The trio—Pianoforte quartets and quintets—Sonatas for violoncello and piano—The piano with wind instruments—Chamber music for wind instruments by the great composers.
The pianoforte has always played an important part in chamber music, if, indeed, the best pianoforte music may not itself be considered chamber music. Few instrumental works were written during the seventeenth century in which the harpsichord was not supposed to furnish a foundation of harmony, or was not expected to contribute more specifically to the texture of the music. The concertos and sonatas of Corelli and Vivaldi, of Bach and Handel, of Couperin and Rameau, of Purcell; all these were founded upon a figured bass, to be played by harpsichord, lute or viol, or contained a part written for the harpsichord. The figured bass gradually dropped out of music as composers gained skill to manage their combinations of instruments sonorously. Out of this skill grew up the orchestra, and, in the realm of chamber music, the string quartet. But meanwhile composers were developing a great technique in writing for the harpsichord, so that it came little by little wholly to supplant the lute, and to win a distinguished, independent place of its own as a solo instrument. There are concertos of Bach and Couperin in which the harpsichord plays almost as brilliant a part as in the modern concerto, and the violin sonatas of Bach are virtually in the style of trios, because the harpsichord is treated always as adding two parts to the one of the violin. Finally, the modern trio really grew up around the harpsichord or the pianoforte.
The trios of the seventeenth century—the Sonate a tre—were written for three concertizing instruments and a figured bass, really four parts in all. During the eighteenth century the word trio took on quite a different significance and was applied to compositions written for the harpsichord with one other solo instrument, violin, oboe, or flute, like the violin sonatas of Bach. Vaguely at the time of the young Haydn, clearly when Mozart entered the world of music, the word took on the meaning that it still holds today: a composition written for three instruments, pianoforte, violin and cello. If another combination of instruments is meant, then those instruments are usually specifically designated in the title of the work.
The Haydn Trios are of little importance. There are thirty-five in all, and it has been said that the majority were written for a patron who played the cello a very little. Hence one finds the cello part in this combination to be merely a duplication of the bass part of the pianoforte, having little independent movement of its own; and the works are rather sonatas with violin than trios.
Mozart, on the other hand, treated the combination with a fine sense of the effects that could be made with it. He gave to each of the three instruments a free line of its own, and made fine use of the possibilities of tonal contrast and color. There are eight trios in all. They are not representative of Mozart’s best, though there is not one in which Mozart’s inimitable grace is lacking; but in spite of their slenderness they may be considered the first pianoforte trios in the modern sense, and to have set the model for subsequent works in that form.
These are not very numerous, if one excludes from them a great number of fantasias or popular operas such as were written by Woelfl, Nicholas Lomi and other composers of the virtuoso type. Nor does the form show much development except that which accompanies an improvement in pianofortes and a progress in technical skill on all these instruments. Only a few trios stand out conspicuously as having high musical worth, or as having been a worthy expression of genius.
There are eight trios by Beethoven. Of these three were published as opus 1, and hardly show an advance over the trios of Mozart, if indeed they do not fall considerably short of them in point of finish and style. Two were not published in his lifetime, and one of these is only a fragment, a single movement in B-flat major, composed in June, 1812, for Maximilian Brentano. There are, then, but three that are representative of the mature Beethoven, two published as opus 70, and one, in B-flat major, opus 97, dedicated to his favorite pupil, the Archduke Rudolph. The writing for the three instruments is especially clear in the first allegro of opus 70, No. 1, a lively, vivacious movement in D major. The slow movement of this trio is rather remarkably scored for the pianoforte, which is almost constantly engaged in tremolos, strange broken trills, and runs. The last movement is full of Beethoven’s humor, very distinctly in the swing of a folk-song. Throughout there is much brilliant work for the piano, and a ceaseless witty interchange between the other two parts. There is an extraordinary pedal point before the return to the first section, which is just touched upon at the end. The second of this pair of trios is not less brilliantly arranged for the three instruments. The variations in the second movement are finer than the variations in the earlier works. There is folk-song again in the third movement, a smooth allegretto in A-flat major. Both trios are extraordinarily clear and happy in mood.
