beethoven's 32 piano sonatas robert silverman - Music on Main

Programme notes 

BEETHOVEN’S <strong>32</strong> PIANO SONATAS 

by Robert Silverman 

© Robert Silverman 

ROBERT SILVERMAN 

PLAYS BEETHOVEN 

Presented by <strong>Music</strong> on Main at the 

Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club 

3611 West Broadway, Vancouver BC 

Concert One Monday, September 27, 2010 

Concert Two Tuesday, September 28, 2010 

Concert Three Monday, November 1, 2010 

Concert Four Tuesday, November 2, 2010 

Concert Five Tuesday, February 15, 2011 

Concert Six Wednesday, February 16, 2011 

Concert Seven Monday, April 4, 2011 

Concert Eight Tuesday, April 5, 2011 

www.<strong>robert</strong><strong>silverman</strong>.ca 

www.musiconmain.ca 

<strong>Music</strong> on Main presents Silverman plays Beethoven. September 27, 2010 – April 5, 2011 at the Cellar Restaurant & Jazz Club. www.musiconmain.ca 

Programme notes by Robert Silverman. © Robert Silverman

Sonata No. 1 in F Minor, Op. 2/1 

composed 1795, published 1796 

Although many young pianists study Beethoven’s first published <strong>piano</strong> composition before they reach their teens, it 

would be a mistake to consider the music itself a “student” or “apprentice” effort. At twenty-five, Beethoven already 

was a master of the late classical style, arguably the only living composer of his time who could withstand comparison 

with Haydn or Mozart. Moreover, he managed to distance himself from his older colleagues by treating his <strong>piano</strong> 

<strong>sonatas</strong> from the outset as seriously as his chamber and orchestral music. It is easy to point to his frequent use of four 

movements as evidence of his enlarged concept of the sonata—he was the first great composer to do this—but one 

must look deeper into the works themselves to discover the extraordinary care and finish he lavished upon them. 

The main theme of the sonata’s concise first movement bears an obvious resemblance to the opening of the finale of 

Mozart’s 40 th Symphony. However, his treatment of that idea as early as in the fifth measure—lopping off the opening 

arpeggio and insistently repeating the turning motif (a technique Alfred Brendel calls “foreshortening”)—is pure 

Beethoven. Likewise, the immediate repetition of the theme in a new key, a new mood, and a new register, bears his 

unique thumbprint. Other original touches, such as making the second theme a smoother mirror image of the first, or 

placing jarring accents in unexpected places, occur throughout the movement. 

Particularly effective is the way Beethoven prepares the return of the opening theme following the central 

Development section. Classroom definitions of sonata form often emphasize the importance of that moment, with its 

re-establishment of the tonic key and the main theme. However, the finest classical composers frequently disguise and 

modify that event. One of Beethoven's favorite techniques is to “sneak in” the main theme’s return in the middle of an 

on-going phrase: overshooting his target, as it were. He uses that device here, as well as in the Tempest, Appassionata 

and Hammerklavier <strong>sonatas</strong>, among others. 

One of the more notorious points of contention among pianists occurs on the very first note of Beethoven’s very first 

published sonata. No staccato mark appears here, although the other notes in the motif are thus clearly marked. Eight 

measures later, in the parallel passage in the left hand, a staccato mark is present. The inconsistency returns later in 

the movement. Some performers have found a justification for playing all the notes staccato, whereas others 

underscore the differentiation by slurring the first note to the second, even in the absence of such an indication by the 

composer. (When faced with such dilemmas, I try, perhaps simplistically, to do just what the composer indicates. In this 

case I play the first note non legato: musically joined, but unconnected physically to the second.) 

In the decorative slow movement, Beethoven again asserts his individuality. Although the language is quite similar to 

that of Mozart, his message is far more direct, aimed straight to the hearts of his listeners. In general, Beethoven’s 

early slow movements are some of the most ravishingly beautiful compositions in existence. The opening measure of 

the Adagio is distilled into its essence, placed into the minor key, and used as the main theme of the Minuet, an 

unassuming little piece that grows increasingly complex with each hearing. 

The Finale begins with the same three-chord outburst that concluded the first movement. The surging, tumultuous 

motion continues virtually unabated for the entire opening section, but then follows one of those infrequent 

occurrences that illustrate Beethoven’s relative inexperience as a composer. Although this movement is cast in sonata 

form, he interrupts the structure in order to insert a new, self-contained section prior to the more traditional 

development of earlier material. This creates a conundrum for the performer at the movement’s conclusion, where a 

repeat is nominally called for. If one observes the repeat, as I feel I must, the new material—itself quite repetitive and 

now no longer new—sounds redundant. Yet, if the repeat is omitted, the movement is clearly too short, and the ending 

catches everyone, including the pianist, off guard. It is reassuring to know that Beethoven, after all, was human, 

provided we also remember that he never made the same miscalculation twice. 



Sonata No. 2 in A major, Op. 2/2 

composed 1794-95, published 1796 

In spite of its relative obscurity, the Sonata No. 2 contains the most strikingly original music of the three <strong>sonatas</strong> in this 

opus. It is also in this work that Beethoven's penchant for not allowing such trivialities as the shape of a pianist’s hand 

to interfere with his musical vision. Although the overall difficulty of this sonata does not approach that of the middle- 

and late-period pot-boilers, there are a few brief passages whose successful negotiation depends totally upon the 

smile of the deities, no matter how thorough the artist’s prior preparation. 

The expansive first movement provides one of the earliest example of Beethoven’s practice of presenting two simple, 

contrasting ideas at the outset, and using the rest of the movement to exploit, and ultimately reconcile their differences. 

The ideas themselves are about as uncomplicated as they can get: a pair of descending motifs (an A sharply dropping 

to the dominant E, answered by a filled-in descent from E back to A); and an ascending A major scale. 

It is in this movement that Beethoven begins a systematic probing of all aspects of the sonata—in this case, the 

common practice by which the opening section of a sonata movement modulates from the tonic to the dominant. True, 

we ultimately arrive where we are “supposed” to, but the route Beethoven chooses is so circuitous and convoluted that 

musicians and educated listeners of his time must have felt completely lost along the way. 

The Largo is Beethoven’s first truly sublime slow movement. Its simple melody and string quartet-like texture conveys 

a powerful spiritual sense that was first noted by his student, Karl Czerny, shortly after the piece appeared. Formally, 

the movement seems to progress in a standard ternary fashion (A-B-A), and most listeners can be forgiven for 

expecting a peaceful close following the return of the opening theme. Even if Beethoven had chosen to do this, he 

would still have composed a wonderful, moving slow movement, and none of us would have been the wiser. However, 

he had other ideas. What appears to be the coda is suddenly interrupted by a forceful outburst of the main theme in the 

minor mode. That gesture is easily described, yet it is one of the most cataclysmic events in all music. It doesn’t last 

long. The main theme returns one last time, then the music closes quietly, just as we had expected it to do a short 

while earlier. 

In spite of its title, the brief Scherzo is a playful minuet whose jocularity is tempered every so often by darker hues, 

especially in the Trio. The fourth movement is the first of those gracious, leisurely, repetitive rondos he was so fond of 

composing. The opening theme, with its long sigh, is not merely delightful, but also delicious, while the material that 

follows is as delicate as anything he wrote. However, a furious middle section crudely interrupts this delectable 

atmosphere. (Beethoven frequently inserted music of this nature into his rondos, but in my opinion, he “went over the 

top” on this occasion, with subsequent deleterious consequences, as we shall soon see). The return to the main theme 

is superbly paced; its third reiteration and the music that follows is just as magical as it was the first time around. So, 

for that matter, is the fourth statement of the theme. A sprightly coda follows, and the movement seems well on its 

way to a happy conclusion. 

But wait! There’s more! Remember that crude middle section? No self-respecting composer would dare use such a 

prominent theme without justifying its presence elsewhere in the piece. Beethoven has no choice: holding his breath, 

he plows into it again, thankfully in a milder, shortened version. Like its predecessor, it also dissolves into what is now 

a fifth statement of the main theme. Finally, the storyteller sheepishly tiptoes off the stage, hoping that no one will 

notice that he’d been winging it for the last two pages. But what winging! 



Sonata No. 3 in C Major, Op. 2/3 


This sonata is the third of the set of three that Beethoven dedicated to his teacher, Josef Haydn. It is the most brilliant 

and freewheeling of the troika, and the slow movement ranks as one of Beethoven’s finest. Nevertheless, some 

commentators belittle it because of the composer’s use, mostly in the first movement, of the sort of virtuoso passagework 

that one might expect from Czerny or Hummel rather than Beethoven. Admittedly, Beethoven had yet to learn 

how to make pianistic brilliance better serve a work’s inner drama, and even become the very stuff out of which a 

composition is constructed. Nonetheless, there are many extraordinary touches, not the least of which occurs partway 

in the Development section of the first movement, when the main theme returns in the ‘wrong’ key of D major. At first 

Beethoven has the pianist continue playing the theme in a normal fashion, blissfully unaware that anything is amiss. 

Four measures later, however, the music stops suddenly, and the player, angry at having been duped by the composer, 

stormily resumes the Development. 

When the main theme finally returns in the correct key, Beethoven makes a slight alteration in the bass. He then 

throws in even further thematic development before allowing the recapitulation to hit its stride. This is especially 

ingenious: Because both the exposition's and recapitulation’s opening sections begin and end identically, he simply 

could have repeated that portion of the exposition verbatim rather than go to the trouble of re-composing it. However, 

he understood that recapitulations and expositions evoke such vastly different perceptions of the tonic key that the 

music had to be altered considerably in order to accommodate the new context. Finally, just prior to the conclusion of 

the movement, Beethoven includes a cadenza: a solo improvisatory section more typically found in a concerto than in a 

sonata. 

Like so many of Beethoven’s early, hauntingly-beautiful, slow movements, the second movement contains angry 

outbursts. However, the explosion in the middle of this one has special significance, given its double reference to the 

first movement. It is in C major, the principal key of the sonata. More importantly, it now becomes obvious that the slow 

movement's main theme is a thinly-disguised variation of the sonata’s opening motif. 

The contrapuntal Scherzo, characterized by ‘Mendelssohnian’ lightness, contrasts sharply with the brilliant and stormy 

Trio. The descending pattern of the main theme delightfully serves as a foil to the ascending scale that opens the 

Finale. This fleet, energetic rondo is neither too long nor over-repetitious. The stirring, anthem-like middle section 

served as an obvious model for Brahms at a parallel spot in his own Sonata No. 3. 

Like so many Beethoven <strong>sonatas</strong>, this one concludes unpredictably: just at the point where we are sure the piece is 

about to wind down, Beethoven suddenly moves into a remote key of A major. He stops abruptly, suddenly aware that 

he has strayed too far afield. He hesitantly tries out the theme in A minor. Suddenly he sees an opening, and decisively 

makes his move. Moments later we are back in the home key of C major, and the piece is over. Checkmate! 



