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Beethoven’s 32 Piano Sonatas

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A Handbook for Performers

S T E WA RT G O R D O N

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Library of Congress Cataloging- in- Publication DataNames: Gordon, Stewart, 1930– author.

Title: Beethoven’s 32 piano sonatas : a handbook for performers / by Stewart Gordon.Other titles: Beethoven’s 32 piano sonatas

Description: New York : Oxford University Press, 2017. | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016014659 | ISBN 9780190629175 (hardcover : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780190629182 (pbk. : alk. paper)

Subjects: LCSH: Beethoven, Ludwig van, 1770–1827. Sonatas, piano. | Piano music—Interpretation (Phrasing, dynamics, etc.) | Performance practice (Music) | Sonatas (Piano)—

Analysis, appreciation.Classification: LCC ML410.B42 G67 2017 | DDC 786.2/183092—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016014659

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Hardback printed by Bridgeport National Bindery, Inc., United States of America

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C O N T E N T S

Preface viiMeasure Numbering ixAbbreviations xi

PA RT I CONSI DER ATIONS

1. Sources 3

2. Beethoven and the Piano 11

3. Performance Practices 23

4. Beethoven’s Expressive Legacy 51

5. The Windmills of Beethoven’s Mind 79

PA RT I I TH E SON ATA S

The Opus 2 Set 95

Opus 7 113

The Opus 10 Set 119

Opus 13 (“Pathétique”) 133

The Opus 14 Set 139

Opus 22 145

Opus 26 149

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Contents

The Opus 27 Set: Sonatas Like a Fantasy; no. 2 (“Moonlight”) 155

Opus 28 (“Pastoral”) 165

The Opus 31 Set: no. 2 (“Tempest”); no. 3 (“Hunt”) 171

The Opus 49 Set: Two “Easy” Sonatas 185

Opus 53 (“Waldstein”) 189

Opus 54 197

Opus 57 (“Appassionata”) 201

Opus 78 211

Opus 79 (“alla tedesca”) 215

Opus 81a (“Lebewohl”) 219

Opus 90 227

Opus 101 231

Opus 106 (“Hammerklavier”) 239

Opus 109 249

Opus 110 255

Opus 111 261

Selected Bibliography 267Index 269

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P R E F A C E

The genesis of this book on the piano sonatas of Beethoven explains its concept to a great extent. After the appearance of my edition of the sonatas, my professional friend and editor at that time, Maribeth Anderson Payne, challenged me to write a companion book to the edition. I expressed hesitation, citing the many books on the sonatas that had been written by distinguished musicians, some very recently. My friend responded that she assumed much of my research was not able to be included in the edition itself and that my perspectives might be different from those of other authors.

The exchange inspired me to undertake the challenge of writing this book and influenced its concept. As a professional pianist, I have played and taught these works for many years. I have ideas as to how they should sound, these mostly derived from my views of the composer’s intentions. Even so, I recognize that simi-larly motivated musicians arrive at different interpretations of the music.

This recognition caused me to eschew writing a book that was a collection of my ideas about playing these works according to my convictions. Rather, I con-ceived a volume that would be valuable to performers, but one that simply collected information and made observations about the sonatas. Thus the first section of the book addresses sources, period pianos, performance practices, and characteristics of Beethoven’s piano writing. I could not resist including speculations as to how the composer might have thought about various keys and key relationships, as well as subliminal or conscious connections between movements of the sonatas and between different sonatas. The second section of the book considers each sonata, providing selected historical information, distinguishing features, and a descriptive analysis.

The book is, thus, intended to be a source of information about each of these sonatas, organized in an easily accessible format. My hope is that performers who undertake learning one of these sonatas will consult the book and that doing so will provide insights into the work under consideration, the challenges to be faced, and

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Preface

the decisions to be made. Perhaps it will even generate a measure of inspiration for the fusion that often takes place between this great music and the performers who undertake to re- create it.

I offer my appreciation to Maribeth Anderson Payne for urging me to write this book. I also express gratitude to my students at the Thornton School of Music of the University of Southern California. I am constantly inspired and sustained by their talent and vitality. I may be their professor, but I am sure I learn more from them than I teach them. On a personal level, I want to thank my life partner John Christopher Rennolds for putting up with the professor who spent so much time off in a corner writing a book about the Beethoven piano sonatas.

Stewart GordonClaremont, California

March 2016

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M E A S U R E N U M B E R I N G

Publications use two procedures for numbering measures in piano scores. The more frequently encountered does not accord second ending measures a separate num-ber or numbers. The less frequently encountered system accords measure numbers to first and second endings. This difference results in discrepancies in measure num-bers for all measures that occur after a repeat that is attended by first- and second- ending measures. The text of this volume has indicated measure numbers for both systems, the first set of numbers for the system that does not count second endings as separate measures, the second set of numbers in parentheses for the system that counts second- ending measures.

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A B B R E V I AT I O N S

AND Anderson, Emily, trans. and ed. The Letters of Beethoven. 3 vols. London: Macmillan, 1961.

CZY Czerny, Carl. On the Proper Performance of All Beethoven’s Works for the Piano, ed. Paul Badura- Skoda. Vienna: Universal Edition, 1970. This is a reprint of Part Four of Czerny’s 1839 Complete Theoretical and Practical Pianoforte School, Op. 500.

P A RT I

CONSIDERATIONS

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Sources

Sources for the Beethoven piano sonatas are autographs, other manuscripts, first and early editions, and sketchbooks. These sources are supplemented to some extent by written accounts by the composer’s contemporaries. The music sources differ in a surprisingly large number of details, including notes, rhythms, marks of articulation and expression, pedal indications, and repeat signs.

For much of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries these discrepancies were resolved by editors, and their choices were shown on the printed page, often without reference to alternatives. From the mid- twentieth century the concept of trying to re- create music as the composer heard it became increasingly powerful. The rise of musicology as a discipline underscored the concept of being faithful to the composer’ intentions. Moreover, technology made research into the past more accessible. As a result, editors began to include more detail with regard to discrep-ancies and possible alternatives, and performers became more involved in making decisions that reflected their personal convictions as to the intent of the composer. Many of today’s performers wish to study the source material of the sonatas, exam-ine each discrepancy on a case- by- case basis, and assess which version seems most valid, taking into account both musical impact and historic origin.

The autographs, other manuscripts, and first and early editions provide the most detailed information. Sketchbooks often offer valuable information about the evo-lution of the composer’s ideas. Written descriptions are usually more general. They are surely influenced by the tastes of their authors, but they often provide insights into the composer’s personality and the cultural milieu of his time.

Autographs and Manuscripts

Autographs are defined as manuscripts deemed to be in the composer’s handwriting. Thirteen autographs for the piano sonatas are extant, two of them incomplete, the op. 27, no. 2, missing first and last pages, and the op. 81a missing the second and third movements. Some autographs have histories of ownership that can be traced. All are in various library or museum collections. Photocopies of them have been

C o n s i d e r a t i o n s4

published periodically over the past century. Recent photocopy publications are easily available, whereas earlier ones are rare and more difficult to find.

It would seem logical to regard the autographs as the final authority where dis-crepancies exist. If these documents are in the composer’s own hand, why would they not be the supreme source? This notion needs to be tendered with caution. In the throes of creating his music, Beethoven wrote it down as he heard it inwardly, resulting in pages that exhibit both haste generated by the heat of inspiration and frequent revision. Such autographs contain notes, phrases, and sections that are scratched out and rewritten, shorthand symbols for repeated passages, notes crushed together, handwritten staves at the ends of lines, and the use of letters to indicate pitches in cluttered places. Moreover, articulation is often unclear, show-ing hastily scribbled phrase or slur lines and dots or wedges with different thick-nesses and shapes. Indeed, Beethoven’s autographs have a reputation for being extremely messy.

Autographs of this type have been given the term Urschrift. At some point, the composer prepared a second autograph for the publisher, one that was cleaner and easier to read. Such an autograph has been given the term Reinschrift. Most of the latter have been lost, for publishers did not preserve them after the engraving was completed. A few believed to be Reinschriften were found among Beethoven’s effects, probably prepared in order to correct errors in published material but never sent.

It is easy to imagine that in preparing a Reinschrift, the composer might have cor-rected errors or made small changes as he went along, but he might not have gone back and changed the Urschrift. If such were the case, the published version could represent the composer’s intention more accurately than the earlier autograph.

There are many examples wherein the first edition differs from the autograph. To cite one of the best known, measure 105 (107) of the first movement of the op. 53 shows an F♭ in the autograph but an F (without the flat) in the first edition, the difference implying different harmonic progressions. Significant discrepan-cies of this type are noted for each sonata in the section of this book devoted to individual works.