The trio opus 97 is one of the biggest of Beethoven’s works. The contents are more symphonic than those of his other trios, and recall something of the spirit of the quartets of opus 59. There is, indeed, a marked similarity between the opening theme of this trio and that of the quartet opus 59, No. 1, especially in the broad line of the melody. Yet though on the whole the effect of this great trio may be orchestral, there are not lacking measures of finest style, like those which follow the second theme in the first movement, with the touch or two of delicate imitation, then the soft melody of the cello with the dainty scale on the pianoforte, and then the cello and violin in octaves, with the scales on the pianoforte becoming more and more active and noisy. Immediately after, it is all cleverly changed about; the strings have those lively scales and the pianoforte the melody. The scoring of the whole Scherzo, too, is especially in trio style, and may well be taken as a model. The andante and variations, and even more the last movement, are, however, hardly in the style of chamber music, and the vigorous passion of the ideas in them does considerable violence to the essentially delicate combination.
The combination is without doubt one of the most difficult to treat with success, partly because the pianoforte may be very easily led to overpower its fellow instruments, partly because notes in the lower ranges of the cello have so little carrying quality that except in very soft passages they cannot be heard in the combination. It must be said that the general development in pianoforte technique did much to overthrow the balance and adjustment so charming in the trios of Mozart and in those of opus 70 by Beethoven. Between Beethoven’s last trio, opus 97, and the trios of Brahms there is hardly a single one that does not suffer from maladjustment.
The two trios of Schubert, opus 99, in B-flat, and opus 100 in E-flat, are full of inspiration, and Schubert’s fancy is so delicate that on the whole he may be said to have succeeded with the combination. Certainly the little canon which forms the Scherzo in the second trio is a masterpiece of style. Also the announcement of the chief theme in the first trio and the way in which it is developed cannot be found fault with; nor is the charming D-flat section in the finale less perfect. But in the scherzo there are rather weak accompaniments scored for the strings in the orchestral manner of double stops, and there are similar passages at the beginning of the transition to the second theme in the first movement of the second trio. These are here acceptable because of the sheer beauty of the material which is thus presented; but one cannot deny that this would find even lovelier expression with a group of three strings. In the Andante con moto the impropriety of style is more evident; but one will forgive anything in this inspired movement, which later is to stand like a shadow behind the Marcia in Schumann’s great pianoforte quintet.
Mendelssohn wrote two trios, one in D minor, one in C minor, which, after having for years been favorites with players and public alike, are now sinking out of sight. In these the treatment of the pianoforte is brilliant; and though it may not be said to overbalance the strings, it certainly outshines them. Mention should be made of Marschner’s trio in G minor, opus 110, because it so clearly influenced Schumann in his own quartet in A minor. Five trios of Spohr’s were once well known, but they represent no change or development either in style or form; and even that in E minor, opus 119, which has been prized almost to the present day because of its melodiousness, is fast being abandoned.
Schumann’s trios—in D minor, opus 63, in F major, opus 80, and in G minor, opus 110—have at any rate a beauty of inspiration. They are romantic and poetic as his other works are, and the warmth of them is sufficient to melt a cold criticism. That in D minor is perhaps the best, and the scherzo, especially the middle section of it, with its smooth theme looking forward to the trio in Brahms’ first pianoforte sonata, is admirable in style.
The three trios of Brahms are masterpieces. The first, opus 8, in B major, was an early work and was revived years later and republished in the form in which it is now generally familiar. But even in its revived shape it is inferior to the two later trios, in C major, opus 87, and in C minor, opus 101, though the opening theme is of a haunting beauty, and the scherzo, suggesting that in Beethoven’s opus 97, is in piquant and effective style.
In the first movement of the C major trio the violin and cello seem like two noble and equal voices throughout. Their course is bold and free. They are never overshadowed by the pianoforte. It seems to be largely Brahms’ treatment of the cello that makes these works so perfectly satisfying in sound and style. He showed always a fondness for deep low notes. Sometimes his music suffers from it. But here, in these trios, it gains immensely. For, as we have said, one of the greatest difficulties of writing in good style for this combination of instruments is to be met in handling the low notes of the cello. Brahms seems to have done it almost instinctively. From the beginning of the first movement, with its full-throated octaves, to the very end of the whole, the cello never for one measure fails to equal the violin in effectiveness. Very often they are made to play together in octaves, and in places, as in the course of the second theme, they hold long notes two octaves apart, defining the sonority so to speak, within the limits of which the piano moves alone, filling the wide space with richest sound. Again, at the beginning of the Andante con moto violin and cello are two octaves apart. He combines them in bold chords which challenge the pianoforte, assert their own independence, as here, not long before the middle section of this andante, or at the beginning of the trio in C minor, opus 101. He allows one fully to support the other without the pianoforte, as in the Andante Grazioso of the C minor. All through these truly magnificent works one is struck by the comradeship and equality of the two strings, and this, together with the way the pianoforte is adapted to them, leads us to say that there are no trios so perfect in style as these two of Brahms. It might even be added that it would be hard to match them in nobility of content.
