2010
Mimir Chamber Music Festival Program Notes
Mimir Chamber Music Festival 7:30 PM Saturday July 10, 2010 Pepsico Recital Hall at TCU Fort Worth, Texas
Program notes by Stephen Seleny
Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)
In 1978, Ludwig van Beethoven started the six “Lobkowitz Quartets” (dedicated to and sponsored by Prince Lobkowitz). He finished them in 1800 and published them in 1801. The grouping was a not-too-well hidden homage to Haydn, who published most of his quartets in sets of six. By this time Beethoven was well established in Vienna and recognized not only as a phenomenal pianist but as a composer extraordinaire. The critics found him “a man of genius, possessed of originality” and “of thoroughness in the highest style of writing”. His social position was secure and he was continuously in love. Yet this was also the time when he discovered his increasing deafness – his desperate “Heiligenstadt Testament” was written in 1802. Although in the Op. 18 quartets we can hear (or sense?) the conflicting emotions caused by this realization, the works are nonetheless exultant and full of confidence.
Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)
The two trios of Op. 70 were conceived in the fall of 1808 while Beethoven was living in the palace of Countess Maria von Erdody. She was a vivacious, very beautiful Hungarian noblewoman, and a good pianist. The curious and the “scholars” continue to guess about the precise nature of their relationship. These two trios were dedicated to the Countess and received their first performance at her palace on Christmas day, with Beethoven as pianist. The two works became an instant success, and remain popular today.
The piece opens with a strong unison statement that flows into a cantabile cello melody. The scale–like second motive is a stark contrast, and from these diverse elements Beethoven builds a masterful unit. The undisputed centerpiece of this trio is the second movement, which gave the trio its nickname, “Ghost”. Beethoven was experimenting with an opera based on Shakespeare’s Macbeth at that time, and his sketchbooks are full of ideas for the witches’ scene. The movement opens with a subdued dialogue between the strings and the piano. After a short, explosive fortissimo outburst, it descends into vibrant pianissimo tremolos and slow trills on the piano, over which the strings continue the dialogue among themselves. The effect is indeed ghostly, and it presents “ghostly” difficulties for the pianist. As usual, Beethoven did not give a hoot about the technical problems with which he burdened the pianist. Pianos in Beethoven’s time had a much smaller sound; these problems are infinitely magnified for pianists playing on today’s larger Steinways. This desperate movement is followed by a warm and bright “Presto”, a much welcome relief – similar to what a survivor must feel after coming up from the depths of a very dark abyss.
Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)
The last period of Beethoven’s creative life was a drama of epic proportions. That a totally deaf man – nagged by all kinds of illnesses, personal problems and financial concerns – could write the last five great string quartets, the last three piano sonatas, the Diabelli Variations, the Missa Solemnis and the Ninth Symphony, boggles the mind. This is not music in the conventional sense. Nothing like this had ever been composed and assuredly never will. These are the personal confessions of a man who has seen and experienced all, who has divined the meaning of life and is attempting to make peace with the world. Beethoven knew that his days were numbered and was not writing for the public. He was not trying to please, but rather to put the final exclamatory mark on his entire opus. This is complex music, and we ordinary mortals, mystified by the sublime, tend to look for some sort of metaphysical component. This is not “pretty” music in the conventional sense; it is simply ethereal. To approach it, listeners must suspend disbelief, take Beethoven’s spiritual hand, and allow him to lead us into the sublime, the rarified and the divine.
His last quartets are an enigma even today. The great trinity of Op. 130, 131 and 132 are a unified whole with common themes, feelings, and textures – a monumental triad almost frightening in size, audacity and, above all, mystery. This is music that seems to transcend music. Beethoven leaves the realm of self-expression and enters the world of the universal. In these quartets there are moments of joy and pain, wonder and abandon, warmth and tenderness. There are unusual unforgettable melodies and curious fragments, new forms and new principles. Above all, there is a musical vision that demands more from the players and listeners than one ever dreamt possible.
Essentially it is impossible to analyze or explain (let alone fully comprehend) the conception and structure any of these last three works (and even the preceding Op. 127 quartet). It might be more productive to consider them as one monumental unit, a Sistine Chapel ceiling in music. Such an analysis would fill good-sized book. These last quartets had a gestation period of over a decade. Movements and ideas conceived for one quartet ended up in another -- sometimes in the same vestments, other times partially or completely altered. Their opus numbers are not chronolgical. This B-flat quartet is the last one Beethoven composed for Prince Galitzin (who commissioned them), but it was published second, between Op. 127 and Op. 132. Nothing is more enlightening than Beethoven’s own words from 1822: “I sit pondering and pondering. I have known for a long time what I wanted to do, but I cannot get it down on paper. I sense that I am at the threshold of great things but how to get it organized – that tortures my mind.”
Risking the dilettantish, allow me to simplify: one can recognize the format of this quartet as the traditional fast movement, scherzo, slow movement, and finale in the classical order – but with an extra scherzo and a heart-breakingly slow “Cavatina” before the finale. Even in his most daringly innovative works, Beethoven respects the classical concepts, though he had long since freed himself from these restrictions.
Beethoven began writing down (which is different from conceiving!) the Op. 130 in the spring of 1825, and finished the task by the end of the year. It was premiered in March 1826 in Vienna. For some reason, Beethoven did not attend this performance for some reason. When he received a report that not only was it a huge success, but the second and fourth movements had to be repeated, he exclaimed: “Yes, these sugary delicacies! Why not the Fugue?” Then he sat motionless for a few moments and exclaimed again: “Cattle! Asses!” (Originally, the ending movement was a huge Fugue that, at his publisher’s insistence, Beethoven replaced with the present finale. The fugue was published later as Op. 133, the famous Grosse Fugue.)
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