are re-envisaged sound worlds of continuity and discontinuity as fundamental human experience, realized by distinctive material and innovative realizations—and, at their most extreme, as utopia and dystopia. There are no other major/minor oppositions in these years that are so powerfully presented as those in F major and F minor. The “Dungeon” scene marks the lowest point of Florestan’s existence and is conveyed by the F-minor domain of inwardness and dislocation (see ex. 17.1). Opening act 2 in the revised 1814 version, the “Dungeon” scene becomes central in its position in the opera as well as central to its dramatic rationale, with its F-minor turmoil in the recitative and the “remaking” of Florestan’s conceptual world in the F-major aria as both image and vision. Perhaps this fundamental opposition between disjunction and

beethoven’s middle-period f-major and f-minor works  ❧ 421

reconstitution, as in the tension underlying the Heiligenstadt crisis, becomes a critical perspective for understanding the F-major and F-minor works. As contrasted expressive zones that also inflect one another, they can be seen as specific “colors” of works, framed as musical journeys through conflict and reparation. Central to this concept of the work as a musical journey, the “Dungeon” scene forms that precise interface between the physical reality of rupture and the imagined reality of repair. Lewis Lockwood notes that “The dominating feature of the mise-en-scène is the prison.”31 The dungeon in which Florestan is chained represents the extreme deprivation of warmth and food, with limited ability to move around and separation from the company of other inmates, who are heard in the prisoners’ chorus. Political incarceration had strong contemporary resonance in early nineteenth-century Viennese opera, since the city had been under siege since 1801 and fell to the invading French army in 1805. Daily life became riddled with police checks and shortages of food and other essential supplies; and a repressive climate of spying and censorship infiltrated every level of life. Transforming repressive reality from “first-order” to “second-order” structure, Fidelio (and in particular the “Dungeon” scene) recasts squalid political conflict into empathetic human experience. Broken motives, dark instrumental sonority, and disjunct tessituras—gestures embedded in contexts of musical meaning and expressive association—now take on new, more intense dimensions.32 Political conflict was not the only influence on the creation of Fidelio. Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte, with its central themes of deception, incarceration, and redemption, is an important background stratum to Beethoven’s opera. If Fidelio is, on some level, a retracing of Tamino’s experiential journey of underground constraint and subsequent liberation in Die Zauberflöte, Beethoven’s political recasting of despair and liberation is represented, like Mozart’s, through images of darkness and light. In Die Zauberflöte darkness and light are projected as opposed realms through C minor and E-flat major. Beethoven had followed that fundamental tonal opposition in the Eroica Symphony, with the C-minor funeral march set within and against the E-flat-major movements. Drawing on the dramatic motives of conflict and redemption in Mozart’s opera, they are re-characterized in Fidelio in the context of political oppression and personal liberation. In a wider sense, the central theme of confrontation and restitution in both the Eroica and Fidelio may be intrinsically related to Beethoven’s own struggles with deafness and ill health. The musical journeys of confrontation and restitution may be seen, in part, as related to his struggles in everyday life, but also as transformative

422  ❧  chapter seventeen

coping mechanisms, channeling his creative energy into powerful musical designs that manifest the fundamental dynamics of digression and return. Part of that strategic transformation was the opposing characterizations of F minor and F major, as delineations of conflict and stability and, in their most extreme forms, of dystopia and utopia. Just as the Eroica provided the portal to the entire middle period and was followed in the next few years by important works in F major and F minor, so in 1809, the “Emperor” Piano Concerto, another large-scale “heralding” work in E-flat major, was followed by F-major and F-minor works, replaying salient characteristics of the first group. Both groups contain a dramatic work, a string quartet, and a symphony. F-major characteristics of diatonic clarity, pairs of phrases, melodic linearity, and textural continuity may be found in the First “Razumovsky” String Quartet in the first group and the Eighth Symphony in the second. In F minor, the Egmont Overture brings back the abrupt motivic gestures and intense contrasts of sound and silence of the “Dungeon” scene in a reworking of the opera’s theme of political insurgency. The “dark-energy” “Appassionata” characteristics of explosive rhythmic energy and dynamic confrontation are projected with even more intense concision and dislocation in the F-Minor String Quartet, op. 95. [1809: Piano Concerto in E-flat Major, op. 73 (“Emperor”)] 1809–10: Egmont Overture, op. 84, F minor 1810: String Quartet, op. 95, F minor 1812: Symphony no. 8, op. 93, F major

The chromatic semitones in the “Appassionata”and their diametrically opposite functions of F–G♭ conflict and D♭–C return, are replayed in the F-Minor String Quartet, op. 95.33 In these works the semitone shift is more than a striking opening gesture: it encapsulates the movement’s, and the work’s, radical conflict with the tonic; and in both first movements the opposition between the chromatic semitones is dramatized as dialectical tension— between the F–G♭ semitone, whose tonal opposition in the prime material opens up all the aspects of confrontation and disjunction in the movement, and the opposite function of the D♭–C semitone, that of reclaiming the tonic’s primacy as the demarcation of return. The semitone matrix is fundamental to the dialectics of conflict in the two F-minor works. In the first movement recapitulation of the “Appassionata,” the two semitones are reinterpreted in a unique way. While the right hand plays the movement’s triadic dotted figure in F minor, it is underpinned by

beethoven’s middle-period f-major and f-minor works  ❧ 423

left hand’s repeated low Cs. In the right-hand restatement on G♭, the righthand triadic figure is underpinned by repeated D♭s in the left hand, so that the recapitulation presents the two chromatic semitones in vertical alignment as well as through the horizontal unfolding. With the alignment of the two semitones, though, tonal return is not synonymous with tonal consolidation: since the left hand’s repeated low Cs form an implicit second inversion to the right hand’s prime material, the F-minor return at the recapitulation is simultaneously re-presented and destabilized. At this strategic point in the structure, the inversion of the second semitone as C–D♭ underpins and subverts the return of F minor. Tonal consolidation of F minor, as distinct from return, will take place only in the coda, which is approached by the second semitone, the original D♭–C, in its primary function of tonal reclamation. The motive’s initial cadential role is now played out at the macro-level of structure and signals the movement’s final consolidation of F minor. Not only does the first movement of the op. 95 Quartet replay the unmediated chromatic semitone F–G♭ as opposition to the tonic, but its Neapolitan G♭ also contests the pitch identity of the diatonic supertonic G♮ (see ex. 17.6a).34 These disputed pitch domains open up radical alternatives on opposite sides of the sharp/flat spectrum, played out in every section of the movement: in the exposition, between A♭ and A♮ (mm. 37–39) and between D♭ and D♮ (mm. 43–50); at the beginning of the development, with a gesture that reverses that of the opening, where F major is accosted by E-flat minor, fortissimo (ex. 17.6b, mm. 60–63); and at the beginning of the recapitulation, with the skirmish between G♭ and G♮ (ex. 17.6c). The C–D♭ semitone also returns in the first movement of opus 95 at the threshold to the D-flat areas, in two important points of demarcation: at the second subject in the exposition (cello, mm. 29–30); and, as can be seen in example 17.7, with strident force, fortissimo, at the coda (first violin, viola, cello, mm. 128–29). In its form as D♭–C, it functions, as in the first movement of the “Appassionata,” as a decisive part of the framing of the movement: in violin 1, measures 6–10, superimposed over the prime material (see ex. 17.6a) and three times as closing frame, in the cello in the last measures of the movement, recouping the tonic after one of Beethoven’s most extreme movements of tonal disjunction. These abrupt disjunctions at the musical surface are anchored by a tight sonata design at the large-scale level of structure; and within this, fierce conflicts of pitch are underpinned by the semitone matrix, as the dialectics of confrontation and coherence.

426  ❧  chapter seventeen Example 17.7. Beethoven, String Quartet in F Minor, op. 95, mvt. 1, mm. 126–33, coda.

° bb œ &b b 126

Vn I

V n II

Va

Vc

b & b bb

˙

B bbbb ˙ n˙

œ

œ

nœ œ œ pp œ œ œ pp œ œ nœ

pp

? bb ¢ b b œ œœœ œœœœœœ œœ œ œ œ œ œ

Œ

œŒ œ

Œ

œ œ Œ bw œ

Œ

nœ Œ œœ

Œ

Œ

‰

nœ Œ b w w

œnœ œ œ œ œ œ

Œ œ

ff

ff

œnœ œ œ œ œ œ Œ

Πbw ff

œ Œ œ œœœœ. œ. œ œ œ œ. ... ff

œ nœ ° bb b œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ nœ œ n œ œ œ œ œ œ b œ œ œ & œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ. œ œ œ œ. œ œ . . . sf sf sf w œ ˙ œ ˙ œ ˙ b & b bb pp

130

sf

B bbbb w

œ

sf

˙

œ

sf

˙

œ

sf

˙

œ œ nœ ? bb b œ œ œ œ œ œ œœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ nœ œ nœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ n œ œ . . . œ. . . ¢ b œœ sf

sf

sf

sf

sf

sf

sf

D minor, which is explored in the contrapuntal “alternativo” (ex. 17.9, line 6, viola, mm. 35–37). The “alternativo,” though, offers more than a contrast of key and texture to the opening melody. It is a chromatic variant of the D-major violin melody (ex. 17.8b, mm. 5–12), now in the tonic minor and presented as a fugato. This variant version draws on the background of Haydn’s double-variation technique, of alternating major and tonic minor, as in the slow movement of Haydn’s “Drumroll” Symphony, no. 103, in E-flat major. By lining up the contours of the two themes, we can see the second theme as an inversion of the first. In addition, the second theme is a chromatic realization of the linear descent of the cello opening. This relationship may be seen in the second system of example 17.9, where the rhythmic values of the viola “alternativo” are contracted in the theoretical middle line, labeled as “doppio rhythmus” as a connector between the two themes. What initially appeared to be an understated variation movement, similar to the

430  ❧  chapter seventeen

also be seen as deeply meaningful re-creations of essential human dilemmas and journeys. In providing alternative worlds and, in a way, as reparation of often disordered physical reality, they are, in Frank Kermode’s words, “fictive models of the temporal world.”39

Bibliography Berger, Karol. “Beethoven and the Aesthetic State.” In Beethoven Forum, vol. 7, edited by Lewis Lockwood, Christopher Reynolds, and Elaine R. Sisman, 17–44. Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1999. Berlin, Isaiah. Against the Current: Essays in the History of Ideas. New York: Viking, 1980. Reprint edited by Henry Hardy, with new foreword by Mark Lilla and introduction by Roger Hausheer. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2013. Berlioz, Hector. Grand traité d’instrumentation et d’orchestration modernes. Paris: Schonenberger, n.d. [1844]. Rev. ed. 1855. Castil-Blaze, François-Henri-Joseph. Dictionnaire de musique moderne. 2 vols. Paris: Magasin de Musique de la Lyre Moderne, 1821. Dahlhaus, Carl. Between Romanticism and Modernism: Four Studies in the Music of the Later Nineteenth Century. Translated by Mary Whittall. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989. Gamwell, Lynn. Mathematics and Art: A Cultural History. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2015. Gibbon, Edward. The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. 6 vols. Boston: Phillips, Sampson, 1850. Gjerdingen, Robert O. A Classic Turn of Phrase: Music and the Psychology of Convention. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1988. Goehr, Lydia. Elective Affinities: Essays on the History of Aesthetic Theory. New York: Columbia University Press, 2008. ———. The Imaginary Museum of Musical Works: An Essay in the Philosophy of Music. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992. Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von. Goethe’s “Exposure of Newton’s Theory”: A Polemic on Newton’s Theory of Light and Colour. Translated by Michael John Duck and Michael Petry. London: Imperial College Press, 2016. ———. Zur Farbenlehre. Tübingen: Cotta, 1810. Translated by Charles Lock Eastlake as Theory of Colours. London: John Murray, 1840. Reprint, New York: Dover, 2006. New ed. with introduction by Deanne B. Judd. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970. Harari, Yuval Noah. Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind. New York: HarperCollins, 2015.

beethoven’s middle-period f-major and f-minor works   ❧ 431 Hatten, Robert S. Interpreting Musical Gestures, Topics, and Tropes: Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004. ———. Musical Meaning in Beethoven: Markedness, Correlation, and Interpretation. Bloomington and London: Indiana University Press, 1994. Reprint, 2004. Hawking, Stephen. A Brief History of Time: From the Big Bang to Black Holes. New York: Bantam, 1989. Reprint, 1996. Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich. The Science of Logic. Translated by Albert Hofstadter. New York: Harper and Row, 1971. Johnson, Douglas, Alan Tyson, and Robert Winter. The Beethoven Sketchbooks: History, Reconstruction, Inventory. Edited by Robert Winter. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985. Johnson, Julian. Out of Time: Music and the Making of Modernity. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015. Kermode, Frank. The Sense of an Ending: Studies in the Theory of Fiction with a New Epilogue. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Kerst, Friedrich, and Henry Edward Krehbiel, eds. Beethoven, The Man and the Artist, as Revealed in His Own Words. New York: Dover, 1964. Kircher, Athanasius. Musurgia universalis. Rome: Francisco Corbelletti, 1650. Kivy, Peter. The Corded Shell: Reflections on Musical Expression. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1980. Updated and amplified in Sound Sentiment: An Essay on the Musical Emotions. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1989. Koch, Heinrich Christoph. Versuch einer Anleitung zur Composition. Leipzig: Böhme, 1787. Kutschke, Beate. “Johann Mattheson als Vermittler und Initiator: Wissenstransfer und die Etablierung Neuer Diskurse in der ersten Hälfte des 18. Jahrhunderts.” Eighteenth-Century Music 7 (2010): 170–73. LeHuray, Peter, and James Day, eds. Music and Aesthetics in the Eighteenth and EarlyNineteenth Centuries. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1981. Lewin, David. “Music Theory, Phenomenology, and Modes of Perception.” Music Perception 3 (1986): 327–92. Lockwood, Lewis. Beethoven: The Music and the Life. New York: Norton, 2003. Lockwood, Lewis, and Alan Gosman, eds. Beethoven’s “Eroica” Sketchbook: A Critical Edition; Transcription, Facsimile, Commentary. 2 vols. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2013. Mattheson, Johann. Das neu-eröffnete Orchestre. Hamburg: Der Autor und Benjamin Schillers Wittwe, 1713. Miller, George A., Eugene Galanter, and Karl H. Pribram. Plans and the Structure of Behavior. New York: Holt, 1960. Reprinted, Eastford, CT: Martino, 2013. Miller, George A., and Philip Johnson-Laird. Language and Perception. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013.

432  ❧  chapter seventeen Müller, William Christian. Versuch einer Aesthetik der Tonkunst. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1830. Murray, Janet H. Hamlet on the Holodeck: The Future of Narrative in Cyberspace. New York: Free Press, 1991. Newton, Isaac. Opticks: Or a Treatise of the Reflections, Refractions, Inflections and Colours of Light. London: Samuel Smith and Benjamin Walford, 1704. Revised and corrected 4th ed., London: William Innys, 1730. Pangrazi, Tiziana. La Musurgia universalis di Athanasius Kircher: Contenuti, fonti, terminologia. Florence: Olschki, 2009. Pater, Walter. The Renaissance: Studies in Art and Poetry. New York: Dover, 2005. Ratner, Leonard G. The Beethoven String Quartets: Compositional Strategies and Rhetoric. Stanford, CA: Stanford Bookstore, 1995. Robinson, Jenefer. Deeper than Reason: Emotion and Its Role in Music, Literature and Art. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. Schubart, Christian Friedrich Daniel. C. F. D. Schubarts Gesammelte Schriften und Schicksale. Vol. 5. Stuttgart: Scheible, 1939. ———. Ideen zu einer Aesthetik der Tonkunst. Edited by Ludwig Schubart. Vienna: Degen, 1806. Reprint, edited by P. A. Merbach. Leipzig: Wolkenwanderer-Verlag, 1924. Seares, Margaret. Johann Mattheson’s Pièces de clavecin and Das neu-eröffnete Orchestre: Mattheson’s Universal Style in Theory and Practice. Farnham, Surrey, and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2014. Scruton, Roger. The Aesthetics of Music. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. Seidel, Carl Ludwig. Charinomos. 2 vols. Magdeburg: Ferdinand Rubach, 1825–28. Shakespeare, William. King Lear. In William Shakespeare: The Complete Works. Oxford: The Shakespeare Head, 1989. Sisman, Elaine R. Haydn and the Classical Variation. Cambridge, MA, and London: Harvard University Press, 1993. Steblin, Rita. A History of Key Characteristics in the Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries. Ann Arbor, MI: UMI, 1983. 2nd ed. Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2002. Stowell, Robin, ed. The Cambridge Companion to the String Quartet. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Tarasti, Eero. Signs of Music: A Guide to Musical Semiotics. Berlin and New York: Mouton de Gruyter, 2002. ———. A Theory of Musical Semiotics. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994. Treitler, Leo. “Language and the Interpretation of Music.” In Music and Meaning, edited by Jenefer Robinson, 23–56. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1997. ———. Reflections on Musical Meaning and Its Representation. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2011. Winternitz, Emanuel. Musical Instruments and Their Symbolism in Western Art. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1978.

beethoven’s middle-period f-major and f-minor works   ❧ 433 Yudkin, Jeremy. “Beethoven’s ‘Mozart’ Quartet.” Journal of the American Musicological Society 45 (1992): 30–74.

Notes 1

Come, let’s away to prison: We two alone will sing like birds i’ the cage: When thou dost ask me blessing, I’ll kneel down, And ask of thee forgiveness: and so we’ll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues Talk of court news; and we’ll talk with them too,Who loses and who wins; who’s in, who’s out;And take upon’s the mystery of things, As if were God’s spies: and we’ll wear out, In a wall’d prison, packs and sects of great ones, That ebb and flow by the moon. (Shakespeare, King Lear, act 5, scene 2, 919) 2 Gibbon, The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire; Harari, Sapiens; Hawking, A Brief History of Time. 3 Berlin, Against the Current, x–xi. 4 See, for example, Johnson, Out of Time, 233–35 and 275–79. 5 Ratner, The Beethoven String Quartets, 7. Emphasis added. 6 See Yudkin, “Beethoven’s ‘Mozart’ Quartet,” 30–74. 7 For the string quartet as the preferred form for connoisseurs with discerning taste, see Stowell, The Cambridge Companion, 224. Concerned that the innovations in his F-minor Quartet, op. 95, might not be understood or appreciated by a wider audience, Beethoven wrote: “The Quartett is written for a small circle of connoisseurs, and is never to be performed in public.” Ibid., 220.  8 The chronology of the composition of opus 18, traced through the sketchbooks Grasnick 1, Grasnick 2, and Autograph 19E, fols. 12–31, is described in Johnson, Tyson, and Winter, The Beethoven Sketchbooks, 77–100. 9 As part of this wider tradition, early nineteenth-century composers, like Schumann and Berlioz, were also music critics, writing for a broader public. Even Berlioz’s technical manual Treatise on Orchestration—Hector Berlioz, Grand traité d’instrumentation et d’orchestration modernes—contained a wealth of practical examples from music by Gluck, Beethoven, Weber, and Meyerbeer as well as Berlioz’s own works. Eighteenth- and nineteenth-century composers were often major players in other areas of musical life: in performance, such as Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin, and Liszt, and conducting, such as Mendelssohn and Mahler. This cross-fertilization between theory and praxis continued

434  ❧  chapter seventeen into the early twentieth century with Schoenberg also writing theory, while Heinrich Schenker grounded his conceptual ideas about theory in performing music. 10 Mattheson, Das neu-eröffnete Orchestre. 11 Castil-Blaze, Dictionnaire, 320. 12 Discussion of and commentary on the extensive literature of music’s “sound pictures” as expressive mimesis and aesthetic meaning may be found inKivy, The Corded Shell), updated and amplified in Sound Sentiment; Scruton, Aesthetics of Music; Robinson, Deeper than Reason; Tarasti, A Theory of Musical Semiotics; and Tarasti, Signs of Music. 13 Koch, Versuch einerAnleitung zur Composition, 171–72; reprinted and trans. in Steblin, A History, 136. I follow Steblin’s lightly revised translation in the second edition of her book, 19. 14 Mattheson, Das neu-eröffnete Orchestre, trans. in Steblin, A History, 260 (or, in Steblin’s 2nd ed., 258). 15 Müller, Versuch einer Aesthetik, 98–100, trans. in LeHuray and Day, Music and Aesthetics. On the wider issues of expressive characterization, see ibid. 16 Schubart, Ideen zu einer Aesthetik, reprinted in C. F. D. Schubarts Gesammelte Schriften und Schicksale, 5:382. My translation. 17 Seidel, Charinomos, 2 vols.; trans. in Steblin, A History, 267 (or, in Steblin’s 2nd ed., 180); translation lightly altered here. 18 Goethe, Zur Farbenlehre. In an intriguing note in the conversation book of 1820, Beethoven writes: “Can you lend me the Theory of Colors for a few weeks? It is an important work. His last things are all insipid.” See Kerst and Krehbiel, Beethoven: The Man and the Artist, 61. 19 Newton, Opticks, 120–24. Newton had discussed his theory with Leibniz and other scientists during the 1690s, as seen in the 1704 first edition, preface, p. iii, “Advertisement 1.” 20 Reinterpreting Goethe’s famous term “elective affinity,” as in the title of his novel (Elective Affinities), Hegel describes the twofold side of intellectual pattern and expressive denotation discussed by Goethe, considering music both as pattern in sound and as a pure language of human feeling. See Hegel, The Science of Logic, 354–55. See also Goehr, Elective Affinities. 21 Pater, The Renaissance, 90. 22 Treitler considers that music is not just a play of signs, even at its most denotative, but more a process of gestures depicted in music that have a corresponding resonance to our own lives and experience. See Treitler, “Language and the Interpretation of Music,” 35. Treitler’s article is reprinted in his essay collection Reflections on Musical Meaning and Its Representation, 3–31. 23 First- and second-order structures are connected to Carl Dahlhaus’s discussion of the use and transformation of existing paradigms in Between Romanticism and Modernism.

beethoven’s middle-period f-major and f-minor works   ❧ 435 24 Lewin, “Music Theory, Phenomenology,” 327–92. 25 Opening gesture as closure reverses Haydn’s celebrated closing gesture as opening in his G-major quartets, op. 33, no. 5, and op. 76, no. 1. 26 Gjerdingen, A Classic Turn of Phrase, 6–15. 27 Shakespeare, King Lear, act 3, scene 2, 903. 28 See Hatten, Musical Meaning, 28. 29 On the thematic and conceptual importance of the Eroica, see Lockwood and Gosman, Beethoven’s “Eroica” Sketchbook, 1:31–33. 30 Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Mendelssohn 15. See Johnson, Tyson, and Winter, The Beethoven Sketchbooks, 146–55. 31 Lockwood, Beethoven: The Music and the Life, 258. 32 Such gestures form fundamental reference points in verbal language, music, and the iconology of art. Models in verbal communication are discussed in Miller, Galanter, and Pribram, Plans and the Structure of Behavior; Miller and JohnsonLaird, Language and Perception; and at the interface of shape and structure in Gamwell, Mathematics and Art. In the iconology of art, Winternitz notes that images constitute the vocabulary of transmitted meaning. Reconfiguring an image, though, enlarges its scope of reference: “An artist may borrow two or more images, combining them into a new composition, without however changing their content or significance. Or he may change a borrowed or inherited image to make it carry a new meaning.” Winternitz, Musical Instruments, 202. Emphasis added. 33 The F–G♭ unmediated shift that opens both works has parallels in the openings of other middle-period works: in the compressed motivic opening of the “Waldstein” Piano Sonata, op. 53, where the C major is repeated down a tone in B-flat major, and in the E-Minor “Razumovsky” Quartet, op. 59, no. 2, whose E-minor opening is repeated up a semitone on the Neapolitan supertonic F major. 34 Leonard Ratner sees this this extreme dissociation as giving up symmetry in favor of rhetoric in “the collage of figures which make up the Neapolitan progression and to those figures which follow.” Ratner, The Beethoven String Quartets, 182. The tight underlying sonata structure underlying dissociative musical action in the first movement of opus 95 has parallels to the first movement of the “Appassionata,” but while the techniques of extreme contrast are played out on a large-scale framework in the sonata, they are extremely compressed in the quartet. 35 Haydn’s variation procedures are described in Sisman, Haydn and the Classical Variation, 152–54 and 170. 36 Recollection and reference in music are discussed in Goehr, The Imaginary Museum.

436  ❧  chapter seventeen 37 Karol Berger notes how such shifts occur early in Beethoven’s work, citing the Adagio of the C-Major Piano Sonata, op. 2, no. 3. See Berger, “Beethoven and the Aesthetic State,” 17–44. 38 See Hatten, Interpreting Musical Gestures, Topics, and Tropes. 39 Kermode, The Sense of an Ending, 196.

Chapter Eighteen

Schooling the Quintjäger David B. Levy

Writing about the perfect fifths that begin the first movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, Donald Francis Tovey made the following observation: Half the musical miseducation in the world comes from people who know that the Ninth Symphony begins on the dominant of D minor, when the fact is that its opening bare fifth may mean anything within D major, D minor, A major, A minor, E major, E minor, C sharp minor, G major, C major, and F major . . . A true analysis takes the standpoint of a listener who knows nothing beforehand, but hears and remembers everything.1

The Allegretto from Beethoven’s Symphony no. 7 in A Major, op. 92 (1811–12), remains one of his most popular works—an instantaneous “hit” ever since its first public performance in Vienna’s University Aula on December 8, 1813, evidenced by the audience’s demand for an immediate encore. The same reaction greeted the Allegretto at its second performance, an event that took place one week later. The reasons for this movement’s popularity are, it would seem, self-evident. To begin with, it is relatively short, clocking in at anywhere from approximately seven to ten minutes, depending on what tempo is chosen by the conductor.2 Its brevity alone is an especially interesting feature given the immense size of the movement that precedes it and those that follow. Its A-minor modality, beginning with a simple, but oddly unsettling, second-inversion (46) chord in the winds, is followed by a staccato theme in the lower strings, with a rhythmic profile comprising dactyls and spondees.3 Together these create a hypnotic effect. The legato counter-theme, first introduced in measure 27 in the cellos, adds an attractive new element of seductive sensuality and exoticism, created in part by its Schleifer (grace-note slides) and the subtle chromatic inflections

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in the counter-theme’s second half. Finally, the two contrasting episodes in A major bring a welcome contrasting element of lyricism, calm, and warmth. The unveiling of its opening theme with its monotone repeated notes on the dominant of the central tonality of A minor (E), unfolds as if to suggest that we are experiencing a theme and variations form. The movement’s macrostructure ultimately presents itself as a five-part rondo, although it deviates slightly from the strict definition of the form. Much has been written about the hypnotic effect of the Allegretto, often characterized as a dirge, funeral march, or some other kind of processional.4 Lewis Lockwood, among others, has noted the proximity of the Seventh Symphony to Beethoven’s Drei Equali for Four Trombones, WoO 30, composed in 1812 at the request of Franz Xaver Glöggl of Linz, observing that the Allegretto replicates a similar affect (Stimmung) to this funereal genre.5 Sir George Grove also wrote of the Allegretto’s “melancholy beauties.”6 Virtually all writers about the movement have understandably focused on the principal theme’s static repetition of the note E. The context of the driving rhythmicality of the first movement and the high spirits of the scherzo and finale play nicely into the famous Wagnerian characterization of the entire symphony as the “apotheosis of the dance” (“Apotheose des Tanzes”).7 The fact that the dactyl–spondee pattern fits the rhythmic profile of the Renaissance pavane could have served as grist for Wagner’s mill. Early sketches for the Allegretto can be found among the sketches for the second movement—Andante con moto quasi Allegretto—for the String Quartet, op. 59, no. 3. George Grove, for one, asserted that the Allegretto of the Seventh Symphony was originally designated for this quartet, citing Gustav Nottebohm’s Zweite Beethoveniana as authority for his claim.8 The fact that both movements are cast in the same key and share certain specific characteristics—most notably a repeated E in the bass voice—lends credence to this theory. Most of the sketches for opus 92 are to be found in the Petter sketchbook (Beethoven-Haus, Bonn),9 where all are easily recognizable by the frequency with which the dactyl–spondee monotonic theme can be spotted. Some of these sketches fill in the harmonies that accompany the repeated Es, such as one sees in figure 18.1, staves 11–12, from a leaf that originally belonged to the Petter sketchbook. Sketching of the countertheme is less evident. Another page from the Petter sketchbook shown in figure 18.2, however, shows that Beethoven did not completely ignore this crucial element, as evidenced by the fact that he frequently drew staff lines through multiple systems.

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Figure 18.1. Petter sketchbook, fol. 1r. Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, BH 123.