Mention may be made here of two other trios by Brahms in which he has shown himself no less a master of the difficult task of combining three instruments of utterly different qualities and range. One of these is the famous trio in E-flat, opus 40, for piano, violin and horn. The horn may, it is true, be interchanged with cello or viola, but only at the cost of the special tone color which makes the work such a favorite. The other is the trio for pianoforte, clarinet, and cello, a work which, together with the masterly quintet for clarinet and strings, opus 115, is proof of Brahms’ admiration for the clarinet playing of Professor Mühlfeld. Both these trios are almost unique in their perfection.
One is at a loss to mention more trios which are at all comparable to those of Brahms. It is in the main true that the pianoforte finally took such complete possession of the trio that trios were no more than brilliant concert sonatas or concertos. The Russians, headed by Rubinstein, have written many trios. Rubinstein’s, as might be expected, were far too brilliant for the pianoforte. Tschaikowsky’s only trio, opus 50, written to the memory of Nicholas Rubinstein, is one of his most impassioned works. Whatever improprieties of style there may be, its emotional force cannot be resisted. He admitted a fear that, having all his life written for the orchestra, he might not have adapted the musical combination to his thoughts. Yet in spite of the general orchestral style of treatment, this trio remains one of the most moving of all chamber music compositions.
Also among Russian trios may be mentioned that by Arensky in D minor, which is wholly delightful. The swing of the first theme in the first movement is impelling, and the whole scherzo with its touch here and there of waltz rhythms, and the fleet scales on the keyboard, are effective. Paul Juon’s capricious fantasia on ‘Gösta Berling’ is interesting.
Dvořák’s trios are worthy of study. Of the three—in G minor, opus 26, in F minor, opus 65, and the Dumky, opus 90—the last two are the most interesting, and also the most Bohemian in character. The treatment of the pianoforte is brilliant. At times the cello is used a little unworthily, that is to say, merely to accentuate low notes or to add a sort of barbaric strumming; yet on the whole Dvořák’s treatment of the two strings is not very unlike that of Brahms. There is a great deal of octave playing between them, notably at the very beginning of opus 65, in the second section of the allegretto, and now and then in the various sections of the Dumky. The cello is given long and impassioned solos, or takes a full part with the violin in dialogues. On the whole Dvořák makes more use of the upper registers; but again, in the manner of Brahms, he knows how to use the low without concealing it beneath the heavier tone of the piano. The whole section, vivace non troppo, which follows the first poco adagio, is excellently scored for the three instruments. Notice how at first the cello holds a low C-sharp, supporting the light melody of the violin and the light staccato accompaniment of the piano; how as the music grows more furious the cello adds a G-sharp above its C-sharp. When at last the piano breaks into the melody, violin and cello take equal parts in the series of sharp, detached chords which accent its rhythm. Again the melody is given to the violin, an octave higher than at first, and the cello gives an accompaniment of single notes and chords, while between the two the piano plays the whirlwind. After all this subsides, the cello rises up from the deep in a broad solo cadenza. It must be granted that the musical value of the notes allotted to the cello in this section is not high; but the point is the admirable spacing of the three instruments which allows each to display a peculiar sonority and all to join in a rich and exceedingly animated and varied whole. Elsewhere in these trios there is a fine polyphonic style. Much of the vitality of the music comes from the vivid nature of the national rhythms and melodies out of which it is constructed. These trios, then, are hardly comparable to the classic trios of Brahms. Yet they seem to be the most effective and the most successful trios that have been written since Beethoven, with the exception only of Brahms’ two and Tschaikowsky’s one.
The French composers have not given much attention to the trio. César Franck’s first works were three short trios, but they are without conspicuous merit. Two trios by Lalo are pleasingly scored. Among the trios of Saint-Saëns that in E-flat major, opus 18, is the most effective. The pianoforte part is especially brilliant, yet does not throw the combination out of adjustment.
There are more brilliant and more distinguished works for the combination of pianoforte, violin, viola, and cello. Inasmuch as one of the difficulties in writing trios is the wide spaces between the natural registers of cello and violin, and this is here filled up by the viola, the pianoforte quartets of the last fifty years maintain a higher standard than the trios. Moreover the general effect is more satisfactory, because the three strings have naturally an independent and complete life, and are more equal to withstanding the onslaughts of the pianist.