Sonata No. 4 in E flat, Op. 7 


Beethoven’s relatively unknown fourth <strong>piano</strong> sonata is the second longest of the thirty-two. Abounding with boldness 

and energy, it is—and can only be—the product of youthful creativity. It used to have a German nickname, Die Verliebte 

(the Maiden in Love) but no one knows why. It may have reflected Beethoven’s infatuation with the sonata’s talented 

dedicatee, Countess Babette von Keglevics. Other commentators suggest that the sobriquet derives from the character 

of second or fourth movements. In any case, the name has not stuck. 

Its vastness aside, Op. 7 is one of the most symphonically conceived of the <strong>sonatas</strong>. The bell-like tolling in the first 

movement, the rhetorical pauses that permeate the Largo, the terrifying Trio in the third movement (an unnamed 

Scherzo) and the clattery middle section of the finale have a commonality: they all seem to point to a sonic image that 

ranges beyond the capacity of contemporary <strong>piano</strong>s, let alone those transitionary ones of the late 18th century. 

Beethoven’s sense of humour is totally off-the-wall. Consider the final moments of the slow movement: After creating 

a vast, serious work lasting about nine minutes, he returns to the main theme and devises an ingenious way of 

harmonizing it even more profoundly so that the bass arrives at an F-sharp—a note as far away from C (the key of the 

movement) as one can get. He further complicates matters by using that F sharp as the bass of an accented, highly 

dissonant chord. Now, any decent composition teacher would—if he had permitted all this to occur at all—have 

cautioned his student to write a lengthy coda in order to work his way out of the corner into which he had just painted 

himself. However, Beethoven needs only two measures to dispose of the problem, in a gesture that clearly says, at 

least to me, “Oh, the hell with it” (or less polite words to that effect). 

One reason for this magnificent work’s relative obscurity lies in the finale’s character. (The problem of how to 

conclude a composition was one Beethoven wrestled with throughout his career.) Several of Beethoven’s <strong>sonatas</strong>, 

including Op. 7, feature leisurely closing movements cast in a sectional form that combines sonata and rondo elements. 

In the hands of Haydn, who literally invented this form, the repetitive structure originally featured short, playful themes. 

However, Beethoven frequently broadened those themes into lengthy lyrical melodies, thereby imparting a “here 

comes that damned tune again” quality to the music. Furthermore, as often as not, he ended these movements with a 

quiet fade-out. Concluding a major work in a light, charming manner was standard classical practice. Beethoven, while 

lengthening and adapting the form to his own methods, evidently saw no need to discard that aspect of a sonata’s 

structure. Nonetheless, the form was on its last legs; of all the great composers who followed Beethoven, only 

Schubert frequently employed it. (One might even argue that Schubert, in his later instrumental works, understood the 

implications of Beethoven’s changes to the form better than Beethoven himself. However, programme notes for a 

Beethoven sonata cycle are probably not the most appropriate launching pad for such a thesis.) 



Sonata No. 5 in C minor, Op. 10/1 


This is the first of three dramatic <strong>sonatas</strong> Beethoven set in the key of C minor. Although the Pathétique and the final 

sonata, Op. 111 ultimately would overshadow it, it is a strong work on its own: powerful and concise, with each 

movement’s character clearly delineated. The similarities between the opening of this work and that of Mozart’s Sonata 

in C minor, K. 475, are too striking to be coincidental. Both <strong>sonatas</strong> begin with bold, rising C minor arpeggios, followed 

a plaintive response. However, in spite of this kinship, each sonata could only be the product of its creator. Beethoven’s 

restless, nervous energy is something quite new in the musical language of the late eighteenth century. 

The first movement is also notable for the unusual presence of a new theme in the central section, which normally is 

devoted solely to the development of previously introduced material. This is one of several examples of how 

Beethoven, even in his earliest published compositions, methodically questioned and probed every aspect of the 

classical tradition as he found it at the outset of his career. 

The slow movement begins with a wonderfully lyrical theme that surely influenced Schubert when he composed his 

own great C minor sonata. Like virtually all of Beethoven’s early slow movements, it is a work of transcendent beauty. 

Also typical of the composer is the passionate, almost defiant outburst shortly following the return of the main theme; it 

reminds us that peaceful moments are transitory, and that darker forces are always present even if they do not show 

their faces at every moment. 

The finale is one of Beethoven’s most ominous creations. Cast in sonata-allegro form, it is one of only two movements 

marked Prestissimo in the entire set of <strong>32</strong> <strong>sonatas</strong>. Its particularly terse Development section fleetingly introduces for 

the first time in his music the soon-to-be-familiar motif—three short notes followed by a long one. (Interestingly, the 

key of the piece in which this motif was later immortalized is also C minor.) Both principal themes of the movement are 

ingeniously combined in the brief coda, which concludes the movement as quietly and mysteriously as it began. 



Sonata No. 6 in F Major, Op. 10/2 


There is a wonderful moment in the first movement of the Sonata No. 6 when, after the development section 

winds down, the opening theme returns virtually unaltered, just as expected in a traditional sonata recapitulation. 

But something isn’t right. We pause to sniff the air, so to speak. Somehow, we have landed in the wrong 

neighborhood, and find ourselves in D major, rather than the home key of F major. We start again, far more 

hesitantly, seeking our way back to more familiar territory. Suddenly, we see a path that leads back to F. In order 

to make up for lost time, we don’t bother with the characteristic opening phrase of the theme, but simply sneak 

into the middle, hoping that no one will have noticed our absence. 

This is the kind of humour at which Beethoven excelled, and it occurs time and time again in his music. 

Undoubtedly, he learned this trick (along with countless others) from Haydn, who, if anything, was even better at it 

than Beethoven. Some might tend to consider the notion of a work of art commenting on, and poking fun at, its 

own processes as a very modern, almost postmodern, phenomenon. However, it is a prominent, almost 

distinguishing, feature of the mature classical style. 

The middle movement, with its ominous outer sections and richly-chorded trio provides the only serious 

moment in this sonata, although even here, some jarring off-the-beat accents do their best to break the mood. 

The jocular Finale, with its echo of the Haydn Allegro in F that we all studied as kids, and whose themes 

literally laugh at themselves, begins like a fugue. Soon, however, the fugal style is quickly dropped, and the 

movement proceeds in a fairly straightforward sonata style to its abrupt conclusion. 



Sonata No. 7 in D Major, Op. 10/3 


This sonata is generally acknowledged to be Beethoven’s first masterpiece. Each movement is a gem, with a 

strongly delineated profile and not a wasted note or gesture. The first movement sparkles with energy, its 

sense of breathlessness conveyed via mad dashes toward silences, double-takes and a surprise sudden jolt 

into the key of B flat major at the beginning of the Development section. Moreover, with virtually every theme 

based on the first four descending notes, it is as economical as any piece Beethoven composed. A sly 

reference to B-flat major also occurs at the very end of the movement, with a quotation from the opening of 

Mozart’s Piano Concerto, K. 450, which also is in that key. 

The Largo was to remain Beethoven’s most tragic creation for <strong>piano</strong> until the appearance of the slow 

movement of the Hammerklavier, Op. 106. According to his biographer cum flunkey, Anton Schindler, 

Beethoven had deliberately set out to convey the state of mind of someone who had fallen prey to melancholia. 

With its desolate opening, anguished climaxes, and devastating ending, he succeeded unconditionally. I often 

wonder what passed through his mind when he completed this work. 

The Minuet begins elegantly, with a hint of sweetness. Then the surprises begin: a sudden rush in the bass is 

taken up by the other voices, before the music dissolves into a return of the opening theme. Finally, after a few 

more small jolts, it concludes with the same graciousness with which it began. The Trio resonates with the 

good humour that pervades the opening and closing movements, with its clumsy Landler, or peasant waltz. 

As an experiment, I once attempted to follow the Largo with minuets and scherzos (appropriately transcribed) 

Beethoven had composed for other <strong>sonatas</strong>. None—including the one from the Pastorale Sonata, which is also 

in D major—provided the proper emotional release from the mood of despair. Some were too serious, others 

far too jocular. In trying to determine why this particular one works so well, I discovered a slight thematic 

connection between the close of the Minuet theme and the opening theme of the Largo, but quickly realized 

that this was not a valid explanation. One hallmark of a great composer is his ability to provide not merely 

thematic continuity in a piece of music, but for lack of a better word, psychological continuity. Beethoven’s 

genius in that regard is unparalleled. 

The final movement is an exercise in both frugality and light-hearted comedy. The entire piece derives from 

only three notes, and the humour lies in that motif’s vain efforts to develop into a full-blown theme or melody. 

It never succeeds: its efforts are met with frustration at every turn. Later, it throws a brief tantrum, furious 1 at 

being thwarted so continually. However, rage is not its essential nature, and the mood soon dissipates. During 

the motif’s adventures, it had previously encountered a simple chromatic scale accompanied in the bass by 

“Chopsticks”-like chords. The sonata concludes with these two musical figures flying off together somewhere, 

silently… 

1 Beethoven’s incredible brain always lurks in the background, even in his most farcical moments. Consider 

that the tantrum is in B flat major, the key that plays an important role in the first movement. 



Sonata No. 8 in C Minor, Op. 13 “Grande Sonate Pathétique” 


In 1793, the German poet, Friedrich Schiller, wrote an essay entitled Über das Pathetische. <strong>Music</strong>ologist 

William Kinderman, in his book, Beethoven, lucidly states Schiller’s thesis: “Pathos or tragedy arises when 

unblinkered awareness of suffering is counter-balanced by the capacity of reason to resist these feelings.” 

Beethoven’s understanding of this affect was undoubtedly close to Schiller’s. Defiance of suffering and a 

single-minded determination to surmount it lie at the heart of virtually all his C minor compositions. By the late 

18th century, that key’s strong association with a sense of tragic drama was firmly established: Mozart had 

cast several of his most dramatic works in that key, while Beethoven had recently composed the first of three 

dramatic C minor <strong>sonatas</strong> (Op. 10/1). However, the “C minor as pathos” identification probably was cemented 

with the “Grande Sonate Pathétique,” one of only two <strong>sonatas</strong> whose nickname was actually provided by 

Beethoven. 

This trait is found most obviously in the first movement, with its conflict between the solemn Grave, which is 

so reminiscent of the opening of Bach’s C minor Partita, and the hugely defiant Allegro. Only four of the 

<strong>sonatas</strong> have an introduction, and this, his first, is the lengthiest and most elaborate. It does far more than 

merely set the mood: it is heavily integrated with the rest of the movement. 