Over fifty years ago, Charles Warren Fox, who taught musicology at the Eastman School of Music for thirty-eight years, delivered one of his signature public lectures, this one dealing with the Allegretto of the Seventh Symphony. Fox’s Cornell PhD was not in musicology but rather in psychology. His presentation on the Allegretto of the Seventh—work that he never published—applied the writings on phenomenology penned by Edmund Husserl (1859–1938).10 Fox’s lecture served multiple purposes, the primary one being a proposition on how one ought to approach the activity of “apprehending” music (Fox rejected the term “listening,” on the grounds that it allowed for the experience of music to be merely passive, rather than active). An “ideal apprehender” is not required to surrender all sophistication or knowledge of Beethoven, the elements of music, or musical form. But by bracketing any previous knowledge of a specific musical experience with any one particular piece through a process Husserl called “epoché,” one can experience the piece as if for the first time and with innocent ears, i.e., to gain a “suspension of judgment” or critical distance from the work.11 To summarize, because music’s dynamism exists in a time continuum, it makes little sense to discuss any piece of music as if it were a static or physical object, to

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Figure 18.2. Petter sketchbook, fol. 27v. Beethoven-Haus, Bonn,, Mh59.

which we ascribe an analytical form (such as theme and variations, rondo, binary, ternary, sonata form). The process of apprehending music in the most meaningful way, according to Fox’s phenomenological approach, is a psychologically challenging enterprise. The reason for this is that the listener (or apprehender) is required, while constantly being presented with new data throughout the duration of any given piece, to remember everything that has transpired, while at the same time constantly anticipating what will follow. Using the Allegretto of the Seventh Symphony as an example, Fox painstakingly proceeded to go through the movement in moment-by-moment fashion, asking the question at each critical juncture: “Is the piece over? If not, why not?” The “ideal apprehender,” therefore, upon experiencing the opening chord in the winds and horns may ask the following questions: (a) “Is the piece over?” (b) “If it is, why do we not hear any strings, knowing that a symphony by Beethoven would not omit these instruments?” and, just as importantly, (c) “Why is this a chord in second inversion (i.e., 46 position)?” An answer to the first two questions comes immediately in measure 3, with the statement of the famous repeated-note theme in the violas, accompanied

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by the divisi cellos providing the underlying harmonic support. But what of the question regarding the second-inversion chord? Every music theory student is taught that second-inversion tonic chords are used in one of three possible functions: cadential (the most common usage), passing, and pedal. In each case, the second-inversion triad is deemed to be an unstable harmony and in the case of the cadential 46 requires some kind of resolution, most commonly to a dominant (V) or dominant-seventh (V7) chord before resolving to the chord in root position. Its appearance at the start of a movement in the Allegretto was, as best as I know, unprecedented, and does not fit into the traditional functions of a tonic chord in 46 position.12 What then are we to make of it? Its effect is striking, and is made all the more so by the way in which Beethoven ends the movement with precisely the same chord. In retrospect we may conclude that the opening chord and its reappearance at the end with the same orchestration create sonic “bookends,” between which the movement unfolds.13 Borrowing from Edward Cone’s terminology, one might argue that Beethoven’s unusual use of the i46 chord is a kind of “promissory” gesture intended to send a message to the composer’s potential critics (Quintjäger).14 Far from being unaware of the traditional role that a secondinversion chord is supposed to play, Beethoven is “schooling” them as to how a second-inversion chord may be used logically in non-traditional ways for particular expressive and aesthetic purposes.15 The prominence of the pitch E in the Seventh Symphony has, of course, not gone unnoticed by analysts, as this pitch plays a prominent role throughout the first, second, and fourth movements.16 Its persistent appearance as the lowest pitch, however, is a defining feature of the Allegretto alone. Beethoven’s decision to cast the second movement in the tonic minor plays into the overall tonal structure of the entire symphony: A major–A minor–F major (Trio in D major over a dominant pedal, i.e., in 46 position)–A major. The prominent placement of E in both the highest and the lowest voice in the final A-minor chord of the Allegretto eases the way to the ensuing Scherzo in F major (a tonal center, starting in measure 42 that also has a “promissory” role to play in the Poco sostenuto introduction to the first movement).17 Not only does E become reinterpreted as the leading tone to F, but it also serves as a pivot tone in the transition from a key with no sharps or flats to one with one flat (i.e., the dominant is reinterpreted as a leading tone). Turning our attention to the counter-theme of the Allegretto (mm. 27ff.), it is useful to note that its first eight measures imply C major rather than A minor. Only the subsequent phrase, with its chromatic inflections and resolution on A, reveals it to belong to the latter key. This formulation, of

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course, meshes perfectly with the harmonic trajectory of the principal tune. The counter-theme, from its first iteration and continuing through measure 98, is always scored in a register that lies beneath the principal tune itself. Perhaps it is because the bass line (“Violoncelli secondi e Bassi”) supports the two ideas by providing the foundation for conventional root position and first-inversion chords. This rather ordinary bass function of the lowest voice continues throughout the following A-major episode (mm. 102–38), while bringing unity to the movement by retaining the basic dactylic rhythmic pattern in the background. Until the onset of the A-major section, one might logically surmise that the Allegretto is unfolding as a set of theme and variations. The new episode, however, forces the listener to reconsider this assessment, possibly forecasting a tripartite structure, with an expected return to the opening material. Indeed, this is what occurs, but the varied reprise of the A-minor material in measures 150–73 adds two new elements. The first modification is a newly added counterpoint of staccato sixteenth notes in the first violins and violas. Far more significant, however, is the fact that Beethoven inverts the counterpoint of theme and counter-theme, creating no fewer than twentyone chords in second inversion, nearly all of which defy the normal context for tonic harmonies in 46 position. It is precisely in this passage that Fox’s ideal apprehender would enjoy the fulfillment of what he or she had anticipated immediately when the counter-theme was first presented, i.e., that Beethoven would subject the two ideas to invertible counterpoint, thus on the one hand offering a partial explanation of the promissory 46 tonic chord of measures 1–3, and on the other confounding the critics who might object to this panoply of “wrongly” placed second-inversion harmonies. In retrospect therefore, from a phenomenological perspective, the opening chord could be interpreted not just as a promissory gesture but also as a signal by Beethoven to the Quintjäger that if they experienced second-inversion harmonies improperly placed, it was not because he was unaware of the rules of proper voice-leading and harmonic syntax. Quite to the contrary, Beethoven was in effect saying, “If it looks or sounds incorrect to you, I know what I’m doing.” Lest the listener become too complacent, however, Beethoven introduces yet another new element: a fugato begins in measure 183 that builds in intensity to the movement’s loudest moment (ff ) in measures 214–21.18 While the passage just described presents us with an explanation of why Beethoven begins his Allegretto with a second-inversion tonic triad, it might leave the analyst wondering why he chose to end the movement with the same gesture. One answer, of course, is that it provides an element of

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symmetry to the overall Gestalt of the movement. But do we experience the final chord in the same way in which we hear the opening one? The measures leading up to the ending offer another possible answer. The final and newly varied reprise of the A-minor section measures 255–78 is a prime example of Beethoven’s skill in “liquidating” a theme by means of breaking it apart into two-measure segments through the process of durchbrochene Arbeit. The absence of the counter-theme here is notable, as is the return of normal bass-line function in the lower cellos and basses. The six-fold repetition of the rising pitch sequence, E–F♯–G♯–A, in measures 269–76 serves to draw our attention to the tonic (A) as the true root of the chord. Its overlapping sounding in the second and first violin lines in measures 275–76, marked forte and “arco,” reinforces our sense that we are finally hearing the tonic chord in root position. The forte statement of A in all the strings in measure 276 confirms this perception. The simultaneous overlapping of the chord in 6 4 position in the winds, therefore, proves illusory, as the root of the chord has been drilled into our psyches by what preceded it. By the end of the Allegretto, we can in retrospect recognize the movement’s macro-structure of having been a five-part rondo with varied reprises (ABA′BA″). There is, of course, nothing unconventional about this structure. But by breaking the conventional rules of harmony by means of the unconventional use of tonic chords in second inversion in the first varied reprise, Beethoven, renders the movement at once conventional and iconoclastic. Experiencing it from a phenomenological perspective in no way diminishes its mysterious grip on the listener’s imagination. On the contrary, I would argue that engaging with the Allegretto in the manner described in this essay yields far deeper rewards than entering into it knowing beforehand that it is a rondo, having been taught that fact in a classroom or reading it in an analytical essay. In truth, we can say, ex post facto, that it was a rondo. With physical objects we can say something is in a particular form, but given the parameter of time to which music is bound, we cannot do the same. Applying Husserl’s idea of “epoché,” we can set aside, or bracket, any previous experience of the piece itself. Referring back to Tovey’s observation about the dangers of a priori knowledge of a musical composition as a source of “musical miseducation,” one could very well imagine him having written something comparable about the Allegretto of the Seventh Symphony. Tovey, it would appear, was a bit of a phenomenologist himself. As Fox explained toward the end of his lecture, those of us who teach music history and analysis do not have the luxury of time in class to treat every piece of music or movement in similar

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fashion. He also pointed out that none of us are perfect apprehenders of music, which is why we benefit from returning to a given work again and again. Most audiences for Beethoven’s music, both then and now, were and are unfamiliar with issues of a technical nature, let alone “improper” uses of tonic 46 harmonies. On the other hand, those who are musically literate, i.e., capable of engaging in silent score reading, are able to arrive at deep insights without the benefit of a performance. Whether one encounters Beethoven’s Allegretto, or any other work, through silent study or live performance, the kind of engagement with music based on a phenomenological approach has the potential to enhance the aesthetic experience, while at the same time unveiling Beethoven’s genius in fuller measure. The opening gestures of many works by Beethoven are surprising and unusual. Think of the beginning of the first movement of Symphony no. 1, op. 21, and the Overture to Die Geschöpfe von Prometheus, op. 43 (V7/IV), or the opening Allegro of the Sonata for Piano, op. 31, no. 3 (ii56). A still more shocking example has relevance to the final movement of the Symphony no. 7. I refer here to Beethoven’s setting of the Irish tune “Nora Creina” to the words “Save me from the grave and wise,” WoO 153, no. 50.19 The tune (modified by Beethoven in the finale of the Seventh Symphony) has two interesting features: (1) it is in the Mixolydian mode, and (2) it ends on the supertonic. Beethoven’s setting of it for voice(s) and piano trio is cast in F major, but retains the Mixolydian lower seventh scale degree (E♭). The first harmony we hear in the introduction to this folksong setting is E-flat major (♭7) harmony, but when it turns almost immediately to F major we experience a sense of shock. Only once the tune itself is presented do we retrospectively understand the joke. It seems that the composer, with his wicked sense of humor, could not resist “going for the jugular” by highlighting up front the most surprising element of the tune’s modality. We have no evidence of Beethoven’s intentions for the Allegretto in this regard, as the sketch sources remain elusive for what they do not contain, especially for the compositional process of the counter-theme. No early review of the Seventh Symphony indicates that the Quintjäger of Beethoven’s day objected specifically to his liberal and unprepared use of tonic chords in second inversion in the Allegretto. As pointed out earlier in this esssay, the movement was immediately popular. The years since the premiere performance have not rendered it any less so. As an early reviewer in the Leipzig Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung wrote:

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The second movement . . . which since its first performance in Vienna has been a favorite of all connoisseurs and amateurs, is a movement that speaks inwardly even to those who have no training in music; by means of its naïveté and a certain secret magic it irresistibly overcomes them—and it is still [in 1816] demanded to be repeated at every performance.20

This work, as familiar and popular with connoisseurs and amateurs as it may be, if approached attentively, i.e., “apprehended” by whomever may experience it, can continue to yield new, and sometimes unexpected, revelations and enjoyment. A phenomenologically based approach to music in performance presents an undeniable challenge to one’s powers of concentration. By the same token, it holds the possibility of opening the mind to a far more rewarding musical adventure and deeper aesthetic experience.

Bibliography Behnke, Elizabeth A. “Edmund Husserl: Phenomenology of Embodiment.” https:// www.iep.utm.edu/husspemb/. Accessed October 25, 2018. Brandenburg, Sieghard. “Beethovens Skizzen zum zweiten Satz der 7. Symphonie Op. 92.” In Bericht über den internationalen musikwissenschaftlichen Kongress Bonn 1970, edited by Carl Dahlhaus, Hans Joachim Marx, Magda Marx-Weber, and Günter Massenkeil, 355–57. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1970. Cogan, John. “The Phenomenological Reduction.” Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy. https://www.iep.utm.edu/phen-red/#SSSH5a.i.1#SSSH5a.i.1. Accessed October 25, 2018. Cone, Edward T. “Schubert’s Promissory Note: An Exercise in Musical Hermeneutics.” 19th Century Music 5 (1982): 233–41. Dorfmüller, Kurt, Norbert Gertsch, and Julia Ronge. Ludwig van Beethoven: Thematisch-bibliographisches Werkverzeichnis. Vol. 2. Munich: Henle, 2014. Gauldin, Robert. “Beethoven’s Interrupted Tetrachord and the Seventh Symphony.” Intégral 5 (1991): 77–100. Geck, Martin. Beethoven’s Symphonies: Nine Approaches to Art and Ideas. Translated by Stewart Spencer. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017. Grove, Sir George. Beethoven and His Nine Symphonies. London: Novello, 1898. Kinsky, Georg, and Hans Halm. Das Werk Beethovens: Thematisch-bibliographisches Verzeichnis seiner sämtlichen vollendeten Kompositionen. Munich: Henle, 1955. Lockwood, Lewis. Beethoven’s Symphonies: An Artistic Vision. New York: Norton, 2015. Nottebohm, Gustav. Zweite Beethoveniana. Leipzig: Peters, 1887. Osthoff, Wolfgang. “Zum Vorstellungsgehalt des Allegretto in Beethovens 7. Symphonie.” Archiv für Musikwissenschaft 34 (1977): 159–79.

446  ❧  chapter eighteen ———. Review. Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 18, no. 48 (November 27, 1816), cols. 817–22. Silliman, A. Cutler. “Familiar Music and the A Priori: Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony.” Journal of Music Theory 20 (1976): 215–26. Smith, David Woodruff. “Phenomenology.” https://plato.stanford.edu/entries /phenomenology. Accessed October 25, 2018. Solomon, Maynard. Late Beethoven: Music, Thought, Imagination. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003. Thayer, Alexander Wheelock. Thayer’s Life of Beethoven. Revised and edited by Elliot Forbes. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1967. Tovey, Donald Francis. Essays in Musical Analysis. Vol. 1, Symphonies. London: Oxford University Press, 1935. Wagner, Richard. Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft. Leipzig: Otto Wigand, 1850. Wick, Norman L. “An Historical Approach to Six-Four Chords.” Theoria 5 (1990– 91): 61–73.

Notes 1 Tovey, Essays, 68. 2 Roger Norrington’s recording with the London Classical Players (EMI D 110622, 2009) lasts 7′33″. Leonard Bernstein’s recording with the New York Philharmonic (Sony Classical SB6K 87885, 1964) clocks in at 9′07″, and Karl Böhm’s recording with the Vienna Philharmonic (Deutsche Grammophon, 1972) is even slower with a duration of 9′57″. 3 The rhythmic profile of the principal theme has been discussed by Wolfgang Osthoff and Maynard Solomon, among others. See Osthoff, “Zum Vorstellungsgehalt,” 166–72, and Solomon, Late Beethoven, 119. 4 See Brandenburg, “Beethovens Skizzen,” 355–57. 5 Lockwood, Beethoven’s Symphonies, 153. 6 Grove, Beethoven, 252. 7 Wagner, Das Kunstwerk, 91. 8 Grove, Beethoven, 251; Nottebohm, Zweite Beethoveniana, 86, 106–7. Tovey, Essays, 59, remarked that Beethoven “afterwards thought he ought to have called it andante.” This renders Beethoven’s tempo designation of the second movement of op. 59, no. 3 all the more intriguing. 9 Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, Bodmer, HCB Mh 59. 10 For a quick guide to Husserl and the philosophical concept of phenomenology, the reader is referred to Behnke, “Edmund Husserl” and Smith, “Phenomenology.” See also Silliman, “Familiar and the A Priori,” 215–26. Silliman, who studied for a time at the Eastman School, surely heard Fox’s lecture, although he gives no acknowledgment of this in his article.

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11 Cogan, “The Phenomenological Reduction.” 12 I thank Benjamin Graf of the University of North Texas for alerting me to various studies by music theorists on unusual cases of “deviant” cadential 46 chords in Beethoven, as well as for sharing his recent unpublished paper, “Unresolved Six-Four Chords in Beethoven,” a study that focuses on the Piano Sonata in E Minor, op. 90, and the finale of the Eighth Symphony. 13 Geck, Beethoven’s Symphonies, 117. Geck draws our attention to the dramatic diminuendos from f to pp, characterizing them as “a curtain that descends, only to be raised again.” 14 Music theorists and pedantic critics were sometimes referred to in German as Quintjäger (fifth hunters), i.e., people who were constantly on the lookout for parallel fifths and octaves in part-writing. Improper use of inverted tonic triads would have been fair game for such critics. According to the testimony of Ignaz Ritter von Seyfried, “When he [Beethoven] came across criticisms in which he was accused of grammatical errors he rubbed his hands in glee and cried out with a loud laugh: ‘Yes, yes! They marvel and put their heads together because they do not find it in any school of thoroughbass!’” See Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, rev. and ed. Forbes, 242. 15 Cone, “Schubert’s Promissory Note,” 233–41. For a more comprehensive view of how theorists of Beethoven’s day thought of second-inversion chords, see Wick, “An Historical Approach,” 61–73. 16 Gauldin, “Beethoven’s Interrupted Tetrachord,” 77–100. 17 Beethoven’s introduction of the key of C major in m. 22 of the introduction, in retrospect, also plays a promissory role. Note, for example, the modulation to ♭III (C major) in the second key area of the exposition in mm. 136–41, as well as the cadence in the Allegretto theme in m. 10. 18 In Fox’s lecture, he stopped the music at the end of m. 213, i.e., at the end of the crescendo, reminding his audience that while we expect a ff statement of the theme, Beethoven could just as easily have surprised us with a subito p, one of the hallmarks of his style. Great music, Fox argued, always seems to find an ideal balance between predictability and unpredictability. 19 The WoO number is taken from Dorfmüller, Gertsch, and Ronge, Beethoven: Thematische-bibliographisches Werkverzeichnis, 2:363. The Kinsky-Halm catalogue listed it as WoO 154, no. 8. See Kinsky and Halm, Das Werk Beethovens, 642. 20 Review in Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 18, no. 48 (November 27, 1816), cols. 817–22, cited in Lockwood, Beethoven’s Symphonies, 159.

Chapter Nineteen

Cue-Staff Annotations in Beethoven’s Piano Works: Reflections and Examples from the Autograph of the Piano Sonata, Opus 101 Federica Rovelli In 1967, in one of his most famous essays, Alan Tyson described looking closely at the autograph score of the Concerto for Violin and Orchestra, op. 61, today housed in Vienna, and noticing a few peculiar annotations written in the lower staves of the document.1 Among these annotations, Tyson observed, it was possible to recognize not only a few memoranda regarding the future arrangement of the concerto for piano (specifically, for the left-hand part), but also a series of notes of a different kind, whose function seemed connected to the orchestral arrangement, almost a “rough aide-mémoire for writing out the work in score.”2 Three years after the publication of Tyson’s essay, Lewis Lockwood refocused the scholarly community’s attention on that specific type of annotation, which was later recognized as characteristic of Beethovenian manuscripts. His observations on the subject were developed in two different publications from 1970 and concentrated on the example of the Concerto for Piano and Orchestra in D Major (the unfinished “Sixth Concerto”—Unv 6, formerly known as Hess 15), but he

cue-staff annotations in beethoven’s piano works  ❧ 449

pointed out at the same time that analogous examples were clearly traceable in other documents.3 Lockwood described such annotations as: A small but legible “cue-staff” (as I am provisionally calling it) that runs through almost the entire manuscript at the bottom of each page, below the full orchestral score. . . . In its format, content, and certain details of notations, the “cuestaff” in this score is identical to the linear sketches with which we are familiar from many sketchbooks. In effect, the “cue-staff” is a sketch-line that has been transferred from sketchbook to rudimentary score. It looks like a kind of “missing link” between the two types of sources and, consequently, between the two types of work areas.4

Lockwood’s suggestion did not remain isolated: also in 1970 Joel Lester published an important article on the autograph of the Kyrie of the Missa solemnis, op. 123, noting the presence of a particular annotation at the bottom of the score, most likely set down in an initial phase of the work on that manuscript.5 In 1971 Tyson touched once again on the subject, essentially accepting in full the observations developed by Lockwood.6 He expressed doubt only about the terminology, suggesting that these particular annotations might deserve a different name.7 Despite these scholarly contributions, studies aimed at advancing the observations regarding this kind of textual typology did not see any substantial further development: no new study attempted to clarify the function of the cue-staff or to test its definition by means of its application. Only in 2015 did Bernhard R. Appel and Joachim Veit return to the subject with a study dedicated to problems of the representation of the creative process in digital editions, based on the example of the “Pastoral” Symphony, op. 68, specifically the composer’s autograph score.8 The question of how to define such annotations is evident in the numerous attempts at translating “cue-staff” into German: scholars have come up with a variety of neologisms and circumlocutions: Standspure, Noten-Stenogramme, Stichwort-System, and Leitstimme-Kondensate.9 Appel and Veit’s study aims to understand why these cue-staff annotations (as I will call them, expanding slightly Lockwood’s term), which might constitute a guide for the composer for the stages of actual orchestration, are not written throughout the manuscript but appear only sporadically and are often very brief. A fuller definition is found in the glossary of the project “Beethovens Werkstatt: Genetische Textkritik und Digitale Musikedition,”10 directed by the same two scholars: The term “cue-staff” (“Stichwort-Notensystem”) refers to a staff present in

450  ❧  chapter nineteen Beethoven’s working manuscripts used primarily for sketches worked out at the same time as the writing of a text. . . . Cue-staff annotations are found outside the valid musical text and they can be clearly distinguished from it both by the rapid pen strokes and by the presence of abbreviations in the notation . . . . Cuestaff annotations are not found in all of Beethoven’s manuscripts and, when present, they are not written in a continuous manner on every single page . . . . Cuestaff annotations often contain a “condensed” version of the primary melodic part, and, for this reason, are connected to the musical text of the score. A few of them were written before the copying of the score. It is possible that Beethoven inserted them in the still-empty manuscript to “mark” a few specific passages and to better orient himself. In other cases the composer spontaneously wrote down such annotations during the preparation of the score in order to resolve, through the sketches, a specific compositional problem (see Appel and Veit, 2015). The cue-staff annotations should not be confused with substitute readings or corrections written—whether for lack of space or for purposes of clarification—in the empty staves of a score, since such annotations are an integral part of a work’s text.11

The definition identifies two different functions of cue-staff annotations: they are written to orient the composer in the instrumentation stage, but also supplied ad hoc to resolve compositional problems that emerged in the final stages of work. Nevertheless, this definition reaffirms the idea that these annotations were used especially in the scores for orchestral works. The same assumption, recurring since Lockwood’s first definition, implies a syllogism that only Tyson has clarified in depth. Indeed, while discussing the possible presence of this specific type of annotation in the autograph scores of piano works, Tyson alone concluded that: “These below-the-score linear aids to continuity do not occur—to judge at any rate from the published autograph facsimiles—in the piano works.”12 The present essay therefore intends to offer food for thought regarding cue-staff annotations in general, and it begins with the assumption that the absence of such annotations in the autograph scores of Beethoven’s piano music has yet to be demonstrated.

Writing Space and Conceptual Space Extant definitions of cue-staff annotations, besides suggesting more or less explicitly that such annotations were reserved for the composition of orchestral music, seem to agree on another point as well: the placement of the annotations on an empty staff at the bottom of the score. Whether the presence

cue-staff annotations in beethoven’s piano works  ❧ 451

of such a blank staff was unintended or rather the result of a conscious plan by the composer cannot be definitely determined. While in orchestral scores it seems reasonable to assume that a few staves remained blank simply to present a complete system on each page, other elements seem to support the opposite hypothesis, whereby the presence of these empty staves could be the result of a deliberate choice. Lockwood himself reflected on the question of the different types of paper Beethoven employed, concluding that “even with regard to the choice of number of staves, Beethoven’s decisions on the autographs do not appear to have been as unsystematic as the legends and traditions would lead us to suppose.”13 Tyson had already found documentary evidence demonstrating that Beethoven chose the paper he used with care, predicting how many staves as a whole would be necessary, based on the genre for which the passage in progress was destined.14 To this evidence we can add a letter to Tobias Haslinger of November, 1817, in which Beethoven asks that the paper prepared for him be ruled with a specific number of staves,15 and a message from his nephew Karl in one of the conversation books of 1823 in which he specifies the time necessary for the ruling of a specific ream that had just been prepared.16 It is likely that Beethoven acquired completely blank paper that would be lined at a later time based on his explicit requests, and one can hypothesize that the copyists themselves were equipped to carry out this task. The paper used by Beethoven for piano compositions was generally oblong and provided with eight staves on which four systems of two staves could be written. This fact reflects a clear rationale and immediately explains why Tyson, even without having seen all the surviving examples, ruled out the possibility that real cue-staff annotations could have been made on the autograph scores of piano works: “[The] preference for eight-stave paper in the piano sonatas, giving four two-stave systems, excluded blank staves and left little enough room between the systems for corrections.”17 Acknowledging this fact and granting that the choice of paper and its ruling constituted an integral part of the composer’s creative activity, it will be necessary to give special attention to the documents that represent an exception to the rule. The aforementioned topographical position of the cue-staff annotations is in itself one of their defining characteristics, but it should also be considered a sign of something else. Let us consider a paradox. Whether by chance or as the result of conscious arrangement of the work space, the writing space— the “graphic frame”—in which the cue-staff annotations are found is materially part of the score itself, but from a theoretical standpoint it does not belong to it. And, in fact, no copyist who happened upon such annotations

452  ❧  chapter nineteen

ever concluded that they should be copied along with the work’s main text when creating the document destined to become the model for the published version. The cue-staff annotations are indeed written within the score, but they are found in a space that is conceptually outside it.18 Such a position explains why previous definitions of cue-staff annotations exclude all those revision variants made by the composer at a later time and often written on the empty cue-staves themselves. We should recall the final phrase of Appel and Veit’s definition in the “Beethovens Werkstatt” project: “The cue-staff annotations should not be confused with substitute readings or corrections written—whether for lack of space or for purposes of clarification—in the empty staves of a score, since such annotations are an integral part of a work’s text.” So we must agree, for example, that, for a substitute variant annotated in an empty staff and connected to the main text through one of the typical Beethovenian cross-reference signs (“vi=de,” for example), the use of the term “cue-staff annotation” would be completely out of place. In exclusively theoretical terms, in fact, the meta-textual element “vi=de” modifies the score’s space on the conceptual level and provisionally expands its material confines. The modification is precise and circumscribed, and, at the moment in which it comes into effect, the newly activated writing space can be considered a “virtual paste-down scrap” destined to substitute or to extend the “normal score.” The cue-staff that is never used by the composer as a substitution or addition to the reference text is much different: it is rather an aid for the continuation of his writing. Along with the location of the cue-staff annotations it is thus essential to consider their textual status: like sketches, these annotations are written by the composer for the composer himself: the “sender” and “receiver” of the message are one and the same. Thus they are written much like shorthand, without aiming for clarity or completeness. Using Tyson’s words, the cue-staff annotations thus constitute a type of “private writing” but located within the “public document” itself.19 It is virtually impossible to trace a clear line of demarcation among the different textual types Beethoven employed during his work; therefore trying to distinguish in a clear-cut way between “private writing” and “public writing” is risky, and Tyson himself was aware of this. Nonetheless, the phenomenon of cue-staff annotations seems understandable in its complexity only when starting from this ideal-type distinction. Moreover, it seems to call for a further distinction whose application can prove useful even beyond Beethoven studies. The textual character of the annotations employed during the creative act—whoever the composer, and whatever the stage in which they were copied—should be evaluated

cue-staff annotations in beethoven’s piano works  ❧ 453

independently from the document type (that is to say, the physical support) on which they were copied. In other words, and as much as it may seem paradoxical, within a notebook of sketches it is possible to find texts with different characteristics than those pertaining to the sketches themselves (as in the case of a variant ready to be sent to the editor but rejected at the last minute); just as, in a Stichvorlage—a manuscript used during the most advanced stages of the creative process—it is possible to encounter something different from the text released for printing. Here, too, it is possible to encounter annotations of a private character (for example, cue-staff annotations, measure count, etc.) finalized after the resolution of certain compositional problems but also unfettered from the surrounding context.20

Micro-Chronology and Function of Cue-Staff Annotations Concerning the diachronic relation that subsists between cue-staff annotations and the reference text, it is possible to compare two different cases. In the first case the peripheral annotations (or those outside the score) are written before the main text that they reference: the composer inserts them as an aid for the work that awaits him, as if they constitute a guide to keep constantly under his gaze.21 In this case the relationship that exists between the two annotations is a unidirectional one, and the cue-staff annotation can be defined as pre-existent (see ex. 19.1, left-hand diagram). In the second case, the cue-staff annotations are introduced after the writing of the main text, and they can be defined as contingent; the composer, in this case, uses these to solve a particular compositional problem that emerges during the last stages of his work. The cue-staff annotations thus should be seen as a reaction to the extant main text, and their purpose is reflected generally in one or more corrections in this text. The composer, having developed a satisfactory solution to the problem, modifies the reference text on the basis of what has been established in the cue-staff annotation. In this second case, a circular relationship is established between the peripheral text and the main text: from the main text, copied earlier, is born the necessity of the cue-staff annotation, and this is capable in turn of influencing the main text for which it was conceived (see ex. 19.1, middle diagram). The revision variants mentioned earlier fit into a third class of the possible micro-chronological relationships observable between peripheral and primary annotations located on the same manuscript page. The revision variants neither precede nor accompany but rather follow chronologically the writing of the main text (see ex.

454  ❧  chapter nineteen Example 19.1. Beethoven, Piano Sonata in A Major, op. 101, micro-chronological relations between main and peripheral text.

19.1, right-hand diagram). But these annotations are located in a space that is conceptually internal to that of the score, and they constitute an integral part of the main text; therefore, these are not comparable to cuestaff annotations. A few exceptions and hybrid cases, whose existence must naturally be considered in any type of systematization, will be discussed during an examination of the actual examples.