The Schumann pianoforte quartet in E-flat, opus 47, is practically the first work in this form of importance, and it has remained unexcelled in beauty and romantic fervor. As to style, one notices in the very first measures the fullness and completeness of the parts for the strings, and throughout the entire work the effect of the three stringed instruments is very like that of a string quartet. In the scherzo and in the opening sections of the finale as well even the piano is treated as a single part in a quartet, not as a sort of foundation or a furnisher of harmonies and accompaniments to the others.
The Schumann piano quintet, opus 44, is even more famous than the quartet. Here the problem is still simpler, for the piano quintet is but a combination of two independent groups: the full string quartet and the pianoforte. The piano must still be handled with care else it will overpower its companions; but the complete resources of the four strings make possible contrasts between them and the piano, measures in which the piano may be quite silent, and others in which it less fills up the harmony than adds its own color to the sonority. The first broad section of the development in the first movement becomes, therefore, almost a pianoforte concerto; whereas other sections like the second trio in the scherzo are in the nature of a concerto for string quartet and orchestra. In the beginning of the last movement the strings are treated too much in an orchestral manner. There is no trace of the fineness of the quartet which should never quite disappear in this big combination. Later on the strings, however, are handled with the greatest delicacy, as in the fugal parts before the last fugue. Here, where the theme of the first movement comes back into the music with splendor, there is perfection of style. But whatever may be the technical merits or faults of this quintet as a quintet, as music it is inspired from beginning to end.
From the time of Schumann, who may be said to have left the model and set the standard for all subsequent pianoforte quartets and quintets, our history will find not more than twenty such works upon which to touch with enthusiasm. Among the quartets those of Brahms and Dvořák, and that in C-minor, opus 15, by Gabriel Fauré stand out conspicuously.
Brahms wrote three pianoforte quartets, one in G minor, opus 25, one in A major, opus 26, and one in C minor, opus 70. Of these the first two are the best known and the most obviously pleasing. There is a great deal of Hungarian atmosphere here and there in both, specifically in the final movement of the first, which is a Rondo alla Zingarese. But both quartets were written before Brahms went to live in Vienna. Both may be taken as representative of Brahms first grown to maturity, and both are rather delicately and unusually colored. In the Intermezzo of the G minor quartet the violin is muted though the other strings are not. In the beginning of the poco adagio of the second quartet all the strings are muted while the piano plays a tre corde, not, as might be expected, una corda. Later in this movement there are arpeggio passages for the pianoforte, una corda, giving a strange effect like wind over a plain, one that Brahms was particularly fond of, if we may judge by the frequency with which he employed it. Here in this quartet, and in the andante of the earlier one, and in the slow movement of the first concerto one finds it. The scoring of the first part of the second quartet is considered admirable by Mr. Fuller-Maitland; but other places may be selected equally beautifully arranged for the combination. The scoring of a sort of secondary theme in the first movement (E major), first for strings alone, then for pianoforte, carrying the melody, and strings, adding their peculiar colors, rolling figures for the cello and pizzicato for the upper strings, is exquisite. Greater, however, than all technical arrangements is the quality of the themes themselves. This has made both works greatly beloved among amateurs and artists alike.
The third Brahms’ quartet is less pleasing. The first movement was written as early as 1855. It is morbid and gloomy in character and indeed Brahms is said to have suggested to Hermann Deiters that he should imagine, while listening to it, a young man about to kill himself for lack of occupation. Of the same movement Dr. Billroth, one of Brahms’ most intimate friends, said that it was an illustration in music of Goethe’s Werther on his death bed, in his now famous buff and blue. The cello solo in the slow movement and the scherzo in general are more loveable.
The pianoforte quintet in F minor, opus 34, is one of Brahms’ greatest compositions. It was published in 1865, but not until it had gone through a rather complicated birth. Brahms had written it first as a quintet for strings alone—with two cellos. This was unsatisfactory. The themes were so powerful that Clara Schumann suggested even that he re-write it for orchestra. He next arranged it, however, as a sonata for two pianos; and indeed published it in this form a few years after he had published it in the form in which it is now best known, as a pianoforte quintet. The technical details are flawless, and to speak of them is almost to attract attention to an art which is greatest in concealment. It is far rather the broad themes, the massive structure, reënforced and held together by every device known to composers, the exalted sentiment of the slow movement, the powerful rhythms of the scherzo, that give this quartet its undisputed place among the masterpieces of music.
