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| i|| § | CONCERTO IN D MAJOR for Violin and Orchestra

THE PITTSBURGH SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA conducted by WILLIAM STEINBERG

BEETHOVEN: CONCERTO IN D MAJOR, OP, 61

NATHAN MILSTEIN, VIOLIN

WITH THE PITTSBURGH SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA

WILLIAM STEINBERG, CONDUCTOR

Beethoven’s only violin concerto is a masterpiece not only of virtuoso solo literature, but of symphonic music as welL There is never any doubt that the solo instrument is the master here, the orchestra the servant. But this arrangement is only a matter of courtesy, for the greatness of the master includes an ability to defer to the servant with no sacrifice of worth or dignity.

The Concerto, Opus 61, was written in 1806. This was the year of the Fourth Symphony; but it was not otherwise a particularly notable year, and we learn little of significance from contemplating its events or listing its productions. It is somewhat more illuminating to locate the concerto in a larger time-unit — the first decade of the century. Those ten years, when Beethoven was in his thirties, when he had left his youth behind and had achieved full maturity, were won¬ derfully fruitful. The number of works produced is stagger¬ ing. Among the major ones were Fidelio and its overtures, the oratorio Christ on the Mount of Olives, the symphonies from II to VI inclusive, the Coriolanus and Egmont music, the piano concertos from III to V inclusive, the Triple Con¬ certo, the Rasoumovsky and “Harp” quartets, the two piano trios of Opus 70, the A-Major Cello Sonata, six piano-violin sonatas including the Kreutzer, at least seven piano sonatas from Opus 31 to Opus 81a including such great ones as the Waidstein, the Appassionata, and Les Adieux. This decade is the very heart of the so-called Second Period.

Many writers have described the Second Period (even when they have avoided the academic terminology for it) as a time of emotional stress and strain, of self-revelation, and of breaking with the formal principles upon which music had thus far been based. D’lndy, for instance, wrote as follows: “... passions which had, so to speak, but grazed his early manhood, have suddenly descended upon him and dragged him into their maelstrom. He has felt, he has loved, he has suffered... he has found himself forced to reveal in his art his feelings, his emotions, and his sufferings... In frenzy, he now reveals to us the three passionate desires with which, in this second period of his life, his soul is filled: love of woman, love of nature, love of country. Add to these the anxiety with which he watched the progress of his malady [deafness], so soon to shut him off from all communion with his fellows, then do we understand the breadth and force¬ fulness of this second manner.”

This description is not untrue. But neither is it complete. For in the midst of much impassioned music comes this violin concerto of 1806, a work which, like the Fourth Sym¬ phony, is commonly referred to as “serene.” There is in it no heroism, none of the “titanic and elemental struggle” that we find in the first movements of the Eroica and the Fifth, even in the first movement of so early a sonata as the Pathetique or in so late a one as Opus 111. There is no suffer¬ ing, no pity, no challenge to fate and no submission to it, no striving for victory, no renunciation. The slow movement is as placid as a summer lake —“ethereal” is the usual adjective for it —and if it was motivated by love of woman, of nature, or of country, then it was a love recollected in tranquillity. The humor of the last movement is not of the tumultuous kind that we hear in the great orchestral scherzos, nor is it filled with remembered sights and sounds of the countryside. Indeed, its manners are perfect and could not offend a person of the most delicate sensibilities. So far as the concerto’s forms are concerned, they are no more subversive of classi¬ cal procedures than many works by Haydn and Mozart, although, like these, it is filled with strokes of genius of the kind that dismay pedants and academicians.

Clearly, the concerto is not typical of the Second Period. But why should it be? It is under no obligation to be typical

of anything but itself. Beethoven did not feel constrained to compose in his second manner simply because later com¬ mentators were to discover that there was such a manner. His range was very great, even Shakespearean, and the tragic intensity of the Third and Fifth symphonies does not repre¬ sent the whole of his musical character. He was not insensi¬ tive to the claims of what we call “pure” music, and sheer beauty of sound and of musical form did not exclude the notion of expressiveness. Yet it happens that these “purely musical” aspects of his art are given hardly more prominence than a footnote’s in the usual estimate of his music. This is understandable in music as profound and shattering as so much of Beethoven’s is, especially when, in the latest works, beauty itself is transcended. Still, it is a ponderable factor in such a composition as the violin concerto.