General Overview The first step in the preparation of this essay was an initial perusal of the autographs of Beethoven’s piano works preserved today. The selection was based in large part on the reproductions available online, catalogued on the site of Boston University’s Center for Beethoven Research22 and supplemented by those kept in the reprographische Sammlung of the BeethovenHaus in Bonn.23 These two resources allowed an almost exhaustive perusal of the autograph manuscripts of Beethoven’s piano works. Table 19.1 offers a synopsis sprung from this preliminary selection, which may perhaps be useful as a starting point for future studies on this subject. The number of autograph manuscripts containing cue-staves is somewhat small compared with the overall number of documents viewed,24 but a few ideas can be developed starting from this preliminary investigation. First of all, Tyson’s prediction was not correct: the occurrence of cue-staff annotations in the autograph scores of piano music is not conspicuous, but neither is it nonexistent. The listed occurrences lead one to believe, moreover, that Beethoven used such annotations ever more frequently as time went on. Regarding this, it is worth mentioning that a few autograph scores created before 1816, although lacking true cue-staff annotations, already stand out because of the use of pages with twelve empty staves organized in such a way that the two-staff systems and empty staves alternate. The autograph scores of “Lustig-traurig,” WoO 54,25 of the cadenza, WoO 58/1, for the

Table 19.1. Autograph manuscripts of Beethoven’s piano works that contain cuestaff annotations Work

Location, shelf mark

Date of composition

Location of cue-staves

Piano Sonata, op. 101

Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, NE 219

1816

pp. 5, 16, 21 and 28

Piano Sonata, op. 109

Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Wien, A47 (Konzept)

1820

pp. 1, 2, 3 and 4

Bagatelle, op. 119

Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, 1821 BH 106 (nr. 8, 9 and 10)

p. 2

Bibliothèque du Conservatoire, Paris (in Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Département de la Musique, Paris), Ms 52

1821

fol. 1v

Beethoven-Haus, Bodmer, HCB Mh 23

1824

fols. 2r, 5r, 5v, 6v, 7r, 7v, 8r, fols. 8v, 12r, 12v, 14v, 15r

Bibliothèque du Conservatoire, Paris (in Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Département de la Musique, Paris), Ms 74

-

pp. 3b, 3d, 3e

Bibliothèque du Conservatoire, Paris (in Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Département de la Musique, Paris), Ms 81

-

pp. 1, 2, 3, 4

Bagatelle, op. 126

456  ❧  chapter nineteen

first movement of Mozart’s Concerto, K. 466 (composed sometime between 1802 and 1809),26 and of the Sonata, op. 90, dating from 1814,27 all have a page format with twelve staves in which systems of two staves alternate with a blank staff; here the empty spaces do not appear to have been used at all. The autograph scores of the Allegretto, WoO 53,28 of the Bagatelle, WoO 56,29 and of the Sonata, op. 57 (usually catalogued as a Stichvorlage, or final manuscript copy, and completed in 180630), present not only the same nearly-regular alternation of systems and empty staves but also numerous revision variants.31 Finally, the autograph scores of the Bagatelles, WoO 52 and WoO 214, created in 1795 and 1797–98, respectively, present an interesting case.32 They are copied on pages with sixteen staves, still following the pattern of alternating systems and empty staves, and these blank spaces were used—but only at a much later stage of reworking (the beginning of 1820 and 1822, respectively)—and they are filled with annotations of a different kind, a few of which probably resemble cue-staff annotations.33

The Autograph Score of the Piano Sonata, Op. 101 The paper used for the final version of the Piano Sonata, op. 101—a true Reinschrift, or fair copy, according to Sieghard Brandenburg’s appraisal—is oblong in format and lined with sixteen staves.34 The composer employed these sixteen staves by dividing them in the same way as the autograph scores of the sonatas op. 57 and op. 90, i.e., in five systems of two staves alternating with an empty staff, plus an additional empty staff at the bottom of the page.35 The presence of the blank staves once again poses a question: why were they left empty? The simplest explanation is that the composer had at his disposal only that type of paper when he began that particular work, and therefore this situation is the product of chance.36 However an alternative hypothesis cannot be rejected a priori, which is that the composer, when he moved on to a new stage of work after leaving behind the planning stage conducted in the sketchbooks, had contemplated the possibility of a significant series of reworkings, so he wished to leave himself some room for use in an emergency. That these blank staves were not considered as simple graphical spacing seems to be suggested by page 5 of the manuscript (see fig. 19.1). Figure 19.1 shows clearly how the lines for one of the blank staves, located below the two staves filled by the main text (measure 98 of the first movement), were erased and then retraced in ink. It is not possible to know what Beethoven may have written before the erasure. The fact that the staff lines

cue-staff annotations in beethoven’s piano works  ❧ 457

Figure 19.1. Beethoven, Piano Sonata in A Major, op. 101, autograph score, p. 5, staves 13–15. Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, NE 219.

Figure 19.2. Beethoven, Piano Sonata in A Major, op. 101, autograph score, p. 16, staves 12–16. Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, NE 219.

were retraced by hand, one by one, however, suggests that the composer intended to use that space on the paper not as a mere graphic caesura but rather as an actual writing surface relevant to the musical text. This “reconstructed” staff was never actually used. This does not contradict the hypothesis that the composer intended to use it; if anything, it reinforces the idea that a general function was attributed to that space. In retracing the staff by hand, the composer was not worrying about the specific case represented by that particular measure of the text but about the fact that that space in general might become useful to him in the future. The following pages of the manuscript offer even more concrete material for consideration. On page 16, the two annotations written in pencil in the staves at the bottom of the page evidently constitute the result of an emendation, after which the composer decided to correct a portion of the main text (see fig. 19.2).

458  ❧  chapter nineteen

Figure 19.3. Beethoven, Piano Sonata in A Major, op. 101, autograph score, p. 21, staves 10–16. Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, NE 219.

The annotations in pencil in staff 16 correspond exactly to the reading used in the main text (fourth movement, measures 73–74, left hand, upper part), but the erasure in staff 14 demonstrates that earlier, in that same place, a different reading must have been annotated, one that cannot today be reconstructed. The case examined here belongs to the second category, of cue-staff contingencies, in which a compositional problem that emerged in the body of the already finished text pushed the composer to work out a solution in an adjacent writing space. The solution that arose then merged into a variant that was entered in its entirety into the main text. In one of the subsequent pages, two different cases of cue-staff annotations are recognizable—one contingent, the other whose classification is more complex, in which the newly elaborated variants were adopted in a different way (see fig. 19.3). The two different annotations are both found on page 21—in the bottom half of the page—and they refer to the last system of the main text on the same page (see fig. 19.3). In this system are written measures 91–94 of the fourth movement of the sonata. The first cue-staff annotation in pencil, copied in staves 15 and 16, surely refers to measure 193. This cue-staff annotation encompasses both the right-hand and lefthand parts (see ex. 19.2a and b). Although obviously connected to measure 193, the variant worked out in the first cue-staff annotation does not coincide exactly with the one subsequently adopted in the final version, as we can see from the last two sixteenth notes of the middle voice (D–E instead of E–F♯). But the erasure that affects a good part of the main text in question suggests that the annotation was written as a reaction to a problem identified in the already written text and that there existed, therefore, a first variant (hereafter “variant x”) that cannot today be reconstructed because it was

[ anger cue-staff annotations in beethoven’s piano works  ❧ 459

œ & 4 Beethoven, Piano Sonata ∑in A Major, op. 101, transcription Example 19.2a. of main text of m. 193 from the autograph score (see figure 19.3, staves 11 and 12). &

?œ œ #œ

?

œ

œ

œœ J

j œœ # œ

œ œ œœ œ

Example 19.2b. Beethoven, Piano Sonata in A Major, op. 101, transcription of cuestaff annotation for m. 193 from the autograph score (see figure 19.3, staves 15 and 16).

œ

& ?

[

œ

#œ

œ

œ

œ œ œ œ œ

]

œ

scratched œout. The definition of contingent cue-staff annotation thus seems œ œ œœ & appropriate. the most The second cue-staff annotation, copied in ink in staff 13, is most likely connected toœ the deleted measure, copied in the space directly above, ? œœ measure 194 ∑ (from here on referred to as “measure which was originally ”). This cue-staff annotation represents a different case. The annotation in question inscribed with rather clean handwriting, even if in shorthand and with smaller notes. Its contents seem to refer to measure (see ex. 19.3a and b). The annotation can be subdivided into two parts: the second part constitutes a repeat, in bass clef, of the first. The motive, repeated at different ranges, coincides in turn with the intermediate melodic line of measure , assigned partly to the left hand and partly to the right. The composer may have used this cue-staff annotation ©to establish at the outset an idea that he thought should flow into the main text: we can call this, therefore, a cuestaff annotation of the first type (that is, pre-existent). But he may also have used it to try to resolve a problem encountered in measure , a problem that was never resolved and that led to the final deletion of the measure in question. We would thus find ourselves dealing with a cue-staff annotation

œ nineteen #œ 460  ❧  chapter Example 19.3a. Beethoven, Piano Sonata in A Major, op. 101, transcription of the canceled m. in the main text of the autograph score; the A and G in the treble clef have themselves been canceled (see figure 19.3, staves, 11 and 12). aus œ œ & < œ > # œœ œ # œ œ œ ? œ œœ

Example 19.3b. Beethoven, Piano Sonata in A Major, op. 101, transcription of the cue-staff annotation for m. (see figure 19.3, staff 13).

&

œ #œ œ œ œ œ

? œ #œ œ œ œ

of the second type ∑ (contingent), but one that ∑ did not affect the main∑text— an anomalous case, therefore, difficult to frame in the classification system proposed above, since its chronological relation to the reference text cannot 1 be securely established. ∑ 3) from a different angle, it is Observing the∑ two examples (exx. 19.2 and possible to imagine the two cue-staff annotations as parts of a wider process of revision that did not pertain to single measures in isolation but rather to a broader textual∑ entity. Among the different ∑ possible hypotheses of recon& struction, one seems more plausible than the others and suggests that the two cue-staff annotations analyzed here were copied by Beethoven in the 1 opposite order than that heretofore implied. The problems that determined ∑ ∑ recognized at the time of the the x” could have been & deletion of “variant deletion of measure , and because of this Beethoven had to rethink the 20 link between the pre-existing measure 193 and the new measure 194. This hypothesis would explain why only the second half of measure 193 & was modified. But the cue-staff annotation in ink could have constituted a last desperate attempt to resolve the problem that emerged in measure 23 , before the annotation of the final “aus”—which in the conventions ∑ example of meta-text used ∑ to of&Beethovenian writing constitutes a classic

cue-staff annotations in beethoven’s piano works  ❧ 461

confirm the meaning of another, already existing meta-text (namely, the erasure). The pleonasm in this case was necessary to prevent the copyist from misunderstanding. Even part of the measure after (the part destined to become the final version of measure 194) was erased and subsequently reestablished thanks to the insertion of the annotation “gilt” (“it is valid”). In addition, the erasure on this second measure seems to be slightly smeared, as if the composer had retraced his steps while the ink was still fresh.

Conclusion Let me conclude with some questions that still require answers: 1. The hypothesis that, in Beethovenian compositional practice, the use of cue-staff annotations was modified and intensified as time went on, although attractive, arises from the observation of a slice of the repertoire that is too circumscribed. Will the systematic investigation of the symphonic, vocal, and chamber works demonstrate or dismantle such a hypothesis? 2. Beethoven never used cue-staff annotations for the entirety of his texts: in which sections of the works did he use them? Appel and Veit expressly tackle this problem; Tyson suggests that their use concerns in particular codas, finales, and ritornello forms.37 Is it possible to associate these annotations with certain formal sections in particular or to certain compositional styles, perhaps considered more complex? 3. Where do the cue-staff annotations of the first type, used as guidelines (and therefore defined as “pre-existent”), come from? Were they diligently copied from the sketchbooks, as Lockwood supposes, or were they instead conceived extemporaneously? 4. Is it possible to identify other types of cue-staff annotations in addition to the ones discussed here and to recognize their principal functions? Might there exist types of cue-staff annotations used in a circumscribed span of time or in reference to a specific musical genre, which up to now have not been given enough attention?

These questions and the foregoing discussion should be regarded more than anything as an “exploratory mission” that will certainly necessitate further “campaigns.” Translation from the Italian by Bibiana Vergine.

462  ❧  chapter nineteen

Bibliography Appel, Bernhard R., and Joachim Veit. “Skizzierungsprozesse im Schaffen Beethovens: Probleme der Erschließung und der Digitalen Edition.” Die Tonkunst 9 (2015): 122–30. Beethoven, Ludwig van. Briefwechsel Gesamtausgabe. Edited by Sieghard Brandenburg. Vol. 4. Munich: Henle, 1996. ———. Klaviersonate A-Dur Opus 101: Faksimile nach dem Autograph im Besitz des Beethoven-Hauses Bonn (NE 219). Edited by Sieghard Brandenburg. Munich: Henle, 1998. Cooper, Barry. Beethoven and the Creative Process. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990. Dorfmüller, Kurt, Norbert Gertsch, and Julia Ronge. Ludwig van Beethoven: Thematisch-bibliographisches Werkverzeichnis. 2 vols. Munich: Henle, 2014. Lester, Joel. “Revisions in the Autograph of the Missa Solemnis Kyrie.” Journal of the American Musicological Society 23 (1970): 420–38. Johnson, Douglas. Beethoven’s Early Sketches in the “Fischhof Miscellany,” Berlin Autograph 28. Ann Arbor, MI: UMI, 1980. Köhler, Karl-Heinz, Grita Herre, and Dagmar Beck, eds. Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte. Vol. 3. Leipzig: VEB Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1983. Lockwood, Lewis. “The Autograph of the First Movement of Beethoven’s Sonata for Violoncello and Pianoforte op. 69.” Music Forum 2 (1970): 1–109. Reprinted in Beethoven: Studies in the Creative Process, 17–94. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992. ———. “Beethoven’s Unfinished Piano Concerto of 1815: Sources and Problems.” Musical Quarterly 56 (1970): 624–46. ———. “On Beethoven’s Sketches and Autographs: Some Problems of Definition and Interpretation.” Acta Musicologica 42 (1970): 32–47. Reprinted in Beethoven: Studies in the Creative Process, 5–16. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992. Oppermann, Annette. “Schreibraum und Denkraum—Joseph Haydns Skizzen zur ‘Schöpfung.’” Die Musikforschung 56 (2003): 375–81. Tyson, Alan. “Sketches and Autographs.” In The Beethoven Companion, edited by Denis Arnold and Nigel Fortune, 443–58. London: Faber & Faber, 1971. ———. “The Textual Problems of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto.” Musical Quarterly 53 (1967): 482–502.

cue-staff annotations in beethoven’s piano works  ❧ 463

Notes

The idea for this essay stemmed from one of the many passionate transcontinental discussions undertaken with Lewis Lockwood in these years. A lui un ringraziamento affettuoso per tutti i suoi insegnamenti e il più sincero augurio per questo compleanno speciale. 1 Tyson, “The Textual Problems,” 482–502. The autograph of the concerto is housed at the Vienna Nationalbibliothek under the shelf mark Mus. Hs. 17538. 2 Tyson, “The Textual Problems,” 484. 3 Lockwood, “On Beethoven’s Sketches and Autographs,” 32–47; Lockwood, “Beethoven’s Unfinished Piano Concerto,” 624–46. 4 Lockwood, “On Beethoven’s Sketches and Autographs,” 13–15. 5 Lester, “Revisions in the Autograph,” 420–38. 6 Tyson, “Sketches and Autographs,” 443–58. 7 Ibid., 450. 8 Appel and Veit, “Skizzierungsprozesse,” 122–30. The autograph in question is housed at the Beethoven-Haus in Bonn with the shelf mark BH 64. 9 Appel and Veit, “Skizzierungsprozesse,” especially 123. 10 This is a fundamental research project funded by the Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur in Mainz from 2014 for a period of sixteen years, with sites in Bonn (Beethoven-Haus) and Detmold (Musikwissenschaftliches Seminar of the University of Paderborn). As the title makes clear, the project combines the strengths of two different approaches, that of genetic criticism and that of new digital technologies. The author was a full-time researcher in this project from October 2014 to October 2018. 11 https://beethovens-werkstatt.de/glossary/cue-staff/ (accessed September 27, 2018): “Cue staff (‘Stichwort-Notensystem’) bezeichnet ein in Beethovens Werkniederschriften eigens mitgeführtes Notensystem, das vornehmlich für Nebenskizzen benutzt wird . . . . Cue staff-Notierungen stehen außerhalb des gültigen Notentextes und sind durch ihren flüchtigen Schreibduktus und die oft abgekürzte Schreibweise der Notationselemente klar von diesem zu unterscheiden. . . . Cue staffs sind nicht in allen Arbeitsmanuskripten Beethovens zu finden und innerhalb einer Handschrift auch nicht durchgängig vorhanden. . . . Häufig enthalten die Notierungen den Leitstimmenverlauf in konzentrierter Form und stehen somit in inhaltlicher Verbindung mit dem Notentext der Partitur. Manche der Cue staff-Notate wurden vor der Partitur-Ausarbeitung niedergeschrieben. Möglicherweise trug Beethoven sie in die leere Partitur ein, um bestimmte Stellen zu ‘markieren’ und sich daran in der noch auszuarbeitenden Partitur orientieren zu können. In anderen Fällen notierte er die Cue staffSkizzen spontan während der Ausarbeitung, um ein kompositorisches Problem durch Skizzierung zu lösen (s. Appel/Veit 2015) Cue staff-Notierungen dürfen

464  ❧  chapter nineteen

12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

25 26 27 28

nicht mit reinschriftlichen Ersatzlesarten und Korrekturen verwechselt werden, die mangels Schreibraum oder aus Gründen der Deutlichkeit auf frei gebliebene Systeme ausgelagert worden sind, denn diese gehören zum ausgearbeiteten Werktext.” Tyson, “Sketches and Autographs,” 457. Lockwood, “The Autograph of the First Movement,” 19. Tyson, “Sketches and Autographs,” 452. “Ich bitte recht sehr mir ein solches 5 linien Papier rastriren zu laßen.” Briefwechsel, 4:133–34 (no. 1197). “S[ch]lemmer hat schon Papier für 5 Exemplaren. Das Rastrieren hat 4 T.[age] gebraucht. Binnen 3 Woche sind die 5 Ex.[emplare] fertig.” Köhler, Herre, and Beck, Ludwig van Beethovens Konversationshefte, 3:255. Tyson, “Sketches and Autographs,” 457. It is a given for Haydn scholars that scribal and conceptual space constitute two interdependent but autonomous categories; see, for example, Oppermann, “Schreibraum und Denkraum,” 375–81. Tyson, “Sketches and Autographs,” 451. The case of the Sonata, op. 69, offered in Lockwood, “On Beethoven’s Sketches and Autographs,” 9–10, moves in this direction. This typology seems to coincide with that recognized by Lockwood in the case of the Piano Concerto, Unv 6 (Hess 15), and by Lester in the case of the Missa solemnis. http://www.bu.edu/beethovencenter/beethoven-autographs-online/ (accessed September 27, 2018). The catalogue of the collection of reproductions can only be consulted in the library of the Beethoven-Haus in Bonn. For the sake of thoroughness, the following is a list of the opus numbers of the works for which the preliminary perusal yielded negative results: op. 26, op. 27, no. 2, op. 28, op. 33, op. 34, op. 35, op. 53, op. 57, op. 77, op. 78, op. 79, op. 81a, op. 90, op. 110, op. 111, op. 120, op. 129, WoO 31, WoO 50, WoO 52, WoO 53, WoO 54, WoO 56, WoO 58/1, WoO 64, WoO 81, WoO 84, WoO 85, WoO 212, WoO 213, WoO 214, WoO 217, WoO 218, WoO 219. The documents consulted for each opus number are those referenced in Dorfmüller, Gertsch, and Ronge, Beethoven: Thematisch-bibliographisches Werkverzeichnis, under the heading “Werkniederschrift.” Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteilung, Mus. ms.autogr. Beethoven, Grasnick 26 (ca. 1800). Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, BH 80. Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, NE 189. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Musikabteilung, Mus. ms.autogr. Beethoven, Grasnick 25 (1796–98).

cue-staff annotations in beethoven’s piano works  ❧ 465 29 Bibliothèque du Conservatoire, Paris (in Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Département de la Musique, Paris), Ms 29 (1804). 30 Bibliothèque du Conservatoire, Paris (in Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Département de la Musique, Paris), Ms 20. 31 In the autograph of opus 57 the revision variants mentioned are found, respectively, on fol. 2r and 3v; on p. 2; and pp. 13, 28, 31 and 36. 32 Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, Bodmer, HCB BMh 11/51, and Bibliothèque du Conservatoire, Paris (in Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Département de la Musique, Paris)), Ms 82. 33 For the problem of the dating of these documents, see Johnson, Beethoven’s Early Sketches and Cooper, Beethoven and the Creative Process, 263–82. 34 Klaviersonate A-Dur Opus 101, III–XVIII. 35 Except on pp. 1, 3, 8, 18, 21, 22, and 23. 36 It is worth remembering that the oblong page format with sixteen staves is typical of Beethoven’s desk sketchbooks. 37 Appel and Veit, “Skizzierungsprozesse,” 122–30, and Tyson, “Sketches and Autographs,” 457.

Chapter Twenty

Another Little Buck Out of Its Stable Richard Kramer

Preamble: Two Anecdotes A well-known professional cellist is at our home, trying out an instrument that my wife is hoping to purchase. The expansive phrase with which the cello introduces itself in the first movement of Beethoven’s Sonata for Piano and Cello, op. 102, no. 2 splays across its two-and-a-half octaves, prompting our cellist to recall that when she performed the work many years ago for the eminent music theorist Ernst Oster, he took aim at those two As that establish the octave breach in the middle of the phrase. Which of them, he is said to have asked, was “the more important”?1 It would be easy enough to dismiss the question as mischievous, since each A has a stake in the internal counterpoint of this lavishly convoluted phrase, each its own claim to “importance.” Oster, I suspect, was after bigger game, and in any case, the question inspires us to work through those differences in the play of theoretical abstraction against the immediacy of performance. (The opening of the sonata is shown in ex. 20.1.) Some weeks later—and here’s the second anecdote—moments after a performance of the piece with another cellist at a chamber music workshop where I was engaged as pianist, a sharp-eared friend accosted me: “You played a wrong note!” The stern inflection in his voice hinted that this wasn’t merely a question of the inevitable dropped note in the heat of performance. A larger issue was at stake. Ironically, it was another A, in yet another register,

468  ❧  chapter t went y Example 20.2. Beethoven, Sonata in D Major for Piano and Cello, op. 102, no. 2, mvt. 1, mm. 88–95.

˙ ? # c #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Bœ œ œ #œ ## œ œ œœ sf œœœœ # œ # c œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œœœœ # œ & œ œœœœ sf sf sf # ?# c œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙ œœœœœ œœœ œ œœœœ

88

{

90

B ##

œ œ œ œ

# & Œ

{

? ##

B ## œ Œ ˙ ## œr &

{

sf

œ œ œ œ

92

?#

œ

sf

œ œ œ œ

f

w w

˙

sf

sf

˙˙˙ w w

˙ œœœ

œœ

œœ

œœ

sf

œ ˙ Œ ‰ ?J n˙ #˙˙

sf

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

˙

#w

B

œ œ

œ œ

œ

œ œ œ œ#œ œ œnœ œ œ œ œ œ œ ˙

˙

œœ

1 The sonata, along with its companion in C major, figured prominently in Beethoven’s work during 1815.3 Its autograph score, now at the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, is inscribed “Sonate anfangs August 1815,” though it has been proposed that while this date may fix the composition of the first two movements, it does not accord well with the surviving sketches for the third movement.4 Those sketches are to be found in two sources. The more substantial of them is the so-called Scheide sketchbook, whose richly varied contents include intensive work on the Piano Sonata in A, op. 101, the song cycle An die ferne Geliebte, op. 98, an unfinished Piano Concerto in D Major, and an unfinished Piano Trio in F Minor.5 The other is a large “pocket” sketchbook, evidently in use concurrently with Scheide.6 Nearly half of its sixtysome pages are given over to sketches for the fugal finale of the D-Major Cello Sonata, and this reinforces the distribution in Scheide, where again the

another lit tle buck out of its stable  ❧ 469

Figure 20.1. Scheide sketchbook, p. 37. Courtesy of Princeton University Library.

sketching is almost exclusively for the final movement. And in this connection, one other document is of considerable significance: a draft in four-stave score for much of this same movement.7 But it is the opening page of sketches for the sonata in the Scheide sketchbook (p. 37) that claims our attention here, in part for what it seems to capture in snapshot of an extended moment during which ideas for the first and third movements are brought into focus. At the top of the page is a bold entry for the initial bars of the first movement, in strikingly close approximation to the finished version: the opening salvo in the piano, with its flurries of sixteenths and those great intervallic leaps; the stunning entrance of the cello, torn from its deepest D, arpeggiating across all four strings and blossoming, finally, into the contrapuntal lyricism spurred by those octave As that provoked Oster’s question.8 Its appearance on the page gives the impression of a first putting to paper of an idea for the first movement, even to the initial key signature. Indeed, the layout of this first page of sketches (shown as fig. 20.1) argues that we are witness here to a recording of what may be the earliest ideas for the sonata, something of a scratchpad that preserves the untidy crossing of ideas for the outer movements. Had there been earlier

470  ❧  chapter t went y

sketches for the first movement, we would expect to find evidence at this stage of more advanced probes into the interior of the work, traces of continuities, draft-like, beyond this statement of the opening theme.9 To further complicate how we might think to situate the entry, it remains the single surviving sketch for the first movement, with the exception of a fleeting scribble in Mendelssohn 1 for the few bars of a second theme corresponding to measures 31–33 in the piano.10 No further sketches for the first movement have come to light. Apart from a single clutch of variants for the D-major theme in the Adagio, the remaining sketches in Scheide, across some ten pages, address aspects of the fugal finale: in the main, trials of various permutations of the primary subject in stretto and in combination with the cantus-like secondary subject, with little evidence of anything resembling a continuity draft. But perhaps the most puzzling entry of all is the very first one, written just beneath that telling entry for the first movement (see fig. 20.1 and ex. 20.3). Beethoven’s inscription, difficult to decipher with certainty, seems to say “hier erst” (“here first”), a clue, perhaps, to the function and placement of this curiously distended sounding of the scale with which the fugal subject will open.11 It is tempting to understand it as another one of those preambles in which Beethoven invites us to meditate on the inchoate substance of the music that is about to unfold: in this case, a fragment of theme before it formulates itself as the subject of a fugue. Two later examples that spring to mind are the “Ouverture,” as Beethoven named it in the autograph of the finale of the String Quartet in B-Flat, op. 130, that introduces (in reverse order) paraphrases of the four principal permutations that will constitute the main body of what we now know as the Grosse Fuge; and the extraordinary page of quasi-fugal incipits “rejected” before the “right” one in the finale of the Piano Sonata in B-Flat, op. 106 (“Hammerklavier”).12 If that were the intention of this puzzling entry, its place on the page is meaningful in yet another respect, for it suggest that this transformative slowing of the subject occupied Beethoven’s imagination even before the labors of fugal composition are undertaken. And here it is worth recalling that in the final version the onset of the Allegro fugato is preceded by two isolated attempts at its opening phrase—one each for the cello and the piano. Instructive in what it does not specify, Beethoven’s autograph score suggests that these four bars were an afterthought, squeezed into space left empty at the end of the slow movement, tellingly without tempo indication; the “At[t]acca” scribbled after the double bar was clearly intended to specify a quick turn of the page following the fermata on the dominant with

another lit tle buck out of its stable  ❧ 471 Example 20.3. Scheide sketchbook, p. 37.

?#

ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ œ ˙ ˙& œ œ œ ˙ œ œ œ œ

[?] h er ers

œ

œ œ œ

œ etc

Figure 20.2. Beethoven, Sonata in D Major for Piano and Cello, op. 102, no. 2, autograph score, p. 16. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. ms. autogr. Beethoven Artaria 192. Reproduced by kind permission.

which the Adagio closes.13 (The autograph page is shown as fig. 20.2.) And in the Stichvorlage, a score prepared by the copyist Wenzel Rampl from the autograph in preparation for the printer, these four bars were again entered late in the process, and in the hand of a different copyist. Here, too, a tempo indication is missing; beneath the cello entry is written simply “leggiermente”14—evidently penciled in by Beethoven (and only in the cello part) and then inked over, perhaps by the copyist—an instruction that hints at a process of tentative discovery, a groping for the subject before the rigors of the Allegro fugato.15

472  ❧  chapter t went y

Something else leaps out in the formulation of this puzzling entry in Scheide: its isolation of the pitch-dyad A–B that will articulate a central motive within the fugue subject and then the further isolation of those pitches three octaves higher. Their prominence, in that intervallic configuration, only exaggerates an internal relationship to the draft for the opening of the first movement, pointing up the centrality of those pitches in the thematic design of the two movements. The appeal of a page such as this in the sketchbooks, in its capturing of what seems a moment in the coming to life of the sonata, carries with it a temptation to transpose from the sketches into the finished work an intentionality of design, a coherence of infrastructure, that may over-clarify the obscurities of an intuitive process through which such music is conceived. A coming to terms with this conundrum, in regard to this very work, was pursued in the course of a challenging study by Martina Sichardt, who probes the Allegro fugato in search of the “poetic element” that Beethoven himself was alleged to have acknowledged in these words: “To create a fugue is [in itself ] no art. I’ve made dozens in my study years. But Fantasy will also assert its claim, and nowadays something else, a truly poetic element, must enter into the old established form.”16 How, in Beethoven’s imagination, might this “poetic element” have been understood? Perhaps he meant nothing more, nor less, than his own lifelong project to assimilate fugal texture, fugal device, fugal rhetoric into the larger discourse, whether poetic or dramatic, or even epic, of many of his most significant works. No longer primarily an academic exercise of the kind that Beethoven assiduously prepared during his studies with Albrechtsberger in 1794–95, fugue would now serve as an intensification of thematic idea.17 For Sichardt, this “poetic element” is identified with some specificity, the most prominent manifestation of which is a motivic figure for which Sichardt, after Warren Kirkendale, invokes the term “pathotype”—a figure often meant to convey “the affect of deep sorrow [dem Affekt der tiefen Trauer], for which it becomes a symbol, and to which its name attests.”18 In its purest form, this pathotype isolates the descending diminished seventh, framed by scale degrees ♭6 and 7; but the figure, as Sichardt construes it in the sonata, is a transformation in which this defining interval is made over into something quite different, the flatted sixth degree made major. For Sichardt, the motive is embedded in the subject of the fugue (see ex. 20.4a) and then isolated in a new counterpoint (suggesting, for a moment, a second subject, in the manner of a double fugue) at measure 143, the inception of the second part of the finale (ex. 20.4b). If there were good reason to expect a proper “tonal” answer to this new subject, as comes to

another lit tle buck out of its stable  ❧ 473 Example 20.4. (a) Beethoven, Sonata in D Major for Piano and Cello, op. 102, no. 2, mvt. 3, mm. 5–10; (b) Beethoven, Sonata in D Major for Piano and Cello, op. 102, no. 2, mvt. 3, mm. 143–50; (c) Handel, Messiah, from the chorus “And with His Stripes.” 5 > œ œΩ ˙ 3 œ ? # œ œ œ a) 4œ œ º

œœœ œ œœœ œ œœœ œ

œ >˙ º

Vc.

#˙

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˙

˙

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w h

143

b)

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&

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˙

˙

Pf.