The two pianoforte quartets by Dvořák, opus 23, in D, and opus 87, in E-flat, have the same perfection of style and animation of manner that we have already noticed in the trios. The strings are handled with discriminating touch. There is something clear and transparent in the style, for all the impetuous, highly rhythmical, and impassioned material. And the effectiveness of the pianoforte in the combination is truly astonishing, considering how relatively simple it all is. In the first movement of the quartet in D, for example, the duet that is half canon between the cello and piano in the statement of the second theme, and shortly after, following a two measure trill, the almost Mozartian figuration given to the pianoforte while the strings develop the possibilities within this second theme; the magical scoring at the return of the first theme, which here, as at the beginning, is given in the middle registers of the cello, being thus made both melody and rich bass beneath the almost laughably simple figures for the pianoforte; these alone in one movement are instances of a wholly delightful style.
In the second quartet the style is more powerful but not the less clear. There is a splendid incisiveness in the first complete statement of the first theme, following the impetuous run of the pianoforte. Here are violin and viola in unison, the cello spreading richness through the bass with its wide swinging figures, and the piano adding a brilliance by means of commonplaces which are here delightful. Later on there is a long passage scored in a favorite way of Dvořák’s. The cello is given the low foundation notes, which are complemented by the viola, both instruments playing pizzicato. The violin has a melody which follows the figuration of the pianoforte, here of the simplest kind, but floating as it were in mid-air over the foundation tones of the cello. There are many passages in the third movement, similarly arranged, the pianoforte part being without a bass of its own, the whole fabric supported by the low notes of the cello.
The quintet, opus 84, in A major, is not less effectively scored. The pianoforte part is perhaps a little more brilliant as a whole than in the quartets, quite properly so because of the added force in the strings. In the second movement we have another Dumka, with its wild, passionate changes, and for a scherzo there is a Furiant, another touch of Bohemia.
In French chamber music with pianoforte no work is so great as the quintet in F minor by César Franck. It is fit to stand with the symphony, the string quartet, even the Beatitudes of this master, as a perfect and broad expression of his remarkable genius. The very beginning makes us aware that we are to hear a work made up of two independent groups of sound. There is the string quartet, with its passionate announcement of the chief, or one of the chief, ideas of the piece. Then there is the hushed reply of the piano, offering another idea out of which much is to grow. And, so interchanging, the two groups play out the introduction. The material of all three movements is decidedly symphonic, and the resources of this combination of instruments are taxed to the extreme. In a great part of the work they maintain a decided independence, now answering each other as in the statement of the first allegro motive, now asserting themselves against each other, as very clearly throughout a large part of the last movement where the figuration of the pianoforte is as distinct as a theme and the four instruments play another theme against it in unisons and octaves.
Indeed the use of unison and octave passages for the strings is conspicuous in every movement, as if only by so combining the quartet could maintain its own against the pianoforte. Notice this in the great E minor passage of the development section in the first movement.[82] Here is music of greatest and stormiest force. Franck has scored the accompaniment in the heaviest registers of the pianoforte, and is yet able to bring out his theme clearly above and his desired thunder by joining all the instruments in the statement of it. Notice the unisons, too, in the climax before the return of the chief motive, how the strings make themselves heard, not only above a brilliant accompaniment, but actually against another theme, given with all the force of the piano. Only in the statement of the second theme in the third section of the movement does the piano join with the strings. Immediately after these follows another tremendous passage in which only by joining together can the strings rise above the thunderous accompaniment of the piano.
The result is, indeed, more a symphony than a pianoforte quintet, and the style is solid and massive in effect. Franck’s polyphonic skill is, however, revealed at its very best, and his special art of structure, building all the movements out of a few ideas common to all, is not less striking here than it is in the ‘Prelude, Chorale and Fugue’ for the pianoforte alone. This quintet, with those of Schumann and Brahms, represents the uttermost it is possible to produce with the combination of string quartet and pianoforte. Schumann’s is the most lucid, Brahms’ the most vigorous, and Franck’s the most impassioned and dramatic of all the pianoforte quintets.