A famous point of dispute between musicians occurs in the opening movement: some early editions of this 

sonata seem to indicate that the Introduction as well as the Allegro be repeated. The late Rudolf Serkin 

performed the sonata in this manner, as does at least one of his former students. I sympathize with anyone's 

desire to hear (or play) the introduction a second time. However, the overwhelming momentum of the Allegro 

suffers by the resulting interruption, and the devastating shock of the return to the introduction in G minor at 

the outset of the Development is completely lost. More importantly, how are we to handle Beethoven’s 

contemporaneous Piano Quartet/Quintet, Op. 16, with its even longer introduction and identical ambiguity about 

the repeat? In that work, repeating the introduction sounds ludicrous. Doing so in the Pathétique is equally 

wrong. 

Was the famous slow movement consciously or unconsciously influenced by the very similar middle section of 

the slow movement of Mozart’s C minor sonata? Was it deliberately echoed, in turn, by Beethoven himself in 

the Adagio of his Ninth Symphony? We can never know such things: When someone pointed out to Brahms 

the resemblance between the finale of his first symphony and Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, he responded “Any 

idiot knows that.” However, when I intrepidly asked Aaron Copland about a striking kinship between the closing 

measures of The Cat and the Mouse and the introduction to Dukas’ The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, he 

acknowledged the resemblance, but then added that he’d never heard the Dukas piece when he’d composed 

his own work as a young man. 

Like so many of Beethoven’s adagios, this one has a troubled inner section in the minor key. His <strong>piano</strong> <strong>sonatas</strong> 

often contained textures associated with string quartet writing; here, one can easily envision a duet between 

the first violin and cello, accompanied by the nervous triplets in the second violin and viola parts. It is also 

characteristic of the composer’s slow movements that some aspect of the contrasting middle section—in this 

case the triplet figures—remain present when the song-like opening theme returns. 

The Finale may be the lightest of the three movements, but its thematic connections to the rest of the sonata 

run deep. The rhythm of the main theme is identical to that of the second theme in the opening movement. The 

middle section contains two links to the second movement: not only do they share the key of A flat major, but 

the melodic skeleton of Adagio is also maintained. Throughout the movement Beethoven also plays a teasing 

game with us: on four occasions there occurs a brilliant descending scale, beginning from the topmost F of the 

keyboard as he knew it. However, only in the last measure does he finally resolve it in the home key of C 

minor. 



Sonata No. 9 in E, Op. 14/1 


Those who enjoy Beethoven only when he is storming the heavens will have to sit out both Op. 14 <strong>sonatas</strong>. These brief, 

unpretentious, and mostly good-humoured pieces are a wonderful foil for the dramatic Pathétique that immediately 

preceded them. Of course, nowhere is it written that a composition in a lighter vein cannot be expertly crafted, and the 

first two movements of the E Major sonata are indeed the work of a master. 

The opening theme, for instance, contains three ideas that at first glance seem quite disparate. However, they are 

strongly related. The first motive delineates four rising notes (B to E). Those notes are immediately compressed into a 

brief scurrying passage that is famous for giving nightmares to even the most pyrotechnically-endowed pianists. The 

theme concludes leisurely with a descending scale, the last four notes of which are-almost predictably-the first four in 

reverse. The remainder of the movement concerns itself with developing the scale-like material, but also hidden away 

in the fabric of the music is a simple two-note pattern, G-G#, that the composer delights in reintroducing in a variety of 

guises. 

Early in his career, Beethoven was still wrestling with the matter of whether to include a minuet a livelier, trendier 

scherzo into his compositions. On this occasion, he skirted the issue by writing an unspecified, wistful Allegretto. This 

gentle work contrasts so satisfactorily with the outer movements that a genuine slow movement would have been 

superfluous. 

A curious rondo concludes the sonata. As with the opening movement, the main theme is primarily concerned with 

scale-like motion, with progression from B to E again prominently featured. Now, the vast majority of Beethoven’s 

themes are constructed so as to leave room for, and even demand, further growth and development, but this one 

never seems to be able to get off the ground. Furthermore, with a generous dose of repetitiveness as well as a busy 

middle section that may leave some listeners wondering why it is there, it is no wonder that the sonata ends so 

abruptly and unceremoniously! It is as though Beethoven were saying “Whew! I’m glad to be through with that one.” 

Incidentally, Beethoven later set this sonata as a string quartet. Although his doing so might be more illustrative of his 

creative financial dealings with his publishers than with any artistic creativity, the result is no mere transcription. As 

the famed British musician Donald Tovey wrote in his edition of the <strong>sonatas</strong>, a careful study of the quartet score sheds 

new light on Beethoven’s <strong>piano</strong> style. 



Sonata No. 10 in G Major, Op. 14/2 


This good-humored sonata is an exact contemporary of the Pathétique, Op. 13. Beethoven possibly may have 

planned to include all three under a single opus number, but soon realized that the two lightweight inhabitants 

of Op. 14 hardly belong in the same galaxy as the Pathétique, let alone the same binding. 

Jokes abound throughout the piece, beginning with the first measure, which is deliberately written so as 

mislead the unsuspecting listener as to the placement of the main beat. The movement continues amiably until 

the relatively lengthy development section, where the mood becomes more serious, even confrontational. 

Rhythmic confusion begins again toward the end of the section, and the piece is forced to come to an abrupt, 

ugly halt on C#, a note as far away from G as we can get, before a return to the main theme—the sneakiest 

Beethoven ever composed—can be managed. He obviously liked the joke so much that he repeated it 

practically verbatim in the finale of his sixteenth sonata (G major, Op. 31/1). 

The brief second movement is possibly the most unsophisticated in the canon. It is an unnamed set of 

variations in which the main theme is always discernible, while the speed of its embellishments increases from 

variation to variation. Interestingly, Beethoven never called movements of this type Variations, reserving that 

designation only for those works in which the theme itself is subjected to more profound transformations. One 

almost can imagine this movement having been written by a far less talented colleague, were it not for two 

touches that only Beethoven could have thought of: a four-bar interpolation just before final variation, and an 

audacious chord that brings the movement to a close. 

The final movement is a rondo entitled Scherzo. Once again, the composer keeps the listener guessing: first 

about the time signature, then, about where the main beat is within the bar. A fitful piece, except for a lyrical 

episode, it keeps us off guard from beginning to end. Haydn would have loved it. 



Sonata No. 11 in B-flat, Op. 22 


This is the first sonata where, instead of breaking new ground and probing the limits of every precept and 

process he can, Beethoven appears satisfied to rest on his laurels. Op. 22 is the most “normal” sonata he 

wrote—the one that most closely adheres to textbook descriptions of the form. Furthermore, it does not 

portray him in any of his most characteristic moments; it is not especially defiant, tragic, humorous, or brilliant. 

Nevertheless, he was particularly proud of it, according to a letter that he wrote to his publisher, and his pride 

is fully justified. Beethoven’s accomplishments to date in this genre are fully summed up in this work. 

Moreover, it would be hard to find a piece that better exemplifies the <strong>piano</strong> sonata at the end of the 18 th 

century. 

Still, even here, something new is afoot: the degree, and function, of pianistic figuration. The passage-work no 

longer merely provides self-conscious moments of brilliance as in, say, Op. 2/3: it becomes the very stuff out 

of which much of the work is cast, and forecasts pieces like the Waldstein and the fourth concerto. 

This is also Beethoven’s most elegant sonata to date. From the start of his career, his ‘Haydnesque’ tendency 

to wring as much melodic content as he can from a few simple motives was present. However, in Op. 22, we 

also witness a ‘Mozartean’ sense of effortlessness in the way the themes flow into each other, especially in the 

opening movement. The utterly sublime slow mov’t is one of my personal favorites in the entire canon. With its 

simple accompanying chords in the left hand, it begins innocently, like a Grade 3 <strong>piano</strong> piece. However, once 

Beethoven has stated his material, the movement—in a full Sonata form—develops magically, with an almost 

unbearable degree of tension in the Development section. 

The gracious, trouble-free Minuet begins with upward motion from D to F, as in the opening movement, 

followed by a turning motif that is derived from the Adagio. The trio is more intense, with most of the melodic 

interest maintained by the figurations in left hand. Although we “tune detectives,” can be a tiresome lot, we are 

here justified in noting a strong connection between this theme and an episode in Mozart’s Turkish Rondo. 

The final movement is probably the most successful of Beethoven’s congenial, repetitive sonata-rondos. The 

second theme is reminiscent of that which he used for a set of G major variations familiar to many student 

pianists. The central section is a little sonatina—a form within a form, as it were—in which the main theme is 

that same G Major tune, while the second theme derives from a figuration that occurs in the first movement. 

More than one commentator has noted the resemblance between this movement and the finale to the Sonata, 

Op. 7, but whereas the earlier one ends softly, Beethoven must have decided that a sonata of this scope 

required a more decisive conclusion than he had provided the first time around. 



Sonata No. 12 in A flat Major, Op. 26 “Funeral March” 


In 1802, any musician or educated music-lover who had been tracking Beethoven’s career would have come to expect 

a thematically unified work consisting of a dramatic, cogently-argued opening movement, followed by an intensely 

lyrical Adagio, possibly a witty minuet or scherzo, and finally, a relatively light closing movement. Against such 

expectations, the appearance of the suite-like Sonata in A flat, Op. 26 and the two <strong>sonatas</strong> quasi una Fantasia of Op. 

27, would not merely have been surprising. With their unorthodox ordering of movements, and the use of genres not 

normally associated with <strong>sonatas</strong>, they must have seemed as shocking as Beethoven’s final sonata trilogy, Op. 109-111, 

composed two decades later. 

The opening movement is a leisurely set of variations, based on an Andante that seems far more appropriate to a slow 

movement than to the beginning of a sonata. Although the relationship between the theme and each of the five 

variations is clear, there is little connection between the variations themselves, nor is there much of a cumulative effect 

when all are heard together. (Beethoven tacitly acknowledges each variation’s separateness by concluding each with a 

full double bar, a practice not encountered in any of his other variation sets.) 

For the first time in his four-movement <strong>piano</strong> <strong>sonatas</strong>, the Scherzo appears as the second movement rather than the 

third. The change of order was virtually a necessity here, given the slow pace of the opening movement. Nevertheless, 

Beethoven must have been satisfied with the result, because this was the order to which he would frequently return in 

many of his instrumental works. 

A heroic funeral march serves as the slow movement. All the elements that characterize the genre are present—the 

lumbering dotted rhythm, a minor key, and a military salute featuring trumpets and drums. Beethoven must also have 

been satisfied with this idea, because he soon was to repeat the procedure in his Eroica. (Incidentally, it is not 

generally known that in 1815 he orchestrated this movement and included it in his incidental music to the now forgotten 

play Leonore Prohaska.) 

Op. 26 is the first sonata to feature a perpetuum mobile finale, a technique he would employ in seven of his nine 

subsequent <strong>sonatas</strong>. The theme’s gentle character is interrupted throughout the rondo by jarring syncopations in the 

second theme, and a middle section whose ferocity anticipates the finale of the Moonlight. The coda, while losing none 

of its momentum, quickly and effectively dissolves the sonata into nothingness. 