˙ Hs

nw

s r pes

˙

˙

we

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˙

œ

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ed

dux, we are disabused: the answering phrase here plays the role of the obedient respondent in a classical sonata. Of the new subject itself, much has been made (by Sichardt and others) of its putative kinship with the subject of “And with His Stripes,” from Messiah, with Handel’s F minor transmuted to B major (shown as ex. 20.4c). That Beethoven knew the oratorio is confirmed in a number of extracts copied in various sketch sources that date back to 1806–7.19 His handwritten copy of the voice parts of the Handel chorus in its entirety can be dated in the vicinity of 1821.20 Still, it is the burden of responsible criticism to establish some plausible relationship between sonata finale and Messiah chorus in which the “poetic element” of the latter would demonstrably inform the narrative of the fugue. In its absence, we are left with a mere semblance, an intervallic abstraction. As its title portends—in rough translation: “Draft of a Narratological Beethoven Analysis”—Sichardt’s study will propose that such topoi as this pathotype constitute the elements of a narrative-like unfolding, and further, that (in her words) the transformation of this thematic cell [Kern] in the course of the sonata, more than evidence merely of an inner unity [Geschlossenheit], rather narrates a “story” [Geschichte] of this thematic cell—a “story” that can be abbreviated on the frame of a sequence in three steps: movement 1: happiness, untroubled reality; movement 2: sadness and an imagined happiness; movement 3: an overpowering at

474  ❧  chapter t went y once insolent and humorous [trotzig-humoristische Bewältigung] (not, however, a victorious conquest). This three-stage sequence can be designated as a narrative scaffold of the sonata.21

For all the original insight in the course of Sichardt’s richly detailed study, there is yet something troubling in this reduction of narrative to the transformation of a thematic cell. To interpret the substance of the sonata in these terms—to hear, for one, the first movement as an expression of “happiness,” of “untroubled reality,” oblivious of the manic intensity, interrupted by moments of concentrated lyricism, that drives this music—is to impose on the sonata rather a caricature of narrative, dismissive of the complex unfolding of idea, of character and voice, and indeed of that expressive narrative thread conveyed in a purely musical diction that, whatever its allusion to cognitive experience, resists translation into the prose of literary discourse.22 A further distinction is pertinent here. The narrating voice tells its story in its own time, distinct and distant from the time of the story itself—the distinction between Erzählzeit (the narrator’s present time) and erzählte Zeit (the multiple pasts captured in the story), in the lingo of the narratologist.23 Music is clearly incapable of that kind of distinction. Either it engages in a mimetic parody of the storyteller, or it acts out, in a first-order mimesis, a sequence of purely musical events that does not in itself possess the cognitive matter necessary for genuine narrative even if the traces of some narrativelike discourse might be signaled in the coded semiotic vocabulary of musical gesture.24 The play between the narrating agent and the story that it tells, a commonplace in literary discourse, is a subtlety unavailable even to the most sophisticated elocutionary voice of music. 1 And that returns us to the second of those two anecdotes with which I began: to the misplayed note at measure 92 as “a betrayal of what may be thought of as the crux of the work.” What, precisely, is at stake? The problem is illuminated in an entry dated November 30, 1929 in the diary of the Viennese music theorist Heinrich Schenker, who records his impressions of a performance of this very sonata by Pablo Casals. Of the first movement, he writes: “an arbitrary double-bar set by the printer in the development allows C[asals] to commit an offense against the sense [of the work]: he begins the reprise with g2, and then a second time after 4 bars with f♯2! C[asals] never

another lit tle buck out of its stable  ❧ 475

Figure 20.3. Beethoven, Sonata in D Major for Piano and Cello, op. 102, no. 2, autograph score, p. 6. Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. ms. autog. Beethoven Artaria 192.

lets the pianist come forth, and thus the work seems deprived of all its illuminating power.”25 In fairness to Casals and his pianist, one might wonder how the impact of this feigned recapitulation in the subdominant (m. 84) might have been finessed toward the playing of the trump card at the true moment of recapitulation at measure 89. Beethoven’s notation does not show its hand until the C♯ at measure 88 with which the cello initiates its swerve toward the true tonic. And this brings us to the telling F♯ at measure 92, sounded from the deepest note in the bass to the grace note four octaves above that will find its target yet another tenth higher. The leap up to the high A is clearly meant to invoke—indeed to stand in for—the grand arpeggiation with which the cello announces itself at measure 4. How, precisely, the pianist might think to perform this leap, how to set the F♯ and the A in some meaningful acoustical relationship, is a challenge that might be read even in the calligraphy of Beethoven’s autograph (shown as fig. 20.3), the generous gap between the

another lit tle buck out of its stable  ❧ 477

of lyrical beauty, but rather in a brutal restructuring, a re-hearing of its elements. The grand arpeggio with which the cello discovers its high A is now redundant, and so the piano seizes the moment in a precipitous leap to its highest A. In the taxonomies of sonata, the moment would be explained away in terms of the spatial symmetries of sonata form. Unfolding in time, in tension with a structural design that occupies its space, the sequential moments of music seem cognate with the events of literary narrative, whether as story told or drama enacted. Yet while the temptation to impute narrative meaning to the catastrophic reversals at measure 92 is powerful, the claim to have identified that meaning in cognitive terms is an exercise in futility. This is not to say that the signposts of narrative might not have figured in the conceiving of the work, but rather to suggest that what they seem to say is never demonstrable, never given to verification, even to suggest that they interfere inevitably with a meaning resident in the music, truer to the work and inseparable from it. And yet the urge to explain the expressive force of the music in cognitive terms is irrepressible. How to reconcile this narrative impulse both in the literary sense and in the pure discourse of music is the unforgiving challenge of the critical enterprise.

Epilogue Finally, a word on my title, which plays on the title of a brief study by Albi Rosenthal.26 The “little buck out of its stable” refers to a marginal note that Beethoven scribbled in three instances on a copy of the Simrock print of the sonata. The first of them, against the cello part in the first movement, reads “cis ein Böcklein aus S[imrocks] Stall” (“C♯: a little buck out of Simrock’s stable”).27 This refers to the final note in measure 7, which, in all later editions and in the copyist’s score which served as a text for the printer, is given as D. (The exception is the Artaria edition, authorized by Beethoven in 1819.) But Beethoven’s autograph, from which this copyist’s score was surely made, is deeply ambiguous. The notehead seems originally to have marked C♯, which is then absorbed into a larger note head that covers the D line. What is however indisputable is Beethoven’s correction in the Rosenthal copy of the Simrock edition.28 In its leading of the lower voice A–B toward a meeting with the upper voice, this C♯ is a critical player. Its significance is only heightened in the transformation of this passage at measures 93–95, where C♯ is made the downbeat toward which the phrase now cadences.

478  ❧  chapter t went y

That other little buck out of its stable, neither a copyist’s error nor an engraver’s, is the momentous A that managed to escape the reach of these fingers, setting loose this discursive meditation on its consequences. If the misplaying of that critical A at measure 92 as an F♯ is a deed that can never be undone (at least in the mind of this humbled author), there is yet some consolation in the irony that a wrong note, and the inquiry into its wrongness, will have set off in bolder relief the merits of the right one.

Bibliography Abbate, Carolyn. Unsung Voices. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1991. Beethoven, Ludwig van. Briefwechsel Gesamtausgabe. Edited by Sieghard Brandenburg. 7 vols. Munich: Henle, 1996–98. ––––––. Kompositionsstudien bei Joseph Haydn, Johann Georg Albrechtsberger und Antonio Salieri. Edited byJulia Ronge. Beethoven Werke, XIII/1 [Composition studies with Joseph Haydn, Johann Georg Albrechtsberger, and Antionio Salieri, vol. 1]. Munich: Henle, 2014. ––––––. Sonaten für Klavier und Violoncello/Sonatas for Pianoforte and Violoncello. Edited by Jonathan Del Mar. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 2004. Bockholdt, Rudolf. “Der letzte Satz von Beethovens letzter Violoncellosonate, Op. 102 Nr. 2.” In Beethovens Werke für Klavier und Violoncello: Bericht über die Internationale Fachkonferenz Bonn, 18–20. Juni 1998, edited by Sieghard Brandenburg, Ingeborg Maas, and Wolfgang Osthoff, 265–82. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 2004. Dahlhaus, Carl. “‘Von zwei Kulturen der Musik’: Die Schlußfuge aus Beethovens Cellosonate Opus 102, 2.” Die Musikforschung 31 (1978): 397–405. Dufner, Jens. “Ludwig van Beethoven, Zwei Sonaten für Klavier und Violoncello Op. 102, überprüfte Abschriften.” In Auf den Spuren Beethovens: Hans Conrad Bodmer und seine Sammlung, edited by Nicole Kämpken and Michael Ladenburger, 188–92. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 2006. Federhofer, Helmut. Heinrich Schenker: Nach Tagebüchern und Briefen in der Oswald Jonas Memorial Collection. Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1985. Genette, Gérard. Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method. Translated by Jane E. Lewin. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980. Johnson, Douglas, Alan Tyson, and Robert Winter. The Beethoven Sketchbooks: History, Reconstruction, Inventory. Edited by Douglas Johnson. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1985. Kirkendale, Warren. Fugue and Fugato in Rococo and Classical Chamber Music. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1979.

another lit tle buck out of its stable  ❧ 479 Koch, Heinrich Christoph. Musikalisches Lexikon. Frankfurt am Main: August Hermann, 1802. Reprint, Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1985. Kramer, Richard. “Between Cavatina and Ouverture: Opus 130 and the Voices of Narrative.” In Beethoven Forum, vol. 1, edited by Christopher Reynolds, Lewis Lockwood, and James Webster, 165–89. Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, 1992. Lenz, Wilhelm von. Beethoven: Eine Kunst-Studie. Hamburg: Hoffmann and Campe, 1860. Lockwood, Lewis. “Beethoven’s Emergence from Crisis: The Cello Sonatas of Op. 102 (1815).” Journal of Musicology 16 (1998), 301–22. Nottebohm, Gustav. Beethovens Studien. Leipzig and Winterthur: J. Rieter-Biedermann, 1873. Reprint, Wiesbaden: Martin Sändig, 1971. ––––––. Zweite Beethoveniana. Leipzig: Peters, 1887. Oster, Ernst. “Register and the Large-Scale Connection.” Journal of Music Theory 5 (1961): 54–71. Reprinted in Readings in Schenker Analysis and Other Approaches, edited by Maury Yeston, 54–71. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1977. Rosenthal, Albi. “‘Ein Böcklein aus dem Stall’: Beethovens Anmerkungen in einem Exemplar der Erstausgabe von op. 102.” In Beethovens Werke für Klavier und Violoncello: Bericht über die Internationale Fachkonferenz Bonn, 18–20. Juni 1998, edited by Sieghard Brandenburg, Ingeborg Maass, and Wolfgang Osthoff, 229– 38. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 2004. ––––––. “‘A Little Buck Out of Its Stable’: Some Corrections by Beethoven in a Copy of the First Edition of Opus 102.” In Pianist, Scholar, Connoisseur: Essays in Honor of Jacob Lateiner, edited by Bruce Brubaker and Jane Gottlieb, 147–50. Stuyvesant, NY: Pendragon Press, 2000. Schmidt, Hans. “Verzeichnis der Skizzen Beethovens.” In Beethoven-Jahrbuch 6 (1969): 7–128. Sichardt, Martina. Entwurf einer narratologischen Beethoven-Analytik. Bonn: Beethoven-Haus, 2012. Van der Zanden, Jos. “A Beethoven Sketchleaf in The Hague.” Bonner BeethovenStudien 3 (2003): 153–67.

Notes 1 2

I am indebted to cellist Susan Salm, of the Raphael Trio, for sharing her memory of this session with Oster, which, Salm recalls, took place at his New York apartment in roughly 1975–76. Ernst Oster, “Register and the Large-Scale Connection,” 54–71, though opus 102 does not figure in the study.

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Among the substantial writings provoked by these two sonatas, an essay by Lewis Lockwood makes a compelling argument that work on the 1814 revision of Beethoven’s only opera can be heard to play into the “lyrical intensity” of the C-major sonata in particular, finding the new voice that will nourish the music of Beethoven’s final decade. See his “Beethoven’s Emergence from Crisis,” 305. 4 See, for example, Johnson, Tyson, and Winter, The Beethoven Sketchbooks, 244. In an undated letter to Joseph Xaver Brauchle, tutor to the children of the Countess Marie Erdödy, Beethoven writes: “ich werde die beyden violonschel Sonaten mitbringen,” which can have referred only to opus 102. The countess, a fine pianist to whom the Artaria edition of the sonatas was dedicated, left Vienna with her family on September 30 for Croatia, which gives us a date by which the sonatas must have been completed. The cellist in the ensemble would have been Joseph Linke. See Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 3:167–68 (no. 835). 5 Now housed at the Scheide Library, Department of Rare Books and Special Collections, Princeton University Library, under the signature M130 (WHS 30.14), the sketchbook is accessible in digital facsimile at the library website. For a description of the sketchbook, its dating and contents, see Johnson, Tyson, and Winter, The Beethoven Sketchbooks, 241–46. 6 Biblioteka Jagiellónska, Kraków (formerly at Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin), Mus. ms. autogr. Beethoven Mend.-Stift. 1. See Johnson, Tyson, and Winter, The Beethoven Sketchbooks, 340–43. The earliest transcription of extracts from the book are to be found in Nottebohm, “Ein Skizzenheft aus dem Jahre 1815,” in Zweite Beethoveniana, 314–20. 7 Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, HCB Mh 92 [SBH 648]: a gathering of eight leaves (sixteen pages), of which ten pages are for the most part ruled into score, and the last six pages entirely blank. Related to this fascicle is a bifolium today at the Koninklijke Bibliotheek in The Hague, SV 327 in Hans Schmidt’s “Verzeichnis der Skizzen Beethovens” (103), of the same paper-type as the Bonn manuscript. The score draft on 1v shows signs of continuity with the first page of the Bonn draft. For a facsimile and transcription, see van der Zanden, “A Beethoven Sketchleaf in The Hague,” 153–67. 8 The entry was transcribed in Nottebohm, Zweite Beethoveniana, 325. 9 It has been proposed (Johnson, Tyson, and Winter, The Beethoven Sketchbooks, 244) that earlier sketches for the first two movements might have been written on some of the seventeen leaves that were removed from the sketchbook before Nottebohm examined it. The leaves were removed between the current folios 31/32 and 33/34. The first entries for op 102, no. 2 are on page 37. Of the three leaves believed to have been removed from the book between those pages none contains entries for op. 102. 10 The page is shown in facsimile in Sichardt, Entwurf, 58, 60. Sichardt (58) writes that here “erkennt man eine fragmentarische Fassung des Seitensatz-Themas

another lit tle buck out of its stable  ❧ 481 des 1. Satz . . . dazu die Worte ‘zum ersten mal und weiter [?] so’” (“one recognizes a fragmentary version of the second theme in the first movement . . . and in addition, the words ‘at the first time and the same later’”). I read the inscription rather as “2te mal u. i[m] Clawier so” (“thus the second time and in the piano”). Translations are my own, unless otherwise indicated. 11 I have profited from an exchange about this entry with Federica Rovelli, who is preparing an edition of the Scheide sketchbook for the Beethoven-Haus series. 12 The topic is considered in some depth in my “Between Cavatina and Ouverture,” especially 170–72. 13 The autograph score is at the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Mus. Ms. Autogr. Beethoven Art. 192; it is accessible digitally at the website of the library, http://content.staatsbibliothek.berlin.de/dc /PPN8804876X.mets.xml (accessed March 10, 2020). 14 Of interest is an entry for the word in Koch, Musikalisches Lexikon, 894: “leicht, ohne studierten und schwerfälligen Vortrag”: “to be performed lightly, without studied or ponderous execution.” The point is only to suggest that the word had some currency in the contemporary vocabulary of music performance. 15 The copy is in the Sammlung H. C. Bodmer at the Beethoven-Haus, Bonn. Two additional authentic copies exist. On these matters, see Jens Dufner’s excellent account in “Ludwig van Beethoven, Zwei Sonaten für Klavier und Violoncello Op. 102.” For a different understanding of these measures, see Bockholdt, “Der letzte Satz von Beethovens letzter Violoncellosonate, Op. 102 Nr. 2,” especially 265–69. 16 “Eine Fuge zu machen ist keine Kunst, ich habe deren zu Dutzenden in meiner Studienzeit gemacht. Aber die Phantasie will auch ihr Recht behaupten, und heut’ zu Tage muss in die alt hergebrachte Form ein anderes, ein wirklich poetisches Element kommen.” This is how Karl Holz, in a letter to Wilhelm von Lenz many years after the fact, recalled Beethoven’s words. See Lenz, Beethoven: Eine Kunst-Studie, 219. The passage is cited in Sichardt, Entwurf, 30. 17 Major excerpts of those earlier studies with Haydn and Albrechtsberger were first and brilliantly analyzed by Gustav Nottebohm in Beethovens Studien; and the corpus has now been published in Beethoven, Kompositionsstudien bei Joseph Haydn, Johann Georg Albrechtsberger und Antonio Salieri, keenly edited by Julia Ronge. 18 Sichardt, Entwurf, 30. 19 For a conspectus of Beethoven’s extracts from Messiah, see Kirkendale, Fugue and Fugato, 216. On the dating of the earliest entries, see Johnson, Tyson, and Winter, The Beethoven Sketchbooks, 525. 20 The manuscript, previously in the collection of Arturo Toscanini, was auctioned by Sotheby’s on December 6, 1991, with a facsimile of the first page of the manuscript in the auction catalogue (p. 56), and is currently in the Karpeles Manuscript Library, a consortium of museums and libraries across the United

482  ❧  chapter t went y States with apparently no central depository. The dating of the manuscript is based solely on the watermark of its paper, which is in turn drawn from the dating of its paper in Johnson, Tyson, and Winter, The Beethoven Sketchbooks. 21 Sichardt, Entwurf, 43. 22 Carl Dahlhaus understands the “process” of the fugue very differently, underscoring an aggregate “thematic substance” constituted in the subject and its various permutations, and arguing brilliantly that this new theme at m. 143 acts as a formal marker that stands in for the “erhobenen Augenblick” (the “heightened moment”) that articulates the point of reprise in Beethoven’s sonata movements. See his “‘Von zwei Kulturen der Musik,’” especially 403–4. 23 The classic exposition of the difference is Genette, Narrative Discourse, 33–35 and elsewhere. 24 The question is explored in, for one, Abbate, Unsung Voices, 54–55. 25 “Ein von den Stechern willkürlich gesetzter Doppelstrich in der Durchführung läßt C[asals] einen Verstoß gegen den Sinn begehen; er fängt die Reprise mit g2 an, nach 4 Takten mit fis2 zum zweitenmal! Den Klavierspieler läßt C[asals] nirgend hervortreten, deshalb erscheint dem Werk alle Leuchtkraft entzogen.” Federhofer, Heinrich Schenker, 227. See also the entry in Schenker Documents Online, http://www.schenkerdocumentsonline.org/index.html (accessed March 10, 2020). The double bar to which Schenker alludes is a notational convention in later editions, but is to be found in neither the two earliest “authentic” editions, by Simrock (1817) and Artaria (1819, with the dedication to the Countess Marie Erdödy), nor the autograph score and the copyist’s Stichvorlage. 26 Rosenthal, “‘A Little Buck Out of Its Stable’”; for the more elaborate version, see Rosenthal, “‘Ein Böcklein aus dem Stall’ 27 For the corrected reading of the note, see Beethoven, Sonaten für Klavier und Violoncello, Del Mar’s Critical Commentary, 55. 28 The matter is exhaustively treated in ibid., 62.

Chapter Twenty-One

Beethoven’s Cavatina, Haydn’s Seasons, and the Thickness of Inscription Elaine Sisman

On Titles and Inscriptions The words that composers inscribed in scores of instrumental music, as title, genre, expressive marking, or label, carry a kind of talismanic force. Yet their meanings are passionately argued, and their endless ambiguities have led philosopher Arnold Berleant to insist that “instead of titles telling us what the music means, the music tells us what the titles mean.”1 Charles Burney is recorded as remarking, around 1791, that Haydn’s Seven Last Words of Christ, sometimes known in London as an “instrumental Passion,” is “perhaps, the most sublime composition without words to point out its meaning that has ever been composed.”2 One asks: what other words are needed to point out the meaning of seven slow movements, each headed by one of Christ’s last words or phrases, concluding with a titled earthquake? Within the first fifteen years after its composition, Haydn’s Seven Last Words was called “characteristic,” a series of “character pieces or, if one prefers, musical paintings,” and even a “symphonie à programme,” in Koch’s Musikalisches Lexikon (1802).3 One listener’s program is another listener’s question mark. On the other hand, the presence of clarifying words, the inscriptions that may “produce all of the effects of the finest and most perfect imitation,” as

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Adam Smith put it, can also create mysteries, but perhaps of another kind.4 In the autograph manuscript of the “Pastoral” Symphony, Beethoven’s note to his copyist demands that the words “nightingale,” “quail,” and “cuckoo” be printed over the wind solos that appear shortly before the conclusion of “Scene by the Brook,” the second movement.5 These and other musical figures associated with birds had appeared throughout the movement, yet only here did Beethoven require a verbal inscription. And these are the only inscriptions in the entire work outside the title of the symphony and the title for each movement. Written during the decade of greatest controversy over the representations of nature in Haydn’s oratorios, The Creation (1798) and The Seasons (1801),6 the bird-labels seemed eerily to recall cutting remarks made by Diderot and Rousseau forty-odd years earlier. Pondering obscure subjects in a painting called “The Village Soothsayer” exhibited in the Salon of 1765, Diderot wrote, “They say that a well-meaning painter who’d put a bird in his picture and wanted that bird to be a cock, wrote below it: “‘this is a cock.’” To make sonatas mean something, Rousseau wrote in the Encyclopédie that same year, “one would have to do like the crude painter who was obliged to write under his figures, ‘this is a man, this is a tree, this is an ox.’”7 Moreover, Beethoven’s wish that the symphony be understood as “more the expression of feelings than painting” was printed on the program for the premiere as well as in authorized editions and published reviews.8 Words powerfully affected musical experience, Beethoven well knew. By their rarity and the way he struggled over them in his works, he signaled that he took titles and inscriptions very seriously. The advantages of enabling comprehension and conversation in the public square needed to be weighed against the risk of reflexive disapproval. He had just been through this with the Third Symphony, which vividly exemplified the comment of celebrated bibliographer Isaac D’Israeli, in an essay called “Titles of Books” (1807): “Were it inquired of an ingenious writer what page of his work had occasioned him most perplexity, he would often point to the title-page.”9 On October 22, 1803, Ries told Simrock that the symphony would be “named” Bonaparte; on August 26, 1804, Beethoven wrote to Breitkopf that the symphony was “actually titled Ponaparte [sic].”10 The title page of the corrected copy itself was a small battleground, with “entitled Bonaparte” in the hand of a copyist so vigorously erased by Beethoven that he left a hole in the page, only to pencil in below, sometime later, “written on [the subject of ] Bonaparte.” The first edition in 1806 gave Beethoven’s new title as “Sinfonia Eroica,” with the subtitle “composta per festeggiare il sovvenire di un grand Uomo.”

the thickness of inscription  ❧ 485

The words “named,” “entitled,” “written on,” “titled” (“genannt,” “intitolata,” “geschrieben auf,” “eigentlich . . . betitelt”) remind me of the scene in the eighth chapter of Through the Looking Glass, when the White Knight is preparing to declaim a parody of Wordsworth’s “Resolution and Independence,” a poem whose working title was “The Leech-Gatherer.” “The name of the song is called ‘Haddocks’ Eyes.’” “Oh, that’s the name of the song, is it?” Alice said, trying to feel interested. “No, you don’t understand,” said the Knight, looking a little vexed. “That’s what the name is called. The name really is ‘The Aged, Aged Man.’” “Then I ought to have said, ‘That’s what the song is called?’” Alice corrected herself. “No you oughtn’t: that’s quite another thing! The song is called ‘Ways and Means’: but that’s only what it’s called, you know.” “Well, what is the song, then?” asked Alice, who was by this time completely bewildered. “I was coming to that,” the Knight said. “The song really is ‘A-sitting on a Gate’: and the tune’s my own invention.”11

These titles follow certain conventions. As John Hollander glosses them, (1) “Haddocks’ Eyes” is the kind of modern title culled from a single line or symbol in the work that makes us await its revelation; (2) “The Aged, Aged Man” identifies the subject; (3) “Ways and Means” highlights a larger moral; and (4) “A-sitting on a Gate” is a refrain, “so well known it has become folklore.”12 Just as one might listen to the Third Symphony for Napoleonic echoes, one might try the thought-experiment of listening to the White Knight’s poem four times, once for each title, or, better still, doing so after reading Wordsworth’s earnest source poem. These views belie the simplicity of Dahlhaus’s assumption, about the Eroica, that the title is an “aesthetic object” that forms “part of the work.”13 The other titles and inscriptions in Beethoven’s instrumental music (either penned or approved by him) often add modifiers to a genre-name that render them characteristic or expressive. They divulge enough to evoke a topic— “Sonate pathétique,” “Marcia funebre,” “Sonata quasi una fantasia,” “Arioso dolente”—without offering an actual blueprint. Yet we pore over even these titles as much as we do over apparently more specific ones: “La malinconia,” “Lebewohl, Abwesenheit und Wiedersehn,” “Heiliger Dankgesang eines Genesenen an die Gottheit.” Beethoven’s concern about titles and what they might say about musical specificity never left him, as can be seen in his changing the inscription over the “Dona nobis pacem” of the Missa

486  ❧  chapter t went y-one Example 21.1. Beethoven, Symphony no. 6, mvt. 2, mm. 129–32. [Andante molto moto]

Fl

Ob Cl n Bb

Nach gall > > > > cresc. 129 ° b 12 œ ‰ Œ œj œj ‰ œj œj ‰ œj œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ &b 8 ∑ ∑ Wach el œ œ Œ ‰ Œ b 12 œ &b 8 œ ‰ Œ ∑ œ 12 œ ‰ Œ Ó ¢& 8

Ÿ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 131 ° bb w œ œ œ œj ‰ & ∑ ∑ œj ‰ ‰ Œ œ œ œj ‰ ‰ Œ œ œ œj ‰ œ œ œj ‰ ‰ b &b ∑ ∑ Kuckuck œ œ ‰ Œ œ œ ‰ œ œ ‰ ‰ œ œ ‰ Œ ‰ ¢&

solemnis from “Representing inner and outer peace” to “Prayer for inner and outer peace.”14 A large interdisciplinary literature is devoted to considering whether and how titles, whatever their source, form part of a work.15 Titles have, according to Leo Hoek, what we might call “a zooming effect.” That is, they “imperatively direct reading.”16 Arthur Danto similarly finds titles of artworks to be directions for seeing, having the force of interjections: “Behold the flaying of Marsyas!”17 Titles and inscriptions in musical works have a directive force for both players and listeners.18 The zooming effect puts in a different perspective Beethoven’s birds, shown in example 21.1. While his audience may have recognized the common rhythmic and timbral “signatures” of the nightingale, quail, and cuckoo, Beethoven was so insistent about a verbal inscription that one wonders who was supposed to know about it and why. The first edition, in parts, added the inscriptions to the first violin part—oddly, without the cuckoo—in addition to the solo winds playing the passages. The flute player would be the most likely to be helped by the image in order to play with the metric freedom of a cadenza, as the series of single notes and appoggiaturas speeds up into a trill. But the oboe and clarinets play a three-note and two-note figure, respectively, without that ad libitum

the thickness of inscription  ❧ 487

quality. Inscribing the score puts a kind of bubble around the players, as though highlighting—zooming into—those particular moments of birdsong. Yet rather than hearing this as a heightened moment of nature, both Debussy and Adorno deplored the cadenzas as crude mechanisms. Debussy heard the sounds of the “nightingales of the forest and the Swiss cuckoos” as “belonging more to the art of M. Vaucanson than to a nature worthy of the name”; Adorno dismissed as a “jest” (Spaß) Beethoven’s birds “cranking like mechanical toys.”19 With the evocation of the celebrated eighteenth-century automaton-builder Vaucanson and the verb leiern (to crank or grind), Debussy and Adorno heard these birds as mechanical intrusions into the landscape rather than natural emanations from it. Was it their being named or their musical combination that offended? The “zooming effect” of Beethoven’s inscription matches the “close-up” effect of the unexpected solos for the wind instruments, distilled from the thicker tapestry of trills, arpeggios, and woodland echoes, which fall silent. The “Scene by the Brook” becomes the “Scene Only of Birds.” This does impart a certain artfulness, even artifice, to the music.20 And the nightingale here sings on the dominant, a pitch that had often been reserved for the quail, as in Biber’s Sonata violin solo representativa (ca. 1669), Haydn’s The Seasons (near the end of Summer, no. 10b, measures 206–7, 283–85), and even Beethoven’s own Lied “Der Wachtelschlag,” WoO 129 (1803). Instead, ^ The cuckoo, which the quail now calls a sixth above the dominant, on 3. ^ ^ more typically sings a descending minor third (5–3), here resolves the har^ ^ 1). mony with a descending major third (3– So why did he name them? Was Beethoven communicating with his performers, the way Mahler did when he inscribed “imitate the call of a cuckoo” or “like a bird’s voice” in his symphonies?21 Did he mean, “there are birds only where I say there are birds, so don’t even think of calling my flute arpeggio a bird!”? In measures 58–61, the upward arpeggio of the flute strikingly recalls the first appearance of Vivaldi’s goldfinch in the Flute Concerto in D major, “Il gardellino” (op. 10, no. 3, RV 428).22 Was Beethoven alluding to the common tendency of pieces with birds to include precisely these three, like Knecht’s “Musical Portrait of Nature” (1785) and Boccherini’s String Quintet “L’uccelliera,” op. 11, no. 6 (1771)? They also make up fully half of the birds in Athanasius Kircher’s famous illustration of 1650.23 I believe all of these are possible answers. But the one I find most plausible is that he was adding some thickness to the symphony’s subtitle, “more the expression of feelings than painting,” by saying “and when it is more about painting I’ll

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let you know.” This reveals an attempt to control the terms of debate in the wake of Haydn’s oratorios: fully conscious, focused—and localized. Beethoven’s inscriptions can be understood “thickly” in all of these contexts and more. I would like to consider both the thickness of an inscription and a way of thickly describing an inscription. My use of the term “thick inscription” is owed to Gilbert Ryle’s concept of “thick description” from his 1968 essay, “Thinking and Reflecting: What is Le Penseur Doing?”24 Clifford Geertz, who was a cultural anthropologist, credited Ryle with the term when he advanced “thick description” as a model for ethnography in 1973, and he cited Ryle’s “winking boys.”25 For in giving a “thin” description of three boys identically closing their right eyelids—the identical outer image or description of one—Ryle went on to open the remarkably different inner landscape of each “wink”: the first boy is making an involuntary twitch of the eye; the second boy is winking or trying to wink at a friend in the classroom; the third boy is parodying the first boy, perhaps to open him to general scorn. The last two actions may not be successful in reaching their targets, but that has no effect on the thick description—other than to thicken it further. But Geertz veered away from Ryle after this, toward social and cultural coding, and it is Geertz’s use of the concept that has been taken up by musicologists.26 As a philosopher, Ryle was seeking to explicate a complex set of mental actions by entering into the “imaginative world” of particular activities, exemplified by certain verbs. His focus was on how one can get to the bottom of what Rodin’s Thinker is actually doing: the author of The Concept of Mind and coiner of the contemptuous term “the Ghost in the Machine” hoped to end Cartesian dualism once and for all.27 What both invites and allows Ryle to create elaborately nesting boxes of thickly described mental activity in the first place is, clearly, Rodin’s title. Yet Ryle never queries it. It is of no interest to him that The Thinker was originally “The Poet” seated above The Gates of Hell (in fact Dante, before he lost his clothes). Only after the project for The Gates of Hell fell through—the museum it was intended to inaugurate was never built—did Rodin imagine The Thinker as a solitary figure and more monumental in size.28 And it is Rodin’s own words, in a letter of 1904, that seem to allow the view of The Thinker as uniquely wrapped in productive thought: The Thinker has a story. In the days long gone by, I conceived the idea of The Gates of Hell. Before the door, seated on a rock, Dante, thinking of the plan of his poem. Behind him, Ugolino, Francesca, Paolo, all the characters of the Divine Comedy. This project was not realized. Thin, ascetic, Dante in his straight

the thickness of inscription  ❧ 489 robe separated from the whole would have been without meaning. Guided by my first inspiration I conceived another thinker, a naked man, seated upon a rock, his feet drawn under him, his fist against his teeth, he dreams. The fertile thought slowly elaborates itself within his brain. He is no longer dreamer, he is creator.29

So the “thickness” must extend to the “inscription” as well, and what it enables or conceals. That is what I have been trying to do with the birds in the “Pastoral” Symphony.