Yet there are other brilliant and successful quintets to be noticed. A quintet in D minor, opus 89, by Gabriel Fauré was performed for the first time in Paris, in 1906. Fauré had already composed two pianoforte quartets, one in C minor, opus 15, and one in G minor, opus 25. In these he had shown himself a master of style in the combination of pianoforte with strings, and such mastery is no less evident in the quintet. The latter is more modern in spirit and in harmonies. There are three movements: a molto moderato, an adagio, and an allegro moderato. Of these the first is gloomy in character, and the second is elegiac. The third is founded upon a single figure which is varied again and again. The treatment of the piano is in the main light, so that the instrument does not overpower the strings. Notice how the piano opens the work with a sort of curtain of sound, against which the instruments enter one by one. Most of this background is light, being arranged for the upper registers of the piano. Throughout the whole first movement the piano seldom takes part in the thematic development, but almost always contributes a lightly flowing sound. In the adagio, too, there is much of the same style. There is a middle section here in which all the instruments, including the piano, always in the upper registers, are lightly combined into a canonic flow which is wholly exquisite in style. The motives so treated return in a sort of apologue at the end of this movement but are not here so delicately treated. In the last movement the piano takes a much greater part in the development of the themes. It announces at once the motive which, passacaglia-wise, is used as the foundation for the whole movement. The odd spacing—the two hands are two octaves apart—gives a peculiarly shadowy effect in which the pizzicatos of the other instruments make themselves heard as sparks may be seen in mist. The whole movement is a masterpiece of delicacy.
Other quintets have been written by composers of most of the nations of Europe, but none has made more than a local impression. There is a quintet by Goldmark, opus 30, in B-flat, hardly worth mentioning; a more brilliant one by one of the younger Bohemian composers, V. Novàk (b. 1870), which in its intense nationalism is a fitting descendant of Smetana and Dvořák, but is lacking in personal inspiration; a quintet by Ernst von Dohnányi. Sgambati has written a quintet without distinction. Mr. Dunhill tells us in his book[83] on chamber music that there is an excellent quintet by a young British composer, James Friskin. Moreover the sextet for piano and strings by Joseph Holbrooke, in which a double bass is added to the quartet, deserves mention. And among American composers Arthur Foote and George Chadwick should be mentioned, the one for his quintet in A minor, opus 38, the other for his quintet in E-flat major, without opus number.
Only a few piano quartets have been written since those of Brahms and Dvořák which are significant of any development or even of a freshness of life. Those of Fauré have already been mentioned as being perfect in style, but on the whole they seem less original and less interesting than the quintet by the same composer. Saint-Saëns’ quartet, opus 41, is remarkable for the brilliant treatment of the pianoforte, and the fine sense of instrumental style which it reveals, but is on the whole uninteresting and is certainly insignificant compared with the quartets of Fauré or those of d’Indy and Chausson. D’Indy’s quartet, opus 7, in A minor is no longer a new work, nor does it show in any striking way those qualities in French music which have more recently come to splendid blooming. But it is carefully wrought and the three movements are moderately interesting. The second is perhaps the best music, the third is certainly the most spirited. There is more of the manner though perhaps less of the spirit of César Franck in Chausson’s quartet in A major, opus 30.
In the North we come across an early work by Richard Strauss, opus 13, in the form of a pianoforte quartet, which is exceedingly long, but interesting to the student who wishes to trace the development of Strauss’ art of self-expression. The pianoforte is not given undue prominence and the scoring is worthier of more interesting material. Still farther north one meets with Christian Sinding’s quartet in E minor, which is chiefly a tour de force for the pianist.
Excepting sonatas for pianoforte and various other instruments, the great amount of chamber music into which the piano enters consists of trios, pianoforte quartets and pianoforte quintets. Mention must not be omitted, however, of Schubert’s quintet for piano and strings in which the cello is replaced by double bass. The employment of the air of one of his songs (Die Forelle) as the subject for the variations in the slow movement has given the work the name Forellen Quintet. The treatment of the piano in the variations is exceedingly effective.
As to sonatas, those for violin and piano are treated elsewhere. There are too many to be discussed in this chapter. There are fewer for the cello and the best of these may here be mentioned. Skill in playing the violoncello was slower to develop than that in playing the violin. This was probably because the viola da gamba with its six strings was easier to play and was more in favor as a solo instrument. The baryton was a kind of viola da gamba with sympathetic strings stretched under the fingerboard, and even as late as the maturity of Haydn this instrument was in general favor. But the tone of the viola da gamba was lighter than that of the violoncello, and so by the beginning of the eighteenth century the cello was preferred to the gamba for the bass parts of works like Corelli’s in concerted style. Little by little it rose into prominence from this humble position. Meanwhile the immortal suites for the violoncello alone by Bach had been written. Bach was probably advised in the handling of the instrument by Abel, who was a famous gamba player; so that it seems likely that these suites were conceived for the gamba as much as for the cello.[84] The last of them, however, was written especially for the viola pomposa, an instrument which Bach invented himself. This was a small cello with an extra string tuned to E, a fifth above the A of the cello.