Sketches

Beethoven constantly sketched musical ideas in bound books and notebooks and on loose leaves of paper. This practice preserved ideas and stimulated creativity. Many sketches were revised and found their way into formal compositions. Others were never used. He must have valued these sketches, for he did not discard them, even moving them with his personal effects when he changed residences. After the composer’s death some of this material was lost, but much of it, although scattered, was preserved

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Scholars study sketches in order to gain knowledge of the composer’s creative process. In the 1970s a much- needed overview of the Beethoven sketches was undertaken by Douglas Johnson, Alan Tyson, and Robert Winter. Their project culminated ten years later in the publication of a volume summarizing the history, reconstruction, and inventory of the sketches.

Sketches exist for almost all of the piano sonatas. However, most pianists do not take time to examine them when preparing performances of the sonatas, presum-ably because they do not represent Beethoven’s final product. Even so, sketches sometimes clarify contradictions between the manuscripts and early editions, and studying the evolution of the music offers insights into the composer’s creative process.

First and Early Editions

Beethoven submitted his piano sonatas to a variety of publishers. Early in his career he concluded negotiations for each sonata with a single publisher. Starting about 1807 he began negotiating with multiple publishers, mainly those in Vienna, Berlin, Bonn, Paris, and London. This practice was possible because marketing and dis-tribution were limited to smaller areas and international copyright regulation was nonexistent.

That publishers preferred exclusive publication rights is suggested by Beethoven’s letter to Breitkopf & Härtel dated August 31, 1810: “I have by no means made arrangements with Paris or France for all these works … A copy on the Continent is absolutely out of the question; and I think it highly improbable that these works have now arrived in London … In short, I am convinced that by September not a single note of the works I sent you will have yet been published.”1 Despite possible objections by publishers, Beethoven continued to seek multiple releases, in part because of financial problems generated by the erosion of support from the nobility owing to political conditions, and in part because of expenses incurred when the composer began to assume responsibility for his nephew Carl.

Indeed, Beethoven was apparently willing to adopt considerable flexibility so as to get works published at this point in his career. In a letter to his friend Ferdinand Ries (1784– 1838) dated March 20, 1819, the composer stated that his income had vanished, in part because the Archduke Rudolf (1788– 1831) was in bad financial straits.

Then he instructed Ries to negotiate the publication of the op. 106: “Should the sonata not be suitable for London, I could send another one; or you could omit the largo and begin straight away with the fugue … which is the last movement; or you could use the first movement and then the Adagio, and then for the third movement

1 AND I:283– 4.


the Scherzo— and omit entirely no. 4 and the Largo and Allegro risoluto. Or you could take just the first movement and the Scherzo and let them form the whole sonata. I leave it to you to do as you think best.”2

Starting with the op. 79 Beethoven forged concurrent agreements with more than one publisher. In some cases dates of publication announcements are so close together that it is difficult to decide which edition should be deemed the first. At one point, the publisher Adolf Martin Schlesinger (1769– 1838) released separately engraved sonatas in both Berlin and Paris. In all of these cases discrepancies exist between publications.

Moreover, there is evidence that early or first editions contained engrav-ing errors. Two examples may be cited. The Swiss publisher Hans Georg Nägeli (1773– 1836) published the first two of the op. 31 set of sonatas without having sent copy back to Beethoven for proofreading. When Beethoven saw the publica-tion he was extremely upset, because he found many errors and, in one instance, added measures. He immediately directed his brother to prepare a list of errors and send it, along with the sonatas, to the Viennese publisher Giovanni Cappi (1765– 1815), who published a “corrected” edition a few months later. In the second instance, Beethoven wrote to Schlesinger on August 31, 1822, referring to the publication of the op. 110: “In the sonata … there have been found some mistakes of which you are being informed so that they may be corrected … For it is unpleasant for me if my works come out so full of mistakes.”3

First editions are readily available in reprints at the present time, the complete set having been edited by Brian Jeffrey. These reproductions provide visual evidence of the many challenges performers face in trying to determine the exact intent of the composer.

The more popular sonatas were published by different publishers a few years apart, for limited marketing capabilities made it desirable to issue multiple pub-lications. The op. 13 (“Pathétique”) for example, was published seventeen times in Beethoven’s lifetime. These publications often show discrepancies. In most cases, it is impossible to determine how involved the composer was in either proofreading or correcting mistakes. Discrepancies between available auto-graphs and first editions for each sonata are recorded in the relevant chapter in part II of this book.

Later Editions

Probably no body of piano music has been given as much editorial attention as the Beethoven sonatas. Within a few years after these works were created, they were

2 AND II:804- 5.3 AND II:965.

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edited by other musicians and reissued. These publications reflect the editorial fash-ion of their time.

Throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the editor acted as a revisionist and interpreter, one who corrected alleged mistakes in earlier sources but also added interpretive markings and performance aids such as fingering. Many of these editions do not distinguish between the composer’s indications and editorial additions. This group is represented by editions of Carl Czerny (1842 and 1850), Ignaz Moscheles (1858), Louis Köhler (c.1865 with fingering added later by Adolf Rudhardt), Hans von Bülow and Sigmund Lebert (1894), Carl Reinecke (1895), Eugen d’Albert (1902), and Frederic Lamond (1923). Several of these edi-tions are currently available, notably those of Köhler/ Rudhardt, Bülow/ Lebert, and d’Albert.

By the turn of the twentieth century, many editions began to focus on convey-ing the original text. These so- called urtext editions used early sources as a point of departure and attempted to shore up inconsistencies, eschewing all extra editorial markings including fingering. The urtexts reflected the rise of musicology and the performance goal of attempting to re- create the music strictly in accordance with the composer’s intentions. These editions were well intentioned, but they seldom documented discrepancies in early sources. Rather, editors resolved discrepancies according to personal convictions and presented their choices as gospel. Still avail-able is the early urtext edition of Karl Krebs (1898).

Some early twentieth- century editors tried to incorporate both approaches, attempting to document the composer’s intentions but also adding indications designed to help the performer in varying degrees. This group includes editions often used by today’s performers, each edition having garnered both admirers and critics. The edition of Alfredo Casella (1920) offers authoritative opinions and sub-stantial interpretive advice, including pedaling. That of Heinrich Schenker (1923) has a sterling reputation among performers, deserved for the most part despite Schenker’s occasional alteration of small details in the sources, such as placement of dynamics and articulation. The edition of Harold Craxton with analytical and interpretive notes by Donald Francis Tovey (1931) refers often to interpretive ideas from earlier editors and, although scholarly in intent, is openly revisionist.

Perhaps the most controversial of this group of editions is that of Artur Schnabel (1935). Schnabel’s performances of the sonatas earned him the reputation of being a superb Beethoven interpreter, and his musical ideas about the sonatas are incor-porated into his edition. Beethoven’s text is set in large type and Schnabel’s in small. Copious footnotes further elucidate Schnabel’s ideas. Moreover, metronome mark-ings in the text suggest tempo fluctuations, often within a single movement. Despite Schnabel’s reputation as a Beethoven performer, musicians do not agree on the merit of his edition, some regarding it highly and others finding it cluttered to the point of obscuring the original text. In addition, some musicians do not agree with the metronome markings, in particular, the changes within movements.


Toward the middle of the twentieth century, so- called critical editions began to appear. They elucidate discrepancies or possible errors in early sources, thus per-mitting the performer to make decisions as to authenticity. Even so, editors do not always agree as to which of the early versions is preferable. These editions usually limit performance assistance to fingering, sometimes provided by a second editor, and ornament realization, although editors often differ as to which realization is best. Prominent are critical editions of Carl Adolf Martienssen (1948), B[erte] A[ntonie] Wallner (1952, revised in 1980), Claudio Arrau (1978), Kendall Taylor (1989), Dominique Geoffrey (through the op. 28 only, 1992), Peter Hauschild (2001), Barry Cooper (2008), and Stewart Gordon (2010).

Written Sources

Possibly the most revealing written source is the body of letters the composer wrote. His letters range from those of a highly personal nature, such as the famous love letter to the Immortal Beloved and the so- called Heilegenstadt Testament, to busi-ness and social letters, as well as short notes dealing with mundane daily activities. Many collections of selected letters have appeared. Emily Anderson (1891– 1962) undertook collecting and translating the complete letters (1961), and her work is referenced in much subsequent writing about the composer. More recent research uncovered almost one hundred letters not included in Anderson and questioned the accuracy of some of her translation. Recent publications that supplement and correct Anderson’s work have been prepared by Sieghard Brandenburg (1996) and Theodore Albrecht (1996).

Carl Czerny (1791– 1857), who studied with Beethoven as a boy and remained a friend and admirer, left us glimpses of the composer in his memoirs (1842). Czerny also offered performance advice for piano works in the fourth part of his Complete Theoretical and Practical Piano Forte School, op. 500. This information has been assembled and edited by Paul Badura- Skoda (1970).