Sonata No. 13 “quasi una Fantasia” in E flat Major, Op. 27/1 


This work, like the Moonlight, its better known bedfellow, represents one of the earliest attempts by Beethoven 

to create a succinct, unified sonata in which, for the first time in his <strong>piano</strong> music, individual movements are 

linked together without a break. A reprise of the slow movement following the finale likewise contributes to the 

work’s unity, as does the fact that Beethoven derives virtually all the important themes in this sonata from two 

ideas: a falling third, and a rising arpeggio. 

The most notable innovation in this piece is the dramatic shift in the work’s centre of gravity. Until this point, 

the classical sonata’s weightiest moments generally occurred in the two opening movements. However, this 

sonata breaks that tradition by intensifying as it progresses, with the Finale serving as its climax. 

In order to underscore the importance of this structural change, and make it obvious, Beethoven may have 

deliberately composed as innocuous an opening theme to the sonata as he could. The subsequent variation 

even borders on silliness: this is one of the few places in Beethoven where the music is not, as Schnabel was 

fond of saying, “greater than it possibly can be played.” The two intervening episodes and the coda are by far 

the most interesting sections of this rondo movement. 

The work then deepens dramatically and suddenly. The second movement is the first example we have of 

Beethoven’s dark, almost sinister scherzi. A songful slow movement is interrupted by the perpetual motion, 

driven Finale. Brilliant as it is, however, the Finale lacks the stamina to make it all the way to the finish line. It 

stops suddenly, and while pausing for breath, the Adagio returns for one final reprise. A short Coda resumes 

the activity, and brings this unjustifiably neglected sonata to a brilliant conclusion. 



Sonata No. 14 “quasi una Fantasia” in C sharp minor, Op. 27/2 “Moonlight” 


This work, the most famous sonata in existence—and one of the most atypical—owes its nickname not to 

Beethoven or any ingenious publisher. Rather, the credit goes to the German poet and critic Ludwig Rellstab, 

who wrote that the first movement reminded him of “a boat visiting, by moonlight, the primitive landscapes of 

Lake Lucerne.” One is tempted to wonder whether the sonata would have achieved its popularity without that 

evocative nickname, and also to lament that the first movement is by now so hackneyed that its magnificence 

is often overlooked. Moreover, the entire piece, surely one of Beethoven’s finest creations, is all-too-seldom 

performed in recital. (Interestingly, when the sonata was first published, it was the finale that gave the work its 

almost instant popularity.) 

This work and its less-known companion, the Sonata in E flat, Op. 27/1, represent Beethoven’s earliest 

attempts to create works whose continuity spreads over all the movements, with the weightiest moments 

occurring toward the conclusion, rather than the opening. The dividing lines between movements are clearer 

here than in Op. 27/1. Still, the Moonlight’s effect is also cumulative, leading us from the utmost solemnity of 

the first movement, through the gracious, ultra-brief respite provided by an untitled minuet (termed by Liszt as 

“a flower between two abysses) to the passionate, unremittingly tragic Finale. Interestingly, there is little 

contrast within any of the movements: each seems to be cut from only one piece of cloth. 

Theoretically, the opening movement can be parsed into a structure containing all the elements of Sonata 

allegro form. However such an “analysis” barely describes this wondrous composition, which sounds more 

formless than possibly any other movement he wrote. Two characteristics of the final movement, which is in a 

far more recognizable sonata-allegro form, bear noting. The first three notes in the right hand are identical to 

the accompanying triplet figure in the opening movement. Also, as in several other of his <strong>sonatas</strong>, the 

movement seems to run out of steam shortly before the conclusion of the work, and pauses briefly before 

heading for the final bar. 



Sonata No. 15 in D Major, Op. 28 “Pastoral” 


This sonata is something of an anomaly, given the six highly innovative <strong>sonatas</strong> from Op. 26 to 31 that 

surround it. It is, for Beethoven, a relatively conventional four-movement creation (his last) and is the most 

laid-back of the canon. There are few formal and harmonic experiments like those that characterize his 

previous <strong>sonatas</strong>; also absent is their strong dramatic presence. Still, as Donald Tovey points out, Op. 28 is 

“Pastoral” only in the sense that Jane Austin’s novels are. One only has to compare this masterful piece to 

Clementi’s Sonata Op. 40/3 (written almost at the same time, in the same key, and with a strikingly similar 

opening theme), to recognize the masterful quality that shines through from beginning to end. It is tightly 

unified; a descending scale from A to D is found in the opening themes of the first, second, and fourth 

movements. (One wonders whether Beethoven had at the back of his mind, the famous Bach Musette in D 

major we all played as children, which also begins with the same descending five notes.) 

Two particularly striking moments in the opening movement bear specific mention. The ending of the first 

theme, in the right hand, becomes the basis of the closing theme in the left. Later, the Development section 

provides a classic instance of what Alfred Brendel terms foreshortening, in which more and more of a theme 

is chopped away, while the remainder is repeated again and again with increasing insistence. 

The processional Andante follows, accompanied by a cello-like pizzicato bass line. Lest we labour under the 

misunderstanding that this is another funeral march, Beethoven provides a fairly jocular Trio. Towards the 

end, however, the movement deepens significantly, and when the Trio is briefly reprised, its far more 

menacing qualities are also revealed. 

The Scherzo begins ambiguously, with four descending unison F sharps that could easily imply several 

different keys. It is only when those notes are answered that we know that Beethoven is remaining in the 

home key of D Major. His humorous use of silence in this movement is also especially noteworthy. The Trio 

anticipates a trick Chopin often used in the Mazurkas, in which the melody remains constant while the 

surrounding harmonies alter with each iteration. 

Op. 28 marks the first instance in a Beethoven sonata where a deliberately-paced Finale is followed by a brief, 

fast coda. It is the most “pastoral” of the four movements, with the opening measures wonderfully evoking the 

sound of country bagpipes (decidedly not the Black Watch variety) in the distance. 





Although Beethoven had in 1800 expressed particular satisfaction with his Sonata in B flat, Op. 22, a year later 

he announced that he was displeased with his previous music, and that henceforth he would embark upon a 

new course. Part of this rhetorical overstatement can be attributed to the intense insecurity that escapes only 

mediocre artists. (An equal portion can undoubtedly be ascribed to hyperbole from one of the most successful 

self-promoters in the history of classical music.) 

Nonetheless, there is more than an element of truth to his pronouncement. The <strong>sonatas</strong> of Op. 26 and 27 

explore new structural possibilities. Although this sonata is more conventional from a formal standpoint, it 

explores several important new paths, including some that Beethoven ultimately decided not to pursue further: 

the use of Ecossais-type melodies, rapid shifts back and forth between major and minor modes (both of which 

would later become virtual thumbprints of Schubert), and a florid, operatic kind of writing. 

However, Beethoven's most significant find lies in the area of harmony and structure. From the outset of his 

career, Beethoven had flirted with the notion of modulating, in his major-key sonata-form movements, to keys 

other than the dominant. As early as in his second sonata, he had led his listeners far afield before arriving at 

the expected second key. However, it is in Op. 31/1 that he finally "takes the plunge." For the first time, he 

modulates from the home key (G Major) to B, in both the major and minor modes (as opposed to the typical 

dominant, in this case, D major). Nowadays, any Grade II <strong>piano</strong> student knows that B minor and D major share 

the same key signature, so the modulation does not seem too strange to our ears. However, two centuries 

ago, ending the exposition in any key other than D would have undoubtedly shocked listeners and fellow 

musicians. It could well be that Beethoven chose to clothe such a radical step in the most humorous, off-thewall, 

movement for <strong>piano</strong> he would compose, so as to deflect any criticism that such a departure might 

provoke. 

The Sonata features one of the most nondescript openings in the history of music, beginning with a trite theme 

that the pianist's hands seemingly cannot manage to play together. The melody itself goes nowhere, turning 

back on itself again and again. In desperation, the pianist scrambles all over the keyboard in search of 

something better to do. Finally, he decides to cut his losses and start over. Unfortunately, he fares no better 

this time, and it is against this backdrop, that the piece finally modulates, with little subtlety, to the "wrong key." 

This is an example of musical hi-jinx at its best. Later on, in the Development section and in the coda that 

concludes the movement, it is the split hands and the mad scrambling, rather than the subsequent melodies, 

which Beethoven chooses for further expansion. 

The second movement represents another path Beethoven chose not to explore further: the florid, opera-like 

style that would lead directly to the Nocturnes of Chopin and Field, as well as the Bel Canto melodies of Bellini 

and Donizetti. The motorized middle section contrasts sharply with the opening; yet, when the first section 

returns, the composer, as usual, finds a way of reconciling both elements. The movement concludes with a 

wondrous, lengthy coda that sounds far more like Schubert than Beethoven. 

The third movement is one of those leisurely, repetitious rondos with which Beethoven frequently concluded 

his <strong>sonatas</strong>. Charles Rosen, the eminent scholar/pianist, notes that it is an exact formal model for the finale of 

Schubert's posthumous A Major Sonata (and argues that this is a rare instance where a student's effort 

surpassed that of the teacher). Toward the end of the movement, a cadenza deliciously teases the audience by 

reintroducing the main theme yet again, but haltingly now, as if to ask: "Shall we move along, or savour it still 

more?" (Shades of vaudeville artistes Lili St. Cyr or Tempest Storm!) Finally, the composer makes up his mind, 

and speeds hastily to the double bar, re-introducing in the final measures the alternating hands with which this 

special, and least familiar, sonata began. 



Sonata No. 17 in D minor, Op. 31/2 “Tempest” 


The <strong>sonatas</strong> of Op. 31 continue the exploration of new paths that Beethoven had begun with Op. 26—paths that 

include formal and harmonic experimentation. The D minor sonata, Op. 31/2 is his first work in which the main 

theme (seemingly) begins in a key other than the tonic. A mysterious A major arpeggio, ostensibly the 

introduction, immediately attracts and holds our attention through a lengthy pause. Suddenly, a rush of twonote 

figures momentarily identifies the correct key of the piece, but again stops on the dominant A, rather than 

on the tonic D minor. The mysterious arpeggio is again heard, but in the distant key of C major. After another 

pause, a second, longer rush of two-note figures leads to triumphant statement of the arpeggio in the home 

key, pounded out in the bass, alternating with a plaintive gesture in the treble. 