On Cavatina as a Title And it is what I hope now to do with the Cavatina. Genre titles are inscriptions of a different sort from those for the birds we have been considering. They do not so much zoom in as open a space of action, which is often delimited by conventions of scoring, venue, and number of movements. They also reveal what John Ashbery called the title’s effect of “a very small aperture into a larger area, a keyhole perhaps, or some way of getting into” the work.30 The genre can’t change in the same way a title changes—or can it? Berlioz and Mahler famously obsessed over genre titles, recognizing how they affected reception.31 Take the word “Sonata.” Rousseau concluded his famous take-down of “meaningless” sonatas, cited above, with Fontenelle’s endlessly quoted remark: “Sonata, what do you want of me?” This has been taken to mean, by D’Alembert, Rousseau, and everyone else, “Why all these notes without words?” To me it says: “Why can’t you come up with a better title? One that just gives me a bigger keyhole through which to enter this work?”32 This is the issue addressed by Adam Smith, when he said that an instrumental piece could be imitative—that is, descriptive—with an “inscription,” but that it makes an even more profound effect on listeners by the association of ideas.33 To Hollander, a genre title is redundant and uninformative, the lowest end of a spectrum of titling practices, but Anne Ferry finds that it may still have a story to tell.34 Cavatina, however, is a vocal genre, so its inscription upon an instrumental work needs as much thickening as possible. As Lewis Lockwood has shown, Beethoven twice sketched pieces with the term “cavatina” or its derivatives: an early attempt at setting Goethe’s poem “Wonne der Wehmut” in the mid-1790s, unrelated to his later op. 83, no. 1 (1810), is headed “Cavatina,” and an Andantino cavatinato is found among

490  ❧  chapter t went y-one

sketches for the Violin Sonata, op. 24 (1800).35 But his original and by now long-established title “Cavatine” for the brief prayer-like aria, “Dem die erste Zähre,” in his patriotic cantata, Der glorreiche Augenblick, op. 136 (1814), was explicitly disavowed by Beethoven. He tried to obliterate the word in the autograph, then made sure it didn’t form part of the copyist’s manuscript.36 Yet it found its way back into the posthumous edition by Haslinger in 1835, the depoliticized version, “Preis der Tonkunst,” with a new text by Friedrich Rochlitz (1837), and all subsequent editions until the one in Beethoven Werke (1996). Perhaps it is of interest that all three of these are in G major.37 Why Beethoven changed his mind is unknown and even hard to fathom: “Dem die erste Zähre” is a perfect example of the cavatina as understood around 1800: a short, deeply felt, one-stanza aria “excavated” from the preceding recitative (as its origin in the word cavata suggests), and that recitative itself has several registers of rhetorical declamation, including “a tempo” portions and orchestral tremolo.38 Weissenbach’s published libretto has almost no indentations for the aria portions and indicates only that the chorus in no. 4 repeats the last six lines.39 Beethoven’s setting has no contrasting section, minimal text repetition, and a simple, moving, artless melody—just as Schubart defined the genre.40 Scholars sometimes point to the first part of Florestan’s aria, “In des Lebens Frühlingstagen,” as a cavatina in all but name, and describe, say, Pamina’s “Ach, ich fühl’s” or even Tamino’s “Dies Bildnis” as “like” a cavatina.41 But, then, why did the composer not use the designation? Among short arias, entrance arias, and other usages, Wolfgang Osthoff identified an “esoteric thread” of dark, even ombra-themed cavatinas in E-flat major or C minor among the many cavatinas after 1760, and Helga Luehning described a group of intensely expressive cavatinas around 1800.42 What gives legitimacy to claims that untitled works are in the same genre? “Cavatina” may be one of those special designations that require the composer’s imprimatur. And Beethoven changed his mind. Thus the Cavatina in the String Quartet in B-flat, op. 130, composed in 1825, is Beethoven’s only work so named. It joins the Arioso dolente of the Piano Sonata, op. 110, and the Arietta finale of the Piano Sonata, op. 111, as instantly recognizable genre-titles that need no other signifier.43 Sketches for the slow movement, originally conceived in third place and in D-flat major (the key of the eventual third movement, Andante con moto ma non troppo), seemed mostly to use the word “adagio,” but one sketch plan for the quartet mentioned an “arioso ” (without notation) after two preludial (recitative?) broken chords were written out.44 The title “Cavatina” appears for the first time as a large heading in pencil at the top left margin on folio 38r

the thickness of inscription  ❧ 491

Figure 21.1. De Roda sketchbook, fol.38r. Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, autograph, NE 47a.

of the De Roda sketchbook, over the first staff of a draft of the movement (see fig. 21.1). At the top of that page, however, there is a smaller centered title written in ink: “Arietta quasi cavat[ina].” The writing on the page is almost entirely in pencil, with just a few notes in ink, and also features, for the only time that I know of outside the autograph, the word “beklemmt” under the eighth staff.45 The simultaneous appearance of “Cavatina” and “beklemmt” seems to me highly significant, as does the temporizing represented by “quasi.” What would associate this movement, as it was developing, with a cavatina in Beethoven’s mind, and why would there be a moment of hedging? To consider the second question first, we might recall one of the characteristics of the genre as contemporaries understood it: it had no contrasting B section.46 Yet most scholars discussing the form of the Cavatina in opus 130 refer without comment to its ABA form, the lengthy closed A section giving way to the brief but highly contrasting remote-key “beklemmt” section,

492  ❧  chapter t went y-one

which yields in turn to a shortened return and coda.47 Compare that form with the very small “ternary” form of the act 3 cavatina, “Und ob die Wolke,” in Weber’s Der Freischütz, a work very popular in Vienna after its premiere there in 1821. The first section consists of a period (a), whose two phrases end, respectively, on a half cadence and a half cadence in the dominant, and then a return to the opening phrase (a′), which now ends on the tonic, with a few extra coda phrases, each of which also ends on the tonic. There is a single contrasting phrase (b) in the dominant (at the beginning of the second stanza of text), after which the opening theme returns in its a′ presentation. The degree of repetition and tonic cadencing, together with the brevity of b and the fact that it begins at the midpoint of the piece, makes the form seem to divide into two.48 The first question—how did Beethoven arrive at the title “Cavatina” at all?—seems to me related not only to its primary singing “voice,” the first violin, but to the relationship of that “singer” to the sinuous recombining voices of the second violin, viola, and cello in the A sections (to be discussed below, ex. 21.6), and especially to its oppressed, constricted, nearly choking utterance in measures 40–48, in which the marking “beklemmt” appears only after the first violin has found its voice on G♭ in its new pulsating environment, at the beginning of measure 42. In Maynard Solomon’s words, “we are not obliged to choose among the multiple meanings of the word— ‘confined,’ ‘straitened,’ ‘oppressed,’ ‘weighted down,’ ‘anxious,’ ‘constricted,’ and even ‘suffocated’—for all of these at once may bear on Beethoven’s intention.”49 Cavatinas in operas, the only antecedent scholars have ever considered for opus 130, may well have had deep emotion and sighing, but only a vanishingly small number even come close to sounding oppressed. Even the most powerful candidate known to me—Euridice’s dying aria, “Del mio core il voto estremo,” in Haydn’s opera L’anima del filosofo, ossia Orfeo ed Euridice (a work not performed during the eighteenth or nineteenth centuries)—does not quite manage it: sighing needs breath.50 Indeed, the afterlife of that cavatina from 1791 is to be found in Haydn’s own later cavatinas.

On the Cavatinas in Haydn’s Seasons I believe scholars have been looking in the wrong genre for the precedents for Beethoven’s Cavatina. There exists a work that was well known to Beethoven and that has two explicitly titled cavatinas, both of which thematize precisely those qualities of oppression and anxiety named by Solomon. This

the thickness of inscription  ❧ 493

work is Haydn’s last oratorio, The Seasons, performed close to thirty times in Vienna during Beethoven’s lifetime after its premiere in 1801, including in April 1824. (Opus 130 was completed at the end of 1825.) The first cavatina, “Dem Druck’ erlieget die Natur” (“Nature succumbs to the pressure”), is sung by Lukas when the sun beats down too hard in summer, withering nature and prostrating man and beast; the second, “Licht und Leben sind geschwächet” (“Light and life have grown weak”), is sung by Hanne early in Winter when there is not enough sunlight and warmth to sustain life during joyless days and endless black nights. But the connection is not only metaphorical: the word “beklemmt” actually appears twice in The Seasons reasonably near each of the cavatinas. The first appearance is in the introduction to Summer. The opening orchestral measures in C minor prepare Lukas’s recitative describing the grey veil of approaching dawn. We hear sluggish night disappearing, and the vultures fly back to their dark caverns, so that “Ihr dumpfer Klageton / Beklemmt das bange Herz nicht mehr” (“their muffled lament no longer oppresses the anxious heart”). This last line of Lukas’s recitative receives a pulsating Neapolitan chord, after which he leaps up an octave at “beklemmt” and sustains it for over half a measure, the longest note he has yet sung in the recitative (see ex. 21.2). Separating the “beklemmt” of the Introduction and the cavatina are only the dawn hunt (aria) and the sunrise (trio and chorus). The second time “beklemmt” appears is in Winter, this time in the very next number after the cavatina, the aria “Hier steht der Wand’rer nun” (“Here now the wanderer stands”), in E minor, Presto. Lukas describes the way the traveler first searches in a frenzy for a path through the snow, becoming more and more confused and lost, reaching the dominant minor. Suddenly the strings stop their frantic pace and, in descending offbeat chords, reflect the wanderer’s loss of hope: “Jetzt sinket ihm der Mut / Und Angst beklemmt sein Herz” (“Now his courage sinks / and fear constricts his heart”; see ex. 21.3). The vocal line also sinks by thirds in the first phrase, outlining a diminishedseventh chord to move the harmonies around the circle of fifths (to F-sharp minor and then at “Angst” to C-sharp minor). After this first expression of despair, the musical line and the accompaniment then slow down still further as day wanes and, in his exhaustion, the wanderer feels himself stiffening with the cold. This stiffening occurs in C major: nine measures of pulsing Cs in the bass are the longest period of stasis in the aria, and, moving back to B pulses (as dominant again) reveals a large-scale Phrygian process from measures 52 to 93. The time-honored association of a Phrygian topos and death comes into play here.51 Haydn brings back the two previous lines for

494  ❧  chapter t went y-one Example 21.2. Haydn, The Seasons, Summer, no. 6a, recitative, mm. 24–27. Lukas

[Adagio]

b 4 &b b 4

Sr

˙ ‰ œj

j j r b 4 & b b 4 ‰ œj œ œ œJ œ œ Œ ‹ ihr dump-fer K a ge-ton

23

{

œ

Œ

Ó

Œ

Ó

œ bœ bœ œ œ J J J J n˙

be - k emmt das ban-ge

j‰ b œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ œœ 6

j œœœœœœœ ‰ œœœœœœœ

Herz

∑

Œ

∑

Œ

6

? bb 44 œ b œ

Œ œ

œ Œ

nicht mehr

nn œœ œœ œ #œ

Œ

Ó

Œ

Ó

Example 21.3. Haydn, The Seasons, Winter, no. 18b, aria, Lukas, “Hier steht der Wand’rer nun,” mm. 52–60.

#4 & 4 ‹

52

Lukas

Sr

Œ

œ Je z

{

Ó

# & Œ œ Œ œ #œ œ ?# œ Œ œ Œ

{

Ó

œœÆ Œ œÆ #4 œ & 4œ p ? # 4 œœ Œ œœ Œ 4

# & ˙ ‹ Mu ,

56

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Herz,

Œ œ Œ œ #œ œ

Œ œ Œ œ Œ œ Œ œœ Œ #œ Œ œ œœ œœ #œ œ ## œœ ## œœ œ Œ œ Œ #œ Œ œ Œ #œ Œ œ Œ #œ Œ œ Œ

the nearly motionless close of the E-minor section (mm. 76–82), making “Und Angst beklemmt sein Herz” (on a Phrygian e–f–e) the last line before the wanderer spies the shimmer of the nearby light that will save his life.52 The cavatinas (there are only two) play special roles in Haydn’s oratorio. The opening and closing seasons, Spring and Winter, work as bookends: everything grows, and then everything dies. Spring and Autumn portray scenes of simple enjoyment: naming the flowers and creatures in reviving nature in the former, enjoying the hunt and then the wine (to excess)

the thickness of inscription  ❧ 495

after the hard work of the harvest in the latter. Summer has its own shape: a single day from dawn to dusk, as joy in the sunrise turns to prostration in the sun’s oppressive heat, and even the respite of the shady grove cannot prevent the cataclysm of the violent storm. In Winter, after fog and snows blow in, the earth resembles a grave, and the lost wanderer nearly dies of cold; the scene moves indoors, for the first and only time in the work, but a comfortable fire with spinning and storytelling cannot prevent the dire recognition that the death of nature is really Man’s Death. Linking Summer and Winter as the seasons of extremes is the pressure that extreme heat and cold exert on the human body, revealing the fragility of life. Strikingly, van Swieten poeticizes each of these moments in a cavatina, Lukas’s in Summer and Hanne’s in Winter.53 While not able to do justice to James Thomson’s densely descriptive and didactic original poem, van Swieten, in his English version of the text, did find potent analogues to these moments of pressure: “All-conquering heat, oh intermit thy wrath! / And on my throbbing temples potent thus / Beam not so hard! Incessant still you flow, / And still another fervent flood succeeds,  / Pour’d on the head profuse.” And later, “Winter falls, / A heavy gloom oppressive o’er the world.” The cavatina texts appear at moments when a lyrical rather than a declamatory voice can personalize the direr effects of each season’s extremity. Thus, in Summer, the cavatina appears after the magnificent choral number describing, proclaiming, and hailing the sunrise. The sun initiates all the rest of the action, so to speak: enervating pressure, temporary respite, utter stillness, terrifying explosion of the storm, and then the restoration of sounding nature and cheerful home-going at sunset.54 In Winter, the cavatina appears early, among the lengthy opening sequence of recitatives, because the season goes from bad to worse: the fogs descend, the mists and clouds “press upon the plains,” rendering the light even at noon all but useless. Nature turns rigid and silent under the tread of Winter. The image is once again of pressure and anxiety, weakness and insufficiency: too little sun has the same effect as too much, since neither condition can sustain life. Even breathing is a struggle. Lukas’s Summer cavatina (Largo) is the only number in E major in a season that is largely on the flat side, except for the sunrise in D major. Its muted strings play winding lines over a walking bass, set off by short echoing wind cries, as shown in example 21.4, which begins after the orchestral introduction. Repetitive and increasingly breathless, the singer and his accompaniment gasp in syncopated hiccups and a curiously disjunct melodic line. Man and beast lie motionless, suffering from loss of will. The setting moves twice through the text. After a six-measure introduction (2+4),

496  ❧  chapter t went y-one

Lukas’s first strophe is in phrases of two, then three, then four measures, ending untypically in C-sharp minor (m. 15). The first phrase outlines an octave descent; the phrase beginning “kraftlos” emphasizes the drooping to earth with descending diminished-seventh leaps. Beginning again in E major (m. 16), the music is rebarred, and phrases become increasingly elided and extended. His second strophe expands the four-measure phrase first with material from measures 4–6, then with an extended cadence phrase, turning nine measures into fifteen. The first strophe repeats the last line once (“am Boden hingestreckt”), but in the second strophe, the last two lines of text include individual words and lines over and over: “und kraftlos, und kraftlos schmachtend Mensch und Tier am Boden, am Boden hingestreckt.” (The line is then repeated, with the word “hingestreckt” after each “Boden”; “and feebly, and feebly, languish man and beast, stretched out upon the ground, stretched out upon the ground.”) During the final line, two unornamented notes, each part of a descending leap, each with a fermata (mm. 27–28), seem to present a musical analogy to being forced to stretch out listlessly on the ground. An early reviewer even wrote about this Cavatina using a verb form related to “beklemmt”: “How heavy and crushed and choked [beklommen] one feels.”55 Winter begins with an evocative Adagio ma non troppo in C minor, meant to depict the thick fogs with which the season begins. Although this introduction is substantially longer and more poignant than the introduction to Summer, the two are in the same key, and the world in November, like the dawn in summer, is grey. But instead of dark things leaving for distant caverns, now something is arriving: “stormy dark Winter from Lapland’s caverns.” Peter Pesic has persuasively analyzed the “circle of sixths” in Winter’s beginning sequence—recitative–cavatina–recitative–wanderer aria—to suggest an influential connection to Schubert’s “Wanderer” pieces and harmonic practice, and the deceptive beginning of Hanne’s cavatina in F major after her preceding cadence in A major is part of this cycle.56 Keeping a2 as the top note in a new largo tempo, she sings an apparently simple melody in gavotte rhythm, while the accompanying strings are gapped with rests, as shown in example 21.5, which begins after the strings introduce her melody. The strings repeat the three notes of their half cadence as an echo at the end of her first phrase, then repeat it again in pizzicato—the ultimate in desiccation. The first two lines of text are heard only once. For her second two lines of text, “Unmutsvollen Tagen folget / Schwarzer Nächte lange Dauer” (“Joyless days are followed by black nights of long duration”), everything is askew. “Unmutsvollen” begins on an accented upbeat after a forte triple-stopped

498  ❧  chapter t went y-one

chord (I6, m. 763 [m. 76, third beat]), and the days last for seven quarternote beats (the phrase leading to a deceptive cadence, mm. 764–782). Then “folget” gets the accent, together with the loud chord (IV) in mid-measure (m. 783), and the nights last for twelve beats (m. 783 to a perfect authentic cadence in m. 81). Repeating her second two lines, Hanne now leaps to her highest pitch, but the harmonic valence of the seven-beat and now thirteenbeat text setting is reversed: full cadence first, then the deceptive cadence (m. 86), with slight inflections on IV and ii. Off-beat chords in the strings make her seem increasingly breathless. Her last line (mm. 87–94) is repeated one more time, now with “folget” in upbeat position, and is extended to eight measures, with “Schwarzer” held for three beats on a motionless diminishedseventh chord, then five beats on “lange” (“long”), the last with another big chord (the dominant), and eleven beats—nearly three measures—on “Dauer” (“duration”), as the strings quiet to pianissimo, and she runs out of breath. The Summer and Winter cavatinas do not seem musically similar, but they are both largo, an affectively significant tempo marking (to Haydn), used elsewhere in The Seasons only in the slow introductions to Spring and to the sunrise movement and in Simon’s final aria.57 And their endings rhyme in startling ways, as both singers are rendered motionless and breathless by their oppressive seasons.

On Dynamics and Topics in the String Quartet in B-flat, op. 130 Returning to Beethoven’s Cavatina with Haydn in our ears suggests ways in which elements of constriction appear in the movement, both the opening A section (ex. 21.6a) and the B section (ex. 21.6b). It is noticeable that while only seven measures are inscribed “beklemmt,” one of the elements of constriction in the B section apparent even before that marking is the cresc.–p with which the pulsating eighth notes begin. The sudden change from harmonized lyricism to stark staccato octaves is first announced dynamically. Dynamic constriction appears tellingly in the opening theme and in the coda theme (violin in mm. 58–59 and cello in mm. 61–62), even in the final measure. At the beginning of the movement, the three lower strings have a full crescendo–diminuendo, while the first violin’s otherwise soaring initial gesture, with what Barbara Barry calls an “expressive rising sixth,” is counterintuitively made to pull back with a diminuendo while ascending; the singer has been prevented from singing out.58 The rest of the movement has more

504  ❧  chapter t went y-one Example 21.8. Beethoven, String Quartet in B-flat Major, op. 130, mvt. 1, beginning of development, mm. 94–102. Tempo primo

Vn I

° b b b3 &b b b 4 Œ

b 3 & b bbbb 4 Œ

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B bbbbbb 43 œ

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p

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pp non ligato

# 3Œ Œ 4 nœ ## 3 Œ Œ 4

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cresc.

non troppo œ œ ## 43 #˙ Œ

pp non ligato

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nœ nœ

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c Œ œœœœœœœ œœ pp

c

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3 4 Œ Œ ‰ œj ˙ espressivo 3Œ Œ ‰ j 4 œ œ œ j 3 4Œ Œ ‰ œ œ œ espressivo

espressivo

p

measures 5–16.62 This cadence ratifies but keeps mysterious the inflection to the relative minor, C minor; as Robert Hatten notes, “the move to C minor is suspended on a cadential six-four.”63 In fact, the augmented-sixth chord in measure 14 is countermanded by the II7 chord on the second beat of ^ measure 15, instead of the other way round (more typical is 4^ rising to ♯4). Moreover, the sarabande rhythm in measure 15 is the first time since measure 5 that the voices have moved together in slow chords, and here it is the stressed second beat that emphasizes the pathetic sixth degree in C minor. Perhaps the intensity of that utterance keeps the first violin meditating on the sarabande, even increasing its emphasis with the first beat of measure 18 now a dotted version of the descending sixth. As it maintains its measured tread, the other voices pass around an eighth-note line similar to that in the ^ ^ 5 first measure, in a circle-of-fifths progression now inflected with the ♭6– upper neighbor from the quasi-Phrygian cadence. The second violin even plays above the first to reach the highest note yet in the quartet (g2, m. 19). But the first violin takes up the reins again in measures 20–21, transforming the two-measure arch (mm. 5–6) from a hymn in quarter notes to a

the thickness of inscription  ❧ 505

rhythmically varied sarabande version.64 And the sarabande reemerges at a charged moment: at the true Phrygian cadence in A-flat minor ending the “beklemmt” section, when the first violin even takes up the same pitch a♭1 in that completely different harmonic context on the second beat of measure 47 (ex. 21.6b). The serious and historically marked sarabande topic in the A section thus offers a path for the first violin to lead the other voices at important cadential moments and to distinguish itself rhythmically. By forecasting the heavy-weightedness of the final “beklemmt” cadence, the sarabande links the most resonant “wandering” passages of the movement.

On the Inscriptions in the String Quartet in B-flat, Op. 130 Thickening the inscription “Cavatina” further, a striking anomaly in its form is not merely the presence of a B section but the configuration of that B section as a recitative. A cavatina, as its derivation from cavata implies, is something excavated from recitative. Van Swieten suggested that Hanne’s text in Winter could be set as “Cavatina or in Tempo,” and Haydn put only a fermata, not a double bar, at the end of the recitative before her cavatina. Thus the idea that Beethoven’s Cavatina instead encloses a recitative suggests an excavation from the inside, a hollowing-out, a secret cavity, containing, perhaps, a secret message. This may be what makes the aspects of “inside” voices trying to be heard such a powerful concept for the first three movements as well. As we have seen, the Allegro fanfare motive of the first movement breaks out in the development section with its upwards fourth leap not undercut by dynamics or harmony, when it is heard “as it really is” for the first time. In the second movement, after the upward-directed trio of the Presto concludes, the instruments repeat the final ascending scale, but it keeps landing them on the tonic, instead of the dominant pitch where the downward-directed scherzo begins again (ex. 21.9). The scale becomes a unison enterprise, triply augmented, marked “ritardando,” until it overshoots even the tonic pitch. When it reaches c2, the first violin, seemingly recognizing the problem, holds its C for an extra measure, then in a moment of individual initiative suddenly runs down the chromatic scale—a collapse? a rebellion?—to point everyone to the correct pitch, f1.65 It stages this move twice more, each time starting a third higher, until it has risen through a diminished triad to g♭2, thus increasing the number of chromatic notes from six to eight to ten.66

506  ❧  chapter t went y-one Example 21.9. Beethoven, String Quartet in B-flat Major, op. 130, mvt. 2, Presto: mm. 48–57.

œ

48 ° b6 œ œ œ œ œ œ &b 4

[Presto]

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∑

∑ ∑

Peter McCallum writes of the late Beethoven staging a “feigned improvisatory moment” or “feigned indecisiveness”; he has in mind a group of works featuring the emergence of a memory of earlier movements, but this odd mock-dramatic transition in the Presto fits the bill in a different way, with the emergence of a subjectivity that demands to be heard.67 And it makes us hear the return of the scherzo differently, no longer as Kerman’s “furious whisper” or Lockwood’s “streaking light.”68 It is now a mock-dramatic gypsyviolin variation, complete with trills, weak-beat echoes, and leaping octaves where there was once a rest on beat 4, creating a new context for the modal descending bass and “exotic” Phrygian seconds in the melody. The re-voiced coda replaces the octave leap on the empty fourth beat with “strumming” pizzicatos in the second violin, now higher than the melodic line. Finally, the chromatic descents foreshadow the Cavatina, for when the first violin is singing “beklemmt,” it seems almost involuntarily to retreat from the highest

the thickness of inscription  ❧ 509

beginning even pokes up as a brief solo atop a yawning diminished-seventh leap (mm. 19, 54). The inscription is not, after all, “Molto scherzoso.” “Alla danza tedesca” is the kind of inscription familiar from “Alla marcia” movements: it is “like” a dance, except, perhaps, where it is not. Originally intended as an A-major movement for the A-minor Quartet, op. 132, it gained its deconstructed coda only for op. 130.73 Its character as an allemande in  has been compared to Beethoven’s other allemandes (e.g. the first movement of Piano Sonata, op. 79, also in G major), the finale of Haydn’s Piano Trio in E-flat, Hob. XV:30 (1795), the “teitsch” in the ballroom scene of the act 1 finale to Don Giovanni (also in G major), and to pieces that simply use a German dance topic. Kerman described the Allegro quasi allegretto of the “La malinconia” finale of op. 18, no. 6, as a “single-minded evocation of the danza alla Tedesca, the Teutsche of the Viennese ballroom.”74 Michael Steinberg suggested that Beethoven might have modeled the Alla danza tedesca on the closing section of the raucous “Tipsy Chorus” (“Nun tönen die Pfeifen,” Allegro assai, ) that ends Autumn in The Seasons, “for harmonic motion and for unbuttoned rustic good humor.”75 Dance topics in instrumental music, of course, hardly need naming by the composer; the shared understanding of their metric styles is one of the bedrocks of Topic Theory.76 What might have occasioned the new coda for its placement in opus 130? Nothing is “carved” out of it, but Beethoven finds a way to match it to movements 2, 3, and 5. After the mini-drama of the Presto’s transition and the interrupting voices of the Andante, the coda of the fourth movement shows the conjurer behind the screen with his “dice game”-handbook, single-voice melody in the order of measures 8–7–6–5–1–2–3–4. But then he’s in trouble: as in the trio of the second movement, when the ascending scale keeps going past the dominant pitch where the scherzo restarts, the two notes in measure 136 (from m. 4) are a half cadence, and there’s no way home. Stuck, as the violin was stuck in the Presto, the conjurer displays measures 3–4 over a partly chromatic descending bass to a half cadence in the subdominant; the fermata again ratifies that he can’t go anywhere. An attempted restart of the opening theme in C major must be brushed aside so that the concluding cadential phrase, measures 5–8, can be heard twice, ending, as we have seen, on a genuine cresc.–f. The last inscriptions in the quartet, and the question of the appropriate final movement to which they give rise, lie outside the scope of this study: “Ouverture” (“Overtura” in the first edition) and “Fuga.” Only the replacement finale is actually inscribed “Finale.” Scholars note that overtures appear in operas, but they do not then ask why the term should appear to open a

510  ❧  chapter t went y-one

finale.77 Certainly there are slow introductions to finales, and Beethoven was known to admire Mozart’s G-minor String Quintet, K. 516, and to have talked about it during the writing of the late quartets.78 But such slow introductions are given tempo markings.79 The Adagio molto of the “Waldstein” Sonata, op. 53, is inscribed “Introduzione”; featuring dotted rhythms, it was designed as a twenty-six-measure lead-in to the finale, as a substitute for the lengthy Andante favori, WoO57. The Seasons, however, has an orchestral “Einleitung” with a brief verbal description at the beginning of every season; the authentic sources also give “Ouverture” at the head of the work. Moreover, in the authentic bilingual German-French edition (Leipzig, 1801) every single “Einleitung” is translated as “Ouverture.” A different view is offered by variation 16 in Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Labeled “Ouverture” precisely at the midpoint of the thirty variations, it inaugurates a “second half ” with both the form and inscription of the French overture. Given that the first five movements of opus 130 total 641 measures and the Grosse Fuge totals 741, the “Ouverture” might similarly introduce the second “half ” of the quartet.80 Viewed in this way, it gives new point to Beethoven’s inscription in a sketch: “Last quartet [for Galitzin] with a serious and heavy-going Introduction.”81 The introduction of the first movement is certainly serious, but the “Ouverture” to the fugue is infinitely heavier going.