The work begins with an orchestral tutti exposing at least five main themes and a number of smaller but scarcely less important motifs. Among the latter are the four drum beats that introduce the main subject and pervade the whole move¬ ment like a kind of rhythmic leitmotif, and the extraordinary dissonance of the ambiguous and reiterated D-sharps that are not explained away until later in the movement. From the very length of this orchestral passage we see that the movement is going to have very generous proportions. We see also that it will be more lyrical than dramatic, for only one of the themes has genuine dramatic energy. When the orchestra has finished its exposition, the solo violin enters with a very expansive introduction of its own and then pro¬ ceeds to a second exposition of the themes, with the orchestra participating in a symphonic style. Development and recapit¬ ulation follow quite regularly — regularly, that is, in the sense that Beethoven’s genius always makes the expected event occur in an unexpected manner. We anticipate, for instance, some kind of connecting link between the end of the second exposition and the development, but hardly anything so striking harmonically as the long trilled notes in the violin below which the orchestra develops the drum-beat motif. And the surprise continues when the orchestra then repeats the whole second half of its original tutti. Another great moment comes at the violin’s next entry (after this same tutti) with the same introductory passage that marked its first appearance. The ending of the movement, after the cadenza (Mr. Milstein’s own, as are those of the other move¬ ments), is particularly fine: the violin lingers over the second subject, as though loathe to leave it, and then enters into a brief dialogue with the bassoon on the last theme. Here, as Tovey says, “the sublime calm of the movement reaches its serenest height.”

The second movement is in a form that Beethoven culti¬ vated assiduously throughout his life — the theme with varia¬ tions. His most famous example in this form is of course the Diabelli Variations for piano. But the vast excursions of that set are not appropriate for the slow movements of his sonatas and symphonies. In these he clings to the simpler practice of embroidering his themes, oftentimes abandoning the melody completely while preserving its shape intact. Here in the violin concerto the theme is always stated explicitly in the orchestra while the solo instrument elaborates the harmonies with more or less florid embellish¬ ments. But the special feature of these variations is that after the third one the violin takes off with some improvisatory passages, as though feeling its way toward the completely new melody that is now discovered. This culminates in trills that invite the orchestra to return to the main theme. But only for one more variation, for again the violin digresses to a second fresh idea which in turn returns to the first. Echoes of the variation theme are then heard briefly in horns

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and strings, whereupon the orchestra interrupts with a firm, formal modulation to the concerto’s principal key and the violin improvises a cadenza leading directly to the final rondo.

The material of this rondo consists of three main themes arranged in an A-B-A-C-A-B-A pattern. They represent varied aspects of Beethoven’s humor —humor not of the Jovian or Dionysiac kind, but completely human. Every¬ thing here is simple, genial, and, in the third subject, just touched with child-like pathos. Beethoven saves some of his wittiest comments on his material for the coda which, with the soloist’s third cadenza, ends the concerto in a suc¬ cession of brilliant flashes. The work as a whole, then, shows us Beethoven in his most contented mood, undisturbed even by the excessive joy that infuses some of his great finales.

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The violin concerto was first played on 23 December 1806 by Franz Clement, the virtuoso violinist and conductor of the Theater an der Wien. It was originally inscribed to him with one of Beethoven’s puns — par clemenza pour Clement. The published score, however, was dedicated by the com¬ poser to Stephan von Breuning, his devoted friend from boyhood.

The first performance was given without benefit of rehearsal, Clement reading his part at sight. According to the custom of the time, the concerto was played in two sec¬ tions, and between them the soloist offered a composition of his own, written for one string and with the violin held upside down. This was doubtless a very clever stunt, but it did not prevent the concerto from having its own success with the public. Criticism was more reserved. It conceded the beauty of many details but complained of the lack of coherence and the repetition of trivial passages—essentially the same criticism that had been made of the Eroica a few years earlier. Fortunately, Beethoven was impervious to criticism, and although he appears to have made some altera¬ tions after the first performance, none was along the lines that criticism recommended.

NATHAN milstein is an artist of truly inter¬ national renown. The Russian-born violinist was gj firmly established throughout Europe as a mas- B ter of his instrument even before he came to America in 1929; in the United States, his B adopted country, he has played to unqualified acclaim in recital and as soloist with the nation’s leading symphony orchestras. His worldwide tours of recent years have still further enhanced *; his reputation as a distinguished musician. Here are the outstanding concertos he has recorded for Capitol: 11

m •'j With The Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra conducted by William Steinberg:

BRAHMS: Violin Concerto P-8271

MENDELSSOHN: Concerto in E Minor

BRUCH: Concerto No. 1 in G Minor P-8243

With the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra conducted by Vladimir Golschmann:

PROKOFIEV: First Violin Concerto

LALO: Symphonie Espagnole P-8303

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