Other descriptions exist by those who knew or observed the composer. In his day Beethoven was both famous and controversial. Early in his career, he was brash and talented enough to have inspired commentary from both friends and critics. Among these were lifelong friends Franz Gerhard Wegeler (1765 – 1848) and Ferdinand Ries, who collaborated to produce the first volume devoted to the com-poser (1838), a work based on the personal recollections of the two men almost a decade after the composer’s death but considered reasonably reliable.

In later years Beethoven was well- known enough to be regarded as a celeb-rity whom many musicians visited when travelling nearby. There are many short descriptions of these visits. Among those who wrote such vignettes are Friedrich Wieck, Clara Schumann’s father, who visited around 1826; Louis Schlösser, court conductor at Darmstadt, who visited in 1822; composer Carl Friedrich Zelter, who

S ourc e s 9

wrote to Goethe of a visit around 1819; and Cipriani Porter, a London musician who had lessons with Beethoven in 1818.

Anton Schindler (1795– 1864), a Moravian violinist, became Beethoven’s per-sonal helper around 1822, providing needed assistance to the near- deaf composer. Although their relationship was sometimes turbulent, Schindler represented him-self as a champion of the composer’s legacy. In 1840 Schindler wrote a biogra-phy of Beethoven, expanding and revising it in 1860. Almost immediately, close friends of the composer regarded Schindler’s work as erroneous. Moreover, later research (1977) revealed not only that Schindler was inaccurate but also that he had destroyed and altered many of Beethoven’s conversation books, thereby calling into question all of his reporting unless verified by other sources.

The earliest major Beethoven research was begun in the 1850s by Alexander Wheelock Thayer (1817– 1897), who graduated from Harvard University in law and gained research skill as an assistant librarian there. Thayer, an ardent music lover, was disturbed by the inaccuracies of Schindler’s work and the light- weight reminiscences of the Wegeler/ Ries collaboration. Determined to produce a signifi-cant scholarly work about Beethoven, Thayer invested his own money and many years of his life in researching and producing a new biography. Although he wrote in English, he wanted the work to be published in German, a language he considered more scholarly. He entrusted translation to a musicologist friend, Hermann Deiters (1833–1907). The first three volumes, covering Beethoven’s life up to 1816, were published in German in 1866, 1872, and 1879. Volumes four and five appeared in 1907–8, having been finished by musicologist Hugo Riemann (1849– 1919) after Deiters’ death. The complete work in English finally appeared in 1921, having been compiled by Henry Edward Krehbiel (1854– 1923) from Thayer’s manuscript and notes, as well as the German edition. Although many biographies and stud-ies of Beethoven have appeared since, Thayer’s work is still considered a definitive research source. It was revised and edited by Elliot Forbes in 1967.

Later explorations include analysis of his musical style and creative process, as well as the processes through which his image in Western culture has evolved. Throughout the decades, Beethoven has continued to be regarded as powerfully creative, innovative, and enigmatic, a figure who invites interpretation, speculation, and reconstruction. The bibliography at the end of this book could not possibly begin to list the written works about Beethoven. It does, however, offer a listing of selected biographies, sources, and studies of the piano sonatas, as well as frequently encountered editions of them.

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Beethoven and the Piano

Development of the Piano

Beethoven wrote most of his piano music decades before today’s piano reached its current form. During the composer’s life the physical characteristics of the piano were not standardized. Piano makers were constantly changing the instrument, often trying out various ideas, many of which were later abandoned. Moreover, they often built customized models for royalty or those of celebrity status.

Beethoven had instruments from several piano makers in his home at various points in his life. These exhibited to some extent the characteristics evident in the modern piano, yet some changes influenced the composer’s writing immediately. For example, the five- octave range he had at his disposal early in his career increased by increments. Also, the piano became stronger and more sonorous, and its action more reliable. By the end of the composer’s life, the instrument was on its way to being the one we know today, but aside from the changes he made use of, other important alterations took place after most of the sonatas had been written. A few were even made after the composer’s death in 1827.

The dates of the thirty- two sonatas range from 1796 to 1822. Changes to the piano are dated as follows:

1821— Sébastian Érard (1752– 1831) patented “double escapement,” the mechanical arrangement that facilitated rapid key repetition and prevented jamming or “blocking.”

1825— Alpheus Babcock (1785– 1842) designed and cast the first iron frame, making possible the use of steel wire with greater string tension, thereby increasing sonority. Other builders had experimented earlier with heavier cases and metal braces, notably Érard (as early as 1777) and John Broadwood (1732– 1812), whose celebrated “iron piano” appeared about 1820.

1827— James Stewart (?– after 1860) invented the method of stringing used today, that of winding the string around the hitch pin without a loop. His work stabilized tuning.


1828— Jean Henri Pape (1789– 1875) patented the process for cross- stringing, making possible the use of longer, more powerful bass strings. This work resulted in the “wing” shape of today’s grand piano.

1833— Babcock took out a patent for felt hammers in the United States. Pape followed in Europe in 1835. Earlier experiments with felt, rather than leather, date from 1780.

This list reflects that changes took place wherever piano builders were working, often in widely separated geographical locations. Communication between builders tended to be slow and sporadic, so changes in one country, when deemed effica-cious, were adopted gradually in other areas. Also, a given set of characteristics was often common in a specific region. The best- documented of these differences are those that attended pianos made in Germany or Austria and those made in England.

Two of the better- known descriptions of the differences between these two schools of piano builders were written by Johann Nepomuk Hummel (1778– 1837) and Friedrich Kalkbrenner (1785– 1849) in method books published respectively in 1829 and 1831. Both described the German- Austrian pianos as having a “light” action and a “clear” sound, permitting rapid execution and subtle nuance. Both wrote that the English piano had a “heavier” action and a “full” sound, permitting a “larger” style and a more “singing” tone. The English piano action was deemed “deeper” and “slower” to respond.

These subjective descriptions are supported by typical specifications:

German- Austrian Pianos English Pianos

Two strings per note Three strings per note, 50% more diameterFlat, thinner sounding boards Convex, thicker sounding boardsLighter, thinner hammers Heavier, thicker hammersHeavier, more reliable dampers Lighter dampersKnee pedals Foot pedals

Pianos Beethoven Knew or Used

It is not possible to determine whether Beethoven owned some of the pianos he used, for piano builders often lent pianos to famous musicians in order to obtain endorsements. Similarly, we don’t know the extent to which Beethoven played many of the pianos associated with his name or, in some cases, his reaction to the instruments. The following paragraphs offer information about the piano builders documented as having played a role in Beethoven’s creative life.

B ee th ove n and th e P ian o 13

Stein (Streicher)

Andreas Stein’s (1728– 1792) workshop was in Augsburg, Germany. After Stein’s death, the business was taken over by his son Mattäus and daughter Nanette. In 1794 Nanette married Andreas Streicher (1761– 1833), who had worked in the shop in Augsburg. All three moved to Vienna, where they built Stein pianos. Mattäus started his own business in 1802, and the Streichers built Stein pianos until about 1810, when they changed the name of their pianos to Streicher. Stein/ Streicher pia-nos represented the German- Austrian tradition.

Beethoven befriended the Streichers in the early 1800s. Nanette often advised the composer on managing his household. Thus, many letters from Beethoven to Nanette deal with mundane household matters. Even so, Beethoven’s knowledge of Stein’s work and his long personal association with the Streichers suggest that the Stein/ Streicher was the most significant piano in the composer’s early professional life.

In 1787 Beethoven had visited Augsburg and presumably the Stein workshop. Almost a decade later, on November 9, 1796, the composer wrote to Andreas Streicher thanking him for a piano and commenting that the instrument was “too good,” leaving him little opportunity to exhibit his acquired skills of tone production.

Some years later, on May 6, 1810, Beethoven told Andreas Streicher in a let-ter that his piano was worn out and needed to be replaced. In July of the same year, Beethoven wrote to Streicher of his pleasure in visiting the builder’s shop and selecting a piano, probably for purchase by Baron Georg Schall Von Falenhorst (1761– 1831). In November the composer wrote to Streicher again, complaining that he still had not received another piano (presumably to replace the one men-tioned in the letter of May 6).