Among composers who wrote expressly for the cello were Giorgio Antoniotti, who lived in Milan about 1740, and Lanzetti, who was 'cellist to the king of Sardinia between 1730 and 1750. Later the Italians A. Canavasso and Carlo Ferrari (b. 1730) became famous as players, and Boccherini also was a brilliant cellist.
However, the cello sprang into its present importance as a solo instrument largely through the Frenchman Jean Louis Duport (1749-1819), whose understanding of the instrument led him to a discovery of those principles of fingering and bowing which have made modern virtuosity possible. His Essai sur le doigter du violoncelle et la conduite de l’archet was truly an epoch-making work. That a new edition was issued as recently as 1902 proves the lasting worth and stability of his theories.
Frederick William II, King of Prussia, to whom Mozart dedicated three of his string quartets, was a pupil of Duport’s. Mozart’s quartets, written with an eye to pleasing the monarch, give special prominence to the cello. Hence through Duport we approach the great masters and their works for the cello.
Beethoven wrote five sonatas for cello and piano. The first two, opus 5, were written in 1796, while Beethoven was staying in Berlin, evidently with the intention of dedicating them to Frederick William II, and for his own appearance in public with Duport. They are noticeably finer, or more expressive works, than the early sonatas for violin, opus 12; perhaps because the cello does not suggest a style which, empty of meaning, is yet beautiful and effective by reason of sheer brilliance. The violin sonatas, all of them except the last, are largely virtuoso music. The cello sonatas are more serious and on the whole more sober. This may be laid to thoroughly practical reasons. The cello has not the variety of technical possibilities that the violin has, nor even in such rapid passages as can be played upon it can it give a brilliant or carrying tone. By reason of its low register it can be all too easily overpowered by the piano. Only the high notes on the A string can make themselves heard above a solid or resonant accompaniment. Hence if the composer desires to write a brilliant, showy sonata for pianoforte and cello, he can do so only by sacrificing all but the topmost registers of the cello. Even at that the piano is more than likely to put the cello wholly in the shade.
To write effectively for the combination, therefore, and in such a way as to bring out the variety of resources of the cello, limited as they may be, one must not write brilliantly, but clearly, in a transparent and careful style. Of such a style these early sonatas of Beethoven offer an excellent example, though the music itself sounds today old-fashioned and formal.
The best of the first sonata, which consists of a long slow introduction, an allegro, and an allegro vivace, all in F major, is the last movement. This is in mood a little scherzo, in form a rondo. Particularly the chief subject is delightfully scored for the two instruments at the very opening. The second sonata, in G minor, begins like the first with a long slow introduction, in which the piano has some elaborate figuration. There follows an allegro molto, rather a presto, in 3/4 time, the opening theme of which has almost the spontaneous melodiousness of Schubert. The pianoforte has a great deal of work in triplets, which are high on the keyboard when the cello is playing in its lower registers, and only low when the cello is high enough to escape being overpowered. This constant movement in triplets will remind one of the first pianoforte sonata. The final rondo is on the whole less effective than the rondo of the first sonata. Toward the end, however, there is considerable animation in which one finds cello and piano taking equal share. The piano has for many measures groups of rapid accompaniment figures against which the cello has saucy little phrases in staccato notes. Then the cello takes up the rolling figures with great effect and the piano has a capricious and brilliant melody in high registers.
The next sonata, opus 69, in A major, was not written until twelve years later. A different Beethoven speaks in it. The first theme, announced at once by the cello alone, gives the key to the spirit of the work. It is gentle (dolce) in character, but full of a quiet and moving strength. After giving the first phrase of it alone the cello holds a long low E, over which the piano lightly completes it. There is a cadenza for piano, and then, after the piano has given the whole theme once again, there is a short cadenza for cello, leading to a short transition at the end of which one finds the singing second theme. This is first given out by the piano over smooth scales by the cello, and then the cello takes it up and the piano plays the scales. Nothing could be more exquisite than the combination of these two instruments in this altogether lovely sonata, which without effort permits each in turn or together to reveal its most musical qualities. Sometimes the cello is low and impressive, strong and independent, while the piano is lively and sparkling, as in the closing parts of the first section of the first movement. Again the cello has vigorous rolling figures that bring out the fullest sonority the instrument is capable of, while the piano adds the theme against such a vibrant background, with no fear of drowning the cello, as in the first portions of the development section.