Here, even the most experienced listener would be justified in presuming that we have finally arrived at the 

main theme. However, from the outset of the piece, Beethoven has kept several steps ahead of us. After only 

eight measures he begins modulating to the secondary key. This is a transition: what we had thought was an 

introduction was actually the main theme. [Interestingly, whenever this theme is quoted again--in the repeat of 

the exposition and the recapitulation--the previous material elides effortlessly into it, so that Beethoven never 

again allows us to hear it as a beginning. Those pianists—students and professionals alike—who make a big 

ritardando in order to emphasize the return of the main theme have not a clue about Beethoven’s narrative 

sense.] The remainder of the movement is devoted to a working out of the three ideas already introduced. In 

the recapitulation, the initial slow arpeggio is followed by a recitative that, consciously or otherwise, anticipates 

the well-known baritone recitative that opens the choral portion of the finale to Beethoven’s 9th Symphony. 

The sublime Adagio also begins with a slow arpeggio. All the important themes are peaceful, but running 

through the movement is a series of ominous, short drum rolls in the bass, that remind us, as Beethoven so 

often likes to do, that tranquility is at best transitory. 

The finale is another of those moto perpetuo movements that so obsessed Beethoven in his middle period. 

Beethoven may (or may not; see my notes to Sonata No. 18) have originally been inspired by hearing a 

horseman galloping by his window, according to his student Karl Czerny, but he ultimately moved well beyond 

that image, as evidenced by the Allegretto and <strong>piano</strong> markings at the outset. A single melodic pattern 

predominates throughout, with subsidiary sections featuring jarring cross-accentuation. Like the two preceding 

movements, the finale ends quietly, with the incessant rhythmic pattern playing itself out to the point of 

exhaustion. 

As for Beethoven’s famous response to a question posed by his amanuensis Anton Schindler regarding this 

work’s (and the Appassionata’s) meaning, it is possible that Beethoven indeed saw some particular connection 

between both pieces and Shakespeare’s The Tempest. Given Schindler’s less than brilliant mind, however, it is 

possible that the composer just threw out the first answer he could think of. 



Sonata No. 18 in E flat Major, Op. 31/3 


This work was to be Beethoven’s final four-movement sonata aside from the Hammerklavier. Its layout is quite 

unusual. There is no slow movement: instead, the composer provides both a Scherzo and a Minuet. (Had 

Beethoven appeared on the late-night Dietrich Leitermann TV show, the gap-toothed comic might have 

quipped: “What’s the matter, Lou? After composing 17 <strong>sonatas</strong>, you still can’t make up your mind?”) 

Like the other two Op. 31 <strong>sonatas</strong>, this one begins unusually. Instead of positing a thesis or statement, 

Beethoven asks a question. Moreover, throughout the movement, like an insecure child, he asks the same 

question over and over again, even though the answer is provided on each occasion by a parent whose 

patience exceeds that of anyone else listening to (or performing) the piece. 

The Scherzo is equally unorthodox. Until now, Beethoven’s scherzi have essentially been fast, triple-metered 

minuets, with contrasting Trios. This one breaks with both traditions: it is a quick march in 2/4 time, and is 

cast in a sonata form, complete with a repeat of the opening section. Its most distinguishing characteristics are 

the perpetual-motion accompaniment in the left hand, and the sudden explosive chords that temporarily halt 

the movement’s continuous motion. The surprise ending is truly one of the composer’s masterstrokes. 

The Minuet—Beethoven’s final free-standing one for solo <strong>piano</strong>—is characterized by a complete absence of the 

vigour and rhythmic thrust of most classical minuets by Haydn and Mozart, as well as those by Beethoven 

himself. Instead, this beautiful piece is filled with nostalgia and sentiment, as though the composer is reluctantly 

taking his leave of the eighteenth century. 2 

Beethoven’s student, Karl Czerny, claimed that the composer told him that he was inspired by the sound of a 

horseman riding wildly outside his window as he composed the finale to the D minor Sonata, Op. 31/2. There 

may have been a breakdown of communication between them, due either to Beethoven’s deafness or a lapse 

in Czerny’s memory. It requires a stretch of the imagination to hear the last movement of Op. 31/2 (marked 

Allegretto) in that manner. However, very few pieces better evoke the image of a furious gallop than the Finale 

of Op. 31/3. It begins breathlessly with the sound of hooves clattering on the cobblestones. Later on, hunting 

horn calls are added to the mix, and the movement continues to a joyous conclusion with only a tiny break just 

before the final phrase. 

2 Later, in his Symphony No. 8, he would return to the minuet form to parody it, rather than, as in this sonata, to pay homage to a beloved genre that he 

realized had outlived its time. 



Sonata No. 19 in G Minor, Op. 49/1 




Despite their opus number, the two Op. 49 <strong>sonatas</strong> are early works, published without the composer’s consent 

at his brother’s instigation. One can readily understand Beethoven’s annoyance: they are quite unfinished, 

especially with respect to their unusually sparse dynamic markings, which Beethoven invariably treated not 

simply as “expression marks,” but as an important aspect of a work’s structure. More importantly, for all the 

<strong>sonatas</strong>’ allure, they no longer reflected his compositional skills in 1805, and he would not have wanted them 

regarded as representative of his current work. It is for those reasons that some pianists and commentators 

argue that these pieces should be excluded from the canon of Beethoven’s <strong>piano</strong> <strong>sonatas</strong>, and grouped instead 

with the remainder of his juvenilia. 

Still, they were composed very shortly before Beethoven launched his career in earnest, and are much closer 

in quality to his earliest published works than to the student pieces he had written previously. Occasionally, 

they even exhibit a surprising degree of sophistication. The opening movement of the G minor sonata is a 

tragic Andante. This in itself is unusual—slow first movements were rare in the classical era—but more 

interesting is the fact that both themes share a common rhythm. In the first movement of the G major sonata, 

the relationship is even subtler: the second theme is derived from the latter portion of the first. 

Both finales are light rondos. The first combines a formal scheme that is characteristic of Mozart, blended with 

a humorous quality reminiscent of Haydn. The final movement of No. 2 opens with the theme that Beethoven 

subsequently used in the minuet of his Septet, Op. 20. Considering that he virtually disowned the Septet, 

imagine his anger at seeing what is tantamount to a sketch of one of its movements published several years 

later without his knowledge. 

For all their youthfulness, the Op. 49 <strong>sonatas</strong> are delightful, charming pieces. It is small wonder that they are 

so often used as an introduction to Beethoven for young pianists. Nevertheless, they do deserve a more 

serious outing every so often… 



Sonata No. 21 in C, Op. 53 “Waldstein” 


Many of us are so brainwashed by the image of Beethoven struggling with his creative demons that we 

overlook the fact that only eight years separate his first <strong>piano</strong> sonata from the Waldstein. It is worth 

remembering that a track record of twenty-one published <strong>piano</strong> <strong>sonatas</strong>, plus six string quartets, three <strong>piano</strong> 

concertos, nine violin <strong>sonatas</strong>, three <strong>piano</strong> trios and three completed symphonies, all within eight years, is not 

exactly indicative of moderately-paced activity. This is especially true, considering these works’ greatness, 

complexity and individuality, not to mention the phenomenal artistic growth they evince over that period. 

Only two <strong>piano</strong> <strong>sonatas</strong>—this one and the Appassionata—reflect Beethoven’s mid-career preoccupation with 

expanding his instrumental forms to epic proportions. The Waldstein, in fact, was originally meant to be even 

longer; he had originally composed a leisurely slow movement, but subsequently withdrew it, published it 

separately as Andante Favori, and substituted the short but far more profound Introduzione which now 

separates the outer movements. Beethoven’s achievement is even more remarkable, given an additional 

restriction that he imposed upon himself, namely, the almost total avoidance of a theme with any distinctive 

melodic profile. Instead, he created his structures out of repeated chords, scale-wise and arpeggiated 

figurations, and for the first time—but by no means the last—trills and tremolos, all occurring over relatively 

slow-moving harmonies. 

In referring to this sonata, many commentators dwell on the unorthodox modulation, in the first movement, 

from the home key of C Major, to the relatively distant E major, rather than the more traditional G Major. This 

is understandable; even after performing this sonata many times, I still feel, when reaching the E major 

section, that I am in a hitherto undiscovered galaxy where an entirely new set of physical laws apply. Still, for 

the record, Beethoven had already broken this new ground in the earlier G Major Sonata, Op. 31/1. That 

sonata, however, is so jocular that the unusual modulation may well have been perceived as a joke. In the 

Waldstein, his intentions are clear. From this point on, the “gravitational pull” between dominant and tonic in 

sonata form becomes less significant than the conflict of musical ideas, irrespective of the key in which they 

occur. (It is important, however, to remember that Beethoven only “broke the rule” once more [in the 

Hammerklavier] as far as the <strong>sonatas</strong> in major keys are concerned. All the others adhere to the traditional 

practice.) 

The wonderful middle movement provides us with one of the best glimpses we have of Beethoven as the 

legendary improviser at the keyboard. With its extensive chromaticism and shifting harmonies, the 

accompanying sense of uneasiness serves as the ideal introduction to the expansive, radiant finale. Several of 

Beethoven’s <strong>piano</strong> <strong>sonatas</strong> contain leisurely rondos with opening themes that are repeated so many times that 

some listeners’ patience can come close to being tested. However, the reverse is true in the case of the 

Waldstein. The resonance of that opening low C, the rolling accompaniment and hazy pedaling impart such 

enchantment to the innocent theme that time seems to stand still. We are Beethoven’s willing prisoners, and 

will remain motionless for as long, and as many times, as he wishes us to do so. How infinitely more apt is this 

sonata’s French and Russian sobriquet (l’Aurore, or dawn) than the mundane nickname the piece has acquired 

in English and German! 



Sonata No. 22 in F Major, Op. 54 


What are we to make of this curious, unassuming work that separates the heroic Waldstein and Appassionata 

Sonatas? Should we read anything into its lack of a dedication, seemingly a wasted opportunity for one of the 

more politically astute composers in history? Is it an indication that Beethoven realized that it hadn’t quite come 

off? Could he have intended it as a heavy-handed burlesque of less talented composers’ efforts, along the lines 

of Mozart’s <strong>Music</strong>al Joke, or perhaps even his own eighth symphony? Or should we cast our votes with 

pianists Edwin Fischer and Alfred Brendel, both of whom have written that it is an important work (without 

really explaining why)? 

The truth probably lies somewhere within all these assertions. In this sonata, Beethoven explored a number of 

radical techniques for the first time, while disguising the sonata’s experimental nature with the use of humour, 

so as to deflect any criticism of the piece. 

In the opening movement Beethoven attempts a juxtaposition and ultimate reconciliation of two diametrically 

opposing ideas: an elegant, gentle minuet and a crude, heavily accented octave exercise. The minuet occurs 

three times, becoming increasingly ornate with each repetition, finally dissolving into trills. Interspersed are the 

two octave passages. They begin similarly, but partway through the second of these, Beethoven suddenly 

breaks off, as though he realizes that this experiment simply is not working, and returns to the minuet. He 

becomes contrite in the coda when, as though to atone for his sins, he delivers the movement’s finest music. 