On July 7, 1817, Beethoven wrote to Nanette Streicher, “Now I have a great favor to ask of Streicher. Request him on my behalf to be so kind as to adjust one of your pianos for me to suit my impaired hearing. It should be as loud as possible. That is absolutely necessary. I have long been intending to buy one of your pianos, but at the moment that would be very difficult for me. Perhaps, however, it will be pos-sible for me to do so later on. But until then I should like to borrow one of yours. Of course I don’t want to do so without paying for it. I am prepared to pay you in advance what you usually receive for one, i.e. for six months in assimilated coinage. Perhaps you are not aware that, although I have not always used one of your pianos, since 1809 I have always had a special preference for them. Only Streicher would be able to send me the kind of piano I require.”1

Most Viennese pianos that served Beethoven during the period when he wrote the early sonatas had five octaves, from F to f ′′′. Up to the op. 53 there is but one example wherein the composer exceeded this range (op. 14, no. 1, 1, measure 41, where octaves in the right hand go up to F♯′′′). Information concerning the ranges of

1 AND II:686.


Beethoven’s pianos is far from complete. As noted earlier, the piano was undergoing constant change, and piano builders often customized instruments.

Even so, the composer had to deal with the five- octave keyboard range in many of the sonatas, particularly in earlier works. When he ran out of notes, he either had to reposition the existing line, jumping back into the five- octave compass, or rewrite the passage, inventing alternate patterns that did not exceed that compass.

These adjustments are often noted in the chapters dealing with each sonata. However, the following partial list gives an idea of how frequently the composer was forced to deal with the range limits of his keyboard, as well as how he solved each case. Beethoven often used the outer limits of the keyboard he had at his disposal. Thus one senses that he was well aware that sonorities at extreme ranges elicited an emotional response.

Opus Movement Measures (to compare) Beethoven’s solution

7 4 42, 44, 46 with 135, 137, 139 (138, 140, 142)

Adjust earlier passage

10, no. 1 1 128 no upper note on octave None (many editors add)

2 28– 30 with 75– 77 Adjust later passage

10, no. 3 1 15, 22, 271, 272 no upper or lower notes on octaves104 with 285

None (many editors add)Adjust earlier passage

13 1 108– 109–110 with 260– 62 (262– 64) Adjust later passage

14, no. 1 1 41 contains an octave passage that moves to an octave the upper note of which is f♯′′′. The note did not exist on most pianos of the day. This is the only instance in the piano sonatas before the op. 53 in which Beethoven exceeds the usual keyboard range.152– 54 (153– 155) no lower note on downbeat octaves

Many editors add

14, no. 2 1 4 with 102

43 with 170

Adjust later passageAdjust earlier passage


27, no. 2 3 35 with 130 (131) Adjust earlier passage

31, no. 2 1 59– 62 with 189– 92 (193– 96) Adjust later passage

Editors and performers have reacted to these solutions in different ways. Some believe that the composer’s adjustments to the range of his keyboard were an inte-gral part of his creative process and should not be altered. This argument was first put forward by Carl Czerny and Anton Schindler, both of whom studied with Beethoven. The composer himself wrote that only he was qualified to transcribe his piano sonatas for other instruments, a point of view some extend to include altera-tions such as these.2

Those who advocate alteration assume Beethoven would have written the music with the changes they make had the compass of the keyboard been larger. Such an assumption may be challenged by pointing out that changing details in repeated material may not have been entirely due to range limitations, for the composer fre-quently made such small alterations. Other advocates for alteration contend that making such changes for today’s extended keyboard is logical and serves the com-poser’s aesthetics, emphasizing that his existing keyboard writing is both visionary and often orchestral in concept.

Contemporary critical editions tend to be conservative in this regard, often not-ing keyboard limitations but not recommending changes. Nineteenth- century edi-tors tended to be more liberal, sometimes going so far as to make changes without comment.

Moreover, editors exhibit different degrees of flexibility in different cases. For example, in the first movement of the op. 10, no. 3, many editors and performers feel comfortable making octaves of the single notes on the downbeats of measures 15 and 22, for the likelihood is strong that the composer would have continued in octaves were the notes on the keyboard available. However, even those who would create these octaves are less confident about changing measure 104 in the exposition to match measure 285 in the recapitulation, for in this case, more extensive rewriting is involved.

Other Pianos

The names of several other Viennese piano makers are associated with Beethoven’s early career to a lesser extent. Carl Czerny reported that when he auditioned for Beethoven in 1801 as a boy of ten, the composer had a Walter piano in his

2 AND I:74– 75.


home, Czerny describing it as “the best one made then.”3 Anton [Gabriel] Walter (1752– 1826) produced pianos in what were considered large numbers at that time, claiming in about 1790 that he had already produced 350 pianos, some of which he exported.

Another reference to a Walter piano is in a letter Beethoven wrote to Nikolaus Zmeskall von Domanovecz (1759– 1833), an official in the Hungarian Chancellery, who was an amateur musician and a close personal friend for many years. The let-ter (dated November 1802 by Zmeskall) shows the composer’s ambivalent feelings about Walter’s pianos, as well as his intense interest in the details of the piano building.

Well, my dear Zmeskall, you may give Walter, if you like, a strong dose of my affair. For, in the first place, he deserves it in any case; and, what is more, since the time when people began to think that relations with Walter were strained, the whole tribe of pianoforte manufacturers have been swarming around me in their anxiety to serve me— and all for nothing. Each of them wants to make me a pianoforte exactly as I should like it… . So you may give Walter to understand that, although I can have pianofortes for nothing from all the others, I will pay him 30 ducats, but not more than 30 ducats, and on condition that the wood is mahogany. Furthermore, I insist that it shall have the tension with one string— If he won’t agree to these conditions, then make it quite plain to him that I shall choose one of the others to whom I will give my order.4

In the closing lines of the letter, Beethoven made reference to another Viennese piano maker, for he thought he would be expected to play on a piano made by Matthias Jakesch (1783– c.1828) at a social event. One suspects sarcasm in the com-ment “[I] shall then have the pleasure of seeing myself compelled to display my art on Jakesch’s piano.”5

Beethoven recommended two Viennese piano makers to the Leipzig publisher Breitkopf & Härtel in a short note dated November 23, 1803, apparently respond-ing to an inquiry. The composer, probably referring to Viennese piano maker Johann Bohak (1755– 1805), deemed Herr Pohack’s work “sound” and Herr Moser’s “reli-able,” with the hope that “in time he will make instruments equal, or even superior to those of the leading manufacturers.”6

Beethoven’s correspondence also mentioned Schanz pianos, instruments made by brothers Wenzel (d.1790) and Johann (1762– 1828), as having been prominent in Vienna. In the spring of 1810 the composer mentioned the Schanz piano in a

3 CZY, 4.4 AND I:82. Emphasis added.5 AND I: 82- 3.6 AND I:101.


short letter to Baron Ignaz von Gleichenstein (1778– 1828), a close friend during this period. Apparently, Frau M[alfatti], the mother of sisters Therese and Anna, had asked Beethoven for help in choosing a piano, and she had decided it was to be a Schanz. Beethoven referred to his habit of refusing commissions for recommending pianos but stated that he might accept one in this case.

A Schanz piano is also mentioned in Beethoven’s letter of March 15, 1815, to Joseph von Varena (1769– 1843), an admirer who lived in Graz and had solicited unpublished scores by the composer for charity concerts in that city. In selecting a piano for Varena, Beethoven stated that the chosen Schanz had six octaves and named its price, comparing its cost to a piano made by Seiffert. The sale was appar-ently consummated, for on July 23, the composer wrote to Varena that he should receive his Schanz piano in twelve days, stating at the end of the note, “I too possess one of his.”7

Two pianos are reported to have been in Beethoven’s possession by Theodor von Frimmel (1853– 1928), an Austrian physician who devoted a substantial por-tion of his life to Beethoven research and whose documents are presently at the Beethoven- Haus in Bonn. Frimmel stated that an instrument made by S. A. Vogel of Pest, Hungary, was acquired by Beethoven in 1814 and sold the same year to a piano maker by the name of Feiler. He also reported that a young student named Hirsch tentatively remembered a Kirschbaum piano in Beethoven’s home in 1817; this piano bore a name that, if remembered correctly, seems to have dropped into oblivion.

Érard

In 1803 Beethoven received a piano as a gift from the French piano maker Sébastian Érard (1752– 1831). The Érard brothers, Sébastian and Jean- Baptiste (d.1826), made small five- octave pianos until the late 1790s. Then they began to build larger pianos influenced by English models. The firm’s records show that on the eighteenth of Thermidor in Year XI of the Republic (August 6, 1803), the gift of a piano was made to Beethoven. It is not certain when the Érard actually arrived, but it is pos-sible that its extended range influenced the range of sketches for the op. 53, which date from November and December 1803.

The piano had a mahogany case that was braced by four small pieces of iron. It sat on three legs, its stringing was tri- chord, and its action was the heavier one asso-ciated with English pianos. The keyboard’s compass was five and one- half octaves, from F to c′′′. Two of the four foot pedals were counterparts of today’s damper and una corda pedals; the other two were for special effects: the “lute” pedal inserted leather thongs between the hammers and the strings, and the “dampening” pedal inserted a piece of cloth.