On the Rising Sixth: Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven My final thick approach to the “imaginative world” of the Cavatina considers the very beginning of its expressive world: the rising major sixth with ^ it which the first violin’s voice emerges. As an upbeat moving from 5^ to 3, is the most yearning of all rising sixths. (This makes it fundamentally different from, say, the rising sixth in the first movement’s second theme, which ^ 82 It is also, in some expresbegins on the downbeat and moves from 3^ to 1.) sive contexts, the most recognizable. Beethoven used it infrequently at the beginnings of movements, though there are some notable examples, not all of them adhering to the metric strictures just outlined, but none starting on a downbeat: the Adagio of op. 2, no. 1 (taken from his earlier Piano Quartet, WoO 36, no. 3); the opening of the Allegro after the slow introduction of the Quintet for Piano and Winds, op. 16, an unusual appearance in a fast movement; the “Introduzione” to op. 53 just mentioned; and perhaps the beginning of the “Heiliger Dankgesang” because it is so recognizable and so

the thickness of inscription  ❧ 511 ^ ^ ^ often repeated. One might also consider the 5– 3 leap by way of 1, as in the Andante con moto of the Fifth Symphony or the song “Adelaide,” op. 46.83 I raise this point to consider whether Beethoven, perhaps having recognized Haydn’s tribute to Mozart in The Seasons and perhaps having known how personally Haydn took the metaphor of the seasons for his own life, was feeling a bit of the same way himself after his season of illness and so might have deliberately invoked the rising sixth in E-flat major as their joint symbol.84 Beethoven’s often-quoted remark to Karl Holz, that thinking of the Cavatina brought a tear to his eye, shows a composer moved by his own work, yet in his later years only the “Heiliger Dankgesang” is known to have recorded a personal experience. Haydn’s two Mozart quotations in The Seasons are well known. In Spring, the choral fugue that concludes the “Bittgesang” (Trio and Chorus of Supplication), “Sei uns gnädig” (“Be merciful to us”), quotes Mozart’s “Quam olim Abrahae” from the Requiem. Haydn’s text, “Then we shall reap abundance and your mercy shall be praised,” relates to Mozart’s “What Thou didst once promise to Abraham and to his seed,” thus referring metaphorically to the seed sown in the field. But as is also often noted, Mozart himself sadly did not flourish; in fact the very last page in the Requiem autograph, ends at the words “quam olim da capo.” The second quotation is in the penultimate number of Winter, in Simon’s aria “Erblicket hier, betörter Mensch” (“Behold, misguided man”). When Simon sings “Verblühet ist dein kurzer Lenz  / Erschöpfet deines Sommers Kraft” (“Withered is your brief spring, / Exhausted is your summer’s strength”), the two-note Lombard figure of the slow movement of Mozart’s Symphony no. 40, also in E-flat major, unmistakably appears in the violins, presented in the same slightly overlapping counterpoint. (Exx. 21.14 and 21.15 will show this below.) But there is an important, hitherto-unrecognized Mozart thread introduced in the very first number in Spring—a thread whose last appearance in winter is in Simon’s aria: the rising sixth. Just after the orchestral transition from winter to spring, Simon and Lukas begin to note the season’s changes, each with a rising-sixth exclamation (“Seht, wie .  .  .”), part of the rhetoric of recitative.85 Suddenly, after a rest marked with a fermata, the tempo changes to adagio, and the oboes and clarinets prepare Hanne’s first words, the true arrival of spring: “Seht, wie vom Süden her  / Durch laue Winde sanft ge­lockt / Der Frühlingsbote streicht!” (“See, how from the south, gently lured by balmy winds, the messenger of Spring wafts in!”: ex. 21.11). The oboe’s rising-sixth leap and scale-wise descent, adding harmony to the line for the first time and thus making the downbeat an arrival point,

the thickness of inscription  ❧ 513 Example 21.13. Mozart, The Magic Flute, act 1, aria, Tamino, “Dies Bildnis ist bezaubernd schön,” mm. 1–6. Larghetto

Tamino

C Bsn Hn Str

b 2 &b b 4 ≈

∑

b 2 Kr j œ & b b 4 ® œœœ œœœ œœ œœ ≈œœ R œ œ p ' Ô ? b 42 ≈ œ Œ bb

{

œ Œ ‰ œ J œR œR œR œ œ œ ‰ œj œJ œR œR œ œ œr œ ‰ R R RR J DiesBi d-nis ist be-zau-bernd schön, Wie noch kein Au-ge je ge - sehn

œœ œœj ‰ œœ œ œœœœ ' œ œ œ Œ

Œ Œ

œ j œœ œœ œœ œœ œœœ œœ œœ. œœ. œœ. œ ‰ œœœ œ . . .

Œ Œ

j œœœ œœœ œœœ . . œ œœ J œœ . .

transform what has gone before into a moment of grace. As such, the oboe appears to quote from the transcendent moment of recognition in the act 2 finale of The Magic Flute, when Pamina arrives to join Tamino in the three trials: “Tamino mein! Ah! welch ein Glück!” (ex. 21.12). The oboe states it twice, in the same register as Pamina. Hanne sings the sequel phrase, which is nearly identical to the sequel phrase in the other famous rising-sixth moment in The Magic Flute, Tamino’s first aria, “Dies Bildnis ist bezaubernd schön,” sung as he falls in love with Pamina’s portrait, in the same register and key as Beethoven’s Cavatina (ex. 21.13).86 These deeply expressive rising sixths in The Magic Flute, a work that Lockwood notes Beethoven knew “like the back of his hand,” may have their source, for Mozart, in the bass register of Count Almaviva singing “Contessa perdono!,” his devastating recognition of culpability in the finale of act 4 of The Marriage of Figaro.87 The close of Spring also brings in the rising sixth, in the soloists’ poco adagio interlude in the big choral finale, “Ewiger, mächtiger, gütiger Gott.” But more significant is Simon’s aria of judgment, already mentioned. Simon sings a rising sixth in the same key as Tamino’s “Dies Bildnis”—E-flat major— exactly one octave lower (ex. 21.14). It is Winter, so Simon enjoins us to recognize our “Lebensbild” (“life’s image”), somberly reminding us of the faded promise of spring, the exhausted strength of summer, the declining toward old age of autumn, and the approach of pale winter that points to the open grave. It is almost unbearable, when Simon repeats the line that summer’s strength is exhausted, at that moment to recognize the most “purple” moment of Mozart’s Symphony no. 40 (ex. 21.15). The appearance of the rising-sixth motive near the beginning of Spring and toward the end of Winter powerfully suggests that Mozart’s spirit framed the whole oratorio, as Haydn personifies the metaphor of the seasons with the friend whose early death he never really overcame. Becoming ill when composing the work,

the thickness of inscription  ❧ 515 Example 21.15. Mozart, Symphony no. 40 in G Minor, K. 550, mvt. 2, mm. 29–30.

œ œ bœ œ œ 29 œ bœ ° b 6 œ œ≈ ‰ ≈ ≈ ≈ œ ≈ œbœ ≈ &b b 8 [Andante]

Fl

Bsn

Vln I

Vln II

Vla

Vc

∑

? b 6 œœ ¢ b b8 ≈

∑

‰

° b 6‰ &b b 8

∑

Œ

b 6 &b b 8 ‰

B bbb 68 œj

?b 6 ¢ b b8 ‰

Œ

‰

Œ

bœ œ

œ

bœ ‰ J

‰

œ b œ œ œ bœ ≈ ≈ œ ≈ œ œ ≈bœ œ ≈ ∑

œ

j bœ œ œ

bœ œ

œ J

‰

bœ ‰ J

‰

bœ

j bœ bœ œ

œ

‰

j bœ

œ

œ

‰

‰

œ

Haydn then had to face his own frailty and mortality. His pupil Sigismund Neukomm even quoted him as saying “this [Simon’s] aria refers to me!”88 Might Beethoven’s remarkable Cavatina reveal, no less than the source of its inscriptions, that he had received the spirit of Mozart from Haydn’s hands?

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516  ❧  chapter t went y-one Barry, Barbara. “Recycling the End of the ‘Leibquartett’: Models, Meaning, and Propriety in Beethoven’s Quartet in B-flat Major, Opus 130.” Journal of Musicology 13 (1995): 355–76. Beethoven, Ludwig van. Briefwechsel Gesamtausgabe. Edited by Sieghard Brandenburg. 7 vols. Munich: Henle, 1996–98. ———. Sechste Symphonie F-Dur Opus 68 . . . Faksimile nach dem Autograph BH 64 im Beethoven-Haus Bonn. Edited by Sieghard Brandenburg. Bonn: BeethovenHaus, 2000. Berleant, Arnold. “What Titles Don’t Tell.” In Aesthetics Beyond the Arts: New and Recent Essays, 17–26. London and New York: Routledge, 2016. Biamonte, Nicole. “Variations on a Scheme: Bach’s ‘Crucifixus’ and Chopin’s and Scriabin’s E-Minor Preludes.” Intégrale 26 (2012): 47–89. Bonds, Mark Evan. Absolute Music: The History of an Idea. New York: Oxford University Press, 2014. Brandenburg, Sieghard. “The Autograph of Beethoven’s String Quartet in A Minor, Opus 132: The Structure of the Manuscript and its Relevance for the Study of the Genesis of the Work.” In The String Quartets of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven: Studies of the Autograph Manuscripts, edited by Christoph Wolff, 278–300. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980. Burnham, Scott. “Intimacy and Impersonality in Late Beethoven: Contrast and the Staging of Subjectivity.” In New Paths: Aspects of Music Theory and Aesthetics in the Age of Romanticism, edited by Darla Crispin. 69–84. Collected Writings of the Orpheus Institute 7. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2009. Chua, Daniel K. L. The “Galitzin” Quartets of Beethoven. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995. Churgin, Bathia. “The Andante con moto in Beethoven’s String Quartet Op. 130: The Final Version and Changes on the Autograph.” Journal of Musicology 16 (1998): 227–53. Cook, Nicholas. “The Other Beethoven: Heroism, the Canon, and the Works of 1813–14.” 19th Century Music 27 (2003): 3–24. Cooper, Barry. “Planning the Later Movements: String Quartet in B flat, Op. 130.” In Beethoven and the Creative Process, 197–214. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990. Dahlhaus, Carl. Ludwig van Beethoven: Approaches to His Music. Translated by Mary Whittall. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991. Danto, Arthur. Review of John Welchman, Invisible Colors: A Visual History of Titles (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997). Artforum International 36 (1997): 12–13. _______. The Transfiguration of the Commonplace: A Philosophy of Art. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1981.

the thickness of inscription  ❧ 517 Debussy, Claude. “Beethoven.” In Monsieur Croche, anti-dilettante, 83–86. Paris, 1921. https://archive.org/details/monsieurcrochean00debu/page/4. Accessed January 27, 2019. De Roda, Cecilio. “Un quaderno di autografi di Beethoven del 1825.” Rivista Musicale Italiano 12 (1905): 63–108, 592–622, and 732–67. D’Israeli, Isaac. “Titles of Books.” In Curiosities of Literature, vol. 1, 499–508. 5th rev. and enlarged ed., London, 1807. Edwards, Brent Hayes. “Let’s Call This: Henry Threadgill and the Micropoetics of the Song Title.” In Epistrophies: Jazz and the Literary Imagination, 181–96. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2017. Elsen, Albert E. Rodin’s Thinker and the Dilemmas of Modern Public Sculpture. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985. Ferry, Anne. The Title to the Poem. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996. Fisher, John. “Entitling.” Critical Inquiry 11 (1984): 286–98. Geertz, Clifford. “Thick Description: Toward an Interpretative Theory of Culture.” In The Interpretation of Culture: Selected Essays, 3–30. New York: Basic Books, 1973. Genette, Gérard. “Structure and Function of the Title in Literature.” Critical Inquiry 14 (1988): 692–720. Goslich, Siegfried. Die deutsche Romantische Oper. Tutzing: Hans Schneider, 1975. Griesinger, Georg August. Biographische Notizen über Joseph Haydn. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1810. Facsimile ed., edited by Peter Krause. Leipzig: VEB Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1979. Hatten, Robert S. “Expressive Doubling, Topics, Tropes, and Shifts in Level of Discourse: Interpreting the Third Movement of Beethoven’s String Quartet in B-flat Major, Op. 130.” In Interpreting Musical Gestures, Topics, and Tropes: Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, 35–52. Bloomington and London: Indiana University Press, 2004. _______. Musical Meaning in Beethoven: Markedness, Correlation, and Interpretation. Bloomington and London: Indiana University Press, 1994. Herrtrich, Ernst. Kantaten. Beethoven Werke, X1 [Cantatas, vol. 1]. Kritische Bericht. Munich: Henle, 1996. Hoek, Leo. Titres, toiles et critiques d’art: Déterminants institutionnels du discours sur l’art au dix-neuvième siècle en France. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2001. Hollander, John. “‘Haddocks’ Eyes’: A Note on the Theory of Titles.” In Vision and Resonance: Two Senses of Poetic Form, 212–26. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1975. Jones, David Wyn. Beethoven: Pastoral Symphony. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. Kerman, Joseph. The Beethoven Quartets. New York: Norton, 1966. Kimmel, William. “The Phrygian Inflection and the Appearances of Death in Music.” College Music Symposium 20 (1980): 42–76.

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the thickness of inscription  ❧ 519 McCallum, Peter. “The Process within the Product: Exploratory Transitional Passages in Beethoven’s Late Quartet Sketches.” In Genetic Criticism and the Creative Process: Essays from Music, Literature, and Theater, edited by William Kinderman and Joseph E. Jones, 123–50. Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 2009. Mirka, Danuta, ed. The Oxford Handbook of Topic Theory. New York: Oxford University Press, 2014. Micznik, Vera. “Of Ways of Telling, Intertextuality, and Historical Evidence in Berlioz’s ‘Roméo et Juliette.’” 19th Century Music 24 (2000): 21–61. Monelle, Raymond. The Musical Topic: Hunt, Military, and Pastoral. Bloomington and London: Indiana University Press, 2006. Ossi, Massimo. “Musical Representation and Vivaldi’s Concerto Il Proteo, ò Il mondo al rovverscio, RV544/572.” Journal of the American Musicological Society 69 (2016): 111–77. Osthoff, Wolfgang. “Beethovens Pastorale im Lichte von Schillers Ästhetik der Landschaft-Dichtung.” In Von Beethoven zu Mahler im Kreis der Großen Sinfonik, edited by Mieczysław Tomaszewski and Magdalena Chrenkoff, 25–45. Vol. 2 of Beethoven: Studien und Interpretationen. Kraków: Akademia Muzyczna, 2003. ———. “Mozarts Cavatinen und ihre Tradition.” In Helmuth Osthoff zu seinem siebzigsten Geburtstag, edited by Wilhelm Stauder, Ursula Aarberg, and Peter Cahn, 139–77. Tutzing: Hans Schneider, 1969. Pesic, Peter. “Haydn’s Wanderer.” Haydn-Studien 8 (2003): 275–88. Polzonetti, Pierpaolo. Italian Opera in the Age of the American Revolution. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011. Ratner, Leonard. Classic Music: Expression, Form, and Style. New York: Schirmer, 1980. Rosen, Charles. The Classical Style. 2nd ed. New York: Norton, 1997. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. Dictionnaire de musique. Paris, 1768. ———. “Sonate.” In Encyclopédie, ou dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des métiers, edited by Denis Diderot and Jean le Rond d’Alembert, vol. 15. Paris, 1765. Ryle, Gilbert. “The Thinking of Thoughts: What is Le Penseur Doing?” In Collected Essays, 1929–1968, 480–96. Vol. 2 of Collected Papers. New York: Barnes and Noble, 1971. Schachter, Carl. “The Sketches for the Sonata for Violin and Piano, Op. 24.” In Beethoven Forum, vol. 3, edited by Glenn Stanley, 107–25. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1994. Schor, Naomi. “Pensive Texts and Thinking Statues: Balzac with Rodin.” Critical Inquiry 27 (2001): 239–65. Schindler, Anton. Biographie von Ludwig van Beethoven. 3rd ed. Münster: Aschendorff, 1860. Seeger, Horst. “Zur musikhistorischen Bedeutung der Haydn-Biographie von Albert Christoph Dies (1810).” Beiträge zur Musikwissenschaft 1 (1959): 24–31.

520  ❧  chapter t went y-one Sisman, Elaine. “After the Heroic Style: Fantasia and the ‘Characteristic’ Sonatas of 1809.” In Beethoven Forum, vol. 6, edited by Glenn Stanley, 68–96. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998. ———. “Music and the Labyrinth of Melancholy.” In Oxford Handbook to Music and Disability Studies, edited by Blake Howe, Stephanie Jensen-Moulton, Neil Lerner, and Joseph Straus, 590–617. New York: Oxford University Press, 2016. ———. “Working Titles, Sticky Notes, Red Threads.” AMS President’s Endowed Plenary Lecture, Annual Meeting of the American Musicological Society, Rochester, NY, November 9, 2017. Smith, Adam. “Of the Nature of that Imitation that Takes Place in what are Known as the Imitative Arts.” In Essays on Philosophical Subjects, 131–79. London: J. Cadell, Jr., and W. Davies; Edinburgh: W. Creech, 1795. Solomon, Maynard. “Some Romantic Images in Beethoven.” In Late Beethoven: Music, Thought, Imagination, 42–70. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2003. Staehelin, Martin. “Another Approach to Beethoven’s Last Quartet Oeuvre: The Unfinished String Quintet of 1826/27.” In The String Quartets of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, edited by Christoph Wolff, 302–23. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980. Steinberg, Michael. “Notes on the Quartets: String Quartet in B-flat Major, Op. 130.” In The Beethoven Quartet Companion. edited by Robert Winter and Robert Martin, 227–44. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1994. Thayer, Alexander Wheelock. Thayer’s Life of Beethoven. Revised and edited by Elliot Forbes. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1964. Tomlinson, Gary. “The Web of Culture: A Context for Musicology.” NineteenthCentury Music 7 (1984): 350–62. Tusa, Michael. Euryanthe and Carl Maria von Weber’s Dramaturgy of German Opera. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991. Will, Richard. The Characteristic Symphony in the Age of Haydn and Beethoven. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. ———. “When God Met the Sinner, and Other Dramatic Confrontations in Eighteenth-Century Instrumental Music.” Music & Letters 78 (1997): 175–209. Yeazell, Ruth Bernard. Picture Titles: How and Why Western Paintings Acquired Their Names. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2015.

Notes 1 Berleant, “What Titles Don’t Tell,” 22. 2 Lonsdale, Charles Burney, 355, citing an unpublished manuscript collection. 3 The work’s reception is briefly surveyed in Will, Characteristic Symphony, 6–8.

the thickness of inscription  ❧ 521 4

Smith, “Of the Nature of that Imitation that Takes Place in what are Known as the Imitative Arts,” 161. He believed instrumental music did not need such inscriptions and defended that position eloquently, 170–75. 5 See Beethoven, Sechste Symphonie .  .  . Faksimile, 45. The autograph is digitized at the Beethoven-Haus website, https://www.beethoven.de/sixcms/detail .php?id=15288&template=dokseite_digitales_archiv_en&_dokid=wm24& _seite=1-1 (accessed February 11, 2019). 6 The principal reviews are conveniently assembled and translated in Landon, Haydn: Chronicle and Works, 5:182–99. 7 Denis Diderot, “Salon of 1765,” quoted by Yeazell, Picture Titles, 130; Rousseau, “Sonate,” in Encyclopédie (1765), similar to the entry in his Dictionnaire de musique, s.v. “Sonate.” Writing from a different perspective, C. P. E. Bach told the writer and poet Heinrich Wilhelm von Gerstenberg in 1773 about the harsh responses to his Trio Sonata in C Minor, Sanguineus und Melancholicus (H. 579, W. 161/1) published in 1749: “Of course, one should not pour empty derision on the honest artist who wrote under his painted bird, ‘this is supposed to be a bird.’” Letter of October 21, 1773, in The Letters of C. P. E. Bach, 42. On the “meaning” of the Bach sonata, see Will, “When God Met the Sinner,” 175–209, and Sisman, “Music and the Labyrinth of Melancholy,” 590–617. 8 Jones, Beethoven: Pastoral Symphony, 31–38, discusses all of Beethoven’s titles and verbal annotations for the symphony from sketches to final version. 9 “Titles of Books,” added to his popular and frequently revised series Curiosities of Literature for the 5th ed. of 1807. See vol. 1:499–508, at 499, https://babel .hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=hvd.hw2422;view=1up;seq=7 (accessed September 12, 2018). 10 Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 1:190 (no. 165) and 221 (no. 188); the chronology and sources are given in Lockwood, Beethoven: The Music and the Life, 210–11. 11 When she hears the song, she thinks, “No it’s not [of his own invention] . . . the tune is really ‘I give thee all, I can no more.’” Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There (London: Macmillan, 1872), 175; https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Through_the_Looking-Glass,_and_What _Alice_Found_There/Chapter_VIII (accessed October 9, 2017). 12 Hollander, “‘Haddocks’ Eyes,’” 216–17. 13 Dahlhaus, Ludwig van Beethoven, 23. 14 Kinderman, Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations, 115. 15 A very small sampling: Danto, The Transfiguration of the Commonplace; Levinson, “Titles”; Fisher, “Entitling”; Genette, “Structure and Function of the Title in Literature”; Ferry, The Title to the Poem; Yeazell, Picture Titles (with much further literature cited); Ossi, “Musical Representation and Vivaldi’s Concerto Il Proteo, ò Il mondo al rovverscio”; Edwards, “Let’s Call This: Henry Threadgill and the Micropoetics of the Song Title.”

522  ❧  chapter t went y-one 16 Hoek, Titres, toiles et critiques d’art, 38–39: “La Chûte d’Icare est sans doute l’exemple le plus connu d’un titre qui dirige impérativement la lecture du tableau . . . Pour le spectateur le titre pictural a souvent un effet d’éloignement et de rapprochement selon le principe du zoom variable.” Arthur Danto also notes that a “title is more than a name or label; it is a direction for interpretation” (The Transfiguration of the Commonplace, 199). 17 Danto, review of Welchman, Invisible Colors, 12. 18 This makes their authenticity a critical issue but the issue is beyond the scope of this essay. 19 Claude Debussy, concert review in Gil Blas, February 16, 1903, 2, reprinted as “Beethoven,” chapter 13 in the posthumous collection Monsieur Croche, antidilettante, 84; Adorno, Mahler, 57; trans. 38. I discuss the mechanical aspects of birdsong in “Working Titles,” a larger study based on my AMS President’s Endowed Plenary Lecture, “Working Titles, Sticky Notes, Red Threads.” Some of the material in this essay is drawn from that study. 20 Wolfgang Osthoff has pointed out that the birds’ intervals have an artful, mathematical relationship (Quail, single pitch, Nightingale, second, Cuckoo third) and that the Quail and Cuckoo have an upbeat-downbeat relationship. See his “Beethovens Pastorale,” 34. Lockwood noted the cadenza-like aspect of the solos in his Beethoven: The Music and the Life, 227–28. 21 “Der Ruf eines Kukkuck nachzuahmen,” in the first movement of the First Symphony (six measures before no. 2): after each of the other winds has played the identical descending fourth—Mahler’s version of the cuckoo call—with the same articulation and dynamic markings, the clarinet now imitates the cuckoo’s call four times; “wie eine Vogelstimme,” in the fifth movement of the Second Symphony, six measures after no. 29; “wie Vogelstimmen,” in the second movement of the Seventh Symphony, two measures after no. 108. 22 Schindler added to the third edition of his biography that Beethoven had pointed out to him the specific forest birds he had put into the symphony when they were out for a walk; see his Biographie, 154. The earlier version of Vivaldi’s “Il gardellino,” the chamber concerto RV 90, does not include the arpeggio in its opening ritornello. 23 Kircher, Musurgia universalis, 30–31. In my “Working Titles,” I explore the significance of the Quail’s Call here and in other works by Beethoven and his contemporaries. 24 Ryle, “The Thinking of Thoughts,” 480–96. 25 Geertz, “Thick Description.” 26 Gary Tomlinson was to my knowledge the first historical musicologist to discuss Geertz’s application of the concept, in “The Web of Culture.” 27 I discuss Ryle more fully in my “Working Titles.” 28 Elsen, Rodin’s Thinker, 39. 29 Quoted in Elsen, Rodin’s Thinker, 43; see also Schor, “Pensive Texts.”

the thickness of inscription  ❧ 523 30 John Ashbery in The Poet’s Craft, 79–80. He is actually talking about his own compositional process: he begins with a title. 31 See, for example, Micznik, “Of Ways of Telling, Intertextuality, and Historical Evidence in Berlioz’s ‘Roméo et Juliette.’” 32 Indeed, this seems to be the sense in which D’Alembert cited Fontenelle, since he praised Tartini’s sonata transmitted under the title Didone abbandonata. See Bonds, Absolute Music, 74–76. 33 See n. 4. He described Rousseau, whom he quoted at length, as “more capable of feeling strongly than of analising [sic] accurately.” 34 Hollander, “‘Haddocks’ Eyes,’” 218–20; Ferry, The Title to the Poem, 139–72. 35 Lockwood, “On the Cavatina,” 212, citing the dating of the sketchleaf by Douglas Johnson, Beethoven’s Early Sketches in the “Fischhof Miscellany,” Berlin Autograph 28 (Ann Arbor, MI: UMI, 1980). The sketchleaf is digitized at the Library of Congress website: https://www.loc.gov/resource /ihas.200217557.0/?sp=2 (accessed September 6, 2018). For a transcription of the Andantino cavatinato, see Schachter, “The Sketches for the Sonata for Piano and Violin, Op. 24,” 109. Schachter considers the Andantino cavatinato an “offshoot” of the sonata and believes Beethoven discarded it when he realized how similar it was to the Adagio, which he had already sketched. 36 Herrtrich, Kritische Bericht in Beethoven Werke, X/1:346: “Überschrift Cavatine, die Beethoven wohl mit Feuchtigkeit zu tilgen versuchte.” 37 All begin on the downbeat, though in different meters:  for the Lied, alla breve for the Andantino cavatinato,  (and Adagio) for the cantata. 38 On the late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century cavatina and its derivation from the word cavata, see Osthoff, “Mozarts Cavatinen und ihre Tradition” and Lühning, “Die Cavatina in der italienischen Oper um 1800.” 39 See Aloys Weissenbach, Der glorreiche Augenblick (Vienna, 1814). The chorus substitutes “Gott die erste Zähre” for the Prophetess’s “Dem die erste Zähre.” The phrase endings in both solo and chorus are echoed by the orchestra, a detail noted by Nicholas Cook as present also in the Adagio molto of the Ninth Symphony; such echoes are also anticipated by the Andante con moto of the Fifth. See his “The Other Beethoven,” 21. 40 C. D. F. Schubart, Ideen zu einer Ästhetik der Tonkunst (Vienna: Degen, 1806), cited in Tusa, Euryanthe, 34. 41 For example, Richard Kramer hears a “significant, if distant echo” of Iphigénie’s aria “D’une image, hélas!” (Gluck’s Iphigénie en Tauride) in Pamina’s “Ach, ich fühl’s” (Mozart’s The Magic Flute), partly on the basis of their shared cavatinalike poignancies, even though neither is so named; he cites the characteristics noted by Lühning, “Die Cavatina in der italienischen Oper um 1800.” See his Cherubino’s Leap, 147–50.

524  ❧  chapter t went y-one 42 See Osthoff, “Mozarts Cavatinen und ihre Tradition,” 139–77; Lühning, “Die Cavatina in der italienischen Oper um 1800,” 333–69. See also Goslich, Die deutsche Romantische Oper, 267–94. 43 That Beethoven had written variations on ariettas by other composers, as in the Righini variations of 1790, WoO 65, seems not to bear on the reception of “the” Arietta. 44 Egerton MS 2795, fol. 10r, digitized by the British Library at http://www.bl.uk /manuscripts/Viewer.aspx?ref=egerton_ms_2795_fs001r (accessed September 6, 2018). See Cooper, “Planning the Later Movements,” 207. 45 The De Roda sketchbook is digitized at the Beethoven-Haus website at https://www.beethoven.de/sixcms/detail.php?&template=dokseite_digitales _archiv_en&_dokid=wm104&suchparameter=dokartx%3Ax%3Ax12x-x -xpersonx%3Ax%3AxBeethoven%2C%20Ludwig%20van&_sucheinstieg= handschriftensuche&_seite=1-76 (accessed September 6, 2018). For a transcription, see de Roda, “Un quaderno di autografi di Beethoven del 1825,” 619. 46 Koch, Musikalisches Lexikon, s.v. “Cavatina,” 307: “Eine kurze Arie, in welcher wenig Wiederholungen der Worte und melismatische Sylbendehnungen ge­braucht werden, und die besonders keinen zweyten Theil hat.” (“A short aria, in which few repetitions of the words or melismatic lengthening of the syllables are used, and which especially has no second section.”) Without a B section, there can be no da capo. In Frederick the Great’s libretto for Graun’s Montezuma (1755), he expressly “conceived the arias without da capo,” instead calling them cavatinas. See Polzonetti, Italian Opera in the Age of the American Revolution, 113. 47 There is a considerable amount of scholarship about the Cavatina, including the proportions and arrangement of the segments of the form. See the significant discussions of its structure in Lockwood, “On the Cavatina”; Hatten, Musical Meaning in Beethoven, 203–22 (where he recognizes the anomalous situation of the middle section but justifies its “continuous discourse”; see p. 208). On its thematic relationships, see Dahlhaus, Ludwig van Beethoven, 234–37; Chua, The “Galitzin” Quartets of Beethoven, 193–98. On its place in the quartet as a whole, see the influential articles by Kropfinger, “Das gespaltene Werk”; Kramer, “Between Cavatina and Ouverture”; and Kinderman, “Beethoven’s Last Quartets.” 48 According to Weber’s son, after an initial mutual antipathy between Beethoven and Weber, Beethoven studied and admired the score of Der Freischütz; Weber visited him in Baden in 1823 and was warmly received. See Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, rev. and ed. Forbes, 872. 49 Solomon, “Some Romantic Images in Beethoven,” 61. 50 L’Anima del filosofo, or Orfeo ed Euridice (1791) was published as a series of out-of-order numbers by Breitkopf in 1806 (digitized at the International

the thickness of inscription  ❧ 525 Scores Music Library Project [IMSLP] Petrucci Music Library, http:// ks.imslp.net/files/imglnks/usimg/2/27/IMSLP370548-PMLP598408 -orfeoeeuridicedr00hayd.pdf, accessed September 15, 2018). Haydn did not have the complete manuscript with him in Vienna, so this was all he could provide to the publisher. The edition included Euridice’s accompagnato, “Dov’è l’amato bene?” and cavatina, “Del mio core.” The echo at the end, as though Nature were sighing for Euridice, recalls “Chiamo il mio ben così,” in Gluck’s Orfeo ed Euridice (1761). “Del mio core” in E-flat major seems to offer a perfect example of Osthoff ’s “esoteric tradition,” though he does not mention Haydn in his study; he does, however, conclude by associating Beethoven’s Cavatina in opus 130 with that tradition. See his “Mozarts Cavatinen und ihre Tradition,” 176–77. 51 On this association, see Kimmel, “The Phrygian Inflection and the Appearances of Death in Music,” and among many more recent studies, Biamonte, “Variations on a Scheme.” 52 One senses in all the critical commentary on The Seasons that posterity wished that Haydn and van Swieten had killed off the wanderer the way Thomson had left him a “stiffened corse / Stretched out and bleaching in the northern blast.” The E-major concluding section of the aria was indicted as representative of Enlightenment optimism. 53 Van Swieten’s handwritten libretto, with its suggestions for Haydn, is reproduced in Landon, The Creation and The Seasons; see p. 116. 54 Carl Friedrich Zelter, in his lengthy review of the work in Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 6 (1804), no. 31 (May 2, 1804), cols. 513–29, at 523, trans. in Landon, Haydn: Chronicle and Works, 5:188–92, at 192, opined that Summer should have ended with the magnificent storm, because nature’s recovery is “self-evident.” 55 Anonymous review of the first performance in Leipzig, December 1801, in Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 4, no. 15 (January 6, 1802), col. 241, trans. in Landon, Haydn Chronicle and Works, 5:185. Early nineteenth-century medical textbooks connected the word beklemmt to problems in respiration; serialized novellas in Viennese journals used the term for sudden dark reactions, the breast constricted. 56 Pesic, “Haydn’s Wanderer.” There is no double bar after the recitative, only a fermata, so the cavatina is barred as beginning in measure 66. See the critical edition by Armin Raab, Joseph Haydn Werke, series XXVIII, vol. 4/2: Die Jahreszeiten (Munich: Henle, 2009). 57 In The Creation, “Chaos” is marked largo, as is the Introduction to Part III. Euridice’s cavatina, “Del mio core,” noted above, is also largo. 58 Barry, “Recycling the End of the ‘Leibquartett,’” 371. 59 Lockwood, “On the Cavatina,” 214.

