Eric Lu: Notes on the Program
J.S. Bach
J.S. BACH Capriccio on the Departure of a Beloved Brother, BWV 992
1. Arioso
2. Fugato
3. Adagissimo
4. Andante con moto
5. Aria di postiglione
6. Fuga
When we think of Bach, the majority of us likely immediately think about polyphonic texture and intricate fugal harmonies: His famous keyboard cycles ooze with “choral” structures and don’t seem that far removed from his day job as Kappellmeister or church composer.
What is really striking about the Capriccio on the departure of a beloved brother, then, is that it reveals such a surprisingly under-represented side of Bach: the storyteller, the mimic, the progressive. Yes, progressive – because in this highly unusual and interesting early work (it was composed in 1702, when Bach was all of seventeen years old), he did something that may seem eye-rollingly obvious to us, but as “musical concept” was still more than a century into the future: Here, Bach wrote program music. In six short movements with intentional, descriptive titles, he musically depicted a scene – using tempo, timbre, and melody to aurally represent a real-life scenario.
Although it was formerly believed that the Capriccio owed its existence to Bach’s biological brother Johann Jacob, who left their hometown of Eisenach to enter the army of Charles XII in Sweden in 1704, it is now generally accepted that the “beloved brother” in the title was more likely the composer’s close friend, Georg Erdmann.
The work starts in a slow, stately mood with an opening Arioso: Adagio – “Friends gather and try to dissuade him from departing”. Though there are no sources to back up my impression, there is – to my ears – a distinct sense of “coming together” in the music: the melody in the right hand and the melody in the left are moving towards each other, stepwise and in careful increments, like friends kindly imparting opposing opinions. The delicate ornaments in both voices have a gentle, pleading quality – which, to me, at least, have an onomatopoeic undertone of begging: please don’t leave!
In the Andante, a short fugue, “They picture the dangers which may befall him”. We’ve modulated into the relative G minor, and the bass line (as far as I my interpretation goes) takes us progressively lower and lower on the keyboard … a very literal descent into potentially perilous territory.
What follows is “The friends’ lament.” In a mournful movement marked Adagiosissimo (extremely slow), the heartache and sorrow felt at the imminent departure is poignantly expressed. The movement takes the form of a passacaglia (variations over a ground base or ostinato) and requires the interpreter to fill in a figured bass. The key of F minor is prophetic: Bach would later use it for some of his most sorrowful, expressive music. There is a lot of “sighing” and small chromatic patterns that one could interpret as tears and even sobs from the emotional group of friends.
Ever pragmatic and stoically German, “Since he cannot be dissuaded, they say farewell,” the tempo picks up to a resolute Andante con moto (slowly, but with motion). It’s as if we see the group swallowing their sadness and picking up their shoulders as the music modulates back to A Major.
In the “Aria of the postillion” we hear the arrival of the horse carriage and the postillion blowing his horn, with downward octave leaps in the right hand representing this in the music.
The party departs and the piece ends (surprisingly) triumphantly with a fugue that now mimics not one but two instrumental calls – the subject suggesting a trumpet, and the countersubject suggesting a horn.
Hubert Parry called this Capriccio “the most dexterous piece of work of the kind that had ever appeared in the world up to that time.” When performed by someone with Mr. Lu’s youthful determination, it underscores the almost prophetic brilliance of its youthful composer and the timeless endurance of its beauty.
SCHUBERT Four Impromptus, D. 935, Op. posth. 142
No. 1 in F minor
No. 2 in A-flat Major
No. 3 in B-flat Major
No. 4 in F minor
One is apt to think that the same qualities we associate with “youthfulness” could be associated with the term “impromptu”: spontaneity, improvisation, a sense of carefree impulsivity. In the case of Schubert’s impromptus, though, neither his relative youthfulness at the time of composition nor the very clear structure of the works themselves conform to the light and airy traits implied by their title. The Opus 142 impromptus – full of yearning melodies, suffused with Schubertian world-weariness, ultimately bathed in otherworldly beauty – are at their core neither young at heart nor spontaneous. What they are, are the painstakingly crafted outpourings of an old soul.
The torments and tribulations of Schubert’s life are well-documented: Apart from suffering bouts of extreme depression, he also fell victim to strings of physical ailments: headaches, fevers, skin rashes and, eventually, many scholars believe, syphilis – for which maltreatment would ultimately lead to death by mercury poisoning. At only about five feet tall in stature, having oddly proportioned facial features and being severely short-sighted, it comes as no surprise that he really struggled with romantic relationships and tended to experience more than his fair share of unrequited love. Even so: Schubert knew how to translate his losses and longings into music and, despite not really achieving fame during his lifetime, also never stopped striving to reach an audience. It is precisely the huge popularity of short, self-contained pieces for the private salon that drove the enterprising Schubert to write works that would appeal to this market. In the case of his first two impromptus, it worked and the Viennese publisher Tobias Haslinger published them in 1827. Sadly, the remaining impromtus in the op. 90 set – as well as the entire op. 142 we hear today – were rejected multiple times, most likely for their difficulty and, by (befuddling) extension, “being unmarketable in France.” (!)
If only Schubert had lived to see the popularity of these works – and the lasting influence they would have on the evolution of shorter works for solo piano! His expressive dialogue between the treble and the bass in the first impromptu (Allegro moderato), the Beethovenian melodies in the second (Allegretto), the ingenious use of theme-and-variation form in the Andante and the rhythmic vitality of the virtuostic Allegro scherzando all add up to a transfiguring and transformative listening experience,whether you’re encountering these melodies as dear friends or hearing them for the very first time.