7 AND II:523.


The composer’s outburst of despair about his hearing loss had surfaced the pre-ceding year with his writing of the document known as the Heiligenstadt Testament. Despite this psychological crisis, Beethoven’s activities as a pianist and conductor during this period suggest that his hearing was but slightly impaired. Thus, the com-poser could with certainty incorporate the Érard piano into his professional life.

Evidence suggests that, unfortunately, Beethoven did not like the Érard very much. In a letter to Andreas Streicher in November 1810, Beethoven undoubtedly referred to his Érard when he wrote: “As for my French piano, which is certainly quite useless now, I still have misgivings about selling it, for it is really a souvenir such as no one here has so far honored me with.”8 In 1825 or 1826, Beethoven gave the Érard to his brother [Nikolaus] Johann van Beethoven (1776– 1848), probably to make room for a new Graf piano. The Érard, the earliest of the extant instruments owned by the composer, is on display at the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna.

The range Beethoven used in his piano sonatas began to exceed five octaves at about this time, possibly as a result of the extra half- octave on the Érard in his home or of encountering instruments with extended keyboards elsewhere. Consider the following observations:

Opus Movement Measure(s) Upper Range

53 1 73, 261, 275– 76(263) (277– 78)

f♯′′′, g′′′, g♯′′′, a′′′

3 31 etc., 55 etc.230, 386

g′′′s in main themea♭′′′s at climaxes

57 1 14, 60, 61 etc.87, 231

b♭′′′, c♭′′′, a♭′′′c′′′′ (highest key on the Érard keyboard)

2 71, 77– 79(76, 82– 84)

a♭′′′s and b♭′′′s at climaxes

3 341– 53(351– 63)

g′′′s, a♭′′′s, and c′′′′s

Broadwood

Beethoven’s Broadwood piano was a gift sent to him by the London piano maker on December 27, 1817. The firm of Broadwood & Sons was originally established in the early decades of the eighteenth century by Swiss harpsichord maker Burkat Schudi (1702– 1773). John Broadwood (1732– 1812) joined the firm in 1761,

8 AND I:300.


married Shudi’s daughter Barbara and became a partner in the firm. Upon the elder Shudi’s death, his son, also named Burkat (1738– 1803), took over his father’s share of the partnership. The entire business became Broadwood’s upon the death of Burkat the younger. The firm’s harpsichord clients included Frederick the Great, Maria Theresa, and Haydn.

Broadwood started making square fortepianos in the 1770s and grand pianos in the early 1780s. It has been estimated that by the 1790s he was producing one thousand grands and four hundred squares per year. He concentrated on increasing the sound of the instruments by equalizing string tension and determining optimal striking points. Metal braces to reinforce the piano’s frame against string tension were introduced in stages, just about the time Beethoven’s piano was made.

John Broadwood’s two sons James (1772– 1851) and Thomas (1786– 1861) became active in the business, James in 1795 and Thomas in 1807. Thomas made an extended journey through Switzerland and Austria in August 1817, and his chroni-cles state that he met Beethoven.

Consequently, when Thomas returned to London, he appointed a selection com-mittee to choose a piano to send to the composer as a gift. The committee was com-posed of distinguished musicians of the time: pianist- composers Johann Baptist Cramer (1771– 1858) and Friedrich Kalkbrenner (1785–1849), organist- composer Charles Knyvett (1773– 1852), Giacomo Gotifredo Ferrari (1763– 1842), a singer and theorist who was a personal friend of Thomas Broadwood, and Fredinand Ries, Beethoven’s Bonn friend, student, and biographer.

Beethoven’s piano had to be transported through the Mediterranean to the port of Trieste and then by cart almost two hundred miles. The newspaper Wiener Zeitung marked the event with a notice stating that the Imperial and Royal Chamber had “waived the customs duty which would otherwise have been levied on any foreign instrument.”9 Although the piano did not reach Beethoven until July 1818, the com-poser learned of the gift earlier and wrote a letter of appreciation to Thomas Broadwood (in French) dated February 15, 1818. In it he thanked Broadwood profusely for the piano and indicated that it would inspire him to write something especially for it.

The instrument itself was considered state- of- the- art. It had a mahogany case reinforced with metal strips, copper strings, triple stringing, two foot pedals, and a range of six octaves (C to c′). The damper pedal was split, so that its effect could be applied to upper and lower strings separately. Two metal dedication plates com-memorated the instrument, one with Beethoven’s name and below it one with the names of the members of the selection committee.

Because the op. 106 (“Hammerklavier”) sonata was the next piano sonata to be published ( July 1822), it is often believed that the work was written for the Broadwood. Actually, the work had been started in late 1817, with the first two movements completed by April 1818. Similarly, the fact that the nickname

9 Reported by Eszter Fontana Gát in the liner notes to Hungaroton CD 11885, dedicated to music played on Beethoven’s Broadwood.


“Hammerklavier” has been applied to the op. 106 led to speculation that the pow-erful spirit of the work reflected the heavier action of the Broadwood. The term Hammerklavier, however, was something altogether different in the composer’s mind, for he regarded this term as the German equivalent of fortepiano. This is shown in a letter dated January 23, 1817, to Sigmund Anton Steiner (1773– 1838), the publisher of several of Beethoven’s works from 1815 and the owner of a music shop that was an occasional gathering place for the composer and other musicians. Beethoven ordered that “on all our works, on which the title is German, instead of pianoforte Hammerklavier shall be used.”10

Steiner’s publication of the op. 101 the following month, therefore, shows both the French “pour le Piano- Forte” and German “für Das Hammerklavier.” Although the first edition of the op. 106 was published by Artaria, not Steiner, the composer’s wishes were followed in its publication as well, for there were two title pages, one in French and one in German.

An assessment of the degree of deafness Beethoven suffered when the Broad-wood arrived also bears on the extent to which the piano may have been a working instrument. Accounts of how well the composer could hear from this point onward in his life vary considerably. Czerny is reported to have stated that the compos-er’s deafness had become so extreme by 1818 that he could no longer hear music. Beethoven began to use an ear trumpet in 1816, and conversation books appeared in 1818.11

On the other hand, reports of periods when the composer could hear fairly well date from much later. Joseph Reinhold Schultz (misidentified as Edward) vis-ited the composer on September 28, 1823, with mutual friends Tobias Haslinger (1787– 1842) and Joseph Blahetka (1782– 1857). Schultz’s account of the visit stated that “nothing can possibly be more lively, more animated, and … more energetic than [Beethoven’s] conversation, when you have succeeded in getting him into good humor.” At lunch Schultz noted that “hears badly, but speaks remark-ably well.”12

[ Johann Gottlieb] Friedrich Wieck wrote an account of a visit with Beethoven arranged by Andreas Stein, the Viennese piano maker. Wieck credits Stein with having “devoted much attention to improving deafness and to ear- trumpets.”13 Wieck wrote his account from memory at a later date and placed it in 1826. (Thayer believes it to have been in 1824.) After conversing with the composer, Wieck wrote, “[T] hen he improvised for me during an hour, after he had mounted

10 AND II:654.11 A. W. Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven, ed. Elliot Forbes. 2 vols. (Princeton: Princeton University

Press, 1967), 690.12 Reported in O. G. Sonneck, Beethoven: Impressions by His Contemporaries (New York: Dover,

1967), 151– 52.13 Quoted in ibid., 207– 8.


his ear- trumpet, and placed it on the resonance plate on which already stood the pretty well battered, large grand piano, with its very powerful, rough tone, which had been presented to him by the city of London.”14 Wieck was undoubtedly refer-ring to the Broadwood.

Sir George Smart (1776– 1867), an English music publisher, spent two or three days visiting Beethoven in 1825. In an account dated September 16, he wrote that in one of the composer’s four large- sized rooms “is the grand pianoforte, much out of tune, given him by Broadwood… . Beethoven gave me the time by playing the subjects on the pianoforte, of many movements of his symphonies.”15

Smart’s noting that the Broadwood was out of tune suggests the piano may have been neglected. Further evidence of deterioration is provided by Johan Andreas Stumpf (1769– 1846), a London harp maker who visited Beethoven in 1818 to tune the Broadwood and again in 1824. After his later visit Stumpf reported on the Broadwood: “As I opened it, what a spectacle offered itself to my view! There was no sound left in the treble and broken strings were mixed up like a thorn bush in a gale.”16

After Beethoven’s death the Broadwood was sold at auction along with other household items. It was subsequently acquired by Anton Diabelli & Co. Diabelli (1781– 1858), whose name is associated with Beethoven’s famous set of variations op. 120, had expanded his music publishing business to include art objects with the help of his lawyer Anton Spina (1790– 1857). In 1851 the business was taken over by Spina’s son, Carl Anton (1827– 1906), and operated as C. A. Spina. The Broadwood piano is reported to have been given to Liszt in 1845 by C. A. Spina. Liszt in his 1873 will bequeathed it to the Hungarian National Museum, where it is today.

