Smetana Litomyšl Festival • David Robertson

The biographers of Ludwig van Beethoven usually divide his works into three stylistic periods. The middle one has come to be described as the “heroic period”. That ten-year era of the composer’s life is framed symbolically by a pair of letters that were never sent, in which Beethoven gave vent to his innermost feelings and thoughts. The first of them dates from the autumn of 1802 while the composer was staying in Heiligenstadt, then a quiet suburb of Vienna, where he had taken refuge about half a year earlier. The unsatisfactory results of attempts to reverse his worsening tinnitus and advancing loss of hearing caused him to fall into a deepening state of depression, and it was in this state of mind that he wrote what is known as the Heiligenstadt Testament. The moving letter, originally intended for Beethoven’s two younger brothers, expresses the worries of the 32-year-old composer and pianist over his worsening health and over his earlier contemplation of ending his own life, but writing it had a cathartic effect. Beethoven banished his dark thoughts, returned to Vienna, and devoted himself fully to composing. The period that followed brought major works of the composer’s oeuvre: the Eroica, the Fifth Symphony, the Pastoral Symphony, the Violin Concerto in D major, the Triple Concerto for violin, piano, and cello, and great piano sonatas like the Appassionata and Les Adieux. The second of the letters in question was written ten years later in Teplice, a town in northern Bohemia, while Beethoven was staying at the local spa. “Good morning on 7 July. Already while still in bed, my thoughts turn to you, my immortal beloved. Now and then happily, and then sadly waiting to see whether fate will hear our pleas. I can live only wholly with you or not at all”, the composer wrote to his “immortal beloved”, whose identity remains the subject of speculation.

Another product of Beethoven’s “heroic period” was his Piano Concerto No. 5 in E flat major (1809). It is not entirely clear how the last of his five piano concertos got the nickname “Emperor”. The probable source was the English publisher Johann Baptist Cramer, and it is far more likely that the designation refers to the work’s musical grandiosity than to any particular emperor. While Beethoven was completing work on the concerto, which he dedicated to Archduke Rudolf, his friend and patron for many years, he was certainly being influenced by dramatic external circumstances. Vienna had been under siege by Napoleon’s troops for several months, and matters came to a head in early July with the bloody Battle of Wagram, Austria’s defeat, and the subsequent signing of a peace treaty that had far-reaching financial consequences for Austria and meant an enormous loss of territory. At the end of July, Beethoven wrote to his publisher: “The entire course of events has affected me body and soul. How disturbing and wild life is around me; nothing but drums, cannons, men, and every kind of misery.” While the city was under siege, Beethoven hid in the cellar of his brother’s house, and to keep from losing the rest of his already poor hearing, he used pillows to protect his ears from the noise of the battle.

Beethoven’s worsening hearing did not at all hinder his composing, but appearing in public in the role of a performer became more and more difficult for him. The Piano Concerto in E flat major is his first and only piano concerto that he did not himself premiere. The whole work’s character is truly grand, and the very first movement reveals how meaningfully Beethoven influenced the entire piano concerto genre, whether in terms of the dominance given to the piano, which asserts itself at full power from the very first bars, or the final cadenza, which Beethoven himself composed, contrary to what had been previously customary, insisting that it always be performed in precisely that form. In his concertos, Beethoven perfectly mastered the classical forms, opening the door to the gradual arrival of the world of Romanticism, where a musical work is conceived as the perfect reflection of the composer’s imagination, which the performer is to convey to the listener. The opening bars of the concerto sound forth like monumental fanfares, followed immediately by solo piano entrances in runs of scales and arpeggios. Following the opening fanfares are military motifs symbolised by a dotted rhythm or the emphatic sound of the timpani and a march theme played by the French horns. The majestic first movement is followed by a slow Adagio that sounds in places like a touching nocturne. The gentle solo piano line is accompanied by the soft sound of the strings, woodwinds, and muted French horns. As the chord dies away at the end of the second movement, the soloist plays a pianissimo entrance with a new theme. For two more bars, the movement’s slow pulse is maintained, but then a fortissimo solo entrance announces the virtuosic and energetic Rondo, which follows the previous movement without a pause. The end of the third movement also exhibits Beethoven’s imaginativeness. The composer first allows the final cadenza to die away, then in the last bars, runs of scales played forte offer contrast, and the finale is capped off decisively by repeated chords played by the full orchestra.