— Intermission —
Mendelssohn
MENDELSSOHN Songs Without Words
“People usually complain that music is too many-sided in its meanings; what they should think when they hear it is so ambiguous, whereas everyone understands words. For me it is precisely the opposite, not only with entire speeches, but also with individual words. They too seem so ambiguous, so vague, so subject to misunderstanding when compared with true music, which fills the soul with a thousand better things than words.” (Felix Mendelssohn, 1842)
When we look at the chronology of today’s program choices, it is valuable to note that the era of “late” Schubert perfectly overlaps with the era of “early” Mendelssohn. Born in 1809, Mendelssohn was only twelve years younger than Schubert, and, in many ways, the origin of the former’s impromptus parallel the development of the latter’s Lieder ohne Worte (“Songs without words”). In an era when every middle-class family owned a piano and social life often revolved around music-making, there was a seemingly insatiable appetite for charming, melodious solo pieces that were within the grasp of a wide range of amateur players. Mendelssohn “marketed” his Songs without Words to this audience, publishing six volumes of six songs each during his lifetime. Two more volumes (12 pieces in total) would follow posthumously.
Unlike Schubert, though, who had an unrivaled love affair with setting poetry to music in his more than 600 Lieder, Mendelssohn found words problematic. “What the music I love expresses to me, is not thought too indefinite to put into words, but on the contrary, too definite”, he wrote to his friend Marc-André Souchy when said friend tried to urge him to put words to the melodies of his songs.
Mendelssohn had studied Schubert’s songs and held them in high regard musically, but felt a strong need for short, poetic, song-like pieces that didn’t need to struggle with text at all. And thus, the “Song without Words” was born. Already in 1828, Fanny Mendelssohn’s correspondence makes mention of her brother giving her one for her birthday: “My birthday was celebrated very nicely ... Felix has given me a ‘song without words’ for my album (he has lately written several beautiful ones).”
A note on the popularity of these songs: Not only the Viennese loved playing them – they were especially adored by the English. None other than Queen Victoria and her piano-loving spouse Prince Albert were regularly spending time with Mendelssohn. He even transcribed some of his songs for piano duet in order for the royal couple to perform them together.
So … are these gorgeous, beguiling melodies nothing more than fluffy Victorian entertainment? On the contrary! Each Song without Words is an expressive, beautiful vignette – and the four chosen by Mr. Lu for today’s performance each encapsulates a unique mood and spirit.
Op. 19, no. 1 – Andante con moto (E major), MWV U 86 (Book 1)
Nicknamed by the publisher (not Mendelssohn!) as “Sweet remembrance”, we clearly hear the songlike quality in the treble voice with rolling arpeggio accompaniment below.
Op. 102, no. 5 – Allegro vivace (A major), MWV U 194 (Book 8)
Although the Opus 102-collection was only issued after Mendelssohn’s death, he had done significant preliminary work in putting the collection together. It was intended for the for the influential artist Ida von Lüttichau of Dresden. As with the previous song, the whimsical title (“The joyous peasant”) was added by the publisher.
Op. 38, no. 2 – Allegro non troppo (C minor), MWV U 115 (Book 3)
One of the first works to appear in print after Mendelssohn’s marriage to Cécile Jeanrenaud, Op. 38 is not dedicated to his wife, but to Rosa von Woringen – the daughter of one of his staunch supporters. The melody is whimsical and floating, with a gradually ascending line in the treble and a driving, syncopated accompaniment in the bass.
Op. 85, no. 4 – Andante sostenuto (D major), MWV U 190 (Book 7)
Another lyrical, expressive melody with gentle chordal accompaniment – that could speak a thousand words, or none at all. It was nicknamed “Elegy” (despite the major, or “happy” key), which brings to mind a Schubertian sense of loss and longing.
Frederic Chopin
CHOPIN Sonata No. 3 in B minor, op. 58
Allegro maestoso
Scherzo: Molto vivace
Largo
Finale: Presto non tanto
Sticking to the theme of “old souls”, Chopin’s majestic Sonata No.3 in B minor, the last of his piano sonatas, can be considered a monument to all the qualities embodied by such a term. It bubbles with artistic vision; it stretches the expectations of conventional form; it hungers for an unidentifiable “emotional somewhere” with almost ecstatic passion – yet manages to stay grounded, graceful, noble.
Chopin was known to be a frail man, and his health already started to dramatically decline by 1838, when he as only 28 years old. Over the years, he became increasingly debilitated and maintaining his output as a composer, teacher and socialite in Parisian society became increasingly difficult. It was at George Sand’s estate in Nohant, outside of Paris, where he spent his summers and where he found the time to apply himself to composition. The Sonata you hear today was his only composition for the year 1844 – and the only work that was neither premiered by him, nor ever played by him in a public performance. Still, it hardly sounds like the work of a frail, ailing man: on the contrary, it tackles a weighty genre with staggering energy and depth.
Just like his second sonata, the Sonata in B minor is structured in four movements – something that not all critics loved, but which others praised for its originality. (Robert Schumann was among those who really disliked the second sonata, describing it as “four of [Chopin’s] maddest children under the same roof”). The opening movement is stirring and regal, the second movement dances lightly in the distant key of E flat major, the slow movement is serene and almost nocturne-like, while the finale gallops, then tumbles in a jubilant, dramatic conclusion.
“My earthly body has been a terrible disappointment to me,” Chopin is purported to have said. How remarkable, then, that such sublime, enduring music could still result from such an imperfect vehicle!