Graf

In 1825 Conrad Graf (1782– 1851) constructed a special piano for Beethoven. The German- born piano maker had moved to Vienna in 1799, and the quality of his instruments had garnered him the title of Royal Court Piano and Keyboard Instrument Maker by 1824. Beethoven probably received the Graf piano in early1826. Gerhard von Breuning (1813– 1892), who visited the composer as a boy, later reported seeing the Graf in the composer’s home in the summer of 1826. The piano’s serial number suggests that it cannot have arrived before January 31, 1826, and possibly not until 1827 (in which case Beuning would have been in error).17

The piano itself was 121.2 centimeters wide and 242.8 centimeters long with a range of six octaves. It had a mahogany veneer over a frame made of spruce and oak.

14 Quoted in ibid., 195.15 Gát, liner notes to Hungaroton CD 11885.16 Ibid.17 Deborah Wythe, “The Pianos of Conrad Graf,” Early Music 12, no. 4 (November 1884), 457.


It was triple- and quadruple- strung in order to produce a sound that, it was hoped, could penetrate the composer’s deafness. C′ to E′ were triple- strung with wrapped wires of copper and steel; F to C♯ were triple- strung with brass wires, and D to f ′′′ were of quadruple- strung steel. There were three pedals of brass and steel. The right one controlled damping and was similar to modern damper pedals. The left one shifted the keyboard, as in today’s pianos, providing una corda. (Graf pianos also had due corda available.) The middle pedal was for a special effect known as Piano Harfe, and its rail was fitted with fabric tabs that were inserted between the ham-mers and the strings, single layers for piano and double layers for pianissimo. The action of the piano was of the Viennese type, for Graf had eschewed experimenting with the heavier English action.18 The hammers were bullet- shaped and had three to five layers of leather. Beethoven’s Graf piano is now on display at the Beethoven- Haus in Bonn.

18 Ibid., 456.

23

3

Performance Practices

Many keyboard performance practices were changing during Beethoven’s lifetime. These changes were driven in part by the philosophical and aesthetic shift from clas-sical ideals toward romanticism and in part by physical changes in the piano. It was starting to become the instrument we know today, and as it evolved, composers began to regard the piano as a surrogate orchestra, exploring its expanded compass, dynamic prowess, and sonic capabilities. This, in turn, impacted both performance practices and aesthetic conceptions.

These changes make it difficult to arrive at definitive choices when we encoun-ter alternatives in attempting to re- create music of the period. Some composers favored the old ways; others were adopting the new, changing with the times, often during the course of their careers. Writings from the period often recommend dif-ferent performance procedures. Thus when choices must be made, even the most research- oriented performers often do not agree as to which realization represents a given composer’s wishes most accurately. This fluid situation should not, however, invite a cavalier attitude in reaching challenging decisions. Rather, studying the his-torical and musical contexts with which to forge a personal conviction leads to both informed decisions and involved performances.

Ornamentation

One of the functions of ornamentation was to enhance weak sonority. As the piano found its voice, ornamentation was called upon less frequently for this purpose, so it was increasingly regarded as an expressive extension of the musical line, often equated it with singers’ vocal displays. As the role of ornamentation changed, exe-cution changed. Composers used stock symbols less often, preferring to write out the ornamentation, sometimes with inventive twists that could not be indicated by the established symbols. When symbols were used, realization of them underwent change as well. Thus at the time Beethoven was writing his piano sonatas, ornamen-tation was moving from the tradition that had served late Baroque and Classical com-posers to one that came to be associated with the middle and late nineteenth century.


The decisions that must be made when confronted by differences between the older models and those that evolved in the nineteenth century may be summarized as follows:

• where to start trills, on the upper or the main note • how to end trills, whether or not to use after- notes (nachschlag) • where to start turns, on the upper or the main note, and often where to place

them in terms of rhythm • whether mordents start on upper or main notes, and on the beat or before

the beat • whether to play single grace notes and groups of grace notes on or before beats • whether to execute arpeggios on or before beats

When Carl Czerny started to study with Beethoven at the age of ten, the com-poser asked him to acquire Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach’s Essay on the True Art of Playing Keyboard Instruments, an influential work that had been published four times between 1753 and 1797. The work covered a number of topics. Although it focused heavily on figured bass and improvisation, one important section was devoted to the realization of various ornament symbols. Czerny’s report implies that Beethoven had knowledge of and respect for the earlier performance practices that C. P. E. Bach’s treatise addressed.

Even so, it is impossible to know the extent to which Beethoven subscribed to the ornamentation section of the treatise as a guide for playing ornaments in his own works. It is possible, for example, that Beethoven wanted to use the Bach trea-tise merely as a guide to teach improvisation, or to study Bach’s thoughts on what constituted refined musical taste, but did not emphasize the section on ornamen-tation. This speculation is underscored by the fact that C. P. E. Bach’s realizations of ornaments were deemed relatively conservative in this time of change. Thus the evidence that Beethoven adhered rigorously to the older performance practice of C.P.E. Bach is fragile at best.

Moreover, Beethoven’s temperament was such that he did not hesitate to venture forth into new territory. Indeed, more conservative members of his society consid-ered him brash. So it is reasonable to assume that the composer subscribed to estab-lished rules when it suited him but changed or broke rules when doing so served his artistic goals. Furthermore, Beethoven seems not to have been consistent in his notation of ornaments, so trying to extract general principles from examining his autographs does not necessarily result in definitive answers.

Forging solutions is further complicated by the editorial choices superimposed on the sonatas throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Some of the realizations have evolved into strong traditions, many incorporating later perfor-mance practices, and, whether right or wrong, they exert a powerful influence on what sounds right to today’s listeners. These factors, taken together, form a daunting

Pe r for man c e P rac t i c e s 25

challenge for the performer, for in many cases there are no clear solutions to ques-tions of ornamentation. Perhaps realizing ornamentation should be regarded in the same light as etiquette. One knows the rules, but how one applies them depends on circumstances.

Starting Trills

Throughout the sonatas the performer must decide where to start a trill, and from the earliest of the sonatas, beginnings on the upper note and the main note appear to be appropriate. For example, in the op. 2, no. 1 (1796), the right- hand trills in the first movement at measures 85, 86, and 87 lend themselves gracefully to starting on the upper note and incorporating the after- notes (nachschläge) in a four- note ornament, thus following the earlier performance practice. It would seem logical to apply similar solutions to the trills in the minuet at measures 30, 31, 32, and 33, as well as to trills in the final movement in measures 10, 11, 149 (151) and 150 (152). In these cases, however, there has been a strong tradition of starting the trill on the main note although such realizations are more difficult. A majority of editors in both the nineteenth and twentieth centuries recommend the later performance practice.

Examples from early sonatas that pose similar questions are the trills in the first movement of the op. 2, no. 3, at measure 59 and in the first movement of the op. 10, no. 2, at measures 9, 126 (127), and 141 (142). In later sonatas, the preference for starting on the main note in such situations seems to get stronger. Thus in the op. 31, no. 3, second movement, measures 11, 30, 116 (118), and 135 (137) editorial opinion is virtually unanimous that the trill should start on the main note, as it is regarding the last movement of the same sonata, measures 63 and 238 (240).

In some cases the tradition for starting the trill on the main note is strengthened by the context in which the ornament appears. In the first movement of the op. 13 (1799), the climactic dissonance of the right- handtrills in measures 174 (176), 182 (184), 184 (186), and 186 (188), as well as the fact that the immediately preced-ing note is the upper accessory, has convinced almost all editors that the trills start on the main note. A similar instance occurs in the second movement of the op. 2, no. 2, at measures 9, 11, and 41. Almost all editors start the trill on the main note, for not only is the immediately preceding note the upper accessory, but also the importance of highlighting the leading tone in the slow- moving line contributes to the feeling that the main note is preferable. The same tradition attends the trills at measures 23, 25, and 59 of the opening movement of the op. 26, and the same rea-soning might be applied.

The trills that open the second movement of the op. 31, no. 1, and serve to open subsequent phrases of the main theme also have garnered a tradition of starting on


the main note, here possibly because of the importance of establishing the harmony on the downbeat of each of the measures.

On the other hand, Beethoven’s allegiance to the earlier tradition is supported by a well- known instance of trill realization he provided. This example is drawn from the final movement of the op. 53, measure 485, where long trills attend statements of the main theme in a coda, as they had throughout the movement. The composer’s autograph presents two suggestions for realizing the trills, one designated as easier for performers who cannot manage the first realization. In both cases, the trill starts with the upper note.