In the second movement we find the composer experimenting with structure. The thematic material, 

admittedly, can be shoe-horned into some kind of sonata form, but with the proportions of each section totally 

askew: The opening exposition is only 3 lines long, while the remainder of the movement occupies more than 

five pages. Furthermore, the imbalance is magnified because Beethoven specifically indicates that the lengthy 

second section be repeated. Perceptually, the effect is one of the composer leading us all over the map for 

several minutes, at a hypnotic pace that according to Donald Tovey, nothing can hurry and nothing can stop. 

Finally, Beethoven decides that enough is enough, and races us for the concluding double bar, leaving us all 

out of breath when we arrive there. The laugh is on us! 

Some of the techniques he first explored here would be repeated with more notable success in subsequent 

keyboard works. The progressively increasing decorativeness in each repetition of the minuet can also be 

heard in both the slow movement of Op. 57 and the final variation of the third movement of Op. 109. The 

juxtaposition of two seemingly incompatible ideas in the opening movement of Op. 54 is again worked out in 

the first movement of Op. 109. Finally, Beethoven was sufficiently satisfied with the finale that he immediately 

used a similar in his very next <strong>piano</strong> sonata, the Appassionata, both with respect to the tempo and 

asymmetrical ground plan. 



Sonata No. 23 in F minor, Op. 57 “Appassionata” 


“I confess the reasons for the so-called Appassionata Sonata’s popularity elude me. At this period of his life Beethoven 

was not only preoccupied with motivic frugality. He was also preoccupied with being Beethoven… his conceit at this 

period was to create mammoth structures from material that in lesser hands would scarcely have afforded a good 

sixteen-bar intro. And there is about the Appassionata an egoistic pomposity, a defiant ‘let's see if I can't get away with 

using that tune once more,’ attitude, that on my own private Beethoven poll places this sonata somewhere between the 

King Stephen Overture and the Wellington's Victory Symphony.” 

No, this quote is not another post-modern attempt by a proponent of the "new musicology" to cut Beethoven down to 

size. Rather, it is from programme notes Glenn Gould wrote three decades ago for his own recording of the piece. 

That performance elicited from critic Harris Goldsmith the remark that Gould’s interpretation represented an act of 

"deliberate sabotage." (This was one of the more charitable comments that greeted that particular release.) 

Yet, Gould did have a point. He recognized that for all the Appassionata’s drama and presti-digitational demands, the 

harmonic motion is slow, and there is less contrapuntal complexity than we find in his earlier or later <strong>sonatas</strong>. 

However, he was judging this piece strictly from the vantagepoint of an obsessed imitative contrapuntist. He 

demonstrably had little sympathy for Beethoven’s extraordinary achievement of creating as epic a work as had yet 

been written for the <strong>piano</strong>, one that used sound and texture rather than melody, and with every aspect of the sonata’s 

architecture contributing to its inner drama. 

The sonata begins with an arpeggiated theme in F minor. It is immediately repeated, but now in the key of G flat. This 

sets into motion a struggle between the all-important note C, a fundamental part of the F minor chord, and a less 

crucial note in that key, D flat. The standard tensions of themes and keys inherent in the most first movements are still 

present; however, the C - D flat dichotomy also persists throughout the movement (and indeed, the entire sonata) and 

even overwhelms the music at its most climactic points: the end of the Development and the Coda. 

In the middle of his career, Beethoven seemed to avoid writing the extended slow movements he delighted in 

composing both earlier and later. Many of these middle movement, like the Appassionata’s, serve primarily as a 

welcome pause between the weightier outer movements. The second movement is a set of variations (set in D flat 

major) whose main theme contains no fewer than five iterations of the motif D flat - C - D flat. The theme, essentially a 

series of chords, remains constant, but becomes increasingly embellished in each of the three variations. Finally, the 

original theme is re-stated. This time, though, each phrase sounds in a different register, thereby revealing inner 

dialogues that were hidden the first time around. 

Suddenly, the movement is harshly interrupted (by a chord whose top note is none other than D flat), and the finale 

follows without a pause. It is characteristic of another aspect of Beethoven’s middle-period keyboard style: of the nine 

<strong>sonatas</strong> written between Opus 26 and 57, seven of their finales, including this one, feature perpetual-motion patterns 

from start to finish. The highest notes of the principal motif are, almost predictably, C and D flat. The tempo marking is 

Allegro ma non troppo. Of course, that only serves as a challenge for some pianists to play the movement from 

beginning to end as troppo as possible, so as to demonstrate conclusively how much better they know than Beethoven 

about how his music is to be performed. 

As with the opening movement, the repetition of the Exposition is omitted. How bizarre, then, that Beethoven 

specifically and unusually directs that the much longer development and recapitulation be repeated! Many musicians 

question the advisability of following this marking, and I must confess that, before performing the piece I also had 

decided that the sonata’s greatness might best be served by ignoring the repeat sign. However, the first time I played it 

in public, the choice was literally taken out of my hands. I simply could not go forward at this point, and played the 

piece as written. As always, Beethoven is right. The repetition may admittedly be superfluous if only the last movement 

is played, but when one performs the entire sonata, the finale demands the length Beethoven assigned it, if for no 

other reason than to counterbalance the weight and force of the opening movement. 



Sonata No. 24 in F-sharp, Op. 78 


This is first of three relatively brief <strong>piano</strong> <strong>sonatas</strong> that appeared four years after the Appassionata. Its brevity, 

however, is not an indication that it is a slight work; indeed, Beethoven claimed that this sonata was one of his 

favorites. (Presumably, he was sufficiently objective not to allow his special affection for the sonata’s 

dedicatee, Therese von Brunsvik, as well what may have been more than affection for her sister Josephine, to 

color his judgment.) 

Anyone believing that keys lost their distinctive personalities following the introduction of the well-tempered 

system of tuning need not look further than this sonata. Try playing the introduction in G or F major, then play 

it in the proper key of F#. The difference is astonishing; the piece becomes so dark, so haunting! No wonder 

Beethoven wouldn’t have been bothered in the slightest by the fact that the pianist has to “walk on eggs” in 

order to play the rest of the sonata! 

The miraculous four-measure introduction sets the stage and the mood of the remainder of the movement, 

with the cantabile feeling moderating all the harmonic and rhythmic contrasts that follow. 

The main theme of this exuberant, kaleidoscopic second movement is based on a three-note idea that appears 

inconspicuously in the first movement, followed immediately by the refrain, Brittannia rules the Waves, from 

Thomas Arne's anthem Rule Brittania. (This could be a coincidence, although Beethoven knew the theme well, 

having composed a set of <strong>piano</strong> variations on the English melody in 1803.) Good humour abounds through the 

continuous two-note chirrups, the sudden changes in register, and even the sharp major-minor shifts. One of 

the movement’s finest touches occurs just prior to each return of the main theme, when the composer keeps 

us guessing about exactly when it will happen. Also in evidence is Beethoven’s genius for knowing precisely 

how to end a movement. 



Sonata No. 25 in G Major, Op. 79 


This is the second of three relatively brief <strong>sonatas</strong> that followed the Appassionata. Beethoven described it in a 

letter to his publisher as Sonatine facile. However, although of sonatina length, it is not sonatina-like in its 

detailed working out; nor is it particularly facile to jouer. 

The opening movement is marked Presto alla Tedesca (i.e. a fast waltz). Toward the beginning of the 

Development section, Beethoven discovered that, if you eliminate the first note of the opening three-note 

theme, you are left with a falling motive that sounds like a cuckoo clock. His amusement at this discovery 

knows no bounds! He repeats it for us time and time again. Then, at the end of the movement, he has another 

go or two at the idea, just to ensure we have not forgotten his jest. 

The lilting, melancholy second movement forecasts the Venetian Boat Songs of Mendelssohn, while the finale 

is a miniature rondo in which the main theme alternates with two epigrammatic sections. (Beethoven would 

use that theme again in the first movement of the sonata, Op. 109.) The coda provides a surprise ending that 

perfectly sums up the jocular mood of this delightful movement. 



Sonata No. 26 in E-flat, Op. 81a “Das Lebewohl” 


Op. 81a is a transitional work: the sonic landscape of the introduction presages some of his late compositions, 

while other portions could easily have been written a few years earlier. This sonata is also unusual in three 

respects that have nothing to do with the music itself. 

Of all the <strong>sonatas</strong>, this is the only one with an explicit program. Archduke Rudolph, a close friend and sponsor 

of Beethoven, was forced to leave Vienna due to the imminent Napoleonic invasion, and Beethoven composed 

this work with the movements representing, respectively, his friend’s farewell, his absence, and their reunion. 

(He even delayed completion of the finale until Rudolph actually returned to Vienna). It is also no coincidence 

that this is also the first sonata in which the original titles and principal tempo indications are in German. To 

employ even common musical terms such as Allegro and Andante was politically incorrect at this time 

because Italian was the Napoleon’s native language. 3 Lastly, the work owes its unusual opus number to the 

fact that it was bound with a sextet for two horns and string quartet (Op. 81b) which Beethoven had composed 

much earlier. Although the grouping of several similar compositions under a single opus number was still 

relatively common (although no longer so for Beethoven, whose works were in such demand that he could sell 

each one individually), this type of “dog’s breakfast” publication was always a rare occurrence. 

The sonata is not only programmatic, but also highly pictorial. The first three notes of the introduction bring to 

mind a post-horn call. One can almost imagine the Archduke’s horses’ neighing in the flourish immediately 

preceding the main theme, following which, the left hand imitates the clattering of coach wheels while the 

sharp, rising three notes in the right hand depict the cracking of the driver’s whip. Also, in the coda, it is not 

hard to picture, in the winding down of the tempo and the spreading of the hands, the Archduke’s coach 

disappearing from view. The second movement wonderfully evokes a sense of loneliness, while the third, 

complete with fanfare, conjures up the joy and excitement of seeing a close friend after a lengthy absence. 

Yet, for all the programmatic content, the sonata is rigorously constructed, beginning with the Introduction, 

which is totally integrated with the rest of the composition. Indeed, the opening three notes are the source of 

virtually all the important material of the first movement. In various transformations, that motto also plays a 

meaningful role in the remainder of the sonata. All three movements are in fairly standard sonata forms, 

except for the deeply expressive Andante, which lacks a development section. The Finale, with its E-flat major 

scales and arpeggios, is highly reminiscent of the Emperor Concerto, written around the same time. 

3 'Les Adieux' was the last name Beethoven would have chosen, and not simply because of anti-French sentiment. Beneath the important descending 

three-note motto with which the Sonata begins, the composer wrote the syllables, Le-be-wohl, whose meaning in German - 'live well' - is quite different 

than the French 'good-bye,' or 'God be with you'. 