526  ❧  chapter t went y-one 60 Fanfares are rarely described outside of a general association with military and hunting topics; indeed, they are often considered self-explanatory. See Ratner, Classic Music, 18–19, and Monelle, The Musical Topic, where the term is used interchangeably with hunting calls and signals, as on 50–52. 61 The development of the first movement has called forth remarkable prose, seeking to pinpoint the effect of what Charles Rosen simply calls “stasis” (The Classical Style, xxiv), for example, William Kinderman’s evocative phrases “uncanny motivic dialogue” and “trance-like suspension.” See his Beethoven, 334. 62 The Phrygian cadence, normally IV6–V with falling half-step motion in the bass, here gives the falling half-step to the treble and does not actually move to V, except briefly at the beginning of the next phrase, measure 17. 63 Hatten, Musical Meaning in Beethoven, 208. 64 The second violin’s echo in measures 21–22 turns it into the leading voice for the closing phrases of the first A section (m. 23 and its near-repetition starting in m. 32), but the first violin repeats and makes climactic the second violin’s new melodic shape. 65 The detached performance mark (stroke) for the ascending scale seems to connect it to the assertion of arbitrary linear will in the first movement, mm. 51–53, in which a unison ascending scale with rests led to the second theme beginning in G-flat major. 66 Daniel Chua analyzes this segment as the moment when all the rhythmic contradictions of the movement are brought to a breaking point; see his The Galitzin Quartets, 172–75. 67 McCallum, “The Process within the Product,” 123. 68 See Kerman, The Beethoven Quartets, 313, and Lockwood, Beethoven: The Music and the Life, 459. 69 Conceivably all of these chromatic descents were presaged by the opening measures of the first movement. 70 Kerman mentions this similarity in The Beethoven Quartets, 198. 71 These passages are discussed in a probing analysis of the entire movement by Bathia Churgin, “The Andante con moto in Beethoven’s String Quartet op. 130.” 72 See Burnham, “Intimacy and Impersonality in Late Beethoven,” 78; Hatten, “Expressive Doubling,” 43. See also Chua’s extensive analysis, which connects “clockwork” to the very syntax of the Classical style; see his The “Galitzin” Quartets, 175–88. 73 A draft of the original version is transcribed in Brandenburg, “The Autograph of Beethoven’s String Quartet in A Minor, opus 132,” 292–93. 74 Kerman, The Beethoven Quartets, 80. 75 Steinberg, “Notes on the Quartets,” 234.

the thickness of inscription  ❧ 527 76 See, among many other sources, Allanbrook, Rhythmic Gesture in Mozart; Mirka, The Oxford Handbook of Topic Theory. 77 I do not know of operas written before opus 130 with titled overtures after the beginning; the orchestral music at the beginning of the third act of Weber’s Der Freischütz is labeled “Entr’Acte.” 78 See Staehelin, “Another Approach to Beethoven’s Last Quartet Oeuvre.” 79 Haydn inscribes the slow introduction to the first movement of his Symphony no. 103 “Intrada,” over the drumroll. 80 Barbara Barry’s persuasive analysis of the quartet, “Recycling the End of the ‘Leibquartett,’” bisects the work with movements 1–5 on one side and the fugue in relation to them on the other, according to a number of interesting binary oppositions. She does not consider the meaning of the inscription, instead seeking analogues in the fugue for the preceding movements. 81 “Letztes quartett mit einer ernsthaftigen and schwergängigen Einleitung,” in the De Roda sketchbook, fol. 6r, cited by Lockwood, Beethoven: The Music and the Life, 458, 545 n. 31. See also Kropfinger, “Das gespaltene Werk,” 305, where he connects that sketch to one on fol. 14r forecasting the fugue. 82 Barry, “Recycling the End of the ‘Leibquartett’” does not differentiate rising sixths with respect to metric position and scale steps. 83 This is a selection, but there are not that many others. The question of the dotted upbeat gives rise to a host of other issues; I consider some of these in my “After the Heroic Style” and in my “Working Titles.” 84 In 1822 and 1823, Beethoven was in touch with Georg August Griesinger, a Saxon diplomat and agent for Breitkopf & Härtel, with whom he’d had contact twenty years earlier, about publishing some of his works. In a letter written to Griesinger after the latter had contacted him on June 17, 1822, he expressed pleasure, noted that he had been ill for five months, and referred to Griesinger as a man “so full of distinction, in general and especially with regard to your Haydn biography.” Beethoven, Briefwechsel, 4:499 (no. 1471). Griesinger’s Biographische Notizen über Joseph Haydn, generally considered the most reliable of Haydn’s early biographies, transmitted Haydn’s belief that the Seasons had weakened him, leading to a “Kopffieber” that later tormented him when he tried to compose (70–71). 85 I discuss this at greater length in an essay, “When Does the Sublime Stop?” in Music and the Sonorous Sublime in European Culture, 1680–1880, ed. Sarah Hibberd and Miranda Stanyon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020), 142–76. 86 In the Haydn recitative the oboe’s first statements are in A-flat and the melody returns to the pitch of the upbeat. The oboe then moves to the dominant of E-flat, which puts Hanne’s sequel in the same key as Tamino’s. 87 See Lockwood, “Symbols in the Margins of Landsberg 6,” 23. Abert discusses this “Lieblingsmotiv” throughout Mozart’s operas, but none is as marked a

528  ❧  chapter t went y-one presentation as in these three numbers. See her “Bedeutungswandel eines Mozartschen Lieblingsmotiv.” 88 Neukomm’s previously unpublished comments appear in Seeger, “Zur musik­ historischen Bedeutung der Haydn-Biographie von Albert Christoph Dies (1810),” 30.

Contributors Composer Bruce Adolphe is resident lecturer of the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center and pianist for “Piano Puzzler,” formerly on public radio’s Performance Today. His books include The Mind’s Ear, What to Listen for in the World, and Of Mozart, Parrots, and Cherry Blossoms in the Wind. Mr. Adolphe is the artistic director of Off the Hook Arts, presenting collaborations among the arts, sciences, and humanities. Theodore Albrecht, professor of musicology at Kent State University in Ohio, is the author of over three dozen scholarly articles on Beethoven, published in the United States, United Kingdom, Germany, and Austria. His three-volume Letters to Beethoven and Other Correspondence (1996) received an ASCAP-Deems Taylor Award in 1997. His twelve-volume translation and updated edition of Beethoven’s Conversation Books began appearing in 2018. Barbara Barry has five degrees in music. In London she was chair of music history at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama and taught music history and theory at Goldsmiths, University of London. During her career in the United States, she was chair of music history at the Longy School of Music and professor of musicology at Lynn University. She is the author of five books and several articles. Mark Evan Bonds is the Cary C. Boshamer Distinguished Professor of Music at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. He is the author of many articles and of four books, on rhetoric, the influence of Beethoven, music and the European intellectual tradition, and the concept of absolute music. He is also the author of The Beethoven Syndrome: Hearing Music as Autobiography. Scott Burnham is distinguished professor of music at the Graduate Center, City University of New York, as well as Scheide Professor of Music History Emeritus at Princeton University. He is the author of Beethoven Hero (1995) and Mozart’s Grace (2013), as well as various essays on the history, theory, and aesthetics of Western music. Erica Buurman is assistant professor and director of the Ira F. Brilliant Center for Beethoven Studies at San Jose State University. She taught at Canterbury Christ Church University in the United Kingdom from 2013 to 2018, following studies

530  ❧  contributors at the University of Manchester. Her research interests include Beethoven’s sketches, music for social dancing, and Viennese musical culture at the turn of the nineteenth century. Barry Cooper is professor of music at the University of Manchester, United Kingdom, and is best known for his work on Beethoven. This includes eight books he has written or edited, the most recent being The Creation of Beethoven’s 35 Piano Sonatas (2017). He has also produced a scholarly performing edition of Beethoven’s thirty-five piano sonatas and about fifty journal articles on Beethoven. Alan Gosman is associate professor of music theory at the University of Arkansas, Fayetteville. He has also held appointments at the University of Michigan and Michigan State University. He has published on Beethoven’s sketches and compositional process as well as on canons, musical form, and links between performance and analysis. He is the author with Lewis Lockwood of Beethoven’s “Eroica” Sketchbook: A Critical Edition (2013). David Wyn Jones is professor of music at Cardiff University, United Kingdom. He has written extensively on music and musical life in Vienna, with a particular focus on Haydn and Beethoven. He is the author of Beethoven: Pastoral Symphony (1995), a biography of the composer (1998), The Symphony in Beethoven’s Vienna (2006), and Music in Vienna, 1700, 1800, 1900 (2016). William Kinderman is the inaugural Leo and Elaine Krown Klein Chair of Performance Studies, UCLA and co-curator of the new Beethoven Museum at Heiligenstadt, Vienna. He has written on Mozart, Beethoven, and Wagner; the creative process in music; and Wagner’s Parsifal. In 2010 Kinderman received a research prize for lifetime achievement from the Humboldt Foundation. His latest book is Beethoven: A Political Artist in Revolutionary Times. Nicholas Kitchen is a solo violinist and founding member of the Borromeo String Quartet. He serves on the faculty of the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston. He is also an active speaker on many aspects of music and music making, an artist-in-residence at music festivals, and Artistic Director of the Heifetz International Music Institute. He has pioneered new music and new technology in music performance. Richard Kramer, distinguished professor emeritus at the Graduate Center of the City University of New York, is the author of the award-winning Distant Cycles: Schubert and the Conceiving of Song (1994), Unfinished Music (2008, rev. 2012), and Cherubino’s Leap: In Search of the Enlightenment Moment (2016). Kramer was elected to the American Academy of Arts & Sciences in 2001.

contributors  ❧ 531 Michael Ladenburger studied musicology and art history at the University of Vienna and organ at the Hochschule für Musik und Darstellende Kunst in Vienna. After working for the Austrian RISM he became a member of the staff of the Beethoven-Haus, Bonn, in 1984. From 1991 to 2018 he was the head of the museum and the curator of the collection. David B. Levy is professor of music at Wake Forest University and one of the founders of the New Beethoven Research initiative. He is the author of Beethoven: The Ninth Symphony (2003), and has contributed articles and reviews on Beethoven and other topics to 19th-Century Music, Beethoven-Forschung, and Beethoven Forum. He has been a regular participant in symposia hosted by the Boston University Center for Beethoven Research. Jeremiah W. McGrann is professor of the practice of music at Boston College. His research centers on Catholic sacred music. He wrote on Beethoven’s sketchbook for the Mass in C under Lewis Lockwood’s supervision and edited the Mass for the new complete edition of Beethoven’s works. He has written on Beethoven, Haydn, and the Esterházy chapel. Christopher Reynolds is distinguished professor, emeritus, at the University of California, Davis. He is a former president of the American Musicological Society, a founding member of Beethoven Forum, and a member of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. He has won numerous awards. His books concerning Beethoven include Motives for Allusion: Context and Content in Nineteenth-Century Music, and Wagner, Schumann, and the Lessons of Beethoven’s Ninth. Federica Rovelli earned her PhD in 2009. In 2012 she received a Humboldt Fellowship to study Beethoven’s Scheide sketchbook. She has served as a research scholar in the “Beethovens Werkstatt” project and since 2018 has been an assistant professor in the Department of Musicology at Cremona (Università di Pavia). She is editor of the volumes Ein Skizzenbuch aus den Jahren 1815 bis 1816 and Klaviersonaten, volume 3, for the Beethoven-Haus, Bonn. Elaine Sisman is the Anne Parsons Bender Professor of Music at Columbia University. Her publications include Haydn and the Classical Variation, Mozart: The Jupiter Symphony, and contributions to Beethoven Forum and Beethoven and His World. She has served as president of the American Musicological Society and is now an honorary member of the society. In 2014 she was elected a Fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. M. Lucy Turner is a PhD candidate in historical musicology at Columbia University, where she is a dean’s fellow. Originally from North Carolina, she holds a BMus

532  ❧  contributors degree in violin performance from Vanderbilt University and an MMus from Boston University. Her research focuses on early Austro-German Romanticism, manuscript studies, and the music of Beethoven, particularly the question of form and meaning in the string quartets. Robin Wallace is professor of musicology at Baylor University. He is the author of Hearing Beethoven (2018), a study of Beethoven’s deafness, based partly on his own experiences with his late wife, Barbara. The critical reception of the music of Beethoven is the subject of his first book (Beethoven’s Critics, 1986). His publications also include numerous journal articles, reviews, book chapters, and translations of early nineteenth-century Beethoven reviews. Steven M. Whiting is professor of musicology at the University of Michigan School of Music, Theatre, and Dance. He is the author of Satie the Bohemian: From Cabaret to Concert Hall, and he has written articles on French cabaret music, E. T. A. Hoffmann, Satie, and Beethoven. His current research addresses the theatrical experience of Beethoven. His next book will be on this topic. Jeremy Yudkin is professor of music and co-director of the Center for Beethoven Research at Boston University. He has served as visiting professor of music at Oxford University, Harvard University, and the École Normale Supérieure in Paris. He is the author of ten books, including Understanding Music (1996), Miles Davis, “Miles Smiles,” and the Invention of Post Bop (2008), Music in Medieval Europe (2nd ed., 2017), and From Silence to Sound: Beethoven’s Beginnings (2020).

Index of Works by Beethoven Works with Opus Numbers Three Piano Trios, op. 1, 40, 46, 389, 400; Piano Trio in G Major, op. 1, no. 2, 91, 92, 96, 510 Three Piano Sonatas, op. 2, 40, 244, 389, 400; Piano Sonata in F Minor, op. 2, no. 1, 114, 390, 407, 415; Piano Sonata in C Major, op. 2, no. 3, 114, 330n7, 436n37 String Trio in E-flat Major, op. 3, 40 String Trio (Serenade) in D Major, op. 8, 40, 93, 98 Three String Trios, op. 9, 40, 45, 47 Three Piano Sonatas, op. 10, 40; Piano Sonata in C Minor, op. 10, no. 1, 112, 393–94, 400 Clarinet Trio, op. 11, 40 Three Violin Sonatas, op. 12, 4; Violin Sonata in D Major, op. 12, no. 1, 146n6; Violin Sonata in E-flat Major, op. 12, no. 3, 123, 124–28 Piano Sonata in C minor, op. 13 (“Pathétique”), 40, 105, 113, 485 Two Piano Sonatas, op. 14, 40; Piano Sonata, op. 14, no. 1, in E Major (arranged for String Quartet in F Major), 41 Piano Concerto No. 1 in C Major, op. 15, 41, 46

Quintet for Piano and Winds, op. 16, 41, 510 Horn Sonata in F Major, op. 17, 41 Six String Quartets, op. 18, 41, 46, 52, 163, 262; String Quartet in F Major, op. 18, no. 1, 98, 335; String Quartet in A Major, op. 18, no. 5, 1, 98, 407, 425, 427; String Quartet in C Minor, op. 18, no. 4, 112; String Quartet in B-flat Major, op. 18, no. 6, 1, 23, 374, 384n35, 509; La Malinconia, 375, 384n35, 485, 509 Piano Concerto No. 2 in B-flat Major, op. 19, 41 Septet in E-flat Major, op. 20, 41, 96, 98, 103, 112; Arranged for String Quintet, 41 Symphony No. 1 in C Major, op. 21, 41, 95, 97, 162, 163, 171, 444 Piano Sonata in B-flat Major, op. 22, 42 Violin Sonata in A minor, op. 23, 42 Violin Sonata in F Major, op. 24 (“Spring”), 42, 137, 286, 490, 523n35 Serenade for Flute, Violin, and Viola in D Major, op. 25, 42 Piano Sonata in A-flat Major, op. 26, 42, 91, 92, 93, 96, 99, 398, 400, 464n24

534  ❧  index of works by beethoven Two Piano Sonatas, op. 27, 42; Piano Sonata in C-sharp Minor, op. 27, no. 2, 42, 112, 114, 464n24 Piano Sonata in D Major, op. 28 (“Pastoral”), 42, 104, 113, 126, 333, 464n24 String Quintet in C Major, op. 29, 42, 96, 98, 180, 374, 379; Arranged for Piano Duet, 42 Three Violin Sonatas, op. 30, 43, 149; Sonata for Violin and Piano in A Major, op. 30, no. 1, 113, 396; Sonata for Violin and Piano in C Minor, op. 30, no. 2, 392–93, 396–97, 400 Three Piano Sonatas, op. 31, 104, 150, 152, 399; Piano Sonata in G Major, op. 31, no. 1, 113, 150, 152, 157; Piano Sonata in D Minor, op. 31, no. 2 (“Tempest”), 3, 4, 113, 114, 149, 150, 152, 154, 155, 156–58; Piano Sonata in E-flat Major, op. 31, no. 3, 113, 150, 399, 400, 444 Seven Bagatelles for Piano, op. 33, 464n24; Bagatelle, op. 33, no. 7, 399 Six Variations on an Original Theme for Piano in F Major, op. 34, 43, 134, 150, 464n24 Fifteen Variations and a Fugue for Piano on an Original Theme in E-flat Major, op. 35, 3, 4, 43, 123, 134–37, 139, 140, 143, 163, 194n7, 194n10, 464n24 Symphony No. 2 in D Major, op. 36, 95, 97, 104, 105–106, 112, 113, 149, 162, 163, 373 Piano Concerto no. 3 in C Minor, op. 37, 162, 163, 164 The Creatures of Prometheus, Overture and Ballet Music, op. 43, 3, 123, 124, 126, 128–34, 143, 162, 163, 444

“Adelaide,” op. 46, 43, 96, 99, 372 Violin Sonata in A Major (“Kreutzer”), op. 47, 47, 69, 113, 192n1, 336 Rondo in C Major for Piano, op. 51, no. 1, 43 Piano Sonata in C Major (“Waldstein”), op. 53, 114, 394–95, 400, 435n33, 464n24, 510 Piano Sonata in F Major, op. 54, 420 Symphony No. 3 in E-flat Major, op. 55 (“Eroica”), 3, 92, 93, 95, 97, 105, 110, 113, 123, 137–43, 143–45, 163, 164–183, 194n10, 195n18, 420, 484, 485 Triple Concerto for Violin, Cello, and Piano in C Major, op. 56, 164, 165, 169 Piano Sonata in F minor, op. 57 (“Appassionata”), 112, 415–20, 422–25, 435n34, 456, 464n24 Piano Concerto No. 4 in G Major, op. 58, 228 Three String Quartets, op. 59 (“Rasumovsky”), 262, 288; String Quartet in F Major, op. 59, no. 1, 408, 412, 414–16, 420; String Quartet in E minor, op. 59, no. 2, 278, 435n33; String Quartet in C Major, op. 59, no. 3, 379, 385n44, 438, 446n8 Symphony No. 4 in B-flat major, Op. 60, 95, 97, 164 Violin Concerto in D Major, op. 61, 448 Coriolan Overture, op. 62, 93, 94, 98, 102, 103, 112 12 Variations for Cello and Piano in F Major on Mozart’s “Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen,” op. 66, 43 Symphony No. 5 in C Minor, op. 67, 92, 93, 94, 95, 97, 103, 105, 106, 111, 112, 114, 143, 217, 227n32, 385n41, 511

index of works by beethoven  ❧ 535 Symphony No. 6 in F Major, op. 68 (“Pastoral”), 92, 93, 95, 97, 100, 114, 373–74, 375, 417, 420, 428, 439, 449, 484, 486, 489 Cello Sonata in A Major, op. 69, 109, 333, 464n20 Two Piano Trios, op. 70, 96; Piano Trio in E-flat Major, op. 70, no. 2, 272n16 Fidelio, Opera, op. 72, 19–22, 28–30, 92, 93, 94, 95, 102, 104, 164, 200n77, 335, 409–11, 420–21, 425 Fidelio, Overture, op. 72, 95, 97 Piano Concerto No. 5 in E-flat Major, op. 73 (“Emperor”), 228, 422 String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 74 (“Harp”), 4, 115, 262–69 “Mignon,” op. 75, 96 Fantasia for Piano in G Minor, op. 77, 284–85, 464n24 Piano Sonata in F-sharp Major, op. 78, 464n24 Piano Sonata in G Major, op. 79, 279, 509, 464n24 Piano Sonata in E-flat Major, op. 81a (“Les Adieux”), 114, 228–30, 464n24 Egmont, Overture and Incidental Music, op. 84, 19, 29, 34n22, 92, 93, 94, 95, 97, 112, 263, 422 Christus am Ölberge, op. 85, 92, 93, 94, 95, 98, 100, 101, 102, 103, 111, 163, 164, 194n11 Mass in C Major, op. 86, 3, 4, 93, 94, 95, 98, 102, 205–23, 224, 225n11, 225n14, 244, 247 Piano Sonata in E Minor, op. 90, 104, 112, 113, 447n12, 456, 464n24 Wellington’s Victory, op. 91, 95, 97, 100 Symphony No. 7 in A Major, op. 92, 3, 4, 95, 97, 113, 114, 115, 327n7, 437–45

Symphony No. 8 in F Major, op. 93, 95, 97, 65, 422, 447n12 String Quartet in F Minor, op. 95, 3, 65, 81–85, 107, 114, 271n2, 422– 26, 428–29, 433n7 Violin Sonata in G Major, op. 96, 228 Piano Trio in B-flat Major, op. 97, 113, 228, 372 An die ferne Geliebte, op. 98, 105, 110, 111, 113, 468 Piano Sonata in A Major, op. 101, 65, 107, 114, 333, 454, 455, 456–60, 468 Two Cello Sonatas, op. 102, 5, 55, 480n9; Cello Sonata in C Major, op. 102, no. 1; Cello Sonata in D Major, op. 102, no. 2, 486–88, 471, 473, 475–76, 480n9 Piano Sonata in B-flat Major, op. 106 (“Hammerklavier”), 107, 114, 228, 231, 255, 333, 470 Piano Sonata in E Major, op. 109, 114, 269, 336, 455 Piano Sonata in A-flat Major, op. 110, 3, 85–86, 109, 114, 335, 464n24, 490 Piano Sonata in C Minor, op. 111, 228, 335, 464n24, 490 “Elegischer Gesang” for Four Voices and String Quartet, op. 118, 93, 96, 99 Eleven Bagatelles, op. 119, 455, 464n24 “Diabelli” Variations, op. 120, 113, 158 Missa solemnis in D Major, op. 123, 58, 228–240, 244–252, 255 The Consecration of the House, Overture and Incidental Music, op. 124, 94, 95, 97, 101 Symphony No. 9 in D Minor, op. 125, 28, 56–58, 70, 94, 95, 97, 100, 103, 113, 115, 149, 152, 195n19, 201n86, 244–46, 252–55, 257n12, 325n6, 437, 523n39

536  ❧  index of works by beethoven Six Bagatelles, op. 126, 455 String Quartet in E-flat Major, op. 127, 93, 96, 99, 115, 275, 276, 279, 280, 283, 287, 288, 290–313, 336, 366–68 String Quartet in B-flat Major, op. 130, 3, 5, 107, 113, 114, 281, 392, 470, 490, 498, 500–508 String Quartet in C-sharp Minor, op. 131, 59, 107, 115, 357

String Quartet in A Minor, op. 132, 107, 115, 281, 373, 509 Grosse Fuge in B-flat Major for String Quartet (from op. 130), op. 133, 228, 251, 255, 257n14, 334, 384n27, 384n30, 392, 470, 510 String Quartet in F Major, op. 135, 3, 80, 81–83, 93, 99, 228, 255, 338– 39, 347, 373, 377, 381 Leonore Overture no. 1, op. 138, 97, 98, 115

Works without Opus Numbers Twelve Minuets for Orchestra, WoO 7, 43 Twelve Contredanses for Orchestra, WoO 14, 43; Contredanse, WoO 14, no. 7, 123; Contredanse, WoO 14, no. 11, 143 Six Ländler for Two Violins and Double Bass, WoO 15, 43 Three Equale for Four Trombones, WoO 30, 91, 92–93, 96, 99, 105 Piano Quartet in C Major, WoO 36, no. 3, 510 Twelve Variations for Violin and Piano on Mozart’s “Se vuol ballare,” WoO 40, 43 Seven Variations for Cello and Piano on Mozart’s “Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen,” WoO 46, 44 Bagatelle in C Minor, WoO 52, 393, 394, 456, 464n24 Bagatelle in C Minor, WoO 53, 393, 464n24 Bagatelle in C Major, WoO 56, 395, 403n21, 464n24 “Andante Favori” for Piano, WoO 57, 510 Nine Variations for Piano on a March by Dressler, WoO 63, 44

Six Variations on a Swiss Song for Piano or Harp, WoO 64, 44 Twenty-Four Variations for Piano on Vincenzo Righini‘s “Venni Amore.” WoO 65, 44, 524n43 Thirteen Variations for Piano on Dittersdorf ’s “Es war einmal ein alter Mann,” WoO 66, 44 Eight Variations for Piano Four Hands on a Theme by Count Waldstein, WoO 67, 3, 37, 44, 46 Twelve Variations for Piano on Haibel’s “Menuet a la Vigano,” WoO 68, 44 Nine Variations for Piano on Paisiello’s “Quant’e piu bello,” WoO 69, 44, 47 Six Variations for Piano on Paisiello’s “Nel cor più non mi sento,” WoO 70, 44 Eight Variations for Piano on Grétry‘s “Mich brennt ein heißes Fieber,” WoO 72, 44 Seven Variations for Piano on Winter’s “Kind, willst du ruhig schlafen,” WoO 75, 45 Eight Variations for Piano on Süssmayr‘s “Tändeln und scherzen,” WoO 76, 45

index of works by beethoven  ❧ 537 Six Easy Variations for Piano on an Original Theme, WoO 77, 45 “Lied aus der ferne,” WoO 137, 96

“Ruf vom Berge,” WoO 147, 3, 64–67 “Save Me from the Grave and Wise,” Irish Folk Song, WoO 153, no. 50, 444

Unfinished Works Sixth Piano Concerto in D Major, Unv. 6 (Hess 15), 448, 453n21 Piano Trio in F minor, Unv. 10 (Biamonti 637), 468

Vestas Feuer, Unv. 15 (Hess 115), 144–45

General Index Adorno, Theodor, 250, 35–56, 487 Akademie (concert), 56, 92, 161, 162, 163, 173, 176, 177, 178, 181, 193n3 Albrechtsberger, Johann Georg, 472, 481n17, 101, 180, 472 allemande. See under topics, musical, 509 André, Johann (publisher. See under Beethoven, Ludwig van, publishers Artaria (publisher). See under Beethoven, Ludwig van, publishers Ashbery, John, 489 Augarten, 162–63, 171, 182, 185, 193n5 Augsburg, 38, 39, 60 Austrian National Bank, 57, 58 Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, 101, 109, 111, 521n7; Cello Concerto in A Minor, 109; Die letzten Leiden des Erlösers, 109, 110 Bach, Johann Sebastian, 107, 108, 274, 321, 377; Brandenburg Concerto No. 3, 137; Goldberg Variations, 510; Mass in A Minor, 102; St. John Passion, 108, 111 Baden, 74n29, 371, 372, 524n48 Bartha/Parta, Anton Joseph (contrabassist), 179, 186 Beethoven, Caspar Carl van (brother), 37, 162, 192, 193n6, 194n9, 201n86 Beethoven, Johann van (brother), 199n67, 334

Beethoven, Johann van (father), 18, 72n22 Beethoven, Karl van (nephew), 334, 451 Beethoven, Ludwig van (general) autograph scores care in writing, 288, 297, 298, 318, 321, 325n6 performing from, 274, 314 “private” writing, 452–53 “public” writing, 452 birthday, 11, 91, 93, 103 court musician, 9, 11 creative process, 78, 148, 155, 262, 449, 453 additions, original, 207, 217, 225n15 multi-movement plans, 333, 390, 391, 396–97, 398–99, 400, 404n22 revisions, 155, 263, 266, 304, 333, 334–35, 336, 339, 342– 43, 345, 392 deafness, 2, 3, 57, 79, 81, 85–87, 148, 157, 355, 357, 358, 367, 370, 378, 421 death, 3, 10, 50, 64, 89–92, 94, 96, 99–100, 103–5, 107, 110–11, 282, 288, 345, 384n24 funeral, 90–92, 110, 111 instruments, 50–56, 174 memorial concerts, 92, 100, 111 minuet movements, 391, 394, 399–400

540  ❧  general index Beethoven—(cont'd) multi-movement cycle, 390, 391, 396–400, 404n22 scherzo movements, 392–93, 400 piano playing, 63 publishers, 2, 5, 38, 39, 40, 45–48, 59, 64, 65, 89, 193, 328, 362, 371 André, 38, 39, 47, 194, 194n9 Artaria, 45, 193, 328, 330, 371, 477n27, 480, 482 Breitkopf & Härtel, 39, 42, 43, 150, 162, 170, 197, 201, 206, 214, 215, 220–22, 226n23, 230, 232, 242n11, 484, 517, 524n50, 527n84 Cappi, 46 Eder, 40, 45 Härtel, 175–76 Hoffmeister, 40, 41, 42, 45 Gombart, 38 Götz, 38 Kunst- und Industrie-Comptoir, 42, 43, 45 Mollo, 40, 41, 42, 45 Nägeli, 149, 150, 151, 160n10 Schlesinger, 329, 334, 341–42, 344, 345, 353n11, 381, 385 Schott, 383n14 Simrock, 37, 38–39, 40–48, 192, 193, 477, 482 Steiner, 64, 65, 76 Thomson, 335, 525n52 Traeg, 3, 37–49 sketchbooks “Artaria 192,” 475 “Artaria 204,” 325 “Artaria 205,” 327 “Artaria 206,” 322 “Artaria 207,” 322 “Artaria 211,” 282 “Artaria 216,” 337