The example is puzzling because, inasmuch as the right hand must manage dou-ble notes in order to sustain both the trill and the melodic line, starting on the upper note results in intervals of sevenths and seconds at certain points, whereas starting on the main note would result in consonant intervals, octaves and a unison, as well as a more pianistic coordination. (Example 3.1)

Editors have been divided as to how to treat this example. Many have dutifully attempted to follow the composer’s realization but allowed for an adjustment so that the interval of a second becomes a unison. Others offer solutions that involve stopping the trill when melodic notes are played (the so- called false trill). A few admit not understanding Beethoven’s realization, and they either ignore it or adjust the trill so that the interval of a seventh becomes an octave and the second, a unison, citing both musical and technical considerations.

William S. Newman has suggested that Beethoven became increasingly out of touch with the physical aspects of playing the piano in his later works, perhaps due to his hearing impairment.1 This speculation seemingly would not apply to the Op. 53, however, for evidence suggests that the composer’s hearing was only slightly impaired in 1803– 4, when the sonata was written (see Chapter 2, pp. 20– 21).

Often Beethoven notated trills preceded by an upper- accessory grace note, as in the closing theme of the exposition of the first movement of the op. 2, no. 3, starting at measure 78. What the composer meant by this notation is not clear. If perfor-mance practice dictated normally starting on the upper accessory, then why should

Example 3.1 Op. 53, final movement, composer’s realization of trills starting in measure 485

1 William S. Newman, Beethoven on Beethoven: Playing His Piano Music His Way (New York: Norton, 1988), 216.


it be necessary to indicate it with a grace note? Some editors have assumed it is there to indicate the composer’s wishes at a time when the trill’s starting point was chang-ing. Others have interpreted the indication as a grace note to be played before the downbeat. (Example 3.2)

Perhaps the most famous example of this puzzle unfolds in the opening move-ment of the op. 57, where some of the trills are preceded by a grace note (measures 3, 7, 9, 23, 69, 144, and 146) and others are not (measures 11, 21, 71, 73, 76, 138, 142, 156, 158, 160, and 162). The autograph and the first edition agree in this disposi-tion, so it would seem unlikely that it represents carelessness by both the composer and the engraver. Editorial advice as to realizations varies greatly, and the performer should consider different possibilities before deciding how to play these passages.

Measures 3 and 11 (Example 3.3) serve to illustrate some of the choices to be made. In measure 3 the grace note could be played before the beat with the trill starting on the beat, or the grace note could be incorporated into the trill by play-ing it on the beat. Also, the three sixteenth notes of the measure could be played with precise rhythmic accuracy, in which case they would be slower than the trill, or incorporated into the trill as after- notes played at the same speed as the trill.

In measure 11 there is no grace note before the trill. Most interpreters reflect this absence by starting the trill on the upper accessory, assuming that the omission was deliberate, the composer indicating a different approach to the trill than in earlier measures.

Ending Trills

Addressing the question of whether to use after- notes at the end of the trill is equally problematic. Beethoven often wrote out after- notes, and they should certainly be incorporated when he indicated them. Open to question, however, is whether to use them when they do not appear in the score.

Example 3.2 Op. 2, no. 3, 1st movement, measure 78, two realizations

Example 3.3

(a) Op. 57, 1st movement, measure 3 (b) Op. 57, 1st movement, measure 11


Let us return to the op. 2, no. 1, as an example. The previously cited examples of trills in the first and third movements show after- notes, but there are no after- notes shown for any trills in the fourth movement, including those cited above. Many edi-tors feel that this is an oversight and suggest adding them. Indeed, doing so results in a higher degree of consistency. The question remains, however, as to whether the absence of after- notes in the last movement was intentional, for one could argue that not playing them is easier at the prestissimo tempo. Inconsistencies exist also within a single movement. The fugue of the op. 106 is rife with them, for example, and editors have not agreed on whether to add after- notes to trills shown without them.

The Extended Trill

Extended trills occur throughout the sonatas. The first example is in the final move-ment of the op. 2, no. 3, where an extended trill appears in measures leading up to a cadenza- like passage (measures 259– 68) and in the cadenza passage itself (mea-sures 285– 96). This example represents the way Beethoven notated the extended trill throughout the sonatas: almost always in the context of metered rhythm, never abandoning the use of bar lines. In some instances, the trill figure is written out fully, as in the final variation of the first movement of the op. 26 (measures 197– 203), or in part, as in the cadenza- like passages in the last two movements of the op. 27. no. 1 (measures 25 of the Adagio con espressione and 263, recounting from the begin-ning of the Allegro vivace).

Two examples are of special interest because the trill incorporates tempo adjust-ments. The first occurs in the final variation of the op. 109, where the pulse remains constant but the trill accelerates gradually in the context of varying the main theme in measures 158– 68 (165– 75). The composer wrote out the notes of the trill until the last adjustment at measure 164 (171), beat three. The second case is in the intro-duction to the op. 111. Here the trill extends through a tempo change (measures 16– 18). Editors have not agreed as to how to play this passage, opinions ranging from various ways to effect an accelerando to playing the entire introduction fast enough that sixteenth notes and thirty- second notes become equal.

Beethoven indicated the so- called false trill only once, in the first movement of the op. 26 (measures 179– 85), and even here as a foreshadowing of the full trill that comes a few measures later. Evidence suggests that this technique was well known at the time, for examples are to be found in variation 28 of J. S. Bach’s “Goldberg” Variations (S. 988) as well as in methods by both Czerny and Hummel. Yet Beethoven eschewed its use in the two trill facilitations he notated, those in measures 485– 86 of the final movement of the op. 53 and in measures 112– 13 (120– 21) of the last movement of op. 111. This facilitation is often encountered, however, for it has been recommended by a host of distinguished editors. Moreover, it is enabling for players with small hands.


The most important point to be made is that Beethoven regarded the extended trill as an integral rhythmic part of the music, not a free, unmeasured decoration. Thus performers are responsible for playing extended trills by realizing rhythmic relationships without sounding “square,” a feat that often demands both drill and polish.

Turns

The turn appears most frequently in the sonatas as an ornament that links a lower melodic note to a following higher one. The notation of this musical gesture places the turn sign between the earlier lower and the later upper note. In these instances both period practice and editorial tradition support starting on the upper accessory, rather than repeating the lower melodic note. In movements of slow or moderate tempo, rhythmic placement is open to interpretation, and varying rhythms often result, the overall tempo and mood of the movement being taken into account. (Example 3.4) In faster movements, the tempo usually leaves little room for rhyth-mic variation. (Example 3.5)

Example 3.4 Op. 78, 1st movement, measure 3, text and one realization

Example 3.5 Op. 2, no. 3, 1st movement, measure 27, text and one realization


Note that the use of a turn symbol to indicate this musical gesture became less frequent over the span of the sonatas. Early sonatas contain many of them. The sec-ond movement of the op. 2, no. 1, for example, shows fifteen. There are none in the final four sonatas, last appearances of this symbol occurring in the first movement of the op. 101 (measures 13 and 65). In the same work, one can see the composer’s preference for writing out the gesture in detail, rather than using the less precise symbol. (Example 3.6)

Turn symbols of this type also appear over the note itself rather than between notes. There is less agreement as to realization in these cases, and the context in which the symbol occurs is often influential. For example, observe the difference in notation between the two examples that occur in the second movement of the op. 2, no. 1. (Example 3.7)

Some editors respond to this difference in notation by starting the turn in the first measure on the upper accessory (b♭′) and in the seventh measure on the main note (a′).

When the turn symbol is over a note that is a lower neighbor of its predecessor, the practice of starting the turn on the main note is well established, especially when there is not much time in which to execute the ornament. (Example 3.8)

Earlier performance practice favored playing turns on the beat, rather than before the beat. Despite this preference, there is a strong tradition of playing the turn as three grace notes before the beat. It appeared as early as 1839 in Czerny’s

Example 3.6 Op. 101, 3rd movement, measure 1

Example 3.7

(a) Op. 2, no. 1, 2nd movement, measure 1 (b) Op. 2, no. 1, 2nd movement, measure 7


op. 500, where he realizes the turn in the first measures of Beethoven’s 1796– 97 Rondo op. 51, no. 1. (Example 3.9)

A similar realization seems practical from a pianistic standpoint in many places in the sonatas; editors usually recommend this realization. (Example 3.10)

It could be argued, however, that Beethoven used precise notation when he wanted to depart from the accepted realization. (Example 3.11)

Example 3.8 Op. 2, no. 2, 2nd movement, measure 22

Example 3.9

(a) Rondo op. 51, no. 1, upbeats and (b) Rondo op. 51, no. 1, upbeats and measure 1, original text measure 1, Czerny’s realization

Example 3.10 Op. 2, no. 1, 2nd movement, measure 28, in the realization often used

Example 3.11 Op. 79, 1st movement, measure 128 (129)


It is curious that a few editors have ignored Beethoven’s notation in this case, directing that the grace notes be played on the beat in accordance with the earlier practice. In these cases the performer must decide between strict adherence to rules and ease of execution, perhaps justifying the latter by recalling that ornament real-izations were changing at the time the music was written.