Sonata No. 27 in E minor, Op. 90 


The years 1812-1814 were the least productive of Beethoven’s career. No wonder: the combination of 

particularly severe personal stress, a sharp decline in his hearing, and the impact of the recent Napoleonic 

occupation could hardly have been conducive to the incredible productivity that had characterized his output in 

the 19th century’s first decade. (He did remain busy during those years, but it was ‘busy work’ that principally 

occupied him: the creation of patriotic pieces like Wellington’s Victory and The Glorious Moment, which were 

written to commemorate the Congress of Vienna, several folksong settings, and the final revision of Fidelio.) 

The sonata in E minor, Op. 90 marks a return to more serious composition. Perhaps coincidentally, Beethoven 

appears to have “picked up where he left off” with the principal thematic germ of the first movement−the 

three-note descending motif, G-F#-E−remarkably like his previous sonata’s (Op. 81a) main theme, G-F-E flat. 

The two ideas are even developed similarly in places. 

As with all his mature two-movement <strong>sonatas</strong>, each movement contrasts sharply with the other. In the 

opening, highly concentrated movement, two dissimilar ideas are presented at the outset, and it is these 

themes that Beethoven ultimately subjects to extensive development. Especially masterful is the manner in 

which, at the end of the development section, the composer ruminates about the first of these motives—three 

descending notes—to the point where the rhythm of the movement almost dissolves completely. However, just 

before chaos sets in, the music regains its momentum, and the main theme emerges out of the prior 

dissolution of the musical material. 

The concluding movement is not only the last of the five congenial Rondos to appear in his <strong>piano</strong> <strong>sonatas</strong>, but 

is as leisurely, lyrical, and repetitive a finale as he was ever to compose. (Some commentators refer to it as 

‘Schubertian’ because of its melodiousness, but with the exception of a cadence just before the movement’s 

conclusion, that particular reference eludes these ears.) Thank goodness Beethoven knew a good tune when 

he wrote it: it occurs virtually unadorned sixteen times over the course of the movement. Beethoven knows 

exactly what he is up to, however, and teases us at the sonata’s conclusion, pretending that the movement is 

going to continue even more. Suddenly, he decides that enough is enough and as abruptly as this sentence, the 

music stops cold. 



Sonata No. 28 in A, Op. 101 


Op. 101 was Beethoven’s first truly substantial <strong>piano</strong> sonata following the Appassionata of 1805. Stylistically, this work 

and the two Op. 102 cello <strong>sonatas</strong> are so far removed from any of his previous compositions that one can argue that it 

is these three works that usher in his “late period.” Forms are unorthodox, or unorthodoxically placed within the 

sonata. His earlier efforts to combine and relate individual movements now reach fruition in a single, organicallyunified 

composition. Beethoven was never a stranger to contrapuntal writing, but from this piece onward, pervasive, 

imitative polyphony would henceforth become an integral part of his style. Although virtuosity of the sort found in the 

Waldstein or the Appassionata is assiduously avoided, the uncompromising, and largely unpianistic, writing makes Op. 

101 one of the most difficult of his <strong>sonatas</strong> to play. 

In the leisurely first movement, although one can find features of standard sonata form, the characteristic element of 

contrast is totally missing. Sections blend together seamlessly. Even the opening measures give the illusion that the 

piece has already been going on for a while, much as if we had happened upon a conversation already in progress 4 . 

The old-fashioned minuet had earlier surrendered its place in a sonata or symphony to the faster scherzo; however, 

even the scherzo has been banished in Op. 101. Instead, the second movement is a jerky, gnarly, heavily contrapuntal 

march. The middle Trio provides welcome contrast in mood and density, but it too relies on contrapuntal writing, taking 

the anachronistic form of a canon (and consequently resembling a two-part invention that Bach would have made his 

students throw into the waste-basket). 

A relatively brief Adagio follows, contemplative and sparse, forecasting the tragic vision that would characterize those 

awesome slow movements that were to come in his last works. It too seems to begin in mid-stream, and soon begins 

to meander harmonically, getting a bit lost in the process. In its wanderings, it arrives unexpectedly at a re-statement 

of the opening measures of the sonata. But this is not where we should be at this point and Beethoven quickly breaks 

off the quotation. Still, the question of what to do next remains. While pondering those last three notes of the previous 

phrase with increasing agitation he suddenly sees his way out of his predicament, and while the right hand is occupied 

with long trills, the left hand delivers a pair of one-two combination punches that lead directly into the Finale. 

The problem of finding a finale appropriate to what has gone before, as well as a convincing way of introducing it, 

occupied Beethoven increasingly throughout his career. Some critics believe that his rate of success in this regard is 

somewhat less than 100 percent, but in Op. 101 he succeeds beyond question. The jubilant fourth movement’s 

centerpiece is an intense, thumb-twisting fugue. Beginning quietly and ominously, it piles one voice on top of another, 

building without respite to an almost unbearable degree of tension, before returning triumphantly to the main theme. 

Just as masterful is the Coda. It begins very much like the opening of the fugue, but Beethoven is just toying with our 

expectations. He suddenly changes course, and winds down the excitement, forcing the pianist to pretend he is a string 

quartet in the process. Then, when all is at a standstill, Beethoven delivers a final knockout blow, bringing the sonata to 

an abrupt conclusion. 

4 So seamlessly does the first movement follow the final measures of the previous sonata (No. 27) that perhaps, in an offbeat way, it has been going on 

for a while! Just possibly, this is another of Beethoven’s attempts, in his later works, to elucidate his creative process: in this case, he could consciously 

be guiding us from his previous world into his new one. 



Sonata No. 29 in B-flat Major, Op. 106 “Hammerklavier” 


In addition to the Hammerklavier’s 5 enormous demands upon a performer’s technique and his/her powers of 

concentration, the work also poses unusual problems for the serious interpreter. It was published in both 

Vienna and London under Beethoven’s supervision, but the autograph has never been found. Unfortunately, 

the two sources contain many divergent readings, sometimes in important places. There is also an 

incomprehensible reversal of the order of second and third movements in the London edition. 

Ironically, the area of tempo, where Beethoven ostensibly went out of his way to be as explicit as possible, is 

equally problematic. Although Op. 106 is the only <strong>piano</strong> sonata with metronome indications, some of these 

markings are simply ludicrous. Pianists who can manage the first movement at the proscribed 138 to the halfnote 

(I freely admit to not being among them) succeed only in making as strong a case as possible against the 

validity of such a notion 6 . Even if Beethoven’s primitive metronome was accurate, two other facts must be 

taken into consideration. Composers often “hear” their music faster than anyone else: they do not require the 

time the rest of us need to absorb it because they have digested it so thoroughly during the process of 

creating it. Furthermore, with Beethoven now virtually deaf, it is likely that he had lost the spatial sense that 

music requires in order to be cogent, and for its nuances to be adequately conveyed. 

It is commonly known that the Hammerklavier is by far his longest sonata. This is due mostly to the vast 

landscape of the slow movement. The outer movements are only moderately lengthy, while the Scherzo is one 

of his briefest creations. The piece is also sonically huge, sounding extraordinarily symphonic. 7 There is no 

sidestepping the fact that the Hammerklavier is also as tough, gnarled, and uncompromising as anything 

Beethoven wrote, except perhaps for the Grosse Fuge. 

Above all, it is relentlessly obsessive. A single interval, the third, permeates all the movements at the motivic, 

melodic and harmonic levels. In fact, that interval forms the basis of virtually every principal theme in the 

sonata. Similarly, although the dominant note F might be expected to play a key role, with large-scale areas of 

the piece in that key, just as it does in all other works of the classical era, its role here is extremely limited. 

Beethoven frequently uses the dominant chord as a brief resting-place before returning to the tonic. However, 

never once does he actually modulate to the key of F. Instead, all important modulations are to a key that is a 

third higher or lower than the immediately preceding one. 8 

In other words, as early as 1816, Beethoven was attempting to do nothing less than re-define the concept of 

tonality by casting aside the traditional role of the dominant key (the second most fundamental entity in the 

tonal system), and elevating another note—the third—to that level of importance. It is not too great an 

exaggeration to state that we must look almost a century ahead, to Debussy and Schoenberg, in order to find 

so radical a transformation of musical thought. 9 

For the sonata’s layout, Beethoven reverted to the four-movement Grande Sonate model that he had used so 

frequently in his youth. The opening movement is in sonata form, complete with a (very) necessary repeat of 

the Exposition. Immediately following the recapitulation, Beethoven jarringly introduces the theme in B minor, 

which he is known to have regarded as a “dark key.” From that point on, B minor serves as B flat major’s 

antithesis, with the struggle between the two keys occurring at various points throughout the sonata, most 

obviously at the conclusion of the Scherzo. 

The first movement also contains the most disputed reading in all of Beethoven’s <strong>piano</strong> music. Just prior to the 

return of the main theme there is a progression of notes in the bass line, in which an A-sharp becomes the 

5 There is no single instrument called a Hammerklavier. Rather, it refers, in German to a keyboard instrument with hammers. Romance language terms – even for something as common as <strong>piano</strong> – were out of favor in the immediate post- 

Napoleonic era. Beethoven himself had also indicated that the Sonata Op. 101 was written for the Hammerklavier, but the nickname has stuck only to this work. 

6 Solomon being the notable exception. I was referring to everyone else, of course. 

7 Paradoxically, the sense of a <strong>piano</strong> (and perhaps the pianist as well) straining at its limits is required in order for that effect to be felt. The conductor Felix Weingartner actually made an orchestration of the sonata; the third movement is 

remarkably successful, but overall, at least in his own recording with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, the piece sounds smaller than it does in the hands of any competent pianist. 

8 Ironically, B flat major is only peripherally related to the intricate system of four keys he constructs around it, and returns to time and time again. Three of them, G, D, and F sharp, are separated from B flat by, almost predictably, the interval of 

a third. I believe that these unorthodox “ground rules” are one of the chief elements that make the piece such a “tough nut to crack.” The sonata superficially sounds as if it is in a traditional key, but its internal workings are markedly different. 