“De Roda,” 491, 524n45, 527n81 “Kafka Miscellany,” 394 “Kessler,” 149–53, 155–57, 159n6, 396–98, 400 Kraków, Biblioteka Jagiellónska, Mendelssohn-Stiftung 1, 468, 480n6 “Kullak,” 337 “Landsberg 5,” 262, 270 “Landsberg 6” (“Eroica” Sketchbook), 159n6, 164, 394, 403n18 “Landsberg 7,” 398, 404n25 “Petter,” 438–40 “Scheide,” 468–72, 480n5, 481n11 “Wielhorsky,” 149, 150, 163, 194n11, 399 sketches, 2, 137–39, 140, 143, 145–46, 149–56, 159, 160, 163, 194, 230, 262–63, 266, 269–71, 332–33, 335–37, 343–44, 352, 353, 389–400, 402–4, 420, 438, 444, 449, 450, 452, 453, 462–65, 468, 469–70, 472–73, 480, 490, 510, 519, 521n8, 523, 527n81 style (musical), 4, 119n24, 151, 157, 206n7, 341, 355–56, 359, 407, 419, 447n18, 461, 526n72 Classical, 245, 261, 262, 269, 359, 407 heroic, 261 late, 261, 269 learned, 16, 29 middle, 262, 269 Sturm und Drang, 18 Beethoven, Ludwig van (works). See separate Index of Works by Beethoven Beethoven, Ludwig van (grandfather), 61, 75

general index   ❧ 541 Beethovens Werkstatt, 449, 452 beklemmt, 356, 491–94, 496, 498, 501–2, 505, 506, 525n55 Belderbusch. See Heyden, Carl Leopold Freiherr von der, see also Heyden, Caspar Anton von der Berghes, Daniel Theodor de (mayor), 60 Berleant, Arnold, 483 Berlin, 2, 72, 91, 93, 95, 97–99, 100, 102–3, 109, 118n8, 335, 385 Berlin, Irving, 21 Berlin, Isaiah, 406 Berlioz, Hector, 433n9, 489 Bernard, Joseph Carl (reviewer), 72 Bernstein, Leonard, 446n2 Biber, Heinrich, 487 birdsong, 487, 522n19–20 Blumenthal, Casimir von (violinist), 184 Blumenthal, Joseph von (violist), 167, 177, 184, 185 Blumenthal, Leopold von (violinist), 184 Boccherini, Luigi, String Quintet, op. 11, no. 6 (“L’uccelliera”), 487 Böhm, Johann Heinrich (theater director), 10, 32n2 Böhm, Joseph (violinist), 359, 365, 382n9, 385n11–12 Böhm, Karl (conductor), 446n2 Bonaparte, Jérôme, 72 Bonaparte, Napoleon, 192, 484 Bonn, 2–3, 10–12, 15, 16, 18–19, 22–24, 28, 30–35, 37–47, 50, 60, 62–64, 73n25–26, 74n30, 161, 192n1, 323, 324n2, 335; court orchestra of, 9–11, 37, 59–60, 62–63, 72n22, 75n34 Bornhardt, Johann Heinrich Carl (composer), 39 Brahms, Johannes, 1, 47, 274

Brandt, Christoph (violinist), 18, 72n23 Brauchle, Joseph Xaver (tutor), 480 Breuning, Eleonore von (friend of LvB), 64 Bridi, Giuseppe Antonio (businessman), 58, 71n17 Bridi, Parisi & Co. (import company), 58 Broadwood, Thomas, 58 Bruch, Max, 47 Burney, Charles, 483 Cadenza, 86, 172, 263, 266, 454, 486– 87, 522n20 Carroll, Lewis, 521n11 Cartellieri, Anton (violinist), 166, 177, 185 Casals, Pablo, 474–75 Castelli (first name unknown, poet), 373 Castiglione, Baldassare, 240 Castil-Blaze, François-Henri-Joseph (music theorist), 29, 408, 409 Cavatina, 110, 356, 373, 483, 489– 503, 505–6, 510–15, 518, 523–25 cello. See violoncello Cherubini, Luigi, 90, 174, 177, 181, 182, 183, 201 Choron, Alexandre Étienne (author), 383n14 chronology, 92, 100, 101, 148, 171, 174, 177, 181, 182, 183, 194, 201, 229, 242n12, 383n10, 405–6, 433n8, 453, 521n10 Clement, Franz, 167, 170, 171, 174, 177, 178, 179, 181–83, 184, 196n31, 198n47, 199n50, 200n72, 201n79, 201n84 coherence, 321, 375, 390, 423, 472 Collé, Charles (playwright/songwriter), 12 Colloredo-Waldsee, Hieronymus, Archbishop, 62

542  ❧  general index Cologne, 60, 63, 73, 75 conceptual space, 450, 452, 464n18 Concert spirituel, Vienna, 92, 100, 104, 171, 180 “court factor,” 50 Crevelt, Johann Heinrich (friend of LvB), 63, 75n40 Cue-staff, 448–56, 458–61, 463 Czejka, Valentin (bassoonist), 164, 168, 178, 180, 183, 187 Czerny, Carl, 56–57, 101 Czerwenka, Franz (bassoonist), 162 D’Alembert, Jean Le Rond, 489, 522n32 D’Israeli, Isaac (author), 484 Dahlhaus, Carl, 434n23, 482n22, 485 Dante Alighieri, 488 Debussy, Claude, 487 Dézède, Nicolas (composer), 19 Diderot, Denis, 484 Dittersdorf, Carl Ditters von, 46 Dodsley, Robert (poet/playwright), 11 Doležálek, Johann Emanuel (cellist), 180, 186 Dönst, Joseph (cellist), 185 Drewer (Trewer), Ferdinand (violinist), 59, 62 Dreyssig, Anton (flutist), 164, 168, 177, 183, 186 Durante, Francesco, 376, 385 Dvořák, Antonín, 47 Eckhart, Meister, 254 Eder, Anton (timpanist), 162, 180 Einstein, Alfred, 105 Eisen, Franz (hornist), 164, 168, 178, 183, 187 Erdödy, Countess Marie, 55, 480, 482 Erggelet family, 57; Baron Johann Fidel, 57; Baroness Josepha, 57; Baron Rudolph, 58

Ertmann, Dorothea von, 59 Esterházy, Prince Nikolaus II, 206, 213 expression marks: Beethoven’s comments on, 279, 286–88; missing in modern editions, 274, 276, 284, 287, 288, 321, 328, 330n; punctuation of, 324n5 Eybler, Joseph, 46, 101 fanfare. See under topics, musical fantasia, 262, 263, 266, 272n13, 485 Favart, Charles-Simon, 22, 31 Fellner & Co. (bankers), 170, 172–73, 176–77, 179, 181, 195n24, 196n31, 197n42, 198n46, 200n71 Fellner, Baron Andreas von, 170, 197n42, 198n43–44 Fellner, Baron Franz Xaver von, 197n42 Fellner, Baron Johann Michael von, 197n42 Fellner, Baroness Theresia von, 198n45 Ferdinand, Prince Louis, 109, 169, 197n37 Ferro, Pasqual Joseph (friend of LvB), 63 Fibich/Füby, Johann (trumpeter), 168, 178, 187 Fichtner, Stephan (oboist), 179 first- and second-order structures, 412, 421, 474 Fontenelle, Bernard Bovier de (author), 489, 523n32 Förster, Emmanuel Aloys (composer), 47 Förster, Franz (contrabassist), 47, 186 Fox, Charles Warren, 439–40, 443, 447n18 Franck & Co. (wholesalers), 59 Franck, Johann Jacob Ritter von/ Jacques (owner of Franck and Co.), 58–59, 72n20 Frankfurt, 95, 96 Frantz, K. W. (author), 233

general index   ❧ 543 Franz I, Emperor of Austria, 197, 228 Friedlowsky, Joseph (clarinetist), 164, 168, 178, 179, 183, 187 Fuchs, Aloys (author/collector), 50, 54, 66, 68, 77n52 Fuchs, Benedict (hornist), 164, 168, 178, 180, 183, 187

Grossmann, Gustav Friedrich Wilhelm (theater director), 9–10, 11, 16, 18, 19, 33n4, 33n6, 34n16 Grove, Sir George, 355, 438 Guarneri, Andreas, 54 Guarneri, Peter, 53–54 Gypsy violin. See under topics, musical

Galitzin, Prince Nikolaus, 58, 329, 510 gavotte. See under topics, musical Gebauer, Benjamin (oboist/violist/copyist), 165, 169, 182, 185, 195 Gebler/Göbler, Ferdinand (violinist/ concertmaster), 184 Giannattasio del Rio family, 77n55 Gibbon, Edward, 405 Gläser, Peter (trumpeter/copyist), 165, 168, 178, 188, 195 Glöggl, Franz Xaver (Kapellmeister), 438 Glöggl/Glöckl, Joseph (violist/trombonist), 175, 178, 185 Gluck, Christoph Willibald, 47, 433n9 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 118n5, 235, 410, 434n18, 434n20 Gombart (publisher), 38, 39 Goscheim, 38 Götz (publisher), 38, 44 Grams, Anton (contrabassist) 165, 167, 173, 177, 179, 183, 186, 195n24 Granzino/Grancino, Giovanni (violin maker), 54 Graumann, Anna Maria (wife of Johann Jacob Ritter von Franck/Frank), 59 Grétry, André-Ernest-Modest, 10, 14, 19–20, 409 Griesbacher/Griessbacher (cellist/violinist), Joseph, 184 Grillparzer, Franz (playwright), 90–91, 118 Grosheim, G(eorg) C(hristoph) (author), 234

Habeneck, François Antoine (violinist/ conductor), 94, 385n41 Halm, Anton, 373, 384n30 Handel, George Frideric, 49n5, 93, 98, 101, 201n84, 376, 473 Harms, Claus (theologian), 238 Haslinger, Tobias (friend of LvB), 334, 451, 490 Hatwig, Otto (bassoonist), 168, 178, 187 Hauschka, Vincenz (cellist), 182, 183, 186 Haydn, Franz Joseph, 3, 5, 46, 47, 49n6, 57, 71n14, 101, 102, 103, 107, 161, 171, 172, 175, 176, 181, 195n25, 262, 269, 273n25, 274, 275, 372, 378, 407, 408, 426, 464n18, 481n17, 488, 498, 510, 515, 525n52, 525n53, 527n84; Andante and Variations in F Minor, Hob. XVII:6, 412–13, 415; L’anima del filosofo (Orfeo ed Euridice), 492, 524n50; The Creation, 181; Cello Concerto in C Major; Piano Trio in E-flat, Hob. XV:30, 509; The Seasons, 487, 493–94, 497, 498–99, 505, 511–14, 527n84; The Seven Last Words of Christ, 172, 483; String Quartet in G Major, op. 33, no. 5, 435n25; String Quartet in G Major, op. 76, no. 1, 435n25; String Quartet in C Major, op. 76, no. 3 (“Emperor”), 384n28; String Quartet in F Major, op. 77, no. 2, 408;

544  ❧  general index Haydn—(cont'd) Der Sturm (chorus), 181; Symphony no. 94 (“Surprise”), 47; Symphony no. 103, (“Drumroll”), 137, 171, 426, 526n79 Henickstein & Co. (trading company), 58 Henickstein, Joseph von, 57 Henickstein, Rudolph von, 57 Henickstein, Wilhelm Ritter von, 57 Hensel, Fanny Mendelssohn, 109 Herbst, Michael (hornist), 164, 168, 178, 180, 183, 187 Heyden, Carl Leopold Freiherr von der (first minister, known as Belderbusch zu Monzen und Streversdorf ), 73 Heyden, Caspar Anton von der (nephew of Carl Leopold, known as Belderbusch), 61 Hoffmann (first name unknown, singer), 373 Hoffmann, E. T. A., 237 Hofmann (first name unknown, violist), 185 Holz, Karl(violinist/friend of LvB), 231, 286, 288, 329, 354n26, 359, 382n9, 481n16, 511 Homer, 358, 360 Hörbeder, Franz, Sr. (trombonist), 178, 188 Hörde, Ferdinand Friedrich Freiherr von (privy councilor), 73–74 Hörde, Franz Ludwig von (privy councilor), 73–74 Horn, Franz (author), 237 Housman, A. E., 252, 256n10 Hradetzky, Friedrich (hornist), 172, 178, 180, 181, 202 Hummel, Johann Nepomuk, 92, 100, 102, 172 Husserl, Edmund, 439, 443, 446n10

hymn, 28, 98, 101, 503, 504 ilinx, 251, 255 interpolation, 205, 417, 427, 428 interpretation, 4, 269, 272n22, 321, 407, 380–81, 410, 415, 522n16 Janáček, Leoš, 78–79 Janitsch, Anton (violinist), 60, 62, 74 Jeitteles, Alois, 91, 93 Joseph I, Emperor, 52 Jülich, 60 Junker, Carl Ludwig (author/composer), 63 Kanne, Friedrich August (author/composer), 55, 70n5, 91, 171, 176 Karl (Charles) VI, Emperor, 52 Kärntnertortheater, Vienna. See under theaters in Vienna Kassel, 10, 74n31, 95, 97, 105 Kaufmännischer Verein (Merchant Society), 58 Kessler, Erasmus (violinist), 184 Kinsky, Prince Ferdinand Johann Nepomuk, 228 Kircher, Athanasius, 408, 487 Kleist, Heinrich von (playwright), 378, 385n40 Klos, Christian Wilhelm (theater director), 10 Klumpar, Joseph (copyist), 206–9, 213–14, 222–23, 225n11, 226n30, 227n32 Knecht, Justin Heinrich (composer), 487 Koblenz, 60 Koch, Heinrich Christoph, 391, 409, 481n14 Kolbe, Valentin (violist), 166, 177, 185 Kraft, Anton (cellist), 165, 166, 167, 176, 177, 179, 183, 185, 186

general index   ❧ 545 Kraft, Nikolaus (cellist), 165, 166, 171, 179, 182, 183, 185 Kreutzer, Conradin (violinist), 179, 180, 185 Krommer, Franz, 46, 102 Kupelwieser, Leopold (painter), 71 Lachner, Franz (composer/conductor), 57 Lafage, Juste-Adrien Lenoir de (author/ composer), 383n14 Lang/Leng/Läng, Anton (cellist), 185 Lang, Heinrich (violinist), 179 “language of the heart, 232, 239 Leipzig, 39, 56, 525n55 Lenz, Wilhelm von (author), 231, 481n16 Leopold I, Emperor, 50–51 Lesegesellschaft (Reading Society), Bonn, 63 Lichnowsky, Prince Carl, 3, 52–54 Linke, Joseph (cellist), 55, 56, 329, 359, 373, 382n9, 480n4 Lobkowitz, Prince Joseph Franz Maximilian von, 163–64, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 172–73, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 182–83, 185, 186, 187, 191, 194, 196n28, 197n35, 200n72, 200 Lobkowitz Palace (Vienna), 166, 192, 175, 176, 183, 195n24; Music Room, 168, 170, 173 Lomberg, Joseph Vitalian (friend of LvB), 63, 75n40 Luchesi, Andrea, 16 Magdefrau, Johann Joseph (cellist), 72n22, 487, 489 Mahler, Gustav, 433n9; Symphony no. 1, 522n21; Symphony no. 2, 522n21; Symphony no. 7, 522n21 Malchus, Karl August von (friend of LvB), 74n31

Manker, Ignaz (timpanist), 163, 164, 168, 178, 180, 183, 188 Mann, Thomas, 110 Mannheim, 38, 44, 384n34 march. See under topics, musical Marx, Adolf Bernhard, 358, 377, 379, 385nn40–41, 390 Mattheson, Johann, 408, 409 Mattioli, Gaetano/Cajetan (conductor/ composer), 16, 62 Maximilian Franz, Elector of Cologne, 10, 11, 18, 63 Maximilian Friedrich, Elector of Cologne, 6, 10, 18, 59, 73, 75 Mayseder, Joseph (composer, violinist), 93, 102, 171, 179, 182, 185, 382n9, 383n12 Meister Eckhart. See Eckhart, Meister Mendelssohn, Felix, 1, 47, 93, 104, 107–8, 108–10, 111–12, 114, 274, 324n4, 356, 433n9 Merchant Society see Kaufmännischer Verein Merk, Karl (violinist), 184 Michel, Anton (trumpeter), 180, 188 Micro-chronology, 453–54 Monschau, 60 Monsigny, Pierre-Alexandre, 3, 9, 10–12, 14–15, 16, 20–22, 26, 27–30, 33n2, 33n14, 34n14, 36n39, 36n41; La Belle Arsène, (Die schöne Arsene), 10, 12, 19, 22–23, 29, 33n2, 35nn29– 30, 36n39; Le Déserteur, (Der Deserteur), 10, 11, 12, 16, 18, 22, 23, 29–30, 34n18, 34n22, 35n25; Le Faucon, 11, 12; Félix, ou L’Enfant trouvé (Felix oder der Findling), 10, 11, 12, 19, 23, 33n2, 35nn33–34; L’Isle sonnante, 11, 12; Le Roi et le fermier, 11–15, 20, 24, 29, 30; Rose et Colas (Röschen und Colas), 10, 11, 12, 15–16, 20, 29

546  ❧  general index Mosel, Ignaz Franz (violist), 179, 180 motivic matrix, 415, 419 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 3, 14, 19, 39, 46, 47, 57, 62, 63, 75n39, 91, 92, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 107, 118n8, 164, 172, 170, 171, 176, 199n49, 201, 274, 324, 360, 376, 391, 407, 421, 425, 456, 510, 511–13, 515, 523n41, 527n87; Don Giovanni, 19, 101, 171, 407, 509; The Magic Flute, 512–13, 523n41; The Marriage of Figaro, 102, 170, 513; Quintet for Piano and Winds, K. 452, 47; Requiem, 92, 118, 511; String Quintet in G minor, K. 516, 510; Symphony no. 40 in G minor, K. 550, 199n49, 513, 515; Die Zauberflöte, 164, 170, 201n83, 421–22 Müller, Wenzel (composer), 39 Müller, William Christian (theorist), 409 Müllner, Josepha (harpist), 162 multi-movement cycle, 333, 390, 391, 396, 397, 398, 399, 400, 404n22 Munich, 62, 98, 171 Nachtkönig, 59, 72n20 narratology, 473–74 Neefe, Christian Gottlob, 9–10, 11, 12, 18, 24, 31, 32, 32n1, 34, 62 Neukomm, Sigismund (student of Haydn), 518, 528n88 Newton, Isaac, 410, 434n19 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 251 Norrington, Roger, 446n2 Nose, Carl Wilhelm (friend of LvB), 63, 75n40 Nottebohm, Gustav, 288, 393, 481n17 Nuremberg, 59, 95, 97, 98, 99 Oettingen-Wallerstein, Count Karl Alexander von, 75n34

Oettingen-Wallerstein, Prince Kraft Ernst von, 75n34 Oettingen-Wallerstein, Count Philipp Carl von, 75n34 Offenbach, 38, 39, 194n9 Old Testament, 76 Olmütz (Olomouc), 230, 231, 239 ombra. See under topics, musical Paer, Ferdinando, 47 Paganini, Niccolò, 94 Pálffy, Countess Maria Gabriela, née Colloredo, 62 Pálffy-Erdöd, Count Johann Leopold, 60, 62, 74 Pálffy-Erdöd, Countess Josepha Gabriela, 62 Pamer/Pammer, Michael (violinist), 184 Paraquin, Johann Baptist (contrabassist/ copyist), 64 Paris, 11, 12, 24, 47, 93, 94, 97, 98, 102, 103, 334, 363, 364, 379, 383n14, 385, 408 pedal (piano), 86 pedal point, 16, 209, 441 pedals (for page-turning), 274 Peters, Karl (friend of LvB), 91 Pfeiffer, Tobias Friedrich (tenor), 18, 34n16 Philharmonic Society, London, 94, 100 Philidor, François-André Danican, 12 Phrygian. See under topics, musical Phrygian cadence, 493, 494, 505, 506, 508, 526n62 pianto. See under topics, musical Piringer, Ferdinand (violinist), 171, 179, 180, 185, 199n51 Pischelberger, Friedrich (contrabassist), 186 Pollack, Anton (contrabassist), 182, 186, 187

general index   ❧ 547 Prowos, Joseph (flutist), 161 Prügel, Franz (violinist), 184 Quantz, Johann Joachim, 233 Raab, Ignaz (contrabassist), 182, 186, 187 Rabe, Joseph (percussionist/orchestra personnel manager), 182, 188 Rameau, Jean-Philippe, 408 Rampl, Wenzel (copyist), 329, 471 Raphael (Raffaello Sanzio de Urbino), 369 ratio, 314 recitative. See under topics, musical Regensburg, 59, 73, 75 Reicha, Joseph (music director), 10, 62 Reichard, Heinrich August Ottokar (Kapellmeister), 24, 235 Reitz, Julius (editor), 107 Rellstab, Ludwig (poet), 105, 357, 358, 360, 383n12 Rieder, Wilhelm August (artist), 71 Ries, Anna Maria, 59 Ries, Ferdinand (friend of LvB), 59, 161, 164, 168–69, 169–70, 171, 192n1, 193n6, 194n13, 196n31, 196n33, 196n34, 230, 242n9, 328, 394, 484 Ries, Franz Anton, 59–64, 72n22, 73n26, 74n27, 75n34, 192n1 Ries, Hubert, 64 Ries, Johann, 62 rising sixth, 252, 498, 502, 510–11, 513, 527n82 Rochlitz, Friedrich, 357, 490 Rodin, Auguste, 488 Rosenbaum, Joseph Carl (Esterházy court official), 57, 206 Rosenkranz, Franz (oboist), 164, 168, 178, 183, 186 Rosenthal, Albi, 477

Rossini, Giachino, 56, 71n8, 94, 101, 102, 361 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 484, 489, 523n33 Rovantini, Conrad (violinist), 60 Rovantini, Franz Georg (violinist), 73n23 Rubens, Peter Paul, 378 Rudolph, Archduke of Austria, 4, 228– 31, 239, 240, 242n11 Rust, Johann the elder (hornist/trombonist), 188 Rüttinger, (Joseph) Christoph (clarinetist), 168, 178, 187 Rzehaczek, Franz (musical instrument collector), 56 Sack, Michael (hornist), 182, 187 salary, 10, 59, 60–62, 72n22, 75n34, 75n36 Salieri, Antonio, 181, 197n35, 201n79 Salomon, Johann Peter (violinist), 63, 72n23 sarabande. See under topics, musical Schausperger/Schausberger, Alois, 184 Schenker, Heinrich, 268, 433n9, 474, 482n25 Schiller, Friedrich, 252, 253, 254, 360, 365 Schindler, Anton, 105, 195n19, 224, 384n24, 390–91, 400, 522n22 Schlemmer, Wenzel (copyist), 56, 165, 206–7, 213, 214, 222–23, 225n11, 226n30, 227n32 Schmidt, Fr., 383n23 Schmidt, Johann Adam (doctor), 148 Schorn, Johann Joseph (violin maker), 53, 55 Schreiber, Anton (violinist/violist), 166, 177, 179, 182, 185 Schröckh, Johann Matthias, 233 Schubart, Christian Friedrich Daniel, 409, 490

548  ❧  general index Schubert, Franz, 91, 93, 101, 104–5, 110, 111, 112, 164, 274, 496 Schumann, Robert, 47, 107, 111, 112, 113, 114, 335, 433 Schuppanzigh, Ignaz (violinist), 56, 91, 179, 182, 183, 185, 358–59, 365, 372, 373, 382n9, 383n11 Schuppanzigh Quartet, 55, 92, 329, 384n29 Schuster, Vinzenz (guitarist), 55 seal (wax), 52–53 Sedaine, Michel–Jean (librettist), 11, 12, 22, 27, 28, 30, 33n11, 34n23, 35n36 Segner, Leopold (trombonist), 178, 188 Seidel, Carl Ludwig (theorist), 239, 410 Seidl, Johann Gabriel (poet), 90, 92, 101, 238 Seyfried, Ignaz Xaver Ritter von (composer), 92, 93, 101, 175, 182, 365, 372, 447n14 Seyler, Abel (theater director), 9 Shakespeare, William, 20, 23, 34n23, 158 Simrock, Nikolaus (friend of LvB, publisher), 39, 46 63–64, 161, 164, 192, 484 Smetana, Bedřich, 79 Smith, Adam, 484, 489 Société des Concerts du Conservatoire, Paris, 93, 94, 385n41 sound ideal, 54 sound world, 420, 425, 427 Spohr, Louis, 47, 57, 100, 102, 103, 104, 105–6, 110 Stadler, Anton (clarinetist/basset-hornist/composer), 101, 162, 179 Stadler, Franz (oboist), 164, 168, 178, 183, 186 Stadler, Johann (clarinetist/bassethornist), 162 Stauffer (Staufer), Johann Georg (violin and guitar maker), 54–55, 56

Sterkel, Johann Franz Xaver (composer), 47 Strauss, Johann (the younger), 47 Sukowaty, Wenzel (copyist), 165, 195n25 Sulzer, Johann Georg (author/theorist), 220, 403n11 Swieten, Baron Gerard von (doctor), 63 Swieten, Baron Gottfried van, 63, 495, 505, 525nn52–53 Taxis, Countess, 73 Thayer, Alexander Wheelock, 10, 385n42 theaters in Vienna: Burgtheater, 161– 62, 168, 181, 193n2, 193n3; court theaters, 161, 175, 181, 183, 185, 193n4; Theater an der Wien, 163– 68, 170, 175–84, 195n24, 196n31, 199n50, 200n71, 201n79; Theater auf der Wieden, 175; Theater in der Josephstadt, 195n19; Kärntnertor Theater, 62, 168, 179, 180, 181, 185, 193n3, 195n19 thick description, 488 Thomson, James (poet), 495 Thurn und Taxis Kapelle, 75 tinnitus, 78–83, 85–86 titles of movements, 5, 229, 353n8, 364, 483–86, 489–90, 491, 492–93, 521n8, 527n77 titles of musical works, 2, 196n34, 353n8, 364, 483–86, 522n32 topic theory, 509 topics, musical, 485, 498, 502; allemande, 509; dance, 509; fanfare, 502, 526n60; gavotte, 496; hunting, 526n60; military, 526n60; German dance, 509; Gypsy violin, 506; march, 246, 398; ombra, 490; Phrygian, 493, 506; pianto, 507; recitative, 85–86, 107, 119n27, 152, 327, 505, 511–12; sarabande, 505

general index   ❧ 549 Toscanini, Arturo, 481n20 Touchemoulin, Joseph (violinist), 75 Tovey, Donald Francis, 158, 247, 437, 443 Traeg, Johann (music dealer, father), 3, 37–39, 40–44, 45–47, 48n5 Traeg, Johann (son), 47 Treitschke, Friedrich (poet), 64–65, 76 Triebensee, Georg (oboist), 161 Triest, Johann Karl Friedrich (author), 234 Trnka, Clemens (trumpet), 180, 188 Türck, Ignaz (violinist), 179 Türk, Daniel Gottlob (music theorist), 391 Umlauf, Michael (composer/conductor), 56 unequivocal, 152, 239 “Urtext,” 223, 330 variation form, 407 Vaucanson, Jacques de (inventor), 487 verbal inscription, 484, 486, 510 Vienna (Wien), 3, 10, 11, 18, 30, 35n33, 37–39, 40–44, 45–46, 50, 54, 55, 56–65, 62–63, 72n23, 74n27, 75n40, 89–91, 92–93, 94, 95–99, 100, 101, 103–4, 118n2, 148–50, 151, 159n6, 161–63, 165– 68, 169, 171, 173, 174, 175, 177, 179, 180, 182–89, 193, 195n18, 196n30, 197n35, 198n15, 198n46, 199n49, 228–30, 239, 252, 327, 334, 358, 359, 363, 365, 371, 372, 383n12, 389–90, 393, 421, 437, 441, 443, 444, 448, 480n4, 494, 493, 509, 524n50, 525n55 Vienna River (Wien-Fluß), 65 violoncello, 50–55, 70, 83, 171, 177, 180, 196, 198, 209, 213, 225n16, 278–79, 281, 288, 289, 292, 293, 294, 297, 298, 300, 301, 304, 306,

308, 318, 336, 338–39, 341–43, 362, 368, 380, 412, 415, 425–26, 466, 467–71, 473, 475–77, 492, 498, 502 Vivaldi, Antonio, 487, 522 Vogler, Georg Joseph, Abbé, 92, 101, 104 Vollweiler, Johann Georg (cellist/composer), 384n34 Voltaire, 22 Wagner, Richard, 1, 110, 235, 355 Waldstein, Count Ferdinand Ernst Gabriel von, 37, 46, 62 Wallerstein, 60, 75 Wallishauser, B. (book publisher), 64 watermark, 481n20, 271n90 Wayna, Joseph Edler von (friend of LvB), 58, 72 Weber, Carl Maria von, 100, 102, 103, 191, 238, 433, 524n48 Weber, Gottfried (writer), 357, 363 Wegeler, Franz Gerhard (friend of LvB), 63–64, 194n13 Weigl, Joseph (composer), 39 Weigl, Joseph Franz (cellist), 162 Weiss, Franz (violist), 359, 373, 382n9, 384n29 Weissenbach, Aloys (doctor/poet), 490 Wertheimer, Samson (administrator), 50, 52 Wieck, Friedrich, 56 Willmann, Ignaz (violinist/cellist), 60, 62, 72n23, 74n29 Willmann, Maria Elisabeth, neé Erdmannsdorf, 74n29 Willmann, Maximilian (cellist), 185 Willmann, Maximiliana Valentina Walburga, 62 Wolfach, 74 Wordsworth, William, 485 Wranitzky, Anton (violinist), 165–66, 167, 169, 173–75, 176–77, 182, 183, 185, 196, 200nn71–72

550  ❧  general index Wranitzky (Mademoiselle), 237 Wranitzky, Paul (composer/conductor), 193n3 writing space, 451–52, 458

Würth, Joseph (banker/violinist), 170– 72, 174, 177, 179, 180, 197n42, 198nn45–46, 200n72, 201n85 Zizius, Johann Nepomuk (lawyer/violinist), 179, 180