Beethoven used a combination of the symbols for the turn and the mordent in the first movements of the op. 54, measures 18, 20, 24, and 113, and the op. 78, measures 17 and 76 (78). Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach designated this ornament a “trilled turn” and provided an example of its realization in the ornaments section of his Essay on the True Art of Keyboard Playing. (Example 3.12)

In the op. 54, the use of this ornament is unusually confusing because Beethoven indicated short trill signs in measures 16 and 85, points that are musically similar to those where the trilled turn symbols were indicated. This seeming inconsistency has led many editors to eschew applying C. P. E. Bach’s complex realization, substi-tuting a variety of easier, more conventional solutions. In the opening movement of the op. 78, the rapid tempo tends to obscure the rhythmic complexity of Bach’s real-ization, so most editors settle for a simple turn starting on the main note, although there is considerable difference of opinion with regard to the exact rhythm recom-mended. (Example 3.13)

Mordents

Beethoven uses the mordent symbol almost exclusively in the context of rapid passages in which the line moves downward step- wise. This figure appears

Example 3.12 C. P. E. Bach’s realization of the “trilled turn”

Example 3.13 Op. 78, 1st movement, measure 17, text and two realizations


throughout the sonatas. One of the most famous examples occurs in the opening movement of the op. 13, where the mordent is an integral part of the second theme. (Example 3.14)

The mordent in this context carried several designations: Pralltriller, Schneller, and the “English” mordent. Editorial comment on this ornament has often focused on not permitting the realization to be played as a melodic triplet, but rather keep-ing it cohesive and ornamental in character. When editors realize the ornament, they often do so with a variety of notation patterns that attempt to show this cohe-sion. Placing a strong accent on the first note will usually produce the desired effect. Realizations by almost all editors show this ornament starting on the beat. Czerny, however, placed it before the beat in a later example, and his realization has con-vinced a few editors to insist that all such ornaments be played after the Czerny model. (Example 3.15)

Grace Notes

Performers must make two decisions with regard to grace notes in the sona-tas: whether to play grace notes and arpeggios on or before the main beat; then, if on the beat, whether to play them quickly or to incorporate them into the beat as longer notes according to the earlier performance practice. These longer notes usu-ally take either half or two- thirds of the value of the main note, depending on the underlying rhythmic pattern and to some extent the temp. As noted in other matters of ornamentation, performance practice was changing during Beethoven’s time, and editors do not agree in many instances.

Example 3.14 Op. 13, 1st movement, measures 57– 58

Example 3.15 Op. 31, no. 2, 3rd movement, measures 43– 44


A well- known example referred to earlier points to the first decision. Its notation occurs throughout the opening theme of the op. 57. Most editors recommend that the grace note be played on the beat as part of the trill figure, but some recommend playing it before the beat. (Example 3.16)

In faster tempi, each grace note is often marked with a slash through the stem, suggesting that it be played as an acciacatura, or crushed note. In these cases the ear may find it difficult to distinguish between playing grace notes on the beat or before it, and often playing before the beat is more pianistic. (Example 3.17)

The grace notes in the 3rd movement of the op. 2, no. 1, appear in the con-text of the same figure written out. The grace note carries no slash across its stem, so some editors believe it should be construed as two eighth notes. Others point to the composer’s notation of two eighth notes for the same figure and believe that the composer’s indication suggests a different execution for the grace note. (Example 3.18)

On the other hand, in the op. 10, no. 3, there is a strong tradition of playing the grace notes starting at measure 53, as well as throughout the second theme of

Example 3.16 Op. 57, 1st movement, measure 3

Example 3.17

(a) Op. 7, 4th movement, measures 166– 67 (169– 70)

(b) Op. 10, no. 2, 3rd movement, measures 33– 35


the first movement, on the beat, resulting in four eighth notes. One might believe this tradition developed because the descending eighth- note figure is related to the opening of the movement, where the four notes are written as equal quarter notes. Even so, realization of the grace note in a descending pattern of this configuration as one of four equal notes is well established in classical piano music and is often applied to earlier music by other composers. (Example 3.19)

Editors are equally divided as to whether to play notes on or before the beat when more than one grace note is involved. (Example 3.20)

Example 3.18 Op. 2, no. 1, 3rd movement, measures 21– 23

Example 3.19 Op. 10, no. 3, 1st movement, measures 53– 54

Example 3.20

(a) Op. 81a, 2nd movement, measure 6

(b) Op. 13, 3rd movement, measures 5– 6


A group of three notes is often encountered, a figure Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach called the“three- note slide” and realized on the beat. (Example 3.21)

Even so, one has to take into account the context of the figure. In Example 3.22, the three grace notes are always heard before the following sixteenth notes.

Arpeggios

As with other issues concerning ornamentation, the earlier performance practice was changing. Thus, starting the arpeggio before the beat with the uppermost note on the beat was becoming more common than starting with the lowermost note on the beat. Beethoven seldom used the vertical wavy line to indicate an arpeggio in the sonatas, preferring to use grace notes instead. This preference, coupled with the musical context of many of his arpeggios, suggests following the newer perfor-mance practice most of the time.

The opening chord of the op. 31, no. 2, is, however, written as an arpeggio at the beginning of the movement. Later in the movement the arpeggio appears as grace notes. (Example 3.23)

Perhaps Beethoven notated grace notes in the later measure because the arpeg-gios are longer, and he thought writing them as in the opening would confuse the eye. In both cases, the uppermost note of the arpeggio is the first note of one of the most important motifs of the movement, so the tradition of playing it as the downbeat is very strong. Moreover, playing the opening arpeggio of the second movement in the same way contributes to a feeling of unity between the movements.

Example 3.21 Op. 10, no. 2, 1st movement, measure 10

Example 3.22 Op. 81a, 2nd movement, measure 4


Similar reasoning can be applied to the arpeggios in the opening of the op. 111. (Example 3.24)

In two instances editors have added arpeggio markings, although they do not exist in the early sources. In the first case, almost all editions show an arpeggio where none exists in the first edition (there is no autograph). (Example 3.25)

In the second case, most recent editions follow both the autograph and the first edition in omitting the arpeggio. The fact that the chord encompasses the inter-val of a minor ninth invites players with small hands to make some adjustment. (Example 3.26)

It is likely that Hans von Bülow started the tradition of playing the op. 26 chord with an arpeggio, for in his edition he attempted to justify doing so on aesthetic

Example 3.23

a) Op. 31, no. 2, 1st movement, measure 1 b) Op. 31, no. 2, 1st movement, measure 93 (97)


Example 3.25 Op. 2, no. 2, 1st movement, measures 8– 9


grounds as well as for ease of execution. He cited other cases in the piano sonatas where arpeggios were written out with grace notes by the composer and believed this case to be analogous. He realized the arpeggio with the lowermost note on the beat and recommended adding an accent to the delayed uppermost note for melodic continuity.

Use of the Damper Pedal

Haydn was the first major composer to notate damper pedal effects in his piano music. (See, for example, Hob. XVI/ 50, first movement, measures 73– 74 and 120– 1.) Beethoven followed his teacher’s model with more extensive markings. These indications show that the damper pedal was considered a special effect rather than a tool to enhance legato playing. The damper pedal was simply one of several such effects piano makers built into their instruments, many of the others having been discontinued. (See, for example, the description of Beethoven’s Érard piano in Chapter 2, pp. 17–18.)

The first example of pedal marks in the Beethoven sonatas occurs in the op. 26, where tonic sonority is enriched at the ends of the first and fourth movements and in the drumroll imitations in the trio of the funeral march. In these instances there is no blurring of different harmonies, but only the reinforcement of one harmony.

The op. 27, no. 2, however, presents a more complex problem for the performer, for at the opening of the first movement, Beethoven insisted with two sets of direc-tions that the dampers not be used for the movement. If taken literally, these direc-tions would produce a blurring of different harmonies that would seem excessive to our ears today. Even Beethoven’s student Carl Czerny advised that the pedal should be changed for each new bass note.2

Many others, however, believe that Beethoven must have had some atmospheric effect in mind when he wrote these instructions. This assumption is supported by

2 CZY, 49.



markings in other Beethoven piano music wherein harmonies are mixed, often tonic

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