9 In this respect, he was ahead of the late 19th century composers like Liszt and Wagner, who, by exploiting and thwarting our expectations of traditional harmonic practice, were still acknowledging its traditions. 



tonic B-flat. The first editions are explicit, but controversy exists nonetheless, partially because a sketch in 

Beethoven’s hand indicates a more conventional A-natural. More importantly, the music sounds extraordinarily 

strange as printed, even to late 20 th century ears. Pianist Alfred Brendel believes that an A-sharp robs the 

recapitulation of a sense of triumph, and that the natural is therefore correct. I agree with Brendel’s 

observations, but not his conclusions. Throughout his career, Beethoven often went out of his way to deemphasize 

the moment when the main theme returns. This is particularly true in the Hammerklavier, where 

the left-hand accompaniment ensures that the power of the sonata’s opening cannot possibly be duplicated in 

the recapitulation. (He is setting up the important B minor shock just ahead.) Since the A-sharp eliminates the 

dominant-tonic progression leading up to the recapitulation, one of this sonata’s fundamental goals is achieved 

by playing the music as printed. 10 

Very few compositions in the canon of Western music start or conclude as tragically as the slow movement, 

but elsewhere, vastly different states of mind are evoked. Beethoven indicates at the outset that the entire 

movement is to be played Appassionata e con molto sentimento, and subsequently directs that certain sections 

be performed espressivo, and on two occasions, con grand’ espressione. In other words, unlike the slow 

movement of the Sonata Op. 10/3, this movement is not a depiction of uninterrupted desolation. Central to the 

movement—cast in Sonata form with an expansive coda—is an extended passage where descending thirds are 

chained together melodically. The resemblance to the opening of Brahms’ fourth symphony can hardly be 

called a coincidence. Elsewhere, there are moments where embellishments in the right hand sound uncannily 

like those found in Chopin nocturnes. 

It is only in the final movement that traditional sonata procedure is abandoned. As in the Finale of the 

composer’s ninth symphony, the composer begins by searching for an appropriate conclusion to the work. A 

slow, introspective, seemingly rhythm-less series of descending thirds in the bass voice is heard, sounding 

somewhat like the awakening from a deep slumber. The composer interrupts the process three times in order 

to try out a new idea. (Of course, something similar happens in the ninth symphony, but there, Beethoven 

auditions themes from previous movements. In the Hammerklavier, the material is always new and each idea 

is faster and more contrapuntal than the preceding one.) Suddenly, he hits upon the idea of ending the sonata 

with a fugue. He is elated: those chained thirds become faster, louder, and more excited. Then he calms down, 

and the fugue itself begins. Beethoven had included fugal sections in several of his earlier works, but writing a 

fugue as an entire movement was new for him. And what a weird, grotesque fugue it is! Not only does it begin 

with a trill, which ordinarily is a concluding ornament, but in sharp contrast to greatest fugues of the Baroque 

masters, it uses every known manner of fugal writing—even the very rare technique of stating the theme 

backwards (set in B Minor, B flat major's sinister alter ego) —instead of only one or two. 

Finally, I offer without comment a quotation from a letter that Beethoven wrote to Ferdinand Ries, the pianist 

who played the first London performance of this, his most complex and ingeniously structured sonata: 

“Should the sonata not be suitable for London, I could send another one; or you could also 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 the Scherzo, and omit entirely No. 4. 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.” 

10 Perhaps Donald Tovey, the esteemed British musicologist, came closest to the truth in suggesting that Beethoven probably meant an A-natural, but would have been ecstatic had 

anyone pointed out that he had actually written an A-sharp. (The passage in question, by the way, lasts two seconds at most. Nonetheless, its importance cannot be overstated.) 



Sonata No. 30 in E Major, Op. 109 


With his gigantic Hammerklavier of 1818, Beethoven had taken the <strong>piano</strong> sonata as far as it could go in anything 

resembling a traditional format. If he was not to repeat himself, any subsequent effort would have to lead the 

form into uncharted waters, and his three final <strong>sonatas</strong>, Op. 109-111, composed between 1820 and 1823, are 

indeed unlike any others written previously. 

As revolutionary as these <strong>sonatas</strong> are from so many standpoints, they reach backward for much of their 

originality. Late in his career, Beethoven seemed to undertake a conscious exploration of his musical roots, and 

in Op. 109, he was clearly preoccupied with the Baroque era. With its shifting moods and tempi, the opening 

movement almost seems to hearken back to the free organ fantasies of Bach and his predecessors, while the 

last movement, for reasons I will soon explain, could almost be called Beethoven’s Goldberg Variations. 

Beethoven did not only pay homage to other composers in his later works; he sometimes echoed himself. This 

is the case of the main theme of the first movement, which is derived from the finale of his sonata, Op. 79. 

However, the most striking feature of the opening movement is its extreme conciseness. It obeys all the 

conventions of sonata form, but the main theme—if you can call that sort of noodling a theme—is over almost 

before it begins. The brief, sharply contrasting secondary material gives us another rare glimpse of 

Beethoven's improvisatory skills. It is only in the central development section that he lets us feel comfortable 

enough to settle back, unwrap our cellophane-covered candy, and listen to the music. Soon, however, the 

unsettled material returns, and a coda brings the movement to a peaceful, yet uneasy close. 

The middle movement, a wild Tarantella, immediately shatters this calm. Although listeners would be justified 

in assuming that the main theme is in the right hand, it is the left hand’s counter-theme that Beethoven later 

subjects to substantial development. 

In his last <strong>sonatas</strong>, Beethoven reserves his most sublime thoughts for the finales, and Op. 109, with its glorious 

set of variations, is no exception. Unlike the second movement of the Appassionata, where one variation leads 

almost imperceptibly into the next, each variation here is discrete and distinctive. The subtle, almost intangible, 

links between them attest to Beethoven’s masterful skill as a spiritual travel guide. I earlier referred to this 

movement as Beethoven’s Goldberg Variations. There are three reasons for this comparison: both themes 

share a similar Sarabande-like rhythm; both sets make copious use of imitative counterpoint; and at the 

conclusion of both works, the composer restates the theme almost verbatim, allowing us a few extra moments 

to reflect on how many changes the themes — and we — have undergone since their initial occurrence. 



Sonata No. 31 in A flat Major, Op. 110 


Like so many of Beethoven’s later works, this sonata reaches backward as much as it looks forward. The 

influence of the classical style is evident in the rapid figurations and Alberti accompaniments that appear in the 

first movement. A subsequent counter-melody in the left hand is a direct quote, in the minor, of the opening 

theme of Haydn’s Sonata No. 47. The Baroque period is reflected in the final movement, a complex mix of 

recitative (complete with a stock operatic cadence of that era), aria and fugue, the quintessential Baroque 

form. The general influence of Beethoven’s own previous music is also present: the re-statement of the slow 

movement following the first fugue echoes a somewhat similar event in the Sonata, Op. 27/1. 

Throughout history composers were fully aware of the emotive power of music, and exploited it regularly. Still, 

insofar as the range of emotion is concerned, Beethoven’s music represents a sharp break with that of his 

immediate predecessors. In Op. 110, the spiritual journey through which Beethoven guides us over the course 

of the final movement is as profound as any he conceived. An intense recitative leads to a grief-laden aria. A 

fugue (whose subject is a variation of the sonata’s opening theme) attempts to console and uplift, but at the 

last moment it fails, and the key of the piece appropriately sinks from A-flat major to G minor. A variation of 

the aria follows, marked “lamenting, exhausted,” in which, as clearly as one can attribute an external event to 

abstract music, the grief-stricken protagonist dies, gasping for breath. A series of repeated chords signals 

some sort of transfiguration; as the sound fades away, the second fugue begins imperceptibly. (This fugue’s 

principal theme is a mirror image of the first, another common Baroque device.) Soon the original fugue theme 

reappears, but this time it does not falter. Instead, the music quickly gathers momentum and ends triumphantly 

and suddenly, like a rocket disappearing into space. 

Although eclecticism and the inclusion of vulgarity is an entirely legitimate aspect of great art, some people 

have difficulty dealing with it. Particularly troubling are such occurrences as cowbells in Mahler symphonies, 

or the medley of tunes, including one entitled "Cabbages and Turnips," with which Bach's Goldberg Variations 

conclude. I must therefore apologize for noting that the sublime concluding movement of Beethoven's Sonata 

No. 31 is preceded by a scherzo that quotes two popular tavern-tunes of the time: Unsa Kätz häd Katzln ghabt 

("Our cat had kittens") and Ich bin lüderlich, du bist lüderlich which, politely translated, is "I'm a slob, you're a 

slob"). 



Sonata No. <strong>32</strong> in C minor, Op. 111 


Yin and Yang are perfectly reflected in the two movements of Beethoven’s final sonata, in which the nervous, 

pent-up energy of the concise opening movement gives way to the utter serenity and timelessness of the 

second. 

Here, as in many of his late works, Beethoven was consciously exploring his musical roots. The first 

movement clearly has its origins in the French Overture, a standard genre of the Baroque period. Its principal 

components were a slow introduction in dotted rhythms, followed by a fast fugal section. (A kinship with the 

Introduction to that of his earlier Pathétique Sonata, also in C minor, also cannot be overlooked.) 

A terrifying trill in the lower bass leads to a statement of the explosive, defiant three-note main theme. Like a 

caged beast, it tries again and again to escape its bonds, and finally breaks free, with an energetic fugue. The 

second theme, although very different from the first, is similarly constricted and requires several attempts to 

break out of its constraints. The fugal Development section is unusually short for a piece of this scope and an 

overall sense of restlessness and frustration soon returns. The key changes from C minor to C major in the 

brief coda, but this is not the joyful C major of Op. 2/3 or the triumphant C major of the close of the Fifth 

Symphony. Rather, the mood is one of resignation and acceptance. 

The second movement is, in my opinion, the most sublime, transcendental work written for <strong>piano</strong>. With the 

theme’s stark simplicity, the astonishing sonorities that Beethoven explores over the course of the piece, and 

the final drive to the movement’s climax and release, its profundity is unmatched in the entire repertoire. 

Beethoven’s obsession in the latter part of his career with the interval of the third is here extended to the 

number ‘three’ in general. The time signature is 9/8 (or three times 3/8), and without exception, each beat in 

every measure is similarly subdivided and sub-subdivided. Although not termed as such, the movement is a set 

of continuous variations that are characterized by a process of increasing rhythmic animation, while the theme 

and accompanying harmonies remain constant. 11 

Variations 1 through 3 increase the rhythmic activity to the point where Beethoven seems to be straining at our 

earthly confines, much like the buffeting an airplane must endure before breaking the sound barrier. (So active 

and syncopated is Variation 3 that some wishful commentators have suggested that the beginnings of jazz date 

from this point.) Variation 4 is a so-called double variation: the repeat of each section receives totally different 

treatment than its initial iteration. Here, the rhythm is broken down into even smaller rhythmic subdivisions (a 

background rumble or a pointillistic elaboration of the melody). The boundaries of everyday existence are now 

behind us; our spirits are in free flight. A lengthy interlude follows, featuring trills, music’s ultimate thematic 

disintegration. Then, when all is dust, Beethoven begins reassembling his material. Finally, the theme begins 

again, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, transporting us to a state of spiritual ecstasy that will continue into 

infinity, even after all is silent… 

11 It is interesting that, as with the middle movement of the Appassionata and the slow movement of the Archduke Trio. Beethoven never entitled this 

type of composition a set of variations. He reserved that designation only for movements such as those in the Sonatas Op. 26 and 109, in which each 

variation is far more of a distinct entity.

beethoven's 32 piano sonatas robert silverman - Music on Main

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