The scherzo is the second movement, and here again each instrument is allowed a full expression of its musical powers. The style is light, the rhythm syncopated. There is fascinating play at imitations. And in the trio the cello plays in rich double-stops. There is but a short adagio before the final allegro, only a brief but telling expression of seriousness, and then the allegro brings to full flower the quiet, concealed, so to speak, and tranquil happiness of the first movement.
Finally there are two sonatas, opus 102, which are in every way representative of the Beethoven of the last pianoforte sonatas and even the last quartets. The first of these—in C major—Beethoven himself entitled a ‘free sonata,’ and the form is indeed free, recalling the form of the A major pianoforte sonata, opus 101, upon which Beethoven was working at the same time. In spirit, too, it is very like the A major sonata, but lacks the more obvious melodic charm. The sonata begins with an andante, in that singing yet mystical style which characterizes so much of Beethoven’s last work, and the andante does not end but seems to lose itself, to become absorbed in a mist of trills, out of which there springs a vigorous allegro vivace, in the dotted march rhythm which one finds in the later pianoforte sonatas. After this, a short rhapsodical adagio brings us back to a bit of the opening andante, which once more trills itself away, seems to be snuffed out, as it were, by a sudden little phrase which, all unexpected, announces the beginning of the final rondo.
The second of the two, in D major, is more regular in structure. There is an allegro con brio in clear form, an adagio, and a final fugue, following the adagio without pause. In both these sonatas every trace of the virtuoso has disappeared. Both are fantasies, or poems of hidden meaning. Because of this mysteriousness, and also because the lack of all virtuoso elements seems to leave the combination a little dry, the sonatas are not quite so satisfactory as the opus 69.
Besides the sonatas Beethoven wrote three sets of variations for cello and piano, only one of which—on the air Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen from Mozart’s ‘Magic Flute’—has an opus number. These are early works and are without special interest or value.
It is remarkable how little chamber music has been written for pianoforte and cello by subsequent composers. By Schumann there is only a set of five short pieces, in Volkston, opus 102. Some of these are charming, but all are, of course, slight. Schumann uses the cello in very high registers, notably in the first, third, and fourth. In the second part of the third he even writes sixths for the cello in such high registers. The low registers are rather neglected, so that the set is monotonous in color.
Mendelssohn wrote some Variations concertantes, opus 17, for piano and cello, and two sonatas, opus 45 in B-flat, and opus 58 in D. The piano predominates in the variations. The second and fourth are hardly more than piano solos; but in others the cello is effectively handled. The third, the fifth with its pizzicato, which, by the way Mendelssohn stood in a fair way to overwhelm entirely by a noisy piano, and the eighth, with its long held note, later its wide rolling figures and powerful sixths, account in a measure for the wide popularity which this work once enjoyed among cellists. But the life has gone out of it. Of the sonatas little can be said but that they are generally well scored, and that they display the qualities of the cello in its various registers. The piano is less well treated, for Mendelssohn had, after all, little instinct for a variety of pianoforte effects. The theme in the last movement of the first sonata has something of a vigorous swing. The chief theme of the first movement of the second sonata, too, though it will irritate those to whom Mendelssohn’s mannerisms have become distressing, has a breadth of line, and rises up quite manfully to its high point. But the second theme rather proves that there can be too much of a good thing. The allegretto is not dangerously fascinating, but it has a sort of charm. Mendelssohn’s treatment of the cello is generally suited to the salon. He brings out many of its qualities, but in a way which seems to accentuate the shortcomings of the instrument. In his hands the cello is a sentimental singer with a small voice.
With Brahms the cello is more an instrument of mystery and gloom. His fondness for low notes here causes him to write constantly for the two lower strings, and his sonatas may suffer in the opinion of some by the lack of a more vehement expression which is in some measure possible to the upper strings. The first sonata, opus 38, is in E minor and is more acceptable to the unfamiliar ear than the later one in F major, opus 99. But the tone of the great part of the E minor sonata is gloomy, though the second theme of the first movement has warmth and the allegretto quasi menuetto a certain light movement. The F major sonata was probably written with the playing of Robert Hausmann (b. 1852) in mind. Mr. Fuller-Maitland finds in it a ‘mood of wild energy such as is not frequent in Brahms’ later works.’ For all the gloominess of the first and the sternness of the second of these sonatas there is a splendid dignity in both which must ever give them a firm place in the literature for the violoncello. It may be that they lose in grace because Brahms has so carefully shunned any brilliant display; but on the other hand what they lose in grace is more than made up by what they gain in virility. The sentimental qualities in the cello have been so much emphasized that without these sonatas of Brahms, and those of Beethoven, one might well believe that it had none other than a sugary voice.