In 1912, Igor Stravinsky was also 30 years old. 59 more years of life were still ahead of him, and he was at work on his most daring work to date. He was known to all of Paris, the centre of the artistic avant-garde at the time. Paris is also where the progressive Russian ballet impresario Sergei Diaghilev had been working since 1909. His ensemble’s productions of Stravinsky’s ballets The Firebird and Petrushka had been the talk of Paris, but the greatest event was yet to come. On 29 May 1913, the newly opened Théâtre des Champs-Élysées gave the premiere of his third ballet, The Rite of Spring, subtitled Picture of Pagan Russia. A riot ensued, pitting the disapproving, disgusted conservative part of the audience against enthusiastic progressives. Nothing would ever be the same again—not only the music, but also the choreography and costumes differed from anything that had come before.

 “The idea of The Rite of Spring came to me while I was still composing Firebird,” recalled Igor Stravinsky 45 years after the work’s premiere in his book Conversations. “I saw in imagination a solemn pagan rite: sage elders, seated in a circle, watched a young girl dance herself to death. They were sacrificing her to propitiate the god of spring.” In the summer of 1911 in Karlovy Vary (Carlsbad), Stravinsky signed a contract with Diaghilev for the composing of the last of his three early ballets. He worked on the composition in 1911 and 1912, and he made the final revisions in March 1913. To prepare himself to compose the music, Stravinsky joined the stage designer and scenario author Nicholas Roerich, who was also an archaeologist, on a trip to the Russian town Talashkino near Smolensk to study the rituals of Slavic tribes at a local centre for the folk arts. Rather than using specific folk themes, they were interested in archetypes—the mystical, wild, primitive, and uncivilised—that they would present in opposition to the bourgeois conventions of the day and to excessive sensitivity in the arts.

Stravinsky did not borrow any specific Russian folk songs, but The Rite of Spring is still the high point of his creative period under the influence of folklore. The only actual folk melody in The Rite of Spring is played by the bassoon at the very beginning, but the composer later said that the tune was not Russian—it supposedly came from an anthology of Lithuanian folk music that he found in Warsaw. In 1943, Stravinsky’s contemporary Béla Bartók, himself a folklore enthusiastic, called The Rite of Spring “the apotheosis of the music of rural Russia”, and about the ballet he declared: “Rhythmic cells that contract and expand can be found commonly in the music of Russia and eastern Europe.”

For Stravinsky, the character of the theme opened up incredible musical possibilities, particularly in the use of the power of elementary rhythm with the whole orchestra acting as a gigantic percussion instrument employing fierce rhythmic pulsation, polyrhythm, and the rapid alternation of metres. Later, Stravinsky recalled playing the beginning of the composition for Diaghilev for the first time at the piano. “Diaghilev asked if those repeated chords would go on much longer. And I answered ‘until the end, my dear’” Also in terms of tonality, The Rite of Spring went beyond tradition with hints of bitonality and tritonality, as Stravinsky superimposes chords separated by as little as a semitone.

Vaslav Nijinsky’s choreography was also in keeping with the totally revolutionary conception of the music. The dancers’ primitive movements were entirely contrary to the aesthetic ideals of classical ballet. In hindsight, the choreography and Nijinsky’s rather inadequate comprehension of the innovative music could be chiefly blamed for the failure of the work’s premiere. A year later, a concert performance of The Rite of Spring in Paris met with public acclaim, and the work became a definitive milestone on the path towards modern music.